tommytugger

Tommy adjusted the straps on his backpack for the third time since leaving the subway station. The weight of the gear inside made his shoulders ache, but it was a familiar discomfort, one he welcomed like an old friend stopping by unannounced. His sneakers scuffed against the pavement as he rounded the corner, the neon sign of Club Z buzzing faintly in the distance. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows, but the heat hadn’t let up—sweat dotted his temples, and he swiped at it with the back of his hand, careful not to smudge his glasses. He wasn’t usually the type to arrive this early, but tonight was different. The sling room wasn’t cheap, and he’d spent the last two weeks meticulously planning what he’d bring, what he’d wear, and how he’d set everything up. The ad had gone live three hours ago—already, his phone had buzzed twice with responses, but he’d ignored them. First things first: the room had to be perfect. The bouncer at Club Z barely glanced at his ID, just waved him through with a bored nod. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of disinfectant and something muskier underneath—like leather left too long in the sun. The club wasn’t busy yet, just a few early birds nursing drinks at the bar or lounging on the sofas near the back. Tommy kept his head down as he made his way to the stairs, the backpack shifting awkwardly against his hips. Room 309 was smaller than he’d expected, but the sling dominated the space, bolted to the ceiling with thick straps dangling like an invitation. He dropped his bag onto the vinyl-covered floor, the sound muffled but heavy, and took a slow breath. The adrenaline was starting to prickle at the base of his skull, that familiar mix of nerves and anticipation. He unzipped the backpack with practiced efficiency, laying out the cuffs, the gag, the toys in neat rows on the dresser. His phone buzzed again. This time, he checked it—a message from someone with a wolf emoji in their username. *Saw your ad. Still looking?* Tommy bit his lip, then typed back, *Yeah. Room 309. Give me twenty to set up.* He hesitated, then added, *Bring your worst.* Tommy’s fingers trembled slightly as he fastened the last strap of the wrist cuffs to the sling’s frame, giving it a firm tug to test its hold. The metal D-ring didn’t budge. Good. He stepped back, surveying the room—the harness draped over the dresser, the ball gag gleaming under the dim overhead light, the gas mask with its fogged lenses staring blankly at the ceiling. Everything was in its place. Almost. He adjusted the blindfold, folding it neatly beside the rest, then wiped his palms on his thighs. The room was warmer now, the air thick with the scent of rubber and his own nervous sweat. A knock at the door made his stomach lurch. Too soon. He hadn’t even changed yet. Tommy hesitated, then called out, “Twenty minutes, remember?” The knock came again, harder this time, followed by a low chuckle. “Yeah, yeah. But you said *worst,* pigboi. You really wanna keep me waiting?” The voice was rough, edged with amusement, and Tommy’s breath hitched. He crossed the room in three strides, yanking the door open before he could second-guess himself. The man on the other side was taller than he’d expected—broad-shouldered, with a close-cropped beard and eyes that flicked over Tommy like he was already taking inventory. He wore a fitted black tee, sleeves rolled to show off thick forearms, and a pair of boots that looked like they’d seen more than a few dungeon floors. “You’re early,” Tommy said, and immediately cringed at how breathy it sounded. The man grinned, stepping inside without waiting for an invite. “And you’re not even dressed.” He nudged the backpack with his toe, then picked up the harness, turning it over in his hands. “Nice gear. You break it in yet?” Tommy shook his head, pulse thudding in his throat. The man’s presence filled the room, his energy like a live wire. “No. It’s—it’s new.” Another chuckle. “Good.” He tossed the harness back onto the dresser and closed the distance between them in one stride, crowding Tommy against the wall. His hand came up, calloused fingers brushing Tommy’s jaw. “Blindfold first,” he murmured. “Then we’ll see how much of that *worst* you can take.” Tommy's breath stuttered as the blindfold was pulled tight over his eyes, the sudden darkness making his other senses flare to life. The man's calloused thumb traced the hinge of his jaw before gripping his chin, tilting his face up. "Eyes on me, pigboi," the man murmured, though Tommy couldn't see a damn thing—just the heat of his breath, the press of his body pinning him to the wall. A shiver raced down his spine when the man's other hand slid down to his belt, working the buckle with a practiced flick. The leather hissed as it was pulled free, and Tommy's stomach tightened. He'd expected commands, roughness, maybe even a slap—but the slow, deliberate way the man undressed him was worse. Every brush of fingers against his skin felt like a brand. His shirt was tugged over his head, the cool air hitting his sweat-damp chest, and then the man's palm flattened over his sternum, pushing him back until his shoulders hit the sling's straps. "Arms up," came the order, and Tommy obeyed without thinking, his wrists slotting into the cuffs dangling from the frame. The metal clicked shut, snug but not biting—yet. A low whistle. "Look at you." The man's voice had dropped, rough with approval. Tommy could hear him circling the sling, boots scuffing against the vinyl, and then a warm hand gripped his hip. "You even shaved for this." The touch trailed down, teasing along the crease of his thigh, and Tommy jerked against the restraints, his breath coming faster. The man chuckled, the sound dark with promise. "Gag next. Open." The ball gag was slick with spit before it even touched his lips, the man pressing it into place with a thumb hooked under the strap. Tommy whined around it, the stretch of his jaw immediate, the drool already pooling under his tongue. The man patted his cheek, almost affectionate. "Better." Then, without warning, a sharp slap landed on his bare thigh—stinging, bright, just shy of too much. Tommy gasped, his body arching, and the man hummed. "Oh, you *like* that." Another slap, higher this time, and Tommy's cock twitched against his thigh, shame and want twisting together in his gut. The sting of the slap still burned on his skin when the man's fingers dug into Tommy's hips, yanking him forward until his back left the support of the sling. The sudden shift made his shoulders protest, the cuffs biting just enough to remind him they were there. A grunt escaped around the gag, muffled and wet. The man’s laugh was close, his breath hot against Tommy’s ear. "You’re gonna take what I give you, yeah?" Not a question. Tommy nodded anyway, his throat working around a swallow. "You gonna rush so hard pig" SLAMBOSS ordered. The first touch of the harness against his bare chest made him flinch—cold leather, stiff with newness. The man made a tsking sound as he adjusted the straps, pulling them tight enough to make Tommy’s ribs ache. "Breathe," he ordered, and Tommy did, shallow and quick, as buckles were fastened with methodical precision. The harness hugged him like a second skin now, the D-rings digging into his flesh with every expansion of his lungs. A finger hooked under one of the straps, tugging sharply. "Color?" The word was clipped, no-nonsense. Tommy forced out a garbled "Green," around the gag. The man’s hands dropped lower, palming Tommy’s cock through his briefs, and he arched into the touch with a whine. "Eager," the man mused, then yanked the fabric down in one rough motion. The air hit Tommy’s exposed skin like a shock, his cock twitching against his stomach. A thumb swiped over the head, smearing precome, and Tommy’s hips jerked uselessly in the sling’s hold. The man chuckled, stepping back just out of reach. "Not yet, pigboi." The clink of metal made Tommy’s breath hitch—the cock and ball toys, he realized, being lifted from the dresser. The man’s hands were sure as he fitted the ring around Tommy’s base, the cold steel a sharp contrast to his heated skin. Another whimper built in his throat as the man tightened it just shy of painful, then attached the weights with a satisfied grunt. "There." A slap to Tommy’s inner thigh, lighter this time, almost playful. "Now you’ll remember who owns you tonight." The weights swung heavily between Tommy’s thighs, each slight movement sending a jolt through him, the metal cool and unyielding against his overheated skin. The man’s boots creaked as he stepped back, and Tommy strained his ears, trying to track him in the darkness. A hand suddenly fisted in his hair, yanking his head back. "You’re shaking," the man observed, voice dripping with dark amusement. "Good." The grip tightened, forcing Tommy’s throat into a vulnerable arch just as something smooth and cold—the gas mask—was pressed over his nose and mouth. The straps cinched tight behind his head, the rubber sealing with a faint suction. Panic flared for a split second before the man’s thumb stroked his temple. "Breathe," he murmured, and Tommy did, the air hissing through the filters, his own exhales loud in his ears. The world narrowed to touch and sound. The man’s calloused palms dragged down Tommy’s chest, tweaking his nipples through the harness straps until they ached, then lower, tracing