Gay Erotic Stories

"Hey, Jimbo, there’s some pussy for ya!" Mike’s voice yelled as a tall blonde woman walked by the construction site "Yeah!" yelled Johnny so all the guys would hear, "you’re man enough to take her, ain’t ya?!" Dumping the wheel barrel full of broken concrete into a growing pile, anger rose in Jim as he looked up to see some of the contractors giving him strange looks and talking amongst themselves. Can’t those three fucks think about anything else besides making every damned day a living hell for me, he thought Mike, Johnny and Brad, the three amigos as they were called, continued loading steel piping onto the crane’s platform. "Or maybe you’d like something to walk by that has a dick on it, you fucking fag!" Mike yelled out im was as patient as any man could be. But having only two and a half months with the company under his belt, he watched his step, especially around the union guys. At that moment, Bob Williams, owner and foreman of the company, exited the office trailer. Bob was a big, husky bear of a man standing six foot six with the broad shoulders of a linebacker, who wore 3x size flannel shirts which were growing tight on him. He walked over to Jim wearing a look of disgust. "What’s all the yelling about, Jimbo?" he asked, taking in the site of Jim’s rippled muscles and washboard stomach, well toned by not only working as a laborer but also from years working out in a gym. Jim looked around making sure no one could overhear him. "No yelling from me, Master. It’s the three ass wipes over there." He nodded towards the crane. Bob cracked a little smile that was neither happy nor pleasant. It was more like learning to smile as all hell was breaking loose. "Ok, boy," he sighed. "Just blow ‘em off." "I’d rather blow you, Sir." Jim¹s cock stiffened. "You’ll do just that, slave. Your place. Noon sharp, just like yesterday." "Yes, Sir!" Bob came around Jim so that his back was to the three men who were now working quietly, as everyone did when Bob the Bear walked the site. In a low voice he asked, "how would you like to get rid of those guys for good, boy?" "It would make coming to work easier, Master." We’ll discuss it at lunch. I have something in mind." “Yes, Sir," Jim replied. Precisely at twelve o’clock Bob used his own key to enter Jim’s apartment. He found his slave naked in the kitchen making bologna sandwiches for them both. Before he sat in his recliner to have his plate of food and can of Budweiser delivered to him, he grabbed the leather dog collar sitting on the kitchen table and locked it around Jim’s neck. He took a large bite of his food as his slave sat at his feet on the floor. Bob and Jim had started their relationship the very day Jim was hired as a laborer. Bob, somewhat intimidated by the larger, more muscular man standing before him wanting a job, said, "sorry, boy, but I’m full up now." Before he knew it the large applicant was down on his hands and knees licking Bob’s boots clean. "I’ll even be your slave for as long as you need me, Sir, just please give me a job!" Giving Bob an erection, he ordered Jim to suck his cock, which he did. Bob hired him and from that moment was Jim’s master. After they’d finished eating Bob’s heavy torso pinned Jim down onto his bed, his slave laying on his back with legs reaching into the air. For thirty minutes Bob’s thick sausage of a cock plowed the tight fuck hole, finally shooting two loads of juice into the hole. Jim’s cock came twice also after rubbing against his master’s firm, fur covered beer gut. Both men laid together in a pool of sweat and cum before Jim ran for a wet towel. Minutes later, both dressed, Jim was on his knees tying his master’s boot laces as the dog collar was taken from around his neck. Sir, what¹s your idea about the three fuck wads?" Jim asked. Bob raised his unfinished beer to his lips. "Well, slave, can you keep your mouth shut if I tell you something that is highly against the average person’s sense of morals?" "Yes, Sir." "I have a buddy of mine who runs a special kind of restaurant downtown. He deals in rare meals, you could say." You’re going to take them to dinner, Sir?" Jim asked "No, boy, I plan on turning them INTO dinner." Bob shot his slave a serious look. Cannibalism, Sir? Master, those guys are assholes but do they deserved to be killed and eaten?" "My buddy pays good money for prime cuts of meat, boy, and you, me and the whole fucking world could always use more money. You, yourself, have seen good men quit because of all the harassment they get from those three, like they¹re doing to you now!" Bob’s anger climbed higher. "I’ve had some damn good people on my payroll who left because of those assholes!" He yelled, arm raised and pointing towards the job site just three blocks away. "They