A Southern Drink
by AKA
I think of the term ‘sultry’ when I spend any time in New Orleans. The air, the culture, the population itself is sultry in its nature, soaked through with a kind of sexual sweat that permeates the houses and buildings that line its narrow streets.
When I am there, I am there for pleasure. New Orleans is not a place, to me, to spend time pursuing anything, anyone or any experience that isn’t for pleasure in its myriad forms. To eat, to drink, to fuck. These are the worthy pursuits and the pastimes that I fill the long, sultry hours with while I abide there.
Tales tell of vampires and ghosts haunting the darker corners of the place. The furniture in its rooms are scarred and swollen with the sensual diversions they have witnessed played out in myriad ways over dozens of years.
I was on the streetcar, and true to Mr. Williams’s play, feeling a strong desire. To be honest, I was already well into my cups, having polished off not merely fingers but entire fists of Bourbon poured liberally over frozen cubes that cracked and buzzed like my brain. Alone, oddly, but with that feeling of being watched, of being observed by someone nearby but unseen. My head was fuzzy and my eyesight a bit worse for wear, of course, so it was easily dismissed, that feeling.
I decided I could use a walk, though it was quite late and I had been warned about the dangers of man, even one such as myself who would be no easy target, walking the streets in the early morning sweat that the city leaked from its sidewalks. But as I said, I was drunk and not thinking too very clearly.
Stepping from the trolley and crossing the street, the sensation of observation grew stronger, still. The moon was full overhead, washed through like spilled white ink behind a vail of clouds. The streets were wet from the earlier meager rain, and the air was scented with jasmine and smoke.
I was mere blocks from my hotel on St. Charles when something shiny caught my eye on the broken sidewalk, raised into shards and hillocks by the large tree roots burrowing everywhere. I paused, stopped by the thing on the ground and that feeling of being watched grew suddenly distinct.
I spun, unbalanced, to look behind me but no one was there. Of course not, I chided myself, huffing out a half-startled laugh under my breath. Of course not.
The thing, whatever it was, remained at my feel and I stooped to pick it up, my tight jeans, soaked with sweat, and my close-fitted shirt, purchased to show off the muscles I had been so diligent about building, stretched and pulled at my skin. It was a postcard, laminated and wet with rain. Plucking it from the cement, I rose again to my full height and looked at the thing in my hand.
The card was black on both sides with white script lettering. On one side - the front I supposed - was a single word: Drink. On the back, an address not far from my own hotel, a few blocks away from the avenue and its rumbling streetcars.
DRINK.
It sounded like a capital idea.
A smile wound across my lips. Yes, whyever not? A nightcap to sing me to sleep, if I were not to find the luck of love or a quick and dirty fuck tonight? The men - boys really - I had encountered so far were either far too eager or far too frivolous for my tastes. Gelled hair and plucked brows and shaven chests. I liked men. Hairy, muscular, masculine men. Men who didn’t trim or manicure or seek to lessen the effects of being men. Men who stood their ground. Men who knew what they wanted and took it.
Men, not boys.
I was a man. Past my prime, perhaps, and not at my fighting weight. Once I turned heads wherever I went. I was big, and well muscled, and good-looking. But that was ten or more years ago, and time and age are not so kind. I was still big, and I was still strong. I had a prominent chest that strained the buttons of a shirt, but it was softer and rounder and less defined than it had once been. My flat stomach was also rounder now, but I had never trimmed the dark forest of curls that coated my skin.
I could be called a bear, I suppose, and I wouldn’t argue. A big man, looking for other men.
I knew what I wanted.
There were even apps now, for finding similarly-minded men looking for similar situations to my own. One could pull out one’s phone, open Grindr and locate men by the foot - quite literally - popping in and out of your vicinity who were searching for a tight butt or a friendly grope or a simple make-out session involving kisses and hand-jobs. It was the opposite of romantic, obviously, but who was looking for romance?
Yet even there, those I encountered wanted nothing like me. All they wanted was youth and inexperience, the trembling, awkward, rushed sex of boys who are thinking about their next lover when their dick is still in your mouth. Boys had certain appreciative qualities, not the least of which was an endless stamina and a seeming ability to come on demand, but boys are not men however they may try. A few filthy words and some latent talent never make up for experience in my book.
