The Author Becomes the Story - Again

The Author Is the Story... Again

Author's Note: This is a work of fiction. Also, if you don't enjoy a story featuring humiliation and domination, this one might not be for you.

It's been a year since that weekend that almost changed my life. Four cute college guys, who were self-described superfans of my stories, were uninvited visitors in my home and gave me the wild ride of my lifetime.

I am a failed author. I have written six books that no one will ever read because of the "failed" part. I have failed to entice a literary agent. I have failed to find a publisher who believes in me. I have failed to get my work out there for others to consume and appreciate. I have come to accept my failures.

I compensate by publishing Gay Male stories on an erotic literature online site. Here, in this venue, I am a success. I have too many loyal followers to count. I get "hot" ratings story after story. People love my work and tell me so in both publicly posted comments as well as private direct messages. And despite leading a modestly successful life with work and family, most of the joy and satisfaction in my life comes from the positive feedback I get from my readers. It fuels me. I thrive on it. I live for it. It keeps me going.

Some of my stories have developed characters and meaningful storylines that deliver messages of strength, love, inclusion... Other stories are just fun little escapes from the grind of daily life. Either way, people generally like what I write and that thrills me.

I love the site. I was a reader on it long before I wrote and published any of my own stories. Not that I never watch any porn ever - I would be lying to imply that I don't. Occasional visual inspiration is just fine. But I much prefer reading erotic stories and this site is the perfect home for my reading pleasure. The time and detail put into the descriptions of acts and objects is artful and arousing. I love being inside of the character's head and knowing not only what they are seeing and feeling, but what they are thinking as well. I am a fan of many writers on the site and almost jealous of the quality of their work. I have read many stories that I wished I had written.

Some of the feedback I get goes beyond expressions of appreciation for a job well done. I have been propositioned in private feedback. Asked to hook up and play around. So far, I have been far too chicken shit to respond to any such requests. But I'm flattered. I have also been asked about my writing. Like where I get my ideas and how I go about my process. Some people place requests. They'll ask me to write something specific, like a story involving twins or a kidnapping for example. I used to respond to these requests. I used to email back all of the time. I used to thank fans for being readers. I used to encourage them to write their own stories. I used to answer their questions. But a year ago, I stopped responding. I experienced an incident and I have not replied to anyone since.

What appeared to be an innocent question from an eager young fan wanting to know something specific about a particular story I had published turned into a group of four smart college kids using my emailed reply to track down my real name and location. I still do not know how they did it, and I never will - I am far from tech savvy myself - but they did it nonetheless. And they came and visited me. Unannounced. They were uninvited overnight guests who barged into my life and stayed for the weekend.

Turned out that they were harmless. They were four honest, well-intentioned twenty year old boys, two couples, who really liked my work and wanted to get to know me. In truth, they came in already knowing me pretty well. They saw the real me through some of my stories. Though young, they were intuitive enough to see which of my stories featured more of my personal truth and less just fantasy in my head. When they surprised me by showing up at my doorstep, they had two objectives - to interview me about my writing process and to give me my first real-life experience. More on that in a moment.

So these four very cute young men were fans of my work, having read every one of my stories. As self-described "superfans", they were taking the additional step of acting out my stories. This blew my mind. They were literally alternating roles and bringing my stories to actual life. They said their names were the names of the four characters on my Road Trip series. I never did learn their real names, but they knew (and still know) mine. And they know where I live. They can always come find me again, but I can never find them. There is something part scary and part thrilling knowing that there could be another knock on my door any time. But so far, they haven't come back.

The site is anonymous. What happened is not the site's fault. My identity is protected. I am identified on the site with a username that I made up. When I published my first story, it hadn't occurred to me that I would need a username. I didn't give it enough thought. I used the name in the title of my first story, not realizing that it would be my identity for years to come. The world of online erotic literature knows me as Str8SensitiveGuy. That was a character in a story. I may be sensitive, but I'm not so straight. I used to think I was bisexual, but I was just fooling myself. I am plain and simply a gay man. But back to my online identity - I should have come up with something better. And now it's too late.

Anyway, it was my decision (and my mistake) to reply to private feedback with my personal email. And a smart kid figured out how to turn that limited information into a vehicle to find me. They caused me no harm. In fact, they caused me extreme pleasure. Extreme pleasure that I had never before (or since) experienced. They did it by bringing me into one of my own stories. They allowed me to pick. They made one of my fantasies come true. Then they implored me to get out there in the real world. Not to stop writing, but to live in real life too. To meet someone. To stop hiding.

I thought about taking their advice, I really did. I almost went out to a bar. I almost downloaded an app on my phone. I considered telling my sons and maybe even a few people at work (I have no real life friends) that I'm gay. But I didn't. I chickened out. And then I wrote and published a story about the whole experience and waited for the ratings, comments and praise to flow in.

But just because those four adorable guys meant me no harm didn't mean that the next person wouldn't. I needed to be more careful. Lesson learned. I have not replied directly to anyone since.

It's Saturday afternoon and I am just back in my apartment after a five-mile run. I run four times a week. It keeps me young. It's also a great time to let my mind roam freely. I've come up with many story ideas while running. It's good for the body and the mind.

I'm about to head to my bathroom for a shower when there is a knock on my door. I am not friends with my neighbors and nobody rang the bell for entry. This is eerily similar to what happened that day a year ago - an unexplained and unexpected knock on the door... I can see that the chain is safely in place. I cross back over to the door and look through the peephole. I see no one, but there is a box on the floor. Was I expecting a delivery? I order so many things online these days that it's hard to keep track. No doubt I've paid for things that have never come.

I watch for a solid minute, but there is no movement or activity of any kind. No one is there. So I remove the chain and open the door. That's when three guys round the corner and charge in my direction. There's nothing I can do. They are instantly on me and pushing me backwards into my apartment.

The door closes behind them and the chain slides back into place. One of them emerges as the apparent leader. The first thing he says to me is just one word. The word is, "Thief!" And he points an accusatory finger in my direction.

