The Telemachus Story Archive

Bartender Blues
By Steve Sierran

This is a work of fiction. The behaviors described in this story are both immoral and illegal. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. The characters depicted are completely fictional. If you wish to post this work elsewhere, please request permission first. Tell me what you think:

8:00 pm

Michael hopped up on the edge of the back counter and put his legs up on the under-the-counter bar cooler across the bartender's aisle. The happy hour had been more than disappointing. Ordinarily he had at least a dozen happy customers in this blue-collar, hole in the wall bar across from the Stranahan heat-treating plant. Today, however, with the worst storm of the winter rolling through, the bar had remained empty.

Michael pulled his hat baseball cap off and ran his hands through his short sandy brown hair and sighed out loud. He was bored.

At 6 feet tall and 24 years old, Michael's blue eyes, football player physique and his cocky attitude, made Michael a popular bartender, not only with the ladies but also with quite a few of the boys. But his loudmouthed behavior and his 'I don't give a shit' approach to nearly everything, Michael had turned off many customers. His own bar tendering style actually was contributing to his lack of customers on this evening.

Jumping down from his perch, Michael called the bar manager and got permission to close the bar early with the snowstorm really settling in. Michael hung up the phone and paused to stare at his own reflection in the mirror. He flexed several times, and despite the bulky sweatshirt, his large muscles showed through the cloth. He wore a pair of high tops and warm-up pants with the snaps along the sides. With the baseball capon his head, he definitely looked good, and he knew it. The side burns, the scruff on his chin and the blue eyes made him a definite hottie. The problem was, Michael knew it.

Michael tore himself away from the mirror and opened the breaker panel. Three quick flips of the breakers, and the exterior lights and neon sign went out; the seating lights winked out; and the ceiling fans and air cyclers shut down.

The room, now lit only by the dim bar lights, the TV and the light over the pool table, took on a pleasant and cozy feel. Michael poured -himself a shot of Jagermeister, downed it and quickly drew another shot.

Since he wasn't making any money and didn't have anything to do, Michael figured a couple of shots would keep him warm for the walk home.

Michael downed the second shot, grabbed the broom, swept the floor behind the bar and then turned off the television. The room was now silent as well as dark. "Ah, one more shot won't hurt." Michael poured it and downed it. The rich heavy taste of the shot was now pleasing and warm. Michael could already feel the affect of the alcohol, since he hadn't eaten anything all day.

The front door opened. The bell above the door ringing as the howling wind outside tried to pry inside. A moment later, the door slammed shut and the silence returned to the room.

Michael couldn't make out details of the two figures that had entered, but spoke up anyway, "Evening', fellas. I'm sorry to say that we're closed for the night."

The shadowy figures leaned into each other and paused.

Obviously they were talking about something, but Michael couldn't hear anything over a murmur.

Finally the two men approached the bar and came into view. Michael, not even trying to disguise his contempt, rolled his eyes and spoke aloud, "Oh, fuck no. Not you two assholes!?! Hank and Tom, what the hell are you losers doing out tonight?"

Hank, the stockier of the two men with a balding head and a steel worker's heavy musculature, half smiled as he pulled out a barstool and settled in. "You treat all your customers this crappy?"

Michael, loving a challenge, particularly with jerks like these two, fired right back, "Only with stupid fucks like you. Now I told you, the bar is closed, so head right on back out."

Tom stepped forward, a bit taller than Hank, and lankier, but as equally muscled as his pal, Tom was older and a bit more subtle, but as easy to anger as Hank was, "This storm is shutting everything down. We just want a couple of drinks and then we'll get out, so you can go home and get your beauty sleep."

Michael kept his eyes on the men and dropped his head," I said we're closed. No service, boys."

"What if we offered to buy you a shot as well?" Tom returned.

Michael hesitated. He was bored. The Jager he had already downed was making him very receptive to drinking more. "All right, one round, and then you assholes have to clear out."

Michael turned to the taps and began pouring the two draughts that were Hank and Tom's favorites. Tom leaned over the counter and sized up Michael's backside, focusing his attention on the bubble butt, partially hidden by the workout pants, but visible enough to affect Tom's groin. Michael, in his opinion, was a fucking punk, but there was no doubt that the boy had one hot body. A bad boy with a hot body that needed to be knocked down a few pegs.

