Hard core stories for the hard core. These stories are all fantasies and should not be taken as portraying either the actions or the inclinations of those individuals appearing in the accompanying photos or gifs. All photos and gifs are reblogs. If you want a post or photo of or about you deleted, please let me know and I will delete it.
It was hard for Trax to accept how low he had fallen. Just two years ago, when he was a senior at Lakeview High, he had pretty much been the cock-of-the-walk. Between his good looks, his hot body, and his acclaimed athletic ability, he knew he had it made. All he had to do was smile at a girl and he could tell he’d got her pussy-juices flowing. Getting laid wasn’t a problem. Fuck, deciding which of the bitches clamoring to spread her legs for him he wanted to fuck, that was his problem.
Now, a mere two years later, his life couldn’t be more different. Oh, he still had his good looks and great body. And, if he could screw up his courage to withstand the snickers and sneers that were sure to greet him when he stripped down, he’d might still be able to demonstrate the athletic prowess that made him so popular in high school. But the bitches weren’t spreading their legs for him anymore. Far from it. He was the bitch spreading his legs now, letting total strangers climb in between his muscular thighs and stick their big Man-cocks up his fuck-hole and cunt him out like some cheap slut.
Of course, while the dudes banging his boypussy might be using him like a cheap slut, he was anything but cheap. No, his owner got top dollar for the chance to fuck Trax’s boytwat. Not that Trax ever saw a penny of all the money his pussy brought in. But, then again, owned fuck-whores never did. And that he was an owned fuck-whore, even Trax no longer doubted, though even after six months of spreading his legs on demand, Trax still wasn’t quite certain how that came to be.
One minute he'd been out drinking with some bros from his frat, getting wasted as he frequently did when he was just relaxing, and the next he was in a room he’d never been in before, buck-assed naked, his seven-inch cock painfully squeezed into a two-inch metal cage, his ass hurting like a son-of-a-bitch, with three big dudes he’d never seen before in his life standing around laughing at him.
“Well, well,” one of the dudes sneered, “it looks like our little bitch is finally waking up.”
“What the fuck is going on?” Trax had demanded, angrily. “And who the fuck are you?”
“What’s going on, bitch,” the dude who’d first spoke replied, emphasizing the word ‘bitch,’ “is a good old-fashioned gangbang. And what we are, well we’re you’re worst nightmare.”
“Fuck that shit,” Trax had exclaimed, jumping to his feet and throwing himself at the dude, intending to pummel him into submission. And that’s when Trax discovered he wasn’t nearly the tough guy he’d always thought he was. The dude taunting him easily parried Trax’s onslaught and then, with the assistance of his two buddies, beat the living crap out of the college sophomore. And, when they were done beating on him, they proceeded to fuck the hell out of Trax’s already aching hole. Something they repeatedly did for the next dozen hours. By the time they’d finished with him, Trax was lying on the bed, sobbing like a little boy.
They left the boy alone for five or six hours and then returned and fucked him again. And again. And again. And they continued to fuck him until all the fight was literally fucked out of him. And it was only after they’d totally broken the boy that Damon Phelps, who Trax was subsequently to discover was his new owner, made his appearance.
Phelps was nowhere near as physically imposing as any of the three dudes who’d been ravaging Trax’s boypussy for the last day or two. But there was something about the Man, a malice which seemed to fill the air around him, that terrified Trax. And when the Man ordered Trax to raise his legs and show the Man his boypussy, Trax hastened to do just that. And Trax wasn’t surprised when the Man proceeded to brutalize his boypussy much worse than any of the Men who’d been coring him out thus far. By the time the Man finished with him, Trax understood that he would do whatever this Man told him to. Whatever.
And that’s exactly what Trax has been doing ever since. He’ll whore himself out to any dude Phelps tells him to. And he’ll let that dude use him any way that he wants. And Trax understands that he’ll be Phelps’ whore as long as the Man wants him to be. He still has no idea how he ended up being owned by Phelps. But that Phelps now owns him, body and soul, he has not the slightest doubt.
