This story is just a fantasy. If you like the story, feel free to message me. I'd love to hear your comments.
Today
I wake up slowly, head thick and foggy like I've been drugged deep. Sky bright blue above me, few lazy clouds drifting. Cool breeze brushes my face fresh, almost nice. For one stupid second I think it's a normal morning.
Then nothing moves. Not the leaves. Not me.
Panic slams into my chest.
I try to turn my head. It moves just a few inches left, a few inches right. My eyes dart around in that tiny range, searching desperately for anything I recognize, anything I can control.
My shoulders won't budge. My arms from the top down to my wrists are frozen solid. I push with everything I have. My muscles burn inside but stay locked.
My wrists twitch barely. Half an inch in any direction. My hands tremble weakly.
My fingers, the last two knuckles on each one, curl slow and pathetic, open again, flutter like they're trying to grab air. The base knuckles don't move at all. My hands stay mostly still. Only my fingertips dance useless.
My left hand has the same small play. My wrist shakes that half-inch. My fingers curl weakly. But my middle finger is already buried deep in my ass. Every tiny wrist twitch slides it in and out half an inch, slow, every ten or twelve seconds. I feel it press that spot inside, a sick throb straight to my groin. I can't stop it. I can't pull it out. I can't clench.
My body below my neck is stiff like stone. My knees are forced wide on sharp grass, stabbing my skin. My back is arched stiff, my thighs burning from the stretch. I feel every cramp, every ache, but I can't close my legs, can't shift, can't ease anything.
My mouth is wide open. My lips stretched, my jaw locked. My tongue lolls heavy. Thick drool pours out steady, runs down my chin, drips warm onto my bare chest. I try to close it. My jaw screams but nothing happens. Every breath is ragged, wet, constant panting that sounds needy, broken.
My heart is hammering. What is happening?
I try to scream. Only high, weak whimper escapes wet, gurgling, pathetic. No words. I can only mutter a begging sound.
Tears sting, spill hot and fast, mix with drool.
I tilt my head the tiny amount allowed. That’s when I saw the mirror.
Full-length mirror propped on garden wall, twenty feet away. Shows a whole naked body knees spread, back arched, crotch right at eye level. Someone put it there on purpose. To make me watch.
Eyes lock on my reflection on the mirror.
At first my brain won't accept it.
Between my wide knees hangs something small. Wrong.
Two inches max. Thin. Bright pink. Half-hard. Head swollen, glossy, leaking. Clear liquid string stretches from slit, sways with heartbeat, snaps, falls to the grass.
My stomach heaves and I gag through open mouth, drool floods faster, tears blur the mirror. I can't swallow. I can't close my lips. I’m panting louder.
That's not my cock.
That's not...
I had eight inches. Thick. Heavy. The real thing. The kind that swung low after practice, made the towel tent when I wrapped it loose in the locker room. The kind that made bottoms gasp when I pushed in, pinned them with my weight, fucked them hard until they shook and moaned my name.
Not this sad, twitching stub that's straining toward my own fluttering fingertips half an inch away, always half an inch away like it's begging for a touch it'll never get.
The realization crashes in like a wave, and the tears come harder. Hot, endless, sliding down my smooth cheeks, mixing with drool that won't stop pouring from my wide-open mouth. Sobs hitch in my throat small, broken, wet sounds that make my whole locked body tremble inside the paralysis.
But even as the sobs shake me, something else starts.
The tiny nub between my legs twitches once then again then harder. Precum is dripping continuously every second from it.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The head flares wider, darker. The shaft thickens just a fraction, pulsing with a heat that spreads from my swollen balls upward. Pre-cum wells up faster, beads bigger, strings longer before they snap and fall.
I feel it all. The deep, insistent throb in my heavy balls, the way they squeeze tighter with every heartbeat. The finger in my ass keeps pressing that spot slow, mechanical, relentless and each press sends a jolt straight through me, milking more arousal from my ruined cock.
No.
Stop.
This can't be happening.
I'm terrified sobbing, drooling, trapped but my body doesn't care. The nub bobs forward in tiny, desperate spasms, straining toward my fingertips like it's starving. The more I cry, the more it pulses. The more the fear chokes me, the harder it gets as hard as this pathetic little thing can manage.
Shame floods in on top of the terror.
I'm a fag. Not too many people know it, but now I’m fully exposed.
Even now. Even like this paralyzed, exposed, cock stolen, turned into a leaking toy my body still responds. I still get hard. My cock still betrays me with every twitch, every drip.
And then I feel something else lower down, in my belly. A dull, insistent pressure. Not sharp yet, but building. My bladder. Full already, pressing against the inside, a slow ache that's starting to make itself known. I can't clench. Can't hold. Can't relieve it. The pressure sits there, heavy, reminding me I'm not even in control of urinating anymore.
The cramps in my thighs spike, the burn in my back deepens, the sharp grass digs harder but every spike of pain somehow feeds the throb lower down.
I try to fight it all scream inside my head stop stop stop but all that comes out is another high, needy whimper through my open mouth. Drool sprays a little with the force.
My swollen balls squeeze again, heavy and full, churning like they've been edged for days.
Another thick bead of pre-cum wells up at the slit, stretches in a long string with my heartbeat, then snaps and falls to the grass below which has become very wet.
I'm crying so hard I can barely breathe through the panting, but the little nub just keeps twitching, keeps leaking, keeps trying to get closer to my own useless fingertips.
Heavy footsteps crunch grass. Stop right behind me.
My heart slams so hard it hurts.
Someone's here.
And I can't even turn to see.
Max steps into view alone. Tall, shirtless, gym shorts low, bulge thick and unmistakable. The same twenty-year-old alpha I paid over and over to degrade me over the weekends.
He crouches slow, face level with mine. Eyes scan my wide-open mouth, drooling chin, tear-streaked face.
Then drop lower to the throbbing, leaking nub, swollen balls, finger sliding in and out ass in slow rhythm.
His dark grin spreads.
“Morning, statue.”
His voice low, amused, but sharp. My nub jerks at the sound another bead wells up instantly. I hate how my body responds to him.
“Leaking already? And getting hard for me even now. Pathetic little fag.”
"Fag" hits like a punch. My nub throbs harder, shaft pulsing as if trying to stand taller. Fresh string stretches and snaps. Tears burn down my cheeks faster. Why does that word still make me leak more?
He flicks the swollen head sharp sting. Nub jumps, pre-cum arcs pathetically. A high whimper gurgles out my open mouth.
“You used to pay me good money to let you play pretend, right? Big rugby guy, topping those eager bottoms, thinking you were the man. But we both know what you really wanted.”
The memory flashes to the nights I handed him cash, knelt for him. My nub pulses again, betraying me while he talks. I want to shake my head, deny it, but all I can do is whimper wetly.
“Real alphas. Straight ones with bigger cocks. The ones who made you feel small no matter how strong you looked. You'd pay us to spit on you, call you fag, fuck you raw while you jerked yourself like a slut. You thought your size gave you an edge and let you pretend it wasn't total surrender.”
Each "fag" makes my balls tighten violently. Bladder pressure spikes dull ache turns sharper, pressing harder. Tears stream faster; I feel so small, so exposed, so completely seen.
He grabs my tiny nub roughly and jerks it once, twice. Thick bead wells up, drips.
“But now? Gone. Shrunk to nothing. No edge left. No control left. Just this horny, leaking toy.”
The jerk sends pain-pleasure jolt. My nub throbs wildly, another string of precum falls. I sob harder, sound gurgling in my open mouth.
He releases it. Stands tall, crotch level with my upturned face.
“No more pretending, fag. No cash. No safe word. No big dick to hide behind. Just this. Leaking. Aching. Ours.”
