The locker room had become a torment. After the frat party incident, the teasing had escalated, sharp, cruel jabs about Byron’s "big fat cheeks" and "womanly proportions" following him everywhere. It was worse now, imbued with a knowing leer that made his skin crawl. Coach Davies, a hulking man with a perpetually grim expression and eyes that missed nothing, had "solved" the problem. No more communal showers for Byron. From now on, after every brutal rugby practice, Byron was to shower in the small, private bathroom attached to Coach Davies' office. A privilege, the coach had called it, a way to "protect" him. Byron knew it was just another cage.
The first few times, Byron had tried to rush through it, a blur of soap and water, desperate to escape. But Coach Davies always found an excuse to be there. Sorting equipment, checking schedules, making calls – always lingering, always watching. Today, the coach stood by the open bathroom door, ostensibly reviewing a clipboard, but Byron could feel his gaze, a physical weight, tracing the contours of his body as he stepped into the steaming spray.
The water cascaded over Byron's broad shoulders, running down his muscular back, slicking his dark skin. He reached for the soap, his hands moving automatically, but a voice, deep and resonant, stopped him.
"Hold on there, Price. No need to rush," Coach Davies rumbled, his voice unnervingly close. "I wanna make sure you're getting properly clean. That’s a lot of surface area to cover, eh, boy?" His eyes, when Byron risked a glance, were fixed directly on his ass, on the massive, rounded cheeks that quivered with every shift of his weight under the shower spray. The warm water made his muscles relax, softening the usual tautness, making his "big fat cheeks" seem even more pronounced, more jiggly. They truly did "chicken jiggle bouncing all around obscenely and clapping" with every movement, the wet slapping sound amplified in the tiled enclosure.
"Alright, Price," the coach commanded, stepping closer, his presence filling the small space. The air grew thick with unspoken meaning. "I need you to jump up and down for me. Butt naked, right there in the shower. Let's see those big jigglers really work."
Byron froze, humiliation stinging him raw. Jump? For him? His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. "Coach... I don't..."
"That's an order, Price!" Davies snapped, his voice hard, leaving no room for argument. "You think you're too good to follow instructions? Or are those fat black cheeks too lazy to move?"
Swallowing the bitter taste of shame, Byron began to jump, a pathetic, clumsy motion in the confined space. His massive buttocks bounced, jiggled, and slapped against each other with loud, wet claps that echoed off the tiles. WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! Each clap was a testament to his degradation, broadcasting his humiliation louder than any shouted slur. He felt naked, exposed, a spectacle. His body, his magnificent, despised body, was being made to perform for this man's cruel amusement.
"That's it, boy! Look at 'em go!" Coach Davies chuckled, a low, guttural sound. "Those are some damn fine jigglers, Price. You got a lot of woman in that ass, don't you? Wobbles just like a big-hipped bitch." His eyes, cold and appraising, were fixed on the rhythmic undulation of Byron's ass, and a dark, primal heat began to bloom low in Byron's belly, a horrifying, unwanted response to the coach's gaze and words.
"Now," Coach Davies continued, stepping even closer, his shadow falling over Byron's trembling form. "I want you to scrub between those cheeks. Real good and hard. Because I know," his voice dropped to a low, intimate growl, "how sweaty and wet it gets between those two fat monkey clappers. You can't be leaving any of that jungle funk in there, can you?"
Byron’s face burned. He reached for the soap, his hands shaking, and tried to obey, pushing his fingers into his wet, slick ass crack, trying to scrub. But his movements were clumsy, hesitant. He could feel the coach’s eyes on him, hot and invasive.
"No, no, no, that's not good enough, Price," Davies sighed, a sound of feigned disappointment. "You ain't getting it clean enough. Let me show you how a real man handles a big, dirty ass like that."
Before Byron could protest, the coach was right there, reaching into the shower, the cold bar of soap already in his hand. Coach Davies didn't hesitate. He reached out, his large, calloused hand cupping one of Byron's "big fat slippery cheeks," pushing it aside with a surprising strength. His thumb pushed deep into the wet crevice, and then, with a single, brutal motion, he pushed the bar of soap, followed by his fingers, into Byron’s exposed anus.
