Roberto the new cumdump for the BNWO

Roberto's world was the vibrant, densely packed expanse of Mexico City—a sprawling metropolis throbbing with a rich tapestry of culture, tradition, and unspoken rules, woven together in a complex pattern. The city buzzed with the hum of traffic, the chatter of street vendors, and the distant echo of latin pop bands, creating a symphony of sounds that were both exhilarating and overwhelming. Within this whirlwind of life, Roberto navigated the tightly woven fabric of family expectations and the hushed whispers of a typical Mexican societal judgments.

From an early age, Roberto learned the delicate art of self-erasure. He expertly masked his homosexual desires behind a facade of respect for what was expected from him, bending to fit the molds imposed upon him by his family and the rigid expectations of society. Bound tightly by the fear of being exposed, he let the weight of disapproval press upon him, shrinking his desire for cock into the darkness corners of his soul. He spoke in carefully to his friends always with caution and restraint, ensuring that nothing of his hidden life slipped through the cracks of his timid voice. His boyish charm masked his secret longings, as he molded himself to fit a world where any deviation might mean exile. He avoided the gaze of those who might see him for who he was, dodging the prying eyes of disapproval with a mastery learned through years of practice. Yet, beneath the heavy cloak of silence, the flame of serving cock burned fiercely. In the quiet sanctuaries of discreet corners and the anonymous freedom of gay chat rooms, he allowed himself to dream of a life where he could exist openly—where his identity as a pussyboi was encourage by multiple animus men.

He imagined himself being the center of attention, of being the bitch in a room full of horny men waiting to break his virgin asshole and cum inside him until he was stretched and leaking semen from several men. The thought made him shiver with a mix of fear and desire, his small cock leaking pre-cum twitching against his thigh. Roberto's mind raced as he read stories of men exploring each other's bodies in vivid detail, touching and tasting every inch of their flesh, discovering the unique reactions that only true sexual predators can elicit.

In his fantasies, powerful hands roamed across his own body, igniting sparks of pleasure everytime he reached his asshole. The heat continued to rise as he imagined lips trailing down his neck, nibbling and sucking at sensitive flesh while strong hands gripped his hips with a possessive intent. Roberto's heart pounded in his chest as he envisioned sucking cock and the taste of sweat and skin on his tongue. He pictured himself on his knees, eagerly taking in every inch as he looked up with pleading eyes, savoring each moan, each groan of pleasure that escaped from the dominating men he served, ensuring he provided just the right amount of pleasure to ignite the sexual predator within them, a simmering desire that made this men hungry for his hole.

Roberto's desire for submission grew deeper with every imagined scenario. He craved the transformation from boy to bitch, from shy to shameless, wanting to lose himself in the ecstasy of being used and claimed by men whose power he could never hope to match.

The thought of these forbidden acts filled Roberto with both excitement and anticipation — and yet, they also served as painful reminders of what could never be. Despite the tantalizing world he found with others online who shared his desires, reality demanded that he continue hiding beneath the suffocating cloak of Mexican society.

The more he found, the more he craved. The fleeting minutes glued to his screen turned into long, sleepless nights, where the intoxicating pull of the digital world wrapped around him and refused to let go, engulfing him in a relentless pursuit of discovery and desire. Roberto immersed himself in this virtual universe, each new site and forum becoming a piece of his obsession, forming a seductive mosaic that consumed his every waking moment. As the real world faded into the background, a mere shadow against the bright and alluring glow of his laptop, he found himself utterly captivated by the virtual reality that promised so much.

Then, unexpectedly, amid the familiar chaos of images and text he had grown addicted to, Roberto came upon a revelation that made his heart pound with an intensity he had never known. Three simple yet electrifying letters leaped out from the screen—BNWO. This discovery was unlike anything he had seen before, and it resonated with the unspoken longing within him, a longing that had haunted for years. The Black New World Order offered a vision so compelling that it eclipsed all he had known, a vision where black men reigned supreme, and submissive white sissies worshiped at their feet, their every whim fulfilled.

The concept intrigued Roberto to the core of his being, touching a raw nerve that sent shivers down his spine and set his imagination ablaze. He couldn't look away; the more he learned, the deeper he was drawn in. This bold and audacious world presented a version of his fantasies that were even more intense, more forbidden, more seductive than anything he had dared to dream. He spent countless hours exploring this provocative new realm, delving into its every nuance and promise, each new piece of information fanning the flames of his obsession to new heights.

Suddenly, his fantasies took on a sharper focus. Roberto imagined himself as a part of this world, at the center of a circle of dominating, virile black men, each with a huge cock eager to claim him, to own him in the most dominative and all-consuming of ways. The thought of being surrounded by such raw power, of being completely at the mercy of these sexual predators, filled Roberto with a dangerous thrill that bordered on madness. He couldn't help but picture himself at the epicenter of this sexual storm, where the rules of an old life no longer applied and everything he had ever wanted was finally within reach.

He watched hundreds of porn videos that made his mind run wild and his legs tremble—real footage of men like him transformed into servile sex toys, their holes dictated to the pleasure of black men. He scoured forums where other sissies recounted their journeys with breathless reverence. The stories varied, but one name appeared again and again: The Gay Slave Academy, a place where faggots were trained, tested, and broken in. His imagination swirled with the possibilities: the regimented days, the indoctrination, the total surrender.

He wondered if he could really do it—leave everything behind for a life of submission and pleasure, to be used without shame or limits. When he thought about it, a tingling spread through his entire body like an electric wave. He spent late nights lying awake, picturing himself stripped bare and remade.

But how could he be part of it? How could he just walk away from everything he knew and transform into a putito? The questions swirled in Roberto's mind, each one heavier than the last. His fingers tapped anxiously on the keyboard as he scrolled through endless porn pages, searching for someone who could show him the way. Then, in a moment of dizzying clarity, he stumbled upon an application page for the Academy. With trembling hands and a quickened pulse, he filled out the form, the words blurring together as he typed: His name, his age, but when the application demanded his deepest, most clandestine desires, an overwhelming inferno ignited within him, threatening to engulf him entirely. With trembling hands and a pounding heart, he confessed his long-held fantasy of transforming into a puto, driven by an insatiable urge to serve the commanding presence of a big uncut cock, and he wrote the following:

“I can still vividly recall that night when I was fifteen, a modest sleepover in the backyard of my family home, nestled in our brand-new little tent. The air was crisp, and the sky was a blanket of twinkling stars. There were three of us: Alonso and I, both of the same age, and Miguel, who was about five years older. I felt a magnetic attraction to him, drawn to his masculine presence.

To me, he appeared as a figure of authority, a mentor, someone worthy of admiration and eager to please. As the night unfolded, we, a group of young boys being boys, started to delve into conversations about sex and began exploring our bodies. Miguel, with more experience and a keen eye, noticed my desire of cock and ensured he would take advantage of me that night.

We stripped down to our underwear, our laughter tinged with nervousness as we cast furtive glances at one another. The electric thrill of exposure mingled with the intoxicating scent of our youthful bodies, creating an atmosphere both exhilarating and forbidden.

In that moment, we felt utterly free—free from judgment, free from shame, liberated from everything except the raw, burgeoning desires that pulsed within us.

Miguel, the eldest among us, was endowed with an astonishingly magnificent cock, a veritable work of art that seemed carved from the fantasies of a porn star. It was enormous, proudly erect, and gnarled with pulsating veins that snaked beneath the taut, velvety skin. The mere sight of it made my mouth water, as if my body instinctively craved to taste him. Miguel, did his best to put Alonso and me at ease, casually flaunting his nakedness and keeping the conversation light, with talk of girls and trivialities. But beneath my feigned nonchalance, a storm of desire raged within me. All I could think about was Miguel's body and his intoxicating manhood. His physique was a symphony of musculature, honed to perfection on the tennis courts under the tutelage of his father. His legs were powerful, sinewy pillars, evidence of countless hours of rigorous training and discipline. He was, in a word, breathtaking.I wanted him to take me, to claim me, and make me his putito that night.

The heat of the moment intensified as our inhibitions melted away, replaced by a tangle of limbs and whispered encouragements. Miguel's presence was magnetic, drawing us closer into the web of his dominance. He instructed Alonso and me to touch each other first, to explore with tentative hands while he watched with a knowing grin. My heart raced as I felt Alonso's hesitant fingers on my skin, the sensation both foreign and electrifying. Yet my eyes were locked on Miguel, who stroked himself slowly, deliberately. I knew he was waiting for me to make a move, to show how far I was willing to go.

Then came the moment I had dreamed of. Miguel beckoned me over with a flick of his wrist, his cock throbbing with promise. I crawled toward him on unsteady knees, my gaze fixed on the massive prize that awaited me. He positioned me on my knees, the tent now an altar to our shared lust. My pulse quickened with anticipation, my lips parting as I inched closer to his enormous cock. I could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the intoxicating mix of sweat and pre-cum, my senses overwhelmed by the raw masculinity that emanated from every inch of his body.

My lips parted and I took him into my mouth, the salty taste of his skin igniting my senses. He gently guided my head, his fingers laced through my hair, setting the rhythm that pleased him most. I savored the velvety smoothness of his foreskin, the way it slid back and forth over my tongue, a dance of sensation and desire. I explored every ridge, every vein, until his body tensed and he spilled his cum into the cloth he had hurriedly grabbed, a sock as I looked back at him desperate for his approval. “

Roberto's writing poured out like a fever, a naked testament to his deepest yearnings, confessing his first thrilling sexual encounter with all the raw and vivid detail he could muster. This truth, unabashed and unvarnished, represented a calculated gamble. He hoped that such vulnerability might serve as his ticket to acceptance at the Gay Slave Academy, that the brazen honesty of his words would ignite interest from those superior men who decided the fate of slaves. In his mind's eye, he pictured the commanding men of GsA poring over his account, weighing the merits of his candidacy, debating his worthiness for their demanding and transformative program. This vision consumed him utterly, spiraling into an all-encompassing fantasy where he received a response that would forever alter the course of his life, delivering him from the tedium of secrecy into a realm of freedom and submission. The intensity of this longing seared through him even as he re-read the words he had typed, each line a reflection of desires that had simmered within him for as long as he remembered.

The moment he clicked submit, a rush of adrenaline coursed through him, electrifying his senses with the audacity of his actions. Roberto sat back in his chair, his heart still pounding from the fervor of his confession. He had laid himself bare in that application; every longing, every desire, every secret had been unfurled with reckless abandon, a tapestry of lust and submission woven together with desperate hope. Now all he could do was wait, hoping that it was enough to catch the attention of those who held the key to everything he desired. He imagined the men at the Academy evaluating his potential, his unbridled eagerness, and a reckless fire would inflame his imagination as he pictured them contacting him with an acceptance letter that heralded his conversion from timid faggot to shameless slave.

As the days passed, anticipation twisted inside him like an unquenchable thirst. Each morning began with a ritual—checking his email with bated breath, eyes scanning for the message that might offer the salvation he so desperately craved. Minutes felt like hours, each silent day stretched unbearably long with the aching tension of unanswered desires. Roberto imagined the application languishing, unnoticed, his innermost dreams cast aside by those who mattered most. Would they even bother to read his confession, or would it be dismissed as the ramblings of another unworthy sissy? His heart ached with the need to know, and the absence of confirmation gnawed at him relentlessly. The intoxicating vision of his new life hovered just out of reach, a tantalizing mirage that threatened to dissolve into nothingness.

The wait became its own form of torment, a cruel test of his resolve. He questioned himself at every turn—had he been foolish to think he could be part of such an exclusive world? Could the transformation he longed for ever truly belong to him? Was his dream destined to remain a fantasy, forever unattainable? He could not escape these thoughts, and they pursued him with a relentless ferocity. Every moment spent in the limbo of uncertainty amplified his obsession, leaving him raw and exposed. Even the mundane routines of his life were colored by the ghost of what he yearned for, his mind drawn inexorably back to the possibility that lay behind each unopened email.

Weeks turned into months, and Roberto never received a response. The empty inbox became a silent rebuke, an echoing testament to his insignificance in the world he desperately wanted to join. He watched his fantasies recede into the dusty corners of his mind, resigned to the probable reality that his application had been ignored. A dull ache settled within him, heavy and unrelenting, but familiar enough that he eventually learned to live with it.

He persuaded himself that gay porn was his sole gateway to that elusive world he was secretly crafting to belong to, so he submerged himself in a ceaselessly evolving addiction. His tastes wandered from the mild allure of vanilla scenes to the intense and explicit realms of hardcore fantasies. He ventured into the forbidden realms of bestiality, fantasy, where a beast's relentless lust would be sated in his flesh. He envisioned the dog's engorged knot forcing its way into his asshole, a violation that would bind them together in a grotesque copulation. The raw intensity of fisting captivated him, a practice demanding both trust and an intimate understanding of boundaries. The provocative allure of golden showers intrigued him with its unconventional approach to intimacy, challenging societal norms. Meanwhile, the reckless abandon of chem sex drew him into a whirlwind of heightened sensations and risky indulgence, where the boundaries between pleasure and danger blurred. Each new experience was a piece of the intricate puzzle he believed would complete the picture of the world he yearned to join.

.

If he couldn’t be remade at the Academy, he would have to find another way. He threw himself into becoming the perfect bottom bitch, inspired by the porn

that both fueled and haunted his imagination. It became a singular mission, an obsession that consumed not just his nights but infiltrated the daylight hours as well. He existed in a duality—present in one world but perpetually lost in the other, where the identities of faggot, CUMDUMP, and pussyboi were badges of honor to be worn without shame.

Roberto's body proved a willing canvas for this transformation, bending eagerly to the demands he placed upon it. He waxed himself smooth until there was no trace of hair left, wanting every inch to be immaculate and inviting. His small cock remained untouched as he focused on the rest of his body, letting its insignificance become part of the allure that marked him as a true sissy in training.

He practiced with dildos and plugs in every size, pushing his limits further each time, determined to prepare himself for what he hoped was inevitable; to become a pussyboi for powerful men. The sessions left him breathless and aching, reminders that his hole was meant to take cock and get breed. He trained his throat with the same dedication, testing how much he could swallow, all while fantasizing about a queue of black men waiting to claim him as their whore. Each endeavor was documented in secret videos and photos that he posted online, desperate to attract attention from those who could make him their sissy slut.

Roberto understood that to truly capture the attention of superior men, he needed to sculpt his physique into something irresistibly beautiful. He yearned for a body that combined elegance with strength, a form that would both attract and entice. To achieve this, Roberto decided to join the local gym, focusing particularly on swimming. He was drawn to the idea of developing a swimmer's body, one that was both lean and muscular, embodying the ideal blend of grace and power. This transformation was essential for him, as he envisioned himself as the perfect feminized vision, someone who could inspire lust to the stallions he wanted to attract.

Roberto's routine was relentless, each lap in the water a stroke toward becoming the pussyboi he so desperately craved to be. The fluidity of swimming mirrored his aspirations—a body unbound, moving without resistance. But beneath the surface of this graceful transformation lay a more immediate ambition: Roberto wanted an ass that would be impossible to ignore, a siren call to the cocks he dreamed of pleasing.

He devised a specialized regimen, zeroing in on exercises that promised to build his butt into a weapon of irresistible allure. Squats became his new religion, each repetition a prayer for plumpness and perfection. He lunged with fervor, imagining the way his cheeks would fill out, how they would strain against tight shorts or peek provocatively from under the hem of jockstraps. Every motion was calculated, deliberate, pushing him closer to having the kind of ass that men would want to fuck at first sight.

In the pools’ locker room, Roberto found himself lingering longer than necessary, drawn to the steam-filled intimacy that hung in the air like a seductive promise. He watched the other men, their bodies taut and glistening, radiating a raw masculinity that he both envied and craved. His heart raced at the thought of them noticing him, imagining their predatory eyes taking in his delicate frame, sizing him up as a potential conquest. He fantasized about secretive encounters among the rows of lockers, envisioning himself on his knees in the showers, water cascading over his small body while he serviced their huge dripping cocks with eager devotion.

The possibility of such moments set his pulse pounding, and he wondered if he could muster up the courage to make it all happen. He knew he needed to be bold, to put himself out there in ways he never had before. The fear of rejection was real, lingering always at the edges of his mind, but so was the thrill of finally being used like a true bitch.

In the depths of his obsession, Roberto found himself once again on familiar websites, this time posting ads for gangbangs, eagerly describing himself as a “I'M A SHAMELESSLY OBEDIENT CUMDUMP, INSATIABLE FOR RANDOM MEN TO RELENTLESSLY EMPTY THEIR BALLS AND BURY THEIR COCKS DEEP! I CRAVE HAVING NUTS SMEARED ALL OVER MY ASS LIKE A BADGE OF HONOR. I WANT TO BE CELEBRATED AS MEXICO’S ULTIMATE COCK SLUT, RENOWNED FOR DELIVERING THE MOST GLORIOUSLY SLOPPY ASS, TAKING EVERY LAST DROP, NO MATTER THE LOAD'S IMMENSITY. I YEARN FOR MY ASS TO BE SEALED SHUT FROM COUNTLESS LOADS AND FOR MY BREATH TO BE PERMANENTLY TAINTED WITH THE MUSK OF BALL SWEAT AND CUM LOADS!”. He crafted his words carefully, hoping they would catch the eye of a real-life Master with a stable of well-hung brothers ready to abuse him. Every sentence was a plea, an invitation to break him in and keep him as their property.

But as days turned to weeks, this pursuit of being the ultimate faggot felt like an endless chase after something just beyond reach. Though he had plenty of messages from interested doms he was always afraid of being true to himself. Until a single message that held the promise of everything he had ever desired. It came from @OG_MASTER_JERRY on X, a name that resonated with authority and dominance, known in the online world as a powerful Montana Master rumored to mentor cum pigs, his reputation for breaking boys and turning them into insatiable sluts second to none. He ran a stable of sissies known for their obedience and skill, fucking them himself or whoring them out to his friends.

The words seemed to leap off the screen, grabbing hold of Roberto in a way that made his pulse race. He read the message once, twice, unable to fully comprehend how quickly it had all happened.