don’t have the sense to shut their fucking mouths! I should have fired them a couple years ago before they got into the union!" Bob looked sternly down at Jim. "You’re my property now, Jimbo." Yes I am, Sir." "I’m ordering you to do what needs to be done for this to happen, boy." Jim loved Bob ever since he’d licked the man’s boots that first day, the day his servitude began. Whatever this man wanted of him, he’d give willingly. "I’ll always obey you, Master." "Then here’s what I need you to do, boy. Moe, Larry and Curly will be at their regular hangout tonight, and you¹re going to…" giving Jim his instructions. "You’ll have the van there, Master?" Jim asked. Yes. Once they’re in the back your part is over, boy. There’s no work tomorrow because inspectors will be on site checking things over. On Monday morning we will show up for work business as usual. End of problem." At six o’clock that evening Jim was sitting on a bar stool in Flanagan’s Pub, as ordered. Just before quitting time, the announcement came that there’d be no work on Saturday. Everyone cheered, especially the three amigos, and when they didn¹t show up Monday morning Jim was to spread the rumor that he’d overheard at the bar of the three men planning a fishing trip into the woods, which would be used to try to explain their disappearance. It would be assumed that they drowned in the river or were eaten by a bear or something. None of them were married so there’d be no spouses sticking their noses in to press on any investigation. Jim sipped his bottle of beer. In his balled up fist he held a small Zip lock bag filled with light orange powder his master had given him. He wasn’t to open it until he was ready to send a pitcher of beer with the contents of the bag mixed in over to his three coworkers who were now sitting at a table twenty feet away with their backs to him, eyes glued to the bar’s big screen TV. Both fear and excitement pulled at Jim from different directions. Part of him wanted to say ‘fuck it’ to the plan and ‘fuck it’ to the idea of cannibalizing someone. What if he got caught lacing the beer? But his louder, stronger side was obedient to his master and would obey. He wanted more than anything to see these guys snuffed. The thought of it gave him a hardon. "That fucking pansy! He’s got to be sucking the boss off!" Brad’s voice filled the bar. "Got to be!" Mike agreed. "William’s truck is over at that faggot’s apartment at lunch and after work all the time! They’re probably fucking each other up the butt right now! Damn fags!" Jim listened to their ramblings, looking around the bar as Johnny said something he didn’t catch and all three burst out laughing. The only other patrons, he saw, were two elderly gentlemen at a table in the corner—they wouldn’t see or even care what he was doing. "Anything else for ya?" the woman bartender asked Jim. “In a few," he replied. "Waitress!" Mike called from the table. im watched as the bartender walked over to their table carrying a scratch pad and a whole lot of attitude. He overheard her telling them that she was a professionally trained graduate from Cowpoke Community College Bartending School and not a fucking food pusher—that was the cook’s job. Though, Jim thought, the tips were probably better pushing food than drinks. "Now what can I get you guys?" she asked them in her best community college trained voice. "Another pitcher of beer would be just fine, sweet babe!" Jim was leaning over the bar already filling a pitcher with beer when she returned, giving him a curious look. "It’s okay, miss, I work with those guys. This one’s on me." He laid a five dollar bill on the bar. “You work with them? My condolences." Success, Jim thought. He had emptied the contents of the small Ziplock bag into the pitcher before filling it with suds without any one seeing him. From the corner of his eye he watched the three amigos fill their mugs with the laced brew. ”Not going to the gym for your workout tonight, Jimbo?" a deep voice asked him. Startled, Jim tipped over his bottle of beer, catching it before it fell onto the bar and drawing attention to himself. Sitting next to him all of a sudden was Carl, one of the more decent contractors from work. "Fine, man, just fine," he fumbled for the words as the community college graduate wiped up the beer he had spilled. "No workout tonight?" Carl repeated, ordering himself a bottle of Budweiser. Oh shit! Jim realized—this was his workout night! He hadn’t missed a workout in six years! Well, he thought, a slave’s life is no longer his own. Being owned meant serving the master’s will no matter what. "No, not working out tonight." Jimbo, can we talk about something?" Carl asked. As the three men at the table downed more beer, Jim felt a sense of relief wash over