Be careful what fantasies you tell

by John Stephen Rymell

Fantasies about body modification, submission and humiliation.

I was thinking about getting you here for a weekend. Put a collar and chain on you the moment you arrive and tell you to take your clothes off and lead you to the terrace where I tie you up to the fence in the shade.

Then I prepare the front room for you. My friend (a professional piercer) arrives and prepares.

I tie your hands behind your back and put you in a rubber hood with an internal pump-up gag and your eyes covered. I pump the gag up just enough so that you dribble and can’t speak.

Then I lead you into the front room where you lie down in comfort. Then I tie your arms and legs out spread-eagled on the floor so any attempt to struggle free is futile.

Then I get out the piercer’s desensitising spray, feed a bump of ketamine up your arse and give you some poppers which you have to breathe in through your mask...

You start to feel incredibly horny, and touching any part of you gives you electric-like tingles which force your ever-hardening cock into the air. Which is useful.

Because I then spray a part of your body so that you won’t feel anything as the piercing needle goes through your pinched open piss tube and straight down through the underside glans. It’s not painful, but the sensation is so powerful you go into a calm trance as you feel a thick piece of metal follow the piercing needle into the top of the cock and pushed through to come out the underside of the priapic member standing to attention for the piercer and me. You then feel your cock being tugged from inside and hear a small clink as you realise that you’ve been given a PA. You can’t hold back and your dick pulses uncontrollably and within seconds you’ve shot the biggest load you can remember. The sensation of the cum rubbing past your new ring, spinning it round till the ball hits your glans on the outside makes you jerk more and within seconds after cumming you suddenly shoot another load, not just over your body, but me, the piercer and the mirror behind us. Even the cameraman gets spunked and has to wipe the camera lens. All the time no one has touched you after the piercing went in—you just came with the thought of that PA hanging out of your cock.

After a few minutes when you rejoin the real world you feel a beautiful cold sensation on the head of your metal dick as the piercer uses antiseptic to leave it clean and safe.

You’re dying to see what it looks like but you’re still blindfolded. Then you feel your right hand being freed and a thin medical rubber glove being put on it. Then you can feel lube being liberally smeared all over it.

“OK, boi. You can feel what your new addition is. But approach it slowly and handle your nob gently.”

With faster breath you slowly start to touch your helmet, and you feel 4 mm of thick stainless steel locked into your still stiff member. This discovery is such a shock that it makes you go hot and almost faint as your mind reels in ecstasy and you shoot a third load as hard as the first two.

You come to, lying in a bed, with your hood removed but feet tied to the bed and what look like black boxing gloves strapped and padlocked onto your hands. Just black leather balls on the end of your arms.

A hooded man head to toe to fingertip in black rubber brings a straw to your lips and you suck up beautiful fresh cold water. You’re not sure if any of this has been real—even right now.

“Sit up and look at yourself in the mirror, boi” You gasp.

Your body is completely unpierced. It’s amazing what a bump of ketamine, a few light bits of electro, some simple props and the power of suggestion can do

You start taking deep breaths as your deepest fantasies are realised but never thought they would happen. Suddenly your dick starts to pulse and before you have a choice a spume of cum shoots out splashing on your face and dousing the walls. You start to feel warm and ecstatic, as though you’re floating on air. You’re light-headed but so happy. A smile starts across your face. This is good because it enables the piercer to grab your lip. You are puzzled for a moment then begin to feel a clamp over your lower lip, and then a sharp pain. Your eyes focus as you see your reflection in the mirror, now with a labret.

You can’t believe what’s happening. It’s what you have always wanted, but didn’t wanted. Yes, it’s what you want, but you know you can’t have it. Your life isn’t like this. Your workmates at the bank, even your gay friends—they can’t see you like this. It was just a fantasy.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

You look at the piercer and for the first see that he is white hot. Cheek bones, six-pack, the lot. You can’t move as the ropes are nice and tight, but hardly struggle in the comfortable bondage to a muscled angel curling his lips and smiling at you in such satisfaction. You’re past cumming now and have entered a state of heightened bliss.

“That’s enough for now, you sexy boi”, says the piercer. “I’m Pearce.” (“Oh, for fuck’s sake, that’s so corny,” you think.)

“No, really, that’s my real name”, he follows, as though you had spoken aloud. “I saw you looking through those tattoo photos earlier at the hairdressers.”

Hairdressers? How does he know? He was there? What’s going on? Shit, this is deeper than I thought. Fuck.

“I saw you pausing much longer on those tribal head tattoos.” But with that sharp, hot haircut, you’ve still got hair over your head. Can’t do a head tattoo with hair on!”

You realise that you can actually speak. The gag’s been out for several minutes but you have been speechless.

“Huh? I’m not sure I—you mean you’re—oh shit no—please no—it was just a fantasy.” “That turns you on big time.”

“Yeah, but.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to do it now.”

“We’ve got to get you into some bleachers and a tight Fred Perry, some boots and a nice pair of braces.”

“But, but, my work? I can’t go to work like that?” “Wanna bet?”

“No—please, ...”

You start to get a massive purple hard on. You so want it but so don’t want it. You are getting more and more light-headed. You start to yield and relax as your real world thoughts start to vanish and your deepest desires come to the fore.

“It really turns me on, but I cou—”

A gag goes on. Four hunks head to toe in black rubber come in to the room and each grabs a wrist or ankle. Your ties are taken off. But you are still held.

