The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 4 (Part 3)

The stranger’s face didn’t seem to match his body. Parts of his face didn’t even match other parts. One side was soft and pale, with a blue eye, the other half was rough, with thickening stubble, and that eye was darkening–in a moment, it was an unnatural black. (Bernard had said something similar, as had Marcus–the similarities were enough to shake some of my conviction in the moment). The softer half caught up quickly, but that was the last look Steven got, before the man grabbed him by the head with both thick hands, and rammed his cock into his mouth. It was even larger now, large enough to stretch his jaw slightly, and the man was merciless. He didn’t allow him a breath, didn’t care if he gagged. He slammed down his throat with a constant, even rhythm, saying nothing, giving no indication that he even enjoyed it. Steven felt like nothing more than a receptacle for him, for his force and cock. It was humiliating. In the moment, he just wanted it to stop–and yet, there was a voice inside him. A voice he’d always heard, a voice screaming out in joy, because he had been seen. Seen for what he was, for what he’d desired to be, and he didn’t notice himself cum all over the front of his jeans and the floor of the bathroom, didn’t know what to do with that sudden joy except to deny it with all the force of his ego.

He didn’t know how long that fuck lasted, but it ended, eventually. The man came, and the load was massive, flooding his mouth, Steven choking on it…and as hard as he tried, he couldn’t seem to swallow it. Instead, it poured back out his mouth and down the front of his face and shirt, spewed from his nose, his hands running through it and spreading it all over himself, and the cock finally pulled away, and he could look up at the figure looming over him, now seven feet tall, thick as the stall itself, but the eyes. He couldn’t look away from the eyes, how cold they seemed, how focused and unmerciful. He grabbed Steven by the collar and dragged him out of the stall. He fought him, and the man simply slammed his head to the wall hard enough to knock him out…and after that, he didn’t remember anything until he next woke up.

He didn’t know where he was, when he did, though he did recognize what sort of place it was, from the lifts and the garage doors. It was an abandoned mechanic’s shop of some sort, and he was alone, still in the same cum coated clothes he had been in, and shackled to the floor. Near him, was a bowl of food and a bottle of water. He drank and ate, and then tested the chain and screamed–but no one came to his rescue. Slowly, a different ache began to overtake him–something he recognized as a bodily ache, like a growing stomach or a dry throat, but it was like a dryness of his skin, a tingle in his tongue and upper palate. It grew more intense, and he became obsessed with trying to decipher it, and as it grew stronger, so did that voice. The voice he’d heard in the stall, but now it didn’t sound quite like his voice. Not like the narration of his thoughts, but like someone else speaking to him, trying to overwhelm him. Here, I recall that Cumster said it was his voice–and that was the first time in the story he referred to himself in the first person.

The rapist returned, again, with more food and water to give him, and he took more sex. Fucked his mouth, fucked his ass–but he never came inside him, only on him, and the more the cum soaked into his clothes, the more he tasted it (but never swallowed it, just swished it through his mouth before spitting it down onto his shirt and pants) the more the unnamed need began to fade, but the voice, Cumster’s voice, only grew stronger, more insistant, and he found it impossible to resist its desires.

The rapist would leave for hours at a time, return with more food and water, abuse him, and then leave again. When he was gone, with nothing to occupy his mind, Steven found himself masturbating helplessly and constantly. Soaking himself in his own cum helped ease his desires, but it wasn’t enough–he found himself aching for his captor, begging him for more cum, begging him to not leave…but the stranger never spoke. Never even acknowledged him. He would plead for an explanation, beg him to release him, but he said nothing. He would just stare at him with those black eyes, and when he did, Steven could almost…feel the man probing into him, testing the depths of his desires and his mind, cocking his head slightly like he, too, could hear Cumster’s voice inside him, gauging its strength, but doing nothing beyond that.

He paused there in his story, thinking. Perhaps he was wondering if he was telling me too much, or perhaps he was just wondering what words to use next. I felt like he wanted to be precise, and so, I remembered what he said clearly. “The next part was the…most difficult. Not everyone can make it through. I can’t tell you about that–you’ll…see for yourself, one day soon. But I can say that Steven wasn’t there anymore afterwards, it was just me. Cumster. I didn’t need to be chained in place, because there was nowhere else in the world that I wanted to be, than there, waiting for Master, waiting for him to return and abuse me more, to use me…to free me from Steven’s chains. I hadn’t been strong enough to break them without him. Steven hadn’t even noticed them, not once in his entire life. But afterwards, I was finally free. I could be something else, someone better than that…worthless man I’d been before. I could be everything he wanted to be, but was too terrified to chase.”

The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 3 (Part 5)

He came out behind me, and lit a cigar. The smoke couldn’t cut through the smell of cum surrounding him though. Somehow it seemed to intensify it. I felt it at the edges of my mind again, I felt myself weakening, but no–no, I wasn’t going to let this happen. I remembered now–I knew who I was. I was a cop. I was order, and control, and force. He thought he understood me, but he didn’t know a thing about me. I shoved him into the alley around the side of the bar, and I think he thought I was going to ask to blow him–instead, I slammed him into the wall, wailing on him, and he didn’t fight back. At the time I assumed he was just caught off guard, but once I put him under arrest and shoved him into my car, I had my doubts. He was still smiling. “Well, where to, pig? You have me now. You can do whatever you want with me.”

