The call came on a Tuesday, my voice still hoarse from belting out a set at Pulse the night before. Rico had fucked me senseless afterward, his cock buried deep in my ass while he whispered promises of connections. 'You're too good for this dive, farm boy. Time to level up.' I wiped the cum from my thighs, popped a pill to chase away the ache, and crashed in my motel bed, dreaming of spotlights that didn't end in gangbangs.
The label was called Apex Records, a powerhouse in the underground gay scene. Their scout had caught my act—me pouring soul into a gritty ballad about lost fields— but twisted it into something else. 'We've got a deal for you,' the A&R guy, Vince, said over the phone. His voice dripped with that predatory smoothness I'd come to recognize. 'But deals ain't free. Board meeting tomorrow. Bring your... talents.' My stomach knotted, but the word 'deal' lit a fire. Music. Real music. Stages bigger than sticky club corners. I showed up in my best jeans and flannel, guitar slung over my shoulder like armor.
The boardroom overlooked the city skyline, all glass and leather. Five execs—sharp suits, hungry eyes—sat around a polished table. Vince introduced me: 'Our new farm-fresh find.' They chuckled, sizing me up like meat. 'Show us what you can do,' the chairman, Harlan, said, unzipping his slacks. My heart hammered, shame flooding hot in my cheeks, but I dropped to my knees. Harlan's cock sprang free, thick and veined, and I wrapped my lips around it, sucking hard, tongue swirling the head as he groaned. The others watched, stroking themselves. 'Eager little slut,' one muttered.
They took turns. I bent over the conference table, pants yanked down, ass exposed. First exec slid in raw, gripping my hips and thrusting deep, his balls smacking my skin with each pound. 'Tight farm ass,' he grunted, stretching me wide. I bit my lip to stifle moans, but my body betrayed me, clenching around him as pre-cum leaked from my own dick. They rotated— one face-fucking me while another reamed my hole, spit and lube mixing in sloppy sounds. Emotions churned: disgust at how easily I spread my legs, a twisted relief that this might buy my dream. Cum filled me—hot spurts in my mouth, dripping down my chin as I swallowed greedily, then flooding my ass, warm and sticky. Harlan finished by pulling out and shooting across my back, marking me. 'Welcome to Apex, boy. You're ours now.' They tossed contracts my way, bills for 'incidentals.' I signed, ass throbbing, soul fracturing a little more.
The transformation started immediately. No more flannel and guitar solos. Stylists descended like vultures. 'Farmer boy won't sell,' my new manager, Lena, declared. She was all business, clipboard in hand, but her eyes lingered on my bulge. They pumped me full of workouts—hours in the gym sculpting my already jacked frame into circuit perfection: pecs bulging, abs ripped, thighs like tree trunks. Tattoos snaked up my arms—abstract flames and hooks symbolizing 'desire.' My hair? Buzzed on the sides, spiked on top, blond streaks for that himbo glow. Autotune sessions turned my raw vocals into glossy pop hooks. 'Soul's out; sex is in,' the producer said, layering synths over my tracks.
My songbook? Gutted. The ballads about home and heartache? Shelved. They cherry-picked the 'party anthems' I'd written half-joking, high on coke after a rough night. 'I Wanna Be Yours' became a throbbing beat about surrendering to a lover's touch—me moaning lyrics like 'Take me, own me, fill my hole with your fire.' 'Fill Me with Your Love' pulsed with bass drops on the chorus, my autotuned voice begging 'Pump it deep, make me overflow.' And 'I Just Wanna Party'? A relentless club banger, all about losing yourself in the night, bodies grinding, no strings. 'No more artist,' Lena said, patting my cheek. 'You're a product now. And products sell.' Deep down, it stung—like they'd ripped out my heart and replaced it with glitter. But the advance check? It silenced the doubts. Drugs helped too—pills before sessions to numb the loss, making the autotune feel like evolution instead of erasure.
The album dropped without warning. Himbo Heat, they called it. I was in a studio lounge, popping an ecstasy tab to celebrate, when my phone buzzed. Lena: 'It's live. Streaming everywhere. You're blowing up the charts—gays, circuit jocks, they're eating you up.' Pride swelled, mixed with nausea. This was it. My big break. I dialed home, heart racing, imagining Mom's tears of joy.
