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CW: over the top, far-fetched smutty work of fantasy. Humiliation, semi-public exposure, non-consensual elements, tons of SPH. Skip it if it’s not your thing. Otherwise, enjoy.
All characters depicted are well over 18 years of age.
I flinched as the big naked brute shouted, holding his phone up to record me again.This time he just pointed it at me, and I could tell he was taking a video instead of just photos. I felt nauseous from the belly-fully of the old man’s jizz swimming around in my stomach. As he spoke his heavy hog swung between his legs, like a cop’s holstered firearm.
“You want to jack off your little penis in public? You want men to see you pull your pecker? Then show it off. Show that little thing off, boy.” I stood there awkwardly, willing myself to keep my hands by my sides. I knew that covering up my boner would lead to a swift blow across the back of my head or worse.
“Come on, stand there and jerk that little thing off.” I froze. I couldn’t let him capture me doing that.
“Please, I can’t…” I protested meekly. He groaned, put his phone on the bench and swiftly set upon me. He placed his leg up over a bench and threw me over his knee, and began spanking me at once. I clung to his hairy ankle, locked into place, and let him wallop me.
These were fast, forceful blows, slapping sharply against my well-trodden red rear end. My rump was still warm from the long spanking he had subjected me to just a few minutes before. The pain was instant and intense, and I mewled pathetically, crying, begging for release, squirming helplessly in his strong grasp.
“You gonna do what I say boy?! You gonna show me how you jack that little thing off?” Fresh tears blinded me. I promised I would, promised to obey him again and again as he continued with the spanking. Finally he released me and ordered me to get to it.
Sniffling, I stood back in place and took my half-hard pecker in my hand. He forced me to masturbate while filming me.
“Attaboy, spanky.” He grumbled in encouragement as I stroked myself. He chuckled from behind his phone. In the mirrors I saw my pale, trembling body, hunched over, slick with sweat, shoulder pumping goonishly.
Warm, stomach-churning ripples of shame cascaded over my body. The mortification ran like an electrical current from my toes to my scalp. A video floating around like this could upend my career, humiliate me. I imagined it floating around on the internet, being seen by an acquaintance, passed around my social circle. Though it quickened my heartbeat and made me feel queasy, the idea of others seeing this also thrilled me. Exposed and humiliated. My dick pulsed in my hand.
“But don’t you come, boy. Don’t you shoot your shot. I just want to see you get that little thing nice and hard.” He warned. I edged myself carefully, slowing down or releasing my boner just when I got to the precipice of orgasm. My knees shook each time I pulled myself from the point of no return.
“That’s it, spanky! Put on a show for me. Dance, faggot! Pump your hips. Really hump your hand, you little jerk off. Touch yourself, play with your tits. That’s it, ya jack off.” He jeered, slapping his thigh to goad me on. I obeyed him, pumping my hips like I was fucking the air, feeling up my chest, playing with my nipples.
He cheered me on as I writhed in place and molested myself, panting with my tongue out. He encouraged me to act like a lust-crazed fool for his camera, a helplessly horny jester.
“Attaboy! Make love to that hand, that’s what you masturbators do! Make love to your girlfriend, Rosy Palm! Keep at it, boy!” The big man cheered, leering at me behind his phone. The more he ridiculed me the harder I got.
“Say ‘I masturbate in public, I am a public masturbator.'” He articulated the humiliating words in his deep, wet-throated growl.
“I masturbate in public, I’m a public masturbator.” I answered, my voice uneven with the strobing pleasure he forced me to feed myself. The old man demanded I repeat the shameful admission three more times, in a louder and louder voice. Different variations.
“I am a public jack off. I am a public jerk-off artist. I pull my pud in public” Again and again he made me pronounce my crimes for his camera while I committed them, panting as I pleasured myself.
“Now say, ‘I have a three-inch penis.'” He ordered.
“I have a three inch penis.” I repeated, my voice quavering.
“‘I have a three inch long hard-on,’ say it!” I obliged, making him explode into a fit of laughter. Tears streamed down his red face as peals of his throaty guffaws bounced around the tiles as I kept performing for him.
Eventually he caught his breath. He lowered his camera. He slapped my wrist to stop me from masturbating for him, then ran his fingers over my chest and belly appraisingly. He pulled at the light hair on my happy trail, frowning.
