Midnight Sphere [18+] [MxM] Ch. 07

Ryan wasn't sure how much longer he could hold out. Ever since he started testosterone, he became a sex addict obsessed with his growing cock.

His two-incher craved constant stimulation. While his doctor said that this side effect would eventually cool off, for now, he was ravenous in every way.

Now, trapped and alone -- well, perhaps not truly alone, as there were NPCs banging on the door demanding to have their way with him -- his lustful vision had become a nightmare that consumed him.

The spirit was very, very willing, but the body was getting low on stamina. He needed a drink, but there was no real sustenance in this virtual world in which he was stuck.

Regardless, his libido, propped up by a synthetic surge of male hormones, tempted him to accept round after round.

Thus, his struggle with keeping his hand off the deadlock to keep those masked strangers currently banging on the door from flooding in and taking him.

How on earth had he landed in this situation? Ryan had time to reflect while the door stood stalwart between him and the masked figures abound.

He was so happy when he first arrived. Ryan thought it was a stroke of luck, a shiny new invitation to enjoy life in the form of an amazing VR game.

After a failed suicide attempt, he was determined to turn his life around, and at 27 years old, well, he didn't enjoy life, but at least the constant dissociation from seeing a stranger in the mirror was mostly gone.

He got to see himself, after shoving the feelings down and hiding and lying for years and years and years!

Actually, sometimes that made it worse.

At least it was her suffering.

Perhaps it wasn't irony then that he was here, as the only way he could enjoy anything was by escaping reality, still, even now, after he got what he wanted.

This game he'd entered should be a cherry on top, after so much misery and suffering. However, this was a bit too sweet, at it were, a bit too real for what he'd anticipated from a prototype.

He was so horny he wanted to vomit.

That was a strange sensation.

Ryan dug his fingers through his inky hair.

"Why did I ever agree to this!?" he lamented aloud. He let out a sigh. "Suppose I've become more impulsive lately. So much for finally working my life out."

Essentially he'd been thinking with his dick when he signed up for this trial, now that he thought of it, in retrospect.

Well, that wasn't the only reason. The virtual contact was the most he'd had in years; regardless of how hard he tried to make real connections, it didn't matter.

Ryan had not had friends since childhood. He hadn't known anyone who understood his experience in the real world, not before or after transition.

He was an alien, always.

Perhaps his complete inability to integrate into society had made it so that his family ultimately didn't care when he came out. He was already a massive failure, a disappointment.

Still, even so, there was a disconnect between himself and the world that was like the final nail when he did the one thing that gave him a modicum of peace.

It was either an immediate distancing or a slow, gradual loss, but all the same, it made him wonder if perhaps it didn't matter if he lived outside the comfort of his room, or if he slipped away forever.

Ryan was grateful not to be homeless and that his mother allowed him to stay with her in America.

He burned out from the only job he'd ever had, making fries, saving every cent for the sole purpose of transition, a terrifying stagnation taking every corner of his brain and rendering him useless right after that goal was accomplished.

His brain was fried in all that oil, day after day.

So, it culminated in all of this, only for him to fall back down and wind up a degene living in his mother's basement.

Hiding.

Again, hiding.

Kind of like how he was, right now.

Ryan chuckled, forlorn.

Subsequently, the banging on the door grew louder.

He was so fucked.

Well, he was about to be, anyway.

An arm clipped through the wall to his corner right.

Ryan chewed on his lip as he fantasized about Guy's massive cock. Yes, he was thinking about that even now. In that moment, he really just wanted him.

An absolute angel, the only person who gave him pause to think that it was better to stay in his den.

He wanted to lick him up and down and wrap around him, prone bone, to feel every inch of his heat.

Ryan ran a hand up his chest and tweaked his nipple.

To smell him, his skin sweet like vanilla, warm as an oven.

He licked his lips.

Ryan yearned to take that thick girthy length into his hand, his mouth, his cunt, his ass. Rock hard just for him. It would be heaven to feel him erupt under his touch once again, and it ate him up every second he was away from him.

His toes curled in his shoes, and he found himself bouncing from excitement, even in this unfortunate situation.

During his awakening, he found that he very much loved sex rather than finding it repulsive anymore. The very acts that made him shrivel in his skin when he pictured himself as a woman made him feel whole and complete as a man.

Funny that.

Even though life was still objectively terrible, at least that miserable bitch was dead. She left him, underneath it all. With that, an opportunity to, just maybe, be happy for the first time in forever.

Guy wanted to meet. In real life. In reality. Him.

Even after finishing transition, he just thought he'd be a forever-alone hikikomori. The thought of something new was equal parts exciting and scary.

Yes, after so long as a dead-behind-the-eyes NEET, lying down flat, no social interaction beyond a screen, the prospect of meeting someone in person was like getting blasted with a firehose in the middle of a desert!

He prayed he didn't turn into a rabid dog in his presence.

Ryan frowned.

But Guy was probably not going to want to be with him if he saw him for what he was.

There was his conflict, the thing that ultimately walled him off from humanity.

What was he to do?

