Chapter 21: Bashir
The blender’s roar was the morning’s alarm, a gritty symphony of pulverized fruit, protein powder, and ice. Trent moved through the kitchen with a predator’s grace, his muscles, still pumped from yesterday, shifting under his tight tank top. He poured the thick, pink concoction into two glasses, sliding one across the counter to Mike.
“Glutes and pecs today, old man,” Trent said, his voice a low rumble. “Gonna make that ass pop even more.”
Mike grunted, taking the smoothie. His body ached in a dozen new, fascinating ways, a constant reminder of the transformation humming under his skin. The workout was brutal, a language of iron and sweat that they were both now fluent in. Trent spotted him on the heavy bench presses, his hands close, ready, the scent of his cologne cutting through the musk of effort. Later, as Mike strained through a set of hip thrusts with a loaded barbell, he felt the familiar, slick heat between his legs, a secret pulse keeping time with his reps.
After showering, they sat at the small table, devouring scrambled eggs and turkey bacon. Trent wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes dark and intent on Mike.
“I need that ass soon, Daddy,” he stated, no preamble. “It’s been too long. I can smell it from here, all tight and neglected. I need to ruin it, baby. Desperately.”
A shiver, hot and immediate, coursed through Mike. He nodded, chewing slowly. “I know. I need it too. Nothing else is the same. Can you wait 'til after Dr. Singh? I'd say now but...”
“Yeah. OK. Agreed,” Trent said, a slow smile spreading. “Give you something to think about while he’s poking around.”
The workmen arrived just as they finished cleaning up. Shane led the crew, his, Ben and Danny's moods noticeably brighter, followed by two new faces—older, gruff, focused entirely on the task. They unloaded tools with efficient clatters, their conversation a series of short, practical exchanges.
“Brought in Pete and Ray to get the framing ahead of schedule,” Shane explained to Mike, gesturing with a thumb. “Want to get the walls up ASAP.”
Mike watched them. He looked at the curve of Pete’s back as he lifted a sheet of drywall, at the thick forearms of Ray as he sorted through a toolbelt. Nothing. No flush of heat, no intrusive image of what they might look like sweating under him. It was just… men. Work. The intense, animal magnetism he’d felt with Danny and Ben was completely absent. Interesting.
Shane lingered for a moment, lowering his voice. “And don’t worry, Mike. Definitely no interest there. Strictly professional.” He gave a firm, final nod, and Mike believed him.
Alone in the study, Mike spent the afternoon deep in research on Trent's PC. He found them, other small-time producers in their niche. The videos were dismal. Shaky, single-camera shots in bedrooms with ugly lighting, the sound tinny, the performances awkward and transactional. There was no art to it, no worship. No one had a Trent. No one had what they were building. A solid, hopeful warmth settled in his chest. They could dominate this.
At 4:30 on the dot, Trent’s car pulled up. The drive to the clinic was quiet, the air between them thick with unspoken anticipation.
Dr. Singh was waiting in his consultation room, his demeanour more animated than usual. “Mike, Trent, good to see you.” He gestured for them to sit and lifted the telephone. “Thanks, Margaret, yes, you can go. See you tomorrow." He replaced the receiver and gave them a broad smile. "Your testosterone is just within normal range, so I'd like to give you a boost. I can do the shot before you leave. And I’ve been reviewing the files, the transformation… it’s remarkable. Truly.”
“It feels remarkable,” Mike said, the understatement of the year.
“I was wondering,” the doctor began, clasping his hands on his desk. “If you would be willing to let me study you more formally. I could write a paper on this. It would require some photographic evidence, of course, and a series of interviews and examinations. With your full consent, naturally.”
Trent leaned forward, his eyes narrowing slightly. “A paper? Why? What’s so interesting to you, Doc? Beyond the obvious.”
Dr. Singh hesitated, his professional composure cracking for a second. He looked from Trent’s imposing frame to Mike’s steady gaze. He sighed, a soft, almost defeated sound. “Because… I would like one for myself.” The admission hung in the sterile air. “A pussy. Like that. If I could understand the process better, perhaps I could… but ideally, one would need a guide.”
“Sorry doc, I'm full on pussy projects for the foreseeable.” He put his arm around Mike.