Manips by @ConqueredManhood.bdsmlr.com
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It was hard for Trax to accept how low he had fallen. Just two years ago, when he was a senior at Lakeview High, he had pretty much been the cock-of-the-walk. Between his good looks, his hot body, and his acclaimed athletic ability, he knew he had it made. All he had to do was smile at a girl and he could tell he’d got her pussy-juices flowing. Getting laid wasn’t a problem. Fuck, deciding which of the bitches clamoring to spread her legs for him he wanted to fuck, that was his problem.
Now, a mere two years later, his life couldn’t be more different. Oh, he still had his good looks and great body. And, if he could screw up his courage to withstand the snickers and sneers that were sure to greet him when he stripped down, he’d might still be able to demonstrate the athletic prowess that made him so popular in high school. But the bitches weren’t spreading their legs for him anymore. Far from it. He was the bitch spreading his legs now, letting total strangers climb in between his muscular thighs and stick their big Man-cocks up his fuck-hole and cunt him out like some cheap slut.
Of course, while the dudes banging his boypussy might be using him like a cheap slut, he was anything but cheap. No, his owner got top dollar for the chance to fuck Trax’s boytwat. Not that Trax ever saw a penny of all the money his pussy brought in. But, then again, owned fuck-whores never did. And that he was an owned fuck-whore, even Trax no longer doubted, though even after six months of spreading his legs on demand, Trax still wasn’t quite certain how that came to be.
One minute he'd been out drinking with some bros from his frat, getting wasted as he frequently did when he was just relaxing, and the next he was in a room he’d never been in before, buck-assed naked, his seven-inch cock painfully squeezed into a two-inch metal cage, his ass hurting like a son-of-a-bitch, with three big dudes he’d never seen before in his life standing around laughing at him.
“Well, well,” one of the dudes sneered, “it looks like our little bitch is finally waking up.”
“What the fuck is going on?” Trax had demanded, angrily. “And who the fuck are you?”
“What’s going on, bitch,” the dude who’d first spoke replied, emphasizing the word ‘bitch,’ “is a good old-fashioned gangbang. And what we are, well we’re you’re worst nightmare.”
“Fuck that shit,” Trax had exclaimed, jumping to his feet and throwing himself at the dude, intending to pummel him into submission. And that’s when Trax discovered he wasn’t nearly the tough guy he’d always thought he was. The dude taunting him easily parried Trax’s onslaught and then, with the assistance of his two buddies, beat the living crap out of the college sophomore. And, when they were done beating on him, they proceeded to fuck the hell out of Trax’s already aching hole. Something they repeatedly did for the next dozen hours. By the time they’d finished with him, Trax was lying on the bed, sobbing like a little boy.
They left the boy alone for five or six hours and then returned and fucked him again. And again. And again. And they continued to fuck him until all the fight was literally fucked out of him. And it was only after they’d totally broken the boy that Damon Phelps, who Trax was subsequently to discover was his new owner, made his appearance.
Phelps was nowhere near as physically imposing as any of the three dudes who’d been ravaging Trax’s boypussy for the last day or two. But there was something about the Man, a malice which seemed to fill the air around him, that terrified Trax. And when the Man ordered Trax to raise his legs and show the Man his boypussy, Trax hastened to do just that. And Trax wasn’t surprised when the Man proceeded to brutalize his boypussy much worse than any of the Men who’d been coring him out thus far. By the time the Man finished with him, Trax understood that he would do whatever this Man told him to. Whatever.
And that’s exactly what Trax has been doing ever since. He’ll whore himself out to any dude Phelps tells him to. And he’ll let that dude use him any way that he wants. And Trax understands that he’ll be Phelps’ whore as long as the Man wants him to be. He still has no idea how he ended up being owned by Phelps. But that Phelps now owns him, body and soul, he has not the slightest doubt.
Manips by @ConqueredManhood.bdsmlr.com