Hello, my name is Ricky rousing I write stories about cocky arrogant men who become submissive.
Please see more of my stories here: Amazon.co.uk and follow me on x for updates rickyrouse (@rickyrouse83511) on X
Ciaran wiped the sweat from his brow and straightened up from the cabinet frame he was securing. Thirty-three years old, built solid from years of hauling lumber and fitting kitchens, yet he still carried himself like the quiet kid in the back of the classroom. Married to Sarah for eight years, he liked the routine of it all. Early starts, packed lunches, coming home to her smile and the dog barking at the door. But there was one part of his body he could never quite make peace with: his arse. Massive, round, and thick with muscle from all the squatting and lifting, it filled out his work shorts in a way that made him tug at the hem constantly, cheeks flushing hot whenever he caught anyone glancing.
That particular morning he was finishing trim work at Mr Harlan's sleek extension. The client was a tall, silver-haired man in his late forties, gym-honed and confident, the kind who moved like he owned every room he entered. When the final screws were in, Harlan offered tea.
"Special blend," he said, sliding the mug across the marble counter. "Helps with the aches."
Ciaran took it gratefully, the liquid warm and oddly sweet with an earthy aftertaste. He finished the cup, packed his tools, and drove home. By the time he pulled into the driveway something strange stirred inside him. A heavy heat bloomed deep in his gut and sank lower, settling thick and insistent between his heavy cheeks. In the shower that evening he felt it for the first time: a slow, slick leak of clear fluid seeping from his hole, soaking the crack and making his skin glisten. He told himself it was nothing, just sweat, but when he pulled on a fresh pair of black H&M boxer briefs the fabric clung damply to his plump arse almost immediately.
The next morning he chose grey ones, soft stretchy cotton that usually felt comfortable. By mid-morning on site the leak had worsened. Every time he bent to measure or lift, warm slickness trickled out, wetting the seat of his boxers until the material turned translucent against his skin. His cock thickened traitorously in the front pouch while shame burned in his chest. He was married. Straight. This wasn't him.
Declan noticed first. The stocky ginger foreman clapped a heavy hand on Ciaran's shoulder, then let it drift lower, palming one fat cheek through the shorts. "Christ, mate. You been hiding that fat arse all this time?" His fingers squeezed, possessive. Ciaran jerked away, muttering something about getting back to work, but his hole fluttered and leaked harder, the musky scent faint but unmistakable.
By the end of the week the changes had taken root. Ciaran woke each morning already damp. Monday's fresh black H&M boxers were ruined by lunchtime, the back soaked and clinging to every curve. Tuesday's white pair with thin blue stripes fared no better; the fabric grew heavy and semi-see-through as the fluid kept coming. He tried fighting the thoughts. Every time an image flashed through his mind of rough hands spreading him open, he shoved it down. But his body betrayed him constantly, cock leaking pre-cum, hole twitching and producing more of that maddening slick.
He had to return to Harlan's for a final inspection. The older man closed the door behind him with a soft click. "You've been feeling it, haven't you?" Harlan's voice was low, commanding. Ciaran tried to back away but the counter caught him. Strong hands grabbed his hips and spun him around. Before he could protest, Harlan yanked his shorts and boxers down in one rough motion. The sky-blue H&M pair he had pulled on that morning stretched around his thighs, the seat completely drenched, dark and sticky.
"Look at this fat fucking arse," Harlan growled, voice thick with lust. He brought his palm down hard, the sharp smack echoing through the kitchen. Ciaran's massive cheek rippled, the skin blooming pink. Another slap, harder, then another, until both cheeks glowed hot and tender. Ciaran bit his lip, fighting the moan rising in his throat. "I'm not... I can't..."
Harlan didn't listen. He dropped to his knees, spread those heavy globes wide, and dragged his tongue straight up the slick crack. The wet, filthy sound of him lapping at the leaking hole filled the room. Ciaran's knees buckled. The man's tongue pushed inside, fucking him in slow, hungry thrusts while his hands kneaded the plump flesh. The fluid seemed to drive Harlan wild; he sucked and slurped like a man starved, growling against the sensitive ring. Ciaran came without a single touch to his cock, spurting across the floor tiles while tears of shame pricked his eyes. His body shook with unwanted pleasure as Harlan kept rimming him through the orgasm, tongue relentless.
