The Club
A Fictional gay SPH Story by CagedPP2000.
And then there was him.
He hovered near the edge of the main room, a slim, nervous figure in a simple black tee and jeans. He wasn’t built like the Doms; he wasn’t sculpted or imposing. His body was slight, sparsely haired, almost boyish. But he was here for a reason. A very specific, humiliating reason. He’d spent weeks building up the courage, browsing profiles and forums, reading confessions and taunts that made his stomach flip with a sick, electric thrill. He was here to be seen. To be assessed. And to be found wanting.
A hand landed on his shoulder, heavy and sure. He flinched, spinning around.
The man before him was everything he wasn’t. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a thick beard and a chest that looked carved from oak. He wore a black leather vest that did nothing to hide the powerful slabs of his pectorals, and a pair of worn jeans that strained over powerful thighs. His arms were crossed, showcasing forearms thick with muscle and veins. A silver ring pierced his right nipple.
“Lost, little man?” The Dom’s voice was a low rumble, almost casual, but with an edge of absolute authority.
He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “N-no. I mean… I’m looking for…” He trailed off, his courage failing him under that steady, assessing gaze.
“For what? A beating? A cock to suck?” The Dom’s eyes swept over him, a faint, cruel smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Because you look too soft to take a beating, and your knees aren’t even dirty yet.”
The casual degradation made his cheeks burn. It was exactly what he’d come for, but hearing it spoken aloud, in that deep, dismissive voice, was overwhelming. “I… I heard this was the place for… for judgment.”
The Dom’s eyebrows rose. “Judgment. Interesting word.” He uncrossed his arms and hooked a thumb into his belt loop. “We call it inspection. Assessment. You think you’ve got something worth assessing, boy?”
He took a shuddering breath. The moment had arrived. “I think… I think you’ll find it… lacking.”
The Dom’s smile widened, revealing teeth. “Oh, I like a self-aware subject. Come on.” He turned without waiting for an answer, striding with confident, powerful steps toward a darker, quieter corner of the club. He followed, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He was led past a St. Andrew’s Cross where a leather-clad man was methodically whipping a bound, moaning form, and past a sling where a hairy bear was getting fisted, his grunts echoing off the walls. The sights were raw, visceral, and undeniably powerful.
They reached a partitioned area, a stark little room with a black leather bench against one wall and a single, harsh overhead light. A few other men were gathered, lounging against the walls, their eyes gleaming with interest. He was about to be put on display.
“Strip,” the Dom commanded.
His fingers fumbled with the hem of his shirt. The eyes of the other men were on him, hungry and mocking. He pulled the shirt over his head, revealing his pale, smooth chest and the slight concavity of his belly. He unbuttoned his jeans, his hands shaking, and pushed them down his legs, stepping out of them. He stood in a pair of plain, grey boxer-briefs, feeling more exposed than if he’d been naked.
“All of it. Don’t waste our time.”
He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear. This was it. The point of no return. He pulled them down, his face flooding with heat. A collective snort of laughter rippled through the small crowd.
His cock was… tragic. It was a small, soft nub, maybe two inches at its most eager, nestled in a surprisingly full bush of pubic hair. It looked utterly out of place, a child’s toy abandoned in a field of adult men. His balls were tight, small, and high, as if trying to retreat into his body in shame.
“Fucking hell,” one of the watchers, a lean, tattooed man in a jockstrap, guffawed. “Is that it? I’ve seen bigger clits on a fat chick.”
“Look at his little nub,” another one added, a thick, silver-haired man in a chest harness. “It’s hiding. Come on, little fella, don’t be shy.” He made kissing noises, and the room erupted in jeers.
The lead Dom stepped closer, tilting his head as he examined the pathetic display. His own bulge was prominent in his jeans, a stark, intimidating contrast. He reached out a thick, calloused finger and, with a flick of his wrist, unceremoniously shoved the tiny penis aside to get a better look at the tight sac beneath.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, his voice dripping with contempt. “It looks like a belly button that got lonely.” He grabbed the base of the little cock between his thumb and forefinger, pinching it slightly, lifting it to the light as the man winced. “Does this thing even get hard? Or does it just twitch and give up?”
