Straighthell-stories

From the very first moment I saw Trent I wanted him.  He was lying on the sand in Ocean City, clad in frat-boy board shorts and nothing else, joking with some bros while ogling the bitches as they sashayed by.  He exuded the raw teenage masculinity of a young stud who knows he’s hot and figures the whole world is just an oyster waiting for him to crack it open.  He was obviously straight, but I actually preferred him that way.  It would make breaking him and turning him into a pathetic, groveling fuck-bitch for Real Men that much more enjoyable.

Now, at my age, I had few illusions about myself.  I had been a hot number when I was young, but those days were long past.  And while I had retained a certain degree of innate charm, it certainly wasn’t charm that was going to maneuver this boy into becoming my fuck-bitch.  No, charm wasn’t going to work and lust sure as hell wasn’t going to work, but what I figured just might do the trick was simple greed.  Because the one thing I had going for me was money.  Lots of money.  Big money.  And just looking at the boy, I had the sneaking suspicion that he was just dumb enough and just avaricious enough to take the bait.

Of course, I wasn’t going to be the one offering the bait.  That was Rod’s job.  Rod was my thirty-two-year-old part-time bodyguard, part-time chauffeur, part-time gay fuckboy, but full-time collaborator in the deflowering and sexual exploitation of straight jock-studs.  And he was perfect for the role.  A former big-time college wrestler himself, he looked way younger than he really was and had no problem passing himself off as a fellow college stud-boy.  Any time I selected a college jock as my next mark, he’d swing into action.

Even before I mentioned to Rod that I’d set my sights on Trent, he’d noticed my interest in the college stud.  "That boy would be a lot of fun to break,” he remarked to me with a twinkle in his eye.  "A lot of fun.”

I couldn’t help laughing.  "Bro," I admitted, “we’re definitely on the same wavelength.  I was just thinking the exact same thing.”

”Well,” Rod replied with a smirk, “then I guess we’ll have to reel him in.”  Rod kept an eagle eye on the boy and, when his bros all left to go get something to eat, Rod got up and sauntered over to where Trent was lying.

I watched as Rod approached our mark, striking up a conversation and then squatting down on the sand.  Five minutes later, he was sitting on Trent’s blanket and the two of them were engaged in an animated discussion.  Once I saw Trent glance in my direction and fix me with a hard stare, I knew Rod was hard at work.

Watching him in action, I couldn’t help wondering what story Rod was spinning to ensnare our target.  Rod was nothing if not inventive.  I'd variously been portrayed as an important Hollywood producer, a much-in-demand photographer, a recently bereaved business executive trying to recover from the loss of a long-time lover.  Fuck, one time Rod even convinced a dude that I was a CIA headhunter looking to recruit new agents.  I never knew what story he’d come up with, so I always had to be on my toes, ready to play a wide variety of roles.

Invariably, though, at some point in his spiel, Rod would mention that I was gay.  And that always served to allay the mark's fears.  I know that’s somewhat counterintuitive, but the reality was that because Rod was so forthcoming on this point, it actually increased the mark’s trust in what Rod was saying, and what Rod would quickly assure the boy that my being gay wasn’t something they needed to worry about – it was something they could use to their advantage.

“He’s a fag, alright,” Rod would explain, “but like most fags, he’s a total wuss.  All you have to do is show him a little skin, every so often – you know, let him see you in a skimpy bathing suit, stuff like that – and you’ll have him eating out of your hand in no time.  And the thing is, the old faggot can really help out your career.  I've been working for him for a year now, and I’m making close to a 100 G’s.”

“Yeah,” the prospect would eventually say, “the money sounds great, but what do you do when he comes on to you?”

“Fuck, bro,” Rod invariably responded, “I just shrug him off.  I play it like it’s a joke and tell him he ain’t ever gonna get in my pants.”

“And he’s okay with that?  He doesn’t get mad or anything?”