Adrenaline mixed with arousal until the two were inextricably linked, so strange, how closely fear sits next to pleasure. A spike of arousal, through his core, filling his ribcage and fueling his racing heart.

A masked pig head appeared on the glowing arcade screen to taunt him with a wide smile, only darkness underneath, and hollow eyes mirthfully upturned.

His eyes roamed for a place to hide, though it might not matter. It seemed their eyes were everywhere. That there was nowhere to hide where they wouldn't easily find him, anyway.

Ryan didn't look far before he found a hallway that led to a theatre room.

Oh my.

A whine caught in his throat.

It sure would be humiliating if they caught him here and stripped him onstage in front of a live audience. Seen for the disgusting basement dweller that he was, whose only existence delved down to the bottom of the barrel.

All he did all day was masturbate to several open tabs of porn. It had naturally culminated in this: a fake reality where even sex was just an extension of masturbation.

What a fucking loser he was.

The crosswiring in his brain made him boil with pleasure at the prospect of being completely exposed to be laughed at and mocked, knocked down, crushed in every way.

Yes, he wanted to be destroyed, obliterated, and the most fucked up part of it was that he was totally getting off on it. It was the most shameful part of it, so much so that he would never deign to let anyone do that to him in reality.

But he was in a place blurred just enough between fantasy and reality to make it okay. The fact that most, if not all, of these people weren't real made him feel okay enough when they finally found him.

They were a manifestation of his desires, as it were. Surely they couldn't do something that he didn't truly want them to do, if that logic follows.

At least he tried to hide, at least he came out fighting when they pulled him out by his ears from the barrel he'd been hiding in, and dragged him out from behind the curtains toward center stage.

His height had betrayed him, making him stick out of the barrel regardless of how much he reduced and compressed himself.

At 6'4, he was unusually tall for any man. Especially for an asian man. Especially for a trans man. He was a very long and thin noodle.

Even in childhood, he was an ectomorph with a lightning-fast metabolism and a magnet for people who asked what sport he played.

It was a miracle, he thought, for one who believed in such things. It was a combination of genetics randomly aligning to form and shape the class freak.

The unwanted attention followed him well into adulthood.

If he had to hear how's the weather up there again he was going to fucking lose it. While he wasn't the most aware person, he thought it was asked out of jealousy more often than not, and this annoyed him.

Ryan screamed. He thought they would laugh at how squeaky and ineffectual it was, as his voice ultimately caught in his throat, but no.

Despite the almost chilling silence from the audience and his handlers, he was hard and wet.

He deserved to be mocked and destroyed.

Not because he wanted it, which he did, in his fucked up mind, he did. But because he clung to life, and this was his life, one of degradation and shame.

The fact that this feeling had evolved, softened into something he got off on, was irrelevant if it wasn't further proof that this was all he was good for.

Just the thought of it slipping that he'd been tortured and humiliated, how he deserved it, made his heart skip a beat; at the same time, it made him incredibly aroused.

But no one would really find out, right? Who's going to know that he would enjoy every second of being in their evil clutches when he was back out in his miserable existence?

This thought made him sort of relax. The distance from the cold world outside was enough to go along with these fine folks here. He was too cowardly to be perceived in reality.

They dragged him out on stage in front of a massive audience.

Surely, what would happen next would absolutely crush him. They would use him for their pleasure, as he'd expect, how Guy had done, not caring if he came.

He could handle that. It was all he was made for, to be used.

Ryan was shocked when this wasn't the natural progression.

He jumped at a pair of hands grabbing him to pull his tight, black pants from around his hips. A voice from behind, perhaps the person gripping his hips, giggled in his ear.

"We're going to make your mind shatter with pleasure," she said barely above a whisper.

It sounded equal parts loving and threatening, a promise. The voice swirled in his mind when he was brought back to the sharp sensation of his pants being dragged down.

He expected everyone to point and laugh at his purple underwear with little hearts all over them. Then the underwear came off, and he expected everyone to point and laugh at his tiny minuscule t-dick.

That didn't end up happening, to his shock.

He just came to expect that any partner would find him too alien and strange to ever truly love. Guy hadn't commented on it at all, just told him to use his strap, and would he get on with it already.

Ryan blushed like crazy when a mouth hummed low, as if in agreement with this devious voice. He looked down and saw someone in a dog suit, their lips leaving kisses along his thigh.

Ryan arched his brows, black holes for eyes looking back... at... at least he thought they were looking back. The only visible part of their face from the half-mask was their chin, and a thick tongue that protruded slightly out of fat, rosy lips.

He wasn't sure if it unsettled him more that he couldn't see their eyes, or if that would make this situation far more strange and awkward.

He jerked when fingers, feather light, brushed along his chest. Would those scars always be this sensitive? Or would those nerves eventually calm the further they fade?

They seemed to answer his question when they roamed further down; he twisted and jolted as they trailed along the older scars on his arms, from when he slit his wrists in the bathtub.

His vision flashed red, then white. From bloody water to sterile curtains. Dead for four minutes, they said. An absolute miracle that he survived without permanent damage.

