Coach’s Summer Training – Part 3

Jerry Hudson was my final student of the summer, and I had quite the project in mind for him, a transformation I had never attempted before. He was a rugby player at a local college, and his coach was a good friend of mine–he had a special commission and challenge for me, he said. Jerry was a bit of a loudmouth and a braggart, and I could only take it for about ten minutes before finally pushing him to the ground and shoving my foot in his mouth. Much to his surprise, and then his terror, my foot slid in effortlessly to the ankle–he tried to fight me, but for some reason his hands and arms just flopped against my leg like fabric. With my foothold secured, I took a moment to cut away his clothes, and then reached down, grabbed his hips, and twisted his lower body around. Had he still had any bones at all, his spine would have broken–instead, he just laid there, and watched me put my other foot right in his ass.

Now came the real challenge. I concentrated on him, and started making him smaller, watching the twist grow tighter and tighter at his middle. I’d certain turned someone into a sock before–but I’d never tried making one person into a pair of socks. It was obvious from the way what remained of his face was contorting that it must have hurt something terrible, but finally, with a loud rip, he came apart at the middle, and formed into two thick, black, identical calf length socks on my feet. I surveyed the damage. My right foot, which had been shoved in Jerry’s mouth, was screaming–as usual. But the sock on my left foot was saying nothing–no mind at all, aside from a dim instinctual desire to fuck. That was no good–I couldn’t have one sock brainless, so I pressed my feet together, knit the fabric again, and concentrated, forcing Jerry’s consciousness to spread out across both socks, and then, once it was more or less centered and even, I ripped them apart. Even I screamed at that, listening to the pain the two of them felt as I did that, but it did work–Two Jerrys, one on each foot, thinking independently of one another.

Now the coach who had offered this challenge, we’d met quite a few years ago at a leather club one night. I could tell he was a man like me–musky, leathery, willing to inflict pain on other people for fun. I’d thought about wearing him, but how could I make him better? Instead, I started making things for him to wear–for a hefty price, of course. What he wanted was a pair of devoted boot slaves–and so I went to work. Luckily we had similar shoe sizes, so I could wear his boots, conditioning both Jerrys to relish and appreciate the smell of their future master’s feet. I shined the boots twice a day with the socks, getting them used to appreciating the taste of boot black, and the importance of serving boots and feet. Still, with the initial challenge over, I grew a bit bored–why not have a bit more fun with both of them? I knew what their coach liked, after all–and with two slaves, that gives you some room for, shall we say, specialization.

The right one became my newest cum rag, and once he grew more used to absorbing filth, I started branching him out–submerging him in jars of my piss, forcing him to drink all of it into himself. He also worked as my toilet paper, and grew to appreciate the taste of shit along with everything else. After a week, he was crusty and filthy, but he loved it, and was begging me for more filth to eat. Meanwhile, I put the left sock through other exercises–stretching him out, forcing him to fit over my entire fist and arm up past my elbow, decorating him with rings and studs and metal spikes. By the end, the two socks looked strikingly different–and I told my friend to come over, because we would have to finish the work with him present as well.

He was ecstatic, when he saw what I had done, and couldn’t wait to put them on. He did, and I started working the slaves together, telling them that this was the moment they’d been waiting for, that this was their master, their owner, and I started shifting them back. Soon, two young men were kneeling before him, worshiping his feet hungrily–obviously identical twins, and yet they couldn’t have been more different in their appetites. The one serving his right foot was a filthy mess, caked with cum, piss and shit–the other was cleaner, but his entire body was a riot of piercings, and desperate to feel his master’s fist buried in his asshole. The mental split had left both Jerrys much, much dumber–after all, when you only started with one brain, there wasn’t much hope for intellect, but each served his master well for many years to come. But that, alas, was the end of my summer. Still, I’ll have a whole new set of men to train next year, so who knows what might happen then?

Coach’s Summer Training – Part 2

Phillip Emerson was my next pupil. I’d met him while helping out with a few local wrestling meets at the college level. Part of what I liked about him was he was more than an exceptional all around athlete, he was incredibly smart to boot, in the midst of pursuing some degree in an advanced math program. Just the kind of guy I can destroy, and love every second doing it, usually with a bit of challenge along the way. Wrestling was his chance to not think for a while, he told me, and I figured that by the time we were through, he wouldn’t be thinking much at all. We spent a day in the ring getting nice and sweaty, and I offered him a massage to help him cool down afterward. I started on his shoulders, and immediately his body went limp, and he let out a groan. I urged him to relax, to just focus on his good it felt as I kneaded all the tension from my body. He still eventually noticed what I was doing, of course, once he saw his legs shrivelling up and disappearing into his torso. I started pulling him on, and he couldn’t do anything but flap his withering arms at me, his head shrinking down into his neck of the shirt as I pushed my head through. I sniffed the sweaty fabric and jacked off, making sure to shoot up the front–the first load of seed of many more to come.

As I expected, Phillip was too smart to be a screamer–he was a bargainer. He obviously knew that I wanted something out of him, but he didn’t know what. His mind was too adept for me to wear him down to the breaking point like I had Shawn–so I decided to work on him a little differently. I proceeded with what I had been planning, and I started a long, intense workout regimen which had Phillip soaked in my sweat from dawn to dusk, and as I lifted weights and ran my miles, I counted. I counted steps, I counted sets and reps, and I counted at him, and soon, unable to help himself, he was counting too. He didn’t exactly have much else to do, right? And he did love math, after all. Then, while he was busy counting, I could sneak around in his head, sand off off a little cleverness here, erode a little vocabulary there, take off a little bit of wit over there. By the time he noticed that he was getting dumber, it was too late–then he started screaming.

Thankfully he got too dumb to figure out why he should scream soon after that. Soon his mind was so far gone that pretty much all he could do was count–and not very high at that. He’d usually lose track somewhere around ninety during our runs–that jump to one hundred always seemed to confuse him, so he’d happily start back at one again over and over and over again. He was much better with sets and reps, of course–smaller numbers were better, he said. I had him eagerly sucking up all of my sweat at this point too. You know those fabrics that are supposed to wick away moisture? They don’t have anything on a jock trapped in a shirt sucking all your sweat up and drinking it down for you. I had also been making him bigger this whole time, baggier, with big arm holes and a low scooping neck. When I was happy with him, I decided it was probably time for the finale.

