This story is an original work. It should not be reposted or reproduced in whole or in part without the author's consent. Copyright 2020 by Jeff Hamby. All rights reserved.
Warning: This story contains sexual acts between adult males and/or females. If you do not enjoy this type of material, or if it is illegal in your country or place of residence, please stop reading immediately. This story is not in any way an accurate depiction of reality, and any relationship to real persons or acts are unintentional. This story is fiction.
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Brandon's Boots
Chapter 10
Something was definitely changing inside me. I couldn't pinpoint it, but I could feel it. When Brandon first started making me lick his dirty boots at work, every fiber of my being was screaming at me, wanting to resist. The only reason I didn't was my absolute certainty that Brandon would not only kick my ass, but enjoy doing it. Plus, he'd have just made me lick his boots anyway, only with a black eye or busted lip or some other injuries to go with it. No, I was confident at the time I'd made the right decision not to resist, to instead try and placate my young bully of a boss, hoping to minimize any damage.
Now, though, I wasn't so sure. Hindsight, of course, is 20/20, and my hindsight now told me I should have fought back, taken some lumps and moved on with my life. Found another job, if necessary. Stood up for myself like a man should, instead of acting like a coward and allowing myself to be used and degraded in such disgusting ways.
It was too late now, of course. I knew that. Something inside me had changed. Broken, perhaps. The abuse and humiliation had taken their toll on me. My entire image of who I was and what I was had changed, and I was more certain than ever there was no way to change it back. It probably started in the office at work, the first time Brandon made me kneel at his feet and lick the dirt off his tactical boots. As soon as I did that, the moment my tongue touched the leather of his boot that first time and licked up the dirt, I changed forever. I didn't know it at the time, but it's clear to me now. That was the moment my manhood slipped away from me, the moment when I started turning into...something lesser. I don't even know what. Brandon and his buddies call me a lot of names, but "bitch" seems to be a favorite of theirs. I guess they are right. I am a bitch. The longer and more intense their abuse has become, the more I realize how much of a bitch I really am, and the more it throws the differences between them and me into high contrast. For all their flaws and faults (which are many), no one would ever accuse Brandon or Travis, or even Jesse, of being anything other than a real man, an alpha. Yeah, Brandon is pretty dumb, and Travis is just fucking evil and cruel, but they are still more men than I ever was, or will ever be again, I suspect. The further I fell, the more degraded and lowlier I became, the more I looked at them with a certain degree of admiration; tempered, of course, with a significant amount of fear. In such a short time, Brandon had completely conquered me, subjugated me in ways I never thought possible. Travis took that further, tearing me apart psychologically and transforming me into some sort of a... thing... he wanted me to be -- something completely subservient and obedient to even the harshest, most disgusting treatment. I wish I could say it took years, that like Nelson Mandela or others subjected to harsh treatment I'd stood strong and resisted, but the opposite was true. It had only been a few weeks since my tongue first cleaned Brandon's boots, less time than that since he first fucked me. And Travis had worked his magic in a single, intense weekend of hard and painful use. I finally saw the truth: these were MEN, taking what they wanted, brooking no resistance, enforcing their will over a lesser person. There was something very primal about it, the young and strong subjecting someone weaker, controlling and using him. It was the story of mankind throughout history, the story of slaves from the earliest days, except now that "him" was me, the slave not a prisoner of war, but me. That's exactly what they'd turned me into: a slave, completely subject to their orders and whims, helpless to save myself or pull myself out of the situation I was in. I was stuck, as assuredly as if I'd been kidnapped and taken to a foreign land to serve my captors. If I tried to resist, they'd beat me. Hell, they beat me even if I did obey; I couldn't imagine how bad it would be if I didn't.
Call it brainwashing, or training, or whatever you want, the end result was that my attitude toward my bullies was changing significantly. I was becoming less resistant and more obedient. The obedience was only partially the result of fear, though, the way it had been in the beginning. Now, I found myself thinking I needed to obey them because it was the right thing to do, because they'd earned that right, because it was exactly the type of treatment I deserved for being a coward and a failure as a man.
Brandon had remarked on the change when he picked me up from Travis's place after my night of hell. I'm sure my continued transformation was just as evident. I actually began to put effort into serving him, not because I had to, but because it felt right to obey him. I waited on him hand and foot, catering to his every need, almost before he realized he wanted it. Brandon always had a fresh, cold drink in his hand. I pulled out some cookbooks and made him better meals in an effort to please him. I did everything I could think of to be a good servant to him.
