30-Days of House Arrest Ch. 01

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Everyone wants me to admit I have a drinking problem. My lawyer said it is an important part of the plea agreement; my boss told me he’d keep my job open and I can return to work after my 30-day house arrest.

Okay, sure, fine…sometimes I get a little hammered after work and on my day off but who doesn’t?

Anyway, I got into this mess because the cops said I ran a red light before I hit that car. I’ll swear to my dying day the light was still yellow…and yes, I had a kinda high blood alcohol level but I sure as hell wasn’t drunk.

You know, the people in the other car weren’t even hurt bad. They only had to take one of them to the hospital.

Anyway, the old guy I rent from, Mister G, turns out is a retired lawyer. My boss had introduced him to me the first week I tended bar.

My boss, Mr. Hall, knew I was living in a run-down weekly motel and almost immediately said to Mister G right in front of me, “Isn’t the whole East Wing of your house empty? Johnny lives in a dive on First Avenue and the cockroaches are bigger than he is…I’m afraid they’re going to carry him off some night and I’ll lose a good bartender!”

I had no desire to share a house with an old geezer. I was going to find a place of my own once I’d gotten a couple paychecks. Mister G didn’t look that enthused either but Mr. Hall wouldn’t let the topic die.

“Johnny,” he said to me, “you gotta see his place to believe it – beautiful house! And didn’t you tell me you love to swim? Well, out back he has a pool inside a bubble dome…you’ll be able to swim day or night even if it’s raining or cold outside!”

The old man appeared slightly uncomfortable.

He looked at Mr. Hall and said, “Maybe the young man wants his independence?”

But my boss wouldn’t let it go. “Independence? He’d have the entire East Wing to himself…how much would you charge him for rent?” he asked his gray-haired friend.

When I heard the rent I was flabbergasted.

“Wow, everything I’ve looked at is at least twice that amount…uh, well, I dunno…Mister G, would you mind if I moved in?”

It was the first time the old man smiled.

“Not at all, son…I live in the West Wing so we would both have our privacy,” he said.

I was blown away when I went there the next morning. The place is fantastic. There are three bedrooms down The East Wing. Mine would be the master bedroom at the end of the hallway.

Oh my hell – it has the biggest bathroom I’ve ever seen! Anyway, I moved in that day.

I still don’t understand why the old man rents it out so cheap. Well, that’s not entirely true. I found out why the first time I used the swimming pool.

I was swimming laps and Mister G came out and sat down at one of the tables around the pool and watched me while he drank coffee. He never said a word. He just stared at me the whole time.

I’d seen that stare before. For whatever reason, older men seem to ‘like’ me, if you know what I mean. There have been four-five of them in my life who have tried to pick me up in bars.

It’s kinda insulting but at the same time it’s also flattering. I mean, I tell them right off I’m not a homo and I thank them for the compliment. I’m polite to them – queers and fags have feelings, too, but I make it known I like girls.

Anyway, Mister G is a nice man, but like I said, not my type, ha-ha-ha…one day he gets into the pool with me wearing a little speedo. I was surprised at first, but I had to admit he has a pretty good body for an old guy.

We’re screwing around in the water, splashing each other, things like that. He challenges me to a race. I’m a darn good swimmer and I don’t back down from anyone.

What the heck – if I can’t beat an old man I might as well give it up! Uh-huh, wouldn’t you know it – the old guy wore me down and passed me on the last lap.

I was hanging on the end of the pool sucking air when he came up close behind me. Real close. His chest was pressing against my back; he placed his arms over me and on my arms on the concrete. His hands held the back of my hands.

I didn’t know what to do. I certainly didn’t want to piss-off the guy who was renting me such a great place.

Like I said, he kinda had me pinned against the end of the pool and all of a sudden I felt it against my butt – he’d sprung a boner and kinda ground it into my butt. I was so shocked I didn’t know what to say.

It was then he began kissing the back of my neck. That was when I knew I had better put a stop to it.

“Mister G, uh, you know I’m not queer, right?” I said to him.

He wasn’t mad or anything…he even kinda laughed.

“Nooo, of course you’re not, Johnny,” he said.

I don’t know how many times I’d told him, and Mr. Hall at work too, that I prefer being called ‘John’ but for some reason both of them call me ‘Johnny’.

Anyway, his tone was sarcastic like he didn’t believe me so I said, “No, really, Mister G…I’ve never been with a guy in that way my whole life!”

He laughed again and said, “Johnny, there is a first time for everything.”

