The Story of I Ch. 06


The smoke from cigars and pot hung heavily in the room. A mustiness mixed with the pervading rancid odors from the carpet soaked with spilled drinks to the lingering sweat on the body-building equipment stationed in the corner. But the ambience wasn’t the grossest thing about this dank downstairs. It was the major activity taking place. I was being prepared for a shit show, literally and figuratively.

Two men, a burly guy named Billy Joe, and Jimmy, a short and scrawny dude, held each of my arms as I was stretched over a pool table. Kindly, they had found a couch pillow for me to rest my head on, as my pelvis curled uncomfortably over one of the side rails. My legs were splayed with my feet planted securely on the floor. I had a hospital Johnny tied around my neck which opened in the back and my balls were nestled in the side pocket surrounded by its hospital-laundered fabric. The third gent, a handsome gastroenterologist named Miguel, talked with the other two, explaining his procedure along with his proclivity for cleanliness.

We four were alone in his basement, alone in his home actually, as Miguel’s wife was away for the weekend. Like some inanimate object, I felt a strange detachment, compounded by a weakness in my muscles from the pot and beers, and yet an unexpected receptivity to what was unfolding. I was an acquiescing plaything.

It’s both disturbing and amazing what a person can be conditioned to doing. I remember always trying to please my parents, so my desires to please, to serve, to submit to their wishes were probably inherited, and that trait must have been ingrained by their parenting. But the indoctrination continued outside the home, too, like with that boys’ sex ed class where we were told, “Always make sure the woman has her pleasure before you take yours.” Of course, they assumed we were all straight, but still, the point was, satisfy your partner before you come. And that’s what I’ve always tried to do—to a fault—as with Stephen.

Having grown up as a straight guy in a three-decades-long monogamous marriage to a somewhat dominant wife, but wanting a same sex experience before I died, I went online to look for a man. I naturally described myself as the quintessential submissive, a role I had played all my life. Stephen had responded, promising me a “masterful experience.”

Our in-person relationship began with weird requests on his part. Although I questioned why I was doing this every time we met up, I managed to do as I was asked/ordered/commanded. And despite initial misgivings, in the end, I felt a large measure of pleasure in the doing. I wasn’t sure if it was seeing Stephen so enraptured that gave me such a profound sense of satisfaction. Or maybe it was enduring pain and shame which provided the endorphin bursts that my body seemed to crave. Likely some of both.

Today was one of those times. Plunged into a very weird, somewhat unnerving, and especially embarrassing situation, here I was tightly tethered to a pool table having lots of dutiful doubts.

Billy Joe, sporting tattoos down both arms, and smelling like he went two-too many days between showers, inquired, “What you gonna do with that bag, Miguel?”

“I made up a soapsuds enema that I’m going to give Martha, because we want her clean and cleaned out for the toys we’re all going to be playing with her with.”

Not only was I their plaything, but my gender was now female.

We had arrived today just after lunch, Stephen and I together. He was happy, even giddy, although he didn’t let on as to exactly what we were going to be doing here at Miguel’s home.

He had proffered last week, in his knightly voice, “Sir Stephen has another lesson for you to learn in becoming his perfect submissive.” He then informed me of these three friends of his, all married and living the straight life, but who, like him, had had fantasies of having sex with a man—or were at least bi-curious. I was going to help them with that bi-curiosity. Which was all he had said. No more. No less.

I could only imagine what that might entail, but I completely missed the mark. I thought I would give some blow jobs and that would be that. Now I was beginning to understand what Stephen had meant, as he left to get some more beers, “You all got the toys I told you to bring so you could play with my Martha while I’m gone?”

This wasn’t going to be oral. No, this was going to be an ass-play playground and everything but.

He left. After some awkward conversation in the kitchen, we all thundered downstairs, me in the middle of the herd. Once we had descended, there seemed to be more whispered uncertainty, but then beers were cracked and Miguel lit a joint and passed it around. Soon we were all feeling the oblivion that Miguel hoped for, and he began making polite requests of his medical team.

While Jimmy assisted Miguel, Billy Joe escorted me down a narrow hallway to the bathroom and instructed me to change into the hospital gown he handed me. Then he brought istanbul travesti me back. He and Jimmy had positioned me several different ways before settling on one that elicited Miguel’s approval.

