Underwear Trade Network Pt. 2
And work it did. The next package was a rubber jockstrap, and Henry found himself in his dream body–heavily muscled, sexually confident and domineering, alpha male–everything he’d always wanted. He was rich too–the beneficiary of an old family trust which meant he could spend his days fucking and sniffing and drinking and partying and living the liufe he’d always wanted. Sure, there were some drawbacks–he wasn’t really a fan of the cigars he smoked, and his cock was on the small side. Still, it way better than any life he could have wanted. Best of all, at the end of the month–no itching–and no new package. They were his to keep, and keep them he did for the next five months, living the life he’d always wanted…until the itching came, and the next day, a new package. He did everything he could to resist for as long as he could, amanging nearly a week before he finally had to rip them off, and open the box to see what he’d been sent instead.
It was another jockstrap, but one of the filthiest he’d ever seen, and it stank to high heaven. It was so bad that he nearly gagged, but his hands wouldn’t let go, and he found himself cringing as he slid the jock up his legs, the wet mesh settling against his cock, and then he was changing again. Younger now, until he couldn’t have been older than twenty or twenty-one, and his head–it felt like all of his brains were just being turned to mush. He could barely piece together a sentence, but all he knew was that he smelled fucking amazing. He took a deep drag off the huge cigar in his mouth and sniffed his reeking pits, the room twisting around him, his apartment growing dingy, the floor heaped with trash, and on the couch–someone he both didn’t know–and knew intimately.
He was huge, nearly five hundred pounds. The man reeked, and Henry couldn’t get over there fast enough to cram my face between his sweaty thighs and start licking him clean. Memories started cramming their way into his dim mind, how his fat master had enslaved him with his foul stench, and Henry remained his personal slave for months on end, neither of them leaving the apartment, and in his mind, Henry screamed, trying to get out, trying to resist, and he was so thankful when the jockstrap started to burn, and he received the next package, and he put on the equally filthy jockstrap that was in there as well. Certainly nothing could be as bad as this, right?
He was wrong. He grew up into his thirties, a filthy workie wearing a high viz vest, his apartment even filthier, and he put on a gas mask and shoved the tube into his ass, breathing in his own fumes, nearly suffocating as he jacked himself off, over and over again. He discovered the next day, at the construction site, that his primary duty was as the men’s cumdump and personal toilet slave, and he realized that the UTN would probably never forgive him for trying to game the system, and he’d be stuck in raunchy, filthy hell after raunchy, filthy hell until he died.