He pats my bald head like a pet.
“Welcome to forever, property nub.”
Then he crouches again, voice dropping lower, more intimate, like he's explaining the rules to a broken toy.
“Let me tell you what we did while you were out cold that night, statue. You showed up Friday like always, a horny 35-year-old fag begging to get used by a house full of straight frat alphas. We fucked you hard, passed you around, you took it all smiling. Then we gave you that drink around 3 a.m. You passed out happy, thinking you'd wake up sore Sunday and go back to your normal life.”
He chuckles darkly.
“Surprise. We changed the plan. You may not know it because you were too selfish even as a faggot, but we're not just frat boys. We're engineering and bio majors smart ones. The kind who build custom neurotech and biohacks in the garage for fun. We've been tinkering with this stuff for months, fed up with your fake sub bullshit. You thought you could buy submission on your terms? Nah. We decided to make it real. Permanent.”
My heart races faster. Engineers. Bio. They built this. They planned this.
He taps the small scar above my pubic bone barely visible.
“First, your cock. That proud 8-incher you loved to stroke after paying alpha men. We clamped our custom nano-swarm device over it. Billions of targeted nanites injected. They rewrote the tissue from inside shrunk blood vessels, collapsed chambers, turned it into this pathetic nub in real time. We watched it deflate on the screen. 8 to 4 to 3 to barely 2 inches. We laughed, slapped your thigh. 'Look at that big fag cock turning into a clit, bitch.' Gone forever.”
The hazy memory flickers pain, shrinkage, their mocking voices. My nub twitches involuntarily. Horror mixes with the throb.a
“But here's the fun part,” he continues, grinning wider. “We didn't just shrink it. We amped the sensitivity 10 times. Nerve endings hyper-sensitized, receptors overclocked. Every twitch, every drip, every brush of air feels like a full stroke on your old cock. Horny hits like lightning now. The nub might be tiny, but it feels everything tenfold. One flick, and you're right back on the edge dripping, throbbing, desperate. No cum allowed, but endless, unbearable need. Beautiful, right?”
He flicks the swollen head again sharp, electric. The sting shoots through me like fire, but the pleasure explodes 10x stronger. Nub jerks violently, pre-cum arcs in a thick rope. High, broken whimper gurgles out. My balls tighten so hard it hurts. Bladder pressure spikes sharper from the jolt. Tears stream.
“Next, balls. Switched the device to expansion mode. Pumped growth factors through the nanites. They swelled bigger, heavier, skin stretched tight. Not cartoon huge just enough to hang low, ache constant, churn extra hormones. Combined with the sensitivity amp, every word like 'fag' sends a surge straight through them. Keeps you on the edge without mercy. We slapped them to hear the wet thwack, watched them swing heavier. 'These sacks stay loaded forever. No more emptying. Just blue balls to remind you you're a toy.'”
My balls squeeze at his words ache deepens, another thick bead drips. The sensitivity makes every throb feel overwhelming. I sob harder.
“Then your fucking paralysis. Targeted neural disruptor we designed zapped motor pathways at spine and neck base. Muscles stay alive, strong, feeling every cramp and burn, but no commands from the brain. Zero control from you, faggot.”
He pauses, eyes gleaming.
“But we didn't want it to be boring. So we added a voice override. Authorized commands only from me, the boys, whoever we add to the whitelist. We can make your body do whatever we want. Flex, stroke, beg, pose. You feel every movement, but it's not you controlling it. It's us pulling strings on your big rugby frame. And when we're done? Snap back to locked. No choice. No memory of how to move on your own.”
My pulse races. Voice override? They can make me move? A flicker of desperate hope sparks maybe they can let me out of this pose, maybe
Max steps back slightly, voice shifting to that firm, commanding tone.
“Stroke yourself, fag. Right hand. Keep going slow. No stopping. Edge yourself hard. Feel every single stroke. Don't cum. Just keep stroking until I tell you to stop.”
The command hits.
My right arm lifts smoothly, powerfully. Elbow bends, forearm rises. Hand opens. Fingers curl around the tiny, hypersensitive nub.
The first stroke slow, deliberate explodes through me. Sensitivity 10x turns the light grip into overwhelming fire and velvet. Head flares wide, shaft throbs violently, pre-cum floods out thick and slick, coating my fingers as they slide up and down.
One.
Two.
Three.
The pleasure builds insane right there, right on the brink. Balls tighten hard, heavy sacs pulling up tight against my body, churning like they're about to burst. Prostate milked relentlessly by the slow finger in my ass, every press sending jolts straight to the nub. I'm teetering, body screaming for release. So close. So fucking close.
Why isn't it happening?
Four. Five. Six.
The strokes continue slow, relentless fingers slick with pre-cum, gliding over the swollen head again and again. Every glide feels like a full, endless handjob on my old cock, amplified tenfold. The edge sharpens, sharpens, never dulls. My mind spins: why? Why can't I cum? Why does it hurt so good and stop short? Is it broken? Am I broken?
Seven. Eight. Nine.
Minutes pass. The hand keeps moving up, down, up, down perfect rhythm, no variation, no mercy. Pre-cum pours steady now, thick ropes dripping to the grass, strings stretching longer before snapping. My balls get tighter. Tighter. Pulling up so high they ache deep in my gut, veins bulging under the stretched skin, throbbing with every forced stroke.
Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
I'm right there. Right fucking there. The peak hovers, cruel and unreachable. Every stroke pushes me closer, sensitivity making the nub feel like it's on fire every ridge of my own fingers, every slick slide over the head, every pulse of pre-cum feels magnified to unbearable levels. Pleasure crashes wave after wave, building, building, never cresting. Balls so tight they hurt, squeezing harder with each pass, like they're trying to force something out that won't come.
Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.
Still going.
Minutes drag. The hand doesn't tire. Doesn't speed up. Just slow, torturing strokes. My sobs hitch louder, gurgling wet in my wide-open mouth. Drool sprays with each ragged pant. Tears stream endlessly down my smooth cheeks, mixing with drool on my chest. Bladder pressure now a sharp, gnawing agony full, pressing, no way to hold or release.
The edge is torture now. Pure frustration. I'm so close my whole locked body trembles inside the paralysis thighs cramping violently, back burning, grass stabbing knees but no release. Just endless building, endless aching, endless need that never tips over.
Still stroking.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
Balls tighter still, so tight it feels like they're going to tear. Nub pulsing wildly under the forced grip, pre-cum flowing like a faucet now, slicking everything. Pleasure so intense it's almost pain every nerve screaming, every throb begging for the final push that never comes.
Max watches, eyes gleaming, arms crossed casually.
“You feel that edge, don't you? Right on the brink, balls tighter than they've ever been, nub throbbing like it's gonna explode... wondering why you can't just tip over and cum. Hahaha. Frustrating, isn't it? You must be losing your mind asking yourself why it's not happening yet.”
He leans in closer, voice mocking.
“We made sure of that too. While the nanites were shrinking your cock and amping sensitivity, we rewired the ejaculatory pathways. Severed the final neural trigger. You can get as close as you want 10x closer, 10x more intense, 10x more desperate but the switch is off until we turn it on again. You’ll edge forever. Leak forever. Ache forever. Just endless, unbearable need that never ends.”
The hand keeps going.
Minutes more.
Strokes don't stop.
Balls so tight they feel like rocks, aching deep, throbbing in time with every forced glide. Pre-cum drips steady, strings long and endless. Nub so sensitive every touch feels like electricity pleasure crashing, peaking, holding, never releasing.
I'm sobbing harder now high, broken, gurgling sounds mixing with the wet slick of my own hand. Drool pours in thick ropes. Bladder screams fuller, sharper, pressure unbearable on top of everything.