I knew I should take him to the station and interrogate him, but I couldn’t explain my many breaches in protocol. If I went back there now–I told myself–soaked in cum, dragging along some unknown cumdump biker with a fresh black eye, telling them this idiotic story, none of them would understand. Besides, the man was right about one thing–this wasn’t about the case anymore–not really. This was about me. The one thing I knew, from what he’d said in the bar, was that this rapist wanted me. This rapist wanted me, and hell if I was going to let him get in my head. So I drove home, parked in the garage, dragged him out of the car and inside, still cuffed, and down into the basement. It wasn’t as large as Bernard’s had been, but it was large enough. I handcuffed him to some pipes down there, cleared out the space around him, but he wasn’t trying to fight…and then I realized that I’d just done exactly what he’d suggested I do. I’d brought him home. This was where he’d wanted to go the entire time…and without even realizing it, he’d manipulated me into doing it for him.

“Brings back memories,” he said, tugging at the handcuffs, testing them.

“Tell me what you know. Tell me about the bruiser. What is his plan?”

“Straight to business? Don’t you want to have some fun with your prisoner first, pig? I’m at your mercy after all–you can do whatever you want to me…”

I stepped up, and slapped him across the face. I didn’t know why I’d done it, and the sheer anger I felt at him was both a surprise, and yet as natural as anything else I’d felt that day. He was mocking me. He was mocking order, and my control. I’d put him in line. I’d show him who was in charge here. He didn’t resist, when I took some scissors from my work bench and cut his cum soaked clothes free, leaving him naked on the concrete floor. That was better, better to humiliate him, but I couldn’t do this right, looking like this. I went up to my bedroom, found my dress uniform and put it on, minding every detail, aside from the white dress gloves. Instead, I put on my leather riding gloves, and then went back down to the basement, where he’d started to shiver a bit in the cold. I demanded answers from him, and he stonewalled me. He laughed at me…and so I had to do it. I had to beat him. I had to…to fuck him. I had to cum in his beard, I had to put my scent on him, I had to mark him as mine, but it wasn’t until I’d cum a massive load on his face, after fucking his ass, that I realized what I’d been doing. I regained a bit of control of myself, and he…he was just laughing. Laughing at me.

“Fuck, he’s gonna love you, pig,” he said, “He’s gonna fuckin’ love breaking you. I hope he let’s me watch, because damn, it’s gonna be quite the fuckin’ show when it happens.”

I slammed the basement door behind myself, and leaned against it, panting. I didn’t understand what had come over me, how my mind had traced the steps from arresting him back at the bar, to imprisoning him in my basement, to putting on my most formal uniform and raping him. It had all…made sense in the moment, and it was only now, looking back on it, that the entire idea became heinous and horrific. But there was nothing I could do now. If I let him go, he could have me arrested. If I kept him here, I was compromised. Any information I got from him was tainted–hardly admissible in court, which was really the least of the problems I was facing. If I did get any information from him, and someone wanted to know the source…what was I going to say?

I was too deep. I was beyond deep, I was drowning, but I only had one way forward now. I had to get to the bottom of this. I’d face whatever repercussions were necessary, after the rapist was caught, and whatever he was plotting was averted. Then, I’d worry about facing my own justice for what I was doing. I threw him some water and food–he didn’t object, or try to resist or escape. He seemed to be exactly where he wanted to be, and that only worried me more. I took a shower, and that helped me feel a bit better at least, and then got some sleep, or slept as best I could. I needed to figure this out soon, or else someone would discover what I’d done, or worse, I’d be too late to stop whatever the Bruiser was planning. That, or he’d come for me next, and I knew, if he did, I wouldn’t have the will to stop him.

CoB: Family Matters [Sketch, Pics]

I’ve had this idea rolling around for a bit, but no time to make it into something longer. It’ll still probably get turned into a full City of Bears story at some point, with a few additional twists to it.

“Fuck boy, you’re such a hot fucker, damn,” Brett said, pushing back against his cub’s cock as he fucked him. Malcolm just moaned, as is other daddy. Garth, gripped him tight, around the belly, and pushed his own cock a little deeper into the boy’s ass, sandwiching him between his two daddies, right where he belonged, right were he assumed he’d be forever.

After a few minutes, they got their rhythm together, and fucked in a train for a few minutes. Malcolm, assaulted on both sides, lost his load first, pumping his cum deep into Brett’s ass, both of his daddies telling him how proud they were of him. Garth pushed the boy over the side of the bed and fucked him a bit deeper, while Brett got on the bed, and slid his cock into Malcolm’s mouth, the two bears leaning over him and sharing a kiss until they came, filling the cub at both ends.

Afterwards, the three of them laid in their sizable bed together, cuddling, discussing their plans to go out the next night and where in the city they might like to go, and it wasn’t long before his two daddies were snoring–but Malcolm wasn’t feeling very sleepy, he was still so damn horny. He slipped out from between his two daddies, and went to the computer to look at some porn–navigating to something a bit…wilder than his daddies were particularly interested in, but which Malcolm had been enjoying lately. Just looking couldn’t do any harm, right?