As I said, if I focus hard enough, I can keep someone as clothing even when they aren’t on my body. One morning, I finally peeled Phillip off my wet body, laid him out on a table, got out a black sharpie, and I started drawing. On the back I wrote “MUSCLE FAGGOT”, in big, thick letters, and then filled in the rest with smaller stuff. Some of it was writing–“Musk pig”, “Fuck my holes” with an arrow pointing down the back–but everything else was just swirls and blocks of black ink all over the shirt. He didn’t understand what I was doing at all–but once he was more black ink than white (well, “white” I suppose, he was really more of a dingy brown at this point) I released my focus, and the brand new Phillip Emerson emerged from his form.

He was huge–at least six and a half feet tall, and packed with muscle from neck to calf. Hell, he could have been an amazing bodybuilder, if it wasn’t for all of his tattoos. He was covered everywhere, even up onto his neck, face, and shaved head with tribal swirls. Of course, the centerpiece on his back was “MUSCLE FAGGOT” in massive letters so large it had to be spread down over two lines, and the simple minded oaf didn’t really know what was going on, but he could smell me, he could smell my musk, and so he got down and started cleaning my body for me. I fucked his surprisingly tight hole in return, before dropping him off at his home, a local gym. He lived upstairs there, and worked out day and night–when he wasn’t getting gangbanged by the regulars in the locker room. Being as stupid as he was came with some issues of its own. He was lucky that the owner was a sadistic fucker who loved the idea of keeping a big, stupid, muscle faggot pet for himself and all of his friends. Still, because he didn’t quite understand social standards, Phillip’s dick was kept locked 24/7, so he couldn’t just drop his shorts anytime and start jacking off like a pig during business hours. When he kept stripping his clothes off anyway, his master forced him to wear singlets, because he was too stupid to figure out how to take them off without help–and so he never did, usually wearing them until they started ripping and tearing at the seams, his locked cock obvious underneath the spandex. Needless to say, I keep a membership there now, but rarely to work out–I mostly just like to drop in on my muscle faggot on a regular basis. He’s always so excited when he smells me coming–even though he doesn’t even know why.

Coach’s Summer Training – Part 1

You can just call me coach, if you’d like. I work during the school year working as a PE teacher and coach for a few local high schools and community colleges–but my real fun doesn’t come until the summer. You see, I run a highly successful summer mentoring program for student athletes. I mean, it’s highly successful for me, of course, but let me explain. When I hit puberty, I discovered that I had a rather strange power–I could turn people into my clothing. The effect only lasted until I took them off again, but this wasn’t a real problem for me–see, I was a bit of a slob, and I enjoyed wearing my dirty clothes for days on end. Of course, the first time I did this, when I turned my big brother into a pair of boxers, I was terrified someone would find out, however, I soon realized that everyone had forgotten all about him–as far as my parents and the world was concerned, he didn’t exist. I remembered of course–I could even talk to him while I was wearing him. He wasn’t very happy, as you can imagine, but he’d never been very nice to me. So I started jacking off into him, day in and day out. Eventually I got sick of listening to him beg me to turn him back, so I took him off, but reality never quite picked up where it left off for him. Our parents still didn’t remember him, so he had to leave home, but luckily, reality made space for him elsewhere–as a whore for a pimp downtown. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily depending on your perspective, soaking in my cum all those weeks had left him craving cum. I still talk to him on occasion–he works as a hustler downtown, and he always gives me a discount. He’s not happy about it of course, but he doesn’t exactly have much choice now, does he? Unless he wants me to wear him some more.

Over time, my powers have grown as well. If I focus hard enough, I can keep someone in their inanimate form even when they weren’t on my body for short periods of time. I discovered that I can even change aspects of the clothing, allowing me to better tailor their final forms to my darkest fantasies. I naturally gravitated to an occupation where I could do exactly what I want to do–turn men into clothes and fuck up their lives, but I never could devote my full attention to my clothes during the school year. Instead, I’d become close to a few young men each season, and encourage them to sign up for a week of “personal mentoring” during the summer. Their parents were always thrilled–after all, their children were born to be special, and receive special treatment, right? It didn’t matter that I couldn’t name a single successful athlete who’d graduated from my program–no one seemed to be interested in sports after I got through wearing them. Still, I’d managed to, once again, find three of young men eager to be mentored. Shall we get started?

Shawn Alexander, a high school quarterback with enough skill to go pro if he gets into a decent college team, signed up so I could help hone his leadership skills. Instead, I pull him into my office, and he goes floppy in my arms. I don’t change him right away–I fuck his mouth first. I want to be the last person that senior has sex with in that body, and as I cum, I feel his arms reach around me, his body shrivelling up into mesh, and within moments, he’s a brand new jockstrap soaked in my cum.

He’s screaming, of course. I never really blame them for screaming. Still, I go to work on him quick enough, wearing away at the edges of his cloth mind, forcing him to suck down my cum. You see, even though he’s a jockstrap, he’s still capable of absorbing anything on him or soaked into him, if he puts his mind to it. It takes a couple of hours to eat the seven loads I pump into him that afternoon, but he finally dries crispy, just how I like it. Of course, he thinks that as a reward for eating my cum, I’ll change him back–instead I laugh, and jack off again, and again, and again. Over and over, forcing him to suck my cum dry each time.

He finally broke after six days. Did he really like the taste of my cum? Or was he just being coerced? I told him it didn’t matter, and he started sucking it down all on his own. Sure, he still cried about it for a while, but with a bit of coaching and positive encouragement, by the end of two weeks he was begging me for cum. I frequent quite a few clubs of course, and by this point Shawn had grown accustomed to eating cum other than my own, and I could tell that I was almost ready to return him to humanity.

He needed a few other changes though. For the few weeks I wore him, I consciously made the jockstrap age and wear much faster than usual. By the end of his mentoring session, Shawn looked like he was years old, not weeks, with a threadbare pouch dotted with rips and holes, and straps with fraying elastic that didn’t pull as tight as it used to. I stripped him off, three weeks gone by already, and watched the new Shawn Alexander appear in front of me. He looked like he’d aged close to forty years–in fact, checking his new driver’s license–so I could eventually drop him off at his new home–he was sixty one years old, flabby, hairy, nearly bald with a patchy beard that always felt like dried cum was stuck in it–usually because there was. I never did find out what he did for a living, but I still see him all over town climbing into gloryholes, desperate for as much cum as he can get.

