Tag: watersports

Slave Swap (Part 5)

The food came, and he ate it. The portion seemed so meager, and it had done nothing to sate any of his cravings. By eight he broke down, and cracked open a beer, and after three of those–close to nine–he lit his first cigar. By ten, he’d run out of beer, and he left the apartment to go buy some more…but instead, he found his feet walking a somehow familiar route, to some place called, The Steam Engine. He wasn’t this weak, was he? He couldn’t even last a single night? He passed it by and went to a corner store and purchased a supply of beers–hopefully enough that he wouldn’t have to leave the apartment for several days, and he forced himself to walk quickly past the bathhouse and went back to his lonely apartment, where he managed to drink himself to sleep.

In the morning, he woke to discover a small deposit in his account, with a note from Master. “One day down Slave–one day at a time, as they say.” It was a pittance, really, but it meant more to him as a gesture. He was watching–Master didn’t want him to fail. Still, the stench off his sodden diaper was so…alluring, he couldn’t stop himself from sucking some of his own piss from it while he jacked off–or tried to jack off, at least. His cock wouldn’t get hard at all, and the pain and nausea were worse than the day before. He tossed the diaper in the trash, frustrated, and put on a new one, before heading into work that afternoon. He was invisible in the halls, as people hurried past him. Cleaning the bathrooms was the worst, especially when he found loads of piss left in the urinals or the toilets, but he fought it–proud of his willpower, at least.

The first week progressed well. He found that exercise gave him something to distract himself with, to some extent, even if this old body wasn’t capable of much strength. Still, training himself gave him something to do–something to work on. He tried his best to limit his smoking, drinking and eating to moderate levels–enough to keep the rest of his withdrawal in check. He kept hoping things would get better, but he only ever seemed to feel even worse with each passing day. On Friday, after most people had left the building for the day, he gave in and sucked some piss from a urinal, and nearly cried from how…satisfied he felt, afterward. How was he going to cope this weekend? He didn’t know–all he had to distract himself at home was exercise and TV. He found himself missing Master’s presence–he felt so isolated now. He drank too much that night, dribbling his piss into empty beer cans so he could drink it, thinking about how…good his Master’s cum had tasted, how he’d never really relished it, how he’d just swallowed it so many times without a single thought of how…thankful he should be, for receiving it. He sent drunken texts to him, telling Master all of this, telling him how sorry he was, and when he received nothing back, he threw on some clothes–forgetting a diaper in his haste–and stumbled into The Steam Engine.

Just one load, he told himself. If he could get by with a few beers and two cigars a day, he could get one load. It was a treat–a reward. Finding someone interested in him was a struggle, and he was forced to beg over and over, before an older man finally took pity on him, and fucked his face. It was the first time he’d tasted someone’s cum other than Master’s or his own, and he…nearly cried, when the man shot into his mouth. It tasted better than he could even remember, but it was…such a small load. Certainly that meant he could have another, right? He gave up the pretense after four loads, and even managed to find a few men to feed him their piss. When he got up and waddled home that night, pants sodden with piss from his cock, he felt so…good. Not only was the pain gone, but the shivers of pleasure flowing through him–and his cock was rock hard for the first time in nearly a week! Not wanting to waste the opportunity, he jacked off behind a dumpster, his cock still dribbling and flinging piss about as he stroked, but he didn’t care–he wanted a another load–he needed another one. He came into his hand and slurped it up, tasting hints of cigar on it, and he heaved a great sigh of relief, made his way home, and collapsed into bed, happier than he could remember being in a long time.

Of course, when he woke up, head throbbing, mattress and sheets soaked with his piss, he felt horrible. How could he have done that to himself? Master–he was going to be so disappointed in him! He saw a notification on his phone, but the message wasn’t what he’d expected.

“Watching you fail is so fucking satisfying, you fucking piece of shit. I knew you’d never make it, though I thought you’d make it a bit longer than that! Still, seven loads of cum, and four loads of piss–that’s quite a good amount–you’ll find your reward in your account, you fucking slut. See you this afternoon.”

Dumbstruck, he opened up his account, and saw he’d earned close to triple in a single night, than the meager payments Master had sent him him the whole week he’d been trying to be good. He’d wanted him to fail. He’d wanted him to give in–that’s what this was all about. He lit a cigar to calm himself down, to keep the anger at bay, and had a beer too, not bothering to diaper himself, leaking more and more piss into his bed…enjoying the stench. Around one in the afternoon, Master let himself into the apartment, ordered Jug onto the soaking wet bed, and fucked his ass, demanding Jug tell him about the night before, about how it had felt to give in like that, to accept the fact that he was just a fat cumdump urinal. He came, deep, and left again without ceremony…and unable to help himself, Jug ate his Master’s cum from his own ass without even needing to be ordered to do so.

He had to fight this. He had to. He couldn’t live like this. But looking at himself in the mirror, and the dried cum caught in his beard from the night before…he tried to remember himself, but couldn’t. And that night, his will ran out again, and he was back at The Steam Engine, doing what his body did best.