the divots of his hips. A finger prodded at his hole—dry, just shy of cruel—and Tommy jerked, a muffled noise escaping the gag. The man chuckled. "Uh-uh. You don’t get to decide when." He withdrew, and Tommy heard the rustle of fabric, the clink of a belt buckle. Anticipation coiled in his gut. A slick sound—lube, Tommy realized—and then two fingers pushed into him without warning, stretching him open in one ruthless thrust. He cried out, the sound trapped behind rubber and silicone, his body clamping down instinctively. The man shushed him, working his fingers deeper, crooking them just enough to make Tommy’s toes curl. "There it is," he muttered, pressing harder, and stars burst behind Tommy’s eyelids as pleasure sparked up his spine. The fingers withdrew abruptly, leaving him clenching around nothing. The head of the man’s cock nudged against him, blunt and insistent. Tommy braced, but there was no slow build—just one relentless push, seating the man to the hilt in a single stroke. The gasp that tore from Tommy’s throat was ragged, his body arching against the restraints. The man stilled, his breath hot against Tommy’s ear. "Fuck, you’re tight." A hand gripped Tommy’s hip, holding him in place as the man pulled out almost entirely, then slammed back in. The pace was brutal from the start, each thrust jolting Tommy forward in the sling, the D-rings of the harness digging into his flesh. Tommy’s body jerked with each thrust, the sling creaking under the force, his wrists pulling against the cuffs until the metal bit into his skin. The pain was sharp, bright—a counterpoint to the pleasure coiling tighter in his gut with every snap of the man’s hips. The gas mask fogged with each ragged exhale, the filters hissing, and Tommy could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, louder than the slap of skin against skin. The man’s fingers dug into his thighs, holding him open, and Tommy could feel the sweat dripping down his chest, pooling in the hollows of the harness straps. A particularly rough thrust knocked the breath from his lungs, and the man growled, low and approving. “That’s it—take it.” His voice was gritted, strained, like he was holding back just as much as Tommy was. The thought sent a fresh wave of heat through him, his cock twitching against the steel ring, the weights swinging heavily between his legs. The man’s hand slid up, gripping the harness straps at Tommy’s chest, using them like reins to yank him back onto each thrust. “Fuck, you look good like this,” he muttered, his breath hot against Tommy’s ear. “All trussed up and taking it.” Tommy whined around the gag, his hips canting up helplessly, trying to meet the man’s rhythm. The man chuckled, dark and knowing, and slowed his pace deliberately, drawing out each stroke until Tommy was writhing, his muffled pleas lost in the rubber of the mask. “Patience, pigboi,” the man murmured, his thumb brushing over Tommy’s bottom lip where it stretched around the gag. “You’ll get what you came for.” The sudden change in angle was brutal—the man shifted, lifting Tommy’s legs higher, and the next thrust hit *just there*, forcing a choked scream around the gag. Then, like a switch flipped, the man pulled out completely, leaving Tommy trembling and empty. The absence of the man’s cock left Tommy shuddering, his body straining against the restraints, every nerve alight with frustrated need. Then—a new sound cut through the haze: the sharp *click* of a lighter, followed by the acrid, chemical tang of smoke curling into the air. Tommy’s nostrils flared beneath the gas mask, the scent unmistakable. His breath hitched, and suddenly, the filters clogged—thick, cloying smoke flooded the tube, pouring into his mouth and nose with each desperate inhale. Panic spiked through him as his lungs seized, the smoke scorching his throat. He jerked against the cuffs, his gagged cries muffled by the mask’s rubber seal. The man’s voice, now laced with something darker, slithered into his ear: "Breathe, pigboi. You wanted my worst." A rough hand gripped the back of the mask, tilting Tommy’s head back further, forcing him to swallow the smoke as it coiled deeper into his chest. His vision swam, the edges blurring with tears, but the man didn’t relent. "That’s it—take it all." A second voice, unfamiliar and rasping with amusement, cut through the fog. "Look at him—goddamn smoke pig." Fingers, calloused and reeking of nicotine, tapped the mask’s lens. "You ready to really earn that name?" Tommy’s pulse hammered in his throat. He hadn’t known there was someone else in the room. The realization sent a fresh wave of dread—or was it excitement?—coursing through him. The sharp bite of the needle was unexpected—Tommy jerked against the restraints with a muffled yelp, the sting radiating from the base of his cock like a lit fuse. The man—no, *SLAMBOSS*—grunted, his fingers pressing hard against the injection site to stem the tiny bead of blood that welled up. "Trimix'take the edge off," he muttered, though the rough edge of his voice suggested it wouldn't be the kind of relief Tommy was used to. The drug hit fast, a slow burn spreading through his groin, his cock twitching against the steel ring as it began to swell beyond its usual limits, the weights swinging heavier between his thighs. Cold lube splashed over his balls, dripping down his perineum in thick rivulets. Tommy gasped around the gag as SLAMBOSS's fingers spread it roughly, coating every inch of his sac and the tight furl of his hole with slick, clinical precision. The man's chuckle was low, predatory. "Gonna milk you dry, pigboi." The words sent a jolt through Tommy’s gut, his cock throbbing in time with his heartbeat, the trimix turning every pulse into a slow, aching throb. The milking began without ceremony—SLAMBOSS’s fist closed around Tommy’s cock, stroking with brutal efficiency, the lube making every pull a slick, torturous slide. The trimix turned his nerves into live wires, every drag of the man’s hand sending sparks up his spine, his balls drawing up tight. The second man exhaled another plume of smoke directly into Tommy’s gas mask tube, the fumes mixing with his ragged panting. "That’s it," the stranger crooned, tapping ash onto Tommy’s bare chest. "Let it fuck you up." Tommy's orgasm coiled tight in his gut, a white-hot wire about to snap—then the cold, blunt press of the dildo breached him, spreading him wide just as SLAMBOSS's fist twisted brutally around his cock. The sensation tore a garbled scream from his throat, the gag muffling it into something pathetic and wet. His hips bucked wildly, the sling's straps creaking under his thrashing, but the man holding him didn't relent. The dildo pushed deeper, the ridges catching on his rim with each merciless inch, stretching him beyond what he thought he could take. A rubber strap slithered around his right bicep, tightening with a sudden, clinical *snap*. Tommy flinched, the pressure sharp enough to make his fingers tingle. The second man's breath was hot against his ear as he adjusted the strap, his voice rough with amusement. "Gotta keep that arm still, smoke pig. Wouldn't want you squirming out of your fun." The strap bit into his flesh, the restriction oddly grounding even as the dildo began to move in slow, deliberate thrusts, fucking him open with methodical precision. SLAMBOSS's grip on his cock shifted, his thumb pressing hard against the slit, smearing precome in tight circles. "Feel that?" he growled, the dildo hitting a spot that made Tommy's vision whiten. "That's your fucking prostate. Gonna milk it like a cow." The comparison should have been humiliating—but all Tommy could focus on was the relentless rhythm, the way his body clenched around the intruding toy, the way his cock pulsed in SLAMBOSS's fist like it was trying to fucking *beg*. The second man exhaled another lungful of smoke into the mask's tube, the acrid haze flooding Tommy's senses just as the dildo twisted inside him, pressing hard against his sweet spot. His back arched, his toes curling, and for a terrifying, exhilarating moment, he teetered on the edge—right there, *right there*—but SLAMBOSS's hand stilled abruptly, his grip turning punishing. "Nuh-uh," the man growled, his thumb digging into the slit of Tommy's cock, smearing precome in slow circles. "Not yet." The words hit Tommy before the pain did. *"You're not Tommy anymore,"* SLAMBOSS growled, his voice grinding against Tommy's eardrums like gravel. A rough hand twisted in Tommy's hair, yanking his head back until his throat strained taut. *"You're PIGBOI now. Say it."* Tommy tried to shake his head—or thought he did—but the gas mask's straps bit deeper into his skull as SLAMBOSS tightened his grip. The dildo inside him pulsed, some sadistic remote setting making it twitch against his prostate. His vision swam, the trimix turning his cock into a swollen, aching weight between his legs. *"P-Pig—"* he garbled around the gas mask, drool soaking his chin. SLAMBOSS's laugh was a dark, wet thing. *"Good start."* His other hand trailed down Tommy's chest, nails scraping over the harness straps before pinching a nipple hard enough to make Tommy jerk. *"PIGBOI doesn't think. Doesn't say no. Just takes—cocks, drugs, fists, whatever the fuck we stuff in him."* The second man—still nameless, still circling like a shark—exhaled another lungful of smoke into the mask's tube. Tommy coughed, his lungs seizing as the acrid fumes coiled deeper. *"Look at him,"* the stranger mused, tapping ash onto Tommy's heaving chest. *"Already halfway there."