Just a Friendly Drink

by Millie 90 lbs of Dynamite

Copyright© 2016 by Millie 90 lbs of Dynamite

Sex Story: Warning this story has the rape of one man by another - if that isn't your cup tea give it a pass. Hey guys have you ever wondered what it would be like to be forced to the girl? Have a bigger stronger man take you - humiliate you - use you? I had a friend that asked me to write him a story that way - watch out we are entering Millie's Vast Expanse, one more time. By request Just a Friendly Drink. This story contains male raping male if you don't like that don't read this.

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Ma   Reluctant   Rape   Coercion   Drunk/Drugged   Gay   Fiction   Rough   Humiliation   Anal Sex   Violent   .

Brad is a small man, small hands, small feet, short in stature and a timid soul. He has deep-seated fears; fears he doesn't even know about – not yet that is. Then there is the desire, he doesn't know about that either. He just turned off at Normal Street on to a winding avenue called Fate. Being lonely and thirst he spied a bar and thought he would have a few beers and relax. Unfortunately, or is fortunately, he has wondered into the Millie's vast expanse and his world is about to expand from the finite to the infinite.

"The storms come and go, the waves crash overhead, the big fish eat the little fish, and I keep on paddling." George R.R. Martin

I'm not a lady's man, anything but to be honest. I'm short, five feet four inches tall. I'm thin, I weigh less than 110 pounds. I am also cursed with what the girls call a pretty face. You cannot imagine how dishearten it is to try and talk to a woman and have her rebuff you with, "Damn boy you like a girl." I have only had one lover in my life and we broke up she had to devastate me with insults about the size of my penis.

I will never make love to a woman again, I will content myself with jerking off looking at dirty pictures, or videos. The most satisfying manner of masturbate is to fully clothed pictures of sweet looking women. My high school yearbooks are the best and the photographs of the girls that I had longed to be with, way back then. Even so I enjoy talking to women, well until they get mean, or they start talking about my looks.

That night I drank at a bar that was filled with beautiful women and as usual I struck out, with each and every one. To be Honest, I just wanted to talk to them, be around them and get fuel for jerking off later. That night I wasn't alone. I talked to a man at the bar having the same luck, or indeed lack thereof, as me. We sat together at the bar, bitching about the women and their stuck up attitude. All night the both of us tried and failed, to dance with a beautiful girl. A few let us buy them drinks, but flitted off as soon as they had their prize. I think we both felt like the ultimate losers at that point.

I'm a small geeky guy experienced with the rejection of good looking women since well before I was a man, or they were women. The girls made fun of me, beat me up, and humiliated me from first grade on, now I'm twenty-seven old and good looking women, more often than not, seemed offended by my existence. While the man I drank with looked to be my exact opposite, one would assume. He was handsome, tall, well built; I mean muscled up like a running back or quarterback. Why he struck out, I hadn't a clue.

We commiserated together over several beers then he asked me, "Hey, why don't we cut out and go to my place?" I felt, some what, uneasy about that; I wasn't even sure why. I turned him down, saying I had to get up early. It was a lie and I wasn't sure why I said it, the next day was Saturday.

"Just one then, come on man no way we will get lucky tonight with these stuck up," he paused a moment, "men haters. Look Brad, it will be – just a friendly drink," Eventually, with some reluctance, I gave in to his wishes. He thumped me on the back in a jolly friendly manner. "You wont be sorry, brother," he told me, then added "You can leave your car here I live across the street. When we walked out I looked at the building and realized what building it was, the Anderson Arms Apartments.

"Holy shit, " I thought to myself, "he is a rich bastard." The big high-rise apartment building was the most exclusive one in the city; his digs had to cost over $1,000 a month. As we approached the entry, a doorman yanked the door open.

"Good evening, Mr. Anderson," he said, as we walked through the doorway. He nodded to the man and we moved through into the lobby. The room testified to how rich those that lived her were. Crystal chandlers lit the room, expensive paintings adorned the walls, and the furniture was all antique. Money seemed to drip from the walls. A few people in the Lobby rushed up and spoke to Mr. Anderson, slapped him on the back, or asked him things were going. He spoke to them with dispassionate responses, seaming to have less interest in them than they in him.

A woman stood inside next to a counter; rows of surveillance monitors lined the back wall showing all twenty floors of hallways. The only floor not covered with the cameras was the top floor – the penthouse. She wore a tight blue police-style uniform – SECURITY – emblazoned on her badge and patches, her hip sported a gun in a holster.

"How about that game the other night, Mr. Anderson," her a soft melodic voice sounded sexy, she spoke with a slow southern drawl. Her curvaceous body filled the uniform with an appealing, beauty of from and possibly function.

Her blonde hair was pulled into a tight bun adding to her authoritarian appearance. A vision of her straddling some hapless intruder, him sprawled out on the floor, a night stick in one of her hands while the other was balled into a fist, ready to beat him silly, flashed through my brain. She reminded me of the big blonde in the Police Academy movies, "Damn that bitch could dominate me anytime," I thought to myself.

"I lost a shit load on it," he said, tossing her a small wad of bills. She bobbed her head shoving the money inside her uniform top, pushing it into her bra. He pushed a button at the center elevator, and the doors on it slid open. When we entered, he pulled out a card and shoved it in a reader. The word PENTHOUSE lit up on the console as the doors banged closed.

"What are you rich or something?" I asked him.

"Yeah, I am," he shot me a soft smile as the elevator jarred us as we moved. The rapid rise made my stomach lurch. I reached out to the wall of the lift to steady myself. I felt his big powerful hand on my shoulder steady me.

"You okay buddy?" he asked, his tone filled with concern.

