Whole Destruction Chapter 7 - Completion
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Themes include fisting, toys, rubber, leather and true love. Average reading time 10 minutes.
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We're coming to the close - after nearly six long months - and now I really understand what `Whole Destruction' actually means. It's not just my cunt that's been destroyed. Or my body (Jesus, are these heavy hangers difficult to live with!). Nor my enforced passion for total rubber enclosure. No, it's my head they've fucked with.
Obviously, my connection with Max is at the centre of all that. I still don't know whether he's a stooge or not. Was he planted in the changing room to attract my attention? All those months ago? I love him, fancy him, still find him ridiculously hot. But I'm suspicious. Not least as I'm the one who's had his body changed the most. The piercings, the ink, my balls. And whilst my hole seems to have been supersized, I'd swear that Max's has remained about the same.
Take yesterday for example.
They do this thing. Our cunts are pumped and then primed. Literally. Rosebud cylinders attached in advance and our holes given a serious workout. Then, we're positioned in place: a line of asses sticking through monumental glory holes. It's a dark-room on steroids.
Our backsides are the only part of our bodies the tops can see, meaning they get to choose who to use solely based on pussy lip development, signs of cuntal stretch, resting gape, lube application, a hairy or smooth arse. Honestly, we were a smorgasbord and all of these where fundamental characteristics that drew guys in, or turned them away. When a fist plunged into your pussy? Well you knew you where on the menu.
Why was I the one getting so much attention?!
By now I intimately knew the sounds my fellow inmates made when being fisted, not least Max. Why couldn't I hear his moans, sighs and cries of pushback over the noise of my own? Why was my cunt being reamed out so thoroughly, the fists simply not stopping?
For all my annoyance, it did make me strangely proud. My pussy was being owned. Guys were fucking queuing up to use my hole. Plunged, slammed, annihilated. It obviously invited extreme use.
Perhaps that had something to do with my last `assessment'. I think we've already established that these tests aren't just a measure of your capability, but also to stretch and grow your abilities.
This session hadn't been any different, but they did bring out some new machines to truly confirm my development. (Also, my release status. I'd recently found out that the 6 months of the program was a very loose timeframe. If you wren't ready, then you weren't set free. No, you're sent back to the beginning and everything starts over.)
By now I'm amazed that there are still new things for me to experience, but there always are. Pumping and suction stations. Oh, and rating my ability to scare queens off by just how big my hole has become.
I'm proud to say I was ready.
So, the standard carousel has the girth machine to test how wide my hole can get. Then there's the tentacle to gauge how deep I can take it. I aced that one! Next comes force, to judge him much impact I can cope with. Over the months all my scores have increased. How could they not with all the fists flying and Max's constant attention?
The new stations topped it all off though. I was no stranger to rosebud cylinders but this was seriously extreme. The thick acrylic cylinder had been combined with a fuck machine. The large outer walls sucked down on my butt whilst the central core moved in and out.
Can you imagine the effect a thick dildo core (perfectly shaped to really inflame and puff out) has on your cunt whilst your hole is under vacuum pressure? It distends and swells each ass lip to new heights.
Fuck, I loved that.
That's what they've done to me. I crave my hole being punished in new and fucked up ways. I want my body to be corrupted. Is it wrong that I volunteered to have a snout ring installed? Above all, I have a deep-seated lust for fist. It's an addiction and I don't think I can exist with it. I may think I'm satiated by a session but soon the cravings return and I have to seek out even more.
Inside the program, that's all been taken care of by Max and the drones. How the fuck will I survive on the outside? I'm going to be constantly chasing the next punch, the next rotation, the next stretch. The next double.
It makes me wonder just what Max's cravings are? Even given the impressive state of his hole - as cellmates we've been forced to repeatedly compare our pussy sizes - I think he might be in a phase of his life where he's naturally more top. That evil smile as he lays into me, the happy glint in his eyes, the way he puts his entire body behind a punch. Something tells me I might have been an inspiration for him.
I swear, those pussy comparison sessions were sick. Who would even do such a thing, to compete on who had the most fucked up hole? Getting back from a training sessions, pulling down your overalls and asking your cell mate to survey the carnage.
oh man, I've never seen it like this before' you should see these pussy lips, they're fucking swollen and calling out to me' `fuck! you're still gaping, we should fill that right now...'
These are not normal conversations, but the months of a constant porn diet and acclimatisation to sex meant I was anything but normal now.
My hole wasn't normal either.
And that's probably the last time I will call it my hole. From now on - forever on - it's my cunt. There's no other way to describe it. It's been transformed, mutilated, wrecked, rebuilt. It can never come back.
Nor was my ability to take the carousel.
When the rosebud/fuck machine ended - when I thought my very soul had been extracted - it was removed and the extrusion of my flesh measured. The guards took great delight in saying it was intended to create giant pussyflaps that would make my love-chute the fuck of the town, and it seems to have worked.
