Date: Mon, 11 Aug 2014 18:49:38 -0400
From: Rafi Daud <rafidaud69@gmail.com>
Subject: Dr. Debt & His New Bitch, Chapter 2


            This story is a fantasy set in the real world.  Obviously, any
similarities between characters appearing in it and the real world are purely
coincidental.  This is also copyrighted material.  So while you're welcome to
make a personal copy for yourself, any other reproduction or reposting is not
allowed without the prior written consent of the author.

	Any comments or criticisms should be directed to Rafi at
rafidaud69@gmail.com.   While suggestions are welcomed, the four chapters of
this story are already written.  I would, however, consider any suggestions in
future stories.

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DR. DEBT & HIS NEW BITCH

PART TWO



        When Brady first woke up, he was conscious of a monstrous,
throbbing ache in his ass.  An anguished moan escaped his lips as he rolled
off his back onto his stomach.  Almost immediately, though, he became aware
that his chest was providing its own source of pain.  He rolled onto his
side and looked down.  "Holy shit," he heard himself say as he looked at
his swollen nipples.  They were at least three times their normal size and
were both an angry red.  "What the..." he started but then stopped, as
memories of the past night and all that he had endured during it came
rushing back to him.  Despite himself, he started crying.  How could he
have let the guy do all that to him?  How could he have let himself be
turned into Dr. Debt's bitch, even if it was only for a single night?  He
kept lying on his side on the floor, sobbing quietly, as his mind replayed
just a few of the degrading and disgusting details of the previous evening.

        It felt as if the man had been fucking him in front of the mirror
for hours before he finally deposited what was obviously a massive load of
his spunk up Brady's abraded hole.  Brady stood there, sagging beneath the
man's bulk, his entire ass a source of continuous pain.  Slowly, he felt
the man straightened up.  But Dr. Debt made no move to withdraw his cock
from the sheath it had so completely claimed for itself.  Instead, Brady
found himself be forced once again to stand on his tip-toes to accommodate
the monster penis still wedged inside his butt which, so far at least, had
shown absolutely no signs of softening.

	"So, how does it feel, boy," the man suddenly asked, "to have fully
completed the transition from 'boy' to 'bitch,' to have willingly taken a
man's cock up your hole and let him drill you until he shot his load of
man-scuzz deep inside of you?"

	Brady looked at the man in the mirror.  He could see the anger in
his own eyes.  He had let the man fuck him like an animal; why did the man
feel the need to verbally degrade him as well?  Brady couldn't help himself
- he just glared at the man.

	But once again Brady saw amusement rather than anger in Dr. Debt's
face.  And as Brady's own anger turned to rage, the man actually began
grinning.  "Oh, I'm sorry, boy," the man said with mock solicitude.  "Here
I am, asking you questions, and you've still got a ball-gag in your mouth.
Well I can remedy that problem."

	Brady saw the man reach up and grab the ends of the gag's strap.
Soon, he could feel it loosening in his mouth.  Dr. Debt reached forward
and grabbed the rubber ball in the strap's center and slowly extracted it .
Even a quick glance was enough for Brady to see the deep indentations in
the rubber where he had bit down hard during the agony of that first
assault.  Suddenly, Brady was aware that Dr. Debt had lowered his head so
that his mouth was right next to Brady's right ear.

	"Listen to me, boy," the man whispered into his ear, his voice
reeking of menace, all sense of amusement gone, "I expect one of my bitches
to scream when I'm smashing his cherry to bits - that's how a bitch reacts.
But now you're an experienced whore - you've taken a man up your hole and
let him make it into a pussy.  From now on, when I fuck you - and I'm going
to be fucking you a lot - I don't want to hear shrieks and groans.  I want
to hear you asking me to fuck your slimy pussy harder.  Do you understand
that, boy?"

	When Brady failed to answer quickly enough, Dr. Debt's hairy arms
snaked around his torso.  In seconds, the man's hands had taken a firm grip
on each of the boy's nipples.  Suddenly, the man's fingers tightened around
each nub, squeezing hard.  A tortured yelp escaped from the boy's mouth.
"I asked you a question, boy," Dr. Debt snarled.

	"Yes, sir," Brady gasped, struggling against the pain.  He had
instinctively raised his own hands to try to wrest the man's fingers off
his nips but had caught himself.  There was no way he could win a fight
with this man and Brady was sure things would go much worse for him if he
tried.

	Dr. Debt had watched the boy's aborted attempt to rescue his
nipples with bemusement.  'The bitch is learning,' he said to himself.
'Good.  Now's the time to continue his training.'

	"Yes, sir, what?" Dr. Debt demanded.  When the boy looked up in
total confusion, Dr.  Debt deigned to clarify what he wanted to hear.
"Whenever I ask you if you understand something, boy, I don't want to hear
a simple 'yes, sir.'  I want you to repeat to me just what your
understanding is.  That way, there'll be no cause for complaint should you
later screw up and force me to discipline you.  So try it again, boy."

	"Yes, sir," Brady began, his voice wobbly, "I agree not to scream
when you...when you fuck my ass again."

	"No," the man shouted at him, again squeezing down on the boy's
nipples, eliciting another yelp from Brady.

	Looking at the man's face in the mirror, Brady was shocked to see
that it seemed suddenly convulsed with fury.  What had he done?  What the
hell was the man going to do to him now?  The boy cringed in terror.

	But then, as if a light bulb had just been switched off, the man's
face took on a calmer aspect.  "Oh, I'm sorry.  I may have confused you.
I've continued to address you as 'boy' when you're not a 'boy' any longer
at all.  Now you're finally a 'bitch.'  A male 'bitch.'  You've been one
since I dropped a load of my jizz up your pussy.  That's what that hole
between your legs is now, bitch.  It's a pussy - or a cunt if you prefer
that term.  So try it again, bitch," the man continued, putting a heavy
emphasis on the last 'bitch,' "just what are you agreeing to."

	Brady could feel his face burning as he heard himself say, "I agree
not to scream when you fuck my... pussy again."  Though he managed to keep
his head up, Brady couldn't keep the tears from leaking out of his eyes.
He couldn't believe how humiliating it felt hearing himself refer to his
own asshole as a 'pussy.'  He didn't realize it at the time, but the flood
of humiliations had just begun.

	"That's good, bitch," Dr. Debt responded, seemingly mollified.
"That's good, because I hope you understand your pussy's about to get a
real work-out."

	Brady remained quiet until he realized the man wanted him to
respond.

	"I understand, sir," he said, and then, seeing the man raise a
single eyebrow, he reluctantly added, "that my....my pussy's going to get a
real work-out."

	"Right, bitch, that's right," Dr. Debt agreed.  And then there was
an awkward silence.  Brady looked up at the mirror and saw that the man's
eyes were fixed on his chest.  When he saw the man frown, Brady decided to
speak up.

	"Is there anything wrong, sir," he nervously asked, trying to
assume a compliant tone, which wasn't too hard considering the man's
horse-cock was still buried up his pussy.

	"Yes, there is, bitch," the man responded, "but it's nothing we
can't fix in time.  We probably should start right now."  Without warning,
the man reapplied agonizing pressure to the boy's tender nipples.  This
time multiple yelps were wrung from the boy.

	"I'm sorry, sir.  I'm sorry, sir," Brady moaned, "but I don't know
what I did."

	"Oh, it's nothing you did, boy," Dr. Debt responded
matter-of-factly.  "It's just your tits."

	"My tits, sir?" Brady asked, curling his hands tight to keep from
screaming as the man's fingers continued mashing his nipples.  "What about
my tits, sir?  Please tell me, sir," he begged as the pressure increased
and became almost unbearable, his tears of humiliation giving way to tears
of pain.

	"You have the tits of a boy," Dr. Debt explained in a tone which
conveyed that what he was saying was perfectly obvious, "you should have a
pair of bitch's tits on your chest."

	"Sir, I don't understand," Brady sobbed, trying desperately to back
up, writhing against the man flaccid belly but unable to move beyond the
reach of the torturing fingers, pinioned in place by the man's behemoth
cock still crammed painfully up his hole.  "Please, sir, I don't
understand?"

	The last plea was uttered in such a tone of despair, that it was
all Dr. Debt could do to keep himself from raping the shit out of Brady's
tight boy-hole for a second time right there.  Watching a muscular,
twenty-five-year-old straight stud stand there and have his nipples
viciously squeezed and not even make an effort to defend himself but rather
just plead and beg for mercy like a thirteen-year-old boy was so fucking
hot.  So fucking hot.

	But Dr. Debt prided himself on his self-control.  He didn't want to
get his second nut just yet - he had other things he wanted to teach the
boy first.  So he forced himself to take a couple of deep breaths.  In just
seconds, Dr. Debt had brought himself back under control.  He let go of
Brady's nipples and gave the boy a few seconds to collect himself.  Then,
in a calmer voice, he started talking to the boy.  "Look at your tits,
bitch.  Look at your tits."

	Brady looked down at his chest, focusing on his already visibly
bruised nipples and trying to ignore the man's fingers which menacingly
hovered only a few inches from each nub.

	"What do you see, bitch?" the man asked.

	Brady felt a painful thrust of the man's cock inside him when he
didn't immediately answer.  "Just my nipples, sir," Brady answered and
immediately had to swallow another shriek as the man's fingers once again
viciously squeezed down on the tender flesh.

	"I think you meant to say that all you saw were your tits, didn't
you, bitch?" the man asked, not letting up on the pressure being applied to
Brady's nubs.

	"Yes, sir," Brady immediately conceded, his entire body shaking.
"My tits, sir.  My tits.  All I see is my tits, sir."

	"That's right, bitch," the man agreed.  "Now that you've got a
pussy between your legs you've got tits on your chest.  Do you understand,
bitch?"

	"Yes, sir.  Yes, sir," the boy answered, desperate to get the man
to let up on his nipples.  "I've got a pussy between my legs and tits on my
chest.  I understand, sir.  I understand."  The pain shooting from his
nipples was so sharp that Brady knew he'd agree to anything just to get the
man to loosen his grip.