10:00 pm

Michael was trashed. No two ways about it. He had lost all count of how many beers he had poured and how many shots he had done. He had relaxed his attitude when the boys began buying him shots, but now that Hank and Tom were sufficiently buzzed, they were starting to stare more blatantly at his body, and Michael was aware of it. Normally, Michael didn't care about faggots. They could look and admire all they wanted, but as long as they didn't touch and didn't get lewd, he didn't have a problem. These two, however, were starting to cross the line. Michael, through the haze of his inebriated consciousness, made his announcement. "Alright, you fuck-heads. Enough is enough. Get out."

Hank leaned forward and came nose to nose with Michael who was leaning toward his customers on the service counter. "Awww, c'mon, Mikey, don't throw us out in the cold!" Hank put his hand on Michael's shoulder.

Michael lost it. "GET THE FUCK OFF ME AND GET THEFUCK OUT!" Michael knocked Hank's hand away and stood up, his attitude now in full gear. "GET THEHELL OUT OF MY BAR, YOU FUCKING COCK SUCKERS!"

Tom stood up and grabbed his jacket, "Alright, calm down. We'll get out of here."


"That's the game, fuckwad!" Michael mouthed back. "Get fucking used to it."

Hank lost it. He launched out of his seat and jumped clean over the counter, wrapping his large hands around Michael's muscular neck. Both men went sprawling down to the floor behind the bar.

Tom, instead of joining in, ran to the front door and threw the deadbolt. He quickly took his jacket back off and ran around behind the bar.

There, Hank and Michael were tussling back and forth on the floor. Hank was still dominating, with Michael on his back, but the space was simply too tight for the two men to be able to punch or swing. Hank finally let Michael get back up to his feet. Michael took a cocky stance, despite the alcohol slowing his reflexes, and failed to notice Tom behind him.

It was easy for Tom to slip up behind Michael and in a quick and decisive move, slipped his arms under Michael's, up and then locked his fingers behind Michael's head. The effect was a full Nelson, and immobilized Michael's arms.

Hank didn't hesitate. He came right up and started pounding away at Michael with a series of rough blows directly to his stomach, and then a few at his face, to take the fight out of him.

Michael tried kicking, but the pounding to his abs and face took his energy away. A final roundhouse to his head, combined with the alcohol, put Michael out.

Tom, still holding Michael, felt the strength go out of him and grabbed Mike by his armpits and dragged him from behind the bar to the well lit pool table. There, he unceremoniously dumped the cocky bartender on the felt surface, face down.

Hank came around from behind the bar, and stood next to Tom. The opportunity was just too good.

Hank reached to the leather pouch on his belt, flipped open the top, and pulled out his pocketknife, and deftly opened the largest blade. He looked at Tom with a sneer on his face.

Tom mirrored the desire, if not the look. Tom grabbed the bottom of Michael's sweatshirt and pulled it tight. Hank began slashing away at the cotton material and soon, with Tom's help had sliced the shirt from the bottom to the collar, exposing Michael's muscled and unblemished back. The skin of the unconscious bartender seemed to glow under the light of the pool table lamp.

Tom rolled Michael onto his back. With the bartender's legs hanging off the end of the table, Michael's workout pants covered crotch was right on the edge and very pronounced. Tom picked up one of Mike's arms, while Tom grabbed the other one. They pulled the sleeves of the sweatshirt off, and the rest of the shirt came with it. They dropped their victim's arms and admired the view. Michael had put on a little weight since his football days, but his musculature was still obvious his hairless chest, with the heavy pecs and taught abdominals, was simply beautiful. Tom grabbed Michael's arms and pulled them up over his head, emphasizing the heavy muscles of his thick arms and pushing his rib cage, making his chest expand. The quarter-sized nipples were starting to respond to the chill in the air. His damp armpits were exposed with their tufts of brown hair.

Hank rubbed the chest and then leaned in, his desire to wrap his lips around the nearest nipple was as close to instinct as the man could get, but Tom stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "Not yet, buddy. Let's see everything this boy has to offer.

Hank, his breath short, nodded. He reached down and adjusted his expanding cock inside his jeans. He couldn't remember a time when he had felt such a steel-like hard on. He felt like his cock would bust clear out of his pants.

Tom crouched down on the floor at Michael's feet. He untied and loosened the laces of the high tops and with just a bit of difficulty, pulled the shoes from the white, crew length socks. 'Those can stay on.' Thought Tom as he then began to unsnap the sides of the workout pants from the bottom up.

Hank, his desire running wild, unfastened the buttons at the waist and slowly pulled the top front section of Michael's pants down. As the pants slid down, the first thing revealed, causing Hank to pause was the telltale wide band of material with the thin double red stripe running all the way around. Hank grabbed Tom by the arm, and literally hauled his friend up from his crouched position. Tom noted the amazing strength that Hank possessed.