“NOTHING I LIKE MORE THAN SEEING THE UNTRAINED, FRESH MEAT I CAN USE AND HELP BECOME CUM SLAVE LEGENDS. IF YOU THINK YOU CAN BE THAT PUSSYBOI, COME TO MY RANCH IN MONTANA. NOTHING BUT THE BEST BLACK DONGS TO BREED AND BREAK YOU.”

Roberto's heart pounded as he stared at the invitation from Master Jerry, the lines blurring together with his rising excitement. Was this real? Could he really be on the verge of stepping into the world he had only dared to dream of? But what if... what if it was too much? The fear and thrill danced within him as he tried to imagine himself at Jerry's ranch, surrounded by powerful men eager to take him in every way. The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating, a stark contrast to the cautious life he had always known. It loomed large in his mind, a dizzying leap into the unknown that promised either utter fulfillment or complete overwhelm.

With shaking hands and a determination fueled by years of secrecy and longing, Roberto replied to Master Jerry's message, his words imbued with urgency and desire. He wrote of his willingness to surrender completely, to be trained and owned in ways he could only begin to imagine. This was his moment, and he seized it with a fervor that left him breathless.

"MONTANA IS FAR... BUT NOT AS FAR AS I'M WILLING TO GO TO BE THE ULTIMATE SLUT FOR SUPERIOR MASTERS LIKE YOU. I WILL BE YOUR BEST PUSSYBOI EVER!"

Once more, he found himself in the familiar purgatory of waiting, but this time was different. The promise felt real, tangible, its gravity pulling at him with an irresistible force. He half expected to be left hanging again, to be forced to nurse the sting of rejection and return to his old standby of porn and fantasy. But then, a mere two hours later, another message arrived:

“YOU SOUND LIKE YOU HAVE POTENTIAL, BUT I SEE A LOT OF TALK FROM SLAVE FAGS LIKE YOU. DON'T WASTE MY TIME UNLESS YOU'RE READY TO BE A MARE. I EXPECT TO SEE YOU ON A PLANE IN THE NEXT WEEK. COME AND BE MY LEGENDARY PUSSYBOI, OR STAY BEHIND AND BE JUST ANOTHER POOR MEXICAN MOUTH BREATHER.”

The bluntness of the words sent a chill through him, its cold edge sharpening the heat of his desire. It was a challenge, a dare that called out to every part of Roberto's being.

It was almost too much to process—the sudden reality of what he had so long imagined was overwhelming in its immediacy and promise.

The decision didn't require thought; Roberto had already made it long ago. He purchased a ticket that night, his heart racing with a blend of fear and elation. His fingers trembled as he finalized the payment, a concrete step towards the destiny he had only ever fantasized about. This was it—the point of no return. He would leave behind the weight of expectations and judgment, crossing a new frontier where his asshole could flourish without bounds.

When the day finally arrived, Roberto quietly boarded his flight, telling no one of his departure. He later discovered that his sudden disappearance from Mexico City had left others speculating about his whereabouts, some even fearing he had died or simply vanished without a trace. With only a suitcase in hand and an exhilarating sense of liberation coursing through him, Roberto was taking control by relinquishing everything. The steady hum of the airplane engines harmonized with the thrum of nerves that danced within him. Each mile that stretched further between him and Mexico carried him closer to what he fervently hoped would be true freedom. He envisioned the vast, sweeping landscapes of Montana, its remote horizons reflecting the boundless possibilities of his new life as an obedient sissy. The open skies and endless plains promised a fresh start, each breath of crisp air whispering of new beginnings and undiscovered paths.

The air was sharp and unfamiliar, biting at Roberto’s skin as he stepped off the airplane in Bozeman Yellowstone International Airport. He shivered, unsure whether it was from the cold or the thrill of finally being here. The sky stretched out in a vast expanse of blue, unbroken and overwhelming, so different from the crowded horizon of Mexico City. He clutched his suitcase with trembling hands, the enormity of what he had done sinking in as he scanned for any sign that this wasn't a dream. The moment felt surreal, suspended between fear and anticipation as each second crawled by with excruciating slowness.

Then he saw him: a tall, rugged figure leaning against an old pickup truck, arms crossed over a broad chest. Master Jerry. His heart leapt and stuttered, a wild fluttering that took his breath away. Jerry's presence radiated authority—effortless and undeniable. Roberto hesitated for a split second, caught in the gravitational pull of this moment that felt both inevitable and impossible. Jerry's eyes locked onto his, dark and penetrating, as if he could already see every weakness, every desire, every part of Roberto that ached to be owned.

"You made it," Jerry called out, his voice a deep rumble that sent shivers down Roberto's spine. "Wasn't sure if you'd have the balls to actually show up."

Roberto swallowed hard, forcing himself to move forward on legs that suddenly felt like jelly. "I promised I would, Master," he replied, the word 'Master' feeling foreign yet right on his tongue.

Jerry's lips curled into a half-smile, revealing a glimpse of white teeth against his sun-weathered skin. "We'll see if you're worth the trouble of picking up." He pushed himself off the truck and took Roberto's suitcase without asking, tossing it into the truck bed with casual strength. "Get in bitch."

The interior of the truck smelled of leather, tobacco, and something distinctly male that made Roberto's asshole horny. As they pulled away from the airport, the urban landscape quickly gave way to rolling hills and pine forests. Roberto stole glances at Jerry's profile—the strong jaw, the hint of stubble, the way his large hands gripped the steering wheel with easy confidence.

"You're smaller than I expected," Jerry remarked after a long silence, his eyes never leaving the road. "But that might work in your favor. The Masters like breaking in the delicate ones."

Roberto's breath caught in his throat, a mixture of shame and excitement coursing through his veins. "I'll do whatever it takes to please you and the other Masters," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the rumble of the truck's engine.

Jerry let out a low, knowing chuckle. "They all say that at first. But words don't mean shit out here. It's what your body can take that matters."

The truck wound its way deeper into the Montana wilderness, each mile taking Roberto further from civilization and closer to his new reality. The landscape grew wilder, more untamed, massive mountains rising in the distance like guardians of some ancient, forbidden realm. The silence between them was heavy with unspoken expectations, punctuated only by the occasional direction from Jerry about what awaited him.

"Iron Ridge Ranch isn't for everyone," Jerry said as they turned onto a dirt road that seemed to disappear into the forest. "Most boys who think they want this life can't handle it when they're faced with the real thing. They break—and not in the good way."

Roberto nodded, his throat tight like a noose. "I won't break, Master. I've... I've been preparing," he said, determination lacing his voice with an undercurrent of anxiety. His gaze drifted toward Jerry’s bulge, straining against the fabric of his pants—a prominent outline that hinted at impressive size and girth. Roberto's heart raced as he imagined how Jerry's cock would look, thick and veined, glistening in the soft light like a promise of pleasure and power. The tension in the room crackled like electricity, the air thick with unspoken challenges and unwavering resolve.

This earned him another laugh, deeper and more dismissive than before. "Preparing? With what—your little dildos and internet fantasies? Nothing prepares you for what happens at the ranch, boy. Nothing."

The truck crested a hill, and suddenly the ranch spread out before them—a sprawling property nestled in a valley, with weathered wooden structures dotting the landscape. A large barn dominated the property, its red paint faded by years of sun and wind. Several cabins were scattered around, smoke curling from their chimneys despite the afternoon hour. Men moved about the grounds, some leading horses, others carrying supplies. They all had one thing in common—an air of unquestionable dominance that made Roberto's asshole twitch with anticipation.

"Home sweet home," Jerry announced, a note of pride in his voice. "Welcome to Iron Ridge Ranch, where boys like you become the pussybois they were always meant to be."

Roberto's eyes darted around, trying to take in everything at once. The ranch was both beautiful and intimidating, a perfect backdrop for the transformation he craved. In the distance, he could see what appeared to be a stable, separate from the main barn, nestled between a stand of cottonwoods and a winding creek.

"What's that building over there?" Roberto asked, pointing toward the isolated structure.

A slow, wolfish grin spread across Jerry's face. "That, little one, is the Milking Stable. You'll become very familiar with it soon enough."

The truck rolled to a stop in front of the main house, a large log cabin with a wide porch. Two boys emerged from inside, both tall and muscular, their dark skin gleaming in the afternoon sun.

Roberto's breath caught in his throat at the sight of them. They were magnificent specimens, with broad shoulders, powerful chests, and arms that looked capable of breaking him in half. Their presence was overwhelming, a physical manifestation of the dominance he had only ever fantasized about. One wore nothing but tight jeans riding low on his hips, revealing a chiseled abdomen that glistened with a light sheen of sweat. The other was dressed in worn leather chaps over faded jeans, his bare chest adorned with intricate tribal tattoos that accentuated his muscular frame.

"About time you got back, Jerry," the taller one called out, his deep voice carrying across the yard. "This the new prospect pussyboi you been talking about?"

Jerry nodded, cutting the engine and turning to Roberto with an appraising look. "This is him. Roberto from Mexico City. Claims he's ready to be broken in."

The men approached the truck, their movements fluid and predatory. Roberto felt pinned by their gaze, unable to look away as they examined him through the windshield. His asshole twitched traitorously in his pants, responding to their raw masculinity.

"Get out," Jerry commanded, already opening his door. "Time to meet your fellow slaves."

On trembling legs, Roberto stepped out of the truck, feeling small and vulnerable as the men circled him. The taller one reached out, gripping Roberto's chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting his face up to examine him in the harsh Montana sunlight.

"I'm slave Kane," he said, his voice like gravel. "And this is slave Darius. You answer to us same as you answer to Master Jerry. Understand?"

"Yes, Kane," Roberto whispered, his pulse racing as Kane's thumb brushed across his lower lip in a gesture that was both threatening and intimate.

Darius moved behind him, placing large hands on Roberto's shoulders. "Skinny little thing," he observed, his breath hot against Roberto's ear. "But that ass looks promising. Turn around, boy. Let me see what Jerry's brought us."

Roberto obeyed instantly, turning to face Darius while presenting his back to Kane. He felt exposed, vulnerable, caught between these powerful men who were assessing him like livestock. Darius's hands slid down his back to cup his ass, squeezing firmly enough to make Roberto gasp.

"Not bad," Darius nodded approvingly. "Might be worth the trouble after all."

Jerry watched the inspection with amused interest, leaning against the truck. "He's all yours for now. I've got work to do. Show him the ropes, break him in a little. I'll be back for him tonight."

Roberto's eyes widened at the casual way Jerry handed him over, as if he were nothing more than a package to be delivered. The realization sent a thrill through him—this was exactly what he had dreamed of, to be treated as property, to be owned by men who saw him as nothing more than a vessel for their pleasure.

"Come on, pussyboi," Kane said, gripping Roberto's arm firmly. "Time for your orientation."

They led him toward one of the smaller cabins, a rustic structure with a smoke-stained chimney and weathered porch. The interior was dimly lit, furnished with only the essentials—a rough wooden table, a few chairs, and a narrow bed pushed against the far wall. The scent of leather and sweat hung in the air, mingling with something deeper and more primal that Roberto couldn't quite name.

"Strip," Darius commanded, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "Everything off. Now."

Roberto's fingers trembled as he began unbuttoning his shirt, hyperaware of the men's predatory gazes tracking his every movement. The cool air kissed his exposed skin as he peeled away each layer, revealing the slender, smooth body he had worked so hard to prepare. When he stood completely naked, he fought the urge to cover himself, forcing his arms to remain at his sides despite the vulnerability that threatened to overwhelm him.

Kane circled him slowly, assessing every inch with critical eyes. "You've kept yourself smooth. Good. We don't tolerate hair on our pussybois here."

Darius approached, his massive presence making Roberto shrink back instinctively. With clinical detachment, he reached down and cupped Roberto's genitals, weighing them in his palm. "Small cock," he observed, his tone neither mocking nor approving, simply stating a fact. "Perfect for a sissy like you. Wouldn't want you getting any ideas about using this thing for anything but pissing."

Roberto's face burned with humiliation, yet his cock twitched traitorously at the touch, beginning to harden despite his embarrassment. Kane noticed immediately, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"Look at that, Darius. Our little Mexican pussyboi is already getting excited. I think he likes being inspected."

Darius chuckled, giving Roberto's cock a dismissive flick that sent a jolt of pain and pleasure shooting through him. "They always do. Turn around, boy. Hands on the table, ass out."

Roberto complied instantly, bending over the rough wooden surface. His heart hammered against his ribs as he heard the sound of a belt being unbuckled behind him. A moment later, a slick finger pressed against his entrance, probing insistently.

"Let’s lubed him up," Darius remarked, pushing his finger inside with little ceremony. Roberto gasped at the intrusion, his body tensing reflexively. "Relax that hole, pussyboi. You're going to need to take a lot more than this before the day is through."

A second finger joined the first, stretching him wider as Darius worked them in and out with mechanical efficiency. "He's tight, but he's taking it well," he observed to Kane. "Might not need as much training as we thought."

"Don't get ahead of yourself," Kane replied, stepping closer to run a calloused hand down Roberto's spine. "They all seem eager at first. It's when the real work begins that we see what they're made of."

Roberto whimpered as Darius's fingers scissored inside him, stretching his hole in preparation for what he knew was coming. The burn of the stretch mingled with the pleasure building in his core, creating a confusing symphony of sensations that left him dizzy with want.

"Please," he whispered, though he wasn't sure what he was begging for—more or mercy.

"Listen to him beg already," Darius laughed, removing his fingers with a wet sound that made Roberto blush. "I think our little pussyboi is ready for his first taste of what life at Iron Ridge is really about."

Roberto saw the distinctive shape of butt plug, and his breath caught in his throat. He felt the blunt head of the butt plug pressing against his entrance, hot and insistent, much larger than the fingers that had prepared him.

"Remember, boy," Kane said, moving to stand where Roberto could see him, "this is just the beginning. By the time we're done with you, you'll be able to take cock like it's your only purpose in life. Because it is."

Roberto's moan was swallowed by the sharp intake of breath as Darius began to push the butt plug inside him, stretching him wider than he'd ever been stretched before. The burn was immediate and intense, a searing reminder that all his preparation had been woefully inadequate. Tears sprang to his eyes as Darius continued his relentless advance, inch by inexorable inch, until he was buried to the hilt.

Roberto's world contracted to a single point of bright, burning sensation. The fullness inside him was overwhelming, a foreign presence that demanded complete surrender. His body trembled with the effort of accommodating the intrusion, sweat beading on his forehead as he panted against the rough wood of the table.

"That's it," Darius murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through Roberto's overwrought senses. "Take it all in. Feel how it fills you up, claims you from the inside out."

Kane circled around, crouching to look Roberto in the face. His expression was a mixture of amusement and assessment, studying Roberto's reactions with the detached interest of a scientist observing a specimen. "Look at those eyes," he remarked to Darius. "They've gone all glassy. He's starting to sink into it."

Roberto could barely focus on Kane's words. The plug inside him seemed to pulse with each heartbeat, sending waves of sensation radiating outward. It hurt, yes, but beneath the pain lay something deeper—a profound sense of rightness that resonated through his core. This was what he had been missing, what he had craved for so long without fully understanding. The surrender, the submission, the complete relinquishment of control.

"Stand up," Darius commanded, giving Roberto's ass a sharp slap that jolted him back to awareness. "You'll wear this plug until dinnertime. I want you to feel every step, every movement. I want that hole of yours to remember what it's like to be filled."

On shaking legs, Roberto pushed himself upright. The shift in position caused the plug to press against new places inside him, drawing a soft moan from his lips. His cock hung between his legs, half-hard and leaking, a testament to the conflicting signals of pain and pleasure racing through his nervous system.

"Look at him," Kane smirked. "Already dripping like a bitch in heat, and he hasn’t even been fucked yet."

Darius laughed, the sound rich and deep. "By the time Master Jerry gets back, he'll be begging for it."

Roberto's face burned with humiliation, but the shame only heightened his arousal. His body was betraying him, responding eagerly to their degradation, transforming their casual cruelty into fuel for his deepest desires.

"Get dressed," Kane ordered, tossing a small bundle of clothing at Roberto's feet. "These are your ranch clothes now."

Roberto bent carefully to retrieve the items, gasping as the plug shifted inside him. The bundle contained only the barest essentials—a thin white tank top that would do little to protect against the Montana chill, and a pair of tight denim shorts cut high enough to reveal the lower curves of his ass.

"No underwear?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Darius snorted. "Pussybois don't get underwear. Makes it harder to access what Master Jerry owns."

With trembling hands, Roberto pulled on the revealing outfit, acutely aware of how the rough denim scraped against his sensitive skin. Each movement sent shockwaves of sensation from the plug nestled in his ass, reminding him of his new purpose.

"Beautiful," Kane murmured, circling Roberto with predatory appreciation. "Now everyone will know exactly what you are."

They led him outside, the bright Montana sun illuminating his scantily-clad body for all to see. Roberto walked with small, careful steps, his thighs clenched around the intrusion that dominated his awareness. The plug inside him felt massive, stretching him in ways that made each step a lesson in submission.

"Time for your tour, pussyboi," Darius announced, placing a heavy hand on Roberto's shoulder. "You need to learn where you belong."

The ranch sprawled before them, a working operation with men engaged in various tasks. An only men ranch, each moving with easy authority among the buildings. Others were clearly pussybois like himself—slender, smooth-skinned men performing chores in revealing outfits similar to his own. Roberto noticed how the pussybois moved differently, with a careful grace that suggested they too were carrying plugs within them.

"That's the main barn," Kane was saying, gesturing toward the massive structure. "That's where most of the ranch work happens."

As they walked, Roberto's attention was drawn to the other pussybois. Something glinted in the sunlight, catching his eye. Looking more closely, he noticed small metal devices attached to each pussyboi's genitals. They appeared to be some kind of cage or containment system, tightly fitted around their cocks. The metal contraptions looked uncomfortable, with intricate locks that suggested they couldn't be removed without permission.