When I wasn't waiting on him in some way, I was kneeling at his feet, giving him foot massages while he watched TV, or sucking his toes while he relaxed. Instead of being forced to suck him, I'd beg for his cock in my mouth, kissing his feet and telling him how badly I wanted his big club down my throat. Sometimes he let me nurse on it for hours while he watched TV or played games on his phone, ignoring me completely while I worked my hardest to give him pleasure and make him cum. Other times, he fucked my throat like it was a pussy, ramming it deep down my gullet until I thought I was going to suffocate, only allowing me air once I started turning struggling and turning blue, my airway completely plugged by his huge knob.
When I wasn't serving him sexually, I was taking care of Brandon in other ways. Doing his laundry. Cleaning up after him. Making the bed that used to be mine, but was now firmly his. I didn't even think of it as my bed, or my room, or even my apartment any more. Brandon had so thoroughly conquered me; it was all his now.
None of this came without consequences, though. I knew things were going to get worse for me at work after what happened with Ben. It took a few days, but finally the other shoe dropped. I got a phone call from Carl, the owner of the company. He'd received two complaints, one from the woman that relieved me and saw all the markings on my face, and another from Ben. Apparently, Ben gave him an earful about what a freak I was, even going so far as to tell him, in great detail, about the markings on my face: the arrows pointing to my mouth, with "PISS HERE" and "CUM HERE" written on each of my cheeks, not to mention the word "FAGGOT" in big, black letters splashed across my forehead. Ben even told Carl about our conversation, about how I'd admitted to drinking the cum of other guys and letting them use my mouth like a toilet. I could tell Carl was shocked and offended by all this, just like Ben had been. Carl's entire tone with me communicated his disgust at what he'd heard.
"Look," he'd said, "I don't really care what kind of disgusting shit you do on your own time, but I can't have a freak like you working for me. I run a decent company, and we have a reputation to maintain. I can't handle complaints from my employees."
So, of course, Carl fired me, which put me in a terrible predicament. Without a job, I couldn't pay my bills, let alone my child support. Suddenly, I realized how lucky I was to have Brandon living with me. Without him there, I'd probably end up homeless. Unfortunately, it now gave him economic power over me, too. With no income, I was totally dependent on Brandon for even a roof over my head. Of course, I was still sleeping on the bedroom floor on a pile of Brandon's dirty, stinking clothes while he slept in comfort above me in the bed, but I felt lucky to have even that. More and more, it felt right and proper that he should have the bed and the comfort, while I suffered and served his needs.
We fell into a routine quickly. Brandon was still working nights, so I got up earlier than him and fixed him breakfast (he liked breakfast, even if it was the middle of the afternoon when he finally got up). Once it was ready, I'd wake him up with a blowjob, gently licking his balls until his cock got hard, then sucking him off. These were usually gentle blowjobs. Brandon didn't choke me on his cock when he first woke up, assuming I had the good sense to deep throat him the way he liked. I'd work his big dick down my throat and keep it there as long as possible, trying to learn to breathe around it, but never quite succeeding. His cock head was simply too big, his shaft so wide it filled my mouth and throat, stretching my jaw to the limit. I'd impale my throat on his thick cock as best as I could, swallowing it until I choked, then coming back for more. I found it was a lot easier to give Brandon a good blowjob voluntarily rather than have him rape my throat, which he didn't hesitate to do if he felt I wasn't swallowing his cock properly or deeply enough.
After I took his morning load of cum, Brandon would use my mouth to relieve his bladder, feeding me his rank, yellow morning piss. It was disgusting, but I began to get used to drinking it. Not only did I not have any choice, but it felt right to degrade myself this way, letting this young bully make me is urinal multiple times a day. After Brandon was awake, I'd serve him his breakfast. He liked a nice foot massage while he ate, so I'd be on my knees under the kitchen table, rubbing his toes and soles while he ate his meal.
Brandon usually slept until it was about time for work, so he'd shower and get dressed after "breakfast." Sometimes he showered alone, but other times he made me wash him, soaping up all his muscles and cleaning him from head to toe while he simply enjoyed being bathed. Whether I washed him or not, Brandon always made me dry him off. He said it made him feel like a king, stepping out of the shower to see me kneeling naked on the bathroom floor, holding his towel and waiting for the chance to dry the water from his body. There was something about this type of service that really fucked with my head, really made me feel completely like his slave and completely unlike a man. It threw the differences between us into high relief: Brandon, the young, virile alpha male being waited on hand and foot, while I groveled and served, my throbbing dick locked in the cruel, unforgiving chastity cage.
