u/pupknibbler

My hole still twitches when I remember the night a stranger finally fisted me in the Eagle’s back hallway—right after I’d already been bred by multiple men like the sloppy, greedy faggot I truly am.

The switch starts days before Pride. Buttoned-up business professional by day, I begin the slow unraveling. Chastity locks first so my pathetic nub can’t ruin everything with post-nut clarity. Clean eating, nonstop porn, endless app scrolling while I edge my brain into mush. Every shower I count out loud while riding that XXL plug—at least 25 deep thrusts like a good boy. The “respectable” me starts to deconstruct, layer by layer, until all that’s left is this needy vessel, empty and aching to be filled.

After a full year of nothing but toys—my collection growing more obscene every few weeks, the massive Sigmund becoming my regular warm-up—I was beyond desperate for a real hand. That Pride night I showed up already locked, brain fogged from edibles and hormones, ass pre-stretched and dripping. I looked like Sporty Spice’s nasty brother: pig hat backwards, harness under a cheap tee, red-and-black Mr. S jock framing my locked cock, gym shorts, knee-high socks, and a sling bag full of poppers and lube. Ready to be used.

Ivan’s behind the bar—tall, muscular, that thick Russian-Boston accent, pierced nips and the gorgeous 8-inch PA cock that’s already bred me on plenty of slow nights. He flashes me that hungry smirk while I flirt hard and down my Long Islands.

Two drinks and heavy grinding in, I slip into what friends jokingly call the “car wash.” The second that heavy black curtain falls behind me, I remember why. You don’t just walk through this L-shaped tunnel—you get processed. A pitch-black gauntlet of hands, wet mouths, and heavy bodies. By the time you come out the other side, you’ve been scrubbed, buffed, and rinsed with something much stickier than soap.

The wall of heat and stench hits instantly—stale beer, industrial cleaner, musky leather, and raw man-sex. The bass thumps so deep it becomes my surrogate heartbeat. No faces. Just hands, breath, heat, and cocks. I push my ass out against the wall, legs spread, and become the vessel.

Poppers hit hard. Two different men breed me deep in that pitch black. I don’t even turn around. Just moan like a bitch while they pump their loads into my sloppy pussy, one right after the other. I’m nothing but community property.

Then those same familiar fingers return, sloshing through the fresh cum. It’s him again—my short king. More lube. Another hit of poppers.

And then his fist slides in.

No pain, just that slow, overwhelming stretch that rewrites everything. My first fist cherry, popped right there in the dark. He’s patient but relentless—knuckles twisting, palm turning, opening me while my body shakes with hunger. His calm control destroys my melted brain. I feel stretched to the absolute limit of who I am, guts rearranged, every inch claimed. The professional from Monday morning is gone, replaced by this drooling animal I barely recognize. He punches my second ring and I shoot hands-free, soaking my jock like a broken whore.

He fists me through song after song, wrecking me deeper while the bass pounds through both of us. I’m completely deconstructed.

When the peak hits, he finally pulls out—slow, deliberate, that obscene suction making me whimper against the wall as my hole tries to cling to the emptiness he leaves behind. A heavy, warm hand lands on the small of my back for a second. A silent “good boy.” Then he’s gone. Just a short, solid shadow fading back into the darkness.
The house lights scream on. Closing time. My guts feel heavy, throbbing, gaping. I can barely walk as I stumble back to the bar on shaky legs. I catch my reflection behind the bottles—the business professional is dead. Replaced by this flushed, sweaty mess. I wonder if my clients could smell the poppers and cum on me right now. If they saw me like this—leaking, hollowed out, legs still trembling—would they even recognize the guy who runs their meetings?

These people are still tethered to the normal world. I’m not. I’m buzzing. Unmoored. Wearing the hottest lie while my wrecked pussy still vibrates from a stranger’s fist.
Ivan leans over the bar, eyes dragging over my flushed neck and shaking knees. He grins that dark, knowing grin.

“I’ve been hearing about you all night, little pig. Sounds like you’ve been a real good cum dump for my clientele.” His voice drops into that thick Russian-Boston growl as he grabs the back of my neck. “You’re still too wide open to go home, faggot. Finish your drink. I already texted the guys at the bathhouse. Sling room’s ours. Go get in it and start taking loads. I want to watch every man use that sloppy hole… then I’m breeding you last.”

My wrecked pussy clenches hard around nothing. This greedy faggot’s night still wasn’t over.

My hole still twitches when I remember the night a stranger finally fisted me in the Eagle’s back hallway—right after I’d already been bred by multiple men like the sloppy, greedy faggot I truly am.

The switch starts days before Pride. Buttoned-up business professional by day, I begin the slow unraveling. Chastity locks first so my pathetic nub can’t ruin everything with post-nut clarity. Clean eating, nonstop porn, endless app scrolling while I edge my brain into mush. Every shower I count out loud while riding that XXL plug—at least 25 deep thrusts like a good boy. The “respectable” me starts to deconstruct, layer by layer, until all that’s left is this needy vessel, empty and aching to be filled.

After a full year of nothing but toys—my collection growing more obscene every few weeks, the massive Sigmund becoming my regular warm-up—I was beyond desperate for a real hand. That Pride night I showed up already locked, brain fogged from edibles and hormones, ass pre-stretched and dripping. I looked like Sporty Spice’s nasty brother: pig hat backwards, harness under a cheap tee, red-and-black Mr. S jock framing my locked cock, gym shorts, knee-high socks, and a sling bag full of poppers and lube. Ready to be used.

Ivan’s behind the bar—tall, muscular, that thick Russian-Boston accent, pierced nips and the gorgeous 8-inch PA cock that’s already bred me on plenty of slow nights. He flashes me that hungry smirk while I flirt hard and down my Long Islands.

Two drinks and heavy grinding in, I slip into what friends jokingly call the “car wash.” The second that heavy black curtain falls behind me, I remember why. You don’t just walk through this L-shaped tunnel—you get processed. A pitch-black gauntlet of hands, wet mouths, and heavy bodies. By the time you come out the other side, you’ve been scrubbed, buffed, and rinsed with something much stickier than soap.

The wall of heat and stench hits instantly—stale beer, industrial cleaner, musky leather, and raw man-sex. The bass thumps so deep it becomes my surrogate heartbeat. No faces. Just hands, breath, heat, and cocks. I push my ass out against the wall, legs spread, and become the vessel.

Poppers hit hard. Two different men breed me deep in that pitch black. I don’t even turn around. Just moan like a bitch while they pump their loads into my sloppy pussy, one right after the other. I’m nothing but community property.

Then those same familiar fingers return, sloshing through the fresh cum. It’s him again—my short king. More lube. Another hit of poppers.

