Random LGBT STORIES

Brett Larson was in a bind. The minor league hockey team he was playing for had just informed him that they were sending him up to the next level. Normally Brett would've been ecstatic but there was one thing that was raining on his parade.

Two years ago Brett had moved to Los Angeles straight out of college. He'd gone to the University of Minnesota on a hockey scholarship, but for some reason he wanted to be an actor. A movie star. And it wasn't like he wasn't good looking enough, either. He was 6'0, 180 pounds and had all-American, Boy-Next-Door looks. Sandy brown hair, brown eyes, not to mention a great build, with an especially nice upper body.

But breaking into show business wasn't as easy as he thought. He went on countless auditions, rarely ever getting call backs. The only reason he even got a look was because he was so damned good looking. So, he decided to fall back on what he was best at: hockey. He tried out for, and made, the Los Angeles Lightning, a second level minor league team. But hey, at least it was a paycheck. While he wasn't playing or practicing, at least he could go on auditions.

It was then that Brett got what he thought was his “big break.” He was leaving an audition one day, confident that he wasn't going to get the part, when an extremely attractive young woman approached him. She said she worked for a production company that made soft core p.o.r.n type movies and would Brett be interested? Brett wasn't sure about doing p.o.r.n but the woman explained that it was mostly fetish stuff. Brett was confused. Although Brett had graduated from college, he wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer. And he was extremely naive and trusting, something the woman had immediately picked up on and was playing to the hilt. She explained that most of the movies were short 5-10 minute clips where a good looking young guy would let his girlfriend tie him up and tickle him or he would get captured by some women and tied up. Cheesy shit like that. And that's exactly what it sounded like to Brett. Cheesy shit. That's not the kind of actor he wanted to be, he'd told the lady. But she reminded him that a lot of people broke into films by doing lousy TV and commercials and Brett finally agreed.

So far he'd made seven mini-movies. He was glad they were only available online because they were basically crap. In every movie he ended up getting chloroformed (fake chloroform of course) and kidnapped and then tied up and tickled by a couple of beautiful girls. He didn't mind the girls but he was a little ticklish. But the director, Terry, told him that it was more authentic. Apparently he could also tell what a hick Brett was. Pretty but dumb.

The only part Brett didn't like was that he always ended up in his u.n.d.e.r.w.e.a.r. The first time it happened he objected, but Terry told him to grow up and that at least he didn't have to be n.a.k.e.d. Plus, it was only u.n.d.e.r.w.e.a.r and everybody wore u.n.d.e.r.w.e.a.r. And at least it was boxer b.r.i.e.f.s and not regular tighty whities. Now that would be embarrassing, Brett remembered thinking, being tied up in little white b.r.i.e.f.s. It was already humiliating enough for him to be tied up in the tight boxer b.r.i.e.f.s they put him in. But he consoled himself with the thought that the movies were short and only available online.

The first movie he did ended up to be an online hit. Apparently there was a lot of email coming in about how hot Brett was. Of course, Brett was never shown the email nor was he told that the majority of it was from males. He was offered twice as much to do a follow up movie and, not yet financially stable, said yes.

A third movie followed and soon Brett was talked into signing a contract. Now it was that very contract that was holding up his move to the new team. Nobody knew about the movies he was making and he couldn't very well tell his coach and managers that he was bound by a contract to make sleazy movies on the side to earn extra money. He would just have to get out of the contract. How hard could it be? After all, he'd made seven movies for them. That should be enough. And Terry, the director, seemed really nice. Brett was confident that Terry would let him out of his contract no problem.

Brett was wrong.

Brett decided to talk to Terry on a day he was scheduled to shoot one of his mini-movies. He was wearing a thick terry cloth robe with nothing under it except the white boxer b.r.i.e.f.s he was supposed to wear for the movie. He knocked on the door of Terry's office and went in.

Brett sat down on the couch across from Terry's desk waiting for Terry to finish his phone call. From where he was sitting, Terry could see straight up Brett's legs to his full crotch. The dimwitted stud didn't even know he was flashing the guy. Terry was openly gay and had a crush on Brett, but Brett was so completely naive that he neither knew Terry was gay nor that he had a thing for him. For Terry, that made Brett all the more s.e.xy.

