Reading Time: 6 minutes
Summary of this Story:
Ken wakes up aching on a red Naugahyde couch in Imogen’s living room, his neck stabbing with pain and back throbbing from a brutal night. Bruises cover his body after three futas, Vivian, Phoebe, and Coral, stuffed him full of cum at a Tempe house party, leaving him bloated until blackout. Now his stomach lies flat, but a faded gray chastity cage locks his dick tight amid the unfamiliar space: mahogany coffee table stacked with books on white tile, a dark big-screen TV, and a framed Sedona photo. Found passed out in an alley off 8th Street, Ken panics in this stranger’s home, raw throat scraping as he suspects Imogen’s motives. The tall futa with violet eyes and caramel skin, who drained his gut for hours, offers a bath instead of sex. Vulnerability clashes with wary gratitude while sticky white hair falls from his sky-blue eyes, towels beneath streaked yellow from his release. She eases him through beige-carpeted halls to a jetted tub, scrubbing away the cum and Jack Daniel’s stench, unlocking his cage with a bobby pin. Imogen’s unexpected kindness stirs Ken’s guarded heart against his street-hardened distrust.
Check out your Story: Waking Sore and Caged in Her Living Room
Ken’s neck stabbed with pain. Back throbbed worse. He flopped onto soft cushions, not the hard alley ground off 8th Street. Brain fog cleared slow. Muscles ached from the night before. Three futas at the Tempe house. Vivian, Phoebe, Coral. Their cocks stuffed him full. Cum bloated his gut till he blacked out. Now flat stomach. Bruises everywhere. Faded gray cage locked tight on his dick.
Red couch cracked at seams. Mahogany table ahead with neat book stacks on white tile. Big TV dark across the room. Framed Sedona photo. Towels under him streaked yellow. His cum, probably. Hair stuck to sky-blue eyes. Panic rose. Ass hurt sitting up. Sticky strands fell free.
“Look who’s finally awake.” Her voice cut the air. Head snapped. Tall futa in scarlet dress. Black braid. Violet eyes. Caramel skin. Massive tits strained fabric. Hips exploded wide. Looked familiar. Throat raw. “Wh—” Spit hacked out.
“Take it easy.” She stepped up. “Found you in the alley. Gut full of cum. Drained it for hours.” Towels made sense now. Her house. Saved from some shady futa. “What do you want?” Voice scraped. “Blowjob? Anal?” She shook head. “Bath first. You reek.”
Cum and Jack Daniel’s stench hit him. Her hand out. Palm swallowed his. Eased him up. Knees shook, he gripped her side. Wobble through hall. Beige carpet. Target poster. Bathroom tub huge, jetted. Faucet roared. “Imogen.” “Ken.” She lifted him in. Hot water shocked skin. Muscles unwound.
Washcloth with Suave scrubbed hard. Twisted him gentle. Water turned gray fast. Semen flakes swirled. Hoisted him out. Bobby pin clicked cage free. Dick flopped pale and scarred. She scrubbed it clean. Phimosis peeled back. No flinch. Dried him rough on bathmat. Handed oversized sweats. “Eggs in fridge.” Bobby pin bent by toothbrush.
“`
Ken woke with a jolt. Sharp pain stabbed the back of his neck. His lower back throbbed too. He barely twitched before flopping back onto the cushions. A weak arm flopped over his eyes against the glare. His brain ground into gear. Every muscle screamed like he’d been run through a grinder.
He wasn’t in the alley off 8th Street. That much he knew from the soft surface under him. Memory flickered. Daytime in the alley. Then the house in Tempe. Three college futas: Vivian. Phoebe. Coral. One’s twenty-first at a kegger. Didn’t matter now. What mattered was the sex. Cocks crammed down his throat. Stuffed in his ass. All three at once. Cum everywhere, enough to fill him for days, Bud cans scattered on the shag rug.
He peeked under his arm at his stomach. Flat as ever. Where’d it go? How long was he out? Bruises mottled his skin, endless purple splotches from head to toe. He felt more where he couldn’t see. The slightest shift made him grunt.
He’d outlasted them. Collected his fifty bucks. His stuff, ratty backpack, spare socks. Then… nothing. Blur after the college house. He squinted past the pain, eyes adjusting to recessed ceiling lights from Home Depot. No recognition there. Naked except the faded gray chastity cage clamped on his dick, balls swollen between bruised thighs. Same old.
New was the couch. Red cushions, Naugahyde cracking at the seams. Long enough to sprawl with room left. Better than cardboard behind the dumpster. But whose house? Panic hit. He sat up fast. Muscles howled. Ass screamed under the pressure. He gritted his teeth, limbs shaking. Sticky white hair fell from his sky-blue eyes. He scanned for escape.
Mahogany coffee table straight ahead, books and magazines stacked neat on white tile. Big wall TV across, screen black, abstract art flanking it, a framed photo of Sedona red rocks. Couch stretched forever left and right. He planted feet on the floor. Tile chilled his warm soles. Hands on cushions to push up, wait. Towels under him. White ones streaked yellow with dried cum. From him, probably. He wasn’t crusted head to toe like he should’ve been.
“Look who’s finally awake.”