	For a brief moment, the pain actually intensified but then, once
again, Dr. Debt released his hold on the boy's nubs.  Again, he gave Brady
a few seconds to catch his breath before he resumed his interrogation.

	"So, bitch," he began, "what do you see on your chest?"

	"I see tits, sir," Brady answered, now without the slightest
hesitation.  "I see my tits, sir."

	"And what's wrong with your tits, bitch?" he continued.

	Brady didn't know what to say - he hadn't the faintest idea what
Dr. Debt wanted him to say.  But he'd already learned that saying nothing
would just get him in trouble so, looking at his tits, he said the first
thing that came into his mind, "they look all red and swollen, sir," and
then hurriedly rephrased it, "I mean my tits look all red and swollen,
sir."

	Dr. Debt just flicked a finger toward one of Brady's nipples, saw
the way the boy's entire chest tensed up, chuckled, and then continued.
"Do they look like a bitch's tits to you?"

	"I don't know, sir," Brady equivocated, terrified of making a
mistake.  "I'm not sure what you mean, sir."

	Brady heard the man give a snort of exasperation and expected to
feel the man's hands again crushing his already sore and tender nips.
Instead, Dr. Debt adopted a tone a teacher might use with a particularly
intellectually-challenged child.  "Let's do this step by step, bitch" he
began.

	"I assume you've seen your girlfriend's tits" he continued.

	"Yes, sir, I have," Brady dutifully replied.

	"Well, do her tits look like your tits?"

	"Not really, sir.  Her tits don't really look like my tits, sir."

	"And how do they differ, bitch?"

	"Well, her breasts are much bigger than my chest, sir."

	"Probably not, bitch.  I'd estimate your chest is about 43 inches.
The average woman's breasts measure 39 inches.  I don't know her, but I bet
your girlfriend's breasts are probably around 41 or 42 inches.  It's simply
the way that your girlfriend's breasts are shaped that makes them look
larger than your chest."

	"Well," Brady continued, "her nipples are larger than my..." he
started to say 'nipples' but caught himself and managed to substitute
"tits, sir."

	"That's it, bitch.  Her tits are bigger than your tits.  And that's
what we have to work on tonight.  Right now, you've got a pair of boy tits.
They're smallish and tend to lie flat on your chest.  But now that
Mr. Bitch-Maker has done his job, you need to have bitch-tits on your
chest.  Nice large tits that stick out through any shirt you're wearing and
advertize the fact that while you may have the physique of a virile stud,
you're actually a male bitch with a pussy between his legs that's available
for fucking.  I've been squeezing and stretching your tits to get a start
on transforming them just the way your little boy-hole was transformed into
a pussy a few minutes ago.  But I'm not going to do this all night.  I want
you to take over."

	"Yes, sir," Brady quietly responded as the import of what the man
was telling him to do began to sink in.  Slowly, he raised his hands to his
chest.  Biting his lower lip, the boy stretched out his fingers and took a
nipple in each of his hands.  They were already so tender that just
touching them was painful.  Gently, he pressed down with his thumb and
middle finger.  Suddenly, behind him, he heard a snort of impatience.

	"I told you to squeeze your tits, bitch, not massage them,"
Dr. Debt angrily exclaimed.  "Now squeeze down on those tits.  Hard."

	Looking in the mirror, Brady could see the anger on the man's face.
Taking a deep breath, the boy began to apply pressure to his nipples.  He
winced as the pain returned.

	"Harder, bitch.  Harder," Dr. Debt ordered.  "Believe me, bitch,
you don't want to make me show you how to do it again."

	"Yes, sir," Brady agreed.  The boy steeled himself and then began
really squeezing his own nipples, hearing himself moan as he continued to
supply pressure from his fingertips.

	"That's it, bitch," he heard Dr. Debt say.  "Squeeze those tits
hard."

	"And don't just squeeze them, bitch," he added a few seconds later.
"Grab your tits and stretch them - pull them away from you chest.  We want
you to have a nice set of bitch-titties when we're done tonight.  Titties
that will stand out and advertise that your pussy's open for business."

	Dr. Debt let Brady squeeze and yank on his tits for a few minutes,
occasionally flexing his waist and diddling the boy's impaled hole while he
stood there watching Brady in the mirror, his eyes closed tightly,
continuing to molest himself.  And as he watched, a knowing smirk slowly
spread across his face.

	"Open your eyes, bitch," the man suddenly commanded.  "Open your
eyes and look at yourself in the mirror."

	When he did as he was told, Brady immediately saw his face, screwed
up in the pain he was inflicting on himself as his fingers squeezed and
manhandled his own nipples.  He cringed just thinking about the picture
he'd be presenting if anyone could see him in this degrading situation and
then remembered, with a start, that he was being filmed.  Other people
could see him molesting himself.  'Sweet Jesus,' he thought, 'how the hell
did I get myself into this shit?'  What would Jen think?  Or any of his
friends?  Or even total strangers?

	Brady's anguished revelries were interrupted by Dr. Debt.  "I'm
glad to see you're enjoying yourself, bitch."  Seeing the boy's total
confusion as to what the man meant, Dr. Debt simply directed the boy to
look down, "Look at your crotch, bitch.  Look at your crotch."

	When Brady allowed his gaze to drop down he saw to his total shock
and complete mortification that his cock, which had quickly shriveled in
the face of Dr. Debt's brutal assault on his ass, had somehow revived and
was now standing out from his hairless groin at a ninety-degree angle.
And, as he watched in increasing embarrassment, he was horrified to see it
continue to harden and plump up until it became a full, aching erection,
jutting out proudly straight into the air.

        Brady's mind reeled in absolute confusion.  He was standing there,
his ass still achingly stuffed with the biggest fucking donkey-dick he'd
ever seen, painfully pinching and squeezing his own nipples and somehow,
somehow, he had become sexually aroused to the point that he realized that
all it would take was a few hard strokes on his cock and he'd be shooting
off his own gigantic load.  What the fuck was happening to him?

	Dr. Debt looked at the boy as he took in his own arousal and
laughed out loud.  "That's what I like to see," he chuckled.  "A male bitch
having a good time doing what he does best - servicing a real man."

	"Just one thing, bitch," he continued, the humor clear in his
voice.  "You don't shoot a load out of your little boy-cock until I give
you permission.  You understand, bitch?"

	His utter embarrassment obvious even to himself, Brady looked at
Dr. Debt in the mirror.  "Yes, sir," he answered.  "I wouldn't let my
little boy-cock shoot a load until you give me permission, sir."  He wasn't
sure what was more degrading: having to obtain permission before letting
his 'little boy-cock' cum, the prospect of actually cumming while he was
getting his ass fucked, or just standing there looking at himself in the
mirror with a monstrous dick up his ass getting turned on as he fondled and
molested his own body.  Dr. Debt had said he was now a bitch and Brady was
beginning to feel like one.  All he was really sure of was that he was
actually relieved when Dr. Debt announced he wanted to fuck Brady in the
living room.  Anything to get away from this mirror.

	"One last thing," the man counseled Brady as they slowly made their
way into the living room, having picked up the camcorder in one hand so he
could continue filming Brady's sexual degradation.  They were walking in
tandem, Dr. Debt right behind Brady.  With every step forward Brady took,
Dr. Debt's cock would slowly recede from his ass, only to be thrust back in
to the hilt when Dr. Debt took his own step.  Little squeals were erupting
from Brady on the completion of every step.  Just as Dr. Debt took his step
and reclaimed full possession of Brady's aching fuck-chute, he continued.
"You keep squeezing and pulling on those bitch-tits until I say otherwise.
And, bitch," he warned, "you better do a good job.  If I ever decide you're
slacking off or not squeezing hard enough, I'll make you sorry - really
sorry.  You can count on that, bitch."

	From that point on, Brady pretty much worked on his tits for the
rest of evening, even during the multiple spankings he received over the
course of the night.  The only time his abused nubs got a rest was when
Dr. Debt strung the boy up by his wrists from one of the closet doors for a
good old-fashioned whipping.  Of course, that was only a temporary reprieve
and, even then, when Dr. Debt had finished with Brady's back and moved on
to his front side, his tits seemed to provide two of the man's favorite
targets, those and his little boy-cock.  It was a good thing Dr. Debt had
gagged Brady again before he started whipping him, because Brady was
yelling his head off pretty much throughout the entire ordeal.

	"Yeah, that's why my tits are so swollen and sore," Brady mused out
loud as he lay in front of the mirror trying to recover from his night in
hell, trying to gather enough strength so that he could make it to his
bedroom.  "Fuck man, they hurt almost as much as my pussy."  And then his
entire body turned a vivid scarlet.  He couldn't believe what he had just
said.  He'd just referred to his nipples as his 'tits' and his asshole as
his 'pussy.'  And the worst thing wasn't the fact that he'd said it out
loud; what was far worse was that that was the way he now thought about
them in his mind.  He had tits on his chest and a pussy between his legs.
'God,' the boy wondered, his mind in turmoil, 'what the fuck's the matter
with me?'

	As he continued to lie on his side, Brady slowly became aware of
the smell surrounding him.  It was a foul combination of cum, piss, and
anal slime.  It was so stomach-turning that Brady was sure he'd start
vomiting if he didn't get away from it soon.  Even though every part of his
body seemed to hurt, he tried to get to his feet.  But in his exhausted
state, it seemed as if that was now beyond him and he collapsed back on to
the floor.  Instead, he got to his hands and knees, his back to the mirror,
determined to crawl to his bedroom if that's what it took to get there.  He
was just about to start moving when he paused.

	His whole body shaking, he turned his head around so he could see
his ass in the mirror.  A good part of him was terrified of what he might
see but he had to know - he had to know how his poor pussy looked after its
multiple sessions with Mr. Bitch-Maker.  When he turned around and looked
into the mirror, he heard himself groan in despair.  It was so much worse
than he had feared.