Slave Swap (Part 3)

It was the first time Cameron could remember, where he actively resisted one if his Master’s commands. Certainly some of what Master had ordered him to do before had given him…doubts and reservations, particularly early on, as he’d been growing used to being used for gay sex, but this body, his lack of control, the sheer horror of this violation and betrayal–there was no way he was going to fucking diaper himself. No, this was ludicrous. He fought hard, as his body rose to a standing position, and then lurched out of Master’s office. As he did, he heard a notification on Master’s phone, and he checked it. “Significant resistance. Finally. You’d been far too accommodating thus far slave. I’m glad to see that the consequences of your…submission have dawned on you. Still, fight all you want–it only makes me harder.”

He found the stack of diapers–disposable ones–in the bathroom on the counter, took one from the package and grimaced as his hands pulled it on. He couldn’t stop this. He couldn’t fight this. Wasn’t there some escape clause in the contract? He knew that even a contract of total submission had some limitations, mostly regarding extreme self-harm and murder. But in those cases, the chip itself would shut down as a safeguard. It was obviously still functioning, which meant the contract was still in effect. He looked at himself in the mirror, some fat old man wearing a thick diaper, hands shaking slightly. How long was he going to be staying like this? If this was within the bounds of the contract, then he supposed it could be…for a very long time. If he died in this body, what would happen to him? More disturbing, if something happened to his real body, would he be stuck in this one?

He was feeling sick, and he wasn’t sure if it was because of the terror, or because of something else. There was a sense that…he was craving something, but he didn’t quite know what. Still, he was dressed, the front of his diaper warm from the piss seeping out of him non-stop, and he went back to the office where Master was waiting. “How long am I going to be in this body?” Cameron asked, as soon as he was back in the room.

“I’m not certain, to be honest. The other master and I didn’t agree on an exact timeline.”

“Like…a week? A month?” He didn’t dare mention anything longer, out of his own terror.

Master didn’t reply, he only smiled. “I’m sure that time will fly by, if you just try and enjoy yourself. Now, you should know that this body comes with quite a few quirks you won’t be accustomed to from before. In particular, you are programmed with quite a few…addictions. Physical needs that you’ll need to satisfy on a regular basis, or you’ll begin suffering quite severe symptoms. Some of them are more normal. The body’s owner notes that it’s used to smoking ten to fifteen cigars a day, and generally takes in around eight liters of beer. It also has…a substantial appetite. From the way you’re sweating, you must be feeling the first waves of withdrawal.” Master pushed a cigar, lighter, and a large beer across his desk towards Cameron. “I won’t…tell you to, slave. But if you need them, there they are.”

Cameron felt the body somehow…scream, when it saw the stuff there, and his hands were reaching for it before he even realized it, and he pulled them back, the pain growing a bit worse. The diapers were one thing, but he wasn’t going to let this body control him–he could at least manage that.

Master watched him fight, and groped his cock. Cameron saw he was hard again already. “Of course, the most severe of the body’s programmed addictions are to cum and piss. It requires so much that one person can’t provide enough to satisfy the body’s needs, so we’ll have to find a solution to that, I suppose. It’s a good thing I don’t mind sharing. Better perhaps, because I find you quite…repulsive, actually.”

“Then why…did you agree to this? If you didn’t want this, sir?”

“Oh, I do want this, slave,” Master said, “I don’t have to have sex with you to get sexual enjoyment from you, remember. See, if you’d read that psychological profile of me with an eye for detail, you would have seen that physical sex has never really…been enough for me. No, I love humiliating men, and have fantasies of ruining them. You’re repulsive, but that only…makes me hornier. Besides, I chose this body for you with good reason–your vanity is so…boring. Watching you stare at yourself in the mirror, day in and day out, those god awful clothes you’d buy for yourself? You claimed you were doing that to please me, but you were only pleasing yourself, and your ego. But look at you now! Now we can bring your focus back to where it belongs, because the only way you’re going to be getting that body of yours back, Slave, is by making me happy.”

Cameron didn’t know what to say to that. He felt, and then tasted a tear, and hated the fact that he was crying in front of this horrible man. His body was crying out even louder for the cigar and beer a foot away from him, and his guts were twisting, demanding food, cum and piss. He could smell his diaper already, wafting up, and it was making his mouth water. “This…slave wants you to be happy sir. How can I serve you best?” he said, gritting his teeth.

“I’ll show you.” Master said, “Sleep mode, Slave.”

The Alpha’s Pet (Part 3)

It was early afternoon by the time Jasper stopped and decided to take a break from cleaning the apartment–mostly because his gut had begun to growl a bit. This seemed…a bit odd to him. After all, he’d eaten a sizable breakfast–much larger than he could ever remember eating before this–and while cleaning up the apartment he’d also found himself drawn back to the kitchen every hour or so for some sort of snack. It just…felt good to eat, all of a sudden, and while part of him knew this was wrong, that if he wanted to get his old body back he’d have to stop eating…at the same time, he didn’t want to threaten Daryn, right? If anything…wouldn’t it be better if he was fatter? Less muscular? Less…less of a man than him?