“Good boy. You really are a stooge. But if we’re gonna make you a star, you gotta look the part.” His eyes twinkled at sarışın porno me and I felt my stomach plunge at the mention of changing my appearance. Before I could respond or protest He grabbed me by my bare ass, lifting me up and pulling me up against him.
He carried me effortlessly, like a father lifting a small boy, bringing me to the sinks. I held onto his hairy back, laying my head on his shoulder, completely docile.
He placed me so that my bare ass sat on the marble counter, spreading my legs open. A basket beside the sink offered toiletries, and he grabbed a small container of shaving cream and a disposable razor.
He looked me up and down, sizing me up. He reached out to squeeze my chin, running his fingers over my five o’clock shadow. As his finger tips grazed my stubble, he scowled.
“A pretty boy like you should be clean-shaven.” He said with derision, crushing my jaw and shaking my head. Turning on a sink beside me, he first splashed handfuls of hot water against my jaw, massaging it into the coarse stubble. Then he rattled the can of shaving cream in my face, and sprayed a beard of white foam around my mouth. He took a few moments to rub it in.
Having another man do this felt bizarre, invasive but not entirely unpleasant. If I closed my eyes and forgot where I was it would have felt like a massage. But there was no getting past the fundamental violation of what he was doing, the deep wrongness of another man preparing to shave my face like this. He took a deep breath then brought the razor to my cheek.
Slowly and carefully he shaved my face for me. He held onto my chin or the top of my head to position the angle while he gently dragged the razor over my skin. It felt strangely tender, intimate. I was nervous that he would cut me but he was patient and precise.
The only sound in the bathroom was his nasal breathing, blowing warm air upon my neck and chest, tickling my nipples. His face was right up near mine as he worked, and I looked at his big craggy features, the thick gray mustache.
Every now and then he’d lick the sides of that heavy walrus ‘stache. It was so big and bushy that it blended with the gray hairs bursting from out of his nostrils. I looked at that dense, bristling facial hair. He stroked one end of it idly, squeezing the wiry hairs between his thick fingers, and then noticed my longing gaze. He winked and sort of wiggled his mustache at me.
If we weren’t both butt naked it would have been an almost grandfatherly gesture, like he was trying to make me laugh with his silliness. But his sardonic smirk was unmistakable – this was a cruel jab, a reminder of what he was taking from me. He was mocking me with that potent symbol of manhood as he stripped my own face of maturity.
When he was done he slapped both of my cheeks between his wet hands then rubbed them, grinding his calloused palms into the newly smooth skin. He wrenched my head to the left and forced me to look in the mirror at my stranger’s face, a boy’s face. I was shocked by the sight of my pink cheeks.
Losing my characteristic stubble made me look younger, softer. He winked at me again in the reflection and turned the sink back on. It dawned on me that when he said he wanted me “clean-shaven” he had meant more than just my face.
First he ran water from the sink over the naked skin of my chest and belly, and then lathered me up with shaving cream. He rubbed it into me and I couldn’t resist the sensuality of it. His fingers toying with my nipples, his rough hand squeezing my pectorals like they were tits. I gasped girlishly and he laughed as my still hard pecker twitched from the stimulation. Soon my whole torso was obscured by white mounds of shaving cream.
He put the razer under the hot stream and resumed his work, denuding me of my sparse chest hair and my narrow golden happy trail. This time instead of drawing my attention to his mustache, he gratuitously scratched his big, furred breasts, or paused to run his hand up and down the domed gray forest of his hirsute belly. It felt like he brought himself even closer than necessary, so that my vision was obscured by the dense gray bath mat of his body hair.
I stared at his apelike chest and gut, marveled at it openly. Seeing me look at it made him show it off more, his movements slow and deliberate, proudly peacocking his manly fur. Just as his big ugly cock had entranced me, I was now transfixed by his hairiness. A sight that would usually turn my stomach, an old man’s fat hairy gut and chest, now fascinated me. It looked powerful, impressive. Staring at, and knowing that he was simultaneously getting rid of my own hair, felt overwhelming.
Despite these deliberate breaks he took to taunt me, in a few moments he lowered the razor and cleared the residual shaving cream with warm water. Looking down I just saw my bare, pale flesh, two bright red nipples atop my pecs, shorn of the smattering of light body hair that had greeted me since sex hikayeleri my late teens. He was making a boy of me.
