The Hole Inspector

The Hole Inspector Case Study #7 The Bet (i)

Jason and the Inspector's 7th case study. The same scene told three times. Themes include brothers, leather, rubber, fisting and tattoos. Average reading time: 50 minutes.

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Of course, some events happen that are unplanned and unexpected. Like this one: trash talk and rivalry. Totally unprofessional with asses on the line. It was seriously good ffun though.

I was in a fetish bar chatting to a friend, both of us dressed to the nines. Hey, you've got to live it or you're not a part of it, right?

We were swapping war stories and I couldn't help but be on a high recounting some my latest work. My older (and more wealthy) friend was living vicariously, relishing in my tales of corruption and depravity. Tales of manufacturing the perfect pussy, the perfect fist. Of matchmaking men and changing lives forever - either wrecked, ruined or loved up. However, in terms of sheer sex appeal, I think he actually had me beat.

He excitedly drew my attention to a pair of twins he'd been splashing some cash on. This was one of his `things'. He loved nothing more than finding guys who were only just starting out their kink journey and then fully kitting them out. For any target lucky enough to receive his largesse they would suddenly possess serious fetish-credentials yet without the backstory or any lived-in, real-world experience.

Some might call that altruistic, but I thought it was deliciously fucked up! He relayed that equipping these two was like watching kids in a candy store. The two young men had run round the city's finest fetish emporium and tried on virtually every item of gear they could.

Of course, whilst my friend got the distinct thrill of watching hot, young bucks discover leather and rubber this wasn't his direct goal. No, it was sitting on a bar stool like this and seeing his protégées go out into the world. Their serious gear was serious bait for men way more experienced than they. He loved nothing more than seeing fetish bruisers take his innocents home and having their ends away. Extreme pleasure or extreme danger. Hell, if you have the gear you've done the time, right?

In these guys he really seemed to have struck gold. Two identical twins that were buff as fuck! Handsome, in good shape and who were catching everyone's eye. They both looked - from the outside - ready for anything and only the most practised eye would know they were slightly hesitant and freshly-minted.

What made this doubly interesting was that they obviously had very different interests. Or maybe they'd gone their separate ways to stand out? The one on the left was in full leather. High patrol boots that lead to a pair of close-fitting chaps that covered well-packed muscular thighs. A nicely-filled jock with a curly-haired treasure trail rising above, all leading up to a cross-over chest harness, accentuated by a slimline bar vest.

He really did look fantastic! The only thing missing was colour. No piping, no flagging, no stripes. Like a blank canvas to work on.

His brother though? You couldn't imagine more different men. He was in full rubber (though thankfully his face was unhooded, the only path of him uncovered). A skin-tight cat suit, heavy vintage waders, elbow-length industrial gloves, a show-piece harness secured on top. He looked seriously kinked out! Once again, no colour though, just implied and left to the imagination. God. Did he know how to use all that kink? I doubted it.

Materials aside, the other difference between the two youths was how they surveyed the scene. Was the rubber twin just that little bit more sure of himself? He seemed to scan the space with a confidence that I both adored and respected. Who might they catch, or be caught by?

That's when the evening went south though. Or lit up.

One of my `competitors' and his groupies butted into our conversation and tried to rule the roost. Of course, I say competitor loosely as I've always thought this guy was a serious lightweight. Full of self-glory but very little to show for it. As usual - even though this was a fetish bar - he was virtually naked. Just a rubber nut-slinger, high-tops, socks and a bicep band. Christ, his body has always been his sole calling card. Taut, vain and totally built on steroids. I prefer the evidence of my work to be my best advert.

Annoyed at our free-wheeling discourse being interrupted, what started as light-hearted banter inevitably turned sour. We ended up comparing old clients, me mentioning how often I'd had to fix' some of his past failures. In return, he blasted past and said that was only down to me relying on fancy' toys and techniques. That I had no `natural' ability or skills.

Bitch, please! I don't think my eyes could have rolled any higher. This guy has no finesse, no sophistication and no sense of the bigger picture. Worse, he simply doesn't know it!

I could feel my temper flaring but it was only when he declared his old-school' methods could guarantee creating a better bottom than my abnormal' techniques that I got truly riled. Who the fuck does he think he is? Very quickly - spurred on by the crowd - a dangerous bet emerged. Which of us could create the best fisting pussy in 30 days flat?

Trying to stay calm, my initial reaction was to dismiss the idea out of hand. First off, where would we get two similar men who would be a comparable baseline for each party to work on? Doh! My friend quickly chimed in. How about his twins? Unsullied, unused and unmatched. I felt a stirring that I couldn't resist. He said he was sure neither boy had experienced the exquisite pleasure of having their holes broached by fist. Hell, they'd barely even taken cock yet.

What would be the terms though? What were we actually betting on? Both of us exchanged eye contact and it was sealed. Using the loser for an entire weekend. No questions asked or consequences accounted for. Nothing would be off limits, even permanent restructuring or modifications. My only caveat was that the twins had to enter into the competition of their own free will, and - regardless of the result - they would both get significant compensation.

This did leave a significant question: what exactly was the definition of better?

Unspoken, my mind raced ahead. Could a `better' cunt be measured scientifically? Sure, I have my fist protocols (see my first case study) but those are my proprietary intellectual rights. No way I would give them away to this wank stain of a competitor.

Maybe a cunt's level of development could be measured by a series of challenges. Like the number of punches it could take in a row? Or, how deep and how much girth? In my head I imagined a contest playing out - here in this very bar - of how wide a toy each bottom could take inside a single hour after a month's prep. Each twin in his own sling, wearing the gear they loved. I imagined their trainers would be matched to our boys to help tell them apart.

I knew my competitor well enough to know just how he'd tackle the task. He'd focus on size as the sole determining output, relying on a succession of increasingly bigger toys to train his twin's boyhole.

I would do it very differently.

I'd install my twin - the leather one - in one of my short-term holding cells, telling him this would be intense but totally for his own benefit. Oh, and that if he won the bet he'd be a wealthy man and know pleasure like no other. Being turned out as a gaping, juicy, slot cavern was a reward in itself, right? That might scare him, but he'd always have to have one eye on the prize.

I'd throw out my competitor's methods of slowly increasing toy dimensions over time and use my mechanical gifts. I know. It's true. I totally rely on `abnormal' techniques. The difference is that I appreciate psychology and how to manipulate people into the outcomes I want. To make them think it was their idea, their goal not mine.

I'd start off by connecting him to one of my inflation machines. These have a mechanism that is beyond simple but the purpose is totally fucked up.

He'd be positioned on a leather saddle, raised at such a height that his toes would be firmly on the floor. Actually, fixed in place. For each training session his feet would would be guided into boots that were glued in position. Then laced in. 20 holes up and down. Comfortable and utterly secure. There would be no escape until release.

This would be a sensory overload but the feel of his naked ass on leather wouldn't be the only thing he had to contend with. From the middle of the saddle would protrude a seemingly small and soft dildo, but one with a very firm core. It would project at such an angle that you couldn't sit down - or be restrained in the boots - until it was firmly wedged inside your butt. A grease line running through the centre to ensure everything stayed slick.

Once in position, the industry-spec air compressor below would get to work. That innocent looking dildo was anything but. The core was stainless steel, surrounded by a rubber bladder that could be inflated to astonishingly extreme sizes. It had one purpose: to stretch and distend a hole beyond the limits of what anyone could possibly imagine.

It would sequentially inflate, stretch and relapse my twin's hole for hours at a time. All expertly computer controlled, of course. Sensors inside the plug's neck would constantly gauge clutch control and measure the exact pressure pushing back. Just how much further could it go?

The machine would have one goal: to fight resistance and win. It would inflate until it sensed it was at maximum capacity before pushing out one last blast of air before holding firm. 30, 90 or even 1200 seconds later it would then deflate and then start the cycle all over again.

The human body is a miraculous thing, but it can only take so much. Soon my twin's hole would be transformed to a monster cunt. The constant and expanding pressure, for hours and hours at a time? What being could possibly resist?

I know what you're thinking. That this seems inhumane and a far cry from the best fisting pussy. Where's the humanity? Where's the connection that's so vital to being a truly great hole? Trust me.

The inflation machine wouldn't be the only part of his training. The decoration of his holding cell was just as important. Shocking when first seen, but it would really help with imprinting our goals. Picture after picture covering the walls and leaving not an inch of space free. A gallery of juicy and trashed holes displayed in graphic detail. Wall to wall cunt, if you will. Action shots of male hands buried inside male pussy. 100% fist.

This would be key. For all his inflation and deflation I would deny him the endgame of human touch for as long as possible. I would make him really want it and deprive him of that extreme pleasure. This would be helped by high-definition handballing porn always playing out whilst he was on the saddle. I wouldn't want him to not be visually stimulated and entertained at all times...