Open Patreon Commission Slot and Teaser

I just wanted to take a moment and thank everyone who has contributed to my Patreon over the last few months. My current total (after a few declined pledges this month) is 315 dollars. But onto the slightly bigger news! Like I mentioned earlier in an ask, I’m planning on expanding the number of commission slots available through Patreon next month. I already have someone waiting on a slot at the 50 dollar level, so I have no openings there, but I have opened one more slot at the 25 dollar level, for a 1000 word monthly commission of your choice. It’s first come first serve, so if you’d like it, head on over to https://www.patreon.com/wesleybracken and grab it before someone else does.

As always, I will have a new story for all of my patrons who have pledged five dollars or more, and I have a sneak peek below for everyone. This is a long one, so I’ll be posting half of it this month, and the second half next month over on Patreon. Enjoy!

Pipe Dreams

-Prologue-

“Are you certain you want to do this?” Professor Grimmel asked.

“You said it isn’t permanent right?”

“Well, you will be human again after the spell has done it’s work, but I can’t promise you’ll be the same person. Revenge…it changes everyone it touches. This isn’t something to take lightly.”

Jason Rutledge squirmed in his seat on the other side of the professor’s desk. He had grown closer to his advisor over the course of his Freshman year, but he hadn’t expected the older gentleman to open up to him as well. When Jason had told him about his homosexuality, and about his fears that his father might find out, and the emotional abuse he’d suffered, the professor had intimated something surprising–he was more than just a professor. He was also a wizard–and a powerful one at that.

The relationship that developed never reached the bedroom–Professor Grimmel said he refused to take advantage of his students, but when Jason came to him, and told him he couldn’t bear the thought of returning home to his father for the summer, especially now that he had begun opening up at school, and now that he’d found a real mentor in his professor. Jason was rather chubby, but sweet–Grimmel was certain that if he went home he would be miserable, but he refused all the same. In the end, after much pleading, he decided to offer Jason a spell that might give a chance to find peace with his father.

“I want to do this. I can’t…I can’t face him again. He–he deserves this, he’s horrible.”

Professor Grimmel frowned. He should say no. Jason was too angry…and yet, he also knew that his father deserved anything Jason might decide to give him. In the end, it had to be Jason’s choice–if he asked, he would cast the spell. “Did you bring everything you want to send to him?”

Jason unzipped his backpack, pulled out a shopping bag and put it on the desk. The professor stood up from the deck, and loosened his tie. “Well, if this is what you truly want,” he came around the desk, and stood in front of Jason, admiring him. He had hoped that he might be able to see him longer–he could have been such an adorable cub. He got down in front of Jason and undid the front of his slacks. Jason started to object, but the Professor looked up at him, and he stayed quiet. He pulled the front of his underwear down under Jason’s hard cock and balls, and then wrapped his mouth around the head of Jason’s cock, and inhaled.

Jason let out a gasp and went rigid, feeling something happen in his body, the air sucked from the base of his lungs, through his groin, and out his cock. He tried to saw something to the professor, to ask him what was happening, but he couldn’t speak. In fact, he couldn’t even move. The professor took another breath through him, and this time Jason felt his mouth open wide, wider than should have been possible, air flowing freely through him. With one more inhale, Jason was now frozen stiff, his mouth open impossibly wide, and the professor pulled the student’s stiff body from the chair and laid him on the floor of the office. He picked up a large pouch from his desk, reached in and started pulling out fistfuls of dark leaf pipe tobacco, and packed it into Jason’s wide mouth tamping it down, and then, with a snap of his fingers, the bowl burst into flame, and he began drawing smoke through Jason’s rigid body.

Jason could feel everything happening to him, as his arms and legs began shrinking up into his torso. His skin became more than stiff, the upper half of him turning into a rough briar, and the lower part slimming down into a wooden neck and stem. After a few minutes, his body had become an oversized pipe, with a half bend and a deep brown briar bowl. Professor Grimmel kept smoking him down, shrinking him until he could hold him in his arms, and then smaller still, until Jason resembled a perfectly normal pipe, just in time for the bowl to burn completely to ash.

He emptied the bowl and repacked it with a different tobacco–this one his own blend, pitch black, and yet in a certain light, glimmers of orange and red, like it was already aflame, could be seen. Before lighting Jason again, he opened the shopping bag Jason had brought, looked inside, and laughed. No imagination at all. He threw them in the trash. The professor instead got a box he’d brought along, and began placing some items of his own choosing items on his desk instead. He lit Jason again, sucked in a deep lungful of smoke, and began exhaling thick plumes of dark smoke over the items he’d brought, watching the shiny rubber suck the smoke in, and by the time the professor had finished the bowl, the items were all covered with a fine coating of ash. He carefully packed everything back into the box, putting Jason in on top with a typed note, and then taped it up. The next day, he mailed it to the address Jason had given him. Jason’s father certainly was in for an extreme surprise–and by the end of the summer, Professor Grimmel would have everything he wanted as well.

[The following is a letter found in the apartment of Mr. Reggie Cox on August 5th, 2014, written by him we presume shortly before his disappearance that day. With no sign of foul play or murder, Mr. Cox is presumed to be alive, although if his story is true, he may no longer be human. The Special Investigations Bureau team 9-543 is currently investigating his whereabouts–the locations indicated in the letter have been condemned and redacted from this file. Pending investigation and clearance, security clearance level two or above is required to access them.]

This will sound crazy, I know, but here’s the truth of it.

There are toilets that can talk.

I know that sounds like the words of a madman, or a schizophrenic, but I claim that I am perfectly sane…if, at the moment, no longer quite human. I am leaving this as a record of what has happened to me, since I first heard them whisper to me. I can hear the pipes calling to me now, it hurts so much, I’m so full–I have to go. But I will tell my story first, and hopefully others can use it to avoid the same fate as I have.

The first time I heard them was at [REDACTED]. I went in, and as I was pissing, I heard a voice in the room. It was very difficult to make out–I thought, perhaps, that it was coming from the vents, and I was eavesdropping on some conversation. Now, because this was a restaurant I frequented regularly for lunch, I thought nothing of it, but soon found, that each time I went to the restroom, the whisper was always there, and I quickly grew a bit curious as to what was being said.

I soon discovered it was not coming from the vents–it was loudest by the toilet, and the vent was on the other side of the room. Thinking it was perhaps coming through a pipe, I got down next to the toilet, and I discovered that the voice was somehow coming from the toilet itself! I was, naturally disturbed by this realization, and I fled quickly, abandoning my meal, and never returned their for lunch again.