Roberto's stomach tightened with a mixture of fear and curiosity. The devices seemed to be standard issue for all the pussybois at Iron Ridge Ranch, yet another way their bodies were controlled. He desperately wanted to know what they were for, what purpose they served beyond the obvious restriction, but the words died in his throat. Asking questions felt dangerous, like admitting weakness before he'd even begun.

One pussyboi passed particularly close, and Roberto could see the cage more clearly—a stainless steel apparatus that completely enclosed the cock, with small openings that would allow for urination but prevent any form of erection or stimulation. The boy's expression was one of resigned acceptance, suggesting he'd worn it for quite some time.

"Keep moving," Darius ordered, noticing Roberto's wandering attention. "You'll learn everything in due time."

They approached a smaller structure set apart from the others, its weathered wood and sloped roof giving it an almost peaceful appearance despite the purpose Roberto suspected it served.

"This is the training shed," Kane explained, pushing open the heavy wooden door. "Where pussybois learn their place."

The interior was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of leather, sweat, and something more primal. Various implements hung from the walls—whips, paddles, restraints of all kinds—while a sturdy wooden bench dominated the center of the room, its surface worn smooth from years of use.

"Every pussyboi spends time here," Darius said, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "Some more than others, depending on how quickly they learn."

Roberto swallowed hard, imagining himself strapped to that bench, completely at the mercy of powerful men. The thought sent a confusing mixture of terror and arousal through him, making the plug inside him seem suddenly more prominent.

"And finally," Kane continued as they exited the shed, "the place you were asking about earlier."

They approached the isolated building Roberto had noticed when they first arrived—the Milking Stable. Unlike the other structures, this one had an almost reverential quality to it, as if it were the centerpiece of some sacred ritual.

"This is where you'll truly learn what it means to be a pussyboi," Kane said, his voice taking on an almost ceremonial tone. "At some point, all pussybois report here for milking."

"M-milking?" Roberto stammered, the word caught in his throat like a confession.

Darius's eyes gleamed with a predatory satisfaction, sensing Roberto's mixture of fear and fascination. "That's right, slut. Milking." He leaned closer, his massive frame casting a shadow over Roberto's smaller form. "See, those cages you've been staring at—they're not just for show."

Roberto's gaze instinctively dropped to the ground, embarrassed at being caught observing the other pussybois.

"Look at me when I'm speaking," Darius commanded, gripping Roberto's chin and forcing his head up. "Those devices are called genital cages, and every pussyboi at Iron Ridge wears one. They serve multiple purposes in your training."

Kane circled behind Roberto, pressing close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from the man's chest against his back. "First," Kane continued where Darius left off, "they remind you that your cock is no longer your sexual organ but your asshole is."

"Second," Darius said, his fingers still gripping Roberto's chin, "they keep you in a constant state of arousal without release. You'll learn that your pleasure comes from serving cock, not from your pathetic little dick."

Roberto trembled between them, caught in their words and presence like a fly in amber. The plug inside him seemed to pulse with each revelation, as if responding to the knowledge being imparted.

"And third," Kane whispered directly into Roberto's ear, "they control when and how you cum. A pussyboi never cums without permission, and never from touching that useless piece between your legs."

Darius finally released Roberto's chin, only to trail his fingers down the side of his face in a mockery of tenderness. "The milking stable is where we extract your seed—not for your pleasure, but because regular emptying keeps you healthy and properly functioning as our property, besides the fact that the collected cum is use as lubricant to keep fucking pussybois like you"

"It's a scientific approach," Kane added, his voice taking on an almost clinical tone. "Studies show that prolonged denial followed by controlled release creates a deeper state of submission. Your body learns to associate release with obedience, with service."

Roberto's mind reeled with this information, trying to process the methodical, almost scientific approach to what he had imagined would be raw, primal domination.

"The training at Iron Ridge isn't just about breaking you," Darius explained, stepping back to give Roberto space to breathe. "It's about rebuilding you into something better—a perfect vessel for our pleasure and use."

Kane moved around to stand beside Darius, both men towering over Roberto like living monuments to masculinity. "Each pussyboi follows a personalized regimen. Some need more physical discipline, others respond better to psychological conditioning."

Roberto's eyes widened as understanding washed over him like a wave breaking against shore. The clinical precision of it all, the methodical approach to his transformation—this wasn't just about sex or even domination. It was a complete reconstruction of his identity, his purpose, his very being.

"I understand," he whispered, the words escaping his lips before he could stop them.

Something shifted inside him, not just the plug that stretched his hole, but a deeper, more fundamental change. The resistance he'd been unconsciously holding onto—that last barrier of his old self—began to dissolve.

"Do you?" Kane asked, studying Roberto's face with newfound interest. "I'm not sure you do. Not yet."

But Roberto felt it happening, this surrender that went beyond physical submission. His body relaxed around the intrusion inside him, accepting rather than fighting it. The discomfort remained, but transformed into something different—a constant reminder of his new reality that felt right in a way he couldn't articulate.

"I want this," Roberto said, his voice steadier now. "I've always wanted this. To be... useful. To serve."

Darius and Kane exchanged a look—surprise mixed with approval.

"Most take longer to admit it," Darius observed. "They fight it, pretend they're just here for the sex, that they can walk away anytime."

Kane nodded. "But you've been preparing for this your whole life, haven't you? All those fantasies, all that longing—it was never just about getting fucked. It was about becoming something else entirely."

Roberto nodded, tears welling in his eyes. "Yes"

The word fell from his lips naturally now, no longer foreign or performative. It was an acknowledgment of what he was always meant to be.

"Come," Darius said, his tone subtly changed—still commanding but with a hint of recognition. "It's time to prepare you for Master Jerry's return."

They led him back to the cabin, but this time Roberto walked differently. Despite the plug stretching him open, his steps were more deliberate, his posture changed. He was no longer fighting the sensations but embracing them, letting each movement remind him of his purpose.

Inside the cabin, Darius and Kane washed Roberto methodically, their rough hands surprisingly gentle as they prepared him for Master Jerry's return. They removed the plug with clinical efficiency, cleaned him thoroughly, and inserted a larger one that made Roberto gasp and clutch at the wooden table for support.

"This will stretch you properly," Kane explained, twisting the base to secure it. "Master Jerry doesn't like to waste time with inadequate holes."

As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the ranch, the door swung open. Master Jerry filled the frame, his powerful silhouette backlit by the dying light. Roberto felt his presence before he fully entered—an undeniable force that seemed to bend the very air around him.

"Leave us," Jerry commanded, and Darius and Kane immediately complied, slipping past their Master with respectful nods.

Jerry's eyes locked onto Roberto, who stood trembling in the center of the room, still wearing only the revealing tank top and shorts. The plug inside him felt impossibly large now, a constant reminder of what was to come.

"Kneel," Jerry said, the single word carrying the weight of absolute authority.

Roberto sank to his knees, his eyes downcast as Jerry circled him slowly, boots creaking against the wooden floorboards. Each step was deliberate, measured, the sound filling the silence between them until Jerry came to stand directly before him.

"Look at me."

Roberto raised his gaze, meeting Jerry's dark eyes. What he saw there wasn't just lust or dominance but something more complex—a profound understanding of what Roberto needed, perhaps even before Roberto himself fully grasped it.

"Do you know why you're here, Roberto?" Jerry asked, his voice low and resonant.

"To serve you, Master," Roberto replied automatically, the words rising from some deep place within him.

Jerry shook his head slowly. "No. That's not enough." He crouched down, bringing his face level with Roberto's. "You're here because you're empty. Because you've spent your whole life pretending to be something you're not. Because you need to be filled—not just with cock, but with purpose."

The words struck Roberto like physical blows, each one exposing a truth he had never fully acknowledged.

"What you want," Jerry continued, "is to shed your old identity completely. To become something new. A vessel. A tool. A possession. You want to be stripped of choice, of responsibility, of the burden of being Roberto."

Tears welled in Roberto's eyes, unexpected and unbidden. "Yes," he whispered, the admission tearing from his throat.

Jerry's hand came up to cup Roberto's face, the touch surprisingly gentle. "At Iron Ridge, we don't just train holes. We remake men. We take boys like you—lost, searching, desperate—and we give them what they truly crave: a complete transformation."

He stood again, towering over Roberto's kneeling form. "From this moment forward, you are no longer Roberto. Names are for people with identities, with autonomy. You are simply 'pussyboi' now. My pussyboi."

The declaration hung in the air between them, a palpable transformation that Roberto—no, pussyboi—felt in every cell of his body. It was as if Master Jerry had reached inside him and extracted something essential, something that had defined him for twenty-three years, leaving behind a beautiful emptiness waiting to be filled with new purpose.

"Thank you, Master," pussyboi whispered, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks.

Master Jerry nodded, satisfaction evident in the slight curl of his lips. "Stand up and strip. I want to see what I own."

Pussyboi rose on unsteady legs, the plug shifting inside him as he moved. With trembling fingers, he peeled off the thin tank top, revealing smooth, hairless skin stretched over a slender frame. The denim shorts followed, sliding down his legs to pool at his feet. He stood naked and vulnerable, his small cock hanging between his legs, insignificant compared to the bulge visible in Master Jerry's worn jeans.

"Turn around," Master Jerry commanded. "Hands on the table, legs spread."

Pussyboi complied instantly, bending at the waist to present himself. The cool air of the cabin caressed his exposed skin, raising goosebumps along his arms and back. He heard Master Jerry moving behind him, the rustle of clothing, the clink of a belt buckle being undone. His heart hammered against his ribs, a wild rhythm of anticipation and fear.

"You've been stretched," Master Jerry observed, his large hand coming to rest on pussyboi's lower back. "But not enough."

Without warning, he gripped the base of the plug and slowly pulled it free. Pussyboi gasped at the sudden emptiness, his hole clenching around nothing. The sensation was disorienting, a loss that left him feeling incomplete and desperate.

"Please," he begged, not entirely sure what he was asking for.

"Patience," Master Jerry chuckled, the sound dark and promising. "You'll be filled soon enough."

The distinctive snap of a bottle cap being flipped open echoed in the quiet room. A moment later, pussyboi felt thick, slick fingers probing his entrance, pushing inside with relentless purpose. One finger became two, then three, stretching him wider than the plug had, preparing him for what was to come.

"Such a hungry hole," Master Jerry murmured, his fingers twisting and scissoring. "Already sucking me in like it was made for this."

Pussyboi moaned, pressing back against the intrusion. The discomfort had transformed into pleasure, a deep, aching need that consumed him entirely. His cock hung heavy between his legs, leaking pre-cum onto the wooden floor below.

"Please, Master," he gasped, the words torn from his throat. "I need you inside me."

Master Jerry's fingers withdrew, leaving pussyboi empty once more. The sound of a zipper being lowered sent a shiver of anticipation down his spine.

"Look at me," Master Jerry commanded.

Pussyboi turned his head, gazing over his shoulder. What he saw made his breath catch in his throat. Master Jerry stood naked from the waist down, his massive cock jutting proudly from a nest of dark curls. It was bigger than anything pussyboi had ever seen—thick, veined, and impossibly hard. The head glistened with pre-cum, a single pearl of moisture that promised both pain and ecstasy.

"This is what you came for," Master Jerry said, stroking himself slowly. "This is what will remake you."

Pussyboi nodded, unable to tear his eyes away from the magnificent organ that would soon claim him completely.

"Say it," Master Jerry demanded, his voice dropping to a growl. "Tell me what you want."

"I want your cock, Master," pussyboi whispered, then louder: "I want you to fuck me, to use me, to make me yours."

Master Jerry positioned himself behind pussyboi, the blunt head of his cock pressing against the slick entrance. "This might hurt," he warned, his hands gripping pussyboi's hips with bruising force. "But pain is part of your transformation."

With a single, powerful thrust, Master Jerry breached pussyboi's entrance. The sensation was overwhelming—a burning stretch that sent shockwaves of pain radiating outward. Pussyboi cried out, his body instinctively trying to pull away from the intrusion.

"Stay still," Master Jerry commanded, holding pussyboi firmly in place. "Take it. All of it."

Inch by inexorable inch, Master Jerry worked his massive cock deeper, stretching pussyboi beyond what he thought possible. Tears streamed down pussyboi's face, but beneath the pain, something else was building—a profound sense of fullness, of rightness, of finally being complete.

"Good boy," Master Jerry murmured, his cock now fully seated. "You're taking it so well."

The reassuring words came too soon. Despite the stretching and preparation, Master Jerry's impressive cock couldn't breach pussyboi's entrance fully. The resistance was immediate and unyielding, like hitting a wall after those first few inches.

"Fuck," Master Jerry growled, his frustration evident in the tightening of his grip on pussyboi's hips. "You're too damn tight."

Pussyboi whimpered, a confusing mix of relief and disappointment washing over him. He pushed back, desperately trying to accommodate his Master, but his body betrayed him, clenching involuntarily against the massive intrusion.

"I'm sorry, Master," he gasped, tears of frustration joining those of pain. "Please don't give up on me."

Master Jerry withdrew slightly, then tried again with more force, eliciting a sharp cry from pussyboi. Sweat beaded on both their bodies as Jerry made several more attempts, each one ending with the same result—his cock simply wouldn't fit beyond the first few inches, no matter how much lube or pressure he applied.

"Goddammit," Master Jerry muttered, finally pulling out completely. Pussyboi felt the emptiness like a punishment, his hole clenching around nothing as tears streamed down his face.

"Turn around," Master Jerry commanded, his voice tight with controlled anger.

Pussyboi obeyed instantly, turning to face his Master with downcast eyes.

Master Jerry's cock was long and thick, standing proudly erect in front of pussyboi. The veins on its shaft were prominent, pulsing with his excitement while Pussyboi could taste the salty tang of pre-cum on his tongue as he licked his lips, anticipating the taste of his Master's cock.

"Look at me," Jerry ordered.

Pussyboi raised his gaze, terrified of what he might see—disappointment, rejection, the end of his dreams before they'd truly begun. Instead, he found something unexpected in Master Jerry's eyes: determination.

"You're not ready," Jerry stated flatly. "But that doesn't mean you won't be."

Relief flooded through pussyboi's body, making his knees weak. "Thank you, Master. I'll do whatever it takes."

Jerry nodded, his expression calculating. "Kane!" he called out, his voice easily carrying through the wooden walls of the cabin.

The door opened almost immediately, as if Kane had been waiting just outside. He entered with quiet deference, his eyes taking in the scene before him with a knowing look.

"The pussyboi needs more training before he can take dick properly," Master Jerry explained, gesturing toward pussyboi's trembling form. "I want you to start enroll him in the Gay slave Academy.

Kane nodded, a shadow of a smile playing across his lips. "I've been waiting for this moment, Master. The Academy will break him properly."

Master Jerry's eyes never left pussyboi's trembling form. "You understand what this means, don't you? The Academy isn't like the ranch. The training there is... intense. Unrelenting. It's where we send the ones who need to be completely remade."

Pussyboi felt his heart racing, fear and anticipation mingling in his veins like a potent drug. "Will... will you still want me when I return, Master?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jerry approached him, cupping his face with one large hand. The touch was possessive rather than gentle. "If you survive the Academy, you'll return as my perfect pussyboi. Your hole will be trained to take any mans cock, no matter the size. Your mind will be rewired to exist solely for service." His thumb brushed pussyboi's lower lip. "But make no mistake—the process will strip away everything you were."

Kane moved closer, his presence like a shadow at Jerry's side. "The Academy's methods are... specialized. They'll start with dilation training—plugs that increase in size each day, until your hole remains perpetually open. Then come the fucking machines, programmed to penetrate for hours without rest."

"The psychological conditioning is even more effective," Jerry continued, his voice taking on an almost reverent quality. "They'll break down your identity piece by piece, until Roberto is nothing but a distant memory. You'll be reborn as pussyboi, with no thoughts beyond serving cock."

Pussyboi trembled, both terrified and aroused by these revelations. "How... how long will I be there?"

"As long as it takes," Jerry replied simply. "Some return in months. Others, years. A few never return at all—they become permanent slaved property to a Master."

Pussyboi's mind raced with questions. The Academy sounded both terrifying and thrilling—a place where he would be systematically dismantled and rebuilt. His curiosity overwhelmed his caution.

"Master, what exactly happens at the Academy? Do they use drugs or hypnosis? Will I still remember who I was before?" The questions tumbled from his lips before he could stop them.

Master Jerry's expression darkened instantly. His hand, which had been almost gentle on pussyboi's face, tightened painfully, fingers digging into his jaw.

"What the fuck did you just say?" Jerry's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Did I just hear a slave questioning me?"

Pussyboi's eyes widened with terror as he realized his mistake. "I-I'm sorry, Master, I—"

The slap came without warning, sharp and stinging across his cheek. The force of it snapped his head to the side and brought fresh tears to his eyes.

"You don't ask questions," Jerry growled, looming over him. "You don't wonder. You don't think. Slaves follow orders. They don't interrogate their Masters about methods or procedures."

Kane watched impassively from the side, making no move to intervene. If anything, his expression suggested this was a necessary lesson.

"Do you understand what you are?" Jerry demanded, gripping pussyboi's chin and forcing him to look up. "You are property. My property. Property doesn't get to know the 'how' or 'why.' It exists to be used however its owner sees fit."

Pussyboi trembled violently, tears streaming down his face. "Yes, Master. I understand, Master."

"I don't think you do," Jerry replied coldly "Look at you, crying like a fucking bitch!" Jerry's voice rose to a shout, his face contorted with rage. "This is exactly why I hate taking in wetback faggots like you. All talk until it's time to actually do the work!"

Pussyboi cowered, each word striking like a physical blow. His tears flowed faster, which only seemed to enrage Master Jerry more.

"You fucking beaner slut, did you think this was going to be easy? That you'd just waltz in here from your shithole country and get to play pretend slave?" Jerry grabbed a handful of pussyboi's hair, yanking his head back painfully. "I've got real men waiting for trained holes, not some crying Mexican pussy who can't even take dick properly!"

Kane stood watching, his expression impassive as Master Jerry continued his tirade.