No, he pushed that aside. There was something really weird going on here, and as soon as he finished cleaning up for Daryn, then he was going to go find Mr. Wadsworth, and that old fuck was going to explain what exactly was going on here. This, he was certain, wasn’t the way things were, or should have been, and if that old man had anything to do with this…well, Jasper was certain he could figure out some way to make him fix it, even if he didn’t know what, really, needed fixing. Still, whatever this hunger was, it really was bothering him–he went back into the kitchen, and rather than the lighter junk food he’d been eating, he made himself a sizable lunch, and then devoured it on the couch while he watched TV. When he was finished, he leaned back and let off a nice long belch, expecting to feel full…but while his gut was straining, the hunger he’d been feeling wasn’t satisfied at all.

Distressed, he kept cleaning, and was nearly finished when Daryn returned home from practice, reeking of field and sweat, and he sat down right on the couch, naked, and started watching TV, demanding a beer from the fridge, which Jasper hurried to fetch for him. As he walked away from his jock roommate, however, Jasper had to wipe his chin–something had just made him drool spontaneously, and that growling in his gut was only growing more intense. He occupied himself with preparing dinner, bringing Daryn beer after beer as he knocked them back, and every time he got close to him, Jasper found himself drooling, starving for something but he didn’t know what. He took a plate out to Daryn when dinner was ready, and then devoured a portion five times the size in the kitchen at the table, but the food tasted…dull. It wasn’t what he wanted to eat, but what in the fuck was he so hungry for? Stuffed to the gullet and profoundly unsatisfied, Jasper spent the evening on some schoolwork and then went to bed, hoping his body would settle down in the coming days.

Instead, everything just got worse. Jasper spent the days in relative misery, desperately trying to fill some hole in his belly that he couldn’t explain or even discuss. He tried all kinds of food, anything he’d usually craved in his life, but nothing tasted satisfying. He tried to drink it away, but all that did was provide him with a massive hangover, and a furious Jasper later, when there wasn’t enough beer in the place for him to drink that evening. The drooling only intensified, as well–if he caught even a whiff of Daryn’s musk, his mouth would simply overflow, and his gut would twist into knots, but he didn’t want to eat Daryn. He found his salivation was triggered by other things as well–the nasty piles of sweaty gym laundry Daryn left for him to do, the smell of his piss left in and around the toilet, and the trashcan brimming with cum soaked tissues by Daryn’s computer.

He’d tried to contact Mr. Wadsworth, but the office said he was on a two week vacation, and that since he was out of the country, he was impossible to contact. Jasper doubted this somehow…it seemed like he’d talked with him once or twice since Daryn had fucked him, but he couldn’t remember where, when, or any real details. It was over a week of this, and Jasper was so frustrated he’d be willing to try anything. He could sense that there was something he could do, that the solution was somehow obvious, but it was almost like he was refusing to see it. That…that if he finally understood the problem, and the solution, that might somehow be even worse. One afternoon, while Daryn was out, he couldn’t take it any longer, and he broke down into sobs in the living room. “Please–please, just tell me what to do, I can’t take this anymore!” he shouted–though who he was talking to was unclear.

But the next moment, Mr. Wadsworth was standing beside him, smiling down at him. “Jasper, we’ve already discussed this several times. You know how to make it stop. You know what your body needs now. If you really want to fight it, then this is the price you’ll have to pay.”

“Please, I can’t…just change me back, please.”

“Now, now, I would never do that!” the older man said, “That would ruin my fun. Now come on, I can’t imagine how much you must be hurting right now. Everything you need is right in his room–just go give it a try! You can always stop if you don’t like it, right?”

Yeah…yeah, he just needed…a taste is all. One taste, to get it out of his system, and then he could keep fighting. He was just so tired now, and he needed it so badly. He went into Daryn’s room, to the trashcan he’d never bothered emptying, drool pouring from his mouth. He picked one up–still a bit sodden from a morning load, and pushed it into his mouth. He’d expected it to be dry, but the amount of spit his body was making actually helped it go down so…easily, and fuck, it tasted so good. He fell to his knees, grabbing wad after wad of tissue and cramming it into his mouth, swallowing it all down, horrified at himself, and yet he couldn’t fucking stop.

Stinkers – Coach’s Senior Gifts (Part 6)

“Alright Sponge–not too much longer now,” Coach Robinson said, as he pulled Anton’s foam body back up, and shoved him into the chair. He felt…lighter, now–at least, aside from his head, though the piss cooling in his foam guts gave him a bit of weight. His coach leaned over and kissed him, exploring Anton’s mouth for the last time, wishing, somewhat, he could still smell the boy’s clean breath. He could at least taste him, the blank slate that he was. Fuck, all Robinson wanted to do was defile him, ruin him, but if he stayed human, there was literally nothing he could do that would leave a mark. Like this, however–well, the boy was going to be his now–an object, a dummy, a toy, a mascot for his teams to use and abuse, and he was going to love it. Well, what little bit of him would be left, would love it–there wasn’t exactly much thinking that could happen with a head full of foam. Anton’s eyes were still fearful, but resigned. Coach fed him some more spit, and Anton swallowed it down, feeling it hit the foam below his neck, and soak into him, moistening him, feeding him, nourishing him. Before, when Coach had forced himself on Anton, he’d always left feeling a desperate need to be clean, but now, for the first time, he didn’t want to be clean, he wanted…more. More spit, more cum, more piss, more sweat. He wanted to soak in it, wallow in it, be made of it.