Byron gasped, a choked, desperate sound. The soap, cold and slick, slid shockingly deep, followed by not one, but multiple fingers, pushing past the initial resistance, effectively fucking him. He convulsed, his body arching under the invasive violation, a raw moan tearing from his throat. The coach's fingers worked with deliberate force, pushing deeper, spreading him, scrubbing, yes, but more, so much more. He was being opened, penetrated, his ass no longer his own.
"That's it, boy," Coach Davies murmured, his voice now a low, predatory purr, resonating against Byron's ear. "Gotta get in there. All that thick, black funk. You like that, don't you, sissy? Being spread open, feeling me deep inside that little boyhole of yours." His fingers twisted, pushed, effectively making Byron "ride his thick long fingers," his body swaying, his hips involuntarily bucking against the invasive digits.
The coach’s other hand, meanwhile, reached around Byron's front, finding his "womanly fat pecs." He pinched one of Byron's "thick sensitive nipples," twisting it hard between his thumb and forefinger, pulling and tugging until it became exquisitely, painfully rigid. "And these, too," Davies grunted, his voice thick with lust. "These big, fat nigger jugs. They need some attention too, don't they, bitch?" He tugged again, harder, pulling the entire pectoral muscle with it.
Byron whimpered, a high-pitched, desperate sound that was almost a squeal. The combination of the agonizing nipple torture and the relentless finger-fucking was overwhelming, a tidal wave of pain, shame, and a horrifying, undeniable arousal. "Please... stop..." he sobbed, his voice thin and reedy.
"Oh, no, no, little bitch," Coach Davies chuckled, his voice laced with cruel amusement. "You ain't stopping nothing. You're gonna take every bit of this. And you're gonna like it. Look at that ass!" He pressed his hand against Byron’s exposed ass, forcing his hips to move, to "clap his fat, round heavy cheeks up against" the coach's thick fingers and hand. WHAP! WHAP! The sound was sickening, each clap a public declaration of his utter violation. "See how they jiggle for me? See how they clap? You like that, don't you, you big bootied, fat tittied bitch? You squeal just like one, too!"
The coach's fingers worked faster inside him, pushing deeper, stretching his hole wider, while his other hand continued its brutal assault on Byron’s nipples, pinching, twisting, pulling. Byron’s breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling uncontrollably, his cock, swollen and hard, beginning to leak a steady stream of pre-cum. He was being used, degraded, turned into an animal, a toy, and his body, traitorous and shamed, was responding with a humiliating, desperate arousal. He was a thick black buck being feminized, reduced to nothing more than a receptive hole and a pair of jiggling, clapping cheeks for this man's cruel pleasure.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to escape, but the sensations were too intense, too pervasive. He could feel the coach's fingers pushing deeper, pulling at something inside him, a delicious, agonizing stretch. He moaned, a sound that was half sob, half choked-back pleasure.
It was at that precise moment that the door to Coach Davies' office, which Byron had assumed was closed, quietly clicked open. A shadow fell across the bathroom floor. Through the haze of pain and humiliation, Byron heard a slight gasp, a faint, almost imperceptible rustle of clothing. His eyes fluttered open, fearfully.
Framed in the doorway of the office, silhouetted against the dim light, stood Thomas, the nurse’s aide from the last time. Thomas. His face was obscured by shadow, but Byron could feel his gaze, intense, unblinking, fixed on the scene unfolding in the shower. Thomas didn't move. He didn't speak. He just watched, his breathing growing ragged, uneven. And slowly, imperceptibly at first, Thomas’s hand began to move down to his crotch.
Byron could feel the aide's eyes on his struggling form, on his "big bootied, fat tittied bitch" body being so utterly defiled. He could see Thomas’s hand, working, stroking, his eyes never leaving the scene, witnessing every painful whimper, every humiliating jiggle, every deep thrust of the coach's fingers. Thomas was stroking his dick to this thick black buck being feminized, being brought to his knees, being used. The realization was another layer of shame, but also a dark, dizzying amplification of his own unbearable arousal. He was a spectacle, a public object of perverse desire, and his body, utterly broken, responded with a final, shuddering spasm of pleasure and shame, a silent scream of surrender.
