Definitely a curious website. I filled out the details, maybe got a bit carried away. Doesn't matter, since I guess I'm deleting my account in the AM anyway.
Bio: I'm in my early 30s and currently in grad school. Average build- I like going to the gym, but definitely have a sweet tooth. Dark hair, pale skin.
Item: I selected clothing. I have a whole lot of clothing I'd be happy to rent out. I have some compression shirts/shorts that I don't use too much. I also wouldn't mind getting rid of my ex-boyfriend's old jockstrap that he left here.
Duration: Honestly, they can keep them, so I set it for about 6 months. I don't think I'll miss any of those things for that long and if they wanted to buy them outright at the end of the 6-months, I'd let them.
Special Requests: Whoever rents these should probably be athletic- hockey players are always cool. But I can't help but wonder if my ex is on the app lol. He can have his stupid jockstrap back I guess. Besides, for all his faults, he was quite a gym bunny.
Rent-A-Thing — Your ex-boyfriend's jockstrap
You wake up to an unfamiliar chime. Reaching for your phone, you see an unfamiliar notification from an unfamiliar app. “Contract accepted. Pickup at 9 AM.”
Slowly, your memory returns. The late-night browsing, the website you signed up for... You remember putting up your ex-boyfriend’s old jockstrap for rent. You would have selected more, but since you’re a first-time user, it would only let you list one item. Truth be told, you don’t even know why you haven’t thrown it away yet, but now some weirdo wants to have it and will come pick it up in... fifteen minutes?
You groan and fall out of bed. You remember something about the wording on the website being off, but you also remember the part about getting paid by the hour. Holy shit! Who would have thought that your asshole-ex’s old underwear would actually earn you some money?
There’s just one problem: you have to find it first. Putting your phone away, you get to work, tearing your tiny studio apartment apart until you find the dirty, yellowed jock. It was hidden away under the bed, together with a box of porn and some socks. No time to wash it now, but you reckon that whoever pays money to lend a used jockstrap doesn’t want it washed, anyway.
You have just put it into a plastic bag when the doorbell rings. Shit! You throw on a pair of sweatpants, fail to find a shirt on short notice and open the door, only to take two steps back when you see an awfully familiar smug grin.
“Oz?!”
Your ex, in the flesh, takes a step into your apartment, looking around.
“Well, well, well. Imagine my surprise when I browsed RaT this morning and found you with your stupid bathroom selfie. And ‘jockstrap’? Really? I didn’t know you were into that, you kinky fucker.”
He shrugs. “But I recently noticed I’m one short.”
You have recovered enough for your surprise to turn into annoyed anger, and throw him the plastic bag. “Choke on it!”
Out of reflex, Oz catches the bag and briefly examines its contents before dropping it to the floor.
“Cute, but I don’t want mine back. I want a new one. And I’ve got a contract here that says I’m going to get one.”
He gestures with his phone, with a familiar white app open, and a big, green button saying “Claim”, that he taps with his thumb.
“Well, I don’t have a new one. Piss off!” you say, but your mouth feels dry all of a sudden.
“Oh, don’t worry. That won’t be a problem for much longer,” he says and crowds your space. You back away from the admittedly fit guy until you feel the wall at your back. Oz has put his phone away and plants his hands left and right to your head, caging you in.
He must have come straight from the gym, you realize, at least judging by his smell. You blink. You can’t remember him smelling that intensely before. Is something wrong with your nose?
“On your knees,” he says. His voice has a predatory edge to it.
“What? No! Fuck you! Get out!” you protest.
“Too bad you don’t get a say in that — or anything else — anymore for the next, what? Six months? You really are a kinky fucker, aren’t you?”
With these words, he puts both of his hands on your shoulders, pushing you down with surprising force. Or rather, with normal force, and your resistance is surprisingly weak. In a fluid motion, he pushes down his gym shorts. No underwear, but a hard cock you’re unfortunately familiar with.
“Missed it? I’ve got good news for you. You’re about to get really close for a really long time now.”
His hand — has it always been that big? — pushes from the back of your head until your lips touch his glistening cock head. The smell is much stronger here, and you find yourself wanting nothing more than to put it in your mouth. It’s big. Definitely bigger than you remember. It’s so big it fills your entire vision, making you unable to focus on anything else. You barely hear his chuckle as you take his leaking cock into your dry mouth, all the way in, until it collides with the skin on the back of your head.
Wait. That’s not how heads work. What is going on?! You look up and see Oz towering over you, a giant in a giant place.
No! He hasn’t gotten bigger. You have gotten smaller! Fuck! What is going on?
Your entire head stretches over his pulsing dick now, and you can feel his hand massaging the back of it. No, he is not massaging your head. He is massaging himself through your head!
Your body is too weak to kneel upright anymore, and your entire weight hangs on his cock. That shouldn’t be possible. You swing your arms around his waist for stabilization, watching in horror as they turn into a wide elastic band, fusing at the back where just a moment ago your hands had been.
All on their own, your shrinking legs swing between his massive thighs, connecting to your arm-waistband at the side and back. They, too, turn into straps, framing his ass cheeks perfectly.
Only then, you realize: You are turning into a jockstrap! You try to wiggle, say something, but all that comes out is a very weak rustling sound as your head turns into cotton, with all your senses, touch, smell, and taste focused solely on the price inside of it: your ex-boyfriend’s cock!
“Fuuuck, that’s hot,” he says, and the length in you throbs one more time before your insides are filled with hot, sticky liquid. When you were together, you never swallowed, but now you have no choice. His cum permeates your being, and everything smells and tastes like Oz.
You feel a pat on your pouch-body.
“Good jockstrap. Just so you know, I don’t plan on washing you. Or taking you off for long. Enjoy your six months, looser.”
When he pulls up his gym shorts over your changed form, you feel conflicted. The thought of serving as a piece of underwear for six months should be close to horrifying. But it doesn’t feel that way when you are enclosed in the warm, damp prison of his shorts. It fills you with a strange serendipity. Perhaps that will wear off at some point, but you can always look forward to the third of a million dollars your ex-boyfriend-now-owner will have paid you afterwards.
A good old classic as a start! Jockstrap is gone from the list, but still feel free to participate! Here's the first part with the explanation.