Ryan thought it was a completely random string of events that led his father's boss to send him home early that day, while the liquor store he stopped at on his way home every night happened to be vandalized.

All leading to his father getting home early, and finding him lying in a tub of his diluted blood. Ryan hadn't bothered to lock the door, in a sort of phrenetic daze as he'd gone through with his plan.

Whether those four minutes of utter peace and bliss meant that there truly were miracles, he may never fully know in this life. He saw only the impeccable alignment of time.

Time left him with an odd sensitivity in all of his stitches and slashes. Time separated the pain from an almost pleasurable tingling racing through his nerves.

Ryan gasped when those gentle touches hardened to lift his arms. It was all one fluid motion, quick so he couldn't get away. Before he knew it, his arms were suspended in rope, connected high above him, a fly system, he supposed.

Ryan tried to pull his arms down, as the audience stared behind dark holes through which he couldn't see their expressions, but the haunting silence gave him the idea that they were impassive.

Ryan, shockingly, was more embarrassed for the man on all fours at his feet than he'd ever felt for his own patheticness. The feeling was so... so different, so unlike himself to feel it second-hand.

It... was almost worse.

Ryan struggled to try to get away, but those ropes held firm, with just enough give to keep his feet planted to the stage. There was truly nothing that he could do.

The lips at his thighs wrapped around his small shaft like they were blowing out a candle. Ironic, he felt lit on fire rather than blown out.

He let out a groan, a spasm shaking him to his core. Ryan had no perception of time in this place, but he thought he'd been pent up for about an hour or so since Guy left.

Yes, that was when the simulations sought him out.

He was almost in horror at how much the person between his legs knew what they were doing. They flicked and sucked and that heat built until his skin glistened with a sheen of sweat from his hairline to his toes.

That mouth swirled on his hard little dick until his leg jerked, as the tongue hit a sensitive spot. They drew out a long, shaking moan from the man when a thick arm held his leg from thumping, and that tongue flicked on the spot over and over.

Ryan was so sensitive still through his new growth, and it was so intense, but it was so good, and he needed to come, but it was so intense.

His body didn't know whether to drive forward or try to escape, and so he wiggled and writhed, undecided, under their gentle touches and caresses that caused hellfire to burn through his veins.

He shivered with pleasure as fingers hooked inside his cunt, slipping in and out of the soaking wetness while the person behind him grabbed hold of his hips to push him further into that hot mouth.

His leg thumped slightly even in their hold, a tense grin on his face as that boiling heat inside threatened to gush forth. He knocked into the person behind him, though they still had a firm hand on him as he completely lost control.

"That's so good!" he verbalized.

Being caught in the clutches of these masked weirdos, seeing white as that mouth latched on and sucked, challenged his thought that death is the only release.

He saw white as he toppled over into a powerful orgasm, kept upright only by the satin rope hanging him. Ryan attempted to kick his legs back as that mouth sank down, wet heat continuing to envelope him in broad, flat licks as though his entire body wasn't already a raging inferno.

Despite his struggle and protests that it was too much, the man between his legs mercilessly dragged him toward another orgasm. As he could not escape, his legs could shake, and he could scream and swear, whatever he needed to do.

Ryan really thought he might die, barely able to breathe as the man sucked his soul from his body. He kept sucking him through it, while the woman behind him dug into his hips like a predator sinking into her prey.

Meanwhile, the audience seemed completely cold to it as they stared out. He'd almost forgotten they were even there, what the point of this suffering through overstimulation was if there was no one to poke fun at it.

His mind went completely quiet when the fingers thrusting inside of him curled.

His arms and legs seized, and he clenched as he was hit with pulse after pulse of pleasure. He was high, warmth constantly blooming in his core and racing through his limbs, and that elusive emotion, joy.

He was intensely aware of every breath on his skin, the dim stage lights warming him, every touch lurching and lifting him higher and higher.

His all-day masturbation sessions were nothing in comparison; instead of stopping right when he came, as it got to be too sensitive, they remorselessly launched him past that point, no matter how he shook and yelled that it was too intense.

Eventually, it got to the point where he was just numb.

At this point, he realized what he'd felt was so off about the audience, as well as the people on stage with him; through it all, he had no inkling of that feeling one got when in the presence of another person, even when one wasn't looking.

That awareness, that sense that people were watching, it wasn't there. The sensation was more akin to being left alone in a room of mannequins, unreality.

Though he was overheated, it chilled him to the bone.

"It seems like we've exhausted you," the woman said sterilely.

They backed away with a suddenness that he was unable to anticipate, flopping down in a boneless puddle as the ropes around his wrists loosened.

He was left on the floor, wet and twitching, for the audience to gawk at, but they cleared their seats, uninterested in this display.

The show was over.

Ryan couldn't believe it. Where were the jeers? Where was the degradation? They didn't heckle him or laugh at his compromised state at all!

They only wanted to watch a person caught in pure pleasure, and oh, he had been just that, prisoner to their whims.

They were unentertained by his humiliation, of which he hadn't felt anything of the sort, either. He felt empty lying there, in fact, left untouched.

They didn't stay around after the curtains had closed.