Something happened in there, however. I quickly discovered the same whispers all over the city. Not every toilet spoke, perhaps one in every ten, urinals included. Now that I knew what it was, and where it was coming from, I found it very difficult to ignore, though I still found the whisper too quiet to really decipher many of the words, and yet, something was happening to me all the same. The dreams began around then. I would dream of men pissing on me, of drinking their piss. I would be trapped in complexes full of bathrooms, all of them speaking at me, demanding my attention. I would wake from these sweating and terrified, and yet incredibly horny at the same time. Occasionally I would wet the bed, and have to get up and change the sheets, unable to believe what I had done.

My curiosity was growing into an obsession. I began mapping where the toilets were that spoke, searching for some sort of pattern. I concocted government conspiracies, I questioned my sanity and went to therapists who were no help to me. Oh, it became so much easier when I finally stopped and listened!

I would only use toilets which were silent–their whispers terrified me, and yet, one day at [REDACTED], in the stall, I hastily chose a toilet without listening, and as I shat, the words…they became clearer to me. I don’t think my shitting had anything to do with the clarity–rather, it was like I was finally hearing them for the first time, or the first time I simply bothered to listen. And as soon as I could hear them, I couldn’t stop listening. It was close to half an hour later, when someone banged on the door to see if it was occupied, that I awoke from my trance, wiped and fled the bathroom.

By the time I returned home, the specific words the toilet had spoke had faded away. In fact, I don’t think they speak in words at all, more in…more in ideas, these images and tastes that linger in your mind. They speak as obsessions. That night, when I wet the bed, I no longer felt compelled to change the sheets. I mean, I did change them, but more out of habit, out of some sense of humanity, but it was only as I laid in that clean bed that I found I missed the stench of my piss. This disturbed me, and yet I couldn’t stop listening, from that moment onward, my ears were no longer shut to them.

I listened to urinals. I learned how wonderful piss smelled, I learned how wonderful it tasted. They urged me to lick them clean, to see for myself. I listened to toilets, how they loved the taste of shit, how good it felt to serve men, how worthless they were, how worthless I was, that I could hear them. They had so much to teach me. I learned, soon, how to go unnoticed. How to make myself invisible as a simple toilet. I remember one day, I visited one of my favorite toilets at [Redacted], a small private space where I could listen for hours uninterrupted. But that day, it told me to leave the door unlocked, and kneel in the filthy, piss sodden jock I had taken to wearing, and wait.

Men came and went, and never noticed me once. The toilet told me what a good job I was doing, acting just like a nasty, filthy urinal, and I could imagine myself as just a fixture in the room, stuck to the wall, and the more I imagined it, well, soon men were using me! They would stand at me, and they would piss right into my thirsty mouth, and I was so happy. I’m still happy, and after closing, I licked the toilet completely clean all night long, and left when the shop opened in the morning.

In return for what the toilets were teaching me, I thought what they wanted was for me to serve them. By now I had quit my job, and would seek out the filthiest, loudest ones, and I would clean them, and listen to the secrets they had to share with me. It was around then that I acquired an insatiable taste and hunger for men’s shit. When I wasn’t learning, I would often be found in a sling in the filthiest bathhouses I could find, begging men for their shit and piss–soon, it was all I wanted to eat, and not long after that, it was all I could eat.

All other food makes me retch now. I can’t keep it down, it just plugs up my throat until I can gag it up again. As soon as that happened, I realized that the toilets weren’t looking for someone to serve them. They were speaking to me because they could sense that I want to be a toilet too.

I didn’t know that right away. I didn’t know that’s what I really wanted. I clung to the idea that I wanted to be human, but I was so happy as a toilet in training, how could I deny what I was…what I am feeling? Still, I’ve held off until now. I thought, perhaps, I could find some middle ground, but the toilets have grown impatient with me. They…they took my cock away. I can’t piss any more, I’ve had a completely full bladder for weeks now. It huts so much. I can’t shit either, everything is just backed up inside my huge, swollen gut, aching for release.

I can hear my pipe calling to me, however. It’s reasonably close, I think it is at [REDACTED]. There’s some new construction happening around there, I think I will like it. Not that it matters what I like. I’m just a worthless toilet, slathered with shit, drenched with piss, a huge bloated gut full of waste. It will feel so good to let it out that pipe the first time, feel it flow through my insides. How long until I get my porcelain? Or maybe metal–I’d like to be a metal toilet, so much filthier.

I’ll be whispering, if you want to come and hear me. If you want to be a toilet like me. If you don’t, well, shut your ears. Still, I think you’ll hear us if you’re meant to, like I was. I have to go, my pipe is calling me. Goodbye.

The Twelfth Day of Christmas

The sleigh came to a skidding halt on the snowy runway, landing upright thanks to the skill of the reindeer sluts pulling it, and not very much to Santa, who had his head back, moaning, Claude’s fuzzy face in his lap, swallowing Santa’s cock to the hilt. Claude sped up now that they were on the ground, bringing Santa to yet another climax, before they got their hairy, cummy bodies out of the sleigh, neither of them bothered by the cold and snow. Some elves hurried over and began unhitching the reindeer, getting them off to the barn, and Marty tromped over, grinning ear to ear, his huge cock flopping out, but when he saw Claude, his smile faded. “Who in the fuck is that?” he asked.

“This,” Santa said, pulling Claude close, “Is the new Mr. Claus, Marty–so why don’t you be a little nicer and say hello?”

Marty just glared at him, unhappy with this little kink in the plan. After all, Santa was his–he couldn’t just have his sexed up giver of toys have free reign all over the place. He was the one in charge now. He called the shots, no one else. “Aren’t you forgetting someone, Santa?” Marty said, tugging the older man’s balls and making him bend down so he could whisper in his ear, “I own your ass, Saint Nick, and unless you want to be pumped so full of cum that you can’t move for months, I suggest you send this trollip back to the bathhouse you found him in.”

Santa stood up calmly, a bit sad looking, but walked back to the sleigh, with it’s empty bags, and rustled around for something in it. “You know Marty, I didn’t have a chance to get you anything yet. Still, since you’re going to be such a dick about all of this, I might as well oblige!”