I had hoped Brandon would eventually remove the cage, but it stayed on, with no end in sight. After two weeks, I was losing my mind. Not only was I incredibly horny, not being able to even touch my dick through the cage, but the spikes inside it were a constant, unending torment. When I was soft, they were lightly tickling my dick each time I moved; when I got even close to hard, they dug into my flesh and felt like they were slicing my tender genitals in a thousand different places. I tried my best to avoid getting hard, but the hornier I got, the more it happened, adding a nearly constant undercurrent of pain to my daily life.
After Brandon's shower, I helped him get dressed, acting as his valet, putting on his uniform which I'd laundered and pressed. Putting on his socks and boots became a drawn-out ritual with him. Brandon made me kiss his feet first, thanking him for the chance to serve him, and begging to put his socks on. Once a clean pair of socks was on, I had to do the same thing with his socked feet, thanking him and begging to be allowed to put on his boots. Of course, once his boots were on, I had to make sure they were spotless and shining, giving them a quick wipe down with my tongue.
"That's my good faggot," Brandon often commented while I was doing this. "I like seeing your spit drying on my boots, bitch. Lets me know you understand your place."
Previously, such comments would make me burn with hatred and humiliation. Now, though, I felt a certain pride inside when Brandon called me his "good faggot". I was beginning to understand how a dog must feel when its master praises it. Perhaps because my life had become so empty of other positive input, praise from Brandon made me want to please and obey him even more, despite his cruel treatment of me.
Once Carl fired me, Brandon really increased his control. He locked the slave collar around my neck and kept it there. It was pretty thick, which stretched my neck out and limited my ability to lower my head. It also made the collar that much more obvious to anyone who saw me. He put all my clothes into a couple of boxes and locked them in an old footlocker he kept in the bedroom. He secured it with a big padlock, which meant I was stuck, naked except for my chastity cage and collar, unless he provided me with some clothes to wear. Most days, Brandon took my keys with him to work, effectively imprisoning me in the apartment, only returning them if he needed me to run an errand.
While Brandon was at work, I cleaned, scrubbed, and did laundry. Brandon insisted the apartment be spotless, and inspected it each day. I quickly learned to do a good job if I didn't want to feel his belt, which he used frequently. I also spent a good bit of time futilely applying for jobs. It was the only peaceful time I had though, since I was expected to give Brandon all my attention when he came home. He demanded I be completely focused on him, ready to jump at his slightest whim.
By the time morning rolled around and Brandon got back from work, he was always two things: sweaty and horny. I had strict orders to be waiting for him on my knees just inside the front door when he came home. I always watched out the window carefully to see when his truck pulled in, then scrambled to get in place to greet him. As soon as he walked in the door, I bent down and starting kissing his boots, licking all the dirt off of the tops and the sides. He'd usually sit down, and I'd spend some time making sure the rest of his boots were clean, licking the rugged tactical tread of the soles, cleaning out any dirt or debris from the job sites, as well as making sure the tops were dust-free. Brandon's boots were polished daily; I had to brush and rub them until they had a military-grade mirror shine on them, then finish the whole thing off with my tongue. If his boots weren't kept looking immaculate, Brandon would use his belt on my ass until I couldn't sit or lie comfortably for several days. Needless to say, I gave his boots my full attention and effort.
When he felt his boots were licked clean enough, Brandon would give me permission to remove them. It was basically a reverse of the ritual of putting them on: I'd beg to remove them and thank him for the honor, then suck his sweaty socked feet. When he finally gave me permission to remove his socks, I set them aside carefully. His smelly socks would, at his insistence, become a part of my "bed" on the floor, his foot odor a constant companion as I slept.
I cleaned his sweaty feet with my mouth, worshiping them, sucking each toe, making his tired feet feel good. The posture collar Brandon had locked on me made it difficult to lower my head, since I couldn't bend my neck. That meant I really had to grovel on the floor to get his toes in my mouth, which Brandon seemed to love, as it put my ass high in the air.
