I’m James, 45, a big-shot manager at a New York firm, living what I thought was the American dream with a gorgeous wife, an 18-year-old son, Ethan, and a Manhattan penthouse. But that dream’s been smashed to pieces, and I’m nothing but a broken, cock-obsessed bitch now, owned by my own nephew. Let me tell you how I fell so fucking low, my body and soul ripped apart.
It started with a business trip to Texas. I kissed my wife goodbye, hugged Ethan, and flew out, my mind on a high-stakes meeting that could’ve made my career. The next morning, I hopped into a taxi and gave the driver the address. The guy, some immigrant barely speaking English, nodded, but when we pulled up, my stomach churned. The street was a filthy whorehouse—hookers strutting, johns prowling, the air reeking of sex and desperation. The driver smirked, like he knew I was fucked. “What the hell?” I hissed, my hands clammy. I’d been dropped in a goddamn red-light district.
I fumbled for an Uber, my heart hammering, but as I waited, three young guys—Moroccan refugees, 18 to 19—swaggered over, their eyes glinting with malice. One said, “Sex?” Just that word, sharp and dangerous. I laughed, trying to play it off. “Yeah, sex is everywhere here, huh, boys?” I meant the whores, the sleazy deals around us. But I fucked up. They only heard my “Yes” and my laugh, their grins turning feral.
They chattered in Arabic, and before I could move, two grabbed my arms, dragging me to a shadowed alley. “What the fuck?” I shouted, thinking they’d rob me. But they wanted something worse. They slammed me to the ground, zippers tearing open, and three massive cocks sprang free—thick, musky, fucking monstrous. “No, you got it wrong!” I begged, but my English was useless. The youngest, an 18-year-old with a sadistic smirk, rammed his 9-inch BBC into my mouth, choking me. Another spat on my face, the hot glob dripping down my cheek, while the third ripped my pants off, exposing my ass.
“Tight cunt,” he snarled in Arabic, spitting on his 8-inch cock before forcing it into my virgin hole. The pain was excruciating, my tight asshole resisting until it tore—a sharp, searing rip that made me scream into the cock gagging my throat. Blood trickled, mixing with his spit, but he pounded harder, laughing at my torment. Their stench—sweaty, musky, raw fucking man—choked my senses. I should’ve fought, but something broke inside me. The pain, the tearing, twisted into a sick pleasure. My cock throbbed, betraying me as I started to crave it.
They took turns, brutal and relentless, their cocks slamming into my torn ass and mouth, their hands slapping my face, calling me whore, filthy slut, cum-dump bitch in their language. The worst came when two forced their cocks into my ass at once, stretching my ripped hole till I thought I’d split in half. The tearing burned like fire, blood and spit slicking their thrusts, but it pushed me over. I came, squirting like a cheap whore, cum splattering the dirt. They unloaded in me, their hot loads flooding my bleeding hole, and left me there, a broken slut in the alley, cum and blood oozing from my wrecked body.
I stumbled to my meeting, their seed and my blood leaking, soaking my pants. I stood before stakeholders, my voice trembling, my torn ass screaming with every move, my mind trapped on those young, hung cocks, their brutal power.
Back in New York, I tried to be normal. I held my wife, kissed her, but in bed, my cock was dead. “Just tired,” I lied, but I knew I was fucked. I didn’t want her—I wanted them, young studs who could rip me apart like those boys did. My torn ass throbbed, a constant reminder of what I’d become. Ethan noticed something was off, asking, “You okay, Dad?” I brushed him off, but the shame gnawed at me. I fought the hunger for a week, but it consumed me. I downloaded Grindr, my hands shaking as I set up a profile, but no one matched. The rejection stung, fueling my desperation.
Then my nephew Kyle started as an intern at my company—a favor I’d pulled strings for. He’s 19, lean muscle, cocky as hell. His hug sent a jolt through me, a heat I couldn’t shake. The next day, I binged porn—young tops destroying older bottoms, their grunts and slaps driving me insane. Grindr pinged with a match: a 19-year-old, no face pic, just a dick shot—9 inches, maybe bigger. “You’ll regret this, you pathetic bitch,” he texted. I was too far gone. “Just fuck me,” I replied.
Hawkins.
We met in a park at dusk. He was in all black, a mask hiding his face. He stripped, his shredded body turning me into a whimpering slut. “Knees, bitch,” he growled, shoving his cock down my throat. I gagged, tears streaming, but I sucked like a desperate whore. He flipped me, tore my pants, and fucked me mercilessly, his cock ripping at my still-healing ass, the Texas scars burning. I screamed, but I craved it, my body begging for more brutality. He came, flooding my guts, then grabbed my neck to kiss me. The mask came off, and my world collapsed.