'Darlin'? That you?' Dad's voice, gruff as ever. I braced myself. 'Yeah, Pa. Big news. Got a record deal. Album out today.' Silence stretched, then a heavy sigh. 'We saw it, son. On the TV. That... cover.' My blood ran cold. The cover. It was supposed to be me under a starry sky, guitar in hand, evoking the farm nights that birthed my music. Innocent. Soulful. But last-minute changes—Lena's doing, she admitted later with a wink. Now? There I was, straddling a gleaming white motorcycle, body slick with oil that gleamed under studio lights. White jockstrap barely containing my thick cock, the pouch strained and translucent from the sheen. White latex gloves hugged my forearms, one hand gripping the handlebar, the other teasing the waistband like an invitation. My ass flexed, oiled cheeks parted just enough to hint at the hole beneath. Full sex appeal, they called it. A product poster boy.
Shame crashed over me like a wave. They saw it. Mom, Dad, the whole damn county. Their boy, the aspiring musician, reduced to a greased-up slut on display. 'What happened to you?' Dad asked, voice cracking. 'This ain't the life we raised you for.' I choked on tears, but the words tumbled out: 'It's the business, Pa. Gotta play the game. I'm makin' it.' He hung up after a curt 'Proud or not, we're prayin' for you.' The line went dead, and I curled on the couch, sobs wracking my chest. Family—gone, or at least fractured. But the streams? Millions. Fans DMing thirst traps, circuit parties chanting my name. Career over opinion. I popped another pill, the high washing away the guilt. Fuck it. This was my life now.
Promotion kicked off that night at Vortex, the club where Marco and his crew had first group-fucked me into submission. Lena dressed me to match the cover: white latex harness crisscrossing my pecs, straps biting into muscle; matching shorts that were basically a pouch and frame, my cock outlined obscenely; the white jockstrap peeking out, ass cheeks bare and begging. Latex gloves up to my elbows, boots shining. 'Own it,' she said, slapping my rump. 'You're the star.'
Backstage, the managers waited—like old times, but amplified. Marco grinned, pulling me into the green room. 'Pop star now, huh? Still gotta pay dues.' Four of them: Marco, two club owners, and a promoter. They stripped the latex down, exposing me. 'On your knees, himbo.' I dropped, mouth opening wide as Marco fed me his cock, thick and pulsing. I sucked eagerly, tongue lapping the underside while hands roamed—fingering my hole, pinching nipples. Drugs buzzed in my veins, turning humiliation to heat. One guy bent me over the makeup table, spitting on my ass before slamming in. 'Dripping already? Slut.' He pounded hard, cock dragging against my walls, prostate sparking fireworks. I moaned around the dick in my throat, gagging as cum hit my tonsils—salty, thick, spilling from my lips.
They rotated, using every hole. Double penetration next: two cocks stretching my ass, burning and full, as I jerked a third. 'Take it, product boy,' they laughed, slapping my oiled skin. Emotions swirled—ashamed of the family call, but the ecstasy made it electric, my body arching into the thrusts. Cum leaked from my hole, warm trails down my thighs, mixing with sweat. Marco finished by hosing my face, piss and jizz blending in a filthy mask. I licked it off, high making it taste like victory. Ass dripping their loads, I pulled up the jockstrap—white fabric darkening with the mess—and strutted onstage.
Lights hit, bass thumped. The crowd—circuit jocks in harnesses, twinks grinding—roared as I grabbed the mic. Autotune kicked in, my voice a glossy growl. 'I just wanna party!' I sang, hips thrusting to the beat, ass clenching around the cum sloshing inside. They chanted, hands groping as I danced, latex gleaming. 'Fill me with your love!' The words poured out, body moving like sex incarnate—grinding against the air, gloves stroking my chest. Fans rushed the stage, one slipping a hand into my pouch, stroking my leaking cock. I came mid-chorus, ropes soaking the jock, but kept singing, high carrying me through.
By day, I was the gay pop star: interviews, photoshoots, signing autographs with a wink. Soul buried, but sales soared. By night? Hungry, addicted slut. Clubs became my altar—managers, fans, anyone with a dick and a backstage pass. Drugs blurred the lines: coke before gangbangs, making me beg for more loads; molly turning every thrust to bliss. Family faded to echoes, shame dulled by the roar of crowds and the burn of cocks filling me. I was theirs—a himbo product, ass always ready, voice autotuned to perfection. And damn if it didn't feel like flying, even as it hollowed me out.
If you enjoyed this story, consider supporting the author on Patreon.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