“Bro, like I told you, he’s a total wuss.  He'll just laugh along with me and drop it.  Course he’ll try it again two or three weeks later, but I just handle it the same way.  Like I said, all I really have to do is let him see a little flesh every now or then – wear a speedo when I come down to the beach – and he’s putty in my hands.  And I’m sure he’d be the same for you, if you’re interested.”

“Fuck, dude.  For a 100 G’s a year, I’d wear a thong on the beach.”

“Then, c’mon, dude.  I'll introduce you to him.”

It’s amazing how often the scene would play out pretty much as I just described it.  Just like it did with Trent, that day I saw him on the beach.  It took maybe twenty minutes before I was looking up and smiling as Rod returned to our blanket with Trent in tow.

It was quickly obvious that today I’d been portrayed as a top-of-the-line physique photographer which was one of the easier roles to assume.  I complimented Trent on his musculature, which the boy just ate up, and told him that he was perfect for a photo-shoot I was working on for ‘Tomorrow’s Man.’  I wasn’t surprised when Trent acted as if he knew the magazine, even though the soft-core gay muscle mag had stopped publishing decades before the boy was even born.  In my experience, boys like Trent always want to impress strangers with how much they know even when the truth is that they don’t know what the hell they’re talking about, and I’m always more than happy to play along – especially when their ignorance is going to help move along my plans.

I asked the boy if he had an agent that I should be dealing with, knowing full-well he didn’t, but wanting to puff up his ego while at the same time projecting the verisimilitude of a professional photographer.  When the boy answered the he didn’t, I acted all surprised.  "I would have thought a dude as good-looking as you, who obviously has a bright career ahead of him in physique modeling, would have been scooped up by an agent years ago,” I said with my most sincere smile plastered onto my face.  "Looking the way you do, it’d be a piece of cake for an agent to market you, and then grab a third of your income.  But, seeing how you don’t have an agent, you’d get to pocket the whole commission on the shoot.”

Well, the boy’s eyes just lit up at that.  "How much money are we talking about,” he asked, trying but failing spectacularly to hide just how interested he was.

“It’s only $5,000,” I responded in a deprecating voice, as if the amount was scarcely enough to interest the boy, though I knew full-well that for a young dude like Trent it would seem a fortune for one day’s work.

The boy’s eyes got as big as saucers and then, no longer even trying to hide his excitement, he swallowed the bait - hook, line, and sinker.  "I'm in,” he exclaimed, and then caught himself and added, “if you want me, sir.”

“I definitely want you, Trent,” I answered with a grin.  "The only thing is that I need the approval of the head of the company’s advertising agency.  But I don’t think that’ll be a problem, not once he sees you.  I'll just snap some photos from my iPhone and send them on to him.”  I reached over grabbed my phone and stood up.

Not surprisingly, Trent was more than happy to strike various muscle poses.  I snapped a few photos, then reviewed them, shaking my head in obvious disappointment.

“Anything wrong, Mr. Madison,” Trent asked, obviously disconcerted by my reaction.

I shook my head.  "Not with you, Trent,” I reassured the boy.  "It's just that it’s too sunny here on the beach to get a good photo.”  I stood there as if I were bemused for a moment and then said, “You know, Trent, there’s a park just a couple blocks from here with enough trees to provide ample shade.  And it’s just a block or so from my hotel room, too.  After I text the advertising agency your photos, we could walk over there.  I'm sure that by the time we arrive, he’ll have texted his approval and we can sign the contract right then.  That way, I’ll be able to shoot you tomorrow.”

I could see Trent look over to his blanket.  His friends hadn’t yet returned, and they were nowhere in sight, either.  I could see the indecision in his face so I decided to give him a little nudge.  "Of course, if you’re busy right now, we could postpone everything.  I could just give you my card and maybe we could set up something in the future, if there’s a problem right now.”

