Selling my Status… a continuation

[Jnjbarebkhusbands]

Chapter 3: The Preparation 

The message came on the morning of the seventh day. It was as terse and commanding as he was.

Address: 2247 Crestview Drive. 9 PM. Do not eat after 2 PM. Shower before you come. Use the enema in the package.
The other 40k is waiting.

Another package had arrived that morning. This one contained a specific, professional-grade saline enema kit, a fresh, large bottle of poppers, and a black silk blindfold. Taped to the bottle of poppers was a small, clear baggie filled with shimmering, crystalline shards. Tina.

The instructions were degrading, medical, and unbearably arousing. He wasn't just preparing me; he was programming me, building the chemical architecture for my own surrender.

I followed his orders to the letter. I left work early, my stomach a knot of nerves and a low thrum of excitement. At 2:01 PM, I took my last sip of water. The afternoon was an agony of anticipation. I paced my small apartment, the baggie of crystal sitting on my coffee table like a malevolent diamond. I picked it up, feeling the sharp edges through the plastic. This was the key he would use to unlock me.

At 7 PM, I began the elaborate, humiliating process. I laid a towel on the bathroom floor, my cheeks burning with a shame that only fed the growing heat in my groin. He wasn't here, but I felt his presence in every step, his approval the only thing that mattered. When I was finally, clinically clean, a hollow, empty vessel, a wave of dizzying submission washed over me.

The shower was a ritual. I scrubbed every inch of my skin until it glowed pink and sensitive. I shaved myself smooth, the drag of the razor making me shudder. I stood under the scalding spray until the water ran cold, imagining it was his gaze. I looked at myself in the foggy mirror. My eyes were wide, pupils already dilated with fear and need. My body was trembling. I was perfect for him.

I put on simple jeans and a tight black t-shirt. No underwear. Another unspoken command I felt compelled to obey. I placed the vial of poppers, the bag of crystal, and the blindfold in my pocket.

The Lyft ride to Crestview Drive was silent. This house was different from the first—a brutalist masterpiece of black steel and tinted glass, a sharp angular silhouette against the night sky. It felt like a fortress. A laboratory for sin.

He opened the door before I could knock. He was dressed in sleek black leather pants that clung to his powerful thighs and a tight black muscle shirt. He looked me up and down, a predator assessing his meal.

“You brought everything?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.

I nodded, wordlessly producing the items from my pocket. He took the bag of Tina, holding it up to the light. “Good. This will help you receive your gift properly. Come.”

The interior was stark and intimidating. Polished black concrete floors, blood-red walls, and harsh, minimalist lighting. The air was cold and smelled of ozone, leather, and his dominant cologne. In the center of the vast, echoing room was a large, leather-padded medical table, equipped with sturdy straps at the ankles and wrists.

My breath hitched. This was real. This was happening.

Matt saw my look of trepidation and smiled, a flash of white in the dim room. “It’s for your safety. To keep you focused on the sensation. To keep you from running from the pleasure.” He stepped closer, his scent enveloping me. “The price is the same whether you are strapped down or not. But the experience… the experience will be infinitely more intense if you surrender to it completely.”

This was the final gate. Walking out now would mean I had humiliated myself, flushed my pills, and taken his $10k for nothing. I’d be free, but I’d always wonder. Staying… staying meant total immersion. It meant getting the full, terrifying, exhilarating value of our deal.

I looked from his intense eyes to the table. My cock, traitorous and eager, strained against my jeans.

“I’ll stay,” I whispered, my voice cracking.

“I knew my boy would make the right choice,” he purred, his hand cupping my cheek. “Now, the gear. Let’s get you ready.”

He led me to a low black sofa. He prepared the pipe with an expert’s efficiency, loading a large shard onto the screen. He lit the torch, and the familiar cloud of white smoke began to fill the glass bulb.

“Inhale,” he commanded, holding the pipe to my lips. “Suck it deep into your lungs. Hold it. Let it burn away all that fear.”