At the end of each day Jason or I would pull him off the machine and tell him how well he'd done, but we'd always be clear that more and more stretching was still to come. And that we had to hold onto today's gains. That meant inserting another diabolical device of my own invention into his arse overnight. An instrument he'd become intimately familiar with.

To all intents and purpose, it looks like a drastically oversized spool. It has a solid central core about 2" wide and 6" long. However, the real impact would be made by the ends, both of which were epically flared. No normal rims or ridges here.

No, the ends were easily 4" across and once inside unfurled to mean the device couldn't be ejected or removed without a lot of help. Literally, a tug of war. The ends were made of very thick rubber, collapsible, but once sprung open they were entirely effective at ensuring that central core held a cunt wide open.

Just what we'd want, although I couldn't deny it would be tough. Not least for us. You had to fold the end in on itself and then force it inside through the sphincter barrier. Then it would immediately spring back to shape and form an epic internal flange that was completely lodged inside the body and couldn't be pushed out. The external flange (just as big as the inner one) would nestle snugly against the outer lips to keep the pressure on. Once in, there for the night.

By the end of the month his cunt would be a spectacular sight. A beautiful world-class pussy. Yet it would be totally unsullied and untouched. It would have desires that hadn't been met. All that glorious fisting porn? Those videos hands trammelling pussy? The bottoms - just like him - rolling their eyes back and delighting in fist? Well, he wouldn't of experienced any of that. Just machine action. I knew he'd want it - need it - and that would be my big advantage.

Dialling forward, I could just imagine how it would play out on stage. Two slings side-by-side so the competition can happen in real time. Both twins held in the air by heavy-duty restraints that carried the weight of their muscles and their gear. Wescos, waders, leather and rubber.

My competitor and I would be invited on the stage, each responsible for our own twin. I knew he'd fall back on showing off his body, taking way too much pride in himself. Trying to win the crowd. But compared to the rubber his twin was wearing? Well, it would be a dissonance he'd have to unknowingly battle against during the competition. Whereas I'd be in sync. The same leather gear, the same look... we would be a team and in it together.

Then it would begin: just how much girth could each twin take by the end of our one hour stage show? To judge, two racks of identical dildos would be bought on stage and the countdown would begin.

To say our approaches revealed different techniques would be to downplay the difference. My inflation device and the diabolical night-time stretching spool would mean my boy was incredibly hungry. Hungry for my fists that is. Tonight would be the first time his arse would be actually be touched by human hands. After all that porn, all that warm-up? He'd be fucking desperate for it!

I knew that all I'd have to do was touch his cunt and he'd flare open like a bitch in heat. I would have seen the lust in his eyes, demanding more and more. Over the last month I'd have stretched him so big that his trench would be amazingly slack and sloppy, his arse receiving my hands like a welcome home party. I'd have created a giant canyon inside that boy that meant it wouldn't be long before I could slid both hands in and make a double. Can you imagine that? Your first experience of fisting is on a stage in a nightclub and you're taking two fists to your cunt? It would be fucking epic!

All the while my competitor would have taken the exact opposite approach. He'd pick the first toy on his rack, lube it up and then push in. He'd be pleased to see it accepted, but would I see anxiety cross his twin's face?

The toys would kept on coming, but they'd surely take longer and longer to make their way in. Meanwhile, I'd keep on going gentle with my hands, stretching wide and big, giving my twin the full human touch that he'd been craving for so many days, crying out for, desperate to feel. He would be joyous. That first fist? Who can forget it! It would create a demand he had no choice but to pursue. I would be there to fulfil the demands of his stretch.

The clock would be counting down and I'd be buried deep inside my twin's pussy - ignoring all the toys - whilst my competitor would be getting worried. He'd try to use force to get bigger, whilst I'd simply ream and make my guy as horny as possible.

With five minutes to go, I'd look at the rack and gauge just where we were. I'd know from the tidemarks of my competitor's returned dildos just what he'd achieved. I reckon he'd be about five toys from the end of the line. In fact, that would be shown by the space for the big toy he'd be inserting into his twin. Painfully inserting. At the slowest pace known to man, when a cunt simply can't take anymore.

But that's when I'd pick up a toy even bigger. All those spent toys on my competitor's rack and yet none of mine would even have been touched? I'd select one three from the end. A complete behemoth of a toy. My competitor's eyes would go wild as he saw it but that would be nothing compared to what my twin's eyes would do. His would show pure lust and delight at the expected stretch. He wanted more.

I`d leisurely lube up the giant toy, swirling the thick white fluid around the girthy shaft in a smooth motion. Then I'd look my boy in the eyes, hunger written all over his face. I'd ask him whether he wanted this? Whether he wanted to make me proud? Did he want to be even bigger?

After all that machine work, after the joy of experiencing my fists for the first time? Of course, he'd say yes.

Even although this is all in my imagination, I know you must be thinking I'm being cocky. Arrogant even. That my previous case studies - Tyrell, Joey, Jon, Danny, Jake, David and Erik - are somehow aberrant blips in the universe. However, I know what I can achieve. Jason too.

I would ask my twin whether he was going to take this toy. If he was going to relax his cunt and trust me. Like really trust me... because I was the one who knew what was best for his cunt. He would nod, barely able to speak in lust for his desire for the stretch. I'd then press that fat toy against his gaping pussy and say the definitive words.

`So, do it for me.'

We'd take one last look at each other and he'd submit. Even though I'd have been the one who was responsible for wrecking his hole he would want more for more. His gash would be juicy and full of lube, twitching and hungry for the stretch. I'd have made him a whore for fist and the biggest of big toys.

I'd nod. He would do what was needed to win. `Please, wreck me' he'd whisper. That was all the invitation I'd need. I'd push the massive silicone torpedo into his wide, open trench and, as planned - my fists having fully opened him up - they'd be no resistance to the gigantic toy. Then - of course - his clutch would click in. I mean, who wouldn't with a dildo this fucking big?!

But he'd battle though, as I knew he would. He'd be so determined to make me proud. All my hard work meant it would be inevitable. So many shared moments of me pulling him off the inflation machine, telling him he could do better, before lovingly pushing the spool inside of him to keep him open. And all those photos on his cell wall? Who was the top? Me.

He'd want his cunt to be bigger. He would bare down, relax and I'd push straight past his mental barriers. I'd know from the sounds coming from the slings that I'd won. The twin next to me would be flaying around with grunts and cries of `no, no, oh god, no more' as my competitor tried to gain entrance for a toy far smaller than the one I'd wedged in my twin's ass.

However - of course - that isn't what happened at all. Surely the definition of a `better' fisting pussy is subjective and can't be measured by the girth of a toy?

Maybe it was more about how emotionally engaged a pussy was? The bottom who made a top feel awesome by the simple virtue of taking their fists? Someone who could made a top feel supreme?

Is it wrong that I suggested the most outlandish thing possible? After a month of preparation that each twin would be judged by a panel of five tops drawn from the FF community?

My competitor was quick to add his view. Who could possibly make up an impartial judging panel that we could both agree on?

My own friend had the answer for that. We should both nominate two judges (neither one being a former or current client) and the fifth vote should be an FF porn star we both agreed on. We had the industry contacts, so why not?

Each experienced top on the panel would get to fist the twins and see which they enjoyed the best - the test would be as simple as that. This had a purity I couldn't resist. My competitor and I shook hands. The only thing left was to agree was which twin - leather or rubber - we ended up transforming.

------ The Bet (ii)

Perhaps because I was dressed in leather myself, I couldn't help but wonder how I'd tackle the similarly-clad twin.

If the bet was going to be making the `best' fisting pussy I knew I'd have to take a very different approach to simple challenges or hole expansion. No, he'd need to be bought along the journey.

There's a common vision of leather guys - from Tom of Finland to Etienne to the amazing works of the Hun - macho, unflappable bravado. The leather shines, it clads, it empowers. Yet that doesn't always match the real world, especially for such a freshly minted stud as this twin. His gear was off the peg and barely worn in. Seduction and entrapment would be my friend. A choice he would have to to make for himself. Hell, I'd happily take a side bet that if the idea of fisting was suggested to him now he'd run a country mile. No, this would require far more finesse.

In my negotiations with my competitor one thing had been abundantly clear, these twins were both bottoms. We weren't trying to convert them to something they weren't. They were both signed up to feeling thick pricks reaming out their guts, their eyes rolling back in delight. To feel that sublime submission - the ecstasy - that providing pleasure to another man delivers.

