DISCLAIMER - This is a work of pure fiction and fantasy. David Beckham would probably not do what I have them do as described below. He is not gay.
Feedback to lidon.dyte@gmail.com
Here is Part 12
The downfall of the great superstud David Beckham had been an incredible, erotic process for all involved. A lot had happened in one year. It had started with the confident hunk strutting arrogantly into the offices of Lidon Dyte to seal a property deal that would secure the development of his soccer stadium project in Miami. Dyte had convinved the athlete to give up his face, body and ass for an hour's enjoyment at his hands and, thinking it would all be over and forgotten about, Beckham had reluctantly agreed. Far from being a one-off, the experience had opened the hunky married stud's eyes to an insanely powerful new world.
Beckham had tried his best to cling on to his hetero pride and persona. At first, he tried to rationalise his newfound love of heavy anal stimulation as a purely physical thing. A slight kink. Was it really that bad - after all, it was well known that the prostate was a sensitive and sexual organ, and he'd certainly heard stories from team-mates of the guilty thrill from the odd occasion where one of their girlfriends had stuck a finger up their arse during sex. One of the guys was even known to experiment with his wife, allowing her occasionally to fuck him with a strap-on. It was nothing to worry about. Besides, that nobody Dyte had tricked him, using a special chemical gel to get the soccer stud all horned up.
His efforts to stimulate his own ass, however, had not worked ... and so he had been forced to go back to Dyte for more. But he still wasn't gay. Of course he couldn't do it himself - he was new to the world of ass play, whereas Dyte and the other queers were all experts. It only made sense that they would have the knowledge and techniques to satisfy his intense cravings. In a way, the joke was on them - they were serving him, furthering his pleasures, even as they joyously pounded his absurdly chunky bubble butt with relentless enthusiasm.
But further experiences forced the shamed stud to change his mind. He had wrongly thought that his changed situation was all about the ass - the pure physical high he would get from being thoroughly and roundly plowed, from the constant action that his slutty anal passage received. So his sex life was now focussed around his ass, not his cock - so what? Not so. As his degredation progressed, it gradually dawned on the bronzed, tatted god was what really gave his frequent buggerings that critical edge was actually a psychological angle: the humiliations. The way the queers would make him kiss, give blow-jobs and rim-jobs, to beg for his fuckings, increased the erotic thrill tenfold. The shame of voluntarily offering up his fit, tanned body, chisled handsome face and muscular bubble butt to gang-bangs, spit-roasts, party fucks - to have a crowd of cooing, baying fags cheering on his fall from grace. Occasionally he would catch a glimpse of himself in a mirror as he was being stuffed - the sight of his formerly proud, alpha hetero form being roundly taken apart by a bunch of horny strangers was truly mind-blowing for the married cum bucket. Of course, his fat cock would pulsate and leak all the more in reaction to the shame.
All of this was (apart from in the select Miami gay community) a well-kept secret. No matter how hard and degrading the fucking, the handsome stud could always shower off, get changed and face the world media as the clean-cut family man. Sure, he was spending more and more time apart from his wife and kids - but he had his Miami soccer plan and its busy schedule to blame for that, if questions were ever asked.
At a special fuck session arranged for the stud's 40th birthday, some of his new owners had mentioned this to him ... and suggested that more permanent, evident changes should take place. To a man now totally hooked on self-degradation and humiliation, the idea of allowing these nobody queers to permanently transform his supreme, godlike form inspired the hapless hunk to even greater erotic heights. For decades he had worked hard, training with dedication to hone his physical form to perfection. He had spend tens of thousands on intricate, beautiful inkwork to adourn that tanned, toned body; and thanks to hitting the jackpot in the genetic lottery, the stud had those absolutely stunning facial features to go along with it. Giving all of that up, to hand it over on a plate for the sexual pleasure of these seedy men was the logical next step. To the delight of his owners, the desparate hunk agreed to it on the spot.
Dyte and the others realised that the ruining of such a perfect physical specimen was not to be rushed; it needed to be tantalisingly slow, each step in the degradation appreciated and enjoyed to its full extent.
They decided to start with one of Beckham's other great addictions - ink. The studly celeb had always been open about his love of tattoos; not just having them to display, but also the act of getting them done. The buzz of the needle; the tingle of pain and pleasure as it crossed his golden tanned skin and lithely muscled torso. Now, each and every man who fucked the great David Beckham would have the right to mark their territory by inking up any part of his skin - except his face.
Each of his fuckers would mark their patch with their initials - but they could also include a personalised message or artwork. Over the course of a month or so, his studly form became covered with the marks of those who had taken it, together with various obscenties: "GREAT FUCK!" "SEX PIG" "CUM DUMP" "COCK SLUT" - as well as crude drawings of cocks or whatever else the writer had felt like defacing the hunk's perfection with. As the soccer stud looked in the mirror and saw the growing collection of ugly graffiti, contrasting starkly with the artistic and tasteful inkwork that he had carefully selected and paid top tattooists for, the erotic hit was incredible. He would sport an instant boner; his big slutty ass would begin to itch for a fucking, and he would soon be bent over taking another relentless pounding from one of the many eager volunteers. Of course, that fuck itself meant that the delighted queer would get to leave his own mark on that gorgeous body - only increasing further still the degredation. The graffiti became more and more obscene and rude as the hunky millionaire's fucklust grew and grew.
Soon enough, there was no more of that sunkissed skin left to ruin. Except for the neck and face, which the queers had been under strict orders from Dyte to leave alone (for now!), the formerly beautiful toned form of David Beckham was now a permanent mess of vulgar etchings and epithets. The round, bursting globes of that fantastic bubble butt ass were not spared - covered in an array of messy ink, their natural pure beauty was forever lost. Not even the fat meaty cock had escaped attention; all nine inches of its forever-hard shaft were ruined with ghastly inkwork.