Coach pulled his face away, even as Anton found himself seeking more. He mouthed the word “Please,” and the coach just laughed.

“Now, now–we have to finish you off first, and then you can have as much as you can get.” Coach pulled another rubber tube from his drawer–this one even thicker than the one which had been forced into his ass–and quite a bit longer–nearly two feet long. Anton…knew, where it would be going, and he didn’t…want to want it. Coach put the narrower end of the tube at his mouth and he…opened. Wide, tongue flat. “It’ll go in a bit easier if you swallow–often, and as much as you can, for as long as you can–but it’ll go in regardless.”

Anton nodded. The coach pushed the tube in, hard, and Anton did as the coach had said, and swallowed. It didn’t seem to make much of a difference, and it still hurt–hard enough that he was certain that the rubber wasn’t sliding neatly down his throat, but tearing into it–but it didn’t matter for long. The tube hit the point where flesh became foam, and the resistance picked up–there was over a foot left before the widest part of the tube would be flush with Anton’s lips, and he could see the coach, over him, bringing his weight to bear on the tube, shoving it deeper until it wouldn’t go any further, and it began to merge with his flesh. The coach was no longer pushing on the tube, but stroking it, and while it began as a tickle, soon the sensation of his hand running up and down the flexible rubber was more powerful than even his cock had been, when he’d had one.

After the tube, came a full rubber hood–much like the mitts which had gone over his hands. There were no holes for his eyes, or his nose–it was simply featureless. He could…feel the rubber taking over his skin, and then, fully choked off from the world, his face and head began to change, lighten, the flesh losing mass and becoming foam like the rest of him. He could…feel strong, firm hands on his skull, squeezing and crushing it as it changed, and he lost sense of himself, of his humanity, his brain fading, and leaving just the…need to be damp and wet and filthy. The squeezing stopped, and something else settled over his rubber head–a familiar sensation of a football helmet, his mouth tube fed through the chin strap and the face guard, and that too became part of his body, his new skull. Anton wasn’t there any longer–he was…Sponge.

Sponge couldn’t see, and it couldn’t hear, and it couldn’t smell, but it could…sense. It knew that its coach was there–no, not a coach anymore, because Sponge wasn’t a player, or on a team. Sponge was just a thing–an object, a dummy, a cumrag and urinal. But it could sense its owner, it could sense where he was, and that…that his owner was horny. Horny as fuck, looking at his newest dummy, and Sponge just wanted to be used by him, and satisfy him, over and over again, and be used by anyone and everyone. There were hands on its…tube, its snout or trunk perhaps–they were its owner’s hands, and they were putting something in the end of the tube, some attachment, and he could…feel the new end of its tube, a tight…silicone fuckhole, and its owner put his cock in it, and Sponge…felt so excited. Excited that it was going to be fed. It reached out with its mitts, pawing at its owner, trying to show him how excited it was, how much it needed to be fed, how…dry it was. It could sense how excited its owner was, as it was getting closer, and then, he came, shooting into the tube–and Sponge could taste it, taste all the delicious cum in its tube, and it dropped off the chair and onto its padded knees, and the cum ran down the tube, into its throat and soaked into the foam of its chest–and the sensation of wetting, it was ten times as powerful as it had been before. It felt like, for Sponge, that its purpose had been fulfilled, its entire life reduced to a simple mission: become wet. Hold men’s filth. Store it, and let it rot and mold within him.

Its owner removed his cock, and then grabbed Sponge around the waist, and hefted it over his shoulder. Sponge…enjoyed the sensation, how light it had become, but couldn’t wait until it was properly heavy and sodden. They moved through a doorway, Sponge’s flexible limbs bending awkwardly against it, and beyond he…sensed others. Two fucking…men? Animals? It wasn’t sure, but more importantly, there was so much filth–and Sponge hoped it would get to suck up as much of it as it could.

Stinkers – Coach’s Senior Gifts (Part 4)

After his demonstration, the coach forced Anton into a long sleeve compression shirt–long enough that the spandex and the rubber of his new mitts overlapped slightly, making it difficult to tell where one fabric ended and the other began. Much to Anton’s surprise, even after he’d lost the feeling of his flesh under the shirt, he found that he could still move…but without bones or tendons, he also had a…surprisingly large range of movement. He was like some living doll, and every touch of the coach’s hands on his new “skin” sent waves of pleasure through him. He didn’t want this to be so enjoyable. He was terrified, certainly, but also somehow…excited.

Coach forced him to bend over the desk next, revealing his ass for him. Anton thought coach might want one last fuck before sealing away his asshole underneath the uniform pants, but instead, he took a wide, semi-flexible rubber tube, told Anton to open up his ass, and began sliding the tubing into him. He could feel the rubber wanting to cling to the sides of his ass, as it went in, but Coach kept forcing it deeper–deeper than Anton had ever really taken much of anything before, until there was just an inch or so of tube sticking out from between his ass cheeks. Then, coach stopped, and after a few seconds, the rubber had adhered to the inside of his hole. The inside of the tube was filled with silicone, almost like a fleshlight. The coach’s finger pushed against the rubber sphincter and entered him, making Anton shiver, and an odd…need, overwhelmed him. “There–you might be a dummy, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be useful, right?”