That was only the start.
The following weeks blurred into a slow, humiliating descent. On site his mates picked up the scent. Declan grew bolder, sliding his hand straight down the back of Ciaran's shorts during lunch breaks. Thick fingers pushed the waistband of whatever H&M boxers he wore that day aside and sank into the dripping hole. Wednesday's red pair got stretched obscenely as Declan worked two fingers deep, then three, scissoring him open while the others pretended not to notice at first. The wet squelching sounds were unmistakable.
"Stop," Ciaran whispered, face burning, but his hips rocked back anyway. Declan just laughed low and added a fourth finger, stretching him wide while slapping the heavy cheeks with his free hand. The impacts made the flesh jiggle and sent fresh leaks spilling out around his knuckles.
Mike started pantsing him without warning. In the van, in the half-built rooms, he'd grab the waistband of shorts and boxers together and yank them down to Ciaran's ankles. The sudden exposure of that huge, leaking arse always drew laughs and catcalls. Ciaran's fat cheeks would bounce free, glistening, the musky fluid already trailing down his thighs. He'd scramble to cover himself while his cock throbbed hard and obvious. Tommy took to casually slipping a hand down the front of his shorts too, but it always ended up back there, fingers circling and teasing the sloppy hole while they discussed the next job.
Each morning brought a new pair of H&M boxers. Thursday's green ones ended up torn at the seams after a particularly rough fingering session. Friday's black pair again, soaked through before ten o'clock. The cheap stretchy fabric always started the day clean and hopeful only to finish ruined, clinging wetly to his abused flesh or bunched around one ankle while someone pounded him.
His boss Ronan was the worst. Gorgeous, thick-muscled, with a deep voice that made Ciaran's stomach flip. One afternoon Ronan called him into the site office and locked the door. "Bend over the desk." Ciaran's voice cracked as he tried to refuse. "Boss, please... Sarah..." But Ronan simply stepped behind him, ripped the shorts down, and exposed that day's pair: navy blue H&M boxers, the back completely translucent and stuck to his crack. Ronan peeled them down slowly, savouring the way the soaked material peeled away from the plump cheeks.
Then he buried his face between them. Ronan's tongue was thick and insistent, lapping greedily at the constant leak, sucking the musky fluid straight from the source. He ate Ciaran's arse like it was his favourite meal, long slow licks followed by sharp, probing thrusts that had Ciaran moaning uncontrollably. The boss's strong hands spread him wider, slapping the cheeks intermittently so they bounced against his face. Ciaran came twice, grinding against the desk, humiliated whimpers spilling from his lips while Ronan kept rimming him, tongue fucking deep and messy.
The pantsing became constant. His colleagues would yank everything down in the yard, in the break room, even once while he was up a ladder. The sight of his massive arse on full display, red from earlier slaps and leaking shamelessly, never failed to draw a crowd. They'd line up to deliver a few hard smacks, watching the heavy flesh ripple, before someone inevitably pushed fingers inside him. The fluid made them all feral. They called him their site slut, their leaking bitch, their married arse whore, and every filthy name made his cock drip more.
The day everything shattered started like any other Saturday lie. Ciaran told Sarah he had overtime. Instead Declan and Mike had him bent over the sofa in Declan's flat. They had been using him for hours. His latest pair of H&M boxers, bright red and fresh that morning, lay shredded on the floor. Both men had their cocks buried in his stretched, sloppy hole at the same time. The double penetration burned and stretched him perfectly, filthy wet sounds filling the room as they thrust in alternating rhythm. Declan's thick shaft dragged against Mike's, both of them groaning at how slick and hot he felt inside.
