The Mocery

The Mockery

Clark:

My name is Clark, I am thirty and I am a mixologist. More importantly, I am an entrepreneur. I briefly worked at a bar in Trenton to gain some valuable experience, but I had ambitions and aspirations. I saw a need for a new business concept - a real bar for college age kids serving very adult looking and tasting drinks that are completely non-alcoholic. My target market is the eighteen to twenty year olds who are under age and not interested in fake IDs or even real alcohol for that matter. I fill a need.

I opened my place, The Mockery, five years ago. It's just a block away from the main dorms at The College of New Jersey. Because I take my craft seriously, I am a huge success. My mock-drinks actually taste good and my mock-bar feels very real. Very adult. Some of my customers stay my customers after their twenty first birthday because, despite being an alcohol-free zone, I own the coolest place in town.

How do I make my Mocktails seem so real? I play around with aqua frescas, shrubs, kombuchas, and fresh fruit syrups. All can be fun components in mocktails. I like to keep the components in nice jars and decanters, and serve the final product in pretty glassware. I create the illusion of a real cocktail. The illusion of being a grown up. Some popular mocktail herbs include basil, mint, rosemary, thyme, lavender, sage, cloves, and lemon balm. These ingredients provide a depth of flavor and add an aroma that enhances the drink's overall experience. Spices add complexity and mimic the heat or bite of alcoholic beverages.

Then I pick a catchy name. Some of my most popular are: Fizz Fusion, Sip Sparkle, Bubbly Bliss, Refresh Revive, Flavor Fizz, Zest Zing, Soda Serenity, Quench Delight, Frosty Fusion, Savor Sparkle, Chill Charm, Mock Marvel, Tingle Twist, Fizz Fantasia, Sipper's Serenade and Mocktail Magic. Alliteration always helps.

The Mockery is in a small strip center sharing its building with one other tenant: Tattoo You. It's all in the name. Leo is the owner and he and I are friends. While I call myself an artist of sorts - I think what I do is an artform - Leo truly is a real artist. An oddity of the building we share is a connecting door in our backrooms. It's kind of like what you might see in adjacent rooms in a hotel. We have no idea why it's there or what purpose it served for the previous owners, but it makes checking in on each other convenient.

Leo is about my age and his main client base also comes from the college that sits one block away from our building. Business is booming for both of us, but we also refer customers to each other. I deal in higher volume and he deals in higher prices, but mostly we both get the kids who have parents who are affluent enough that their kids have plenty of discretionary spending money. This is something I never had as a student myself. I was a poor student, largely paying my own way. I was jealous of the kids who got to live in the dorms, buy anything they want and never have to work a job. There is a poetic justice in the fact that I make a very nice living in claiming a share of the disposable dollars from those very same kinds of students today.

Not that I dislike my customers. I was jealous of them when I was their age, but their circumstances are not their fault. If I had the same family and financial situation they had, I would have done the same things they do. And besides, my customers are good kids. The house rules are kindness and respect for everyone. Everyone knows that coming in and they also know they'll be out on their ass if they break the rules. I respect them, they respect me and they respect each other. It helps that no one is actually drunk. My place is a place that welcomes all. I do not have a theme or cater to any particular group. I am completely open about being gay, but The Mockery is not defined by it. It's a place for everyone.

One of the reasons my patrons like me so much is that I am a charming and lovable guy. I am not being immodest by saying that I look young for my age. My thirty reads more like early twenties - twenty-five at the most, and the kids relate to me. I am also damn good looking. Again, I am just stating facts. I have dark brown hair that naturally likes to stand straight up. I have steel-grey eyes that almost hypnotize anyone who dares to make contact. I have enough upper body musculature that my toning is visible through my shirt, but not grotesque like a bodybuilder. And the aforementioned charm. I am charming as fuck.

The eyes play a big part but when I smile, I show dimples below my defined cheek bones. I am also funny, smart and a hoot to talk to. And I am a giant flirt. I can't help it; it's how I'm hardwired. And I flirt with everyone. The girls all love me because I'm like a protective big brother. Also, they want their boyfriends or future husbands to grow up to be like me. What I really enjoy the most is flirting with straight boys. Making a straight boy blush is so easy to do and a shit-ton of fun. Again, my sexuality is not a secret so when one of these straight boys inadvertently locks their eyes on mine, between my steel-greys and my winning smile, the straight boy inevitably turns crimson red and drops his eyes to his sneakers. And then I have confirmation - he's not quite as straight as he thinks he is.