And then his fist slides in.

No pain, just that slow, overwhelming stretch that rewrites everything. My first fist cherry, popped right there in the dark. He’s patient but relentless—knuckles twisting, palm turning, opening me while my body shakes with hunger. His calm control destroys my melted brain. I feel stretched to the absolute limit of who I am, guts rearranged, every inch claimed. The professional from Monday morning is gone, replaced by this drooling animal I barely recognize. He punches my second ring and I shoot hands-free, soaking my jock like a broken whore.

He fists me through song after song, wrecking me deeper while the bass pounds through both of us. I’m completely deconstructed.

When the peak hits, he finally pulls out—slow, deliberate, that obscene suction making me whimper against the wall as my hole tries to cling to the emptiness he leaves behind. A heavy, warm hand lands on the small of my back for a second. A silent “good boy.” Then he’s gone. Just a short, solid shadow fading back into the darkness.
The house lights scream on. Closing time. My guts feel heavy, throbbing, gaping. I can barely walk as I stumble back to the bar on shaky legs. I catch my reflection behind the bottles—the business professional is dead. Replaced by this flushed, sweaty mess. I wonder if my clients could smell the poppers and cum on me right now. If they saw me like this—leaking, hollowed out, legs still trembling—would they even recognize the guy who runs their meetings?

These people are still tethered to the normal world. I’m not. I’m buzzing. Unmoored. Wearing the hottest lie while my wrecked pussy still vibrates from a stranger’s fist.
Ivan leans over the bar, eyes dragging over my flushed neck and shaking knees. He grins that dark, knowing grin.

“I’ve been hearing about you all night, little pig. Sounds like you’ve been a real good cum dump for my clientele.” His voice drops into that thick Russian-Boston growl as he grabs the back of my neck. “You’re still too wide open to go home, faggot. Finish your drink. I already texted the guys at the bathhouse. Sling room’s ours. Go get in it and start taking loads. I want to watch every man use that sloppy hole… then I’m breeding you last.”

My wrecked pussy clenches hard around nothing. This greedy faggot’s night still wasn’t over.

>Disclaimer / Content Warning

>This is a true personal story from my early days at the Eagle. This story contains heavy consensual non-consent vibes, verbal abuse, piss marking, and raw breeding with minimal lube. It’s filthy, degrading, and unapologetic. If any of that isn’t your thing, swipe past — no hard feelings.

>Tags:
Piss Play • Humiliation • Rough Sex • CNC Elements • Public/ Semi-Public • Chastity • Degradation • Marking

Pre-Game

I started the night alone in my apartment with a pitcher of Long Islands mixed strong — that sweet, sneaky shit that hits the back of your head and turns your brain fuzzy fast. Three tall glasses down and I was already loose, warm, and horny as fuck.

The buzz had me deep in that perfect submission headspace — the one where the big strong bear who runs meetings and wears suits all week completely disappears. I felt small, stupid, and eager, like my only purpose was to get used. I kept muttering to myself in the mirror, voice thick, “You’re just a hole tonight. A locked-up pink-caged pig. Let them break you.” Every sip pushed me further under, making my hole twitch and my brain soft and ready to obey.

I stood in front of the mirror, buzz humming, and shoved my pathetic nub into the cheap pink plastic flat cage. Clicked the lock shut. My heavy shaved balls hung low while the bright pink pressed tight against my skin. I gave the cage a rough tug, felt it bite, and grinned at myself like an idiot. Pre-cum was already beading at the piss slit.

I slicked three fingers with thick lube and worked them deep into my hole, opening myself up nice and sloppy just in case. Then I pulled on the black leather harness, the thin white running shorts. No underwear. The pink cage showed through like a goddamn billboard. Perfect. I downed one more Long Island, grabbed my cap, and headed to the Eagle already half-drunk, pre-lubed, and leaking.

At the Bar

Thirsty Thursday was picking up fast. The bar was getting louder and more crowded — more boots, more harnesses, more hungry eyes. The Long Island buzz sat heavy and warm in my gut, making my steps loose and my hole twitch with every move. I parked my ass at the bar in just the harness and those thin white shorts. The pink flat cage was impossible to miss under the lights.

Ivan was working behind the bar. Tall, cut muscle queen with that pretty-boy face and a predator’s dead stare. He kept serving drinks but his eyes kept dragging back to me and my thighs. After a few minutes he leaned over the bar, thick forearms resting on the wood, and let his upper body press close. His eyes dropped straight to my lap and locked on the obvious bright pink bulge.

He smirked, slow and mean. “Cute. Pink cage on a big bear? You’re really out here begging to get ruined tonight, huh?”

The buzz made me bold. I shrugged, voice thick. “Depends who’s doing the ruining.”

He leaned in even closer, a Russian-Boston growl vibrating against my ear. His hand dropped below the bar top, palm rubbing rough over the pink plastic, squeezing hard enough to make my nub leak fresh pre-cum into the cage. “Feel that? Already dripping. Pathetic little thing trying to get hard in pink plastic.” He gave it one more possessive grope, licked his fingers clean, then picked up a rag with the same hand and wiped the bar like nothing happened. “Bathroom. Five minutes. Don’t make me wait, pig.”

I chugged that drink! My head was spinning nice and warm and headed straight to the nasty back bathroom. I pushed the door open, heart slamming, and dropped to my knees right there on the sticky tile. The floor was disgusting — old piss, dried cum, boot grit, and god knows what else caked under my skin. The heavy piss smell crawled up my nose while the Long Island buzz kept everything slow and loud at the same time.

I left the door unlocked like a good pig.

Seconds stretched. Every muffled bass hit made my stomach flip. Boots clomped past in the hallway. Guys laughing, talking loud. Any second that door could swing open and some stranger would see me — a faggot in a harness, pink cage bulging through soaked white shorts, already leaking pre-cum down my thigh, kneeling next to a urinal. The thought made my hole twitch. The drunk buzz turned the shame into heat.

The door finally clicked shut. The lock turned.

Ivan stood over me, tall and cut, looking down with pure athletic disgust. “On your knees already? Good little cum dump.”

He hauled out that fat eight-inch cock, thick PA piercing glinting. Gave it a lazy stroke. Then aimed it right at me and let go.

The stream split wild, hot and messy, hosing me down on purpose. It blasted my hat and face, soaked my mustache till it hung heavy and dripping, burned across my harness, and flooded my shorts. Scalding piss hit the cold pink cage and ran everywhere. My nub tried to swell anyway, leaking thick pre-cum that mixed with his piss and turned the inside of my shorts into a warm, slimy wreck. The drunk buzz made the heat and stink hit even harder. Balls dripped. Heavy piss smell filled my nose and mouth.