Still stroking.
Still edging.
Still no cum.
Max finally snaps his fingers.
“Stop. Back to pose.”
The hand releases the nub instantly, drops back to hovering half an inch away again fingers fluttering useless once more. The irony just hit me. If only I still had my real cock, it would’ve been reachable with my hands and fingers.
The override snaps off.
Arm locks back into place.
The edge remains balls throbbing painfully tight, nub pulsing wildly, pre-cum dripping steady, prostate teased without mercy but no release. Just the torment hanging there, amplified, unending.
My ruined 2-inch nub throbs visibly now, harder than before. The head swells darker, almost black at the tip from the blood rush, shaft thickening as much as it can, still tiny, still pathetic, but looking bigger in its desperate, angry state. Veins stand out under the glossy skin, pulsing with every heartbeat. It bobs forward in tiny, frantic spasms, straining toward my hovering fingertips like it's trying to close the half-inch gap on its own. Pre-cum flows in slow, continuous beads, thick and clear, dripping to the grass with wet little sounds.
The hypersensitivity makes every throb feel enormous; each pulse radiates through the whole nub like a full erection on my old cock, but concentrated into this sad little thing. It looks bigger because it's so engorged, so desperate, so denied. The swollen head flares wider with every heartbeat, the slit opening slightly like it's gasping for air. My swollen balls pull even tighter below it, skin stretched shiny, veins bulging, aching so deep it feels like they're trying to force something out that can't come.
I sob harder, gurgling wetly through my wide-open mouth. Drool sprays with each ragged breath. Tears pour endlessly down my smooth cheeks, mixing with drool on my chest. Bladder pressure is now a sharp, gnawing agony fuller, pressing harder, no way to hold or release. The cramps in my thighs spike, back burns deeper, grass stabs knees but every spike of pain feeds the throb lower down, makes the nub look even more swollen, more needy.
Max watches it all, eyes gleaming.
“Look at that little cock trying to act big again. Throbbing like it still has something to prove. Pathetic. You must feel every heartbeat in it, huh?”
He reaches down casually and gives the throbbing head a light slap wet, sharp sound.
The nub jumps violently, flares even wider for a second, pre-cum spurting in a short arc. High, broken whimper escapes my open mouth. Balls tighten impossibly more, ache sharpening to near-tearing.
He laughs low.
“But we don't just leave you like this and hope you don't fall apart. No, statue we keep you healthy. Perfectly healthy. That's the whole point. A broken toy isn't fun if it stops working.”
He taps the small, barely visible scar near my hip smooth, subdermal.
“Nutrient pump. Tiny device under the skin here. Silent, automatic. Steady drip of electrolytes, glucose, vitamins, amino acids, proteins everything your body needs to stay strong. No food. No chewing. No mess. It keeps your blood sugar stable, muscles from wasting, organs functioning. Your rugby build stays intact broad shoulders, thick chest, powerful legs years from now you'll still look like the big guy who used to dominate on the field. Healthy enough to feel every cramp, every burn, every denied throb. Won't die. Won't atrophy. Won't get sick. Just suffer.”
My mind reels. No food? Just... tubes and pumps? The thought makes nausea rise, but my body keeps leaking, keeps edging, keeps throbbing.
He slaps my swollen balls lightly again wet thwack. The sting shoots through me, amplified 10x. Balls bounce heavy, ache deeper.
“And your balls and prostate. We keep them healthy too. Overactive, but healthy. The expansion nanites made them churn extra hormones, semen production ramped up. But since you can't cum the normal way, we built a drain system. Tiny subdermal catheters in the base of each sac and one along the prostate nano-thin tubes that run internally. The prostate drain routes straight through your ass, connecting to the actuator finger. The ball drains converge into a single micro-line that empties into your rectum. When we activate, the semen flows out the back slow, steady, warm, right through your hole. No pleasure. Just mechanical emptying. Like a slow, forced enema of your own cum.”
He pulls his phone from his shorts pocket, thumb hovering over the screen.
“Your prostate is already full. Feel that heavy pressure behind the throb? Balls swollen to bursting. Time for a quick demo. Watch what happens when we drain you.”
My heart slams. No. Not now. Not like this.
He taps the screen.
“Drain mode. Full cycle. Activate prostate and balls.”
A faint click deep inside me something shifts.
The middle finger suddenly pushes deeper deeper than before knuckle-deep, pressing firm and unyielding against my prostate. Then it holds there, vibrating subtly, like a valve opening.
A low hum starts in my pelvis mechanical, insistent.
The drain begins.
Warmth spreads first in my prostate slow, pulsing suction pulling at the swollen gland. Thick, pent-up fluid starts flowing milky semen forced out through the internal tube, right through the actuator finger, leaking warm and wet from my ass in slow, steady pulses. I feel it: the slick heat sliding down my inner walls, dripping out around the finger in thin, white streams, running down my crack to the grass below.
Then the balls kick in.
Sharp tug in each sac like invisible hands squeezing them empty. The catheters pull hard, draining the backed-up load through the micro-line into the rectum. Semen flows from the balls, mixes with the prostate fluid, and continues out warm, thick rivulets seeping from my hole, coating the finger, dripping in heavy drops to the grass.
The sensation is invasive. Agonizing.
Deep, cramping pain in my prostate like it's being crushed and wrung out too fast. The suction tugs mercilessly at the gland, forcing every drop, leaving it raw, bruised, burning inside. Sharp stabs radiate from the core of my pelvis, like needles threading through swollen tissue. Balls deflate slowly swollen sacs shrinking visibly, skin loosening, weight lightening but the drain is brutal, pulling with sharp, tearing sensations inside each sac, veins throbbing in protest. Lower belly twists hard from the internal flow, muscles spasming involuntarily. Ass burns from the forceful release, ring stretched and sore around the invading finger. The whole lower body feels violated, wrenched, emptied against every instinct.
Pre-cum stops completely. The throbbing nub softens, deflates a fraction still 2 inches, but less engorged, less angry-looking. The insane edge dulls not gone, but muted. The overwhelming horniness fades to a low, distant hum.
For a moment, I'm... relieved.
The constant screaming need quiets. Sensitivity drops from 10x to something bearable. Balls feel lighter, smaller now shrunken sacs hanging looser, aching less intensely. Prostate pressure eases, gland deflated and sore but not bursting.
But the pain explodes.
Without the horny haze to numb it, every torment stands out raw and vicious. Deep cramps in my ass and prostate sore from the rough suction, burning like fire. Lower belly twisting in knots. Thighs trembling violently from the internal tug. Back locked in arch, muscles screaming. Sharp grass stabbing knees like needles. Bladder pressure now a searing, unbearable fist in my gut full, burning, no way to hold or release. Mouth stretched open, jaw aching, drool choking me. Everything hurts. Everything is agony. The locked pose feels like torture without the distraction of endless arousal. I sob harder raw, painful gasps, not needy whimpers. Drool pours, but panting slows, turns ragged from sheer pain.
Then the hum fades. The finger pulls back to its normal half-inch slide.
The drain stops.
And the horniness creeps back.
Slow at first warmth returning to my balls, prostate tingling as it refills. Nub twitches, starts swelling again. Sensitivity ramps back up. The edge rebuilds, faster than before because the drain left everything raw and sensitized.
Within moments, the overwhelming need returns stronger, somehow. Balls swelling back up, churning fresh load. Nub throbbing to full desperation, looking bigger again in renewed engorgement head flaring, veins popping, pre-cum starting to drip once more.
The pain lingers too prostate sore, ass raw from the deep drain, balls tender from the squeeze but now mixed with the returning horny fire. The horny haze rushes in to dull the agony again, turning sharp pain into desperate, throbbing need. The cramps feel less vicious, the bladder burn less immediate, the locked pose less torturous because the horniness masks it, turns it into fuel for the edge.