Men are horny fuckers, especially when young. They need to expend those hormones before they're spent. This can be used as a weapon. In this bar - in this space - I'd take full advantage of every man wanting one thing above all: a successful hook-up. Given the leather twins hesitancy compared to the searching eyes of his rubber twin, I sensed he was naturally cautious, He desired a connection above all. Mentally and physically.

This is how I imagined it would happen. I knew I could catch his eye. So far, I've deliberately avoided talking about my physical characteristics in these case studies but let's just say I look like Jason's Dad. Everything he's done, I've done before and better. And everything he has - body, dick and swagger - I've got, only bigger. Catching this young guy's attention wasn't going to be a problem. Holding his eye though?

That's why I would always stay slightly out of shot. Like a shadow, a dance, making him question who was following who. The heat, humidity and jostling of bodies intensifying the build-up. Graceful stares and then disappearing into the aether.

It would help that my gear is custom made. You want thick, protective horse-skin if you fall off a bike. But if you're standing around in a bar trying to attract attention? Well, you need something different. Heavy and imposing leather for thighs but a crotch panel made out of the finest calf-skin. A leather so thin it's almost translucent and reveals every shaft-busting vein of your junk. Hell, an experienced man would be able to judge just how much I'd be able to shoot from the size of my balls on my display. For the leather twin? He'd simply know he'd be in for a good time. It was so extreme and obscene that nothing would be left to the imagination.

Yeah, I know, I shouldn't be so blatant. Am I just a walking penis or do people see me for what I am? It's fun knowing the difference, and the stripes running up and down my legs made my intentions clear. More fool him if he didn't know the meaning.

I would let the pursuit come to a head. I'd stand with my back against a wall, one knee raised in a casual pose, my bulge pushed out in front. He'd bump into me, as if he was the one doing the seduction. By now it would be getting late and we'd be both conscious of the bar's energy. Diminishing. Not that either one of us wanted to be desperate. I would be relaxed, as one should in full leather. I control my surroundings, not be controlled. Yet I suspected he would be bashful, almost embarrassed.

After a night of missed connections my arm would casually stretch above my head, letting my jacket fall open. This was all carefully calculated. Under my Langlitz I wasn't wearing a uniform shirt but a custom designed leather tank. My sleeves were free, as were my pits. Raising my arms would send a wave of funk in his direction. Leather, heat, power. An open invitation, his eyes asking whether he could continue.

A nod is all it would take. More brazen than he could imagine, one of his hands would reach for mine above and the other would move for my junk. All whilst his head dived down to bury itself in my pit, eager to inhale great lungfuls. After a long night I'd smell great, but his service and the closeness of his presence would be more than enough to make everything better. And make both of so fucking hard.

He would lean back, his face dreamy and his eyes closed before opening them again. I'd see his thoughts literally travel through his head. The handful of crotch he held? Even bigger than he dared possibly hope for. So much promise. Could he take it? It didn't matter, he needed it, wanted it. I would take his hand, lead him out of the bar and grab a waiting taxi. Done right he wouldn't leave my presence for the duration of the bet and by then he'd be a transformed man...

Of course, even though this was all projection, I knew enough about my competitor's lack of style and grace to know how he'd tackle the situation. He'd be far more direct, simply going up to a twin and coming straight out with it. `Want to earn some serious money?' he'd ask. Of course, the twin would be intrigued, it's not the kind of opening line you can ignore, but it would surely raise some alarm bells.

He'd keep on going though, mistaking alarmed caution for startled curiosity. He'd go on to ask whether the boy wanted to fisted by him and a few of his friends. For a man at the beginning of his fetish journey (even one as well attired as this twin) this would come as something of a shock. His hackles would be immediately up. What the fuck?! It would all sound deeply suspicious.

That meant my competitor would double down, rescuing it by saying it was a month's work for 20 grand. Surely that had to be worth it? The cash meant the twin couldn't say no, even if he was on edge.

I don't need to point out that I wouldn't have even mentioned fisting by now to my twin. In fact - at this point - mine was a simple seduction. Passion over profit. The desire for connection would make for a very different foundation.

The nice thing about a black cab is that it gives you room to get fully acquainted. I don't mean full-on frottage or discovering the taste of a man's tonsils, but you do have space to roam. Thankfully, taxi drivers picking up from a gay club in the small hours of the morning know the deal and they turn a blind eye.

In fact, I'd say this driver knew the deal from the moment he saw the pair of us hailing from the kerbside. Me, confidently standing in the full leathers I'd worn all night, proud to be on the street. The twin, covering himself up in grey sweats he'd bought along to cover his chapped arse. That neatly set the power dynamic.

I'd give the driver my address whilst my twin and I would gently make out in the back. Feeling each other's bodies. The deep smell of quality leather surrounding us like a miasma. My bulge tenting my perfectly thin crotch, his own junk leaking pre through his cotton jock and onto his sweats. Glad to say he wasn't embarrassed by this, no, he understood his hunger. I would be playing a long game, no hurry, but I wanted him to enjoy it. To be honest, I was enjoying it too. The thought of a good fuck was making me rock hard. Sometimes sex is exactly what's called for.

We'd arrive at the apartment `side' of my block, the side that I use for this kind of scenario. Through the hallway we'd quickly be kissing deep. We'd both be eager and hot, fired up. He'd look into my eyes and I'd give him the signal again. In seconds the young buck would be on his knees and unbuckling my leathers. He wanted my cock - needed - to find out whether it was what he'd been dreaming of.

Fuck! I'd spring free from my leather like a recoiled rifle. I've always been blessed with a thick, gnarly dick. I think that's one of the reasons why I got into fisting in the first place. Seeing a guy's face as I stretched their hole with my meat? Well, it made me want to see even more, not least as my fuckslab is such a good warm-up for total hole destruction.

That would all be for later though, right now the boy was wolfing down my cock with his tongue. I suspected it would be a slightly clumsy suck - I have a lot to go around - and in his eagerness I'm not sure he'd know how to tackle it. Maybe he'd try to do everything at once? Deep throat, suck my uncut helmet, wank the shaft and cradle my balls? I would gently smile and tell him to slow it down, he had all night to get familiar.

After that reassurance he'd be more relaxed. In fact, the guidance would allow him to start really savouring my dick. How often does any guy get to play with a cock with this much girth? God, I love it when a bottom starts to focus and puts all their desire into one singular thing. Of course, I'd help out by using my hands to pull (or push) his mouth deeper, mashing his face into my leather-sweat soaked crotch. Passive guys love giving up control, to know they're giving pleasure. The hardness of dick, oozing pre, the sound of my voice, my delight and demands for more would spur him on.

However, no matter how sweet his mouth would feel, they'd be no way I wanted to cum this early, even if was gunning for a creamy reward. No, I'd want to fuck him hard so I'd tell him to take off his sweats. I'd want to see his leathers and his naked arse, so perfectly framed by my friend's generosity. I'd pull him up from his knees, a long strand of salvia connecting his plump lips to the head of my dick. It would glisten in the light, calling me to kiss him again. What can I say? I like the taste of my cock! Dick breathe is never a problem for me. It would confirm just how much I would have already imprinted on this guy. My sweat and junk funk had fully bathed his face. That would give him confidence, that he had nothing to fear from me.

Except my girth.

I'd lead the boy into the bedroom. This space would be set up perfectly, it always is at my place. The apartments are fully serviced. Literally. There's room service on demand that covers everything from food, booze, gear and lube. Even clean up is taken care of by unseen staff meaning you never have to worry about the aftermath of a session. Fetish is always present though, but only as much as you want. Just the right level to not scare an innocent away - I wouldn't want to look like a sex maniac. Not yet.

The room layout provides lots of flex. You can approach a bottom from virtually any angle for the best fuck or mouth action. Red lighting helps, as do large bedside cabinets that are stocked with all the supplies one might want on hand... and a wall that slides back to reveal a fully-stocked dungeon. However, I wouldn't need to go there just yet.

As he stripped off the unnecessary sweats I knew he was proud of himself. His body was mighty fine, and the leather made the most of it. In the red/purple/blue lighting he was a porn shoot in the making. I made sure to say it, even though I stayed fully clad (although my dick would still be standing hard and proud out of my open crotch. As I imagined it, they'd even be a dollop of precum falling to the floor).

He would look at me expectantly. What did I want him to do? I would let the moment settle and then tell him to get on his back, legs spread, his hands holding his butt apart. On the edge of the bed. I wanted that hole!

God, is there anything better than a leather presented hole? Yes, a small tangle of fine hairs (we'd fix those later) but unsullied by fists or toys. Undamaged. Yet. I would dive in and ravish and rim that beautiful unadulterated pussy like there was no tomorrow. Honestly, I knew he was young and inexperienced but I doubted he'd have ever felt a tongue this long or this talented before. Certainly his whimpers and sighs would tell its own story.

