College Years
The years passed like pages turning in a well-loved book after that night. Tommy and his Masters had found their equilibrium—a delicate, ever-shifting balance of power, trust, and love. Francesca had moved in with them, sharing Riccardo’s bed every night. "I can’t bear to be without any of you," she’d confessed one evening, her voice raw with honesty. And so, the four of them became a unit, inseparable in ways that defied conventional labels.
Marco had explained everything to Federica—his girlfriend, who was as sharp as she was kind. She’d been stunned at first, her eyes wide as she processed the dynamics of their relationship. "But Tommy isn’t competing with me," she’d realized eventually, her voice softening. "And I care about him too." She didn’t have a Dominant bone in her body, but she accepted it all with a grace that surprised even Marco. She saw the love between them, and that was enough.
Marco and Riccardo took Tommy to the gym regularly, where the thick, musky scent of testosterone from the other men often sent him into sensory overload. But his Masters knew how to help him channel that energy—into the weights, into the burn of his muscles, into the controlled, powerful movements that grounded him. Later, at home, they’d stir extra protein into his dog food (mixed with human meals, to keep everything balanced), watching as he lapped it up with the same devotion he gave to everything else.
One day in the locker room, Tommy was naked, ready for his shower, his chastity cage glinting under the fluorescent lights, the butt plug and nipple clamps making his body a map of submission. He thought he was alone with Riccardo—until the same mature man who had once humiliated him after swim practice stepped out of the shower.
The man’s eyes locked onto Tommy, recognition flashing across his face. "I remember you," he said, a smirk playing on his lips. "You used to get so hard watching us, all embarrassed, trying to hide it. We all knew you were a little submissive faggot, but you were so scared. You ran away like your life depended on it." His fingers brushed the chastity cage, and Tommy’s cock dripped precum onto the tiled floor. "Looks like things have changed."
Tommy didn’t flinch. He met the man’s gaze, his voice steady, his confidence unshaken. "Yeah, they have. I don’t hide anymore. I’m gay. I’m submissive. And I like it." He extended his hand. "I’m Tommy, by the way. Nice to meet you properly this time."
The man hesitated for only a second before shaking Tommy’s hand, his expression shifting from amusement to something warmer. "Jake," he said. "And I’ve got to say, I’m glad for you. You’ve embraced who you are, and it’s clear you’ve found someone who takes care of you." His eyes flicked to Riccardo, who stood nearby, his posture making it clear that Tommy was his. "If you ever want to play, though, you’ll need his permission first."
Jake gave Tommy a wink before walking away, leaving him stunned. All this time, Tommy had assumed Jake was just another homophobic jerk. But the universe had other plans. The circle had closed—not with resentment, but with harmony.
And for the first time, Tommy realized that the men who had once made him feel small had only been mirrors, reflecting back the parts of himself he hadn’t yet been brave enough to claim. Now, he stood in that same space—unashamed, owned, and free.
Tommy and his Master’s academic careers also flourished. Riccardo thrived in political science, his sharp mind dissecting systems of power with the same precision he used to dismantle Tommy’s resistance. Marco, ever the scientist, excelled in biology, his analytical brilliance only deepened by the ways he studied Tommy—both as a subject and as a person. Francesca and Tommy, both in medicine, became a powerhouse duo. Tommy, in particular, had grown even sharper than before. His Masters enforced a rigorous study discipline, but when self-doubt crept in, they reminded him of the battles he’d already won—not just in the bedroom, but in his mind. "An exam doesn’t define you," Riccardo would murmur, his hand resting on Tommy’s shoulder. "You’ve faced worse and come out stronger." Tommy would exhale, the weight lifting. He remembered who he was—enough, even at his most broken.
And when the anxiety became too much, they let him regress. Sometimes, it happened unexpectedly—a tone too authoritative, a glance too charged, and poof—there he was, crawling on all fours, tongue lolling, rubbing himself against their legs like an overjoyed puppy. He’d snap out of it moments later, adjusting his hair with mock dignity, making his Masters laugh. "What the hell just happened again?" he’d grumble, but there was no real frustration in his voice. It was just part of who he was now.
