**The Agreement**
I agreed to it. That's the part I have to remember when I'm hanging here, shackled, the dildo waiting below me. I was drunk, yes, but I said yes. I went back to his place willingly. I signed the contract—one year of total submission, total transformation, no safeword until the training was complete. I could leave anytime, technically. He reminded me of that daily, in the beginning. But I didn't. I don't.
The recording plays on loop. My own voice, drunk and stupid: *Fags are such pussies. Can't take anything real.* His voice, smooth: *Bet you can't take twelve inches.* Me, laughing: *Bet I can. I'll take it and then tell you how much fags are pussies.*
So here I am. Seven days in. Shackled from the ceiling, dangling over the rigid dildo mounted on the floor—twelve inches, flaring to a nine-inch base. So far I've managed three inches. My body fights it. My mind fights it. But I agreed to this.
He enters silently. Always silent, except for orders. He doesn't respond to my questions, my begging, my bargaining—that's part of the training, the isolation, the breaking down of who I was. He only speaks to command.
"Down," he says.
I lower myself. The stretch is intense, burning, impossible. I take three inches, then four, gasping, sweating, tears running down my face. He watches, arms crossed, waiting for me to fail so he can lock me back in the cage.
The cage is titanium, half my height, barely big enough to turn around in. I sleep there, eat there, exist there. Three times daily he takes me out for training. The lack of exercise is deliberate—my muscle softening, turning to fat, my body becoming something else. The food he gives me is calculated—high calorie, low activity, designed to grow me while breaking me down.
I've tried to leave. In the first month, I bolted for the door three times. He's 6'6", 350 pounds of muscle—swarthy, handsome, immovable. He caught me easily, brought me back, never punished me, just put me back in the cage and continued the training. After month three, I stopped trying. Not because I couldn't leave—I could safeword out, end the contract, walk away—but because something had shifted. I wanted to see how far I could go.
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**The Transformation**
By month six, I could take seven inches. By month nine, ten. My body had transformed—350 pounds now, soft, heavy, my former athlete's build buried under fat, my cock buried too, unreachable, useless except for the one thing I could still do: take. My mind had softened with my body, becoming pliable, obedient, eager to please. The silence had worked. I no longer thought in words, only in orders, in need, in the hunger to be filled.
He took me to the bar on the anniversary. Dressed me in leather shorts that opened easily, boots, nothing else. I sat on the floor next to his stool, my weight pressing into the tile, and waited.
"Fetch," he said, pointing to a man at the bar.
I knew the instruction. I waddled over—slow, my thighs rubbing, my belly swaying—and begged the man to fuck me. Used the words I'd been taught. *Please, sir. I need it. Use me.*
My ass could take anything now. Twelve inches was easy, automatic, a void that demanded filling. I craved it—ached for it—this need that had replaced every other desire. As a straight man, I'd never thought I'd beg for dick, need it, worship it. But I did. I do.
The man took me in the back room, rough and fast, and I thanked him after, waddling back to my place on the floor, leaking, satisfied, empty until the next order.
This continued—nightly, different men, always at his command—until the big man. Black, muscular, larger than my trainer in every way. I waddled to him, begged, but hesitated when he demanded my mouth first. I'd refused—I don't know why, some ghost of my former self, some idea that I had limits.
He led me back by the collar, complained to my trainer: *Disrespectful. Refused to suck me first.*
My trainer looked at me, silent as always, then spoke—rare words, precious: "Next training. Mouth."
I understood. Being drunk got me into this—my stupid boast, my arrogant agreement. Now, sober and fat and broken and rebuilt, I would learn to suck, to take, to serve completely. The dildo had trained my ass. Now my throat would be trained, my mouth made useful, my submission total.
I could leave. The contract allows it. But I won't. I want to see how complete I can become—how totally transformed, how perfectly obedient, how thoroughly his.
I agreed to this. Every day, I agree again.
