That whole first weekend they left my hole alone. It was literally torn open: raw, bleeding meat hanging loose, pink and swollen, the ring gaping so wide I could see straight inside myself when I squatted over the cracked bathroom mirror. A fist would’ve slipped in without touching the sides. When I finally had to shit it just fell out of me like dumping a bucket: no resistance, no push, just a wet, heavy splash that echoed in the bowl.
They didn’t care about my ass for two days. They had my mouth instead.
I licked every inch of their stinking bodies clean. Armpits that tasted like onions and diesel. Ass cracks matted with old shit and sweat. Balls so cheesy the lint came off in gray curls on my tongue. When one of them took a dump they didn’t even wipe; just spread their cheeks and made me tongue the streaks out until the paper stayed clean when they checked it.
They fed me, sure. Cold pizza, stale burritos, warm beer, but only after they’d hawked thick yellow loogies on it, jerked their loads across it, or stirred it with a piss-wet finger while I watched.
Showers? Yeah, they hosed me down once a day with the garden hose outside, ice-cold well water that made me scream, then dragged me straight back into the reeking trailer so the stink would stick again.
Sunday night the blond cop took the bolt cutters to my pink cage. Snip. Off. My bruised little cock flopped out, purple and useless. He and Rico grabbed it, bent it back between my legs, and taped it flat against my taint so hard the head almost touched my ruined hole. Then they wrapped the tape around and around until it looked like I had nothing down there but a smooth, taped-up crotch. They laughed, slapped a pair of crusted panties on me (some long-gone bitch’s, stiff with old cum and piss stains), and yanked them up so the dirty fabric rubbed the tape raw.
Monday morning the two cops left for shift. Door slammed. Silence. Just me and the trucker.
A couple hours later even he got bored, clipped my chain short, locked the trailer, and rumbled off in his rig. I sat there naked except for those filthy panties, cock taped into nothing, hole throbbing, staring at the door. Running crossed my mind for half a second. Then I remembered they had my keys, my phone, my life, and I was buck-ass naked in the middle of nowhere. I stayed on the floor like a good bitch.
Late afternoon the door banged open again.
The wave of stench hit me before he did.
He hadn’t showered once all weekend. Shirtless, gut hanging huge and hairy, skin glistening with fresh sweat, black curls plastered to his chest and back. His mustache was greasy, shining with some oily smear (probably fry-oil from whatever road diner he ate at). The smell rolling off him was pure rot: diesel, old cum, ball sweat, and days of unwashed ass baked under a truck seat.
He saw me on the couch, grabbed a fistful of my hair, and yanked me to my knees so hard my scalp burned.
“Miss me, cleanup rag?”
One brutal backhand across my face. Stars exploded. Before I could gasp he already had his fly open. That monstrous, unwashed cock flopped out heavy and half-hard, slimy with some lot-lizard’s pussy juice, the foreskin peeled back just enough to show a thick white ring of fresh smegma.
He slapped it across my swollen cheeks: wet, meaty thwacks that left streaks of cunt and dick cheese on my skin.
“Open.”
I barely got my lips apart before he punched forward, all ten fat inches slamming straight down my throat in one go. My neck bulged. I gagged instantly; puke surged up. He punched me in the gut so hard the vomit shot back down, then kicked me square in the taped-up crotch. Pain detonated. I folded, whimpering, but he just dragged me upright by the hair and started fucking my face like a disposable toy.
“Touch me with teeth and I’ll break every bone in your skull.”
He wasn’t lying.
He used me hard and slow, pulling out only to spit in my eyes, slap the other cheek purple, then ram back in until his sweaty bush sealed over my nose and his sour, hairy balls battered my chin. The smell made me dizzy, delirious. My taped-flat cock didn’t even twitch anymore; it just leaked a thin, sad string of blood and precum into the crusty panties.
I was nothing but holes and tongue and stomach.
And when he finally came, flooding my throat with thick, cheesy ropes that tasted like stranger pussy and week-old dick, and pure hatred, I swallowed every drop like it was holy.
Because that’s what I am now.
Just a doll to be used.
He flopped back on the couch, gut rolling over his belt, cigarette dangling from his lips.
