Around seven, he finished his work and left the building, but the parking lot was empty. He was too poor to afford a car now–he waited for the bus, his cock burning frustrated, already feeling like it was too late. Could he really wait until he got home? Did he have a choice? Was this a life he was willing to accept. He saw a bar nearby…and he knew he could probably go in there, get a drink, and find a rude fucker willing to fuck him, but he didn’t want to be that person. He’d hold it. On the bus, the need only got worse, and by the time he was home, it was clear he’d have to hold out, or he’d lose another inch.
He lived in a different apartment now–smaller than the last, and even more filthy than before. It hardened his resolve–he couldn’t imagine living here for the rest of his life, settling for this. But a new voice piped up in response for the first time, familiar and alien all at the same time. It was him–his voice–but it was a voice from this life. It was insulted at the idea that this life was somehow inferior to the one he might have had before. What was so good about that life? Who wanted to deal with a wife? Who wanted to deal with kids? Here he could jack off all he wanted, he had an easy job that kept him afloat (and a few hot teachers willing to use his hole never hurt either!) What was so bad about this exactly?
Randal knew there were reasons, but they were slipping through his hands like straw. Still–if he jacked off now, things would get worse. He couldn’t let things get worse. At least hold out for another day, regroup, and go from there. What he needed most was a beer, and some food. He’d feel better with something in his belly. He threw a frozen dinner in the microwave and then popped a beer, chugged it, and opened a second, drinking it nearly as fast. By the time he’d finished dinner, he was feeling a solid buzz, his rational voice was spinning, and his body was on it’s way to the bedroom. It needed a good fuck, and he needed to cum–why hadn’t he gone to that damn bar earlier? He would have loved another fuck, but a dildo ride would have to do.
Reason put up a weak resistance, but Randal was in no mood to listen to it. Where had it even gotten him now? That old him–that was the whole reason he was in this mess to begin with! Maybe…maybe he deserved this. He certainly felt like he deserved this. The dildo slid in, his hole still a bit loose from his fuck earlier, and he started groping his cock through his filthy whites, the sensation of the crispy fabric against his cock doing wonders, bringing him closer and closer. There was a grungy mirror in the room, and reason made himself face it, hoping it would bring him back to his senses, but his new voice found the fat bearded slob in the mirror fucking himself on a dildo through a hole in the back of his underwear so sexy that his cock exploded, pumping a huge load into the front of them–and the euphoria! It was the hottest cumshot of his life, somehow, and one of the largest. He rubbed his underwear, getting them good and soaked, and then stripped them off, dildo still in his ass, and sucked the cum out of them for the camera.
It surprised him, for a moment. It hadn’t been there a moment ago, there next to the mirror, but seeing it now, and that red light–fuck, it made him so fucking horny, knowing he was taping himself. He loved taping himself, and later tonight he was going to put on the internet, and show the whole fucking world what a fucking slut he is. He sucked harder, bouncing on the dildo some more, his four inch cock barely visible under his sizable gut, but he wanted to make this one a double–his fans loved his double shots. Yeah, it was coming–his arm was tired, but he could make it, he knew it. He shot the next load into his palm–it was smaller, but he had a sizable pool in it. He got up off the bed and went in for a close up, smearing the cum into his tangled beard for the video, sucking some of it out of his mustache.
“My name is Randal Gray, and I’m a fucking cumpig faggot,” he said, and then turned off the camera.
An hour later, he was in front of his computer, his newest video uploaded, still fucking himself silly and jacking off, watching the views start to climb–watching the humiliating and degrading messages come pouring in. Part of him was absolutely horrified by this, but why should he care? Soon enough, that old him wasn’t going to matter anymore, right? No–this was the way things should be. He was a faggot–a weak willed, masturbation addicted faggot who craved humiliation and a well fucked hole all day long. He came another couple of times, before the old Randal could take over again, before reason conquered lust for the moment, and he could look on in horror at his online legacy.
There were hundreds of videos here, all of them featuring him. About a third of them were videos of him getting fucked by men who at first appeared to be strangers, but as he saw them, contexts began to fill there way in: men from the apartment complex, a couple of teachers from the school (including a couple with Mr. Jones), and plenty of hookups from bars around the city and online. Most of the others were just him fucking himself with various dildos and jacking off, usually while humiliating himself and begging others to expose him far and wide, to spread his pictures and videos all over the world, to show him off as the faggot pig he was born to be.