The Afters Turned into a Bussy Buffet With a Gaggle of Demon Twinks
They all lined up to take my cock.
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It was 4 am when a nondescript twink approached me, inviting me to an afters. “We’re specifically looking for tops,” the twink said. On his arm was a more petite, younger twink. “Who can get hard!” he chimed in. The two hairless gays giggled in unison.
At the time, I was a fresh-faced young man myself. I had just moved to New York and loved how gay it was. I also loved how on a weekend night, I could go out to a gay bar alone, have a few drinks, flirt with some men, and usually be invited to an afters. There, a bussy buffet awaited me. Everyone tasted so delicious, and I often returned for seconds and thirds.
But there was something mischievous about these particular twinks. One would whisper in the other’s ear, and the other would laugh, gently slap his shoulder, and mouth, “You’re so bad.” It’s not just that they were cliquey; they were plotting. Clearly, they had an agenda.
But I didn’t care. In the words of every Drag Race contestant ever, “I didn’t come here to make friends.” No, I was coming here to cum, preferably in multiple tight, smooth holes.
Ironically, I wasn’t even that into twinks, or perhaps a better way of framing it is to say that they weren’t my go-to fuck. Still, my dick didn’t discriminate. In the words of Aquaria, “Any hole is goal.”
When they gave me the address, they clarified that I couldn’t invite anyone else. When I asked if I could Uber over with them, they said they were off to “find” (i.e., recruit) more guys but told me it was at a friend’s place. “Just say Charles invited you,” one of them said.
I had another drink at the bar before it closed. There was no reason to rush over. I hate being the first to afters—especially when I’m alone. I loathe making small talk. It’s awkward because we’re all there for a specific reason, and it’s not to ask each other, “So, what do you do?”
Sitting at the bar alone, drinking my fifth disgustingly strong vodka soda with a splash of lime, I contemplated ordering an Uber back to my apartment. I wasn’t sure if I had it in me or if these gays were truly my people. But I quickly dismissed the idea. I had just moved to NY and didn’t move to the Big Apple (as all the locals call it) to go home on a Friday night.
I chugged the rest of my vodka soda—letting the cheap liquor burn my esophagus—ordered a car, and fifteen minutes later, I was on the thirty-second floor of a high-rise in Hell’s Kitchen. I had forgotten the apartment number—I just remembered the floor—luckily, the faint familiar sound of circuit music gently echoed down the hallway. I followed the beat to apartment 32F and knocked before opening the unlocked door.
The ten men inside all stopped and stared at me. “Charles invited me,” I said, and their dubious faces quickly turned into smiles. Well, a few of them. The rest of the bitchy queens still gave me side-eye.
While technically there were multiple men in the surprisingly spacious one-bedroom apartment, there were only two types of men: twinks and daddies. Still, they both had six packs. Only the hairy, burly, muscular men had six packs you could grate cheese on, whereas the smooth twinks had skinny boy six packs that made me go into Jewish mother mode, deeply concerned that they were not eating enough.
On top of having cum gutters, both groups of men shared another commonality—attire. Nasty Pig, evidently, has a chokehold on circuit gays. The boys were dressed head to toe in Nasty Pig with a NP hat (some forward, others backward, none to the side, as this wasn’t 1998), a NP jock, and those colorful NP knee-high socks. To be clear, this isn’t meant as a read. I love Nasty Pig and have a bunch of their clothing. I also appreciate that Nasty Pig gays fuck. They are power bottoms and Dom tops who haven’t seen a condom in over a decade. They love to be tagged-teamed, take fists, and will deem it “wasteful” if you piss in a urinal and not their mouths.
I introduced myself to everyone. The guys rolling were my favorite because they had these monstrous grins while petting my chest hair. One couple in particular, a twink (roughly 22 years old) and a Daddy (double his age), were smitten with me. They repeatedly told me how much they love an otter. (While I’m usually secure in my body, being around sixty protruding abs made me feel a bit self-conscious, so I warmly welcomed their flattery.)
While they continuously rubbed my chest, I put my hand on both of their bare asses, lifted every so gently by their matching jockstraps. Both were big, but Daddy’s was hairy and muscular—like two mossy rocks. (I’m aware that doesn’t sound the most appealing, but you’ll have to trust me when I say it was a great ass.) His “son”—what he called his boyfriend—had the softest ass. I was and still am gobsmacked by how impossibly smooth it was. And unlike his father’s behind, his ass had a lot of jiggle.
“Whose do you like more?” the son asked. I knew enough to never answer a question like that, so I replied, “I think I’d have to try out each to decide.”
“I don’t bottom,” Daddy said firmly, though not unkindly.
“More dick for me,” the twink said, grinning ear to ear. He took us both by the hand and led us to the bedroom, nearly skipping. There, another twink was sucking a daddy’s dick as the daddy served him poppers.
The son got on all fours beside the couple, presenting himself so I could fuck him doggystyle. I stood next to the bed and dropped my jeans and briefs to the floor. Out flopped my semi-erect cock. Daddy bent over to suck me with the force of a thousand suns. I got fully erect instantaneously. He then held his son’s cheeks apart for me.
“Is there lube?” I asked.
“No need,” the son said. “I’m pre-lubed.”
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