He looked at me (kneeling, face painted with his load, lips split, eyes running) and gave that lazy, cruel grin.
“Beg, faggot. Beg me to keep you forever. Make it pretty.”
That last little piece of me that still had a name tried to fight.
My mouth didn’t care.
“Please, sir… please keep this worthless faggot forever. I’ll be your personal toilet, your cumrag, your bootlicker, your punching bag… I’ll live for your stink and your spit and your loads… please own me, please never let me go, I’m begging you…”
I was sobbing by the end, forehead pressed to his dirty boot.
He let me cry for a minute, then nudged my cheek with the toe.
“Good faith, bitch. Get me a beer.”
I crawled to the mini-fridge, grabbed a warm can, crawled back, held it up. He cracked it, took a long swallow, then poured the rest over my head like a baptism.
He stood, belly swaying, and jerked his head toward the door.
“Outside. Hose is on. I want that hole sparkling tonight. Deep clean. Surprise is comin’ at sundown and I don’t want a speck of shit on the guests’ dicks.”
The afternoon sun was murder. He dropped the hose in the dirt and leaned against the trailer, smoking, watching.
I got on all fours in the dust, shoved the hose up my ruined ass, and turned the faucet myself. Ice-cold water blasted inside me, filling me, cramping me, running pink then brown then finally clear. I did it again and again, squatting and pushing it all out right there on the ground while he laughed and called me a human car-wash.
When my belly was bloated and my teeth were chattering, he finally said, “Enough.”
He twisted the faucet off, kicked the hose away, and slapped my gaping, dripping hole hard.
“Stay empty. If I find one turd in there tonight I’m feeding it to you with my boot.”
He grabbed my hair, dragged me back inside, and shoved me to my knees in the middle of the filthy carpet.
“Hands and knees. Ass up. You stay exactly like that till the boys get here. Sundown’s in three hours.”
He cracked another beer, turned the TV up loud, and put his muddy boots on my back like I was furniture.
“Tonight,” he said, blowing smoke at the ceiling, “twenty-five of the nastiest truckers and roughnecks on this side of the border are gonna run a train on that wrecked cunt. Some of ’em are bringin’ fists bigger than your head. One guy’s got a forearm is thicker than my boot. They been savin’ up all week.”
He reached down, flicked my taped-flat, useless cock with two fingers.
“By tomorrow you won’t even feel a baseball bat.”
He laughed, took another swallow of beer, and rested his heel between my shoulder blades.
“Better start pray that hole stays clean, pig. Clock’s ticking.”
I stayed there on the nasty carpet (ass in the air, empty, dripping, trembling) while the sun crawled across the sky and the trailer got hotter and stinkier with every minute.
Waiting.
Ready.
Begging the universe for sundown to come faster.
Sundown, 7:17 p.m.
The first diesel engine dies outside and the screen door bangs open. Fifteen men file in, every single one built like a comic-book hero who stopped showering five years ago and somehow got ten times hotter for it. The trailer instantly turns into a sweat-locker of pure man-stink.
They come in waves, boots thudding, grocery bags of their own weeks-old condoms swinging like party favors.
- 7:17 – 6’4”, 285 lbs, thick black Superman curl stuck to his forehead with sweat, square jaw hidden under a greasy beard, chest and gut matted black, armpit bushes dripping. Smells like a hot cab that’s never been cleaned: diesel, sour milk, ball sweat, old cum.
- 7:19 – 6’3”, dark-haired, stubble gone wild into a patchy neck beard, shoulders and arms still shredded but now wrapped in a layer of soft beer fat, white tank yellowed and clinging, crotch of his jeans dark with piss stains.
- 6’2”, blondish-brown beard down to his collarbone, all-American jawline buried in greasy scruff, patriotic-tattoo sleeves almost invisible under sweat-matted hair, smells like locker-room jock and cheap beer farts.
- 6’5”, long dark hair in a tangled ponytail, dimed with road dust, dimples still visible under four-day stubble, flannel open over a fuzzy belly, stink of onions, BO, and sour milk rolling off him.
- 6’7”, shaggy brown hair hanging in his eyes, dimpled chin lost in a scruffy beard, massive frame gone soft and hairy, pit hair exploding out of a ripped T-shirt like wet steel wool, smells like a barn that caught fire.