"I should pack your worthless ass on the first bus plane to Mexico City right now," Jerry snarled, spittle flying from his lips. "Let you go back to jerking off to fantasies instead of wasting my fucking time!"

Pussyboi sobbed, his entire body shaking. "Please, Master, no! I'll do anything! I'll be good, I promise!"

"Anything?" Jerry released his grip on pussyboi's hair, shoving him roughly backward. "Then shut your fucking mouth and listen. You're going to the Academy tomorrow. No more questions, no more whining. You'll take whatever they dish out without complaint."

He paced the small cabin, his massive frame seeming to fill the entire space. "If I get even one report about you causing trouble or questioning orders, I'll personally make sure you're deported back to your mama in Mexico. Understand?"

"Yes, Master," pussyboi whispered, his voice barely audible through his tears.

"I can't hear you!" Jerry bellowed.

"YES, MASTER!" Pussyboi screamed, desperate to prove his obedience.

Jerry nodded, some of the fury leaving his face. "Better." He turned to Kane. "Get this pathetic excuse for a slut ready for transport. I want him at the Academy by noon tomorrow."

"Yes, Master Jerry," Kane replied, stepping forward to take charge of the trembling pussyboi.

Jerry cast one final contemptuous glance at his newest acquisition. "One more thing—from now on, your name isn't Roberto, and it's not even pussyboi. Until you earn the right to a proper slave name, you'll be called 'puto like they do in your fucking country. Until you quit being such a bitch and start acting like a real slave." "You'll be nothing but a lowly putito. That's what your kind is used to, isn't it? Laying around lazy and pathetic while the real men do the work. Just another worthless puto, like all you wetbacks." Jerry's eyes gleamed with cruel satisfaction as he watched Roberto cringe under the verbal assault. "Maybe that's your problem," he continued, relentless. "Maybe I need to stop expecting you to be something you're not. A weakling like you can only be a puto." He laughed, a harsh, mocking sound that filled the cabin. "Hell, I bet they were calling you that before you even came crawling up here. Isn't that right? Pretending to be a slave, playing at something you'll never be because deep down, you're nothing but a damn Mexican putito, just like all the rest."

' That's all you're good for right now."

Without waiting for a response, Jerry stormed out of the cabin, slamming the door behind him.

Kane looked down at the sobbing form huddled on the floor. "Stand up, Puto. We need to get you prepared."

Puto struggled to his feet, his legs shaking so badly he could barely support his weight. His face was streaked with tears, his body trembling with a mixture of fear, shame, and lingering arousal. The emotional whiplash of the last few minutes had left him disoriented, his mind struggling to process the sudden shift from potential acceptance to brutal humiliation.

The frigid Montana dawn arrived with cruel indifference to Puto's suffering. He had spent the night curled on a thin mattress in the corner of the cabin, his asshole still sore from the failed penetration, his mind racing with fears of what awaited him. Sleep had come in fitful bursts, interrupted by nightmares of rejection and abandonment.

A heavy knock jolted him fully awake. Kane entered without waiting for a response, his massive frame blocking the early morning light that streamed through the doorway.

"Up," he commanded. "Your transport leaves in thirty minutes."

Puto scrambled to his feet, wincing at the various aches that plagued his body. Kane tossed a small bundle of clothing at him—the same revealing outfit from yesterday, freshly washed but no less humiliating.

"Shower's out back. Five minutes. Then dress and meet me by the black SUV."

The outdoor shower was little more than a pipe extending from the side of the cabin, spitting lukewarm water that did little to combat the morning chill. Puto scrubbed himself quickly, teeth chattering as he rinsed off. The memory of Master Jerry's rage still burned fresh in his mind, fueling his determination to prove himself worthy.

Dressed in the thin tank top and tight shorts that left little to the imagination, Puto hurried toward the waiting vehicle. His bare feet crunched on the gravel path, another small humiliation—slaves didn't merit shoes at Iron Ridge Ranch.

The black SUV gleamed in the morning light, its engine already running. Kane stood beside it, talking in low tones with a tall Black man Puto hadn't seen before. Both turned as he approached, their conversation cutting off abruptly.

"This him?" the stranger asked, his deep voice carrying a hint of an accent Puto couldn't place.

Kane nodded, his face a mask of detached authority. "This is Puto," he confirmed, gesturing toward the trembling figure with a flick of his wrist. "Master Jerry's newest acquisition."

Puto stood awkwardly before them, the thin tank top clinging to his skin in the frigid morning air. He felt exposed, not just physically but emotionally—a spectacle laid bare for these powerful men to examine and judge. His humiliation was deepened by the way Kane spoke about him, as if he were nothing more than an object to be appraised and discarded if found lacking.

"Not ready for service yet," Kane continued, his tone dismissive and matter-of-fact. "Couldn't take Master Jerry's cock," Kane explained with a snort. "Started crying like a little bitch when Master tried to breed him. And that wasn't even the worst part." Kane shook his head, his expression a mixture of disgust and amusement. "This little puto had the nerve to start asking questions about the Academy—wanting to know about methods, procedures, how long he'd be there. Acting like he had rights."

The stranger raised an eyebrow, looking Puto up and down with renewed interest.

"Master Jerry lost it," Kane continued, clearly enjoying the retelling. "Called him every name in the book—wetback, beaner, worthless Mexican pussy. Told him he'd be deported if he didn't shape up. You should have seen the look on his face when Master Jerry said he wasn't even worthy of being called pussyboi—just a pathetic puto until he earns a better name."

Puto's face burned with shame as Kane recounted every humiliating detail of the previous evening. Each word was like a fresh wound, reopening the raw emotions he'd barely managed to process. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, but he blinked them back desperately, knowing that crying would only confirm everything Kane was saying about him.

"Typical," the stranger commented, his deep voice edged with contempt. "These Mexicans all think they're ready until they meet a real man's cock." His eyes raked over Puto's slender frame with calculated disdain. "But Master Jerry thinks this one's worth salvaging?"

Kane shrugged, his massive shoulders rising and falling with casual indifference. "Says there's potential under all that weakness. Something about his application showing real submission deep down." He reached out and grabbed Puto's chin, turning his face roughly from side to side as if inspecting livestock. "Personally, I think it's a waste of the Academy's resources, but it's not my call."

The stranger circled Puto slowly, his footsteps deliberate on the gravel. Each step sent a fresh wave of anxiety through Puto's trembling body. When the man stopped behind him, Puto felt large hands grip his waist, then slide down to cup his ass through the thin fabric of his shorts.

"At least he's got the right build," the stranger conceded, squeezing hard enough to make Puto gasp. "Narrow waist, good hips. Ass has potential once it's properly trained." His fingers dug deeper, spreading Puto's cheeks through the fabric. "The Mexican ones always think their fantasies will match reality. They watch too much porn, think they understand what submission means."

"This one's been practicing with toys," Kane offered, watching Puto's face flush with humiliation. "Though clearly not big enough ones."

The stranger laughed, a deep rumble that seemed to vibrate through Puto's body where those strong hands still gripped him. "They never do. Playing with their little dildos, thinking they're preparing themselves." He released Puto's ass with a dismissive pat. "The Academy will fix that misconception quickly enough."

Puto stood frozen, caught between mortification and a desperate desire to prove himself worthy. The casual way these men discussed his inadequacies, his body, his very being—as if he were nothing more than an object to be molded and used—should have been devastating. Instead, he felt a confusing mixture of shame and arousal, his small cock twitching traitorously beneath the tight shorts.

"Get in the car," the stranger commanded, moving to open the rear door of the SUV. "We've got a long drive ahead of us."

Puto hurried to comply, climbing into the backseat with as much dignity as he could muster. The leather seats were cold against his bare thighs, another reminder of his vulnerability. The stranger settled into the driver's seat, adjusting the rear view mirror until his dark eyes met Puto's in the reflection.

Puto kept his eyes downcast, afraid to make direct eye contact after yesterday's lesson.

The drive was a blur of mountainous terrain and tense silence. Puto watched through the window as they left the ranch behind, winding through forests and valleys until civilization seemed a distant memory. The stranger—who never offered his name—drove with methodical precision, occasionally glancing at Puto in the rearview mirror with an expression that revealed nothing.

Hours passed. Puto dozed fitfully, his dreams filled with Master Jerry's rage and promises of transformation. He woke to find the SUV turning onto a narrow road barely visible among the dense trees, the branches scraping against the windows like desperate fingers.

"We're here," the stranger announced, his voice cutting through the silence.

Puto blinked away his exhaustion as they approached a high fence topped with razor wire. A discreet sign warned of private property and armed security. The gate opened automatically as they approached, sliding aside with silent efficiency.

The Academy materialized through the trees—a sprawling complex of sleek, modern buildings that contrasted sharply with the rustic wilderness surrounding it. Unlike the weathered wood of Iron Ridge Ranch, these structures were all clean lines and dark glass, imposing in their clinical precision.

The SUV rolled to a stop in front of the main building. Before Puto could reach for the door handle, the stranger's voice froze him in place.

"When we get out, you will keep your eyes down. You will speak only when spoken to. You will address everyone as 'Sir' regardless of their rank. Understand?"

"Yes, Sir," Puto whispered, his mouth suddenly dry.

The stranger nodded, satisfied. "Your training begins the moment you step out of this vehicle. Everything that happens from this point forward is designed to break and rebuild you. Some never make it through the process. Those who do emerge as perfect vessels for service."

He exited the SUV and opened Puto's door. The cold mountain air hit Puto's skin like a physical slap, raising goosebumps along his exposed flesh. He slid out, his bare feet touching smooth concrete.

Two men in fitted black uniforms emerged from the building, their posture and movements suggesting military training. They flanked Puto silently, their expressions revealing nothing as they assessed the new arrival.

"This is Master Jerry's acquisition," the stranger explained, handing over a digital tablet. "Designation: Puto. Priority training requested."

One of the uniformed men scrolled through the tablet, his eyes flicking occasionally to Puto's trembling form. "Physical assessment indicates significant work needed. Psychological profile suggests high potential for deep submission with proper conditioning."

The other man circled Puto slowly. "Current status?"

"Virgin hole," the stranger replied. "Couldn't accommodate Master Jerry's cock. Exhibited questioning behavior and resistance to authority. Requires complete reconditioning."

The uniformed men exchanged glances. "Full program, then," the first one concluded. "We'll start with physical preparation. Mental reprogramming can begin simultaneously."

The stranger nodded, seemingly satisfied with this assessment. "Master Jerry expects results within three months. He believes this one has potential, despite the... setbacks."

"Three months is ambitious," the second uniformed man observed, his eyes narrowing as he studied Puto more carefully. "But not impossible, given the subject's clear predisposition."

The first man handed the tablet back to the stranger. "We'll begin immediately. Standard protocols, accelerated timeline."

"Very good," the stranger replied, turning to Puto one last time. "This is where I leave you, Puto. The next time I see you, you'll either be a perfect slave or you'll be on your way back to fucking Mexico in disgrace."

The uniformed men gestured for Puto to follow them toward a smaller gate to the right of the main entrance. Unlike the imposing double doors through which Masters entered the facility, this secondary entrance was narrow and utilitarian, clearly designed for those of lesser status. A small sign above it read simply: "SLAVES ENTRANCE."

"This way," one of the men ordered, his voice brooking no argument. "Masters enter through the main gate. Slaves like you use the secondary access."

Puto lowered his eyes and followed obediently, acutely aware of his place in the hierarchy. The concrete was cold beneath his bare feet as he approached the metal door, its surface unmarked except for a small scanner at waist height. One of the uniformed men pressed Puto's hand against it, holding his wrist firmly when he flinched at the sudden prick of a needle.

"DNA registration," the man explained dispassionately. "The system now recognizes you as Academy property."

The door slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a sterile white corridor that stretched ahead like the throat of some clinical beast waiting to swallow him whole. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in a harsh, unforgiving glow that left no shadows for comfort or concealment.

"All new slaves enter through this gate," the second uniformed man said as they walked. "It's the first step in breaking down your previous identity. From this moment, you exist only within these walls, only as what we shape you to be."

The corridor opened into a processing room that reminded Puto of a medical facility—all stainless steel and white tile, with various stations arranged in a methodical sequence. Several other men in similar uniforms moved about with practiced efficiency, preparing instruments and reviewing data on wall-mounted screens.

"Strip," commanded the first uniformed man, pointing to a circular platform in the center of the room.

Puto hesitated only for a fraction of a second before pulling off his tank top and sliding the tight shorts down his legs. Standing naked under the harsh lights, he felt more exposed than ever before, his body seeming small and inadequate in this clinical setting.

"Subject designation: Puto or Putito," announced one of the technicians, approaching with a handheld scanner. "Beginning initial assessment and preparation."

What followed was a methodical, impersonal examination of every inch of Puto's body. They measured him, photographed him from every angle, took samples of hair and saliva, and recorded his vital signs. Through it all, they discussed him as if he weren't present, their clinical observations reducing him to a collection of data points and potential challenges.

"Muscle tone inadequate for intensive use."

"Genital development below average, suitable for cage restriction."

"Anal elasticity insufficient—priority for dilation training."

"Body hair minimal," noted another technician, running a gloved hand along Puto's smooth chest. "Previous self-grooming evident. Natural or maintained?"

"Maintained, laser hair removal procedure," Puto whispered, his voice barely audible in the cavernous room.

The technician made a note without acknowledging his response. "Self-preparation indicates psychological readiness, but physical modifications will still be necessary."

A different technician approached with a measuring tape, wrapping it around various parts of Puto's body with clinical precision. "Waist: 28 inches. Hips: 34 inches. Favorable ratio for aesthetic presentation." The man crouched down, measuring Puto's thighs. "Quadriceps underdeveloped. Will require targeted exercises to maintain suppleness without building excessive mass."

Puto stood trembling as they continued their assessment, feeling less human with each cold observation. A female technician—or what he thought since arriving—approached with a digital tablet, making notes as she circled him.

"Skin elasticity good," she observed, pinching the flesh of his abdomen between her fingers. "Minimal scarring. Suitable canvas for potential marking if Master Jerry chooses to brand."

The word "brand" sent a jolt of fear through Puto's body, but he remained silent, remembering the stranger's warning about speaking only when addressed directly.

"Turn around. Bend forward, hands on ankles," ordered one of the technician, Puto complied, his face burning with humiliation as he presented his most intimate areas for inspection. Cold, gloved fingers spread his cheeks, exposing his hole to the harsh lighting and numerous eyes.

"Anal sphincter shows some stretching attempts but insufficient for cock service requirements," the technician noted clinically. "Grade 2 elasticity on the faggot scale. Will require intensive dilation program starting at diameter 3 and progressing to diameter 9 over eight weeks."

"Anal sphincter skin color, Mexican brown, requires anal bleaching," the technician remarked, his tone indifferent yet precise as he withdrew his fingers. Puto kept his position, feeling the cold air on his exposed hole and trying to process the relentless evaluations.

"Full anal aesthetic program recommended," the first technician elaborated, tapping on his digital tablet. "Color, scent, taste—all must meet Master's preferences. No part of this subject's body is exempt from modification."

They continued to speak about him as if he were not present, dissecting every aspect of his being with the same detached scrutiny they might apply to a lab specimen. Each comment stripped him further of any sense of self, leaving him raw and vulnerable, awaiting their next decision.

"Hair removal and bleaching must be paired with stretching regimen to maximize results," they added, moving on to the next item on her exhaustive list. "Long-term planning should include tattooing, piercing, and permanent cock cage if performance does not improve."

Puto's mind whirled at the prospect of such radical changes, but he remained silent, knowing that any protest would only prove their point about his lack of submission. He bit his lip, willing himself not to cry out, not to show weakness.

"Prostate sensitivity?" asked another voice from behind him.

A lubricated finger pushed inside without warning, causing Puto to gasp. The finger curved upward, pressing firmly against his prostate with methodical pressure. Despite his embarrassment, Puto's cock began to harden in response.

"Highly responsive," the technician confirmed, withdrawing his finger. "Prostate milking should be effective for conditioning as a faggot."

"Stand up straight, face forward," commanded the female technician.

Puto straightened, his erection now visible to everyone in the room. No one remarked on it or showed any reaction; his arousal was simply another data point to be recorded.

"Penile measurements," declared a technician, striding forward with a gleaming ruler in hand. "Length when erect: 4.5 inches. Circumference: 3.8 inches. Classification: Category 2." He paused, glancing at his colleague before continuing, "However, I suggest we consider the smallest cage model designed for Category 1 instead. It would greatly expedite the sissification process for Puto."

The other technician nodded thoughtfully, tapping his chin as he weighed the proposal. After a moment of deliberation, he replied, "You’re right; that could enhance control and ensure compliance more effectively." They exchanged knowing looks before finalizing their decision: “Let’s go with the smallest cock cage classified for Category 1.”

Puto's face burned hot with shame as the technicians discussed his genital inadequacy with such clinical detachment. Their casual decision to force him into an even smaller cage than his measurements warranted was both humiliating and strangely arousing—a reminder that his body was now completely at their mercy.

"Mental assessment next," announced what Puto still thought was a female technician, gesturing toward a door at the far end of the room. "Prep him."the

The uniformed men guided Puto to a small shower stall, where high-pressure jets of disinfectant solution blasted him from every angle. The liquid was cold and smelled of chemicals, stripping away not just dirt but seemingly a layer of his very identity. When the spray finally stopped, he was directed to a medical chair resembling something between a dentist's seat and an examination table.

"Sit," one of the uniformed men ordered.

Puto complied, his wet skin sticking uncomfortably to the vinyl surface. The chair automatically adjusted, reclining slightly and spreading his legs apart in a position that left him feeling utterly exposed and vulnerable.

A new technician entered—a tall Black man in a crisp white coat who carried himself with the authority of someone with advanced training. His nametag read "Dr. Josef Mengele," and unlike the others, he looked directly at Puto rather than through him.

"I'll be conducting your psychological evaluation," Dr. Mengele stated, his deep voice carrying an edge of command that demanded attention. "The purpose is to determine your mental fitness for the rigorous transformation ahead. I need complete honesty. Any attempt at deception will be noted and punished severely."

