Blog : Alpha Bi Group Showed Me the Ropes

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12/28/2020 10:19 am

Alpha Bi Group Showed Me the Ropes

I had a wild hair up my butt after watching videos of guys getting grabbed and shoved into vans. So when I saw an ad offering that, the fantasy smoldered in my thoughts for days until one horny night alone under the influence, I responded with a couple of pics, selling myself as tall, boyish and submissive.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it and went to bed imagining how it might go when my phone dinged half an hour later. Email. The guy on the other end liked my photos and explained how it could go. He owned a barn on 20 acres out in a remote valley where his “Alpha Force bi group” hosted “adventurous visitors.” Sometimes there was five, sometimes a dozen on the “team.” I was to wear “what I could part with” and bring a bag of replacements for the ride home. He sent a picture of a guy at the end of an pulley engine hoist, hanging half naked upside down by his ankles, legs spread and arms tied behind him. He was surrounded by a group of what appeared be hunters in camos, construction workers or retired SEALs with Popeye arms, all wearing masks or hoods, posing for a group photo with their writhing trophy catch of the night.

I couldn’t stop looking at the young man in the picture. His long thin runner’s legs. Cute little butt. Immodest erect penis pointing down to his distressed face. He looked familiar. He had my build. “You know you want it,” the gang leader host wrote at the end of his email. Of course I did. But I couldn’t help wondering what was going through the poor boy’s mind, blindfolded into a vertigo, upside down black hole of sensual overload, clothes torn. Did he bite or suck off more than he could swallow? Was he panicking, way over his head, drowning in sex? Would I have the balls to jump off that cliff, free fall into bliss abyss, flop around like a hooked carp, mouth open in silent screams with no way to escape?

“Don’t let fear get in the way of fun,” the voice of my dad echoed from my youth. “Just JUMP. Do it!” . . . I did, setting a date for a Saturday night weeks later when I met guys at a corner of an empty Park ‘n Ride lot. One came up my window. “Ready?” he said with a Slavonic accent, ordering me out of my car and in his front passenger seat. Guys in hoodies sat in the back and lowered my shotgun seat into the reclining position. They put a black cloth bag over my head and shackled my hands behind the seat, making plans in a foreign language, Russian maybe, talking like I didn’t exist. No turning back, I thought. “N’et,” one of them said, pulling my head down by the hair when I tried get up.

[left width= 20 height=40]About 30 minutes later the car slowed. The sound of asphalt gave way the rumble of gravel and minutes later the car stopped. Someone opened the door and took my extra clothes duffle while my shackled hands were freed. Hands pulled me gently from the car and recuffed my hands behind my back then wrapped a collar round my neck, tugging a tether lead towards the sound of music and party voices that switched to whistles and catcalls when I came in. The barn smelled of hay, horses and pot. Hands grabbed me without warning, a huge arm curled around my neck, and another ripped my shirt while others fumbled with my zipper as I half-heartedly tried to escape. They held me spread eagle on the floor as sharp cold metal scraped one ankle and cut my jeans up all the way up my leg. Then the other leg. They flipped me over and ripped my jeans a new ass hole and cut my briefs up my crack, dipping a gloved finger up my ass. Someone said something I didn’t understand. They stood me up and walked me to another part of the barn where I was stripped naked and affixed to an overhead beam, standing on what felt like a stainless steel or metal floor. I heard the sound of a squeaky faucet and got hit with a soft jet of cool water. They spread my cheeks and stuck a mini-nozzle up my ass, filling me with chills, then, surprisingly, warm water. Lucky horses, I thought, as one made low guttural sounds like he was clearing his throat. I answered with an explosive jet fart before they gave me a second dosing, then for some reason tugged my sliced briefs and shredded jeans back on after the last rush of clear douche down the drain.

The horses in nearby stalls knew something was up, snorting and stamping hooves, watching the wolves circle around me in the dark, closing in. They restrained their fresh catch down on a table, all hands on deck, then hooked me to something overhead and, with a whirring of chain and pulley, lifted me up off the ground, twirling me around to the sound of cries and grunts as my arms and shoulder muscles ripped. They whipped me to a frenzy. Dizzy and disoriented, I slipped into a dark calm place of ecstasy and tingling electrocution, bitten by the whip tip, thrashing through lightning flashes of adrenaline, shudders, pain and shuddered seizures, shaking uncontrollably.

They lowered me down, panting in a heap on ground zero and hooked my ankles and wrists like a deer on a pole then hoisted me up to their waist levels for unavoidable mouth and ass access, breeding and feeding me in pairs for the next hour or more until the only sound left in me were low growls and groans. The horses answered with a whinny. Applause, I thought. After unlocking all my inhibitions and further ripping arm and leg muscles in my pretzel position, the guys lowered and untied me. I stretched and shuddered, dripping seed and drool, then curled up like a broken colt panting on the floor. Someone covered me with a blanket and tossed me a towel as the group broke up one by one. The last ones helped dress me and put my torn clothes in my duffle. A souvenir, one said. They walked out the car in a daze and sat my sore ass in the passenger seat, again using a hood to keep their location a secret. Back at my car in the Park ‘n Ride, one of the guys handed an envelope. “We took up a collection,” he said. “Your tip.” Inside were twenties, tens and five-dollar bills. A sheet of paper held greetings from the guys: “you’re a hotty,” “crazy fuck, come again,” and “be my bitch.” One named Dimitri wrote “I want you, alone, call ,” then wrote his number and address.

As soon as I got home, I felt dirty, cheap, jittery and hung over, but revived a bit in the shower, reliving what I’d just done and aching for more with a homesick stomach. I called Domitri. Her got me hard on the phone, then threw me a bone which I couldn’t resist: He got my address out of me then sent me to bed with instructions to keep my apartment door and windows unlocked. “I tuck you in and read you a story,” he said. At least, that’s what I thought he said.


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