"Look! Fucking look!" Hank pointed to the waistband. Tom looked and let a smile slowly cross his face. Michael was wearing only a jock strap under the pants.

"This is fate, Hank. This boy didn't know when he got dressed this morning that he was feeding every fantasy we've ever had." Tom nodded to Hank.

With the snaps all released, Hank pulled the pants away and let them drop between Michael's legs. The boy's crotch was huge inside the pouch of the jockstrap. His balls expanded the lower part of the pouch, and the thick tube of his cock rested on top, pointing down toward his knees. The cloth was so tight that Tom and Hank could make out the shape of boy's cock tip.

Michael's immense thighs stretched down to his knees and his ample calves. His legs had just a sparse layer of brown hair. Around the man's groin, teasingly reaching out were just a few curly brown hairs peeking out from the cloth over his package.

Hank and Tom, as though reading each other's minds, each grabbed one of Michael's thick thighs and slowly pulled the unconscious man's legs apart. They could see the end of the pouch, and the separation of the two straps. There, they saw one of Michael's most private areas, the skin leading from the base of his sack, down to the separation of his cheeks and further, but still hidden from sight, his hole.

"Give me the knife." Tom stated.

Hank paused, "But I like the jock strap."

"Trust me."

Hank handed over the knife and Tom went to work, carefully cutting as he leaned over Michael's waist, blocking Hank's view. Hank shoved his hand down the inside of his own pants and began to rub his own cock, as he rubbed the inside of Michael's thigh.

Tom stood back, closed the knife and handed it back to Hank. Hank looked at the body, but saw nothing different. Thom then reached down and peeled the pouch back slowly. He had separated the pouch from the elastic bands that held the strap together. What he revealed, however, was the true masterpiece.

Michael's hefty, cut cock at a thick, five inch-soft length, rested atop his huge hairless balls, all wrapped around by his thick and curly brown bush.

Both men savored the amazing view. This mouthy, punk bartender, now absolutely silent, lay atop the pool table, his most private places, fully exposed, as he had been stripped naked from his head to his feet. Only his socks, his baseball cap and his shredded jockstrap remained.

Hank, still with his hand down his pants looked to Tom, who spoke to him, "Now, we have some fun."

Hank and Tom stood staring at their handiwork. There, on the pool table lay Michael, the cocky bartender who had attempted to throw them out of the bar in the middle of the worst winter storm so far in the season.

Now, however, Michael laid on his back atop the bar's pool table, his nearly naked form exposed to the bright light from the focused light above the table. Michael's sweatshirt had been cut from his torso, his workout pants removed and the pouch of his jock strap cut to reveal his body except for the baseball cap on his head and the white crew socks on his feet.

"I can't wait to taste him!" Hank said, one hand still down the front of his pants as he continued to rub his steel-hard on.

"Well, what the fuck are you waiting for?" Tom asked, not taking his eyes off the muscular body spread and ready for them.

Hank didn't need to be told twice. He immediately stepped in between Michael's legs and pushed the former athlete's huge thighs apart and then bent over the exposed crotch. Michael's cut dick was thick and flaccid over his large balls. Hank withdrew his hand from his pants and picked up the bartender's hefty cock and began rubbing it in his hand. The soft skin and the large flared head were fascinating to the steel worker, as he continued to manipulate Michael's equipment.

Tom, the true voyeur of the duo, stood back and quietly watched as he rubbed his own groin.

As though possessing a voracious appetite, Hank slid Michael's cock into his mouth and began rubbing the meaty shaft with his tongue. As they do, Michael's cock began to get hard. Hank was rubbing the bartender's exposed sack with the heavy balls inside and was doing his best to rub the inner thighs between which he stood.

Both men froze for a moment as a moan emanated from Michael's open, but still unconscious mouth. Tom quickly hopped up on the table and without a second thought, grabbed Michael's hands and tied them with the ruined sweatshirt. He then kneeled on the extra cloth, effectively binding Michael's hands and arms above his head.

As Hank continued to maul the young man's crotch, Tom watched eagerly and then unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, fishing into his underwear to pull out his own rock hard cock and began fisting the long slender length as he watched.

Hank slid his lips off Michael's now completely hard cock and held the shaft straight up in the air by grasping it at the base. This gave the effect of making the thick, hard dick look immense. The flared cut tip was huge, much larger than the thick shaft, and Hank couldn't keep from running his lips over just the helmet. Michael's cock released a large amount of precum as Hank stroked the shaft. Hank ran his other hand up and down Michael's balls, stroking them and tugging on the sack.