* SLAMBOSS's fingers dug into Tommy's jaw. *"Gonna make sure you don't come back."* He leaned in, his breath hot against Tommy's ear. *"Gonna fuck you so dumb, you'll beg for it."* The syringe glinted under the dim red light as SLAMBOSS tapped it with a fingernail, the plunger already drawn back to the 70cc mark. The liquid inside was thick, honey-colored, clinging to the glass in viscous streaks. PIGBOI’s breath hitched behind the mask, his chest rising and falling too fast—he knew what that was. Knew what it *did*. SLAMBOSS’s thumb brushed over the needle’s tip, testing its sharpness. "Last chance, pig," he murmured, though the words weren’t kind. They were a blade held to PIGBOI’s throat, a dare disguised as mercy. "You tap out now, you walk away with your pretty little brain intact." He leaned in, close enough for PIGBOI to smell the nicotine on his breath. "But once this hits your vein, you’re *mine*. Not Tommy. Not even PIGBOI. Just a fucked-out hole waiting for orders." The second man chuckled, his boot nudging PIGBOI’s splayed thigh. "Bet he’s already gone," he mused, flicking ash onto PIGBOI’s chest. "Look at him—*dripping*." SLAMBOSS’s fingers wrapped around PIGBOI’s bicep, squeezing until the vein bulged under his skin. The alcohol swab was cold, the sting of it sharp and fleeting. Then—the needle’s bite, deeper this time, sliding home with practiced ease. PIGBOI whined around the gag as SLAMBOSS depressed the plunger slowly, *so slowly*, the drug burning its way into his bloodstream like molten lead. "Count," SLAMBOSS ordered, his voice rough. PIGBOI tried. He *tried*. But the numbers dissolved before they reached his lips, his thoughts turning to sludge as the rush hit—a tidal wave of heat, of weightlessness, of *nothing*. His vision blurred at the edges, the room tilting dangerously. SLAMBOSS’s face swam above him, distorted and grinning. "Good boy," SLAMBOSS crooned, withdrawing the needle with a final, cruel twist. He pressed a thumb to the puncture, smearing the bead of blood across PIGBOI’s skin. "Now let’s see how much of you’s left." The second man stepped forward, his shadow falling over PIGBOI’s prone form. "Think he’ll remember his name?" he asked, voice laced with mock concern. SLAMBOSS snorted, cuffing PIGBOI’s cheek lightly. "Doubt it." He leaned in, his breath hot against PIGBOI’s ear. "Who are you?" PIGBOI’s mouth worked uselessly around the gag, spit pooling under his tongue. The words wouldn’t come—or maybe they weren’t there at all. His thoughts slithered like eels through the thick syrup of the rush, impossible to catch. SLAMBOSS grinned, wide and predatory, and gripped the gas mask straps. With one sharp tug, the mask came free, the cold air hitting PIGBOI’s sweat-slick face like a slap. Before he could gasp, thick rubber pressed over his eyes—a hood, its interior lined with something slick, sealing tight with a *pop* as SLAMBOSS worked it down over his skull. PIGBOI whined, the sound muffled and wet, as SLAMBOSS’s fingers pried his jaw wider. The dog bone gag clicked into place, the metal frame forcing his mouth open in a permanent, drooling gape. "Better," SLAMBOSS murmured, running a thumb over PIGBOI’s bottom lip. "Now you look like what you are." The rush hit harder then, a tidal wave of heat and static crashing through PIGBOI’s veins. His cock throbbed against the steel ring, the weights swinging heavy between his thighs, but the pleasure was distant—secondary to the *emptiness*, the yawning void where his thoughts used to be. His hole clenched around nothing, greedy and open, as if begging to be filled. The rubber-gloved hand pressed into PIGBOI’s hole with no preamble, slick lube smeared in rough circles before two fingers breached him without warning. He gasped around the dog bone gag, his body jerking against the restraints as the fingers twisted inside him, spreading him open with clinical efficiency. The stretch burned—just shy of too much—but the sting was already fading under the drug haze, his body yielding like warm wax. Above him, SLAMBOSS exhaled sharply, his free hand wrapping around PIGBOI’s cock with a grip that bordered on cruel. The trimix made every nerve hypersensitive; even the callouses on SLAMBOSS’s palm felt like sandpaper as he stroked PIGBOI’s length in slow, deliberate pulls. Precome dribbled from the slit, slicking SLAMBOSS’s thumb as it swiped over the head in tight circles. PIGBOI’s hips bucked helplessly, the sling’s straps creaking under his thrashing, but the fingers inside him didn’t relent. They crooked suddenly, pressing hard against his prostate, and PIGBOI’s vision whited out for a split second, his cry muffled by the gag. SLAMBOSS chuckled, dark and low, his thumb rubbing punishing circles into the sensitive spot under PIGBOI’s cockhead. "Look at him," he muttered, more to the second man than to PIGBOI. "Already fucking ruined." The fingers withdrew abruptly, leaving PIGBOI clenching around nothing, his hole twitching with the ghost of their presence. SLAMBOSS’s hand on his cock didn’t stop—if anything, the pace increased, his grip tightening just shy of painful. PIGBOI’s breath hitched, his balls drawing up tight, the pleasure coiling in his gut like a live wire. He was close—so close—but SLAMBOSS’s thumb pressed hard against his slit, smearing precome in slow, torturous circles. "Nuh-uh," SLAMBOSS growled, his voice rough with amusement. "Not yet, pigboi." The second man’s shadow fell over PIGBOI’s prone form, his boot nudging PIGBOI’s splayed thighs wider. "Think he can take it?" he asked, his voice laced with mock concern. SLAMBOSS snorted, cuffing PIGBOI's cheek lightly. "Rule's simple, pig," he growled, his breath hot against PIGBOI's ear. "Every load I pump into this greedy hole"—his fingers twisted inside PIGBOI without warning,, wrenching a garbled cry from his throat—"you pay back. One for one." He withdrew his fingers with a wet *pop*, holding them up to the dim light, glistening. "Starting now." The cold press of lube against PIGBOI's hole came next, slick and thick, before SLAMBOSS's cockhead nudged at his rim, blunt and unrelenting. PIGBOI's breath hitched behind the hood, his body straining against the sling's straps—but there was no preparation, no easing in. SLAMBOSS sheathed himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust, the impact rattling PIGBOI's teeth around the gag. "First," SLAMBOSS grunted, his hips already pistoning, each snap of his pelvis driving PIGBOI deeper into the sling's unforgiving embrace. The pace was merciless from the start, the slap of skin echoing off the padded walls. PIGBOI's cock twitched against his stomach, swollen and aching, the steel ring biting into his base as the weights swung heavily between his thighs. SLAMBOSS's hand closed around PIGBOI's length on the next downward stroke, his grip tightening just shy of painful. "Pay up, pig," he snarled, twisting his fist on the upstroke, his thumb pressing hard into PIGBOI's slit. The dual sensation—SLAMBOSS's cock hammering his prostate, his hand working PIGBOI's oversensitive flesh—threatened to unravel him instantly. PIGBOI's toes curled, his back arching, but SLAMBOSS's free hand planted firmly on his chest, pinning him down. "Not yet," he warned, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "Gotta earn it." The rhythm was relentless, SLAMBOSS's hips driving forward with punishing precision, his hand matching the pace on PIGBOI's cock. Every drag of his palm sent sparks up PIGBOI's spine, every twist of his wrist pulled another broken sound from PIGBOI's gagged mouth. The drug haze made it impossible to focus—pleasure and pain blurred into one searing, all-consuming feedback loop. SLAMBOSS's breath hitched suddenly, his thrusts losing their brutal precision. His fingers dug into PIGBOI's thigh, nails biting deep as he buried himself to the root with a guttural groan. Heat flooded PIGBOI's insides, the wet pulse of SLAMBOSS's release triggering a full-body shudder. SLAMBOSS didn't stop. His grip on PIGBOI's cock tightened further, his strokes turning ruthless. "Your turn, pig," he panted, his hips still grinding shallowly, milking his own orgasm as he worked PIGBOI toward the edge. The overstimulation was excruciating—PIGBOI's cock ached, the steel ring constricting his base, the weights tugging mercilessly at his swollen sac. The second man laughed, low and dark, his fingers trailing through the mess on PIGBOI's chest. "Think he'll pop just from being pumped full?" he mused, smearing SLAMBOSS's come across PIGBOI's trembling abs. SLAMBOSS's grin was all teeth. "Let's find out." He leaned in, his breath hot against PIGBOI's ear. "Gonna milk you dry, pigboi." His fist twisted brutally on the upstroke, his thumb pressing hard into PIGBOI's slit—and just like that, PIGBOI was gone. White-hot pleasure detonated at the base of his spine, his vision whiting out as his cock pulsed violently in SLAMBOSS's grip. Nothing came—the ring saw to that—but the dry orgasm wracked his body all the same, his hole clamping down on SLAMBOSS's softening cock in erratic spasms. SLAMBOSS chuckled, dark and satisfied, as he finally released PIGBOI's oversensitive flesh. "One for one," he murmured, dragging his fingers through the mess on PIGBOI's stomach. "And we're just getting started."