Once, Riccardo abused this power intentionally. Tommy was in the middle of his internship when his phone buzzed. A photo of Riccardo’s foot, captioned: "Be a good boy and lick it!" Tommy’s vision blurred. One second, he was discussing a patient’s chart; the next, he was on all fours in the middle of the ward, tongue hanging out, drooling. He recovered quickly—his analytical mind kicking in as he registered the where and who—but not before a nurse rushed him to an emergency CT scan, convinced he’d had a stroke. Back home, he tried to be mad at Riccardo. He really did. But Riccardo was just too damn sexy, and the whole thing had been too absurdly funny. "Never. Do that. Again," Tommy had growled, but he was already laughing, already forgiving.
It wasn't just about regression to a puppy—though that was his most natural state, his spirit as malleable and loyal as a dog's. No, Tommy's animal essence was far more fluid than that. He could become whatever they needed him to be, whatever form of humiliation or service brought them—and him—the most pleasure.
Sometimes, he was a pony, his strong back bearing the weight of his Masters (or their chosen guests) as they rode him with the crack of a whip, his muscles straining and shining with sweat, his breath coming in great, proud snorts. The leather harness bit into his shoulders, the bit between his teeth forced his head high, and he loved it—the way his body became a vessel for their power, the way his obedience made them swell with pride.
Other times, he was a piglet, wallowing joyfully in the filth his Masters provided—whether it was actual waste or just the symbolic muck of their dominance. He'd roll in it, grunt with delight, his body covered in the evidence of his debasement, his eyes bright with the thrill of being so thoroughly used. The more degrading, the better. The more it made his Masters laugh or groan with desire, the more his own cock would drip in its cage, his mind floating in that perfect, shameful bliss.
The paths of his humiliation were endless, and Tommy loved them all. Whether he was a puppy licking boots, a pony carrying his riders, a pig rolling in filth, or some other creature entirely—each form of submission was a new way to express the same truth: I am yours. And in that truth, he found a freedom deeper than anything he'd ever known.
His Masters delighted in his adaptability, in the way he could shift seamlessly from one role to another, his body and mind bending to their will without ever losing that spark of himself that made him Tommy. They pushed him, tested him, revelled in the way he could become anything they imagined—and yet, when the scene was over, when he crawled back to them with his tongue lolling and his eyes full of devotion, he was still their good boy. Still their friend. Still the brilliant, caring soul they'd fallen in love with.
Tommy, in turn, became their anchor. When Riccardo panicked before a debate, when Marco doubted his research, when Francesca second-guessed her diagnoses, Tommy was there—quizzing them, pushing them, reminding them of their worth. He had a knack for drawing out dominance in people, even in those who didn’t know they had it. "You’ve got this," he’d say, his voice steady, his faith unshakable. And they did.
Every day, Tommy wore his "uniform"—chastity cage, butt plug, nipple clamps, urethral sounding rod—hidden beneath his clothes. At home, he was usually nude, his piercings glinting in the light, his body a canvas of their shared devotion. Only at night did his Masters dress him in soft pajamas, their hands gentle as they tucked him in.
His mornings began with washing his Masters, his hands careful and loving.
Riccardo and Marco kept their word. The one part of their bodies Tommy was never allowed to touch was their cocks. Oh, he saw them every day—thick, veined, swinging in the shower, sometimes slapped against his face as a reminder of what he couldn’t have. His Masters made him beg for the privilege of even touching them, let alone sucking them.
"Please, Masters… I’m a worthless slut, but please… just let me touch them… just for a second… I need it… have mercy…" His words dissolved into whimpers as he inevitably regressed into his puppy state, lifting a paw to bat at Marco’s or Riccardo’s legs, his eyes huge and pleading. They laughed, making him even harder, even more desperate.