	The image that was reflected in the mirror bore not the slightest
similarity to the one he had seen less than 24-hours earlier when he was
shaving his pussy.  He remembered how he'd run his finger down his shaven
ass-crack and been surprised at how tightly closed his puckered opening
appeared, wondering whether he could even get a single finger through its
shuttered entryway.  No similar question would ever occur to anyone looking
at his asshole now.

	Brady had been afraid that his anal rosette would appear all bloody
and bruised from the terrible pounding it had taken during the night.  In
reality, his rosette was scarcely to be seen - his back-passage just gaped
open.  It looked like he had a fucking tunnel running all the way up into
his guts.  The hole was large enough that you could stick a stack of silver
dollars into it without brushing against the sides.  His pussy looked
bigger than any cunt he'd ever seen.  It looked as if an entire college
football team had spent a weekend coring him out.  "Oh, fuck.  Oh, fuck.
Oh, fuck," he heard himself say as he knelt there transfixed and repelled
by his own image.

	Brady was sure that, given time, the opening would diminish in size
but it was so large that he wasn't positive it would ever entirely
disappear.  Hopefully, it would.  But right now anyone looking at his rear
wouldn't have the slightest doubt that Brady had a pussy between his legs
waiting to be pronged just liked Dr. Debt had said.  Any real stud with
half a mind to wouldn't have the slightest hesitation in bending Brady over
and fucking his brains out.

	Eventually, Brady forced himself to look away.  'God damn you,
Dr. Debt,' he thought.  'God damn you.'  Stifling a sob, he began crawling
towards his bedroom.  And as he crawled from the hallway he could hear in
his mind Dr. Debt's last contemptuous observations as he left Brady's
apartment, leaving Brady sprawled out on the floor in the hallway, his
pussy leaking a steady stream of the man's ball-juice.

        "Just so you know, bitch, it was worth the money, though I expect
you won't think the money was worth what you just went through.  But a
deal's a deal.  And as my daddy used to say, 'Sometimes, you eat the bear
and sometimes..." and here the man paused savoring the moment.  "...and
sometimes, the bear eats you.'  Thanks for the meal - it was delicious."
The man laughed aloud at his own sally.  "Anyway, bitch," the man continued
as he opened the door, "I certainly enjoyed the evening.  Hope you enjoy
the money as much."  And Brady knew, as he crawled along the floor, his
plundered pussy still dribbling Dr. Debt's spunk as he slowly made his way
through his apartment, that he'd been played for a fool.

	Brady was completely disoriented the next time he woke up.  He
wasn't even sure where he was at first, though eventually he realized he
was lying on the floor of his bedroom.  It was only when he moved to sit up
and all his bruised and sore muscles came into play forcing him to collapse
back on to the floor that the memories of what had transpired on Friday
night came flooding back.  He'd let himself be fucked - fucked hard -
fucked like a bitch - over and over again.  And, as one disgusting scene
after another replayed itself in his mind, he felt himself choking up.

        The tears were just about to begin again when Brady caught himself.
'Get a grip, man,' he told himself.  'Last night was horrible; it was
disgusting; but it's over.  You knew what you were getting into when you
agreed to let that bastard fuck you.  Maybe you didn't know everything he
was going to do to you or that he had a monstrosity for a cock, but you
knew he was going to fuck you and you agreed to let him do that because you
wanted the money.  Well, you've got the money and he certainly fucked you,
but now it's over.  You've got to move on with your life.'  With that, he
forced himself to ignore the aches and pain and sat up.

	'God, this place is a mess,' he thought, looking around.  He was
surprised to see that half of the items usually sitting on the low bureau
were now scattered on the floor, but then he remembered Dr. Debt had fucked
him on the bureau, Brady lying on his back, legs raised high over the man's
shoulders, looking at that smirking face as the man plunged his donkey-dick
in and out of Brady's leaking pussy.  Brady could see the slimy remnants of
their coupling that had dried on the surface of the bureau and felt his
face wrinkling with distaste as he looked at it.

	But then he checked out the bed that he and Jen shared and almost
physically recoiled.  The bed was much worse than the bureau.  It was a
tangle of crumpled sheets and pillows and everywhere he looked he could see
cum stains and piss stains and dried streaks of other scuzz.  His
attention, however, was suddenly drawn from the bed to the floor he was
sitting on.  He suddenly realized that the carpet underneath his ass and
legs was noticeably damp.  He pressed a finger into the area between his
legs and brought it to his nose.  The smell of stale urine was
unmistakable.  When he examined the area more closely he could feel his own
face flaring in heat - he was lying in piss, all-right.  He was lying in
his own piss.  He had wet himself like a little boy during the night.
'Jesus Christ,' he thought.  'How could I let myself do that?  That's so
rank.'

	Ignoring the renewed pain he was feeling in so many places on his
body, he scrambled up from the floor.  'I've got to take a shower,' he told
himself.  'Right away.'  And as he came to that conclusion he also became
acutely aware that the same fetid odors that had assailed his nose in the
hallway were again surrounding him.  'Holy fuck!' he thought, as the
disgusting realization hit home, 'that's my stink I'm smelling.  I smell
like a fucking latrine.'  In just seconds, he was stumbling towards the
bathroom, the need to escape his own foul body stench suddenly overwhelming
all other considerations.

	He made it to the bathroom, yanked back the shower curtain, and was
about to step into the tub, when memories of the previous night pulled him
up short.  He could visualize himself sitting in the tub, legs spread in
front of him, head thrown backward, mouth wide open, his eyes fixated on
Dr. Debt's cock as the man emptied his bladder all over him.  Not just over
him - into him too.  The man had directed a large stream of his yellow
liquid right into Brady's open mouth.  And Brady had not only let him do
that, he had swallowed as much as of the man's hot piss as he could manage,
just like Dr. Debt ordered.

	How could he have let any man do that to him?  How could he let his
mouth be used as another man's piss-hole?  And, even as these questions
formed in his mind, other images from last night streamed into his
consciousness and he shuddered violently.  The session in the tub had not
been the only time he was forced to guzzle down the man's piss.  Dr. Debt
had pissed down Brady's throat again and again as the night progressed,
frequently right after he'd shot a load up Brady's pussy.  Brady could
remember the taste of his own pussy juices on the man's giant cock as he
swallowed a steady stream of bitter urine and just the memory was enough to
make his gorge rise.

	Brady fought against the feeling that he was going to be sick and
forced himself to step into the bathtub.  'You got to forget about all that
shit, man,' he told himself.  'It'll just make you crazy if you keep
thinking about it.'  Brady faced the wall at the front of the bathtub,
reached down and turned on the water.  'Just concentrate on getting
yourself clean, right now,' he continued, 'forget everything else.'

	But forgetting was to prove virtually impossible.  For a few
minutes, as he vigorously soaped his body and shampooed his hair, Brady was
able to erase the memories of his night in hell and focus solely on how
good it felt to be clean again and to be rid of that all-encompassing odor
that just followed him everywhere.  But then, when he pulled back the
shower curtain to get a towel to dry off, his eyes fell on the toilet,
re-igniting memories of his previous night's ordeal.  Brady could see
himself sitting in the bowl of the crapper, water sluicing back and forth
around the top of his butt-cheeks, ankles forced up around his head, as
Dr. Debt relentlessly banged his pussy.  And, then, after fifteen
excruciating minutes, the man had lifted Brady out of the commode, spun him
around, forced him to his knees, and continued fucking Brady while he
jammed the boy's head deep into the toilet water he'd just been sitting in.

	The man forcibly held Brady's face in the water, long enough for
the boy to begin struggling as his lungs ran out of air.  Then, Dr. Debt
leisurely reached forward and depressed the flush handle.  As the water
rapidly drained, Brady was able to catch a few gasping breaths of air
before the bowl refilled itself.  It continued that way for the next ten
minutes, Dr. Debt brutally ramming his gigantic cock in and out of Brady's
hole while he held the boy's head beneath the water, waiting until the
boy's oxygen supply ran out and he panicked before he'd again flush the
toilet and let Brady grab a few hurried breaths.

	For Brady, it had been a truly horrible experience, constantly on
the edge of suffocation while his poor pussy was being forcefully battered
and stretched.  But Dr. Debt obviously enjoyed it.  That was made clear by
the massive load of jizz he sprayed deep inside the boy's tortured guts.
It was only after he'd finally climaxed that the man let go of Brady's head
and allow the boy to raise his face out of the commode.

	Standing there, looking at the toilet, Brady had to fight the
sensation that he was choking, that his face was still being pressed into
the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl as Dr. Debt reamed out his pussy for
the umpteenth time.  Even though he had just finished showering, Brady
could feel himself breaking into a sweat as the mind-numbing panic he'd
felt during his toilet rape threatened to overwhelm him.  'Breathe,
goddamit.  Breathe,' his mind screamed inside his head.  'Your face isn't
under water.  You can breathe.  Just open your mouth and suck in some air.'
With an audible gasp, Brady's mouth sprang open and he began gulping down
oxygen.

	"Jesus Christ," Brady moaned, sagging into the wall behind him.
"What was that all about?"  He looked around in frantic confusion.  "What
the fuck's the matter with me?  What the fuck did that bastard do to me?
It was like I was suffocating all over again.  This is crazy shit.  I've
got to get a hold of myself before Jen gets back.  I have to calm down."
Visibly shaking, Brady unsteadily exited the bathroom.

	 His mind searched for a reasonable explanation of what was going
on.  Maybe he'd been drugged.  Maybe that bastard had dropped some type of
roofie into one of his drinks.  But, thinking back, the only things he'd
had to drink the entire evening was Dr. Debt's piss and his cum.  While
Dr. Debt's piss had certainly tasted vile, Brady couldn't think of any way
the man could have doctored his own urine, not with Brady drinking it
directly from the source.  Needless to say, the same was true of the man's
cum. It was hard to see how Brady could have been drugged since he didn't
have anything else to drink or eat the entire time Dr. Debt was there.

        In a flash, the thought occurred to Brady that maybe that was the
answer.  He hadn't had anything to drink except piss and cum the whole
evening.  He could be dehydrated.  That could lead to hallucinations.  He
needed to get some liquids in his system.  Hoping it would help, Brady
headed towards the kitchen to get a drink of water.