Does he think I was stealing his package? I hadn't been expecting a delivery, but I had no ill intentions. I hold up my hands in surrender and say, "I was just going to check the address. I didn't mean--"

He kicks the box to the side. "That's not what you stole." He shakes his head and scoffs, "The box is a prop. It was my ticket in. Someone walking out sees an approaching person carrying a box and it's natural instinct to stop and hold the door. I smiled politely and she let me in, no questions asked. And after she drove away, I let my two friends here in as well."

I really should file an official complaint with the building.

"I don't understand. What do you think I stole?"

"My story idea. I wrote you to tell you how much I love your stories. I also shared an idea I had been mulling over. You wrote back and encouraged me to write my story and put it out there. To my shock and surprise, you wrote and published my idea the next month. You stole it!"

"But I don't email people anymore. Not after what happened last year."

"Right," he says. "Those four college kids. Sean, Seb, Jay and Quinn. I read that story. They found you just like I did. But there's a big difference. They were nice. They were fans. They let you pick which story you wanted to act out with them. I, on the other hand, will not be so nice."

"But how did you find me?"

"I told you. You emailed me. It was over a year ago. Before your previous experience. Before you stopped."

I am racking my brain trying to figure out what idea of someone else's I loved so much that I had to steal it. I don't steal. I ask, "So what story do you think I stole?"

"It was Humiliating the Security Guard."

I remember writing that story. I remember reading a lot of dominant male stories at the time. Male on male SPH is one of my favorite topics that I revisit from time to time. But this is not something I stole. I created the characters, the setting... Everything. I ask, "What did you say to me in your email? What was your idea?"

"I told you that I am a reader on the site but that I had never written anything. I was toying with an idea that explored humiliation. You wrote back and encouraged me to write what I was feeling. Before I could even gather my thoughts, a week later your Security Guard story published."

I do not recall this guy's email. I ask, "Did you mention the security guard angle? The college gym after dark? The three wrestlers and the little guy with the fetish?"

He takes in a sharp angry breath, "I hadn't gotten that far yet."

I say, "Humiliation is a common topic. Domination, SPH, nonconsent, gang tickling... These are all known topics. Many authors cover the themes with varying settings and circumstances. I don't even remember your email, but I certainly didn't steal anything. It sounds like there was nothing to steal."

"I might not have had character names or the college setting, but the idea was real. At the very least it inspired you."

Did it though? I sigh, "I'd written stories featuring humiliation before. This one was just a new twist on an old theme. What about Bowling Alley Bullies?"

He shakes his head, "I'll give you the gang tickle thing, but it turns out the dude was packing some heat. He got his rocks off, but he wasn't humiliated."

I probably shouldn't bother mentioning my Little Guy With a Big Surprise series for the same reason. I tell him, "The very first story I ever wrote - my namesake - Str8 Sensitive Guy Gets Explored. I wrote it years ago and it covers it all. Stripping, tickling, M/M SPH..."

"So it's just a big happy coincidence that a week after I write you, you publish a new story with that theme?"

"Yes. Because it's a common theme told in a new way."

He shakes his head, "This stinks and you know it."

"You know," I try, "it's not like I make any money writing these stories. I do it to entertain myself and hopefully others as well. Even if you inspired me, I made no profit."

"So you admit it!"

"No. I'm just saying 'even if'. There was nothing gained so there's nothing owed."

"You owe me a story."

Maybe the fastest way to get these guys out of here is to do just that. If I help him decide on a solid story idea, he can leave and take his friends with him. If he thinks I owe him an idea, then I can pay that debt.

I think about stories I'd been considering. I say, "How about a predatorial and horny TSA agent who has a special back room for those he selects for further inspection. You can go wild with what he finds and what he does."

He shakes his head. "That was one of Mall Cop Tom's fantasies."

"Right. Okay. A group of friends go camping. On the way, one of them gets called back home due to a family emergency. The other four continue on but realize only after they get there that half of their equipment was in their friend's car. Now four guys have to share one tent and two sleeping bags. And it's too cold to not huddle up together. Whatever happens in those sleeping bags is up to you."

"No good."

Really? I kind of like the idea. Okay. Whatever. "There's a men's shoe store and one night just before closing--"

He cuts me off, "You published that one already - The Customer Is Always Right."

Shit. I have a bit of a backlog of stories written and ready to go and sometimes I forget which ones have been published.

"The one you stole is your best story by far."

Is it? I do like the Security Guard story, but my best? Back to the present problem I ask, "Why now? I published that story over a year ago. Why are you here today?"

"Because last month you did another humiliation story."

Right. The Anniversary Gift. The small closeted gay man can't get it up for his wife so she gets what she needs from the whole rest of the town. He gets humiliated as he learns of his wife's sexcapades in graphic detail. He is a cuckold. Except humiliation is his fetish and he is turned on by the thought that the whole town knows of his shortcomings. And when he is forced to watch a hunk of a man, a bull, fuck his wife senseless, he gets the biggest boner of his life. Then the bull turns to him and fucks him too. It's completely different from the security guard story, but it further explores the same theme.

He goes on, "A second story inspired by me."

No. It wasn't. Am I on trial here? There is no proof of plagiarism. What does this guy want from me. He said I owe him a story but he doesn't like my ideas. I tell him, "I have $100 in my wallet. I'll pay you for your services."

"I'm not looking for payment, I'm looking for reciprocation. You are going to inspire me."

"But you didn't like any of my ideas."

"Sure I did. And when you publish them, I will read them. But they're not for me. I still want to write the ultimate humiliation story. You are going to star in it. But to really solidify the story in my mind, I need to see it played out. I need to see you humiliated."

My cheeks turn pink. "But I don't fantasize about being humiliated. I just like reading about the humiliation of others. And I'm not that small. I mean I'm average."

"Right," he chuckles. "You wrote about your experience last year after that fateful visit from your four superfans. They measured your throbbing cock and it tallied five and three quarters inches. Not huge, but not tiny. But what if it was the smallest dick in the room? How would you feel?"

"I don't know--"

"When you had your little visit last year, it was all sweet and nice. Those guys were determined to give you an experience that you only wrote about and never had in real life. They let you choose your own adventure. You said you had no interest in being humiliated or tickled. Now, if that were true, then why do you keep writing about it? A lot? Don't they say you write what you know? You must want it pretty badly. At least subconsciously."

