Westside Whorehouse

I want to be made the leader of a gay street prostitution gang, who is both the pimp and head slut. Big lips, big big butt, blonde hair and a sassy attitude. They’re exhibitionists but are nice and accepted by their block.

Story Request by Anonymous
(Source: @curiousguy)

There you were. A team of college football alumni, fresh from graduation. You were hopeful adults looking to enter the work force in one respect or another. Some of you wanted to go into your respective fields, ready to put the intoxicating rush of contact sports behind you for a calmer life. Some of you were drunk on the fame and stardom of it all and looked to go on to a professional career. One way or another, it didn’t work out for any of you.

For the ones that wanted to work, increasing costs of living forced people to retire later and later, forcing them to keep working the same old jobs that should have gone to younger people trying to break into the industry. The ones that wanted to go into sports? Well, they were also the ones that got a little big-headed with fame during college and made many stupid choices that came back to bite them. Nearly every one was the subject of a sexual assault controversy and had to lie low.

It’s two years out from graduation and you and the guys still get together. You never go to bars together anymore. The ones still chasing after a pipe dream in sports are too easily recognized. But you look around the room and see just how miserable everyone is. You’ve had it easier than most of them. You went into sports. You had a spotless record. Problem was that you got injured pretty badly during practice even before the season started. And that was it for you.

None of the guys are homophobic. They’ve always accepted you. They’ve even teased you, good-naturedly, when they’ve caught you staring in the showers. You’ve fooled around with some of them. Most of them. And you can’t help but think about how differently things might have turned out for the sports star wannabes if they had just hooked up with you instead of chasing after girls that didn’t want them.

But it’s clear that there’s a problem. And seeing your friends all together in one place, commiserating over the darkness that hung over the bright future that you should have all had together, you make up your mind. See, a few weeks ago someone told you about a cosmic power that could make everything better. If you didn’t mind paying a steep price. And the truth is, with your busted knee and your bleak job prospects, it might well be worth it. But you don’t want to go at this alone. And your friends all look so miserable, anyway. Maybe you can fix all of their problems.

That night you have a dream. You don’t remember it when you wake up in a cold sweat the next morning. But you know that something is different. Something has changed. It doesn’t occur to you right away, and eventually it slips out of your mind. But as the week goes by you find that your physical therapy sessions are getting easier. Your PT tells you that it’s almost like your injury is healing itself altogether.

He tells you a bunch of other technical stuff that you’re pretty sure you should understand, but your head is foggy, unfocused, your thoughts slow and simple. You just nod and smile, excited to finally have the go-ahead to start working out again.

When you go to the gym, you’re surprised to find all your friends and previous teammates working out there, too. It’s almost like you’ve all taken over the gym. No one seems to be complaining, either. And you can see why. Since the last time you saw your mates together, they’ve changed. Harvey, the biggest guy on your team, had slimmed down remarkably and was sporting a quaffed hairdo that looked great on him. He was also one of the straightest and you can see that he’s blatantly eyeing up one of the frat bros that’s working out nearby.

You hop on the nearest cardio machine and immediately feel like you’re at home. But your workout doesn’t stop there. You keep going, losing yourself to the mindless repetition of your sets. When you finish, that haze in your head doesn’t lift at all. Your thoughts feel slower, your smarts feel further away. But you can’t bring yourself to be alarmed. If anything, you feel great.

The next couple of days are a whirl of activity as you blow the last of your disability payments on getting your hair bleached. It was one of the best decisions of your life. As you sat there on your salon chair you felt your old life getting burned away as your locks gradually turned blonde. By the time that it was over all you could do was vapidly giggle at your stylist and take a selfie with your perfect, plump dick-sucking lips.

The strangest thing happens afterwards. In a moment of clarity, you realize that you can’t figure out how much money to pay the salon. Nor how much you’re supposed to get back in change. You know you should be able to. It’s basic arithmetic. But you just can’t. It’s almost like numbers are an entirely foreign concept.

A hot guy steps in and helps you as you blush with embarrassment. You apologize to him for being such an airheaded ditz. He just laughs and says that he likes that in a guy. You don’t miss his overt flirtation and in a few minutes you have him pinned up against a stall in the bathroom, gobbling down his cock like a starving man.

When he blows his load, it’s almost like he’s dazed. He tells you that you’re the best he’s had. He asks you how much you usually go for, and since you don’t have two brain cells to rub together anymore, you don’t get the question at all. He takes one look at your blank expression, rolls his eyes, and explains, slowly. He asks you if you’re a whore. And you say that you’re not, but that it’s not a bad idea. You at least still have a faint sense that money is important.

He offers to take you shopping. You squeal in delight and agree. When you put on a hot pink crop top, jockstrap, and nice sneakers and show them off for him, you end up with his cock buried ten inches deep in your boypussy in the changing room. He brings you to an earth-shattering orgasm that makes your little cocklet squirt all over the place, spewing out the last remnants of your old life.

The man pays for everything and gives you his number, telling you that he’ll come around for a session some other time. When you notice out the corner of your eye that an old woman is giving you the stink-eye, you look at her, put your fist on your hip, and say "What you lookin’ at, you saggy bitch?" She is taken aback and starts to say something, but you haven’t got the time for that drama so you walk away with a swing in your hip and new sneakers to boot.

The next time you go to the gym, all your friends are there again. They all sound as stupid as you do. Giggling vapidly. Glazed over eyes. You love it. You love what’s happened to you. You feel so airheaded and empty and it feels so good.

After you all get your workouts done, you tell them about what you’ve figured out thanks to the guy who bought you your pink outfit. They love the idea and tell you that you should start whoring yourself out. Not only that, but they ask if you could pimp them out, too. You’re more than willing.

Of course, the steady parade of men in and out of your apartment doesn’t escape the attention of your neighbors or your landlord, so inevitably you get evicted. You and the bois end up staying at your regular johns’ places for a few nights, not that any of you mind since it means going to sleep with a nice thick piece of meat buried in your thick bubble butts. But eventually you all manage to scrounge together enough money to buy a place in a more accepting neighborhood.

You’re not sure if this neighborhood was always this way, but it certainly is now. The cops not only turn a blind eye to your operations, they even actively partake. And whenever one of your whores, or even you are thrown in jail for the evening, all it means is that you get to enjoy a gangbang by the boys in blue. And boy do they love the feeling of your thick, juicy lips wrapped around their cocks, not to mention the tight grip of your fat round bubble butt.

And while at first you have to restrain your activities to nighttime at the street corners, eventually you’re able to solicit your johns right there in broad daylight. Anyone who protests moves away eventually, and no one in the community is willing to drive the whores away. On a good day you have half a dozen loads dripping out of your hole by lunch time, and you love it.

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