Wearing full leathers whilst doing all this wouldn't be that convenient but you've got to run with it. Right now, I would look like a leather god to him. Full of confidence and certainty. Ready to dominate, to plough his hole until Christendom folded. I'd still be wearing my gloves and I know just how good leather can feel upon skin. I'd seamlessly grab some lube off the night-stand, apply some to his hole and then gently push my slicked up leather fingers inside.

This would all be very intentional. Even experienced guys haven't felt leather inside their pussy. Its totally decadent - the leather is ruined afterwards - but the smooth, warm silky touch is out of this world. Once I say it, you can't stop imagining it, right?

I'd look him in the eye as I lovingly caressed his hole. I'd be gentle, keeping him on edge, making him want more. `Do you want it?' I'd ask, both of us in no doubt that I was talking about my cock eventually finding its target. That would be aided by my other gloved hand gripping the base of my shaft and helping to swell my dick to extreme proportions. The veins pumped, the helmet flared, the foreskin still pulled back from his earlier attention. It would need to find a home.

(Let's not forget my exploratory and leather clad fingers would be his first and gentle taste of fisting. The start of something big...)

However, right now it would be time to give him what he was waiting for. My raw fuckslab sliding into his manpussy.

Girth has always been my friend and the enemy of any hole I fuck. I know I'm a pure and forcible stretch. I always have to be determined. My rule was that once begun, I have to finish: once the cleft of my big helmet has touched pussy, it wouldn't stop until I was fully impaled. Balls deep. This time would be no different.

However, I'd give him the respect of taking it steady. Of course I've speared guys in one, left them happily brutalised by my fuckslab but that wasn't the future I was aiming for here. I would want trust and pleasure. That meant a confident motion. There would be resistance - my dick is inevitably bigger than the holes I fuck - but I knew smooth, hard pressure would win until he had no choice but to let me in. He would fucking love it! I can feel it now, the tight walls of his pussy gripping my dick like we belonged together.

I'd check in with his eyes, but I suspected I wouldn't need permission to keep going. Even though my cock would be one of the thickest dicks he'd ever taken I knew he'd be loving the connection, the leather, the stretch. I'd pump his arse like it deserved, sliding in and out, full deep strokes, jackhammer stretches.

By now his own dick would be free of his jock and hard, but I'd be careful to keep him on edge for as long as possible. This would be tough for me too as - from the moment I'd seen him across the bar - I knew this would be sweet, delicious pussy! He would have made me feel like a God. I'd constantly want to unload, to seed him deep, but I also knew that if we were going to have a true bond we'd have to be in sync. We would have to climax at the same time.

He'd be jacking off his own dick, his sweat glistening, his leather highlighting his strong chest. Empowering, teaching him the difference gear can bring to life. Then, just when he was at his peak I'd ram hard and cum on command, in time with him.

Yeah, that's a skill of mine.

He'd then lay in a complete post-fuck haze. His chest a matted mess of his own spunk, his pussy a lagoon of mine. I always do shoot a big load. I would then lie on the bed beside him, but slightly distanced. It would only take seconds before he'd spoon up next to me. His cum drenched body nestled against mine, his arms reaching under my jacket and finding my firm body wherever possible, his head lying on my chest. His nectar dripping onto my gear. I wouldn't care, I've never been a prude when it comes to these things. (Seriously, what is that? Guys that wipe down seconds after they've shot? Be proud of your load! It's your essence, own it!).

Soon we'd fall asleep together. Natural and calm, secure. But with so much more to come...

We would wake just as dawn weakly forced its way through the curtains. My big, long club of a dick would have already risen to the occasion, my morning wood pressing against his body.

I knew my new friend/conquest/sub would wake horny too, they always do at that age. That feel of my cock would mean his mouth would gravitate to my girth. He'd tasted my dick once already, felt it inside of him and now he'd be programmed to want more.

Of course, I'd do everything to reinforce that. We would sling off our gear and boots - now slept in, they'd done their job - so we had comfort and freedom to move. Our bodies would still be engrained with the important smell of leather for many, many hours to come.

I knew he'd be eager to taste my load again, but also that the thought of another fuck was too good to resist. In seconds he'd be on his back again. That's when I'd know my dick had already started to make a difference - his hole wider and more receptive.

With my bare hands I'd grab a much larger portion of the lube standing by. I'd slickly apply it to his hole, mixing it with my cum from just hours before. I'd look into his eyes as my fingers slid in. His muscular and tight hole would be eager and loose, but I'd keep checking in. Did he want more? Yes. I'd gently coax with my fingers - slowly opening him up - and put ideas in his head. The kind of questions all bottoms want to answer `How does that stretch feel? Good?' It was slightly unfair as I'd be giving him all the answers.

Perhaps he'd break the moment as I gently pushed further - `Jesus, what the fuck are you doing to my hole?!' but I'd ask him to trust me and take a deep huff of poppers (on the bed stand - how convenient!). I doubt he'd ever appreciate just how much the stretch of my oversized dick had successfully opened him up earlier. Or how deep my coned fingers had already travelled. Sure, his hole would be taut, but my hand would be generously lubed. And already at the widest point of the stretch before he realised what was happening.

It takes real talent to do this, even though his endorphins would clearly be helping. As would those original recipe poppers I've had made to order. The rush of those fumes? The precise point they hit? I'd be able to feel that in my hand, the exact moment his hole loosened enough to let me inside.

God, is there any better feeling? I make no apologies for fantasising, for imagining this entire scenario, but right now, in the crowded, sweaty, dirty bar all I could think about was this moment. Of my hand and wrist being enveloped by tight, young pussy. His insides would be cramped, but that was something I would seriously look forward to changing over time.

I've done this enough times to know exactly what his mind would be going through. I'd keep my fist perfectly still, no matter how much I wanted to explore. I'd wait until he was ready, until he fully realised how life-altering it was to have a man's entire fist inside you for the first time. Something just minutes ago he wouldn't have believed possible. Something that felt so damn good. This is usually the moment when newbies look down and see the position of my arm. They clench in alarm. I was inside of him! Jesus!

I would then confidently, gently, securely tell him to stay calm and take another huff for me. They always do. At which point I would become even more determined that he'd never forget this moment. (And to be honest, it would be pretty crucial to winning the bet!)

I would smoothly rotate my wrist, making him feel the full awesomeness of having a hand inside his previously tight arse (though I doubt he was thinking about tightness right now) and start working his hole. It would be a sensational moment. Extreme. His first time. He wouldn't be able to take much - his hole wouldn't have stamina yet - but I would make good use of one wonderful last huff before pulling out, stretching and inspiring him. Then I'd slide my achingly hard and dripping cock back inside.

God. For both of us I knew that would feel so fucking good. Me to use that freshly opened space and for him to feel how sloppy his hole had just become. It would be a new feeling for him, an addiction, a new ease at which a big guy could fuck in and out. Gone was the resistance. now it was just pleasure.

After that? Well, sitting him down and getting his agreement on the bet would be easy.

I would have opened his eyes to new pleasures. He was a young, horny buck with no commitments and wanted to make good on his gear. His first fist would have transported him to a new level. A dream he'd never had come true. 30 days of sex? Yes, please. I would have tempted him with the ultimate pleasures of my fists. Now it could change him forever. The specific details - and that it came with significant financial reward - would all come later.

I would get that leather twin. And he'd be as horny as fuck.

Of course, none of this actually happened. Though in my flash of imagination I couldn't also help but imagine how my competitor would tackle the same twin. In fact, I know how he did it as I ended up selecting the rubber guy.

He used a very different approach. He bypassed his bedroom and took the guy straight to his play-space, herding and virtually forcing him over the threshold. Direct to the sling. No seduction at all, it was all about financial gain. He strapped the boy in (who by now was seriously regretting agreeing to this as it was all rather scary rather than pleasurable) and forced a meaty butt plug in without ceremony. He then left the boy to his own devices until dawn. Told that he better get used to it.

No finesse, no education, no pleasure. What the fuck was that about?

------ The Bet (iii)

Yeah, yeah, so I took the rubber twin. What can I say? Maybe our opposing gear meant I felt it was easier to swap skins? Did I see a flicker of doubt in my antagonist's eyes though? To this day I'm not sure he fully expected our bet to get real.

I've already discussed how he tackles persuasion. Transactional, straight to the point. Focused on his own goals rather than the pleasure of the other. Whereas I knew I would have to rely on my instincts. To win this bet - to turn out the best fisting pussy - I'd need to start by bringing out my rubber twin's inner gimp.

I made a discrete call and planned an intervention. Thankfully, Jason was on ready response and able to swoop into action. Soon he was geared up and let in through the club's back door, standing by to be fully briefed.