	Entering his kitchen, Brady grabbed a glass and filled it with
water from the tap.  When he began drinking it, he realized how thirsty he
really was.  He drank that first glass of water straight down and then
immediately refilled the glass.  He was standing there, idly glancing out
of the window over the sink as he drained the second glass of water when he
noticed a pair of matching smudges on both sides of the window pane.
Looking more closely, they looked to be greasy handprints.  In a flash,
just like in the bathroom, Brady was seemingly transported back in time to
Friday and saw himself stretched out over the kitchen sink, steadying his
upper torso with his hands, as Dr. Debt reamed out his pussy again.  Brady
was looking out at all the lights flickering in the early evening light and
wondering if there was some other young dude getting his ass raped out
there just like he was.

	'Goddamnit, Brady,' the voice in his mind remonstrated with him
again.  'You've got to stop this shit.  That fucker banged your pussy all
over the apartment - in every room, on almost every piece of furniture.  If
you start reliving what happened to you Friday night every time you see
some place that he fucked you, that's all you're going to be thinking about
because he fucked you everywhere you look.  Get a fucking grip and get over
it.'

	Brady forced himself to turn away from the window and, in vivid
confirmation of his mind's warnings, found himself looking at the kitchen
counter where, standing on one leg with his other leg stretched out along
the counter, he'd also been fucked last night.  "Screw it," he exclaimed
out loud.  He reached over to the stove, grabbed the tea kettle, turned
back to the sink and filled it with water, and then replaced the kettle on
the stove setting the burner on high.  Resolved not to let Friday night's
ordeal cast its black shadow over the rest of his life, he headed out of
the kitchen towards the hall, planning to get the morning paper, come back
and leisurely read it over a cup of coffee like he did every Saturday
morning.

	As he passed through the dining room Brady could see himself
stretched out on top of the dining room table, legs forced obscenely apart
by Dr. Debt's disgusting girth, as the man dropped yet another load up his
pussy, but he simply shrugged it off.  And he did the same when he happened
to glance at the chair where the man had spread Brady's abused body over
his lap and viciously spanked the boy's ass over and over again as the long
evening unfolded.  But Brady didn't let his mind linger over any of these
flashbacks, he just kept walking towards the door and pushing all the
images back down into his memory.  By the time he made it to the front
door, Brady felt like he was finally beginning to take back control over
his life.  Without even thinking, he reached down, grabbed the doorknob and
opened the door.

	And then he immediately jumped back, slamming the door shut.  He
had just realized that he was stark naked.  He stood there for a few
moments, trying to decide whether he should go back to his bedroom and get
a pair of shorts.  Even though Brady normally wore shorts when he was alone
in the apartment, it seemed like a waste of time to make an additional trek
through the apartment when he was already at the front door.  So, instead,
he opened the door a crack and, seeing nobody in sight, simply crouched
down, grabbed the paper with an outstretched arm, and pulled it inside.
That's when he realized that there wasn't just one paper, there were two
papers outside the apartment door.  He quickly grabbed the second paper and
pulled that into the apartment as well.

	Closing the door, Brady straightened up and looked down at the two
papers in his hands, each wrapped in a thin, opaque plastic bag.  One was
noticeably larger than the other, so he pulled the covering off that one
first.  It was the Sunday News.  'How the fuck can that be?'  Brady
wondered looking at the paper in his hand.  The answer, when it came, was
all too obvious.  Brady was looking at the Sunday paper because it was now
Sunday.  In the totally exhausted state Dr. Debt had left him, Brady had
slept all through Saturday huddled up on the floor next to his bed.

	At first, Brady was somewhat relieved by this revelation.  At least
it somewhat explained why he had pissed himself.  His bladder had kept
working even as the rest of his body conked out and there was finally no
place for his piss to go other than down his legs.  But any sense of relief
Brady felt was only momentary because he now also realized that Jen would
be arriving home tomorrow.  He had only a day - less than a day, actually,
since he had to work on Monday - to get the apartment cleaned up and his
long night with Dr. Debt had left it totally trashed and reeking of the
smell of cum and piss.  He immediately tossed both papers on the little
hallway stand and hurried off to start cleaning.

	Four hours later, Brady was back in the hallway, but this time he
had a pail of water and a sponge with him.  He'd been working on the area
of the carpet right in front of the mirror for a good fifteen minutes but
some of the cum stains seemed impervious to his efforts.  He worked the
sponge over a particularly resistant spot for about thirty seconds and then
settled back on his haunches to wait for it to dry.

        In some other places he had tried to clean, like in the bedroom
where he'd pissed on the floor or the area in front of the TV where he'd
been repeatedly fucked, the carpet would look clean while it was wet but
the stains would return as the fibers dried.  In a few minutes, he could
tell that the same thing was happening with a number of the stains in the
hallway.  There was no getting around it, he reluctantly concluded; he
needed a carpet cleaner.  He knew he could rent one at Lowe's so he decided
to give up on his bucket and sponge and go get one.

	As he made his way towards the bedroom, Brady glanced around to
make sure he hadn't missed anything, like the giant butt-plug he'd found
wedged between two sofa cushions.  Dr.  Debt had insisted Brady have the
plug rammed up his pussy any time he wasn't getting ridden by
Mr. Bitch-Maker.  So the plug had seen a lot of action between the
blow-jobs and the spankings and the whipping.  Brady had assumed that
Dr. Debt had taken it with him so he hadn't even thought to look for it.
The only reason he even discovered it was because he had to take the covers
off all the cushions on the sofa and toss them in the laundry.  Every
single one had dried spunk or other shit on it.  As it turned out, that was
a good thing.

        Brady was grateful that he was the one who found the dildo.  He
could imagine trying to explain its presence to Jen, particularly since it
was caked with the remnants of Dr. Debt's cum and Brady's own anal juices.
If she had found that little item in the condition that Dr. Debt had left
it, the only possible thing she could conclude was that Brady was a
stone-cold faggot.  Brady took the dildo into the bathroom, cleaned it in
the bathtub and then let it sit in hot water in the sink for a good hour,
before wrapping it in some of his underwear and sticking it in the back of
one of his drawers.  At least now it was highly unlikely that Jen would
ever find it.

        Looking around the apartment nothing seemed to be out of place.
While he'd had to clean virtually every flat surface in the apartment since
it seemed that Dr. Debt had managed to use every one of them during his
multiple fucks, Brady was pretty pleased with the way the place now looked.
He had purposely taken his time on each surface, determined to do a good
job, and while his memory kept trying to interrupt him with lurid images of
just what Dr. Debt had done to him on each item of furniture, Brady had
been able, for the most part, to shunt those pictures aside and just
concentrate on cleaning.  The only time Brady had really lost the fight
with his memory was when he got around to cleaning the sliding glass door
leading to the balcony.

	The whole glass door had been covered with smudges but the area in
the center was particularly smeared.  When he brought his bottle of Windex
up to spray it, he realized that it was composed of dried cum, his dried
cum.  And that's when the memories from Friday night overwhelmed his
defenses, forcing him to relieve what he had experienced at the door to the
balcony.

	It had occurred around 9:00 p.m., by which time total darkness had
descended outside.  Dr. Debt had put on every conceivable light in the
living room and opened all the blinds, leaving Brady keenly aware that any
neighbors who could see directly into his apartment were being afforded a
clear view of the sexual bacchanal transpiring in his living room.  Rather
than having an inhibiting effect of Dr. Debt, this knowledge seemed to
drive him into ever more imaginative and debasing abuse of Brady's body.
And Dr. Debt seemed to instinctively know that the fear of having his
neighbors see him being fucked was adding to the humiliation Brady was
obviously feeling.

	In any event, judging the time was right, Dr. Debt maneuvered Brady
off of the couch where he'd been giving the boy's pussy a real workout over
to the balcony door where he positioned Brady's face and body just inches
from the glass and started fucking the boy with a real vengeance.
Relentlessly, Brady was forced forward until his entire body was in contact
with the cool surface of the glass door.

        After about five minutes, Dr. Debt reached around Brady's body and
grabbed the boy's hands which had been squeezing and tweaking his own
swollen nubs throughout the long night and yanked them up and away from the
boy's chest, at the same time kicking the boy's legs until that they were
wide apart.  Then Dr. Debt leaned all of his body weight on to the boy's
back, pressing him tightly against the glass.  When Brady was finally
splayed out in an "X" pattern against the glass, Dr. Debt reached over and
flipped on the outdoor balcony lights.  And then he started grounding his
dick deeper and deeper into the boy's already ravaged hole.

        Brady immediately realized that, with the balcony light
illuminating him from the front and the man's huge bulk with its forest of
black hair behind him providing a stark contrast with his own completely
shaved body, his entire physique would be clearly visible from across the
courtyard.  Just imagining the picture he presented made his entire body
flush a vibrant red.  And then he saw to his horror that one of the
balconies directly across from his own was packed with people obviously
having a party and, what was infinitely worse, it was clear from the way
they were pointing in his direction and the raucous laughter that he could
hear even through the closed door that they could see that he was getting
fucked.

	He heard Dr. Debt maliciously laugh behind him.  "You seem to have
attracted the attention of some of your neighbors, bitch.  I think we
should give your fans a good show, don't you?"

	Having already had his ass beaten a number of times that night,
Brady knew that he had no choice but to agree.  "If you think so, sir," he
reluctantly replied.

	"Well, I do think so, bitch," the man answered.  The next thing
Brady knew, Dr. Debt had started undulating his body and begun fucking him
with a rolling motion.  Soon the man had achieved a distinct rhythm which
caused Brady's crotch to move up and down against the glass in syncopation
with the man behind him.

        Brady's boy-cock had been fully aroused for the past hour, ever
since he'd shot his first load of the evening while Dr. Debt was fucking
him on the Queen-sized bed that he and Jen shared, the bed that he and Jen
had made love on hundreds of time, the bed where he ended up spraying a
humongous load of his boy-sperm while Dr. Debt ravished his male pussy like
he was a cheap whore.