Pulling in a deep breath of the city’s wet air, I turned right and started toward the bar’s destination. Odd that it never occurred to me, at the time, that there were no postcards like this anywhere in the Garden District. Perhaps you would get advertisements in the French Quarter for some sleazy bar serving too-sweet frozen horrors meant to supply bad liquor in the quickest fashion. But why this too-simple postcard, and how convenient that it should find me?
The street was dark and deserted. Some houses had lights in their windows but the quiet was intense and full, and the street was lit only by the pale moonlight.
I heard steps behind me and this time there was no mistaking it. Someone was following me, now, and I stopped and pivoted, tripping against a bare root and stumbling sideways.
Hands caught me. Large, strong, rough hands. I felt a blush of embarrassment heat my body beneath my sticky clothing and I looked up to see who had saved me further chagrin.
“You nearly fell,” my savior said, “but I have you now.”
His voice was deep, and oddly accented. It was hard to make out his features in the darkness, but as if on cue the clouds parted to reveal the full moon and blue light shone on his face.
I had the good sense not to gasp outright. He was handsome, and decidedly so. In fact, it felt almost as if someone had been reading my thoughts, for here was a man, not a boy, with a man’s face and a man’s strength and a man’s confidence. I could feel the strength of him through his grip, and he pulled me to my feet and we stood there looking at each other for a heartbeat.
He was taller than I, which was unexpected and unusual. I am a man over six-feet in height, and he was looking down at me. His hair, hanging full and long enough to rest along his wide shoulders, looked blue-black in the moonlight and he had a ruddy complexion, which spoke of time spent outdoors in undoubtedly physical pursuits, because he was also larger and more muscular than I was. He owned eyes of near blackness, that glittered like gems under a heavy brow, and beneath his noble, strong nose, framing a pair of full, soft lips, an impressive and masculine mustache grew full and wide, curling at the ends.
My heart was still beating quickly from my near-fall, and now my cock was joining its steady throb. “Thank you,” I said. “I’m afraid I’m a bit....”
He did not let me finish.
Without preamble, he pushed his body against mine like a challenge, though his face was lit by his friendly and handsome smile. He wore a white ribbed-cotton tanktop that clung to him as my own shirt clung to me. His skin shone like metal, licked with sweat and rain. I could discern the dark kisses of his nipples through the thin cloth, and they were pushing forward from the low sway of his mighty chest with the same urgency that he pushed against me.
My back found the tree trunk at the same time that his right hand found my crotch. I could feel the heat of his hand there before he grasped me fully in his grip and began to knead and rub my equipment.
He was a towering figure, obviously in control of the situation. I did not call out, nor did I stop him. I wanted this perhaps more than he did. I needed this. And my prick was easily swelling and lengthening as he played with me.
“You are feeling better, yes?” he asked, or growled, tilting his head. His face moved closer to mine and he pushed his mouth against my lips and kissed me soundly. I detected the familiar taste of whisky and smoke, though whether it originated from his tongue or my own, stirred up by his passionate force, I couldn’t tell. His mustaches rubbed roughly against my face, and I enjoyed the sensation of it more than I had imagined.
Both his hands were on my loins and he began to undo the button-fly of my jeans and peeled them open like a banana to get to the fruit. His palm was rough against the warm tenderness of my inflating cock and he stroked with the same forcefulness that his kiss evinced.
He wanted me badly, and he was going to have me. Right now. Here on the sweating street beneath the pale moon. I could not stop my own passion from climbing, and I wanted him, too.
He kissed me, twisting his warm lips against my mouth and then he dipped down suddenly, dropping before me and shrinking to his haunches like an animal. I grabbed the bark of the tree in my hands. He pulled my dick forcibly downward from its erect trajectory, I could feel every callous on his palm, and he swallowed me with a wet sucking noise I was sure every person in every home could hear.
My eyes rolled up into their sockets and my toes curled in my shiny leather loafers. Almost immediately I could feel a load of hot cream thrusting upwards when he grasped my ball sack and tugged it hard, pulling me back to earth. He groaned like a tiger and I moved my hands onto his shoulders, feeling the flex and bulge of his mighty muscles as he twisted his neck to slather me in his spit. Then his mouth surrounded my hardness again, and he pushed his nose into the dampness of my pubic bush, inhaling deeply and making delighted wet slurping noises as he took every inch inside himself.