“Look at you,” he laughed low. “Big strong man on his knees getting marked like a urinal. Pathetic.”

He shook the last drops across my face, grabbed my chin hard, and spat a thick stringy glob on my lips — whiskey and cigar. “Open, faggot.”

I did. He shoved in raw, piercing scraping my throat while he face-fucked me merciless. Piss dripped off my soaked mustache into my mouth with every thrust. My eyes watered. Knees burned on the filthy floor.

He pulled out, cock shiny, and planted his boot on my shoulder. Shoved me back so he could stare. Then dragged the dirty sole across my piss-wet face, grinding my cheek into the tile. The tread pressed down on my leaking pink cage and heavy balls until I grunted.

“Look at that sad pink cage. Leaking like a busted faucet already.” He laughed. “This bitch is dripping just from getting pissed on.”

He yanked me up and slammed me chest-first into the wall. Cold tile bit my wet nipples. He hawked a fat glob onto his cock, smeared it, and shoved in raw — but my pre-lubed hole took him easy on the first thrust. The burn was still brutal, skin dragging against the leftover piss, but the slick let him bottom out hard and fast.

“Fuck, listen to that greedy pussy,” he growled right in my ear, hips snapping. “Pre-lubed like a good whore. You really walked in here ready to be a cum dump, didn’t you?”

He railed me deep and mean, short brutal strokes because his break was short. Wet, filthy slaps echoed off the tiles. Every thrust made my flat pink cage grind against the wall. My nub stayed crushed but leaked like a faucet — thick pre-cum pouring out around the plastic, mixing with piss and lube, running down my balls in messy strings.

“You’re pathetic,” he snarled, pounding harder. “Big fucking faggot outside, suit-wearing boy during the week, and here you are — just a locked pink hole for real men to wreck. Say it.”

I gasped it out between thrusts, voice wrecked. “Just a locked pink hole…”

“Louder, pig.”
He slammed in so deep my knees buckled. “All that muscle and you’re still weaker than my dick. Nothing but a tally mark waiting to happen. I want you dripping other men’s loads all night.”

He kept running his mouth, mean and relentless. “Gonna mark you up and send you back out there like the bar slut you are. Every time you take another load, you come find me. I’m keeping count on that fat back. By closing time you’re gonna look like a used-up fucking scoreboard.”

The words hit harder than the cock. My hole clenched around him, leaking even more. The drunk buzz made everything feel like it was melting — pain, shame, pleasure all twisted together.

Right before he blew he yanked out. Sharpie cap popped. Cold felt-tip pressed right above my crack and dragged slow — squeeeak.

“One.”

Then he slammed back in and unloaded. Thick, heavy spurts painting my guts while he growled into my neck, teeth scraping skin. When he pulled out, warm cum ran down my thigh in a slow, sloppy trail.

He smacked my ass hard, leaving a big red handprint right under the fresh tally.
“Leave it showing, pig. I want every thirsty queen out there to see what a marked-up cum dump you are. And don’t disappear tonight. Be a good slut — come back every time you get bred. I’m collecting every tally.”

One last mocking tap on my leaking pink cage with his boot, then he zipped up, flashed that cocky grin, and walked out.

I stayed on my knees — piss-soaked, face streaked, load dripping, black mark burning on my skin — breathing in the stink of him, still buzzing hard. Those thin white shorts were now plastered to me, completely translucent, the bright pink cage and fresh black tally clearly visible through the soaked fabric. The big respected bear who wore a suit during the week? That guy was officially dead. Just a marked-up, leaking pig kneeling in another man’s waste… already wondering how many more tallies I’d collect before last call.

That was the night I met Ivan.

It definitely wasn’t the last tally he put on me.

>Content Warning
This story is based on a real night that actually happened. I just embellished the filth and details for you degenerates to enjoy. All people are consenting adults (late 20s / mid 30s). This is dark fantasy erotica exploring consensual non-consent (CNC) and total submission.

Extreme adult content ahead: heavy intoxication (poppers, alcohol, pills), public humiliation, degradation, rough anonymous sex, fisting, piss play, blackout/ disassociation, verbal abuse, small penis humiliation, and free-use while the bottom is barely conscious.

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It was one of those sticky, loud nights at the Eagle where the air hung thick with leather, sweat, poppers, and the sour reek of dried beer and cum on the floor. I’d knocked back a few drinks, the familiar warm burn in my gut, and the bass from the house music was pounding straight through my balls. That rare dominant itch had been crawling up my spine all week. Usually I’m the one getting absolutely ruined. In my mid-thirties, beefy, bald and scruffy - I had my pick of the meat. But tonight the switch flipped hard. The shadow side wanted to own a hole, break it, and leave it wrecked.

Cody was up on the box like he owned the fucking place. Late twenties white-boy otter, lean and athletic, fuzzy chest glistening under the lights, that sexy dark treasure trail running down to a pathetic little dick. Goddamn, it was small. Maybe three inches hard on a good day, just a sad pink nub twitching in that orange jock like it knew it didn’t belong on a real man. He was made for this—built from the ground up to be a bitch bottom, nothing more.

Backwards Sniffies hat that read “cum dump” in big white letters, Breedwell soft harness cutting into his shoulders, matching orange jock barely covering that useless clit, long black knee-high socks, and beat-up sneakers. His ass was the main event: firm, round, bouncy, flexing every time he dropped low and popped it for the crowd.

I pushed through the bodies, stepped right up to his platform, and shoved a $50 deep into the waistband of his tiny shorts. My hand kept going, sliding up his sweaty thigh. Cody looked down, saw me and the fifty. With a cocky little grin, he spread his stance wider, and pushed his ass back like an invitation. I cracked open my new poppers, took a deep hit that burned my lungs, then held the bottle right under his nose.

“Breathe, boy.”

His eyes rolled back hard as the rush slammed him. While he was floating I shoved two thick fingers straight into his hole—no warning, no lube beyond what was already leaking out of him. Warm. Loose. Already sloppy from earlier use. He gasped but he kept grinding to the beat, ass clenching around my knuckles.

Three fingers. Then four. The crowd was definitely watching now. Phones out, guys crowding closer. Cody’s fuzzy stomach tightened, that pathetic little clit twitching uselessly in his jock as I worked him deeper, rougher, right there on the box. By the third song he was moaning loud, legs shaking, hole pushing out cum and lube every time I twisted.

Music finally hit a lull. We both knew it was break time.

Cody stumbled off the box, headed to the bar, and slammed two shots of cheap tequila like water. Then he disappeared down the dark hallway toward the bathroom. I waited a minute, sipping my drink, before I followed my prey.

Two muscle daddies already had him pinned—one railing his ass raw from behind, hips slapping loud against that bouncy otter butt, the other skull-fucking his throat until spit and precum drooled down his chin.

