PIGBOI 4 SLAMBOSS

[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."

[bareback-flipflop]

Hot start, more please. 

[Darksyde]

Fuck that was hot, wonder what was slammed into him. Still looking for my first ever heavy chemming 

[dazzasboy]

Stunning