The doctor actually blushed, shaking his head quickly. “No, no. That’s… thank you, but the logistics… your size is rather daunting, Trent. I’m not sure I’m prepared for that caliber of instruction.”
It was then Mike spoke, the idea forming fully in his mind, a perfect, twisted sense to it. “I could do it.” They both looked at him. “I miss pussy,” he said, the truth of it raw in his voice. “I loved going down on a woman. And I know Trent has no interest in that area. So maybe… Trent could coach me. I could… open you up.” The words felt filthy and right. He caught Trent's eye, who smiled and nodded, intrigued.
Silence stretched, thick and heavy. Dr. Singh—Bashir—looked between them, the clinical authority in his eyes replaced by a naked, vulnerable want. He nodded, once, decisively.
“Alright,” he said, his voice a whisper. “We have an agreement. And please… call me Bashir.”
The air in the room shifted, the professional dynamic dissolving into something charged and intimate. Bashir stood, his movements suddenly less clinical and more deliberate. "Shall we begin the examination then?" he asked, his voice a little husky. "Let's have a look at the progress."
Mike followed him to the examination table, the paper crinkling under his weight as he lay back. Bashir pulled on a fresh pair of gloves, the snap of latex loud in the quiet room. "The tenderness you're feeling is expected," he explained, his fingers gently parting Mike's cheeks. "The anal margin is becoming more pronounced, more exposed as the structure changes. The flesh is adapting."
He reached for a cold, lubricated speculum. "You'll feel some pressure." The metal slid in, and Mike grunted at the unfamiliar stretch. Bashir worked the mechanism, slowly opening Mike up for observation. "Remarkable," he breathed, his eyes fixed between Mike's legs. "The sphincter is so much more pliable now, yet it retains excellent tonicity when at rest. It's learning to be a gateway."
He leaned in closer, adjusting the light. "And look at this, Trent. See the swelling here, at the lateral edges? That puffiness is significant. It suggests the early formation of labial folds." Trent moved to look, his expression a mix of proud ownership and intense curiosity. "It's getting there, Doc. Looks hungry."
Bashir retrieved a small digital camera from a drawer. "For the study," he said, taking several clear, clinical photographs from different angles. He then turned his attention back to Mike, his pen poised over a chart. "And the recent activity? Frequency? Any discomfort beyond the tenderness?"
Mike glanced at Trent, who gave a slight, encouraging nod. "We've been consistent," Mike said, his voice low. "Almost daily. Stretching it. Getting it used to being filled." Trent added, "He takes it deep now. No pain. Just… acceptance." Bashir’s pen scratched against the paper, but his cheeks were flushed. "The results speak for themselves. The tissue is incredibly responsive. This has been a great start to the research, gentlemen, thank you."
Trent’s gaze locked onto the doctor. "You said you want to work on your own pussy, Doc. You ready for your lesson now?" Bashir’s composure fractured completely, a nervous tremor in his hands as he removed his gloves. "Yes. I… I usually prepare myself with a toy before my evening routine. So I'm… prepared."
"Prepared is good," Trent said, his voice dropping to a low, commanding growl that vibrated through the sterile air. "So let's see the material my Daddy will be working with. Strip. Now. All of it."
A tremor ran through Bashir’s hands, but he didn't hesitate. His fingers went to the buttons of his white coat, then the crisp shirt beneath, each piece falling to the floor in a soft heap. His physique was undeniably impressive. Broad shoulders sloped down to a powerful chest covered in a thick mat of dark, coarse hair that trailed down his sculpted abdomen. His abs were defined, evidence of a disciplined lifestyle. His arms were thick with muscle, veins subtly tracing their length. Below, his cock hung heavy and thick, cradled in a nest of dark curls. The head was a deep rose color, glistening with moisture, and hinting at his readiness. His legs were strong and powerful, grounded and solid. Trent walked around Bashir with a professional, critical eye. "Very nice," he murmured.
Trent watched Mike’s eyes lock onto Bashir’s cock, a familiar hunger flashing in them. "Eyes over here, Daddy," Trent commanded, snapping his fingers and pointing to the doctor’s rear. "That’s your workstation. Get on the table, Bashir. On all fours, then rest your ass back on your feet. I want that hole presented."