“Take it, slut,” the one in his ass growled, pounding harder. “Good girl. That’s what you’re made for.”

The throat guy laughed. “Pathetic little faggot. Look at that tiny dick—doesn’t even get hard anymore, does it, bitch?”

Cody was gurgling, eyes half-lidded in pure bliss, moaning around the cock like a whore in heat. They swapped ends, used him like a cheap fleshlight, pumped him full of two fresh loads, and shoved him back toward the box ten minutes later. Cum ran down his black socks in thick white streaks. Classic Cody... blissed-out, ruined, and already hungry for more.

I kept feeding him all night with shots and poppers. He was also taking whatever pills strangers pressed into his hand — little blue Viagras to keep that pathetic clit twitching, molly that made his eyes roll, and whatever else they thought would melt his brain faster. By 1 a.m. he was completely shit-faced, brain melted, eyes glassy, words slurring into nonsense. The bass boomed through the club as I stepped up again and worked four fingers back into his wrecked hole right on the box. Guys were growling, whistling, crowding in close. His legs shook so bad he could barely stand, but I held him up by the harness.

“Tell them what you are, Cody.”

“I’m… just a fucking hole, Sir,” he slurred, voice cracking, cheeks burning.

That was the moment I knew he was mine for the night. I got him another shot.

Closing time came. I wrapped a possessive arm around his waist, told the other dancers this bitch was coming with me. They winked, laughed, and wished me luck breaking him. We found some loose shorts to cover his puffy, dripping hole, then I walked his drunk ass the short distance to the bathhouse with three fingers knuckle-deep inside him the whole way, steering him like a puppet.

“You gonna be a good public cum dump for everyone tonight, slut?”

“Yaaassssss,” he giggled, leaning into me, too fucked up to argue.

Check-in was easy—we’re both frequent flyers. They saw his state and just shrugged; this was standard Cody behavior. VIP room key in hand. Small sling, queen bed with waterproof sheets, old TV playing some burly dad raw-fucking his ‘stepson’ on loop. I stripped Cody down to nothing but hi harness and that backwards “cum dump” hat, then squirted half a bottle of lube straight into his sloppy pussy until it overflowed down his thighs. I love it wet and messy. Filthy.

I marched him straight to the steam room, fingers still buried, silently steering. The thick fog hit us like a wall—hot, wet, reeking of sweat and sex.

First stranger stepped up fast, bent Cody over the slick tile bench, and rammed his thick cock balls-deep.

“Fuck yeah, take it, you little bitch,” the guy grunted, pounding mercilessly. “Good girl. Hole’s already wrecked - how many loads you got tonight, faggot?”

He couldn’t even count to one right now, let alone how many had already fucked him. Cody moaned for about thirty seconds, then blacked out mid-thrust, body going limp like a rag doll while the stranger finished and flooded him. I slapped his ass hard - a loud crack echoing off the tiles. He blinked awake, confused, fresh cum already bubbling out. The heat was going to be too much for both us.

I dragged him to the glory hole wall, dropped him on all fours on the filthy floor, and held fresh poppers under his nose until his eyes crossed. Three different cocks used him back-to-back through the holes.

First guy: “Suck it, slut. That’s all you’re good for.”

Cody whimpered through the first cock like a kicked puppy, that pathetic little pink nub of a dick hanging soft and useless between his spread legs, dripping a thin string of clear precum onto the filthy tile. The guy attached to it was a thick-necked older daddy in his late fifties—beer gut, gray chest hair, decent-looking enough for a bathhouse regular who probably had a wife at home. He skull-fucked Cody’s throat until the otter’s eyes watered, then pulled out with a wet pop and slapped his face. “Good girl. Keep that mouth open.”

Second guy didn’t wait. A stocky Mexican, not-so-good-looking construction type in his forties—balding, crooked teeth, hairy back—slammed balls-deep into Cody’s ass without warning. The slap of his hips echoed off the walls.

“Órale, mira este loose faggot cunt, pinche puto,” he growled, voice thick with that rough Spanglish accent. “Qué puta tan suelta estás, cabrón. How many loads you got tonight, bitch? Ándale, take this dick, maricón.”

He pounded hard and mean, gripping the harness like reins, grunting every time he bottomed out.

Then Cody blacked out again.

The thumping bass from the hallway turned into a muffled heartbeat in his skull. The steam thickened into a blinding white wall that swallowed everything. His body went heavy, unresponsive like a piece of meat on the hook. I put my hand on his chest right then—heart hammering like a trapped bird under my palm while the rest of him was dead weight, just a warm, sloppy hole for strangers to use.

His face dropped straight to the piss-wet floor, cheek pressed into the cold, sticky puddle. Soft snoring sounds started bubbling out of him—drunken little snorts—mixing with the constant wet slap of flesh on flesh. I leaned against the wall and watched five guys rotate through that gaping hole while the otter floated in and out.

Third was a good-looking younger one, early twenties, white, lean gym rat with a tight body and a big dick. Probably a college kid who wandered in after the bars. You can tell he was newbie and a bit shy. Still, he laughed when he saw Cody snoring. “Holy shit, dude’s passed out and still taking dick. What a fucking whore.” He fucked him quick and greedy, short strokes, then dumped his load and stepped back so the next guy could go.

Fourth was another older daddy—sixties, silver fox type, actually handsome in that silver-daddy way, thick cock and heavy balls. He took his time, slow deep strokes, savoring the sloppy warmth. “That’s it, faggot. Milk me with that ruined pussy.” He slapped Cody’s ass hard enough to leave a red handprint, then flooded him and walked off.

Fifth guy was the one who made it real ugly. Scruffy, mid-fifties Black dude who looked like he’d been living rough on the streets for years — probably one of the homeless brothers who hung around the bathhouse for free showers and easy white holes. Greasy hair, missing a couple teeth, skinny frame but packing a thick, veiny, dark chocolate cock that looked obscene against Cody’s pale ass.

He didn’t say much at first. Just hawked a thick, nasty loogie right onto Cody’s already wrecked hole, watching it slide down that pink, cum-dripping gash. Then he shoved in raw, one brutal thrust that made Cody’s whole body jolt.

“Fuck yeah… that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout,” he growled low, voice rough and gravelly from years of cigarettes and cheap liquor. “Take this big Black dick, you nasty little white cum rag. This what y’all white boys come here for, huh? Getting your tight pink pussy stretched by real nigga cock.”

He fucked like he was angry at the world — hips snapping hard and mean, heavy balls slapping loud against Cody’s pathetic soft pink nub. Every thrust forced thick white loads and lube out in wet, nasty farts around his thick shaft, splattering Cody’s black socks and the filthy floor.

