Tony was 32, married to susy for six years, and still the cockiest bastard in any room he walked into. Six foot two, sharp jaw, expensive cologne, and a permanent smirk that said he knew he was better than you. He worked finance, lifted heavy, and fucked his wife like he was doing her a favour. His best mate Dave had known him since uni watched the arrogance grow, watched the marriage settle into comfortable routine, watched Tony never once question that the world bent around him.
It was a Friday night. Lads’ night. susy was away for the weekend. Dave suggested the usual: few pints, maybe a club, maybe pulling. Tony laughed and ordered the first round.
Somewhere between the third and fourth drink Dave slid a small white pill across the sticky table.
“New one,” Dave said casually. “Makes the night last longer. Keeps you hard. Trust me.”
Tony didn’t even ask what it was. He never asked. He just grinned, knocked it back with the rest of his lager, and ordered another.
The changes started slow.
By the time they left the pub Tony’s jeans felt tighter across the arse and looser in the front. He kept adjusting himself, frowning, muttering that the wash had shrunk them. In the club toilets the fluorescent light was unforgiving. His cock normally thick, heavy, a source of quiet pride looked smaller. Soft and neat, nestled in the dark hair above his balls. He stared, shook it, felt a weird, constant slickness at the tip. Pre come beaded and dripped without permission, staining the front of his black Calvin Klein boxers. He wiped it away. More appeared. His hole felt… open. Soft. A slow, warm trickle of something slick was already dampening the crack of his arse, soaking into the cotton.
He told himself it was sweat. The club was hot.
By midnight the arrogance was still there in his voice, but his body was slipping. His arse had filled out—round, heavy, soft in a way that made the seat of his jeans strain. Every time he sat or shifted, a fresh slick of lube like wetness leaked from his hole, coating the insides of his thighs and turning the back of his boxers into a shiny, translucent mess. His cock stayed half hard at best, small and pretty, constantly weeping clear pre that stuck the fabric to his skin. He kept reaching down to adjust, only to find his fingers coming away sticky.
Dave watched him the whole time.
They ended up back at Dave’s flat “for a nightcap.” Tony was still talking shit about work, about susy, about how he could have any girl in that club if he’d wanted while his body betrayed him. He sat on the sofa with his legs spread, the dark wet patch at the front of his jeans obvious, the seat of his trousers darkened by the constant leak from his arse. Every shift produced a soft, wet sound.
Dave poured two whiskeys. Tony drank. The himbo fog rolled in slowly: thoughts getting softer, longer silences between sentences, the need to be looked at and touched growing louder than the need to be in charge.
Dave’s hand landed on Tony’s thigh. High. Fingers brushing the damp fabric over his small, leaking cock.
Tony looked down at it, then up at Dave, the last scraps of arrogance flickering.
“Mate… what the fuck did you give me?”
Dave smiled, slow and ugly.
“Something I’ve been waiting years to try. You’re still you in there, Tony. You can still feel everything. You just… can’t do much about it anymore.”
Tony’s hole clenched and another thick trickle of lube pushed out, soaking further into the already ruined boxers. His cock twitched and drooled a fresh bead of pre that ran down the shaft and disappeared into the wet cotton.
Dave stood, pulled Tony up by the wrist, and walked him to the bedroom like he was leading a dog. Tony’s jeans came down. The boxers were a disaster front plastered translucent to his small, constantly leaking cock, back completely soaked through, the soft, fat cheeks of his arse shiny with the endless slick that kept seeping from his open hole. The elastic was stretched and dark. The fabric clung and peeled wetly when Dave hooked his thumbs in and dragged them down.
Tony stood there, bare from the waist down, still trying to talk like the man he’d been an hour ago.
“Dave… mate… this isn’t funny. I can feel it. I can still—”
Dave pushed two fingers straight into the soft, dripping hole. They slid in with almost no resistance. Tony’s knees buckled. A broken, high sound left his throat. More lube pulsed out around Dave’s fingers, running down his balls and dripping onto the floor.
“You can still what?” Dave asked quietly. “Change it back? There’s a second pill. I have it. You can take it any time and go back to your perfect marriage and your perfect cock and your perfect life.”
He twisted his fingers. Tony’s small cock jerked and spat another clear strand of pre onto his own stomach.
“But you’re not going to. Because every time you think about reaching for it, your hole gets emptier. And right now it needs something thicker than my fingers.”
Tony’s hands clenched and opened. The arrogance was still fighting—barely. The constant wetness, the soft heavy arse that wouldn’t stop leaking, the pretty little cock that wouldn’t stop dripping, the fog that made every thought arrive late and leave early… it was winning.
Dave pushed him face down onto the bed. Tony’s big, soft arse was presented, hole shiny and twitching, a steady string of lube connecting it to the mattress. Dave stripped, lined up, and pushed in with one long, easy thrust. Tony’s body took it like it had been waiting years. A long, broken moan tore out of him. His small cock dragged against the sheets, painting them with continuous pre.
Dave fucked him slow at first deep, deliberate, letting Tony feel every inch while the last of the old Tony tried to surface. He talked the whole time.
“ susy’s never going to know why her husband suddenly needs to sit on a plug all day just to think straight. Or why his boxers are always wet. Or why he starts texting his best mate at two in the morning asking to be used again.”
Tony’s hands fisted the sheets. His hole clenched and fluttered, milking, leaking more with every thrust. The wet sounds were filthy and constant. Pre kept pulsing from his little cock in time with the rhythm.
Dave sped up. The bed creaked. Tony’s voice broke into soft, high, needy sounds that the old Tony would have rather died than make. The betrayal sat in the room like a third person—Dave’s hands on the hips of the man who used to look down on him, using the body the pill had made soft and open and permanently wet.
When Dave finally came, he buried himself deep and stayed there, grinding, forcing Tony to feel the heat and the pulse. Tony’s own small cock gave a weak, continuous dribble of pre against the sheets; no real orgasm, just endless leaking.
Dave pulled out. The hole stayed open for a second, then fluttered closed, a thick rivulet of come and lube spilling out and running down Tony’s soft balls.
On the bedside table sat a small white pill the antidote.
Tony stared at it, breathing hard, arse still twitching and leaking, cock still wet and sticky against his stomach. The arrogance tried one last time. His hand moved toward the pill.
Dave’s voice was quiet.
“Take it and everything goes back. Cock. Mind. Marriage. Pride. All of it.”
Tony’s fingers hovered.
Then the empty, aching need in his hole pulsed again. Fresh lube slid out. His small cock twitched and drooled.
His hand dropped.
Dave smiled, reached over, and pocketed the second pill.
“Good boy.”
Tony stayed face down on the bed, big soft arse still slowly leaking a mix of lube and come, small cock still steadily wetting the sheets, the last of the old cocky married man already dissolving under the weight of what his body now wanted more than anything else.
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