Paul sat in the leather armchair long after the laptop screen went dark, the image of those sweat-darkened white Calvin Klein briefs still burned behind his eyes.
The low hum from the advert lingered in his ears even after he pulled the headphones off.
He told himself it was rubbish, a cheap trick for lonely men with nothing better to do.
He was thirty, married to Claire, successful in finance, and surrounded by the same straight mates from the rugby club he had known for years. Nothing about that grainy video was going to change any of it.
He went upstairs, slid into bed beside Claire, and tried to sleep.
Her hand rested on his chest the way it always did. He focused on the familiar weight of it, the soft sound of her breathing, the ordinary life they had built.
When his cock stirred against his thigh he forced the thought away and turned onto his side.
The next morning the hardness was worse. He showered quickly, dressed, and left before Claire could notice.
At the gym Jamie was already peeling off his kit after the squash game.
Paul kept his eyes on the lockers, on the floor, anywhere but the white Calvins clinging to Jamie’s hips, the fabric sheer with sweat, the pouch stretched by the thick shape underneath. He lasted less than a minute before the need clawed up his throat. He locked himself in a toilet cubicle, shoved his hand down his shorts, and came hard while the picture of those briefs stayed fixed in his mind.
Afterwards he scrubbed his hands raw and told himself it would not happen again.
He fought. Every day he fought. At home he made a point of touching Claire more, of kissing her longer, of initiating sex even when the urge felt mechanical.
He deleted browser histories the moment they appeared. He stopped going to the gym when Jamie was there. He invented late meetings so he would not have to stand in the pub toilets and risk seeing another waistband.
Claire asked if something was wrong. He said work was heavy and kissed her forehead and promised it would pass.
Jamie noticed the distance. One evening after training he texted Paul asking if he fancied a beer. Paul almost refused.
Then the craving rose again, sharp and sudden, and he found himself walking to Jamie’s flat with his heart hammering.
They sat on the sofa with the match on. Jamie wore track trousers and nothing else.
The white waistband of his Calvins showed above the fabric. A thin line of sweat ran down his stomach and disappeared under the elastic.
Paul kept his eyes on the screen. Jamie stretched, let the trousers slide lower, and the full shape of the used briefs came into view grass stains, dried sweat, the faint yellow mark near the tip.
The smell reached Paul across the short distance. His cock filled so fast it hurt.
He stood to leave. Jamie blocked the door.
“You’ve been fighting it,” Jamie said. “I can see it on your face. Doesn’t matter. You’re already mine.”
Paul shoved past him and left. He walked home with the scent still in his nose and his jeans damp at the front.
Claire was waiting. He told her he had a headache and went straight to the shower.
Under the water he came again, forehead pressed to the tiles, whispering that he would not give in.
Jamie did not let the refusal stand. The following Saturday he arrived at Paul’s flat unannounced while Claire was still home and two of the rugby lads, Tom and Mark, were due over for an afternoon drink.
Paul opened the door and felt the colour leave his face. Jamie smiled the same easy smile he always wore in court.
“Brought a present for the host,” Jamie said, and stepped inside before Paul could stop him.
Claire came through from the kitchen. Tom and Mark arrived a minute later. Jamie made small talk, laughed at the usual jokes, then reached into his bag and pulled out a clear plastic bag.
Inside was a pair of white Calvin Klein briefs, heavy with use, the cotton stiffened by dried sweat and darker stains along the seam and pouch. He held them up so everyone could see.
“Paul here lost a bet last week,” Jamie said, voice light and loud enough to carry. “Said he’d wear these for the afternoon if the lads won. Time to pay up.”
Paul’s throat closed. Claire’s smile faltered. Tom and Mark started laughing. Jamie stepped closer, pressed the bag into Paul’s hands, and waited.
The smell escaped even through the plastic thick, sour, unmistakably male. Paul tried to hand them back. Jamie’s eyes stayed fixed on him.
“Put them on,” Jamie said. “Or I tell Claire exactly what you’ve been doing in the gym toilets.”