After work was when Brandon liked to fuck me. It gave him a chance to get out all his frustrations from the night. A lot of times, he'd throw me over the arm of the couch and rape my ass without even a word, just forcing his cock in me like it was his to use any way and time he wanted. It was true, I suppose. The first time he did that, his cock was completely dry; he didn't even allow me to slobber on it first. He just bent me over, spit on my hole, then shoved into me. It was terrible, like being turned inside out! I was certain he was going to tear my hole apart. After that awful experience, I learned to keep myself well-lubed when he was around, just in case.
Brandon's fucks were never easy. His cock was so big, it was like having a baseball bat up my ass, and he was brutal with it as well. I could only imagine what his wife must have gone through! The worst part of him fucking me, though, was my own dick. Brandon's massive log up my ass, ramming into my prostate, never failed to make my locked dick swell and my balls throb, desperate to release the cum which had built up. Of course, I was never able to, since the cage both prevented any direct pleasure on my dick, even from rubbing against the arm of the couch, and also inflicted significant pain as soon as Brandon's pounding caused my dick to swell. The result was that I leaked huge amounts of precum, sometimes even forming a small pool on the floor under me. Brandon made me lick it up, of course, laughing at me while I did it.
He was training me to his specifications, teaching me what he liked and didn't, and I was rapidly learning each lesson, both to avoid any more pain, and because I knew this was the life I deserved. Slowly, I was coming to terms with that. He was ingraining in me his preferences and desires, making them part of my daily routine, until they became as natural to me as breathing. Things like always dropping to my knees and licking his cock clean after he fucked me. Always thanking him for his cum any time he gifted it to me. Thinking of his needs first, always making sure he was taken care of, even if it meant I had to suffer or do without.
This routine was bad, but tolerable. Even the chastity cage became a pain I learned to tolerate, though never really adapted to fully. The idleness of being unemployed was harder. I'd had a job and been productive since I was a teenager, and wasn't used to not working. My efforts to find employment weren't successful, though.
I'd been Brandon's unemployed house slave for about two weeks before I saw Travis again. He came over one afternoon when Brandon was off work. The mere sight or thought of him gave me chills of terror, ramping up my anxiety. There was never any telling what Travis would do to me, or what type of sadistic pleasure he would take in finding new ways to abuse me.
I was kneeling on the floor, licking Travis's ragged Vans clean of whatever grime was on them, while Brandon used my ass as a foot rest. I was concentrating on cleaning Travis's shoes to a level that might please him, but couldn't help overhear the men talking above me.
"Josh decided it was time for a change," Travis was telling Brandon. "His remodeling business wasn't going too good, so when this opportunity opened up, he took it. Seems to be working out for him. I thought it would be a good way for you to make some money off the faggot here," he explained, grinding the sole of his shoe into my lips.
"Well, gotta do something, dude," Brandon replied. "I ain't paying for this place myself, and the fucker needs to get some employment. Sounds like a good gig for him. Right up his fucking alley." The both laughed, which sent cold chills down my spine. I had no idea what they were planning, but I knew I'd hate it, and suffer as a result.
They both took turns using my mouth after that, fucking my throat and dumping their loads inside my mouth. After I made them both dinner and served it to them, Brandon went in the bedroom and came back with a pair of shorts and a T-shirt of mine, along with some shoes. He threw them at me.
"Get those fucking clothes on, slut. Travis is taking you to your new job. Don't fuck this one up like you did your last two," he sneered.
I got dressed quickly, then Travis grabbed my leash from when Brandon kept in near the front door. Travis attached the leash to my collar, and tugged on the other end as he said his goodbyes to Brandon. Just like the first time he'd put me on the leash, Travis led me out to his car and made me climb into the trunk, like I was a piece of cargo instead of a human being.
As Travis drove, I lay there in the trunk, amongst all his trash, wondering what kind of "job" I was being taken to while still wearing my very visible slave collar. I just prayed that, whatever it was, there wouldn't be a lot of people there to gawk at me or witness my humiliation.
When Travis finally stopped and let me out, we were in the parking lot of a small office building. The only other vehicle in the parking lot was an old work truck. Travis grabbed my leash and led to over to the truck, where Josh was waiting.
Travis looked at me sternly, while curling my leash in his hand, pulling me eye to eye with him. "Look here, fuckboy. You're going to be working for Josh from now on. He's got a new business cleaning offices and shit. So, you're gonna be his cleaning fag. Understand, cunt?"
