Author: white collar Subject: Tit-Slave - Part 3 - (M/M, Milking, B&D, MC, Modification) Author: white collar Date: August 4, 2016
Any comments will be gladly received at white_collar@hotmal.com
Note: Any resemblance to real people is strictly coincidental. No real people are depicted in this piece of fiction. This story contains explicit male to male sex, domination and bondage. If you don't enjoy reading this sort of material or are under the age of 21, DO NOT CONTINUE READING. If you regard this type of material as depraved then flee from here and don't look back!
Prologue - I'm still not completely clear what has happened to me or who is doing this to me. I'm beginning to suspect though. Standing in front of the mirror, I look at the reflection of my tits: how large they've become. They're like the tips of two fingers, protruding from my pecs. I reach up to them and, flattening my hands, fingers together, I strum them with the flat part of my fingers. A shiver runs down my spine and my knees buckle. I know what I've become; I am a tit fag; I am a tit slave.
Chapter 6
"Hank... Hank, are you OK?"
Greg's face came into focus. He looked concerned, his hand on my arm.
"Wh... what?" I said, shaking my head. "What time is it? I guess I must've dozed off there for a second."
"It's a quarter to 6:00," Greg said. "You just sort of blanked out on me."
My head seemed to be full of gauze and I shook it again. Blanking out was no longer a strange thing to me; it was happening at least once a day, sometimes twice. But I still felt a little disoriented and vulnerable when I came to. What was surprising to me was that the feeling of vulnerability was comforting. But how long had I been out? Maybe 10, 15 minutes? Greg and I had been talking and I seem to recall him reaching up to grab my swollen tits and... Every time I blanked out, it seems that my tits were involved.
"Tit slave", I thought. "I've been, or am being enslaved through my tits."
"What was that?" Greg asked, looking quizzical. "Enslaved through your tits? Did I hear you right?"
Oh God, I must've said that aloud, though I hadn't intended to.
"I, uh, umm, you see, what I meant was, I, I," I stammered, flushing from head to toe. How could I have said that aloud?
Greg reached across the table and laid his hand on my arm.
"Don't worry Hank. Whatever's going on, I'm not going to tell anyone, believe me. But it sounds like there's something going on that's bothering you. Do you want to share it with me? If you don't, that's OK. I'm just offering an ear..."
His voice and his words were so reassuring, I couldn't help myself. I told him that I was having these blackouts and that someone, somehow, was making me become more acutely aware of the erogenous nature of my nipples and that I was being induced to wear suction cups most of the time to make them grow. I told him about the website I'd been directed to and how I kept returning to it and how I thought that, somehow, it was part of what was going on with me. After saying this, I felt profoundly vulnerable and humiliated and I closed my arms across my chest in an effort to cover the points pushing against my shirt. At the same time, my cock was throbbing against my pants. I spread my legs in an attempt to give it more room. I was glad I was seated at a table, so that, at least my hard-on was concealed.
"Hank, Hank," Greg said softly. "I'm not sure what's going on with you, but you don't have to hide yourself. You don't need to be ashamed of your tits; look, a lot of men like men with big tits. In fact, I do. But I can tell that you're upset because you're not sure who's doing this and how. I'm your buddy, Hank. Let me help you. OK?"
I felt unsure and finally, looked up at Greg. Something in his eyes and his quiet, compelling voice told me it was OK. I nodded.
"Thanks Greg," I whispered, suddenly feeling reassured.
I've always been a stand-up guy; not intimidated by anyone. I've always been sure of myself. But suddenly, I was feeling vulnerable and exposed. Greg's reassurance and calmness comforted me. It felt good to entrust myself to him. I hadn't realized how profoundly disquieting and unsettling the last few days had been. Saying "yes" to Greg's offer to help me and guide me was a great comfort.
"Thanks Greg," I whispered again.
"It's not a problem Hank. How's about we go back to your place and we can talk some more? Sound good?"
"That would be great Greg; thanks. I'm just feeling a bit at loose ends and unsure of myself all of a sudden."
"I understand Hank. That can happen. That's what friends are for. C'mon, let's go."
Chapter 7
I invited Greg into my apartment, closed the door and fell back against it: I was mentally drained. What the hell was going on here? Physically, I felt fine, so far as I could tell; but my brain seemed to be AWOL at times and that was profoundly disquieting and disorienting.
"C'mon Hank," Greg said, taking my arm and guiding me into the living room. "Do you have some whiskey? You look like you could use a stiff one."
I overlooked the double-entendre.
"In the cabinet there," I said, indicating my antique ice-box that I kept my liquor in.
Greg surveyed my inventory and poured me a double portion of Crown Royal.
"No sense drinking single-malt right now," he said, as he poured. "You're in no state to savor it."
I took the glass he proffered and took a swig. It burned and brought me back to my senses.
"God," I said, "I just can't figure out what's going on here. I told you, it's just too weird. Somebody, and I don't know who, is turning me into a tit freak. All I can think about is men's tits; growing 'em, hurting 'em, growing mine, hurting mine. When I touch them, I just lose it. My mind goes blank and when I come back to reality, my tits hurt like hell. But I can't help myself; I still touch 'em and I love the pain. It makes me hard."
Greg had a concerned look on his face and reached over and touched my arm.
"I can see this is really upsetting you Hank. Will you let me help you? Can you trust me?"
I looked at him and felt a rush of warmth. In all my life, no one had ever spoken to me this way; no one had offered to help me in this way; no one had been there for me in this way.
"Thank you," I said, putting my hand on his. "I'm really touched that you care. And I do trust you."
"Good," he said. "Good boy."
"Boy"? Why had he used that term. But somehow it seemed comforting. It was just a term of intimacy, right? And it felt good to feel intimacy with someone. All my life, I'd been aloof, distant. I suppose that comes from growing up in a world where you know you're different and, when you figure out what that difference is, understand instinctively that this difference is not a good thing in the eyes of those you interact with every day. So you suppress it, you hide it and you put up walls so that no one sees what you are. But Hank was like me; he'd known what I was for a long time and had accepted that, because he was, is, the same. He understands about walls and intimacy. I did feel comfortable with him; I trusted him, and I wanted him to like me, because I didn't want to lose this new sense of intimacy. I suddenly realized I wanted to please Greg; to do whatever I could to keep this new-found sense of belonging. I belonged! I belonged somewhere. I wasn't a stranger in a strange land any longer. And I suppose this must've shown on my face. It also showed in the strong tenting in my crotch. The idea of belonging made me hard as an oak tree.
"Good boy," he repeated, placing his hand on my face. "Good for you. Now, you mentioned a web site: why don't you show it to me."
I led Greg to my laptop and booted it up. The URL was there in my history and I clicked on it. Greg gave a low whistle that expressed wonderment at the photos that appeared on the website. Then he pointed at a link with the heading "Tit freak induction".
"What's that?" he asked.
I didn't remember seeing that one before, but what the hey? I clicked on it. The by-now familiar kalaidescope appeared on the screen.
"Wow Hanky, look at that!" he said.
My mind went blank.
To be continued.