Francesca would stroke his head, but Tommy barely noticed. All he saw were those two cocks, now inevitably hard from his attention. It wasn’t about gay or straight anymore. At this point, Tommy was so far removed from what they considered a "man" that they didn’t even see him as one. He was their puppy. And he’d gotten so good at giving head—if they’d let him, they’d have gladly taken his mouth. But it was far more exciting to frustrate his need, to use his desperation to cement his visceral craving for cock.
Sometimes, they’d make him deepthroat dildos for hours in front of them, fully dressed, ordering him to imagine the dildos were their cocks. At first, Tommy would look up at them, seeking approval, his eyes watering as he fought his gag reflex. But soon, the image of their cocks would flood his mind, and he’d close his eyes, losing track of time, his mouth impaled on the silicone, tears streaming down his face with every gag—each struggle a tribute to his Masters’ cocks. Francesca watched, mesmerized. She was straight, loved sucking Riccardo’s cock… but Tommy’s transport was something else. Pure, raw eros. A religious experience indeed.
Every night, without fail, Tommy dreamed of Riccardo’s and Marco’s cocks. He’d murmur in his sleep—sometimes in human words, "P-p-please, Sirs… may I touch them? Just a second?" Other times, he’d just whimper, or bark excitedly, or make sounds of frustration and pleasure. And every morning, he’d wake up with his cage soaked, his body aching with need.
All three Masters would get hard hearing him whine in his sleep. They’d laugh, but the truth was, they were thrilled to hold his mind in the palm of their hands like this. Riccardo and Marco often jerked off to the sound of Tommy begging in his sleep—they’d never felt so masculine, so desired, in their entire lives.
And Tommy? Deep down, he loved being this desperate, this needy. And secretly, he was grateful they wouldn’t let him touch their cocks. It was a form of chastity, too—and he loved it. It made him a better slut.
When he was released to the outside male public, though? Oh, he made up for lost time. His Masters had to keep a close eye on him—he was capable of spending 24 hours in a glory hole without realizing time was passing.
Fortunately for him, their powers could purge any harmful bacteria or virus from his body. He really was a privileged slut.
In compensation, Tommy licked Francesca’s pussy every day—and he’d learned to love it. Not because he was into pussy, but because not sucking cock and licking his Mistress’s pussy instead was the ultimate act of devotion for him, given his sexuality.
His Masters weren’t total monsters, though. They knew Tommy had a biological need for the products of their cocks—urine and cum. When he regressed to his baby state, they’d diaper him and prepare bottles filled with their week’s worth of cum or urine, or a mix of both. Tommy would drink greedily, happily.
Other times, they’d just stir these "nutritional supplements" into his dog food at dinner—his favorite dessert.
In return, his Masters made sure he got plenty of asshole to lick. They’d sit directly on his face, sometimes dirty, sometimes passing gas on purpose, even playing with breath control—pressing their asses so hard against his face that he’d sometimes pass out from hypoxia, drunk on the smells and the humiliation. When he’d wake up moments later, he’d be even more excited, eager to serve them in other ways—like giving them massages whenever they were tense or just because they felt like it. Actually Tommy did so much more than submit. He cared. He tended to his Masters’ bodies with a devotion that blurred the lines between service and love, between slave and healer.
He massaged their tired muscles—Riccardo’s after brutal football practices, Marco’s after long hours hunched over lab reports, Francesca’s after grueling shifts at the hospital. His hands were gentle, his touch instinctive, as if he could sense where the tension lingered. He’d knead the knots from their shoulders, press his thumbs into the arches of their feet, trace soothing circles over their wrists. And when they sighed in relief, when their bodies melted under his touch, Tommy glowed with quiet pride. This was his service, too.
He licked their wounds. When Riccardo came home from practice with scrapes or bruises, Tommy would drop to his knees without a word, his tongue soft and careful as he cleaned the blood away. He’d follow it with a massage, his fingers pressing into the sore muscles, then—only when he was done—would he reach for the antiseptic and bandages. He healed them. Not as a doctor, but as something deeper—a devoted pet, a living balm.