The room went quiet. Claire looked from Jamie to Paul. Paul felt the last of his resistance crack under the weight of the threat and the eyes on him. He walked into the bedroom, closed the door, and stripped.
The briefs were still damp in places. He pulled them up over his hips. The waistband dug into his skin. The pouch sat heavy against his cock, the fabric already sticky.
When he walked back out the laughter started again. Claire’s face had gone pale. Tom clapped him on the shoulder and said he never thought the finance boy had it in him. Mark asked if the smell was as bad as it looked. Jamie watched the whole time, arms folded, smiling.
Paul sat on the edge of the sofa for the next two hours in those filthy briefs while the others drank and joked around him.
Every time he shifted the cotton rubbed against him and the scent rose. Claire barely spoke. When the guests finally left she closed the door and asked, very quietly, what the hell was going on.
Paul tried to explain it was a stupid bet, nothing more. She looked at the outline of the used briefs under his trousers and walked upstairs without another word.
That night Jamie texted. Come over. Now.
Paul went. He told himself he would end it, that he would tell Jamie to stay away from his marriage and his friends. Jamie opened the door already half hard in another pair of stained Calvins.
He did not give Paul time to speak. He pushed him to the floor, yanked the borrowed briefs down, and told him to stay on his knees.
“You tried to fight,” Jamie said. “You tried to keep the wife and the perfect life. Look where it got you. Embarrassed in front of her. Embarrassed in front of the lads. And still here.”
He turned Paul around, pushed him onto all fours, and spread the cheeks of his arse.
Paul’s hole was tight, the skin around it covered in the dark hair that had always been there. Jamie spat once, rubbed the spit over the entrance with his thumb, and pressed the head of his cock against it.
“Hairy virgin arse,” Jamie said. “Never taken anything. Going to change that now.”
He pushed. The head forced the ring of muscle open. Paul cried out at the burn. The stretch was immediate and sharp, the thick shaft dragging against the dry, tight walls.
Jamie did not stop. He worked deeper in short thrusts, each one opening Paul further, the friction raw and scraping. Paul’s hands clawed at the carpet. Tears ran down his face.
The pain was constant, a deep tearing heat that made his thighs shake. Jamie kept talking, telling him how the cocky arrogant man from the rugby club was gone, how the only thing left was a hole that needed filling.
When the full length was finally buried Jamie held still for a moment, letting Paul feel every inch, then started fucking him in earnest.
The sound of skin on skin filled the room. Paul’s hole clung and resisted and gradually loosened under the relentless drive. Come leaked from the tip of his untouched cock onto the floor. Jamie finished deep inside him, flooding the newly opened passage, and pulled out slowly so Paul could feel the emptiness and the wet slide of seed running down over his balls.
Paul stayed on his hands and knees shaking. Jamie cleaned his cock with the same pair of briefs Paul had worn earlier and then pushed the fabric against Paul’s face.
“Smell what you are now.”
Paul breathed it in. The fight was still there, thin and desperate, but the need underneath it was stronger.
Jamie began the training the next day. He ordered Paul to the flat every evening after work.
The first dildo was narrow, only a little thicker than two fingers, made of black silicone. Jamie made Paul strip, bend over the arm of the sofa, and reach back to spread himself.
The dildo was cold when it first pressed against the hairy ring. Jamie worked it in slowly, twisting it, watching the way the dark hair stretched around the shaft. Paul gritted his teeth and tried not to push back. Jamie would not allow silence. He made Paul say out loud that his virgin arse was being trained, that the cocky man was already gone, that he was becoming a hole.
When the dildo was fully seated Jamie left it there for twenty minutes while he sat on the sofa scrolling through his phone, occasionally reaching down to twist or pump it.
Paul’s legs trembled. Come dripped steadily from his cock onto the carpet.
The sizes increased. By the end of the first week the dildo was as thick as Jamie’s cock. Jamie forced it in dry the first time, only a smear of spit for help, and held Paul down while the stretch burned through him.