It was a few days later that malcolm woke up, and discovered the first tattoo. Thankfully it was…somewhat discrete, and he managed to cover it before either of his daddies saw it, and he frantically tried to figure out what to do. He…wasn’t changing, was he? He didn’t feel any different. Maybe it was just something residual from the club the day before, and he just hadn’t noticed it. In any case, he kept it covered up that day, slipping out of the house to investigate some services that might help remove the tattoo–but he was dismayed to find that everywhere he went, they couldn’t seem to get rid of it.

The next day, there were more, and he didn’t cover them quickly enough. His daddies saw them, and threw a fit, demanding to know where he’d gotten them, demanding to know what in the world he was thinking about. Their anger confused him–on one hand, he felt so shameful for letting something like this happen and come between him and his daddies, even if they were a bit vanilla and stodgy, but on the other hand, he felt something inside him craving punishment, and discipline, and he found himself flipping between two extreme moods. One moment, he would be screaming back at them, furious for not caring or understanding what he wanted, and the next he would be apologizing, stripping, and begging his daddies to punish him like the bad boy he was.

Brett and Garth didn’t know what to make of it–the change had been so sudden, and they both believed they could reason with him, and get their sweet little cub back–but it was clear, after another day, things were only getting worse. Malcolm, or Mal as he was calling himself now, slipped out of the house and didn’t return for days, coming back reeking of sex, saying the most vile things to them both. Garth…lost his temper, and locked him down in the basement, telling Brett to keep an eye on him, not listen to a word he said, and to keep him down there while he went to find something that might help.

He spent all day in the city, and found nothing for his situation. In fact, most men, one they heard the story, were appalled. Change was normal, and something that should be embraced. They couldn’t expect to keep their cub from changing, if that’s what he wanted. He returned to the house, defeated, in the afternoon, told Brett what he’d found out…and Garth convinced him that they should just keep him down there. That until he wanted to be their good little cub again, he’d just have to be punished.

Brett hated the idea, but went along with it. In the basement, Mal raised a louder and louder fit, pounding on the locked door, screaming horrific obscenities into the air, his voice dropping lower, growing gruffer, making Brett shake every time he had to pass the door. Garth kept looking for a solution in the city, but turned up nothing. He should have seen it coming, really–Brett didn’t have the resolve Garth did, and when he came home and found the basement door unlocked and open–he just assumed Brett had let him out, and Mal had fled. However, he didn’t find Brett in the house–but he did find a stranger covered in tattoos sitting out in the afternoon sun, smoking a cigar, waiting for him.

“Fuck, I missed the fuckin’ sun,” he said, got up from where he was sitting, and chased down Garth, tackling him to the ground, beating him, and then dragging him into the basement, throwing him into a cramped cage down there. Garth looked around the space in terror–his basement had become a complete sex dungeon since he’d last been down here. He begged Mal to let him out, as the big man climbed the stairs to the main floor again, but Mal just laughed. “Sorry–but I think you need some time in the dark, Garth–some time to learn how the darkness can change you. I’ll be back down in a few days to start training you both, when you’re a bit more…malleable.”

It was then that Garth saw Brett in another cage across the basement floor, huddled and crying, naked. Then the basement door slammed shut, and sent them into total darkness.

Winter Vacation [Interactive Story] (Part 2)

Rich remembered now. His uncle had said…something about the plumbing. That it wouldn’t work right, if he didn’t…do something important, something having to do with that suit, and that mask. He walked over to it, took the suit off the rack, and examined it. It seemed…much too small, and had no arms, and the legs were connected, making it more like a cocoon than a suit, he supposed. The mask was on a shelf, with just two holes in the nose, and a tube running from the mouth of the suit into a black box, and from the box, another pipe ran up to the ceiling, to who knew where.

This wasn’t right. Something strange was going on here, and he had to get himself, and his friends, out of here. His uncle was clearly up to something…but the plumbing was important, right? It had to work, or their vacation would be ruined. The logic seemed so obvious to him–he was still trying to force himself out of it, as he stripped out his his clothes and discarded them in a corner. The mask had to go on first–after all, if he got into the suit, he wouldn’t have hands to use to even get the mask on. Inside, the tube extended several inches into the mask itself, and he slid it into his mouth, before pulling the mask over his head–and as soon as he did that, everything became much, much simpler.

That noise he’d noticed when he flipped the switch was louder, somehow, inside the mask, like everything else had been shut out. The tube flared out, forcing his mouth open quite wide, nearly hitting the point of his gag reflex at the back of his throat, but even if it was uncomfortable, it had to happen. He groped about for the suit, found it, while it was difficult to keep his bearings blinded by the mask, he also felt…so comfortable, almost like he’d done it thousands of times before in his head. Both feet slid into the opening at the neck, and he bunched it up to his toes, pushing each leg into the individual channel meant for them inside the cocoon, so there was a thin membrane of rubber between them. Then, he pulled the suit up to his chest, feeling his cock slip right into the special ring designed for it. That was the only rigid part of the suit, in fact–a three inch hard rubber socket for his cock to rest inside–not an easy for for his six inch member, but the discomfort was something he’d have to adjust to. Next, he slid one arm inside, and then the other, making sure each wormed their way down their own channels built into the side of the suit, and the rubber slid up around his neck, meeting the end of the mask, and encasing him entirely in rubber.