I will admit he caused something of a stir when he arrived. Jason is built for rubber, especially when decked out as a Dom. His body can only be described as both attainable and yet somehow just out of reach. Stocky but muscular. Relaxed yet taut. Bulges in all the right places. More importantly? His head was held high. The confidence came from within.

(Yeah, okay, that energy was undoubtedly helped by his gear. A full black cat suit, styled as motorbike racers with padded ridges up his flanks to accentuate the look. Thigh high vintage waders that hinted at his deep experience. Then, on top, a harness trimmed with red. It ran across his chest, down the sides of his torso and then around his perfectly framed crotch. All with his meaty, meaty cock hanging confidently free. Actually, that was the only skin that could be seen on his entire body. His face was covered by a thick rubber hood that anonymised his features. Sure it had eye holes but Jason was on this. He'd used black makeup around his eyes to make sure none of his humanity showed or was revealed. His hands were also shielded by thick industrial rubber gloves that stretched far up his forearms. A gas mask and other accessories hung from his waist, all laden with expectation.

I explained his mission and all the back story. As ever, he understood immediately. To get the rubber twin back to our workshop and prepare him for treatment. A bet was on the table and we had to win. Even without being able to see his face I could tell he was excited. A twitch in his magnificent flagpole and a pearl of pre oozing from the tip. Sometimes my assistant was so predictable!

I was surprised at how he handled the task though. He did it very differently from the way I'd imagined tackling the leather twin. From the opposite end of the bar he strode out and made sure to catch the eye of as many rubber subs as he could (all of whom desperately hoped were the target of my assistant's attention). He only had eyes for one man though, elevating that twin to new heights of sexual desire. God does Jason know how to make a move!

When the rubber twin heard a deep baritone voice saying he was wanted for the night? How could he possibly refuse? To engage all the gimp feels, Jason rapidly strapped that hanging gas mask over the twin's head, the filter loaded with slow-release chems. Then came an asylum-grade rubber binder that wrapped around his waist with connected wrist cuffs that held him tight.

All of this made the other rubber subs in the bar swoon with jealously, not least when it was followed up by a thick rubber collar around our twin's neck. I could sense the bar's antagonism as our twin was led out. Many, many wished they were in his position.

The rubber twin's training would come in two parts. The actual teaching him to be the perfect fist bottom - to understand the tops he played with and how to best respond - would come last. Before that we had to break him in. For that, Jason and I had been prototyping a procedure that we now judged was ready for mainstream use. It was a process so deliciously fucked up that it verged on transcendental fisting. Honestly, the boy was lucky to be getting first dibs!

Of course, Jason kept the boy primed on the way to the workshop. Fortuitously, he'd chosen to be driven to the club in our `swallow' van. This is outfitted with the opposite of a fuck bench. Sure, the subject is laid on a bench but it's their throat that's presented rather than their arse. Perfectly supported and positioned for cock to throat delivery.

I had no doubt my anonymous assistant took great pleasure in strapping the boy down, layers of rubber belts constraining every inch of the twin's rubber-clad body. A sign of things to come. What came next was predictable but no less enjoyable. The gas mask was removed - the chems had done their job, his head swirling high - and so he did what came naturally for any sub. Reaching out for Jason's naked, hard and dripping cock.

Boy, did he suckle that meat! Like his life depended on it. Especially as a vibrating electro plug had been wedged into his hole. The shocks in his ass and the taste in his mouth urged him on, all whilst setting him up for his future. He felt nothing more than a sex slave, just as we intended, playing on his need to be objectified. Why else do guys wear rubber?

Jason told me later that he spunked in the boy's gullet at least twice, so hungry was the boy for cock. All too soon the ride was over, although he knew the twin would remember all the things he'd coached the boy in along the way. How he must want more. How hungry he must be to swallow all this dick, how good he looked in rubber, how that should be made permanent, how unsatisfied his dick must feel without release. Surely he wanted more, even if his stomach was full of cum?

He was now delivered to our unloading bay, unstrapped and led to `The Room' by a swarm of rubber drones. Yeah, we have staff. Get over it.

The Room'. Okay, I admit, Jason and I haven't come up with a proper name yet. That's why we kept on falling back on something so non-specific. Is Cuntal Addiction and Hole Stretching Centre' too much of a mouthful? CuntSac perhaps?

By now you might be wondering why I've taken such a different approach to the one I'd imagined with the leather one? Previously I'd suggested passion and slow seduction would win but this would be anything but. It was all down to his rubber. To be honest, he'd bought it on himself. As soon as he put on that skin-tight latex it sent a signal to the world.

Sure, that kind of deprivation may nourish the heart and soul, but it could only be achieved through objectification and seriously hard use. Your choices taken away. Even given his relative inexperience - remember his rubber was still showroom fresh - he knew he needed `this' in his life'. That he couldn't live without this feeling. Every layer of rubber worn, every increase in thickness, every belt and strap that restrains, the ropes and harnesses that bind?

Jason and I were about to deliver on that in spades.

Even given his desires to be supplicated what came next did come as a surprise. A scene so twisted the boy couldn't have believed it was real. A room of rubber tiles, wall to wall. A space that was dark and ominous. At the centre a giant glass-walled tank that rose ominously up from the floor.

By now our twin's head was fucked to hell, allowing Jason, the drones and I to get to work without a struggle. We would begin with the stretch, calculatingly removing all his senses so he could focus on the single thing we cared about: developing his pussy and winning the bet. This wouldn't necessarily be pleasant.

A different gas mask was now secured to his head. This was far more high-tech as it had video lens built-in. It meant we could immerse him in whatever serious porn we wanted. Fisting porn.

Then came the attachment of the pussy puncher.

Now, I'm not a fan of fist shaped dildos - they're too immobile and inhuman (especially for amateurs) - but I get their appeal. You feel you're taking the next best thing, a substitute for a real man to use your hole. Jason and I were going to play on this dichotomy. Sure, we were available, but that wasn't enough. We wanted him to be opened up first. Hell, despite his looks I had a strong feeling his hole was almost virginal. Time to change that.

My drones started work. First, the rubber binder around his waist was removed and replaced with a steel cuff of equal height and thickness. Then, steel cuffs were secured round his mid-thighs - all custom fit to make sure they were tight (we were prepared for any body shape or size!). Then a lattice of connected rods were fitted to join the three cuffs together, or should I say painfully hold the legs wide open to keep the twin's hole utterly exposed and vulnerable?

Thank god he was too fucked out on drugs and cum to know what was happening to him as otherwise he would have run. Next, we strapped a compact but high-octane fuck machine to the steel frame, perfectly positioned to defile his nascent pussy. At the end, a perfectly formed soft silicone fist. Sure, it was small compared to the average hand, but it had it a huge amount of force behind it. Either the piston arm took your hole or... well, you didn't have a choice. It would forge its way in whether you liked it or not.

This might sound ridiculously cumbersome. How could a body willingly be held in this position and used like this? Well, that's the tank was so important. It contained a thick solution of J-Lube that both supported and cosseted the body. We'd engineered it so the fluid density was much like the Dead Sea, allowing a human body to literally float. That heavy machine bound to your waist and thighs? Holding access to your open hole? You'd never feel the weight in this tank. Until the pummelling started.

My rubber drones helped lower him into the tank, all whilst keeping up the gimp talk. This this was what he wanted and deserved. Actually, the message played through his video screens and into his ears. Jason-Porn I call it. Scenes of arse rampage with my assistant front and centre, using rubber gimps just like the sub the twin wanted to be. He may not have ever felt a fist inside of him before but he knew it was extreme, wrong, defiled. Surely that was him?

The body-temperature goo that enveloped his body was designed to feel like home. Perfectly suspending and supporting him, so much that it must have felt like a relief. Alien and disorientating yes, but when the machine kicked in it became a joy. The drugs haze, the build-up, the porn. By now he desperately needed arse action! The silicone fist found its entrance and slowly buried itself inside. Then slowly pulled out and returned. Over and over again, slowly building up the speed and friction.

It was like nothing he'd ever experienced in his short fetish life. Floating free, his body suspended and weightless. Porn blazoned directly on his eyeballs, a silicone fist relentlessly pumping in and out of his chute. The rubber catsuit only just stopping his soul falling out.

Jason and I had designed this to be sex perfection. That no one could hold back from being transformed. To initiate a cock-hungry sub to quivering fist-whore in the shortest time possible.

12 hours later my staff carefully removed him from the tank, all of them deliberately asexual in loose cotton overalls. This was on purpose. Our boy was totally unsure of his environment and his place in the world. A cunt to be used? A gimp to be fulfilled? A boy imprisoned in rubber? A hole constantly in need of fist? All he knew was that he was hungry, horny and (strangely) unsatisfied. He tried to initiate, to flirt, to engage as he now desperately needed the real deal, more than life itself. However none of my staff took the bait. It was cruel, but necessary.