I obeyed. The hit was massive, a seismic shock to my system. The rush was instantaneous—a crackling, electric current zipping up my spine and exploding in my brain. Every nerve ending screamed to life. The leather of his pants, the cold air, the sound of his breathing—it all became hyper-sharp, intensely vivid. And the hunger… a raw, animal need began to uncoil in my gut.

“Again,” he said, his voice already taking on a god-like resonance in my heightened state. He fed me another colossal hit. This one melted my bones. A dizzying, euphoric wave of pure lust washed over me. I was panting, my skin buzzing, my cock a rigid, leaking ache in my jeans.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his own eyes glittering with dark intent. He took a hit himself, holding the smoke before leaning in and sealing his mouth over mine, forcing the potent cloud into my lungs in a searing kiss. I groaned into his mouth, my hands clutching at his shoulders.

He broke the kiss. “Now, the blindfold. I want all your focus on what you’re about to feel.”

The world vanished into deep, rich black silk.

 

[OrdinaryJoe]

11 hours ago, Jnjbarebkhusbands said:

The guy is selling his status for money…he needed to prove to the guy buying that he was negative when he started . Otherwise it is not much of an incentive to sell his neg status to a guy to poz him  

Maybe I'm misunderstanding who is sending and who is receiving the package. If it was the boy sending the package to Matt, why is there a note from M (Matt?) saying that he is getting everything ready and to be clean and ready?  Or if it's Matt sending the package to the boy, why is there a negative test result?  

And then it goes on to say that "he was confirming his own status to assure the purity of the product and that "I" am the product.  The first part would have been said by Matt, and the second part by the boy. 

I'm not trying to be critical. Just trying to point out some confusion in case you decide to publish it at a future date or whatever.

[bearpnw]

8 hours ago, OrdinaryJoe said:

Maybe I'm misunderstanding who is sending and who is receiving the package. If it was the boy sending the package to Matt, why is there a note from M (Matt?) saying that he is getting everything ready and to be clean and ready?  Or if it's Matt sending the package to the boy, why is there a negative test result?  

And then it goes on to say that "he was confirming his own status to assure the purity of the product and that "I" am the product.  The first part would have been said by Matt, and the second part by the boy. 

I'm not trying to be critical. Just trying to point out some confusion in case you decide to publish it at a future date or whatever.

It could be clearer sure but for what it's worth I understood it mostly okay, that it was a package from Matt, containing supplies to get him ready and including a negative test result of the boy - it is ambiguous or maybe even I missed it, but implied Matt has secretly sent the boy's labs away to ensure he was negative still. 

Structurally could add more depth here to strengthen it. All that said, I am loving your way of writing and flow so far. I enjoyed the OP but you are taking it narratively and descriptively to the next level. Highly anticipating the next part! 

[lj1987]

Fuck we need the next chapter pls

[MethPerv]

Fuck, loving this story, chems make the whole thing better.

[barebottomslut]

Would happily sell my status. So fucking hot

[onlyraw]

Looking forward to the next chapter…. Wondering how many guys are going to fuck him …. And will it be filmed so our dealer can make his money back???

[bearpnw]

23 hours ago, onlyraw said:

Looking forward to the next chapter…. Wondering how many guys are going to fuck him …. And will it be filmed so our dealer can make his money back???

Excited to find out the direction as well, hoping he gets first breeding but has more guys coming to ensure it takes or he gets more strains 🥵 

Also even darker, filmed for bmail material so he gets kept as a slave, and never sees another cent 

[Pnp-pig]

The build up is soooo fuck hot!!!

I cannot wait to read all the events as he becomes pozzed!!!
 

thanks this is great @Jnjbarebkhusbands

[Jnjbarebkhusbands]

Chapter 4 - The conversion

 

The world vanished into deep, rich black silk. He tied it firmly but not painfully behind my head, the knot pulling just enough to emphasize my helplessness. My other senses exploded into hyper-awareness, each one suddenly a raw nerve ending. I heard his measured footsteps on the concrete, moving around me, the slight scuff of his expensive shoes a deliberate punctuation in the heavy silence. I felt the cool, almost clinical air of the expansive room on my bare skin, a stark contrast to the internal inferno already raging within me. My pulse throbbed in my temples, a frantic drumbeat against the hum of the drugs already coursing through my system.