        Though Brady's dick had re-hardened almost immediately after he
shot that initial load, Dr. Debt had refused permission to cum ever since,
enjoying the look of frustrated embarrassment on the boy's face as he had
to deal with the fact that not only was he fully aroused while his pussy
was being almost continuously reamed out but he was being denied the orgasm
his gonads so obviously craved.  Now the up and down rubbing of his cock
against the glass was driving Brady wild.  'Oh, God,' he thought.  'Please
let me cum.  I've got to cum.  Oh, please let me cum.'  He said nothing,
however, because Dr. Debt had already warned him that he was not allowed to
ask for permission to cum until he was first offered that option.

	It was obvious to Dr. Debt that Brady was almost frantic in his
need to shoot the load that had been building up in his balls over the last
hour.  So he used the present opportunity to demonstrate to Brady just how
low the boy had already sunk.  "I bet those people over there are just
waiting to see you cum, bitch," he observed.  "They'd really enjoy that -
seeing a fucking fag-bitch like you cum all over himself while he's getting
his boypussy plowed.  They'd probably tell all their friends about the
disgusting display a pansy-assed faggot put on while a whole balcony full
of total strangers watched and laughed.  Is that what you want, bitch?  Do
you want to cum for them?  You want to show what a total fuck-bitch you've
become in only a few hours?  Is that what you want, bitch?

	Brady could feel his blush deepening but he couldn't help himself.
He just had to cum.  He just had to.  "Yes, sir," he responded.  "I want to
cum.  I want to show them what a horny fag-bitch I truly am.  Please, sir,
let me cum.  Please, sir."

	Dr. Debt laughed.  Then, his voice dripping with scorn, he said the
words Brady had been hoping to hear for the last hour.  "You have my
permission to cum, bitch.  Go ahead and show them what a complete boy-whore
you now are."

	Having received Dr. Debt's permission, Brady quickly abandoned any
remaining inhibitions.  He squirmed against the glass door in a frenzy,
rubbing his raw tits against its cool surface, grinding his pelvis against
it, trying desperately to increase the friction against his cock.  The
people watching him from the balcony immediately noticed his frenetic
movements and started chanting "Fag-got, Fag-got, Fag-got."  Brady ignored
them and continued to hump the glass door, raggedly panting as he
approached orgasm.  And then he was there.

	Their chant ringing in his ears, Dr. Debt's massive dong pounding
into his pussy, Brady let loose an ear-piercing scream as molten spunk
erupted from his painfully-engorged cock.  As spurt after spurt of hot cum
continued to spew from his boy-cock, he could hear the crowd's chant turn
into boisterous cheers and catcalls as the partygoers watched a degenerate
boybitch literally get the cum fucked out of him.  And behind him, Brady
could hear Dr. Debt laugh in contempt at the lurid display the boy was
providing for total strangers.  "You really are a complete whore, aren't
you bitch?" he asked.  "You really are a complete whore."  Brady was too
out of it, at that point, to even attempt to respond.

	Dr. Debt kept the boy pressed against the door for a good five
minutes after Brady had finished shooting off.  Long enough for the cum to
cool off against the boy's body; long enough for the crowd across the way
to quiet down a little, with only the occasional derisive insult being
hurled towards Brady; long enough for Brady's high to dissipate and the
feelings of humiliation and embarrassment at what had just happened to
overwhelm the sense of release he'd felt when he finally shot his load.

	"Show's over," Dr. Debt announced as he leaned forward and switched
off the balcony light, eliciting a smattering of applause from across the
way.  Dr. Debt took a step backwards, pulling Brady off the glass doorway.
Brady was able to see a reflection of himself in the glass, though it was
distorted by the smeared sweat and boy-scum he'd left behind.  Seeing
himself, his torso all slimed with his own ball-juice, his boy-dick still
sticking out hard from his shaven crotch, his swollen tits all pumped up
and purplish, he had to agree he looked just like he'd always pictured
fag-bitches in the past.  He was a fag-bitch now.  Dr. Debt had turned him
into a fucking fag-bitch.  He had never felt so dirty in his life.

	And then he realized that Dr. Debt was turning him around, using
his monster cock as a lever to move Brady's body where he wanted it.  With
a sinking feeling Brady saw they were headed back to the chair.  'Oh, God,'
he thought, "not again.  My ass is so sore already."  As if reading the
boy's mind, Dr. Debt said, "Time for another lesson, bitch.  Let's see what
you've learned.  Just remember, there's no pleasure without pain."

	Dr. Debt roughly withdrew his cock from the boy's well-used hole
and sat down.  He reached down and picked up the giant butt-plug, handed it
to Brady and then watched as the boy painfully re-inserted the plug into
his abraded and leaking pussy.  Not even bothering to stifle an amused
chuckle, he motioned for the boy to re-assume his position on the man's
lap.  As Brady stretched his body across the fleshy thighs, steeling
himself for another painful ass-thrashing, he heard Dr. Debt complete his
thought, "Of course, it's my pleasure and it's your pain."  For once Brady
was positive that the man was speaking the truth.

	Brady wasn't sure how long it took for this disgusting and
degenerate scene to replay in his mind as he stood in front of the balcony
door on Sunday afternoon, though he realized that the way the mind worked
it probably had not taken that long.  But he took it as a sign that he was
going to have to really work at blocking out the memories from Friday
night.  Every time he let one of these memories unfurl itself inside his
brain it made him question not only his sexual orientation but his basic
masculinity.  How could any man, any real man, allow another guy to do
those things to him?  Brady was sure now that Dr. Debt had orchestrated the
whole evening precisely for the purpose of instilling such doubts in him
and every time Brady relived one of those memories he was feeding those
doubts.

	"Fuck you, Dr. Debt," Brady hissed as he brought the Windex sprayer
up in the air and blasted the balcony door with multiple spurts.  "Fuck
you," he repeated as he vigorously wiped the glass down with a handi-wipe,
eradicating all physical evidence of his degrading performance just like he
wanted to erase the memory of it from his mind.  When he finally turned
away from the balcony door and moved on to other surfaces that needed
cleaning, Brady felt as if he had achieved some sort of victory, however
small, over the man.  But even then there was a nagging doubt as to whether
a memory could be cleaned up as easily as a smeared pane of glass.

	But, except for the balcony door, Brady had pretty much won the
fight with his memory that afternoon and he gave the door only a passing
glance as he headed towards his bedroom to get his wallet.

	Brady strode over to his bureau, pleased to note in passing that
everything was now back in its proper place, and picked up his wallet.  But
when he moved to put it in the pocket of his khakis, he was brought up
short.  Brady wasn't wearing his khakis.  In fact, he wasn't wearing
anything.  He was still stark naked.  'Jesus Christ,' he thought, 'I
cleaned the whole fucking apartment and I never noticed I wasn't wearing
any clothes.  That's hard to believe."  But since he was standing there
without a stitch covering him, it was obviously what he'd done.  He
wondered if his sudden penchant for nudity was some leftover effect from
Friday night but he was in a hurry to get to Lowe's and didn't want to
dwell on it.

	He opened the bureau drawer, pulled out a pair of shorts and
stepped into them.  Then he slid on a pair of sandals and walked over to
his closet.  He selected a gold muscle shirt that he knew showed off his
body really well and pulled it over his head.  Looking in the mirror to see
how he looked, Brady noticed that the points on his tits were showing
through the shirt.  'They need a little work,' Brady thought as he brought
his fingers up and started squeezing and pulling on both nubs.  After a
couple of minutes, he checked himself out again and was pleased to see that
this tits were now really standing out from his muscled chest, kind of like
the headlights on a car.  And then, suddenly, as if waking up from a dream,
Brady came back to the reality of what he had just done.

	"What the fuck!" he exclaimed.  "What the fuck am I doing?"  His
bloated nipples now bulged out over his pecs, looking more like a woman's
pair of tits that a man's nubs.  'Jesus,' he thought.  'That bastard really
did a number on my mind.  I'm going to have to really watch myself for the
next couple of days.  What would Jen say if she came here and saw me
squeezing and working my tits.  God Damn It!' he interrupted himself.
'They're nipples, not tits.  A woman has tits.  A man has nipples.  Stop
thinking of them as 'tits.''

	Brady stood there, visibly upset, trying to fathom why he was
acting the way he was and wondering whether he should change shirts to try
to hide his girly nipples.  But seeing how puffed up and erect his nipples
looked, he figured that it probably wouldn't make any difference anyway.
They'd probably stand out regardless of the shirt he picked.  He just hoped
they'd go down some before Jen got back tomorrow.  Shaking his head in
disbelief, he turned away from the mirror and headed out to Lowe's.

	He arrived back in his apartment about 45 minutes later, a carpet
cleaner in hand.  He closed the door and then, after a few moments, headed
off towards the bedroom to start in there.  As he was passing the hallway
mirror, he gave it a quick glance - and stopped dead in his tracks.  He
couldn't fucking believe it.  He was naked again.  Looking behind himself
he saw his shorts and muscle shirt neatly folded, sitting on top of the
little table with his sandals on the floor next to it.  Why the fuck had he
stripped off his clothes when he came through the door?  And then, as if it
was an echo of an old dream, he heard himself saying, "Rule No. 3.  A bitch
is always naked at home and never attempts to cover himself."

	Brady had heard himself say that before, many times before, on
Friday night.  It was part of an entire lesson that he had learned.  And
then, not able to stop himself, Brady found himself spreading his legs
apart and assuming a subservient stance and begin reciting
'Mr. Bitch-Maker's Nine Rules for Male Bitches.'

	"Rule No. 1.  A bitch always does what his master orders him to do.

	"Rule No. 2.  A bitch's body is always hairless and smooth.

	"Rule No. 3.  A bitch is always naked at home and never attempts to
cover himself.

	"Rule No. 4.  A bitch never sits on furniture at home and always
sleeps on the floor.

	"Rule No. 5.  A bitch never wears underwear when he goes out and
never hides an erection.

