Josh is a rugged, hairy, muscular man. He loves the gym. He hates most of the idiots he meets there. Homophobes, misogynists, racists. He feels it's good karma to teach them a lesson. Josh has a kink for drool, precum, bodily fluids. He's also a skilled hypnotist. He lures big dicked, beefy guys with the promise of "further unlocking their bro-dom", but secretly plants his kinky seed in their head, that any time they are in private, or Josh uses the word "drooltastic", they fall into a haze of needing Josh's tongue and saliva, cock and cum, they want to share their fluids in long, slow, debauched sessions. Before long they can't get enough of Josh and his kink.

Chapter 3: Raw Filling

The thick, warm flood of their combined cum and saliva filled Josh’s ass, pushed deep by Brad’s relentless tongue. Josh gasped, the obscene slurping sounds echoing in the cavernous tiled locker room. Brad’s face was buried, his tongue working like a piston, forcing every last drop of the sticky mess past Josh’s resisting hole. The sensation was a brutal cocktail: violation, fullness, and a filthy intimacy that sent dark sparks up Josh’s spine. He felt the thick fluid oozing deeper inside him, a warm, alien weight.

Brad finally pulled back, panting, a thin string of saliva and stray cum connecting his lips to Josh’s glistening, stretched hole. He remained bent over Josh, swaying slightly, his eyes still glazed, vacant pools reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights overhead. A low moan rumbled in his chest, primal and needy. Josh slowly released his contortion, the allowing the muscles in his lower back relief. He glanced over at his big boy.

Brad’s thick, red-haired cock jutted out rigidly from his groin, already fully hard again, flushed and leaking a steady bead of pre-cum onto the cold tile floor. The hypnotic commands had ignited something primal, unstoppable. Josh watched it twitch, a thick vein pulsing along its length. A slow, predatory smile spread across Josh’s own cum-smeared face. "See that, big guy?" Josh murmured, his voice a low, resonant rasp that vibrated in the humid air. He turned fully, meeting Brad’s unfocused gaze. Josh pointed at Brad’s straining erection. "Look how fucking hard you are. After stuffing me full of our mess." He paused, letting the observation sink into Brad’s hypnotized mind. "You want it? Huh? Want to shove that thick fucking cock right back into the hole you just filled? Want to fuck me raw?"

Brad’s slack mouth worked, saliva pooling. His hips jerked forward involuntarily. "Fuck," he grunted, the single syllable thick with desperate need, devoid of his usual arrogance, stripped to pure, animal instinct. "Fuck."

"Then get over here," Josh commanded, turning on to all fours. He wasn't waiting, needing the fuck as badly as Brad. He braced his broad hands against the cool wooden frame of the bench. He spread his legs wider, presenting his ass, still wet and glistening, the tight ring of muscle visibly relaxed and slick from Brad’s forceful feeding. He could feel the warm seep of cum already leaking down his inner thigh. "Do it. Now. Stuff me with that cock."

Brad positioned himself behind Josh with surprising speed for his size and hypnotized state, his breathing ragged and loud. Josh felt the blunt, hot pressure against his hole. There was no finesse, no gentle probing. Brad’s thick cockhead pressed hard, demanding entry, using only the mixture of spit, cum, and ass juices already present as lube. Josh gritted his teeth, a hiss escaping through clenched jaws as his unprepared muscles protested. A moment of hot discomfort was all it took. "Fuck!" he spat, knuckles white on the locker frame. The deep, loud squelching that followed was obscene. And like sexual nirvana to Josh. He forced himself to breathe, to relax against the primal invasion. "Harder, you dumb fuck. Ram it in!"

Brad obeyed. His hips snapped forward with all his considerable strength. Josh cried out, the sound ripped from his throat, as the thick shaft breached him completely in one vicious thrust. Brad sheathed himself to the hilt in one brutal movement. Josh felt stretched to tearing, the thick load inside him churning. He looked back over his shoulder. Brad stood frozen for a second, buried deep, his bald head thrown back, mouth open in a silent groan of ecstasy, eyes rolled back showing only the whites. Utterly owned, mindlessly obedient.

Then Brad moved. He pulled back almost all the way, the thick ridge of his cockhead catching awkwardly on Josh’s rim, before slamming forward again. The sound was perfect– a wet, meaty slap of flesh, punctuated by the guttural gasps Brad forced out with each thrust. Josh gritted his teeth against the burning stretch and the deep ache. He watched Brad’s expression: pure, blank bliss, muscles straining in his hairy thighs and ass as he pistoned relentlessly. Rivulets of sweat traced paths through the thick red hair on Brad’s chest.