He positioned himself on a stool directly in front of Puto, close enough that their knees almost touched. The proximity forced Puto to look at him, to acknowledge his presence in a way that felt almost intimate after the clinical detachment of the previous examination.

"Let's begin," Dr. Mengele said, activating a recording device on the tablet in his lap. "State your former name and your current designation."

"Roberto Morales. Current designation: Puto," he replied, his voice small but steady.

Dr. Mengele nodded. "Why are you here, Puto?"

The question seemed simple, but Puto sensed layers of meaning beneath it. He swallowed hard before answering. "To be transformed, Sir. To become a proper pussyboi for the Masters."

"And what does that transformation entail, in your understanding?"

Puto hesitated, remembering Master Jerry's rage when he had asked questions about the process. "Whatever is required of me, Sir. I don't... I don't need to know the details."

A flicker of approval crossed Dr. Mengele's face. "Good. Now tell me, when did you first realize you were meant to serve?"

The question opened a floodgate of memories and feelings. Puto took a shaky breath. "I think I always knew, Sir. Even as a child I would fantasize about superior guys at school taking control of me, using me. But my first real experience was when I was fifteen..." Puto recounted the story he had shared in his application, the memory of Miguel's dominant presence still vivid in his mind. He described the taste, the feeling, the overwhelming desire to submit that had consumed him that night.

Dr. Mengele listened intently, making occasional notes on his tablet. When Puto finished, he leaned forward slightly. "And since then, this desire has only grown stronger?"

"Yes, Sir," Puto whispered, feeling oddly relieved to speak these truths aloud. "It's like a hunger that gets worse the more I feed it."

"Interesting choice of words," Dr. Mengele observed. "A hunger. Would you say it's a need rather than a want?"

Puto considered this carefully. "A need, Sir. Definitely a need."

"And what happens when this need isn't met?"

"I feel... incomplete. Empty. Like there's a hollow space inside me that nothing else can fill." Puto's voice trembled with the raw honesty of his confession.

Dr. Mengele nodded, his expression unreadable. "Many who come here describe similar feelings. The difference between those who succeed and those who fail is their willingness to surrender completely to that need." He paused, studying Puto's face. "Are you willing to surrender everything, Puto? Your identity, your autonomy, your very sense of self?"

Puto met Dr. Mengele's gaze, something in the doctor's intensity compelling his honesty. "I want to, Sir. More than anything."

"Wanting isn't enough," Dr. Mengele replied, his voice hardening slightly. "This process will strip you down to your most basic components before rebuilding you. There will be pain—physical and psychological. There will be moments when you beg for it to stop, when you convince yourself you've made a terrible mistake."

He leaned closer, his presence overwhelming in its intensity. "In those moments, what will keep you from breaking?"

Roberto clenched his jaw, battling the tears that prickled at the corners of his eyes, determined to keep his composure. "It’s the realization that this is who I truly am, Sir. Everything else was just... a performance." The notion of being a vessel, an exquisite vase crafted to hold the essence of superior men, ignited a profound satisfaction within him. He yearned to be filled with their pleasure, to embody their desires and feel utterly complete, both metaphorically and in reality—overflowing with their dominant semen.

Dr. Mengele studied him for a long moment, his dark eyes seeming to peer directly into Puto's soul. Finally, he nodded, making a final note on his tablet.

"You have potential," he concluded. "Your psychological profile indicates a deep-seated submissive nature and a genuine desire for transformation. However—" his voice sharpened "—there are significant barriers to overcome. Your tendency to question, your attachment to your former identity, your fear of true surrender."

He stood, towering over Puto's seated form. "We will break those barriers, systematically and thoroughly. By the time you leave here—if you leave here—there will be nothing left of Roberto.

A new figure entered the room, his presence immediately commanding attention. Unlike the uniformed technicians, this man wore a tailored black suit that accentuated his powerful physique. His ebony skin gleamed like obsidian in the harsh light, his clean-shaven head reflecting the clinical brightness of the room. His movements were fluid and predatory, each step calculated to maximize the impact of his imposing presence. The other staff members immediately deferred to him, their postures straightening as he approached.

"Dr. Mengele," the man acknowledged with a nod. "Is this our new subject?"

"Yes, Director," Dr. Mengele replied, his tone shifting to one of deep respect. "This is Puto, sent by Master Jerry from Iron Ridge Ranch. Initial assessments indicate high potential despite significant physical limitations."

The Director circled Puto slowly, his gaze clinical and assessing. Unlike the technicians' impersonal examinations, his scrutiny felt penetrating, as if he were looking not just at Puto's body but at the very essence of his being. Puto kept his eyes downcast, acutely aware of his nakedness, his vulnerability, his complete powerlessness before this commanding figure.

"Master Jerry has high expectations for this one," the Director observed, his voice a deep baritone that seemed to resonate in Puto's very bones. "He believes there's exceptional submission potential beneath the surface inadequacies."

"The psychological evaluation supports that assessment," Dr. Mengele confirmed. "Subject shows natural submissive tendencies with strong desire for complete transformation. However, residual resistance and attachment to former identity remain problematic."

The Director stopped directly in front of Puto, so close that Puto could smell his expensive cologne mingling with the natural musk of his skin. "Look at me,faggot" he commanded.

Puto raised his eyes slowly, meeting the Director's penetrating gaze. What he saw there made his breath catch—not cruelty or sadism, but something far more terrifying: absolute, unwavering certainty.

"Do you understand what happens here, Puto?" the Director asked, his voice deceptively soft.

"I... I think so, Sir," Puto whispered.

"No, you don't," the Director replied with absolute conviction. "No one does until they've experienced it. This isn't a training facility in the conventional sense. This is a crucible where everything you believe about yourself will be flushed away, like shit in a toilet." The Director's gaze hardened as he looked down at Puto, his eyes becoming obsidian mirrors reflecting nothing but contempt.

"That's exactly what you are," he continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "Just another piece of Mexican garbage waiting to be disposed of. When you flush a toilet, what happens?" The Director's voice hardened, each word cutting like a blade. "It swirls around and around, disappearing down that hole forever. That's your identity, Puto. That's Roberto. A worthless piece of Mexican shit being flushed away."

He placed a hand under Puto's chin, tilting his face up further. "The Gay Slave Academy doesn't create slaves—it reveals them. We strip away the lies you've told yourself, the social conditioning that has buried your true nature. What remains when all that is gone—that is who you truly are."

The Director's words resonated with something deep inside Puto, a truth he had always sensed but never fully acknowledged. His eyes welled with tears, not of fear but of recognition.

"Some cannot withstand the process," the Director continued, his thumb brushing away a tear that had escaped down Puto's cheek. "They break in ways that cannot be repaired. Others emerge transformed, having discovered their authentic purpose." His hand moved from Puto's chin to the back of his neck, gripping firmly in a gesture both possessive and controlling. "Which will you be, I wonder?"

Before Puto could respond, the Director turned to Dr. Mengele. "Full program. Begin with physical conditioning—he needs to be capable of accommodating any size. Psychological deconstruction can proceed simultaneously. I want daily reports on his progress."

"Yes, Director," Dr. Mengele nodded, making notes on his tablet.

The Director released Puto's neck and stepped back, adjusting his immaculate suit cuffs. "Master Jerry has requested an accelerated timeline. Three months."

Dr. Mengele's eyebrows rose slightly. "Impossible given the subject's predisposition."

"Make it happen," the Director ordered, his tone brooking no argument. He turned his attention back to Puto, his expression unreadable. "I'll be monitoring your transformation personally. Do not disappoint me. Master Jerry sees something in you that warrants this investment of our resources. Prove him right."

With that, he strode from the room, leaving behind an almost palpable vacuum of authority. Puto released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, his body trembling with a mixture of fear and exhilaration.

Dr. Mengele consulted his tablet, then nodded to the waiting technicians. "Proceed with initial conditioning protocols. Phase One, physical preparation."

Two of the uniformed staff approached Puto, releasing the restraints that had secured him to the chair. "Stand," one of them commanded.

On shaky legs, Puto complied, his mind still reeling from the Director's powerful presence and ominous words. The technicians guided him toward another door, this one leading deeper into the facility.

The corridor beyond was different from the sterile white processing area—the walls here were a deep, matte black that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. No windows broke the smooth surface, and the only illumination came from recessed lighting in the ceiling, creating pools of brightness separated by stretches of shadow.

"This will be your home for the duration of your training," one of the technicians explained as they walked. "The Academy is designed to minimize external stimuli that might reinforce your previous identity. No natural light, no sense of time passing, no contact with the outside world."

They passed several unmarked doors before stopping at one that appeared identical to the others. The technician pressed his palm against a scanner, and the door slid open silently.

"Cell 69," he announced. "Enter."

Puto stepped inside, his bare feet silent on the smooth black floor. The room was small and sparsely furnished—a narrow pallet against one wall, a stainless steel sink and toilet unit in the corner, and a TV hanging from the ceiling that displayed gay porn 24/7, nothing else. No decorations, no personal touches, nothing to distract from its utilitarian purpose.

"This space exists solely to break you down," the technician continued, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "You'll receive minimal comfort, minimal privacy, minimal dignity. Each day will be structured around your transformation—physical training, psychological conditioning, service practice."

The door slid shut behind them with a soft hiss, sealing Puto in his new reality. The technicians stood watching him impassively, waiting for his reaction to his confinement.

"Your training begins in one hour," the taller technician stated. "Use this time to acclimate. Someone will come for you." With that, they turned and exited, the door sliding closed behind them with the finality of a tomb being sealed.

Alone for the first time since his arrival, Puto sank onto the narrow pallet, his mind struggling to process everything that had happened. The Director's words echoed in his thoughts, mingling with Master Jerry's rage and the clinical assessments of the technicians. He was here, finally, in the place that would either destroy him or remake him into something new.

The silence was suddenly broken by a metallic click, followed by the hiss of a hidden door sliding open in the wall opposite his bed. Puto jumped to his feet, startled by the unexpected sound.

"Fresh meat, huh?" came a voice from the opening. A slender figure emerged—another naked boy with smooth, pale skin and striking blue eyes. His body bore the marks of extensive training—strategic muscle development in his legs and glutes, perfectly smooth skin, and a small pink plastic cage enclosing his genitals. "They always put the newbies in isolation first, but the cells connect through these service passages."

Puto stared in surprise, unsure how to respond to this unexpected visitor. The boy approached with casual confidence, extending his hand.

"I'm slave Danny," he said, his voice soft but with an undercurrent of steel. "Used to be Daniel before I came here. Been at the Academy for six months now."

"I'm... Puto," Roberto replied hesitantly, taking the offered hand. "Just arrived today."

slave Danny's eyes traveled over Puto's body with practiced assessment. "Mexican, right? We don't get many Latinos here. Mostly white boys desperate to serve Black cock." His gaze lingered on Puto's uncaged genitals. "They haven't fitted you yet, I see. That'll happen soon enough."

"Fitted?" Puto asked, though he suspected he knew the answer.

slave Danny gestured to the pink device encasing his own cock. "Chastity cage. Standard issue for all trainees. Keeps you focused on your hole instead of this useless appendage." He tapped the cage lightly, the plastic making a soft clink. "You'll get used to it. Eventually, you'll feel naked without it."

Before Puto could respond, another figure appeared in the doorway "And this is slave Eli," slave Danny said, gesturing to the doorway where a second figure appeared.

Unlike Danny's pale complexion, Eli had warm brown skin that glowed even in the dim lighting of the cell. His body was a study in controlled development—lean but powerful, with perfectly defined muscles that spoke of months of targeted training. A black metal cage, more elaborate than Danny's pink plastic one, encased his genitals. Where Danny's demeanor was casual and confident, Eli moved with a dancer's precision, each gesture deliberate and graceful.

"Hello, fresh meat," Eli said, his voice carrying a slight British accent. "Welcome to hell... or heaven, depending on how you take to it."

Puto nodded awkwardly, suddenly aware of being the only one uncaged, feeling exposed in a way that transcended mere nakedness. "Nice to meet you both," he managed, uncertain of the protocol for greeting fellow slaves.

Eli settled himself on the floor, cross-legged with perfect posture. "They always dump the newbies in isolation first. Standard psychological tactic—let you stew in fear and anticipation before the real work begins." He smiled, revealing perfect white teeth. "But we've worked out ways around that, haven't we, Danny?"

"The Masters think they know every inch of this place," Danny agreed, sitting on the edge of Puto's pallet. "But we've been mapping the service tunnels for months. Nothing in the rules says we can't provide a proper welcome."

"How... how long have you been here?" Puto asked Eli, trying to absorb the reality of these two slaves who seemed so comfortable in their captivity.

"Eight months, two weeks, four days," Eli replied without hesitation. "Not that we're supposed to keep track of time. Part of the disorientation techniques."

Puto swallowed hard. "And you're still... in training?"

Danny and Eli exchanged a knowing look.

"The Academy isn't like other gay slave training facilities," Danny explained. "It's not about learning a set of skills and graduating. It's about total reconstruction of identity."

"Some never leave," Eli added. "They become permanent property, or they're transferred to specialized service roles within the Academy itself."

"Like Presley Anne," Danny said suddenly, his voice dropping to an almost reverent whisper. "Have you heard of her?"

Puto shook his head, curious at the change in Danny's tone.

"Presley Anne is a legend here," Eli explained, leaning forward with an intensity that caught Puto by surprise. "She arrived about a year before me—this gorgeous Southern belle type with blonde hair and big blue eyes. Used to be some kind of debutante in Alabama or Mississippi."

"Georgia," Danny corrected with a smirk. "She was from Georgia. Old money family, daddy was a state senator or something—real white Southern royalty."

Eli nodded, accepting the correction with a slight incline of his head. "Presley Anne thought she was escaping that whole world when she came here. She had no idea what she was getting into, or what the Academy would demand of her once she walked through those doors."

Danny snorted, his humorless laugh echoing off the bare walls. "None of us do, right? But Presley Anne... she was different. The Directors saw something in her from the start. This amazing potential for change. No one else stood a chance."

Puto listened, his interest piqued by the mention of another trainee, especially one who seemed so different from the boys around him. "What do you mean?" he asked, leaning forward as Danny and Eli unfolded the tale with practiced ease.

"Like he said," Danny continued, "she was a Southern belle, but not in the way you'd expect from someone showing up here. Afro blonde hair, big eyes... looked like one of those American Girl dolls, except with more attitude."

Eli took over, his British accent lending an air of drama to the narrative. "They knew right away she was a perfect candidate. Her sense of identity was so fluid, so malleable, so "They started her on the standard program," Eli continued, his eyes taking on a faraway look. "Physical conditioning, psychological deconstruction, the works. But Presley Anne didn't just submit to it—she embraced it completely. It was like she'd been waiting her whole life to shed her identity."

"Three weeks in," Danny said, picking up the thread, "they moved her to Advanced Protocols. That's usually reserved for slaves who've been here at least six months. But Presley Anne..."

"She was a natural," Eli finished. "The perfect vessel. By month two, she couldn't remember her birth name without prompting. By month three, she couldn't remember it at all."

Puto felt a chill run down his spine. "She... forgot who she was?"

"Not forgot," Danny corrected, his voice intense. "Transcended. There's a difference. Forgetting is passive. What Presley Anne did was active—she willingly erased her former self to become something new."

"The Masters were amazed," Eli said. "They'd never seen anyone progress so quickly, so completely. They started using new techniques on her, experimental protocols that went beyond the standard training."

"What kind of techniques?" Puto asked, both fascinated and terrified by the implications.

Danny and Eli exchanged another look, this one loaded with something Puto couldn't quite identify.

"Things they don't use on regular slaves," Danny said carefully. "Deep psychological conditioning, specialized hormonal treatments, even some... neurological interventions."

"They remapped her brain," Eli stated bluntly. "Literally rewired her neural pathways until her only pleasure came from serving cock. Until her only identity was as a vessel for others' use."

Puto's mouth went dry. "

"And then she became Dr. Mengele's assistant," Danny said, his voice dropping to an almost reverent whisper. "The first pussyboi to ever cross over to the staff side. Now she helps break in new slaves, designs training protocols, even conducts initial assessments."

"Wait," Puto interrupted, a frown creasing his brow. "She? I thought everyone here was..." His voice trailed off, disbelief flickering in his eyes. "Is she the female I saw with Doctor Mengele during my assessment? I assumed she was a woman."

Eli smirked. "That's the genius of it. Presley Anne's transformation went beyond just becoming a perfect slave. The hormonal treatments, the surgeries, the psychological conditioning—they reshaped her completely. She presents as female now, though the Masters know what's beneath the designer clothes."

"She's gorgeous," Danny added with unconcealed admiration. "Like, supermodel gorgeous. Long blonde hair, perfect skin, curves in all the right places. You'd never know she used to be Preston Andrew from Georgia."

Puto's eyes widened at this revelation. "They turned her into a woman?"

"Not exactly," Eli corrected. "They created something unique—the perfect blend of masculine submission and feminine presentation. She still has her cock, though it's been... modified. Smaller, softer, rarely functional except when the Masters wish it to be."

"She's Dr. Mengele's right hand now," Danny continued. "His prized creation and closest confidante. She helps identify which slaves have potential for deeper transformation and which ones are just here to get their holes stretched."

A shiver ran through Puto as he processed this information. The idea of such a complete transformation both terrified and fascinated him. To be remade so thoroughly that even your gender presentation changed—it was beyond anything he had imagined when dreaming of submission.

Danny's expression suddenly darkened, his eyes darting to the doorway before he leaned in close to Puto. "But listen," he whispered, "don't let the fairytale fool you. Presley Anne is dangerous."

Eli nodded grimly. "She might look like a success story—the perfect transformation—but there's something... wrong about her."

"What do you mean?" Puto asked, the chill intensifying along his spine.

"She enjoys the breaking process too much," Danny explained, his voice barely audible now. "Most of the staff are clinical about it—they're just doing their jobs. But Presley Anne... she gets off on it. On the pain, the humiliation, watching someone's identity crumble."