“R-right…” Anton moaned back, without much thought.

“Yeah, I think you like being used, don’t you?”

Anton just moaned again. Coach played with his dummy’s new hole a little longer, and then got the pants and socks he’d already prepared–black spandex, like the shirt, but with pads built into the knees and ass. Socks first, and while Anton’s feet and ankles began to numb up and turn to fluff, Coach forced the pants on, all the way up to his waist. A ragged hole had been left in the front, allowing the jock pouch to peek through the front, and a small hole had been left in the seat of the pants as well. It took a bit of maneuvering, but coach pushed the end of the rubber tube through the hole, and the pants sealed themselves around it–joined with it seamlessly, in fact. Anton was left with an ample butt oddly without much of a crack–just a hole leading deep into Anton’s body, and the fluff it was rapidly becoming.

Now that most of his body had been…converted, he had a better feel for the substance which was now filling his body. It felt more like…foam, than anything else. Pushing in, his body would indent substantially–much more than flesh–but would return to it’s shape rapidly. It reminded him of those memory foam mattresses, or an unused but first-wetted sponge.  He tried to stay standing, but the foam feet kept giving way under his weight. Coach put on two cleats next, which helped–giving strength and structure to his ankles and soles, allowing his the ability to walk–slowly, but he…could tell he would become better at it in time.

It was with some fear that Anton realized that, for several minutes now, he hadn’t heard, or felt, his heart beat. He also wasn’t breathing, now that he had no internal organs to pump air or blood through him. He tried to speak, but while his mouth could move, there was no air inside of him which could be forced out to make sound–he was just a human head, miming language uselessly.

“Almost done, dummy. Just a few more pieces. How about we get your jersey and pads on, eh?”

Anton had seen the yellow jersey with black writing in the corner, but it wasn’t until Coach had put it on him that he saw his new number on the front–34, the same number he had out on the field, in fact, but the name on the back was different. Instead of his last name, all it said was “Sponge.” The word filled his head with fear, thinking about what coach had demonstrated earlier, with his crotch, but the foam body…it had begun to ache. It needed to be wet, if it was going to move, after all. If he hardened, then he’d be frozen in place, like a statue. He was…damp at the moment, thanks to the water held in all the flesh he’d been before, but if he didn’t get more, he’d shrivel up.

Sensing his thoughts, Robinson patted him on his padded shoulder, “Don’t worry Sponge, I have lots of guys who will be keeping you well…saturated. My teams always love my dummies, and use them plenty. You’ll be holding onto all of our piss and cum and spit and sweat for a long time–everything might have just wiped off you before, but now, you’re going to be keeping everything.”

He pushed Anton over at the waist–it didn’t feel like bending over, it felt like he was just some doll, being manipulated by an owner. The rubber tube emerging from his new ass was a couple inches wide–an easy target, though Coach missed on purpose, soaking the seat of Anton’s ass in piss, before sending the rest of the stream into the tube, where Anton could feel it reach the end, deep within him, and the piss just started…suffusing him. It was warm, and pleasant…almost like the time coach had made him piss himself out on the field, after a particularly humiliating fumble. “Yeah, feels good, doesn’t it? It’ll take a while, but pretty soon, you’ll be dribbling filth with every step you take, heavy with everyone’s fluids. I bet you’re already starting to ache for it, right? Well, we just have to take care of that head of yours, now, and once that’s done, you’ll be a dummy through and through, Sponge–isn’t that exciting?”

Stinkers – Coach’s Senior Gifts (Part 2)

“Just…leave. You don’t have to be here, you can just leave, just fucking leave!” Anton was saying to himself, but his body wasn’t having anything to do with his thoughts or words. Then again, he’d grown used to his body betraying him around the coach. Ever since the first practice with him, he’d…sensed something strange between them, between the way they both smelled, and coach knew it too. Robinson had never given him a clear answer, regarding what, about Anton, was so special. All he really knew, was that whenever the coach was around him, he just wanted to get him as musky and stinking as possible–smearing him with the team’s dirty laundry, pissing and cumming on him, making him skip showers, leaving his own uniform unwashed…

Erik and Paul–they made sense, somehow. Neither was particularly clean, they would enjoy the sorts of things the coach did to them–especially Erik. Why not pick Erik for some special treatment? Why him?

“Ah, there’s my special boy,” Robinson said, entering the office and shutting the door behind him. The room was tight, and immediately, the coach’s musk overwhelmed the room. Anton’s breath quickened, and his desire to leave was beginning to fade, but he did his best to keep his focus.

“Sir…what…I don’t understand, why am I special?”

“Oh Anton, all these years! I don’t…find men like you very often. For stinkers like me, well, you’re a real find. So clean! Everything just…wipes right off of you. But don’t worry, I’ve been at this for quite a while,” the older man leered at him, opened a drawer in his desk, which is where he kept the sex toys he used with his harem of young athletes. But he didn’t take out a dildo–he brought out an athletic cup, but no jock to go with it. “Don’t worry, you’ll enjoy this soon enough. I’ve been needing another dummy–my last one finally fell to bits a few years ago. Sold some of his salvageable parts to a few friends of mine, but the rot! It just got in everywhere.”

