Then the voice said “Not so funny now is it…” and he heard them pouring coffee and slipped out to sit at the back door on a now sun-drenched bench, as a bonus, knowing he had not emptied himself yet, they left the tap noisily trickling and splashing water into the sink. Twenty long minutes passed, his mind churning, he knew he would be more thoughtful about his masterly dealings. That was a fact, but, he was still secure he couldn’t move, his balls and knob were encased in a crust of wax, cool and stiff now, but his bladder… oh his bladder, that tap was making things worse, that sound was egging his own water on, it felt near to bursting… perhaps he could ease things if he dribbled just a little out… he tried urine control dribbling a little in the hope it would wash but wax away, but to his horror the pipe in his prick soon filled as the exit was well blocked… pressure was building… oh the pain. Where were they, surely they wouldn’t let his dick explode… The women returned, placing. “Why don’t we walk through the door together. Then we can sit and talk.”A strong hand took his and suddenly they were inside, together, sitting at a booth in the corner of the dimly lit bar. An amateur contestant was stripping on stage. She– he– looked radiant in the spotlight and Tracey could imagine himself going through the routine. Several heavily muscled young men in tight gold short shorts worked behind the bar while two or three more effeminate young men in high heels, black mesh stockings and corsets acted as “waitresses.” One of the waitresses– her name tag said Marti– came over to the table. The voice returned, “My name is Jeff. Let me buy you a drink and we can talk.”As they sipped at their drinks, Jeff asked Tracey about his struggle to enter the bar and what it all meant to him. Tracey poured out his story. Time flew by and suddenly one of the barmen shouted loudly, “Last call. We close in fifteen minutes.”Could it actually be almost two am?Jeff held Tracey’s.
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