Before he’d blindfolded me, the scene had been a blur of neon and shadow. I’d arrived already buzzing, a few tabs of Molly dissolving that pesky voice of conscience, an initial gulp of G loosening my limbs and my inhibitions. But he had upped the ante. He’d laid out the works: a mirror glinting with crystalline shards of Tina, a small vial of clear liquid, and a sterile pack containing a new syringe.

“This is about more than just a fuck,” he’d said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through my bones. “This is about surrender. Total, absolute. You want the payment? You earn the experience.”

He’d insisted on the ‘booty bump’. A small, meticulous line of crushed Tina, carefully mixed with a drop of water, drawn into an oral syringe. The clinical precision of it was almost a turn-on in itself. He’d guided my trembling hand, the applicator slick with lube, as I eased it into my own asshole, pressing the plunger. The rush had been immediate, a molten wave of heat blooming deep inside, spreading outwards, sharpening every sensation, every desire. He’d followed suit, a shared intimacy of self-violation that bound us even before our skin touched. The Molly made me crave connection, the G made me careless, and the Tina… the Tina made me an insatiable, reckless animal.

Now, blindfolded, his presence was a magnetic force. I smelled the sharp, chemical tang of poppers when he uncapped the bottle nearby, the scent tearing through the residual haze of the other drugs. “Hands on the table,” he commanded, his voice a gravelly rasp that seemed to vibrate in the very air around me, cutting through my heightened senses.

I obeyed, my hands flat against the cold, smooth leather of the examination table. The leather itself felt alive, cool and yielding beneath my palms. I heard the soft rustle of his clothes as he undressed, the material whispering against itself, revealing hints of the taut, muscular body I knew was beneath. Then his hands were on me, gloved in latex, slick with cold lube. They were impersonal and efficient, turning me around, guiding my hips to lie back on the table. He spread my legs, lifted them, adjusting me with a practiced ease that made me feel utterly dehumanized, yet thrillingly exposed. His fingers, deft and unyielding, began circling my asshole, dilating and stretching me, pressing deeply, exploring every inch of my opening without asking for permission. The clinical nature of it, the cold, latex-covered invasion, was its own unique kind of depravity, stripping away all pretense of romance or even mutual desire. I was a subject. An experiment. A vessel.

My heart was hammering against my ribs, a frantic drum against the backdrop of my roaring drug-addled brain. The Tina had me rigid, my muscles trembling with a barely contained energy, my cock already painfully hard, ready to explode. The G had me loose and pliant, my asshole relaxed even under his relentless assault. The Molly had stripped away my fear, replacing it with a desperate need for all of it.

Then I felt the head of his cock, blunt and insistent, at my entrance. It was bigger than I remembered from the hazy night on the couch, from the quick, anonymous touch that had initiated this dark bargain. A thick, veiny column, slicked with my own lube, pressing, prodding.

“The poppers,” he said again, his voice a gravelly whisper right by my ear, the sound a physical vibration against my skin. He held the bottle to my nose. “Now.”

I inhaled deeply, the ammonia fumes burning my nostrils, then blossoming behind my eyes, a dizzying, head-rushing explosion of pure, mind-numbing sensation. The world tilted, spun, and for a glorious, terrifying second, ceased to exist. In that same instant, as the chemical high erased the last shreds of my resistance, melting me into a puddle of pure, raw sensation, he thrust into me.

It was one smooth, brutal motion. He buried himself to the hilt, stretching me to my absolute limit, filling me completely, a hot, heavy mass of flesh. I cried out, a strangled sound that was equal parts pain and overwhelming ecstasy. My body seized around him, accepting, yielding, desperate for more. The poppers hammered everything home, locking me into this moment of exquisite, agonizing pleasure.

He set a punishing rhythm from the start, each thrust jarring me against the cold leather of the table, driving me deeper into the abyss of sensation. He was silent except for his ragged breathing, the animalistic grunts that escaped his throat with each powerful stroke. This wasn’t about mutual pleasure. This was about ownership. About transmission. About a transaction being fulfilled.