“Look at you, white boy… all that attitude on the dance box and now you just a hole for Black dick. Tiny white clit ain’t even hard. This is what you were built for, ain’t it? Getting bred and ruined by superior Black cock in a dirty bathhouse.”

He leaned in closer, one rough hand gripping Cody’s fuzzy hip hard enough to bruise, pounding deeper with every degrading word.

“Say it, bitch. Tell me you love this Black dick wrecking your white faggot ass.”

Cody could only whimper and drool onto the piss-wet floor, too far gone to answer. “wha… mmmm… sir…” before his eyes rolled back again. His hole was a wreck—gaping wide, bright red, prolapsing slightly every time a cock pulled out, thick white loads and lube bubbling and dripping down his black socks in messy ropes. That pathetic little clit of his never got hard once. Just hung there, soft and dripping, reminding everyone exactly what he was made for.

I watched the whole thing with my arms crossed, cock throbbing in my jock. Five loads. Five different men. And Cody just kept snoring through most of it, face in the piss, body limp and owned.

I gave him another slap, this one on hard against his face. I spat on his face and told him to get up. We managed to stumble our way back to the room, cum dripping with each step. I made sure to leave the door open - as we’re going to put on a show! I pushed him into the sling and he leaned back. His feet went into the stirrups like it was second nature, legs spread wide like a bitch in heat. His little dick looked even smaller than usual, soft and shriveled from all that alcohol and pills. I turned his hat towards the front so you can see the ‘cum dump’ letters.

This was it. I knew from the way he’d always bragged about taking big toys and “almost” getting fisted that no one had ever actually gone wrist-deep in him. Tonight that was going to change. I gave him another hit of poppers.

Four fingers slid in easy... too easy. His sloppy cunt swallowed them with a wet squelch. Five fingers. I worked them in and out, twisting, stretching. Cody’s eyes fluttered, half-awake now, breathing fast.

“First time anyone’s really gonna fist you, isn’t it, boy?” I growled low so only he could hear.

He whimpered, cheeks burning red. “Y-yeah… fuck… I’m too loose for this…”

“Damn right you are. Look at this ruined faggot hole. You been letting too many cocks wreck you.”

I didn’t just shove my hand in. I worked it. My own forearm muscles burned as I pushed, the slick lube mixing with the grit tracked in from the bathhouse floor. I tucked my thumb in and pushed. Slow. Steady. Mean. His second ring resisted for a second, then popped over my knuckles with a loud, obscene suction sound—like a jar of warm jelly finally giving way. Inside it was a furnace, tight wet heat pulsing around my knuckles, his heartbeat thumping against my fingers. Cody’s eyes flew open wide, mouth dropping in shock as my whole fist sank into his guts.

The fresh hit of poppers I shoved under his nose right then slammed him like a truck.

And his bladder let go.

Warm piss exploded out of him in hard, uncontrollable spurts. Shooting across his fuzzy stomach, soaking his chest hair, splattering his face and that stupid “cum dump” hat. Because that tiny pink nub was so soft and pathetic, the piss didn’t even shoot straight; it just welled up and flooded over him in messy waves, soaking everything. The small crowd at the doorway laughed and cheered loud.

“Fucking hell, he’s pissing himself!” one older daddy barked. “Look at that useless little clit—just leaks like a broken faucet.”

“Pathetic little bitch. Can’t even hold it when a real man fists him. Tiny dick and a wrecked hole, that’s all you are.”

Cody’s face went so far red it was basically purple. Pure shame. His eyes welled up even as his hole clamped and fluttered greedily around my wrist, sucking me deeper. This was the moment he’d fantasized about for years — the nasty, disgusting faggot he’d always wanted to be — and now it was real. No hiding. No pretending he was just a fun slut who took loads. He was a piss-soaked, fist-stretched cum rag getting owned in public, and his body was betraying him in the most humiliating way possible.

“Sir… I... I can’t stop…” he whined, voice cracking, another weak spurt of piss shooting out every time I rubbed his prostate with my knuckles. “I’m so fucking loose… everyone can see…”

“Yeah they can,” I said, slowly twisting my fist deeper, letting him feel every inch of how ruined he was. “First time getting properly fisted and you’re pissing all over yourself like a broken whore. This what you wanted, Cody? To finally be the nasty faggot you’ve been pretending to be?”

He nodded, tears mixing with the piss on his cheeks, but his hips still pushed back weakly, chasing my arm. The shame was eating him alive… and he fucking loved it.

I kept fist-fucking him through the fog for another long stretch, slow and cruel, letting that ruined ring flutter and grip around my forearm like it was trying to keep me inside forever. Every time the bitch flickered back he looked more destroyed - eyes glassy, face streaked with tears and piss, mumbling broken shit like “too loose… nasty faggot… can’t believe I pissed…” before slipping under again.

Finally I pulled out with a filthy, wet pop. His hole stayed wide open, a gaping, red, prolapsed mess, thick cum and lube farting out in weak bubbles. I climbed between his spread legs, lined up my throbbing cock, and slammed in balls-deep.

The watchers cheered louder.

“Destroy that pissy faggot cunt!” | “Breed the loose bitch!”

I fucked him brutal — no mercy, hips slapping loud and wet against his soaked ass, driving straight into the warm, cum-and-piss-filled wreck. Every thrust pushed more mess out around my shaft, splattering his black socks and the sling. Cody moaned low and broken, half-conscious, body limp in the restraints but still weakly pushing back like the greedy whore he was. His tiny soft clit flopped uselessly against his belly with every pound, never once getting hard.

I grabbed his harness, yanked him down onto me harder, and unloaded. Thick, heavy ropes pumped deep into his guts while the crowd hollered. I held there, grinding, making sure every drop stayed buried.

When I finally stepped back, the sight hit me like a drug.

Cody was a total disaster. Legs still locked wide, fuzzy body shiny and streaked with his own piss, other men’s loads, and fresh sweat. His hole gaped obscenely — bright red, swollen, twitching open and closed like it couldn’t remember how to close anymore. That stupid “cum dump” hat was still crooked on his sweaty head, soaked dark with piss.

I looked at the half-dozen guys still crowding the doorway, stroking hard, hungry eyes locked on the limp otter in the sling.

I didn’t close the door.

Instead I wiped my hand on his thigh, tucked my number into the waistband of his soaked, cum-crusted shorts, and leaned in close to his ear, voice low and rough.

“Text me when you’re sober, boy. If you still remember who you are.”

Then I stepped back, caught the eye of that scruffy black homeless guy from the glory hole. We gave each other a short, predatory nod. Silent understanding between two men who knew exactly what was about to happen to the broken bitch in the sling. The cold hallway air hit my sweaty skin like a slap as I walked out, leaving the hot, piss-stinking mess behind.