I have a theory that no one is 100% straight. I believe there to be at least some small degree of bisexuality in every self-proclaimed heterosexual. And I enjoy proving my theory to be true. Besides my dominating eyes, winning smile and accompanying dimples, these straight boys are so easy to flirt with. I have yet to meet a college boy who I can't turn crimson red in thirty seconds or less. Pairing a simple compliment with my natural weapons works every time. It's not that I think these boys are shallow or weak, it's that I am that talented. My superpowers are that strong.

And it really is so easy. So simple. Sometimes all it takes is a wink from me. Some of my favorite boy-compliments are: You have a really nice voice. Your work at the gym is paying off. I love your wavy hair. You have a great tan going. How tall are you? Hey, nice chin dimple! You are wearing the coolest shoes in here tonight. Those are just a few of the easy ones. It's amazing how many sneakerheads there are out there. Any boy wearing multi-colored or unusual shoes is trying to draw attention to his feet (and is probably not completely straight).

I don't just make these boys blush, though. I have another way that I put my theory to the test. It is a mutually agreed upon challenge. A physical test. I have a private back office in my storeroom where I have a massage table with restraints. I get twenty minutes to do my best. If I conquer the dude in question, I win. If the guy holds off and the twenty minutes elapse, he wins. I have a perfect record - I have never lost. Either I am that good at my work or my theory has been proven correct and no one is 100% straight. Once I win, I get to assign the loser a number. I don't think of them as losers. They just need a little help understanding their true selves.

The number is based on The Kinsey Scale. As you may have guessed, I have never given out a Zero (exclusively heterosexual) as A: I have never lost and B: it goes against my theory. Spoiler alert - I have never given out a One either. People are a lot more bi-curious than they realize. But don't worry. Shedding light on the subject is my mission. I don't just tell the challenger his number at the end of our challenge... I brand him.

On this particular night, there is a handsome jock who is lingering by the bar. My guess is that he was dared by his friends to challenge me and he's trying to work up the nerve to say something. I figure that he's on the swim team because he has a swimmer's build. That's how I make him blush, I compliment his long, lean muscled body and I tell him that he moves with grace and confidence. I follow that up with a wink and a smile and he turns fire engine red. His name is Grant and I almost feel bad for him. Over the last six months a couple of his swimming teammates have challenged me and I'm guessing that they're pressuring Grant into doing something they may not have fully explained to him.

It doesn't matter though. I will lay it all out. No one gets restrained on my table against their will. There is a detailed conversation and I even make them all sign waivers. Everyone is of legal age and no one is forced to do anything they don't agree to ahead of time.

So when Grant finally works up the courage to look me in the eye and say, "I guess you have a challenge for me or something." I smile and turn over front of the house responsibilities to my Assistant Manager.

I lead him to the backroom and we shake hands. I ask my latest challenger, "Grant, are you familiar with The Kinsey Scale?"

He shakes his head. I've found that most of my challengers have needed to be educated. Grant is no exception.

I explain how the scale works and how it is my belief that there are no "zeros" and probably no "ones" either.

Grant scoffs, "You're looking at your first zero and your first loss. No problem. I'm not gay."

Out in the bar he was shy and tentative. Since learning what this challenge is all about, he's suddenly brazen and a little obnoxious. I didn't expect that Grant was gay. I wouldn't have predicted him to be a 5 or a 6. But he will lose and he's not a 1 either. And with this sudden cocky attitude, he could stand to be knocked down a few pegs. I tell him to read and sign the waiver.

Like most people, he thinks he knows what's what and he signs without reading the fine print. Good. That means a fun surprise later. I take the clipboard from him and direct him to lie down face-up on the table. I make quick work of securing his wrists and ankles. I see just a hint of trepidation in his expression and his arrogance is waning. I haven't even started and he's beginning to realize that he's about to lose.