Okay, canlı bahis now I got nervous. I mean, I’m in great shape but I’m only 5’6″ and 140 pounds. Mister G is bigger and stronger.

He whispered in my ear. “It’s okay, my boy…if not now then another time.”

He ground his boner hard into my butt one last time then backed away.

When we climbed out of the pool Mister G said, “I’m grilling steaks tonight at six – come outside at five and we’ll have Happy Hour.”

He said it so casually it was like he’d totally forgotten he had just made a brazen sexual advance with me in the pool.

I had no clue how to answer him. I didn’t want to have drinks with the old fruit but I didn’t want him to tell me to move out of the house, either.

When I didn’t say anything he spoke up.

“Johnny, I apologize for my actions in the pool – it wasn’t right, and it won’t happen again…will you please forgive me?”

His apology sounded heartfelt and sincere so I said, “Yeah, sure Mister G…you know, I, uh, hope I haven’t been leading you on or anything like that…it’s just that, uh, I like girls.”

He smiled at me and said, “I know you do, son…I assumed since you’re a bartender in a gay bar that you are gay yourself…besides, you’re such a cutie I had to take a chance, that’s all.”

My face turned beet-red.

“See you out here at five?” he asked.

“Uh, yeah, sure, I’ll be here,” I answered.

For a week everything returned to normal. It was like nothing had happened in the pool.

And then I had the accident.


“Six-months in prison?” I exclaimed.

I was dumbstruck. My eyes bugged open wide.

“Six-months in prison?” I repeated.

“Johnny, you were driving under the influence of alcohol and caused an accident which resulted in bodily injuries…quite frankly, six-months is generous – Judge Ridley is known as a ‘hanging judge’ when it comes to drunk drivers – he sentences most offenders to at least a year,” said Mister G.

My heart sank. I began to tremble all over. All I could think of were the lewd comments Mr. Hall made to me the two-weeks between my arrest and trial date.

He was the only one at work who knew I was straight.

It had begun when he interviewed me in his office, he misunderstood the job for which I was applying. He thought I was applying to be a cocktail server not bartender.

“Son,” he said looking me up and down, “you shimmy into one of those skimpy ‘cocktail boy’ uniforms and you’ll make three-times more in tips than the bartenders.”

I blushed simply thinking about it.

The cocktail servers, or rather, ‘cocktail boys’ uniform consisted of the tiniest short-shorts I’d ever seen with a good portion of the fabric cut out in back so almost half their ass was hanging out in full display to the customers; and even worse, the ‘cocktail boys’ wore what looked like a thin tube top covering their breasts but leaving most of their belly’s and chests exposed.

It was no wonder they all acted like flaming homo’s prancing and sashaying around the bar.

“No, uh, your ad said you are looking for a bartender,” I quickly said to him. “Besides, I’m not gay!”

“You say you’re not gay, but you want to work in a gay bar, is that right?” he asked furrowing his eyebrows. “Why is that, son?”

“Well, all the other bars I’ve gone to here only hire female bartenders…where I’m from, guys still get most of those jobs.”

“Welcome to Florida, son,” he said sarcastically then added: “Frankly speaking, boy, most of my customers are gay and ALL of my employees are gay…I don’t think it would be right for me to hire you.”

I don’t know why, maybe out of desperation to find a decent job, I blurted out, “I can ‘act’ gay – no one has to know I’m straight.”

A bemused smile crossed his lips. “How do you ‘act’ gay, son? You gonna walk around with a limp wrist and lisp when you talk with the customers?”

I blushed again. He was obviously making fun of me.

“No, no,” I said. “I can, uh, well, flirt with the customers, and if they try to pick me up I’ll tell them I have a boyfriend at home …as for the employees, they don’t have to know I’m not queer…”

I cringed the moment I said ‘queer’. I probably shouldn’t say something like that to a guy who owns a queer bar…screw ’em, I call it like I see it…if they want to be faggots that’s their problem not mine!

He chuckled and said, “Sounds like you already have experience ‘acting’ gay…tell me about it, son.”

Oh no…you stepped in it this time, John. What are you going to say to this man?

He impatiently checked his watch waiting for my reply then said, “I don’t have all day, boy, if you want the job you need to answer my questions…”

His remark lifted my spirits. He made it sound like I still had a chance to get hired. But on the other hand, I would have to divulge something I never-ever discussed with anyone else.

“Well, uh, you know…uh, when I turned twenty-one and started going to bars, bahis siteleri I uh…”

“You WHAT boy?” he said.

