Bar Slave and Punishment in Front of Everyone
My current master didn’t keep me in his house to love me or show off a relationship. He kept me because I was useful to him. He owned a nightclub with a dark atmosphere and a regular clientele that mixed leather, domination, and the desire to watch someone be reduced to a thing. I was that thing.
On Fridays and Saturdays, he made me arrive before opening. He inspected me the way someone inspects merchandise, put on my collar, adjusted the small metal cage over my cock, and chose what I would wear. Sometimes shorts that were far too tight, sometimes a jockstrap beneath a mesh shirt, sometimes barely an open shirt that left the marks on my body visible. He never asked what I preferred. There was no point.
I had been with him for months. There had been others before him. Some had left fine scars across my back, others small burns, others marks from bites, clamps, straps, and needles. The customers looked at them as if they were reading a record of use. Some touched them with their fingertips and smiled. Others asked who had made each one, and my master answered with cold pride, as if he were talking about repairs made to an old piece of furniture.
“This one was trained properly years ago,” he would say while forcing me to lower my head. “He knows how to open his mouth, he knows how to take it, he knows how to keep quiet.”
I served drinks when necessary, collected glasses, cleaned tables, and carried ice. But my main job wasn’t behind the bar. At the back was a room with a cot, a heavy chair with straps on the arms, a padded cross fixed to the wall, and drawers filled with lubricant, plugs, gags, handcuffs, clamps, and dildos of different sizes. Anyone who paid the agreed price could ask for me to use me in there. The regulars didn’t even have to ask much. They pointed at me, I looked at my master, and if he nodded, I had to follow them.
The first time that night began shortly after ten. The bar was already nearly full, and I could feel the eyes fixed on my legs, on the useless bulge left by the cage, on the black collar tight around my neck. A tall man with a short beard and a dark shirt grabbed my jaw while I was setting a tray on the bar.
“Is this one available?” he asked my master without turning my face away.
“For whatever you want,” he replied. “Just don’t break anything I can’t use afterward.”
The man laughed, spun me around, and shoved me toward the back hallway with a firm hand between my shoulder blades. We went into the room, and he closed the door without hurrying. I already knew the ritual: back straight, hands behind me, eyes lowered, wait for instructions.
“Get naked enough,” he ordered. “I want to see your ass free and your mouth occupied.”
I pulled my shorts down and left them around my ankles. The cage was exposed, ridiculous and humiliating, squeezing my half-hard cock and preventing it from growing. He came closer, touched it through the metal, and gave an amused grimace.
“Well, look at that. They won’t even let you be a whole man for that.”
I didn’t answer. I wasn’t supposed to.
He opened my mouth with two fingers and forced me to stick out my tongue. Then he unbuckled his belt, lowered his zipper, and pulled out a thick cock that was already quite hard. He tapped my lips lightly with the tip.
“Suck.”
I did as I had been taught: tongue first, then lips, then my whole mouth, swallowing slowly. As soon as he realized he could push deeper, he grabbed me by the hair. He pulled my head downward and began fucking my mouth with short, dry thrusts at first, deeper afterward. The tip brushed my throat, and I had to breathe through my nose while the leather of his belt struck my chin.
“That’s it. That’s what you’re good for,” he growled. “For anyone to use.”
He made me kneel properly and sped up. Saliva ran from the corner of my mouth down my neck. Every time I tried to regulate the pace, he tightened his grip on my hair and buried his entire cock in my throat. It was obvious that he enjoyed not only putting it in, but feeling my gagging, my lack of air, the wet, humiliating sound of my mouth working.
When he tired of that, he let me go. I coughed, hot tears in my eyes, and he didn’t even let me catch my breath. He turned me around, bent me over the cot, and spread my ass cheeks with his hands. I felt the cold air of the room against my hole, followed by a thick stream of lubricant.
“Don’t move.”
He pushed two fingers inside without warning, opening me roughly. I was used to it, but it still drew a groan from me. He moved them inside, working to loosen me, then quickly pulled them out and rubbed his lubricated cock between my buttocks. The tip pushed forward and entered all at once, hard and heavy, tearing a stronger moan from me.
“Fuck, you take it so well from behind,” he said, planting his hand against my back.
He began thrusting into me without gentleness, using my ass as if he wanted to empty weeks of tension. Every impact made a wet sound. The cot squeaked against the floor. I gripped the edges with both hands and spread my legs wider by reflex, because resisting only made the pressure worse. He grabbed my collar and pulled backward, forcing me to arch while he fucked me deeper.