"Only as a voyeur. I don't want to play the--"

He keeps cutting me off. "But that's been the point. You've lived your whole life as the 'voyeur'. Those four kids last year saw through your stories and deduced that you were living a sad sheltered life. I see through your stories too. You too have a secret humiliation fetish. I too have come here to bring your secret fetish to life. Today is going to be your second chance at a real life experience, except this time, you don't get to choose the adventure. I do. No simple swapping of blowjobs this time."

My hearts starts to pound in my chest. "What do you have in mind?"

"The character you created, Mall Cop Tom, was so real. He must live inside of you. He told us what he wanted: Degradation, humiliation, domination, and most of all, he wanted everyone to know. He wanted his lack of manhood made public in the school paper, online, word of mouth... he even wanted a skywriter. He craved an audience for his humiliation. He wanted spectators."

I swallow hard.

"Well, the audience for the live show will be limited to the three of us, but after the fact... Not only will I publish the story of my day with Str8SensitivGuy, but I will also post the video on my Pornhub channel. The whole world will know."

"Guys, there has to be another way--"

"The things Mall Cop Tom wants done to him are going to be done to you. You want to be strip searched, trampled, degraded, measured, compared, tickled, mocked and milked. Just like James in The Anniversary Gift, your dreams are about to come true."

Are these my dreams? I do enjoy reading such stories. I like writing them even more. Is that a way of living vicariously through my characters? I do sprout an erection while I'm writing out the scenes. I guess that should tell me something. And I am still closeted after all. At least until my new friend here publishes his story and posts his video on Pornhub.

He continues, "Even in your stories that do not feature humiliation, you have a proclivity for feet, belly buttons and measuring. You tell people a lot about yourself in what you write."

I can't argue with his logic but the question is, do I desire to degrade or to be degraded? Or is it a little of both? I say, "Your friends have been quiet so far."

"I'm the one who's read your stories. These guys just work for me. They do what I tell them to do. They may not say much, if anything, before this is all over, but you will get to know each of them on a physical level. Up close and personal."

These guys are not cute like last year's college boys. They are kind of gruff and gnarly. I am surprised that I don't mind. I usually lean toward cute and naïve. Either way, the three of them have me outnumbered and outmuscled. Trying to make an escape would not end well and may lead to further punishment. I guess I just have to trust that they won't hurt me. That was made clear in my security guard story - Mall Cop Tom was never in actual danger. He got exactly what he wanted. But do I want this?

"What are your names?"

He smiles, "Here is the one choice I will give you. We can be Grey Eyes, Brown Eyes and Blue Eyes, like in Humiliating the Security Guard or I can be Josh and my friends can be Hunk #1 and Hunk #2 like in The Anniversary Gift."

I never learned the real names of my friends from last year either. I always imagine my characters as real people living real lives, but this is getting ridiculous. In The Anniversary Gift, Josh was James' best friend. Even though this guy could in no way ever be my best friend, I haven't had one since I was a kid. My brain unconsciously decides for me that they are Josh, Hunk #1 and Hunk #2.

But I still wonder if there is another way out of this. I tell Josh, "I have about five or so stories written that I haven't published yet. I can let you read them and pick your favorite to publish as your own."

"It won't change what happened. I like the one you stole. We can't unring that bell."

"I can add a comment at the end crediting you for your inspiration."

"The story is a year old. 99% of everyone who will ever read it, already read it."

"I could take it down. Like it never existed."

"But it does. And like I said, its already been read. The damage is done."

"What if I did all of those things? What if I paid you the money, took down the story and gave you my five new ones? We could call it even."

"All I want is your inspiration. And as a bonus, I get to give you your most secret of fantasies. This is technically work for my guys, but all four of us are going to have some fun. It starts with a pat down and then the strip search. Let's get started."

I'm about to protest again, but Hunk #1 and Hunk #2 are propelled into action. They shove me backwards into the wall and four hands empty my pockets. I had almost forgotten that I had just finished a run. I'm still sweaty and probably at least a little smelly. But they remain silent. My phone gets pulled from my back pocket along with my driver's license and keys. Josh examines my license and his jaw drops.

"I figured since a couple of your stories are set in the 80s that you were probably at least fifty, but seeing you in person, you look so much younger than that. You look maybe late thirties. Maybe forty. But no, I was right the first time."

I do look young for my age. It's part heredity, part diet and part exercise. Only my greying temples give me away. My body could belong to a guy twenty years my junior.

Josh turns my phone toward my face and unlocks it. "I'll adjust the settings so I don't have to keep doing that."

He aims both his phone and mine at me and he says, "Arms up. All the way."

Just like in my story. I have no choice but to comply. I reach for the ceiling and those four hands are suddenly all over my body, groping and exploring every inch of me. Hunk #2 goes for the exposed strip of lower abdomen as I continue to reach skyward. His fingers dance across my stretched skin and my arms drop as a reflex. Any reader of mine would rightly assume that I have a belly button fetish. The belly button is the star of the show, but the entire sensitive belly is really my obsession. I love to see it squirm and quiver. I prefer a shallow innie hole, regardless of the shape. I love the vulnerability of the whole situation. Other than that one night last year, men's hands have never touched my sensitive belly before. And it is as sensitive as I imagined it would be.

They decide that I'm not concealing any security guard weapons and they conclude the pat down, awaiting further instruction.

Josh says, "Strip him."

In one fluid motion, they have both of my ankles and wrists. I am carried to the open floor near the sofa and dropped unceremoniously. My sweat soaked t-shirt gets pulled off over my head and I am pushed down on my back. The hunks back up allowing the videographer a clear shot.

"There it is," says Josh. "The belly button that inspired so many stories."

I crinkle my nose. I guess that objectively I have a decent looking innie, but my inspiration comes from the beautiful navels of others, not my own. Guys at the gym, guys at the pool, guys at the beach. Wherever there is even a ten percent chance of seeing a shirtless dude, my eyes are there. Maybe I was the inspiration for others (probably in the past now that I'm more than a half a century old). I would like to think I could have been. Girls seemed to like me enough in my teens and twenties. I always fantasized that some boys liked me too. That they were staring at me when I wasn't looking just like I was at them. But I never had any proof that was ever the case. I do keep myself in shape, though. Just not crunches or anything crazy. I have no abs but I have very little fat either.