“I-It gets… a little… bigger,” he whispered, his voice cracking. The humiliation was a physical force, a burning wave that washed over him, but beneath it, a perverse excitement was building, coiling in his gut. His little dick was trying to stiffen, a futile, pathetic attempt that only made the men laugh harder.
“Look at it trying!” the tattooed man howled. “It’s like watching a worm have a seizure. Fuck, that’s pathetic.”
The Dom loosed his grip and stepped back, his expression one of pure, dismissive scorn. “A bigger waste of space I’ve never seen. Why are you here? What possible use could a freak like you be to a real man?”
The question hung in the air, heavy and cruel. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He’d rehearsed this part. “I’m… I’m here to be your ashtray. Your cumrag. Your… your urinal.” The words felt filthy and liberating all at once. “I’m not a man. I’m a hole. And a… a fluffer. A pathetic little fluffer who knows his place.”
The Dom’s smile returned, but this time it held a flicker of genuine sadistic pleasure. “Your place is on your knees, begging to be used. Is that right?”
“Yes, Sir,” he replied, his voice barely a whisper.
“Then what are you doing standing up?” The Dom snapped his fingers and pointed to the concrete floor.
He dropped immediately, the cold of the floor biting into his knees. He looked up at the circle of men now closing in around him. The Dom reached down, unzipped his fly, and pulled out his cock. It was a masterpiece of flesh—thick, heavy, uncut, already pulsing with blood. It swung heavily before the kneeling man’s face, emanating heat and a musky, masculine scent.
“You see what a real cock looks like?” the Dom taunted, slapping the heavy shaft against the man’s cheek. “This is what it means to be a man. Not that… that little acorn you’ve got dangling between your legs.” He grabbed the man’s hair, yanking his head back. “Open up, little fluffer. Show me what that worthless mouth is good for.”
His jaw ached as he was forced open, the Dom’s thick cockhead pushing past his lips and filling his mouth, pushing toward the back of his throat. The taste was salt, sweat, and pure, undiluted male dominance. He gagged, his eyes watering, but he didn’t resist. He relaxed his throat, taking the length deeper, his nose buried in the Dom’s coarse pubic hair. The other men circled closer, unzipping their flies, releasing their own engorged cocks.
Above him, the Dom began to thrust, not gently, but with a slow, deliberate, domineering rhythm. “That’s it. Take it, you little bitch. This is the only cock you’ll ever truly know. Feel how a real man fucks a face.” Each word was punctuated by a deeper thrust, forcing the man’s head back against the Dom’s powerful grip.
The tattooed man knelt beside him, his own thick member in hand. “Look at his little pecker now,” he sneered, pointing. “It’s still trying to get hard. Fucking pathetic.” He nudged the man’s tiny erection with the tip of his boot. “Hey, no one told you that you could enjoy this.”
The Dom pulled his cock from the man’s mouth with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting them. He grabbed the man by the hair and forced him to look down at his own betraying body. “Getting hard from being used like a cheap cocksleeve. How does that make sense, you freak?”
“I… I can’t help it,” the man whimpered, tears and spit running down his face. “It’s just… it’s like a reminder. Of how useless I am.”
The Dom laughed, a deep, grating sound. “A reminder. I like that.” He pushed the man’s head back down. “Now get back to work. And you,” he addressed the tattooed man, “you take his other end. He’s got two holes and no real dick, so let’s make sure both get filled.”
Rough hands grabbed his hips, hauling him up onto all fours. His own little cock still jutted out absurdly, bobbing with each movement. He felt a thick, spit-slicked finger press against his hole, and he gasped around the cock in his mouth.