Bashir moved with a shaky obedience, climbing onto the examination table. Fresh paper crinkled loudly as he assumed the position, knees wide, lowering his torso until his ass was perched high, his tight, hairy hole fully exposed to the room’s bright light. "Mike, you know what to do," Trent said, his voice rough with anticipation. "I do it to you often enough. Make his pussy wet."
Mike didn't need to be told twice. He moved forward, his large, calloused hands spreading Bashir’s cheeks wider. He leaned in, and his broad, mustached mouth covered the doctor’s hole completely. A choked, guttural moan tore from Bashir’s throat. For Mike, it was a return to a beloved art, the feeling of soft, yielding flesh under his tongue, the primal act of making a hole bloom for him. He laved at it, broad and flat, then focused his lips to encompassed Bashir's tight ring and lightly sucked.
Bashir shuddered, his body trembling. "Oh god… oh fuck…" he gasped into the paper. The sensation was utterly new, a living, wet heat so different from the cold, unyielding silicone of his toys. Mike’s tongue was relentless, slobbering at him with a practiced rhythm, and he could feel his own body responding the way he'd hoped, loosening, growing slick and open. "That’s it, get it nice and sloppy," Trent growled, pacing like a caged animal, his own hard-on straining against his jeans. "You can go deeper, Mike. His toybox pussy can take it. Unlike your virgin ass was."
Mike redoubled his efforts, his tongue plunging inside, still slurping and sucking at the engorged rim. He was making Bashir’s hole wet, just like he used to love doing to women, and the doctor’s muffled cries of pleasure were his reward. Bashir was losing himself, his hips pushing back against Mike’s face, his own cock dripping onto the paper below. This was what he’d wanted, what the toys could only simulate—the raw, messy, human worship of his most private part.
Trent was growing more unsettled, making low, possessive growls in his chest. He was horny as fuck, desperate to get into Mike, to claim that ass that was now his, but he knew this wasn't the time. He needed to see this through. "Alright, now, back up on to all fours, Doc," Trent commanded, his voice tight.
Mike pulled back, his face glistening, and helped a dazed Bashir onto his hands and knees and then immediately dove right back in, Bashir gasping and drooling as he did, his eyes rolling back into his head. Trent moved beside the doctor, his large hand wrapping around Bashir’s thick cock. He began to stroke him, a slow, firm rhythm. "Come on, Doc. Come from your first rimjob. Let it go."
It didn't take long. With a broken cry, Bashir’s body seized, and thick ropes of cum shot into Trent’s waiting hand. Trent didn't let a drop fall. He brought his cum-filled hand to Bashir’s stretched, wet hole and smeared the hot fluid all over it, pushing some inside. He held out his hand to Mike who immediately devoured the remaining cum. "Now, Mike. Clean him up."
Mike leaned in again, his tongue lapping eagerly at the mess, going back to make sure Trent’s hand was clean before pushing his cum-slicked tongue back into Bashir’s hole, feeding the spend deep inside him. Mike's attentions, even just to Trent's hand, made him mad with lust. Bashir moaned even deeper, a shudder of overwhelmed ecstasy wracking his frame. As his breathing slowed, Mike pulled back, a dazed grin on his face. "Thank you," Bashir breathed, stunned and grateful. "Thank you both."
"Prep," Trent said suddenly, the word cutting through the heavy sexual haze. "I almost forgot. We need to get Mike on it." Bashir, half-dressed, still trembling, nodded and moved to his computer, adding the prescription to Mike’s file with clumsy fingers. He then prepared a syringe, his medical training a shaky anchor, and administered Mike’s testosterone shot with practiced efficiency.
The moment the needle was out, Trent’s control snapped. The horniness overtook him completely. He began touching Mike, his hand grabbing and stroking Mike’s thick cock through his jeans. "Fuck, I'm sorry, Doc," Trent grunted, not sounding sorry at all. "This has made me so fucking horny."
"I understand," Bashir said, his own spent cock beginning to stir again as he watched. "This must have been quite the lesson in restraint for you."
"It was, but it isn't now," Trent said, pulling the open-backed gown off of Mike. "Maybe you'd enjoy a show of how Mike’s ass works. A demonstration." Mike excitedly jumped back onto the examination table, on his hands and knees, presenting his transformed, puffy hole to Trent.