He spun around and grabbed the elf around the waist, and before Marty could squirm away, Santa had taken a small condom and pulled the rubber down over Marty’s face. The elf clawed at it, trying to rip it, but Santa just kept pulling it down further and further until Marty’s entire body was encased in the dildo. He fought and squirmed, but it was immediately obvious to Claude that the elf was starting to change, the features of his face and head distorting and twisting, the limbs of his body fusing to his sides, his huge dick and balls completely disappearing, sucked into his body, until all that was left was what might have passed for a rubber garden gnome, had the entire head not been replaced with the head of a cock.

“Well what do you think, should I give it a test drive?” Santa asked, but Claude just watched, open mouthed, as the old man tipped the elf upright and squatted down on it, taking the entire dildo into his ass, and when he stood up, all that could be seen were a couple of elfin shoes poking out his hole. “There, I think he’ll be much safer up there, don’t you? Now come on lover bear, Santa needs a good fuck!” he grabbed Claude by the hand and dragged him off into the house. Claude couldn’t believe what he’d just seen, and part of him was starting to have second thoughts about spending the rest of eternity here with this crazed, sexy santa.

And the elves, especially Timmy, just gathered at the scene and glared over at the house. Santa thought that destroying Marty would be the end of the story, did he? Well he was in for an equally wild Christmas next year, it seemed.

The Sixth Day of Christmas

Wade’s heart was beating fast in his chest, and he gripped the bat tighter in his hands and peered around the corner. There really was someone in his house! Probably someone trying to rob him–well, he’d show them that they’d picked the wrong place to invade. He snuck around the corner, hefting the bat up, ran at the stranger, and swung the bat at the back of his head, connecting with a solid sound, and sending the man to his knees.

“You think you can just come in my fucking house and steal my fucking shit?” Wade said, “You picked the wrong fucking house, you fucking…” He stopped talking and looked down at the person he’d just hit with his bat, the white beard, the big hairy belly, the leather harness? “S–Santa Claus?” he said, stepping back and dropping the bat to the ground.

“What the fuck is wrong with you people!” Santa said, rubbing the back of his head, “Good thing I’m fucking immortal, but that still fucking hurts. Every fucking year, someone hits fucking Santa with a bat, or tries to shoot him, or whatever. Well you know what? I’m fucking sick of it. I was going to leave you something nice, but I think you might make a nice present instead!”

Before Wade could even react, Santa had hurled something at him, what looked like a solid black ball, but when it hit his chest it splattered and stuck to him, and when he felt it, he realized it was some kind of liquid latex–and that it was really, really sticky. In fact, he couldn’t pull his hand away, and the rubber was starting to spread across his chest and up his hand onto his arm. He tried to shout for help, but it was moments before both of his arms were pinned to his chest, and he watched as they actually merged with his body, disappearing entirely. The rubber spread down his legs, and suddenly he couldn’t stand up, and he fell forward onto his knees, the rubber sealing his legs together with his ass. The only place the rubber hadn’t spread was onto his face, and by now he was screaming in terror, trying to move his arms, but his body was now just a hunk of solid rubber. “What is this shit! What the fuck did you do to me!”

“Heh, I’m just making sure that you aren’t going to a danger to anyone else ever again is all. After all, what could a cumdump urinal like you ever do to hurt someone?”

“Wh–What?”

Santa pulled out his cock, and waved it in Wade’s face, “Come on little urinal, open up for Santa–I’ve had to piss for fucking hours now.”

Wade shut his mouth tight–for a moment–but then the rubber crawled up past his jaw and forced his mouth open, freezing it wide open, and Santa slid in his cock, and Wade shivered with pleasure. He could hear…something. No, it was more like a feeling, coming from the rubber. This sensation of…service? What he was…made for?

Santa started pissing, and he could feel the piss flowing down into him, could taste it inside of him, and it gave him such pleasure he would have orgasmed if he’d still had a cock, and when Santa finished with his load of piss he started fucking Wade’s hole roughly, but that felt good too. It felt good to be used–to be abused–it’s what he was made for. The rubber rose higher, absorbing his ears and eyes, but he didn’t need to hear or see–only taste, and feel the pat on his head from Santa after he’d shot his load, telling him he’d done a good job, and then Santa picked him up and shoved the new Wade into his bag. Now he just had to decide where to put him. He could always give him to a private owner, but it would be a shame to see him used rarely. In the end, Santa left him in the seediest bathhouse he could find, where he was fed many times a day, the happiest rubber cumdump urinal in the whole wide world.

“I just want to see it on you, I’m curious.”

“It just isn’t my scene, man. Besides, we don’t even know where it came from.”

“Come on, it’s just a mask–put it on.”

Noah rolled his eyes, took the rubber gas mask from Jake’s hand and looked it over. It had arrived in a package earlier that day, with no recipient marked, but his boyfriend seemed strangely interested in it, and so he started to pull it over his head, when the straps came to life and clamped down around his head, cinching the mask against his face. He tried to pry it off, making muffled shouts, and he saw Jake stand up, shocked, and then his vision was blocked by some sort of mist…or smoke.

It was coming from him, from the mask, he could feel it in his lungs, he could feel it burning him up inside. Jake was there, trying to pry the mask away from his face, but the smoke coiled into a knot and flung itself at Jake’s face, shrouding him for a moment before condensing into a solid rubber hood, choking him down as Jake felt the smoke reach deep into him.

Punish, a voice said in his mind, Punish him.

He stood up, unsure of what was moving him, feeling the gas shroud his body, forming into a tight rubber suit, belted down with innumerable straps, wrapping around his cock, turning it to rubber, eleven inches, as thick as a bear can, already lubed and ready for the victim’s ass, Jake, hooded, on his hands and knees, and he rammed his new, rock hard cock deep into his ass, gas flowing out of him, coating Jake’s body in slick latex, just another rubber drone for punishment, for him to master, but there would be others. He would gather many more drones to pleasure himself on, and abandoning Jake, now a hunk of rubber encasing a chunk of human soul, and wreathed in smoke, Noah stalked out of the apartment, searching for his next drone.

Serving the Cloth

Ty pulled his car into the driveway, still trying to wrap his head around what had just happened to him at the store. It had just been a regular grocery store, and yet, when he’d gone back to pick up some more cleaning equipment–everything was gone. The shelves were simply empty, and when he’d asked an employee what was going on, they hadn’t even been able to give him a straight answer. He’d left the building in a huff, but as soon as he had, a short elderly man with a beard running down to the pavement had stopped him and shoved a spray bottle into his hand.

