A Mans Decision

"Fuck man, I don't want to get my fucking tongue pierced" I hissed at Robert as we sat in the Jeep, putting the car in park. The air was tense with testosterone, it hung around us two like a cloud.  He just rested his meaty hand on my broad back, massaging the bunched muscles through the tank top like he always did to get his way.  A grunt passed, nodding his head as he went.  I guess we looked like fucking soldiers, two beefy guys sitting in a military vehicle like they owned the fucking world.  To a casual onlooker, we looked like two heavies ready to bust down a door.  Rod sure is acting ready to break open something, only I think the something is me.

"Oh yeah" he said, rummaging around in the glovebox, until he found a metal chain "put this on, would you?"  I grabbed the chain as I pushed the door open, to angry to go slow or think to check what it was. I guess that the grunt had been about right, except in our world, Rod was taking posession of me.  A ripping pain in my arse made me slow down from the deep steel arse hook he'd crammed in before leaving, which plumbed my insides uncomfortably from the long shaft to the bulbous shiny tip.  Wearing it made me fell like a giant rack of beef, which I guess was what I'd become.  I slid down from the drivers seat of the Jeep, the pain shooting up my spine, and made another mental note to sell the car that had once made me feel like a king-shit stud, but now just pummelled my pussy with every bump and dismount.

I was also painfully aware of guys leering on the street as my skimpy running shorts hiked up as I slid down, revealing a hefty mound of stuffed jockstrap nearly bursting from the seams.  Rob had made me wear the smallest jock I owned, and my fat package strained against the loose cotton, the old elastic struggling to contain my throbbing thumper and the arse hook in place.  At least as my feet touched the pavement, the shorts slid back down, covering that few precious inches between my tight waist and golden haired thighs.  I opened my fist, and my jaw almost dropped when I saw the chain properly.  Rob had handed me a thin silver chain - like the greasy Italian street boys wore - only the square pendant had a big black paw print in it, like a bear cub.  Reluctantly, I pulled the chain around my neck, giving the boys a flash of my hairy armpits, hoping the sign would be obscured between the cleft of my hairy pecs.  Unluckily for me, though, when I dropped my arms down, the chain barely fit around my corded neck, and the logo sat prominently on my clavicle, just above the fork where my hairy pecs arched out to meet my shouldercaps.  The tank top didn't help any - my old college gymnasts training top - the wide scooped neck revealed my chest almost to my nipples, and arm holes hung low to show off my tapered lats.

Rob had slung out of his seat and came around the car, hand on my back posessively, showing everyone who was boss.  I couldn't help but shiver, I mean Rob is a big muscular rugged man like me, but he was plenty happy letting guys think he was willing, or even hint that I was, too.

It was a real mindfuck having guys check me out.  Although I still have a big square gymnasts body, since I left college I no longer needed to shave down for competition, and my naturally thick blonde fur covered my chest, arms and legs like a grizzly.  I didn't care - chicks really dug a strong masculine man, and although I am stocky and chiselled enough to get the occasional look from guys, they could tell I was a real man from the hair, conservative clothes, that kind of shit.  Even on a building site - never less than jeans and a collared work shirt - and off site, nearly always had a Jeanne or a Tracey hanging off my bulging arm.  Now I have to get used to being a helluva lot more uncomfortable in public.  Rob still lets me dress like a "straight jock" as he calls it, but they're the kind of clothes I haven't worn for a decade, and there's a difference to me between a 25 year old gynmnast wearing this gear on the mats, and a 35 year old carpenter wearing it on the streets.

I guess I should explain how I became Rob's pussy.  I hate that name, it makes me want to curl up in a ball, but that's what he calls me, and it's true.  Not so long ago we were drinking buddies - best buddies I guess - and we used to horse around lots - stupid shit like wrestling for beers or harmless pranks.  A lot of the time we'd talk chicks and pussy, getting each other horned up for a night on the town.  One drunken night we were wrestling like idiots in our trackpants, and he pinned me down - side hold with my arm pinned behind me - I could barely move a muscle. He was leaning in, breathing heavily, waiting for me to submit.  There was something about the position, maybe just accidentally, but we both became aware his crotch was pressed against my arse - actually his cock was pretty much nestled in the crack, only our thin trackpants separated us. I barely breathed, and Rob just began rocking back and forward, grinding his horsecock into my crack like a dry fuck.  My own cock went rock hard, and seeing that, he dropped his arm down, jamming his thumb against my meatus as he rocked.  It was electric - like a shotgun, my cock exploded, spraying fucksauce all over the crotch of my trackpants, leaking through and onto his hand.  It had been a few days since I had had a date, but this was something else, like I was hard wired to him.  After that, he got up quickly, wiping his hand on the couch and quickly going to the bathroom.  I guess that probably would have been it - we were both straight brawny guys, and I guess we would have made some lame excuse about the booze and then never talked again.  I went to my room, humiliated, wiping off the cumsauce as best as I could with the trackpants, waiting for the thud of the door as Rob left.  I did a half arsed job, distracted, and when I still couldn't hear anything, I pulled on some jocks and wandered down the hall, figuring he must've left the door ajar.  I never in my life expected what would happen next.  I could hear what sounded like crying from the bathroom, and made the biggest mistake of my life - I went in.