him. "Sure, man, what?" "Well, there’s rumors going around the contractors, and…are you and Williams fags having some sort of gay fuckfest?" The sip of beer in Jim’s mouth sprayed over the bar. "What?!" The community college graduate was quick with her towel a second time. "Williams’ truck has been seen outside your place a lot. Like today at lunch time," Carl explained. "All the guys are saying you both are packing the fudge pretty tight." “It’s time to move, Jim thought. "His truck being there doesn¹t mean we’re fags, Carl! He comes over and I feed him." Carl looked away grinning. "What…huh…do you feed him, Jimbo?" His voice carried an undertone of curiosity mixed with sarcasm. "Not what you’re thinking!" Both men laughed. "I like you, Jimbo. You’re a good guy and a fucking hard worker. If you say you’re not then I¹ll back you up with the guys." "I appreciate that." Jim turned to see the pitcher of beer at the table was getting lower. “Does Williams have any idea why he can’t keep good help? New faces keep floating through the site all the time," Carl said, downing most of his beer. Jim leaned closer to his friend and whispered, "he thinks it’s because of dick head one, two and three over there at the table. They harass guys until they get so pissed off they quit." Carl whispered back, "they are assholes, aren’t they? Why Williams hasn’t fired all three of them by now I don’t know, union or no union." He finished his beer then looked at his watch. "Shit, gotta run. I have a dinner party to go to tonight. Later." "Later." Suddenly Jim realized that the three amigos had grown unusually quiet. He walked to their table cautiously. Maybe the powder that his master had given him would have some other kind of effect on these assholes, he thought. Maybe they were just really engrossed in the feminine hygiene commercial on the big screen. Slowly he came into their field of vision to see each of them wearing blank expressions on their faces. Now what, he wondered, what was his next move? Then he remembered his master had told him that one of the effects of the drug was that it acted like a truth serum. "What are your names?" he asked them. Mike, Johnny and Brad rattled off their full names all at once. Now more calm about his situation, Jim leaned over their table. "Listen to me carefully." Each man looked him square in the eye then slightly nodded. "After I leave the bar, you boys are to get up and go outside. You’ll see Williams company van in the parking lot." It suddenly occurred to him: what if his master’s van wasn’t out there? He pushed the thought away, putting full trust in his owner. "Open up the rear doors and climb inside," he continued. "Lay down on the floor on your stomachs and stay quiet. Understand?" They nodded again. Jim left a tip for the bartender then left the bar. Once outside he breathed easier seeing the company van sitting in a darkened corner of the parking lot. He ran over to his master who was sitting in the driver’s seat, noticing the rear doors were already ajar. "Do as you were told, boy?" Bob asked. "Yes, Master, as instructed." Jim watched as a moment later the three men approached the rear of the van then quietly climbed in. "Piece of cake, Sir." Good boy! Close her up then hop in," Bob ordered, "it’s time to process the meat!" Jim hesitated. "You really need me there, Sir?" He really didn¹t want to see flesh and bone flying every which way as it was processed.. Bob looked at him matter-of-factly. "I own your ass, boy. You’re in this for the long haul and will need to witness everything that happens." Pressing his lips together Jim briefly forgot his place. Obediently he closed the rear doors after taking a quick look at the three bastards who’d given him such a hard time at work, who were now drugged and laying passively on their stomachs. There were many days when he was fortunate enough to catch quick glimpses of Mike’s shirtless, muscular torso and powerful butt cheeks as they moved beneath the tight denim jeans he always wore. But soon that large, muscular ass would be cooked and eaten by someone. Maybe he’d get a piece. Shutting the doors he climbed into the passenger’s seat. "Shouldn’t we tie them up and gag them, Sir?" "They’re fine. You put the whole packet in the beer, right?" "As ordered, Sir." "They’ll be out of it for a while." Bob started the van. Jim’s nervousness escalated. It wasn’t every day you delivered coworkers to be processed as cattle for their flesh. He exhaled a nervous breath. "Relax, boy, you’re fine," Bob said soothingly, rubbing his slave’s thigh. "There’s nothing to this business, Jimbo, I want you to believe that. You’re going to start helping me more on runs like this so you’d better start thinking of cargo we pick up as meat instead of people, because