Suddenly, a different cold sting, a sharp prick on my forearm, cutting through the haze. My mind, drug-addled as it was, registered the familiar sensation. A slam. He wasn’t just fucking me; he was initiating a different kind of penetration, a different kind of shared experience. I heard the faint click of the plunger as he injected something into my vein, then his own low hiss of satisfaction as, I presumed, he slammed himself too, a shared ritual of chemical surrender while he was still buried inside me. The second rush hit me almost immediately, a fresh, electric wave of Tina surging through my bloodstream, amplifying every nerve ending, every tremor, every thrust. My body became a conduit for pure sensation, my thoughts dissolving into a soup of insatiable lust and dizzying oblivion.

“This is what you sold,” he grunted, his voice strained with effort, his hips grinding into me with renewed ferocity. “This is what you bought.” He wasn’t talking to me, not really. He was talking to himself, narrating the event, cementing the terms of our dark contract to the universe.

One of his hands found my hair, tangling in it, pulling my head back, exposing my throat, my vulnerability. The other closed around my already throbbing cock, stroking me with a relentless, knowing rhythm that mirrored his own thrusts. I was babbling, begging, though I didn’t know for what. For him to stop? For him never to stop? For this glorious, terrifying oblivion to swallow me whole? The combined effects of Molly, G, Tina, poppers, and the fresh slam had me utterly unhinged, my body a puppet to his every command, my mind lost in a shimmering fog of pleasure and fear.

I felt the tension coiling in my gut, the familiar pull of an impending orgasm, but it was different this time. Darker, deeper, tainted with the primal fear of the unknown, yet liberated by the utter surrender. My body was screaming, stretched to its breaking point, yet aching for more, for this relentless invasion to continue, to consume me entirely.

“You’re going to take it,” he growled, his pace becoming frantic, erratic, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, each impact a punch to my gut. “You’re going to take my load. You’re going to remember this feeling for the rest of your life. The feeling of becoming.” His words, infused with the guttural release of his own impending climax, tipped me over the edge.

My orgasm ripped through me, violent and uncontrollable, painting stripes across my stomach and chest as my cock spasmed relentlessly. I screamed into the blindfold, a guttural, primal sound that was torn from the deepest part of my being, my body seizing around him, clinging to him even as I bucked against the table. My climax triggered his. With a final, deep, almost guttural roar, he stilled, buried inside me, his body trembling violently. I felt the hot, pulsing release, wave after wave of his molten seed pumping into me, filling me to overflowing. The physical manifestation of the transaction. The moment of conversion.

A tremor wracked his body, and he let out a long, low groan that sounded like victory, like a predator sated. He collapsed on top of me for a moment, his weight heavy and warm, his breath hot against my ear. Then, with a sudden, almost clinical detachment, he pushed himself up and pulled out of me. The loss of his presence was a physical ache, an emptiness that echoed the void left by the drugs now beginning their inevitable descent from their peak. I felt a cold trail of his come leaking out of me, mixing with the lube and my own bodily fluids, running down my inner thighs.

He untied the blindfold. The sudden rush of light was blinding, harsh, cruel after the intense darkness. I blinked up at him, my eyes struggling to adjust, the fluorescent overhead lights throwing stark shadows across his face. He was looking down at me, his expression unreadable, a strange mix of exhaustion and triumph. Sweat gleamed on his chest, on his brow, the remnants of his exertion. He looked down at where his spend was already leaking out of me onto the black leather, a shimmering, sticky testament to what had just transpired.

“It is done,” he said, his voice flat now, all the passion and intensity spent, replaced by a cold finality. He turned and walked away, his back to me, not sparing another glance. He began to dress, methodically, as if nothing profound had just happened.