He laid back against the concrete wall, feeling his body begin to go slightly numb. It was…almost like falling asleep. After a few minutes, a rush of liquid poured into his mouth, and he swallowed it all down without question. He didn’t…quite know what it was, but his uncle had mentioned a…filter, of some sort, which would help him in his role as part of the plumbing for a while, until he was finished. Finished–he didn’t know what it meant, but he knew it would happen, eventually, and he leaned back against the wall, thinking of nothing, just listening, and waiting to drink, cock straining against the hard rubber of the suit, desperate to be erect, but Rich could tell that, more likely than not, his days of erections were soon to be over entirely.

“Damn, what kind of fucking house has a fucking urinal in the bathroom?” Maury had entered the cabin with Brett and Nate, trundling the bags, and had freaked out for a moment, because the lights hadn’t turned on when the flipped the switch. Then, a moment later, everything had come on with a low hum–apparently Rich had found the master switch in the basement, which he’d mentioned on the ride. Idly, Maury wondered where Rich was…but he was probably still down there. Down in the basement, doing something important. Best not to worry about him at all, in fact, and definitely don’t go down there…unless he needed something, eventually.

Maury had pulled out his cock, and was pissing into the urinal. It wasn’t like a normal one–it had no water in the basin, or flush mechanism–the piss just drained straight down into a pvc tube and disappeared into the wall. Still, that wasn’t something he needed to worry about–he just needed to piss is all. He needed to put all of his piss into the urinal–that was very important. Rich had mentioned something about that, hadn’t he?

The door to the bathroom opened, suddenly, catching Maury off guard, and he saw both Nate and Brett in the doorway, looking a bit…distant, for some reason. “Fuck dudes, what the hell? I’m pissing.”

It wasn’t like the three of them were seeing anything new, of course–all four of them were involved in sports at college, and living in the same frat house. Still, bathroom privacy was something they could all agree on, usually. “Sorry man, we have to use the urinal too, I’m bursting,” Nate said, and Brett nodded.

That…made sense to Maury, and he scooched over, so the other two could join him at the urinal, all of them pissing in their together, and as…strange as this seemed, it wasn’t unreasonable, right? They all had to use the urinal, after all, and if they all had to piss at the same time, what did it matter? Maury finished first, and slipped out of the bathroom, heading back towards the room where they’d left their bags, but as he went, something else caught his eye, and he moved into another room, letting off a low whistle as he did.

It was a state of the art entertainment center–a huge TV, surround sound, comfy seats around the room–what in the hell did Rich’s uncle do that he could afford such a setup in a cabin he never used? And why was it all so clean looking, if no one had been up here all season? He grabbed a remote, pushed the on switch, and the TV came on–but just static. All of this set up, and there wasn’t even basic cable?

Still, that wasn’t an issue for him. Something told Maury that he loved watching movies more, anyway, and there was a sizable collection of them along the wall. He should watch something. Yeah, he definitely needed to watch something. Something new. Something he’d never seen before. He perused the shelf, but was disappointed–everything there was something he’d seen before, aside from a few odd titles on the top shelf, clustered together–four of them in fact. He looked them over, a bit confused–they…didn’t even seem like movies, really, but they were on the movie shelf, so what else could they be? He selected one of them, went over and slipped it into the disk player, part of him trying to tell himself not to, that something about this was a bad idea, but then the main title was rolling, and he forgot all about those worries, and just focused on the movie instead.

What movie did Maury decide on?

Werkouts 4 Dummiez
Get Flabulous!
Leashman’s Pup Training
BabyDaze

Here’s the public Twitter poll!

And here’s the bonus patron only poll on Patreon!

Polls will close in 48 hours on Jan 9th!

Police Auction

“Wakey, Wakey, Officer Prescott–I wouldn’t want you to miss this.”

The gloved hand slapped his face, hard, palm and then backhand, making the man groan. He could smell smoke, and piss, and dank. He could remember being out on patrol, but after that–things got fuzzy. He opened his eyes. The room was dark, aside from red lighting overhead, and some man in a leather uniform he didn’t recognize was smiling at him a few inches from his face–close enough that he could feel the heat from the man’s cigar on his cheek. “Wha–where the fuck am I?” he said, struggling a bit, testing the strength of the ropes binding him to the metal bars behind him.

“Where you are isn’t important, officer. This is only going to be your home for a few days, while I get you sorted out. You’ve made quite a few enemies on the force, these last ten years–I haven’t had someone rack up the bidding like this in a long time.” The leather stranger stepped to the side, and Prescott saw, behind him, a laptop with some program running. Every few seconds, another line would pop up on the bottom. Squinting…he saw they were numbers–dollar amounts. “Let’s see here,” the man said, and looked closer at the screen. “Looks like we’re down to a bidding war between the Aryan Nationals, and the Lobos.”

Prescott had been working in the gang unit for quite a while, and he’d been instrumental in arresting several higher ups in both groups. Ironically, both groups were engaged in an on and off again turf war in a few neighborhoods. Still…had he said, bidding war?

“Yeah–looks like I’ll be getting over 10,000 for your ass.”

“You’re what, you’re fucking auctioning me off? For what, who gets my head?”