Rob wasn't crying.  The titan man had his trackpants around his ankles, hard wired body and dark hair on display as he beat his long distended cock in long sloppy strokes.  Each backstroke tugged at the foreskin, revealing the bulbous head, while each forward stroke made a slug of precum spurt from his dicklips.  I'd heard him pant as he got close to cumming, and now I was standing there in a jock, streaks of cum down my leg, like an idiot.  Without missing a beat, Rob leaned forward, grabbed the back of my head and forced me to my knees, slamming his cockshaft into my slack-jawed mouth before I even realised what was happening.  In a stroke he came, the first volley of cum shooting into my mouth so hard it splashed off the back of my throat and overflowed from my lips, cascasding like a fountain over my hairy chest.  He kept cumming, pumping volley after volley of thick tangy goop down my throat, and I was forced to swallow just to breathe.  It was all over in a second, when it sunk in that he'd blown his load in my mouth.  I instinctively lifted my hand to wipe the thick pasty cream from my lips and tongue, almost gagging from the taste and smell, when he roused from his post-fuck haze long enough to slap my hand away, like he wanted me to wear it longer.  I tried to say it was all a mistake but the goop clotted my throat, making me gag and spit cum bubbles.  I was still reeling, a ladies man who'd just had a load blown in his face by his best friend's cock.

I guess Rob saw it different. Maybe he'd always figured I would come in, and prove I was up for taking his choad.  Maybe he just didn't give a fuck, and rolled with the punches as they came.  Maybe, like me, when his body responded, he was a slave to it.  Whatever it was, the air was thick with more than just sweat and cum.  He leaned down, helping me to my feet, and told me to lick my lips, there was shit dripping off them.  It was gross, but I kind of went with it.  When I did, my tongue was recoated with his goop.  As I did so, he leaned in, kissing me hard, forcing his tongue down my throat, mixing his dickspew with his hot spit as he tonguefucked me with his mouth.  When he'd finshed he let me go, telling me to get dressed for town, as if nothing had happened.  That night, I went out with him like we always did, but with his cum between my pecs and the taste in my mouth.  It made me feel dirty, and horny, and very twisted.

I pulled that night, and fucked that girl like a bronco.  But it was never the same.  Next evening, Rob came over again to watch the game and head out. But we never made it out on the town. He spent the night sitting on the couch yelling at the TV, and I spent the night, my rugged body stripped naked, on all fours between his spread legs, licking out his sweaty ballbag and chowing down on his fat stalk.  Since then, although I still dig chicks, and have no interest in other guys, I find it hard to resist whatever kinky shit Rob comes up with - the more emasculating, the harder it seems to make me.  I don't know how long we can keep it up before someone else finds out.  I guess for a while I thought we were casual fuckbuddies - literally two guys just getting each other off - but then it was always Rob getting off on me, or in my mouth, anyway, it quickly became clear that Rob called the shots.  The exact day was probably the day he 'suggested' I clipper down my chest hair, even though he knew I thought only fag boys did that.  Or maybe because he knew that.  That was the day he called me 'pussy' for the first time, started telling me what to wear, and began slyly fingering my sensitive arsering, just to remind me what was at stake.

Now, he says, facefucking me isn't enough.  He wants more than a blowjob.  Not that subtly, he suggested this while tonguing my throat, and fingering my arse, hard.  Then two days ago, he brought home the steel hook, and in his words, began "training my worthless mancunt".  I flat out refused, I was a fucking guy for fucks sake, But he just calmly told me I wouldn't be allowed to spray my juice until I agreed.  He stayed overnight to make sure, and I crumbled, my resistance lasting only a day.  This morning, after shooting his junk down my throat, he bent me over, his hand on by broad back, and I went down passively, like a fucking Pavlov dog.  He has me trained I guess.  But I'm a fucking virgin straight man for fuck's sake, I don't want some chick seeing a ripped arsehole, so when that steel knob touched my sphincter, I bucked and resisted like a colt.  Eventually he waited me out, patiently, until he got his way.  He wormed the fucker into my virgin chute , and now I can feel my g-spot like it's dialled up to 10.  I blew my load as it went in, of course, but as soon as I came of the post-orgasmic high, I began begging him to take the plumbing out.  "Uh uh" he said, "that thing's only coming out if I get to fuck you instead."  I backed off as much as I could with the steel poking into me, and hobbled to the bathroom.  It was too much, I was going to rip that hook out if it killed me, and finally stop this sick shit.  I began swearing as I waddled, but he caught up easily, stroking me on the back of the neck, telling me that he understood, if I wanted my pussy intact a little longer, that was understandable - any normal guy would.  If only there was something else I could offer...

So here we are, two rugged boys on the street, outside a fucking piercing shop.  He figures either I get a tongue piercing, to make blowing him more pleasurable, or I let him get his rocks off some other way.  "Hey hey big man" he growled, pushing me forward through the small crowd of guys "it's your choice man, either we do this, or you gotta offer me your cunt...".  "But I really don't want my tongue pierced" I repeated, without much conviction now.  I folded my guns across my chest, attempting to salvage some sense of masculinity as I began walking towards the shop.  "Atta boy" he said, loud enough for the guys to hear "you're doing just fine".