I was left lying there, shattered and transformed, my body still buzzing with the chaotic symphony of drugs and lingering pleasure, my mind reeling from the raw, undeniable impact of the experience. The $50,000 problem was finally solved, a debt paid in the most absolute currency. But a million-dollar worth of new ones, unseen and terrifying, had just begun to bloom in the darkest corners of my soul. The conversion was complete. I was no longer just me; I was a host, a vessel, irrevocably altered, carrying the heavy weight of a secret, and perhaps, a new life ticking inside

[Pnp-pig]

WOW!  I wish that my conversion played out like this, high as kit and then enjoy being used like slutty toy.

Being that high I’d slip a butt plug in and have my phone out looking for more loads.

😈🐷😈🦯😈🐷😈
 

thank you @Jnjbarebkhusbands

 

[billy88666]

5 hours ago, Jnjbarebkhusbands said:

A slam. He wasn’t just fucking me; he was initiating a different kind of penetration, a different kind of shared experience. I heard the faint click of the plunger as he injected something into my vein, then his own low hiss of satisfaction as, I presumed, he slammed himself too, a shared ritual of chemical surrender while he was still buried inside me.

I'm assuming that when he said "It's done"  that he ensured the bottom would convert by giving him a blood slam... or will he make the young man another offer of sex for money that he will find difficult to refuse? I hope it doesn't end here as the story line was excellent and very well written.

[Jnjbarebkhusbands]

Chapter 5: The Aftermath

 

He was true to his word. The remaining $40,000 hit my account the next morning. I sat in my bed, staring at the number on the screen, the digital proof of my debt’s demise. I should have felt elated. Victorious. I felt nothing. A hollow, numb emptiness, a void where my relief should have been.

My body ached in places I’d forgotten I had. The smell of latex and poppers and him—a mix of expensive cologne and something uniquely, intimately male—seemed to be baked into my skin, a phantom scent I couldn’t escape. I showered for an hour, scrubbing until my skin was raw and pink, but I couldn’t wash away the feeling of him inside me, or the memory of his final, triumphant thrust. The rationalization began almost immediately. It was a transaction. A business deal. I’d provided a service, he’d provided payment. It was over. I could move on with my life, debt-free.

But it wasn’t over. A part of him was literally inside me, working its way into my bloodstream, rewriting my biological code. I was a walking, talking incubator for his consequence.

The dread announced itself not in a single blow, but in a creeping, insidious wave of symptoms that my anxiety weaponized against me. On the second day, a headache bloomed behind my eyes, a dull, persistent throb I attributed to stress and lack of sleep. But by the afternoon, it had escalated into a full-blown migraine, complete with a sensitivity to light so severe I had to draw all the blinds and lie in the twilight of my bedroom. Every pulse of pain felt like a countdown, a biological alarm bell.

Then came the fatigue. It wasn't just tiredness; it was a leaden weight in my bones, a gravitational pull that kept me pinned to my bed. The thought of putting on my work clothes, of smiling at customers, of performing the mundane rituals of my old life was an impossible feat. I called in sick, my voice a raspy lie on the phone. "A flu, maybe. I'll be out a few days."

The third day brought a new horror: a low-grade fever that came in waves. One moment I would be shivering under a mountain of blankets, my teeth chattering uncontrollably. The next, I’d be kicking them off, my skin slick with a clammy sweat that felt tainted, unclean. I’d stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, my face pale and beaded with perspiration, and see a patient zero. My throat began to feel scratchy, and every time I swallowed, a fresh jolt of panic would course through me. Is this it? Is this the seroconversion? I spent hours scouring medical websites on my phone, my trembling fingers typing symptoms, each vague match feeling like a confirmed death sentence. I avoided everyone. My phone buzzed with concerned texts from friends and a call from my mother. I let them all go to voicemail. I couldn't form a coherent sentence, couldn't fabricate a lie convincing enough to explain the sheer terror in my eyes. I was terrified I had a new sign on my forehead, an invisible biohazard symbol that everyone could see. I started compulsively checking my skin for a rash, convinced a tell-tale bloom of red would appear any moment, the physical manifestation of my shame.

On this the third day, the silence was broken by a buzz that cut through the fever-haze. It was him. A week. Get tested. Send me the results!! Understand boy?!? 