He fell onto his knees before me as a priest in worshipful subjugation and, never missing a beat of his expert blow-job, he opened up his own pants and his magnificent length of prick spilled out and was swelling to full power with speed.
He stoked as he sucked, then, pausing only to drool a thick drizzle of spit onto his grip, and then he pleasured himself and me in unison, sucking my cock with the same evident efficiency and talent that his own hand was slowly, luxuriously stroking his thick meat.
We came together. The timing could not have been more perfect. I came inside his mouth and he swallowed it all, moaning in bliss as he gushed thick, wet volleys of incandescent cream on my shoes with almost perfect aim.
I was shaking from pleasure, feeling that pent-up energy and need released all at once inside this beautiful and powerful man, taken so easily and without permission. It left me dizzy and hot, and then as his mouth came off my hard-on with obvious reluctance, I found my brain spinning inside my head again because I looked down at him, expecting to his his grinning face, but the man sank to all-fours before me on the cracked and broken sidewalk and began to lick my shoes clean of his own spunk, pulling it inside with a long, shiny tongue in slow strokes.
The sound of the stranger sucking his own seed from off the dark leather of my shoes did something to me I had never experienced. It was as if, somehow, he had managed in the last minutes to make me both master and slave, both aggressor and submissive. He did what he wanted, yes, he took me and made me come inside his mouth with ease and without permission. Now he cleaned me up and took the same obvious pleasure in this act as he had taken from simply forcing me inside his mouth.
I heard a deep rumble from his broad chest as he finished. And then he stood up, again, towering over me. His tanktop was wet with perspiration and almost invisible on his torso, now. It clung to his six-pack abs and mammoth pecs. His large, dark nipples looked swollen and meaty. He reached down and carefully - almost tenderly - pushed my dick back inside the crotch of my jeans and began to delicately button me back inside with his large, dexterous fingers. He managed, somehow, to rub his thumb against the mouth of my snake and he brought the last remnant of cream that gurgled from me to his mouth and sucked it off his skin with evident bliss.
“You are good,” he said in his odd, sexy voice. Then he was trying to re-cage his own mammoth meat, and I got a look at him more closely as he struggled to contain his thick inches. His dick was dark and cut, with a very large mushroom helmet and a thick stalk. He barely managed to push his meat inside his own jeans, struggling to zip it all inside.
As he finished putting us back together, he looked down at the card in my had. “Drink?” he said.
I looked at the card as well, and then back at his face. “Yes,” I acknowledged breathlessly.
“I go there now,” he reported. The odd accent seemed to shift about as I listened. Now Russian, now German, now French. Bits and pieces of different dialects that made it hard to discern a specific origin. “I may go with you?”
“I...suppose so,” I said, not thinking of any reason to deny the man anything more he might ask of me. I was left even more dazed than I had been, drunk now on pleasure as much as whisky. “I think it’s not far.”
“No,” he agreed, “is not far.” He gestured with a very thickly muscled arm, every large and bulging mass of power that swelled there looked like he had only now put down the weights that he had been using to pump them to grandeur. His shirt was again snugly tucked into a pair of jeans whose tightness made mine look like I had purchased them at Sears, rather than at the very expensive boutique of european labels back home.
I stepped forward and he steadied me again, holding my elbow before he said, “You take my hand.”
It was an odd offer and though I was taken aback, I accepted and we, like two chums, strode along the dark, wet sidewalk hand-in-hand up the street as if nothing had happened at all against that tree only moments ago.
His grip was firm and rough. I felt him interlock our fingers together as if he never would let go. His squeezes comforted me in an odd fashion, and I was taken aback at this sign of such tenderness from this huge, muscular beast. Only moments before, he was sucking my dick and fountaining his copious cream all over my shoes. Now he held my hand like a comforting lover, and I felt almost as if he was surrounding me in his arms to protect me like a child.
Shortly, a small building on one corner seemed to emerge from the trees like a dream. It was unadorned and without signage of any type to identify it, and there were no windows casting light from its interior either. “Drink,” he announced, and pulled me towards the place.
He stopped under a light near a single door and I could see him now clearly. Again, he made my cock throb and swell in my sweaty jeans. Large, certainly, but also incredibly handsome and well-tailored. Given, he only wore a tight athletic shirt and jeans, but his wardrobe complimented his muscular development with strange perfection, as if he had been sewn into the garments.
