The F-Word

I’ve been talking to some new friends, reading some accounts of these changes and stuff around, and I’ve started to notice a bit of an affinity for guys calling me a fag.

It’s like my body wants to resist it, though… I want to just experience it for just a brief time. Say I’ve done it and then go back to my usual self. Could you help?

Story Request by @bendoesntlivehereanymore
(Source: @thehumanmale)

It’s intoxicating isn’t it? The feeling of being humiliated, degraded, of being treated as something lesser by virtue of what you were born as? Sure, some small part of you probably feels bad because of it, some small part of you that thinks this is wrong, that you’re setting back the fight for gay rights by getting off on being called a faggot, but there’s a deep burning heat that you just can’t resist. It’s the forbidden pleasure, made even more titillating by how taboo it feels.

You’re not sure what happens, but one day you wake up and you just have a new outlook on the world. You faintly remember being an activist, being proud. But now you only feel a faint shame at being gay, being a bit of a pervert, a cockhungry slut. You feel a need to fight for your rights as a person, but a small part of you wishes that they would ban being homosexual, that they would treat fags like you the way that they should be treated.

You look at your wardrobe and you consider dressing like a normal person, but your hands gravitate toward the sluttiest, trashiest clothes in the bunch. As you’re rummaging through your closet, you think back on what’s happened, but the only memory that you have of something strange happening is dreaming of a sex shop that shouldn’t exist. By the time that you leave, you’re wearing a thong, a buttplug, a cock cage, shorts that barely cover you up, and a shirt that brightly displays the word “SLUT” across your chest.

Dressing like a cheap whore, like a dirty little faggot, turns you on more than you expect it to. Your tiny cock swells in its little cage and starts leaking into your thong. Your hole throbs around your buttplug. A pleasant haze of humiliation and arousal settles around your thoughts making it harder and harder to think with every step that you take down the sidewalk, with every dirty look that you get from passing straight men.

“Looking good, fag!” calls someone from across the street. You look over and see Andrew, the president of one of the conservative groups on your campus. He’s so hot. “Want some of this?” he says, grabbing his junk and waving it in your direction as his clique of dumb jocks chuckle. “Yeah you do. Bet you’re gagging for superior straight cock right now, faggot!”

The truth is, you are. And the small smirks on the nearby men as they listen to the exchange sets you off even more. You walk across the street to where Andrew and his friends are standing. They laugh at you. Call you fag. You don’t mind. If anything, it just turns you on even more. “Look guys, the little fag’s getting off on being called a pervert. Fucking disgrace.”

They strip you and they laugh at your diminutive endowment as they force you to walk naked, but for your thong, in front of them. You feel shame, humiliation, bright pink blossoms on your cheeks, but you’ve never been so aroused before. They take you to their frat house, and before you know it, they’re having their way with you.

“You like that, fag?” Andrew grunts, as he’s pumping his cock in and out of your pussy, the pleasure rippling through your body making it impossible to think, turning your brain into mush, making you fag, eagerly and desperately bucking your hips into his thrusts, choking down any cock presented to your face. You lose track of time as your day devolves into a total fuck fest of humiliation and depravity.

You let them take pictures of you. Gladly help them to your savings. The more they call you fag, the more aroused you get. By the end of it, you’re a blubbering mess, exposed and bankrupted, completely and utterly hooked on straight cock, acting like and being called a total fag.

But you’re tired. Exhausted. You pass out. And you find yourself back at that sex shop, still aroused, still caged, still thrumming all over from the experience of being called faggot, of being degraded, of having your rights as a human being stripped away. The Pink Fairy smirks down at you and strokes the side of your face. “You just said you wanted to experience it briefly… Am I to understand that you want to go back?”

You’re too horny, your mind too foggy. You just want to feel that pleasure again. That humiliating, shameful mix of getting off on being treated like dirt. You crave it. You need it. So you nod. The Pink Fairy laughs and shakes his head. “Every time,” he says, snapping his fingers.

The next time you come to, Andrew is telling you how much he and his brothers are going to enjoy having a frat fucktoy from now on, and the only thought that occurs to you, your brain having been turned to mush long since, is that you wish he would call you fag more.

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