	"Rule No. 6.  A bitch keeps his body in shape and his tits plumped
up.

	"Rule No. 7.  A bitch's body is public property and always
available for use by others.

        "Rule No. 8.  A bitch maintains an erection in the presence of a
superior but never cums without permission.

	"Rule No. 9.  A bitch never, ever tops."

	Finished, Brady stood there feeling a mixture of satisfaction and
relief.  He had been word-perfect in his recitation and he knew it and that
caused a surge of pride.  He was relieved because now he didn't have to
undergo another ass-tanning session with Dr. Debt.  And then, as had
happened so often that day, Brady found himself struggling to disentangle
his memories of Friday night from his present reality.

	But this time, Brady had gleaned an insight into what was happening
to him.  During his long session with Dr. Debt on Friday night, the man had
somehow managed to condition Brady to see himself as a 'bitch' and, because
he viewed himself as a 'bitch,' Brady was simply trying to comport himself
to 'Mr. Bitch-Maker's Nine Rules for Male Bitches.'  That explained so
much.  That's why he was not only able to strip off his clothes without
even thinking about it but it was also why he felt so comfortable being
totally naked at home.  He took another quick glance at the pile of clothes
on the little table.  No underwear, Rule No. 5.  He'd slipped on his shorts
without even considering whether or not to wear any underwear.  And that's
why he had squeezed his tits when he was finished dressing - he was
plumping them up just as Rule No. 6 required.  And with a flash another
light went on.  'That's why I was sleeping on the floor in the bedroom when
I woke up this morning.  I was obeying Rule No. 4.'

	But how, how could Dr. Debt have been so successful in conditioning
him in just one night?  Thinking back on it, Brady realized that a good
part of the success was attributable to the way Dr. Debt had conditioned
him - he had beaten it into him during their multiple spanking sessions.
The more Brady thought about it, the more obvious it became.

	The first spanking session had been a bare-handed over-the-knee
session in the dining room that was memorable both for the brutality with
which it was administered as well as the pleasure Dr. Debt obviously got
from providing it.  Brady had never even imagined that a spanking could be
so simultaneously painful and demeaning.  He had been determined to
maintain a facade of stoic indifference, but that determination had not
survived the first ten minutes of Dr. Debt's hand.  By the time that
session ended, the strapping twenty-five-year-old stud had been reduced to
a blubbering adolescent boy whose red, tear-stained face perfectly matched
his crimson burning ass-cheeks and who promised in a quivering voice to be
'good' and to do everything he was told to do.

	After Dr. Debt had finished burnishing the boy's butt, Brady found
himself standing before the man, head down, tears still freely flowing over
his cheeks, his ass a fiery cauldron, his hands held behind his back just
above his waist fighting the urge to reach down and massage his burning
buns.  Dr. Debt told him to look up.  When he did, the man began talking.

	"Now that you're a male bitch," he began, "it's important that you
know what's expected of you.  So I want you to listen very closely to what
I have to say."  And then Dr. Debt had recited 'Mr. Bitch-Maker's Nine
Rules for Male Bitches.'  When he was finished, Dr. Debt asked Brady if he
understood these rules and then quizzed him on them for a few minutes.
Brady answered correctly and then was told to remove the butt-plug from his
hole and get on all-fours in front of the TV - it was time for another
pussy-banging.  At the time, Brady thought that was the end of it.

	But an hour later, he was back in the dining room, stretched out
over Dr. Debt's lap.  This time, the man held a wooden paddle in his hand.
Brady tensed himself, expecting that the man would immediately proceed to
paddling him, but then he heard Dr. Debt order him to recite the rules for
bitches he'd learned earlier that evening.  Brady immediately wracked his
mind, trying to remember what he'd been told.  Tentatively, he started out,
"Rule No. 1."

	"No," Dr. Debt interrupted.  "You begin with the title of the
rules."  And without any further explanation, the man proceeded to
administer ten painful smashes of the paddle to Brady's ass.

	"Begin again," the man ordered.

	"Mr. Bitch-Maker's Nine Rules for Bitches," Brady started.

	"No," the man again interrupted.  "It's 'Mr. Bitch-Maker's Nine
Rules for Male Bitches."  Ten more vicious strokes to Brady's ass followed.
"Again," the man directed.

	His voice now audibly cracking, Brady tried it again.
"'Mr. Bitch-Maker's Nine Rules for Male Bitches.'  Rule No. 1.  A bitch
always does what his master orders.  Rule No. 2."

	"No," Dr. Debt again intervened.  "A bitch always does what his
master orders him to do."  Once again, Brady's butt-cheeks received another
ten strokes.  "Again," Brady was ordered.

	Brady was fighting back tears as he started again.  "Rule No. 1.  A
bitch..."  That was as far as he got before Dr. Debt yelled "No!"

	"Are you defying me, bitch, or are you just stupid?" the man
screamed at Brady.  "When you make a mistake, you start at the beginning.
You start with 'Mr. Bitch-Maker's Nine Rules for Male Bitches.'"  With
that, he began whacking Brady's buns with an uncontrolled fury, causing the
boy to squeal in pain.

	"I'm sorry, sir," Brady cried out, as the assault continued well
past the normal ten strokes.  "I'm just stupid, sir.  I'm just stupid.  I
wasn't defying you, sir.  I'm just stupid."  Brady began sobbing audibly as
his ass flared with searing pain.

	Eventually, Dr. Debt brought his anger under control.  He delivered
one last blistering smack to the boy's ass and then stopped.  He took a
couple of deep breaths and then, his voice normal as if nothing had
happened, he told to boy to begin again.

	His own voice thick with tears, Brady started again,
"Mr. Bitch-Maker's Nine Rules for Male Bitches."

	And that was how it went during the session with a paddle.  It
seemed endless.  Twice Brady made it all the way to Rule No. 9, only to
screw up and be forced to start all over.  When he finally successfully
made it through all nine rules, he felt a wave of relief wash over him.
Which immediately evaporated when he heard Dr. Debt tell him to do it
again.  But, to his own surprise, he managed to do it again without a
single mistake.  Dr. Debt must have been surprised, too, because he
actually told Brady that he had done very well.  And with that, he told the
boy to stand up and prepare himself for another fucking.

	But that wasn't the end of it.  Later that evening, when Brady
found himself once more stretched across the man's lap, Dr. Debt's hand now
holding what he called 'a slapper,' he was again required to recite the
male bitch's rules.  He managed to complete them this time with only two
mistakes, for both of which he received a twenty-stroke punishment.  But
then, after Brady had successfully repeated that performance two more
times, Dr. Debt told him to do it again, only this time he had to finish in
under thirty seconds.

	Up until that point, Brady had been slow and methodical in reciting
the rules for male bitches, since his overwhelming concern had been to be
sure that he didn't make any mistakes.  Now, in order to finish the
recitation in time, he was forced to speed up.  And, once again, he began
making mistakes.

        It soon became another painful session over Dr. Debt's knee, as the
slapper repeatedly smashed into Brady's already blistered and glowing
globes.  Eventually, Brady realized that if he tried too much to think of
what he was saying he invariably made a mistake or stumbled over a word -
which Dr. Debt treated as a mistake.  He had to just rely on his memory and
let it take over and have his conscious mind pretty much just listen to
what came out of his mouth so he could later identify any mistake if he
made one.  That approach seemed to work because in the end he was able to
recite 'Mr. Bitch-Maker's Nine Rules for Male Bitches,' four times in a row
without a mistake, each time in under thirty seconds.

	But when the final spanking session rolled around, though Brady
didn't realize at the time that it was the last session, Dr. Debt again
bumped up the ante.  This time he used a crop and began by giving Brady's
already well-bruised ass a good ten-minute cropping.  Even though, having
already experienced three spankings, Brady knew from the start he'd
eventually end up bawling like a little kid, it was still humiliating to
hear himself tearfully beg Dr. Debt not to crop his ass so hard and promise
he'd try harder to please the man.

        After the initial cropping, it was back to 'Mr. Bitch-Maker's Nine
Rules for Male Bitches.'  This time, though, Dr. Debt would simply say
'Rule No. 6' and Brady was expected to immediately respond with the rule.
The slightest hesitation earned the boy twenty-five hard ones from the
crop.

	Once again, Brady found he was relying solely on his reflexive
memory to get him through.  After only a few minutes, even he was surprised
at how quickly he was providing the text of the rule being called out.  It
was like there was no thought-process involved at all; the rules,
themselves, had become part of his mental template.  And that was obviously
what Dr.  Debt had intended.  Now, two days after his session with
Dr. Debt, Brady was instinctively following those rules in his daily life.
He had obviously internalized his status as a male bitch and he was
conforming to Mr. Bitch-Maker's rules without even thinking about them.
Dr. Debt had conditioned the boy to think of himself as a male bitch and to
act accordingly and that's what Brady had been doing all day.

	Finally understanding why he'd been acting the way he'd been, the
question for Brady became what could he do about it.  How could he break
Dr. Debt's conditioning?  The first thing he did was walk back to the small
table, pick up the shorts and put them back on.  Immediately, he was
overcome with the feeling that he was doing something wrong, something he'd
be punished for.  He could feel his heart begin to race and his breathing
become ragged.  He was having a panic attack.

	He tried to reason his way out of it but after just a couple of
minutes, he couldn't help himself.  He reached down and shucked off his
shorts.  Almost simultaneously, his heart rate and respiration returned to
normal.  'Fuck man,' he thought.  'It's worse than I thought.'  It was
obviously going to take a real effort to make any headway against his
conditioning and probably a lot of time, too.  And, just then, time was in
short supply.  He had to get his apartment cleaned up and the carpet
cleaner back to Lowe's by tomorrow morning.

	He stood there in the hallway trying to figure out what to do.
Finally, he decided to postpone confronting his conditioning and just
finish cleaning up the apartment.  He could deal with his de-programming
later, but he needed to get the stains out of the carpet now.  With a sense
of relief, he tossed his shorts back on the table, picked up the carpet
cleaner and headed on into his bedroom bare-assed naked, the way he now
felt comfortable.