Suddenly, Hank stood up and stepped back from his handiwork.

"What's wrong?" Tom asked, slowing, but not stopping the stroking of his prick.

Hank looked up at Tom, "I can't wait no more. I gotta fuck him."

Tom laughed out loud, "Then fuck him, buddy, fuck him!"

Hank grinned like an idiot and then reached down and grabbed Michael's socked feet, pulling them up and then twisting them, forcing Michael's body to turn at the same time.

Inch by inch, Michael's body rotated, finally leaving Michael on his stomach, his broad back revealed, stretching down to his waist and then to the two huge mounds of his hairless ass. Hank lowered the bartender's legs and then stepped close, grabbing the man by the waist and hoisting him up higher on the table, placing the top of Michael's hips right at the edge of the table. This served to accentuate the curvature of his bubble butt, along with the straps of the ruined strap, and fixed Hank's desire.

Hank stepped close, admiring the ass, and then running his hands over the perfect and smooth cheeks. He gently ran the fingers of both hands over the cheeks and brought his fingertips to the deep crack at the same time. He pried the cheeks apart and revealed the object of his desire, the tight puckered hole of his prey. Hank leaned in and licked the entrance. It was the single thing that Hank loved more than anything else. Hank released the muscular cheeks as he licked the tight hole, relishing the feeling of having his face buried in the ass that he had craved for so long.

Hank feasted away at his upturned meal and massaged the strong athletic ass with both hands as he worked it over.

Tom, still restraining Michael's bound hands, continued to watch with acute interest as the bartender was prepared for the final punishment for his behavior. Tom continued to beat himself, taking longer and harder strokes.

Hank finally slid his face out of the boy's crack and paused to lick and nibble at each cheek before standing upright and dropping his pants to the ground.

He pulled out his cock, which wouldn't win any prizes in the length department, but was immensely thick. "I'm ready." Hank tossed the comment out as he rubbed his dick.

Tom slowed his fisting and then spoke, "Let's make sure he knows who's teachin' him this lesson." Tom reached down and slapped the bartender's face twice.

Michael slowly came to his senses. "What... what's goin' on?"

Tom leaned down and spoke softly into Michael's ear," We decided to teach you a lesson."

"What lesson?" Michael answered back. He was only realizing now, that he was in an awkward predicament. That his hands were bound and that it was chilly.

"A lesson in how to treat your customers." Tom whispered again.

Michael's brain was still not back in full gear. "I don't understand." Michael made a connection, he was laying face down on the pool table. He made another connection. His hands were tied up. He felt something sidling up between his legs. Michael then realized he was naked. Something was terribly wrong.

"Understand this." Tom nodded to Hank, who with one shove, drove his cock in between the globes and through his clenched ring.

Michael lost his cherry in that moment and screamed his head off the next. He began struggling for all he was worth, but Tom held his hands tight and Hank just kept kicking his legs apart. Hank began picking up speed and stroking deeper with each thrust. Michael's cries diminished to whimpers and then to silent sobs.

The only sounds left in the room were the sounds of Hank's thighs slapping against Michael's ass cheeks, Hank and Tom's heavy breathing, and the flesh slapping noise of Tom jerking.

Hank was like an animal. He slid his hands around the heavy ass cheeks, and found the straps of the jockstrap. He began pulling with them, and lifting the bartender's ass up off the edge of the table as he rammed home inside him.

Tom pulled Michael's head up by his hair, as he reached the peak of his voyeuristic fantasy/reality. Michael's eyes were clenched tightly shut, and his entire body moved rhythmically as Hank pounded into him. Tom pulled on his engorged cock as he watched, and then came in long bursts. He missed with the first shot, but landed the next three directly across the stud's face.

Hank too, reached his peak, and drove as deep as he could into the ruined ring of muscle. He held the boy as tightly as he could, and then released his load deep inside him.

Tom released his grip on the bartender's hair and his face thudded against his arms stretched ahead of him. Hank slid out of his leaking ass and pulled his pants up, but not before slapping the boy's ass cheeks twice, leaving a bright red handprint on each cheek.

Hank also pulled his knife out again, and in once quick slice, cut the waistband of the jock strap. He reached down in between the white ass cheeks and grabbed a hold of the base of the jock strap. In one easy yank, he slid the sliced strap completely off the naked man's body, off his legs and then stuffed it into his pocket.

Both men grabbed their jackets and before heading for the door, threw their singles and loose change on the naked body. "Now that's how to service your customers. We'll be back again, real soon."