But what next? All that there was left now to destroy was that stunning, iconic face; those world-famous classic alpha male good-looks which the degraded stud still possessed. As originally planned, the queers had decided that a proper send-off was needed if they were going to say goodbye forever to the old Becks; and whilst his firm, chunky ass was obviously a massive draw, the true thrill always came from being able to kiss and caress those faultless, chisled features as their reluctant, shamed owner's arse was receiving a solid stuffing. A number of special events were arranged to maximise the use of that amazing face; lengthy blow-jobs and snogging sessions, missionary-position lovemaking. A particular favourite was bukkake - dozens of horny gay men would queue up to spunk over Beckham's face as he knelt down, the sight of their fellow queers' jizz seeping erotically over those chisled cheekbones, sculpted nose and strong jaw spurring them on. As the loads built up, a lucky few would get to scoop some of the cream up and snowball it slowly and teasingly with the destroyed superstud.
However, there was always a problem with progressing to the next stage. Not from Beckham - quite the opposite in fact. Having now lost his mind to the buzz of constant and permanent defiling, the married hunk would constantly plead with his owners to take the next step. To fuck up completely his absurdly handsome face with tatts, piercings and metalwork. And for sure, the queers themselves would love to discuss the options (especially in front of the bronzed hunk, given the levels of horniness such talk would induce in him) - silicone implants under the skin to produce devil's horns; injections of fat into the cheeks to transform that face from sculpted to round and heavy; filing down the bone of that square jaw to destroy the strong, hetero profile of that face. All of these ideas would get the studly athlete and his owners hard and leaking - Beckham always the hardest of all as he contemplated the erotic humiliation of the demise of his looks. The best suggestion - one that had almost had the horned-up stud shooting his load without being touched - was the destruction of what most agreed was the finest feature of that godlike face. That fleshy, sculpted nose, perfectly symmetrical, was the one that plastic suregeons were most often asked to copy by their patients. Strong and yet the perfect size, its chisled beauty complemented perfectly the sharp cheekbones and jawline. When one of the more sadstic queers suggested some rhinoplasty - to shorten the bridge, turning that magnificent feature into a permanent pig's snout, and injecting small amounts of fat to make it ugly and uneven, Beckham had unleashed a gutteral groan and almost passed out.
He had begged them to do it - now, straight away. But they never could. As much as the idea of ruining that perfect face drove them all wild, they could not bring themselves to lose the pleasure of enjoying its erotic beauty. "Sorry, Becks - you're gonna have to stay handsome for a little longer," they'd chide - before taking out their frustrations on the desparate stud with a good, solid fucking session.
They were at least good enough to help advance Beckham's quest for further, deeper humiliations. Hot, risky fucks in public places became more common. On one occasion, desparate to be degraded, the stud had been taken under a railway bridge where half a dozen winos were gathering to drink and pass out for the night. Being winos, nobody would believe their crazy story that the famous hunky superstar had showed up one night and proceeded to service them two at a time, one pounding that muscular arse whilst that beautiful face and mouth performed blow jobs on the rancid, scabby cock at the other end. Beckham had never come harder than when the most disgusting hobo - fat, ugly and smelly - was riding his sporty, honed butt. Another time, Beckham was lent out to a biker gang (Diego had a connection) for a week as their sex slave. Between the obviously frequent fuckings and blowjobs, Beckham was hooked up to a urinal and made to serve as the gang's toilet. They toured the coast for a while, stopping over at seedy motels and renting out Beckham's ass for $10 a fuck (keeping the stud in a gimp mask to prevent recognition). With each new degradation, the once-proud hetero hunk found higher and higher levels of erotic energy and would shoot his load at least a dozen times a day - usually whilst stuffed with the prick of the fattest and crudest of the bikers.
When he was returned to his owners, Dyte told him that he had some good news. They had finally agreed on the next step - the next permanent change. Beckham had looked up hopefully from the blowjob he was giving Dyte at the time to see a cruel smile on his owner's face.
"We're still going to leave your face alone," Dyte said. "For now. As much fun as it would be to fuck it up, we're just not ready to let it go. But we know you're a fucked up whore for being ruined. So we got thinking ... given that your life now is basically getting your holes routinely stuffed and shooting your load like the natural slut that you are, do you really need all that action down there?"
With his foot, he gently nudged Beckham's stiff, leaking fuckpole - the fat nine-incher, the ultimate symbol of his hetero alpha power.
"We figured that you could lose a few inches," Dyte continued. "The technique is possible, and perfectly safe - it's usually reserved for those with medical issues but we've found a doctor who'll make an excpetion. After he's had a turn on your beefy ass, of course. He'll reduce the length to three inches hard - it'll just look like a silly little clit when soft. He'll also take care of some of that girth. It won't affect the function and you'll still be able to come - of course, you'll no longer be capable of fucking anything yourself."
Beckham's mind was in a swirl. Ever since he was a teenager, he had been walking round with a seriously plump package - a hefty cock that swung heavily when soft, producing a generous bulge through his jeans or soccer shorts that attracted many a glance. He had once enjoyed plowing pussy with it, drawing screams and moans of delight with his sheer size and powerful technique. Was the great David Beckham now ready to give up his fleshy prize - to leave the ranks of the well-hung and become a pencil-dicked loser? The next words from Dyte made his mind up for him.
"Of course, with such a pathetic small dick those big old balls would look out of place," said Dyte. "Luckily, our man can sort that out too. You'll owe him a blow-job for that. He's developed a chemical for attacking tumours, but it also works on healthy flesh. A couple of cc's in each one of those fat low-hangers and they'll be half the size within a week. So what do you say, Becks? Ready to destroy your junk, just for a quick thrill?"