Behind me I heard the first guy already climbing into the sling. Wet sounds started up again immediately — slap of flesh, low grunts, Cody’s weak, half-conscious whimper. They were gonna keep using him for hours. I knew it. He was exactly where he belonged tonight: a public, piss-soaked, fist-loosened cum rag with the door wide open.

Two days later my phone buzzed.

“Sir… I woke up in the sling, still leaking your loads and like six or seven more, from what I remember at least. My hole is so sore and loose I can barely sit. They kept coming in after you left… I was half blacked out the whole time. I keep thinking about pissing myself in front of all those guys while you fisted me… I’ve never been so fucking ashamed and turned on in my life. That was the nastiest, best night I’ve ever had. I finally feel like a real cum rag. Please… ruin me again sometime. I’ll do anything.”

I smiled, cock already twitching. Shadow side satisfied.

For now.

My hole still twitches when I remember the night a stranger finally fisted me in the Eagle’s back hallway—right after I’d already been bred by multiple men like the sloppy, greedy faggot I truly am.

The switch starts days before Pride. Buttoned-up business professional by day, I begin the slow unraveling. Chastity locks first so my pathetic nub can’t ruin everything with post-nut clarity. Clean eating, nonstop porn, endless app scrolling while I edge my brain into mush. Every shower I count out loud while riding that XXL plug—at least 25 deep thrusts like a good boy. The “respectable” me starts to deconstruct, layer by layer, until all that’s left is this needy vessel, empty and aching to be filled.

After a full year of nothing but toys—my collection growing more obscene every few weeks, the massive Sigmund becoming my regular warm-up—I was beyond desperate for a real hand. That Pride night I showed up already locked, brain fogged from edibles and hormones, ass pre-stretched and dripping. I looked like Sporty Spice’s nasty brother: pig hat backwards, harness under a cheap tee, red-and-black Mr. S jock framing my locked cock, gym shorts, knee-high socks, and a sling bag full of poppers and lube. Ready to be used.

Ivan’s behind the bar—tall, muscular, that thick Russian-Boston accent, pierced nips and the gorgeous 8-inch PA cock that’s already bred me on plenty of slow nights. He flashes me that hungry smirk while I flirt hard and down my Long Islands.

Two drinks and heavy grinding in, I slip into what friends jokingly call the “car wash.” The second that heavy black curtain falls behind me, I remember why. You don’t just walk through this L-shaped tunnel—you get processed. A pitch-black gauntlet of hands, wet mouths, and heavy bodies. By the time you come out the other side, you’ve been scrubbed, buffed, and rinsed with something much stickier than soap.

The wall of heat and stench hits instantly—stale beer, industrial cleaner, musky leather, and raw man-sex. The bass thumps so deep it becomes my surrogate heartbeat. No faces. Just hands, breath, heat, and cocks. I push my ass out against the wall, legs spread, and become the vessel.

Poppers hit hard. Two different men breed me deep in that pitch black. I don’t even turn around. Just moan like a bitch while they pump their loads into my sloppy pussy, one right after the other. I’m nothing but community property.

Then those same familiar fingers return, sloshing through the fresh cum. It’s him again—my short king. More lube. Another hit of poppers.

And then his fist slides in.

No pain, just that slow, overwhelming stretch that rewrites everything. My first fist cherry, popped right there in the dark. He’s patient but relentless—knuckles twisting, palm turning, opening me while my body shakes with hunger. His calm control destroys my melted brain. I feel stretched to the absolute limit of who I am, guts rearranged, every inch claimed. The professional from Monday morning is gone, replaced by this drooling animal I barely recognize. He punches my second ring and I shoot hands-free, soaking my jock like a broken whore.

He fists me through song after song, wrecking me deeper while the bass pounds through both of us. I’m completely deconstructed.

When the peak hits, he finally pulls out—slow, deliberate, that obscene suction making me whimper against the wall as my hole tries to cling to the emptiness he leaves behind. A heavy, warm hand lands on the small of my back for a second. A silent “good boy.” Then he’s gone. Just a short, solid shadow fading back into the darkness.
The house lights scream on. Closing time. My guts feel heavy, throbbing, gaping. I can barely walk as I stumble back to the bar on shaky legs. I catch my reflection behind the bottles—the business professional is dead. Replaced by this flushed, sweaty mess. I wonder if my clients could smell the poppers and cum on me right now. If they saw me like this—leaking, hollowed out, legs still trembling—would they even recognize the guy who runs their meetings?

These people are still tethered to the normal world. I’m not. I’m buzzing. Unmoored. Wearing the hottest lie while my wrecked pussy still vibrates from a stranger’s fist.
Ivan leans over the bar, eyes dragging over my flushed neck and shaking knees. He grins that dark, knowing grin.

“I’ve been hearing about you all night, little pig. Sounds like you’ve been a real good cum dump for my clientele.” His voice drops into that thick Russian-Boston growl as he grabs the back of my neck. “You’re still too wide open to go home, faggot. Finish your drink. I already texted the guys at the bathhouse. Sling room’s ours. Go get in it and start taking loads. I want to watch every man use that sloppy hole… then I’m breeding you last.”

My wrecked pussy clenches hard around nothing. This greedy faggot’s night still wasn’t over.

My hole still twitches when I remember the night a stranger finally fisted me in the Eagle’s back hallway—right after I’d already been bred by multiple men like the sloppy, greedy faggot I truly am.

The switch starts days before Pride. Buttoned-up business professional by day, I begin the slow unraveling. Chastity locks first so my pathetic nub can’t ruin everything with post-nut clarity. Clean eating, nonstop porn, endless app scrolling while I edge my brain into mush. Every shower I count out loud while riding that XXL plug—at least 25 deep thrusts like a good boy. The “respectable” me starts to deconstruct, layer by layer, until all that’s left is this needy vessel, empty and aching to be filled.

After a full year of nothing but toys—my collection growing more obscene every few weeks, the massive Sigmund becoming my regular warm-up—I was beyond desperate for a real hand. That Pride night I showed up already locked, brain fogged from edibles and hormones, ass pre-stretched and dripping. I looked like Sporty Spice’s nasty brother: pig hat backwards, harness under a cheap tee, red-and-black Mr. S jock framing my locked cock, gym shorts, knee-high socks, and a sling bag full of poppers and lube. Ready to be used.

Ivan’s behind the bar—tall, muscular, that thick Russian-Boston accent, pierced nips and the gorgeous 8-inch PA cock that’s already bred me on plenty of slow nights. He flashes me that hungry smirk while I flirt hard and down my Long Islands.