Now as he turned towards me with a smile, rapping at the door with his knuckles, I could see the rather prominent and wholly obvious bulge at his loins that showcased a prodigious and mouth-watering appendage right down to the swelling lip of the helmet. He did not seem to be losing an inch of his growth, even having come so prodigiously on my feet.
Nine inches? Ten? I nearly swooned at the sight of him, and my drunken brain tried to make sense of what I was seeing. “You’re...”
“Please,” he said, in his thickly accented tongue, and the door opened as his arm swung wide.
The interior was dark, but not foreboding. A heady scent of smoke, whisky, leather, and sweat emitted like a fog that surrounded my senses, and an unmistakable throb of masculine power spilled out like champagne from an uncorked bottle.
I stepped around his bulk and entered the establishment. If it had not been for the fact that I lived in New York and was quite well-travelled, I might have been shocked at what confronted me inside the nondescript building. Indeed, I had seen something of the tableau of men inside, but on those occasions I was visiting a private sex club or a party thrown by one of my more well-off friends, who spared no expense to procure the most beautiful men as decoration.
There were men - and only men - everywhere I looked. They were in various stages of undress, from shirtless to wearing only underwear to entirely naked. They were of every color, hue and ethnicity as far as I could tell - here a chocolate skinned man, there a coffee-colored Hispanic, there a pale as milk Swede with bright blond hair.
If there was a commonality to the patrons, it was of intense and overwhelming beauty. Each of these men, at least two or three dozen of them, showcased a similar incredible level of muscular development as my companion. Indeed, within the darkness of the place, it appeared that they all owned almost exact replicas of my partner’s incredibly perfect muscular development.
As my gaze lingered on the naked customers, it was quite evident that they also shared his other most prominent feature, to an amazing extent. And, yes, some of these men were quite actively engaged in acts of carnal pleasure both athletic and energetic, sucking each other’s tremendous cocks, or thrusting them inside another man’s eager and willing ass as he bent himself over a table, grasping the edges and biting his lip from sheer pleasure.
But this was neither sex club nor dungeon. There were no slings, no extravagant sets or leather harnesses, no chains, no whips, no rubber masks or latex shorts. It appeared as if these men had wandered into this bar - a bar like almost any other - and had simply decided en masse to start fucking each other.
And why not? If they were feeling only half of what I was feeling - and even after having had my balls so satisfyingly emptied outside by my strange, handsome new friend - as soon as I had walked inside the establishment I could feel my pulse quicken and my body heat with the draw of passion.
And why not? I was surrounded by beautiful men - and, again, I emphasize that these were not boys - all in various states of undress and sexual congress, who all possessed bodies of exceptional power and size.
Even the least of them, and I should hesitate to call the man the least of anything, owned a body of beautiful muscular development, looking like a fitness model who could grace the cover of your favorite men’s exercise magazine. Even he, standing in the background, with his prominent chest and absurdly detailed six-pack, his scalp shorn to whiskers as he surveyed the room with darkly smoldering eyes, and the delicious scrawls of curly fur that swam down his abs and bloomed into a full bush that no one would ever shave, even that man, alone, looking at me now, the new arrival, with evident hunger, was more man than I had seen in my entire week.
Yet there he stood, naked, stroking himself with utter confidence, calmly jerking off and occasionally lifting his fingers to his mouth to suck off the copious flow of precum his heightened sense of arousal was producing. He was a young god among gods, awaiting his turn and keeping his powerful motor revving.
I saw another man standing behind a long, dark bar wiping out a glass or a shaker, seemingly oblivious to the cavalcade of sex and masculine beauty all around him. It was nearly three in the morning, and the place was packed to the rafters with the most gorgeous array of men that I had ever beheld.
The bartender did not seem to take immediate notice of my entry until my helpful companion followed me inside, and the bartender then turned and smiled.
I had a sudden and strong sense of deja vu, because if one man matched my companion’s size and beauty to perfection, it was the bartender. It was as if the others were approaching that level of absolute perfection and power, and only these two owned it fully. He was every bit as large and imposing as the man who had lead me here. Indeed, except for the fact that the two men’s faces were entirely different, I would have called them twins because each man owned a similar set of overwhelming muscles bulging from every inch.