“Stand up, boi.”

He comes towards you with a pair of bleached 501s. With red braces already attached. “OK. Left leg in. That’s it. Now right leg.”

You feel the tight denim cling to your legs. He pulls the jeans up which fit like a glove. A tight rubber glove. He presses your pulsating dick into the left side of the fly and buttons you up. Tightly. You cannot believe the feeling. You cannot understand how this happened. You love it. You’re frightened.

“OK. Boots.”

“Just 20-hole cherry reds. We don’t want to be conspicuous, do we? He-he!”

The two fit guys holding your ankles start to put on and lace up the boots so quickly they’re done up and fastened tight around your calves. The feeling of the bleachers against your legs and now the boots which are so unbelievably comfortable but which you can feel as though they’re welded on...

“OK. A nice XS dark blue Fred Perry will do nicely. Put him in it, lads.”

The two wrist attendants lift your arms up and before you know it you are sealed into a fresh new Fred Perry, tucked into the jeans, and the braces put over your shoulders. Your jeans are leaking with so much precum it looks like you’ve pissed yourself.

“OK lads. Put him back in position.”

You’re put back lying down but with your head in some type of brace. You can’t move. You can’t look from side to side.

Everyone else leaves the room. The lights go out. You are in total darkness.

“What the fuck?” You are now becoming really scared, but still with an almighty hard on.

You suddenly think through your haze, “this beats Alton Towers any day.” You smile and laugh at the trite thought, then your heart starts to race again as you realise something real is happening. What you’ve always dreamt about. But which you though you could never do. The thoughts about your real world start to fade as you fully start to accept your situation, and sweat and horniness take over.

You don’t know how long it’s been when the lights go on again.

A well-built, muscled man approaches—he’s quite young but unusually fit and masterful in his bearing. You stare at his face. A clean cut beautiful left side of his face, which you immediately reel at, but then he turns his head to show his full black tribal tattoo covering all the right side of his face. He’s is beautiful. Why has he done this to himself? You hesitate with thoughts racing through your mind and then decide that the permanent facial marking just makes him more beautiful and even hotter.

You come. Your bleachers get wetter and wetter.

One of the guys that held your wrists earlier comes in. He’s got clippers and a razor. “OK. Hold tight boi, this is going to be a trip and a half! Ha!”

You can’t move in your head brace. But none of it touches anywhere where your hair is. The pillow is removed from under your head and the head rest is put down. Your head is now suspended in mid-air.

Trip-and-a-half man turns on the clippers and there’s that busy hum. Before you can say ‘shit’ the clippers graze your scalp and you can fell the hair coming off. Within less than a minute the clippers are turned off.

“Just need the left side shaved, boi”.

He flannels hot water onto your shaved side of the head, then sprays shaving gel and massages it in.

“This need to be nice and close, eh, boi?” “EH, BOI?”

“YES, SIR!” you shout. You’ve never called anyone Sir before. It just came out. You feel home at last. You are wallowing in contentment. But still on edge and still hard—so hard you think your dick is going to tear your bleachers open any minute.

He glides the razor over your head. You’ve never felt this before. You can’t believe how sensuous it feels. You dribble unconsciously and start to feel it down your chin, which turns you on even more.

As you catch your breath, you see him bring forward a tray with tattooing equipment on. You pass out.

You start taking deep breaths as your deepest fantasies are realised but never thought they After some weird dreams, you wake up but not sure whether the dreaming has stopped. A beautiful hot muscled man looks over you and you see two rows of eight spikes making a metal mohawk in his head. The words ‘died’ and ‘heaven’ go through your thoughts. This is so fucking hot, but please, don’t let it be real. I know it’s what I’ve been jerking off to for oh so long, but that was just fantasy...

Mohawk says to you, ‘You OK, boi?’ You instinctively say’ Yes, Sir! Thank you, Sir!’ (Where does this response come from?)

OK. You need to just breathe deeply and slowly and just let a smile dawn across your gorgeous face. Your plain, pure, gorgeous face.

You feel some sort of head restraint fitted and you can no longer move your head in any direction. Suddenly a ball gag is thrust into your mouth at the same time you feel slimy wet something on your arse—no, up your arse. The chair you’re on has ‘rear access’ you realise. What feels like a few fingers start to work your arse and slowly after several minutes... maybe 30 minutes, it feels like four fingers are up there—no—no—it can’t be—my arse doesn’t stretch that...

You take a very large deep breath and know that Mohawk has his whole fist up your arse. This cannot be happening. It must take months to... You feel his fingers and fist rotate and pleasure your insides and then what must be his index finger started to stroke your prostate. Not just stroke it, he’s flicking it hard with his finger. This is an unbelievable feeling—as though ten ton trucks are rolling up and down your prostate—it’s unbearable, bearable, unbearable, bearable, shiiiit! Oh my fuck, ahh, ahhh, ahhhh!

Mohawk wipes the cum off you and the chair with his free hand, then over what seems likes days slowly pulls his fist out of your arse—it’s like he’s pulling through miles and miles of tight skin. Finally his hand is freed and you start to feel like an ad for the Grand Canyon in living color. Has your arse closed, or is it—as it feels—still gaping open waiting for... well waiting for... something...