(The other ten are just as big, just as gorgeous, just as completely rank. Every single one has a week-or-longer collection of his own used condoms knotted in Ziplocs or dangling from pockets.)
The second the door shuts the leader (the black-bearded 6’4” one) barks:
“No rubber. No limits. Don’t kill it on purpose. Feed it every drop we saved.”
First cock – the 6’4” bearded beast – unzips and pulls out a condom he filled twelve days ago in some Dallas whore’s cunt. It’s bloated, yellow-brown, half curdled. He pinches the knot and squeezes. A thick, cheesy rope slithers straight onto my tongue: tastes like spoiled heavy cream, ammonia, and the sharp tang of unwashed skin that’s been stewing in denim. Chunks cling to my teeth; I gag so hard my eyes water, but he clamps my jaw shut and makes me chew while he steps behind me and slams into my clean, loose hole. The ring just yawns open, loose meat flapping wetly around him, weeks of fisting have turned my cunt into a warm, sloppy sleeve that sucks him in with a wet squelch. His bush slaps my ass, balls swinging heavy and sour.
Second cock – the dark-haired, patchy-bearded tank – pours a ten-day-old load down my throat: warm, clumpy, tastes like stale beer, dip spit, and gym socks left in a boot. He dumps the rest straight into the gaping crater and slides in beside the first slosh. My guts shift like warm jelly, loose walls fluttering uselessly, every thrust forcing obscene wet farts of old nut and air.
Third cock – blondish-brown scruffy patriot feeds me a fourteen-day-old condom that’s gone almost coffee-brown, smells like sour milk and ball sweat left in a hot car. The taste is pure sulfur and spoiled yogurt; it coats my tongue in greasy curds. He fists the rest into my sleeve and rams in sideways, my hole so loose it just blooms open and swallows him with a wet slurp, flesh rippling like a warm sock.
Fourth cock long-haired, dimpled giant makes me suck the crust off a sixteen-day-old rubber first (bitter, salty, gritty flakes of dried cum), then pours the liquefied rot straight up my ass and sinks in slow. My ring rolls in on itself, loose meat sucking greedily at his shaft, the stretch lazy and obscene.
Fifth cock massive shaggy 6’7” monster forces three saved condoms down my throat at once: one bleach-and-motel-soap, one sour yogurt and pit stink, one chunky and gamey like rotten meat. Then he pisses a hot torrent into my gaping sleeve until my belly bulges like I’m pregnant. He slides in like it’s nothing, every thrust sloshing audibly, loose cunt queefing piss and weeks-old loads in wet sprays.
Sixth cock wiry, greasy, tattooed beast shoves a twenty-day-old black-rotten condom into my mouth and makes me bite until it bursts like spoiled sausage casing. While I’m retching he scoops the mess and punches in, fast and stabbing, my loose sleeve flapping and squelching like a warm, soaked rag.
Then the fisting.
The 6’8” long-haired giant (still smelling like a barn fire) dumps every leftover condom straight into my crater (a half-liter of mixed rot, piss, and curdled nut), balls a fist the size of a softball, and pushes. My ring peels back like wet silk, no resistance, just a greedy, wet gulp as his forearm disappears to the elbow with a loud, obscene slurp. My guts shift, prolapse blooming soft and pink, then sucked back in as he pumps slow and deep, churning fifteen men’s weeks-old loads into warm, sloshing batter.
Before I can gasp they flip me.
The 320 lb bearded bear lies back, drags me down onto his fat, cheesy cock until my loose cunt swallows him root-to-bush with one wet squelch. The shaved-head bull-neck lines up behind and slides in beside him like it’s nothing. Two beer-can cocks grinding together in the same sloppy sleeve, my hole so ruined it just gapes and flutters, loose meat flapping around both shafts, waves of warm, mixed nut and piss sloshing out in wet farts with every dual thrust. My belly bulges visibly each time they bottom out together, the pressure so intense I can feel every pulse of their heartbeats through their cocks.
