Alright, so here I am posting yet another story. It's a bit dark, but I guess it's slightly expected since most of my recent ones have been, as well.

I hope you enjoy!


I checked myself in the mirror one last time, running hands down my thighs to push off any stray specks of dust. The manager Daniel Coleman was very particular about his employees' appearance, and perfection was imperative. It was, in all aspects, a rather troublesome requirement, one considerably difficult to achieve.

But, of course, due to the nature my job, the need for physical excellence was not altogether unexpected. I worked in a strip club called The Ramrod—a very fitting name since it was for gay males. It was a tiring occupation and, now, one I had no choice but to pursue. I didn't like it; it actually pissed me the fuck off, but it's not in my nature to complain. As long as I got the money, I'd do the job.

My pants were tight, black leather, showing off every curve and chunk of muscle I had in my legs. Instead of a shirt to cover my torso, I was left with nothing but a thick chain, which was attached to the black collar around my neck. With every step I took, the chain knocked against my chest and stomach, but by now I've become less aware of it. Before, it had been humiliating—because, really, who in their fucking right mind wore a dog collar? It was meant to be a sign of dominance for our customers, like we were the servants; they were the masters. Either way, I'd gradually gotten over the humiliation and, now, it was just a nuisance.

Through the mirror, I watched as two drunken men stumbled into the bathroom, their bodies nearly melded into one as their sloppy mouths sucked on swollen lips and heated skin. The smaller man tripped as he walked backwards, and it sent them both tumbling in a heap on the ground.

This had no affect on their sexual performance, though, and clothes were being thrown off in haste. One of them beckoned to me with a finger, his voice slurring as he said, "Come on, join us and have some fun," I decided then would be a good time to take my leave.

I discreetly exited the bathroom—not cowardly, I told myself—and made my way to the main room.

The Ramrod attracted nearly every gay male within a fifty-mile radius and, like any other day, there was a large crowd, men bustling about and eagerly groping at employees' man parts. It was a daily humiliation, and I walked through the rows of congested tables, trying to dodge the few I could, and gritting my teeth on the ones I couldn't.

Overall, there had to be about forty tables, all clumped together in the center of the room. Around them were three rows of booths, one set behind the tables, and two sets on the left and right of them, backed up against the wall. The booths were cushioned and more comfortable, but were farther from the stage and therefore not always a customer's first pick.

On the other side of the tables, at the very front of the spacious room, was the stage the strippers danced on. It was big, beaming with bright lights and beautiful male dancers. It was a very well-liked attribute of The Ramrod, and it wasn't difficult to understand why. With the exotic dancing and sparse clothing, any true pervert couldn't help but appreciate it.

However, the man I was currently serving, William Hudson, was not here to watch the strippers.

Having reached the man's booth, I brought out my notepad and pen. "Good evening, sir. Is there something you would like to accompany your entertainment this evening?"

Hudson's smile was lewd, and I immediately regretted my wording. Some people took things more perversely than others.

He purred, "I could think of a couple of things. However, I'm unsure which 'entertainment' you're referring to. Could you enlighten me?"

I felt my eye twitch. A foolish question, considering the half-naked men lewdly dancing on the stage behind me. I had a fairly good comeback for it, but I did everything I could to push down. Three months ago, a new manager had been instated after the previous one was fired for raping some of our employees. All things considered, I had been expecting a vast improvement after he got let off, but I was wrong. Very wrong.

Daniel Coleman, a thirty-year-old rich businessman, took his place, and very clearly reminded me of Satan's brother, if the bastard even had one. Six days after his arrival the strip club acquired the new policy, "if any worker of this establishment treats any patron unkindly, the latter is allowed a 24-hour compensation for any misconduct or discourteous acts." Of course there was always the fine print, like "this does not include being reimbursed with money, food, material goods, or business advertisement." In a place like this, the only logical repayment was a free fuck.

But, considering it's for a full day, it'd be several free fucks.

The policy is written in bold print near the entrance to the club, and I knew well enough that all the customers saw it. Hell, they did their best to test us, prodding and probing us like pretty specimen under a microscope until, finally, we break.

Break but don't get put back together.

It annoys me when I find ill-fated, fictional characters have such a similar storyline to my own life. We all know Humpty Dumpty had taken quite the fall, but at least his pain only lasted as long as the film was playing. Once the kids got bored of him, they turned off the TV and left the guy in peace. Me? You can't put me on pause, and I'll feel the affects of the fall until I finally escape from this hellish place.

Or die trying.

My mouth twitched into an obviously not-so-happy smile as I turned to the side and gestured to the stage. "Well, there's a lovely display of male dancers behind me if you'd like to observe."

Hudson didn't seem impressed, and he tapped an immaculately manicured finger on the booth's table. "When do I get to see you up on that stage?"

I gave him another false smile. "I'm afraid I can't do that, sir; I'm merely a waiter."