“No lube for a worthless bitch like this,” the tattooed man grunted behind him. “He gets it dry. Let’s see how much he can really take.”
The finger was replaced by the blunt, insistent pressure of the man’s cockhead. It was thick, and the burn was immediate and intense. The man cried out, the sound muffled by the Dom’s cock. It was raw, messy, and utterly debasing. He was being used from both ends, his body a conduit for their pleasure, his own pathetic member dangling uselessly beneath him, ignored and mocked.
The Dom pulled out again and began slapping his cock against the man’s face, leaving wet, sticky trails across his flushed cheeks. “Say it,” he growled. “Tell everyone what you are.”
The man gasped for air, his body jerking as the man behind him began to fuck him with brutal, punishing strokes. “I’m… I’m a worthless little-dicked faggot!” he shouted, his voice ragged. “My cock is useless! It’s a joke! I’m only good for being a hole! A slave! A urinal! Cum in me, on me, anywhere you want! My body is your property!”
The room’s energy pitched higher. The men were breathing hard, their faces twisted in aroused contempt. They took turns, moving around him like sharks, feeding their cocks into his hungry, willing mouth. They pulled his hair, slapped his face, and spat on him. One of them took the head of a lit cigar and pressed it into the soft flesh of his inner thigh, eliciting a sharp hiss of pain that made his own tiny cock twitch.
Finally, it was too much. The Dom’s thrusts became erratic, his balls tightening. “Drink it, you prickless wonder,” he grunted. “Swallow every last drop of a real man’s cum. Know that you’ll never make another man feel this good.” He drove deep, holding the man’s head in place as he erupted, his hot, thick load flooding down the man’s throat.
The man swallowed frantically, the bitter, salty fluid filling his mouth, threatening to choke him. It was the taste of his own inadequacy.
The Dom withdrew, and the man was shoved onto his back. His own tiny erection was now painfully hard, a preposterous three inches jutting up from his body. The men stood over him, their hands on their cocks, their faces masks of cruel amusement.
“Look at it,” the silver-haired man laughed. “He’s about to cum! The little bitch is about to cum from being treated like a cheap, worthless whore.”
The Dom loomed over him, his spent cock still glistening. “You’re not allowed to cum,” he said, his voice cold. “You’ll stay hard, and you’ll stay frustrated. That’s your punishment for being born with that… that deformity. Every night you’ll come back here, and you’ll be reminded of what you lack. You will never be satisfied.”
The men began to move over him, their cocks pointing down at his exposed body. Hot, thick streams of piss splashed against his chest, his stomach, his face, soaking his tiny erection and pooling in the hollow of his throat. The acrid smell filled the air.
The man on the floor lay there, drenched and debased, his useless cock still twitching with need, a whimper escaping his lips. The Dom nudged him none too gently with the toe of his boot.
“Thank you, Sirs,” the man whispered, his voice thick with shame and a profound, twisted gratitude. “Thank you for reminding me what I am.”
The Dom zipped up his fly and turned away. “Same time next week, little man. And don’t you fucking dare touch yourself before then.”
The men filed out, their laughter echoing in the small, concrete room, leaving him alone on the cold floor—used, humiliated, and utterly, completely in his place.
The following week crawled by with agonizing slowness. Every night, he lay in his narrow bed, his untouched cock twitching against the sheets, the phantom sensation of that brutal double penetration still echoing through his body. The Dom’s final command—don’t you dare touch yourself—had burrowed into his skull like a worm, and despite the desperate ache, the raw, throbbing need, he obeyed. He woke up hard, walked around half-hard all day, his little nub rubbing against the rough fabric of his jeans, and went to sleep hard, his mind flooded with memories of thick cocks and hot piss and the sound of men laughing at his shame.