Then came the gape test. Oh my god, I don't know whether I was a willing or unwilling participant in this. A torpedo toy - smooth and cylindrical - was inserted in my ass for one minute intervals. It's then pulled out, so fast the phantom ache - of being so fucking empty - was almost painful. Then, cameras measured just how long it took for your hole to fully close. As it progressed the toys only got bigger and the gape more extreme. It was tough as you had to both hold yourself open whilst holding everything inside.
I was glad I did though as next came the prolapse test. Just how many inches of red, velvety flesh could be pulled out? I'm thankful this was conducted by a human and not a machine. Even if it was a drone. (Although I think this one was my favourite, he always seemed to carry a special brand of super intense poppers that made the world spin. His gloves were extra thick too, surely he couldn't have hands that big in real life?)
Can you tell the difference though? The original carousel was all about measuring my natural characteristics come what may. These new tests? You had to be compliant, an active part of the process.
It makes you proud as the drones watch on, almost as if they'd become friends. Their voices and jeers of approval nudging you on, stimulating you to do better. You seek out the compliments. To be told they've never had a pussy this big before.
The last part of the assessment though? Oh my god. The ability to scare queens? This was plain wrong. My hole had been created, ready for men into serious hole. But what if I was dumped in a more retro-normative environment? Somewhere like G-A-Y on a Friday night?
Talk about being judged! That my body (now grown through an enforced gym regime, a strict diet and the best supplements available) was entirely snackable. But when they saw my bulge (still in its rubber harness) and I lifted it away from my pussy? Jesus! You could have heard the screams from Dalston!
Apparently only tight holes were in this season. That my hole ink was obscene and I was an attention seeker. A wannabe porn-star, why else would I have done that to myself? My nipple rings were - apparently - common.
Who the fuck cared? Honestly, as these queens - Muscle Marys, Hipsters, Side Boys, Queefs - did histrionics around my butt I realised I transcended it all. They may flee, they may shrek, but I was proud of my pussy. Even if I did have to heft away my overgrown ball sack so they could see it.
The only disappointment of the night was that no-one wanted to fuck me. One of the queens did get one of the bouncers to try - a man who said he was famous for the girth of his cock - but he complained his fat dick didn't even touch the sides. Lightweight! I can clench my pussy muscles like a vice and grip any sized meat, I just didn't like his vibe.
The experience did bring home just how much I was going to struggle on the outside though. This event was my first public outing from the programme's walls in the last six months and it hadn't been a great success. In fact, if anything, I felt it was designed to put me in my place.
I mean, I know my hole is wrecked - so many folds of pussy - but I hadn't thought through the consequences. It's going to take a really special man to find my cunt attractive. Or special men, as I'm going to need a metric fuck-tonne to service my needs.
I've come to rely on Max too much. Our relationship is doomed as it's been made very clear that we'll be shipped off to different destinations, different cities. The chances of us finding each other ever again are nigh-on impossible.
That made our last session together bittersweet. We'd been released from the glory-hole set-up and given time to recover. Time apart in fact to stoke our hungers. We were told we could wear anything we wanted. From my custom-fit rubber suits (constantly updated to reflect my growing muscles) to gimp-wear or cow-hide. Or have something entirely new made up.
As I saw Max standing in the cell that night and I took in the view, Then I saw his reaction to my outfit. Life really was so fucking unfair! We'd both judged things perfectly. Understood what we needed. To see each other in a new light.
I walked into the darkened cell and there he stood. Lit by a single red spotlight. In all this time, he's still the most muscular man I've ever played with. Shoulders like boulders, thighs like tree trunks. Except, now it was encased in shiny, black rubber. Every bulging muscle on perfect displayed, oiled to a high sheen.
The only adornments? Military boots and red bicep bands. His cock was free and hard already - just the way I liked him. His hands bare too - I knew he'd not want a single layer between him and my cunt. I had no doubt the thick gloves would come out later - I could see them in position lying next to the sling.
In all our time together he had never worn rubber for me. Not once. But knowing he was going to be the final rubber drone to use me? Fuck! I almost quivered at the knees. Thank God his head was completely clear so I could still see his face, his eyes, his wicked grin. I needed that, to remember if forever.
I could tell he was delighted by what I was wearing too. I stood in the open frame of the cell door, in leather for the first time. I know, it's almost unbelievably that I hadn't in the last six months. Man, did I feel good!
Look, the whole orange, Gitmo vibe of this place has always turned me on. So that's what I'd asked to be made up. Our standard, prison issue overalls but now recreated in leather. Hugging every muscle and curve of my bigger body. Every cleft. Soft, black, warm leather. In a chaps cut but with a giant cod-piece that held my big balls in place and projected them forward. The same military style boots as his (a nice coincidence). The neckline cut lower and the zip replaced by heavy-buckles piped with red.
We looked fucking fantastic and we couldn't keep our hands off each other! For the last time - just like that first night - he manoeuvred me to the sling and totally used my ass. Made me feel like a king.