I sob different sobs now. Relief from pain, but shame at how grateful I feel for the horny returning. For the haze that makes the suffering bearable.
Max watches my face, my body, the way the nub swells again, the way pre-cum resumes dripping, the way my balls start to tighten and fill once more.
“See that? Draining keeps everything healthy, prostate flushed clean, balls emptied to prevent rupture or infection, semen drained safely through your ass. But it's not fun, is it? It's painful. Invasive. You feel every tug, every squeeze, every drop forced out the back. And when it's over? Relief for a minute... maybe two. Horniness fades, pain stands out raw. Then it all floods back horny stronger, edge sharper, need worse.”
He slaps my balls lightly wet thwack.
“That's why you're grateful to be horny, fag. The horniness keeps the pain bearable. Dulls it. Turns agony into desperate need. When you're leaking and edging and throbbing, you forget how much everything else hurts. But when we drain you? You remember. You feel the cramps, the bladder burn, the locked muscles, the open mouth choking on drool. So the next time the horniness builds... you crave it. You need it. You thank us for keeping you horny. For keeping you healthy. For keeping you ours.”
He straightens, towering again.
“And speaking of your bladder...”
My bladder suddenly screams pressure spiking hard, full to bursting, burning like fire in my lower belly. The drain must have pushed the buildup over the edge. I can't clench. Can't hold. Panic floods me. I need to piss. Now. Desperate. The ache is unbearable, sharp waves rolling through my gut.
I whimper high and frantic, drool pouring faster. Body trembles inside the lock.
Max pulls his phone again, thumb hovering.
“Bladder implant. Electromagnetic clamp on your urethra. Most men piss 6-8 times a day, but you’re not a man, right, faggot? We’re being very kind and will allow you to piss twice a day 7 a.m. and 7 p.m. sharp.”
He taps the screen.
“Actually now’s exactly the time to do it. Do you feel the clamp released? Yeah you have sixty seconds to empty everything. Oh no, 58 seconds… Hurry, fag clock's ticking. If even one drop left, shock burns through the tube makes your whole locked body spasm inside the paralysis. Then clamp snaps shut. No second chance.”
Urine rushes out hot, forceful stream from the tiny nub, splattering the grass in a strong arc. Relief floods me for these precious seconds bladder emptying, burning easing, pressure dropping. I feel the liquid pouring warm down my thighs, mixing with pre-cum on the grass. The ache dulls to a low throb.
Max watches, laughing softly.
“Hahaha, look at you go. Like a little fountain. Pathetic. All that big rugby muscle and you can't even control your piss without my mercy.”
The stream is strong but the position is awkward, the clamp's release partial, the prostate still sore from the drain. It slows. Dribbles.
Seconds left.
Panic rises again. Not enough. A lot is still trapped.
The timer hits zero.
Clamp snaps shut sharp, burning sting through the urethra. The last dribbles burn as they're cut off. A quick shock jolts through my pelvis electric spasm inside the paralysis. Muscles twitch uselessly. Pain flares.
Bladder still has a little left enough to ache, enough to remind me I'm not empty. Pressure returns instantly. Burning. Aching. Desperate.
I sob gurgling, frantic. Body shaking inside the lock.
Max pockets the phone, steps forward until he's standing right over me, feet planted wide on either side of my spread knees.
“Poor fag. Still got a little left, huh? Burning inside. But that's life now. You don't get to finish unless we say.”
He looks down at me, then at his own bulge.
“Watch this. This is control.”
He reaches down, pulls the front of his shorts aside. His thick cock springs free already half-hard, veiny, bigger than my old one ever was. He aims it casually at my chest.
A hot stream hits my smooth chest first strong, steady, splashing across my pecs, running down my abs in warm rivulets. It soaks me instantly, mixes with my own pre-cum and drool, drips over my throbbing nub and swollen balls.
He stops for a second stream cutting off abruptly.
Max grins down at me.
“By the way... I just like watching you squirm. Holding your piss like that. So here's mine to make your bladder feel even fuller. To remind you how helpless you are.”
He aims higher.
The stream resumes hot, forceful hitting my face.
It splashes across my cheeks, my forehead, my wide-open mouth. Salty warmth floods in pouring over my tongue, down my throat, choking me. I gurgle, cough, drool and piss mixing in thick ropes down my chin. It runs into my eyes, stings, blurs my vision. The smell fills my nose musky, humiliating. My head is tilted up, mouth forced open, so it pools briefly on my tongue before spilling over, dripping down my neck to my chest.
He keeps going long, deliberate, no hurry. The stream lasts longer than my sixty seconds ever could steady, endless, hot.
I gasp gurgling, desperate. The fact he just pissed on me fully and relieved, makes me want to piss more. The warmth on my skin makes the bladder ache worse somehow, the leftover pressure screaming.
“Look at this,” he says, voice casual. “I can piss whenever I want. Wherever I want. For however long I want. No timer. No clamp. Just because I can. And you? You beg for seconds while I mark you like a territory.”
The stream finally tapers, stops. He shakes off the last drops splattering across my nub, making it jump and throb harder.
His piss mixes on my face, chest, everywhere. The smell clings. The warmth cools slowly on my skin. My bladder still aches from the leftover, now worse from the humiliation.
Max tucks himself away, steps back slowly, letting the silence hang just long enough for me to feel the piss cooling and crusting on my skin.
“That’s real control, fag. But you're nothing but a drooling, leaking mess begging for mercy with those wet little whimpers.”
He crouches close again, face inches from mine, breath hot on my piss-soaked cheeks.
“Still holding the rest of that piss, huh? Bladder burning like the desperate bitch you are. Squirming inside that locked body, knowing you can't clench, can't hold, can't do shit about it. Here's me being merciful to you, faggot. You can piss more.”
The clamp opens again. Urine trickles out again, the leftover pressure easing a little. Relief washes through me for a few seconds, the burning fading slightly, but the ache still lingers like a warning. I feel the warm liquid running down my thighs, mixing with pre-cum and his piss on the grass. My body relaxes just a fraction, but the shame burns even hotter, grateful for mercy from the man who just marked me like property, who ruined my cock, who turned my life into this.
But then Max laughs low, mocking, eyes gleaming with pure cruelty.
“But here's the catch, you stupid, broken fag. Every extra second you need outside your two times a day will cost you your cock. One micron per second. You won't notice it at first, tiny little shrinks, day by day. But keep begging, keep needing extra time like the weak piss-slut you are... and after a while, it becomes one inch. Then nothing. Hahaha. If you beg for one extra minute every day, that's about 333 days until your cock is completely gone. Gone forever, fag. Just a smooth, useless little hole where your 'pride' used to be.”
He leans closer, voice dark and teasing, almost whispering.
“Or you could just wait it out. Suffer and suffer until it peaks. We've set it up so you won't cause permanent damage. No bursting bladder for our favorite toy. You'll leak very, very slowly and excruciatingly, one tiny drop per second. It'll take you more than two hours to empty your bladder that way, stupid faggot. Every drop will be burning like fire. Every minute of pure agony, your big body trembling, tears pouring, drool choking you while you leak like a broken faucet. We want you to suffer, faggot. That's the point. Suffer knowing your cock shrinks every time you beg. Suffer knowing waiting means hours of hell. Suffer knowing you're nothing but a leaking, edging, piss-holding toy.”
My mind reels in horror, no no no, eyes wide, muffled gurgles bubbling out around drool. Concern floods me, panic twisting with the leftover ache. The nub throbs harder from the fear, leaking faster. I shake my head as much as the tiny allowance lets me, whimpering wetly, desperate to say no, to refuse, tears streaming harder.