There was something feminine in the way he cared for them, a nurturing energy that reminded his male Masters of their girlfriends’ tenderness. But Tommy made no distinctions. He poured the same love into Francesca, though with her, it was often she who mothered him—patching him up after his more… adventurous experiments, scolding him when he pushed too far, wrapping him in blankets when he shivered from the aftershocks of a scene.
He was full of love. And all three Masters knew it and they were proud of him. He’d broken through every resistance and now embraced his role in ways they’d never imagined. His will to serve them AND care for them was unshakable.
Every day was marked by this duality. Tommy cooked for his Masters, cleaned for them, wove himself into the rhythm of their lives, like a silent angel, albeit a very, very depraved one. To thank him for his care, his loving Masters made sure that each day brought a new form of humiliation or torture service, chosen at random by a "wheel of fortune" they’d made just to keep him on his toes. But evenings were for the couch—for laughter, for conversation, for the easy, unguarded camaraderie that made them them. Tommy might end up as a footrest or an ashtray, but he was always part of the talk, always listening, always there.
On slavery-free days, they showed their pride, reciprocating his care for them. Sometimes, instead of the usual cold shower, they’d draw him a warm bath and massage him as he relaxed like a child, amazed at how loved he was.
His life outside their home thrived too. He called his parents often, visited them sometimes—even brought his Masters along on occasion. His parents didn’t know the nature of their relationship, but they felt the love. "You’ve got good friends," his mother would say, her eyes warm. And Tommy would smile, because it was true.
His other friendships deepened. Tommy cherished every single relationship. Slavery had taught him something that he didn’t expect to find in the depths of his depravity: gratitude. By now, everyone knew about his submissive side. Some didn’t care—loved him for his mind, his humor, his kindness. Others were intrigued, asking his Masters for permission to play with him. Tommy became a fixture in kink-positive spaces, his body on display as a slave, a puppy, an object—whatever the night called for. His pole-dancing skills had improved dramatically; sometimes he’d perform in full sissy mode, confusing the hell out of straight men—Riccardo and Marco included.
But when it was just their regular friends, Tommy played piano, they all sang karaoke, they lived. His Masters made sure he was seen in every way—cherished in every role.
With a BDSM hood to keep him unrecognizable—protecting his future career as a doctor—Tommy’s most exquisite moments of domestic humiliation were filmed and posted to his OnlyFans account. His Masters handled the fan interactions when it came to deciding which commands Tommy would fulfill next, but it was always Tommy who personally thanked his subscribers, his voice warm and sincere even as his body dripped with sweat, precum, or whatever filth they’d ordered him to wallow in that day.
Together, the four of them would scroll through the depraved fantasies sent by fans, their bodies growing hot as they brainstormed ways to turn each twisted request into reality. The money rolled in—a lot of it. But his Masters made sure Tommy kept half. After all, he was the one exposing himself, doing the dirty work—literally. The other half was split equally among the three of them as organizers, directors, and managers of Tommy’s… unique career.
Needless to say, those savings alone were more than enough to cover their university tuitions. Tommy’s body and humiliation funded his future as a healer—poetic, in a way. His Masters ensured he never forgot that.
They also exposed him in real life just as much. They took him to male football teams, where he—openly, proudly—cleaned and ironed jerseys for free, gave massages to players who needed them. They brought him to bars of every kind, taught him to use his wide, innocent eyes to flirt with Dommes, to take what he wanted. Unsurprisingly, Tommy became a star in gay bars, his submissive charm irresistible. By now he could deepthroat any dick without gagging and take multiple cocks or fists at the same time, without ever getting tired… but he was also just as eager to worship every other part of the male body with primordial hunger… he was truly an accomplished whore…. But he shone just as bright in hetero BDSM clubs… Sometimes, his Masters would command him to fuck women—both Dominant and submissive—and Tommy would do it with genuine joy, not for his own pleasure, but for theirs: the women’s, and his Masters’. He even managed, on command, to dominate a bratty little submissive girl. It wasn’t about technique or force—it was about listening.