Aside from being horny, Hudson had a nearly permanent scowl on his face. He was probably in his mid-forties, with slightly greying hair. He was thinner than many of our customers, but very muscular for his age, and had a presence that said he could beat the shit out of anyone who challenged him.

The concern I had for my safety was obvious when he stopped looking horny and gained a very displeased look. He reached out a thick hand, and I turned my head, preparing for a punch. The hand landed on the front of my pants, his palm grazing purposefully along my crotch.

I let out a small moan, and immediately cursed myself after. Usually I'd be able to reel them in but, out of surprise, I had let it escape.

Hudson's smirk was sinister. "You like that?" He poked and prodded harder. "I thought someone like you would. Such a slut."

Also according to Coleman's rules, we're not allowed to refuse the customers' advancements, so long as there's no "removal of garb or physical penetration." Basically, this bastard could keep his hand on my dick until the cows came home and the pancakes flipped themselves before there was a damn thing I could do about it.

Just like the fucking streets.

Hudson's big hand grinded harder against my leather-clad crotch, and I wondered if subtly scooting back a step would still be considered denying the customer. Because, I mean, this guy was distracting as hell and I couldn't do my work properly, so…it'd work, right?

I grit my teeth and deliberately looked down at my empty notepad, ignoring the groping limb. I knew better. The manager would flip his shit and inevitably punish me. I'd only been "punished" once—six weeks and three days ago; it had been degrading, humiliating, fucking scary, and had stirred in me what is now my biggest phobia. I'd take this man's hand on my crotch over that any day.

I tapped my pen on the notepad, growing impatient. "So what will it be, sir?"

"Your tight, sexy asshole."

The reason I'd gotten a real job in the first place was to escape from these sorts of situations. By becoming a waiter, I had been hoping to give myself a small reprieve from my other, less legal and more physical occupation. I didn't like to give it a name, what I did in the dark alleys and dirty corners of deserted streets. It was disgusting, and it was hard, but it served its purpose and I'd keep doing it until I could finally dig myself out of this pit. Like hell I was going to stay in this shitty town forever. Life dealt me these cards and I'd be damned if I didn't get myself a straight-flush one of these days.

My eyes narrowed, and I couldn't stop the blunt, "Not for sale," that passed my lips.

Though, of course, technically, that was a lie. My ass did have a hefty price tag slapped on it, but it wasn't for sale at the moment.

Hudson yanked at the chain around my neck, bringing our heads at equal height. Having my chain being pulled every day made the collar around my neck inevitably tighten, leaving me with what now seemed like permanent bruises. Hudson was always one of the ones that made sure I knew my position in life, so his tugs were always especially brutal.

Being the well-paying customer he was, I didn't glare, but I wasn't giving off any particularly friendly vibes, either.

I–gently, Sam, gently—grasped the man's hand in my own and encouraged it to unwrap itself from around the chain. I didn't kid myself into believing I could use force to get him off me; not only was he twice my stature and thrice my muscle—really, that wasn't saying a whole lot considering my own lean figure—but he'd tell the manager. He'd exaggerate my wrongdoings and inevitably get me "punished." And, since denying a customer inevitably meant I was being discourteous to him, Hudson would definitely get himself a plaything for a day.

Fuck, who was I kidding? Life wasn't fair; it never gave me a set of cards. It threw them in the shredder then laughed in my face when I lost the game.

Thankfully, Hudson reluctantly removed his hand, placing it back on the table.

I clicked my pen. "Is there anything you would like, sir, preferably from the menu?"

Okay, that had been borderline rude, but I liked to think I had a right to be. Fortunately enough, Hudson didn't disagree. He looked annoyed, but, again, reluctantly complied. "No." As he clucked his tongue, I waited for him to say more. "However, I would like to know what time you're off today."

So it was like that. He was one of the few customers that knew I wasn't just a simple waiter at a gay bar.

"Ten." Hudson only nodded, and I subtly turned away from him. "Now if you'll excuse me..." I didn't leave just yet, silently waiting for the permission I had to have.

He waved his hand as dismissal, and I took my leave, moving to a booth that had just been filled by two men with similar features. Father and son, maybe? It seemed odd they would want to share a family moment at a gay bar, but I was in no position to judge and, frankly, I didn't care either way.

"Hello, sirs," I greeted as I held out my pen and notepad. "Is there something you would like to accompany your entertainment this evening?"

They stopped what appeared to be an intense conversation as they turned to look in my direction. Noticing my outfit, their cheeks immediately flamed bright red, and their gazes left me to instead burn holes into the table in front of them.

I've never received such a reaction, and it seemed obvious that this place was not their preference of entertainment. I couldn't help but wonder what the hell they were doing here.

The younger one spoke. "Uh, no, no, we're good." I was about to request permission to leave when he continued. "But, uh…I was wondering. Has anything, I dunno, strange happened around here recently?" He looked up at that to scrutinize my reaction, but made sure to keep his gaze on my eyes. I looked into his, seeing green eyes noticeably similar to my own, maybe a shade lighter.