The bartender wore he same tight ribbed cotton tanktop and dark denim jeans. But where my companion had pale skin and thick waves of inky black hair, the barman had a tremendous and altogether impressive set of mustaches that crowned a smile of aching beauty. His eyes sparkled like glass, and his scalp was covered in a collection of tight, dark curls very like an Italian or Greek might own. Even from the door and across the busy, darkened room, I could tell that his eyes were startlingly blue, almost turquoise in fact. He paused in his labors as my companion closed the door behind us and once again offered his arm without a hint of irony or shame.
I took it more easily now, for some reason, and we approached the mahogany bar together through the rough throng of sex and sweat and whispered entreaties. “Fuck me,” someone said, as if imploring me to replace his current partner. Others offered to suck on my cock, or fuck my ass, and several of the men kissed me and tugged at my clothing, but my companions insistence pushed me towards the bar, heedless of these mighty advances.
He pulled out a barstool for me and then stood behind me, towering above me like a bodyguard. “Evening,” he said to the bartender, separating it into distinct syllables. Eve En Ning.
“Welcome back,” the man responded, and I detected the same odd and unplaceable accent in his deep tones. “The usual?”
“Please,” my companion answered. The bartender began immediately to assemble a cocktail of some usual and unusual ingredients, which he placed into the shaker he had been wiping before topping it with ice cubes and shaking it briskly.
This presented the opportunity to observe the man in motion, and again I nearly swooned from an intense reaction to his raw physicality, sexuality and overwhelming masculinity. He smiled at me as he prepared the drink, and I watched the muscles along his arms, shoulders, chest and neck flex and bulge as he forcefully shook the drink.
He then set a frosted cocktail coupe on the bar, produced a fine mesh sieve from beneath the wood and poured a thick, white, oddly scented drink into the glass. Without another word, he pushed the drink across the bar towards my raven-haired companion, wiping away the resulting perspiration with a bar cloth.
The pause gave me an opportunity to compare the two men. Again, they could have been brothers. I could not detect an inch of difference either in their heights, which were remarkable, nor their bodies and muscular development, which were equally remarkable. It was evident that beneath their clothing, each man owned a body that could easily be put on display at a bodybuilding competition - except that neither man exhibited any of the less attractive features, to my eyes, that industrial-strength bodybuilders often had.
No stretch marks. No sunken cheeks. No bitch tits. And certainly, judging by the man on my side of the bar, no sign that their sexual equipment had undergone any signs of significant shrinkage.
In fact, it appeared that just the opposite had taken place, judging by the still-prominent and highly-detailed bulge that the man behind me seemed almost insistent on showcasing for my benefit. Indeed, I believe he nudged me with it once or twice as he downed the beverage in one long gulp, sighing contentedly at the end.
The bartender said, “What can I do for you, sir?”
I told him my name, which was my usual habit with bartenders, and most certainly with bartenders who looked like he did. Those turquoise eyes nearly glowed, and his smile was bright and honest. I could easily see every muscle that lined his huge arms flex and twist as he wiped the shaker. “What was that?” I asked.
He nodded and offered his hand. “My name is Ivan. The large man behind you is Jon.”
I looked backwards and nodded a greeting, realizing with a bit of a shock that Jon had stripped off his tanktop and now stood shirtless. He was magnificent, of course, as that tanktop had done almost nothing to hide his tremendously developed body.
Jon placed his hand on my shoulder and squeezed in a familiar and friendly manner. Then I watched his hand crawl south along his body until it rested against that huge bulge, which he began to knead and rub with obvious discomfort - but no shame at all - as his handsome face smiled at me.
Perhaps it was the activity all around us, or perhaps it was the memory of what Jon and I had done on the street only moments ago, but my brain felt nothing but arousal as I watched the huge dark god begin to pleasure himself so openly.
I turned back, though I thought to offer assistance to Jon’s problem at first. I wanted to simply sit on that stool and stare at his physical beauty, but I was also suddenly parched, again. Perhaps because I had only recently lost so many of my fluids so forcefully. I looked behind the bar and noticed for the first time that the glowing shelves were empty. “What do you have?”
“We serve only one drink, sir.”
“Only one?” Now that was entirely odd.
“Yes, sir.”
Jon’s powerful voice rumbled from behind me, and I felt his looming presence like the heat of a small sun. “Is good,” he volunteered, and he squeezed my shoulder again.
“What is it?”
“We call it The Drink,” Ivan explained.
“That’s rather straight-forward,” I observed. Ivan simply nodded and smiled. “What’s in it?”