None of that made any sense at all, but before Anton could get any answers, Robinson had taken the cup and pressed it to Anton’s crotch, over his cock and balls. He felt a series of stings all around it–it reminded him of how it had felt to get stitches, like when he was a kid and had cut open his knee on some glass–and when the coach pulled his hand away, the cup remained against Anton’s crotch, against gravity.

He reached down and tried to pull it free, but it was like he was tugging at his own skin. “Now now, if you get it off, it’ll be a bloody mess. Leave it alone, and stand still!”

Anton obeyed, “Sir, please…I don’t understand what’s going on.”

“I could talk at you for days, Anton, and you’d never get it,” Robinson said, “But more than that, I’m sick of listening to you. Since I can’t get to the mask yet, shut the fuck up, and enjoy this,” he stroked the front of the cup, and Anton…shuddered, and nearly staggered to the side. He could…feel that. He felt coach’s hand on the plastic cup. He realized he couldn’t feel his cock, or his balls, either. “See? It’ll all feel so very good, once it’s finished. Relax! Now, let’s get you dressed.”

A jock next–a clean one, or at least a new one. Anton noticed that it seemed…stiff, somehow, and when it was on, he felt that same…stitching sensation as before, even around the cup. He looked closer at the waistband, and it was a part of his body. There was skin, then there was elastic, then there was skin. What in the world was happening to him? He kept at it, trying to get the jock to pull away from his body, but it refused to come away.

Coach grabbed him by the wrist, and held him tight. “None of that now,” he said, “I can do your fists early, at least.” Anton was expecting gloves, but instead coach pulled out two things that looked like rubber balloons, and started forcing them over Anton’s fists. The rubber was secured with two leather bracelets, not that it was necessary. The rubber edge fused to his skin like the jock strap had, and the leather fused on top of the rubber. He kept moving his fists as long as he could, but they grew numb, quickly, and soon he felt…nothing. Just two bulbous, rubber mitts where his hands had been a moment before. He looked at his coach, terrified, but the leer on his face…it was crueler than he’d ever seen. “Still confused boy? Here, let Coach demonstrate.”

Robinson hauled out his cock, pointed it at Anton’s crotch–which was now just a jockstrap, bulging out like there was a cup beneath it, and started pissing on it. Anton felt the warmth…and felt it seep into him. The piss, it was inside him, under his skin somehow, and he just looked down, seeing the white jock turn yellow from the coach’s acrid piss. Robinson cut off the stream, reached out, and gave the boy’s pouch a squeeze. Anton moaned in pleasure, and felt the coach…wring the piss right out of his body, making it dribble from out around his fist and onto the floor beneath them.

His cock and balls–they were gone. They were just…fluff now, fabric, stuffing. What little structure the flexible cup provided was all that remained. It couldn’t possibly be true, he had to be hallucinating, but he…knew what he’d just felt, and coach could see the realization dawning on him. “Now, how about we get you dressed the rest of the way, dummy? Then we can check on those two teammates of yours, and really have some fun.”

Every Pig in His Place (2 of 2)

My personal life started to suffer. I couldn’t get any work done, normal clothes no longer felt normal. Friends who had known me for years couldn’t even recognize me, passing them in the street. I wasn’t even sure I knew who I was anymore. Membership in our little club swelled and diminished over the weeks, and I found myself in a new role–now I was the person looking for a place there, now I was the one looking to stay, and these new men joining us, thinking they could just fly forever. Now I was the one smiling at them, knowing how fucking wrong they were too, how wrong I’d been myself.

Every night now, I went straight to the bar. It was the only place I felt alive anymore, the only place where I felt like I belonged/ I’d stopped looking at myself in mirrors months ago, whenever possible…after the tattoos had started to appear, after I couldn’t even see anything human in my eyes any longer. I started dressing in rubber, preferably with a mask. I felt more comfortable that way, without a face, without a name. In the bar, I was just an object–I’d gone from a big dicked fucker to a servicer. Drinking cum and piss, everyone helping themselves to my holes whenever they wanted me. I got to know the man I’d seen that first night, watching me–that, was Rod. The owner, the ringmaster, the warden. He never used me, but he did watch me, and every night, he’d take the pleasure of 86-ing me onto the street, personally, telling me I couldn’t stay, that I still wasn’t ready!

And I would slink back out, sucking as much cock on the way out as I could, thrown back up into the air from the pond again, but I was losing momentum fast. So one night, I found Rod first, and I begged him. I begged him to find a place for me, to let me stay, that I couldn’t live out there anymore, that I didn’t belong out there–I belonged here now, and he knew it as well as I did. So he found a place for me alright–right here, where I’ve been for…well, a good long time.

I tried to deny it, I tried to take it back. I wasn’t supposed to be here, in the bathroom, I wasn’t a toilet…was I? He had to chain me down for a while, keep me in place, until I understood, until I felt it in my bones. Until the time he let me try to leave, and the thought of leaving…terrified me. I wasn’t worthy of leaving, this is where I belong–and it’s where you belong too. Yeah, you can struggle against those chains all you want, but they aren’t what’s really keeping you here–it’s you, pig. It’s who you are. Who we both are. Don’t worry, we’ll have lots of fun together. It’s been lonely, all by myself, and Rod promised me I’d have a friend soon…and now I do! I have you.