By Saturday night, he was a trembling wreck of pent-up frustration. He arrived at the club earlier this time, the bass already thumping through his chest like a second heartbeat. He’d dressed differently—a pair of thin nylon shorts that did absolutely nothing to hide the pathetic bulge of his trapped erection, and a cheap leather harness that looked almost comical against his slight frame. He wanted them to see. He needed them to know he’d obeyed, that he’d suffered for a week like a good little denial slave.
The cavernous main room was already alive with bodies. Men were lined up at the bar, leather and denim and bare skin, all of them impossibly masculine, impossibly confident. He felt their eyes slide over him as he passed, some dismissive, some curious, some already curling into cruel smiles. A hand reached out and grabbed the strap of his harness, yanking him to an abrupt halt.
“Well, well. Look who came crawling back.” The voice was familiar—the tattooed man from before, the one who’d fucked him dry while the Dom used his throat. He was shirtless tonight, his lean torso covered in intricate black ink, a cock ring gleaming at the base of his still-soft shaft. Even soft, he was easily three times the size of the little man’s most desperate erection. “Did you touch yourself, you pathetic little freak?”
The question was loud, intentionally so. A few men nearby turned to listen.
“N-no,” the little man stammered, his voice already cracking. “I didn’t. I swear. I haven’t touched it all week.”
The tattooed man’s eyebrows rose. He looked over at a friend—a massive, shaved-headed man with a thick mustache and a leather kilt—and let out a low whistle. “You hear that? Seven whole days, and this little bitch didn’t even rub one out.” He turned back, his grin wide and mean. “That’s either impressive obedience or proof that the little thing doesn’t even work well enough to bother with. Which is it?”
The little man’s face burned. “I… I wanted to. Every night. But you said…”
“I didn’t say anything. That was the boss.” The tattooed man released his harness and crossed his arms. “But I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear you remembered your place. For now, though, let’s have a look.” He hooked a finger into the waistband of the nylon shorts and yanked them down without warning, leaving the little man standing in the middle of the bar area with his tiny erection on full display.
A chorus of snorts and low laughter rippled through the nearby crowd.
“Jesus Christ, look at it,” the mustached man said, leaning in for a closer look. “It’s like a fucking thumb. A tiny, angry thumb.”
“Thumbs are more useful,” someone else called out, and the laughter grew louder.
The little man stood there, exposed and shaking, his three inches jutting out proudly despite its absurdity. His balls were drawn up tight against his body, his thighs trembling. And yet, beneath the suffocating shame, that familiar heat was building—a sick, electric pulse that made his little cock twitch visibly.
“Oh, you like this,” the tattooed man said, his voice dropping to a knowing growl. He reached out and grabbed the little shaft between thumb and forefinger, giving it a rough squeeze that made the smaller man gasp. “You like standing here with your stupid little acorn out while real men laugh at you. You’re getting off on it.” He gave it a sharp flick, and the little man yelped, his hips jerking involuntarily. “Pathetic.”
“Please,” the little man whispered, unsure what he was begging for. “Please, I need…”
“Need what? To be used? Degraded? To have that useless little nub flicked until you cry?” The tattooed man’s grip tightened, and he began to stroke it with short, brutal tugs, his movements rough and mocking. The sensation was electric—too much, too soon, a week of denial crashing through his nervous system. His knees buckled, and he would have collapsed if the mustached man hadn’t grabbed his harness and held him upright.
“Look at him,” the mustached man rumbled, his voice thick with amusement. “He’s gonna blow his load right here, in front of everyone. One week of not touching and a couple of mean words, and that’s all it takes. That’s the weakest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”
The tattooed man’s hand moved faster, his grip punishing. “You want to cum, don’t you? You want to spray your sad little load all over the floor like a dog in heat.”
“Yes,” the little man moaned, his head falling back. “Yes, please, I need it, I need—”
But then the hand was gone, and he was left there, his cock throbbing and twitching against the open air, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. The denial was a physical blow, a knife twisting in his gut.
“No.”