“Oh, nothing so easy as killing you, no,” the man said, taking a drag off your cigar. “No, I specialize in more…complex manners of revenge. If the Aryans win, they’ll probably want another pig, like a made a few years back–think the guy’s name was…Anderson?” Prescott recognized him, but his name had been Anderstone. He’d gone missing from the unit a few years back, but a body had never turned up. “You’ll be much more interested in scoring drugs, eating boots, and taking their fists than much else. The Lobos–you’re a bit old for what they usually ask for, which is young guys to whore out on the block. That said, I’ve heard a rumor that one of their new leaders, he likes white guys–but big ones. Fatties. Pretty crazy guy too–likes beating them pretty rough. Still, if you beg for me, I’ll let you…enjoy that part.”

“That’s fucking…that can’t fucking happen!”

“Oh?” the man said, and Prescott felt something…in his head. A presence, wiping things clean, removing memories, putting in new ones. He realized, after a few minutes, he was losing every memory of every woman he’d ever been with, including his wife, and each was being replaced with some dirty, brutal encounter with rough men off the street. When the man left, Prescott was shaking, and vomited a bit on his uniform, and looked back at the screen. Only a minute left on the auction, and then he’d learn what his new position on the block was going to be from here on out.

Source: greyhankie

Student Blackmail (Sketch)

“Ah, Mr. Troman–can’t say I was expecting you to show up for my office hours this semester,” Professor Porter said, “I’m afraid it’s a bit too late to do much good, really, as far as your grade will be concerned.”

The older man only half suppressed the grin on his face as the young football player sat down in the chair in his office. They always came, eventually, but Porter was well known for his unrelenting distaste for athleticism. College, in his opinion, was for study–there was quite simply no reason for a school to possess a sports team. The coaches had learned, over the years, that not even pressure from the dean could get Porter to give their athletes a passing grade, and so they urged them to avoid his classes. Trent Troman, fraternity bro and football player, hadn’t followed his coach’s advice, but he didn’t seem to be sweating it much. “Look, Mr. Porter,” he said, “I’m just going to give it to you straight. I’m going to pass this class, and you’re going to give me at least a B, or I can tell you, you aren’t going to enjoy what happens next.”

Porter chuckled–he had to admit, the young man was…confident. “First of all, I’d suggest you refrain from threatening people, going forward, either other teachers or your future managers in whatever retail business you find yourself when you leave here. Second, you have repeatedly skipped my class, turned in your assignments late or not at all, and what I did receive was of such a poor quality that it’s almost like you wanted the F I plan on giving you after your final in a few days. I know you haven’t been here very long, but there’s nothing this school can do to me, to keep me from my decision. Now, I have other students who could actually use my counsel, so feel free to show yourself o–”

The last syllable didn’t actually manage to make it’s way out of his mouth, because something else appeared in it. He felt it with his tongue–it was some strange rubber ball, and he could feel straps running around his face and over the top of his head. He reached up and felt them, crying for help as best he could through the gag, Trent just watching him like nothing strange had happened at all. His hands followed the straps back, to where they latched, and he found a small padlock there–with a light jingle, Trent displayed a key in his hand, and then pocketed it. Porter just glared at him for a moment, unable to believe what had happened, and then went to get up from his chair…but in an instant, something…pushed him back into the chair, and when he went to get up again, he found his wrists and ankles had been bound to the arm rests and feet of the chair with leather straps. Calmly, Trent stood up, shut the office door, and locked it.

“Now professor, I think…you need some time to think this over again,” Trent said, as he fished through Porter’s pockets, found his keys and phone, and stepped back. “I’ll be back around…say midnight, and see if you’re a bit more…comfortable with my offer then.”

Porter protested through the gag in his mouth, but Trent turned out the lights and left the office, locking it behind him, abandoning the professor in the small room. It was nearly five, and thankfully he didn’t have a class he’d be missing–or at least then, someone would have found him, tied up in his own office! For a while, he kept trying to make enough noise to attract someone’s attention, but as the evening wore on, the building emptied out, leaving him alone, without even a janitor to find him. All he could do, in the dark, was stare at the clock, and watch the minutes tick by until it finally reached midnight.

However, like usual, Trent was late, arriving a quarter after. He unlocked the door, turned on the light, and took his seat again. “Now, since you’re being stubborn, I’ll revise my offer. Give me an A, and I’ll let you go, and we can forget this ever happened.”

Porter didn’t know how the young athlete had managed to do this, but even after all of those hours stuck in his chair, his fear still hadn’t surpassed his principles. But he did want the gag removed, that much he did know. So he decided the best technique would be to lie. He gave a nod, and as fast as it had appeared, the gag was gone, and he could breathe and speak again. “Fine–whatever you want, just…get me out of this shit.”

Trent chuckled, and the rest of the bonds were removed, allowing him to stand up, feeling blood rush to his limbs, which had fallen asleep in that position. But he could feel…something else, which didn’t feel quite right at all. He hefted up his gut and felt his crotch, where he discovered…something was on his cock. “I call that a little insurance policy. Give me my A, and then that comes off. Now, I’m late for a party, so I’d best be on my way. See you in class, professor.”

Porter waited until Trent was out of the office, before dropping his slacks and looking at what was around his cock–a solid steel chastity device. He fiddled with it, trying to figure out how to get it to work, but the thing seemed…completely solid, and he had no clue how to even begin extracting himself without simply pulling his cock off. That young bastard had this well planned, apparently–still, one thing Trent and his strange powers couldn’t account for was plain old stubbornness, as he discovered a few weeks later, when he received his grade report, with a bright red F under Porter’s name, among the rest of his A’s. That was new–and Trent nearly hurled his laptop across the room in rage. Still, he would have the last laugh, he’d make sure of that, oh, he would be laughing for a long time after this.