Trent looked at me and then back at his deserted blanket.  I heard him say ‘fuck it,’ under his breath.  Then he turned back to me.  "No.  There's no problem, Mr. Madison,” he said.  "I'll just get my wallet and shit and we can go shoot those photos you want right now.”

“Sounds good to me,” I responded with a warm smile.  "We should get going, though, so we don’t lose the early afternoon sun.”

“Yes, sir,” Trent responded, and he was off like a shot running back towards his blanket.  Less than a minute later he was headed back toward me and Rod with his backpack in hand.  We hightailed it off the beach right after that.  I was pretty pleased with myself, I have to admit.  Not only did we have our prey in tow, but none of his friends would have the slightest idea of what had happened to him when he didn’t show up again.

We found ourselves a secluded area in the park, perfect for our purposes.  I took a couple of photos of Trent in his board shorts and then handed the boy a pair of tight briefs, explaining that they would show off his thighs a lot better than the board shorts.  The real reason, of course, was that having the boy change shorts gave me an opportunity to scope out his naked body, just to make sure there wasn’t some unpleasant surprise awaiting me when I started in on him.  Fortunately - for me, at least – naked he was everything I expected.  So I passed him the doctored water and told him to drink up.  "You don’t want to become dehydrated,” I said, now just counting the minutes before I could make my move.

“Thank you, sir,” he replied, taking the bottle from my hand and following that with two quick gulps of water down his throat.  I told him to keep the bottle.  "We'll take some photos of you just drinking from it.  Natural poses like that often display a model’s body to his best advantage.”

For the next fifteen minutes I snapped countless photos of Trent drinking from that bottle.  By the time we were finished, he was slurring his words.  When he stumbled and had to grab a tree to maintain his footing, Rod and I moved in.  It took just a few seconds to rip the underwear off his crotch.

“What…what are you guys, doing?” he mumbled, moving his hands to try to fend us off.  But the drugs had really kicked in by then and his efforts was laughingly ineffective.  We wrestled him down to the ground and while I spread his muscled buns apart exposing the pretty virginal puckered hole that was my target, Rod amused himself by plumbing the depths of the boy’s throat with his own hard Man-meat.  As things turned out, it was probably a good thing that Rod had stoppered the boy’s mouth, because I was pretty brutal in fucking Trent’s cherry boypussy.

I banged the crap out of that hole, I’ve got to admit.  It was so fucking tight, I just couldn’t control myself.  And, if I’m being honest, I really didn’t try all that hard to, either.  After all, even for me virginal straightboy pussy is a pretty rare treat.  And even though he had to be satisfied with sloppy seconds, Rod did his own number on Trent’s now-leaking cunt once I finally shot my load of creamy babymakers deep inside the boy’s ravage anal passageway.  Between the agony of his violent deflowering and the mixture of drugs coursing through his bloodstream, the boy was pretty much out of it by the time we were finished with him.  We slipped his board shorts over his legs and then pulled him up to his feet and, with each of us holding an arm around our necks, we pretty much carried him out of the park.  To be honest, nobody gave us much of a glance as we passed them, obviously assuming we were three bros who’d just had too much to drink.  Once we got to my car, we waited until no one else was around and then dumped Trent unceremoniously into the trunk.  From that point on, I knew we were pretty much home free.

Once we had the boy safely ensconced in my basement playroom, we just waited for the drugs to wear off.  And, when they did, the real fun started.

As exciting as it was fucking Trent’s cherry ass in the park when he was pretty much out of it, it couldn’t hold a candle to the pleasure I got from fucking the boy in my playroom once he was fully conscious, fully aware of what was happening to him.  And Trent didn’t like it.  Not even a little bit.  At least not at the beginning.  But, of course, that was to be expected.  Trent was your typical self-absorbed straight jock, going through life thinking that under every pile of shit there must be a pony.  And for him, until he ran into Rod and me, it had probably turned out that way.  Now that the wheel of fate had turned and he was discovering that beneath the surface manure was just more and more shit, he didn’t know what to do.