“What can I do for you, Brett?” Terry asked, hanging up the phone.

“Look, Terry,” Brett stammered. “I'm just going to be upfront about this. The Lightning want to move me up to the next level.”

“Well that's great, Brett. But what does that have to do with any thing here?”

Brett sighed. “The new team is in Phoenix and they want me there next week.”

Now Terry understood. Brett wanted out of his contract. That wasn't going to happen. He'd just been going over the books the other night and the money he'd been making off of Brett's clips was at least twice what the other clips were bringing in. He couldn't let his “star” go.

“Well, Brett, you do know that you signed a one-year contract and it's only been four months so far.”

Brett shifted his position slightly. “Yeah, but I figured I've already made seven movies and that's a lot. You can find someone else, can't you?”

“That's not the issue, Brett,” Terry said firmly. “You signed a contract and you're legally bound to fulfill the terms of that contract. If you move to Phoenix there's no way you can keep making movies for me, now could you?”

This wasn't going the way Brett had anticipated at all. “Come on, Terry, please? You know I never ask for anything.”

“Tell you what, Brett. I'll think about it. Why don't you just go over to make up and get ready for the movie, okay? I'll make a few calls and let you know what I decide in a little while.”

With that glimmer of hope, Brett stood up and left. Terry picked up the phone and punched some numbers. “Brett wants out,” he said to the voice on the other end. It was the owner of the company. “I know, I know... I told him about the contract, but just listen to me. You know that movie you wanted to do. The rough one? Yeah, that's the one. Listen, I have an idea.”

The “rough” movie the owner wanted to make was a non-consensual movie where a hot straight guy gets r.a.p.ed. The owner really wanted the straight stud to be Brett but he knew that Brett would never do it in a million years. Terry's idea was that they go ahead and make the movie with Brett. Brett wouldn't know a thing. In the movie he was scheduled to shoot today he was supposed to get chloroformed by his girlfriend and then tickle-tortured into proposing to her. Terry suggested they use real chloroform on Brett and then, when he was out, drug him up and **** him. The owner loved the idea and agreed that if Terry got Brett in the movie he would release Brett from his contract. They would make a ton of money off this movie, too. And to keep Brett from taking legal action, they'd threaten to send copies of the tape to the league and the media, which would be a guaranteed career killer.

Terry got off the phone and called in his assistant to fill him in on the plan. He'd been using the same crew for several years and they'd made a variety of films, both straight and p.o.r.n, so he knew they'd all be on board. Plus he'd promised them all a piece of Brett's a.s.s in addition to their paycheck.

Terry went over to where Brett was sitting and told him the “good news.” Brett was stoked.

“You mean all I have to do is make this last movie and that's it?” Terry nodded. “Oh, geez Terry! You're the best!” Brett gave him a big hug.

“But there's a slight change,” Terry said as Brett released him.

“What's that?” Brett asked.

“Okay, you how in the scene where Pam knocks you out you're on the couch wearing those boxer b.r.i.e.f.s? Well, we're gonna have you dressed instead. After she knocks you out she'll strip you down to your u.n.d.e.r.w.e.a.r and then tie you up.”

Brett thought about it for a second. He'd done a couple movies like that already so it was no big deal. “So I can just get dressed then, right?” he asked.

“Yup,” Terry said, nodding. “Except for one thing. Instead of boxer b.r.i.e.f.s, we're going to put you in regular b.r.i.e.f.s.”

Brett's shoulders slumped. “Are you kidding, Terry? Tighty whities? Come on.”

“Look Brett,” Terry said. “We're giving you what you want: we're releasing you from your contract. The very least you could do is this one thing for us.”

“Okay, okay,” Brett said. “But I don't have any b.r.i.e.f.s. I wear boxers.”

“That's okay,” Terry said. “I already got Rick runnin' over to Walmart to pick up some. We'll start as soon as he gets back.”

Brett was excited now. One more stinkin' movie and he was done! Doing these movies, despite the money he got from them, had been demeaning and he'd regretted signing the contract. But now that he was out... well... wooo hooo!!!