That’s a baseball bat. He’s putting a condom on it. You are transfixed. He lubes the condom until the white sticky mess is dripping off the bat. The bat disappears and you know where it is going next. He does it slowly, but you want it more, and faster. Why do I so crave this wood up my crack so much? What is happening to me? You feel someone remove your gag, but you are too freaked out to speak.

Things are different. The room starts to change shape just slightly. You’re not afraid—you click that somewhere along the line you’ve been spiked—not just up the cranny, but in your head. It must be acid. Maybe K. No it’s definitely acid. The baseball bat now feels about six inches in diameter but you want it bigger, fatter. You involuntarily scream out, ‘More Sir! Please give me more Sir I love it Sir! I love you Sir! Anything... anything you want Sir! Please give it to me, Sir!’

There is a period of just beingness. Joy, Ecstasy. You feel you could take a football team of hands up your jacksie all at once. It feels like milliseconds, or is it eons?—that have passed.

As the bat starts to be withdrawn, so you start to focus on the room again. How long has it been? You experience a sated euphoria like never before. There’s a slight smell of antiseptic or something. Clean, fresh. One side of your face feels particularly sharp and comfortable. Sharp and comfortable?—how does that work?

Reality starts to whirl around you, your mind and your body. You remember where you are (or at least build up a picture of where you think you may be). Mohawk leans over and smiles—you almost come again looking at this Adonis of a man.

‘Everything OK?’ ‘Not in any pain, I hope?’

‘No, Sir!, Thank you, Sir! (Where did you learn to speak like that?) ‘Everything is fine. I feel really great, honestly, Sir!’

‘Good! That was an entertaining six hours. I loved watching Pearce working on you. You look even more fuckin’ horny than before.’

It starts to sink in. Something you didn’t appreciate was going to happen happened. But you’re not sure what. You’re still a bit in cloud-cuckoo land, floating on cotton wool.

Then the horror dawns slowly on you—you think of the sun dawning slowly that one time you were at Stonehenge at the Solstice. ‘What’s happened? What have you done? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?’

Pearce moves over and smiles at you. The chair you’re strapped into starts to become upright. Your eyes start to focus properly. There is a full length mirror in front of you.

Noooooooooo!

You start taking deep breaths as your deepest fantasies are realised but never thought they You are simultaneously turned on and horrified. You fantasised about this. But—maybe it’s just a joke. Maybe it’s just like those temporary tattoos at Brighton Pride. No. It’s not. The entire left side of your head is now a black tribal tattoo snaking all the way down the left side of your face. It’s fuckin’ beautiful.

Your trippiness disappears for a moment—how the shit am I going to work with that? How do I face—face, HA!—my mum? She hated my little armband. Fuck. Oh, god—this is so wonderful. You fall back into the acid. Your markings start to animate—it’s what you always thought would be done one day—animated tattoos. Please. Please! Your fist again, Sir! Please, Sir! What is going on? You’re pleading to be fisted. 24 hours ago you’d be horrified someone could get a Kit-Kat up there.

Mohawk obliges. But he takes it very slowly. And on your trip it seems likes days pass before it slips in with a little ‘glop!’

It feels like your arse is a washing machine churning over the clothes on a warm wash. First one way, then a pause, then the other. When Mohawk gets to the spin cycle you leave your consciousness and everything is. Just everything is.

When you wake up, you’re in a large room with sunlight streaming yellow through the open French windows with a cool breeze billowing the sheer curtains. You wonder whether this some kind of film set for Scarlett. Your mind’s not completely clear: that’s been made—mid 90s, wasn’t it? Then you take a breath and realise that you’ve actually just had a pretty fabulous horny dream.

But your tits ache a bit. So you rub them—OW! What the—? Two shining rings, the thickness of, well, the thickness of things that couldn’t possible go through your nips. What, 5 mm? Suddenly you get hard and want to wank. Get a towel first. (Old habits die hard. Blame those covert wanks under the bedclothes at home when you were a teenager.) You walk past to what you think must be the bathroom through a corridor with full length mirrors on both sides and realise it might have been a dream, but it came true. You gaze at your scalp and face—astonished at the stunning tattoo from the back of your head to your jowl. Your right side is completely untouched. Then you clock the midnight blue mohawk carved into your head—set a little to the right, not central, as if it’s giving way to the majesty of your tattoo. Your dick hardens again and you grab it to wank feeling the PA between your thumb and forefinger. Oh, shit, that’s good. You tug it unconsciously, but it doesn’t hurt, it just feels unbelievable. Before you know it you’ve already cum right up one of the mirrors. Entering into the bathroom, you decide to have a shower. But then you wake up and smell the coffee. Yep. Real coffee, waiting by the side of the sink. Hot coffee. As you drink it, you then wonder how it’s hot, how someone knew you were there, having woken up, timed it right, got all—

Hi, Tatpup! It’s Mohawk. In tight red rubber. With his dick sticking out a mile, also in tight rubber. Uh? “Are those your balls?”, you spontaneously spout. “Yeah, just a litre and a half of nice salt water keeps them big and bouncy”. They must be four or five inches big, and swing between his legs as he stands like Mr Muscle. “Have your shower”, he smiles, just standing there just being everything you’ve ever wanted. You shower. He dries you. You begin to relax and think at last all that stuff is over now. Or at least hope it is. As he dries you, he deftly

He ropes your hands behind your back and leads you back to the bedroom and pushes you face down on the bed. He slops lube around and in your arse fingering you, and you realise he’s going to get his fist up there again. But he doesn’t. He pulls you up on your knees with your head supporting you on the pillow as he slides, ever so slowly, his fat cock in and out of the mouth of your arse, going in a tiny bit more at each thrust. It must be 10 minutes later when your mind is on a different plane and you feel the whole cock go in like impatient women when the doors finally open at the January sales. This is one bargain you never thought you’d get.