“I’m afraid the recipe is secret, sir,” he answered. “But the base is gin with some rare botanicals that we create here.”
“Is it sweet?”
“It has a tart sweetness that our clients find very invigorating.” From the sounds of sex echoing along the walls and the deep groans of satisfaction, I could hardly argue with him.
“Is good,” Jon agreed behind me. Then his warm breath was on my neck as he kneaded my traps and he whispered in my ear, “Have Drink.” His broad and powerful chest pushed against me in a familiar fashion, as if he intended to press me against the bar and have his way with me again.
Not that I would have objected. The sound of so many men fucking and sucking, even so soon after pumping a thick load into the man’s mouth, was causing my dick to start throbbing eagerly.
“All right,” I said, “you’ve convinced me.”
Ivan smiled then and pulled the same set of familiar and unfamiliar ingredients onto the bar. Nothing was labeled, and I had the impression that everything was made here. The juniper tang of the gin was clear as he poured a good dose into the shaker. He squeezed the juice of a lemon over that, and added some other colored bitters or tinctures before adding a strong dose of what I could only assume was egg white, a thick, viscous fluid that seemed to drool into the shaker.
It smelled, I must admit, rather raw and pungent. It reminded me not so much of a cocktail’s alcoholic scent, but something more redolent and funky, like a locker room or garage.
He capped the shaker tightly and performed his dance again, mixing the drink with the ice to chill it before straining it into another coupe and sliding it towards me.
As I lifted it to my lips, a strong smoky scent rose from the glass, accompanied by something else that savored strongly of...well, all I could think of at that moment was balls. The sweet, tangy sweat that accumulates on a man’s balls and teases your tongue with salty urgency when you place your tongue against his taint.
It was not unfamiliar to me, and at the moment I found a strong desire for that exact taste, so I lifted the rim to my lips to sip it.
But as soon as it hit my tongue, I found a thirst developing for its odd, distinct flavor and milky texture, and like my companion I found myself gulping the entire concoction down, licking my lips of its residue.
Jon’s hands were squeezing my shoulders again. “Is good, yes?”
“Yes,” I agreed. “Very good.”
“Two more, then?” the bartender asked.
“Yes,” Jon said immediately. “He wants more.”
I certainly did, and who was I to argue with this beautiful, sexual man? “Interesting night,” I observed.
“Not really,” Ivan answered. “We serve a rather exclusive clientele.”
“Oh?” I looked around at the display of so much naked beauty, and so much athletic sex taking place. A private club, then.
“Jon brought you in, so you’re okay,” he said, anticipating my next question. “Jon works here. He knows when someone will fit in.”
I felt the man in question squeeze my shoulder again, and felt him looming behind me like a wall made of muscle. “Jon seems like a...very handy man to have around.”
“Oh, quite,” Ivan answered, using the word in the British fashion. It made me wonder again about their accents. “Jon has several skills and gifts, and is an excellent judge of talent and character.”
“Talent?”
“Here you are,” Ivan said, offering two more of his patented milky cocktails. They looked something like Ramos Gin Fizzes, which one could get at most any decent New Orleans bar, but with a more bitter and interesting flavor. They carried quite a kick as well, though my drunken buzz was softening into a much more pleasant sort of dreamy quality.
I turned, meaning to toast with my companion but instead watched him drink his down in a long, thick gulp. Then he closed his eyes and shuddered slightly, opening his mouth to bare his teeth and suck a breath inside his lungs. It made his impressive chest rise and spread and it felt almost as if his nipples were reaching towards me to be sucked and tortured. They were fat, dominating things with large smooth areola sitting at the edge of each heavy muscular globe.
I would almost say that after his inhalation, his chest did not diminish in size. Rather, it seemed determine to continue swelling outward, increasing the depth of the crevasse between his hard globes of muscle.
He leaned towards me and placed two fingers under my chin, lifting my face slightly so that he could press his lips to mine again. I tasted the thick drink on his tongue and then he was passing me a gulp of it inside my mouth, warmed by his own. I swallowed it with surprise and delight, discovering that its interesting flavor had altered slightly inside Jon’s mouth, and as I swallowed it I felt a quicksilver cascade of warmth that swam through my body and limbs, tingling through my blood until it reached my dick, where it succeeded in inflating my manhood before it rushed up its length and pushed urgently at the tip like a load of my own cream wanting escape.