"Guess I had more than I thought," I answered, feeling queasy, mu stomach jumped inside me as my head spun. The ride seemed to last only a few second as the doors slid open. The astonishing view of this large opulent room, complete with a fireplace in the center of the expansive chamber, astonished me. Flames leaped from the logs in the round fireplace providing the only light in the room. Statues and paintings were strewn about, an antique Victrola here, a massive head of moose hung on one wall, wolf's head, deer antlers, and a jumping mountain lion who seemed to have mumped from the fire.

I moved into the room on rather shaky feet, as I stepped in an awkward lurch toward the fireplace, I heard the elevator doors clank shut. Shaking off the uneasy feeling, I took a few awkward steps, stumbled on something on the floor and felt his hands grab onto my arms steadying me, the powerful hands covered my biceps.

Holding me there, I supposed to give a minute to gain my senses, his hand clutched me the big powerful fingers digging into my biceps, pressing deep in soft arms. Closing my eyes, I willed my stomach to calm down and head to stop spinning. He pulled me back into him, that was when I realized just how much larger than me he was. I felt odd and didn't know why then his action of pulling back to him felt so strange and uncomfortable.

"Just take a second Brad," he said, his deep voice assured me every thing was fine. It dawned on me he was twice my size. "You seem a little week or something right now. Are you getting ill?" His hand rubbed my arms a bit. With a light but firm touch, he massaged of my biceps powerful fingers dug into my small muscles then moved to my neck.

"No, I think I'm a little bit drunk maybe," I said, I thought it an honest assessment of my state.

"No, Brad, you're not drunk just high," he said. "You know you're actually quite attractive," one of his hands moved to my face and stroked over my cheek. "You know it too, don't you, such a lovely face?" Oh shit, this can't be happening – why did guys or girls always bring up my face. My cock throbbed as it grew hard, shit what is with that? My small pecker rode up on the zipper of my pants the brass scratching the tender flesh.

"Look, man I'm not gay, bi, or any of that shit," I said, things moved beyond my understanding. His hands squeezed even harder and slight pain shot through my shoulder. Oh God, my heart wouldn't stop pounding, a tear ran from my eye. This couldn't be happening why did he touch me ... like this.

"Me either," he said, clenching one hand down hard where my neck meet my shoulder, holding me in place, while the other hand moved descended from my face to my chest. His lips were next to my ear, kissing it, his tongue darting out tasting the folds as he whispered, his wet lips touching hot on my ear. The experience frightened me, exciting me, and gave me the most bizarre sensations, all at the same time, "I really like you Brad. You're so soft, small and feminine."

"For the great ones eat up the little ones." He clutched me hard for a moment, "I gave you a a small dose of GHB, just enough, to make my meal easer to catch," he said, then added more. "You will feel every delicious moment. And so you know, I'm not a fag either, I just like fucking pretty things, and for a looser geek boy, you are a pretty thing." His hands roamed my body as he kissed my neck, shivers moved over my body. I tried to resist, I wanted to stop him, with no effort he controlled me. "I'm going to call you Brandy from now on," He pushed me to my right and toward a big sofa or something like a sofa. As we walked the hand on my chest tore at my shirt, the buttons fell off, tinkling as they hit the floor. I don't know when he let loose of my neck but that hand tore the shirt from my body as the other hand, the one at my chest, pinched at my nipples and squeezed my pecs. The gooseflesh rose around my chest from his touch, his coarse, dominating touch.

"Such a nice little chest, like tomboy I use to ass fuck so she could play like my boyfriend." He treated my body like woman's body. Squeezing my chest, my ass, and rubbing my neck. I felt my pants fall to the floor, "Commando, I like that, Brandy," he told me. I regretted not wearing underwear at that point. My rock hard cock stood straight out when his hand moved over it. "Tiny, baby prick, like a girls fucking clit," he told me, demeaning me. I felt disgrace, ashamed of the size of my cock, humiliated by him treating me like a girl, and totally devastated as my cock spit out juice over his hand. He lifted his cum covered hand to my face.

"Clean it up, Brandy – you fucking beautiful bitch," his deep voice purred in my ear. His hand left my chest and seized my hair, he twisted a handful. "Get that fucking tongue out and clean it up – bitch!" he barked at me, something in his words, his tone, was ominous and treating, I complied, eating my own disgusting cum. It was a disgusting, salty, taste I hated it and wanted to stop, but he was to strong or I was to week.

Once I had his hand clean, he started to unbutton his own shirt. He held me by my hair pulled to him so tight I could feel his hands as he worked the buttons. He worked his muscled arm out of the sleeve, that hand took the others place on my head. Again he tore at my hair, controlling me. I could taste my fear it mingled with my semen nauseating me.

I wanted to run, to break free of him and run. Two things stopped me, the dope had me unable to make myself do much. Then there was the fear, it welled inside me and froze my feet to the floor. My head was barely to his big broad chest. I also knew he outweighed me by one-hundred-twenty pounds or more. Tears streamed down my face my heart raced pounding in chest so hard I could hear the deep base throbbing beating in my ears. My flesh tingled as the goosebumps rose over my entire body, not utterly an unpleasant feeling – yet, the dread of my situation raced in my mind.

"You are going to have to grow your hair longer baby doll," he told me while he worked the newly freed left arm from the shirt. He pushed my face down on the big wide sofa, it looked like a mattress with curled wood as a head and footboard, and the ornate arms were a dark wood with rough notches and stains covering them. I noticed the mattress had circular, discolored stains. It took me a second to recognize them as semen stains. At one end of the day sleeper lay a large fluffy pillow, he buried my face in its perfumed softness. I felt him unbuckle his belt and work it out of the loops. He put the leather around my neck and arranged it with care, placing the tip through the buckle he pulled the leather past the holes, drawing it tight around my neck, a choke collar to control me.

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