"Fuck yeah," Josh groaned, forcing his body to accept the punishing rhythm. The initial searing pain began to mingle with a dark, perverse pleasure. Brad was that perfect length of dick - just long enough to really hit his prostate when fully penetrated. A guaranteed thrill of ecstasy with each thrust. The sheer fullness, the heat of Brad’s cock sawing in and out, the visceral knowledge of the thick load churning inside him with every powerful thrust – it ignited his own twisted desires. "Harder, slut! Pound that fucking hole! Make it yours!" He reached back, fingers digging into the meat of Brad’s hairy ass cheek, pulling him deeper, forcing an even rougher angle. Brad grunted, hips pistoning faster, the wet slaps echoing like gunshots in the locker room. Precum and the remnants of their shared fluids leaked copiously down Josh’s thighs, dripping onto the tiles, mixing with sweat. Josh could feel Brad’s balls slapping against his own with each inward drive.

Brad’s rhythm became frantic, uncontrolled. His thrusts lost their mechanical precision, becoming desperate, jerky. He buried himself deep and stayed there, grinding, his hips stuttering wildly. A high-pitched, choked whine escaped his slack lips. Josh felt the hot, thick pulses deep inside his ass as Brad came. Rope after rope of cum jetted into the already stuffed channel, adding to the filthy cocktail. Brad slumped forward, his heavy body pressing Josh hard against the lockers, his thick cock still twitching, still buried deep, still spurting weak final jets.

Josh held still, breathing hard, feeling the warm flood join the mess inside him. He savored the weight of Brad against him, the utter surrender. After a moment, he pushed back, forcing Brad’s softening cock out of him with a wet, sucking pop. A thick stream of mixed cum – Brad’s fresh load mingled with the earlier deposit – immediately began to leak out of Josh’s gaping hole, running down his thighs.

Josh turned, facing the panting, glazed-eyed man. Brad stood slumped, his cock slick and spent, dripping their combined fluids onto the floor. Cum coated the thick red hair around its base. Josh grabbed Brad’s jaw, forcing his drooling face up. "Clean it," he ordered, his voice thick with dark satisfaction. "Lick it clean. Every fucking drop."

Brad dropped to his knees instantly, his movements clumsy but eager. He pressed his face between Josh’s thighs, his thick tongue lapping hungrily at the mess leaking from Josh’s hole. He slurped at the thick, viscous fluid dripping down Josh’s inner thighs, moaning as he swallowed. Josh groaned, leaning against the lockers, watching the once-arrogant homophobe worship his ass, cleaning up the evidence of his own forced submission. Brad’s tongue probed insistently at Josh’s stretched rim, lapping up the bitter-salty mixture, pushing inside slightly to gather more.

Finally, Josh pushed Brad’s head away. "Enough." He looked down at Brad, kneeling in the puddle of their fluids, face smeared, eyes vacant. "Clean me properly". Brad grabbed Josh's towel and started to gently wipe him down, removing all evidence. The gentle, considerate procedure a touching contrast to the recent debauchery. "Now yourself", he watched as Brad wiped his own perfectly sculpted body of the mixed juices, a filthy smile on his face. "Underwear." Brad held Josh's out for him first, which he stepped into. Brad pulled them up and adjusted Josh's cock properly. He then replaced his own. "Pick up your shirt." Josh’s voice dropped back into that resonant, hypnotic register. "Absorption." The trigger word pulsed through the humid air.

Brad blinked. The vacant lust dissolved like smoke. He pulled on his t-shirt, turned back to his locker to grab his sweatpants, turning to face the open room as always to put them on, taking time to arrange his junk in full view. "Can't believe how much these workouts take out of me some days," he mumbled, clearly exhausted. "You worked for it though, bro," Josh quipped back. A hint of pride flashed across Brad's face before settling into his usual grumpy mask. He looked down at his sweating torso. "Fuckin' humidity in here," he muttered, grabbing his towel. "Place needs better ventilation." He rubbed vigorously at his chest, avoiding looking directly at Josh. "Gotta run, man. Told mom I’d grab milk. Fuckin' lactose-free shit." He pulled on his clothes with his usual rough haste.

Josh watched him go, a slow, satisfied smirk playing on his lips. He leaned against the lockers, feeling the pleasant ache deep inside, the lingering wetness, sated. He threw the last few discarded towels into the laundry bin, shut the lights off, locked up and left.