In the morning you wake up in a room you’ve not seen before. Shiny white walls and ceiling—and then you realise you’re enveloped in black rubber—the sheets, the pillows, the duvet cover—and you. You’ve been sweating and are sliding around in the catsuit. There’s no zip at the front so you feel round the back to unzip yourself. Nope. No zip. It feels great, but it’s very sweaty. You were probably drugged so that you were completely dead to the world while the suit was put on you. You then feel the hood, tight, but comfortable.

“Oh, good morning tatpup”, says someone you’ve not seen before. A beautiful well-built twink, naked except for a steel collar and steel ankle cuffs—and steel boxers with a chastity device protruding out of them. More coffee. “You’re gonna see some changes today that you had never thought about—I promise. But first you’re going to need to shower.” Suddenly you are hit by a torrent of, thankfully, warm water as he aims the hose at you. The water bounces off you and the bed and rubber sheets onto the floor and you see a plughole in the floor where the runaway water drains. Steeltwink approaches you and mounts onto the top of the ball, locks his arms behind your hood and loses his tongue down your throat. Literally. After a couple of minutes of the most amazing osculation, as he pulls out of your mouth you can that his tongue has somehow been stretched—or maybe it’s been surgically enlarged—to an unfeasible length. You see him lick his forehead. Suddenly your stiffy gets much harder with the thought of living with that in your mouth.

You can start to feel your massive infused balls as you try to walk sluggishly towards the door when Steeltwink stops you, pulls back a flap in your suit and presses the hose into your suit. The powerful jet quickly pushes warm water, litre by litre, second by second, into your rubber. The suit instantly begins to bulge like the Michelin man, making it difficult to walk with all that weight. Before soon you have a tonne of liquid swirling around you in every direction. Steeltwink turns the hose off and pours some sort of yellow powder through the flap before closing it and sealing the water inside you. The seal is quite watertight around your neck, but again, still comfortable. You waddle at a snail’s pace while Steeltwink just laughs at you. Within 20 seconds you click what is happening, The water is becoming thicker like wallpaper paste—or maybe, as it thickens quickly—like treacle. You have been transformed into a helpless blob, with your dick and huge balls held in place somewhere in the goo.

“Ha! You look really funny—I love it! It’ll go with your new ears perfectly!” Oh shit—more surgery—fucking Spock ears.

He watches you shuffle squeezing through the door—the suit’s not hardening like cement, you are relieved to feel. But you are in a massive, almost spherical, rubber ball with two hands and two feet sticking out. You want to eat, but there’s no way you can feed yourself.

Steeltwink knows what you’re thinking and tells you, “I’m going to enjoy feeding you breakfast this morning. Sticky egg, messy muesli, Golden Syrup on toast...”

In the kitchen—fortunately spacious enough to contain you—you just stop, exhausted. You’re your own comfy chair. Steeltwink removes your hood and starts to feed you your morning meal. But he’s not very good at it. The runny egg ends up all over your face and chin, the soggy muesli misses your mouth more than makes it and eventually he just pours it over your head. He gives you a really good cup of tea which at least he seems to be more accurate with. And finally he spreads enormous amounts of treacly Golden Syrup over some toast and starts to feed it to you. You haven’t had Golden Syrup since—what—when you were a kid, maybe five or six years old, and you love the sweet taste which brings back childhood memories. Happy memories. But not memories of the tin being poured over your head to coagulate with the soggy muesli.

You see him through bleary, sticky eyes take a pair of scissors and cut two holes in the rubber hood. He puts the hood back on your head, over the glutinous mess which sticks to your face, acting like a mushy lube. Your ears stick out through the newly cut out holes. You guess that that’s what you’ll be wearing when your ears get modded.

Pearce comes into the kitchen, wheeling a trolley of surgical equipment. “Don’t worry”, he smiles, “you really won’t feel a thing.”

“Is that diuretic from the yogurt and the laxative in the Golden Syrup taking effect yet?” grins Steeltwink.

Yes it is, you realise, as your piss mixes with the gel in the front of your suit, and you shit black gold into it at the back. You are being controlled and humiliated for the pleasure of these two gorgeous men, And you get a perverted delight at the degradation, your cock hardening in again, this time into the slush and piss inside your latex bubble.

“Here, swallow this”, says Pearce. “It’ll make you feel fucking wonderful.” More than I feel at the moment? you wonder. Pretty quickly, whatever you knocked back starts its effects—and Pearce was right. You soon can’t wait to be made more of a freak with those pointy ears. It turns you on so much you cum into the gloop in sheer ecstasy.

“Some anaesthetic for your lovely old ears.” ‘Old’ grabs your attention. You hardly feel the needle go in, but enough to give you pleasure that you are submitting to this vision in front of you. Whose ears are getting pointier as you look at his green shiny, scaly skin. And his three dimensional dancing face tatts. Hallucinogen. Had to be.