As Miguel proceeded with the enema, Jimmy interjected, “Say, Miguel. I got an idea. You got any sticks of butter in the freezer?” He had obviously forgotten to bring any toys.

“I think mi esposa does. And she probably won’t miss one. You got a toy in mind?”

“Yep,” he nodded enthusiastically, and he smiled with those crooked teeth glazed with tar and nicotine.

I felt Miguel move aside one of my butt cheeks, his fingers moist, maybe with lube or with nervous anticipation, as he slid a cold piece of plastic into my anus. I couldn’t help feeling dirty. The body odors, the cigar smoke, the perspiration on Miguel’s hand, the vulgar language, and the ribald jokes. And now their apparent need for giving me an enema. All of that made me feel like I was in some back-alley clinic, getting a high colonic from an unlicensed practitioner.

Again, I cursed myself for being who I was, being so willing to learn Stephen’s so-called “becoming the perfect submissive” lessons. In my altered state though, I momentarily relaxed. It was bizarre, but after all these months, I had strangely learned how to embrace the strange, and to let myself be used, maybe sometimes abused, because, I guess, I had come to trust Stephen.

For example, he had anticipated, and it was helpful, that I was a somewhat feminine-appearing man, as these men in their various iterations were uncomfortable with the idea of being gay. So being presented with a man who had had a Brazilian waxing a few days earlier and came dressed in a tight top with short skirt and leggings, was calculated to resolve any lingering homophobic insecurities. And I sensed no hesitancy now in the room.

“Nurse Miguel is going to start the enema, Martha. When it’s done, one of the staff will take you to the bathroom. On your return, Dr. Miguel will then examine you.”

The cool liquid started flowing into my rectum, accompanied by a few little cramps. I wasn’t sure how much I would be given, and a prickle of fear hit me that I wouldn’t be able to hold it, if I had the sudden urge to evacuate. The cold feeling radiated throughout my lower abdomen, and with it an occasional stronger cramp. “I think I gotta go!” I pressed them all, but Nurse Miguel was having nothing to do with it.

“You have to hold it, Martha,” he rebuked. “You’re only halfway there.”

He was right. That urge passed, and I could feel more cold liquid filling me. Another cramp followed and I held my tongue, but a stronger one built up soon after and I started squirming on the table. The two men tightened their stretch, and I got a little warning spank from Nurse Miguel. When I began to complain more vociferously, Nurse Miguel clamped the tubing, announced it was all in, and jerked it out of my ass. That pain made me tighten my sphincter, otherwise I might have expelled it all over the carpet, adding further to the plethora of malodors.

“BJ, take her to the bathroom, will you?”

They let go of my hands and BJ escorted me down the hall. I went in, quickly sat on the john, and expelled what seemed like a gallon of liquid into the toilet. Just when I thought I was done, though, another urge came and I let loose again and again. The relief was pleasurable, I had to admit, and my cock responded with a little bit of filling. BJ banged on the door and I wiped, flushed, and came out.

When I responded to Miguel’s question that it had come out muddy, he said, “We got to do another one,” and we went through the same procedure, with me feeling the cramps, holding it as long as I could, and going again to the bathroom.

The second time was much cleaner, and on my report to BJ, outside the door, he said that would be enough, and I was to shower off.

On my return, I was laid down again in the same position but this time two twenty-pound dumbbells were put on the floor on one side of the pool table, and my wrists were fastened to elastic bands and secured to them. I really couldn’t move now, which left the boys free to get out their toys.

“Here’s that stick of butter,” said Miguel, handing it to Jimmy, still wrapped in its paper.

“Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!” squealed Jimmy. “This is going to be good!”

He took out a pocket knife and on one end of the opened butter cut the four corners diagonally to form somewhat of a point.

BJ chimed in, “Have him suck on that pointy end, Jimmy, and get it to look more like a cock.”

I heard Jimmy guffaw, and with his hand around a now naked butter, he put the whittled end into my mouth and ordered me to suck it, “Give the butter some head, Martha.”

It was ice cold and it gave me an ice cream headache as it was forced into my mouth against my soft palate. I gagged. They laughed. I did manage to smooth out the edges so that it did assume the shape, at least istanbul travestileri approximately, of a circumcised penis.

“Now I’m gonna shove this up your ass,” announced Jimmy, crudely. “My Jane won’t let me anywhere near her poop chute, so this is my one chance to have some ass-fun.”