He was swearing a blue streak when I mounted up that second time, telling me how I’d pay for what I was doing to him, how he’d get his revenge.  But no sooner had I fully penetrated his tender hole and begun throwing it to him for a second time, than he switched gears and began begging me to stop, to please take it out.  And by the time I howled my release as I shot another load of my burning Man-seed inside his battered boycunt, he was sobbing like a little boy.  And he kept crying when Rod took over and gave him another vicious coring-out.

By the time I approached for my third nut, he simply looked at me and said, his despair obvious, “Oh, God, no.  Not again.  Please not again.”

“Bitch, we’re nowhere near finished with you,” I laughed as I drove my hard dick balls-deep in one powerful thrust.  "We're nowhere near done with you.”  I gave the boy another good reaming-out and, when I was done, Rod followed suit.

From that point on, Trent just lay their quiescently and let us have our way with him.  Oh, he’d moan and even scream whenever either Rod or I provided a particularly nasty thrust up his cunt and the occasional sob would escape as the assault on his pussyhole just went on and on but, by and large, the fight had gone out of him.  Despite all his muscles, Trent was your basic straightboy wuss.

On the one hand, I was disappointed.  I like the challenge of breaking a boy who really fights against you; someone you can fuck for a week and who’ll still curse you out and tell you that he’ll get even, he’ll pay you back in spades.  Breaking a boy like that takes a lot of work, but it’s also exhilarating when you’d finally done it.  On the other hand, it was a lot easier training up a boy like Trent, a boy quick to abandon his pretensions of masculinity, a boy with the soul of a faggot.  All you had to do with a boy like that was show him what he really was, deep down inside, and all the fight was gone, and he was ready to be molded exactly the way you wanted him.  And that’s precisely what Rod and I proceeded to do with Trent.

Within a week, he was your basic faggot fuck-bitch.  Oh, we still kept him cuffed and shackled, but that was merely for show.  Once we taught him what would happen to him any time he failed to do what he was told, he became almost embarrassingly subservient.  Sure, we still strapped him to the St. Andrews cross for a couple hours every day and worked him over, paying particular attention to his tits and nads, but that was for our own amusement, not because we needed to punish him.  By the end of the week, Trent was completely broken and not only did Rod and I both know it, the boy did, too.  And, having broken him, we moved on to training him up right.  And that’s what we’ve been doing ever since.

Every so often I amuse myself by asking Trent what his friends would say if they could see him now, living naked in a dog cage, eating slop out of a dog bowl, drinking piss like it’s water, cleaning out another dude’s dirty asshole with his tongue until it sparkles, inside and out, to say nothing of spreading his legs multiple times a day and taking one hard Man-cock after another into his faggot pussy, squealing like a bitch when he does so.  Just hearing this question makes Trent blush like an adolescent boy caught jacking himself off.  But when I make him respond, when I make him answer, he’ll actually start crying as he stutters, “they…they’d be disgusted, Master.  They'd be totally disgusted.”  And when I respond, “of course, they would, bitch.  Any Real Man would be disgusted by what you’ve become, by what you are,” he just sobs uncontrollably.

We’ll keep Trent around a month or so more, honing his cocksucking technique, working on his tits to get them even bigger, teaching him the finer points of sexual subservience, having our fun with him.  And then, then we’ll auction him off.  A piece of prime boy-flesh like him will bring a pretty penny, particularly in the Arab slave market where straight American stud-boys command a premium.  If he’s lucky, he’ll end up in some rich sheik’s harem, where he’ll at least be well-fed in addition to being well-fucked.  And, honestly, it won’t be so bad for him.  A naturally submissive boy like Trent will find it remarkably easy to adjust to that type of life.  The truth is we’re probably doing the boy a favor selling him as a slave to a man who will know exactly how to use him.  Of course, that’s not why we’re doing it; we’re doing it for the money.  But still, selling the boy as a slave is putting him to his highest and best use.  And isn’t that the way it should be?