	He stayed naked the rest of the evening.  It took almost three
hours of work with the carpet cleaner before he succeeded in totally
eliminating all of the cum and piss stains.  After he was done, he made
himself a sandwich, which he ate standing up in his kitchen.  Then he went
back to his living room and turned on the TV.  But when he felt himself
settling down on the floor to watch it, he decided to return to the fight
against his conditioning.

	He stood up, moved back to the sofa, and sat down on it.  He was
now violating Rule No. 4.  In just seconds, Brady could feel his heart rate
accelerate and his breathing deepen.  This time, however, he was determined
to break his programming.  But despite his determination, Brady only lasted
about five minutes before he found himself sliding on to the floor.

	He stayed on the floor for most of the next two hours, though twice
more he forced himself to sit on the couch.  Each time he did, though, he
experienced the same reaction he had the first time and it was only a
matter of minutes before he returned to his place on the floor.  Already,
Brady was coming to grips with the reality that it was unlikely that he'd
be able to completely break his conditioning before Jen returned and he
decided to concentrate on those rules most likely to create immediate
problems - Rule No. 3, which required him to be naked at all times in his
apartment, and Rule No. 4, not so much the part of not sitting on the
furniture but the part about sleeping on the floor.  He had frequently
stretched out on the living room floor to watch TV in the past, but how
could he explain sleeping on the bedroom floor?

	Around 11:00 p.m., Brady decided it was time to go to bed - or at
least try to go to bed.  He got up from the floor and turned off the TV.
Glancing at the balcony glass door, he realized that anyone looking in
would see him naked again.  And not just naked.  His dick had been achingly
erect ever since he returned from Lowe's.  His neighbors could see him
naked and hard, just like he'd been on Friday night when he'd provided them
with his degrading sex show.  He was embarrassed by that but he made no
move to cover himself or close the blinds.  His body was public property
now and his neighbors had a right to enjoy it.

	Instead, he slowly crossed the room and then turned off the light.
He headed to the bedroom knowing that he was about to face the greatest
challenge so far.  He was determined to sleep in his bed tonight,
regardless of how it felt.

	As it turned out, Brady did manage to spend over an hour in his bed
that night but he didn't do any sleeping while he was there.  From the
moment he lay down, the sense of wrongdoing and impending doom just
smothered him.  He fidgeted and tossed and turned unable to get into a
comfortable position.  The only time he was remotely at ease was when he
was lying on his back, his fingers squeezing and pulling at his tits.
Brady knew what he was doing but he figured that there was no way his tits
were going to be anywhere near their former size by the time Jen got home
anyway so it didn't really matter.  At least working on them somewhat eased
the incredible tension he was feeling.

	But, after an hour, he'd had enough.  His tits were really sore
again and, besides, he needed to get some sleep.  So he rolled out of bed
and curled up on the floor, keenly aware as he did so that all his tension
was rapidly abating.  With his fingers lightly rubbing his super-enlarged
and tender tits, he finally fell asleep.

	A few hours later he woke to find himself drenched in sweat.  He
had been having a nightmare.  No, not so much a nightmare as a vivid
reenactment of what Dr. Debt had done to him on Friday.  In his dream, he
was lying dead-center on his dining room table, legs splayed around
Dr. Debt's disgusting belly, looking at the giant looming above him,
pummeling his hole with unflagging fury.  Brady was thrashing around in
agony when Dr. Debt came to a sudden stop.  "Well, will you look at that?"
he exclaimed.  "Guess you're not as straight as you let on, bitch."

	Brady had been looking up at the man fucking him, watching his
fleshy face screwed up with pleasure, trying to deal with the realization
that this gross behemoth was the man who'd taken his cherry, the man who
was fucking him now, the man who would doubtless be fucking him again and
again as the hours ticked off, when he heard Dr. Debt's derisive comments.
He followed the man's glance down to his own groin.

        The man's obscenely fat belly was draped over the bottom of Brady's
torso, completely covering his balls and the lower part of his penis.  But
the upper part of his cock was visible.  And it was obvious at a glance
that Brady's boy-dick was not only fully boned up but was also coated with
a layer of pre-cum which seemed to be seeping continuously from his slit.
Despite everything, despite the intense pain he was feeling, despite the
all-encompassing repulsion he felt for this gross, distorted version of a
man, Brady was sexually aroused.  He was turned on by what this man was
doing to him.  He was turned on by being fucked by a man who was quite
possibly the least attractive man he had ever seen in his life.  What the
hell was going on with him?  What type of sick faggot slut was this man
turning him into?

	"I'd bet you'd like to cum, bitch," Dr. Debt asked with a leer.  "I
bet you'd like nothing better than to shoot a big juicy load from you
little boy-dick, wouldn't you, bitch?"

	Brady glared up at the man, his embarrassment at his aroused
condition manifesting itself as anger.  'Fuck you,' he thought, as he
looked at his assailant.  'Fuck you.'  But when Dr. Debt's face began to
shift from amusement to anger, Brady's own anger dissolved itself into
fear.  "Yes, sir," he heard himself softly reply.  "Yes, sir."

	Dr. Debt gave him a grim smile.  "Yes, what, bitch?"

	Brady swallowed.  "Yes, I'd like to shoot a load from my little
boy-dick, sir," he responded with embarrassment.

	"Then beg for it, bitch," the man ordered with a smirk.  "I want
you to tell me how much you enjoy having my huge cock coring out your
pussy, how much your little bitch-cunt loves being banged by a real man,
how getting your boytwat fucked is just driving you crazy with the need to
shoot your own pathetic little load.  That's what I want to hear.  Now,
bitch!"

	The surge of anger that Brady felt made his face turn beet red -
anger at the man for forcing him to degrade himself so completely, anger at
his own impotence in being unable to prevent it, anger at his incredible
stupidity in putting himself in this situation in the first place.
Ultimately, though, Brady's anger was feckless and he knew it.  The man
would beat the words out of him if he didn't say them willingly.

        Slowly, in a voice suffused with self-loathing, Brady told the man
what he wanted to hear.  "Oh, please, sir, let me cum.  Your big dick is
rammed so deep inside my boypussy that it's driving me crazy.  I need to
cum so bad, sir.  I want to cum while your giant cock is banging the hell
out of my aching boy-cunt.  My little boy-dick really needs to shoot.
Please, sir, can I cum?  Oh, please, sir, let me cum."

	And then, to his surprise and utter mortification, Dr. Debt sneered
down at him.  "I don't think so, bitch.  I think you'd enjoy it more if you
waited and let those little gonads of yours really pump out the boy-seed.
That's the problem with you horny bitches.  You're always looking for
instant gratification, always thinking about yourselves instead of properly
servicing the man who's riding you.  So you just squeeze your bitch pussy
around my man-meat and worry about my pleasure.  I'll let you know when you
can cum.  Got that, bitch?"

	Beneath the man, Brady's entire body had turned a bright scarlet.
He couldn't believe the man had made him so completely debase himself by
begging to be allowed to cum while his boypussy was being violently reamed
out only to turn around and refuse him any release.  What a twisted
motherfucker!  What a sick, twisted motherfucker!

	Brady was brought back to reality by a particularly painful thrust
up his boy-cunt.  He looked up at the man to see Dr. Debt glaring down at
him.  "I told you, bitch, to tighten your pussy.  Now you either tighten it
or I'm going start deep-dicking you.  Understand, bitch?"

	"Yes, sir," Brady replied with resignation.  "I'll tighten my
pussy, sir.  Sorry, sir."

	Struggling to get his already bruised and hurting anal muscles to
tighten around the man's giant monster, Brady forced down a moan as the
pain again flared.  He turned his head to the side and looked at the
camcorder that had been recording this entire degrading scene.  He stared
at the camera lens open-eyed, forcing himself not to cry, knowing if he did
it would only increase the man's enjoyment.  He couldn't help groaning,
however, as Dr. Debt picked up the speed of his assault as he got nearer
and nearer to his orgasm, an orgasm he had just denied to Brady.

	It was at that point in his nightmare that Brady had awakened to
find himself lying on the floor of his bedroom, sweat coating his entire
body, his own cock painfully erect and leaking pre-cum, his pussy flexing
itself against an imaginary intruder.  While the nightmare had been a
figment of his memory, his aroused state was all too real.  He was so
fucking horny.  So fucking horny.  He knew it would take only a single firm
stroke to get himself off.  He needed to cum so bad.  But he just couldn't
bring himself to move his hand to his cock.  "God damn you, Dr. Debt," he
swore in the darkness.  "God damn you to hell."

	The tears which he had held back in his dream now began to flow
freely.  "What the fuck am I going to do?" he asked himself in his growing
despair.  "What the fuck am I going to do?"  No answer came to him out of
the night.  Eventually, his tears dried up and his heart stopped pounding
in his chest.  Still exhausted by the events of the weekend, Brady
eventually drifted back to sleep, but even as he did so he was aware of the
throbbing tube of boy-dick lying on his groin and the aching need for
release.

	And so it went for the remainder of Sunday night.  Brady would
lapse into a fitful sleep for a few hours only to find himself suddenly
awakened by terrible nightmares which invariably left him sweaty and
painfully aroused and struggling with the frustration of not being able to
get himself off until finally his exhaustion again gained the upper hand
and he drifted back to sleep.

	Brady heard his alarm go off on Monday morning with a sense of
relief.  He hadn't really got that much rest during the night but Brady
figured just being up and about would help him take his mind off his
painfully-erect cock and his abiding need to drain his balls.  He took a
few minutes to make up the bed, which he had only spent an hour on during
the night, and then headed off to take his morning shower.

	As he crossed the bathroom, he picked up the can of shaving cream
and his razor.  It was going to be obvious to Jen when she arrived that
night that he had shaved his body so there didn't seem any reason to
confront that issue right now.  He lathered up the areas of his body that
seemed most prickly to the touch and then began running the razor up and
down his body.