The first few times, Byron had tried to rush through it, a blur of soap and water, desperate to escape. But Coach Davies always found an excuse to be there. Sorting equipment, checking schedules, making calls – always lingering, always watching. Today, the coach stood by the open bathroom door, ostensibly reviewing a clipboard, but Byron could feel his gaze, a physical weight, tracing the contours of his body as he stepped into the steaming spray.
The water cascaded over Byron's broad shoulders, running down his muscular back, slicking his dark skin. He reached for the soap, his hands moving automatically, but a voice, deep and resonant, stopped him.
"Hold on there, Price. No need to rush," Coach Davies rumbled, his voice unnervingly close. "I wanna make sure you're getting properly clean. That’s a lot of surface area to cover, eh, boy?" His eyes, when Byron risked a glance, were fixed directly on his ass, on the massive, rounded cheeks that quivered with every shift of his weight under the shower spray. The warm water made his muscles relax, softening the usual tautness, making his "big fat cheeks" seem even more pronounced, more jiggly. They truly did "chicken jiggle bouncing all around obscenely and clapping" with every movement, the wet slapping sound amplified in the tiled enclosure.
"Alright, Price," the coach commanded, stepping closer, his presence filling the small space. The air grew thick with unspoken meaning. "I need you to jump up and down for me. Butt naked, right there in the shower. Let's see those big jigglers really work."
Byron froze, humiliation stinging him raw. Jump? For him? His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. "Coach... I don't..."
"That's an order, Price!" Davies snapped, his voice hard, leaving no room for argument. "You think you're too good to follow instructions? Or are those fat black cheeks too lazy to move?"
Swallowing the bitter taste of shame, Byron began to jump, a pathetic, clumsy motion in the confined space. His massive buttocks bounced, jiggled, and slapped against each other with loud, wet claps that echoed off the tiles. WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! Each clap was a testament to his degradation, broadcasting his humiliation louder than any shouted slur. He felt naked, exposed, a spectacle. His body, his magnificent, despised body, was being made to perform for this man's cruel amusement.
"That's it, boy! Look at 'em go!" Coach Davies chuckled, a low, guttural sound. "Those are some damn fine jigglers, Price. You got a lot of woman in that ass, don't you? Wobbles just like a big-hipped bitch." His eyes, cold and appraising, were fixed on the rhythmic undulation of Byron's ass, and a dark, primal heat began to bloom low in Byron's belly, a horrifying, unwanted response to the coach's gaze and words.
"Now," Coach Davies continued, stepping even closer, his shadow falling over Byron's trembling form. "I want you to scrub between those cheeks. Real good and hard. Because I know," his voice dropped to a low, intimate growl, "how sweaty and wet it gets between those two fat monkey clappers. You can't be leaving any of that jungle funk in there, can you?"
Byron’s face burned. He reached for the soap, his hands shaking, and tried to obey, pushing his fingers into his wet, slick ass crack, trying to scrub. But his movements were clumsy, hesitant. He could feel the coach’s eyes on him, hot and invasive.
"No, no, no, that's not good enough, Price," Davies sighed, a sound of feigned disappointment. "You ain't getting it clean enough. Let me show you how a real man handles a big, dirty ass like that."
Before Byron could protest, the coach was right there, reaching into the shower, the cold bar of soap already in his hand. Coach Davies didn't hesitate. He reached out, his large, calloused hand cupping one of Byron's "big fat slippery cheeks," pushing it aside with a surprising strength. His thumb pushed deep into the wet crevice, and then, with a single, brutal motion, he pushed the bar of soap, followed by his fingers, into Byron’s exposed anus.