"Take it, you fat-arsed slut," Declan grunted, slapping one cheek hard enough to leave a handprint. "This is what your married hole was made for." Mike reached around and twisted Ciaran's nipples while pounding up into him. Ciaran's own cock swung heavy and leaking between his spread thighs, his massive cheeks rippling with every brutal thrust.
The front door opened.
Sarah stood frozen in the doorway, takeaway bag in hand. Her eyes widened in horror as she took in the scene: her shy husband on all fours, face flushed with shame and pleasure, two thick cocks stretching his leaking arse wide open. Fresh slick and cum already dripped down his thighs.
"Ciaran?" Her voice was barely a whisper.
The humiliation hit him like a freight train. He came instantly, cock pulsing untouched as his hole clenched hard around the invading shafts. Declan and Mike didn't stop. They laughed and kept fucking him through the orgasm, using his spasming hole even harder while Sarah watched for one endless, devastating second before turning and fleeing.
Ciaran sobbed with shame even as his body begged for more. The slow burn had consumed him completely. Over the following weeks his life unravelled further. Sarah left. The crew used him daily, sometimes multiple times. Hands constantly found their way down his shorts, fingers plunging into his ever-leaking hole while they worked. Pantsing became a favourite game. They'd strip him from the waist down without warning and make him continue the job half-naked, fat arse on display, cheeks glowing from fresh slaps.
Ronan took him almost every afternoon, spreading him across the desk and devouring his hole with long, filthy rimming sessions that left Ciaran a whimpering, cum-stained mess. The other lads joined in whenever they could, lining up to slap, finger, and fuck him until his massive arse gaped and leaked a constant river of mixed fluids.
Every morning he still pulled on a fresh pair of H&M boxers. Black, grey, blue, red, green, striped, plain. They never stayed clean. By evening they were always soaked, stretched, torn, or discarded entirely while strong hands claimed his body again. The shy married joiner was gone. In his place was a dripping, submissive slut who blushed with deep humiliation even as he spread his thick cheeks and begged to be used harder.
His downfall was total, filthy, and complete. And somewhere beneath the shame, his body had never felt more alive.
Please see more of my stories here: Amazon.co.uk and follow me on x for updates rickyrouse (@rickyrouse83511) on X
Ciaran wiped the sweat from his brow and straightened up from the cabinet frame he was securing. Thirty-three years old, built solid from years of hauling lumber and fitting kitchens, yet he still carried himself like the quiet kid in the back of the classroom. Married to Sarah for eight years, he liked the routine of it all. Early starts, packed lunches, coming home to her smile and the dog barking at the door. But there was one part of his body he could never quite make peace with: his arse. Massive, round, and thick with muscle from all the squatting and lifting, it filled out his work shorts in a way that made him tug at the hem constantly, cheeks flushing hot whenever he caught anyone glancing.
That particular morning he was finishing trim work at Mr Harlan's sleek extension. The client was a tall, silver-haired man in his late forties, gym-honed and confident, the kind who moved like he owned every room he entered. When the final screws were in, Harlan offered tea.
"Special blend," he said, sliding the mug across the marble counter. "Helps with the aches."
Ciaran took it gratefully, the liquid warm and oddly sweet with an earthy aftertaste. He finished the cup, packed his tools, and drove home. By the time he pulled into the driveway something strange stirred inside him. A heavy heat bloomed deep in his gut and sank lower, settling thick and insistent between his heavy cheeks. In the shower that evening he felt it for the first time: a slow, slick leak of clear fluid seeping from his hole, soaking the crack and making his skin glisten. He told himself it was nothing, just sweat, but when he pulled on a fresh pair of black H&M boxer briefs the fabric clung damply to his plump arse almost immediately.
The next morning he chose grey ones, soft stretchy cotton that usually felt comfortable. By mid-morning on site the leak had worsened. Every time he bent to measure or lift, warm slickness trickled out, wetting the seat of his boxers until the material turned translucent against his skin. His cock thickened traitorously in the front pouch while shame burned in his chest. He was married. Straight. This wasn't him.
