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A very special bar...

"

With a smirk, she continued, "Has anyone been able to figure out what the prize is?"

We hadn't been given permission to speak, so we all stayed silent.

"When five of you have cum in the glass, the sixth will have the pleasure of drinking the disgusting cocktail left him by you other little boys."

"Emptying the martini glass is the grand prize of this final contest and the winner's, or loser's, if you want to look at it that way, reward for being able to last the longest in the masturbation contest."

"From what I've seen today, all you little queers will probably try to lose because you really want to drink the scummy cocktail."

"Does anyone have a question?"

Now I ask you, my readers, to try to place yourselves where I, and the rest of the white men, found ourselves at that moment: We were tired from our efforts on behalf of the others and all of the activities of the day; we had not been apprised of this last event at any time before the Hostess's instructions so were utterly unprepared for this event; and last, but most probably not least, we were all terrified that we would not be able to perform this most intimate act before an audience, resulting in having to drain that disgusting martini glass.

We were traumatized, knowing that the loser would be even further abased before the hosts, the guests and, most of all, his significant other by being made to drink that ugly cocktail.

Imagine, my male readers, that you are commanded to stand in front of a group of mostly-clothed strangers and that you are made to masturbate for the group's entertainment. I'm certain you would be overwhelmed, as I was, and the fear of failure would permeate your every fiber.

My female readers simply will not understand that peculiarly male dilemma we know as performance anxiety, though they may appreciate its significance, have suffered its ignominy under other circumstances or simply be delighted by the concept of a cock that will not work, much to the chagrin of its owner.

I was, frankly, terrified and quite sure I could not cum under these circumstances.

Without more ceremony, the hostess yelled, "Get ready; get set; ............go" and each of us began stroking with an earnestness that reflected the urgency of her earlier admonitions.

I wasn't even erect when she made us begin but that didn't stop me from trying my best to get to that desired state. None of us wanted to drink the ultimate five-man cummy cocktail in front of the jeering crowd.

I must admit that my masturbatory efforts were aided, some, by the sight of our naked girlfriends and wives, sitting with their legs obscenely apart in front of the black crowd, some being pawed and played with; others being ignored. I needed every bit of that visual just to get started.

As one might imagine, I was shocked when we had only been jacking for only a minute or so when Two yelled "cumming" and we were all ordered to take our hands off our cocks. What the fuck??!!

The hostess began counting backward from twenty and, when she had reached ten seconds, the lucky Mr. Two began to spurt his discharge into the glass held by his like-numbered female counterpart.

His was a sizable load that Two deposited and his wife was ordered to lift the glass and show its contents to each of us and the party-goers. She held up the glass so that each of us could clearly see the volume of his orgasm as it dripped down the inside walls of the martini glass toward the base. We could all see that he had nearly filled the stem of the fluted glass; how impressive.

We were then allowed to recommence our efforts. In short order, again to my astonishment, Five yelled 'cumming'. Ms. Two raced to place the partly filled martini glass under the tip of his cock and he immediately began to empty his balls into the glass.

Again, she held the glass high to show everyone its combined contents. The base was certainly full and the bottom of the glass was covered in clear, white slime.

I know I don't have to tell you that I was pe

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