Byron gasped, a choked, desperate sound. The soap, cold and slick, slid shockingly deep, followed by not one, but multiple fingers, pushing past the initial resistance, effectively fucking him. He convulsed, his body arching under the invasive violation, a raw moan tearing from his throat. The coach's fingers worked with deliberate force, pushing deeper, spreading him, scrubbing, yes, but more, so much more. He was being opened, penetrated, his ass no longer his own.
"That's it, boy," Coach Davies murmured, his voice now a low, predatory purr, resonating against Byron's ear. "Gotta get in there. All that thick, black funk. You like that, don't you, sissy? Being spread open, feeling me deep inside that little boyhole of yours." His fingers twisted, pushed, effectively making Byron "ride his thick long fingers," his body swaying, his hips involuntarily bucking against the invasive digits.
The coach’s other hand, meanwhile, reached around Byron's front, finding his "womanly fat pecs." He pinched one of Byron's "thick sensitive nipples," twisting it hard between his thumb and forefinger, pulling and tugging until it became exquisitely, painfully rigid. "And these, too," Davies grunted, his voice thick with lust. "These big, fat nigger jugs. They need some attention too, don't they, bitch?" He tugged again, harder, pulling the entire pectoral muscle with it.
Byron whimpered, a high-pitched, desperate sound that was almost a squeal. The combination of the agonizing nipple torture and the relentless finger-fucking was overwhelming, a tidal wave of pain, shame, and a horrifying, undeniable arousal. "Please... stop..." he sobbed, his voice thin and reedy.
"Oh, no, no, little bitch," Coach Davies chuckled, his voice laced with cruel amusement. "You ain't stopping nothing. You're gonna take every bit of this. And you're gonna like it. Look at that ass!" He pressed his hand against Byron’s exposed ass, forcing his hips to move, to "clap his fat, round heavy cheeks up against" the coach's thick fingers and hand. WHAP! WHAP! The sound was sickening, each clap a public declaration of his utter violation. "See how they jiggle for me? See how they clap? You like that, don't you, you big bootied, fat tittied bitch? You squeal just like one, too!"
The coach's fingers worked faster inside him, pushing deeper, stretching his hole wider, while his other hand continued its brutal assault on Byron’s nipples, pinching, twisting, pulling. Byron’s breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling uncontrollably, his cock, swollen and hard, beginning to leak a steady stream of pre-cum. He was being used, degraded, turned into an animal, a toy, and his body, traitorous and shamed, was responding with a humiliating, desperate arousal. He was a thick black buck being feminized, reduced to nothing more than a receptive hole and a pair of jiggling, clapping cheeks for this man's cruel pleasure.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to escape, but the sensations were too intense, too pervasive. He could feel the coach's fingers pushing deeper, pulling at something inside him, a delicious, agonizing stretch. He moaned, a sound that was half sob, half choked-back pleasure.
It was at that precise moment that the door to Coach Davies' office, which Byron had assumed was closed, quietly clicked open. A shadow fell across the bathroom floor. Through the haze of pain and humiliation, Byron heard a slight gasp, a faint, almost imperceptible rustle of clothing. His eyes fluttered open, fearfully.
Framed in the doorway of the office, silhouetted against the dim light, stood Thomas, the nurse’s aide from the last time. Thomas. His face was obscured by shadow, but Byron could feel his gaze, intense, unblinking, fixed on the scene unfolding in the shower. Thomas didn't move. He didn't speak. He just watched, his breathing growing ragged, uneven. And slowly, imperceptibly at first, Thomas’s hand began to move down to his crotch.
Byron could feel the aide's eyes on his struggling form, on his "big bootied, fat tittied bitch" body being so utterly defiled. He could see Thomas’s hand, working, stroking, his eyes never leaving the scene, witnessing every painful whimper, every humiliating jiggle, every deep thrust of the coach's fingers. Thomas was stroking his dick to this thick black buck being feminized, being brought to his knees, being used. The realization was another layer of shame, but also a dark, dizzying amplification of his own unbearable arousal. He was a spectacle, a public object of perverse desire, and his body, utterly broken, responded with a final, shuddering spasm of pleasure and shame, a silent scream of surrender.
