I Finally Went to a Gay Sauna

Am I gay?

No. At least, not in the emotional sense. I don't fantasize about cuddling a man, or being held in his arms, or waking up in his bed sharing breakfast and warm smiles. I don't want that. I don't need the closeness. I have a girlfriend--sweet, kind, everything a man could want, on paper.

But every time I'm with her, there's this sharp ache inside me. A pressure building. Because even while her soft body presses against mine, even while she strokes me, kisses me, whispers that she loves me--I'm picturing cock. Hard cock. Hungry cock. Powerful, merciless, demanding cock.

I want to be on my knees for it. I want to crawl for it. I want to beg.

I want to be used.

I want to worship it. With my tongue, my throat, my ass, my soul. I want to look up into a stranger's eyes, a stranger with a thick, pulsing cock, and whisper please. Please use me. Please fill me. Please ruin me.

When I touch myself, it's not her I picture. It's not even me anymore. It's something else--something I'm becoming.

I wear her panties when she's out. I hold them up to my face, inhaling the sweetness, imagining how she'd react if she saw me in them--tucking, rubbing, moaning. I dress up in secret. I've bought my own things now. Slutty lingerie. Stockings. Skirts so short that one bend over would reveal everything. I do my makeup sometimes--just cheap stuff, enough to paint myself into the kind of whore I see in those videos.

God, those videos.

I live inside them sometimes. Hypno videos. Feminization clips. Sissy trance porn. I lie there for hours, headphones in, cock in hand, eyes locked to the screen while some slutty voice whispers that I'm a cumslut, that I was made to serve cock, that I'll never be a man. And I believe it. I need to believe it.

Because when I do--when I let go of everything else and let those words crawl inside me--I feel alive. More than alive. I feel like who I really am.

My favorite videos are the gangbangs. Not just one-on-one scenes. No, I want to see the slut get passed around. I want to see her stuffed full of cock at both ends. Choking and gagging and begging for more. I love watching trans girls and shemales bent over, drooling, moaning, their bodies covered in sweat and spit and thick globs of cum. I can't count how many times I've cum to the same clips over and over again--reloading them like rituals, like prayers.

There's one I go back to all the time. A tiny blonde trans girl, barely legal, dolled up in heavy makeup and pigtails, kneeling on the floor with six massive cocks towering over her. Her eyes are wide, mascara running down her cheeks, lipstick smeared all over. She's moaning, shaking, choking--but she keeps reaching for more. That image sticks in my head all day. On the bus. In the queue at the shop. At work. Even when I'm fucking my girlfriend. Especially then.

The problem is: I can't tell anyone.

I have to keep this hidden. Buried. Because this isn't just a kink--it's a hunger. A need. Something I'm afraid to admit even to myself. And my girlfriend--she has no idea. She sees me as strong. Masculine. Dependable. A good boyfriend.

She doesn't know that I fantasize about being spit-roasted.

She doesn't know that I think about sucking cock while she kisses me.

She doesn't know that I have profiles on Grindr, Scruff, and a dozen other hookup apps--none with pictures of my face, all filled with the dirtiest, filthiest desires I can type out between trembling fingers.

Since moving to Blackpool, I've done more than just fantasize. I've researched. I know every gay bar in town. Every cruising spot. Every sauna, every club, every dark alley with a reputation.

I've sat outside them at night, heart pounding in my chest, watching men go in and out, wondering what I'd find inside. I've stood near the back entrance of a well-known sauna, wearing tight jeans and lip balm, hoping someone would notice me. Sometimes they did. Sometimes they didn't.

One night, I followed a man into a dingy club off a side street. He was older, rough, wearing a leather harness and no shirt. I stood near the bar, sipping water, pretending I belonged. He saw me, smiled, nodded. We didn't speak. Just stared. Later, in the bathroom, he pushed me into a stall and pulled out his cock--huge, veiny, half-hard already. I dropped to my knees without a word. I remember the way it tasted. I remember the smell. I remember the way he grabbed my head and fucked my throat like he owned it.

When he came, it was violent. Messy. He pulled out and painted my face, my lips, my collar. I didn't wipe it off. I walked out of that club with my face still dripping, like a trophy.

And I came again, untouched, in my pants on the way home.

It was perfect. But I couldn't tell her. I had to go home, shower, pretend nothing had happened.

The double life is exhausting. It's thrilling, yes. But it's lonely. I crave the humiliation, the degradation, the anonymity of being a cumdump. But then I wake up beside her, and guilt swallows me whole. I think about how hurt she'd be if she knew. How betrayed. How broken.

And still, I do it again.

I can't stop. I don't want to stop. Because I've never felt so alive as when I'm down on my knees, choking on some stranger's cock, knowing I'm nothing but a hole for him. Knowing I'm not a man--not in that moment. I'm a toy. A slut. A cocksleeve.