He seemed to share the thought as he admired his handiwork, running his big rough hand over my smooth chest and belly while smiling smugly. He pushed me further on the counter so that my butt and back were pressed up against the mirror and both of my legs were fully elevated on the marble surface.
He applied hot water and shaving cream to both of my long, muscular legs, then began to carefully shave them. I felt my face blushing furiously as he subjected me to this strangely womanish treatment. With each stroke of the razor he revealed a stripe of white, hairless skin, from my shins and calves to my inner thighs.
My head spun as I thought of how conspicuous my smooth legs would be in the middle of summer, the looks I would get. I wanted to get up but I couldn’t. I felt helpless, trapped, cornered by him. The rational side of my mind was screaming internally that I should stop him, flee, remove myself from this ordeal. It was an unheeded alarm.
I looked at him while he carefully traced the razor over my calf. Studying his hairy broad shoulders, the solid barrel of his bearded chest and gut, he seemed immovable, impenetrable. I’d have better luck pushing past a brick wall. Instead I just sat back against the glass and let this old man shave my legs bare, mourning more of the essential hair that marked me as a man.
He examined them when he was done, rubbing them, kneading the muscles in my thighs and calves. He traced his finger tips up and down the smooth length of each and whistled, licking his lips. I looked between his legs and saw that his big old prong was standing up again. Stripping me of my manhood was turning him on.
I glumly looked at my legs as he fondled them, squeezing each between his hair hands. My long, strong legs now seemed delicate, and even thinner somehow. He surprised me by clutching my calf and kissing my hairless shin, moaning as he licked the bare skin, then he collected himself and got back to work.
Next he had me raise my hands over my head, and made me keep them up while he got rid of the tufts of hair in my armpits. As he did this he took time to scratch the dense thicket of gray hair beneath his own heavy arms.
When he was done with the razor he’d turn on the faucet beside my ass, scooping up handfuls of warm water to clean away any residual shaving cream. I watched, shocked at the newly revealed white skin in my underarm, bare skin I hadn’t seen since before I hit puberty.
Eventually he set his sights between my legs, bringing heaps of shaving cream to my privates.
Soon my dick, balls and the triangle of hair above my groin were obscured by a white cloud, like the whole of whole manhood had been erased.
“No, please…” I whimpered weakly. This was too much. Though I trimmed and manscaped, I was proud of my pubes. I couldn’t bear to lose the light brown fleece that crowned my dick and marked me as a sexually viable, mature man. I had never thought of it before but faced with their imminent eradication I realized that my pubes were vital to my sense of masculinity.
As he chuckled at my pathetic pleas, I remembered an ex-girlfriend’s complaints about how dudes who completely shaved their bushes always turned her off, made her feel like she wasn’t with a grown man. Contrary to the idea that it made it appear larger, unless the guy was hung like an absolute horse it always made their penises seem short and skinny. “Pinky dicks,” she called them derisively.
Ever since hearing that, I took renewed pride in my intact pubes and secretly felt superior to my bare-groined brethren. In the gym locker room I would discreetly peek with some disdain upon the many guys my age who completely shaved their crotches. Didn’t they know how ridiculous they looked? How wimpy and weirdly immature? Now I would join their ranks as unnaturally smooth and unmanned, with a pathetic little pinky dick of my own between my legs.
Seeming to revel in my distress the man laughed, a long rich peel while drying off his hands on a towel and brandishing the razor. He pulled my thighs open wider, leaning in between my knees. He placed his elbow on my thigh to steady himself. Then, with patient precision he began to shave my pubic bush.
“See iack-off, I figure, if you don’t know how to act like a man then you don’t get to look like one between the legs. Right, champ?” He asked, condescendingly, scratching his massive gray bush and leaning his wide hips forward to shove it in my face. It ran from the inside of his thick thighs all the way up to his belly button before joining the wide mass of hair that covered his big belly and chest. He raked the blade down the center of my pubes, showing me the clump of light brown hair he had stripped away on the razor, then washed the blade.
He grinned to himself as he held my hard-on by the head while clearing the base şişman porno of my dick of hair. I looked down between my legs dejectedly, watching how with a few quick swipes he was erasing this important evidence of my manhood.