The lighter flicked twice before the flame caught, illuminating Travis's face just long enough to see the nicotine stains on his fingers. He exhaled sharply, the smoke curling around his knuckles like something alive. Behind the dumpster, half-hidden by a torn mattress someone had shoved against the brick wall, he palmed himself through his jeans. The denim was stiff with dried sweat, the kind that came from too many days worn in a row. His thumb rubbed slow circles, just enough friction to make his breath hitch. The alley smelled like piss and old fries, but he didn’t care—his thoughts were elsewhere, tangled up in the kind of fantasies he’d never say out loud. A cold draft snaked down the collar of his jacket. Travis ignored it, shifting his weight against the wall. The brick bit into his shoulder blades, but the discomfort was secondary to the heat building low in his gut. He thumbed the button of his jeans open, just enough to slip his hand inside. The first stroke was always the best, that split second where his brain emptied of everything but sensation. He bit his bottom lip, teeth pressing hard enough to leave marks. His free hand fumbled for the cigarette again, dragging deep as if the burn in his lungs could match the one between his legs. Something moved in the dark—a scuttling sound, too deliberate to be rats. Travis barely registered it, too caught up in the rhythm of his own hand. But then the air shifted, thickening like oil, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up. His pulse kicked harder, though not from pleasure this time. Something was watching him. The cigarette fell from Travis's fingers, ember sputtering against the wet pavement. His hand stilled inside his jeans, but the heat didn’t fade—it spread, crawling up his spine like fingers dragging nails over bare skin. Shadows pooled thicker between the dumpster and the wall, coagulating into shapes that twitched unnaturally. A wet, clicking noise echoed from the darkness, like tongues peeling off teeth. Travis tried to step back, but his boots stuck to the asphalt as if glued. His breath came in shallow bursts, fogging the air in front of him. The cold wasn’t just in the wind now—it was inside him, filling his lungs with every gasp. His fingers twitched against his thigh, the urge to keep touching himself warring with the primal need to run. Then the whispers started. Not from any one direction, but from everywhere at once—inside his skull, under his fingernails, between the clenched muscles of his jaw. They weren’t words, not exactly. More like the memory of words, hissed through a throat that hadn’t been human in centuries. Travis groaned, his cock jerking against his palm despite the terror clamping his ribs tight. Pleasure and dread coiled together in his gut, inseparable. The first spirit slid into him like smoke through a keyhole. There was no resistance—his body opened for it, muscles loosening as if welcoming a lover. Travis arched off the wall with a choked cry, his back bowing as the thing settled deep, tendrils threading through his nerves. His vision fractured into jagged bursts of color, and suddenly he could taste copper and semen and the acrid sting of meth cooking in a dirty spoon. More came. They pressed against him, insistent as hands shoving him to his knees. One forced his mouth open wide, cramming itself down his throat until he gagged around the intrusion. Another peeled his jeans down his hips without touching the fabric, the denim splitting like rotted meat. Travis’s cock jutted out, already leaking, and the spirits crooned in approval. He felt their hunger—not for flesh, but for degradation, for the slick slide of pain turning to pleasure under their influence. His fingers scrabbled at the brick behind him, nails breaking as they searched for purchase. The spirits didn’t let him fall. They held him upright, puppeteering his limbs as they peeled back his humanity layer by layer. Travis’s head lolled forward, blond hair sticking to his sweat-slick forehead. A laugh bubbled up from his chest, raw and giddy. He didn’t recognize the sound. Didn’t recognize the hunger gnawing at his insides, either—the sudden, vicious need to be filled, to be marked, to burn through his veins whatever poison they offered him. The last thing he saw before his vision went black was his own hand reaching for the discarded cigarette butt. His lips wrapped around the filter, sucking hard as if he could draw the rot straight into his lungs. The spirits sighed in unison, satisfied. Their new toy was learning fast. The spirit hit him like a cattle prod to the base of his spine—a white-hot jolt that arched Travis’s back so sharply he heard vertebrae pop. This one wasn’t content to slither in; it hammered itself into his pelvis with the force of a railroad spike, fusing to the nerves around his cock in a searing weld of possession. Travis’s scream tore through the alley, but it dissolved into wet laughter halfway out. His hands flew to his hips, fingers digging into flesh as if he could claw the thing out, but all he succeeded in doing was smearing precome down his own thighs. His dick hadn’t softened since the first spirit entered him—if anything, it had grown thicker, the veins standing out like ropes under skin gone dusky red. Now it twitched violently, spewing another thick strand of fluid that hit his chin. The spirit inside him purred, a sound like a chainsaw idling, and Travis realized with dawning horror that it wasn’t just riding his body. It was rebuilding it. His cockhead split open like an overripe fruit, revealing a second glistening slit beneath the first. Something moved inside the new opening—a barbed tip, testing the air. "Fuck—fuck, no—" Travis rasped, but his protest turned into a moan as the spirit yanked his hips forward, grinding him against nothing. The friction shouldn’t have been enough, but it felt like sandpaper on every raw nerve, pain and pleasure short-circuiting his brain. His knees gave out, but the spirits kept him upright, their grip on his limbs as unyielding as steel cables. The new entity wasn’t satisfied with passive ownership—it wanted collaboration. Travis’s fingers, twitching and spasming, wrapped around his mutating cock without his permission. "Harder," the spirit hissed through his own teeth, and Travis sobbed as his hand obeyed, jerking himself with brutal strokes that tore skin. Blood welled up, mixing with the slick dripping from his new slit, but the spirit only crooned in delight. "Deeper." His free hand scrabbled at the jagged edge of a broken bottle nearby, fingers closing around glass that sliced his palm open. He didn’t drop it—couldn’t drop it—as the spirit forced his arm down, dragging the bottle’s edge along the underside of his cock. Travis’s vision whited out as the pain detonated in his groin, but his hips kept rutting into his fist, the motion now slick with his own blood. The spirit was laughing now, a sound like gasoline igniting, and Travis realized with dizzying clarity that it wasn’t just controlling him—it was rewriting him. Every brutal stroke carved another piece of his humanity away, replacing it with an insatiable hunger for violence and violation. His teeth ached; when he ran his tongue over them, they’d sharpened into points. His nails were blackening, curling into claws that scraped grooves into his thighs as the spirit redoubled its assault on his nerves. The impact came from above—a sudden, skull-cracking weight that drove Travis’s forehead into the pavement hard enough to split skin. Blood dribbled into his eyebrows, hot and sticky, but the pain barely registered over the pressure mounting inside his skull. Something was in there, wedging itself between bone and brain like a crowbar. His scalp prickled, then burned, as if someone had poured lighter fluid down his part and struck a match. Travis clawed at his hair, nails scraping over swelling ridges that hadn’t been there seconds before. "Fuck—fuck, what’s—" The words dissolved into a wet scream as the ridges split open with a sound like tearing leather. Twin spires of bone erupted from his forehead, jagged and uneven at first, then smoothing into glossy black curves as they lengthened. The spirit in his head purred, grinding his own teeth together in a mockery of speech. *Yes,* it seemed to say, *yes, better.* Travis could feel every inch of growth, the horns curling backward like a ram’s, the tips sharp enough to draw blood when they brushed his shoulders. Travis's body locked up mid-spasm, muscles seizing as if plugged into an electric socket. His cock pulsed violently, ropes of cum splattering his thighs and the filthy pavement beneath him, but he couldn't move to touch himself—couldn't even twitch a finger. The air around him congealed into invisible shackles, pinning his arms wide and his legs spread like some fucked-up specimen display. His breath came in ragged gulps, each one shallower than the last as something tightened around his throat. Not hands—no, this was slicker, colder, like a wet leather strap cinching shut millimeter by millimeter. The pressure hit that perfect edge between panic and pleasure, cutting off just enough oxygen to make his vision speckle but not enough to knock him out. His cock jerked again, spitting another pathetic dribble of fluid as the spirit materialized in front of him—or rather, *through* him. Its form flickered in and out of his chest, a grinning smear of smoke and teeth that smelled like burnt rubber and meth sweat. A clawed finger, blackened and too-long, tapped the hollow of Travis's throat where his pulse rabbited beneath the skin. "Look at you," the spirit crooned, its voice a wet rasp that vibrated inside Travis's skull. "Dripping like a bitch in heat and you haven't even been properly broken in yet." It pressed closer, its form solidifying just enough to let Travis see what it held—a syringe, the barrel filled with 0.7 of murky liquid that caught the dim alley light. The needle glinted, too thick for comfort, the kind meant for livestock or leatherworkers. The spirit twirled it lazily, letting Travis track every movement. "Gonna make you *sing,* piglet. Gonna carve the devil's choir right into your veins." Travis tried to scream, but the pressure on his throat reduced it to a wheeze. His hips bucked involuntarily, still trying to fuck into the empty air, his cock now an angry purple-red and leaking continuously from both slits. The spirit laughed, low and mean, and trailed the needle down Travis's sternum, leaving a thin red line in its wake. When it reached his navel, it paused, pressing just enough to dimple the skin without breaking through. "See, most junkies start with the arms," the spirit mused, tapping the needle against Travis's jugular now. "But you? You're gonna *graduate* straight to the neck. No half-measures for our new little hog." It leaned in, its breath like a lit match held too close to gasoline fumes. "Feel that? That's your blood begging for it. That's your *soul* begging for it." Travis's vision swam, his body caught between terror and some fucked-up anticipation that made his cock twitch. The spirit's free hand—if you could call the twisted, jointless thing a hand—grabbed his jaw, forcing his head back to expose his throat fully. The needle hovered, the tip kissing his pulse point, and Travis realized with dizzy clarity that he wasn't just scared. He was *harder* than he'd ever been in his life. "Attaboy," the spirit purred, catching the realization in his eyes. It licked a stripe up Travis's neck, the tongue rough as sandpaper and tasting like battery acid. "Now hold still while I make you *forever.*" The needle punched in. Travis's back arched off the ground, his scream finally ripping free as the plunger depressed. The rush hit like a freight train—not just in his veins, but in his bones, his teeth, the fucking *horns* now curling from his forehead. The alley blurred into streaks of neon and shadow, the spirits' laughter harmonizing with the sudden, deafening static in his ears. His cock erupted untouched, cum spraying in arcs that sizzled where they hit the pavement. The spirit wrenched the needle out, tossing it aside to clamp both hands around Travis's throat as he convulsed. "That's it," it growled, shaking him like a ragdoll. "That's my good little hog. Now *breathe* it in." Travis did. And the world went black. And then— And then it came back *brighter.