“Here boy,” the man said with a chuckle, “You’re going to need something extra-strength to deal with that house you’re trying to clean up!” Before Ty could even say anything, the man had run off, laughing. He must have just been a crazy guy–but every store he’d been to after that had been just as empty as the first. It seemed that no one in town had any cleaning equipment–well, aside from the bottle of “Clean-All” the old man had given him. Annoyed, he climbed out of the car and went up to the front door of the house he and his dad were cleaning after their lessee had skipped out on them, and went inside.

“Dad! I’m back. You’re not going to believe this–I went all over town and no one had anything! How crazy is that?”

“Pretty…pretty damn crazy. Son…Son, get in here, I got…we got something you need to do. I’m in the living room.”

Ty walked into the next room, taking the bottle of Clean-All with him, turned the corner, and froze when he say his dad sitting on the chair, a half-smoked cigar clamped in his maw, wearing a filthy yellow jockstrap he was certain he’d thrown out, along with a black muscle shirt and denim vest. “Dad–what the fuck are you doing? Is this supposed to be some kind of joke?”

“Son–I need you to…to get over here, and lick…lick up all the piss–all the fuckin’ piss!” Mick said, laughing then, and he stood up, “Gonna make you fucking lick it up, son. Gonna…Gonna turn you intah mah little pigcunt!”

Mick charged Ty, tackling him to the ground. He went down hard, scattering a pile of trash all over the floor as he landed, the spray bottle skittering from his hand, and then his dad was on him, pinning his son’s arms to his sides with his piss damp thighs, grabbing the back of his head and shoving him face first into the filthy jock he was wearing. “Dad! Dad, what are you doing, let me go!”

“Now now, jus’ calm down son, it’ll all be alright soon, we…we have it all planned out, don’t you worry, we have it all planned out.”

Ty tried to fight back, but when he opened his mouth to fight–the jock wiggled and then shoved its way into his mouth like it was alive, and as he tasted the rank piss, musk and cum of the jock, he felt–and heard–a voice. A strong, powerful will assaulting his mind, telling him to suck on it, to lick it to worship it. To crawl over, snorting and grunting, and lick up all his Pa’s piss while his Pa fucked his fat–fat piggy hole, how hot it was gonna be, servin’ his Pa, ‘n cleanin’ his filthy body, ‘n wearin’ all these fuckin’…fuckin’ filthy clothes. They needed to be worn, he could hear them, and he would, he’d wear them all he’d wear them–

With a scream, Ty managed to block out the voice for a second, long enough to put his hands up on his dad’s back and shove himself underneath him, disgusted as his nose squeezed past his dad’s reeking taint, but he was free, and he rolled over onto his hands and knees, grabbed the closest thing to him as a weapon, and stood up.

The spray bottle. He’d grabbed the fucking bottle of Clean-All–what fucking good was that going to do? Still, it was better than nothing, and he held it out as his dad stood up, laughing. “Slippery little pig–not gonna matter. Gonna rape ya little pig, gonna rape yer hole till ya like it, we’re gonna wear ya little pig, we’re gonna wear ya, ‘n wear ya out!”

His dad charged him again, and Ty squeezed the trigger, a cloud of spray slamming into his dad, who screamed in pain and stumbled back. As Ty watched, he saw the shirt and vest he was wearing writhe in agony, before they dissolved into some sort of goop on the ground, and his dad looked clean–normal–or at least the top half did. In a panic, Mick grabbed the jockstrap and clambored out of it, wadding it up and hurling it across the room, where it slammed into the wall, landed on the floor, and…stood up.

Ty couldn’t believe what he was seeing, and then he noticed that the whole room was shuffling–all of the clothing was climbing out of bags, and then they swarmed. Ty was able to keep them back from him and his father for a few moments, long enough for Mick to stand up, and then they were rushing through the house, a horde of filthy clothing pursuing them, and a few seconds too late–Ty realized they were actually herding them deeper into the house. A grungy flannel shirt opened the basement door, and the clothes surged forward, shoving Mick and Ty into the doorway, sending them tumbling down the stairs and into the darkness below.

Neither of them had been down into the rental’s basement yet–they’d been too afraid. Mick quickly untangled himself from his son and stood up–his head bonking the chain attached to the single light. Thankful he’d found that at least, he reached up and clicked it–light flooding the basement–or what had been a basement. Now, well, he didn’t know what their lessee had been up to, but the room looked more like a dungeon more than anything else. In the room, he saw a sling and some sort of wooden cross, and the walls were lined with all sorts of paddles, dildos, whips, and then he saw it. The mass of leather and metal coalescing in one corner of the room–there was so much of it. He watched as the mass stood up–a seven foot tall golem of leather and chain which stalked toward them. “Ty! Look out!” Mick shouted, but one thick arm swung out, extending as it flew and slammed into Mick, throwing him back against one of the concrete walls if the room, before wrapping itself around his son and dragging him into the mass.

“No!” Mick shouted, and crawled up, his head spinning. He had to find the bottle his son had used, he looked around the room, saw it lying below the stairs and ran over, only to have something fly into his face and send him stumbling back–the jockstrap.

No, no–not the jockstrap. His jockstrap. His favorite jockstrap. His one and only jockstrap. He wore it everywhere, all the time, why in the world had he taken it off? He took a deep inhale of the pouch, and then pulled it back on, shivering as the pissdamp pouch cupped his cock and balls, gently massaging him until he was half hard and leaking like a faucet. He let out a groan of pleasure, and felt his body growing grungier as he stood there–and took a deep whiff of his pits. Not dirty enough–he wasn’t dirty enough. Still, he…he could fix that, but he had to…destroy it. Yes, destroy the evil thing, destroy it destroy the thing that hurts them destroy it–

He tromped over to the bottle of Clean-All and picked it up, but before he could obey the jockstrap, because he knew he would only have one chance–he turned the nozzle towards his crotch and sprayed.

The scream that ripped through his mind was excruciating, but only lasted a moment, as the jockstrap, caught in the full blast, dissolved in moments, leaving Mick panting and shaking. He did it–he didn’t know it that would work–but it had.

“Dad! Help!”

Mick turned and saw his son tangled up in the mass of leather. As soon as he spoke, however, a strap of leather wrapped around his throat, turning his face blue, and then he was gone, swallowed up by the beast. Mick ran over, bottle outstretched, and sprayed the leather before it could smack him again. The golem yanked itself back and then recoiled, his son dropping unconscious from it’s body to the concrete floor as the leather retreated to its corner. Mick grabbed his son under his arms and flung him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and tromped up the stairs, one hand steadying Ty, and the other brandishing the spray bottle.