Some nights, I edge for hours while watching sissy hypno compilations. I whisper things to myself. I talk like them. I call myself slut, whore, faggot, bimbo. I imagine myself with a pair of tits, long hair, fake lashes, and a plug in my ass. I moan like I've been fucked for days. I train my hole with dildos bigger than I can handle, fantasizing about the day a real man finally stretches me open and makes me his.

I keep a locked folder on my phone. It's full of pics I've taken of myself--bent over, toys sticking out, cum leaking down my thighs. Sometimes I even take videos of me fucking myself, calling out for Daddy, pretending I'm at a casting couch, begging to be hired as the next trans slut to get gangbanged on camera.

I send those clips to anonymous men. I don't even want their names. Just their approval. Their cock pics. Their filthy fantasies.

One man I met on Kik was particularly rough. He'd send me voice notes, low and commanding, telling me how worthless I was, how he'd bring friends over and tie me up, fuck me raw, dump cum in me until I was leaking down my legs. I'd play those messages over and over, moaning like a bitch in heat, stuffing myself full and imagining the knock at the door that never came.

I know I'm addicted. Not just to porn. To the feeling. The surrender. The filth.

Sometimes I try to resist. I delete the apps. Block the sites. Clean myself up. I shave, dress normal, go out with my girlfriend and smile like everything's fine. But then a man walks past in tight joggers and I can't help but imagine his cock swinging underneath. I see his bulge. I feel my own twitch. And just like that--I'm gone again.

Back home, door locked, headphones in, skirt on, cock in hand.

I edge for hours, keeping myself right at the edge, replaying every filthy thought I've had since childhood. I remember sneaking into my mum's room to try on her heels. Watching gay porn in secret at thirteen and humping the pillow. My first real orgasm was to the image of a man fucking another man's face while calling him a sissy slut. It imprinted something deep in me. Something permanent.

There's no going back.

I think I love my girlfriend. I really do. But the part of me that wants to be a good boyfriend is drowned out by the part of me that wants to be used like a cumrag.

She wants to get married someday. Have kids. Settle down.

But I want to be bent over in a gloryhole booth while strangers line up behind me. I want to be spitroasted in a warehouse. I want to be filmed while I'm fucked and posted online with the caption: "Whore from Blackpool takes her first 10-man load."

Sometimes I imagine her finding out. Catching me. Walking in while I'm in panties, legs spread, dildo deep inside me, moaning Daddy. I imagine the horror on her face--and it makes me cum harder than anything else.

I think about telling her. About begging her to feminize me, to pimp me out, to let me serve real men while she watches. I've read stories about that--hotwives turning their partners into sissy maids. Maybe one day I'll have the courage.

But until then, I live this lie. By day, I'm her boyfriend. Her man.

By night, I'm a slut. A sissy. A depraved, cockhungry, cum-addicted faggot.

And I love every second of it.

It happened on a Tuesday night.

Rain slicked the pavement outside, thick and heavy, but it didn't matter. I was already soaked--inside, not out. Soaked in need. Drenched in hunger.

I had paced outside the Blackpool sauna for over an hour that evening. Hood up. Heart pounding. I'd walked past it maybe five or six times--once even crossing the street to avoid looking like I was hovering. But I was. I was circling it like prey. Or maybe like a desperate whore waiting for the right moment to slip inside and give up the last shred of self-control I had left.

Because I knew what happened in there. I had read the reviews, the forums, the confessions. I'd watched the amateur videos filmed secretly in the back rooms. I'd jerked off to the shadows of faceless men pounding strangers over the wet hum of the steam rooms, cum dripping onto tiled floors.

I didn't go in as me. I went in as the thing I'd been becoming.

Twenty quid got me a towel and a key.

That was it. That's all it took to throw away my guilt, my resistance, my double life. The boy at the counter didn't even look twice. I was just another hole to them--another lost, twitching body in a sea of flesh and sweat and heat.

Inside, the air clung to my skin like syrup. Steam hissed around corners, dim red lights glowing above maze-like corridors. Doors were ajar. Some shut tight. Some swung open and revealed things I wasn't sure I was ready to see--and yet couldn't look away from.

The first man I saw was naked, middle-aged, and already hard. He nodded at me with a hungry grin. I kept walking, towel wrapped tight, cock half-hard already beneath the fabric.

I found a dark corner in the sauna proper--humid, stifling, the air thick with the scent of balls, spit, arse, and chlorine. Men lounged lazily, their cocks out, hands roaming across chests and thighs that weren't theirs. I sat. I watched.

And then I slipped the towel open.

Just a bit.

Enough to show the smoothness I'd shaved for that morning. Enough to invite the eyes I craved.

It didn't take long.

He was tall. Muscular. Covered in tattoos. Cock already hard as he stepped in front of me and grunted, low and wordless. He didn't ask. He just looked at me, then looked at his cock, then back at me.

I dropped to my knees like I'd been trained.