* The first thing Travis registered when consciousness slammed back into him was the absence of air—not because he wasn’t breathing, but because his lungs no longer needed it. His chest rose and fell in ragged bursts anyway, a useless habit of a body that was rapidly becoming obsolete. The second thing was the weight between his legs, a throbbing, grotesque pendulum that swung heavy with every twitch of his hips. His cock had split open further, the twin slits now gaping like hungry mouths, dribbling fluids that hissed against the pavement. The veins pulsed black beneath the skin, writhing like worms under a magnifying glass. The spirits hadn’t left. They were *in* him now, knitting themselves into the marrow of his bones, stitching their hunger into the fabric of his thoughts. Travis tried to scream again, but what came out was a guttural squeal—the sound a pig makes when it feels the slaughterhouse knife. His fingers, claws now, scraped at his own thighs, carving trenches in flesh that healed too fast, the skin knitting back together darker, tougher. The needle’s poison swam in his veins, rewriting his DNA strand by strand, and Travis realized with dizzy euphoria that resistance wasn’t just impossible—it was *unthinkable*. His cock twitched violently, the barbed tip emerging fully from the lower slit to curl against his stomach like a scorpion’s tail. It was *hungry.* Travis could feel it, a separate entity grafted onto him, demanding to be fed. The spirit draped over his shoulders chuckled, a sound like gravel in a blender, and pressed a filthy, half-crushed cigarette between Travis’s lips. He sucked instinctively, the ember flaring bright—except it wasn’t tobacco burning anymore. The smoke hit his lungs like napalm, and his vision fractured into overlapping layers of heat and need. His cock swelled another inch, the base thickening until it strained against the remnants of his jeans, now little more than frayed straps digging into his hips. "Look at you," the spirit crooned, its voice slithering out of Travis’s own throat. "All that pretty pink flesh hardening up just right." A claw—his claw—traced the new ridges forming along Travis’s forearms, the skin there splitting open to reveal glossy black chitin beneath. "Gonna need a stronger fix soon, hog. Gonna need to *burn* to keep growing." As if summoned, a second syringe materialized in the air, this one glowing faintly with something that wasn’t quite liquid. The spirit guided Travis’s hand to it, folding his fingers around the barrel with obscene tenderness. "Go on. You know where it goes now." Travis’s hand shook, but not from fear. Anticipation coiled in his gut, a live wire sparking against his spine. The needle found his femoral artery without hesitation, sliding in like it was coming home. He depressed the plunger with a whimper that turned into a roar as the new drug hit—this one wasn’t just meth. It was *them,* liquefied and burning, a thousand screaming souls distilled into half an ounce of pure corruption. His back arched off the ground, muscles locking as his cock *surged,* the shaft now ridged with pulsating knots and the tip crowned with a ring of needle-sharp barbs. Cum geysered from both slits, splattering the alley walls in arcs that steamed where they landed. The spirit holding him down laughed, its form flickering in and out of Travis’s own body like a bad transmission. "There we go," it rasped, licking a stripe up the side of Travis’s neck where the skin had split to accommodate new gills. "Now you’re cooking." Travis’s jaw unhinged with a wet pop, his scream dissolving into a series of grunts as his teeth lengthened into tusks, his tongue thickening into something that could *taste* the filth in the air and crave it. His arms bulged, the bones cracking and reforming to accommodate the new weight of corruption settling in his marrow. Somewhere, in the last shrinking corner of his mind that still remembered being human, Travis recognized the truth: he wasn’t being *possessed* anymore. He was being *replaced.* The thing panting in the alley, its cock twitching and dripping onto its own distended belly, wasn’t Travis—it was a hungry, hollowed-out skin suit waiting for its next hit. And as the spirits leaned in, their mouths full of fresh needles and darker promises, it *smiled.* Travis's scream died in his throat as invisible hands clamped around his wrists, pinning him spread-eagle against the alley wall. His toes barely grazed the ground, the muscles in his thighs twitching uselessly. The spirits had him suspended like a bug on a pin, his cock jutting obscenely from the ruin of his jeans, swollen and glistening under the flickering neon. Another set of phantom fingers wrapped around his shaft, stroking slow and deliberate—far too slick to be human, the frictionless glide of something that had never known skin. His hips jerked instinctively, but there was no leverage, no resistance—just the maddening tease of pressure without release. The spirits crooned in his ears, their voices overlapping in a chorus of static and broken glass. *"Come on, hog. Let us see you drip."* The hand on his cock twisted, the motion wrenching a wet gasp from Travis's throat. His vision swam as the base of his spine *moved*, vertebrae popping one by one as something thick and cordlike pushed against the skin just above his ass. The first wingtip punched through with a sound like tearing denim, followed by a gout of black fluid that sizzled where it hit the pavement. Travis convulsed, his cock pulsing in the unseen grip, but the spirits tightened their hold—not letting him cum, not yet. The wing unfolded in jagged segments, more carapace than feather, the edges serrated like a butcher's knife. Every stroke of the phantom hand sent another segment snapping into place, the chitinous plates grinding together wetly. Travis's breath came in ragged bursts, his chest heaving as the second wing began its agonizing emergence. This time the spirits didn't wait—they *pulled*, yanking the membrane free with a wet crunch that sent white-hot pain lancing up his spine. His scream shattered into a dozen pitches, his vocal cords splitting and reforming mid-wail. The new wing flared wide, dripping ichor that reeked of meth and spoiled meat, and the hands on his cock moved faster, twisting just under the barbed crown. *"Almost there,"* the spirits hissed, their breath like lit matches in his ear canals. Travis's balls drew up tight, the pressure coiling at the base of his cock unbearable now. His wings shuddered, the membranes stretching taut as the final joints locked into place—and then the spirits *squeezed*, their fingers pressing just behind the knotty ridges near the base. Travis came with a sound that wasn't human, wasn't even animal—a wet, grinding shriek that shook the alley bricks loose from their mortar. Cum shot in thick ropes, arcing high enough to hit the fire escape three stories up, each spurt accompanied by another segment of wing hardening into place. The spirits milked him through it, their grip unrelenting even as his cock swelled beyond human limits, the barbs along the shaft now dripping something that wasn't semen. The final tremor wracked Travis's body as the last wing joint sealed with an audible *click*. His chest heaved, lungs burning with air he no longer needed, and the spirits finally released his wrists. He collapsed forward—only for the wings to snap open on reflex, holding him aloft a foot above the ground. The motion sent a fresh wave of pleasure-pain through his ruined nervous system, his cock twitching weakly against his stomach. *"Good hog,"* the spirits murmured, their hands now petting along the veined membranes of his new wings. Travis shuddered, his body humming with overloaded synapses and the dregs of whatever they'd pumped into his veins. The alley stank of him now—musky and chemical-sharp, the scent clinging to the bricks like a second skin. His wings flexed without his command, testing their span, and the spirits laughed as he accidentally sliced through a dumpster's corner with one serrated edge. *"Now,"* they whispered, crowding closer, their forms flickering in and out of his peripheral vision. *"Let's see how high you can fly."* Travis's vision doubled, then tripled, as a fresh needle slid between his knuckles—no syringe this time, just the naked point dripping with something that smoked where it hit the ground. He reached for it without thought, his claws closing around the shaft as the spirits guided it toward the throbbing vein in his inner thigh. His own voice, ragged and eager, surprised him: *"More."* The relief hit Travis like a bucket of ice water—sharp, shocking, and utterly destabilizing. His cock pulsed one last time, spitting out a pathetic dribble of something too thick to be cum, before the monstrous appendage began to *shrink*. The barbed ridges smoothed over, the twin slits sealing shut with wet, sucking pops until only a single, human-looking slit remained. The veins faded from black back to blue under his skin, and the throbbing weight between his legs settled into something closer to normal. Almost. Travis gasped as his body rebelled against the transformation’s reversal, muscles spasming as bones ground back into place. His wings retracted with a series of sickening cracks, folding in on themselves like collapsing umbrellas before dissolving into his shoulders, leaving only raised scars behind. His horns splintered, crumbling away like rotten wood, and the tusks receded until his teeth were just teeth again—sharp, but not inhuman. He slumped forward onto his hands, panting, his sweat-slick skin steaming in the cold alley air. His reflection in a puddle of fetid water wavered, then clarified—blond hair, buzzed short now, his jawline squared off with brutal efficiency. His body had filled out, not softer, but *harder*, like someone had taken the wiry junkie he’d been and replaced him with a prison-yard brawler. The spirits weren’t gone. He could feel them, coiled in his marrow, whispering in the hollow spaces between his thoughts. *"Good hog,"* they murmured, their approval like fingers tracing his spine. *"Now go. Hunt."* Travis stood, rolling his shoulders, testing the limits of this new-old body. His cock, still heavy and thick—too thick for a human, really—swung between his thighs, half-hard with anticipation. He wiped a hand down his face, smearing blood and sweat, then reached for the shredded remains of his jeans. They wouldn’t do. A flicker of movement in the shadows, and a bundle of fabric hit the ground at his feet—black boots, cargos, a wife-beater stretched tight over a frame that wasn’t his own. Travis dressed mechanically, the clothes clinging to him like a second skin. The boots were steel-toed, scuffed from use. Perfect. The bathhouse loomed at the end of the alley, its neon sign flickering erratically, casting sickly pink light over the cracked pavement. Travis flexed his fingers, feeling the remnants of claws beneath his nails. The air smelled like chlorine and sweat, but underneath that—*hunger*. He pushed through the door, the humidity hitting him like a slap. The locker room was empty except for one guy—tall, broad-shouldered, towel slung low on his hips. He glanced up, eyes narrowing for half a second before recognition flickered in his gaze. Not of Travis, but of what was coiled inside him. Travis grinned, all teeth. The guy didn’t run. *Good.* The spirits purred in Travis’s skull, their voices dripping with anticipation. *"Show him."* Travis’s hand shot out, gripping the guy’s throat before he could react, slamming him back against the lockers hard enough to dent the metal. The guy choked, but his cock twitched against the towel, already leaking. Travis leaned in, inhaling the stink of fear and want. *"You ever slam with the devil?"* he whispered. The guy’s pupils dilated. Travis’s cock throbbed. The spirits laughed. And the real fun began.