He was getting annoyed with me. If I want the job I better finish my story. Besides, if he doesn’t hire me, I’ll never see him again for the rest of my life anyway so what difference does it make?

“I don’t know why, but when I went to bars trying to pick up girls, well, a lot of men hit on me, and, uh, sometimes I played along with them and they’d buy me drinks,” I said.

The smile on his face reappeared. “So you were a cock-tease, isn’t that right, boy?”

I would call a girl like that a ‘prick-tease’ but it’s the same thing.

“Well, uh, yeah, I guess so…” I answered softly.

“How far would you go with the men so they’d buy you a drink?” he asked.

“No-no, I never did anything with them – like I said – I’m not queer, uh, I mean gay,” I protested.

“You gave them hard-ons though, didn’t you?” he said.

His bluntness caused a feverish blush to cover my face.

“No-no, I, uh, well…”

“Tell me the truth, boy!” he said raising his voice.

“Well, no, uh…I don’t know…maybe,” I stammered.

He sat back in his chair openly looking me up and down.

“You know, son, all my bartenders are at least six-feet tall with six-pack abs…you’re a scrawny little guy…everyone would wonder why-in-hell I would hire a boy like you if I wasn’t getting something in return…”

“What do you mean?” I asked him.

That bemused smile of his returned. “If I hire you boy, a couple times a week I’ll tell you in front of everyone, so they can all hear, to come to my office…you’ll come in here for fifteen minutes or so then go back to work…all your co-workers will think you came in here and sucked my cock and that’s how you got the job…”

The heat on my face grew so intense I could feel it burning. I fiercely blinked the moisture from my eyes.

He softly added, “When you come in here we’ll either talk, or you’ll just sit on the sofa for fifteen minutes…you won’t actually have to suck me off – how good of an actor are you, boy?”

OH MY HELL…how much do I want this job? Do I really want to be surrounded by degenerate homos eight-hours-a-day?

I found myself saying, “I, uh, I guess I can do that.”

“I’ve done a lot of crazy things in my life,” said Mr. Hall. “Hiring you would be crazy, yes, but you are a little cutie so it makes good business-sense.”

My heart skipped a beat. Did he just give me the job?

He stood and went to a closet in the corner of his big office. I saw the uniforms hanging inside.

He pulled out a bartender uniform: brown leather pants and a brown leather vest. The bartenders wore no shirts. They walked around in the vests exposing their sculpted chests. He was right – I’d look kinda puny compared to the other guys.

He came to me and said, “Here, boy, try this on…” then returned to his chair.

I looked around for privacy then asked, “Uh, should I go to the men’s room to put these on?”

“No, boy, try it on right where you are…”

“But, uh, I mean-“

“You know what kind of bar this is, son? It’s a ‘meat market’ and I offer my customers only prime, grade-A beef – now strip to your undies, boy, and put on the uniform…I promise you’ll make great money here but I need to see the merchandise first,” he said forcefully.

“B-B-But isn’t there some sort of law against this?”

He laughed and said, “Again, welcome to Florida, boy! Either get out now and never come back or strip to your undies and show me what you got!”

My face went from beet-red to ashen gray as I unbuttoned my shirt, removed it and placed it on the sofa. I bent down and untied my shoelaces and kicked off the shoes. My hands trembled as I opened my belt and unfastened the dress slacks and pushed them down my legs. I placed the slacks next to my shirt and hurriedly reached for the leather pants.

“Hold on a minute, boy…clasp your hands together behind your neck and let me look at my newest piece of meat!”

My eyes were watery as I stared down at the floor and posed for him. No one had ever treated me like this in my life…much less some old faggot.

Good God, John, how low are you willing to go for a job in a queer bar? Do you really want the job this badly?

I heard him softly chuckle then say, “Jesus Christ, boy, you don’t have a lick of hair anywhere on your body! You sure you don’t shave yourself for a boyfriend?”

“No-no, I told you: I’m not queer…I was on the swimming team in high school – all the guys shaved their hair – it makes you glide faster thru the water!”

“What about your crotch, boy? I don’t see any wild pubes sticking out of your boy-panties!” he said. I was acutely aware of him staring at my ‘bulge’.

“They’re not panties!” I protested. “They’re cotton string, bikini briefs and I buy them in the men’s department!”

“So answer the question, boy: do you have any hair on your little dick and balls?”