        The whole process proceeded much faster than it had on Friday
morning; of course, there was a lot less hair to shave off now.  The only
areas in which he really took his time were his crotch and his pussy.  He
didn't want to nick himself in either of those two areas.  But even though
he went slow in shaving his genitals and his twat-hole, the whole process
only consumed about ten minutes.  When he was done, Brady put down the
razor and shaving cream, picked up a fresh bar of soap, and stepped under
the warm water.

	As he soaped himself up, Brady was pleased to notice how smooth and
sleek his skin felt and looked.  He had feared that the previously unshaved
areas of his body, particularly his groin and ass, might erupt with razor
bumps after he shaved himself on Friday, but Brady saw no sign of them as
he examined himself.

        Looking down at his totally denuded body, Brady wondered why more
dudes didn't shave, particularly guys who worked out.  Shaving really made
his muscles stand out and they even made his little boy-cock look bigger.
He turned off the water and reached for a towel.  As he rubbed the plush
cotton towel across his body, feeling the way it felt on his denuded skin,
Brady had an epiphany.  He liked the way he looked totally shaven and he
liked the way his skin felt.  Regardless of what happened in his battle
with Dr. Debt's conditioning, he was going to keep shaving his body.  Jen
would just have to get used to the new look.

	After showering, Brady made his way to the kitchen and fixed
himself a bowl of cereal, which he ate as he walked through his apartment
making sure that everything was where it should be and that there was no
evidence of Friday night's debauchery.  Convinced that the apartment looked
ship-shape, Brady made his way back to the kitchen, washed his cereal bowl
and put it in the dishwasher, and then headed off to his bedroom to dress
for work.

	Brady picked out a pair of grey slacks that he always thought
looked good on him, the way they hugged his crotch and emphasized his
muscular ass-cheeks, and pulled them up his legs without even considering
whether he should wear a pair of boxers underneath.  He picked out a steel
blue shirt and dark grey tie and put them on.  Looking in the mirror, he
saw that his swollen nipples were clearly visible through the fabric.
'Good,' he thought, and then moved on to his shoes.

        He slipped on a pair of loafers.  He'd frequently worn these shoes
without socks before, but never at work.  He had thought that going
sockless was just a little too relaxed for his work environment.  Now that
didn't seem to matter.  No underwear meant no underwear and Brady was
pretty sure the injunction against those items covered socks, too.  So
socks were out.

	Brady checked himself out in the mirror one last time and was just
about to leave when he remembered.  'Gotta get my gym bag ready,' he said
to himself.  Right after he had finished shaving his body for the first
time and been so appalled by how he looked, Brady had made up his mind that
he wouldn't be going back to the gym until his body hair had begun to grow
back.  Now, however, he liked the way his totally shaved body looked and,
if anything, was anxious to show it off.  Besides, Rule No. 6 required that
he keep his body in shape and that was one rule that Brady didn't see any
reason to fight.

	He went through his bag to assure himself that everything he needed
was in it.  Then, after a moment's hesitation, he reached in and extracted
his jockstrap.  'Definitely underwear,' he concluded, tossing it into his
closet.  He'd be exercising commando from now on.  Satisfied that
everything else was there, he zipped up the bag, hefted it over his
shoulder, and headed off to work.

	It was nearly 6:30 p.m. when Brady got back to his apartment.  The
very first thing he did was to rip his clothes off.  This wasn't so much in
obedience to Rule No. 3 as it was the need he felt to stop the fabric of
his slacks from rubbing against the head of his rigid cock.  He had been
hard most of the day and the constant friction between his flaring
cock-head and the cotton of his pants had been driving him crazy.  In fact,
the whole day had been pretty much of a nightmare.

	Brady had thought that the no underwear rule would be one of the
least difficult of Mr.  Bitch-Maker's rules to follow.  And it might not
have been so bad if he wasn't prevented from masturbating by Rule No. 8.
If his boy-dick had been flaccid during the day it would have been
generally unnoticeable, hanging down one of his pant-legs.  But in its
tumescent state it couldn't help but create a noticeable bulge, a bulge
Brady was prohibited from doing anything to hide.

	That was bad enough.  But Brady was a women's shoe salesman and his
job not only meant that he had to be physically close to a customer but
frequently required that he help her try on the pair of shoes she was
interested in.  To do that, he had to be sitting on a low pad in front of
her, his own legs spread apart, his crotch directly in the customer's line
of vision which made it almost impossible for any customer to miss the fact
that he was sporting wood.

	Brady had realized this almost immediately but there was nothing he
could do about it so he was in a state of increasing embarrassment and
agitation as the day wore on.  And it certainly didn't help that a number
of the women looking for shoes that Monday had been really hot - just the
type of woman he was attracted to.  When he was waiting on those women,
Brady's sexual excitement increased and he could feel this boy-dick
straining against the fabric of his crotch which only served to increase
his arousal.

	He was waiting on one particularly hot blonde in mid-afternoon when
he heard her snigger.  She was dressed to the nines, carrying a Kate Spade
handbag, and had picked out two pairs of Pliner sandals and a pair
Badgely-Miska pumps to try on.  When he looked up at her questioningly, he
saw that her eyes were fixed on his groin.  He followed her gaze to his
crotch and was horrified to see not only the outline of his fully engorged
cock but a growing stain at his cockhead where pre-cum was obviously
leaking out.

        Brady looked back up at the woman and flashed a rueful smile,
hoping to defuse the situation.  She responded with a scornful smile of her
own.  She leaned forward and whispered to him.  "You're way out of your
league, Mr." she paused as she read his name tag, "Armstrong.  I don't date
salesboys, regardless of what they're selling," and as she said the phrase
'regardless of what they're selling,' she made a point of looking straight
at Brady's crotch.  "Even pretty salesboys like you," she added as she
raised her eyes so that she was again looking him directly in the face, "so
you just keep your little pop-gun inside your pants.  Okay?"

	"Yes, ma'am.  I'm really sorry, ma'am," Brady meekly apologized,
feeling his face turning crimson in embarrassment.  Brady had no way of
knowing whether his abject apology had mollified the woman but she did buy
one of the sandals so it still was a successful sale.

	But while this encounter had been the worst during his work-day it
was by no means the only one.  He could tell that a number of customers
were definitely put-off by being waited on by a boy with an obvious
erection and his total sales for the day were significantly below his
normal average.  If this kept up, his commissions were going to take a
serious hit.

	And things hadn't been much better at the gym, though there it was
the guys who seemed to take the most offense.  It had started at the
bench-press when he asked an acquaintance to spot him as he maxed out.  The
guy was standing behind Brady's head, hands right underneath the bar, as
Brady was struggling to press 240 pounds for the fifth time, when the guys
exclaimed, "Jesus, dude, you're throwing a rod."  A quick glance down his
body disclosed that his hard dick was now shooting straight into the air,
completely tenting out his nylon shorts.  Startled by this discovery, Brady
totally lost concentration and, but for the spotter's quick intervention,
might have dropped the weights right onto his chest.

	Once the two of them had managed to get the bar back in the rack,
the spotter looked down at him.  "Dude, you're not even wearing a jock.
What's up with that?"

	Thinking quickly, Brady explained that he and his girlfriend were
experiencing trouble having a baby and his doctor had suggested that part
of the problem might be compressive underwear and that he should avoid
briefs and jockstraps.  His spotter considered this response for a moment
but then a frown creased his face.  "Well, dude, I can understand about the
jockstrap, but that doesn't explain the boner.  I mean, some other guy sees
me standing with my crotch just inches from your face while you're showing
a chubbie sticking right up in the air might get the wrong impression about
me - like I was into that shit or something.  Sorry, dude, but maybe you
should get one of your own to spot you."  And with that, the guy just
walked away.

	There was no way of mistaking the implication of what the guy had
said - only a horny faggot would be getting an erection while he worked out
in a gym.  That really upset Brady.  It was bad enough that in the context
of sexually servicing Dr. Debt in return for the twelve grand the man had
repeatedly referred to Brady as a 'fag' and a 'bitch,' but to have a
relative stranger at a public gym make the same judgment was infinitely
worse.  It went to the core of Brady's own self-perception.

	And if the incident in the gym had been damaging to Brady's
self-image, Brady's experiences in the locker-room and shower were even
more corrosive.  Even though Brady realized that he might have made the
same snap judgment as to the sexual proclivities of a completely shaven guy
who brazenly walked through the locker room, stood in the showers, and sat
in the sauna legs spread wide apart, all done with a hard cock jutting
straight out from his groin, it was still unsettling to hear the murmured
comments thrown in his direction.  But it was particularly humiliating to
hear some of these derisive comments come from guys he'd known at the gym
for years, guys he thought of as his 'work-out buds.'  Apparently, all it
took was a few scant seconds for them to reclassify him from 'a straight
dude,' to 'a horny fag.'

        And Brady had also attracted the attention of a pair of locker room
'lurkers,' older guys who hung around for hours in the locker room but
never seemed to make it to the exercise equipment.  They were staring
directly at his naked body and smirking, making no effort to hide their
interest in him.  One of them actually tore his eyes from Brady's exposed
groin long enough to look him directly in the face and then, seeing he had
Brady's attention, opened his mouth slightly and ran his tongue back and
forth between his parted lips.  The invitation was unmistakable and Brady
found himself blushing furiously.  His weekend metamorphosis from
unattainable straight stud to readily available boy-whore was apparently
obvious to everyone in the locker room, and that he found humiliating.

	By the time Brady made it home that evening, all he wanted to do
was get out of his clothes and relax, naked, in the comfort of his own home
for a couple of hours.  He had to go pick Jen up at the airport at 9:20
p.m., and he was sure things would probably be a little dicey after that.
But until then he just wanted to chill.  As he passed the hallway mirror on
the way to the living room he took a glance at himself, naked, shaven, his
tits jutting out all big and swollen from his chest, his boy-dick hard as a
rock arching up from his groin.  'Looking good, bitch,' he thought to
himself.  'Looking good.'  And as he kept walking his right hand moved to
his pecs and he began kneading and pulling on his left tit.  He had to keep
working on his tits if he wanted to keep them nice and big like they should
be.