"She has favorites," Eli added, his British accent growing more pronounced with his intensity. "Slaves she thinks have 'potential' like she did. And if you catch her eye..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

"What happens?" Puto pressed, leaning closer.

Danny glanced at Eli before continuing. "Miguel from Brazil caught her attention last month. Sweet guy, former dancer. Presley Anne convinced Dr. Mengele that Miguel needed 'specialized protocols.' Three weeks later, he couldn't remember his mother's name. By week five, he was having seizures whenever he tried to speak Portuguese."

"Jesus," Puto breathed.

"They shipped him out last week," Eli said grimly. "Rumor is he's been placed with some Saudi prince as a living doll. Doesn't speak, doesn't think, just... exists for use."

"And that's not even the worst part," Danny continued, his voice tight. "Presley Anne has access to all our files. She knows everything about us—our fears, our limits, our deepest secrets. And she uses them."

"There was a boy named Tyler," Eli said quietly. "He had a phobia of needles from childhood trauma. Presley Anne designed a 'therapeutic exposure' program for him that involved daily injections. Said it would help him overcome his fear while administering his hormonal treatments."

"Tyler cracked after three days," Danny finished. "Complete psychotic break. They had to sedate him for a week. When he came back, he wasn't Tyler anymore. Wasn't anyone, really. Just an empty shell."

Puto swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you need to know what you're dealing with," Eli said earnestly. "The Academy's purpose is transformation, yes. But there's a difference between being remade and being destroyed."

"Keep your head down," Danny advised, placing a hand on Puto's shoulder. "Don't stand out. Don't catch her attention. If Presley Anne comes to your cell or singles you out during training, be careful what you say. She's looking for weaknesses, for entry points into your psyche."

The conversation about Presley Anne hung heavy in the air, filling Puto with equal parts dread and fascination. Before he could ask more questions, a sharp electronic buzz cut through the room, causing Danny and Eli to stiffen instantly.

"Shit," Danny hissed, jumping to his feet. "That's the summons alert. They're coming for someone."

Eli was already moving toward the hidden passage. "We need to go. Now."

"But—" Puto began, still processing the implications of Presley Anne's transformation.

"No buts," Eli cut him off. "If they catch us in your cell, we'll all face punishment protocols. Trust me, you don't want that on your first day."

Danny paused at the entrance to the passage, his expression softening slightly. "Good luck, fresh meat. Remember—surrender completely. The more you resist, the longer it takes."

With that, they disappeared into the wall, the hidden door sliding shut behind them with barely a whisper. Puto was left alone, heart pounding in his chest as the main door to his cell slid open.

Dr. Mengele stood in the doorway, flanked by two uniformed assistants. Behind them stood the blonde woman—Presley Anne—her perfect features arranged in a mask of professional detachment. Knowing what he now did about her past, Puto couldn't help but stare. Her transformation was flawless; nothing about her suggested she had ever been anyone other than the poised, feminine creature before him.

"Puto," Dr. Mengele's voice sliced through his thoughts. "It's time for your fitting."

Puto swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. "Yes, Sir," he managed, rising to his feet.

"Follow me," Dr. Mengele commanded, turning without waiting to see if Puto complied.

They led him through a maze of corridors, each identical to the last—black walls, recessed lighting, no windows or landmarks to orient himself. Puto tried to memorize the route but quickly became disoriented, another deliberate aspect of the Academy's design.

Finally, they entered a room that reminded Puto of a high-tech medical suite. At its center stood a padded examination table with restraints at each corner. Various implements lined the walls—some recognizable as medical tools, others more sinister in their obvious purpose. A tray of gleaming metal devices sat nearby, the light glinting off polished steel.

"On the table," Dr. Mengele directed. "Face up, arms and legs spread."

Puto complied, lying back on the cool surface. The assistants moved with practiced efficiency, securing his wrists and ankles with padded restraints that allowed no movement.

"The chastity device is a fundamental component of your transformation," Dr. Mengele explained, moving to stand at the head of the table where Puto could see him. "It serves multiple purposes beyond the obvious

"The chastity device is more than a physical restraint," Dr. Mengele continued, his clinical tone belying the profound transformation he was describing. "It is the cornerstone of your psychological reconditioning."

Presley Anne stepped forward, her movements graceful and precise. Up close, Puto could see the perfection of her features—the flawless skin, the symmetrical bone structure, the carefully maintained blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. Nothing about her appearance suggested she had ever been anyone other than the immaculate woman before him.

"Many new arrivals misunderstand the purpose of the cage," she said, her voice melodious yet authoritative. "They see it merely as a device to prevent sexual pleasure. This perspective betrays a fundamental misunderstanding of the faggot condition."

She picked up what appeared to be the smallest cage from the tray—a delicate construct of stainless steel with an intricate locking mechanism. Even to Puto's untrained eye, it looked impossibly tiny.

"The purpose of the cage is transformation," she explained, holding the device where Puto could clearly see it. "When a male cock is prevented from achieving erection over extended periods, the tissue begins to atrophy. The shaft shortens, the girth diminishes, and eventually, what was once a symbol of masculinity becomes little more than a vestigial nub."

Dr. Mengele's eyes gleamed with a cold satisfaction as he listened to her explanation. "Indeed, the physiological changes we seek are multifaceted. While we aim to halt body hair growth and reshape cognitive patterns to mold Puto into an ideal submissive, it's crucial that testosterone levels do not plummet entirely. A complete drop would erode muscle mass—something our Masters find undesirable. They crave fit, strong 'pussybois,' not mere shadows of their former selves. Thus, we maintain a careful balance by administering injections to ensure their testosterone remains at a desirable level."

"You look skeptical, Puto," Presley Anne observed, her perfectly shaped eyebrow arching slightly. "Your expression betrays your doubt. You cannot yet see the... excitement of the chastity cage, can you?"

Puto swallowed nervously. "I... I understand it's necessary, Ma'am, but—"

"But you see it as a sacrifice rather than a privilege," she finished for him, her smile knowing and slightly predatory. "This tells me that you have not yet reached the level of obedience and control required of true faggots. There is clearly still some man left inside you, fighting to understand these basic principles of fag existence."

Her words struck Puto with unexpected force. He had thought himself ready for complete submission, yet here was evidence that some part of him still clung to outdated notions of manhood.

Dr. Mengele made a note on his tablet. "Cognitive resistance noted. Recommend accelerated protocol to complement physical caging."

"I concur," Presley Anne replied, her eyes never leaving Puto's face. "Once the effects of the chastity cage begin to influence, he will see the truth and power of the device in creating real faggots."

She leaned closer to Puto, the subtle notes of her expensive perfume—jasmine and something darker, more primal—filling his nostrils as her fingers reached for the steel cage. The scent was disorienting, making his head swim as she prepared to lock away his manhood. Her breath was warm against his ear as she whispered, "This is the beginning of your true self, Puto."

The door suddenly slid open with a hydraulic hiss, causing Presley Anne to straighten abruptly. Director Master Ulisses filled the doorframe, his imposing figure casting a long shadow across the clinical space. His eyes narrowed at the scene before him.

"I'll take it from here," he announced, his deep voice brooking no argument. He strode into the room with purposeful steps, the authority in his movements causing both Dr. Mengele and Presley Anne to step back instinctively. The Director's gaze lingered on Presley Anne for a moment longer than necessary, something unspoken passing between them before he dismissed her with a subtle nod.

"Director," Dr. Mengele acknowledged, his tone carefully neutral. "We were just preparing Puto for his initial caging procedure."

"So I see," Director Master Ulisses replied, moving to stand beside the examination table where Puto lay restrained. His powerful presence seemed to fill the entire room, making it difficult for Puto to focus on anything else. "I cage this one myself”

Director Master Ulisses dismissed the assistants with a wave of his hand. As they filed out, he turned his attention fully to Puto, who lay exposed and vulnerable on the examination table.

"Do you understand what this means?" the Director asked, lifting the small steel cage that Presley Anne had selected. The metal gleamed coldly under the harsh lights as he turned it between his fingers. "This device will reshape more than just your body."

Puto's mouth went dry as he stared at the impossibly small cage. "I think so, Sir."

"No, you don't," Director Master Ulisses replied firmly. "But you will learn."

With practiced precision, the Director applied a numbing gel to Puto's genitals. The cold sensation made him gasp, his body instinctively trying to pull away from the unfamiliar touch despite the restraints holding him in place.

"Once locked inside this cage," the Director explained, his voice taking on an almost ceremonial quality, "your pathetic excuse for manhood begins its journey toward true purpose. Each day, each hour, the tissue receives less blood flow. Without the ability to achieve full erection, the tissue begins to recede."

His strong fingers manipulated Puto's genitals with clinical detachment, sliding the first ring around the base of his scrotum and shaft. The metal was cold against Puto's skin, a shocking reminder of what was happening.

"Nature abhors waste," the Director continued, working methodically as he spoke. "Unused tissue atrophies. This is not theory—it is biological inevitability. Your cock will shrink, becoming smaller and more insignificant with each passing week."

Puto felt a surge of panic as the cage itself was positioned over his penis, the tight confines already uncomfortable even in his flaccid state. The Director noticed his expression and smiled coldly.

"The physical transformation is merely the beginning," he said, sliding the locking mechanism into place with a decisive click that echoed in the sterile room. "The psychological effects are far more profound."

As the lock engaged, Puto felt a wave of dizziness wash over him. Something fundamental had changed—not just physically, but in some deeper, more essential way. His cock, once a source of pleasure and pride, was now imprisoned, rendered useless except for the most basic bodily function.

"In the coming weeks, you'll experience a phenomenon we call 'rewiring,'" the Director explained, stepping back to admire his handiwork. "Your body, denied release through conventional means, will seek alternative pathways to pleasure. Your prostate will become hypersensitive. You'll begin to leak pre-cum at the mere thought of serving cock."

He released the restraints on Puto's ankles, allowing him to close his legs slightly. The cage felt alien between his thighs, a constant presence impossible to ignore.

"The initial resistance is common," the Director remarked, releasing Puto's wrists with a calculated grace. "But now, we begin the revered holy trinity—a cherished ritual among Masters dedicated to crafting well-trained, obedient pussyboi’s slaves. It unfolds methodically: first comes the shattering initiation into chastity." With deliberate movements, he secured Roberto into the cold embrace of a cock cage, its metallic grip both foreign and familiar against his skin.

"This cage," the Director continued, "is your new reality. Its weight and confinement will reshape your sense of self." He watched as Roberto took in this new addition to his body, an emblem of enforced inadequacy and submission. "You will perform mundane tasks around the Academy—chores that seem endless—each one reinforcing your place."

The Director’s voice was firm yet almost tender as he explained how this act was designed to spark a storm of emotions within Roberto: shame at his perceived inadequacy, frustration from deprivation, and a growing desire for what lay just beyond reach. Each glance through the metal bars became more torturous by the day.

"Every room here is steeped in homoerotic stimuli," he said, gesturing around them. The ambient moans and sounds of raw passion filled every corner—whether scrubbing bathroom tiles or tending to gardens—it was impossible to escape this charged atmosphere.

"In time," he promised, "you'll experience torment both dazzling and distressing: gentle caresses tracing sensitive lines along legs and stomach before deliberate pressure as a slick finger circled the tight anal entrance, coaxing it open with torturous patience. Each press elicited gasps that mingled pain with an undeniable thrill, sending shivers through your body as you are push toward the brink of delirious pleasure.

And time for release? Well…not now, for now though…you remain deliciously degraded… Puto.”

"Stand up," Director Master Ulisses commanded, his voice cutting through the clinical silence of the room. "I want to see how you wear your new... jewelry."

Puto carefully slid off the examination table, his movements hesitant as he adjusted to the unfamiliar weight between his legs. The cage felt impossibly tight, a constant reminder of his new status. His thighs brushed against the metal, sending shivers of awareness through his body.

"In the center," the Director ordered, pointing to a circular platform that Puto hadn't noticed before. "Let me see what Master Jerry has invested in."

Puto stepped onto the platform, acutely conscious of his nakedness, of the cage glinting under the harsh lights, of the Director's penetrating gaze cataloging every inch of his body.

"Turn. Slowly," Director Master Ulisses instructed, circling the platform like a predator. "Arms out to the sides. I want to see everything."

Puto complied, rotating in a small circle with his arms extended, feeling more exposed with each passing second.

"Pathetic," the Director observed, his voice thick with disdain. "Look at that cage—barely visible against your skin. Your little Mexican dicklette disappearing inside that steel. That's what you were meant for, isn't it? To have your manhood locked away."

Heat flooded Puto's face at the degrading words, but something else stirred within him—a confusing mixture of shame and arousal that made his caged cock twitch painfully against its metal confines.

"I don't want this clinical demonstration," Director Master Ulisses said suddenly, his tone shifting. "Show me how you feel about your new status. Dance for me, puto. Show me you understand what that cage means."

"Dance, Sir?" Puto's voice was barely audible.

"Yes, dance," the Director repeated, his patience clearly wearing thin. "Move that body like the desperate little pussy you are. Show me how much you love being caged, how much you crave to be nothing but a hole for real men to use."

Puto swallowed hard, then began to move hesitantly, his hips swaying in a tentative rhythm. He had never danced like this before, had never performed for anyone's pleasure but his own.

"Pathetic," the Director spat. "Is that how a bitch moves? Is that how you'd entice a real man to fill your worthless hole? Put your hands on that cage. Feel what you've become."

Trembling, Puto placed his hands on the small metal device, the coolness of it shocking against his fingertips. The Director's words should have offended him, should have made him recoil in disgust, but instead, they ignited something primal within him.

"That's right, cupcake," Director Master Ulisses taunted, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr.

"Touch what you've become," the Director commanded, his voice a growling bass that reverberated through Puto's bones. "Feel how insignificant you are."

Before Puto could respond, the door slid open with a hydraulic hiss. Five imposing men filed into the room, each radiating authority and power. Their tailored suits barely contained muscular physiques, and their expressions revealed a mixture of curiosity and disdain as they surveyed the naked specimen on display.

"Gentlemen," Director Master Ulisses greeted them without taking his eyes off Puto. "Perfect timing. I was just introducing our newest acquisition to his place in our hierarchy."

Puto's heart hammered against his ribcage as the men approached, forming a tight circle around the platform. He instinctively tried to cover himself, but a sharp look from the Director froze him in place.

"This is Master Jerry's latest project," the Director explained, gesturing toward Puto with a dismissive flick of his wrist. "Sent here for accelerated transformation. As you can see, we've already begun the caging process."

One of the men—a towering figure with deep ebony skin and penetrating eyes—stepped forward, bending slightly to examine the cage more closely. "Smallest model we have," he observed, his deep voice laced with amusement.

Laughter rippled through the group, each chuckle driving the knife of humiliation deeper into Puto's psyche.

"Turn around," another Master commanded. "Show us what Jerry thinks is worth our time and resources."

Trembling, Puto rotated slowly until his back faced the group. He could feel their eyes roaming over his exposed flesh, assessing, judging.

"Bend over," the Director ordered, his voice echoing with ruthless authority. "Spread those cheeks. Show these gentlemen the fuck hole that will be your only source of pleasure from now on."

Puto hesitated, his mind reeling at the demand. This went beyond anything he had anticipated, beyond the clinical examinations he'd endured earlier. This was pure, deliberate humiliation.

"Now," the Director barked, his patience clearly evaporating. "Or would you prefer I inform Master Jerry that you're uncooperative?"

The threat galvanized Puto into action. Slowly, he bent at the waist, reaching back with shaking hands to spread his cheeks, exposing his most intimate area to the scrutiny of these powerful strangers.

"Pathetically underdeveloped," one Master commented. "Barely looks used at all."

"That will change," the Director assured him. "By the time we're finished, that fuck hole will be trained to accommodate any size, any duration, double penetrations and fits."

"Tell them," the Director commanded Puto. "Tell these Masters about your hole. What it's for. What you want done to it."

Puto's face burned with mortification, but the words came unbidden to his lips, as if some deeper part of him had been waiting for this moment of absolute surrender.

"My hole is... is for your pleasure, Masters," he whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of shame and growing arousal. "It's not mine anymore. It's yours to use, to stretch, to breed. I... I want it trained to take anything you give it."

The words hung in the air, shocking in their raw honesty. For a moment, silence filled the room as the Masters exchanged glances of surprise and approval.

"Well," one of them finally remarked, "perhaps there is potential here after all."

"Stand up," the Director ordered. "Face us."

Puto straightened, turning to face the semicircle of powerful men. Their expressions had shifted subtly—where before there had been mere curiosity and disdain, now he saw something darker, more predatory. Interest had been kindled.

"Masters," the Director announced formally, "this is the beginning of Puto's transformation. Today marks his first step toward becoming what Master Jerry envisions—a perfect vessel for superior cock. In three months' time, he will either emerge as a properly trained pussyboi or be deemed a failure and discarded."

He turned to Puto, his expression hardening. "From this moment forward, you exist solely for the pleasure and use of the Masters. Your former identity is irrelevant. Your preferences are meaningless. Your only purpose is to serve."

One of the Masters stepped forward—a powerfully built man with salt-and-pepper hair and piercing eyes. "I'd like to test his oral capabilities," he stated, his tone suggesting this was not a request but a declaration of intent.

The Director nodded. "Of course, Master Phillips. The subject requires baseline assessments in all service areas."

Without further discussion, Master Phillips unbuckled his belt, the metallic clink echoing in the sterile room. Puto's heart raced as the man unzipped his tailored trousers, revealing the outline of an impressive bulge beneath expensive silk underwear.

"On your knees," Master Phillips commanded, his voice leaving no room for hesitation.

Puto sank to his knees on the hard platform, his caged cock pressing uncomfortably against his thigh as he assumed the submissive position. The other Masters moved closer, forming a tight circle around him, their presence overwhelming in its intensity.

Master Phillips freed his cock—thick, veined, and already semi-hard—from the confines of his underwear. The size of it made Puto's eyes widen, a mixture of fear and desire coursing through him.

"Open," Phillips ordered simply.