The clamp snaps shut again, I feel a sharp sting. The leftover is still there, now with the knowledge that begging costs my cock, or I can struggle to wait which means hours of agony.
Max pats my bald head one last time, rough.
“Oh, by the way... your nipples need a bit of decoration.”
He reaches into his shorts pocket again, pulls out two heavy metal clamps—strong, jagged teeth glinting in the light, connected by a short chain with a small sign dangling from the middle.
My heart slams. No. Not that.
He crouches close, breath hot on my face.
“Hold still, faggot.”
He pinches my left nipple hard—twisting until it stands red and swollen—then snaps the clamp on.
Pain explodes—sharp, burning, like teeth biting deep. The jaws crush the sensitive bud, no mercy. I sob high and broken, gurgling wetly, body jerking inside the lock. Drool sprays. Tears flood.
He does the right one next—same twist, same snap. Agony doubles, nipples throbbing in constant fire, chain pulling them forward with every tiny tremble.
The sign hangs between them, swaying gently: "FAKE FAGGOT TURNED INTO REAL OBJECT".
He flicks the chain, clamps tug harder, pain shooting through my chest straight to my nub. It jerks, pre-cum spurting fresh.
“There. Perfect. Now everyone who walks by knows exactly what you are. Fake sub with a big cock... turned into a real, broken object. No pretending anymore.”
He stands, admiring.
“Enjoy your new jewelry, property nub. Those clamps stay on until I say otherwise. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never. Feel that burn every second. Remember who owns you.”
He turns and walks back toward the house, leaving me alone in the garden.
Face and chest soaked in his piss, drying sticky.
Nub rigid, hard, leaking nonstop.
Minutes turn to hours under the morning sun.
The clamps dig into my nipples with every breath, the chain pulling that stupid sign "FAKE FAGGOT TURNED INTO REAL OBJECT" back and forth like it's laughing at me. The pain is steady, hot, making me want to squirm like an idiot, but I can't. It's ridiculous. A big strong guy like me, reduced to this, nipples clamped like some cheap toy.
But the real torture starts lower down.
The bladder pressure comes back, slow, sneaky at first, then building fast like a bad joke. That leftover piss swells again, pushing, burning, nagging. I feel it filling up, stretching everything inside, the ache getting sharper, more insistent, turning into this constant, stupid urgency. Every heartbeat makes it worse. Every tiny breeze or shift in the pose presses on it, making me want to hop around or cross my legs like a fool, but I'm locked stiff.
The need to piss is overwhelming, like a moron who waited too long, dancing in place, but I can't move. Can't clench. Can't do anything. It's fire in my gut, a scream that won't shut up, making me feel small and ridiculous. The big rugby fag, desperate to pee like a little boy who can't hold it.
I want to beg so much but I can’t beg. No whimpers for extra time.
I hold it.
Because losing my cock is worse. I only have 2 inches left. Can't risk it shrinking more.
So I hold.
But it's torture. The pressure peaks, ridiculous, unrelenting, making me want to cry like a baby.
Then it starts.
The leak.
The clamp stays shut, but the pressure is too much. Piss forces its way out anyway—very, very slowly. One tiny, burning drop per second. Each drop stings like acid through my urethra, easing the pressure by the smallest fraction before it builds right back. It's excruciating, never enough relief, just endless, stinging tease. The dribble is pathetic, taking forever. More than two hours to empty what should take seconds. Every drop feels like punishment, like my body is broken plumbing, leaking uselessly while the ache screams louder.
And the worst part, the pre-cum can't come out either. The route prioritizes the piss. The tiny drops of urine block the path, trapping the backed-up load deeper. Balls stay painfully tight, prostate spasming raw, nub throbbing but nothing releases. The edging turns crueler, full, churning, no way out. Pleasure trapped with the pain, twisting together into something unbearable.
My left hand, still locked in the old pose remnant, keeps the slow finger fuck in my ass, half-inch in and out, mechanical, relentless. Each slide presses the prostate harder, milking more useless fluid that can't escape, making the trapped ache worse.
When I finally stop leaking piss, it feels like hours have passed, hours of that slow, burning dribble. The bladder is empty now, but the ache lingers, dull and mocking. My nub throbs from the strain, leaking pre-cum steadily. Balls stay tight, heavy. Tears pour silently. Drool runs down my chin in thick strings.
I’m desperately horny and need to cum.
Hours drag.
The ache never fully eases.
It just waits for the next fill.
I stay exactly where I am.
Holding like a fool.
Leaking.
Throbbing.
Suffering.
Broken…
I’m screaming inside my head for anyone to please help me…
Three Years Later
The 3rd Anniversary
February 16th, again.
The sun is low, golden, slanting across the garden the same way it did that first morning. The same breeze. The same mirror still propped against the wall, glass slightly fogged from three years of weather but angled perfectly to force me to see myself every single day.
My body is still the same rugby-built. Broad shoulders, thick chest, powerful legs kept healthy by the nutrient pump, the constant drip keeping muscle tone, skin smooth, no atrophy. The voice override never stopped. Max and the frat guys can command my body anytime: stroke, flex, pose change, whatever. I feel every movement, but it's never me. It's always them.
The pose has changed many times. They change it whenever they want, using voice commands. I remember them all, each one worse than the last, burned into my mind like scars.
There was the inverted pose for weeks bent backward over a low frame, head and shoulders low to the ground, belly curved up high, legs folded up over my head and spread wide. My nub hung down directly in front of my face, pre-cum dripping straight onto my tongue in endless strings. When piss time came, the clamp opened and my own urine leaked slow, recycling into my mouth salty, warm, choking. I swallowed my own waste while they laughed, pushing large dildos into my exposed, gasping asshole, stretching me wide, no mercy. The blood rushed to my head, neck cramping, shoulders screaming from the strain, balls hanging heavy and swinging. They filmed it all, calling me their "self-drinking piss fountain." I lost most lengths of my tiny cock during this time because I had to keep begging for extra piss time.
Another time, the ass-up pose on all fours but modified, hips raised high on a platform, ass presented like an offering, mouth locked open facing the ground. They emptied their bladders directly into my asshole hot streams filling me, bloating my gut, forcing me to hold it until they allowed release. The pressure built unbearable, cramps twisting inside while my nub leaked uselessly below, untouched. Nipples clamped and weighted, pulling down with every breath. They took turns fucking the plug deeper or replacing it with their cocks, laughing at how my body trembled.
There was the spread-eagle wall pose back against a frame, arms and legs stretched wide and locked to rings, body fully displayed like a trophy. Mouth open, head fixed forward. They pissed across my chest from a distance, streams hitting my nub and balls, running down to pool under me. The pose strained every joint shoulders burning, hips aching, thighs quivering from the wide spread. Hours of exposure, wind drying the piss on my skin, sticky and humiliating.
Each change reminded me I'm nothing. Just a thing to reposition, to use, to break a little more.
Tonight, Max arrives alone, late afternoon. Shirtless, shorts low, cock already half-hard in the fabric. He circles me slowly, admiring the pose and the tattoos.
“Change pose. Full display. Legs wide, knees locked straight, back arched hard, arms straight out to the sides, palms up, fingers spread. Head back, mouth open wide. Chest out, hips forward. Lock.”
My body obeyed instantly. My muscles move and my legs straightened, spread wide. Back arched to the limit, spine curving painfully. My arms extended horizontal, palms up like offering myself, with head tilted back sharply, mouth forced wider, tongue lolling. Hips pushed forward, nub pointing straight out like a pathetic flag. Everything locked in this obscene, offering pose.