Tommy had a gift: he could feel what others needed because he was a natural empath who had spent a lifetime learning what he needed. He didn’t wield cruelty like Riccardo—he didn’t need to. Instead, he used his empathy like a scalpel, cutting straight to the heart of what made the girl tick, what made her ache. And then—just as she started to tremble with excitement—he’d wrap her in warmth, in safety, in the kind of care that made her whimper with relief. He wasn’t playing a role. He was giving her what he’d always wanted for himself: to be seen, to be held, to be free within the boundaries of trust.
And the best part? Watching her glow with happiness, with excitement—that was his real reward. Because in the end, he was still his Master’s good boy, and nothing made him harder than pleasing other people and making his Masters proud. They were indeed stunned by how fluid he’d become, how effortlessly he could shift from one extreme to another—not because he was fake, but because he was whole. He didn’t just switch. He understood the assignment, every time.
Once, his Masters entered him in a BDSM competition. They humiliated him in front of the entire audience, pushing his body to its limits, making him worship every part of them, ingest every secretion, come repeatedly without manual stimulation—just from the layered excitement of submission and pain. By the end, Tommy had blacked out from overload, but his Masters won first prize. Back home, they bathed him, perfumed him, tucked him into bed like a beloved, depraved child.
But they weren’t only this. One day a week was slavery-free. On those days, Tommy had to resist his urge to submit, to stay in the role of friend—and he loved those days just as deeply. They talked about their weeks, their dreams, the world. They were more connected than ever.
Of course, it wasn’t always smooth. They made mistakes.
Once, they invited Luca, a straight, muscular football player, to dominate Tommy. Luca was curious, turned on by the idea of making Tommy regress into his "puppy mode." Tommy found him hot too—the man’s sheer physicality was intoxicating. The first regression went fine, but then Luca started talking politics. "Democracy is a farce," he sneered. "Gays like you are just slaves who need a strong man to decide for them. You don’t need rights—you need a master. Isn’t that right, puppy? Bet you’d drool and forget all your morals if I just ordered you around."
Riccardo, Marco, and Francesca bristled, ready to throw him out. But Tommy telepathically told them to trust him. He simulated regression, crawling toward Luca on all fours—then suddenly stood up and crushed Luca’s balls with brutal force. As Luca howled, Tommy punched him in the mouth, shattering teeth. "You piece of shit," Tommy snarled. Luca, enraged, lunged at him—but Francesca smashed a bottle over his back, and Riccardo and Marco kicked him out of the house.
Later, his Masters scolded Tommy gently. "You could’ve handled that more diplomatically." But they also praised his strategy, his courage, his righteous anger. "It took me years to accept my submissive side," Tommy said quietly. "To find a way to live it that aligns with my values. Watching some narcissistic worm reduce it to his fucked-up power trip? That hits different." Riccardo pulled him into a hug. "We’re proud of you." And that night, Riccardo began teaching Tommy self-defense. "I’ll protect you with my life," he vowed, remembering the night Tommy had taken the curse meant for him. "But you’ll know how to protect yourself too."
Marco, meanwhile, fortified Tommy’s mental resilience. He challenged him with increasingly exciting stimuli, pushing him to resist regression unless he chose it. Tommy grew stronger, more controlled. He could now induce regression in himself when needed—but he could also resist when necessary.
Francesca reminded him daily: "You are loved. If you don’t feel love, if you don’t feel respect, walk away." She anchored him in that truth, even as she helped him explore the edges of his submission.
They were preparing him. They all knew this phase of 24/7 cohabitation wouldn’t last forever. One day, they’d have their own families, their own lives. But Tommy would always be the heartbeat of their bond. And they would always be his safe harbor.
