I don’t know why I’m here.
I don’t know why I’m here, with my clothes off, lying on a couch as I watch him unbuckle his belt.
His shirt is unbuttoned, but his clothes stay on. That’s the way it always is.
Me, in my underwear, displayed like a toy. Him, in his dress shirt and pants, leather shoes, his tie swung around his neck.
I don’t know why I’m here again, but I can’t help it.
He sits in his chair and watches me. Sipping whiskey, staring in silence.
Looking my muscular body up and down, as he has countless times before.
I want him to touch me, though I know I shouldn’t.
Shamefully, I start to writhe and flex, hoping to lure him toward me. I make my pecs bounce, bite my lip, and slowly move my hips in a circle.
I feel his eyes, but not his hands.
He knows exactly what I wants. But what I want doesn’t matter.
This is his house, his game, his rules. I am just a pawn in it.
“Play with yourself,” he tells me.
Meekly, I obey.
One hand stays on my chest, fingers circling my nipple, while the other glides down my abs and slips into my briefs. Fuck, I’m so hard already.
I feel my cock throbbing in my palm, full and eager, and I make my hand move up and down to feel good.
My nipples are hard, my dick is pulsing with pleasure; but it’s not enough, I don’t want these hands, I want his, rubbing all over me, admiring the physique I’ve sculpted. I want this man to touch me.
It’s almost impossible to think I had been straight, two weeks ago.
Girlfriend and everything. All I ever thought about was tits and pussy.
But then I felt the things he could do to me, and everything changed.
He is unlike anyone I’ve ever felt before.
All my life, I’ve been strong, big and muscular, the Alpha of the pack. The manly man. That’s who I thought I was meant to be.
But he makes me weak, for the first time ever.
It’s like all my muscles lose their strength, the second he steps into the room, and I am left a helpless puppet in his strings. He calls me boy, as if I’m not a full-grown man, as if I’m always less than him.
He calls me slut, whore, bitch, fag. And it turns me on.
“Take them off,” his voice sounds, and I quickly pull my underwear down.
His hungry eyes watch my boner spring up. For a second, I hope this is enough to have him dive onto me - but still he just sits there, drinking, unperturbed by my pleading eyes.
I make my cock sway, driving my hips forward to hump the air.
I’m naked now, naked on this man’s couch, but I’m too far gone to remember how wrong that is.
“P-please,” I finally moan, unable to contain myself any longer, “p-please.”
He knows what I’m begging for. But he wants me to say the words.
“What is it, muscle boy?” the man says, finally getting up from his chair. He walks over to me, slowly, and my heart starts racing as he approaches.
Ashamed, I look up at him.
He is so close, now. I can smell his cologne.
“P-play with me,” I mutter, humiliated by my own words, “please, sir.”
His stern expression turn into a grin, and he brings his hand to my body.
But it remains too high, it hovers above my skin, so close yet so far away. A little whine escapes my throat, and I squirm even more than before.
“I see. The muscle boy wants to be played with, huh?”
I nod, still jerking my cock, watching his hand float over my pecs, my abs.
He is already playing with me, of course. Every second I spend with him, I am played like an instrument.
Eventually, he brings his hand above my face, and tells me to lick.
I lean on my forearms, and lift my head up. My whole body is shaking.
The second my tongue touches his hand, I’m gone. No shame, no girlfriend, nothing. I am his bitch, and nothing else matters.
Once his palm gleams with my saliva, the man brings his hand to my crotch, and takes my boner. I groan with pleasure as I feel him on me, finally.
It only takes a couple tugs. I’m too weak to resist these feelings he’s giving me.
With a roar, I arch my back, surrendering to his hand, flexing every muscle in my body. I’m weak, I’m so weak, all this muscle but I’m still the weakest bitch on earth, I’m weak and shoot my weak sperm all over myself.
Fuck, everything feels so fucking goooddd…
The man laughs, clearly content with this.
He milks every drop from my cock, until a puddle of goopy white lies in the trenches of my six-pack. I’m panting, and everything is burning hot.
“That was twelve seconds you lasted, boy,” he says, scooping up my seed with his fingers. “Two more than last time. You’re getting better.”
He tells me to flip over, and I do so, still hard and eager. He tells me I have the fattest ass he’s ever seen, and I moan when he slaps it.
I remember telling my girlfriend the same thing, once - is this how she felt?
Then the man brings my cum on his fingers to my crack, and starts spreading it along my entrance. I gasp. He’s lubing me up with my own spunk.
A finger slips in, then two. My cock is throbbing again, leaking on his couch.
I bury my face in the cushion and let this man finger me like a whore.
“Like that, you big bitch? Want to feel my dick up there?”
I can’t stop moaning, bucking into his hand.
“Yessirr…” I whine, “f-fuck me, please…”
Why does this feel so fucking good… ohh… shittt…
He brings his boner to my hole and lets me feel the size of it.
It’s so big, so strong and warm, he’s gonna tear me open, I want him to split me in half. The man pushes inside, and a howl escapes my throat as if I’m being slaughtered alive.
I’m cumming again, but it doesn’t matter, nothing matters, nothing but that huge fucking cock ramming into my ass, again and again and again until I’m just a gaping hole, fucked out on the couch.
Eyes rolled back into my head, tongue fallen out of my mouth.
“Who’s my bitch, huh? Who’s my big muscle faggot?” the man growls, pounding my cunt with all his strength. He’s already shot a load into my guts, but still he keeps fucking me, determined to ruin my hole forever.
I can’t talk anymore, but I don’t have to.
We both know the answer.
I’m the faggot. I’ve always been the faggot.
And I will be the faggot for the rest of my life.
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