Declan noticed first. The stocky ginger foreman clapped a heavy hand on Ciaran's shoulder, then let it drift lower, palming one fat cheek through the shorts. "Christ, mate. You been hiding that fat arse all this time?" His fingers squeezed, possessive. Ciaran jerked away, muttering something about getting back to work, but his hole fluttered and leaked harder, the musky scent faint but unmistakable.
By the end of the week the changes had taken root. Ciaran woke each morning already damp. Monday's fresh black H&M boxers were ruined by lunchtime, the back soaked and clinging to every curve. Tuesday's white pair with thin blue stripes fared no better; the fabric grew heavy and semi-see-through as the fluid kept coming. He tried fighting the thoughts. Every time an image flashed through his mind of rough hands spreading him open, he shoved it down. But his body betrayed him constantly, cock leaking pre-cum, hole twitching and producing more of that maddening slick.
He had to return to Harlan's for a final inspection. The older man closed the door behind him with a soft click. "You've been feeling it, haven't you?" Harlan's voice was low, commanding. Ciaran tried to back away but the counter caught him. Strong hands grabbed his hips and spun him around. Before he could protest, Harlan yanked his shorts and boxers down in one rough motion. The sky-blue H&M pair he had pulled on that morning stretched around his thighs, the seat completely drenched, dark and sticky.
"Look at this fat fucking arse," Harlan growled, voice thick with lust. He brought his palm down hard, the sharp smack echoing through the kitchen. Ciaran's massive cheek rippled, the skin blooming pink. Another slap, harder, then another, until both cheeks glowed hot and tender. Ciaran bit his lip, fighting the moan rising in his throat. "I'm not... I can't..."
Harlan didn't listen. He dropped to his knees, spread those heavy globes wide, and dragged his tongue straight up the slick crack. The wet, filthy sound of him lapping at the leaking hole filled the room. Ciaran's knees buckled. The man's tongue pushed inside, fucking him in slow, hungry thrusts while his hands kneaded the plump flesh. The fluid seemed to drive Harlan wild; he sucked and slurped like a man starved, growling against the sensitive ring. Ciaran came without a single touch to his cock, spurting across the floor tiles while tears of shame pricked his eyes. His body shook with unwanted pleasure as Harlan kept rimming him through the orgasm, tongue relentless.
That was only the start.
The following weeks blurred into a slow, humiliating descent. On site his mates picked up the scent. Declan grew bolder, sliding his hand straight down the back of Ciaran's shorts during lunch breaks. Thick fingers pushed the waistband of whatever H&M boxers he wore that day aside and sank into the dripping hole. Wednesday's red pair got stretched obscenely as Declan worked two fingers deep, then three, scissoring him open while the others pretended not to notice at first. The wet squelching sounds were unmistakable.
"Stop," Ciaran whispered, face burning, but his hips rocked back anyway. Declan just laughed low and added a fourth finger, stretching him wide while slapping the heavy cheeks with his free hand. The impacts made the flesh jiggle and sent fresh leaks spilling out around his knuckles.
Mike started pantsing him without warning. In the van, in the half-built rooms, he'd grab the waistband of shorts and boxers together and yank them down to Ciaran's ankles. The sudden exposure of that huge, leaking arse always drew laughs and catcalls. Ciaran's fat cheeks would bounce free, glistening, the musky fluid already trailing down his thighs. He'd scramble to cover himself while his cock throbbed hard and obvious. Tommy took to casually slipping a hand down the front of his shorts too, but it always ended up back there, fingers circling and teasing the sloppy hole while they discussed the next job.
Each morning brought a new pair of H&M boxers. Thursday's green ones ended up torn at the seams after a particularly rough fingering session. Friday's black pair again, soaked through before ten o'clock. The cheap stretchy fabric always started the day clean and hopeful only to finish ruined, clinging wetly to his abused flesh or bunched around one ankle while someone pounded him.