Trent slicked his massive dick with lube from the counter and pushed into Mike without ceremony, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth, powerful thrust. Mike roared, his body accepting the familiar invasion with a shudder of pure need. Trent fucked him good and hard, the sound of their bodies slapping together echoing in the room. Bashir watched, mesmerized, his hand stroking his already growing dick as he witnessed the brutal, beautiful mechanics of Mike’s ass taking every inch.
Trent came quickly, a hot, guttural shout as he emptied himself deep inside Mike. "Now, Doc," he panted, pulling out. "Clean him up." Bashir moved forward without hesitation, happily and greedily lapping at the cum leaking from Mike’s well-used hole, swallowing every drop.
They got themselves together in a silence broken only by heavy breathing. Dressed once more, they were just three men in a doctor's office. "Gentlemen, it has been an honour. If you need anything, you know where I am. Otherwise I'll see you both next week," Bashir said, his voice regaining a sliver of its professional calm, though his eyes were dark with promise.
Trent just nodded, steering a blissful, fucked-out Mike toward the door. The hum of the clinic's lights was the only sound as they stepped out into the cooling evening air, the scent of sex and medicine clinging to them like a secret.
The car door thudded shut, sealing them in a silent, leather-lined capsule. Trent gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles pale against his dark skin, the engine rumbling to life. He drove for several blocks, the city lights bleeding into streaks of orange and white, before he finally spoke. "That back there… with Bashir…" he started, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant. "Sometimes I worry, Mike. I get so fucking horny around you, it's so powerful, and it just… takes over. The act is the only thing that matters. I just need to fuck, to own." He glanced over, his profile sharp in the dashboard glow. "I worry you feel used. Or abused."
Mike let the words hang in the air, absorbing them. He watched the familiar streets slide by, each corner leading them closer to home. "Let me get this straight," he said, his voice a low, steady rumble. "You're worried that I might mind being the sole focus of that… that need?" He shook his head, a slow, genuine smile spreading under his moustache. "Trent, I have never been happier in my entire life. Being the receptacle for all that fire is exactly what I want. The occasional brutal moment… fuck, it’s hotter than anything I ever imagined. Because it’s wrapped up in all the rest. The love. The attention. This… mutual fucking desire we have."
A visible wave of relief washed over Trent’s shoulders, the tension draining from his frame. "Good," he said, the single word laden with a depth of feeling. "That’s… really good."
Back in the house, the silence was welcoming. Trent moved to the kitchen, pulling out pots and pans with a quiet efficiency. He seared two large steaks, the sizzle and smoke filling the air, and whipped up a towering portion of garlic mashed potatoes. "Eat," he commanded, setting the plate before Mike. "Your body’s changing. It needs fuel." Mike ate greedily, the hearty meal settling deep in his belly, a comfortable weight.
After the plates were cleared, the kitchen cleaned down, the house as tidy as it can be given the construction work, the two men relaxed on the sofa, scrolling their phones, letting their food digest. After an hour or so, Trent ran a hand through Mike’s hair. "I wanna do something slower tonight. But still intense. If you're up for it." Mike just nodded, his eyes already dark with anticipation. "Always."
Trent disappeared into the garage and returned dragging a flat workout bench, its vinyl padding scarred from years of use. He positioned it in the centre of the living room, a stark, utilitarian object in the soft space. "Clothes off," he ordered Mike. Mike didn't need to be asked twice. From a bag in the hallway, he produced a coil of sturdy, navy-blue rope Ivan had left behind. "On the bench. On your back, ass right off the edge, legs braced," Trent instructed, his voice soft but firm.
Mike lay down, the cool vinyl a shock against his skin. Trent blindfolded him first, a strip of black fabric plunging his world into darkness. Then he began with the ropes, weaving them around Mike’s broad chest and torso, pinning his arms to the side, going under the bench and back again. He pulled them tight, not cruelly, but with a definitive pressure that made Mike gasp. The ropes dug in, cinching his pectorals, forcing the muscle to bulge outward and making his nipples, already sensitive, stand out as hard, aching points. His arms were firmly bound at his sides, his upper body a captive, sculpted mass.
"Can you breathe okay?" Trent asked, his voice close to Mike's ear.
"Yeah," Mike breathed out, the word strained. The constriction was intense, a constant pressure that amplified every sensation. He was completely vulnerable, his ass presented off the end of the bench, his world reduced to sound and touch.