The word came from behind him, deep and commanding. He turned his head, and there was the lead Dom, the man from last week, his arms crossed over that barrel chest, his expression cold and appraising. He was wearing full leather tonight—pants, boots, a vest that stretched over his powerful shoulders. His presence alone seemed to suck the air from the room.
“I see my little reminder stuck,” the Dom said, his eyes fixed on the little man’s straining erection. “Good. That means the real training can start.” He looked at the tattooed man. “You found him on the wrong end of a handjob. Good initiative. But he’s not here for pleasure. He’s here to be taught.”
He reached out and grabbed the little man by the back of the neck, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. “Tonight, you’ll learn a few things. First: your cock is not for touching, not by you, not by anyone. It’s a handle, a grip, a place to put clothespins. It’s a joke. A punchline.” He hauled him forward, forcing him to stumble onto his knees, his nylon shorts tangling around his ankles. “Second: your mouth can still learn to be useful. Last week, you showed promise. Tonight, you’ll show consistency.”
He nodded to the mustached man, who stepped forward, unbuckling his leather kilt with deliberate slowness. Beneath it, he was already hard—a thick, pale shaft that curved slightly to the left, the head glistening. It was monstrous, easily eight inches, thick enough that the little man was already dreading the stretch of his jaw.
“Open,” the mustached man said simply. It wasn’t a question.
The little man opened his mouth, and the fat head pushed past his lips, filling him instantly. The taste was different—saltier, muskier, with an undertone of stale sweat that spoke of a long day in leather. He gagged as the shaft slid deeper, the mustached man’s thick fingers tangling in his hair. There was no gentle warm-up, no gradual easing. Just a steady, implacable thrust that forced his throat open and left him sputtering and gasping around the thick intrusion.
“Look at him take it,” someone said, his voice carrying over the low hum of conversation. “He’s got a mouth like a fleshlight. Fucking unnatural.”
The Dom crouched beside him, his breath warm against the little man’s ear. “I can smell the desperation on you. A whole week of denial, and now you’re being fed real cock while your own little nub leaks all over the floor.” He reached down and gave the man’s sac a sharp flick, making him whimper around the shaft in his mouth. “That’s the closest you’ll ever get to having working balls.”
A third man appeared, younger and smoother, with a runner’s build and a wicked gleam in his eye. He was already naked, his own cock jutting up from a neatly trimmed nest of hair. “I’ve been thinking about this all week,” he said, his voice light, almost conversational. “Wondered if he’d actually come back. Wondered if he’d really keep his hands off that little toy.” He crouched behind the kneeling man and ran a hand down his spine, then lower, his fingers finding the tight, untouched pucker. “I bet he’s been waiting for this too. Aching for it.”
The mustached man pulled out with a wet pop and grabbed the little man’s chin, forcing his head up. “Spit,” he commanded. The little man opened his mouth, a thick rope of drool and precum sliding down his chin onto his chest. “Nasty,” the mustached man said approvingly, then shoved his cock back in, deeper this time, his hips snapping forward with punishing force.
Behind him, the runner was already positioning himself, spitting on his hand and slicking his shaft with a few rough strokes. “No lube for you, remember?” he said, his voice dripping with amusement. “You’re not worth it.” He pressed forward, and the little man’s world split into a bright seam of pain and heat. The burn was immediate, that familiar stretch that made his toes curl and his eyes water. He screamed around the cock in his throat, the sound swallowing itself, and the runner laughed.
“That’s it. Scream into his cock. Let him feel how much you’re loving this.”
The rhythm was relentless—the mustached man pulsing deep into his throat while the runner set a brutal, grinding pace behind him. His own little cock was trapped between his stomach and the floor, smearing precum across the concrete with every thrust, twitching helplessly. His body felt like a vessel, a thing to be filled, used, and discarded. And through all of it, that terrible, electric pleasure crackled along his nerves, building gradually, inevitably, toward a release he knew would be denied again.
