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He knows the location is shady. Doesn't take a genius to figure that one out. The area delivers a stark contrast to the pretentious art schools and amateur evening courses that usually hire him for nude modeling, and the location itself is obviously long-closed. It used to be a gym, quite a small one, but the neon sign isn't lit, half the logo print has peeled off the window, and what he sees of the dark room beyond it is in disarray.
He should turn back. There are better gigs. He's popular. But he's curious, skin buzzing with a strange adventurous excitement for the unknown, and so he takes out his cell phone and sends a text to the number given to him for contact. I'm here. Waiting outside.
Keeping the phone in his grip, he shoves both hands into his jeans pockets. It's gotten cold. They better not keep him waiting too long.
***
On the plus side, the backroom they put him in to change – or, rather, undress – looks clean and tidy, and someone left a tray with juice and cookies out for him. That's unusual, but sweet, and he helps himself to the juice while ignoring the cookies; he's got to stay in shape. He strips without ceremony, used to nudity, to being seen. Once naked, he looks around the room for the prerequisite robe that's usually provided for him to wear until the session starts. No such thing here. He shrugs, but doesn't think much of it.
Another glance at himself in the mirror, making sure he makes a worthy model for whoever's going to use his body to learn the shape of human anatomy tonight, and then he marches off into the hallway, down to the studio.
***
There are about seven guys in the studio, all about his age or a little younger, and he breathes a sigh of relief. With the strange setting, he half expected a bunch of old guys just wanting an excuse to ogle something young and pretty. They're all stood in a corner and chatting, their canvases abandoned. Someone breaks away from the crowd and waves at him, pointing to a couch in the middle of the room, right in front of the half-circle of canvases. That's odd, too, but hey, he's not going to complain about being comfortable.
He sits, and it doesn't escape him that one or two of the other men steal glances his way, their gazes traveling up and down his body. He makes himself comfortable, legs spread, making no pretense at modesty. The attention feels good. It always feels good.
A short conversation with the... teacher, probably – is it okay to leave the piercings in, yes, do they want him to wear any props or costumes, no, is it warm enough in the room, yes, no worries – and then he's told to lie down on the couch and the teacher tells his class to get behind their canvas stands and start drawing.
So far, so normal.
***
He doesn't notice that he's nodding off, and when he wakes it's with an erection, a vague memory of the lewd dreams that prompted it, and a faint headache. No, not a headache... he's feeling off. His thoughts are too slow. He's dangerously unbothered by the state he's in, hard and aching under the eyes of a class, and when he looks around the room the supposed students don't seem aghast or surprised either. They seem delighted. Excited, even.
Oh, crap. He should have listened to his gut-feeling, not his notoriously empty wallet. They drugged him. It must have been the juice. He probably should be a lot more bothered by that epiphany, but whatever they've given him takes the edge off the shock. There's also a faint curiosity; he's had his fair share of orgies and group fucks in his day, and he'd much preferred if they'd just asked, but he's not entirely opposed to being passed around. Been there, done that.
The teacher, for lack of anything else to call him, walks over to the couch, smiling. He sits down, and even the faint brush of his shirt against bare skin is electrifying. The teacher then reaches out to rub a thumb over his hard cock, and the keening noise that escapes him makes pleased whispers rise around the room.
Need circulates under his skin, the pleasure of being touched only making it worse. So much worse; his whole body aches with it all of a sudden, arousal overriding all his senses and his better judgment. All he does is want.
“Something the matter?” the teacher asks, sounding gleeful.
“Please,” he whispers, and his audience gasps in delight. The teacher takes him in hand and pumps, hard and fast, making him move his hips in synch to chase the sensations. But it's not enough. It's not nearly enough. He vibrates with desperation, and he hears himself begging, the words not entirely his own. “I need... Touch me. Fuck me. Please.
The teacher tsks at him, hand sliding down to the base of his painfully hard cock. “Look at you. Already so hot for it that you'll beg a room full of strangers to fill you up?”
He nods, hectic. Yes. Yes. That's what he needs the most, and he rocks his hips up, splaying his legs wider and moaning. The teacher's hand wanders lower still, past his balls and perineum. There's rustling beside them and then a bottle of lube being uncapped with a low click, and he keens at the first finger breaching him. The second and third follow in quick succession, and he damn near screams with pleasure and relief when the teacher lines up and fucks into him. The slight burn makes it better, and the slide of jeans against his naked skin serves as a reminder that the other is still fully clothed. It takes a few minutes for the teacher to find a good angle, a good rhythm, but when he does a cascade of pleasure shoots up his spine. His whole body tenses with the need to come, and he's dancing on the precipice, but there's no relief. There's just endless need.