As Puto parted his lips, he felt something shift within him—a surrender deeper than physical, a crossing of some invisible threshold. The cage between his legs seemed to pulse with awareness, a constant reminder of his new purpose as Master Phillips's cock slid past his lips, filling his mouth with the taste of salt and musk. The weight of it on his tongue, the stretch of his lips around the girth, the scent of masculine power—all of it combined to create a sensory overload that made Puto's head fly.

"Look at how eagerly he takes it," one of the watching Masters observed, his tone a mixture of amusement and approval. "Like he was born for this."

Master Phillips's hand came to rest on the back of Puto's head, not forcing but guiding, establishing control with a touch that was both gentle and irrefutable. "Let's see what you can do, pussyboi," he murmured, his voice deepening with growing arousal.

Puto closed his eyes, focusing entirely on the task at hand. He had practiced this, had fantasized about this moment for years, but the reality was so much more intense than anything he had imagined. The cock in his mouth was alive—pulsing, warm, demanding. It wasn't just flesh but a manifestation of the power dynamics that now defined his existence.

He began to work his tongue along the underside, tracing the prominent vein that ran from base to tip. Master Phillips's slight intake of breath told him he was on the right track. Emboldened, Puto hollowed his cheeks, creating suction as he moved his head forward, taking more of the impressive length into his mouth.

"Not bad," Phillips acknowledged, his fingers tightening slightly in Puto's hair. "But too mechanical. You're performing a service, not completing a task. Feel the difference."

The criticism stung, but Puto recognized its truth. He had approached this like a technical challenge rather than an act of worship. Drawing a deep breath through his nose, he let go of his conscious thoughts, surrendering to the moment, to the cock that filled his mouth, to his new purpose.

His movements became more fluid, more instinctive. He moaned around the thick shaft, the vibrations of his throat adding a new dimension to the pleasure he was providing. His hands, which had been resting uselessly on his thighs, now moved of their own accord—one gently cupping Master Phillips's heavy balls, the other wrapping around the base of his cock to work what wouldn't fit in his mouth.

"That's better," Phillips growled, his approval sending a wave of satisfaction through Puto that was more gratifying than any physical pleasure could have been. "Much better."

The other Masters moved closer, their presence creating a wall of masculinity that surrounded Puto completely. He was aware of them watching, judging, their gazes hot on his skin as he performed his first official act of service at the Academy.

"Look at his cage," one of them commented, nudging Puto's caged cock with the toe of his expensive shoe. "Already leaking. The little slut is getting off on this."

It was true—without Puto even realizing it, his caged cock had begun to strain, against its metal confines, droplets of pre-cum leaking from the tip despite the lack of direct stimulation. This new kind of arousal—born not from his own pleasure but from the act of serving—was confusing yet undeniably powerful.

Director Master Ulisses noticed Puto's reaction and smiled coldly. "You see, gentlemen? The rewiring begins already. His worthless cock leaks not from being touched, but from the privilege of serving superior man cock."

Master Phillips' rhythm increased, his cock pushing deeper with each thrust. Puto focused on relaxing his throat, on breathing through his nose, on being the perfect vessel for this man's pleasure. Tears sprang to his eyes as the thick head hit the back of his throat, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned into the discomfort, recognizing it as necessary, as part of his transformation.

"I'm close," Phillips announced, his voice tightening with impending release. "Let's see if our new pussyboi knows what to do with a load."

The other Masters murmured their approval, moving even closer to witness this first test of Puto's training. The Director stood back, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his expression calculating as he observed.

With a deep groan, Master Phillips gripped Puto's head firmly, holding him in place as his cock pulsed. The first hot splash of cum hit the back of Puto's throat, triggering his gag reflex. For a terrifying moment, he thought he might choke or worse, pull away and waste the precious gift he was being given.

"Swallow," the Director commanded sharply. "Every drop."

Puto forced himself to swallow around the thick shaft, his throat working desperately to take every pulse of hot seed. The taste was stronger than he'd expected—bitter, salty, primal—but he found himself craving more even as he struggled to keep up with the volume.

When Master Phillips finally pulled back, his semi-hard cock slipping from Puto's lips with a wet sound, a trickle of cum escaped the corner of Puto's mouth. Without thinking, he caught it with his finger and pushed it back into his mouth, unwilling to waste even a drop.

"Promising," Phillips declared, tucking himself away with casual efficiency. "Technique needs refinement, but the attitude is there."

The Director nodded, making a note on his tablet. "We'll add intensive oral training to his regimen. By the time he leaves here, he'll be able to deep throat even the most challenging cocks without hesitation."

One of the other Masters stepped forward—younger than Phillips, with the chiseled physique of an athlete and dark, intense eyes. "What about his ass? That's what Master Jerry was most concerned about, wasn't it? The inability to take a proper fucking?"

"Indeed, Master Jackson," the Director confirmed. "That will be our primary focus. We begin dilation training tonight

Director Master Ulisses's eyes gleamed with approval as he considered Master Jackson's interest. "An excellent suggestion. Before we begin formal dilation, we should assess the current state of the merchandise." He turned to Puto, who remained kneeling on the platform, Master Phillips' seed still warm in his belly. "Position yourself for inspection. Face down, ass up."

Puto's heart hammered against his ribs as he scrambled to comply, turning and lowering his chest to the cold surface of the platform while raising his hips. The position left him completely exposed, his caged cock hanging uselessly between his trembling thighs.

"Master Jackson," the Director said with a formal nod, "you have my permission to conduct a thorough taste examination. Your expertise in this area is well-known among our staff."

The other Masters murmured in agreement, forming a loose semicircle to observe what was clearly considered a masterful demonstration about to unfold. Puto felt Master Jackson's powerful presence behind him, the heat of the man's body radiating against his exposed skin.

"Spread yourself wider," Master Jackson commanded, his deep voice sending shivers down Puto's spine. "Show me what you're offering."

With trembling hands, Puto reached back and pulled his cheeks apart, exposing his tight hole to Master Jackson's scrutiny. The cool air against his most intimate area made him whimper softly.

"Pathetic little Mexican hole," Master Jackson observed, his tone a mixture of disdain and anticipation. "Barely looks used at all. We'll change that."

Without warning, Puto felt warm breath against his exposed entrance, followed by the flat of a tongue sliding firmly across his hole. The sensation was electric, causing him to jerk forward in surprise before Master Jackson's strong hands gripped his hips, holding him firmly in place.

"Stay still," Master Jackson growled against his sensitive skin. "This is not for your pleasure. This is an assessment."

What followed was unlike anything Puto had ever experienced. Master Jackson's tongue worked with methodical precision, circling his rim with alternating pressure—firm enough to make Puto gasp, then feather-light, teasing the sensitive nerve endings until they sang with sensation. It was a calculated exploration, each movement designed to map the responsiveness of Puto's hole while simultaneously demonstrating Master Jackson's complete control over the situation.

"Notice the technique, gentlemen," Director Master Ulisses commented, his clinical tone at odds with the intimate act being performed. "Master Jackson is not merely pleasuring the hole, but learning its secrets—its tension patterns, its natural resistance points, its potential for expansion."

One of the observing Masters leaned closer. "The control is impressive. Look how he varies the pressure to test different muscle responses."

Master Jackson's tongue suddenly stiffened, the tip pressing insistently against Puto's entrance until it breached the tight ring of muscle. Puto moaned involuntarily, his body trembling with the effort to remain still despite the overwhelming sensations. Master Jackson's tongue pushed deeper, exploring the tight channel with deliberate, almost scientific precision.

"Remarkable responsiveness," Master Jackson observed, pulling back slightly to address the gathered Masters. "The hole wants to resist, yet there's a natural yielding quality once the initial barrier is breached. With proper training, this could become an exceptional fuck hole."

The Director nodded, making notes on his tablet. "Assessment?"

Master Jackson stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Grade 3 elasticity potential, despite current Grade 2 status. Pronounced prostate sensitivity. Excellent involuntary muscle control. Recommendation: Begin with diameter 3 plugs rather than diameter 2. This one can handle more intensive stretching from the outset."

"Excellent," the Director replied, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "We'll adjust the protocols accordingly."

Puto's body trembled uncontrollably as he maintained his position on all fours, his caged cock leaking pre-cum onto the cold, hard platform below him. A small puddle began to form, its scent mingling with the macho scent from the Masters in the room. The humiliation and helplessness coursing through Puto's veins only heightened his arousal, much to his disgust. He was nothing more than a "pussyboi" now, reduced to this state for the amusement and pleasure of his Masters.

Suddenly, Director's voice cut through the air like a whip, laced with contempt and racist undertones. "Look at this pathetic display," he sneered, nudging Puto's swollen crotch with the toe of his boot. "What do we have here? You like being treated like a worthless faggot, huh?" The other men in the room chuckled cruelly in response. "Well then, since you're so thirsty for humiliation," Director continued, "I guess you can clean up your own mess." He gestured towards Puto's rapidly growing puddle of pre-cum with a leather riding crop. "Lick it up, faggot! Show us how much you love being our little coon cumrag."The humiliation of being discussed so clinically, of having his most intimate areas evaluated like livestock at auction, should have been devastating. Instead, he felt a perverse pride at Master Jackson's assessment, at the acknowledgment of his potential.

"Return to the original position," the Director commanded. "Kneel facing us."

Puto complied, his movements sluggish as he struggled to process the whirlwind of sensations and emotions. His lips were still swollen from servicing Master Phillips, his hole tingling from Master Jackson's expert tongue. As he knelt before the assembled Masters, he felt utterly exposed, every defense stripped away.

"Gentlemen," Director Master Ulisses addressed the group, his voice taking on a formal quality. "You've witnessed the initial assessment of Puto, Master Jerry's latest acquisition. Your expert evaluations will be invaluable in designing his transformation protocols."

He turned to Puto, his expression hardening. "As for you—this was merely a taste of what awaits. From this moment forward, every hour of your existence here will be devoted to reshaping you into the perfect vessel for your Master's pleasure. Your former life, your former identity, your former understanding of your body—all will be systematically erased and replaced."

The Director's words sent a shiver through Puto's exhausted frame. This was real. This was happening. There was no going back.

"Take him to his cell," the Director ordered one of the uniformed assistants who had remained silently at the periphery of the room. "Dilation training begins at 2100 hours. Ensure he's properly prepped."

As Puto was led away, his legs unsteady beneath him, he caught a glimpse of Presley Anne watching from the doorway, her perfect features arranged in an expression of cold calculation. Their eyes met briefly before the assistant ushered him through the doorway, the weight of her assessing gaze following him like a physical touch.

The journey back to his cell passed in a blur of identical black corridors and recessed lighting. Puto's mind reeled with everything that had happened—the cage now locked firmly around his genitals, the humiliation of being examined so thoroughly, the strange pride he'd felt at Master Jackson's assessment. His body ached in unfamiliar ways, his jaw sore from accommodating Master Phillips, his hole still tingling from Master Jackson's expert tongue.

When they reached his cell, the assistant gave him a curt nod before leaving, the door sliding shut with a soft hiss that felt somehow final. Alone at last, Puto sank onto the narrow pallet, his trembling hands reaching instinctively to touch the cage that now imprisoned his manhood. The metal was warm now, having absorbed his body heat, a constant reminder of his new reality.

He had barely settled when the door slid open again. Presley Anne glided into the cell, her presence immediately filling the small space. Up close, her transformation was even more remarkable—flawless skin, perfectly styled blonde hair cascading over delicate shoulders, full lips painted a subtle shade of pink. She wore a fitted white lab coat over a sleek black dress, the professional attire doing nothing to diminish her striking femininity.

"Well, well," she said, her melodious voice carrying an undercurrent of amusement. "I see you've made quite an impression on the Masters. Particularly Master Jackson—he doesn't usually perform taste assessments on new arrivals."

Puto lowered his eyes, unsure how to respond. The warnings from Danny and Eli echoed in his mind, making him wary of Presley Anne's attention.

"Look at me when I'm speaking to you," she commanded, her tone hardening instantly.

Puto's gaze snapped up, meeting Presley Anne's ice-blue eyes. There was something unsettling in their depths—a coldness that belied her beautiful exterior.

"Better," she nodded. "Now, I understand you're scheduled for dilation training this evening. Tell me, do you know how to properly prepare yourself?"

"I... I think so, Ma'am," Puto replied hesitantly.

Presley Anne's perfectly shaped eyebrow arched. "You think so? That's not good enough. Improper preparation can lead to... unpleasant complications." She moved closer, her high heels clicking softly on the hard floor. "Stand up."

Puto rose on unsteady legs, acutely aware of his nakedness compared to her immaculate appearance.

"Turn around," she instructed, her voice clinically detached. "Bend over. Hands on the wall."

Heart racing, Puto complied, placing his palms against the cool black surface of the wall and bending at the waist.

Presley Anne stepped away momentarily, her heels clicking against the floor as she moved to a panel on the wall that Puto hadn't noticed before. With practiced efficiency, she pressed a sequence of buttons, causing a portion of the wall to slide open, revealing a hidden shower attachment with a long, flexible hose.

"Clearly, you have no idea how to properly prepare yourself for the Masters," she said, her voice dripping with condescension as she pulled the hose free. "Such ignorance could prove... unfortunate for you."

Puto remained bent over, his heart racing as he heard water beginning to flow through the hose. The sound filled the small cell, echoing off the black walls.

"A proper pussyboi knows that cleanliness is not optional," Presley Anne continued, approaching him from behind. "It's the first and most basic responsibility you have. The Masters will never tolerate any... accidents."

He flinched when he felt her cool fingers spreading his cheeks, exposing his hole completely.

"This," she said, pressing the nozzle of the hose against his sphinter entrance, "is your fuck hole now. Not your asshole. Assholes are for men. You have a fuck hole, a pussy, that exists solely for the pleasure of your Masters."

Without warning, she pushed the nozzle inside him. Puto gasped at the cold intrusion, his body instinctively trying to pull away.

"Stay still," she commanded sharply. "This is not negotiable. Every pussyboi at the Academy must learn proper douching techniques."

Slowly, she began to release lukewarm water into him. The sensation was bizarre and uncomfortable—a steady pressure building inside as the water filled his lower intestine.

"You start with a small amount," Presley Anne explained, her tone shifting to that of a clinical instructor. "Feel how it fills you? That's just the beginning. For proper cleansing, you'll need to take much more."

She increased the flow slightly, the pressure inside Puto growing with each passing second. His stomach began to distend, cramps forming as his body struggled to accommodate the invasion.

"Hold it," she instructed when she finally stopped the flow. "Clench that hole tight. Don't you dare release a single drop until I tell you."

Puto whimpered, the pressure inside him becoming increasingly painful. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he struggled to obey, clenching his muscles desperately to keep the water inside.

"The Masters expect absolute purity," Presley Anne continued, circling him slowly, observing his discomfort with clinical detachment. "When they decide to use your hole, they want it pristine. Nothing ruins the mood faster than a dirty fucktoy."

The cramps intensified, sending waves of pain through Puto's abdomen. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes as he fought to maintain control.

"Please," he gasped, "I need to release," Puto begged, his voice strained with the effort of containing the water.

Presley Anne's lips curved into a cold smile. "Of course you do. The pressure is uncomfortable, isn't it? Almost unbearable." She leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear. "This discomfort—this is nothing compared to what's coming. Remember that. This is merely preparation."

She directed him to the toilet in the corner. "Release. Now."

The relief was immediate and intense as Puto expelled the water, his body shaking with the force of it. But before he could fully recover, Presley Anne was already preparing the hose again.

"Again," she commanded. "And this time, you'll take more."

The process repeated sevaral times, so many that Puto couldn’t count them, each session more thorough than the last. By the final rinse, the water ran clear, and Puto felt hollowed out, emptied not just physically but emotionally. Presley Anne's clinical instructions and occasional sharp criticisms had stripped away any remaining dignity he might have clung to.

"Better," she finally declared, returning the hose to its compartment. "Now you're properly prepared for your dilation training." She checked her delicate wristwatch. "You have one hour before they come for you. I suggest you rest."

As she turned to leave, something made Puto gather his courage to speak. "Ms. Presley Anne?"

She paused, one perfectly shaped eyebrow arching in surprise at his audacity. "Yes?"

"The Director said... he said I would be reshaped here. That Roberto would be erased." He swallowed hard, finding his voice. "Is that what happened to you? To Preston?"

The change in her expression was instantaneous and terrifying. Where there had been clinical detachment, now there was cold fury. She moved with surprising speed, her hand connecting with his cheek in a slap that echoed through the small cell.

"Never," she hissed, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "never mention that name again. Preston is dead. He was weak, pathetic, unworthy of existence."

Puto cowered, his cheek burning from the force of her slap. "I'm sorry, Ma'am. I didn't mean—"

"You didn't mean what?" she interrupted, her perfect features contorted with rage. "To remind me of the worthless piece of Southern trash I used to be? To suggest that what I am now is anything less than my true self?"

She stepped closer, forcing Puto to back against the wall. "Let me make something perfectly clear, Puto. I wasn't 'turned into' anything. I was revealed. The Academy didn't create me—it liberated me from the prison of Preston."

Her hand shot out again, gripping Puto's jaw with surprising strength, fingers digging into his flesh. "You think you understand what happens here? You know nothing." She leaned closer, her perfect features inches from his. "Your questions reveal your weakness. Your attachment to your former self." Her grip tightened painfully. "That weakness will be burned away, just as Preston was burned away to reveal me."

With a final contemptuous look, she released him and stepped back, smoothing her immaculate lab coat. "You've wasted enough of my time. Prepare yourself mentally for what's coming. The first week is when most fail." Without another word, she turned and strode from the cell, the door sliding shut behind her with finality.

Puto sank to the floor, his legs unable to support him any longer. His cheek throbbed where she had struck him, his jaw ached from her grip, but worse was the psychological impact of her fury. He had glimpsed something truly frightening beneath Presley Anne's perfect exterior—a zealot's conviction that terrified him more than any physical threat.