Josh continues, "Your belly button could be on a college boy."

He only thinks that because I've been pushed down on my back. I wish my belly button was a vertical oval - or at least round - when standing. After years and decades of fighting gravity, it's more of a horizontal oval.

"You really could be Mall Cop Tom," says Josh.

But I'm taller than him. Everywhere.

"Keep going."

The hunks go at my sneakers. I still have my runners on so they won't just slip off like my other shoes. They are tightly laced and take some time to undo. One thing I do have in common with Mall Cop Tom is that I have no foot odor. Ever. No matter what shoes I wear, no matter how long it's been, even if I just finished a long run on a hot humid day. Even when the sweat could be wrung out of my socks. Even when I wear the same socks three days in a row. No foot odor. I don't know why. It's a little emasculating.

Josh continues recording and instructs the hunks to do a sniff test. They pull off the sneakers, bend back the tongues and bury their noses in the opening. After a dramatic inhale for the video, they both shake their heads. Then they pull off my damp socks and sniff them inside out at the toes. Still nothing. And then the drawstring of my Adidas running pants gets pulled. I just lie there, submissive. Not that I have much choice, but that's also the point, isn't it? That I am at the mercy of dominant men. And I really am. They pull off my pants and leave me in my Calvin Kleins.

Josh says to his goons, "You know what to do."

Hunk #1 ties the laces of my shoes together and he makes us stand up. Josh inspects his handiwork and comments, "Size eleven. You really do write your truth."

I do. In my The Author Becomes the Story tale from last year detailing my adventure with these four college guys, every way I described myself was completely accurate. Height, weight, age, shoe size and the size of something else. Something that Josh already promised will be measured again. Something that I measure often. Why do I measure it as often as I do? It never gets any bigger. And if it ever starts to get smaller, I'm pretty sure I'd rather not know. Do penises shrink with age? I won't be Googling that question later.

With no explanation, they open my sliding patio door and nudge me outside onto my sixth floor balcony. It's not even sixty degrees outside and I am naked and freezing. Well, naked except for my Calvins. Can anyone see us? Here is a taste of the humiliation to come. A grown mature man displaying his pale body for the whole neighborhood to see. Is the sight inspiring peepers to grab there binoculars? To check me out? Why do I find myself hoping the answer is yes?

And then Hunk #2 tosses my tied sneakers into the nearby tree. In my story, Mall Cop Tom rants about all the ways he wants to be bullied and humiliated. One of those ways was to have his shoes tied together and thrown into the gym rafters. The nearby tree is the next best thing. There goes $150. It was probably time for a new pair of runners anyway. Not that anyone could tell based on a sniff test.

Josh says, "Soon enough your undies will join your shoes." He pushes me forward, putting me on full display for any secret observers to get a good final look.

I get pulled back inside, guided to my bedroom and pushed onto my bed. The hunks are stronger than me individually. Two against one, I am like a limp ragdoll. And this is when the tickling begins. They have no utensils or toys of any kind. Not even any feathers. Just two rugged and slightly ugly guys using their four hands and twenty fingers to violate me from head to toe. I've written about this type of thing many times before. Those writings have always been based on my imagination, not personal experience. Reality is quite another story.

Hunk #1 holds my wrists down as #2 straddles my waist. He starts in my armpits with his drilling fingertips and I thrash my head back and forth. Since I am divorced and closeted, there is no one in my life to groom for. I do absolutely zero manscaping. Not my chest, my belly, my armpits or below the equator. I'm not particularly hairy, but so many of the guys on porn sites seem to shave from head to toe. Does my natural hair make me more or less sensitive? I don't know.

He moves down to my ribs and I howl in laughter. I might not be so straight, but I am definitely the sensitive guy. He continues to prove the point as he squeezes my sides above and below the hips. Then he focuses on the sensitive belly. He kisses across my lower abdomen and then trails light fingers in a delicate way that this brute shouldn't be capable of pulling off. He traces circles around my navel before plunging his tongue right in. He says, "Sweaty and salty."

My laughter is raucous but I am trying not to scream. It's the weekend and most of my neighbors are probably home.

And then he scoots lower and goes to work on my thighs. I'm laughing so hard that it comes out almost soundless and I'm struggling for breath. Unlike some of the characters in my stories, being tickled is not making me erect. Now, if I were the one doing the tickling, that would be another story. In fact, both hunks are wearing sweatpants and their bulges are now bulgier than they were before. That's when I feel the first twitch in my cock. It's not from tickling but from the realization that I am the source of arousal for these two hunky dudes.

Hunk #1 releases my noncombative wrists and tickles my neck and chest. Meanwhile #2 digs into my inner thighs and I flop around like a fish out of water. When enough time has gone by, they each sit on one of my shins and face my feet. They pause long enough to let the fear settle in. As torturous as everything else has been, I am most afraid of the feet. The phones are at the foot of the bed with a clear shot of my exposed soles.

Josh says, "Even your feet look young."

I ask, "Why are you using my phone too?"

He grins at me, "My phone is for the porn site, the unknown public audience. Your phone is for your personal contacts. Mall Cop Tom wanted everyone to know his secrets. His coworkers, his boss, his family, the whole college campus... I'm gonna send photos and videos to all of your contacts."

I've just been passively going along with the program to this point, assuming I have no choice and that with my compliance, it will end sooner and less painfully. If he publishes a story on the erotic lit site, no one knows who Str8SensitiveGuy is. It's harmless. And porn site videos don't list names and addresses either. But my parents are in my contacts. My adult sons. My ex-wife. My boss. My coworkers. Everyone I know. It's one thing to "out" me but to show me stripped, tickled, sexually stimulated, humiliated and dominated in every possible way...? What would they all think? How would I live that down? That would certainly be a "coming out" for the record books.

I say to Josh, "Please, no. I'll pay you more than $100. I'll delete my profile on the site. I'll never publish another story."

