Pig: Ch. 02. My inspired solution

I couldn't sleep that night. No matter how hard I tried, every time I closed my eyes, I would just see Sam. Fuck, I wanted to smell that fucker's junk again. Thinking of that stank, and where I might acquire it, my hand drifted down my jock. I laughed to myself, the thought of being caught in it made me smile.

Sam knew I had a jock fetish. When I left laundry in the dryer for too long, he would just toss it on my bed. Except for the few times when a jock band would be noticeable, then he would snag it and leave it hanging over my door handle. He never would say anything, acting like it never happened, but still wanting me to know he knew.

I had an idea, fuck it. If he was not going to respect me, I would not respect his stuff.

I silently went downstairs and saw him passed out on the couch. A cable modem torn apart in front of him. Sam was a techie for sure. Always trying to figure out how shit works and how to exploit it. He loved knowing more than others, and using that knowledge to punk on and humiliate friends.

Sam had gotten into hacking in college. So much so, that his hazing included accessing all of the pledges phones and university laptops. Though a source of control, he used it for countless jokes. He, at least, had a campfire code, leaving the pledge better than he found them. So after the trauma of having their nudes, messages, or anything else exposed, Sam taught them how to protect themselves and their data. A right of passage that was fun for some, but an inconceivable nightmare for those still in the closet.

I even heard a rumor once that Sam had assisted a pledge named Dave into coming out, after a hack. I definitely felt for him. Sam had immense power over him and I doubted he had let it go to waste. Controlling people just seemed to engorge his dominant side. And historically, when he was in that dominant state, he would usually do some phallic act of straight masculine dominance, followed by a quick 'no-homo'.

Damn, did I miss those days. Life was so much simpler when all you needed to do was get a good grade, stay on the frat's good side, and find a chick every once in a while, to keep appearances up. But even looking back, Sam was in every mental image, usually shirtless or in his signature Calvin Kleins. Just like he had on now, in that bean bag chair.

It took all of my effort not to just go to the source; I could see his too-small trunks packed full. A small, wet spot from him taking a leak, I'm sure. Fuck. I was worked up, not the normal worked up, we're talking a level midnight erection. At this level, you do stupid shit. You think with the small head. I couldn't handle it any more and I cracked open the basement door, skipped the step that creaked like a banshee and headed down into the cellar.

I knew where to look, he had dumped everything from his parents' house in one spot. I had to dig through a ton of personal junk, but I finally found my prize. Sam's college sports duffels. When I ripped open the bags, I was first hit with the odor, I mean his last match must have been six months ago, and it still reeked like a fucking locker room filled with sweaty college jocks. I had hit bromo gold.

In the first football bag, I found pads, two cups, a girdle, and a single jockstrap with pouch. The next smaller bag had two red singlets, some crusty ass red jocks, and the rest of his wrestling kit. I dove for the scent; fuck, I felt like a little whore. I was ashamed, embarrassed, and so turned on. All of these items of clothing were a symbol of masculinity, accompanied by a symphony of body odor. All stained from what looked like a year's worth of funk. One well-used jock was balled up and stiff as fuck.

All had dark stains and discoloration. I had forgotten his secret to success in wrestling was to never wash his strap. Everyone complained about his smell on the mat. He became a feared opponent due to this fact. No one wanted to wrestle a gross dude. He loved it.

It became a right of passage, wrestling him in practice and getting over the smell. And later in the locker room, you could be guaranteed that he would pull his jock over some poor fresher's face like an oxygen mask. Then it was a fight for survival. The one time it got washed was when the team dragged him in his jock into the showers. They held him under the water as he tried to wrestle free. All in good fun, but it had to be done. They all had a good laugh, but he would got get his revenge on each and every one of them. So it only happened once.

Falling out of my daydream, I quickly filled my pockets and put the rest to the side, as I made it look like the original pile of random shit. I picked up everything and ran upstairs, forgetting the creaking step and closing the door a little too hard. I looked, and luckily, Sam was still asleep. I dipped into my room and hid these treasures in a large storage tube in my closet.

Needless to say, over the next few days, I was not kind to my nether regions. I beat that thing like a pachinko machine. Dehydration became my biggest risk in life. But it was not enough.

I could not stop myself. After the rush of the first underwear snatch, I started to get more bold. Every morning, I'd wait for him to come back from the gym or a run. He'd shower up and then head out for work.

My next hour was filled by digging through his dirty laundry for prizes. Under Armour boxer jocks and running shorts galore. I couldn't help but sniff, and if some were ripe enough, I would borrow them for a few days, wash them with my laundry and give them back to him as a simple laundry crossover accident.

I would cycle all of his gear together in the storage container buried to the back of my closet. As it was constantly refreshed with new sweaty gear, my original finds became even more ripe. The closet itself started to smell like my own personal locker room. You could almost get the slightest scent just by walking past my room.

It was heaven and hell. I was constantly blue-balled and horny, searching for that next dopamine hit. I could sit at my desk for hours, edging, thinking about all of the homo-erotic shit I had seen come out of Sam in college. I inhaled Sam's masculinity constantly. It inspired me. Made me feel something I had not felt before-- safe.

I was losing my mind. Whenever I was in my room alone, I could not help but smell him; when I was in the rest of the house, he just existed. I could not get away from my new obsession.