I gasped and swooned as the sexual rush overcame me without warning, and then his hand was there, again, to knead and grope my cock and balls in a most pleasant manner. “Is good,” he growled, and I had to agree.
I looked at my own glass and heard Jon implore, “Drink.” I did so, feeling the cold brew coat my tongue and travel along the same routes as the small gulp that Jon had given me from his own mouth. The Drink had a strangely gratifying effect on me, not like alcohol but more like a drug designed to heighten my enjoyment of sensual adventures.
Again, it pushed its way directly towards my loins, where it heated up and tingled until it found its way up the thickening inches of the cock that Jon was still groping, and this time I gasped audibly and my jaw clenched as a very orgasmic sensation was delivered everywhere, as if I had just come.
I opened my eyes and sighed with happiness. “Is good,” Jon said again.
“Yes, but what is that feeling?”
“Feeling sir?” Ivan asked gently. He took the empty glasses away and was already refilling them again. “Perhaps you refer to the slight aphrodisiacal quality of one of the ingredients. Some feel it more strongly than others. Do you find it unpleasant?”
“No, but....”
“Excellent, sir,” he answered, already offering a third drink.
One of Jon’s heavily muscled arm was resting against the front of my body as his strong, large hand groped and stroked my now insistent and deeply aroused prick. His other hand was undoing the buttons of my jeans and reaching inside my sodden shorts. My balls were buzzing as if a current was connected to them, and my cock was rock hard. He was pressing his wide, strong chest against my back, and I swear I could feel those large, hard nipples rubbing against me like pencil erasers. “How much are the...?”
“Don’t worry sir, we’ll settle your bill when you’re quite finished. I shouldn’t worry about that.”
Jon’s hands moved to begin unbuttoning my shirt. I let him, of course. I heard a sudden, deep groan to my left and I looked towards the sound to see a man in the throes of the deepest passion arching his head back on his powerful neck as he evidently released a fat volley of cream inside the ample, muscular buttocks of his companion, who turned to observe the effect that his tight ass was having and smiled in the most satisfying manner. He was stroking his own mammoth erection as he was being so ably fucked, and like the young god in the corner, drawing forth his honeyed flow and sucking it off his fingers.
“Drink,” Jon said. Requested. Ordered.
I watched the two men fucking, gazing with lust at the insane details of the top’s back muscles, how every single one of them was so finely detailed, how they seemed to swell outward beneath his sweaty flesh, how they bulged and flexed with power, and the look on his companion’s face when he caught my gaze and smiled. A veneer of precum lacquered his lips and he licked it slowly off with obvious relish.
The Drink worked its magic again. Jon was pulling my sweat-soaked shirt from my body and the heat in the room seemed to increased as my skin was exposed to the sex-soaked fog of masculine musk that permeated everything. I closed my eyes to better focus on the sexual sensation of the bittersweet concoction, little realizing that I was being stripped utterly bare by Jon’s strong, talented hands. His touch moved lovingly across my skin, and as I swallowed the last drops and felt The Drink zeroing in unerringly on my cock, filling it up with bliss and pushing a gallon of cream into my balls, Jon moved his hand onto my neck and drew our mouths together again, feeding me another warm, delicious sample of what happened when he allowed me to drink directly from him, to feel the hot sex of his body infused within The Drink as I guzzled it with insane hunger.
His other hand stroked me, pleasured me, rubbed me. The pad of his thumb against the drooling tip of my cock made my toes curl and the hair on the back of my head stand on end. I swallowed his warm, wet gift and it rocketed into my prick with the speed of a jet fighter, and with just as much armament and power.
I gasped and swooned and his tongue took advantage, pushing inside my mouth as if to taste himself inside me.
“Good,” he moaned. “You are good.”
I could not speak. My body was buzzing hard. My cock throbbed with every beat of my heart. My body was coated in sweat and sex and I could smell Jon’s funky, masculine musk as he rubbed the insane meaty hardness of his chest against my back.
“Drink,” he said.
He spun me on my stool and I looked at him. He was smiling and then he directed my gaze southward and I moved my eyes down his beauty. His chest - his nipples - swelled toward me. He breathed in and out, making his six-pack abs swell and recede. Then, before my eyes, the mushroom of his familiar but mind-bending prick rose into view.