Josh frowns, "That's not what I want. I want to keep reading your stories and so do your followers. I just want to push you to experience your fantasies just like James and Mall Cop Tom. You deny it, but you wouldn't keep writing about humiliation and domination if you didn't crave it yourself. And it's all meaningless without witnesses. As a bonus, I get my own story out of it."

He nods at the hunks and the attack on my feet commences. I take a pillow and scream into it. I never before wished for smaller feet, but right now, smaller would mean less surface area to tickle. Each foot is being scraped and swiped by ten fingers. Ten strong manly fingers. Had I not just finished a run, my feet wouldn't be quite so moist, supple and sensitive. Just when I don't think I can stand another second, it ends.

Josh stops the recordings to set the next scene. "Mall Cop Tom wants to be trampled," he says.

"But I don't," I say.

"I'm not so sure you know what you want."

Josh brings us out to the sofa and sets the scene. I am to undress the hunk's feet and worship them for a couple minutes before lying on the floor beneath them for some trampling. These guys are more than a quarter century younger than me, but I don't imagine their feet being as delicate and young as mine. Or as odor free. I can only hope. Or maybe not.

I'm always looking at guy's feet. Feet can be really cute or really ugly depending on a variety of factors. I also like feet in socks and feet in sneakers. I just like feet. The dichotomy of how they handle such rough abuse for hours - hot and trapped in sweaty shoes, standing, walking, running, jumping, kicking, bearing full weight... And at the same time they can be so sensitive to the lightest touch. But for me, all of that has only been in stories, videos and at a distance. I have never touched another man's feet outside of my imagination.

Both of the hunks are in work boots and it takes time to get all four unlaced and off. As they sit side by side on the sofa, I kneel on the floor at their feet like a submissive dog. My living room is already beginning to smell like a men's locker room. I don't hate it. I take of the sock of #2's left foot and give him a gentle massage. If I took the opportunity for some tickle revenge, I would probably only be punished more later. I start to lick and kiss his foot. I have decently big feet, but Hunk #2 is at least a twelve. The view of his foot from the top is kind of knobby, veiny and gross. But from the bottom, it's manly and sexy. I give him a tongue bath and every second is captured on double video. I work my way down the row of feet. It's fair to say I have a foot fetish and this was my first time making live contact. If I ever imagined a first time, it certainly wouldn't have been as a dominated sub worshiping along a lineup of them. But honestly, I'm enjoying it.

When I'm finished, Josh orders the hunks to strip down to just their undies too. While their faces, hands and feet are kind of rough and ugly, their bodies are the bodies of the typical late-twenties guys. They are a pleasure to regard. They have some muscles, but they are not obsessed with working out. They are thin, but not scrawny. I have seen cuter belly buttons, but these two have gawk-worthy innies nonetheless.

I am instructed to lie down on the floor at their feet. Hunk #2 places his left foot on my face and his right foot on my chest. Hunk #1's left foot is on my tummy and his right is on my crotch. The videos are rolling and the four feet move, slide and wiggle their toes. It doesn't feel particularly sensual; it's a bit rough and jerky, but being mauled by manly feet is a bit arousing anyway. But my enjoyment of it is humiliating and I worry who will see this footage. I'm grateful that Hunk #2 is gentle and not painfully smashing my face.

Next scene. It's time to lose my underwear. Josh orders me to reach up again and Hunk #1 pulls down my Calvins. He steps backwards and allows the phones to zoom in close. The three of them all glance at each other before busting out in laughter. My face burns red. My slightly above average size should preclude me from SPH. I didn't lie or exaggerate in even the slightest. I really am five and three quarters inches and I know from frequent Google searches that that is above average. Only just above, but still above. And even if the other three penises in the room were all seven inches plus, I would still know that I have nothing to be ashamed of. Not that something a person can't control is something that they should be ashamed of anyway. But still.

And then I realize why they're laughing. I spend my daily life walking around thinking I'm above average. As far as erections go, at least according to my extensive research, that is true. My above average length is when I am erect, which at the moment, I am not. Fully erect I am always 5.75 inches. Average is either 5.1 or 5.3, depending on the source. Either way, I am in good standing. But what percentage of a man's life is spent erect? It's barely a measurable amount of time. And on the rare occasions that strangers randomly see one another's penises, they are pretty much always flaccid. Who pops a boner in the gross public men's room?

Anyway, I'm a "grower". In my flaccid state, I am lucky to clock in at three inches (a little less if it's cold in the room). the average flaccid length is 3.5 or 3.6 inches. At somewhere between 2.7 and 3.0, I am considerably smaller than average when soft. And my flaccid girth doesn't make up for any other shortcomings. Why do I know all of this? Maybe I shouldn't measure myself so often. Maybe I shouldn't keep a cloth measuring tape in my bedside table.

That's why they're laughing right now. It's particularly embarrassing in public scenarios like climbing out of the pool, changing in the locker room or just in a public men's room. I present much smaller than I genuinely am and it's humiliating. It's not like I can start stroking myself in public to prove my true size. But if I'm honest, that silent assessment was always a fantasy of mine. Seeing a hung dude across the way clock my smaller cock before making eye contact and chuckling to himself. I would want my small soft dick to be seen and hope for judgment. Hope to be remembered. Told about to others. Then being a curiosity to the "others" so much that they would want to investigate and "see how big that little thing gets". But my fantasies never come true.

I remember peeing at a baseball stadium when I was in my twenties. It was an open trough situation with no dividers or privacy, just a full view of everyone's penis. Out of twelve guys around me of varying ages and ethnicities, I was significantly the smallest. And I liked it. I didn't lean or block or shy away. I stood there small and proud, showing everyone willing to look. I stood there long enough for multiple waves of people to get a good show. I stood there so long that I started to chub up. And even though nothing more than a few passing glances happened, that was the closest my fantasy ever came to coming true. I still masturbate to that memory to this day.

And I relive that same feeling right now, standing there with my arms up and my little limp dick too small to hang down. My face flushes, but at the same time, I love it. I feel their six eyeballs on me. Assessing me. Evaluating me. Giggling at me.