For the hour or so that this twisted surgeon works on you, you are in an exquisite fantasy world. But it’s not an hour. When eventually you start to land back on earth it’s dark outside—you’ve been tripping all day. You have grown to like the feel of the rubber ball and wonder whether that’s going to be your spongey shell for quite a while, maybe forever. No it can’t be. They wouldn’t do that—they’re damned sure to want to get to the rest of my body to mutilate it.

“OK, Big Ears!” says Pearce. “Take a look at your new lugs!”

In the mirror you baulk—no pointy ears. But you can definitely see them—as large as life. Slightly larger than life, in fact. They stick out 90 degrees to your head and you look like Alfred E. Neumann. What, me worry?

“At last—something to grab hold of when the need arises.” “I hope you like them, plugpup!” he chortles.

The rubber hood is now firmly congealed onto your head and face, with your enormous sticky-outy ears making you look very princely.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. What am I being turned into?

Having accepted your latest body mod (since you always had a thing about men with sticky out ears), you play with them while having a wank that once again coats the walls.

But Pearce and all the rest were watching you, or at least you discovered when you opened your eyes.

“Right—time for a good shower and shave.” “Yes Sir”, you automatically replied.

After 45 minutes getting rid of every possible accessible hair you are told it’s time to have some perfect fitting skinhead gear.

“OK earpig. Get these bleachers on.”

You struggle into tight bleachers which fit like a glove. You obey and put a tight dark crimson Fred Perry on. Then some thick yellow socks with 20-hole cherry reds with yellow laces, finished off with yellow braces.

“Now. Stand upright and still.”

Trip-and-a-half man then produces a largish sewing needle and some thick light blue thread. He puts one hand down your bleachers and starts to sew your Fred Perry to your bleachers just below the belt loops. After 15 minutes your shirt is permanently sewn to your jeans—like some overalls—but with no way of taking them off. Then the buttoned-up front is sewn in place with dark red thread.

Next your braces clips are screwed and locked through your bleachers.

The bleachers are cut just to the top of your boots so that everyone can see the padlocks through the top two holes.

Then the inside of the sewn up cuffs of your jeans are glued to the top of your boots—the glue sticks fast. Immediately.

You are now permanently dressed in skinhead gear.

“I wouldn’t bother trying to cut any of it off. That’s not cotton. It’s a very strong fabric that makes Kevlar seem like candy floss.

You check the fly—yes, that opens. Then you think, shit, how am I going to, well, shit? Of course as you feel behind there’s a rear zip.

“You can shower in that. The shower gel will penetrate the material and you can wash your body easily underneath. The material dissolves the dirt and it just seeps out to the outside. The boots deal with the water in the same way.”

“We’ve been nice and left you to choose whether or not to wear your MA-1. But as the shirt glows bright red in even low UV light, for example, on an overcast day. You may wish to.”

“Here, have a beer.”

You grab it and down several mouthfuls.

“Sit down here. Wait a minute.”

That minute passed. You realise there’s something definitely hallucinogenic in the beer and start to get a full stiffy and feel as horny as hell.

You are gagging to be fucked, and the whole crowd oblige one after the other. You’ve come all over your new gear. Stained with cum.

“Oh yes. One problem with that material is that cum stains stick. We don’t seem to find any way to get them off.”

You come again.

You are allowed time to yourself. Watching porn videos featuring body mods of all sorts and creativity, rubbermen, leathermen, skinheads, army recruits, marines, workmen, mummification, siliconing a guy’s balls each permanently pumped up to the size of melons, piercing, sewing up lips and eyelids, encased in rubber or duck tape just able to walk with their hands cuffed behind their back led on a chain and heavy metal collars bolted on. You must have come five times if it was once that evening, leaving more permanent stains on your unremovable skinhead gear.

You cautiously approach the shower. You think, oh well, they said it would all cope with shower gel and water.

A powerful spray jet with washing gel hits your body, or more accurately to say your skinhead gear. But you can feel the water hit your skin underneath it all too. Everything bubbles up under the clothes and boots and as you finish you can see water leaking through the material and boots leaving a completely dry set of gear—and a clean dry you.

You get into your bed—in your newly cleaned gear feeling refreshed and smelling of clean man.

After a good solid eight hours sleep you are awoken with a coffee and croissant—quite civilised you thought.

But as you bite into the croissant something feels odd. Your teeth don’t bite into it the same. Feeling your teeth you feel they are all pointed. You get up and look in the full length mirror.

You have been fitted with titanium implants replacing all your old teeth.

“We can screw in any implants we want, sorry, you want, but we liked the spiked look. Which can do likewise with your matching steel mohawk on the right side of your head.”

You look up to discover six 2” high steel spikes implanted in your head from front to back, offset to the right.

“I think we’re finally turning our transformation slave into a real freak. I think we need to see how you fare in town doing the shopping in Lidl. Here’s a card, the PIN’s your age date and month—0705. The shopping list is this.”

Just groceries. You are frightened of walking into public with people seeing all your modifications.

“Don’t worry. Tattpup will be your Master and hold your collar lead do you don’t stray. We’ll have fun. Well I will.”

Well if it’s going to be anyone completing my humiliation it might as well be Tattpup. You can feel your weighted dick rise squeezing past your massive balls producing a ridiculously big packet in your bleachers.

Tattpup orders you to walk behind him at all times. We’re getting the BUS there?!