Jimmy circled the table, spread my cheeks with one hand, and put the cold butter against my anus. Being so cold, my rosetta reflexly tightened, but his continued pressure, and the fact that I had lubricated the stick a bit with my saliva, made it slide in. Jimmy took his time to work it into my anus then out, the frigid stretching was something I had never felt before, making me both gasp and groan, to Jimmy’s delight.

“You’re getting fucked by the iceman Martha. How does that feel?” Jimmy gloated sliding it in and out of me. “Being from Minnesota, I know what cold is, and now, so do you!”

“Shove it all the way in!” shouted BJ.

“Yeah, we can let it melt in there,” Jimmy replied, but Miguel knew about rectums, and interjected, “Easy boys. We now have her good and lubed up, and we don’t want anything sitting in there taking its sweet time to melt.”

Then he added, “But keep it around. We may need some more lubing.”

“What did you bring BJ?” Miguel then inquired.

“Clothes pins,” replied BJ. “I’ve always wanted to put them on Betty Jeans cunt lips, but she won’t let me. She won’t even let me put them on her tits. Figure this may be my only chance to use them like I saw on the porn channels.”

“Let’s turn her over,” suggested Miguel. And they assisted in unknotting the wrist bands and removing my weights. The two put me on my back and I stretched out on the pool table. While Miguel held my legs, and Jimmy, my arms, BJ started maniacally applying the clothes pins.

The first one on my right nipple made me yelp, then four more around it made me writhe. Their grip strengthened as BJ put five on my left breast. I wasn’t ready for what happened next. A hand tightened around my shaft as number 11 got clipped to my glans. I screamed. They laughed mightily as three more were put on to ring my cock head. At some point, the overall pain was so intense, that I didn’t feel 16 more being put onto my scrotum. It was a delirium of sorts, and maybe having had the marijuana and the beer, I was starting to feel even more drugged. Once the full array had been placed, I was only vaguely aware of their jeering.

At some point however, they did take pity on me, because my squirming had died down, and maybe they were even afraid I had passed out. Jimmy raised up my head, and seemingly relieved, gave me a couple more swallows of his beer. Miguel took a toke and handed me the joint, and I took a deep draw, held it as long as I could, then slowly exhaled, coughing.

“All right everybody,” BJ announced, “hold her tight.” And then one by one he started removing the clothes pins, the first one from my right tit. A searing pain resulted from that one, and from each successive one removed, with a new intensity like a branding iron burning into my skin. I yelled and yelled with every clothes pin removal from my right breast to my left one, from my glans penis to my scrotum. They counted in a chant as BJ removed them one by one, all the way to thirty. Although I didn’t expect it, my agony began to transform into exhilaration. I felt like I was floating. I was weightless. The same way I had felt from Stephen’s flogging. Strangely, I became open to whatever these men would want.

Coincidentally, they began removing their clothes. My screaming worked as an aphrodisiac, their power over me getting them all good and hard. There was an excited sense of urgency and they began using the remaining stick of butter to lube up their individual cocks.

They slid me down to one edge of the pool table and, while I was on my back, they held my heels up over my head, exposing my buttered asshole.

Jimmy, the scrawniest, and with the thinnest cock, went first, burying it in me and pumping away. As I had had bigger probes, his girth didn’t faze me.

He giggled and laughed like a kid riding a bike for the first time without training wheels. He didn’t last long, though, coming in a squeal piercingly sharp, and then belching twice.

When he pulled out, BJ was right there with his wanting weapon. He greased himself up a bit more, then placed his hard cock against my ass. This one was going to be a bit more of a stretch. Although his erection wasn’t very long, it was thick. I tightened as he started to enter me, and sadistically he grabbed my sore cock and gave it a frictional massage, intensifying its pain and giving him a gleeful sneer. Then he plunged into me. I yelped, as his initial stretching pained me. So did his second and third thrust, but it subsided with each subsequent battering. Filling my rectum with his manhood, transforming pain into mounting pleasure, and making my own manhood leak fluid, I uttered, “Yes, yes, yes,” so earnestly that in travesti istanbul several strokes more, he, too, came.

Panting, he pulled out and bent over, and for some reason licked my swollen cock seductively, then bit down on it. Not enough to break the skin, but just enough to reveal more of his twisted self.