that’s what they are!" It was only a twenty minute ride into the city. The van made it’s way through darkened streets, finally turning into an alley. "My buddy’s restaurant is down here, boy," Bob explained. "I know the idea of cannibalism isn’t one you get used to easily—it took me awhile. But if I didn¹t think you could handle it you wouldn’t be here." His master’s faith in him laid many of Jim’s fears to rest. Master Williams was quickly becoming a solid rock for Jim to lean on, feeling quite lucky being in service to this man. At that moment the van stopped in front of a heavy steel door painted black. "Change the way you think, boy," Bob continued. "If you can do that, you’ll make your master very rich and will, in turn, be taken care of. Money, boy, it’s all about money. Certain rich folk will pay a fortune for this kind of meat. Construction meat works outdoors all day in the hot sun, breathing fresh air…that, plus usually being saturated with beer, tenderizes it for good eatin’." "You’ve eaten construction meat, Sir?" Jim asked apprehensively. "Sure have, boy. It’s delicious! So will the meat in the back be after it’s cooked." The van was shut off. "We’re here, let’s move." Bob walked over to the door and knocked on it three times. It opened. In the doorway stood a tall, thin shirtless man with a gray beard wearing a black leather baseball cap and a chef’s apron. "Boy, this is Zander, the processor and chef," Bob introduced. "Zander, this is my slave, Jimbo." "Very glad to meet you, slave, I’ve heard good things about you," Zander said, extending his hand. "I’m honored to meet the man who has given his life to serve my buddy, Bob." Jim’s hand was almost crushed in the man’s powerful grip. "Thank you, Sir, the only purpose for my existence now is to serve the will of my master," Jim replied. As his master and Zander smiled, he watched them exchange a look which made him uncomfortable. "Let’s get the meat inside quickly," Zander advised, looking up and down the alley for any witnesses. Bob turned to the meat laying on the floor of the van. "All right, get out and get your asses into the kitchen." Mike, Johnny and Brad obeyed. "Take part in the processing, slave," Zander invited Jim. "I’ll guarantee it’ll be something you will remember for the rest of your life." "Yes, Sir," Jim replied. He followed his master into the building then the steel door locked behind them by Zander. The short hallway led into a large kitchen, where the three amigos were standing. Jim saw against one wall a large stainless steel table. A foot beyond it hung a large hook from the ceiling above a drain in the floor. Next to it was a water hose coming out of the wall. "Strip!" Bob ordered the three drugged men. They obeyed, removing all their clothing before being marched into another room off the kitchen. Zander turned to Jim. "Not everyone appreciates good quality meat, slave. If you do you’ll love it once you¹ve tried it." Jim felt most of his fears fall away. He was quite comfortable with Zander. Knowing he was already deep into this whole situation, he crossed the line from apprehension into acceptance. "Yes, Sir, I think I’d really like to try some. Master has told me just how delicious construction meat can be." Zander smiled at him reassuringly. "Where did master take the meat, anyway, Sir?" "He’s tying and gagging them." Just then Bob returned with three beers in his hands, handing one to Zander and another to Jim. Tightly he gripped the twist off cap on his own beer, trying to turn it. He had to give it several tries before it finally opened. "Son-of-a-bitch! They’re fucking glued on!" "Mine’s already open, Sir," Jim observed. "I opened that one first, boy. These twist off’s are being a bitch today. I wanted you to have the open one…after all, you did good tonight and deserve a little special treatment." Bob kissed Jim on the lips. "Drink up, we have a long night ahead of us." "Thank you, Master!" Jim tilted the bottle up and swallowed a big gulp of beer—it was cold and refreshing. "Zander, buddy, tell my slave just how good the long pig meat industry is in America!" "Long pig, Sir?" Jim interrupted. "Human meat, boy—don’t interrupt again," Bob reprimanded. "Yes, Sir." Jim swallowed two more gulps of beer. "Well, slave, I’ve owned my own butcher shop for years," Zander started. "You may or may not remember it but about two years ago meat prices started climbing through the roof. Beef, chicken, pork…all of it. The big three were being regulated by the federal government so bad that cheapest ground chuck you could buy was over five dollars a fucking pound and mostly fat!" Jim remembered paying that much for ground chuck once. He slammed his beer in one large gulp until it was gone. Zander continued. "Most of my customers