The heavy gym door clicked shut behind Josh, sealing the humid stink of chlorine and sex inside. Cool night air washed over his sweat-dampened skin as he walked to his car, the pleasant ache in his ass a constant reminder of Brad’s brutal submission. Streetlights cast long shadows on the wet pavement; the city pulsed with indifferent energy. He drove home through quiet streets, the memory of Brad’s choked moans and the slick, filthy heat echoing in his skull.

Sleep came easily, deep and dreamless. Morning light filtered through his blinds, illuminating dust motes dancing in the beam. Josh showered, the hot water sluicing away lingering traces of the previous night’s debauchery, scrubbing his skin until it felt raw and clean. He dressed in crisp, dark trousers and a soft grey sweater, the professional armour slipping into place. The scent of bergamot and sandalwood from his aftershave replaced the night's musk as he locked his apartment door.

His hypnotherapy practice occupied a serene, wood-paneled suite downtown. Sunlight streamed through tall windows onto tasteful abstract art and plush chairs. The air hummed faintly with a calming blend of lavender and chamomile diffused oils. Josh settled behind his minimalist oak desk, reviewing files. His morning unfolded predictably: Mrs. Henderson wept softly while recounting decades of failed diets before Josh gently guided her into a trance focused on mindful eating; Mr. Davies twitched nervously, battling his fear of pigeons, emerging calmer after visualizing peaceful park scenes; young Liam clenched his fists, wrestling with nicotine cravings, leaving with renewed determination after Josh reinforced aversion triggers. Josh listened intently, his voice a soothing instrument, projecting genuine empathy and unwavering focus. He was good at this. Thoughtful. Caring. He helped people reclaim control. Yet beneath the professional calm, a cold ember glowed – a visceral disgust for the arrogant, privileged intolerance that poisoned the world like cheap gym deodorant.

The door chime announced his last appointment. Ken stepped in. Retired Army, Josh recalled instantly. Grey hair, close-cropped military style, framing a face etched with deep lines and a permanent squint. Thick-set, solidly built like an old oak stump, straining slightly against his practical flannel shirt and worn jeans. He moved with a stiff, deliberate gait hinting at old injuries. Ken’s wife, Martha Davies, had sat in that very chair months prior, successfully wrestling free from a vicious painkiller addiction Josh helped dismantle. Ken himself radiated a different tension – coiled, internal, shame radiating off him like heat haze.

"Afternoon, Mr Davies," Josh greeted warmly, gesturing to the comfortable armchair opposite his desk. "Please, sit. Martha mentioned you wanted to talk about something specific?" Ken lowered himself stiffly, his large hands gripping the armrests, knuckles white. He avoided Josh’s gaze, staring at the Persian rug beneath his sturdy boots. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. Josh waited, patient, letting the quiet press Ken towards speech.

"Doc," Ken rasped finally, his voice gravelly, strained. He cleared his throat, still staring down. "Martha, she speaks highly of you. Said you fixed her up good. She thinks I'm here because of an anger issue, but that's only part of it..." He shifted, the leather creaking. "She said you keep things quiet." Josh leaned forward slightly, projecting calm assurance. "Absolutely, Mr Davies. Confidentiality is paramount in my practice. It’s protected by law, just like any other healthcare provider." He paused, letting that sink in. "Nothing you say here leaves this room. Ever. Unless," he added carefully, his tone firming slightly, "you disclose intent to harm yourself or others. That’s the only exception."

Ken flinched almost imperceptibly. He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing. "Harm..." he muttered, the word tasting bitter. "Yeah. Yeah, I worry I am doing just that." He lifted his head then, his eyes meeting Josh’s – a startling mix of defiance and utter despair. "It’s fucking killing me inside." His jaw tightened, the muscles in his thick neck corded. "I can't fucking stop." He spat the next words out like poison. "Wearing... faggy underwear. Sissy shit. Homo stuff." Shame burned crimson on his weathered cheeks. "Lace. Leather. Fucking shiny black latex. Like some some goddamn pervert." He looked away again, shoulders slumping under the weight of his confession. "Found 'em online. Ordered 'em. Hid 'em. Wear 'em under my civvies. Every damn day now. Can't stop. Feel like I'm tearing myself apart."

Josh absorbed this, his expression remaining professionally neutral, a mask of non-judgmental concern. Inside, a familiar, icy thrill sparked. The hypocrisy was staggering, delicious. This hardened veteran, radiating old-school masculinity, secretly enslaved by frills and fetish wear. "I see," Josh said softly, his voice a gentle anchor. "That sounds incredibly distressing, Mr Davies. The conflict must feel overwhelming."

"Call me Ken, please. I appreciate you saying that. Sorry if I just dumped it on you. I can't talk to anyone..."