“Look at you,” he said beside my ear. “A bar slut with your cock caged and your ass always ready.”
I felt the cage squeezing from sheer frustrated stimulation, a mixture of pain and arousal that made me hot and humiliated me at the same time. He noticed when he touched me between the legs. He laughed and slapped my ass hard.
“You can’t even come. Good. That way you remember who’s in charge.”
He fucked me for a few more minutes, changing his rhythm, sometimes slow and deep, sometimes rough and fast. When he was close to coming, he pulled out, made me kneel again, and shoved his cock in my face.
“Open up and swallow.”
I sucked him with my throat irritated until his whole body tensed. His cum exploded across my tongue in several hot, salty bursts. He didn’t let me pull away. He held me still while I swallowed everything he gave me, and only when he was finished did he pat my cheek twice, satisfied.
“Good tool.”
He left without looking at me again. I wiped my mouth, pulled my clothes back up, adjusted the cage, and returned to the main room as if nothing had happened. That was always the arrangement. The room could leave me open, aching, or with semen drying on my skin; outside, I had to smile just enough, lower my head, and remain available.
***
Close to midnight, three customers who knew the place well arrived: a dark-haired woman in high boots, a tall trans woman with broad shoulders and strong perfume, and a bald man who always wore leather gloves. They had played with me before. When they saw me, they exchanged a look that made me squeeze my thighs together.
The woman was the one who spoke to my master.
“We’re taking him for a while. We want to use every toy you’ll let us.”
“As long as he comes back in one piece so he can keep working, do whatever you want.”
The three of them took me to the back. The trans woman pushed me against the door as soon as we entered and kissed me violently, biting my lip. Her hand went straight to the cage and squeezed the metal until I let out a muffled whimper.
“Look at him,” she said, laughing. “All locked up and still desperate.”
The woman made me strip completely, except for the collar and cage. The man tied my wrists to the cross on the wall, leaving my legs spread. I breathed deeply, feeling the mixture of fear and eagerness that came from not knowing how much they would demand. The trans woman spat into my mouth.
“Swallow.”
I swallowed.
The woman put clamps on my nipples and tightened them with a little chain. The burning was immediate. Then she slapped me lightly at first, harder afterward, until my face felt hot.
“I want to hear you ask,” she whispered.
“Please…”
“No. Ask properly.”
The trans woman pushed two fingers into my mouth while the man spread my buttocks from behind. I felt his tongue circling my hole, slow and filthy, as if he were savoring his temporary property. He licked me with a patience that seemed like preparation for something worse. The woman tugged on the clamps, and I writhed against the straps.
“Please, use me,” I finally said, humiliated by my own voice.
That aroused them.
The trans woman pulled a beautiful, thick cock from beneath her clothes and pressed it against my lips. I sucked it while the man continued licking my ass and worked lubricant inside me with his fingers. The woman positioned herself in front of me with a hard smile, grabbed my face, and forced me to look at her.
“Today you don’t decide anything. Today you’re a hole, a mouth, and skin.”
They fucked me almost without pause. First the trans woman in my mouth, deep, taking me to tears again, while the man opened me from behind with three fingers and the woman pinched my nipples with the clamps still attached. Then they released me from the cross and folded me over the padded chair. The man entered my ass slowly, enjoying every inch, pressing all the way in before beginning to move. His cock wasn’t as thick as the first man’s, but it was long, and every thrust touched me deep inside.
The trans woman stood in front of me so I could suck her while I was being penetrated. She grabbed my hair just as the earlier customer had and used my mouth without mercy. The woman knelt between my legs, opened the cage with a small key my master had given her, and freed my cock, already swollen and glistening with precum. She didn’t stroke it tenderly. She tapped it lightly against my stomach, then began jerking me off with sharp, dry strokes, exactly in time with the man’s thrusts into my ass.
“Look at him,” she said. “He gets hard even when they treat him like garbage.”
“Because that’s what he’s for,” the trans woman replied, pushing even farther into my mouth.
I was at the limit. They were using me everywhere, stretching me, heating me up, controlling my breathing. The man behind me sped up, pounding into me. The woman kept jerking me off with her lubricated hand, never letting up. When I came, it wasn’t a sweet or free orgasm; it was a brutal, almost painful release that shook my legs while my mouth remained full and my ass kept being fucked.