refused to pay that kind of money for something they used to buy for just over a dollar per pound. They told me they wanted to find cheaper meat, something that still tasted the same but higher quality with less fat and cost. One of my competitors finally started giving his customers what they were asking for. Everyone had an idea what it was, as one by one the lowlife of the neighborhood vanished without a trace, but nobody said anything. Word on the street was that there was a growing underground cannibal movement in this city. Everyone knew what the meat was but they still bought it! A LOT of it! "One day your master comes to me and says that he has a plan to make us rich in this new meat industry. He…" Zander paused, still holding his unopened beer. "Go on," Bob said, "let him in on it." "Your master’s plan was to start using some of the worthless meat walking around his site, meat that no one knew or cared about." "Deciding which meat to process was the hardest part, boy," Bob told his slave. "Yeah…rough choice to make," Zander said, "who should be processed, who shouldn’t. We finally developed a method of selection and opened this restaurant to cater only to exclusively rich clientele, charging mega huge fees for the removal and processing of the meat." Jim looked thoughtfully from Zander to his master. "Removal, Sir?" "Kidnapping," Bob said. "How did you decide who would live and who would become processed, Sir?" Jim asked his master. Suddenly his head felt very light. "Simple, boy. Only the most muscular, leanest long pigs were used. You know how workers keep quitting on me, boy?" Bob asked. "Huh…yes…Sir," Jim replied, his mouth and face starting to go numb. "Not one of them really quit. All of them ended up in this very kitchen, processed and served." "Coworkers…served…Master…" Jim found great difficulty forming his words, like there was a baseball stuck in his throat "Cooked and eaten, boy!" Bob said proudly Zander interrupted. "How much did you put in?" he asked Bob. "The usual amount." "In…what…" Jim lost feeling in his tongue and neck. Then a sudden wave of numbing warmth traveled down his spine from the base of his skull, down into his arms then piercing his legs. His arms dropped to his side, completely lifeless, as Zander quickly caught Jim’s beer bottle before it smashed to the floor. "In your beer, Jimbo," Bob confessed. His master’s words hit him in the face like a shovel. Oh my god, Jim realized, I’m the next meal! He wanted to run but his legs started to buckle beneath him. "What…" Jim had spoken his final word. Bob’s heavy arm wrapped around Jim’s shoulders, catching his slave. "What did I put in your beer, are you trying to ask? The drug that you thought you were putting into the pitcher of beer in the bar tonight. You actually laced their brew with just ginger and sugar, boy." Bob turned towards the room off the kitchen. "Come on out, boys!" he yelled. Jim couldn’t turn his head to see what was going on. From his peripheral vision he watched Mike, Johnny and Brad, all three completely nude with metal slave collars padlocked around their necks, walk into the kitchen with their arms straight out in front of them rocking back and forth on their feet. "We’re…drugged…zombies…must…get…in…van," Mike mocked. All three chuckled briefly then, like well trained animals, dropped to their knees locking their wrists behind their backs and bowing their heads to their two masters. Zander laughed as he easily removed the twist top to his beer and started drinking. "You’re a good actor, Bob, you had ME believing these things were on really tight." "Just part of the game, babe." Bob gave his lover a kiss before Zander carried Jim’s limp body over to the table. Then he stood over the kneeling men. "I’m very proud of you, slaves. You played your parts well in getting the meat here." Stopping in front of Brad he opened his fly and took out his ten inch hardon, letting his slave suck it hungrily. Jim, completely conscious but unable to move his body, listened to every word as Zander removed a hunting knife from his back pocket and cut Jim’s clothes off him. Bob’s voice echoed against the kitchen walls as Brad sucked his tool. "Jim, the drug in your system is a special sedative circling the black market made just for cannibalizing long pigs. It¹s dissolving your nervous system as we speak, stopping one organ in your body at a time, your heart and brain being the last so you stay alive as long as possible." For several minutes Bob stood in place, his orgasm getting closer. "Oh SHIT! Suck it, boy, suck it!" Bob ordered Brad, "yeeessssss!" He yelled into the air as juice from his balls shot from his cock down his slave’s throat, his large hands holding the warm mouth tightly against his crotch as his hips