Rick came back with the b.r.i.e.f.s and Terry called the crew together. He handed the three-pack of Fruit of the Loom b.r.i.e.f.s to Brett and sent him off to the dressing area. Brett looked at the butt-huggers. Geez, he stopped wearing b.r.i.e.f.s back in high school. Even as an athlete he wore boxers while a lot of the guys on his team wore b.r.i.e.f.s. For some reason, he liked how boxers felt and he liked feeling “loose” down there. He tore open the package and slipped on a pair. They were just the tiniest bit loose but not so loose that they'd gap and show off his d.i.c.k and balls. Mmmm... actually, they weren't that bad. And he kinda liked how they cupped his balls. His d.i.c.k was about six inches when soft (eight when hard) and he had bigger than normal balls, and this u.n.d.e.r.w.e.a.r made them feel all snug and cozy. Maybe he'd even switch back to b.r.i.e.f.s. He put on his shirt and buttoned it up and then slipped on his cargo pants, socks and shoes. He looked in the mirror. The shirt was royal blue and the pants were light tan. He had to admit that he looked pretty hot.

He came out of the dressing area and let Terry know that he was ready. The way the scene was set was that he'd be sitting on the couch, watching TV, and his girlfriend would sneak up behind him and chloroform him. Terry told him that he “went out” better than most people; that it looked authentic. Brett was at least proud of that.

They walked over to the set. It was basically a couch and an entertainment center. A few feet away was the bed he would be tied to. Brett was supposed to sit on the couch and Pam, the actress playing his girlfriend, would sneak up behind him and give him the rag. Then she'd drag him to the bed, undress him and tie him up. Terry asked Brett if he had any questions. Brett didn't.

“Okay people!” Terry called out. “We're just about ready. Places everybody!” Brett sat down on the couch and was surprised to see that the TV actually worked! Cool! He turned on ESPN. There was actually a hockey game on. He was in heaven.

“And... Action!”

All Brett had to do in this scene was sit and watch TV. As soon as the cloth was put over his face he was supposed to struggle and then pretend to pass out. No big deal. Man, he was happy this was his last movie! He couldn't wait to get the hell out of this place for good!

The Red Wings were playing and Brett was instantly into it. The Red Wings were his favorite team. He was engrossed in the game when he heard the footsteps behind him. He knew in a second Pam would pretend to knock him out with chloroform and then he'd have to wait to finish the game.

But unknown to Brett, it wasn't Pam sneaking up behind him. Terry had sent her home and was using an actor he'd called earlier for the new movie. Also, the cloth he was carrying was doused with real chloroform.

Suddenly the cloth was pressed over Brett's face. But wait... this was different! Was there really chloroform on the cloth? “What the…” he started to say, but instead got a nose full of the drugging fumes. He reached up with both arms to try to push Pam off and realized it wasn't Pam at all. What the hell? It was a man! He tried to twist around to get a look but two men stepped around the couch and pinned him down. What was going on here? This wasn't in the script!

He was starting to feel woozy from the chloroform. The hand holding the rag didn't let up at all and Brett felt himself succ.u.mbing to the chloroform. Within a few seconds he was drifting in and out of consciousness.

“And... Cut!” he vaguely heard. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. His eyes seemed glued shut and he could barely move. He could hear, at least when the pounding in his ears wasn't too loud. He finger lifted his eye-lid.

“We didn't give him too much so he'll only be out for five minutes or so, but that'll be enough time.” Brett could feel his body being lifted from the couch and carried to the bed. Something was put to his mouth. It was a water bottle but it was filled with juice instead of water. Drugged juice. His mouth was forced open and the contents of the bottle slowly poured in. A hand softly stroked his throat and Brett began to swallow the liquid.

The chloroform began to wear off slowly, but now Brett was feeling something different. Had he been drugged? Before he could give it a second thought, he felt a hand unbuckling his belt while another set of hands was unbuttoning his shirt.