Alone in the silence of his cell, Puto curled into himself, his naked body trembling. What had he gotten himself into? This was far beyond the submissive fantasies he'd entertained in Mexico City, beyond even the harsh realities of Iron Ridge Ranch. The Academy wasn't just training slaves; it was erasing identities, creating something entirely new from the ashes of what had been.

He looked down at the cage locked around his genitals, the small steel device that now controlled the most basic aspects of his sexuality. It seemed to mock him, a physical manifestation of the control being exerted over every facet of his existence. Was this truly what he wanted? To be systematically dismantled and rebuilt according to someone else's specifications?

Roberto—no, Puto, he corrected himself—closed his eyes, memories of his former life filtering through his consciousness. His small apartment in Mexico City, his job at the tech company, his occasional hookups with men who had no idea of the depths of his submission fantasies. It all seemed so distant now, as if it had happened to someone else.

Perhaps that was the point. Perhaps Roberto needed to die so that Puto could emerge.

But what if, after all the breaking and reshaping, he didn't recognize what remained? What if there was nothing left of the person he had been? The thought sent a chill through him that had nothing to do with the cool air of the cell.

Yet even as these doubts swirled through his mind, other memories surfaced—the assessment in the examination room, the overwhelming presence of the Masters, the way Master Jackson's tongue had claimed his most intimate places with such authority. The memory of that skilled tongue exploring him, mapping him, sent an involuntary shiver of pleasure through his body. His caged cock twitched painfully, responding to the vivid recollection.

Master Jackson had been nothing short of awe-inspiring—exuding an aura of power, confidence, and total command that was impossible to ignore. His physical presence was a formidable force, like a living monument to masculine strength, rendering Puto feeling minuscule and insignificant in his shadow. Towering well over six feet, Master Jackson's physique was a masterpiece sculpted from muscle and sinew, with broad, imposing shoulders that gracefully tapered into a narrow waist, forming a perfect V-shape. His assessment of Puto had been meticulous, yet carried an unexpected touch of respect, recognizing Puto's potential even as he analyzed him like a rare specimen. As for Director Master Ulisses, the sheer authority he radiated was palpable, making Puto feel as if he might dissolve into the floor, willing to relinquish everything simply to earn his favor.

Even Presley Anne, terrifying as she was, represented something profound—the ultimate transformation, the complete rebirth that awaited if he could endure what was coming. Her rage at the mention of Preston spoke volumes about the depth of her commitment to her new identity. She hadn't just changed; she had become something entirely different.

A soft electronic tone interrupted his thoughts, followed by the hiss of the cell door sliding open. Two uniformed assistants stood in the doorway, their expressions impassive.

"Dilation training," one announced. "Come with us."

Puto rose on shaky legs, his emptied bowels cramping slightly as he moved. The douching had left him feeling strangely hollow, physically prepared for whatever was to come but emotionally adrift. As he followed the assistants into the corridor, he felt a curious sense of inevitability washing over him. There was no turning back now, no escape from the transformation that had already begun with the locking of the chastity cage and would continue with whatever awaited him in the dilation chamber.

The corridors seemed endless, each turn leading deeper into the labyrinthine complex. Finally, they stopped before a door marked simply "Dilation Suite 3." One of the assistants pressed his palm against a scanner, causing the door to slide open with a soft hiss.

The room beyond was unlike anything Puto had expected. Where the examination room had been clinical and sterile, this space was designed with a different purpose in mind. The lighting was subdued, casting everything in a warm, reddish glow. The walls were padded with some sort of sound-absorbing material, creating an intimate, womb-like atmosphere. In the center stood what appeared to be a specialized examination chair, its design allowing for multiple positions and complete access to the occupant's body.

"Up," one assistant directed, pointing to the chair.

Puto climbed onto the padded surface, his heart hammering against his ribs. The assistants moved with practiced efficiency, securing his ankles in padded restraints that spread his legs wide apart, then fastening his wrists to the armrests. Once he was completely immobilized, they adjusted the chair, tilting it backward slightly and raising his hips to provide optimal access to his exposed hole.

"Master Dixon will be with you shortly," one of them informed him before they both exited, leaving Puto alone in the strange, crimson-tinged room.

The minutes stretched endlessly as he waited, secured in a position of complete vulnerability. The silence was broken only by the sound of his own rapid breathing and the occasional mechanical hum from somewhere deep within the building. His mind raced with possibilities, each scenario more intense and frightening than the last. What would dilation training entail? How far would they push him on this first night?

The door finally slid open, causing Puto's heart to skip a beat. A heavyset man with a beard stepped inside, his presence immediately filling the room. He wore a black leather apron over his bare chest, tattoos peeking from beneath the edges. His expression was one of professional detachment as he approached the bound figure in the chair.

"I'm Master Dixon," he announced, his voice low and resonant. "I'll be supervising your dilation training."

Puto swallowed hard, trying not to show his fear. "Yes, Sir."

Master Dixon picked up a tablet from a nearby counter, scrolling through what Puto assumed were his files. "I see Jackson gave you a Grade 3 elasticity potential," he remarked, setting the tablet down. "Ambitious for an untrained hole."

He pressed a discreet button, causing a hidden door to quietly swing open in one corner of the room. Behind it lay a meticulously organized display of tools and plugs of various sizes, all from the Topped Toys brand—a renowned Canadian company specializing in gay adult toys. This company sponsors the GsA, providing their products for hands-on testing by the trainees, known as the pussybois, at the Academy. Puto's eyes scanned the neatly labeled sections: "Plugs," "Rideable," "Depth," "Accessories."

Master Dixon, exuding an air of authority, focused his attention on the section labeled "Plugs." He selected an item from "The Gape Keeper" series, which he explained was crafted for extended wear. The design featured an elongated bulb that distributed pressure evenly, preventing the numbness and discomfort that can occur with prolonged use. The plug's gentle taper down to the neck was engineered to prevent it from being drawn in too swiftly, allowing the body to find a comfortable resting position naturally.

As Master Dixon pondered over the appropriate size, he elaborated on the range available in this series—from a modest 45 to an impressive 150—encouraging the salves to gradually work their way up in size, ensuring a safe and comfortable experience.

"We'll begin with this one," Master Dixon announced, selecting the size 85 plug, which has a maximum circumference of 21.6 cm and a maximum diameter of 6.9 cm, and carefully applying lubricant. "Your task is to handle it as if it were meant for you."

As Master Dixon moved closer with the plug, Puto's body instinctively tightened. The restraints secured him tightly, leaving no possibility of avoiding what was about to happen.

"Relax," Master Dixon instructed, positioning himself between Puto's spread legs. His massive hands gripped Puto's cheeks, spreading them wide apart. "The more you fight it, the longer this will take."

Puto closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe deeply as he felt the blunt tip of the plug pressing against his entrance. Despite his best efforts to relax, his body resisted, clenching instinctively around the intrusion.

"Open up," Master Dixon commanded, increasing the pressure until Puto cried out in a mixture of pain and surprise. The widest part of the plug slipped past the tight ring of muscle with a suddenness that left Puto gasping for breath.

"There we go," Master Dixon murmured approvingly as he seated the plug fully inside. "Get used to that stretch. You'll be wearing it overnight."

Puto bit back another cry as Master Dixon twisted the base of the plug, securing it in place so that he couldn't expel it even if he wanted to.

"You're doing better than most first-timers," Master Dixon commented as he selected an even larger plug from the table and began to prepare it with an almost casual efficiency.

His words should have been encouraging, but they only served to remind Puto how far he still had to go. The burn from being stretched so wide was both immediate and intense—a searing reminder that all his preparation had been woefully inadequate for what awaited him here.

"You'll find that pain transforms into something else if you let it, especially once we start using internal stimulators during your training sessions."

He adjusted a setting on the chair itself and then stepped back to observe Puto's reaction.

Shivers began at Puto's lower back and radiated outward in waves that pulsed through his lower abdomen, setting every nerve on edge. The sensation was unlike anything he'd ever experienced, a disorienting blend of pleasure and discomfort that left him gasping for breath.

"Most new arrivals fail to understand how effective shivers can be as a training aid," Master Dixon remarked, his voice almost conversational. "It's not about immediate pleasure—it's about rewiring your body's responses."

Puto was feeling the shivers when the door swung open. Director Master Ulisses entered, his presence immediately shifting the energy in the room.

"Dixon," the Director's voice cut through Puto's haze. "Why are you using a Gape Keeper 85? This puto is on an expedited program."

Master Dixon looked up from his preparations, surprise flickering across his face. "I thought—"

"Too small," the Director interrupted, moving closer to inspect Puto's trembling form. "You're taking it easy on him."

Master Dixon hesitated, then nodded. "Agreed, Sir. I underestimated."

The Director picked up a massive, uniquely shaped plug from the display. Its size was intimidating, and Puto's heart skipped in fear at the sight of it.

"The Mare Maker," the Director announced. "Perfect for this stage of his training."

Master Dixon's eyes gleamed with interest as he examined the monstrous device, its oval-shaped bulb unlike anything Puto had seen before.

"A hole-transformation trainer," the Director explained with a note of satisfaction in his voice. "Stretches fuck holes into the perfect pussyboi dreams."

He handed it to Master Dixon, who began to apply a generous amount of lubricant. "Once it's in," Dixon continued where the Director left off, "it forms an elongated gash while you struggle to grip with failing muscles." He approached Puto's restrained body with purpose.

Trembling, Puto watched as they coated the enormous device with more lube than he'd thought possible for one object.

"The unique shape helps slip it through your pelvis easier than a round toy," Master Dixon stated clinically, positioning himself between Puto's widely spread legs again. "You'll grind your taint-side lips up and down the pronounced frontal bump for an obliterating ride."

Puto closed his eyes, bracing for what was to come.

"Stay relaxed this time," Master Dixon instructed. "It'll make things easier on you." He placed the blunt end of the Mare Maker at Puto's entrance and began to push steadily forward.

Pain flared as Puto felt himself stretch around something far larger than anything he'd imagined enduring. His hole burned with intensity as the widest part started to breach him.

"Good boy," Director Master Ulisses commented approvingly as he saw Puto struggling but not fighting against his restraints.

The heavier flare reached its peak intensity inside him; then suddenly everything shifted—the resistance gave way—and Puto screamed hoarsely as new sensations exploded through him.

"On the backside," Master Dixon narrated over Puto's gasps, "the slightly flattened shape sits comfortably against your tailbone for extended wear." He twisted it into place just right so that none would slip out prematurely.

Puto moaned loudly as shivers overtook every inch of flesh; he could hardly tell where pain ended or pleasure began now—it all blended together in overwhelming waves that left him dizzy with sensation.

"The Mare Maker is breathtaking on its way in," said Director proudly from above their handiwork below—watching closely how well this piece fit within such tight confines like these—and leg-shaking once pulled free again later too if done right…" It'll be the easiest plug you'll ever take – or will it just seem easy as it turns your hole inside out? You'll only know after you finish riding it and look in the mirror to discover your hole has become a lippy, puffy, elongated gash. In other words, a mare cunt.

Overwhelmed by everything happening inside his body yet unable stop wanting more despite himself Puto felt tears streaming down his cheeks but didn't care anymore what these men saw from him now because deep down somewhere beneath all those layers being stripped away piece-by-piece lay something pure still waiting there—a raw nerve exposed but alive nonetheless beneath rough hands pulling even harder than before perhaps…?

As if sensing the razor's edge of his endurance, Master Dixon reached for an unthinkable instrument: a wand-shaped vibrator, originally crafted for clit stimulation but repurposed at the Academy to assault the mare cunt created by the Mare Maker plug. Master Dixon activated the vibrating wand to its most intense setting and pressed it firmly against the base of the Mare Maker still embedded in Puto. Puto's gasp shattered the thick air, the vibration sending shockwaves through his mare cunt; each breath was a battle through the dense atmosphere, as a torrent of moans erupted from his wide-open mouth, a vessel of raw submission, welcoming everything poured into him, against all reason, now a mare creature of pure surrender!

The Director's eyes gleamed with satisfaction, watching the transformation unfold, a once-jaded gaze now ignited by the spectacle of Puto—who defied the pattern of countless others who had walked these halls, believing themselves unique, only to be proven wrong until this moment…

"Finish him," the command resonated with a finality, the voice a thunderous decree that reverberated through the padded walls, leaving echoes that lingered like the heartbeat of authority…

Puto's mind spiraled into chaos with each torturous yet euphoric stretch, his former self dissolving into an intoxicating blend of pleasure and agony. Time, space, identity—all the anchors that once defined him—crumbled under the unyielding force of this new existence. The Mare Maker consumed him entirely, pressing into his depths, making him feel both utterly violated and profoundly complete.

"You're taking it well," Master Dixon observed with a mixture of surprise and approval, watching as Puto's body adjusted to the massive intrusion. The Director's presence loomed nearby, a constant reminder of the expectations placed upon this latest acquisition.

"Most collapse under less intense training," Director Master Ulisses remarked, his tone almost admiring. "But not you, Puto. There's something... different about you."

Puto felt a surge of pride at the acknowledgment, twisted though it was. He was proving himself—enduring where others might have failed. His caged cock throbbed painfully against its metal confines, leaking continuously onto the padded surface beneath him as if to confirm just how thoroughly he had been transformed by this first session.

The sensations were unlike anything he'd ever experienced—pleasure and pain merging into a single overwhelming force that left him gasping for breath, his vision blurring at the edges as shivers coursed through every nerve. It was too much and after what felt like hours of intense stretching, Master Dixon carefully removed the Mare Maker from Puto's trembling body. The sudden emptiness made Puto whimper, his hole gaping and pulsing in the cool air.

"Look at that," Master Dixon announced with professional satisfaction, his gloved fingers spreading Puto's cheeks even wider. "Perfect transformation as he split inside Puto’s gaping hole."

Director Master Ulisses moved closer, examining the results with clinical precision. "Impressive for a first session. The transformation is exceptional."

Master Dixon reached for a nearby digital camera mounted on a tripod. "We need to document this for the training records." The camera's flash illuminated the room in sharp bursts as he captured multiple angles of Puto's transformed hole.

"Hold him open wider," the Director instructed. "I want everyone to see what happens when the Mare Maker does its job properly."

Master Dixon complied, his strong fingers pulling Puto's cheeks apart with brutal efficiency. The camera flashed again and again, documenting the wet, puffy lips of what had once been a tight hole but now resembled something entirely different.

"See how the rim has elongated?" Master Dixon pointed out, his voice taking on an instructional tone. "The muscular structure has been temporarily altered. With consistent training, this transformation becomes permanent."

The Director nodded approvingly, then tapped something into his tablet. Almost immediately, Puto heard electronic chimes from beyond the room.

"Your transformation is now being displayed on every monitor throughout the Academy," the Director informed him, satisfaction evident in his voice. "All trainees and Masters can see what you've become."

Shame washed over Puto in a scalding wave. The thought of everyone—the other trainees, the Masters, even Danny and Eli—seeing him exposed this way, his most intimate area transformed and on display, sent a confusing mixture of humiliation and arousal coursing through his body.

"Please..." he whispered, though he wasn't entirely sure what he was asking for.

"The Mare Maker goes back in now," Master Dixon stated, already reapplying lubricant to the massive plug. "Your fuck hole needs to maintain this new mare shape overnight."

The reintroduction was easier this time, Puto's body accepting the intrusion with only minimal resistance. Once it was securely seated, Master Dixon released the restraints holding Puto to the chair.

"Back to your cell," he ordered, helping Puto to his unsteady feet. "Tomorrow we continue with the next phase of your training."

Walking proved nearly impossible with the Mare Maker inside him. Each step sent jolts of sensation through Puto's body, making him gasp and stumble. The journey back to his cell became a torturous procession, his new reality announced with every painful step.

As they moved through the corridors, Puto noticed the screens mounted on the walls. Each one displayed the same image: his spread cheeks revealing his transformed hole, puffy and exposed, the result of his first dilation session. He kept his eyes down, unable to bear the sight of his own degradation broadcast for all to see.

When they finally reached his cell, Master Dixon guided him to the narrow pallet. "Lie on your side," he instructed. "It will be more comfortable with the plug."

Puto obeyed, curling onto his side as the door slid shut behind Master Dixon. Alone at last, he became acutely aware of every sensation—the stretch of the Mare Maker inside him, the constant pressure against his prostate, the ache of his caged cock, the lingering taste of Master Phillips on his tongue.

His mind drifted to the events of the day, trying to make sense of the whirlwind transformation that had begun. Everything had happened so quickly—from his arrival at the Academy to his current state, plugged and caged, his image displayed throughout the facility. He thought of Danny and Eli, wondering if they were watching the screens, seeing what had become of the fresh meat they'd warned just hours ago.

Sleep came in fitful bursts, interrupted by the insistent pressure of the Mare Maker and the occasional involuntary clenching of his muscles around it. Each time he shifted position, the plug moved inside him, sending fresh waves of sensation through his exhausted body.

Morning—or what he assumed was morning in this timeless place—announced itself with the soft hiss of his cell door opening. A uniformed assistant entered, carrying a small tray.

"Breakfast," the man announced dispassionately. "Then shower and preparation for your next training session."

Puto struggled to sit up, the Mare Maker shifting painfully inside him with the movement. The tray contained a protein shake, a vitamin supplement, and nothing else—sustenance without pleasure, fuel for the training to come.

As he sipped the bland shake, the hidden door in the wall slid open, revealing Danny's familiar face. The other trainee slipped into the cell, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and admiration.

"Holy shit," Danny whispered, glancing toward the main door to ensure they weren't being observed. "Everyone's talking about your session last night. The Mare Maker on your first day? That's unheard of."

Puto winced as he shifted position. "It was... intense."

Danny's eyes traveled down to the base of the plug visible between Puto's thighs. "I can imagine. It took me three weeks before they even considered using that thing on me." He lowered his voice further. "But that's not why I'm here. Presley Anne has been asking questions about you."

Puto's stomach clenched with dread. "What kind of questions?"

"The dangerous kind," Danny replied grimly. "About your background, your psychological profile, your 'transformation potential.' She's interested in you, and that's never good news."