They breed me in unison, adding fresh floods to the weeks-old soup already inside, and when they finally pull out my hole stays a wide, pink, dripping tunnel, softly prolapsed, gently queefing their mixed loads in slow, obscene bubbles that smell like a whorehouse dumpster in July.
And the line is still long.
The line didn’t stop at six. The trailer was a furnace of sweat and smoke, phones circling like vultures, red lights blinking as they filmed every wet slurp and whimper. My hole was a ruined, gaping tunnel by then, prolapsed soft and pink, queefing old cum in slow bubbles that ran down my thighs in warm, sticky trails. Every drop inside me felt alive—sloshing, coating my guts like hot glue, every man’s week-old load mixing into a thick, rancid soup I could feel churning with each breath.
Seventh cock: the 320 lb gray-bearded bear-god, his suspenders creaking as he waddled up. He poured a fifteen-day-old condom down my throat—crusty flakes tasting like moldy cheese and pit sweat—then dumped the rest into my sleeve and sank in with a wet, sucking pop. My loose meat fluttered around him, no grip left, just a warm, sloppy embrace that let him grind deep until I felt that second ring inside me yawn open, the pain a dull, throbbing fire that made my vision swim like I was drunk on cheap whiskey. My head lolled, eyes half-crossed, as he churned the cum deeper.
Eighth cock: the white-bearded piss-grandpa, gut jiggling. His eighteen-day-old load tasted like urinal cakes and spoiled oysters; he made me gargle it while he pissed lube into my gape, then slid in easy, sloshing everything until my belly distended, every drop pressing on my insides like a full bladder I couldn’t empty.
Ninth cock: a 6’3” dark-haired, patchy-bearded tank with shoulders like boulders, his tank soaked yellow. Two-week-old condom, bitter like gym shorts and beer farts. He rammed in fast, my hole so loose it queefed air and cum with every pull-back, the pain spiking as that inner ring stretched wider, making me slur my whimpers like a blackout drunk.
Tenth cock: the blondish-brown scruffy patriot, all-American jaw buried in grease. Seventeen days old, tasting like sulfur eggs and locker rot. He twisted in sideways, my prolapsed rosebud blooming out soft against his bush, the sensation of being torn deeper making my limbs heavy, drunk on agony, feeling every curdled drop shift inside me.
Eleventh cock: the long-haired dimpled giant, flannel open over fuzzy gut. Nineteen-day-old load, gamey like barn hay and sweat. He sank slow, my sleeve sucking him in with wet farts, the pain radiating up my spine until I was giggling deliriously, eyes rolling, drunk on the fire opening me wider inside.
Twelfth cock: the massive shaggy 6’7” monster, dimpled chin lost in scruff. Three-week-old condom, black and rotten, bursting in my mouth like sewage sausage. He punched in stabbing, my guts fluttering loose, every thrust popping that second hole open further, pain so intense I swayed like I’d chugged a fifth, slurring begs between gags.
Thirteenth cock: wiry, tattooed grease demon, yellow teeth flashing. Twenty-two days old, tasting like death and blue cheese. My hole swallowed him with a slurp, prolapse flapping, the inner tear burning until my face went slack, drunk-eyed, feeling the cum soup slosh with every heartbeat.
Fourteenth cock: another bearded roughneck type, sunburned and freckled, onion reek choking the air. Fifteen-day-old load, sour cream and gym farts. He ground deep, my loose cunt queefing bubbles of mixed nut, pain making me loll my head, vision blurring drunk, every drop inside pressing like warm weights.
Fifteenth cock: the last, a bow-legged leather-skinned cowboy with crow’s-feet dimples. Month-old condom, dried to powder that rehydrated into bitter leather grit. He sank in last, my hole a permanent tunnel now, prolapsed and fluttering, the final stretch opening that inner ring so wide the pain hit like a blackout wave, leaving me cross-eyed, slurring nonsense, drunk on the endless fire, feeling every single curdled, sloshing drop coat my rearranged guts.