Josh says, "Dude. You're six feet tall. Your hands are big, your feet are size eleven... You are a decent sized guy. What's with the tiny dick?"

That verbal jab is enough to chub me up at least a quarter of an inch.

Josh notices and giggles, "You said you were five and three quarter inches."

My cheeks turn pink. "I am. I just have to be..."

"Gotcha," Josh winks at me. "You're a grower. We'll get the official measurements soon enough."

Hunk #2 lowers his Nike briefs. He's soft too, but a good five inches. He holds his dick up against mine and it looks like it's more than twice as big. And three times as thick. They all laugh again. They're laughter and judgment is causing a response in me. I begin to grow. That makes them laugh harder.

Josh says, "It's game time. How many objects in the apartment are smaller than his dick?"

And then the scavenger hunt is on. While the hunks are busy gathering objects, Josh pushes me out onto the balcony again, this time, completely naked. He brought my underwear with him and, true to his word, he throws them into the same tree with my sneakers.

He says, "Have fun explaining the undies and shoes in the tree to your neighbors."

He makes me stand there in my full nude glory for an excruciatingly long minute before he drags me back inside. I can't help but hope that the hot thirty year old guy across the way is watching. Josh pulls a tape measure out of his pocket and tells me to measure myself. The cold air eliminated any stiffening I had done during the pointing and laughing earlier so I am back to completely soft. I do what I'm told. Never one to exaggerate, I tell him 2.9 inches. He giggles.

The hunks come back with a variety of objects. At first, it's all just a humiliating joke. A twelve inch ruler is held up to my three inches. Ruler wins. A banana is help up. The banana wins. One of my in-house high-tops is compared. The sneaker wins. With each passing object and each new round of laughter, my penis grows firmer and longer. All of the manhandling of it doesn't hurt the cause either, but it's mostly the degradation and the failure that has me bobbing with my pulse and standing proud. As I get bigger, the objects get smaller, but they still tell me that I lose. I lose to a water bottle, the TV remote, to my cell phone, to my toothbrush, to my bottle of vitamins and to a pencil. Then it gets silly. I'm fully erect now and they tell me that I lose to the tiniest things. A piece of a KitKat bar, The mouse for my laptop, an Oreo, a matchstick, a double A battery, a baby carrot... None of those last ones were true, but it was humiliating just the same. And every second of it was recorded for the permanent record.

By the time the game is over, I've been grabbed and manhandled so much that not only am I at full erection, but I'm also leaking precum. A lot. Josh wants the official measurement. I lie there staring at the ceiling as more hands grip and grab at my shaft, bending it this way and that, lining up the tape measure, checking and re-checking. They try telling me that I'm still only three inches and they laugh. Why do I blush? I know they're kidding. My dick strains like it's showing off.

Josh finally admits it, "You are an honest man. Five and three quarters it is. Small for the room, but respectable compared to world averages."

"Unless it's still soft. Then he's like a little boy," says Hunk #1.

My dick pulses and precum rolls in a blob down my shaft.

Josh zooms in on it and giggles. He says, "Our final game is a game of endurance. Premature ejaculation is disappointing for one partner and humiliating for the other. Officially, premature ejaculation is anything under a minute from the start. A respectable time is five minutes. How many rounds of play will it take our little friend here to make it to the zone of respectability?"

I ask, "How many rounds are there?"

Josh shrugs, "That's up to you. When you can make five minutes, you end the game."

"What if I can't get it up after the first round?" I ask.

"You went four rounds last year with your four young friends. And you're still young yourself. Forget your actual age. We watched you running on the track earlier. You're in better shape than most thirty year olds."

He's not wrong. But my only sexual activity in the past two decades, aside from that one night a year ago, is at my own hand. And I'm not trying to impress myself. I'm not trying to improve either. Just because I run five miles does not mean I can get five erections in succession. And none of these guys are that cute.

"But I--"

He holds up a hand. "That one time was your last time, wasn't it?"

I nod, sheepishly.

He seems to feel sorry for me.

"Why aren't you out there? There are so many dudes who'd be lucky to be with you."

I don't have an answer to that question. I've been hiding my whole life. Hiding is what I do. And I live vicariously through my stories.

"We'll talk about it more after the game."

He has his guys flank me on my bed. He says, "Round one: Four Hands Tugging." He sets a timer on his phone. "Go!"

And that's what happens. The hunks go at me with both hands each. It feels like an army of man hands tugging on my man part. The only lubrication is my own precum and it's a pretty rough tug. About fifteen seconds in, one of the hands begins to tug on my scrotum while another uses its thumb to rub relentless circles into my frenulum. By the thirty second mark, I know I've lost the round. The launch sequence has been activated and there's no turning back. With fifteen seconds still on the clock, I'm spurting my creamy load all over their hands and my stomach. It wasn't the most intense orgasm of my life, but it had been a year and I was ready to pop. The three of them cheered. I wasn't sure if they cheered my form, cheered because they won the round or cheered because there would be another round. And I didn't ask.

Josh shakes his head, "You are a pathetic excuse of a man. A premature ejaculator is a failure."

Josh pauses the recordings and explains that this is a long game because of the need to recover between orgasms. The hunks knowingly nod. Fortunately they have no trouble filling the time by laughing at my shriveled post-orgasm state and taking more pictures with the hunks' phones too. Once the humiliation is enough to get me perky again, round two begins.

Josh announces, "Round two: Two Mouths, One Cock. Go!"

They both go at me with lips and tongues at the same time. This is an incredible new sensation that I never even dreamed of. They both kiss, nibble, lick and suck up and down each side of my shaft. At the top they kiss each other then dive back onto my dick. It is so hot. Last year I had four mouths on me but only one at a time. This double tongued assault is deadly. I am seeing skyrockets. I know I'll be working this experience into a future story except the receiver will have to last longer than I do. He'll have to because there's no way I'm making five minutes. Two mouths are absolutely devouring me and the sensation is insane. No human could resist it. I certainly can't. By the two minute mark my toes curl, my hands grip the bedsheets, I yell out in ecstasy and I cum all over their faces.

