“Alright Sponge–not too much longer now,” Coach Robinson said, as he pulled Anton’s foam body back up, and shoved him into the chair. He felt…lighter, now–at least, aside from his head, though the piss cooling in his foam guts gave him a bit of weight. His coach leaned over and kissed him, exploring Anton’s mouth for the last time, wishing, somewhat, he could still smell the boy’s clean breath. He could at least taste him, the blank slate that he was. Fuck, all Robinson wanted to do was defile him, ruin him, but if he stayed human, there was literally nothing he could do that would leave a mark. Like this, however–well, the boy was going to be his now–an object, a dummy, a toy, a mascot for his teams to use and abuse, and he was going to love it. Well, what little bit of him would be left, would love it–there wasn’t exactly much thinking that could happen with a head full of foam. Anton’s eyes were still fearful, but resigned. Coach fed him some more spit, and Anton swallowed it down, feeling it hit the foam below his neck, and soak into him, moistening him, feeding him, nourishing him. Before, when Coach had forced himself on Anton, he’d always left feeling a desperate need to be clean, but now, for the first time, he didn’t want to be clean, he wanted…more. More spit, more cum, more piss, more sweat. He wanted to soak in it, wallow in it, be made of it.
Coach pulled his face away, even as Anton found himself seeking more. He mouthed the word “Please,” and the coach just laughed.
“Now, now–we have to finish you off first, and then you can have as much as you can get.” Coach pulled another rubber tube from his drawer–this one even thicker than the one which had been forced into his ass–and quite a bit longer–nearly two feet long. Anton…knew, where it would be going, and he didn’t…want to want it. Coach put the narrower end of the tube at his mouth and he…opened. Wide, tongue flat. “It’ll go in a bit easier if you swallow–often, and as much as you can, for as long as you can–but it’ll go in regardless.”
Anton nodded. The coach pushed the tube in, hard, and Anton did as the coach had said, and swallowed. It didn’t seem to make much of a difference, and it still hurt–hard enough that he was certain that the rubber wasn’t sliding neatly down his throat, but tearing into it–but it didn’t matter for long. The tube hit the point where flesh became foam, and the resistance picked up–there was over a foot left before the widest part of the tube would be flush with Anton’s lips, and he could see the coach, over him, bringing his weight to bear on the tube, shoving it deeper until it wouldn’t go any further, and it began to merge with his flesh. The coach was no longer pushing on the tube, but stroking it, and while it began as a tickle, soon the sensation of his hand running up and down the flexible rubber was more powerful than even his cock had been, when he’d had one.
After the tube, came a full rubber hood–much like the mitts which had gone over his hands. There were no holes for his eyes, or his nose–it was simply featureless. He could…feel the rubber taking over his skin, and then, fully choked off from the world, his face and head began to change, lighten, the flesh losing mass and becoming foam like the rest of him. He could…feel strong, firm hands on his skull, squeezing and crushing it as it changed, and he lost sense of himself, of his humanity, his brain fading, and leaving just the…need to be damp and wet and filthy. The squeezing stopped, and something else settled over his rubber head–a familiar sensation of a football helmet, his mouth tube fed through the chin strap and the face guard, and that too became part of his body, his new skull. Anton wasn’t there any longer–he was…Sponge.
Sponge couldn’t see, and it couldn’t hear, and it couldn’t smell, but it could…sense. It knew that its coach was there–no, not a coach anymore, because Sponge wasn’t a player, or on a team. Sponge was just a thing–an object, a dummy, a cumrag and urinal. But it could sense its owner, it could sense where he was, and that…that his owner was horny. Horny as fuck, looking at his newest dummy, and Sponge just wanted to be used by him, and satisfy him, over and over again, and be used by anyone and everyone. There were hands on its…tube, its snout or trunk perhaps–they were its owner’s hands, and they were putting something in the end of the tube, some attachment, and he could…feel the new end of its tube, a tight…silicone fuckhole, and its owner put his cock in it, and Sponge…felt so excited. Excited that it was going to be fed. It reached out with its mitts, pawing at its owner, trying to show him how excited it was, how much it needed to be fed, how…dry it was. It could sense how excited its owner was, as it was getting closer, and then, he came, shooting into the tube–and Sponge could taste it, taste all the delicious cum in its tube, and it dropped off the chair and onto its padded knees, and the cum ran down the tube, into its throat and soaked into the foam of its chest–and the sensation of wetting, it was ten times as powerful as it had been before. It felt like, for Sponge, that its purpose had been fulfilled, its entire life reduced to a simple mission: become wet. Hold men’s filth. Store it, and let it rot and mold within him.
Its owner removed his cock, and then grabbed Sponge around the waist, and hefted it over his shoulder. Sponge…enjoyed the sensation, how light it had become, but couldn’t wait until it was properly heavy and sodden. They moved through a doorway, Sponge’s flexible limbs bending awkwardly against it, and beyond he…sensed others. Two fucking…men? Animals? It wasn’t sure, but more importantly, there was so much filth–and Sponge hoped it would get to suck up as much of it as it could.
Bracken's Corner 