His boss Ronan was the worst. Gorgeous, thick-muscled, with a deep voice that made Ciaran's stomach flip. One afternoon Ronan called him into the site office and locked the door. "Bend over the desk." Ciaran's voice cracked as he tried to refuse. "Boss, please... Sarah..." But Ronan simply stepped behind him, ripped the shorts down, and exposed that day's pair: navy blue H&M boxers, the back completely translucent and stuck to his crack. Ronan peeled them down slowly, savouring the way the soaked material peeled away from the plump cheeks.
Then he buried his face between them. Ronan's tongue was thick and insistent, lapping greedily at the constant leak, sucking the musky fluid straight from the source. He ate Ciaran's arse like it was his favourite meal, long slow licks followed by sharp, probing thrusts that had Ciaran moaning uncontrollably. The boss's strong hands spread him wider, slapping the cheeks intermittently so they bounced against his face. Ciaran came twice, grinding against the desk, humiliated whimpers spilling from his lips while Ronan kept rimming him, tongue fucking deep and messy.
The pantsing became constant. His colleagues would yank everything down in the yard, in the break room, even once while he was up a ladder. The sight of his massive arse on full display, red from earlier slaps and leaking shamelessly, never failed to draw a crowd. They'd line up to deliver a few hard smacks, watching the heavy flesh ripple, before someone inevitably pushed fingers inside him. The fluid made them all feral. They called him their site slut, their leaking bitch, their married arse whore, and every filthy name made his cock drip more.
The day everything shattered started like any other Saturday lie. Ciaran told Sarah he had overtime. Instead Declan and Mike had him bent over the sofa in Declan's flat. They had been using him for hours. His latest pair of H&M boxers, bright red and fresh that morning, lay shredded on the floor. Both men had their cocks buried in his stretched, sloppy hole at the same time. The double penetration burned and stretched him perfectly, filthy wet sounds filling the room as they thrust in alternating rhythm. Declan's thick shaft dragged against Mike's, both of them groaning at how slick and hot he felt inside.
"Take it, you fat-arsed slut," Declan grunted, slapping one cheek hard enough to leave a handprint. "This is what your married hole was made for." Mike reached around and twisted Ciaran's nipples while pounding up into him. Ciaran's own cock swung heavy and leaking between his spread thighs, his massive cheeks rippling with every brutal thrust.
The front door opened.
Sarah stood frozen in the doorway, takeaway bag in hand. Her eyes widened in horror as she took in the scene: her shy husband on all fours, face flushed with shame and pleasure, two thick cocks stretching his leaking arse wide open. Fresh slick and cum already dripped down his thighs.
"Ciaran?" Her voice was barely a whisper.
The humiliation hit him like a freight train. He came instantly, cock pulsing untouched as his hole clenched hard around the invading shafts. Declan and Mike didn't stop. They laughed and kept fucking him through the orgasm, using his spasming hole even harder while Sarah watched for one endless, devastating second before turning and fleeing.
Ciaran sobbed with shame even as his body begged for more. The slow burn had consumed him completely. Over the following weeks his life unravelled further. Sarah left. The crew used him daily, sometimes multiple times. Hands constantly found their way down his shorts, fingers plunging into his ever-leaking hole while they worked. Pantsing became a favourite game. They'd strip him from the waist down without warning and make him continue the job half-naked, fat arse on display, cheeks glowing from fresh slaps.
Ronan took him almost every afternoon, spreading him across the desk and devouring his hole with long, filthy rimming sessions that left Ciaran a whimpering, cum-stained mess. The other lads joined in whenever they could, lining up to slap, finger, and fuck him until his massive arse gaped and leaked a constant river of mixed fluids.
Every morning he still pulled on a fresh pair of H&M boxers. Black, grey, blue, red, green, striped, plain. They never stayed clean. By evening they were always soaked, stretched, torn, or discarded entirely while strong hands claimed his body again. The shy married joiner was gone. In his place was a dripping, submissive slut who blushed with deep humiliation even as he spread his thick cheeks and begged to be used harder.
His downfall was total, filthy, and complete. And somewhere beneath the shame, his body had never felt more alive.