Medical Trials (Part 2)

The feeling of calm indifference only lasted for about half an hour–but the tank had only been drained by about a third, when he felt like he was finally free of whatever strange mental state that drug had left him in. As disconcerting as it had been, he actually missed it in a sense, as he kept swallowing his own seed, desperate to not drown on his own spunk, his gut aching, because at least for that short window of time, he had genuinely enjoyed this. The speakers in his mask continued to repeat the message, however, about once a minute, and the repetition wore on him, and he fought it for a while. Now however, he was sobbing, about an inch of cum remaining in the tank, his gut feeling like it would burst at any moment. He’d gagged a few times, spewing cum out his nose, where it ran down the outside of his mask and dripped onto his chest and swollen gut. He let out a cry of relief when the flow eased up, and the tank was dropped back down to the floor, out of sight. The machine beside him administered something else to him, and he feared he’d see that ame blue liquid, as before, but all he felt, after a moment, was pleasantly floaty, and he fell asleep in the chair.

When he woke up, he was once again in the chair, though his gut didn’t ache as bad as it had, and he felt less stiff, like he’d been out of the chair for a bit, while he was asleep, and then returned to the same position. He tried to beg and plead through the mask attached to him, but he saw the drip once more turn blue, and he fought harder against his bonds. Fifteen minutes later, the first orgasm ripped through him, and he just focused on his mind, on maintaining his focus, but he was broken, sobbing and whimpering after an hour, and after two, when his cock was merely spasming weakly, the fact that the mask was pulling his head back to the chair was the only thing keeping his head upright. Once more, the tank was raised up to the ceiling, and the flow began again. The world was dull, meaningless, aside from a slight bright spot. The tank. He…enjoyed cum. He could remember that, somewhat, but little else.

“You love the taste of cum, officer Timmons.”

The tank grew brighter in his focus, and once the flow began, he drank it down hungrily. He drank, and the messages continued, though with greater variation than the last time.

“You crave cum, Officer Timmons.”

“If a man offers you his cum, you will do anything he demands of you to obtain it.”

“Cum is priceless, you will never have enough of it.”

The dullness lasted longer than it had the first time, and was more difficult to shake off. Or was it just that the tank hadn’t been as full as it had been the first time? He wasn’t sure, everything felt like a blur. He pushed the sensation away as quickly as he could, but he couldn’t deny that he felt a more lasting effect this time, a…craving for more. The taste of cum lingered in his mouth, and he didn’t want it to fade. His gut ached, but surely he could fit in another load or two, right? Oh fuck, what in the world was he thinking? It was a relief when the tranquilizer flooded his system again, and sent him to sleep, it was easier than trying to understand what was going on with his mind.

He was forced to endure five more sessions like this. He would wake up in the chair, once again. As soon as he was awake, the strange drug would be administered. He would cum, violently and repeatedly, for several hours, after which he would ingest every drop of cum he’d just expelled. The voice would repeat in his mind, and he was no longer certain whether everything he thought was his or not. One thing he did know, as the sessions wore on, was that, more and more, he looked forward to eating the cum. He could…survive the onslaught of orgasms (though they had become so painful, he was certain that if he ever left this lab alive, he would never cum, or have sex, ever again) so long as, when they were over, he could eat the cum. He loved cum, after all. That much he knew for sure. They wouldn’t be able to take that away from him, that was just…just who he was, right?

It was difficult to compare from session to session, but Evan thought that he was orgasming less and less each time. Certainly the cum he was fed wasn’t enough to sate his desire, and the tank never looked as full as it had that first time. He also wasn’t sure…but his body felt different, somehow. Of course, he hadn’t been able to see his body since waking up in the room, with his head pulled tight against the back of the chair, but he…sensed something was wrong, or at the very least, different than it had been. Most worrisome, however, was that the world really was beginning to lose some of it’s color, even after the drug had worn off. It was hard to care about anything beyond drinking more cum. He felt dull…but even stranger, he felt calm. Relaxed and at ease. Rationally, he knew that what was being done to him was terrifying, but the emotion attached to the thought was losing force. Every emotion was losing force. He’d think of his girlfriend naked, but only received a dull throb of arousal and love, nothing like he could remember feeling.

And so, when he woke up after that seventh session, and he wasn’t strapped to the chair, he didn’t really know what to feel. Or rather, he knew what he should be feeling–relief, happiness, anticipation–and all of those things were there to some extent, but mostly he just felt…calm, as he looked down at himself, and saw for the first time what the drug had done to his body.

Medical Trials (Part 1)

Evan looked around at the desks around him, all of which had emptied out my now, leaving him alone in the precinct, chasing his own tail on this investigation into several men over the last few months. There was no real connection between any of them–not age, neighborhood, habits…well, except for one. Every single one of the men was employed at a massive health conglomerate in the business district, Trinq Incorporated. The company was trying to claim that all of the disappearances were all likely to have been done by one of their chief, international competitors–and initially, that’s what had seemed like the most likely possibility. Now though, he wasn’t so sure. The evidence the company had provided had just enough holes to make it look reasonable, but also impossible to prosecute, and in two of the cases, he’d found evidence that the men in question had actually been preparing to blow the whistle on what was looking like some serious ethical issues in Trinq’s R&D department. But as soon as he’d started asking questions along those lines, the company had started stonewalling him. His boss was pressuring him to close the file as a cold case if necessary, but Evan’s detective instincts were telling him he was on the cusp of something big.