My face is flushed, my heart is pounding and my body is covered in sweat. Okay. This was my new number one. The new best orgasm of my life. Not that it had too much competition, but still, this was amazing. I even whimpered a little.

I ask Josh, "Could we try that one again?"

He laughs. "We'll see." Then he labels me a weak man and a failure again.

During my thirty minute reprieve, this time the guys use their fingers and my limp cock to put on a puppet show. They're not particularly skilled with jokes and creating characters and storylines, but the manhandling eventually brings me back to life.

Josh announces, "Round three: Head to Head Combat."

He gives the hunks a moment to get into position. Hunk #1 straddles my head, kneeling. If his underwear wasn't still on, his dick would be resting on my forehead. He plants his hands on my hips and lowers his head to just above my navel. Hunk #2 straddles my legs, grabs and squeezes my ass cheeks with his hands and opens his mouth inches above my once again throbbing cock.

Josh says, "Go."

I now understand why the round is called Head to Head Combat. The two hunks have their heads pressed together and #2 plunges his tongue into my belly button while #1 swallows my cock whole. All of it. His tongue slithers in the most wonderful way. He has no difficulty with my modest length. And while his hands massage my ass, he also pulls me up, deeper into his throat. Meanwhile #2 kisses my stomach all over and repeatedly buries his tongue in my navel. The combination of sensations is incredible. Like the last round, this one feels so good that I never want it to end. But that's the problem. It feels too good. So good that I fail to pass two minutes again before by whole body is racked with yet another violent orgasm.

Josh proclaims, "Sad and pathetic."

This time during the break, it's a kissing party. Someone's tongue is in my mouth at the same time that the other tongue is in my ear. They kiss my lips, my tongue, my neck, my cheeks... They even kiss each other. It makes my whole body shiver. Even after three intense orgasms, my cock tingles and returns to life.

Josh says, "Round four: Front and Back Door." He goes on to explain that this round was inspired by one of my scenes in The Anniversary Gift. The scene with the epic six-point orgasm.

This one takes a moment for set up again. Hunk #2 retrieves a device of some kind from a duffle bag. They proceed to arrange things just like in my story. He applies some lubrication to a prostate stimulator and slowly glides it into my anus. I involuntarily clench around it and gasp. When he turns it on, the timer starts. Another new sensation assaults me in the best possible way. I almost bite my tongue. Hunk #1 begins kissing me and rubbing my belly and circling a fingertip around my navel. Hunk #2 puts my legs on his shoulders and starts sucking my already dripping cock while his toy buzzes inside of me and has my whole body humming. He uses one hand to stroke my ball sack and the other to apply gentle pressure to my perineum. I am being stimulated in so many places at the same time that right now, I feel like I'm levitating.

This six point attack on my senses has my head spinning. I am in absolute ecstasy. How weak and pathetic am I. These two gruff gnarly dudes keep reducing me to a puddle of goo in a matter of seconds. Repeatedly. I normally wouldn't be even particularly attracted to them. Well, not overly. If they were shirtless walking down the street, I'd still look. But the point is that they aren't even my typical type. But their big hands, big feet and bigger dicks make me feel helpless. Helpless to fight, helpless to resist, helpless to win. I love losing to these guys. And I'm about to lose again. As wonderful as that night a year ago was, this bullying, degrading thing just might be better. The orgasms certainly are. And as I finish my fourth orgasm of the night, Josh tells me that I made it. I didn't start to convulse until the five minute mark. I suspect that he was being generous because otherwise, the rounds may have lasted all night long. He might have to pay his guys overtime.

He tells his guys to "keep me occupied" while he edits videos on my phone. I guess keeping me occupied means they can do whatever they want with me for a while. I am available to be their toy. Their play thing. I am ordered to reach up and grab the headboard of the bed. I do as I'm told. This is another four hands game, but not the same four hand tug as earlier. They start by massaging my whole body - literally from my temples to my toes. Four strong, masculine hands rubbing and kneading every square inch of my skin running up and down over and over again. And then one of them asks me if I know what a Lingam Massage is.

I do. Some time back I published a story on the site called The Test Subject. I featured Lingam Massage in the story. I had never given or received one, but I'd stumbled onto some videos watching some gay porn and I got curious. I read about it and learned the names of the different strokes and moves used in the tantric, erotic penis massage. I have since forgotten all of the names, but I still watch the videos from time to time. I never imagined being a live participant. The goals are arousal and sexual pleasure that may not involve orgasm at all. Or, for some, it may lead to multiple orgasms. I kind of suspect that I might be orgasmed out.

They begin. What makes my experience different from any video I ever watched is the four hands. It's two guys going at me. My average sized shaft barely fills one of their giant paws at a time, but they work it out. When they tunnel me, they alternate hands and the four hands squeeze, rub and glide down my length in a never ending ecstasy that was previously unimaginable. I feel like I'm eighteen again. My erection is back, full-on with a vengeance. They go on to attack me with palms, thumbs and fingertips for what feels like an hour but is probably more like ten minutes. But still, I'm proud of my stamina.

And then they mean business. My poor dick gets scissored with too many fingers wrapping around it and pulling and digging in the most wonderful ways. Their fingers are like twisted pretzels as they wrap me up like a boa constrictor and slide up and down. I am in complete disbelief as I realize I am quickly approaching yet another orgasm. I can't help it. I can't fight it. I can't stop it. It's like their hands and fingers are pole dancers and my cock is the pole. They cling, grip, grab and twist my pole until my whole body convulses. In my fifth expulsion. I cover my belly in more creamy white globules. This experience was so erotic and so arousing that I don't even go soft. I stay hard, post-orgasm. And the guys don't waste the opportunity for more fun.

They go back to the Two Mouths, One Cock game. I have no complaints. This time I last a long time. At least fifteen minutes. I may have never lasted fifteen minutes in my whole life. They fight each other for the most mouth time. They kiss up and down my length and kiss each other at the apex. They rub my very used cock on their faces and then kiss, lick, suck and nibble some more. One of them begins to suck my balls while the other plunges over and around all of me. It is a little less intense this time, but it's even better. It's more tender. It's not a game this time. The goal isn't to knock me out quickly, so we all enjoy the ride - especially me. But in the end, I'm still conquered. They've pretty much lapped up the mess I made at the conclusion of the Lingam massage when I make a new mess brought on by four lips and two talented tongues. While there is not much volume of my seed left to pump out, this orgasm seems to drag out the longest. After the first five convulsions, it dry heaves a dozen more times. Can a person injure themselves from too many orgasms? I must be getting close.