Even though you don’t want anyone to see you, your hard on remains stiff throughout the trip. Every now and then a hot man walks up to you and calls you one of a variety of names from a set ranging from boi to cuntslave; one even addresses you ‘Sir!’ using an audible capital ‘s’.

Your cum stains mar otherwise beautifully fitting clean skinhead gear. Men notice. Most smile. And talk to Tattpup to get a contact number.

It’s then you realise it must be Saturday. I went to sleep Monday. The bastards put me in long sedation again. I haven’t checked for other mods they might have done.

You have to wait until your period of servitude finishes to look. But you are turned on and hard and happy.

You hope it lasts.

I was regularly plugged with a puppy tail poking out of my bleachers, the two zips threaded with a steel wire either side of the tail making sure it would stay in place. But it was also removed quite regularly to be replaced by a large wet juicy cock filling its place several times a day.

Pearce said I was lacking a bit in the packaging department.

OK boi! Next modification now due. You’d better drink this.

I now knew that I wanted more, I wanted to become that freak.

Yes Sir! That came so naturally now.

Entering into a haze of loved up bliss I just fell asleep.

I woke up in my bed, always now with rubber sheets, duvet and pillows. But still encased in my skin gear. My balls ached a bit. I rubbed them. I looked down and felt them.

You like ‘em, boi?! Nice big balls—feel the weight of the silicone in them. I thought four inches wide would be enough for you.

My balls filled my bleachers, pressing against the—well—denim, as they appeared to those who didn’t know.

I had a fucking enormous packet bulging through them. I unzipped the front and they fell out swinging from my jeans. The weight of them felt good. Then I realised I had what must be a dozen thick rings running up the skin between my balls—a Jacob’s Ladder. My cock started to cream yet again. But trying to wank, they bounced up and down unbearably. Until I came.

It took a while to push them back into my jeans and getting the zip back up.

I brushed my hand over my head which reminded me of my metal mohawk. I started to get hard again and just fell on the rubber sheets and added more cum stains to my shirt.

I opened my eyes and before I could move four rubber men pulled me up and laid me on the floor. Before I knew what was happening I was sealed between two sheets of rubber and a tube put through the top sheet into my mouth. Suddenly the sheets tightened around me and I couldn’t move. A vac bed.

My tail had been removed and I was helpless.

We’ll leave him there for a few hours till he’s nice and sweaty. Dribble some MDMA down his pipe so at least he’ll enjoy it.

I felt hands feeling me all over. That was fantastic. Then a shock to my grossly enlarged balls.

You’ve heard of a violet wand boi?

I was in blissful pain. That wonderful feeling when you scratch and squeeze your ball sack in the shower, and point the power shower head directly onto your prick and balls with really hot water. This was better. It felt OW OUCH it satisf OWWCH tisfied the aching deep inside me to be controlled and having someone—some people—some men—some horny men -

who get pleasure from giving me torturous pleasure. Unable to move any part of my body not knowing when or where the OW OW AH OH OUCH next zap will be. Just kept on saying ‘Thank You, Sir! Please Sir!’ as an automatic response which comes so naturally now and which I really mean. OUWWWCH AH OHHH AAAH... THANK YOU SIR! PLEASE MAY i HAVE SOME MORE, SIR?

It could have been minutes, hours or months that it continued. My sense of time just disappeared as I fell into delicious ecstasy. My cock was out of my jeans but under the rubber so I kept adding to the cum stains over my bleachers and Fred Perry and braces.

Then all went quiet. It seemed the team of happily sadistic perverts had left me for a while.

I eventually fell into a deep happy sleep. Disturbingly erotic lucid dreams which I could direct to fulfill my deepest desires. I dreamt my arse was being stretched with some steel device which pulled my arse apart slowly and gently but continuously until I kept thinking it could stretch no more. The MDMA must have helped me relax easily enough to open my hole. It felt like it must have become 6 inches wide—not painful at all, just ecstatic.

Then it was replaced with some sort of hard silicone ring to hold it open. Hang on. This is not a lucid dream any longer. This is happening. Now. I am getting rotated over so I’m suspended face down in midair. Oh. I must have been suspended before for them to get access to my arse easily. Then the rubber sheet I’m trapped in rotates me upright and then turns me upside down.

I thought the guys had left me but they had just become very quiet. I heard someone open a beer bottle , or what at least sounded like it.

You’ve been a good boi! We’re going to give you a couple of beers.

My arse started to fill up with liquid. I think three beers are poured into me while I’m upside down. The alcohol absorbs quickly into my arse and system and feel tipsy, no, drunk, within minutes.

I’m brought upright. The remaining beer drops out of my hollow arse hole.

You gotta hand it to him. He’s coping well. Thanks Rubby for the vac bed—it wasn’t nearly as risky getting each of those rubber spikes on the head bit over all of his steel mohawk spikes. It looks great too.

I feel a hand dip into my arse hole with no pain or stretching. But the fingering inside was taking me back to a state of ecstasy again. Another hand joined it shortly after. Then a third.

I wan’t sure this was real or my dream. Being fistfucked by three hands all feeling me inside and then each pulling in and out all out of sync with each other. By this time the combination of the MDMA and the beer took me to a higher state—it felt like there we’re hundreds of hands plunging in and out me like I was a BDSM version of a lucky dip that had just announced that one of the prizes was a million pounds.