"Yes, Sir, I understand, Sir," I said, as respectfully as I could.
"Well, bitch?" Travis asked. "Are you gonna show Josh your appreciation for this opportunity?"
"Yes, Sir!" I said to Travis, then turned to Josh. "Thank you for the opportunity to work with you, Sir. I truly appreciate it."
Travis smacked me hard in the side of the head, making my ear ring. "Not like that, stupid cunt. Get down on your knees and show your appreciation properly." I dropped to my knees in front of Josh, and began kissing his dirty work boots. They were old and very grimy, covered with old paint and construction dust, not to mention plenty of dirt. I began kissing his boots while again thanking him for the opportunity to work for him. I could hear him and Travis laughing at me, but kept kissing and licking his boots, knowing that Josh could be just as mean as Travis if he chose to be. Plus, it sounded like I'd be spending a good bit of time with him, so I wanted to stay on his good side.
I could feel Travis hand Josh my leash. Josh took the end of the leash and clipped it on to his belt, then said casually, "I need to piss." I knew what he wanted, so I stopped licking his boots and knelt up, opening my mouth wide. Apparently, he planned to piss down my throat right there in the parking lot. He hauled out his cock and began spraying the back of my mouth with his urine, not even giving me time to swallow. Fortunately, I'd become good at keeping up with the flow of Brandon's piss, and managed to drink all of Josh's without spilling much. When he was done, he wiped his cock on my face, then zipped up, like it was the most normal thing in the world for him to piss down a man's throat in the middle of a parking lot. No, I thought. Not a man's throat. Mine. Whatever I had turned into, it most certainly wasn't a man. No man would tolerate this kind of treatment. No man would allow himself to be led around on a leash, his belly full of piss and cum, his dick caged in a plastic prison.
Travis said his goodbyes, then Josh grabbed some buckets from his truck and ordered me to carry them. Since my leash was attached to his belt, I had no choice but to follow obediently behind him like some kind of a beast of burden when he walked into the office building.
It wasn't a big building, just four stories, with the entire place belonging to a large law firm. Josh told me he was going to start on the floors, while I was going to clean the rest rooms. All of them. He gave me specific instructions, then sent me off with the buckets after removing my leash. For the next several hours, I was scrubbing toilets and moping bathroom floors. After that, Josh made me collect all the trash and take it out. At one point, he decided to take a break, which meant he sat and rested while I sucked his cock. He was sweaty, and his crotch smelled strong, but he forced his stinking cock down my throat and held my head down on it until my throat began to massage his shaft as it convulsed. Josh relaxed while I blew him, then dumped a load of cum in my mouth.
I cleaned every toilet in the place and emptied every trash can. By the time we finished, it was getting late, so Josh put me in the bed of his truck with the rest of his equipment and drove me back to Brandon's apartment (I'd stopped thinking of it as my apartment; it was so completely Brandon's now). I had to knock on the door when I got there since Brandon hadn't allowed me to take my keys. It was hard to believe so much had changed in such a short time in my life. I'd gone from being a respected educator and husband to being treated like a piece of property, owned by a young bully and his friends, used as a cumdump and urinal, in the course of less than a year. Now, I was knocking on the door of the apartment I leased, asking for permission to come inside and sleep on the floor next to a bed that used to be mine.
Apparently, Brandon approved of my new job. I worked with Josh five or six nights a week, cleaning offices and occasionally bars. The bars were the worst. At least in the offices, the toilets were reasonably clean, but in the bars, they were filthy. Josh made me scrub them thoroughly, sometimes requiring me to clean the floor on my hands and knees, especially around the toilets and the urinals. He said he wanted to make sure they were sparkling. Perhaps so, but I think at least some of it was making sure I got covered in the stale urine of the drunk men that pissed all over the floor. Every night when I came home, I reeked of piss from scrubbing toilets. Josh, of course, didn't have to worry about using the bathrooms, as he had his own portable urinal -- me. Every single night, I drank his piss at least once. Every night, he pumped at least one load down my throat or up my ass while he took his "break". I always worked hard to make sure he was happy. Josh looked like the dangerous ex-con he was, and I didn't want to see what he was like if he was displeased.
I kept waiting for Josh to pay me, but he never did. Finally, one night after I'd finished sucking him off, when I thought he'd be in the best mood, I asked him about my pay, being careful to be as respectful as possible. I even kissed his boots while I was asking.