Of course, that's when Jason reappeared, still dressed as rubber-drone-fist-stud. There could be no doubt of his intention or purpose. His every curve and bulge was highlighted in perfect black sheen. His fists covered with more thick, industrial rubber gloves that rode high up his forearms.

Why would Jason do this? To cover his best assets? The raw touch of his talented hands? Precisely because of that! There was nothing the rubber twin wanted more than a human touch right now. Which is why denying it for as long as possible was so fucking important! When he finally did feel a bare hand invade his new pussy it would be like all his dreams coming true. However, till then he had to be used and brutalised. To lock him into his new lifetime goal of being fisted forever. How else would I win the bet?

It takes real skill to fist a cherry, even one pre-warmed by a fisting fuck-machine. Forget how many dicks a hole has taken, nothing can compare to the impact a hand makes. It has to be treated with respect. What did it matter that the silicone dildo pummelling his arse for 12 hours straight was cast from Jason's own clenched fist? Sure, half sized, but that was nothing compared to the real deal.

That meant that once our twin was settled in a nearby sling he was desperate. His hole and body quivering and pulsating for action. Jason started by looking deep into his eyes and asking for consent. Did the boy really want what was to happen next? It helped that my assistant was already feeling the edges of the boy's pussy with total authority. Artfully playing with this twin's desires and needs. Holding back, keeping him on edge, making him desperate to have the space inside of him used. But he had to say he wanted it...

He did.

Picture the scene. An epic, hung rubber God standing between your open legs and pussy. His hands sheathed in thick rubber that were toying with your hole. You moan and groan, desperate for a top to be inside of you, no matter how big those mitts are. Soon, those individual thick fingers become a cone, aided by copious amounts of lube and it's pushed inside. Past the knuckles and before the stretch becomes life-changing. Exploring, rotating, pushing, widening.

The sensation is better than you've ever imagined. So connected and yet... that heavy rubber feels so distant. It forms a barrier, a wall between desire. And yet you're already so addicted to fist that your head recognises its creating a space so big and so cavernous that distance must be right. Sliding in and out, moving around, opening up, making you loose, sloppy and resistance free. And yet? Somehow holding back. The twin knew that he wasn't getting the real deal.

That's why the moment Jason wrenched his thick gloves off and attacked that hole with his naked fists was such for fucking revelation for the young twin. The ecstatic joy of bare flesh, to truly feel someone inside you. The ultimate connection. And now with so much space available to make use of. It bought out violence. Seriously heavy play. Neither bottom or top would be able to hold back, to resist or say no. Just punch cunt and let me live in peace!

Of course, this was all part of the plan. We both knew that once he'd had a proper hand inside of him they'd be no coming back. In fact, Jason timed his withdrawal to perfection. By now the twin was exhausted but still wanted more, so much more. He could have kept on going, but we wanted to keep him hungry. Permanently hungry.

He was then sent to bed, a luxury room. Tenderly undressed and cared for. The walls of his bedroom decorated with pictures of dripping and exposed cunt. Countless graphic and obscene photos of big male pussy (in every sense of the word), something to really aspire to. No tight holes allowed in this dreamscape.

Supremely refreshing hours later he was woken by me in full leather and Jason in his drone wear. Something of a surprise, but a welcome one. We checked in. How was he feeling? Did he feel good? He answered confidently but the fact his main attention seemed to be focused on the movement of our hands seemed to say it all. The bitch wanted more!

That's when we ventured the bet, telling him the desire to create the best fistee in 30 days flat. We told him that all his time and expenses would be covered, but was he up for it? Given how well we'd implanted his desire for pussy punching there was no way he could refuse without contradicting himself.

We could see the situation trickling into his mind. Not only realising the joy of advanced fist training but... wait... realising he must be up against another bottom. Who?

I took great relish in explaining it was his twin brother.

Fuck! You should have seen his dick rise to full mast! Subconscious desire. The more I explained the situation, the more he oozed. Healthy rivalry and brotherly lust. The realisation they'd both be turned out as fist holes, no matter who won? It was honestly sweet! It made me wonder whether he was imagining fisting his brother in return? Our little ffuck demon couldn't wait to get started.

Of course, it wasn't until much. much later that I learned how my competitor had tackled these all important first steps with the leather twin. That boy had been locked in a sling overnight with an uncomfortable plug wedged in place.

What came next was a complete aberration though. My competitor went all in, thinking the more brutal he was the bigger the stretch he'd achieve, ergo the better pussy.

By all accounts he didn't use the power of the mind at all, in fact, the leather twin spent most of his time not in pleasure but desperately hoping this would all end. Was the financial reward really worth it? Hours and hours strapped into a sling with a top forcing his fists in. Sure, my guy using his hole may look like a hot Calvin Klein model and that could be a turn-on, but his mind was empty. No finesse, no tact. Just a relentless and punishing focus on his own goals. In fact, he apparently choose the worse moment possible to reveal the full scope of the bet. That the twin wouldn't win the bet until he was fisted by five different guys in a row. If fisting was as painful as this this then how could he possibly manage it?!

------ The Bet (iv)

I feel the need to stop at this point and describe what I feel makes for the perfect fisting pussy.

There are some obvious things you can guess, like lack of clutch and capacity. However, I think it's more about how responsive and communicative the bottom is. That's the bedrock, the foundation that means a fisting pussy has the confidence to tackle tops of any variety. To make every guy you play with feel like a better man. To be able to nudge without explicitly giving feedback, to take anything going but to direct it with purpose. A great pussy should be able to both make the masters of technique feel like Gods of Cunt and to teach the enthusiastic but inexperienced amateurs new skills and abilities.

This is when Jason and I hit a snag. So far, we'd leaned so hard into the whole rubber gimp thing - that `it' was there to be used - that our twin had lost sight of himself as a full and crucial participant in the process. Perhaps this was made worse by my assistant and I intrinsically knowing and understanding hole so well that he rarely had the need to give feedback. However, that attitude wouldn't cut in in the real world.

If we were going to win this bet we had to change that. Teach him how to deal with different players. Some with candour, others with tact. Perhaps even by applying the power of his cuntal muscles?

I asked him to meet me in the dark room of a popular dive bar, sling at the ready. It was his first time out of my workshop in weeks but I was determined to expose him to an entirely different world. Not least that this wasn't a fetish event where people get dressed up for pleasure or to show off, this was regular life.

It must have been odd for him to be thrust into such a sleazy place but that was the point. The lesson started from the moment he walked into the heady and smoky bar. Making his way past redneck trash and urbane leather hunks, through jostling and sweaty bodies. The tang of porn hanging in the air. Everyone he walked past had made hardcore sex a part of their daily lives, not simply an outfit to be worn at weekends. He had to learn that, to let his inner rubber gimp find its confident expression on the outside, wherever he was.

That's why I was so delighted to see him attracting attention as he walked through the crowd. He'd chosen his outfit perfectly (though I recognised Jason's expert coaching) to create a stir. Slim-fit jeans to show off his perfect bubble butt, teamed with slutty high-tops. Even better was up above. A red sleeveless latex tee with the word `FIST' boldly emblazoned across in big, black letters. His intention was clear. I fucking loved it.

My bouncer welcomed him in, the back room rich with the smell of a thousand fucks. Atmosphere you couldn't buy or recreate. I swear that if you spilled anything on this floor you'd stick to it in an instant. A UV light would not be a good idea in this place!

I quickly helped him get rid of the jeans (revealing a wonderfully full rubber jock) and then got him into the sling. All the while I explained how the night would go down. That he was doing brilliantly but we wanted to see more of himself. What did he want from a session? I could tell from his look of perplexmxent that he didn't understand. It was an almost alien concept for him to ask.

To change this I'd lined up a perfect trio of tops who were going to help with both his cunt and mind development. I started by taking a step back and telling him to look at himself. Since the first time I'd seen him in the bar I'd admired the confidence of his roving eye. Now I wanted to grow that and make him know his voice deserved to be heard. I told him to look at his totally hot body lying back in the sling. His gorgeous musculature and rubber-clad torso. How proud his junk looked in his jock. How perfectly framed his ass was.

I saw his face flush with both pride and embarrassment at the same time. I told him that whilst he might love being used, being a bottom was a powerful thing, that he had his own rights. It never meant being a second-class citizen in the sack. That he was as brilliant as any top out there, including Jason and myself.

I could tell he didn't quite believe me. After all, my well-financed friend had dressed this twin in rubber. We'd then used his gimp desire for full coverage and hard use to turn out a very nice beginner cunt. It must have felt like he'd never been in control though. It was time to give that back.