It showed just how far we'd come too. In capability and technique. My hole could now take virtually anything Max could dish out, and he's definitely grown his skills too. When he put on the thick gloves, picked up a snooker ball and made a fist around it? Then punched my cunt?
F U C K M E.
That was seriously hardcore, his hand terrifying big and sturdy. I suddenly felt I was being fisted by God himself. I should be renamed `ThunderCunt'.
Christ. How would I manage without him?
Not well is the answer. I've been released for about a month now and I feel a hunger that can't be assuaged. Yes, I had side-stepped my debt but I gained something else entirely. I now had to pursue fist, all the time. I was that desperate.
I arduously chased Recon dates. Taking photos to present myself in the best light. It was almost impossible - if I showed off the full capabilities of my hole then I only attracted the most extreme guys but that cut off a huge number of potentials who'd be scared if they knew what I could do. I needed so much action that I couldn't risk that. I had to constantly judge and respond appropriately.
Thankfully, the program did give me a bursary and all the custom-fitted gearI was allowed to keep. Nothing could compare to the machinery the program had though. I kept on trying to replicate the carousel and nothing worked. I've burned out more commercial-grade fuck machines than I can count. That takes all the money I have though. I've had to resort to OnlyFans and my hustle is doing okay - thankfully there's a hardcore posse of fucked up men who are willing to pay for my kind of extreme hole-stretching porn.
All the while, I thought about Max, unsure of myself. What was true? Was he a stooge? Was he there to help corrupt me? Did he push me over the edge? Or were we star-crossed lovers, destined to find each other?
I had no idea.
As I trawled the darkest corners of Recon, surveyed and made the best of the worst dark rooms, I started to hear rumours.
The first was from a brick shit-house who'd just come back from America. He wasn't a looker but I wanted his muscular fists inside of me. He did an okay job and I couldn't help but say how good he felt, like I was being used from the inside out. He actually blushed. Said it was nothing compared to a big guy he'd seen at a sling party in New York. Now that was a man who knew how to use a cunt!
The second from some of the darker corner of the interwebs. How there was a top out there who was possessed, who wouldn't quit. Big, muscular, hulk like. He wouldn't quit in his search for the perfect hole. Bottoms even got off on posting #holedestroyed #neveragain. I knew the truth was far, far different.
A truck-stop, weeks later. Men impressed by my ability to take it. In fact, two guys giving me the double together - one fist from each man inside of me. A third threatening to triple me. Then another voice in the background. How I might be just the kind of cunt that measured up to this mystery top. Apparently he had a thing for guys my size.
Maybe?
Of course, they had no contact details , these were truckers not LinkedIn queens. That meant I left - my hole feeling underwhelmed and capable of so much more - before I painstakingly searched Recon, all of the events, looking for a famous porn star or big name arriving. All to no avail. I was crushed.
Then, a private party. I was going to be the centre-piece. I'd long ago stopped asking for face pics, I just needed the fists, so I had no idea who would be there. Just that there would be one sling, one cunt and multiple fists. Just the kind of ratio I liked.
And that's when it happened. At the end of the night, when I was throughly wasted. I was wearing a full rubber hood gas-mask. I wanted, needed the poppers to take the scene. Not least that most of these guys had clearly never fisted a hole as big as mine before. They didn't know what to do with it and I'd had to ensure a procession of fist-wannabes. I will admit some of them had sweet bodies though.
Then, he appeared.
A big hairy body that seemed familiar, although covered in new gear. Overalls that were reminiscent but had dark red stripes running down the sides. A leather executioner's mask. An energy I hadn't felt in a long while...
I'm not going to apologise that we didn't recognise each other on sight. My hole was lubed up and had seen significant action since the last time we'd played. And he'd got more lean and defined, his veins angrily popping across his biceps and forearms. Oh, and both our heads were covered. But when I felt that fist in my hole? The way he rotated his wrist? Flexed his fingers?
In a moment of stunning clarity I clamped my pussy muscles down as hard as I possibly could on his forearm and ripped off my gas mask in the same moment.
Fuck! I knew it was him! He didn't have to take off his own mask. I could see the happiness in his eyes! That he immediately slid his second fist right on inside and power balled my cunt? Well, that proved it. We had found each other!
That moment? It was the closest thing I've felt that could be honestly compared to being fucked by the universe.
Of course, we now live together. When not playing I have to wear a firm latex replica of his clenched fist in my cunt. Max says he doesn't want to risk my hole ever closing up. I can't say there's any danger of that though. Our sling sessions are fucking legendary and I have to be ready all times to play.
In return, I've insisted he takes hormones to inflate his cum production. I love his taste and he know leaks all the time. In fact, he even feeds me the collected surplus pre before giving me the real deal.
He's also agreed to get his tits pierced like mine, though he's already got hist tattoo - the one I rejected. A really rather beautiful fist emoji that nestled between his pecs. I loved looking at whilst he cunted me. Poking through the leather bar vests he wore so often.
He's off now making a periodical visit to the fetish stores. Looking for studded leather gloves. I wonder what he wants those for?.
God, love can be a bitch.
The End.
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