The teacher's thrusts stutter. He drives into him a few more times, deep and so good, moaning out his own orgasms, and then steps aside. The feeling of emptiness is unbearable, but it doesn't last long; the next guy is already lining himself up, pushing inside, making him whole again.
“Good boy,” the teacher coos from beside him. “And we're only getting started.”
***
They take turns. He looses track of time. All that exists is this room and his need, unsatisfied even after he they all had a go, some twice, his hole tender and sensitive, their seed mingling and dripping down his taint. He can't form a single coherent sound, and so it doesn't occur to him to protest when they lift him from the couch and manhandle him onto all fours. Someone kneels by his side, feeling him up, making him whimper with the slightest touch to his oversensitive, aching, leaking cock. He's so distracted by it that he doesn't pay attention to what's happening around him, and he jumps in surprise when something unyielding and cold presses against his rim. He turns his head to look, and the sight floods him with terror and fresh arousal both.
The dildo is attached to a machine, and as he watches someone flips a switch, turning it on, making the dildo plunge into his loose and open hole. Several people whoop with approval, clap their hands, and he doesn't have it in him to feel even a tinge of shame. He shifts and rearranges himself for a better angle, and moans with abandon once he manages to make the machine jab past his prostate with relentless, mechanic precision.
***
Two or three people pull him to his feet and support his weight once he's upright; his own legs might as well be made of jelly at this point, all but useless. He's trembling with the physical need to come, and when he glances down his on body he sees his dick, flushed a deep red, covered in strings of pre-come, thick and heavy and miles past ready to come. But he can't. He still can't.
He flinches, more in surprise than anything else, when something gets hooked into his nipple piercings; one side, then the other. He cries out when someone pinches the base of his cock to keep it still while another chain is attached to the ring through his slit. A tug, none to gently, and pain-pleasure overwhelms him, flooding his body originating from both his crotch and his chest. He's led into the middle of the room like a pet on a leash, and they descend on him, the chain passed from one to the other, hands roaming his body, fingers exploring his hole, his cock. They're touching, rubbing, licking everywhere, and it's amazing. He drowns in constant sensation, moans every time someone tugs him this way or that, makes him bend more prettily, makes him stumble forward for better access.
And still, there's no release, only blinding need.
***
The leash remains, even when they lead him back to the couch. They make him kneel in front of it, and the teacher sits down, pulling the leash taught, putting constant, aching pressure on both his nipples and his cock. Someone else nudges his legs further apart, and a third person lines up behind him. He wants to rock back into the intrusion as that person fucks into him, but he can't – if he moves too much, the aching pressure from the leash will turn into intimate, unbearable pain. He still can't avoid it entirely; his body is too wrung out on pleasure, kept in this state of unsatisfied arousal for too long, and the knowledge of his impending punishment doesn't cancel out all movement. Ever so often there's a particularly deep thrust, brushing his prostate just right, and the extra moment of searing hot pleasure is enough to make him for get the impending pain. Makes the pain enjoyable too, even, or maybe his nerves are just unlearning how to distinguish one from the other.
It's been so long. He just wants to come. He never wants this to end.
***
They deposit him back into the changing room, after, when his exhaustion is too great, his body pushed its limits. They're not unkind, wrapping him into blankets, and he falls asleep flanked by several people, there but not touching, since his body still hasn't found relief. He drifts in and out of sleep. Gradually, he feels the drug leave his system, and he feels now shame when he wraps a hand around himself and brings himself off with a few rough tucks on his cock, still hard and so sensitive that that's all it takes to make him come so hard that his vision swims.
He's pulled back down, after, into their warm embrace, and he finally, finally, falls asleep for some real rest.
Some hours later, way into the next morning, he wakes up alone, with a hangover, limbs still shaky. The envelope with his pay sits beside him on the floor, a note scribbled onto it with a new cell phone number, inviting him to return should be interested. He might even consider it – they went about this the wrong way, though man, did they know how to take him apart – but he does feel like drugging people into submission shouldn't be rewarded with a repeat performance.