“What're you doin'?” he slurred. Whatever had been in the juice was doing a number on him. He felt like he was floating now, all warm and shiny. Then he felt the button on his pants being opened and his fly lowered. He crashed down to earth for a second at the realization. But just for a second, though. All of a sudden, for some reason, it didn't seem like it was a big deal.

Terry stood in front of Brett, who was being supported by two of the new actors, and took in the heavenly site. Brett looked so yummy in his b.r.i.e.f.s. Terry reached out and gave Brett's nuts a squeeze. “Okay guys, let's get his pants and shoes off.”

They laid Brett back down on the bed. He was n.a.k.e.d except his Fruit of the Loom b.r.i.e.f.s. “Unhhh…” he m.o.a.n.e.d, writing and thrashing on the bed.

“What did you give him,” the soundman, Kirk, asked.

Terry smiled. “Just a c.o.c.ktail a friend of mine cooked up. He's flying so high he doesn't even know where the hell he is. In the movie he'll just look like he's hammered. He'll be nice and obedient, and hard, and horny. Another nice side effect of the drug. He might even look like he's enjoying it.” He turned to the crew and clapped his hands. “Gentlemen, your attention please... I just want to let you all know that Brett's moving on to bigger and better things and this will be his last movie with us. There's also been a little script change as well as a title change. But don't worry. You'll all get a turn.” He reached down and stroked Brett's hardening d.i.c.k through his b.r.i.e.f.s. “Now, let's get this u.n.d.e.r.w.e.a.r off and that camera rolling!”

Three sets of hands ripped Brett's b.r.i.e.f.s from his body, shredding them, elastic and all. He was stark n.a.k.e.d. A pair lips began to nibble and bite on his n.i.p.p.l.es and someone grabbed his c.o.c.k and began to jerk on it and someone else started to slap at his nuts.

Brett opened his mouth to protest but a big fleshy dildo was shoved in. More hands roamed all over his body, which was now starting to feel all warm and tingly. He knew something was wrong.

He was pulled up off the bed and unceremoniously tied to a wooden apparatus that left his d.i.c.k, a.s.s, and upper body completely exposed. Someone got down on all fours and began to suck his c.o.c.k. He tried to cry out but the dildo in his mouth muffled his cries. Then the dildo was removed, only to be replaced a moment later by a fat dripping c.o.c.k. Two hands grabbed his ears and began to f.u.c.k his face in earnest.

There were voices all around him, but they all seemed to blend together. Two small brown bottles were put up to his nostrils and all of a sudden Brett was back in the stratosphere.

“Unnhhhh....” he m.o.a.n.e.d, his voice still muffled, but this time by a real c.o.c.k. His head was spinning round and round. He was given several hits of the poppers before the bottles were removed.

The d.i.c.k slid out of his mouth only to be replaced by another and the face f.u.c.k.i.n.g started all over. The first guy hadn't c.u.m, but the second guy did, almost immediately, and Brett felt himself swallowing d.i.c.k spooge. He almost vomited, but couldn't.

The first guy was still right there, furiously jerking off as he watched Brett's pretty face being f.u.c.k.e.d. Suddenly he yelped and shot a load of f.u.c.k slop onto Brett's face. The c.o.c.k in his mouth pulled out and yet another took its place. There seemed to be a never-ending supply of c.o.c.ks filling his mouth or of c.u.m - either sliding down his throat or being shot all over his hunky body.

Hand after hand pumped away at his f.u.c.k stalk which was rock hard from the drugs. He'd shot three loads of sc.u.m and was still hard. Every time he shot a wad it was either wiped on his c.h.e.s.t or smeared on his face. Pretty soon he was covered in c.u.m, his own as well as every body else's. It was in his hair, up his nose and in his eyes and ears. It was rubbed on his limbs, stomach and back, and finally, smeared up and down his a.s.s crack.

A finger jabbed his asshole and he squirmed in pain. Then a second joined it and began to stretch and pull at his delicate rectum. That's when the biggie came. The guys who weren't busy f.u.c.k.i.n.g his face lined up to f.u.c.k Brett's v.i.r.g.i.n a.s.s. Terry was the first. He bent down and spread Brett's a.s.s cheeks, exposing the studly hockey player's tight pink pucker. Terry rubbed more c.u.m onto it and then, lowering his pants, lubed up his d.i.c.k with spit and c.u.m and rammed it into Brett's f.u.c.k portal.