I set the timer on my phone to twenty minutes, start it and show it to Grant. Twenty minutes is not a ton of time, but I always give the first five minutes to foreplay. My challenger needs to get warmed up, primed and generally aroused. Those five minutes are well-spent. Going straight for the gold is not always the easiest path. It usually helps to make him feel vulnerable too. Nudity is a good start, or as close to it as I can get with his limbs restrained. I flip off his sneakers and strip away his socks.

Grant tugs against his bindings, "What are you doing? What do my feet have to do with this challenge?"

If he wasn't ticklish, he wouldn't be asking this question. I swipe a finger up his arch and he flinches and howls. Sensitivity bodes well for me. Making him all tingly is what these five minutes are all about. I tell him, "You read the release. These twenty minutes are mine. Your job is simply to not blow your load. There are no rules about technique."

I dig my fingernails into both of his arches and wiggle all ten fingers at once. He laughs, screams and thrashes. For an athlete, his feet are soft and supple. They are warm and slightly damp from time in his socks and sneakers. His nails are well-manicured and his toes are bulbous and pink. If I had more time, I would explore his sensitive soft soles much, much further.

But I want this guy naked. I shove his sweatshirt over his head and up to his secured wrists. His bare arms, chest and stomach are now all at my disposal. I usually like a little more soft vulnerability in the belly area but Grant is a true athlete with close to zero body fat. He is all skin and muscles. But all stretched out like this, those exposed ab muscles look ticklish as hell. He has an eight pack that is bulls-eyed by a vertical oval of a belly button. It's not an outie per se as nothing is protruding, but it isn't indented either. It's a flatie. I drill my fingers into his ribs and scribble my way up to his armpits. It's a good thing we're pretty well sound proofed back here. Grant is a noisy boy. He must really be enjoying himself because he is in hysterical laughter.

My hands work their way down his sides and stop above the hips where I squeeze and grapple at what is apparently yet another big tickle spot for him.

He screams out, "Nooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!"

Okay, fine. My fingers swipe across his lower abdomen and Grant elevates off the table. I give this spot a full minute, intermixed with belly button play and I wish that I had earplugs. I have succeeded in priming his senses and readying him for what comes next.

The timer tells me I have fifteen minutes left so I begin to undo his jeans. I pull them down to around his knees. His Under Armour boxer briefs are partially tented with his partial erection. Oh, yeah. He's halfway there and I haven't done anything sexual yet. I always win, but this is going to be easy.

Sometimes I like to play with my victim for a while; edging a presumed straight boy is always fun. I tease and torment the poor bastard to the brink of his sanity. I make these "straight guys" beg me to allow them to climax.

Please let me cum! Please! I lose, okay? Just... Please... Do it!

Other times it's fun to dick around with them until there's only one minute left on the timer, giving them a glimmer of hope that they can win the game. They never win. I have magic hands and a talented mouth. Sometimes it happens with only ten seconds left on the clock but I always get my man.

What do I want to do with Grant? As I stare down at him, he continues to grow stiffer. Embarrassed, he begins to make excuses. "Your agreement says nothing about tickling. It's not my fault. Tickling always makes me hard. This doesn't count."

I make a tsk sound. "The agreement you signed gives me twenty minutes to do whatever I want. There is a paragraph about foreplay. You can reread it later. In the meantime your stall tactics will not work."

He strains against his bindings again. He's desperate because he knows he can't win. "You're a cheater!"

How dare he question my integrity. I yank down his underwear and his penis is three quarters of the way erect. We both stare at it. It bobs with his heartbeat as it continues to chub up all on its own.

"Grant, I hardly tickled you and it ended three minutes ago. Your hardon continues to grow like it has a mind of its own. Look! It's firming up with every beat of your heart. Your brain might be having second thoughts about the contract you signed but your dick can't wait to get started."

I decide that I won't waste time with teasing and edging. Since Grant has chosen to invalidate this whole thing with lame excuses, I figure it's best to demonstrate to him exactly how "not straight" he is. I am going to bring him to an earthshattering orgasm and do so in record time. And he's afraid that I'm about to do exactly that.

He's also afraid that he'll be left feeling weak and pathetic. Broken and humiliated. But that's not true. And that certainly is not my goal. Rather, I intend to awaken something inside of him. Something that was already there. He is about to learn about himself.

