Page 27 of Built To Perform

“No. He couldn’t make it this time.”

Jefferson had apologized, and then apologized again, for not being able to meet me at the club. Some last-minute chore that Coach had sprung on him, my antsy brain too preoccupied to pay attention to the backstory. I’d told myself it wouldn’t matter: that looking out and seeing him - solid and reassuring - was just something I’d needed that first time. An anchor to get me through one dance; the confidence to prove to myself that I could do it on my own.

“He didn’t drink much,” Harvey observed. You got the feeling that was the worst possible sin for a customer to display: occupying a chair but not working up a hefty bar tab in the process. No doubt Jefferson had nursed a club soda while he watched me.

I nodded, distracted still. The guy finishing up his dance was tall, slim; I automatically did guesstimates of single-digit body fat, his lean muscles anatomically visible under dark skin. He’d gleamed under the spotlights, moving with sinuous grace to a song I didn’t recognize. Now those lights picked out the shocking length of his cock as he fucked his fist. Feet planted wide apart, knees bent. Hips thrusting, driving his erection through the hoop of his laced fingers.

Not so much a cheer, when his load sprayed, as a hiss of triumph from the seats in front of him. Satisfaction from a dozen little emperors, who clustered at the front of the stage as the dancer crouched to allow them to stuff bills into his socks. His expression lazily proud, lip curling as he brushed away one over-eager hand from its groping exploration of his dick.

“You’re up,” Harvey muttered to me.

I’d underestimated how tall the guy was on the stage. Had to look up to make eye contact with him as he walked past me. Still naked; clothes a quickly-scooped bundle. He nodded at me, just once, and didn’t spare the manager a glance.

“Couple of parties in tonight,” Harvey warned, as I steeled myself for the lights. “Plenty of tips if you put on a good show.”

I ignored him, stepping out of the wings.

#

The energy felt different, that was my first thought.

Not like the lights were any brighter, or the audience any more shaded in darkness. Not like the music - more bass than anything - was any louder; not that the stage felt any less seedy. Streaks of cum still visible from the guy who’d danced before me.

Wildly out of my comfort zone, still, and yet something was changed. Confidence, maybe; the memory of Jefferson’s hard cock straining against me through his jeans and the knowledge that it’d been me, my dance, my performance, which had caused that. He’d not fucked me - had sent me to my room frustrated and cursing him, in fact - but that made no difference. What I’d done, under those multi-color spots, had been arousing rather than ridiculous.

I felt the rhythmic throb surge through me. Grab my hips, it seemed like; set them swaying from side to side in time. Hyper-aware of the eyes tracking each movement: knowing they were watching, even if I couldn’t make out more than vague shapes in the murky gloom.

I was half-hard already, my dick swelling in the clinging spandex. Conscious of the weight of it, the way my bulge bounced as I moved across the stage. Not dancing, not really; not like Carlos would recognize it, with his turntable and his vinyl and his tango with all its history. More like a metronome, a way to simply pace myself as I ran my hands down my chest.

There was something illicit to it, more so than merely putting on a performance. Something that felt indulgent, that was built upon the unfamiliar ground of recognizing I could be sexy and attractive. That my muscles could - for all my own dissatisfaction with my progress, not to mention Coach’s perpetual advice for improvement - be enough, now. Sufficient to make me appealing to these strangers.

My brain couldn’t quite put into words just how powerful that concept felt.

I turned, remembering how my big bros on the team loved to praise my ass. To squeeze it, spread it, push their faces between my cheeks. Remembering, in brighter colors than the lighting rig pulsing above me now, how it felt when Carlos’ tongue first brushed across my hole. The way my back arched; the gasp that burst from me like air from a punctured balloon.

Slowly, I eased a strap down. Feeling it dangle against my side before I repeated it on the other shoulder. Not like much more of my chest was exposed when I turned - the singlet’s scoop deep already - but now I could tug the tight fabric even lower. Below the V-lines that scored my hips, until the suit was practically hanging from the stretched pouch.

No way not to shiver as I ran a hand down my length. At the sensation, yes, but at the knowledge that all this was being watched, too. The things I did in private - or, at least, with my bros alone - but out in the open. Strangers watching as I squeezed myself through the skintight fabric.

So easy, then, to work my cock free.

I looked up, out at where I could imagine their eyes. My fingers wrapped around the base of my shaft, slapping it against my outstretched palm. The precum already flowing; it’d left a darker, stickier spot on the red spandex, and now was leaving gooey trails across my hand. Lube for the skin-on-skin strokes as I toyed with myself.

Even only half-covering my face, the mask made it easier. Let me pretend I was someone else up here on the stage, not the self-conscious, awkward, uncertain Eoin who couldn’t help but compare himself to his bigger, more muscular teammates. A different person: cockier and more confident. Not just aware that men could look at him and feel desire, but courting that hunger. Each shift of my hips, each thrust of my crotch, all bait to intensify that need.

No Jefferson in the audience to poll later for feedback. And so I knew I’d have to convince myself, somehow, that I’d done my very best.

I dropped down, to my knees. Legs spread wide, the suit taut around the meat of my thighs. Staring down the contours of my chest, I watched a fat, glistening bead of juice gather on the head of my dick. Building there, until I couldn’t resist temptation: had to swirl my fingers around the sensitive flesh, then stroke the sheen of precum across my outstretched tongue.

A riot of memories unlocked by the taste. Of my teammates pushing me down, rubbing their cocks across my face. Of the scent of them, the fresh sweat and musk after practice. Marking me, a bath of bro-meat pheromones that left me dizzy and breathless: no resistance as they pushed between my lips, shared my mouth as I slobbered messily around them.

I didn’t have the words to explain why it wasn’t degrading. Why allowing my big bros to manhandle me, to throat-fuck me, choke me on their dicks, none of that had left me filled with shame. Even now - jerking urgently at the memory of how Jefferson, Brayden, Carlos, and the others all tasted - an explanation was beyond me. Like they’d seen something in me, something which wanted all that with equal intensity to my drive to wrestle, and I could either deny it or trust them utterly. Believe in them, in the brotherhood they’d offered me, to embrace a part of myself I’d never known was there.

I looked down, just in time to see the first unruly spray of cum erupt.

The twist of the orgasm almost painful, a claw clenching around my balls. The second and third splashes equally wild, my vision tunneling as I clenched my jaw fit to hear it creak. Like my body was trying to turn itself inside-out, a sensation only easing as the last dregs of my load drooled down my fist.

Panting, I licked across my knuckles. The salt-sweet sharpness helping hold the looming self-consciousness at bay: permission, almost, to linger in this moment of satisfaction.