Did I have a winning million pound ticket up my arse. Am I an ff Charlie Bucket or just a bucket charlie?

The hands started to get slower and fewer until I was left unfisted.

Now we’ve got your hole to a good size it’ll fit a lovely big puppy tail. Skintop can you get the 8 inch diameter one so it won’t slip out?

As an impossibly large piece of silicone was slowly but surely being pushed into my arse I was distracted by more shocks to my balls, cock and groin. I felt the thickest part slide through and lock into my arse.

I knew some boi would end up with this up him one day. I wonder whether we’ll ever get it out?

Well, plugpup, another reason fir your name now. The tail screws out so you can shit, but your arse is now permanently stretched to a nice 8 inches. We’ve been kind. You may screw in a flat silicone cap when we let you remove your tail. But you’ll certainly need something in it when you’re out in public to prevent it leaking!

My freak transformation was still progressing. I liked it. I wanted it. I want to give these—these SIRS—everything they want. Be their boi. Be their freak.

I fell asleep sandwiched in the latex upright. I woke up in a bed with denim bed linen out of the rubber jail apparently free to move. Coffee and croissants were on the table next to the bed. I savoured their taste and felt refreshed and, well happy and content.

I showered and shaved my head, face and eyebrows. I came as I polished my head metal.

My puppy tail was still in. I tried to unscrew it but it didn’t budge. Oh well. My permanent skinhead gear dried out quickly and looking in the mirror I took out my cock and massive balls through my flies and wanked off again seeing my irremovable modifications and clothing. Clothing which was clean and perfect except for a build up of cum stains.

Time for work, plugpup! Work? Where, Sir?

On the Council waste collection team. First day, so I’ll change your tail for a the flat cap. So you won’t be humiliated.

He gave an Owner’s wry smile and grinned showing he was in complete control of me.

Get into these overalls over your kit.

I took a grimy boiler suit which was ingrained with grease, oil and other identifiable marks. It smelt dirty. Rancid. You could hardly see it was hi-vis orange with reflective panels under all the muck.

Pulling it on over my boots I zipped it up and felt strangely turned on and started stiffening up between my bulging balls.

And here’s your cap. Perfectly designed so that your spikes can go through the holes made in the top.

The cap accentuated my newly modded Alfred E. Neuman sticky out ears. Time to meet the filthy bois who’ll be working with you today.

Three other guys in similarly fifty overalls were brought over to meet me. But I could see under the overalls one was obviously glued into a rubber catsuit, one was naked, apart from tit rings that were so large you could see the outline of them on his overalls—and his whole body was bright blue, with bright blue tattooed eyes with bright blue contact lenses, and one was in full leather including leather shirt with tie. It seemed probable that he was also locked into the leather permanently.

We were piled into the back of an old dirty Transit and taken to the depot to start our day. Right—blueboi, you’re the driver. rawblue, leatherboi and plugboi you’re the collectors.

This wasn’t the recycling truck. It was the landwaste real rubbish collection. As I collected various bins and hooked them on the truck to empty them bits of rubbish, liquids, rotting meat and other disgusting stuff spilled out on to me as I had to be under the bins as they emptied.

By the end of the day I was stinking of god knows what. My hands were caked in sticky rubbish as were my overalls.

Good job, bois! Back in the van and you can get to The All Mod Cons centre and maybe clean yourselves up.

The All Mod Cons centre. I had forgotten I was actually more or less a prisoner, but this was the first time I had heard the place had a name. All Modification Conversions I guessed it meant.

But was I now a dustman? It happened so quickly it only really sunk in when I got back and took off my filthy clothes and showered.

But I liked wearing those dirty overalls. Everything here being forced on me at All Mod Cons got me hard. I wanted to get out. But I wanted to stay to see what would happen to me next. But I am not held prisoner here. It’s just that I’m either drugged up to make me feel wonderful and being played with or resting and being fed. Why would I choose to leave?

I would find out why I might shortly.

Right! We’re going to get your skin gear off.

I was a bit disappointed as I loved the locked on skin gear.

They used some industrial cutting gear and after half an hour or so I was freed of the gear and naked.

OK. Just stand still while we lube you up.

A sticky lube was coated all over my body and head. They brought an orange rubber catsuit and told me to put it on. It was a good 1.5 mm thick and heavy. I managed to get it on, with the attached socks and gloves. It fitted perfectly but it was difficult to move around in because it was so thick.

Get the hood over and zipped, our new skinrubberboi!

The hood zipped up at the back. There were gauze covers for the eyes so I could see just enough around me, and a zip over the mouth. It was moulded in such a way that my sticky out ears were emphasised—and of course moulded to fit over my head spikes.

I was now encased in thick orange rubber.

It will only take a minute or two before that lube glues the suit to your body. Just a crotch zip so you can pee and shit out of it. When we decide you can.

The feeling was incredible. Movement was really difficult. I felt like a robot.

I was given high and chunky bright blue mx boots and I clipped them on. They had 10” stack heels and at first were difficult to stand in. But after a few minutes wobbling precariously I managed to gain my balance.

Pearce then shined me up until I glowed fluorescently. My siliconed balls protruded noticeably giving me an amazing bulge and you could see my PA and its ball clearly defined by the rubber.

You will stay glued to your suit for six weeks if you are a good rubberskinboi. Much longer if not.

That didn’t seem a threat as the rubber suit felt fucking wonderful. Little did I know.

