Date: Tue, 11 Dec 2012 17:58:37 -0800 (PST)
From: Oreguy <oreguybf@yahoo.com>
Subject: In Back of the Bar Part 1 (beastiality)

This is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance of real people is purely
coincidental.  You must be over 18 to read this story.  If you are offended
by male/male sex, under 18 year old sex, or sex with dogs, please do not
read this story.

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In Back of the Bar Part 1


As he opened his eyes, he realized there was a cloth over them.  As he
tried to speak, he realized there was a cloth in his mouth that prevented
him from speaking.  As he tried to raise his head, he realized that he that
he was bent over something and unable to move.  He could feel the rope on
his wrists and around his ankles as he tried to move.  He could feel the
warmth of the room all over his body and he knew he was naked.

The feeling of a freight train ran through his head as he tried to puzzle
out what was happening to him.  His heart rate increased with terror of his
current situation and even though he could not speak, he tried to scream
out for help.  Screaming only increased the pressure in his head and he
bowed his head back down.  Struggling against the bonds that held him down
wasn't an option as he felt his strength was missing out of his limbs.  The
totality of his situation left him feeling terrified and without the
strength to fight back.

"OK John.  You need to think," he thought to himself. Through the haze in
his brain he tried to remember how he had gotten here.  The abject terror
of his situation made it tough, but he forced himself to think clearly, or
as clearly as he could.

Even though it made no difference with the blindfold on, John closed his
eyes to attempt to piece together what he could remember.  His brain felt
like it was wrapped in cotton balls and had a dull ache to it.  He took in
a deep breath and focused all of his will on trying to remember.

John remembered that he had stopped off at a bar for a beer on his way to
Atlanta.  It had been a long day of driving and he wanted a beer before he
arrived at his hotel.  The bar was set back from the road and looked rough
from the outside.  The building was worn and had obviously seen better
days.  The paint was dingy and the reader board was missing letters on the
sign.  What was supposed to read, "Football Every Sunday," read, "Foo--all
Ev--y S--day."

The Harley's that lined the parking lot didn't frighten John.  Although he
was average height at five foot, ten inches, he knew he would handle
himself.  John remembered chuckling to himself thinking that with his
messed up dark hair and two day scruff that he would fit in just fine.
Also given the air conditioning in his car went out in the middle of July
meant he wasn't going to be smelling so great.  A built in defense
mechanism, he thought to himself.

Approaching the bar, John could hear the music loudly and was exactly the
type of music he was expecting.  Pink Floyd loudly blasted outside in the
parking lot.  John knew rednecks and how to fit in.  It almost felt
comfortable ambling up to the old water hole in the muggy night air.

The door to the bar was wide open and a fan pointed outside.  This was a
poor omen to John as it meant there was no air conditioning.  Looking at
all the Harley's though, it did mean one thing.  At least the beer would be
cold and at that moment when John checked his pocket for his wallet, that
was all he cared about.  He had been thinking about a cold Miller Genuine
Draft for hours and that was the extent of his worries.

John walked into the Last Resort eyeing the bar and walked up to it pulling
out his wallet.  He looked around and noticed a group of mostly big men in
chaps and leather vests.  Some of the men had bandana's around their heads
and even though the bar was dimly lit and it was night, some of the men
still had their "shades" on.  This caused John to chuckle to himself as the
bartender approached him and asked John curtly what he wanted.

John looked over the bartender quickly.  He appeared to be a man in his
late 50's or early 60's with a gray beard.  His belly told the story that
he had been a bartender for a while and probably drank too much of the beer
himself.  His face was rough as if he had been through a lot of hard times.

"MGD please," John said to the bartender casually.

The bartender grunted and replied, "PBR or nothing.  We don't cater the
fancy stuff here."

John knew he could't respond the way he wanted to.  Since when was MGD a
fancy beer and that PBR was one step up from piss water.

"That's fine.  PBR it is then."

The bartender gave John a questioning glance and then grabbed a
questionably looking glass and started to fill it with the light colored
liquid. John was disappointed it wasn't an MGD, but knew he should not show
his disappointment.  He also knew that he should not ask for a lemon to
flavor the piss poor excuse for beer.

John paid the man for the beer and left a healthy tip hoping it would make
the unpleasant man stop starring at him like he didn't belong there.  The
bartender took the money, didn't say thank you, and went back to the other
end of the bar without a word.

He grabbed his glass of disappointment and then looked for a place to sit
down.  He found a small table in the back of the bar that was poorly lit
and figured the less he was noticed the better off he was.  While it might
not have been his MGD, it was still a cold beer and he was happy to have
it.

The group of men quieted down a bit when he walked by and sat down and then
a few laughs erupted.  John made an effort to not show that he was fairly
certain the laughing was about him and sat down with his back to the men.
He wasn't going to emotionally invest in the situation.  All he wanted was
his beer.