“No, we’re going to make you baby smooth, just like all you perverted faggots should be.” He muttered while pulling my scrotum down to denude it with the razor. Then he took his time to wash away the remaining foam and stubble.
He kept fondling and prodded my boner and tight scrotum, checking to make sure the whole area was completely shorn. Together we silently studied the strange little hairless creature between my legs. The thatch above my dick was gone, just a shockingly white spot of naked skin. For the first time since I was 12 I was bald between the legs.
Suddenly he grabbed my ankles and flipped me over onto my belly, pulling my legs apart. His rough hands spread my cheeks open, and I gasped at the feeling of shaving cream being applied around my hole, then trembled at the strange scrape of the razor back there.
“That’s right boy, even where the sun don’t shine. Nice and smooth all over.” I shivered when I felt his warm breath on my nether regions. He cleared any hair around my hole and my taint, then ran water over where he had shaved. I stayed belly down as his hands rubbed all over me, my legs, my forearms, through my crack.
He hooked his fingers under my empty armpits, and I knew I was now completely hairless below the ears. It was like his big rough hands were running a victory lap, fondling all the parts of my body he had shaved bare. Eventually he slapped my upturned bottom once and laughed again.
“Now you lay right there, don’t move a muscle boy.” I remained in place, face down on the marble counter as stomped away and rummaged in the lockers. He returned with my water bottle, which he filled in the sink. He screwed the top back on, chuckling to himself and looking at me with a mischievous glint in his eye.
Standing behind me, he spread my butt cheeks open again. I heard a raspy, guttural sound as the man hocked a loogie from the depths of his lungs and spat it onto my exposed hole. Something inflexible and plastic was immediately forced into me as I realized he was poking the hard straw into my anus.
“Giving you the full faggot treatment. A shave and a nice deep cleaning, pretty boy.” Lubricated only with his phlegm, I winced in pain as he penetrated me with the nozzle, guiding the straw past my sphincter. He kept a heavy hand pressed onto my lower back, holding me down when I struggled.
He squeezed the bottle and a gush of water flooded my insides. The feeling was strange and quickly became overwhelming. It was like the opposite of the relief one feels while using the bathroom, but sensual too. I moaned, writhing on my belly as he squeezed and squeezed, emptying the bottle and filling me up. Soon I was bursting with warm water and I could feel my stomach swelling painfully.
When he finally yanked the nozzle out of my hole, I knew he had forced half a gallon of water up into my guts. I desperately contracted my muscles, struggling to keep myself shut, to keep the ocean inside of me. I knew what this was, what he had done to me, but I had only read about it in books set far in the past. It seemed unspeakable, and now it was happening to me.
He remained standing over me, leaning onto my body, holding me down and rubbing his hands over my sides. I felt swollen, distended, like I was cramping up. Pregnant, I thought with dazed horror. He reached under me, wedging his fingers beneath me and squeezing my bloated belly, chuckling when I groaned in discomfort.
He kept at this for a while, poking and kneading the sweaty, shaven flesh of my distended gut. He leaned down, laying his big hairy body over my back, pressing all of his weight to me. He laughed again, delighting in my anguished moans. I was harried by him like he was a cruel older brother, pinning me down and jabbing at me, tormenting me just to amuse himself.
Finally he stood up and lifted me from the counter, then sent me to bathroom stalls with a spank. He followed close behind, standing in the door while I sat and evacuated myself, watching me with a wry grin, his phone recording me.
He left me to my cramping efforts. When I finally stumbled out of the stall he seized me, and I saw that a thick black marker was in his hand.
Standing me in the front of the mirrors, he began writing upon me without saying a word. I looked down and watched where on my shaven chest in large block letters he wrote “”PUBLIC JERK OFF.” On my heaving belly he wrote “CARMODY FAGGOT.” Reading it made my stomach flutter. Above my shorn pubic area he wrote “3-INCH PENIS.” Each block of text was huge, stretching over the entire front of my body.
Then he turned me around to continue his defacement. I couldn’t see what he wrote but it was voluminous, I felt the permanent marker tickling me as he spread words across my shoulders, my lower back, and both of my butt cheeks. Whatever he was writing made him cackle, and he took a few more pictures of me, front and back.
“There you go. Now you look the part. Showtime.” He had me stand up on the bench in front of the lockers like the class dunce on display.
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