"Pay?" Josh laughed. "You aren't getting any pay for this, you stupid faggot. I'm paying Brandon directly for the use of you. He's paying for your upkeep, so seems fair that anything you make goes straight to him. Don't you agree, faggot?" he added with a note of menace.
"Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir. That makes perfect sense and is completely proper, Sir." No wonder Brandon was happy about me working for Josh! He was getting all the money from my labors! I was working my ass off, scrubbing nasty toilets and collecting trash, not to mention serving Josh sexually, while Brandon was collecting all the money! My heart sank. This meant I was more of his slave than ever -- sexually, psychologically, and even economically. I'd never be able to become self-sufficient like this.
The job was drudgery, but tolerable. I tried not to imagine what my former friends and coworkers would think if they knew how I made my living now, cleaning up piss and scrubbing toilets, all for pay that went to someone else. Not work someone with a master's degree usually does, but this was what I had been reduced to, and at times I realized how lucky I was to have even a job this miserable. Even though they were both clearly exploiting me, at least Josh gave me an opportunity to work and be productive, and Brandon kept a roof over my head and prevented me from being homeless. In my now-fucked up brain, it made perfect sense that I would serve these men any way they required, out of gratefulness for them taking care of me and making me useful. I'd failed miserably as a husband, as a father, as a professional, even as a man. It somehow seemed only right that these men, much more confident and able than me, should use me and direct my life and activities. I realized I was becoming an accomplice in my own captivity and exploitation, but felt helpless to change it. The longer it went on, the less possible changing it became, and the more natural and justified it felt to serve these cruel, alpha male bullies.
The only thing that was not tolerable about working with Josh was the nights when Travis would visit. He and Josh liked to hang out, so he'd frequently come by and visit whatever office or bar we were cleaning. That meant I had to do double the work, handling Josh's tasks as well as my own, so the two men could just chill and hang out while I labored. And of course, Travis took every opportunity to abuse me. One night, Josh came and picked me up as usual. Travis was with him, so I knew it would be a miserable night. I climbed into the bed of the pickup and Josh headed out. I'd gotten so used to riding in the bed like a piece of equipment or any other tool Josh used, that it barely fazed me anymore. I did still try to hide my slave collar when we stopped at traffic lights. The worst part was always when a car was behind us and I could see the people staring at me and pointing, no doubt discussing what a freak I was.
That night was hell. Travis made sure of it. He seemed to be in an especially cruel mood. When we got to the first office, he attached my leash and led me into the rest rooms, followed by Josh. Travis ordered me to strip, then bent me over the sink. My face was inches from the mirror. I could see them behind me, and also see the look on my face, the submission and acceptance of whatever degradation they were going to subject me to. I closed my eyes, unable to watch myself being used and abused. I couldn't face it.
Josh fucked me first, hard and fast. Josh loved to smack my ass when he fucked, alternately spanking both my ass cheeks as hard as he could, making the fuck even more painful. After he pumped his cum up my ass, Travis moved into place behind me.
"Look at me, cunt," he ordered. I opened my eyes and looked at Travis. The evil little skater thug was holding the wire hanger I feared so much. Apparently, he'd brought it with him just to use on me, the bastard. He began to beat my ass with it, the thin hanger biting into my flesh, like knife cuts all over my ass. I screamed, but Josh and Travis just laughed. The building was empty except for us, so my screams didn't matter; they only provided more entertainment for these two sadists. I shut my eyes tightly, trying to block out the scene and manage the pain.
"No, faggot, you keep those eyes open and on that fucking mirror!" Travis ordered sternly. "Any time I see your stupid eyes closed, you're getting five more licks, understand me, fuckhole?"
"Yes, Sir! Sorry, Sir!" I screamed as he continued to beat me. I knew he'd make good on his threat. The mirror, however, added an entire new dimension to my suffering. Not only could I see each blow coming and anticipate it, which made it worse, but it was also the first time I'd seen myself being used. I'd never had to confront the reality of it before in such a way. Now, I was seeing, up close and personal, my own abuse and degradation, and it wasn't pretty. I was looking at myself in the mirror, neck in a wide slave posture collar, looking like a freak, a leash hanging from one of the collar rings; bent over a bathroom sink while a skater punk half my age disciplined me and abused me for no reason other than his own amusement and the amusement of his ex-con buddy. I had thought I was beyond shame at this point, but I was wrong. As I watched Travis grin while he tortured me with the hanger, I saw the tears start to flow from my eyes. They weren't from the pain in my ass, which was considerable; they were from the intense shame and humiliation of what I'd become.