The first taste of him was sweat and pre. I licked the slit. Licked down his shaft. Let my tongue hang out while I nuzzled into his balls. He grabbed the back of my head and fed me inch by inch. My throat clenched, gagged, opened wider. I moaned around him, eyes fluttering.

Others watched. A few touched themselves. One filmed. I didn't care. I wanted them to see. I wanted to be seen.

I wanted to be known--for what I really was.

Cumslut.

He didn't pull out when he came.

He rammed forward and dumped his load straight down my throat, shuddering. I swallowed. I didn't even taste it. Just heat and humiliation. My cock throbbed untouched.

I didn't move. I stayed on my knees, mouth open, waiting. Another cock took its place. Then another.

Somewhere between the fourth and fifth man, I stopped counting. My jaw hurt. My throat burned. My stomach churned with cum, but I kept sucking, kept licking, kept letting them use my mouth like it was a free vending machine for getting off.

Eventually, a hand gripped my hair and dragged me up.

"You're getting fucked now," a voice growled.

He pulled me down a dark hallway to a back room. It smelled worse back there. Like sweat and lube and days-old cum. My towel hit the floor. My legs were shaking. My hole was twitching.

They didn't ask. They didn't need to.

One man bent me over the edge of the low vinyl bench. Another spread my cheeks and spat. That was the only lube I got.

The first thrust was brutal.

I screamed.

But only for a second. Then I bit the cushion and took it.

He slammed into me, hard, raw, stretching me open with the kind of force you can't fake. My hole burned, tore slightly. I felt the skin give way--but I pushed back into it.

Because I needed it.

Because I'd waited my whole life to be split open like this.

He fucked me bareback, pounding deep, no mercy, no concern. When he finished, he stayed in. Thrust a few more times. Then pulled out, leaving his load inside me.

I heard the next man unzip. Another hand on my back. Another cock pushing in.

No break.

No time.

Just cock after cock after cock.

Some grunted. Some whispered filth. Some said nothing.

They used me like I wasn't even human. Just a fuckable object with a tight hole and no boundaries.

By the seventh man, my legs had gone numb. My hole was ruined--dripping, gaping, raw. But still hungry. I begged for more. I moaned. I called myself a bitch. I called myself a cumdump.

"Breed me," I whispered at one point.

"Make me your fuck toy."

They laughed. They filmed. They pushed deeper.

One man grabbed my hips so hard he left bruises. Another slapped my face, made me thank him while he fucked me. A third held my arms behind my back while he mounted me like an animal.

And still, they came.

Inside me.

Again and again.

My belly swelled with it. My thighs slick with it. My ass flooded with it.

Eventually they left me there, twitching, filled, dripping.

Alone.

I rolled onto my side and felt it ooze out. Hot. Sticky. The smell of it coated my skin. My hole spasmed, gaping slightly, leaking onto the bench and the floor beneath.

And that's when the cleanup man arrived.

Not staff--just another regular.

Older. Slender. With a gentle voice and a thick condomless cock already sliding up between my thighs.

"You've been a busy little girl," he whispered. "Time for one more."

He lifted my legs. Folded me in half. Slipped in easily.

I was so open. So loose. So used.

It was perfect.

He fucked me slow. Deep. Like he wasn't in a rush. Like he was savoring it. Like he wanted to feel every fold of my wrecked, cum-filled hole.

"Bet you don't even know who bred you first," he whispered.

I moaned.

"Don't need to, do you? You're everyone's now."

He was right.

That night, I stopped pretending. Stopped calling it a kink, or a secret. It wasn't just some hidden side of me.

It was me.

The whore. The sissy. The used and ruined cumdump at the bottom of every man's lust.

By the time he pulled out, I was shaking. Cum leaking from my mouth and my hole. My cock soft, untouched, but twitching like it wanted to explode.

He kissed my forehead.

"See you next week, princess."

And he left.

I stayed there for a while. Minutes? An hour? I'm not sure.

Eventually I stood, weak, dripping, legs jelly. I went into the shower, but I didn't clean. Just stood under the warm water and let it all run down my legs. Let it pool around my feet. Let the smell of cock and filth and surrender soak into my skin.

I didn't want to wash it away.

I wanted to take it home with me.

I did.

I went home in silence, thighs still sticky, cheeks flushed.

My girlfriend was asleep when I got in. The house was quiet. Peaceful.

I looked at her.

Then I went to the bathroom and looked at myself.

Makeup smeared. Bite marks on my neck. My ass red and raw.

I touched my cock.

It exploded within seconds. No edging. No control. Just cum--my own, at last--joining the dozens of loads still inside me.

I whispered thank you as I came.

To the men.

To the sauna.

To the part of me that finally gave in.

I had tasted what I was meant for.

And I would be back.

Because once you've been bred by strangers, once you've been used by a room full of men like a living fleshlight, you can't go back.

You don't want to.

You belong to them now.

Forever.