But that was just round one. They all went again—twice more each, some three times—cocks swapping holes without pause, my mouth and ass a free-use carousel. Phones never stopped; they narrated the whole thing like porn directors: “Look at that prolapse bloom, boys—zoom in on the pink meat.” “Watch the fag’s belly bulge when I piss-lube him.” “Hear that queef? That’s three weeks of my nut farting out.” Slaps rained down—wet palms cracking my cheeks purple, my ass, my taped-flat cock until it throbbed numb. They used me as an ashtray, flicking hot ash into my open mouth, onto my tongue, grinding cigarette butts into my back while they fucked, the burn sizzling on sweat-slick skin.
One of them—the white-bearded grandpa—squatted his hairy ass over my face between rounds, sitting full-weight until I couldn’t breathe anything but his sour crack rot, grinding until my nose flattened and my lungs burned. Another—the wiry grease one—hawked snot into a red Solo cup, then passed it around: each man added a thick yellow loogie, a stream of hot piss, cigarette butts soaked in ash-water, and squeezed the last dregs from their oldest condoms—curdled, chunky rot that plopped in like spoiled yogurt. They stirred it with a filthy finger, laughing, filming close-up: “Bottoms up, cumrag—open wide for the house special.” It hit my lips hot and slimy, tasting like sewage, nicotine, snot, and pure man-filth; I gagged it down in gulps while they cheered, the burn coating my throat like acid, stomach churning with the weight of it all.
I was in hell—pain radiating from my opened-up insides, drunk on agony, every slosh of cum inside me a reminder I was just a vessel now. But somewhere in the third round, as the fifteenth cock pulled out and my prolapsed hole queefed a bubble of their mixed soup, something snapped. I started begging out loud, voice hoarse and slurred: “More… please, fuck me more… fill me up, wreck me…” They roared with laughter, phones zooming in: “Hear that, boys? The fag’s hooked—give the bitch what it wants!”
And they did. All night. so intense
I don’t remember passing out.
One second I was on my back, legs in the air, fifteen cocks taking turns, phones flashing, the cup of snot-piss-ash-cum still burning in my stomach, and the next second there was just sunlight stabbing through the cracked blinds and the smell of cold piss and old cum baked into everything.
I woke up alone, face-down in the shag carpet that was now a swamp of fluids. My hair was glued to the floor with dried loads. My belly was still bloated, sloshing when I moved. My hole wouldn’t close; it just hung open, a warm, sloppy tunnel that leaked a steady stream of mixed nut and piss down my thighs every time I shifted. My whole body ached like I’d been hit by a truck; jaw, throat, nipples, balls, everything bruised or raw. Cigarette burns dotted my back and tongue. My taped-flat cock had finally been ripped free sometime in the night; it lay limp and purple between my legs, useless.
The trailer was silent. No boots. No voices. No diesel rumble outside. Just flies buzzing and the drip-drip of something leaking from the couch.
I tried to call out. My voice was gone, just a croak. I crawled, literally crawled, from room to room, leaving a slug-trail of cum behind me, whimpering “Sir? Please…?” like a kicked dog. Nothing. They were gone.
On the kitchen counter: my folded clothes (miraculously clean), my phone, my wallet, my phone, and my car keys. A single Post-it in thick black Sharpie:
“Good pig.
You survived the month.
Drive safe.
We’ll know if you come looking.”
I cried then, ugly, snotty sobs, because part of me wanted to stay on that floor forever.
I dressed anyway. Every movement hurt. My hole made wet sounds when I bent over, a constant trickle running down my legs into my shoes. I waddled to my car like a broken doll, climbed in, and just sat there for an hour shaking, leaking, smelling like their trailer.
I drove away at noon. Never looked back.
Three months later my hole closed up enough to look normal again… but it never forgot. It still gapes on command, still takes fists and monsters like it was born for it. I got tested every week for a while; clean every time, somehow. I’m alive. I’m safe.
But some nights, when I’m alone and the room is too quiet, I can still taste that cup of filth, still feel that second ring inside me opening like a flower, still hear fifteen voices laughing while they filmed me begging for more.
I play in controlled scenes now. Safe words, good tops, clean lube, aftercare. I’m careful.
But every single time I get fisted or double-fucked or turned into a urinal, that same broken, slurred voice comes out of me:
“More… please, wreck me…”
And for a second I’m back on that carpet, covered in them, praying they never stop.
That month was just the beginning.
I’ve got a lot more stories.
And I’m always one bad decision away from going back for good
