On Friday evening, I went to the Barcode a little before the opening, there was a sort of casting for the "volunteers", perhaps the owners wanted to make sure that they met the "standards" in force, there as elsewhere it was not good to be too different?

There were four of us in all, and they asked us to get out of the way completely, which we did. I was already erect, I had been erect all the way from my house to the Barcode, and I had been erect all day before that... In other words, to be clean, I had to change my underwear and "freshen up" more than once in the previous hours. I had also shaved my bursa and frankly shortened my pubic hair, on the advice of my rolling mentor.

Compared to the other guys, I was indeed "out of my league", as he had told me. I wasn't muscular, not muscular at all, I had a small cock, longer hair and I didn't have that conquering smile on my lips at the prospect of the orgy that was coming up... I was awkward, tense, red in the face and, paradoxically, I was secretly praying not to be selected.

Of course, the four of us were selected, after having been groped each to the apparent delight of the bar owners...

Without us getting dressed, they took us to the entrance, behind the lock, and tied our wrists and ankles to the rings on the wall, with our legs slightly apart and our wrists above our heads, we were very close to each other, so much so that we could touch our elbows. Every customer who came in had to pass in front of us and, tied up as we were, we obviously could not hide anything of our anatomy.

Not only could we not hide anything, but in this position, the customers could feel us from all sides, and they did not hesitate to do so. I was as tense as a crossbow, every touch made me jump. When they lingered on my sex, my buttocks, my asshole, or when they felt obliged to fondle my nipples, I was seized with uncontrollable jerks, which ended in moans when the "caresses" became painful.

My companions were less demonstrative, but they were very careful to facilitate the explorations, while I tried to evade as best I could - that is, I couldn't! - and I had no other resources but to rush to get rid of my stress and my panic fear.

This seemed to amuse the customers, who occasionally came back from the room to watch my show.

Sometimes, perhaps to increase my discomfort, they would press themselves against me and spoon me, which I could not escape. They would flatten my already strapped arms against the wall, spread my legs even further with their knees and knead my parts while ploughing their unshaven beards into my lips. It could have been exciting if I hadn't been so panicked at the idea of what might follow, but now I was suffocating, choking, my heart was beating wildly, I had only one thought: that everything should end as soon as possible. At the same time, I didn't ask to be untied to give up and go back - as the bar owners had told us we could do - for fear of looking like a quitter.

Besides, what does it matter if I look like one in front of people I'll probably never see again?

To be continued...

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