Two drinks and heavy grinding in, I slip into what friends jokingly call the “car wash.” The second that heavy black curtain falls behind me, I remember why. You don’t just walk through this L-shaped tunnel—you get processed. A pitch-black gauntlet of hands, wet mouths, and heavy bodies. By the time you come out the other side, you’ve been scrubbed, buffed, and rinsed with something much stickier than soap.

The wall of heat and stench hits instantly—stale beer, industrial cleaner, musky leather, and raw man-sex. The bass thumps so deep it becomes my surrogate heartbeat. No faces. Just hands, breath, heat, and cocks. I push my ass out against the wall, legs spread, and become the vessel.

Poppers hit hard. Two different men breed me deep in that pitch black. I don’t even turn around. Just moan like a bitch while they pump their loads into my sloppy pussy, one right after the other. I’m nothing but community property.

Then those same familiar fingers return, sloshing through the fresh cum. It’s him again—my short king. More lube. Another hit of poppers.

And then his fist slides in.

No pain, just that slow, overwhelming stretch that rewrites everything. My first fist cherry, popped right there in the dark. He’s patient but relentless—knuckles twisting, palm turning, opening me while my body shakes with hunger. His calm control destroys my melted brain. I feel stretched to the absolute limit of who I am, guts rearranged, every inch claimed. The professional from Monday morning is gone, replaced by this drooling animal I barely recognize. He punches my second ring and I shoot hands-free, soaking my jock like a broken whore.

He fists me through song after song, wrecking me deeper while the bass pounds through both of us. I’m completely deconstructed.

When the peak hits, he finally pulls out—slow, deliberate, that obscene suction making me whimper against the wall as my hole tries to cling to the emptiness he leaves behind. A heavy, warm hand lands on the small of my back for a second. A silent “good boy.” Then he’s gone. Just a short, solid shadow fading back into the darkness.

The house lights scream on. Closing time. My guts feel heavy, throbbing, gaping. I can barely walk as I stumble back to the bar on shaky legs. I catch my reflection behind the bottles—the business professional is dead. Replaced by this flushed, sweaty mess. I wonder if my clients could smell the poppers and cum on me right now. If they saw me like this—leaking, hollowed out, legs still trembling—would they even recognize the guy who runs their meetings?

These people are still tethered to the normal world. I’m not. I’m buzzing. Unmoored. Wearing the hottest lie while my wrecked pussy still vibrates from a stranger’s fist.

Ivan leans over the bar, eyes dragging over my flushed neck and shaking knees. He grins that dark, knowing grin.

“I’ve been hearing about you all night, little pig. Sounds like you’ve been a real good cum dump for my clientele.” His voice drops into that thick Russian-Boston growl as he grabs the back of my neck. “You’re still too wide open to go home, faggot. Finish your drink. I already texted the guys at the bathhouse. Sling room’s ours. Go get in it and start taking loads. I want to watch every man use that sloppy hole… then I’m breeding you last.”

My wrecked pussy clenches hard. This greedy faggot’s night was only just beginning.

Even now, years later, I still get rock-hard just thinking about that night — the night a tall, dominant stranger at the bathhouse completely rewired my brain and turned me into an insatiable slut for poppers, piss, and massive cocks.

I was 19, freshly escaped from a sleepy little Texas town and thrust into the Northeast for college. The freedom hit me like a drug. My straight roommate was polite on the surface, but also came off as a Boston Dock Worker in training, soI kept my secrets locked tight. No car, stuck on campus, and hornier than I’d ever been in my life. My hole ached constantly, remembering all the ways I’d been used back home.

I wasn’t a virgin by any stretch. I’d started getting fucked at 13 after a reckless truth-or-dare game with an older cousin — a wild story for another time. Through high school, my best friend would sneak into my room or pull me into the woods, pounding me whenever we could. At 16, I discovered A4A and started driving an hour every weekend to worship an 8-inch dick that stretched me just right. But here in this new city? Everything felt impossible. Endless horny chats on Manhunt, A4A, and the shiny new Grindr left me edging for hours with no release. No private space, no wheels — just frustration and a dripping, hungry hole.

Then I heard about the local bathhouse. It was literally across the street from my dorm.

The first visit was a nervous, blurry mess. I barely remember the dim red lights or the echoing slap of bare feet on wet tile. I played with a few guys — quick, average fucks — they bred me and bolted. Over the next few days I researched everything: the etiquette, the signals, the unspoken rules. By the following weekend, I was back, heart pounding, towel clutched tight, ready for a real “college try.”

This time I rented my own private room. The narrow hallway smelled of bleach, sweat, and faint poppers haze. Low bass throbbed from hidden speakers. Moans and grunts leaked from behind half-closed doors. I stood in my open doorway wearing nothing but a white towel slung dangerously low on my hips, the fabric barely covering my thick, pale ass. My beefy Texas build — broad shoulders, soft belly, strong legs — drew plenty of eyes. I felt exposed, vulnerable, and so fucking turned on.

I cruised the halls slowly, letting the atmosphere sink in. Older bears with hairy chests nodded at me. Slim twinks brushed past with teasing smiles. A muscular guy in his thirties locked eyes and palmed his growing bulge. Every glance made my cock twitch under the towel and my pre-lubed hole flutter. The air was thick with masculine musk, faint chlorine from the showers, and the unmistakable chemical bite of poppers drifting from somewhere down the corridor. My mouth went dry with anticipation.

I didn’t settle easily. Over the next couple of hours I invited three different men into my room.

The first was a stocky Latino in his late twenties. He was eager and rough — bent me over the bed and fucked me fast and deep, grunting Spanish dirty talk while he slapped my ass. His load was thick and hot, but I stayed on edge, cock throbbing without release.

The second was gentler — a silver-haired daddy who took his time kissing my neck and fingering me open before sliding in. He whispered how tight and eager I felt. His cum leaked out slowly as he left, leaving me even more desperate.

The third was younger, athletic, and relentless. He pinned my legs back and pounded me missionary-style until sweat poured off both of us. Another load joined the others deep inside me. By the time he walked out, my hole was sloppy, puffy, and aching — but I still hadn’t cum. A full week of edging had me primed like never before. Every movement made cum shift inside me. I was a live wire.

That’s when he started making passes.

He was impossible to miss: a tall Black god, late 30s or early 40s, easily 6’3” — two inches taller than my 6’1” frame. Lean and sharply chiseled, every muscle defined like polished obsidian. His skin glowed under the red lights against my pale, corn-fed beefiness. He moved with pure swagger, wearing only a black jockstrap with a hard plastic cup barely containing what had to be a monster, a white towel slung over one broad shoulder, and that cocky, knowing smirk.

He passed my door three or four times, each time slowing down, letting his eyes rake over my body. My cock strained against the towel. On his final pass he stepped right up to me.