The Dom stood above him, still fully dressed, still untouched, watching with the cold satisfaction of a man who owned everything in the room. “You’re doing better this time,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “But you’re still too composed. I want to see you weep. I want to see snot and tears and drool running down your face while you beg for more cock with your mouth full. I want to hear you thank these men for using you like a public urinal.”
He snapped his fingers, and the mustached man pulled out just long enough for the little man to gasp, “Thank you, Sirs! Thank you for using my worthless mouth! Thank you for—” before the thick cock was shoved back in, cutting off his words. Behind him, the runner pistoned harder, his thigh muscles flexing as he drove his length to the hilt.
The little man felt tears spilling down his cheeks, mingling with sweat and drool. His throat was raw, his jaw aching, his hole burning. But the shame, the degradation, the suffocating weight of their attention—it was everything. His little cock was so hard it hurt, the tip a bright, angry red, each vibration of the concrete driving him closer and closer to the edge.
“He’s close,” the runner panted. “I can feel him clenching. Tight little hole’s about to milk me dry while his own pathetic baby dick twitches against the floor.”
“Hold it,” the Dom snapped. The runner stilled, buried to the hilt, his chest heaving. The mustached man pulled out as well, leaving the little man gasping and drooling, his mouth hanging open, his face a wreck of tears and spit.
The Dom crouched down and hooked a finger under the little man’s chin, tilting his head up. “Do you want to cum?”
The little man swallowed hard, his voice a raw rasp. “Yes, Sir. Please, Sir. I need it so badly.”
The Dom smiled—a slow, wolfish expression that made the little man’s heart stutter. “I know you do. That’s why you won’t.” He straightened, addressing the gathered crowd. “This is what happens to men with useless pricks. They learn to live with constant, gnawing need. They learn that their bodies exist for the pleasure of real men, and that their own pleasure is irrelevant.”
He turned back to the little man. “Get up. Go to the center of the main room. I want everyone to see what a properly trained denial slave looks like.”
The little man rose on trembling legs, his knees scraped, his hole gaping, his cock a red, leaking nub against his pale stomach. He shuffled forward, led by the back of the neck, his shorts long abandoned in a puddle on the floor. The crowd parted silently, then closed around him, a ring of hard bodies and hungry eyes.
The Dom pushed him to his knees again in the center of the room. “Stay here. Don’t move. Don’t touch. If I see even a twitch toward your own pathetic little grub-worm, I’ll lock a cage on it for a month.” He snapped his fingers, and the mustached man stepped forward, a stern expression on his face. “Drench him.”
The mustached man aimed, and a thick, hot stream of piss splashed across the little man’s chest, his face, his upturned mouth. It was acrid and strong, and he drank it, sputtering and swallowing, his own hips twitching with helpless arousal. More men stepped forward, one by one, releasing their bladders over him in slow, contemptuous arcs. It ran through his hair, stung his eyes, pooled in his collarbone. And through it all, his tiny cock bobbed and leaked, a heartbreakingly desperate barometer of his own shame.
When they were finished, the Dom crouched before him once more, his gaze steady. “Now, little man. Tell us all the truth. What are you?”
The little man opened his mouth, and the words came out thick and wet. “I’m a urinal. A cumdump. A tiny-dicked freak who exists to be used and mocked. My cock is a joke. My balls are empty. My holes are the only thing about me that matters.”
The Dom nodded slowly. “Good. Now say it again. Louder.”
And with the entire club—the men, the Masters, the subs, the strangers and the regulars—all watching, he did. His voice cracked and wavered, but he said it loud and clear, the words echoing off the concrete walls like a prayer, a confession, a promise.
By the time the Dom finally allowed him to leave, the little man’s cock was still achingly hard, a bead of precum quivering at the tip. He’d been good. He’d been obedient. And he had never been more useless in his entire life.
“Same time next week,” the Dom called after him as he staggered toward the door. “And don’t think about touching that thing. You know what happens if you do.”
The little man nodded, already dreading the next seven days and already counting down the hours.
The End.
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