fuck ya slam pig, you get a double shot next......

Second Cumming..... Shaved Head’s voice cut through the chemical fog like a blade, low and measured, each word dripping with deliberate control. "Breathe in—slow, pigboy," he murmured, thumb pressing into the hollow of Tommy’s throat. "That’s it. Feel it? That’s your body remembering who owns it." Tommy’s chest hitched, lungs fighting the weight of the drugs, but the hand on his neck tightened just enough to guide him. "Good. Now out." The exhale shuddered out of him, ragged at the edges, his cock twitching against the cool air. "Submission isn’t surrender, Tommy. It’s *clarity.*" The wiry one’s fingers—nimble, relentless—worked the rubber harness tighter, the latex hissing as it stretched over Tommy’s flushed skin. Every millimeter of pressure sent shockwaves up his spine, his balls throbbing under the unforgiving grip of the stretchers. "Look at him," the wiry one mused, tapping the underside of Tommy’s cock with a fingernail. The sound—sharp, metallic—echoed in the room. "Like a fucking wind-up toy." He twisted the lowest ring, and Tommy’s hips jerked off the table, a strangled noise tearing from his throat. "Just needs the right key." The door creaked again. A new voice—deep, rolling, syrup-thick with amusement—cut through the haze. "Y’all takin’ too long." Tommy’s head lolled toward the sound. Tarelle—black, broad-shouldered, Nike Tech Fleece clinging to the swell of his chest—leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. Gold hoops glinted in his ears. His grin was all teeth. "Shit, I *know* y’all ain’t just starin’ at this pig without puttin’ him to work." Tommy’s stomach flipped. The wiry one snickered, stepping back as Tarelle pushed off the frame. His Jordans—white and blue, pristine—squeaked against the linoleum as he crossed the room. Methodical. Unhurried. Tommy watched, pulse hammering, as Tarelle’s fingers hooked under the hem of his shirt. The fabric peeled away slowly, revealing the thick, coiled muscle beneath, skin gleaming under the fluorescents. His sweatpants followed, folded precisely, stacked atop his shoes like an offering. The scent of cocoa butter and weed clung to him. Tarelle’s cock—already thick and heavy, the head flushed dark—curved against his thigh as he palmed himself, the slow drag of his fist making Tommy’s mouth water. “Ain’t polite to stare, piggy,” he murmured, lips quirking. His free hand snagged Tommy’s chin, forcing his head up. “Unless you *wanna*.” Tommy’s breath hitched. Oh wait, you can't see. Tarelle’s thumb pressed against his lower lip, the gag’s silicone ridges digging in. “Anybody got trimix?” He glanced around, lazy, like he was asking for a spare lighter. “Dude’s *twitchin’*, and I ain’t even touched him yet.” Shaved Head stepped forward, syringe glinting between his fingers, the liquid inside catching the light like molten gold. “Got you, big man.” His grin was all teeth as he knelt beside Tarelle, fingers skimming the thick vein running along the underside of his cock. “Gonna make him *sing*.” The needle slid in with practiced ease—no hesitation, no wasted movement—and Tarelle’s breath hissed between his teeth as the drug hit his bloodstream. His cock swelled instantly, veins standing in stark relief against the dark skin, the head purpling with every throb. “Fuck,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders. “That’s the shit, dis injection is tha next key to Pigboys transformation" Tommy’s cock *ached*—eight inches of desperate, harnessed need, the latex straps biting into the swollen flesh. His balls throbbed under the stretchers, pulled taut and heavy, every heartbeat sending a fresh pulse of heat straight to his core. The blindfold robbed him of sight, but his body *knew*. The shift in the air—Tarelle’s breath warming his inner thigh, the low chuckle vibrating against his skin—sent goosebumps racing up his spine. His hips jerked involuntarily, the stretchers clinking with the movement. “Oh, he *knows*,” the wiry one crowed, giving the lowest ring a sharp tug. “Look at him—fucking *begging* for it.” Then—sudden, unexpected—the press of padded headphones clamping over his ears, sealing him into silence. The world muffled instantly—no more laughter, no creaking floorboards—just the staticky hum of white noise and his own ragged breaths echoing inside his skull. Tommy’s jaw clenched around the gag. *Fuck.* Sensory deprivation cranked the hypersensitivity of his skin to eleven—every brush of air, every accidental graze, electric. His cock twitched, precome beading at the tip. A fingertip—broad, calloused—traced his rim, slow and deliberate. Tommy flinched, hips jerking, but hands pinned him down before he could squirm away. The touch circled again, slick with something cold, clinical. Lube, probably. Or spit. His hole fluttered uselessly against nothing. "Relax," a voice rumbled through the headphones—distorted, robotic—but the cadence was unmistakably Tarelle’s. "Breathe out." Tommy exhaled sharply, shoulders trembling. The finger pressed in without warning, knuckle-deep in one smooth thrust. His back arched off the table, a silent scream trapped behind the gag. Then—hotter, thicker—the blunt head of Tarelle’s cock nudged against him, the tip catching on his rim with a sticky, obscene noise. Tommy’s breath hitched. The stretch burned, even through the chemical haze clouding his nerves. Tarelle’s hips rolled forward—slow, inexorable—and Tommy felt every millimeter, every ridge, every vein as his body yielded. His toes curled. His balls throbbed against the stretchers. The headphones crackled with static, drowning out his own choked whimpers. Halfway in, Tarelle paused. Tommy could *feel* him twitching inside, the thick, swollen base of his cock pressing against that deep, electric spot that made his vision whiten. His own dick jerked violently against the harness, precome dribbling in hot pulses down the shaft. The sensation ricocheted through him—Tarelle’s cockhead nudging his prostate, the stretchers tugging his sack taut, the trimix turning his erection into a live wire. His hips bucked involuntarily, desperate for friction, for *more*. Then—cold, unexpected—another pair of hands gripped his cock, the latex straps creaking under the pressure. The touch was methodical, clinical, fingers mapping every vein with the precision of someone who’d done this a hundred times before. A thumb swiped over Tommy’s leaking slit, spreading the wetness down his length in slow, torturous strokes. The rhythm was inhuman—too perfect, too steady—like a machine programmed to wring him dry. Tommy’s breath hitched. His hole *fluttered* around Tarelle, muscles going slack as pleasure overloaded his nervous system. The voice in the headphones crackled again, layered now with something mechanical—a synthesized echo that burrowed under his skin. *You are Pigboy.* The words dripped into his skull like syrup, slow and sticky. *You exist for pleasure.* Tarelle’s hips snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. Tommy’s scream dissolved into a wet gurgle. *Your hole and cock are the property of CHEMBOSS.* The hands on his shaft tightened, twisting just shy of pain. His vision whited out. *You will submit to anyone who brings pleasure.* Tarelle’s cock dragged against his prostate with every withdrawal—slow, deliberate—each ridge scraping that swollen bundle of nerves until Tommy’s thighs trembled. His dick pulsed violently in its harness, precome pooling in the hollow of his stomach, the latex straps biting into flushed skin. The stretchers clinked with every ragged breath, the weight of them dragging his balls into a taut, aching pendulum. The hands on his cock moved faster now, matching Tarelle’s rhythm—pulling, twisting, *milking*—until the pleasure crested into something unbearable. His hole fluttered helplessly around Tarelle’s girth. The headphones crackled, the voice inside them warping into something deeper, synthetic. *"You are not permitted to hold back any load from your pigboy dick."* The words slithered into Tommy’s skull, slick and insistent. *"If you do, you will be slammed again and risk losing your cock."* A shudder ripped through him—half-terror, half-obscene *want*—as the voice droned on, layering over the wet slap of skin against skin. *"Every drop belongs to CHEMBOSS. Every spurt is proof of your purpose."* Tommy’s hips jerked, his cock twitching like a live wire. The threat coiled low in his gut, sharp as the needle still buried in his vein. Tarelle’s thrusts grew jagged, his rhythm fracturing as his own cock swelled impossibly thicker inside Tommy’s hole. The stretch burned—hotter now, relentless—each ridge of Tarelle’s shaft scraping Tommy’s prostate raw. The hands on Tommy’s shaft tightened, twisting just shy of pain, the latex straps creaking under the strain. Precome dribbled in thick pulses down his length, pooling in the hollow of his stomach. *"See?"* The voice purred. *"Your cock knows its role. It leaks without permission. It begs to be emptied."* Tommy’s breath hitched. His balls churned, the stretchers dragging them taut, the weight unbearable. Tarelle flexed—deliberate, cruel—his cockhead grinding deep into Tommy’s prostate. The sensation ripped through him like live wire, his hips bucking against the restraints. The hands on his shaft moved faster now, matching Tarelle’s rhythm—pulling, twisting, *milking*—until the pleasure crested into agony. Tommy’s vision whited out. His hole fluttered helplessly around Tarelle’s girth. *"There it is,"* the voice cooed, synthetic and slick. *"The first betrayal. Your body gives you away."* His cock pulsed violently, the tip smearing wetness across his stomach. *"Now finish it."* Then—sharp, chemical—the hiss of pressurized vapor flooding the hose connected to Tommy’s gag. The taste hit first: burnt plastic and artificial watermelon, cloying sweetness clinging to the back of his throat. He gagged, but the DMT forced its way into his lungs anyway, expanding like liquid heat in his chest. The first exhale came ragged, his pupils blowing wide behind the blindfold. The second hit sent fractals spiraling across his vision—neon geometries pulsing in time with Tarelle’s thrusts, the room dissolving into a kaleidoscope of impossible colors. By the third, his orgasm wasn’t *coming*—it was *everywhere*, a supernova detonating behind his ribs, his cock convulsing untouched as the DMT rewired his synapses into pure, screaming pleasure. Tarelle’s fingers dug into Tommy’s hips hard enough to bruise, his rhythm stuttering as Tommy’s hole clenched around him in erratic spasms. "Fuck—" His voice cracked, thick with exertion. "Piggy’s *milking* me—" The stretchers on Tommy’s balls jingled obscenely with every snap of Tarelle’s hips, the metal rings biting into swollen flesh. Tommy’s cock *ached*, the trimix turning his erection into something inhuman—veins standing in stark relief against flushed skin, the head purpling with every throb. Precome dribbled in thick ropes down his shaft, pooling in the hollow of his stomach, the latex harness creaking under the strain. The chain came without warning—cold, heavy, *final*—slithering over Tommy’s collarbones like a serpent. His breath hitched as the links settled against his throat, the metal searingly cold against sweat-slick skin. The pressure tightened gradually, each breath shallower than the last, until his pulse hammered against the restraint in frantic, rabbit-quick beats. A click echoed through the headphones—sharp, mechanical—as the lock snapped shut. The chain constricted further, stealing another fraction of his air, the edges of his vision blurring into static. His cock *twitched*, precome smearing across his abs in wet, glistening streaks. *Fuck.* The deprivation cranked the high higher—every gasp burned, every heartbeat throbbed in his dick, every *lack* of oxygen sharpening the pleasure into something jagged and unbearable. The needle gleamed—silver-bright under the fluorescents—as Shaved Head tapped the syringe with a fingernail, clearing the air bubble with a flick of his wrist. The liquid inside shimmered, viscous and gold-tinged, like honey cut with amphetamine. Tommy’s breath hitched when cold alcohol swabbed the side of his throat, the scent sharp and clinical. The chain rattled as he tensed, links biting into his flesh. "Left jugular," Shaved Head murmured, fingers tracing the throbbing vein beneath Tommy’s skin. His thumb pressed down—hard—flattening the vessel against the bone. The needle slid in with practiced ease—sharp, then *gone*—buried deep where Tommy’s pulse stuttered against the intrusion. "There we go," came the whisper, whiskey-rough against his ear. "Pigboy’s first *direct line* to bliss." Tommy’s hole clenched around nothing—a phantom *squeeze*—as the plunger depressed. The drugs hit *immediate*, a molten flood roaring through his carotid, burning a superhighway straight to his brain. His vision whited out. His cock *jerked*, untouched, smearing precome in sticky arcs across his stomach. The chain slackened—just enough for Tommy to drag in a ragged breath—but the relief was short-lived. Tarelle’s cockhead *nudged* his prostate—once, twice—with lazy precision, each brush sending lightning forks of pleasure up Tommy’s spine. His thighs trembled. His *balls* ached, the stretchers dragging them into a tight, flushed pendulum. "Fuck—" The word dissolved into a wet gasp as Tarelle rolled his hips, the thick ridge of his cockhead *scraping* Tommy’s sweet spot raw. "There it is," Tarelle chuckled, deep and honeyed, his palm slapping against Tommy’s ass with a *crack*. "Pigboy’s *trigger*."