The first few gulps of the cold liquid was exactly what he was afraid of.
It didn't taste so much like beer as much as it did beer flavored water.
It was cold though and that was all that he cared about.  As John set down
the glass he could hear behind him the unmistakable sound of biker boots
heading his way.

The sound was heavy and strong.  John guessed that it was one of the bigger
guys coming over to check him out and see why this stranger had invaded
their bar.  John wasn't far off of his guess when the unknown man pulled
out the chair next to John and sat himself down uninvited.

John looked up at the stranger.  He was a good looking man of about six
foot three, John estimated.  He had a strong square face, dark hair, dark
eyes, and appeared that the razor missed his face over the last two or
three days.  His eyes, while intense, were soft and had the unmistakable
lines of someone who smiled a lot.  As a salesman, John had learned to pick
up on small things like this.  The man had tats on his arms and was wearing
the leather vest without a shirt.  John couldn't help but notice the nice
amount of fur on the man's chest but didn't let his eyes linger too long on
it.

"Hi," was all the stranger said and stuck out his hand.  John took it and
squeezed the man's hand firmly.  This was an unspoken rule among men like
him.  A weak handshake meant a weak man.  Given the fact that he knew no
one here, John wanted to make sure that at least this stranger knew he
wasn't weak.

"What brings ya to our little piece of heaven," the strong man said back
with a smile.

"Just stopping in for a beer.  On my way to Atlanta for work."

He wanted to seem casual and not at all concerned that he was being
approached by this big man.  He wasn't sure he was pulling it off, but he
knew he couldn't act afraid nor offended.  The big man smiled and nodded
quietly.

The biker sat up straight and leaned in as if to whisper, but did a poor
job of voice control.  In his deep husky voice, and with a smile looked
over John.

"You see, my bud's and I kinda figure you're a fag."

John looked at the biker and tried hard to not respond physically that
would show he was afraid or that the bikers had him tagged.  He just picked
up his beer and took a swallow and set the beer back down.  The biker
sensed John's tension and silence.

The biker sat back and spread his large thighs and rested his hands on this
crotch and gave a squeeze.  John's eyes gave him away as he watched the
hand and the squeeze.  It could have also when the outline of what looked
like a sizable cock hidden inside the denim.  In either case, the biker
knew.

"A real man woulda stood up and offered to beat the shit out of me and
tried to leave.  Only a cock hungry faggot would sit there, pretend to be a
man, and not say a word."

The biker's words did not sound threatening or harsh but quite casual to
John.  His heart was racing with his eyes still glued to the hands rubbing
the giant package.

"Truth is, bitch we knew you were a cocksucker when you asked for a MGD.
Only biker brew around these parts is PBR."

John began to visibly tremble while the biker chuckled.  John watched as
the big hand began to unbutton the jeans and haul out a very meaty and
thick cock.  It wasn't hard and was nearly as thick as coke can.  John's
eyes widened and he opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

"I think you're kinda pretty, fag.  And I need a good boy that will take
care of me and the pack.  I have been without a bitch on my bike for a
while you see.  The last bitch just wasn't up to the task of taking care of
a lot of biker and pack meat.  But somehow I think you can."

He obscenely waggled the large cock out in the open with little care.  It
was obvious that he didn't care who saw or that John was shaking in his
chair.  The jukebox stopped playing music and the only sound was the fan.
John realized how hot it had become in the room and some sweat began
forming at his brow.  He grabbed a napkin and wiped his brow with his left
hand.

"Also, can't help but notice fag that you don't have a wedding ring on.  At
your age, you should be married to some pretty thing if you was a real man.
Which you aren't, which is good news for me and my boys."

Laughter erupted behind John but he didn't turn.  There was no way he was
going to look at the other bikers and give them the satisfaction of the
perplexed look on his face. He didn't know what to do or how to
respond. John's cock was doing all the communication the biker needed to
hear.

The biker leaned in close to John and whispered to him, "We can do this the
easy way or the hard way, bitch.  This choice is yours."

John could smell the beer on the man's breath.  He had an unmistakably
smell of masculinity with the smell of leather and sweat.  John's head swam
a little as the biker sat back, put his arms behind his head, and smiled.

"Get on your knees fag and suck my cock," the biker said cooly and with no
sense of rush in his voice.  The confidence that John was going to fall to
his knees was in his face.  John looked up to the handsome big man and saw
the smile.  Fuck he wanted to do this, but not here in the open with the
biker's buddies laughing in the background.  He had some self dignity.  "I
don't think so man."

John tried to stand up and before he could stand several hands pushed him
back down in his seat.  He could feel several strong men holding him down
as they put a cloth over his nose and mouth.  The smell was sweet yet
strong and his head started to swim and the light started to fade.  The
last thing he heard was the biker talking.

"I told you fag.  It was going to be the easy way or the hard way.  You
chose the hard way."

The room went black and John's last thought was, "FUCK!"


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Chapter 2-John comes to in the back of the bar and finds out about the boys
and the pack and is faced with a choice that will change his life.