Secret club

It’s our ritual, our escape, our filthy little secret society hidden away in a nondescript warehouse on the edge of town. The door’s unmarked, but we all know the code—three knocks, a pause, then two more.

Inside, the air is thick with anticipation, the kind that makes your pulse race and your cock twitch before you’ve even stripped down. We’re 15 to 20 strong on any given night, a motley crew of men from all walks of life. Some are grizzled veterans in their 50s or 60s, their bodies softened by years but their eyes sharp with hunger. Others are fresh-faced twinks in their early 20s, eager and inexperienced, their lithe frames contrasting with the burly dads and gym rats who show up.

We’re white, black, Latino, Asian—diversity in every shade, every build. Some are tall and lean, like marathon runners with abs that ripple under the dim lights; others are stocky bears with thick chests and hairy thighs that could crush you in a heartbeat. But no matter the shape or size of our bodies, we all share that one glorious, throbbing commonality: massive cocks.

We’re talking girthy monsters, veiny beasts that hang heavy even when soft, the kind that make your jaw drop and your hole clench just thinking about them. Eight inches minimum, but most of us push ten or more—uncut foreskins sliding back to reveal plump heads, or circumcised shafts that curve just right for maximum tease. We all wear masks. Simple black ones that cover our eyes and noses, like something out of a kinky Venetian ball, ensuring anonymity in this den of depravity.

No names, no small talk about jobs or families—just raw, unfiltered lust. The room’s set up like a private lounge: plush leather couches arranged in a semi-circle around a massive flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. Dim red lighting casts everything in a sultry glow, and there’s a faint scent of lube and sweat that lingers from previous nights. Speakers pump out low, bass-heavy beats to set the mood, but they’re never too loud—we want to hear every gasp, every slick stroke.

The night starts slow, building like foreplay. We trickle in one by one, shedding our street clothes in the antechamber until we’re down to nothing but our masks and maybe a jockstrap if someone’s feeling extra naughty. Bodies on display, cocks swinging free as we greet each other with nods or lingering glances.

No handshakes here; instead, a subtle brush of fingers against a hardening shaft, a playful tug to gauge the weight. “Damn, brother, you’re packing heat tonight,” someone might growl, voice muffled but dripping with envy and desire. Sometimes, we fire up the porn. The screen comes alive with high-def filth: gangbangs, glory holes, double penetrations that make even our oversized dicks look tame. We sprawl out on the couches, legs spread wide, stroking ourselves lazily at first.

An older black guy with a cock like a forearm might lean back, his balls heavy and low, while a young white twink kneels between his thighs, not touching—just watching, mesmerized, his own thick rod leaking pre-cum onto the floor. The room fills with the wet sounds of skin on skin, moans syncing with the on-screen action. “Look at that slut taking it all,” a burly Latino bear rumbles, his hand pumping furiously as his massive tool swells to full mast, veins bulging like ropes. Other nights, we skip the videos altogether and turn the spotlight on each other. That’s when it gets really spicy—our own live show, no scripts, just pure, animalistic voyeurism. We form a circle, masks hiding our identities but not our hunger.

One by one, or in pairs, we perform. A slim Asian guy with a perfectly straight, foot-long cock might stand in the center, edging himself for the group, his tip glistening as he teases the edge of release. “You like that, boys? Watch me throb for you.” The rest of us jerk off in rhythm, eyes locked on his display, cocks pointing like arrows toward the action. Sometimes it escalates: two men, one black and ripped, the other a chubby white daddy, might face off, rubbing their enormous shafts together in a sword fight of flesh, foreskins kissing as they grind and groan. The young ones love it, their smaller (but still huge) dicks twitching with jealousy, begging for a turn. Boundaries? We have a few, whispered rules etched into our code: no penetration without consent, no photos, no outing anyone outside these walls. But everything else is fair game—edging sessions that last hours, cum shots arcing across the room like fireworks, or just silent admiration as we size each other up.

An older white guy with salt-and-pepper pubes might coach a black twink through his first group jerk, hand over hand on that massive ebony pole until it erupts in ropes of hot seed. We clean up with towels, but the mess is part of the thrill—sticky evidence of our shared vice. By midnight, the energy peaks. Sweaty bodies pressed close, masks slipping just enough to reveal smirks of satisfaction.

We cum in waves, one man’s orgasm triggering the next like dominoes—thick loads splattering thighs, chests, the floor. The air reeks of musk and release, and we linger in the afterglow, cocks softening but still impressive, dangling between legs as we catch our breath. As the night winds down, we dress in silence, slipping back into the world like ghosts. No goodbyes, just knowing nods. It’s our club, our secret, bound by the sheer size of what we carry between our legs. And come next Friday, we’ll be back, masks on, cocks out, ready to indulge all over again.