He heard the elevator ding, and assumed it was just the janitor, coming up to clean the floor. He didn’t have time to react when the two massive men attacked him, one of them holding a rag soaked in chloroform to his nose. He fought as hard as he could, trying to reach his sidearm, but he was out before he could do anything to fight back, and the two men carried him down to the basement parking garage, threw him in the back of a van marked with Trinq Incorporated’s logo, and drove off through the city, arriving at an unmarked office building, and disappearing inside.

He was trying to scream, but all he could manage was a muffled cry, with the strange tube shoved in his mouth, and held in place by the mask secured around his head and neck, holding it immobile. The only things exposed were his eyes, allowing him a limited survey of the room–white tiled wall straight ahead and to the right, a white door in that corner, and to the left, a wall with a large mirror. In his experience, he figured it was likely one way. Where in the hell was he? The last thing he could remember was sitting at his desk, and then everything else was a blurry haze. Had someone kidnapped him? He didn’t know if it was Trinq or some foreign company, but he was willing to bet he’d stumbled on a hornet’s nest, and hadn’t been smart enough to know it.

The rest of his body was immobilized as well, and all of his clothes had been removed, leaving him naked, though there was something on his cock, or perhaps more precise, inside it–a tube, almost like a catheter, though he couldn’t see where the tube led outside his range of vision. In his arm was an IV, and some sort of complex machinery which was pumping something into him–probably saline–though he had a feeling that he’d be subjected to something else before too long. Sure enough, now that he was awake, he heard the machine whirring to life, and a blue liquid was added to his drip. All he could do, was try to scream and struggle against his bonds as the drug–whatever it might me–slipped down the line and disappeared into his arm.

For what felt like a long time, but which in reality was likely only fifteen minutes or so, nothing happened, beyond Evan panicking and hyperventilating. Then, without any warning at all, he felt his cock stiffen all on it’s own accord in a matter of seconds, and a massive orgasm ripped through him, leaving him shuddering and shaking in the chair, and he only had a few moments to heave for breath through his nose, before a second orgasm, even longer and more intense, followed right on the first’s heels.

He had no idea how long it lasted–he quickly lost count of how many orgasms he suffered through in rapid succession. At first, it was pleasurable, but the euphoria dulled away, and soon every shot of cum was simply excruciatingly painful. It felt like his balls were being crushed in a vice, milked endlessly–and somehow, every time, more cum came out of him. He’d heard somewhere, that after a relatively small number of loads, a guy would just begin shooting dry, but not him–he could see his cum flowing through the tube lodged in his cock, flowing to some unknown destination below him.

After an hour of this, the time between orgasms began to lengthen again, and he did indeed begin to shoot dry–which hurt even more, somehow. His balls were throbbing, his cock felt like it was on fire, but after the intensity of the experience, those sensations felt so distant, and as the last few orgasms shook through him, what Evan actually felt was a surprising sense of calm. Or more than just calmness, also…indifferent. Like the world had emptied of meaning somehow, or he’d simply lost the capacity to grapple with things going on around him. And as the tension left his body, he saw something rising up from below him–a massive tank, full of at least four liters of his own cum. At the top of the tank, which was being slowly raised up into the air, was the end of the tube attached to his cock, and at the bottom, the end of the tube leading back to his mouth.

“Officer Evan Timmons, you will eat all of your own cum. You will enjoy it.”

The words came through speakers in the mask itself, and they lit up the grey, featureless world around him, broke through his indifference, and he found himself focused on the command, as the tank began to empty down the tube, and into his mouth.

Sometime later from this caption.

I can’t stop. If I stop, Rod will take me. Has Rod already taken me? Aren’t I his already? I can hear him screaming in my basement dungeon now. Pull on the last of my leather gear–this shit I always thought was so disgusting is so…damn comfortable now. Pull on a hood, because I don’t want him to know it’s me, not that it’ll matter much soon, if he sees my face or not. I suppose some of it just my own shame, my own embarrassment, but that’s waning now too. Light a cigar–have to have a cigar, of course. One last look, and head downstairs.

“What the fuck is this fucking shit! This some fucking pervert thing? You don’t know who the fuck you’re messing with–I’m very important! People will notice I’m missing!”

People would notice, but no one would expect to find a man like him in Pigtown. But only for a few days, and then it would be like he’d never even existed, just like all of them. He’d lost count, now. Rod needed one a week…and he’d tried to resist taking this one for a while now, but he needed him in a way he couldn’t exactly explain.

Down the stairs, and there he was. Ropes tied meticulously over his suit, tie over the top, bound to a post behind his back. Legs wide. Eyes wide with anger…and a bit of fear. I didn’t want to see the eyes, I hate the fucking eyes. I go over to the toolkit Rod’s provided me with, a present that came with the dungeon, pull out a hood, walk over and pull it down over his head, watching the leather suck against his skull, clamping under his chin and around his neck, shutting his mouth. He struggles, I watch. stubble growing along his bare mouth…I tease it with my bearded lips, listen to him let out a deep, guttural moan of desire, and kiss him, feed him smoke for a few minutes. He begs for a few minutes, pleading with me to not take his mind, but then…just grunts, bucking against the post.