`Tonight, I want to teach you you're more in charge than you know. You may be in rubber but you can always tell the guys you play with what you want and like. Three guys are going to test your skills tonight, each a lesson in itself.' He looked concerned so I reassured him and said he'd be fine. Not least as I'd always be nearby if he wanted to stop. All he had to do was be himself. To go with the flow and have some fun.

Of course, I'd specially selected each top to teach very different things. Each `teacher' was going to amplify the best and worse parts of their personalities to get across one core message: that this rubber-bitch gimp-slave could be in control if he wanted to.

The first top to walk in was Aaron. He was smooth, taut and energetic - a quality I'd specifically asked him to dial up... and perhaps just a little bit too enthusiastic.

It was something Jason and I had discussed. That the twin didn't ever attempt to control the pace, even if we could see in his eyes how challenging a session was. Of course, being good tops we naturally adjusted ourselves but we wanted it to come from within. Vocalising and not just expressing.

So that was why Aaron went in so hard and fast. From standing start - no foreplay - to roving deep inside. Like the clock was running out on life. Of course, Aaron knew he was moving too quick but he was waiting for the bottom to say it. To call it out, to say slow down.

God, Aaron held out way past the point of it being uncomfortable! This was why I wanted external guys - guys that the twin wasn't familiar with - to teach him these lessons. We had to bring him out of his shell.

As the his eyes continued to wince, Aaron finally leant in and asked whether something was wrong. His fists became still and reassuring. He said the rubber twin could tell him anything... that they were in this together... you can tell me, boy.

Aaron looked on with such compassion and tenderness that the twin started talking. Broke through the self-imposed barrier of Jason and I being `fist gods' that he couldn't critique or criticise. It was a breakthrough: he actually asked Aaron to slow down and rotate his wrist less vigourously.

`Oh, like this?' The top dialled it right back and delivered a masterful slow stretch to the twin's pussy. The joy in the bottom's eyes was writ large for both of us to see. As his face became more expressive, Aaron rewarded him even more and kept on reinforcing the message. That this was a great pussy and that he wanted to get the best out of his hole...

`How about this?' he asked, as he tried out a pro-move. Of course, sometimes the sensations in your pussy are so extreme and well-done that your eyes roll back in your head. It doubled down on the importance of silent body language. And how that was just as an important signal as talking. Not least in front of a new guy that he wasn't familiar with. He had got to know Jason and I too well.

Lesson taught, Aaron thanked and praised the bottom before leaving the room. I then went in to talk him through it all. How he'd always looked to be enjoying taking Jason and my fists, but this seemed to be something new? Experiencing a different technique but also how he'd looked to be really enjoying himself... once he'd said what he liked, right? I reiterated that he could have a more powerful connection to the guys he played with if he actually said what he wanted. I made him realise that his desires and preferences were unique to him, that there wasn't a universal way of playing. That a good top would respond to his needs... if he helped out.

This may sound like basic stuff to some, but who knows what psychological hang-ups people carry around with them? We're all slightly fucked up, right?

Whilst hesitant at first, I knew that he could now see the value, the benefit, the need of saying just what he truly liked in the sling. Jason and I could only teach him so much. It was a much-needed boost to the young bottom.

My second guy followed on fast, though he was a different breed entirely. Kahlil was more muscular, hirsute and expressive. And yet, also more gentle and far more cautious. For a bottom who was now completely warmed up (and horny!) he would now experience a very different kind of play.

That meant I'd briefed this top to concentrate on playing around the edges. It was as close to tantric cunt opening as you could possibly imagine. Slow, methodical and the exact opposite of what our twin needed right now. So Kahlil kept on physically teasing him with his fingertips... over and over again.

`Jesus! Please, just fist me already! I need you inside of me' he finally cried.

I was actually pleasantly surprised that it only took him 8 minutes before he broke-- no, that he was brave enough-- no, confident enough, to tell Kahlil he'd like him to go faster, that he needed more intensity.

Kahlil immediately took his lead and sunk his big fist inside the bottom's cunt like it was being welcomed home. Fireworks went off in the twin's head as the top stretched and reamed and pushed.

`Fuck me, that feels so fucking good! Thank you!!' he cried, with all the passion of a pent-up bottom. After that, Kahlil gave him everything he wanted. However, the most important thing was that as the top ploughed the twin was able to see his pleasure mirrored on Kahlil's expressive face. It's only through real communication that great things happen.

When Kahlil left I told the twin exactly the same. That a top can only get so much from your hole if you're in the room and fully participating. You have to be a part of it.

The next guy was Jason. I know, I said they're all be `new' guys but at the last moment I had a change of heart. That's because the difficult third act had the toughest job of all. He was an entirely known entity to our twin, who had felt the pleasure of those mammoth hands sinking into his pussy time and time again. Part of that pleasure came from Jason always being responsive and instinctual. However, this time he was going to be a complete douche bag. Just like the kind of guy he might meet in the real world. Just like one of the judges...

He was going to be was sulky and selfish and someone who took feedback as a personal affront. We all know guys who get upset when given direction, however gentle or relevant, right?

Even given the warm up our twin had experienced - and how juicy and relaxed his pussy was by now - Jason went in really aggressive, clumsy even. Pushing too far, too fast with a completely mismatched energy. After the lessons of the evening our guy was wonderfully quick to react. Even given their shared history and roles.

`Erm... please can you take it a little slower?' he bravely asked.

`Why, ain't I doing a good job?' Jason sneered, teamed up with a particularly aggressive rotating cunt stretch.

The discomfort in the bottom's distended pussy made him realise he had to do something right now to take control, otherwise he'd be totally obliterated.

He was struggling against how much he knew Jason but he took a breathe and calmly looked at him, when the top's fists seem to suddenly freeze. My assistant later told me that our twin had powerfully rippled his cunt muscles to attract Jason's full attention. He literally bore down and said stop with his pussy alone.

`You're doing great, it's just that I need to catch up with you. Let's go a bit slower and we can work out it together...'

He told Jason exactly what he liked (rewarding him with his cunt muscles, surely something that every top wants) and yet also equally balanced with the top's needs. The desire to punch and ream could never be denied.

It looked masterful on both their parts and I was deeply impressed.

When Jason left I went back to the sling and told him just what a great job he'd just done. That it had been a triumph, did he see it the same way?

I'd seen that expression countless times before. He knew he'd done a good job and he was lucid enough to remember the lessons he'd learnt. However, would he learn the final lesson of the evening? I guess it helped that I'd slipped on some gear to take him over the edge. A rubber bulldog harness over my chest. Our favourite thick industrial rubber gloves. Old waders over my jeans. Just what he liked, but would he say those magic words?

Yes!

`Please... fist me. I need so much more!'

Of course, I gave it to him. By this time his pussy was juicy and beautiful. He'd been well used and yet his cunt was still twitching with the need for more. It drew me in like lube merchants to contract renewal time at the world's largest fetish bar. As I sunk my fists in I could see the delight telegraphed across his face. I felt it too, his pussy really was welcoming me in. No matter how many times I'd felt this his hole it was still a delight.

I returned a big smile and rotated my wrist before using my fingers to stretch out his inner hole, making him feel truly big on the inside. I then decided to see whether I could go deeper and I wormed my way in, gently but persistently, relying on eye contact alone. The lube tidemark on my arm getting gratifyingly deeper and deeper.

However, I could sense he wanted a different kind of attention. I raised my eyebrow and looked at him. Would he take the lead?

`Please punch my cunt. Please man' he asked, his eyes looking at me with such desire and hunger. Pleading almost. It was his most honest moment in the sling so far.

I gently pulled back my deep fist before giving him exactly what he wanted: a full punch to his pussy. My clenched hand slid in as effortlessly as if he was born to it. His arse canal felt so good around my fists! `Like this?' I asked, a giant grin wrapped across my face.

`No, harder!' he said, joyfully.

So I did, glorious punch after punch, harder and faster. The sleazy dark-room filled with the sound of cunt getting sloppy and loose, of a bottom getting what it needed. And a very happy and contented top.

Our rubber twin became the perfect tunnel cunt, taking everything I could give him. Crying out he wanted more (or less). Asking for me to repeat a particular move and telling me what worked for him. Of course, I told him what worked for me too: it was a lesson in using fists, eye contact, words and actions to get the best out of each other.

Yup. He was well on the way to being the perfect pussy. I knew we'd win this bet.

------ The Bet (v)

So, the competition is finally over. I'm not going to bother describing the show down, suffice to say it was a walkover for my man. For a man he had surely become.

He was receptive and responsive, ready for any challenge. He could give feedback and give pleasure in equal measure. From now and forever more, you would know you were fisting a willing and supplicant partner. Someone who made you feel on top of your game, like your fists were the best in the world. Gently nudged and guided into pleasure for both parties. In and out of kink, and all with a hole that was turned out to perfection and looked mighty fine. Delicious.