The mirror is moved closer now only eight feet away, angled up so I see my full form: tall, muscular, hairless, arms crucified out, back arched like I'm presenting my chest and cock, balls hanging heavy, pre-cum dripping in slow strings to the grass between my spread feet. The pose that’s too familiar to me because Max always promised me orgasms in this pose, but it never happened.
After a while, arms out make shoulders scream after minutes of constant burn, no relief. Back arch strains the spine to breaking point, lower back throbbing deep. Head back cramps the neck, jaw aches from mouth forced wide. Hips forward makes the nub point straight ahead, balls swing free with every breeze. Gravity pulls everything down balls ache heavier, bladder pressure crushes downward, making the fullness feel like it's going to burst.
My skin is tattooed now black ink across my chest: "PROPERTY NUB" in bold letters. Lower belly: "DENIED FOREVER" in small script. Inner thighs: "PAID FOR" on one, "OWNED" on the other. Ass cheeks: "FRAT HOUSE TOY" arched over the crack. Even the base of my nub has a tiny "NO RELEASE" etched in fine lines. Across my throat, in large letters visible when my head is tilted back: "OPEN FOR USE". They added it on the second anniversary. Every time my mouth is open (always), the words display. A permanent reminder etched into my skin.
My nipples are pierced now with heavy rings through each bud, added last year. The metal tugs with every breath, every tiny movement in the pose, sending constant jolts straight to my nub. The piercings amplify everything pain when clamped or pulled, but also unwanted pleasure, making the edge sharper, the horniness more intense. They said after a while you'll forget you even want to cum, that the denial will become normal. But for me, I'm always right on the brink, throbbing, leaking, desperate to release but never able to. Not cumming is my constant state teased, edged, denied forever.
“Three years, statue. Look at you arms out like you're begging to be crucified, hips thrust like you're offering that tattooed little nub to the world. Standing tall like the big rugby guy you used to be. But still our toy. Still leaking. Still edged. Still marked. And your penis is now 1 inch left. You did a good job managing your bladder but some days were just harder huh?” Max laughs.
He stops in front of me, crotch level with my rigid nub.
“Special anniversary treat today. You know well of this pose, don’t you? But this time I mean it.”
I’m not reacting much cause he always lied and then laughed whenever he promised me orgasm.
He pulls his phone.
“We're gonna milk you properly. Full prostate hammer. Forty-five minutes. No mercy. No stop. You're gonna feel every second of it. And you're gonna stay right on the edge the whole time balls screaming, nub throbbing, pre-cum flying convinced this is the year. Like I said, I mean it. This is the day we're finally going to let you cum. This is the first time ever every frat boy agrees unanimously to let you cum. So, get excited, faggot.”
The words hit like a shockwave.
Finally.
Three years of denial, of edging, of hope crushed over and over three years of believing "this time" every single time, only to be left aching and leaking and now he says it. Out loud. "We're finally going to let you cum."
My mind reels.
My heart slams so hard it hurts my ribs.
The nub jerks violently harder than it has in months pre-cum spurting in a thick, involuntary rope that arcs high before splattering the grass. Balls tighten to the point of pain, pulling up tight against my body, veins bulging, churning like they're ready to burst right now. The prostate throbs in anticipation, every nerve lighting up. Tears flood my eyes instantly hot, desperate, mixing with drool that pours faster from my wide-open mouth. A high, shattered whimper escapes wet, needy, almost grateful. My locked body trembles inside the paralysis arms out burning, back arched to breaking, legs wide and shaking every muscle straining toward the promise.
This is it. I never felt it went this far.
This is the day.
The words echo in my head: finally... let you cum... unanimously… finally...
Hope surges raw, blinding, stupid hope. After three years of being broken, drained, marked, shrunk, denied, I believe him. I have to when I’m now this horny. The edge feels sharper already, the throb deeper, the need overwhelming. My mind flashes to that release imagining it now, full, endless, shattering. My nub throbs visibly, looking bigger in its desperation, head flaring dark, slit gaping, pre-cum flowing steady.
I'm gasping inside silent, sobs hitching wetter, drool spraying. The humiliation mixes with the hope: I'm so pathetic, so grateful for a promise from the man who ruined me. But I don't care.
Max watches my reaction and how my nub is spurting, my body trembling, my tears pouring and his grin widens, dark and cruel.
“Yeah... look at you. Already believing it. Three years, and one sentence from me and you're spurting like a fountain. Pathetic.”
He taps the phone.
The probe extends.
The hammering starts.
Forty-five minutes of pure, merciless milking.
I feel every second.
Forty-five minutes end.
The probe retracts.
The hammering stops.
The nub throbs once, twice desperate, hopeful
Then it happens.
A single, shattering pulse.
My white semen erupts thick, white rope shooting from the tiny slit, arcing high before splattering the grass.
One second.
Just one second.
The release crashes through me like lightning pure, white-hot ecstasy exploding from my balls, through my prostate, up my spine.
My whole body locks inside the paralysis, every muscle screaming in bliss.
My nub pulses once hard, powerful shooting that single thick rope of cum with force I haven't felt in years. It arcs high, splatters the grass, hot and heavy.
My mind blanks ahhh, yes, finally, finally. The edge breaks. The torment ends. Three years of denial shatter in this one blinding moment. I gasp inside, a silent, desperate "yes" echoing in my head, body trembling with the orgasm. It's heaven. It's everything.
The second pulse starts, balls clenching again, prostate spasming, the load building for another thick rope…
Then the clamp snaps shut burning sting through the urethra, cutting off the flow mid-spurt.
The second shot backs up painfully, pressure exploding inside. The semen surges against the block, trapped, churning uselessly with nowhere to go. Balls clench violently, prostate spasms raw, the unfinished load pressing, aching, tearing at everything inside. Pain radiates everywhere sharp, ripping, like my whole groin is being crushed from within, the cum slamming against the clamp over and over with each failed pulse. My nub jerks once more, dribbling one pathetic drop, then softens slightly, still rigid from the pill but deflated from the cut-off.
I gasp high, shattered, gurgling wail through my open mouth. Drool sprays. Tears flood. Body shakes inside the lock, my whole body is burning, literally feels like burning and trembling.
Max crouches again, face inches from mine, grinning.
“Three years... and finally you understand the price of cumming.” He laughs.
“We did agree unanimously to let you cum, but oops, I guess I forgot to let you know that it was only for a second. But wow was that one second feel, fag? Worth it? Worth the constant ache now? Worth every drop of hope we let you have just to rip it away? Hahaha. Look at your face gasping like you just tasted heaven... and then we slammed the door shut. That little 'ahhh' in your eyes, that desperate tremble priceless. But now you know. One second of cum costs everything. And you still paid it.”
He’s right. It’s not worth it. My whole body has never felt pain this intense. Not even all the torture I have endured match this. I’m still constantly trembling and with each one, I feel like I want to just die. I want to scream but I only softly moan.
He flicks the now-sensitive nub sharp sting.
It jumps, dribbles one last weak bead.
He stands.
“Oh, and one more anniversary gift.”
He taps his phone again.
“Shrink cycle 2.0. Activate.”
Heat floods my groin nanites reactivating. The nub shrinks further slow, agonizing. From 1 inch with the last bit of shaft to just the nub. The remaining shaft collapses inward, folding completely, leaving only a tiny, smooth button of flesh, slit barely a pinprick. No shaft left. Just a hypersensitive nub, no protrusion at all. Sensitivity increases to 20x, so the tiny thing feels even more overwhelming every pulse like a full-body shock from a ghost cock that no longer exists.
The pain from the cut-short orgasm still rages. My balls clenched tight, my prostate spasming, the unfinished second load trapped inside, pressing, burning, tearing at everything. The shrink intensifies it all, the inversion pulling on the blocked semen, making the agony sharper, like my insides are being twisted and crushed while the nub vanishes.