I’m horny now. I tear open the front of his suit, find a cock ring and fit it around his short thick cock and big balls, and they start to inflate inside–I get down and start sucking. I missed a drop off once–need the cum now, all the fucking time. Mine, or anyone else’s, or I feel sick.

“Yeah pig, suck it…” the man’s mouth says, “Suck daddy bear’s big dick.”

I don’t want to do this anymore, but I don’t know how to stop. The man is thrusting down my throat now, his cock longer than a foot, but I have no problem taking it all, somehow. A…daddy would be nice, I suppose. I don’t owe him to Rod until Monday, so we have all weekend. Yeah, some daddy time would make me feel better, I’m sure of it.

Source: thee-domasan

Strange Sketch (Part 1)

This one’s a little out there, just as a warning. The second part especially.

It had been dark, but that was the fucking point, right? How in the hell could I have known what he was? Hell, for all I know, last night, he’d looked normal, just like everyone else in there, just like me, dressed up in my leather harness, kneepads advertising my preferred position, looking to have some fun with people I wouldn’t have to introduce myself to the next morning. I was young, muscular, men wanted me, this, I felt, is what I was made for, in some way. Is that what drew him to me? Did he just choose me? I don’t remember, but I saw the shadow of him framed in the dim light of the bar away from the depravity, and that was enough to catch my interest.

His silhouette was leather–a bit bulkier than someone in rubber, body heavy with a jacket, legs thick with pants. The smoothness of his head signaled a hood of some kind, and from the sheen of it, I guessed rubber, but couldn’t be certain. We cruised each other; he seemed hesitant, taking one step closer, then backing up quickly, like he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to, like something was worrying him. In the end, I approached him. I told him I was clean, that he didn’t have to worry–all he did was moan in response, and press his leather clad body close to mine. The feel of the fabric was strange, not quite like real leather at all. Maybe he was just being cheap, and went for something less expensive and easier to clean. The jacket was closed and zipped, so I couldn’t access his body, aside from the lower half of his face. We were kissing, and I remember how sweaty and hot he felt, almost feverish, pressing his body to me, I felt his cock pressing against mine, through his leather, and my jockstrap. He must have unzipped, though I hadn’t heard a zipper, because a moment later it was out and grinding up against my pouch, exploring it, getting it sopping wet with precum.

I remember I reached down to touch it, and faster, he grabbed my wrists and pinned me to the wall, grinding up against me, sucking at my neck, drool all over me. It was…sticky, I remember thinking that, but it was kind of hot, how hungry he was for me, and then he flipped me around against the wall, wrists still pinned above me, and he started poking at my hole with his cock. Now, I knew he couldn’t have had a condom on–the soaked pouch cupping my junk was proof of that–but as his cock slipped between my cheeks it felt…rubbery, like it had a condom on it. That was the first thing that I really noticed, that triggered a bit of alarm, but I was on PrEP, and happy to fuck raw if that’s what a top wanted. I thought I was safe. His cock, it seemed soft, somehow, the way it seemed to explore my crack, slip around my hole. I worried he might not be able to get inside of me, but with one thrust, he pushed in deep, my hole just, opening up for him. I remember feeling really wet, and assumed he was just that much of a leaker, and he just kept fucking me. My hole went numb, and he kept fucking me. I thought he was shooting inside me, but he just kept going, and then I started to feel…strange. Sick to my stomach and dizzy. His hands were still locked on my wrists, but I remember looking down, my vision going blurry, and my stomach, which was always meticulously flat, looked…distended.

I passed out not too long after that, I think. He was still fucking me, and then I woke up here. I still don’t know where here is–some derelict building from the look of it. I think we’re a few floors up, from the way the light came in when I woke up. I was still in my gear from the night before–or at least, I assume it was the night before. I don’t know how long I was out, but it couldn’t have been that long, right? When I woke up, I was alone, as far as I could tell, and I stood up, my legs shaky, trying to remember what had happened, but knowing whatever was going on, I needed to get the hell out of here. I tried to get out of the bathroom, but felt something tugging me back. Looking back…something rubbery was connecting the back of my harness to the tile behind me, like a leash, or a web. I grabbed hold of the door frame, trying to pull myself through, and while the thing stretched to a point, it refused to break, I snapped back, reached around and tried to feel what the thing was–I couldn’t get a good grip, really, but it was adhered to the back of my harness somehow, and I couldn’t feel a seam–it went straight from odd goo to the feel of my leather. I figured I could at least just get out of my harness, but soon discovered something strange as well. I couldn’t unhook the buckles. I couldn’t even pull the leather straps away from my skin–it hurt when I tried, like someone had superglued the thing to me…and then…I think it had had enough of me fucking with it, because it started to squeeze–hard. The leather just…contracted, and I couldn’t breathe…and at the same time, I felt my jockstrap start…squeezing my cock, all on its own. I tried to get that off too, but it too, had somehow stuck to my body. I couldn’t rip it, not without feeling like I was going to rip my cock and balls apart in the process.