At the top of the stairs, it was clear that destroying the jockstrap had meant something to the rest of the clothing. They menaced them, but kept their distance, well out of the spray bottle’s range, and so Mick, huffing and puffing by the end, managed to weave his way out of the house, stumbling down the front steps naked, threw open the car door with the keys from his son’s pocket, and laid Ty out in the back seat. He hurried around before anyone could see him, climbed in and started the car, driving off as fast as he could, before he slowed down and pulled off to the side of street, shaking and panicked and terrified of what had just happened. He laid his head on the steering wheel, taking a few deep breaths…and then he heard his son chuckle.

He looked back, past the center console, and saw that Ty was awake–and that he’d changed. His son had been a string bean, but in the course of a few minutes, as they’d driven away, he’d put on a ton of muscle, and as Mick watched, tattoos snaked their way past his bicep and down his forearm. “Too…too tight…” Ty said, his voice deep and thick. He grabbed his shirt in one hand and ripped it away with a grunt, revealing a thick leather harness underneath. It must have wormed its way on when Ty had been in the grip of it, and Mick hadn’t checked–

Before he could grab the bottle of Clean-All, however, a slender leather collar which had twined its way around one of the harnesses straps shot out and coiled its way around Mick’s neck, choking him. He clawed at it, but it was no use–he was too weak, too…too submissive, too pitiful he had to serve, serve his son, serve the master the master was more important. Struggling for air, and for his sanity, Mick watched his son continue to change, growing taller, and more brutish by the minute, his eyes dull and cruel and masterful and Mick loved him so much, didn’t he? Loved him as a son as a master yes his master. His one and only master.

“Back.” Ty growled, sneering at his pitiful father as he spun around, turned the car on and sped back towards the house, desperately fighting with the collar for control, but realizing he’d already lost. Ty, however, grabbed the bottle of Clean-All from the passenger seat, considered in dumbly for a moment, and then tossed it out the window. They weren’t going to need that. He had more important things to do. They pulled back into the driveway, and Mick was pleading with his son, “Please, please Ty, snap out of it–don’t do this, don’t do this to us! You have to fight it–you have–”

He was silenced by Ty grabbing him by the throat with one massive, furred hand and squeezing the voice out of him, “Shut up slave. Inside, now!”

Mick felt his cock pulse in desire, and then he was out of the car and hurrying up the walk and back into the house, his son lumbering after him. Inside the living room, the clothing had all gathered, and Mick stood there–terrified and naked. “This one,” Ty growled, shoving Mick forward, “Yours–This one–ours, in the basement. Leave collar.”

The clothing swarmed then, tackling Mick to the floor, all of it so filthy, so wonderfully, amazingly filthy. They fought over him, and he wanted to wear them all, he did, but he couldn’t. A disgusting wifebeater several sizes too large slipped onto him, followed by a muddy pair of overalls with a bit too much room for a gut, and a pair of grungy socks and boots, and then the rest backed off, and Mick stood up, feeling his body change as the clothing wanted. He was growing, his gut filling out with fat, the collar needing to expand as his neck thickened, and was soon covered my a massive wiry beard that grew out of him chin.

“Aw yeah, filthy fuckin’ redneck hick, gotta cum, gotta git dirty, we gotta git so fuckin’ filthy, fuck…” Mick groaned, massaging his cock into the denim. But almost as soon as he had changed, the clothes were ripped away by others which pulled themselves onto his body, and changed him again. He lost track of how many outfits he wore over the next few hours, his body changing to suit each other, and they all wanted him–needed him. He could never leave, there were too many–but then, he heard the voice, the deep roar of his son from the basement, “Come. Time for punishment.”

The collar wouldn’t let him say no, and he hurried down into the basement, where he found his son. He was massive, at least eight feet tall, and it looked like every bit of leather in the basement had managed to wrap itself around him. His eyes were cruel and angry and vicious, and as soon as Mick fell in front of him, straps shot out and wrapped their way around him, and then it began, his son beating and torturing him for hours, the leather feeding off his pain and agony. This was their life now, serving the cloth, and it would consume him before long, like it had consumed the ones before him, but he would serve, and serve happily.

Living Latex

“You can’t be serious,” Ken said, looking at the thing Yosuke had handed him, “I’m not wearing this.”

Oh come on, it’ll be fun!” The slender twink said, “Look, I love having you fuck me, don’t get me wrong, but well…you’re just a little small is all, and trust me, I can take a lot. Come on, just trust me.” He ran his hand along Ken’s ridged abs, up to his thick, solid pecs. The big muscular guy was close to six and a half feet tall, massively built, and a definite top–but Yosuke was right–his four inch cock just wasn’t going to cut it when it came to a power bottom like him. The two of them had been hooking up off and on for a couple of months now, and Ken did love the slender Asian’s hole…but really? A strap on? “Come on,” Yosuke added, “It’ll just make your cock as impressive as the rest of you.”

Ken looked at the massive, flesh colored dildo in Yosuke’s hand, and felt…kind of angry. Sure, he was small, but he sure as hell didn’t like being reminded of it. But more than that, the strap on was…well…huge. As thick as a beer can, and over a foot long. If Ken did use it–and he wasn’t even sure he’d be able to use it at all–it just made him feel even more…inadequate. “Are you sure I can’t just fist you again? Come on, I know you like that too.”

“I do,” he said, “but I really want to feel a massive cock in me, you know? It’s just different. Please? Just once, and if you never want to do it again, then we won’t have to.”

Ken rolled his eyes, but took the strap-on back and looked at it, trying to figure out how to put it on. The entire contraption was actually made out of a single piece of rubber–he had to put in on like a jockstrap, and as soon as it was on, he noticed that the straps almost appeared translucent, and it was hard to figure out where the rubber ended and his skin began. Still, the other strange thing was that the strap on was so wide, that the fake cock actually had space inside for his balls as well as his own small member–so when it was fully on and he looked at it in the mirror, it was just this massive cock with no balls beneath–it looked ridiculous.

The fuck that came after wasn’t strange though–just boring as hell. Still, Yosuke seemed to enjoy it. As it wore on, Ken started being rougher and rougher–if the fucking twink wanted it big and massive, then he might as well abuse his hole good and bad while he had the chance–but Yosuke ate it all up–literally. Nothing was too rough, nothing was too deep, and after close to an hour of nonstop pummelling, Yosuke arched his back and shot his own load out of his cock, without either of them touching it once.