I’d never felt so low in my bahis şirketleri life. If I hadn’t already gone this far I would have picked up my clothes and run the hell out of his office.

“Yes, yes I have hair – I’m not queer – I would never shave down there,” I said. He didn’t need to know I use scissors down there to clip any wild pubes from sticking out of my briefs.

He smiled at my answer and continued staring at my nearly naked body. “Johnny, are you sure you don’t want to be a ‘cocktail boy’ – you’d make a fortune every night!”


The days leading up to my trial were unbearable. The crude comments Mr. Hall made to me during my fifteen-minutes of sitting on his sofa twice-a-week were beginning to take their toll.

He said I’d be sucking cock my first night in prison. “…either that, or you’ll be beaten so badly you’ll wish you had sucked their cocks!”

And: “You’re gonna be their little white bitch…your owner will break you in himself then pimp you out to his friends. At the end of each and every day your belly will be so full of cum and your asshole will be aching from the all the big cocks you’ll cry yourself to sleep.”

And: “The first few times your owner holds you down and fucks you in the ass it will be so painful you’ll pray for death! Don’t worry though, after the bruises and scarring heals, taking big cocks in your ass will become routine…and actually, the kind of boy I think you are – when those huge cocks fuck your little boy-pussy your tiny hamster balls will cum and cum and cum…”

And the one that gave me the most nightmares: “By the time you’re let out of prison, boy, your asshole will be so fucked-out and wide-open, you’ll have to wear a diaper the rest of your life to keep the shit inside you!”

I was so scared the day before the trial I really did shit myself.


Sitting in the courtroom gallery next to Mr. Hall, I was too numb to think.

Mister G was talking with someone for about ten-minutes then came and sat beside us.

“Jerry, the prosecutor in your case, he’s the man I was speaking with, we worked out a plea deal that will keep you out of prison,” he said.

The only thing I could think of was HUH? WHAT? OH MY GOD, THAT’S FANTASTIC!!

Because I was shaking like a leaf, my response to Mister G was a bit more subdued.

“That’s great!” I said.

“Hear me out first so you can make an informed decision, okay?”

“Yeah, sure okay!” I said, knowing I would accept any deal that meant I wouldn’t have to go to prison.

“First off, their evidence against you is rock solid – they have the video from the traffic cam proving you ran the red light and the arresting officer will testify when he gave you the field sobriety test your blood alcohol level was twice the legal limit…there is no doubt you’ll be convicted if we take this to trial,” said Mister G. “Now our main problem is Judge Ridley – he doesn’t like plea-deals for drunk drivers.”

I was suddenly scared again.

“Now the terms of the deal are, in my opinion, very generous…the judge will sentence you to thirty-days of house arrest – you will wear an ankle monitor – you will not be allowed to go anywhere for thirty days…after that, you will be given a work-release permit so you can go to and from your job – nowhere else – you will have to go straight to work then straight home and, you will be on probation for a year…if your probation officer even thinks you’ve violated any of the terms of the agreement – he’ll tell the judge and you will be sent straight to prison to serve the entire six-months…can you live with those terms?”

“Wow, that’s harsh,” I said.

“Would you rather spend six-months in prison?” he asked me.

A violent shiver raced up and down my spine. “No-no-no, uh, I don’t want to go to prison!”

Mister G smiled and said, “Maybe this will make you feel better. You’ll do the thirty-days at my house – you won’t have to go anywhere else!”

I breathed a huge sigh of relief. It felt like the weight of the world had been lifted from my shoulders.

“Now I have to talk Judge Ridley into accepting your plea…it will be a hard sell, but I’ve known him for years…if it’s okay with you, Johnny, I’ll volunteer to act as your probation officer…that might help sway his decision…is that alright?”

“Yeah – oh yeah,” I replied.

Mr. Hall and I watched Mister G slowly swagger up to the judge.

“You are the luckiest boy in the world to have him for your lawyer,” said Mr. Hall. “I hope you appreciate it.”

“Yeah, I do appreciate it,” I said.

“Do you really? You sure don’t act like it!” he scolded me.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said to him.

“Of course you don’t – ever since you began working for me I’ve seen first-hand how you treat people – especially older guys…you show them absolutely no respect…you think anyone over forty is a doddering old fool not worthy of your respect or consideration…you better change your ways, boy, or you might end up in prison yet!”

“Well…okay…what should I do?” I asked, surprised by his outburst.

“For starters, how much money are you paying Mister G to represent you?” he asked.

“Uh, well, we haven’t really discussed it,” I answered.

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