Without a word, his big hand wrapped around my aching cock for a few teasing strokes. Then it slid back, two thick fingers boldly pressing against my cum-slick hole. He felt how open and wet I already was. His smirk turned dark and filthy the instant his fingers sank in easily.

My eyes fluttered. Before I could catch my breath, he pushed me backward into the room and shut the door behind us.

I ran my hands greedily over his hard chest and abs, feeling the heat radiating off him. He attacked my neck with hot, wet kisses and bites, sucking hard enough to leave marks. Every time I tried to reach for his jock, he caught my wrists and guided my fingers to pinch and twist his nipples instead. He was firmly in control — and I loved it.

“On your stomach, boy,” he ordered, voice low and commanding.

I obeyed instantly, spreading my thick legs wide. He dropped behind me. That big, warm tongue lapped greedily at my messy hole, tasting the loads already inside me. He alternated between long, sloppy rimming and sliding one, then two, then three thick fingers deep — stretching, scissoring, opening me even more. The wet, obscene sounds filled the small room. I moaned into the pillow, trying to push back onto his face.

I kept attempting to turn around and service him, but his strong hands shoved my face back down every time, smothering my whimpers. The dominance made my cock leak steadily onto the sheets.

“You like poppers, boy?” he asked, still fingering me lazily.

I’d only vaguely heard of them — never tried. But I was so desperate to impress this Adonis, to be worthy of him.

“Y-yeah,” I choked out, voice shaky.

He didn’t fully believe me, but he didn’t stop. I heard the crinkle of plastic as he pulled a fresh brown bottle from his jock. His fingers were slick with cum and lube, making the wrapper tricky. Finally the cap came off.

He pressed the bottle under my nose, pinching one nostril. “Slow and deep. Breathe in.”

The musky, chemical scent hit me. I inhaled.

The rush came fast and hard. My head spun wildly. My hole suddenly felt empty and starving. Almost instinctively, I buried my face deeper in the pillow and arched my ass high like a bitch in heat.

He chuckled darkly. “Good boy.”

He repositioned, fingers still slipping in and out of me as he lined up. The fat, blunt head of his cock nudged my entrance. Another hit — one nostril, then the other.

Everything exploded.

I’d never been this horny in my entire life.

He started feeding it in — slow, relentless inches. My hole strained and burned around his girth. I was used to big cocks, but this was on another level. The poppers blurred pain and pleasure into pure, overwhelming bliss. He worked patiently, pulling back slightly before pushing deeper, letting my body adjust while my mind melted. Sweat dripped from his chest onto my back. The room filled with the wet sounds of my sloppy hole and my muffled moans.

When I finally felt his tight pubes press flush against my ass, I let out the loudest, whorish moan. He was buried to the hilt — all eleven and a half inches.

“Fuck… that’s it. Take every inch, boy,” he growled, pride thick in his voice.

He gave me two more deep hits. Then he started to fuck me for real.

Long, powerful strokes quickly turned brutal. He pinned my hips to the mattress with his weight, turning me into nothing but a warm, willing hole. I babbled shamelessly — moaning, whimpering, telling him how much I loved his big fucking dick, how I was his slut, his whore, his faggot. Every filthy name he spat at me made my own cock throb harder. He slapped my ass hard, the sharp stings blooming into heat that spread through my whole body.

Then he leaned forward, sliding one strong arm around my throat. He locked me into a tight chokehold, squeezing just enough that stars sparkled at the edges of my vision and my breaths came in desperate, shallow gasps. His cock felt even bigger, harder, deeper inside me. He fucked like an animal claiming its prey — raw, relentless, possessive.

“I’m gonna cum deep in this sloppy cunt,” he snarled.

I arched as best I could, offering everything. Between the chokehold tightening and another rush of poppers, the world went white for a moment. When I floated back, his cock was pulsing violently inside me, flooding my guts with thick, hot ropes of cum. I could feel every spurt, every twitch, deep in my belly. It felt like he was marking me from the inside.

He stayed buried deep as the animal in him softened, kissing gently along my spine and neck — still very much in control. When my head cleared just enough, I whispered hoarsely, “How… how big is it?”

“Eleven and a half inches,” he said, sounding satisfied. “You took it like a champ.”

He told me he’d been cruising all night, looking for the perfect boy to breed properly. That I was the one he chose. Being called “boy” again made my wrecked hole clench greedily around him.

Then he added casually, “I gotta piss real bad, though.”

My popper-fried teenage brain didn’t hesitate for a second.

“Piss in my hole?” I asked, voice thick with need.

That deviant smirk returned, darker than before. “I thought you’d never ask.”

He pulled out with a wet, obscene pop. My hole gaped wide, cum already leaking down my balls and thighs. He made me stand on shaky legs and bend over the bed, presenting myself like a urinal. For the first time I finally saw it: that Massive. Veiny. Uncut monster. Even semi-hard it was obscene: thick head slightly larger than the shaft, a slight leftward curve, heavy and powerful.

He stepped up behind me, aimed, and let go.

At first the hot stream splashed across my lower back. Then he shoved back inside. I yelped as the pressure returned — warm, relentless, filling me even fuller. His piss mixed with his massive load, bloating my guts, stretching me from the inside out. It felt filthy, degrading, and utterly perfect.

“Another hit,” he ordered.

I took it greedily. My head dropped lower, ass pushing back onto him as he kept pissing. It felt like gallons. The pressure built until it was almost too much. I whimpered, “I’m so full…” but he just growled, “Relax and take it all, boy.”

I tried. Warm mixture started running down my thighs. He sighed in deep relief, pulled out, and let the rest gush out of my ruined hole.

He caught some of the messy blend in his palm, pulled me upright, and smeared it all over my face — cheeks, lips, forehead. Two thick fingers pushed into my mouth.

“Suck them clean.”

I did — salty, bitter, pungent, and completely intoxicating in my submissive haze. The taste only made me hungrier.

He smacked my ass one last time, the sound echoing. “Good bathhouse slut.”

He slipped his jock back on, handed me the bottle of poppers as a parting gift, and opened the door. A small crowd of men had gathered outside — stroking hard cocks, eyes wide with lust after listening to every moan, slap, and filthy word. They were dying for sloppy seconds (fifths and sixths?).

I closed the door firmly on them, collapsed onto the soaked sheets — cold wet spots of cum, piss, sweat, and spilled poppers everywhere — and lay there spinning, glowing, my body feeling used, owned, and completely satisfied.

That single night changed everything. It sparked an obsession that would define my weekends for years: the heady rush of poppers, the thrill of piss play, the raw energy of bathhouses, and an endless craving for truly massive cock (and, now, fists). 

I was hooked.