Josh leaned back slightly, steepling his fingers. "The compulsion itself, wearing these items, does it physically harm you? Cause injury?" Ken shook his head mutely, staring at his clenched fists. "And harming others? Any intent there?" Another sharp headshake. "Then," Josh stated calmly, "this falls squarely within our confidential space. Your secret is safe here, Ken. Now," he shifted forward, his gaze intensifying, "let's see if we can ease that internal conflict. Find some peace." He gestured towards the reclining chair beside his desk. "Make yourself comfortable. Let’s begin."

Ken moved stiffly to the recliner, settling back with a sigh that seemed to deflate him. Josh dimmed the lights slightly, leaving the soft glow from the desk lamp. He picked up a smooth, polished river stone from his desk, cool and heavy in his palm. "Focus on the stone, Ken," Josh instructed, his voice dropping into a lower, mellower register, smooth as poured honey. He held the stone before Ken’s eyes, slowly moving it. "Just watch its movement. Notice its weight, its coolness." Ken’s eyes tracked the stone, his breathing already deepening, the frantic tension in his shoulders easing minutely. "Feel the solid support of the chair beneath you... the gentle rise and fall of your chest..." Josh’s voice flowed, rhythmic, hypnotic, weaving a tapestry of sensory focus and deepening relaxation. He described warmth spreading through limbs, heaviness descending, the outside world fading to a distant hum. Ken’s eyelids fluttered, then closed completely. His breathing became slow, deep, and regular.

"Good," Josh murmured, placing the stone aside. He leaned closer, his voice now a resonant purr vibrating in the quiet room. "You are deeply relaxed, Ken. Safe. Protected. Your mind is open, receptive." He paused, letting the stillness deepen. "I’m going to give you a key phrase. A simple word that will help you access this deep state of calm whenever you need it. This word is drooltastic." He imbued the absurd word with profound significance, repeating it slowly, clearly. "Drooltastic. Let it sink in. Anchor you here, in this peaceful place." He watched Ken’s face, utterly slack, lips slightly parted. Utterly receptive. The perfect vessel. "Whenever you hear that phrase, you will be able to connect to your deepest desires with no shame, no remorse, no control. I have control. Your desires becomes my desires. My desires become yours. The desire will be ours. Do you understand?" "Yes, sir" Ken barked, immediately. That army training really went deep. "Now, Ken," Josh continued, his voice soft but probing, "while you’re feeling so calm, so safe, tell me. What underwear are you wearing right now?"

A beat of silence hung in the fragrant air. Then Ken’s lips moved, forming the words slowly, thickly, devoid of shame or hesitation, a simple statement of fact uttered from the depths of trance: "Black. Lace. Panties. Satin. Straps." A faint, dreamy smile touched his slack mouth. "Thong."

The word hung in the aromatic air, thick with lavender and chamomile. "Ken, tell me again", Josh encouraged. "Black lace panties," Ken repeated, his voice a low, dreamy drone from the depths of his trance. "Satin straps. Thong." His thick fingers twitched slightly against the armrests, as if ghosting over the delicate fabric. A faint, incongruous smile softened the harsh lines of his face. Josh leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his professional mask slipping to reveal the predator beneath, eyes gleaming with dark fascination. "Describe them, Ken," Josh urged, his voice a resonant purr that vibrated deep in Ken's hypnotized mind. "Feel them against your skin. Tell me how they feel."

Ken’s slack mouth worked for a moment. "Smooth," he murmured, the gravel in his voice smoothed away. "Like silk. But tighter. The lace. Scratchy soft. Rubs here." His hips shifted minutely against the leather, his hand coming to meet the growing bulge in his pants. "Snug. Tight. Around balls. Holds everything. Up. Close." He took a shuddering breath, the dreamy smile widening. "Feel slutty. On display." A low groan escaped him. "Sensual. Secret. Unghhhh," he ended with a groan.

Josh’s own pulse kicked up. He drank in Ken’s vulnerable confession, the raw honesty forced from him by the trance. "Slutty and sensual," Josh echoed, his voice dropping lower, rougher. He moved his chair closer, the legs scraping softly on the polished wood floor, invading Ken’s space. He reached out, his fingertip hovering just above Ken’s covered thigh. "I know that feeling, Ken. That secret heat." Ken trembled under his unseen touch. "You know what else turns me on? What makes me feel slutty and sensual?" Josh leaned in, his breath warm against Ken’s ear. "Spit. Thick, hot drool running down skin. Wet tongues, Ken. Tongues everywhere. Licking, sucking. Nipples hard under someone's mouth." He paused, letting the images sink into Ken’s receptive mind. "And cum. Hot fucking cum spurting, thick ropes of it. Painting skin. Filling holes. The smell of it, Ken. The taste." Josh’s voice thickened with his own arousal, picturing Brad, the locker room, the filthy mix of fluids. "That primal mess. That’s what makes me fucking hard."