bucked, pumping the last drop. A minute later he zipped up then walked over to the steel table to speak into Jim’s ear. "My dear Jimbo, I love you and will miss you very much. You were a very devoted, hard working slave and will not be forgotten ever." He rubbed a callused hand over the long pig’s smooth, muscular chest as his lover grabbed the trimming shears. "The owner of the complex we’re building personally picked you out of more than thirty long pigs to have as his dinner. Your sacrifice tonight will pay off this restaurant as well as my final three house payments. I’m so proud of you!" He kissed Jim’s forehead. "But don’t blame Mike, Johnny nor Brad. Zander and I have owned them for several years now. Every new long pig I hire—and I only hire the ones I like well enough to cook—gets the full harassment treatment from the three amigos…it makes the ‘quitting’ story easier to believe if there was a motive as to why the person left. All part of the game." Bob’s words were drowned beneath the sound of the clippers as Zander removed Jim’s crewcut and pubic hair. Free of all body hair, Zander ordered Mike to get the spit. Mike returned seconds later with the eight foot steel pole which he handed to Master Zander. Bob bent back down to Jim’s ear. "Your buyer has requested that you be barbecued on a spit, Jimbo. It needs to be inserted through you for the customer to be totally pleased. Your internal organs will be ripped in the process causing you to bleed internally, but that won’t matter much because of the drug will cause total deafness and blindness as the nerves from those organs to the brain begin to dissolve. Fortunately for us eating you, it evaporates as the body is cooked. "This is going to be a glorious feast tonight, Jimbo. The menu is Buttered Garlic Potatoes, Mediterranean-style Corn, Baked Herb Rice, Sweet Dinner Rolls, Apple stuffing—Zander’s specialty—and generous helpings of you!" A tear ran down Jim’s cheek, his breathing becoming shallow. "Sweet dreams, Jimbo," Bob said "Sweet dreams," repeated Zander, then Mike, Johnny and Brad. Zander turned the long pig onto one side lining the spit with Jim’s asshole. With a firm grip he pushed the rod in. Steadily it entered, it’s sharp tip tearing at the flesh as it was guided in keeping parallel with the spine. Feeling nothing from his body except still numbness, Jim still sensed the foreign object that was reaching further up into him. Above him his master held his mouth open as the object inside climbed up his windpipe then slid out of his mouth, coated with his blood as it scraped against his upper set of teeth. Finally it stopped. Pleased with his handiwork, Zander tied the long pig’s wrists were behind it’s back with copper wire then bound the ankles to the spit. He took a large apple from the refrigerator and wedged it into Jim’s mouth At Master Zander’s order, Mike lifted the bloodied end of the spit while his slave brother, Brad, lifted the end at Jim’s feet. Together they held it midair as Johnny coated the long pig in a thick layer of Master Zander’s homemade barbecue sauce. Barely conscious, falling into his final sleep, Jim could only watch helplessly as he was carried into the dining room and marched before an all-male crowd. A twinge of shock ran through him, seeing thirty naked, collared men, all guys from work, kneeling around the room at the feet of their masters, who were dressed in tuxedos sitting at the tables. He didn’t recognize any of the tuxedoed men, but among the kneeling slaves he saw Carl who had met him at the bar not more than an hour ago. Carl looked up at him licking his lips, patiently waiting for his portion of meat. Mike bent down and whispered into Jim’s ear. "You didn’t know that Master Williams ran a master-slave construction site, did you?" Then he moved the end of the spit around to give the long pig it’s final look of the room. "Halt, slaves," a large, bald black man in a tuxedo ordered, walking over to Jim. "Jim, I’m Mr. Brackett. I’m the one who ordered this party tonight." He kissed Jim’s face before running a finger through the layer of barbecue sauce on the long pig’s chest. "I just know you’re going to be delicious!" He turned to Mike and Brad, "take him away!" "Yes, Sir," Mike and Brad replied, hanging the spit across a pair of metal supports in the center of the room. Jim, looking down to the floor, watched as barbecue sauce dripped from his body onto a bed of red hot coals beneath him. His vision blurring, the last image he saw was of Mike adding another thick coating of sauce to his body, his hearing fading to a still nothingness. Jim’s final act of submission to the man he’d loved so much and worked so hard to please, he realized, would be the offering of his flesh. Good eating, he wished his master.