The Doorman

You wonder if you got the wrong address. There’s no sign outside the bar, no bouncer standing guard. Just a long, steep staircase leading down towards a big red door. Every ounce of logic tells you not to go near it; terrible images fill your mind, possibilities about what might actually be lurking behind its glistening red surface.

And yet, you proceed downwards, weather out of curiosity or something else. Something more powerful, more mystical.

You knock politely, and the door swings open.

“Can I help you?” he says, with a bit of an Italian accent. You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Here standing in front of you is an absolute beast of a man; hair everywhere except the top of his head. His muscles are hard and rough, heated from years and years of working out. He screams “daddy,” and it’s taking everything in your power not to scream it right then and there.

Instead, he lets you pass and you enter the bar. It’s bustling with similar men; all older, all Italian, and all in various states of undress. They look at you funny as you walk by, skinny, pale, young. You know you don’t belong here, and that fact sits uneasy with you as you take a seat at the bar.

You’re about to order a drink, but the bar tender slides something across the wood to you. It’s in a big mug, and smells like hard liquor.

“What is it?” you ask, but he does not reply. Instead, you hear another Italian voice come from behind you.

“His English, not so good.” It’s the guy from the door. He takes a seat uncomfortably close to you. You notice that everyone else in the bar is looking. He motions to your drink. “Drink. It’s good.”

You obey. It runs your throat, whatever it is, and you have to resist from letting the disgust explode onto your face. “Good?” he says with a laugh. You can only nod.

He seems to understand. “This place, this drink. It is not meant for little boys like you.” It’s like being told off by a parent. You turn to leave, but you feel a very warm hand make contact with your shoulder. “Don’t worry, we can make you fit in.”

“We can… sorry?” You roll his words over in your mind, trying to make sense of them.

Instead of answering, however, the doorman points back to the drink. “More,” he says, “it will make you more comfortable.”

Just like the door on the bottom of the stairs, there’s something forbidden and aluring about the drink that makes you take some more. This time, however, it doesn’t taste nearly as bad. Instead, it starts to take on a sweet, relaxing taste. You can’t tell if you’re starting to get drunk already, or if there’s something else going on.

“Here, another,” the man says to the bartender. You look down to see the big mug is already empty. Did I drink that much already? you think. But before you know it, there’s another drink infant of you, and you’re throwing it back.

The doorman pats you on the back. “There you are my friend.” You put the second mug down. A couple of laughs catch your attention, and you spin around to see the rest of the bar patrons pointing at you and cackling to themselves. “Ignore them,” the man says, pointing to another full mug in front of you. “Here, another.”

So you drink, and you drink, and you drink.

Before long you find yourself loosing focus of the world around you. Your body is numb and all you can feel is the hand of the doorman, which is rubbing your back, gently.  

“You doing okay there my friend?” he asks.

“Penso che potrei essere bevuto,” you reply. Wait a second, that’s not your voice. That’s not the language you were raised on. You clasp your mouth, but find it covered with a thick bush of hair that has never been there before. Suddenly, you’re very aware of your surroundings. You’re aware of the men who’ve burst out laughing behind you, aware of the muscular man stroking your now bare chest. And as you look down, you become aware of your skin, which is no longer pale, but dark, tan, and covered with thick black hair.

You rush away towards the bathroom, ignoring the laughs and the cat calls from the men around you. You try and convince yourself it’s a dream, or that you’re just too drunk. But when you slam the door and look in the mirror, you know it has to be real.

Look at yourself. This is you now; a bonafide Italian man. Never mind the fact that you’ve jumped a couple of decades, or that all of the hair on your head has vanished. Every inch of you is oozing sex appeal, from the handsome blanket of hair covering your pecs, to the thick mounds of muscle covering your once skinny arms.

You let out a grunt. It shakes your chest and passes your lips, animal like. You feel like a beast, your new body seems to radiate heat and energy as the prospect of transforming into a new man, living a new life in a new body, sends waves of pleasure from the tip of your bald head to the tip of your new, daddy cock.

You pull it out, admiring its size and girth. Looking at your new figure makes you so horny that the damn thing goes stiff within a few seconds. You flex for yourself in the mirror, and laugh a bit, as the big hulking muscle man showing off in front of you isn’t some other guy; it’s you. This is me. The words keep repeating themselves in your mind like a drunken chant. This is me. This is me.

“See,” the doorman coos from the bathroom doorway, “I told you you’d fit in.” You turn over to him. He’s rubbing his cock through those shorts, admiring you from head to toe. It takes a moment for you to realize that you’ve got a body worthy of his touch now, and when you do, you march over and pull him in close for a big, sloppy wet kiss.

His breath his hot, his scent musky, and as his hands explore your new muscles and mature figure, you let out another grunt of approval.

“Does daddy want a taste of this cock?” the doorman asks.

“Si signore,” you say. You’ll have to work on your English now, but that can be for another time. Right now, all that matters is pulling down his shorts and unsheathing his monster dick. You rub it against your beard, sending him into a fit of pleasure, and when he seems just horny enough, you swallow.

The smell of his sweat fills your nostrils, the scratching of his pubes against your face. You close your eyes and listen to him moan, forgetting about the world outside, about your life, your past, and about the dozens of men likely lining up to fuck you outside the bathroom.

“Bend over,” you hear the doorman say. Before you know it, your bent over the sink and he’s shoving his face in-between your big, sweaty cheeks. Your legs start to shake as a pleasure unlike anything you’ve ever experienced sends you instinctively moaning. You call out phrases in Italian that you don’t recognize, pleas and cries for him to fuck you. To open your virgin ass with his big daddy cock.

Finally, he obliges. Your eyes roll back as his cock enters you. Slowly at first, then faster, the doorman begins to fuck your new muscle ass, each thrust sending you closer and closer to the brink of orgasm.

As your body goes numb, as your hot spunk falls in thick ropes onto the grimy tile floor, you start to think about how wrong it was to be afraid. How could you ever have wanted anything less than this? To be hot, and mature, and soaking with sweat under the hands of a man who loves you?

“Papà” you moan as he runs his hand through the hair on your chest. This isn’t how you thought your night would go. It’s better.