The Hustle House

There was a run down little building

around the block that guys from work

used to go to.

It had blacked out windows

and fire engine red paint.

An interesting color combination,

but I saw men flocking to it on their lunch breaks

in droves

then coming back to their desks all soaked and sweaty like.

I didn’t know what to make of it

but one of regulars whispered that they

had streamlined the operation completely

bringing in efficiencies from 1940’s war time production;

mechanisms of the assembly line

running at full capacity.

There was even one of those little hatches in the door

that slid back and forth

where you’d have to say a secret password

to get in. Luckily there was one guy in our group

that happened to know it. He was in finance.

The day we went, it was cold. Damn cold. I could see the steam escape

from the front door of the place after every open. Puffs rose into the air

and it looked like people were going in there to be cooked.

It was our turn in line. The password was uttered and we went

into the Hustle House’s bowels.

I stood there just inside the little entrance looking.

This place was like a dungeon; dark, dingy, industrial. Every surface was bathed in metal

with the exception of a few candelabras hanging on the walls.

There was also an unrelenting smell that permeated

every inch of the area and my nostrils, making my eyes water, I accidentally breathed in a big mouthful.

I couldn’t quite place it, but then all at once I realized what it was.

It was ass.

Tangy scents of it wafted about the room

in different flavors

making it the default air.

It was a free for all and the men would line up,

one after another they came in and kept coming

and sometimes there was only one whore

there for a long time until she was swapped

out with another one. Eventually one of the men would yell,

“she’s too loose!”, and that was the cue.

A man came through the front door

he would slide right in

but there were rules

and even a few signs.

One said:

Ten pumps maximum.

The other said:

Use this rag to catch it.

Some men took their time

went in slow, really making their pumps count

while others jack-rabbited them

running out of movements before

they knew it.

There was this one blonde kid from the bakery

he had these big thighs from standing on his

feet so much, his pumps were always fast

but he always complained.

Not enough time to get off he would say,

“I just need a few more pumps,

just a few. Its not going to hurt anyone.”

The bouncer grabbed him by his shirt collar, split his lip

and threw him out onto the street corner,

dick still all exposed to the wind.

He yelled at us through the window,

that next time he’d be ready and primed up.

I was next in line. I stood there staring at the whore bent over

with her skirt hiked up, ready and waiting.

The bouncer looked at me, red faced.

I wasn’t moving forward. “Hey, are you with him? What’s your deal?”

The kid’s blood from his busted lips was still all over the place

in front of me. Specs on the floor and dots of it

splashed across the pussy. “Come on man! Push in there!” the bouncer yelled at me.

“You gay?”

I couldn’t do it. I was going to be sick. With blood and cum still on my boots,

I slid out of there, busting open the back door and taking the alley.

The sunlight penetrated my eyes and blinded me in the process. And

for a split second I thought the damage the Hustle had done to me

was irreversible! I couldn’t see! Maybe that dungeon had actually turned

me into some sort of vampire after all! But then I knew it, I was never that lucky

to get such an escape from life.

I ran down the street and got back to my desk

with just 5 minutes to spare. I had sweated all the way

through my shirt but my boss denied me a break to change it.

So there I sat, smelling

like the Hustle House for the rest of the day.

Although I made it in, I was somewhat disappointed in myself

for never having made it to the step where I got to use the rag.

Well, there’s always tomorrow I thought.