I drizzle some oil in my hands. He is at full erection now. He is pointing straight up at the ceiling. His cock is throbbing and the tip glistens with precum. Despite having been acting like an ass for these few minutes, Grant is a good looking dude. His swimmer's build is gorgeous, of course, and his penis is now as hard as any other muscle on his fat-free body. Looking at his at least 6'2" frame and at least size twelve feet, I would have expected his dick to be bigger. It's not small, but it's not huge. It's actually pretty perfect - my favorite size. Maybe just six inches. Too much bigger than that can be off-putting if not downright scary. Too much to handle. Six inches is manly fun size that I can do whatever I want to.

I grab it and he throws his head back and lets out what I can only describe as a bark. Another five minutes have come off the clock, but that's fine. My new goal is to make him blow his load in less than sixty seconds. It's an aggressive goal but I am an overachiever.

I use two hands and slide up and down his oil-slicked shaft. He begins to moan. I use both thumbs to prod and swirl under the tip and along his underside as I continue to stroke. His back arches and his whole body squirms. I give his head a quick polish and he actually screams. I wrap my right hand around his rod and twist back and forth as my hand glides up and down. My left hand fondles his balls while my right hand continues with twists and strokes. I don't speed up or slow down; I just maintain a relentless pace. I notice his toes curl. His breathing gets choppy. His back crashes down on the table then arches again. I keep going.

He warns me, "Oh my god! I'm gonna cum!"

No shit. He's just figuring this out now?

"Like right now! I can't stop it! It's gonna happen!"

At the nine minute and five second mark (fifty-five seconds into my sixty second goal), he shoots his load. And what a load it is. The first spurt happens at the apex of an upward stroke and it actually shoots out of him like a canon landing on his chin. The second spurt is also a rope and it lands on his sternum. The third barely clears his flat navel and the remaining five pulses dribble down my fingers as I continue to milk this athlete dry.

When he has no more left to give, I still don't stop. Grant's face is crimson red and he is panting like he just swam one hundred meters. He lifts his head and says, "Okay. You win. Stop now."

The contract stipulates that I get all twenty minutes no matter what. With almost nine minutes left on the clock, it's now my play time. It's post-orgasm torture time. Some guys go flaccid immediately after such a huge orgasm. They can't help it; their dicks just desperately need a nap. Grant, to my delight, is still rock-hard. I keep stroking.

He grimaces. "I'm serious. Stop it now."

Knowing he's big on the legalese I point out that the contract gives me the full twenty minutes.

I polish his head roughly in the palm of my hand and he howls in agony. Tears are streaming down his cheeks when he begs, "Please! Eight more minutes of this will kill me!"

Well, I don't want a dead body on my hands. I stop polishing. I go back to gentle strokes and he relaxes just a little.

I ask, "Now that you know you're not a Zero, what do you think your Kinsey score should be."

He grunts, "One."

I snort, "Fuck you." I keep stroking him up and down. "Now that you know you're bisexual, do you feel any different?"

"You cheated. This didn't count. I am not bisexual. I am a healthy twenty year old man and as such, I get aroused easily. I could get hard looking at pictures of rocks. It's normal for a guy my age. It was just the physical stimulation. That's all."

"But Grant, you and I both watched your dick firm up tick by tick when no one was touching you. You wanted me to touch you. You wanted this to happen."

His erection is not dissipating as I continue to stroke. I change to more of a massage of his shaft, with some concentrated thumb swirling below the glans. He stifles a moan and bites his lower lip.

"I'm not into dudes!"

I'm sure his protest sounds as hallow in his own ears as it does in mine.

I smile, "No. You just desire that they do impure things to you."

My massaging gets more aggressive and his toes curl again. "Dude! You need to stop now!"

"Or what?"

"I'm gonna cum again!"

"Your right. Boys are gross. That's obviously how you feel about the situation."

He has no retort to that because he is too preoccupied having yet another orgasm. I continue to swirl my thumb below his tip while gripping his steel shaft and sure enough... He pulses and releases again. It's not nearly as much - how could it be? After the previous massive load I'm shocked that there's anything left at all. When he's done there are still two minutes left on the clock, but I let it slide. I could torture him, but I think he's torturing himself enough for the both of us.