He was huge. Undeniably and deliciously huge. A thick drool of precum was leaking from the mouth of his thick snake, draining down its neck like honey. It was throbbing and pulsing with its power. “Drink,” he repeated, and I bent my lips toward the fount of his masculine essence and licked the warm, salty fluid into my mouth.
An instant desire to devour him entered my brain. The taste of him - the smell and sensation of him - married to the memory of The Drink and its delicious power to travel directly to my dick and fill me up with orgasmic delight erupted. I took him inside my mouth, practically falling from the bar stool, grabbing onto the shank of his sex with both hands as I sucked and stroked and kissed and licked him with the hunger of a babe.
I heard him groan. “Is good,” he said, in his odd dialect. He stroked my head like a loving parent and I sucked his dick. “Is good,” he repeated, and then he moaned a shuddering sound of evident delight and I felt his cock swell in my hands and the head ballooned inside my mouth and I knew what was coming.
A blast of wet heat splashed inside my mouth, coating my tongue and teeth and the insides of my cheeks and everywhere, everywhere with the delicious bittersweet tang of his load. I swallowed quickly, eagerly, because I felt him enlarge again with dramatic size and a second, larger explosion pushed down my throat almost before I could swallow it.
He groaned and continued to stroke my head like his favorite pet or his child as I sucked and swallowed the copious, warm, rich, delicious loads of cream he was pushing inside me from his heavy balls.
And like The Drink, his seed - his power - traveled unerringly inside me towards the root of my own masculine juices and I could feel my own eruption at the edge of delivery.
I heard him say, “Drink,” again, and thinking it was an unneeded admonition to me, I nodded and sucked and guzzled, but then the sensation of a mouth surrounded my own erection, ready for delivery, and I saw the young man - the one of the smoldering eyes and shaven scalp and impressive, rounded pecs, going down on my prick.
As soon as his warm, soft lips surrounded the spongey helmet of my hard-on, I exploded inside him. His moan of hunger and delight echoed through my body.
Now, eyes opened, I looked down at myself and watched as my own chest swelled forward. My eyes went wide but I could not remove my mouth from Jon’s still-gushing dick as I observed by body swelling larger with evident muscle.
I could not process what was happening. I was drunk or high. I was hallucinating, I was dreaming. I watched my chest rise and the twin muscular plates swell forward and my nipples grow larger and larger on the ever-expanding globes. Cleavage formed and deepened between the hemispheres, and then my peripheral vision was drawn to something else, and I saw my upper arms experiencing similar evolution.
Even as the realization hit me of what appeared to be happening, my hunger and desire for Jon’s unending flood of rich, warm cream increased. I sucked and stroked with renewed gusto and hunger, wanting to draw it all inside me and quicken the pace of my developing muscles.
I felt and heard another deep and satisfying moan that traveled the length of my cock and I looked down, locking my gaze again with the young dark god, and watched his neck swell and his shoulders broaden and his pecs - the gorgeous and powerful twin globes of his chest - were swelling larger and larger.
“Drink.”
I could feel my cock reaching farther inside the beautiful man’s mouth.
“Drink.”
I shuddered and shook. My nipples tingled with shocks of ecstasy. Sweat trickled along my widening back and crept into the crack of my ass. I could feel it kissing my hole, my hungry, insatiable hole.
“Drink.”
I clenched my fists and swallowed and guzzled and drank from Jon’s fount of pure power. The young dark god closed his eyes and a gush of my own cream appeared at the corner of his mouth, but he would not deny himself even a drop and his tongue darted out to capture my essence and swallow it inside. He reached up and tortured his fat nippled and groaned in utter delight.
“Drink.”
I needed a cock in my ass. I needed this cock in my mouth. I needed cock.
“Drink.”
I was growing. Growing in size. Growing in power. Growing in strength. My muscles were swelling. My cock was swelling. I sucked his syrup inside me and felt myself expanding.
“Drink.”
He groaned. He gasped. He pumped me full of his white hot seed and I felt it spreading through me, extending into my arms and chest and belly and ass and legs and cock. I grew larger, my muscled soaking in his power and feeding on his strength.
I shoved thick loads of my own hot spunk inside the young god, and felt him groan with bliss as his chest swelled forward and his cock extended by the inch, swelling up and out, growing thick and hard and strong.
“Drink.”
“Drink.”
“Drink.”
END