It wasn't a complete free for all though. The five judges - who got to fist both twins in turn - did have some guidelines to help them compare notes. Like, was the bottom verbal or silent? Did the hole drive you on or deny you pleasure? Did it loosen or stay tight? All average questions for this kind of competition.

My competitor's twin? Well, the verdict was that he was just a hole. He'd honestly had the joy of fisting punched out of him. He'd suffered rounds of constant dildo stretching and relentless hand work. He was unresponsive to pleasure or enjoyment as he'd been given a different motivation for life. Profit over passion. Never a recipe for success. Whilst his hole was capacious the judge's verdict was unanimous. It shied away from action, almost afraid of enjoyment.

My twin? His hole was so good that every judge wanted to go round again. I'd say that's a strong recommend! That meant I won the bet, hands down. I'd always been certain of the outcome but I wasn't so cocky that I wasn't worried. A lot was on the line: total access to the loser for 48 hours, no questions asked, no consequence off limits.

Obviously, I was very happy when the result (and the accompanying video highlights) was announced in the fetish bar where we'd first made the bet. I was also delighted that the leather twin didn't begrudge the rubber twin winning, not least when they both realised they'd walk away with the same amount of money. However, the playback seemed to be something of a revelation for the leather twin. Of just how enjoyable fisting could really be and that a hand didn't need to feel it was being forced in. That fisting could be beautiful and expressive.

This is when I turned things round. I don't think I or my competitor had told our twins about the consequences of the bet. That it was actually OUR assess on the line. I could see their shock and delight at the thought, so I immediately asked what the twins thought I should do to the loser? I wanted their ideas, to have them compare their experiences. How would they rate us?

A desire for total usage aside - they both wanted this guy fucked up - they came back and said one of the biggest differences between their fisting journeys was lube. The leather twin had always felt dry whereas my rubber twin had been well and smoothly lubricated. His experience in the tank had obviously counted for a lot. Interesting... and so that's exactly why my competitor ended up with pig mitts.

I enjoyed a round of celebrations at the bar before returning to my workshop (leaving Jason to collect the loser and deliver him to one of my holding cells, apparently it was quite a struggle). As I travelled through the dark streets in a taxi I couldn't help but mull over what came next. The twin's voices had been clear, giving momentum to an idea that had brewing in my head for a while. Of course, ideas can be such fragile things that I'd purposefully avoided thinking about it too consciously. But in my ride home time seemed to slow down and everything came into perfect clarity.

My first thought was that I could go to town on his arse and show him just how better a top I was. But surely I'd just proved that in the competition? And nor did I actually want (in the biblical sense) to wreck his hole, even though that was in my gift.

After all, he was the competition. It was just he wasn't very good competition. But my business was booming -- fisting really does seem to have come of age -- and recently I've been struggling to keep up with the demand. Was there a way I could bring this guy into the fold? Maybe under heavy direction he could work some of my easier cases (and earn me some cash to boot)?

Despite his deficiencies I recognised he had passion and a certain amount of self-confidence. It was just he wasn't very imaginative - his time in the gym proved that. For as long as I'd known him he'd been a whore for physical attention, always showing off his body at every opportunity. The guy loved looking pristine in nothing more than boots, a harness and accompanying jock. For me, that spelt someone who was more often thinking about himself rather than the guys he worked with. Too vain by far. What if I changed that?

Maybe piercing those proud pecs of his? I dismissed the thought immediately as it would probably only make him look hotter. Besides, it would take a lot longer than a weekend to stretch his nips big enough to really give him the bull rings I'd want to use. No, I needed something that would make him a lot more humble than that.

That's when my idea came into clear and shiny focus.

Still in the back of the taxi, I made some calls to my extended team and called in some urgent professional favours. An hour later and we were all assembled and ready to begin. In front of me was my assistant and two of London's most hardcore and specialist tattoo masters, Jock and Spike. I explained my end goal and what I wanted to achieve. Evil grins stretched across both their faces - they loved kinky shit like this!

And so that's how - 2 days later - the next employee of my business walked out of my workshop with some of the most beautifully obscene and realistic tattoos you've ever seen. Every millimetre of his large hands and eight inches up his broad wrists were now inked as if he was permanently lubed up and ready to ffuck.

Well, maybe not `ready'. Let's call this more of an end of session look. When you have a thick tide mark of grease, ooze and juice spreading up your arms. It was totally filth, scary even. Even the straightest conservative couldn't misconstrue what this ink represented.

That meant his normal life was over. No more flexing in the gym or showing off in the changing rooms. No, this was the kind of sick tattoo that was more shocking than if he'd decided to work out with his cock out! Instant removal from the gym floor. And in the bars and clubs? Well, most would think he was way too extreme and run a mile on first sight. The guys left standing would think he was a freak, someone to avoid at all costs.

However, given the right training, I knew I could find work for those pig fists. I shoved him out on the streets - aghast at how I hadn't even touched his hole but had corrupted his hands forever - telling him to come back when he was ready to learn how to properly use them. I shut the door behind him and wasn't surprised when the doorbell rung just four seconds later...

Of course, none of this compared with with the two twins calling me and saying they wanted to continue their training. To learn from each other, to experience what the other had achieved. Of course I said yes but only if they agreed to be renters. My contact book is full of tops looking to use young cunt, especially if in gear.

They readily agreed but on the condition I'd help them with their ultimate goal. A goal they'd only realised after the competition had ended. To be inside each other: a unison of fetish, a meeting of minds, a total hole companion. Hey, if you're gay and twins it's not incest, just fun loving! However, they did ask for coaching to make it as good as it could possibly be, not least as they were determined to 69 fist.

My first move was to expand their knowledge of fisting from bottoming to topping. They had to turn their experiences of catching into pitching. This was more difficult for the leather twin as he had been so warped, but they soon both understood the realities of coning a hand, of measuring pace and the importance of lube.

The next step was to properly kit them out. Yes, they had their own gear but now I wanted them to be joined together, to bridge the divide between their fetishes of rubber and leather. For convenience too, not least if they were 69'ing. Out went the heavy waders and big, clunky boots. No, this gear had to feel slimline and easy whilst still hot as fuck.

I started with vintage high-tops (made before they simply got brash) followed by chaps. They were an obvious choice - ass and dick available - but it was the junction between leg and trainer that concerned me. Would leather or rubber be better? In the end, I judged that - with a red striped black sock coming out of a trainer - nothing would look hotter than matching it with black rubber. Enveloping strong thighs, framing both junk and pussy. Clad, so tight. No need for a jock as I wanted their cocks to be on display, to show and reveal their true (hard) feelings for each other.

Then came the upper half. It had to be leather to balance their kinks. A bar vest would be an obvious choice but vests are designed for standing up in, not for playing lying down. They flap open and end up looking like dead fish. That's why Jason and I developed an over the shoulder leather tank that seamlessly joined to the waist band of our custom chaps. It was cropped at the sleeves and cut on a diagonal down the front, the edges pipped with red. Imagine a hot angular motorcycle jacket opening, yet with a heavy buckle and strap that went over the shoulder to lock it all together.

That red accent was all important, meaning colour ran down both their sides in stripes. The final touches were bicep bands on their magnificent arms. Bands they put on each other, helping each other dress. Dicks already rising at the thought of what was to come. Each brother wanting to explore.

As I watched from the sides, it's difficult to fully capture their eagerness to play in writing. Long before all four bands were on then leaned in and kissed each other deep. Finally able to realise their deep desire for each other. Like making out with yourself. So wrong and yet so right. Oh, and so eager to discover how each other's hole was different.

It was incredibly hot to see the twins together. Their outfits combined, their bodies in perfect position, their fists teasing at the edges. Commenting on cuntal flap development. Lubing each other's hands and then slowly, smoothly going in. Honestly, is there anything better then that moment in a session when a fist finds home? You remember what you've been missing, what you've been needing to feel complete. Except in this case? They were essentially fisting their own holes, One slack, sloppy and loose. The other puckered and resistant.

You can guess which one I'd created.

Even though my twin was doing his best to gently insert himself into the tighter confines, it was his brother who was in the leading position. Delighted at the feel being fisted - properly for the first time - and yet having a giant bucket cunt to explore at the same time. As he eagerly swirled his hand around he cried out just how amazing the pussy he was fisting fist. He wanted to be this fucking big himself, to give this much pleasure to the guys he played with!

I could sense my own twin's heart exploding. He had some serious work to do. It was going to be tough but his knew brother could take it. After all, he had!

Comments and suggestions very welcome at stuhadley77@gmail.com. Your emails inspire me to keep writing.