“Let’s See How He Likes It” (2 of 2)

He ended up not at the bear bar, but at one of the twink bars he usually went to when he was looking for someone hot to fuck. Only now, instead of his sexy muscled body, he was an old, slobby grandpa, reeking of cigar smoke and booze, holding down the bar and ogling all of the sexy twinks in the room…but he wasn’t…here to just stare. No…no, he needed…to do something more.

He was already ashamed of himself, of his appearance, but when one hot, muscled guy caught his eye (someone he’d fucked around with before, in his old body), he hopped off the barstool, waddled over and started hitting on him, asking that muscle god to plow his old hole into next week. He got turned down of course, and duly humiliated for even trying at all, but much to his surprise, Vince’s now much smaller cock started leaking cum, and he felt…good. Yeah, humiliating himself like that felt amazing. Unable to stop himself, he spied some other muscle fuck and begged him as well. He knew he never had a chance, but that wasn’t what he was after–not really. No, he wanted these hot men to shame him, to humiliate him and berate him. Nothing…nothing got him harder than that now, he was starting to realize.

After a few hours, he’d bugged enough guys that the bouncers tossed him out. Fine–he had…other places to go too. Now his feet were heading somewhere else, in the late night…heading back towards one of the bear bars he always used to fuck with, but now, everyone there seemed to be expecting him. They parked him in the corner on his knees, and he was the night’s cumdump and urinal. Happily so, in fact. Every load of cum and piss just got him hornier, but his cock refused to get hard–it would just…leak, soaking the crotch of his jeans in precum, but his desire only intensified.

Finally, the bar closed, and he waddled home, gut heaving with cum and piss. Home was different now–a filthy studio apartment–but while he recalled his old life clearly…he knew he’d never be going back. He got naked and logged onto the computer, ready to start messaging some of the muscle men he paid regularly–paid them to…humiliate him over video chat. Sometimes, they even shamed him enough that he was able to cum, but that usually only happened a few times a month. This was his life now–spend all day paying young men to humiliate him, cruise the hot bars for more punishment each night, drink cum and piss at the sleazy bars and bathhouses around town until the early hours of the morning, and then get up and repeat. Soon enough, his old life seemed like a dream–but he wouldn’t trade his new one for anything.

Spray 

WARNING: FILTH AND SCAT AHEAD!

The bathhouse wasn’t a place you went often. Only when you got…particularly horny, and were craving something a bit more crazy. Not too crazy, mind you–you’d seen some of the things the men there got into, especially down in the basement. That wasn’t for you, you told yourself. You liked things clear, though you liked a little rough on occasion. But that night, something went askew, didn’t it?

You’d liked him, as soon as you’d seen him. A bit grungy, a bit of a rebel. That mohawk, that…dirty jock he was wearing. He was willing to throw you around, push you up against walls, willing to take it from you too. The two of you wrestling around on the concrete, a few other men watching the scene, curious if there was a chance of joining in. He got you on your knees, and you were expecting to suck cock–instead, he slipped his cock free of his jock, aimed, and sprayed you with a blast of piss. The force of it stunned you–like someone with their thumb over a garden hose. You were soaked in a second. You couldn’t escape the smell, the taste, the thrill of it. You’d never once imagined you might enjoy a scene like this, but as the men circled around you and hoed you down, you found your…mind shifting.

You swore to yourself it was a one time thing, as you walked home in street clothes, your skin still damp and reeking. You didn’t shower when you got home however–you laid down in the tub and jacked off to your stench, and then pissed all over yourself for good measure. After that, the bathhouse became a…regular activity for you, didn’t it? You just couldn’t quite find anywhere else that made you feel the same. You tried to keep away from watersports at first, but as soon as anyone caught a whiff of you, they knew what you really wanted. You felt so…ashamed, walking home, dripping with piss. Knowing that everyone who passed by could tell what you wanted, what you were. But while the shame never faded, you found yourself…enjoying it. You wanted people to know what you were, it made you harder than a gut full of secondhand beer.

You didn’t see him for almost a year. You never even realized you were looking for him, until you saw him again. The lump in your throat–was it fear, or thrill? It was too late to move to another room, he’d already seem you there, in the basement corner–what had come to be known as your “spot” when you were there. You sucked him off for a bit, drank his piss down too, but you could…sense something coming. He spun around, bent over, and before you could do much more than blink, he sprayed the contents of his ass all over your face and chest–and like the piss before…it was more than you could take, more than your mind could possibly handle, and remain whole.

Now here you are, in your corner. You almost never leave the building now–most men only see you as an it, a thing, a toilet, a trashcan, a repository for their shame. He’s over there, your creator. Some man is desperate to fuck his hole–a new top, apparently. Were you unlucky, to have been made into this thing? Could you have been fated to be something else? The man’s in balls deep now, and you’re licking your scummy lips. He’ll feed you, after this–he’ll want you to taste his new creation, right from his own ass. You wish you weren’t hard, you wish you weren’t cumming at the thought of the frothy, cummy shit you’d be feasting on soon, but that you is long gone now, and won’t ever be coming back, not after your taste of this life.

The Power of Society (Part 4)

“Um…how are we supposed to piss in these things?”