I came across my abdomen and her hand. She didn’t let me rest. She smeared my semen over the head of my cock and put it back inside the cage while I was still panting. The click of the lock brought me abruptly back to my place: aroused, sensitive, unable to touch myself.
Then they switched positions. The trans woman put me on all fours on the floor, spreading my legs with her foot. The woman held me by the collar, and the man positioned himself in front of me, offering me his cock again. The trans woman penetrated me with a single thrust and left me breathless. She was thicker than the man, heavier, and opened me with obscene force.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” she said, then began pounding me mercilessly.
I had to suck at the same time she drilled my ass. The woman pulled on my collar to set the angle, forcing me to hold my neck in an exhausting position. Whenever I slackened, she gave me a sharp tug.
“Don’t collapse. Keep sucking.”
The trans woman fucked me until her breathing became one continuous growl. She grabbed my hips and thrust so hard that my knees slid across the floor. The man came first in my mouth, pumping thickly over my tongue. I had to swallow even with the trans woman’s cock pounding me from behind. A moment later she pulled out, made me turn around, and came over my face and chest with hoarse groans, leaving hot streams that the woman spread with her fingers as if marking me.
The man still wasn’t quite finished with me. He put me on my knees and ordered me to lick the cum that had spilled onto the vinyl floor. I did it. At the end, the woman yanked the clamps off my nipples, leaving a sharp pain that made my entire body shudder.
“Now go back outside,” she said. “Let everyone see how useful you are.”
***
I returned to the bar with my ass burning, my face shining, and my shirt badly buttoned. The clientele loved it. Seeing the effect of the room on my body was part of the show. Some brushed against me as they passed. Others lifted my chin to inspect me. One took a picture of me without asking permission. No one pretended to be modest.
My master made me serve a round of drinks like that, still used. Then he called me behind the bar and put two fingers in my mouth to taste what remained there.
“Good,” he said. “You’re performing well tonight.”
That praise made me hot and ashamed at the same time.
Around two, another regular appeared, one of those who enjoyed quiet cruelty more than haste. He was older than the others, dressed in an immaculate suit, with a low voice. He never raised it. That was precisely why he was more imposing. He sat on a stool, beckoned me closer, and traced an old scar beside my ribs with one finger.
“I want you all to myself for half an hour.”
My master agreed without arguing.
In the room, he didn’t order me to strip right away. He made me kneel on uncooked rice that they kept in a drawer for that kind of game. The pain was sharp from the very first second. Then he walked around me while he spoke, as if evaluating me.
“I’m not only interested in fucking you. I’m interested in seeing how much you obey when you’re in pain.”
He put a gag in my mouth, tied my hands behind my back, and left me like that for several minutes, listening to my nasal breathing and my small, awkward movements over the rice. Then he blindfolded me. Without sight, everything became more intense. I heard the rustle of objects, the click of a drawer, the opening of a bottle of lubricant.
First I felt the strike of a riding crop against my thigh. Then another on my ass. Then a slow, measured series distributed across my buttocks, back, and sides. They weren’t lashes meant to break me, but to keep me on that edge where pain sharpens every sensation. I moaned against the gag, and every so often he stopped for a second to feel the hot skin he was raising.
“Punishment suits you,” he murmured.
When I was already trembling, he removed the gag. I could barely swallow, and he ordered me to open my mouth and pushed two fingers all the way in, pressing down on my tongue. I cleaned them with my tongue by reflex. I heard his small laugh.
“That’s what I wanted to see.”
He made me get on all fours on the cot and left the blindfold in place. The uncertainty left my body vibrating. First I felt a small plug entering slowly, just enough to get me used to it again. Then he replaced it with another, larger one, with a wide base, which opened me continuously and forced me to breathe deeply in order to accept it. He moved it a little, let me adjust, and finally pulled it out abruptly. The emptiness lasted a second. Immediately afterward, I felt the tip of his cock entering slowly, very slowly, as if he wanted to mark the path inch by inch.
That man fucked differently. Without clumsy violence. With control. He buried himself slowly to the hilt and stayed there, letting me feel his size, the exact pressure, the way my body eventually gave in. Then he withdrew almost completely and entered again. Each thrust reminded me that I couldn’t escape or anticipate anything with my eyes covered and my hands tied.
“Tell me who you belong to,” he ordered.
“My master.”
He gave me a sharp slap on the ass.
“And now, whose ass is this?”