Nothing much happened in those six weeks glued into my rubber suit except for my hole being filled by fists and toys. And I was taken out to the street one night and made to sit on a concrete bollard and my whole body and piercings played with for hours. It was exquisite pain and ecstatic sensation.

After exactly six weeks, Steeltwink takes you to a concrete cellar and uses a solvent to take off your orange rubber that you’ve been enjoying so much. He unlocks your boots and hood and finally you are naked for the first time in months. It’s a strange feeling, naked skin, apart from steel head spikes, an eight inch diameter puppy tail and all the other mods you now have.

You are allowed to shower and spend a few hours to yourself, wondering what is going to happen.

He brings Pierce in, who has his equipment laid out on a tray. Pierec and Steeltwink grab you unexpectedly and clasp steel cuffs and ankle manacles on you and within seconds you are spreadeagled upright in the cellar.

“We want this to be a pleasant experience”, Pierce says and holds a cloth up to your face and you start to relax and feel as though you can take anything given or done to you.

He shows you a large steel ring, smooth, and the two halves held together by two screws. It’s about 10 mm thick and about 50mm in diameter and 10 deep. Then he sprays something on your balls—“this will numb any pain for you”.

You see him grab a dermal punch—about 10 mm thick—and before you know it it’s between your balls and he punches a hole in the middle of your scrotum. It’s not painful, but it feels incredible. Then he puts one half of the steel ring through it and screws in the other half. When he’s finished he lets go and suddenly you feel your balls being pulled down by half a kilo or more of thick steel.

“OK—that transcrotal worked well—you look great in that!”

You feel a bit dizzy, but very happy.

Then he lays out 15 ball closure rings—about 3 mm gauge and 15 mm diameter. He starts at the base of your scrotum and starts to pierce and insert a ring all the way up your scrotum till 20 minutes later he puts the last one in half way up the underside of your dick.

“That’s a ladder to help you get higher”, he smiles.

You’re left there with your balls hanging low and the rings in your balls swinging as you move even just a little. For a few hours.

Finally, they free you from your manacles and are led to your bed where, Steeltwink starts to lick your balls and tug at your transcrotal ring as you writhe in combined agony and ecstasy and shoot a load up your chest and even up your nose. With exhaustion, you fall asleep.

When you wake up you realise you have been manacled to the four corners of your bed. Pierce comes in and says “oh, today is going to be fun!”

He gives you some water, or at least you thought it was, and once again you start to feel warm and wonderful.

He lays out on his tray 16 what look like 15 mm long, perhaps 3 mm thick ball closure rings. Before you know it he’s already pierced your left eyebrow in the corner. It doesn’t seem to hurt. With speedy deft of hand within minutes you have 8 rings in your left eyebrow and another 8 in your right. You can see the balls of the rings hanging over your eyes. Then he grabs your lower left eyelid and pushes a needle horizontally through it and puts in a 20 mm long 3 mm thick bar, followed by doing the same in your right eyelid. By now you are so turned on that your dick is straight upright and when he shows you your face in a mirror you spurt all over it. You are being turned into such a freak—something you always fantasised about but never ‘wanted’ or ‘reamed’ to happen But now it has.

“OK—last one today”, he says, and shines a light from inside your mouth so he can see your veins. Then he gets a dermal punch—it looks like about 10 mm—and then pierces both your cheeks and puts long 10 mm bars into each of them. “You might want to stay on soup for a week or two”, he says.

You can feel the balls and the bars inside your mouth and clanging against your metal teeth. Suddenly you come again. And again.

Freak.

He unties you from the bed, and orders you to put on a full enclosure transparent PVC hooded (with enough room for your head spikes), gloved and socked suit which he zips up and glues the front zip shut. There are zipped holes for your arse, cock and mouth.

You have to go to work with your filthy overalls over the PVC suit, even with the hood being easily seen. It’s hot and sweaty and you slide around inside it as the sweat builds up.

You get back home, have your dinner, and look forward to relaxing.

“This evening you’re going to stand out much more than ever before!” says someone you’ve not seen before. He has horns on his forehead and what looks like golf balls all around his neck. “I’m Dermal Dan”, he says.

Once again, you realise that your drink has been spiked and you start feeling really horny, but relaxed.

Dermal Dan leads you to a chair and ties your hands to its arms and your legs to its legs.

He feels your eyebrow rings and rubs them. “Need something else to help show them off”, he says.

“This might take a while, so I’m going to sedate you for a few hours”, and injects something into your arm. You drift off.

When you come to, He looks at you and smiles—“Bumps are beautiful”, he says. He brings a mirror to your face and you now see you have massive 3” long curved bumps, standing out about 10 mm, above each eyebrow. You look like a neanderthal man but know that this is probably not the end of your freak transformation. Not by a long stretch.

You fall back into a trance again, and wake up in your bed. You assume it must be the next morning. When you turn over in bed, you feel your breasts move strangely. You feel them. They fill your hands. You leap up and look in the mirror. You now have enormous boobs like a supermodel. You don’t know what to do. You feel them and waggle them about and then you feel your cock grow. You love being a freak and want to stay here forever, wondering what else they have in store for you—but you can’t think what else there is left to do.

Oh, believe me, there’s a lot more.

At work, the others can see your big breasts under your overalls and start to take the piss and humiliate you. This just turns you on more and you cream your already filthy overalls.

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