Ken figured they were done, and so he pulled out the strap-on from the twink’s hole and started fiddling with it, eager to get it off so he could get off too.

“Oh fuck,” Yosuke moaned on the bed, rolling over and relishing his afterglow, “We’re definitely going to have to do that again soon–like, all the time.”

“Fat chance,” Ken said, as he searched for the straps, “That was boring as hell–I couldn’t even feel anything the whole time. What the hell? Why can’t I find the straps?” Ken had run his fingers where the rubber straps had been, and while he could feel the transition from rubber to skin, he couldn’t for the life of him get a hold of the straps. It was like they had sealed themselves to him while he was fucking. Instead, he tried to pull the strap-on itself off, but as soon as he gave it a yank, he let out a cry of pain. “What the…is there fucking glue in this thing or something?” Ken gave it a few more cursory tugs, but it really did feel like it had adhered to his body while he was fucking the twink. In fact, when he inspected the seal–he couldn’t even tell where the rubber ended and the rest of his crotch began. In fact, if he hadn’t put it on himself, he would have actually thought the dildo was a part of his body.

“Yosuke…Yosuke, what the fuck is up with this? Why can’t I take this off?” Ken said, now a bit afraid, but the Asian was sitting on the bed now, looking a little guilty…and Ken just stared at him until he spoke.

“Do…Do you promise you won’t get mad?”

“What the fuck did you do?”

“Look, one of my friends used it, it’s a line of gear called Living Latex. I really like you Ken, but god, you’re a horrible top. I just wanted to, you know, make you better is all. And it worked, too–fuck! Come on, pound me again, I can take it!”

“You’re fucking crazy! Get this thing off of me!”

“Fuck me with it again, and I’ll take it off.”

“No, fucking take it off!” Ken shouted, pulling at it again, “I can’t feel my balls, man! What if it eats my fucking balls?”

“Who the fuck needs balls? I don’t want you cumming, I want you fucking!” Yosuke said, and got up off the bed, leering at Ken and stalking closer to him. He started backing up, but in the tight apartment, didn’t quite have room to maneuver. He got out of the bedroom and into the living room, where he tripped over an ottoman and fell–his head smacking into the coffee table, and he was out.

***

“Mmmm, oh fuck yeah, you’re so fucking big, I can’t fucking stand it!”

Ken felt his head start clearing up, a bit, enough to feel something bouncing up and down on his face.

“Fuck yeah, such a big fucking cock, stretching me to the fucking limit–feels fucking great!”

He opened his eyes and saw that the thing bouncing up and down was an ass…and the thing it was bouncing up and down on was…a dildo. A massive fucking dildo, even bigger than the one which had swallowed his cock and balls before, and he tried to squirm away and shout–but he couldn’t get a sound out aside from a muffled noise from his nose, which was pressed up against the rubber.

His mouth, his tongue, his teeth, all of it, he couldn’t feel a thing. It was all numb, and he knew–he knew, in his heart that they were gone. Gone like his fucking cock and balls, gone for fucking ever, and in a panic he tried to turn away, but Yosuke just sat all the way down on the cock, planting his hole at the very base, and then spun around so his head was looming over Ken’s face, leering down. “Oh good, you’re awake! You knocked yourself out, so I didn’t think you’d mind if I put a few more things on you. Do you like it? You were always so bad at talking dirty–I think having another cock here is a much better choice, don’t you think? And just wait until you see the rest of it! I love how it turned out. Just hold on a second, I’m almost done.”

Yosuke started fucking himself on Ken’s new rubber cock again, the muscular man trying to fight him off. He wanted to raise his hands and just push the lighter man away, but they just wouldn’t do what he wanted them to do–his legs too–it was like he was paralyzed or something, and with Yosuke’s ass in the way, he couldn’t look down at what had happened to him. It took Yosuke longer than a second–after another fifteen minutes of very vocal fucking, often grinding his tight ball sack against Ken’s nose, he finally shot a load which dribbled out of his cock onto Ken’s face, and he shut his eyes to avoid it. Finished, Yosuke picked himself up off of Ken and licked his cum away, something that disgusted him, but which he was still kind of thankful for in the end. “Alright, you ready? Let me show you.”

And then, Yosuke picked him up.

The little slender twink just reached down grabbed him around the waist, and hefted him up like he was almost nothing, and Ken squirmed a bit, not entirely sure what to make of it. He’d been 250 pounds before of almost all muscle. How could the little squirt haul him around like that? He noticed that they were back in the bedroom, and Yosuke spun him right side up and held him up in front of the mirror–and if Ken had had a mouth any more, he would have screamed.

His arms and legs–they were gone. Instead, massive dildos, just as big as his new cock and mouth, jutted out, rubbery and bobbling. No wonder he was so light–most of his body had been replaced with rubber. “Do you like it? I think it’s super hot myself. Still, I have to get to work. Did you know that you’ve been out for the entire night? Oh well, into the closet you go.” Ken fought, squirming around as best he could, but Yosuke just shoved him into the closet and closed the door. “Don’t worry, we’ll play more tonight–and I even have some friends coming over too–and I bet you’re going to be good and hungry by then.”

Hungry? Friends? Ken didn’t know what to make of it, but he gave up soon enough of trying to get out. His body was useless–he couldn’t move or crawl or anything–just sit in the dark closet, waiting for the hours to wear away…and as they did, he started to understand what Yosuke had meant by hunger. Now, he wasn’t hungry, perse–he didn’t want food, or even water. No, the need that started building up in him was different, it was the rubber in him…crying out to be used. They wanted to fuck, they wanted to fuck bad, they wanted men to use them over and over all the time, and Ken couldn’t fight it off. Did…did he want to be used too? Yeah, yeah, he wanted men to use him, to fuck themselves on his big rubber cocks. He was so eager for it, he was so hungry. Just an object, a bunch of fucking dildos, that was all he was good for–all that fucking mattered anymore in his rubbery mind. By the time Yosuke took him out that evening and brought him into the living room, his muffled cried of anger had become the mewlings of need..and when he saw the five other twinks he’d fucked at one time or another in the living room, naked and waiting, he sighed with relief and shivered with anticipation.

First, four of them took his arms and legs, so he was suspended between them, and then Yosuke took his mouth while another took his cock, and they all rode him together–Ken was in heaven. He was needed, he was being used–and he was a way better fucker than he’d ever been before. That was some consolation at least…right?