My eye twitched spastically. "I got my chain stuck on the statue of a penis last Tuesday."

Their faces flushed red again, and the same one tried again, coughing into his hand before speaking. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound weird or anything. We're asking because we're investigating the deaths of two men in town, both of which worked in this club. Do you know if there'd be anyone with enough motive to want them dead?" He raised his hands in inquiry. "Maybe the victims had enemies?"

Yeah, I knew them both. Jake Howard and Tony Paulo. I wasn't particularly close to either of them—in fact, they pissed me the fuck off—but I couldn't imagine anyone crude enough to want them killed.

Except me, of course.

"I'm assuming you're both cops?"

Nearly in sync with one another, they flipped out their badges, held them out—Dean and John Vester were their names—then pushed them back into their pockets. All done within a second. Impressive.

I shrugged, giving them my best nonchalant expression. "Yeah, I knew them. They were conceited as hell, but not enough to die for it."

These two cops seemed to see through my façade, and opened their mouths to question me further. Before they could speak, a firm hand grabbed my ass, squeezing tightly. The Vesters' eyes burned with emotion as they stared at the culprit behind me, and I turned to see Leo standing there.

Leo was a very devote customer, coming to The Ramrod every day, and every day requesting me as his waiter. I'd be flattered, if he didn't have such sadistic kinks that made my stomach flip just thinking about them. His hair was balding prematurely and his thin figure belied his startling physical strength. His smirk was sly and hungry, and I had a feeling he'd fuck me right into the table if it wouldn't get him kicked out of the club.

"When you get off work, sugar? I wanna have some funnn," he purred into my ear before biting it. With one hand occupying my ass, he situated the other firmly against my crotch. He pushed them hard into my skin from both sides, as if hoping that, if he pressed hard enough, they could end up meeting in the center of my body.

I inwardly sighed in exasperation. Fucking tard.

This man was not someone I wanted to meet on the street again. "Midnight."

Leo gave my neck a long swipe with his tongue, chuckling in anticipation. "I'll be waiting for ya."

Graciously, he left, giving my ass and crotch one last squeeze before heading back the way he'd come.

I wiped at the saliva dripping down my neck and turned back to the table I'd been serving. John and Dean's cheeks were flaming red again, and I couldn't help but find it comical, despite the situation. Any other customer would be drooling or reaching to touch by now, but these two looked so innocent. If it weren't for their jobs, they'd probably never step foot in a seedy place like this.

The older one, John, spoke, his cheeks still horribly tinted. "Uh, so, so you don't know of anyone suspicious enough to do that sort of thing?"

"Sam. Sam!"

Goddamn, it was always something with these people.

The grating voice, all too familiar and all too dreadful, sent shivers up my spine. It came from across the entire span of the overly spacious room, passed numerous booths, tables, and small-scale statues of naked men, yet it still had that affect on me.

Coleman, the manager, was flailing an impatient hand through the air, his expression indefinable—as it most often was unless during "punishments" or sex. It was scary; with his face always appearing indifferent, you never knew what shit you were in until you were waist-deep in it.

My quivering hands tucked my pen and notepad back into the back pocket of my tight pants, and I bowed lightly to the Vesters. "I'm sorry, sirs, it appears I'm being called. Please excuse my dismissal."

The two looked hesitant, glancing over at Coleman in uncertainty. I was kind of impressed. They were cops; maybe they were smart enough and good enough to read Coleman's expression as well as me.

Their blushes died down and the younger looked like he was going to argue, but I turned before he could speak, walking in the direction of the manager. I knew better than to leave Coleman waiting.

Once I finally reached him, I bowed low at the waist, hands respectfully clasped together but not hindering the view he had of my bulge.

Leather should just go to hell.

"Hello, Master Coleman. May I serve you?" I asked in my sweetest voice, returning to full height and putting my hands behind my back with feet side-by-side.

Like Hudson, Leo, and every other customer in this joint, Coleman had a keen, nearly possessive fetish for my body. He and I have a mutual agreement: I let him fuck me during job hours, and he doesn't tell the customers about my private life and newly established phobias. While I'm ecstatic no one will be finding out anytime soon, I'm not a fan of blackmail, and it's annoying that I'm the only one he's "punished" so far. The bastards in this joint sure are bias.

Coleman let out a rare display of emotion, a lustful smirk surfacing to the top. So that's why he called me over. He wanted me now?

When he turned around to lead me to his room, I caught a glance at the clock on the wall. I was off-duty in half an hour, but my sessions with Coleman…fuck, they lasted forever. I took another fleeting glance at the time, hoping it'd somehow change if I looked at it long enough. It didn't.

Looks like I'd be doing overtime.


Alright, so that's the end of Chapter 1. Because this is indeed the beginning, the plot hasn't gotten too in depth yet. I assure you it will pick up soon, lol.

If you have the time, I'd greatly appreciate some feedback. If not, thank you nonetheless for reading! Until next time!