Trent’s mouth found his left nipple first. He started slowly. His breath, a fingertip, the light wetness of his tongue. Mike almost instantly began to whine and moan. Trent tried to hold back, to build as slowly as possible. But he was too far gone. He didn’t just suck; he devoured Mike's tits, his lips and tongue working the hardened nub until it was a raw, throbbing centre of electricity. He bit down gently, then soothed it with his tongue, before moving to the other, giving it the same relentless attention. Mike groaned, his hips shifting helplessly. The ropes made every flick of Trent’s tongue feel magnified, a direct line to his cock, which lay heavy and leaking on his stomach.
As Trent suckled, his hand drifted down Mike’s stomach, through his coarse hair, and found his hole. He didn’t push in. He just began to stroke the puffy, exposed rim with two fingers, in slow, maddening circles. The dual assault was unbearable, especially after all the recent activity, and Mike hadn't released. The suction on his nipple seemed to pull a thread connected directly to his core, and the rhythmic stroking at his entrance stoked a fire deep in his gut. "Trent… fuck…" he choked out.
His body tensed, back arching as much as the ropes would allow. A hot, sudden rush poured from his cock, striping his stomach and chest with thick pulses of cum. He cried out, the sound muffled by the blindfold.
Trent didn't stop. He leaned down and, with a filthy, wet sound, sucked up the spend from Mike’s stomach into his mouth. He held it there for a moment before lowering his head between Mike’s legs. Trent lifted Mike's legs up, resting them on his shoulders, and then Mike felt the warm, wet pressure of Trent’s mouth against his hole, followed by the distinct sensation of his own cum being pushed back inside him. Trent was feeding him his own orgasm.
Then Trent began to eat his ass in earnest. This wasn't just preparation; it was a prolonged, obscene worship. He sucked the entire hole into his mouth, making the flesh engorge, then laved at it with broad, flat strokes of his tongue. He spit on it, the cool fluid a shock before his hot tongue returned. He bit the surrounding cheeks, not enough to hurt badly, but enough to make Mike jolt, before kissing and licking the same spot. He plunged his tongue deep inside, fucking him with it, then pulled back to nibble at the swollen rim. The sloppy, wet sounds filled the room, a symphony of total possession.
When Trent finally rose, Mike was a shuddering, mindless thing. He heard the tear of a lube packet, then felt the blunt, massive head of Trent’s cock press against his thoroughly ruined entrance. Trent held Mike's legs against his stomach with his hand, letting his weight hold Mike's hole prone. Trent pushed in with an agonizing lack of speed. It was a millimetre at a time, a slow, burning stretch that made Mike whimper. He was so sensitive, so open, that he felt every ridge and vein of Trent’s dick as it filled him.
Trent set a rhythm that was pure torture. A slow, deep push, a long, still pause where Mike felt him pulsing inside, then a slow, dragging withdrawal. Over and over. It wasn’t about frenzy; it was about feeling everything. Mike’s cock, half-hard and spent, began to stir again under the relentless, slow-motion friction. The feeling built, a different kind of peak, deeper and more diffuse. Another orgasm began to gather, not a sharp explosion but a slow, inevitable flow. A second release seeped from him, a weak, pearlescent trickle that mingled with the sweat on his skin.
Trent felt Mike’s internal muscles fluttering around him in a second, unexpected climax and it drove him over the edge. He buried himself to the hilt, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he pumped his own hot load deep into Mike’s ass in long, pulsing jets.
The transformation was immediate. Trent pulled out and within seconds had the ropes untied, the blindfold off. He gathered Mike’s heavy, boneless form into his arms and carried him to the sofa, laying him down gently. He began to massage Mike’s limbs, working the blood back into them, rubbing the deep marks left by the ropes. He brought him a glass of water and held it to his lips. "Back with me, Daddy?" he murmured, his touch now tender, professional.
Mike just nodded, his body humming with a profound, satiated exhaustion. Later, Trent ran a deep, hot bath. They wedged themselves into the small bath and soaked together in silence, Trent’s hands working the kinks from Mike’s shoulders and back with a masseur's skill. When they finally fell into bed, Mike’s body was loose and pliant, his mind quiet. Trent curled around him, a solid, protective warmth, and within moments, the deep, even rhythm of their breathing was the only sound in the dark room.