Several other hands dropped down. It was the first question Harold had expected, of course. “That’s rather easy–you simply piss through the uniform. Who has another question.”

“Wait, if we piss through it, all day long, and if we can’t wash it or take a shower, then…” the young man paused, hoping the rest of the question would be clear, but Harold motioned for him to continue–he wanted to hear the young man say it. “Then won’t it…be kind of dirty?”

“Yes, it will. That’s the purpose of the uniform.”

“No way, fuck this shit–I’m cutting this thing off,” one of the other men said, and stood up, heading for the kitchen, and a knife.

“Now, I feel a demonstration would help make this a bit clearer. After all, now that you are all dressed, I can demonstrate the purpose of this study. Come up here, and tell me your name.”

He wasn’t quite sure what made his feet veer off from his intended direction, but the stocky young man made his way to the front and stood by Harold. “My name is Adam.”

“Alright Adam. Now–I’m sure that your desire to remove your uniform was driven by the fact that you need to piss like a racehorse, don’t you?”

Adam nodded, though admitting the fact in front of his housemates made his face flush red.

“Well, go on then. Piss.”

“Right here?”

“Yes, right here please.”

“But I don’t want…to?” he said, only noticing that his cock had obeyed the professor already, and a stream of piss was arcing out the front of his jock pouch–well, spraying, was a bit more accurate, perhaps. Several men in the front scooted back to avoid the piss, and while Adam tried to stop himself, he couldn’t.

“Now, it is my hypothesis, that the dirtier a jock behaves and becomes, something happens to his brain chemistry,” Harold said, passing his hand through the spray of piss, and then slathering the wet hand across Adam’s face and hair. “They begin to lose access to their higher mental functions. They become more and more obsessed with perverse, filthy behavior. Their bodies put out copious amounts of musk, they desire one another’s stink and piss, they find themselves obsessed with fucking and masturbation.” He stopped, and adjusted his watch a moment, “In short–at the heart of every jock, I believe, is a filthy perverted animal, which can be unlocked by forcing that jock to become filthy, by forcing them to debase and humiliate themselves in front of their fellow jocks and the outside world. That this true jock is shameless, a complete faggot, hungry for cum, piss and sweat, their only desires in the world are working out, perving out, and wrestling and fighting their fellow jocks for dominance.”

Adam’s piss had slowed to a trickle, which was now running down his inner thigh. He licked his lips, tasting the piss left there by Harold’s hand, and shuddered, a dribble of precum leaking out the head of his cock. He tried to stop himself, but he started rubbing the pouch with one hand, groaning and snorting, switching hands to lick the piss and precum from the first. The rest of the house stared on in horror. “As you can see, Adam is one of these jocks, as are the rest of you, I believe.”

“I’m not…fucking like that. That’s fucking disgusting,” another man said, but everyone could hear the tremor of doubt in his voice.

“That’s what the experiment is setup to find out,” Harold said, “But I assure you, my hypotheses are never wrong. Reality has a way of…working out in my favor, right Adam?”

With a grunt, Adam’s cock started leaking cum through the pouch, and he smeared it back over the fabric. He didn’t know what was wrong with him, or why he couldn’t control himself. The…stink was opening up something deep in his mind, something he’d never known was there. He could smell the piss soaking into the carpet, and he dropped to his hands and knees, sucking it up in front of everyone. Some in the front, who could smell the piss, had begun rubbing their own cocks through the mesh pouch prisons, without even really noticing–imagining that it was them, there, instead of Adam, thinking about whether than piss might taste as good as it smells.

“Now, any other questions?”

One more hand went up, tentatively, “How, uh, how are we supposed to have sex, like this?”

“Oh, well, in your new uniforms, you are, of course, unable to penetrate anything. That said, you are free to frot as much as you desire on one another. Demonstrate, if you would, Adam.”

Unable to resist, he crawled forward to the nearest jock in front of him, and began rubbing his cock on his housemate’s thigh, groaning and grunting as he did, the other man disturbed, and yet…incredibly aroused by the sight.

“You are, of course, free to pleasure one another orally, and many jocks find themselves…desiring anal stimulation, as the process progresses. I imagine many of you will likely come to desire one another’s fists deep inside of your assholes, as the study continues. This kind of desire is completely normal for jocks like all of you, who are all rather…submissive creatures, in nature.” He saw one or two men’s hands slip between their thighs, poking and prodding at their hole, already accepting the suggestion as fact. “Now, I fear I must get going. A work crew will be here in an hour or so to install cameras throughout the house, but none of you will notice a thing out of the ordinary, and will behave as though you are not being observed. I leave you jocks to it! I hope you all deeply enjoy your journeys of self discovery.” With that, he left–even more thrilled. This was going to be a very fruitful experiment, he believed.

Within five hours, every jock in the house had piss through their new uniforms, and all of them found themselves in positions similar to Adam’s–new desires were welling up within them, and very few found themselves capable of controlling themselves for long. A small orgy erupted in the living room, when some of the jocks gathered to discuss a way of escaping…but found themselves too distracted by the scents of one another to resist their new, inner urges. Other’s resisted, as best they could…but no one in the house believed that the jock within them would remain dormant for very long.