Stranger in the Living Room
His head snapped sideways. There she stood, arms crossed, eyebrows up. Futa, no doubt. Tallest he’d ever seen. Towered over average futas, dwarfed him completely. Black hair in a braid over her shoulder. Thin brows over violet eyes. Sharp nose, full lips. Caramel skin, smooth save a mole under her left eye. Curves like a porn star’s wet dream. Arms under tits the size of his head, bigger, lifting them in that scarlet dress. Fabric strained at her waist, exploded at hips, clung to thick thighs. No bulge down front.
She looked familiar. “Wh—” Throat burned like nails. “I…” He hacked spit onto his chest.
“Take it easy.” She pushed off the wall, stepped closer. “Found you rough last night. About to burst from cum in your gut. Took hours to drain it.”
That explained the towels. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
He shot her a look.
“Where…” Voice scraped raw. “Where am I?”
“My house, obviously.” She smirked at his glare. Strolled nearer. He shrank into the couch. “Naked, passed out in a dirty alley off 8th. Some shady futa was gonna jump you. I… well, now you’re here.”
Memories clicked. “I see.”
Silence hung. She loomed closer, curves more insane up close.
“S-So.” Talking hurt, but he pushed. “What d-do you want? F-from me?”
She tilted her head. “What do you mean?”
“For s-staying here. I’m sore. B-but I can… blowjob. Anal.”
She shook her head. “What am I gonna do with you?” Paused. “Start with a bath. You reek.”
Cum stench filled his nose. Only thing he smelled, mixed with stale Jack Daniel’s from the night. “A-A bath?”
“Yeah. Can’t do it alone right now.” Hand out. “Come on.”
He eyed it. No choice. Slid his palm into hers. Her mitt swallowed both his hands. She eased him up, arm ready for support. He stumbled. She caught him. Knees buckled, he grabbed her side, wobbling. Grunted pain. She waited till he steadied.
Awkward waddle through the house. His short steps against her long ones. He barely clocked the rooms, beige carpet in the hall, a Labor Day sale poster from Target, eyes on her. Escape tugged him back to the alley. But this kindness, rare. Always a catch later.
Bathroom average. Except the tub. Huge, fit a crowd, jetted sides from Lowe’s. Perfect for her. Standard toilet, sink, mirror fogged at the edges. Towel rack loaded.
She parked him center floor, twisted the tub faucet. Water roared.
“What…” He yelled over it. “What’s y-your name?”
“Imogen.” Glanced back. “Yours?”
“K-Ken.”
“Cute.” She tested water, shook droplets off. “Good temp. Get in.”
Tubside Mercy
He shuffled over. Leg wouldn’t lift high enough. “Oh right.” Hands scooped his waist. Lifted him like bread. He dangled limp. She lowered him in. Hot water hit battered skin. Gasp. First real bath since… he was owned.
Submerged to his neck. Like a pool for him. Muscles eased. Bruises dulled. Head back on porcelain edge. Sigh.
Imogen grabbed a washcloth, squirted Suave body wash. Sat behind him on the rim. First scrub jolted him. Then pleasure. Small moan slipped out. Firm strokes, tender. She twisted him like a doll, hit every spot. He helped where he could, watched her close. Kind so far. But that dress stayed on.
Water muddied fast. Semen flakes from the trio. Soap runoff. Street dirt, bits of alley gravel. His skin gleamed cleanest it’d been in years. Hair rinsed straight, no tangles.
She hoisted him to the edge. Paused at the cage. “That’ll snag. Got the key?”
He shook his head.
“Figured.” Fiddled her braid, pulled a bobby pin. Bent close. Hot breath on his groin made him twitch. Poked the lock. Face scrunched. Click. Cage sprang off, pinged the tub rim, skidded tile.
His dick flopped free onto warm porcelain, over swollen balls. Relief sigh. Imogen’s eyes widened at the size.
He stared too. First look in months. Pale shaft filthy, swollen, gray dead skin patches. Metal imprints scarred it. Foreskin wrinkled tight over red glans.
“Damn. Didn’t know males came that big.”
“H-How’d you…”
“Kid stuff. Broke locks all the time.”
Fresh rag on his groin. She scrubbed cum crust, skin flakes, dirt. Lifted his cock. He stiffened, moan bubbling, then pain as she peeled foreskin. Phimosis seal. Smegma buildup he wouldn’t eye.
She worked quiet. Felt like mom care. Rare for males. He watched her still, nagging familiarity. People-watcher on the street, her route by the alley off 8th?
Done with his junk, back in the tub. Cup rinsed suds. She fished him out, yanked the drain. He bit back protest at the chill on the bathmat. Gooseflesh prickled fast. Water swirled down, semen flecks and soap swirling after, the gray cage glinting wet on the tile.
Imogen wrapped him in a fresh towel from the rack, the kind with frayed hotel stitching. She dried him rough but careful, patting the bruises on his ribs till they quit stinging so bad. “There. Less like a dumpster dive now.” Her braid swung as she stood, violet eyes scanning him head to toe, no leer, just check. Ken tested his legs, planted one foot firm on the bathmat, the other wobbling but holding. She nodded once, handed him a pair of her oversized sweats from the linen closet shelf. “Crash on the couch again. Eggs in the fridge if you wake hungry.” The bobby pin stayed bent on the sink edge next to her toothbrush.