He pulled back slightly, his gaze intense, commanding Ken’s glazed eyes. "So tell me, Ken, knowing what turns me on, seeing you like this, feeling your slutty panties, how do you want to respond to that?" The question hung, charged with expectation. "How do you need to respond?"

Ken’s breathing caught. His chest rose and fell rapidly beneath the worn flannel. Slowly, mechanically, as if pulled by invisible strings, his large, rough hands moved to the buttons of his shirt. He fumbled, thick fingers clumsy, but persisted. Button by button, the flannel parted, revealing a plain white undershirt stretched tight over a solid, hairy chest. He pushed the flannel off his broad shoulders, letting it fall behind the recliner, his hands quickly following with the undershirt. Then his hands went to his belt buckle. The metallic clink was startlingly loud in the quiet room. He unzipped his worn jeans, the sound coarse, and pushed them down over his hips and thick thighs, letting them pool around his ankles on the polished floor. He stood, shakily, stepping out of his sturdy boots and the jeans, clad only in his socks, and the secret Ken had confessed: black lace panties.

Ken stood ramrod straight in the dimly lit room. His buzz cut was razor short, a habit that must be ingrained from his military days, and his thick, handlebar moustache was meticulously groomed, a symbol of the rigid control he tried to exert over his life.

His chest, thick with wiry grey hair, was a testament to years of rigorous training, though the muscles were beginning to soften with age. Scars, both visible and hidden, marked his body, each one a story he preferred not to tell, in nothing but a pair of black lace panties, the delicate fabric clinging to his muscular frame, an incongruous and intoxicating sight. His eyes, usually cold and judgmental, were now filled with a mixture of confusion, shame, and a flicker of undeniable arousal. He stared at Josh, his face contorted with a mixture of disgust and fascination. Josh knew he was struggling to reconcile the image of himself, a decorated veteran, with what he believed to be a perversion that had taken root in his mind.

Josh could tell the lace of the panties felt strangely arousing, a sensation that Ken both repulsed and invited. Ken must hate the weakness he felt, the vulnerability that threatened to undermine his carefully constructed masculinity. He had been a soldier, a man of strength and discipline, not some deviant indulging in feminine fantasies.

Ken wanted to understand the source of his desire, the reason why he craved the feel of silk and lace against his skin. Was it a rebellion against the rigid constraints of his past? A subconscious desire to embrace the femininity he had always suppressed? Or was it simply a perversion, a dark secret that he would carry to his grave?

The contrast was jarring. The thick, grey-haired legs, the meaty muscle tits, the military bearing still evident in his posture, and the delicate black lace clinging obscenely to his groin. The fabric was stretched taut. A formidable bulge strained against the thin material, the head of Ken’s thick cock clearly outlined, damp and darkening the lace with precum. His cock throbbed visibly, trapped and demanding. Ken swayed slightly, his eyes fixed on some distant point, utterly entranced, utterly exposed.

"Good," Josh breathed, his own cock hardening painfully in his trousers. He circled Ken slowly, a shark appraising its prey. "Look at you. Perfect. So sexy and sensual. Nothing to be ashamed of." He stopped directly in front of him. "Now, Ken. Show me how you respond. Show me what you feel."

Ken’s head dipped forward, chin almost touching his chest. His jaw went slack. His lips parted. A thick strand of saliva, glistening and viscous, welled up in his mouth. It stretched, thickened, and then spilled over his lower lip. It fell, heavy and warm, landing directly onto the straining black lace covering the swollen head of his cock. Ken moaned, a deep, guttural sound of relief and submission. More drool followed, a continuous, slow cascade pouring from his open mouth, soaking into the delicate lace, plastering it wetly against his rigid flesh. The black fabric darkened further, becoming almost transparent, clinging slickly to every vein and contour of his enormous, trapped erection. Drool dripped from the soaked lace onto his hairy thighs, tracing shiny paths through the coarse grey hair. Ken kept his head bowed, his eyes unfocused, his mouth open like a fountain, offering his degradation, bathing his own shameful arousal in his spit, lost completely in the filthy response Josh had commanded. The scent of lavender was utterly drowned by the musk of male sweat and the raw, animal scent of Ken’s need.