Once Travis was done beating me, he fucked me, of course. He rammed his long cock into my hole and pounded me into the marble counter, grabbing the hair on the back of my head and pulling my head back, making me look straight into the mirror as I watched my own rape. Travis was loving the look on my face, as well as my tears -- they only made him fuck me that much harder. He reached down between my legs and grabbed my caged dick, pulling my cage and balls back between my legs. He used his fingers to crush my full, hypersensitive balls while he fucked me, using my nuts like a set of reins to pull me back onto his cock. The large knob on the head of his cock rammed into my guts, creating a sore spot deep inside me that no one, not even Brandon, ever reached. It was a special agony only Travis and his long pole produced, like a calling card to remind me how deep inside me he'd been.
I hated watching. It magnified my pain and suffering, seeing this cruel young man getting off on my agony, both of us knowing he had complete control over me. When he finally came inside my ass, I said a silent prayer of thanks that it was over, and hoped, now that he'd emptied his balls, Travis would leave me alone to work while he and Josh chilled somewhere. I'd gladly do extra labor in exchange for some peace. Travis, of course, had other ideas.
As soon as he finished fucking me, I expected Travis to pull out, but he didn't. He stayed behind me, but pulled his cock out until just big, bulbous head was right inside my sphincter, stretching it painfully. I wasn't sure what was about to happen. Then I felt something inside me. He was pissing up my ass! As soon as I realized what was happening, I became so disgusted I thought I was going to vomit. I could feel my gorge rising in my throat, but fought it back down. There was no telling how Travis would punish me if I vomited, and I didn't want to find out. Travis pissed for a while, filling my guts with his hot urine. When he was done, he smacked my ass and ordered me to hold it all inside me. Josh produced a large butt plug, and shoved it inside my hole as soon as Travis removed his cock, both of them laughing like hyenas.
The plug was nowhere near the size of the other one Travis and Josh used on me, the one Travis mockingly called my "best friend", but it was still sizable. It felt wider than it was long, and really stretched my insides. It was living up to its purpose, that was for sure: I was completely plugged. After Josh shoved it inside me, Travis ordered me to my knees. As I sank to my knees on the cold bathroom floor, I could feel Travis's piss sloshing around inside me. It wasn't bad enough this cruel young bastard had raped me and beat me; now he'd found yet another way to violate me. For some reason, the idea of him using my ass as his urinal humiliated me even more than him using my mouth that way, possibly because I was stuck carrying his piss around like this, sloshing inside my guts. Travis used his foot to point out some of his piss which had spilled from my ass on to the floor when Josh was putting the plug in my hole. I bent over and licked it up, the floor cold against my tongue, the taste of Travis's hot piss an acrid counterpoint. Once the floor was clean, Travis grabbed my collar and pulled me up to clean his cock off. I licked the remnants of his cum and Josh's cum from Travis's long cock, which also tasted strongly of his piss and my ass.
"Thank you for you cum, Sir," I said obediently to him.
"What else, fuckhole?" Travis demanded.
"Thank you for your piss, too, Sir."
"That's better, shit stain. Now, take care of Josh."
I crawled over to Josh, and started cleaning off his cock as well. He grabbed my head and shoved his softening cock in my mouth all the way, then started pissing right down my throat. Great. Now I was going to be filled with these men's piss at both ends. The situation wasn't lost on them, either, as they both started laughing and commenting on what a good toilet I'd become.
When they were both cleaned off, I expected Travis would allow me to get dressed, but he didn't. Instead, he handed my clothes to Josh to take back to the truck. Travis had decided I'd spend the rest of the night naked so he could see all the hand prints and welts he and Josh had left on my ass. He told me to get busy cleaning the bathroom, so I started my nightly routine of scrubbing the toilets. Travis just leaned against the sink, watching and waiting.