After, I don't ask, I just begin to stroke them. They lie down side by side on my bed and I kneel between them, stroking two large cocks, one in each hand. I am not particularly experienced with other guys, but my heart is in the right place. And my hands are too. I can tell when they get close by context clues. Since they are about to blow at the same time, I decide to aim their pistols at an angle and I shoot their loads on each other's stomachs.

Then I spend more time worshipping their feet. I like doing it. And while I'm licking their soles, they lick mine too. When that's done, I join them at the head of the bed and we embrace with me in the middle. It starts out as more kissing, which I really enjoy, but as it goes on, we all start rubbing against each other. This is obviously the first frot of my life and it's amazing. As we all rub and slide up and down each other, the friction becomes too much and one by one we all contribute to the sticky mess between us. I'll have to wash my sheets before I go to sleep. Or maybe I won't.

Hunk #1 says, "Hey, the small dick stuff? That was just... What we were paid to do. You're fine. Well, when you're hard you're fine."

I snort.

Hunk #2 says, "You're as big as my dad. You're also in way better shape and a lot cuter."

Why does he know how big his dad's penis is? And do I really want they guys who just gave me six orgasms comparing me to their dads in any way? Even though I'm more than old enough to be their dads? Whatever. He said I'm way cuter.

I've been enjoying myself so much that I don't even realize that two more hours have gone by. That is more than enough time for Josh to have finished editing and to have outed me to all of my contacts in the most humiliating way. Either way, today was totally worth it.

Josh reappears and tells the hunks to get dressed and wait for him at the car. They obey their orders. His eyes run up and down the length of my still naked body, "Um, you actually can get dressed now."

"My underwear is in a tree." We both chuckle. "And I think I need a shower."

"Understandable." He hands me back my phone. "I'm done with this."

I rub my big toe along a slat of my wood floor, "So... Everyone I know has seen me naked, tickled, belittled and milked?"

He nods, but then he says, "No. The vids are still going on Pornhub, but your face is blurred and no one will know you. I finished some minor edits and saved them for your own personal viewing pleasure."

"What made you change your mind?"

He shrugs, "Who would that help? Those guys last year? They gave you your first real experience, but you didn't learn anything about yourself that you didn't already know. And you didn't get out there into the world. You didn't live your life any differently in the past year than any of the years before. But today you embraced a truth you hadn't yet admitted. And while this inspired what will be my first story on the site, I also feel like today really helped you. I hope you tell the people who care about you who you are."

"Well, maybe not everything about who I am..."

"--Right. Not every fetish is everyone's business. But the important stuff. And then you can let someone in. What are you waiting for?"

I don't know why I wait. I've been hiding for my whole life. It's what I do. Am I afraid of disappointing people? Why? It's my life. I really can live more than just through the stories that swim around in my imagination.

He says, "I might come back and check on you sometime. I know where you live."

I have set the stories I've written all across the country on purpose. The most anyone could reasonably narrow down is that I am somewhere in the northeast. A not too unreasonable drive away from Fenway Park. He also knows my real name. He holds all the power. I think he knows that I like it that way. Being the powerless, helpless one.

He goes on, "I was stuck being your audience today. I was left out of the fun." He kisses me. Maybe when I come back, I'll come back alone. Just the two of us." He looks me up and down again from head to toe. It makes my dick stir. He sees it and smiles.

He's a bit older than his hunky employees, maybe thirtyish, but still young enough to be my son. And he's kind of cute. He's also the only one who never took off any clothes. Not even a shoe. He could have ugly feet. He could have an outie belly button. That would be a deal breaker. But he's read my stories. He would know that.

I say, "Thank you again for not making me go viral among my contacts. If you visit me again will you tell me beforehand?"

"Don't you like surprises?"

I smile, "How will I know when your story posts? Do you have a profile I can follow?"

"I'll message you the day it publishes."

He gives me a kiss and walks to the door, "I'll be back. Someday." He closes the door behind him.

~~

Will I take his advice? Those college guys said the same thing last year and instead of taking action, I wrote the experience into a story - The Author Becomes the Story. Then I sat back waiting for - no, craving - the feedback and the comments. That's the life I've been living. That's the life I know.

Instead of getting in the shower I sit in my recliner. Images of the last eight hours flash before my eyes, invading my thoughts. I really did enjoy the degradation. The tickling. Being stripped. Being displayed completely naked on my balcony in broad daylight on a Saturday afternoon. Being forced to worship four smelly man feet and then being trampled by those feet. I liked it a lot. I liked being laughed at, being compared and being measured. I liked the helpless feeling of being dominated all afternoon. And I really enjoyed the six orgasms.

I can't help it. I have no choice. I am compelled by an external force. I reach for my laptop and I start typing.

The Author Is the Story... Again

It's been a year since that weekend that almost changed my life. Four cute college guys, who were self-described superfans of my stories, were uninvited visitors in my home and gave me the wild ride of my lifetime.

Today, it's a beautiful spring Saturday afternoon in New England and I'm just back from a run. I'm about to jump in the shower when there's an unexpected knock on my door...

~~

I know I'll get my story finished and published before Josh does. I'll have it submitted by tomorrow. It's my story after all. I lived it. He just watched.

But he thinks it's his. It was his idea. How mad will he be? I stole it from him. (In his mind) again. Will he be mad enough to never come see me again? Or mad enough to come and see me, but not alone as promised. Maybe he'll bring his employees back to humiliate me some more. To punish me. Maybe he'll bring more than two friends this time and torture me even harder and in new degrading and creative ways. I would be helpless to stop whatever his plans would be. He knows my name and address while I know nothing about him. All I can do is wait and hope. I am completely at his mercy. And I can't wait.

He holds all the power and I wouldn't have it any other way.