I tried to get as much of his attention as possible over the next few weeks. I didn't understand that I was annoying him. I wouldn't, I couldn't, leave him alone. I kept following him and asking him questions, making jokes trying to make him laugh. And he engaged with me wholeheartedly, making me laugh and poking funny. But he seemed to always get in a gay joke before abruptly ending our conversation.

It became one humiliating thing after another, and I couldn't have wanted more. This was changing me deeply. I felt accepted, but also less than, as if somehow he was better than me in every single way. I mean let's face facts, I was a junkie trying to get clean, while he was wildly successful. He even joked once that I should just call him Master at this point. I laughed it off, even calling him Master when I told him to fuck off. But the change on his face when I said the word, made me feel strange. He relished in it, but somehow, also looked satisfied, like when he would beat someone on the mat. I was more unsure of him than ever. I pulled back from him over the next week, keeping to my room and just gooning.

I needed to do better for Sam and for myself, but still lacked the proper motivation. It was my second week clean since I had relapsed, so I was constantly horny. I could not control myself. I would do kinkier and riskier behaviors to try to get my dopamine fix. It was not healthy. And I am embarrassed with what I did, what I had become. I had to get a grip on myself, and not with drugs. I needed a plan to be a better me.

To my credit, I could have relapsed, but I didn't. I decided to find a dom and give him some compromising content and tell him to release it to the world, if I did not stay clean. Total power exchange. I'd give up some rights and privileges in the hopes to stay the course. I'd get the help I so desperately craved.

I made a detailed plan for a dom to follow. It would be both fun, a healthy sexual outlet, and impart a sense of accomplishment. I would have to do daily drug tests and start to work out. I'd have to check in when I go out and about. Even giving up sex and when I nutted. Thinking that these were just fill-ins for a fix.

I needed to find a dom that fit the bill, so I decided to post on Recon. I made a comprehensive and exhaustive list of everything I'd ever wanted to try. It included links to articles for doms on how to force a sub to eat their own cum, instructions for public humiliation, and finally, erotic consensual blackmail. Those were my big three fantasies. I had found erotic instruction guides online when I was in college and they had changed my kinky desires. Once I read those articles, I knew what I wanted, a Total Power Exchange relationship to save my life. I craved to be owned. Sick of making the wrong decisions, I had to find a dom that would help.

On Recon I started by posting photos of myself with the black bar over my eyes. This allowed me to have something close to a full facial photo out there, so people knew what I looked like while still being anonymous. I posted photos and screenshots of videos that I had taken over the past few years. I put in effort to produce those and I was kind of proud at how sexy they were. Maybe I wanted someone to see how far down the rabbit hole I had gone, just by myself.

I put together a dozen pictures. All with my face or eyes covered. Multiple facial shots with me smiling into the camera, me getting fucked, ass plugged, in a small, metal cock cage, gagged with an open-mouth gag, and one of me in Sam's stolen red singlet. The final pic was the end. I took a picture of Sam's torn, stained, and desecrated, jock over my face, eyes showing. I thought it would show how much I wanted to serve. I could give my Master that photo with my roommate's number. If I didn't comply, he could send it to him and I, for sure, would get kicked out to the street and forced to go to my parents' house to live under their strict moral codes.

I just needed to find a master that understood. I even prayed on it, something I had not done since a child.

After three days, that prayer was answered. A new message from an actual person, Master Brian. They lived in another state, but on the same coast. I was hopeful this would work. We started to talk more and more through Recon about my desires, where they came from, what I wanted to do, and where I wanted to go in life.

Analyzing why I wanted the things I did, Master B didn't know if I was ready for what I was asking for. But, he understood that I needed help to kick the addiction and instill new habits, making myself a better person.

However, looking back, he never agreed to the last part. Master Brian didn't want to make me into a better person, he wanted to make a pit of perversion that I would get lost in. He wanted me to be forced to live out every fantasy, every want, and desire, that I had typed out, or mumbled in ecstasy over our first phone call. He requested that I edge for four hours directly before our first call, and I ended up so worked up, that I confessed and asked for things I was not sure if I really wanted. I was not thinking right. At the end of our conversation, I asked and got permission to nut.

Looking back, he had already started to train me.

I realized now it was just a game. He sent me photos to prove who he was, and I stupidly sent him a full-profile photo. Ten minutes later, I received back the purple devil's face, followed by links to my Recon, X, LinkedIn, Facebook, Sniffies, and other dating apps. They had done some kind of AI face search, and it was damning.

I lost my breath. They knew who I really was, the final photo an overlay of my face and the pic of the jock over my face. There was a match, undoubtedly it was me. Next, was a video from college of me on the ground, getting teabagged. Only my face and nuts in view. That one, I had not known existed. It was from my frat days. Not a great memory, honestly, but I was half-mast, thinking back to it then.

The last Recon message of the night was short, "Make a video recording giving me consent to post any and all content you make and sign the contract in your DocuSign, but don't read it."

I went white.

"If you do not, I will release all of the content you have previously put online. You have ten minutes to comply."

This was not supposed to happen, only if I relapsed.

I must know these fucks. I had no other choice. I did what they asked. I quickly signed the one-page doc, then recorded a thirty-second video, giving consent to post and distribute any and all content they wanted of me.

As soon as I was done with the video, I sent it to him through Skype. All I received back was the purple devil's face and instructions to have a good wank, punctuated by the word SLAVE in all capitals. I couldn't help it; I jerked one out and passed out hoping for a better tomorrow.