He made Paul wear the largest one under his work trousers for an entire afternoon, the base of the toy pressed against the inside of a pair of Jamie’s used briefs so every step rubbed the filthy cotton against his skin and kept the dildo seated.
Paul sat through meetings with the constant fullness and the constant smell.
When he got home Claire asked why he was walking strangely. He muttered something about a pulled muscle and locked himself in the bathroom to remove the toy and come into the same stained briefs.
Jamie escalated the public side. He invited Tom, Mark, and two older men from the club’s veterans side to the flat one Friday.
Paul arrived expecting another private session. Instead the living room was full. Jamie made him strip in front of them all and put on a jockstrap that had been worn by one of the older men for a full match the day before.
The straps were still damp. The pouch reeked. Jamie ordered Paul onto his knees in the centre of the room and told the older men they could use his mouth while the others watched.
Paul tried to refuse. Jamie simply held up his phone and played the short video he had taken the night Claire and the lads had seen Paul in the filthy Calvins.
The threat was enough. Paul opened his mouth.
The older men took their time. One of them, grey-haired and heavy, pushed in deep and held Paul’s head until tears ran.
When he finished he stepped back, aimed his cock, and pissed a hot stream across Paul’s face and chest. The second older man followed, the stream stronger, soaking the jockstrap and running down Paul’s stomach into the already stained pouch.
Jamie laughed and told Paul to thank them. Paul did, voice thick, while the warm liquid cooled on his skin
Tom and Mark filmed parts of it. Jamie promised the files would stay between them as long as Paul stayed obedient.
After the men left Jamie cleaned Paul with the same piss-soaked jock, wiping the liquid into his mouth and over his hole, then fucked him hard over the back of the sofa while the dildo from earlier still sat on the coffee table, glistening.
Paul came untouched, the last of his resistance breaking under the weight of the humiliation and the constant training.
Claire found out the full truth two weeks later. Jamie arranged it carefully.
He sent Paul home with a pair of the older men’s used briefs still on under his clothes and a note that simply said “show her.” Paul tried to hide them.
Claire walked in while he was changing and saw the yellowed, rank cotton stretched over his hips, the dark hair of his arse visible above the waistband, the faint bruise marks from the latest dildo session.
She asked once. Paul could not find a lie that would hold. The story came out in pieces the advert, the obsession, the public embarrassment, the contract, the training, the old men.
Claire listened without interrupting. When he finished she packed a bag and left the same night. The divorce papers arrived a month later, drawn up by Jamie’s firm.
Paul moved into the spare room of Jamie’s flat the day the locks on his old place were changed.
The mattress on the floor became his place when he was not required elsewhere.
Jamie continued the dildo training every morning, working larger toys into the hairy hole until Paul could take them with only a soft grunt.
The older men visited regularly. They used his mouth, his arse, and when they were finished they stood over him and emptied their bladders across his face, his chest, the open hole still loose from the latest fucking.
Jamie made Paul stay on his back and hold still until the last drop fell, then ordered him to rub the cooling liquid into his skin and thank each of them by name.
The cocky arrogant man who had once had the perfect life was gone. What remained was a brainless hole that opened on command, that pressed its face into any pair of filthy briefs Jamie handed over, that crawled without being told when the older men arrived. Paul no longer tried to fight.
The memory of Claire’s face when she saw the stained underwear, the laughter of his friends, the burn of the first cock forcing his virgin arse open all of it had settled into the only shape left for him.
Jamie would point at the floor and Paul would drop. Jamie would hold out a used jock or a pair of piss-damp Calvins and Paul would bury his nose in them until the world narrowed to the smell and the emptiness waiting to be filled.
The training never stopped. The humiliation never lessened. And every time an old man’s hot stream hit his skin or another thick dildo stretched the hairy ring of his arse, Paul felt the last scraps of the man he had tried to remain dissolve into the simple, constant need to be used.
Hello, my name is Ricky rousing I write stories about cocky arrogant men who become submissive. Please see more of my stories here: Amazon.co.uk and follow me on x for updates rickyrouse (@rickyrouse83511) on X.
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