Tommy's fingers twitched against his phone screen, scrolling through Grindr profiles with the practiced boredom of someone who'd done this too many times. His thumb lingered on a photo—some guy with dilated pupils and a lazy smirk, shirtless in what looked like a dealer's dim living room. The caption read "party favors?" and Tommy exhaled sharply through his nose. The room smelled like stale sweat and the faint chemical tang of leftover vape juice. He adjusted his grip on himself, hips shifting against the sheets, imagining the press of unfamiliar hands pinning him down, the burn of smoke in his lungs before everything went soft at the edges. His pulse jumped when the app pinged—another message from someone named "Cloud9" with a wink emoji and an address two blocks over. Tommy's fingers hesitated over the reply box. He could already picture the sticky heat of a stranger’s apartment, the way the carpet would feel under his bare knees. His thumb hovered—then the front door creaked open downstairs. His stomach lurched. He wasn’t expecting anyone. The footsteps were too quick, too purposeful, the kind that didn’t bother to wipe their shoes on the mat. The bedroom door slammed open before he could sit up. Two figures blurred into the room—one tall with a shaved head, the other wiry, grinning like this was fucking Christmas. Tommy’s mouth went dry. He opened it to yell, but the taller one lunged, a damp cloth reeking of chemicals smothering his face. His nostrils burned. His vision swam. "Easy, pigboy," the wiry one chuckled, knee digging into Tommy’s thigh as he fought. The taste of acetone flooded his mouth. His limbs turned liquid. Distantly, he felt fingers—rough, calloused—wrapping around his cock, stroking him through the haze. His hips jerked involuntarily. The last coherent thought before the dark swallowed him whole: *fuck, I’m still hard.* Cold linoleum pressed against his cheek when he blinked awake. His tongue felt like cotton. The room spun—fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting long shadows of figures moving behind him. A hand gripped his hair, yanking his head back. "Look alive," someone muttered. A phone camera clicked. Tommy’s vision swam into focus on the screen—his own slack face, pupils blown, spit slicking his chin. Behind him, Shaved Head smirked, gripping Tommy’s jaw. "Say *ahh*." Wrists jerked against padded cuffs. He was spread-eagled in some kind of medical sling, ankles hooked wide, the restraints biting into his skin. His cock twitched against his thigh—still half-hard—and the realization hit like a bucket of ice water. *Naked.* Blindfolded. The gag wasn’t fabric; it was silicone, contoured to force his mouth open just enough to breathe. He tried to scream. It came out a wet gurgle. “Should’ve answered my fucking messages, Tommy.” A familiar voice—Cloud9 from Grindr—low and amused, somewhere to his right. A fingertip dragged down Tommy’s sternum, nails scraping just shy of pain. “Would’ve been easier on you. But nah, you had to be a *tease*.” Something cold and metallic tapped against his ribs. “Think he’s ready?” The taller one—Shaved Head—snorted. “Oh, he’s ready.” The words dripped like syrup. “Look at him. Already leaking.” Tommy thrashed, heels skidding against the restraints, his pleas muffled into nonsense by the gag. His cock betrayed him, thickening against his stomach, the tip smearing precome onto his skin. The wiry one laughed, leaning in close enough for Tommy to smell stale cigarettes and mint gum. “Begging looks good on you,” he murmured, and then—sharp, sudden—the hiss of compressed air. The gag’s valve clicked open. A rush of chemical sweetness flooded Tommy’s mouth, his nostrils, the back of his throat. Poppers. His vision tunneled instantly, heat surging from his belly to his fingertips. His cock jerked, fully hard now, aching. Shaved Head gripped Tommy’s jaw, forcing his head back. “Swallow,” he ordered. Tommy gagged—too much, too fast—but the liquid burned down his throat anyway, thick as syrup. His muscles slackened instantly, limbs heavy as lead. “There you go,” the taller one crooned, palming Tommy’s cock with rough strokes. “Feels better already, huh?” Tommy’s head lolled. His thoughts dissolved into static, the world narrowing to the drag of calloused fingers on his skin. Distantly, he registered the wiry one rummaging through a bag—glass clinking, foil tearing—but his body wasn’t his anymore. It arched into every touch, every scrape of teeth against his neck. Something tight and elastic circled his bicep—rubber bands, pulled taut just shy of pain. Tommy’s pulse hammered against the constriction, his skin flushing hot where the bands bit in. The wiry one whistled low, admiring his work. “Look at that,” he murmured, flicking one band with a fingernail. It twanged against Tommy’s flesh, sending a jolt straight to his cock. “Veins popping like a fucking map.” Shaved Head chuckled, rolling a needle between his fingers. The glint of steel made Tommy’s stomach twist—but his hips jerked anyway, needy and dumb. “Gonna make you feel so good, piggy,” the taller one promised, thumb pressing into the swollen blue vein beneath the rubber band. The needle slid in with practiced ease—sharp, then gone—and Tommy gasped around the gag as something warm and liquid flooded his dick. Trimix, probably. His cock throbbed instantly, swelling thicker, heavier, the head purpling under the fluorescent lights. His balls drew up tight against his body, the skin there already tingling, oversensitive. The wiry one whistled again. “Christ. Look at him twitch.” His fingers traced the straining vein along Tommy’s shaft, featherlight. Tommy whimpered—half-protest, half-plea—but the sound dissolved into a moan when the taller one pinched his nipple, hard. “You are going to make a *perfect* slam pig,” Shaved Head murmured, lips brushing Tommy’s ear. His breath smelled like whiskey and spearmint. “All that wasted potential…” His hand slid down Tommy’s chest, over his quivering stomach, then wrapped around his cock again. The grip was merciless. Tommy’s hips bucked, helpless, his vision blurring at the edges. “See? Even now—” A sharp twist of his wrist. Tommy choked on a sob. “—your body knows what it’s for.” The needle gleamed in the light as the taller one flicked it between his fingers. “Nothing you can do to stop this.” Tommy’s cock pulsed violently against the rubber encasement, veins straining against the slick latex, the pressure so tight his balls ached with every heartbeat. The wiry one laughed—bright, delighted—and leaned in to press another soaked rag to Tommy’s face. Poppers flooded his sinuses, sharp as shattered glass. The room dissolved into fractals, colors bleeding into shapes that didn’t exist. His cock throbbed, trapped and desperate, the sensation magnified by the drugs singing through his bloodstream. He tried to scream, but the gag muffled it into a wet groan. Shaved Head moved first—fluid, practiced—palming a syringe from the tray with the ease of someone who’d done this a hundred times. The needle gleamed under the flickering fluorescents. Tommy’s stomach lurched. The wiry one straddled his hips, pinning him with bony knees, fingers digging into Tommy’s biceps hard enough to bruise. Shaved Head tapped the syringe with a fingernail, clearing the air bubble with a flick of his wrist. The liquid inside shimmered, oily and thick. “Left arm,” he murmured, and Tommy’s breath hitched when cold alcohol swabbed the crook of his elbow. The second needle slipped in—sharp, then gone—buried deep in the vein. Tommy’s pulse hammered against the intrusion. The wiry one grinned, pressing his thumb to Tommy’s wrist, holding him down like a butterfly pinned to corkboard. Shaved Head’s fingers curled around the plunger. Their eyes met—some silent signal—and Tommy’s throat clicked around a soundless plea. Both plunger depressed quickly and empty into Pigboys mind body and spirit. Tommy didn’t even feel the needles withdraw. The popper rush had already hollowed out his skull, reducing the world to a kaleidoscope of fractured light and sound. His lungs seized mid-breath—triple coughs ripping through him, wet and jagged. His chest convulsed. “Oh fuck—” His voice cracked. The fluorescent lights above streaked into white-hot halos. “Oh fuck—” His cock jerked, untouched, spitting precome onto his stomach. “Oh fuck me—” The taller one laughed—low, indulgent—as he wiped Tommy’s chin with his thumb. “Already are, piggy.” His fingers tangled in Tommy’s hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat. “Look at you. Just—” A sharp slap to Tommy’s cheek. His vision swam. “—falling apart.” Tommy’s breath hitched, his lungs burning with the lingering chemical sweetness. The air tasted like burnt plastic and sweat. He barely registered the creak of hinges—the front door swinging open downstairs—over the roar of blood in his ears. Footsteps pounded up the stairs, too heavy, too eager. The bedroom door bounced off the wall with a crack. Two new figures loomed in the doorway—one built like a linebacker, his knuckles already wrapped in grimy tape, the other slim-hipped with a shock of bleached hair. Both reeked of stale beer and leather. The linebacker whistled low, eyeing Tommy’s twitching cock. “Fuck, he’s primed.” Bleached Hair grinned, rolling up his sleeves to reveal a latticework of track marks. “Like Christmas came early.” Tommy’s hole clenched around nothing as the taller one—Shaved Head—slicked two fingers with something cold and viscous. The lube smelled clinical, sterile, like a hospital corridor. Tommy whimpered around the gag when those fingers pressed in without warning, the stretch burning even through the chemical haze. “Relax,” Shaved Head murmured, twisting his wrist. Tommy’s thighs trembled. “Gonna ruin you so good.” The fingers crooked, and Tommy’s back arched off the table—a sharp, electric jolt straight to his cock. His balls ached—already swollen and tight—when the wiry one knelt between his legs, a trio of heavy steel rings clinking in his palm. The first stretcher clicked into place with a *snap*, the cold metal cinching tight around Tommy’s sack. His breath hitched. The second followed—tighter, lower—forcing his nuts to stretch obscenely away from his body. By the third, Tommy’s thighs were shaking, his dick *pulling* with every heartbeat, the weight dragging his balls down into a taut, flushed pendulum. The wiry one grinned, giving the lowest stretcher a sharp tug. “Look at that,” he breathed. “Like a fucking bellrope.” Tommy barely registered the laughter—low and thick, from somewhere behind him—until a broad hand clamped down on his shoulder. The voice was deep, honeyed with amusement. “Thas what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.” Fingers—thick, blunt—trailed down Tommy’s spine, pausing at the dip of his waist. “We gonna milk this pig from the inside out.” The hand slid lower, calloused palm scraping over Tommy’s ass, squeezing hard enough to bruise. Tommy’s vision swam. His mouth worked around the gag—useless—as Shaved Head leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Breathe through it, pig.” His breath was hot, whiskey-sour. “Cause you got more cummin’.” Tommy’s stomach flipped. The words slithered under his skin, curling around his spine like smoke. “First stage of your pigboy transformation’s begun.” A wet chuckle. “Time to be consumed with pleasure.”