 The message was cold, a clinical quality control check. I was just a project to him, a fetish fulfilled. The numbness was suddenly replaced by a hot, sharp anger. He’d used me, degraded me, and now he wanted a lab report? I didn’t reply. Another message, an hour later. I’m not asking!! The anger curdled into something else. A dark curiosity. A twisted connection had been forged in that sterile room. He had seen a part of me no one else ever had—the desperate, willing, hungry part. He had created it.

 

I found myself opening the browser on my phone. I didn’t go to my bank’s website. I went back to the site where it all began. I logged into my account. My old ad was still there, but now there was a new message in my inbox. The subject line made my blood run cold and my cock twitch with a traitorous interest. 

Re: Your Conversion - The Next Fantasy My finger hovered over the delete button. I should block him. I should take the money and run. I should never think about this again. Instead, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs, I opened it. Boy, it began. The video came out even better than I hoped. You were perfect. The money was just for the status. What I’m proposing next… is for the experience. To see how far you’re willing to go. The price is higher. The fantasy is darker. You’re already mine in one way. Let me show you another.Think about it. - M

I dropped the phone like it had burned me. I stared at it, lying on my cheap apartment carpet. This was the off-ramp. This was the moment to get out. I thought about the debt, now gone. I thought about the mind-numbing grind of my job, the years of financial anxiety that had just vanished in one night. But mostly, I thought about the feeling of the blindfold. The sound of his voice. The terrifying, exhilarating loss of control. The pure, animal high of being used for a singular, powerful purpose. I had sold my status to escape a cage. But the freedom I found on the other side was a different kind of prison, one with a master who knew my deepest, most shameful desires. And as I slowly, slowly reached down to pick up my phone, I knew with a dreadful, thrilling certainty that I was going to write him back.

The week that followed was a slow-motion nightmare. The acute symptoms—the fever, the headache—subsided, leaving behind a profound exhaustion and a hyper-vigilance that turned my own body into a enemy. Every twinge in my muscles, every minor ache in my joints, was scrutinized and catastrophized. I became a prisoner in my own apartment, the four walls closing in on me with each passing hour. Time lost all meaning, measured only in the slow crawl toward the seventh day, the day I could get tested.

The morning of the test was the quietest of my life. The clinic was sterile and hushed. The phlebotomist’s cheerful small talk sounded like it was coming from the end of a long tunnel. The vial of blood she filled looked dark, like a sin made visible. The next 48 hours were an agony of waiting. I jumped every time my phone buzzed, my stomach lurching. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I just paced, or sat perfectly still, trapped in the purgatory of not-knowing.

The results came via a secure email link on a Tuesday afternoon. The sun was shining outside my window, a cruel mockery of the moment. My hands were shaking so violently I could barely type my password. The page loaded, slow and deliberate.

There it was. My name. My date of birth. The test date. And next to HIV-1 Antibody Screen, the word

REACTIVE.

The world didn’t end. There was no scream. There was only a silence so complete it felt like a physical force, sucking all the air from the room. The word “Reactive” pulsed on the screen, a black hole absorbing all light, all hope, all future. A coldness seeped from my core out to my extremities, a glacial calm that was more terrifying than any panic. Positive. He was inside me. Not just his memory, not just his money. His virus. His mark was permanent. I was converted. I was his.

My phone buzzed on the table beside me, vibrating against the wood. A new message. I already knew who it was. I looked from the screen with its life-shattering word to the phone with its insistent buzz. Slowly, mechanically, I picked up the phone. The results. It wasn’t a question. He knew. He knew the moment the lab did.

I didn't type a reply. I didn't send the PDF the clinic provided. Instead, I simply took a screenshot of the results page, the word REACTIVE glaringly clear in the center of the image. My hand was steady now, unnervingly calm. I attached the image and hit send.  The response was immediate - “Good boy.   Now you’re ready. The next fantasy awaits.”

[Pnp-pig]

Chapter 4 was intense!!

Thank you @Jnjbarebkhusbands

[dazzasboy]

Love your writing, cannot wait to see where this goes. Thanks for the effort