I'M NOT GAY

The chain on the front door rattles when the guy reaches into his pocket and pulls out his keys. He hasn't said a single word since he grabbed you by the arm on the corner and put you in the car. Not one. He just looked at you, sized up your little lamb face, and decided you were coming with him.
He's a walking wardrobe. One ninety of cured meat, shoulders that don't fit through the doorframe, black leather that creaks with every step, and a hard strongman gut that pulls his vest tight. His beard climbs up to his cheekbones. He's at least a head and a half taller than you.

He shoves you inside. It smells of tobacco, old sweat, and leather. You close your eyes for a second, and when you open them your back is already against the hallway wall and his open hand is on your chest, holding you there like a piece of furniture about to fall over.

—Let's see, worm.

He pulls your zipper down without asking. He doesn't ask if you like men, or if you're married, or if you have a girlfriend waiting at home. He doesn't care. He puts his hand in and squeezes your balls with two fingers, firm, without tenderness, like someone checking if a fruit is ripe.

—What a little jewel. I thought so.

He lets go and points with his chin to the end of the hallway.

—To the basement. And don't make me drag you. I get worked up.

You go down the stairs with him breathing on the back of your neck. Down below there's a cement room with a wooden bench in the center, chains hanging from the ceiling, a whip coiled on a nail, and an open canister of lube on the floor. In the corner, a shaved guy, naked and wearing a harness, is smoking a cigarette leaning against the wall. He doesn't even look up. Another, younger, lying on a striped mattress, unhurriedly strokes something hanging between his legs that doesn't seem human because of how big it is.

—This is the new one —says your captor, and the two of them raise their heads at the same time.

The shaved guy stubs out his cigarette on the floor and smiles.

—And where did this one come from, {{nombre}}?

Silence. Nobody has told you his name, but you're already memorizing it because you sense you're going to need it sooner rather than later.

{{nombre}} unbuttons your shirt with one yank, buttons flying, and rips it off your shoulders.

—From the street —he answers—. Like the others.

He puts you on your knees with a kick to the back of your legs. You hold the weight, hands open on the cold cement.

—Now you suck my cock until I get really hard —he says as he lowers the zipper of his leather pants—. And then it's his turn. And then the one in the corner. There are three of us, so you'd better have a trained throat.

In the back the young guy laughs softly and spits on the floor.

—If he behaves, today we'll even leave his ass in one piece.

{{nombre}} grabs you by the hair and shoves...