fuck ya bro, slammed while restrained in a sling by a chemBOSS is a fuckin craving I got every day..... gas masked, restrained, trimixed, milked from the inside and outside....

fuck hot as fuck story bro

Hot as fuck story bro

Hot as fuck. Thanks for bringing us into your mind.

Hot story man. A nice juicy shot of trimix n a stereo slam are in order.

Hot as fuck story man

Hot fuckin story. No choice but to submit and transform.

Fuckin hot story. I dream of getting tied to a sling at a bathhouse, club Z and double slammed.

Arriving in NYC Tues 8/14 8am, hungry to get tied to a sling, gas mask on, dick shot up with trimix, heavy popper hits, full on cigar snuffing in mask, slammed with a huge hit, fucked, fisted, milked, further my transformation into a modded up skinhead cigarsex pig Kik: TattedUpSexPig

fuckin hot story bud. fuck yea

i'm hungry to get tied to a sling, gas mask on, dick shot up with trimix, heavy popper hits, full on cigar snuffing in the mask, slammed with a huge hit, fucked, fisted, milked, further my transformation into a modded up skinhead cigarsex pig. lookin for a fellow pig to rut with.

fuck yea, chem that pig up nice. hot story fuels my fuck bone.

Fuckin hot story man. Gas mask that pig, max impact in the hose them slam him cross eyed. Open that pig up.

slam that fuckin pig hot fuckin start man

i hope to get to experience some good slamming fun there soon.. cap hill here

Sounds like a party I wanna be at cap hill here.

Hot fuckin story, lets hear about how they take him home, restrain him to a sling and stick him with a .5