My mind fractures.
No shaft.
Just the nub.
Tiny. Useless. Forever.
The humiliation crashes harder my cock, once 8 inches, now reduced to nothing. Just a button. A clit. A reminder.
Max laughs.
(Scat warning ahead.)
“Now it's a proper nub. No shaft left. Just the nub. Still hard. Still leaking. Still edged. But even smaller. Even more pathetic. Happy anniversary, property nub.”
He pauses, looking down at me with something almost like boredom.
“But we're getting bored of you, fag. Three years is a long time. Same leaks, same edge, same pathetic whimpers. We need something new. Something lower.”
He leans in, voice low, teasing.
“We can give you real orgasms. Full ones. Long ones. Whenever we decide. But the price is simple: become our frat house toilet. A real toilet. No limbs. All four amputated clean cuts, nano-seal. Torso locked into a custom basin in the garden corner. Head and shoulders framed in a porcelain toilet seat, mouth forced wide open, tongue out, face upturned. Ass sealed to a drain below. Nub and balls exposed through a cutout in the front, nipples hard and exposed on the sides. Mirror positioned so you’ll see your new form: just a head, torso, and genital display, locked into a human toilet. For the rest of your life, faggot.”
The words land like ice.
No limbs. Just a torso-head in a toilet bowl. Forever.
Mouth open for piss and shit.
“Every day. Every time one of them needs to go. Swallow what you can. Let the rest sit until they hose you. No flinching. No closing your mouth. No begging to stop. Just open. Accept. Swallow. Forever.
In exchange: we’ll give you real orgasms. You can’t know for sure but the possibility is open.”
My nub throbs harder at the thought betraying me, leaking faster. Balls tighten painfully. The humiliation crashes in: me, the big rugby guy, reduced to a limbless toilet for frat boys. Swallowing everything they give. Marked with their shit. How low can I be?
But... cum. Real cum.
I sob gurgling, broken drool pouring faster. No words. No nod. No shake. Just tears. Just the nub leaking. Just silence.
Max waits. Watches. Sees the hesitation.
Then his grin turns cruel.
“No answer? Fine. We'll help you decide.”
His voice shifts to command tone.
“Change pose. Endless jerking. Right hand on nub. Stroke slow, endless. Left hand on balls. Squeeze gentle, constant. Keep going. Never stop. Lock.”
The override hits.
My right hand moves fingers curling around the tiny nub, stroking slow, deliberate, endless. Left hand reaches down, cupping the swollen balls, squeezing gently, constantly. The sensation explodes at sensitivity level 20, every stroke on the tiny nub feels like a full handjob, every squeeze on the balls sends deep ache and throb. The edge sharpens instantly right back to the brink, but no release. Stroke after stroke. Squeeze after squeeze. Minutes turn to hours.
The torment builds. I feel like I’m dying for a pleasure which doesn’t sound logical, but it’s pleasure and torment and the same time.
No pause. No rest. The hand strokes forever slow, torturing. Balls squeezed constant, pressure building, aching deeper. Prostate still sore from the hammer. Nipples untouched but throbbing from earlier. Bladder filling again. Drool pouring. Tears streaming. The nub leaks nonstop, pre-cum coating my fingers, dripping to the grass.
Hours pass.
And there… I break.
I gurgle high, wet, broken desperate whimpers bubbling out around drool. No words. Just surrender. Just the sound of a fag giving in.
Max laughs loud.
“I know you're craving that orgasm, fag. I knew you'd crack. You always do.”
He taps the phone.
“Stop jerking. Back to display pose.”
Hands drop. Stroke stops. Balls released. Pose resets arms out, hips thrust, mouth wide.
He crouches one last time.
“Good choice. We'll start the amputation now.”
He taps the phone.
He taps the phone.
“Activate final modification. Amputate all four limbs. Clean cuts. Nano-seal. Permanent. Irreversible.”
The override holds me still, body frozen in the display pose, arms out, legs wide, hips thrust. I can't even flinch.
Cold precision activates inside. Subdermal tools whir silently, starting at my hands.
Pain explodes first in my right hand—sharp, searing, like acid eating through bone. Fingers go numb one by one, then the hand itself. I feel the cut—clean, brutal—wrist severing. The hand drops away, thumping to the grass. No blood. Nano-seal cauterizes instantly, leaving a smooth, rounded stump. The same on the left—fingers tingling, then nothing, wrist sliced, hand falling useless beside me.
Agony shoots up my arms, shoulders burning as elbows sever next. Forearms drop. Upper arms follow. Arms gone. Just smooth stumps at the shoulders. I feel the weight shift—torso heavier without arms to balance.
Then the legs.
Pain flares in my thighs—deep, ripping, like bones snapping inside. Knees go first. Lower legs sever, calves and feet collapsing to the grass. Thighs shorten, shrinking upward in slow, excruciating waves. The cuts climb higher—mid-thigh, upper thigh—flesh and bone dissolving clean under nano-precision. No blood, just sealed stumps rounding off.
My legs disappear completely.
The support vanishes.
My body drops—torso crashing hard to the grass, head bouncing, mouth wide, tongue lolling. I land on my back, stumps flailing uselessly in the air for a second before locking again. No arms to push up. No legs to stand. Just a limbless trunk—broad chest heaving, nub rigid and leaking between smooth thigh stumps, balls hanging exposed, ass plugged. Head tilted back, mouth open, drool pouring. A helpless, twitching torso in the dirt. Dehumanized. Reduced to meat on display.
I'm nothing now. Not a man. Just a head attached to a torso, stumps waving pathetically, waiting for whatever comes next.
Max effortlessly lifts my limbless torso like it's nothing, one arm under my back, the other gripping my nub and jerking it roughly, slow and mocking.
"Look at this, fag," he laughs, voice deep and cruel, breath hot on my face as he carries me across the garden. "No arms. No legs. Just a leaking, twitching torso with a pathetic little nub for a handle. Three years of edging you, and now you're light as a fucktoy. Feel that? Still hard. Still spurting pre-cum all over my hand like the desperate bitch you are. Big rugby guy reduced to this. Carried around like meat, jerked off while I walk. Pathetic or a blessing?"
He continues laughing.
Every step bounces me in his grip, the jerking hand twisting the nub harder, pre-cum dripping down his fingers, splattering my belly. Humiliation burns total, limbless, helpless, carried like luggage, nub milked publicly while he laughs at how broken I am. Tears pour silently. Drool runs from my open mouth. My torso shakes uselessly, no way to resist, no way to hide.
Max taps his phone again.
“Install toilet mode.”
The ground shifts. A hidden mechanism in the garden corner rises. Max effortlessly lifts my limbless torso and carries me over further, one hand under my back, the other casually jerking my 1-inch nub like a handle. Pre-cum slicks his fingers as he laughs.
"Light as a fucktoy now, fag. No limbs to fight with. Just a leaking stump with a pathetic little clit for a grip."
He drops me into place without ceremony. My torso thuds into the rising fixture.
A porcelain basin forms around my torso, but the entire frame is clear glass so I remain fully exposed even as a toilet, every inch of my muscular, hairless body visible from all sides like a display case. My shoulders and head lock into a toilet seat frame. My face is upturned, mouth forced wide open, tongue out, framed perfectly as the bowl. Ass sealed to a drain below, with a thick, integrated plug inserted deep, ridged, flared, part of the fixture itself. The plug presses constantly on my prostate, a low vibration humming through it. I moan, high and broken. The buzz sending jolts straight to my nub.
Nub and balls exposed through a small cutout in the front of the basin. Nipples accessible from the sides, small openings in the glass frame let hands reach in to pinch or twist them. Flush jets built into the rim, water positioned to rinse the bowl... and my face. Water drains down through the bottom, carrying everything away.