“Kyle?” I choked. My fucking nephew, grinning like a demon. “What are you doing here, Uncle James?” he mocked. I ran, shame scorching me. At home, I paced, panicking. What had I done? The next day, I slunk into the office, avoiding Kyle, but when I opened my cabin door, he was there, lounging in my chair, legs on my desk, sipping coffee like he fucking owned me.
“Hey, Uncle James—or should I say Bitch James?” he called, loud enough for the hall to hear. I shushed him, slamming the door. “It was a mistake,” I begged. “Forget it.” But Kyle just laughed. “Promote me. Now, you slut,” he demanded. I had no choice, pushing his file through, screwing over better interns.
In a meeting, Kyle presented, his words dripping with double meanings. “It’s about dominating the field,” he said, smirking, “slamming your point in, making the bottom beg for it.” My face burned, my cock twitching, my torn ass throbbing. Later, my phone buzzed with a Grindr message from Kyle—no pretense now, just raw humiliation.
Kyle: Yo, Bitch James, still leaking my cum?
Me: Kyle, please, stop. This is wrong.
Kyle: Wrong? You loved choking on my dick, you filthy cumrag. Bet your torn ass is begging for more.
Me: I’m your uncle. We can’t—
Kyle: Shut up, whore. You’re my slave now. Send a pic of that wrecked hole, or I tell Aunt you’re a cock-hungry slut.
I froze, my hands shaking. I locked my office door, dropped my pants, and snapped a pic of my bruised, torn ass, still raw from Texas and Kyle. I sent it, hating myself.
Kyle: Fuck, look at that sloppy cunt. You’re my property now, bitch. Be ready tonight.
I called him to my cabin to stop this, but he stripped, his chiseled torso and bulging briefs breaking me. “Still wanna stop, you pathetic whore?” he taunted. My mind screamed, but I knelt, a slave to his cock. He laughed, a villain’s cackle. “Poor Uncle James. Today, you’re my bitch, and I’m your master.” He grabbed my hair, fucked my throat till I gagged, and blew his load down it. I swallowed, ashamed but addicted.
The next day, Kyle ghosted me. I waited, pathetic, craving his abuse. He texted, humiliating me further.
Kyle: Missing your master, you dirty slut? Parking lot. Now. Crawl for my cock.
Me: Kyle, please, I’m begging—
Kyle: Master, you dumb bitch. Beg harder, or I’ll make you lick my boots in front of the office.
I ran to the parking lot, finding him naked, his body a fucking god’s. I grabbed his cock, but he kicked me to the ground. “Know your place, you worthless pig.” He shoved my face into his sweaty armpit, the stench making me gag, but it was his, and it set me on fire. I licked, desperate, as he spat on my face and fucked my throat raw. I called him Kyle. He backhanded me. “Master, you stupid slut.”
I begged, “Fuck me, Master,” the words choking me with shame. He laughed, whispering, “What would Aunt think, knowing her husband’s a torn-up bitch slave?” He fucked me brutally, his cock ripping my damaged ass, the pain unbearable but intoxicating. Cars honked, and I panicked, scrambling into my clothes and running, leaving him unsatisfied. “You’ll pay, you fucking whore!” he roared.
Kyle ignored me for days, his silence a knife in my gut. My craving skyrocketed. One night, I kept him late, piling on work till we were alone. I crawled to him on all fours, begging, “Master, forgive your worthless bitch.” He ignored me, but I groveled, desperate. He spat on my face, and I opened my mouth, catching the next glob. “Good boy,” he sneered, unzipping. I thought he’d fuck my mouth, but he pissed, the hot stream hitting my tongue. I spit it out, and he slapped me, forcing me to drink. He soaked me, laughing. “You’re my marked bitch now, you filthy pig.”
I begged, “Please, Master, let this lowlife suck you.” He pissed down my throat, then kicked me to all fours, tore my pants, and fucked me like a rabid dog, choking me. His cock shredded my torn ass, the pain a brutal reminder of my place. I came, squirting like a whore, my body shaking. He flooded my guts, his tongue shoving into my mouth as he slowed. “This is just the start, you disgusting slut,” he whispered. “Your master’s gonna break you. I stumbled home, soaked in his piss and cum, my torn pants barely hiding my shame. My wife gagged, covering her nose. “What is that, James?” she snapped. “Spilled some chemicals at work,” I lied, rushing to bed. I didn’t shower. I wanted his mark—his piss, his cum, my torn, bleeding ass. I was his, a wrecked, humiliated bitch, and I’d never be whole again.