I swallowed, his cock buried as deep as it could go.
“Yours… as long as you want it.”
That aroused him. His rhythm changed. He abandoned his patience and began fucking me harder, holding me by the waist and using me as he pleased. The cot squeaked again. My moans grew louder. I could feel the pain from the earlier punishment mixing with the filthy pleasure of being opened again, of being ordered to speak while he drilled me from behind.
He removed my blindfold just when I was most lost and forced me to look at him over my shoulder. His expression remained calm, almost cold, as he wrecked my ass with firm thrusts.
“I want to see your face when I come inside you.”
I kept looking at him. He wouldn’t let me avert my eyes. When he tensed, he dug one hand into the back of my neck and emptied himself inside me in long, deep pulses, continuing to move for several more seconds, as if he wanted to push every spurt as far inside as possible. I felt the heat filling me from within. That sensation always left me feeling strange: invaded, used, satisfied, and ashamed all at once.
He freed my hands, removed the blindfold, and ordered me to lick his clean cock before he got dressed. I obeyed until it was shining. He stroked my head like a well-trained dog and left.
***
At four in the morning, we closed. For many people, the end of the service was better than any fuck in the room. It was the public part, the most degrading part, the part that turned my use into a spectacle. My master took me to the changing room, removed almost all my clothes, and left me wearing only a minimal jockstrap that didn’t really cover much, along with the collar and cage. Then he made me go out like that into the bathroom hallway.
People were already waiting there with their phones in their hands.
“On all fours,” he ordered.
I got down on the cold floor amid laughter, comments, and camera flashes. I could feel dried semen on my skin, my sensitive ass, my tired legs. My master opened the door to the first stall and showed me the dirty toilet.
“You know what to do. No hands.”
It was an old, familiar order. I had to clean it with my mouth and tongue, degrading myself beyond any possible dignity while everyone watched. He grabbed my collar and brought me closer. The smell hit me first. Then the cold rim of the bowl. I stuck out my tongue and began licking where he indicated, hearing muffled laughter, excited murmurs, and the constant clicks of cameras.
“Slower,” he said. “Let them see how well you work.”
I obeyed with my face burning from shame. Sometimes a customer spat near me so I would keep cleaning. Another dropped a used condom beside my mouth. My master picked it up and pressed it against my lips.
“Empty it.”
I did. I felt the thick contents fall onto my tongue, and I had to swallow beneath everyone’s satisfied gaze. Someone whistled. Another commented that I really knew how to serve. My master continued telling stories about my scars, about who had left each mark, about how long I had been submissive, about how some people had passed me around to others out of sheer boredom. Every word drove me deeper.
All four stalls were the same or worse. In one, I had to lick the floor around the base. In another, suck up residue stuck to the rim while my master held me by the neck. By the last one, my arms were trembling from being on all fours for so long, and a woman held her phone almost against my face to record my expression.
“Look here,” she said. “I want to see you swallow.”
My master obliged her. He gave me another used condom to empty into my mouth. I swallowed it all, my jaw trembling.
When I finally finished, I was covered in sweat, someone else’s smell, and humiliation. He didn’t let me wash or rinse my mouth. He only made me put on loose trousers over the jockstrap and returned my things.
“You’re going home like that. And tomorrow you’ll write to thank me for letting you serve.”
“Yes, Master,” I replied in a broken voice.
I left the bar just before dawn and called a taxi from the corner. I already knew the final routine. Some drivers knew what I did for work and took advantage of the ride. That night, I got one who recognized me as soon as I got in. He looked at me in the mirror, smiled, and told me that if I wanted to arrive without problems, I already knew how to compensate him for the trip.
I leaned between the seats and silently unzipped his fly. My mouth still tasted of semen and cheap disinfectant. I sucked him for much of the ride, with the smell of the bar still clinging to my skin. He came before we arrived and forced me to swallow that too.
When I entered my apartment, the sun was beginning to show between the curtains. I didn’t shower. I couldn’t. I kept on the jockstrap, the cage, the filth, and the exhaustion. I lay facedown, my ass throbbing and my mouth full of filthy memories from the night. I closed my eyes and could still feel hands, orders, cocks, laughter.
That was the worst part and also what kept me bound to him. The next day, everything would hurt. I would swear I didn’t want to go back. But when Friday came, my phone would vibrate with a short message from my master, and I would go to the bar again, let him put on my collar, and once more place myself at the service of anyone who wanted to use me.