Even high on poppers and the drugs he'd been given, Brett was in agony, but he couldn't even cry out because his mouth was plugged. And there was no one to hear him. No one to help him. He was f.u.c.k.e.d. Literally. Normally Brett was a tough guy, not afraid of a fight, but he was tied down and unable to even move. He was given another dose of the poppers and Terry thrust his d.i.c.k in and out of his a.s.s.

His d.i.c.k was licked and his big balls were s.u.c.k.e.d into someone's mouth. Then they were spit out and a hand began to slap at them again. He tried to scream once more but the only sound that emitted from his throat was a gagging sound that sounded like a gargle.

Terry f.u.c.k.e.d Brett like he was nothing more than a piece of meat. He called Brett all sorts of names and the guys, all lined up waiting for their turn, laughed and laughed. Brett felt a load of c.u.m shoot up his a.s.s.

When Terry pulled out someone else shoved his d.i.c.k in and the f.u.c.k.i.n.g started all over again. In and out, in and out. Even though he'd been drugged and was being dosed with snorts of poppers, he could still feel his once v.i.r.g.i.n a.s.s being violated. Repeatedly. He felt like a cheap whore and wished it would all stop. But it didn't. It just kept coming. Up the a.s.s and in the mouth. D.i.c.k after d.i.c.k after d.i.c.k. He could even feel some of the guy's balls hitting his a.s.s and face while they f.u.c.k.e.d him.

The pain got so bad that he almost passed out a couple of times but Terry slapped his face to keep him awake and at least semi-aware of what was happening. Even his a.s.s was being slapped and he could feel welts beginning to form.

The handsome hockey player was now just a f.u.c.k toy. A bitch. He lost track of how many times he was f.u.c.k.e.d, of how many loads of c.u.m were shot up his a.s.s, down his throat and spewed all over his body. C.u.m ran out of his mouth and a.s.s and dripped off his body. His n.i.p.p.l.es were red and raw and d.i.c.k was tender from being s.u.c.k.e.d so many times.

In a final act of humiliation, the guys gave him a ring of hickeys around his neck and then shaved his a.s.s and prick bush.

Brett woke up several hours later on the floor of his apartment. His head throbbed, his mouth, stretched from so many d.i.c.ks in it hurt, his own d.i.c.k hurt and his a.s.s, also stretched by c.o.c.k, felt like it had been ripped apart. He had been left coated with c.u.m, but as a joke, the guys had put a pair of clean b.r.i.e.f.s on him. They even left a polaroid in his hand.

Brett struggled to stand up and stumbled to the bathroom where he looked in the mirror. His hair was all spiked up with dried c.u.m and he could see the c.u.m that hadn't yet dried glistening on his c.h.e.s.t. His arms and legs felt tacky and he knew it was more s.e.m.e.n. His neck was covered in hickeys. His stomach began to rumble and he bent over the toilet to vomit.

His a.s.s was burning, too, and he gingerly put his hand on his b.r.i.e.f.s. His u.n.d.e.r.w.e.a.r was soaked through with c.u.m that had dripped out of his a.s.s. When he finished vomiting he turned on the shower and crawled in, staying under the steady stream of water until it finally turned cold, more than half an hour later.

He dried himself off, careful to avoid his more s.e.n.s.i.t.i.v.e areas and wrapped the towel around his waist. He walked slowly into the living room. Sitting on the coffee table was a videocassette and an envelope. Inside the envelope was a note. He took it out and read it.

Dear Brett,

True to my word, I've torn up your contract. Put the tape into your VCR and watch it. It's a rough draft of your last movie. We're going to call it 'Brett Gets Banged.' Personally, I think it's your best work. If your career in hockey doesn't work out, there's always a place here for you.

Oh, and Brett... don't be stupid and call the cops. We've got copies ready to go out to every team in your league. If there's even the hint of cops sniffing around here, the tape goes in the mail.

Love ya,

TerrY