I'd never had an enema before, not even as a kid, so I had no idea what was about to happen to me. Travis's bladder had apparently been very full, because he'd pissed a lot of urine into my ass. In the beginning, the plug was the main problem, its girth stretching my hole painfully, making moving around to clean the rest room an exercise in constant discomfort. However, it didn't take long before Travis's piss began to really churn inside me. The need to empty my bowels became urgent, then painful, then finally overwhelming. My guts became cramped, the cramps coming in wave after wave. Moving became difficult as the cramps doubled me over. I was moaning out loud from the pain. Josh had rejoined Travis at the sink, apparently to watch the show caused by my agony. They were both laughing and commenting on it. They even started betting whether I'd be able to hold all that piss inside me, or if the plug would explode out of me like a bullet from a gun. At one point, I became so desperate for relief, I even tried to push out the plug, knowing Travis would punish me and I'd end up in a terrible mess on the floor. I didn't care, my need to release was so bad. But the plug was too large, the effort to expel it beyond the ability of my sphincter. That was the reason Travis had chosen it, no doubt. I was stuck with his piss up my ass, the plug preventing any relief from the cramps.
I finally got so desperate I fell to the floor at Travis's feet, slobbering kisses on his dirty Vans, begging for him to remove the plug and let me empty my ass. My pleas just made him and Josh laugh harder; in fact, Travis pulled out his phone and began recording me.
"Get your worthless ass back to work, piss breath," Travis ordered, shoving my head away with his dirty shoe. "When this bathroom is spotless, maybe we'll pull your plug. Or maybe after all the rest of the bathrooms in the building are done. Who knows? Maybe we'll take you home like this and let Brandon decide. He might pull the plug and just add his own piss. Wouldn't you like that, faggot?" Travis asked, the threat clear in his voice.
"Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir!" I replied as enthusiastically as I could fake. The last thing I wanted was Travis thinking I wasn't being obedient. I went back to cleaning the bathroom, trying to breathe my way through the pain in my guts, even though the cramps were making me sweat like a pig.
I don't know how I finished cleaning that restroom, but somehow, I did. When I was done, I fell back down at Travis's feet to let him know I was done, praying he'd let me empty my bowels at last. I begged and pleaded, licking his shoes and Josh's boots. I begged and groveled like I'd never begged before, offering anything just for the chance to release the pressure inside me. By this point, the cramps were bad enough to take my breath away each time my guts twisted.
"What do you think, dude?" Travis asked, turning to Josh. "Think we should let the bitch take a dump?"
Josh leaned back against the sink, then placed his work boot on the back of my head, forcing my face down on to the rest room floor. "Yeah, prolly so. I got plenty of work for him to do, and we need to get his ass moving."
Travis walked over to the restroom door and grabbed an empty bucket I'd carried in earlier, one of the ones I used every night while cleaning the building. He set it in the middle of the bathroom floor, directly across from the sink.
"All right, shit stain, I'm going to let you take a dump and get all that piss out. Can't let you use the toilet though. After all, they're all clean, and those are for real men anyway. It would look silly, having a toilet sitting on a toilet, dontcha think?" He and Josh laughed, but I suddenly realized he had a point: I was a toilet, a urinal. Both my mouth and ass. I was as much as urinal as the porcelain fixtures hanging on the wall a few feet away. I hung my head in shame, the realization burning me to my core.
"Josh is gonna pull that plug, and you can shit out that piss into the bucket. Understand, faggot?" Travis asked.
A new round of cramps hit, taking my breath away, making it impossible for me to talk. I nodded, desperate to get this over with.
Travis's voice was stern. "You'd better keep your head up and eyes open, bitch. I want you looking into this mirror over here the entire time. You close those eyes even for a second, it's gonna be 20 lashes with Mr. Wire Hanger."
No. Dear God, no. The last thing I wanted to do was watch this, to see myself squatting over a bucket releasing another man's piss from my bowels. But, as always, there was no choice. I nodded again.
Travis finally ordered me over to the bucket. I bent over and Josh snatched the plug out of my hole in one motion, causing me to scream. I immediately sat on the bucket, all of Travis's piss flowing out of me. "YES, SIR, OH THANK YOU, SIR!" I screamed in relief. Travis and Josh cackled with laughter, Travis recording the entire time.
Watching myself was worse than I could have imagined. I looked like an animal, barely human: collared, dick caged, squatting like a beast to shit into a bucket. Worst of all, I saw myself screaming my thanks and sincere gratitude to the men who did this to me, praising them for their generosity in allowing me relief from my suffering, allowing me to perform a most basic bodily function which was no longer mine to control.
What had I become? How much lower could I possibly go?
Thanks to all of you who have written to me about this story. I love to hear from readers!
Please contact me at jeffhamby1025@gmail.com