The frame locks.
Permanent.
Irreversible.
Max stands over the bowl, looking down into my open mouth.
“Just so you know, faggot toilet, this is irreversible. No limbs. No escape. No going back. You're a toilet now. Mouth for piss and shit. Ass plugged to the drain. Nipples reachable for play. Nub and balls on display. Flush jets to clean your face after every use. Forever.”
He pauses, grinning wider.
“Oh, since you're going to drink lots of piss and eat lots of shit... pretty sure your bladder will be full much faster. Today I’m just really nice, and you will say thank you.”
He taps his phone.
“And also, just to show you I'm in control...”
“Revert cock length. Set to 4 inches. Permanent override.”
Heat floods my groin. Nanites reactivating in reverse. The nub swells slowly, agonizing, stretching back out. From 1 inch... to 2... to 3... to 4 inches. Thicker now, veiny, head flaring wider, slit opening more. Sensitivity stays 10x, so the extra length feels overwhelming, every pulse, every throb, every drip magnified even further. The nub stands rigid, hard from the pill, leaking steady, throbbing visibly.
My mind fractures.
Four inches.
Back. Not the whole thing but I haven’t seen something that long there in my groin for so long.
After everything, the amputation, the toilet install, he gives more than before. Just because he can.
The nub throbs harder, betraying me, leaking faster. Hope twists again, maybe... maybe real cum. Maybe…
Max laughs low, seeing the reaction in my eyes.
“Look at you. Limbless toilet with a 4-inch cock again. Just to show you I decide everything. I can grow it. Shrink it. But pretty sure you’ll shrink it yourself when you beg for the extra piss time. You’ll need it more than ever. Be wise, fag.”
He laughs and then suddenly pulls his shorts aside.
“Test run. Time for you to taste my full load for the first time. I can’t believe we’ve never told you to eat our shit but anyway...”
He squats slightly, ass over my open mouth.
I feel it first, the heat, the weight.
Then he pushes.
Warm, soft, thick mass drops into my open mouth filling it instantly. The taste explodes bitter, earthy, rancid, and overwhelming. My stomach heaves violently. Disgust surges up like bile. This is shit. His shit. I’m at his mercy and he is giving me his dump. I feel humiliation and horniness at the same time. Hot, fresh, sliding over my tongue, coating my throat. I gag hard torso jerking uselessly in the basin. The smell floods my nose thick, foul, inescapable. My mind screams no no no revolted, horrified, sickened to my core. This is the lowest. This is filth.
I gag again, throat spasming, tears pouring harder. Drool mixes with the mess, spilling over my lips. The texture is wrong, soft, sticky, clinging. I want to spit, to vomit, to close my mouth, to run. But I can't. Mouth forced open. Tongue out. No choice. I have to swallow or drown in it.
But the frame detects the hesitation, the gag, the refusal to swallow fast enough.
Thin, protruding metal sticks emerge from the porcelain rim sharp, electrified tips pressing into my nipples from the side openings. They shock hard electric current surging through the sensitive buds, burning, spasming, making my torso jerk violently in the basin. At the same time, hidden contacts in the ass plug activate low-voltage shocks straight to the prostate, cramping it painfully, making the nub throb in agony.
The punishment is immediate, intense shocks pulsing in waves, nipples on fire, prostate seizing. Pain so sharp I scream inside gurgling wail around the load in my mouth. No mercy. No pause. The shocks continue until I swallow fully, until the basin is clear.
I swallow hard, desperate, throat working around the load. Thick, choking gulps. The electric torment stops the moment I comply. The frame has no mercy. Fail to swallow? Shocks until I do.
Max pushes again another log drops, heavier. I swallow again gagging, crying, torso shaking in the frame. The nub throbs harder betraying me, leaking faster from the degradation. Balls tighten. The edge sharpens even more.
He finishes, stands, wipes casually with toilet paper, drops it into my mouth.
“Swallow the paper too, fag.”
I gurgled, choking and swallowing the soiled paper.
Max taps the flush button.
Water jets blast cold, forceful, rinsing my face, washing the mess down the drain. It floods my open mouth, forces more swallowing, cleans the bowl around my head. The water drains away, leaving my face dripping, clean but still tasting the bitter afterburn on my tongue.
Max looks down, amused seeing the reaction in my eyes.
“Look at you. One second of cum, one inch of shrinkage, no limbs, mouth full of my shit... and with that 4 inch cock, more visible than you’ve ever had the past 3 years. Say thank you, faggot.”
I gurgled something that doesn’t mean anything and he just laughs again.
He reaches down to sit, then his foot sliding under the basin cutout bare foot pressing against the now 4-inch cock. Toes curl around it, rubbing slowly, deliberately.
The sensation is devastating skin on skin. Pleasure explodes. The nub jerks under his foot, pre-cum spurting against his sole. My balls are tightened violently and my prostate pressed by the plug, edge sharpening to unbearable.
He rubs harder. His foot stroked the whole length of my cock. His toes teasing the head, sole grinding the shaft.
The pleasure builds fast too fast. Balls clench. Prostate throbs. The nub pulses once, twice
Then it happens.
Full release.
Semen erupts thick ropes shooting from my cock, splattering his foot, the basin, the grass. Wave after wave. My mind blanks ahhh, yes, finally, real, long, shattering. Body shakes in the frame torso convulsing, mouth gurgling around drool, tears pouring. The orgasm rolls on longer than one second, emptying my balls completely, pleasure so intense it hurts, prostate spasming, every nerve firing at once. It's heaven. It's everything. It's
Max lifts his foot, cum dripping from his toes.
He laughs loud, cruel.
“There. Full orgasm. As promised. For your anniversary. Feel that? Maybe you’ve forgotten it, but that's what real cum feels like. And now you know... I can give it to you anytime.”
He wipes his foot on my nipples smearing the cum across "PROPERTY NUB".
“Enjoy the afterglow, property toilet. Next time you want it? Swallow well. Beg well. Or maybe I'll shrink it back to 1 inch. Or less. Or make you wait another three years.”
He turns and walks away.
It suddenly becomes silent, amplifying the fact that I’m now just a toilet. Who just came for the first time in 3 years. With a frame that keeps me locked, my head upturned, mouth wide, tongue out, ready for the next use.
My 4 inch cock is softening slowly to something very tiny, leaking the last drops of cum mixed with fresh pre-cum.
Balls empty for the first time in years, heavy and spent. But only a few minutes after that, they are already tightening faintly as the edge creeps back.
My nipples are still hard untouched, but aching from earlier. And my cock is getting hard again.
Ass plugged deep to the drain, the thick fixture pressing constant on my prostate, unyielding fullness that won't let me forget.
My bladder will fill again soon, faster now, from all the piss I swallowed.
The horniness builds again, really fast, even after that full orgasm. I can only moan realizing how orgasm doesn’t really help with it. The sensitivity never drops. In fact, the post-cum sensitivity makes every pulse sharper, the edge returning like it never left. I'm horny again, desperate again, leaking again. The body betrays me faster than ever.
The aftertaste of Max’s shit and piss lingers. Bitter shit coating my throat, salty piss on my tongue, thick and foul. I can't rinse it away. Mouth open, tongue out, the flavor sits there, choking, reminding. Drool mixes with it, spilling down my chin. The smell clings to my face, my chest. Disgust twists with the rising horniness, making me throb harder, leak more, hate myself more.
That’s when suddenly I heard footsteps approaching.
Jake, one of Max's friends, tall, young, handsome, smirking, shorts low, stands over the bowl, looking down into my open mouth.
“Morning, faggot. Ready for more?”
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