Your lucky enough to go on one trip to Europe with your friend, and you have only one day to see Paris? That’s ridiculous. Impossible. And exactly how you see it, although your friend has other plans. She literally drops on you the minute you get to the hotel room that she’s meeting up with her friends at a club, so you can go do your “sightseeing.” Thus, that is why you are outside, alone in Paris, at about half-past midnight.
You’re passing over a small pedestrian bridge, when you come across what looks like a young man just walking with his head down. Is that, green hair he has? How strange. You continue to walk in the same direction, toward what you think will lead you to the Centre Pompidou. It is rather abruptly, however, that the man stops and begins to take off his jacket. He has nothing on under there! It’s below freezing, and he’s gonna walk around with no shirt on? That’s ridiculous. You have an extra sweatshirt in your bag, and you run up to give it to him.
“Excuse me, sir? It’s way too cold for you to…” Before you can finish your sentence, the man turns around quickly and looks you straight in the eye, with this intense stare. It isn’t anger or malevolence, just intensity. In an extremely thick French accent, he tells you to put on the jacket. You pause for a moment, hesitant to listen to a stranger, let alone this punk tell you what to do.
Alas, being in a foreign country, without sufficient knowledge of the language or customs, you politely oblige. He silently takes your backpack from you and nonchalantly tosses it over the side of the railing. You try to protest, but he puts a grimy, dirty finger to your lips before shushing you. He pulls off your shirt with relative ease and finesse, and the freezing cold air greets your skin. It’s now that you certainly need the jacket. You look down at it. Definitely not your style. It’s ratty denim, with leather sleeves and spikes all over it. He’s drawn the anarchy symbol along with several other things on the jacket with sharpies. That indicates to you just who you’re dealing with. He commands you to put it on once more, and you back away from him defensively. He calmly grabs your face, and opens your jaw. Sucking in all the spit in his mouth, and clearing out his nostrils as well, he hocks a gigantic loogie into your mouth. He looks at you with seductive, mysterious eyes. Your brain tells you to spit out the disgusting slime, but your body instinctively swallows it! Once more he directs you to put on the jacket, minding to tell you that it was his final request. Without any hint of restraint, you slide on the disgusting jacket. It reeks to high hell. This person clearly doesn’t shower, or have access to one.
He walks you back to the nasty side of town, where you arrive at his strange abode. String lights illuminate the dingy apartment. The man guides you to a small black cage, where you obediently sit. He locks you in, and walks away. Another man, likely his mate, since they passionately made out upon simply seeing eachother, plopped down on the chair. He was clearly a much more abrasive one.
He stuck his boot onto the grate of the cell, ordering you to lick it clean. For the first time in a good while, you hesitate, but your body betrays you once more as your tongue began to slide all across the filthy yellow combat boot. He spits on it as you clean it, your tongue mixing with his rancid saliva. Eventually, he takes off his boot and shoves his disgusting socks in your face. Destroyed over years of use and abuse, the formerly French flag-themed socks now had almost black soles and reeked of toe jam and unspeakable nastiness. Without so much as a pause, you actively sniff and worship the man’s feet. Inhaling that scent, it almost completely wipes all of your memories away. The smell of hard work, the life on the street. Day in and day out. That’s your new life, they tell you, as the other kidnapper joins his partner. He rips off his boyfriend’s ripe socks and tosses them into your enclosure with his boots. One rips off the beat up sweatshirt they’re wearing, the other tosses their pants and underwear into your little cage. You are instructed to put on all these things.
Mindlessly, you begin to dress yourself, but not before they tell you to smell and taste each item. You hold the familiar socks to your face, and twist them, ringing out a bit of rancid sweat from the fabric into your mouth. You slide them onto your feet, and they cling to your skin with the moist heat. You pull the formerly white boxer-briefs to your face, and lick a fresh precum stain from the crotch, while eating some of the leftover dick cheese in there as well. Sliding those on, you put on every other article of clothing, worshiping it, experiencing it, and learning to love it. When you’re finally dressed, you feel complete.
For the next week, your new parents feed you a strict diet of weed, coke, and cock. You suck your daddy’s cocks several times every day, cleaning out their smegma and sweat. You sit and worship your daddy’s grimy feet every day from within your compact cage, eating out the toe jam and taking in their incredible scent. If you’re lucky, when they’re done fucking, they’ll hand you their creamed condom, and you’re lucky enough to slide it on and add your fill. By the end of two weeks, you’re unrecognizable. You are a slender, cocky, hyperactive little smartass, who answers only to his two daddies. Your fathers are proud of your flaming mohawk and natural musk. You share your packets of chewing tobacco with your mates whenever you feel like it, just giving em a big sloppy smooch, and puttin it in there. Your precious and sexy little body is meant only to please them whenever they demand it. It’s the job of a son to obey the father, so you better get to work.
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