Miguel was the last. He was a big man, the host of this whole event today, but one who had the demeanor of his profession. He took his time, also rubbing himself up with more of the dwindling butter, then strode over to stand between my parted thighs and rubbed some of the softening stick on my anus too. It was sore from BJ’s fucking, and probably gaping, but I sensed only more soreness and stretching coming from Miguel’s giant piece.

Miguel could read my fear and gently caressed my cock, sagging after BJs carnivorous act. With the tactile infusion of caring in his kind carnality, I was momentarily distracted and began to feel a craving for his mammoth member. Marijuana helped, as it had the effect of heightening my senses, not so much for the painful sensations, as for the more erotic ones.

Miguel suggested that I slowly bear down as his cock came into contact with my anus, and with it, Miguel’s speech became more of the vernacular.

He was leaving his doctor guise, and all the clinical propriety he had to don when he donned his scrubs. Right now, he could shed that defense mechanism as he had shed his clothes. He was becoming an aroused mortal, although still with the professional grandeur of a god.

“I’m going to enter your pretty little ass now,” he said, “this is going to hurt you, Martha, but only for a second, then it’s going to feel so good.” I began to think the ‘feel so good’ part might be what he was going to be experiencing.

I guess I began to panic. This was a deja vu of Bevaun and his BBC. And the success of that experience had been made possible by Stephen’s presence, giving me his cock in my mouth to distract, and thereby, to relax me. Where was Stephen now?

Then a deus ex machina happened. Stephen burst out of an adjacent room, completely naked, with the biggest hard on he’s ever had.

“That’s some pool cue you got there Miguel,” he lauded. “And I bet you could do some really cool trick shots with it. Like maybe reverse cowgirl?”

Miguel was into it. “Yes, of course! I’ve always wanted to do that with Maria, but she’s very missionary vanilla. Let’s do it!”

Stephen somehow had a bottle of Astroglide with him—did he carry that stuff with him everywhere?—and he suggested Miguel lay down prone on the pool table, legs over the edge, and he squirted gobs of the gelatinous lube onto Miguel’s rigidity. He put a dollop in his own hand and applied it generously all over my asshole.

Stephen helped me up onto the pool table, the green felt welcomely cool to my hot moist skin. But with me straddling Miguel, poised with knees over the bumper, I felt I was going to pitch forward over the edge. I tried to grab the rails, but couldn’t get enough of a grip. I think one big man was getting impatient, but the other, Stephen, calmly put my hands on his hips, assured me he had my lithe little form, and moved me into position.

There I sat facing away from Miguel, hovering over his pelvis. On Stephen’s cue I slowly eased myself down to touch my pocket to Miguel’s cue stick. I felt it flinch in my ring.

Stephen’s cock was staring up at me, mirroring the lust on his face. His manhood moved into my mouth as he whispered,

“Let yourself go, Martha, my dear. Engulf Miguel. You can do it.”

I felt the dreaded tearing, or what I imagined was my ass being shredded, ripped wide open, as I descended onto him. I screamed. I shouted into Stephen’s giant cock. I moaned loudly. But soon, I began to groan raunchily, as that suffering was conjoined by the delirious realization of both my ass and my mouth being filled with two of the biggest cocks I had ever had.

I was now not abused but being used as the predator-like focus of their carnal desires. As I rode up and down Miguel’s monster, Stephen fucked my mouth. I had tears of painful happiness flooding down my cheeks. I was soon sobbing with pleasure as I heard the two of them groaning, moaning, exclaiming, cursing, shouting, and then coming.

Miguel tilted his pelvis up into me repeatedly with a relentless fury, and Stephen pumped vigorously against my throat, to the point of gagging me, as he gripped my head, pulled my face against his groin and filled my throat with his deliciously warm come as Miguel was filling my rectal vault full of his.

As we three collected our breaths, and the other two men milked the last of their second coming out of still stiff cocks, a question occurred to me: what the heck was Stephen doing in that side room when he purportedly had left to get beer? Was he watching the whole time, arousing himself and readying himself for another super-hero rescue? And what if he hadn’t come back in time and orchestrated the final fucking? Would I even have had an asshole left?

He had some explaining to do on our ride home, I said to myself. He needed to account for what my becoming the perfect submissive was really intended for. And what else was on his crazy mind?

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