Camille's Investment

Doctor F's eyes had a faraway look. "Yes, I think so. He'll be a very good boy. Isn't that right, Robbie?"

I beamed. Yes. Good boy. I'd been a bad husband. Now I was to be a good boy.

Camille frowned. "But something's still not right, though, Doctor. Am I right?"

"Indeed," said Doctor F. "He is a good boy. But he's pretending to be something he's not. Isn't that right, Robbie?"

I nodded. I wasn't sure what I was agreeing to, but it didn't matter. They had my best interests at heart.

Doctor F pushed my head off his cock. I whimpered, just like I knew I would. He and Camille each took one of my hands and helped me stand. F instructed me to remove, fold, and set aside my clothing.

As I undressed, I realized how right they were. The clothes, they were wrong, wrong for me. I'd been pretending all my life to be something I wasn't. What I really was didn't require clothing.

Once undressed, I knelt on two legs. I knew my place. Doctor F resheathed his cock in my head, grunting in satisfaction.

"Camille," said Doctor F. "Why don't we celebrate Robbie's breakthrough? With the two objects in the bag? After all, we both expected this."

My wife rustled with the black plastic bag she'd brought in. I heard a jangle of some kind. Something black, supple, and strong wrapped around my neck. A collar. My wife buckled the metal clasp at the back of my neck. "There we go," she cooed. "The first gift. A collar and tag. For a good boy."

I beamed. Yes. Good boy. I would be a good boy.

Then she pulled a second thing from the plastic bag. Velcro strips ripped. From the corner of my eye, I saw my wife step into something and pull it up her body. Then Doctor F sat on the floor, pulling me down on all fours, my mouth still wrapped around his cock. Behind me, a plastic bottle popped open. Warm fingers painted my anus with something wet and slippery. There was more wet squeezing. And then, something blunt and lovely pressed up against my back door.

"Robbie," said F. "Your wife is going to put something into your bottom. Something large and long, but pleasant. We use it to leave a little toy inside of you. You'll feel a little pinch, but when it's done, it'll help us train you, and it will keep you safe. Nod if you understand."

I nodded. Trained, and safe. That sounded good.

My wife laughed. "I tried on the strap-on earlier, but I've never actually used one before."

"Go slowly," counseled F. "The main thing is to implant the device. And we don't want to damage him his first time out. Do we, Robbie?"

I guessed not. I didn't care. I wanted my wife inside of me.

My wife pressed her fake cock into my anus, slowly. My eyes rolled up in my head, and I moaned around F's cock. I pressed myself back to help her enter me. Gradually, she tunneled up my ass, filling me.

"Why don't you play with his cock," suggested F. "His mind is very pliable right now. We need to cement these experiences with pleasurable associations."

"'Of course, Doctor,'" my wife said, in fake-nurse tones. I felt her hand grip my shaft. Oh, God. So wonderful and electric. Like the first time another human being touches you there.

Soon my wife's pelvis was flush against my buttocks. Both of my ends were filled with cock, a real one in my head, a fake one in my bottom. I realized: They were the pestles, and I was the mortar. They were making something new inside of me, out of me. Something new, and better.

"It'll implant any moment now," muttered F.

Then, deep inside me, came the pinch he had mentioned. I jerked and yelped.

"It's okay," shushed F. He stroked my hair. "It's okay. It'll pass, any moment now. It's the last gift. You'll see."

F took his phone from his shirt pocket and tapped it. He consulted something on the screen. "Ah, it's a good, strong signal. Now we'll always know where he is. This is very good."

"And the other function?" said my wife, still pressed deeply in me.

"Let's find out," said F. He tapped the phone again.

I flinched, then moaned, loudly, around his cock. Something bizarre and heavenly was happening inside my anus, just behind my balls. Something was squeezing me, and holding me, and then releasing me. Pulsing, pressing and pulling and pulling and pressing. It was nothing I could control. It was nothing I could stop.

I frantically thrust my cock against nothing and bounced my ass against my wife's strap-on. And best of all, I'd begun bobbing my head up and down on Doctor F's cock.

"Wow!" said my wife. "I'm guessing it's working?"

"Indeed," gasped F. "The implant has bonded with his prostate. The pleasure"—he gasped—"he feels is"—another gasp—"quite otherworldly."

My wife's hands clutched my flanks. "He's really going crazy," she shouted. She had to shout for all the noise I was making. "It's hard to hold on!"

"Indeed," called F. "It's expected—gaaaahhhh, God, he's actually quite good at this! Are you—aaahhhhh—certain that he's never—oh, Christ, fuck!" And then all F could do is gasp.

My wife's nails dug into my flanks. It was hard to hang on. "Not unless. He's been hiding it. All these years!"

"Uhhhh," said F. He fiddled with his phone. "It's important to time this just right." His cock swelled, and pulsed. "Oh, fuck, yes, GOD!" And he pressed something on his phone.

Two things happened. First, a hot, wet fluid pulsed into my mouth. Soapy, bitter, little chunks slithered on my tongue. Doctor F's balls were pumping my head full of cum. Just as that happened, the deep sensations inside me trebled. The world went white hot. My cock thickened and jumped and my feet clenched and my arms shook and my nuts squeezed and I screamed all around F's huge, cumming cock. And then I came. Gout after gout of cum erupted from me, not just from my cock but from me, my whole me, every cell ejaculating as I poured my entirely fluid self out, and out, and out, warmth lacing up my belly and chest and neck and dripping down onto the floor below.

The cumming, it was too much. It was destroying me. Please never let it stop.

Then F stopped ejaculating. A few moments later—moments that felt like minutes—so did I. He pulled his cock from my head. My front half, now numb, collapsed, my face landing in the pool of semen I'd produced. I'd swallowed much of F's semen, but some leaked out of my flaccid mouth and onto the floor, his jizz mixing with mine. My cock twitched to emptiness, but my rear end weakly kept up its ride against Camille's fake cock. Then Camille pulled out.

I felt so empty, so sad, and so happy, all at once. Empty because the cocks were no longer in me. Sad because the romp was over. Happy because I knew it'd be happening again. It would have to happen again. I'd do anything to make it happen again.

Panting, Camille said, "Do you think it took?"

"Almost certainly," said F, panting himself. "He's at maximum pliability, and I timed it well. I came, and then he came. So now, he'll associate others' pleasure with his own pleasure."

"In other words," said Camille, "when anyone starts playing with him. . . ."

". . . his own arousal will overwhelm him," finished F. "And he won't be able to resist them. But the neurological associations formed, along with that little implant in his prostate, won't let him orgasm until his partner—or partners—are finished with him."

"So," said my wife. "He'll do anything to please them."

"Correct. The arousal of others will arouse him. Pleasing them will only intensify it. But only when his partners have finished will he be able to release." F chuckled. "If they let him, that is. They can set the implant so he can't experience an orgasm at all. They could just leave him in a state of perpetual arousal, for as long as they like."

Camille pulled herself up to my head. "Oh, baby," she whispered. "You are so fucked. You have no idea."

Yes. Fucked. Please. Fuck me. Please fuck me. So I can cum again. I felt myself hardening already.

In my daze, time passed quickly. Doctor F zipped up. Camille dressed, then watched with glee as I sucked my own semen from the carpet. When I was done, I rose wobbily to all fours. Doctor F summoned a woman to his office. She was tall and blonde and blue-eyed, with flame red lipstick and a vacant stare. She wore clothing that seemed a blend of nurse uniform and veterinary technician. And she sported a black collar similar to mine.

"Teresa," said Doctor F. "Please take Robbie to the kennel. Introduce him to the others. Oh, and please fit him with some knee pads. He's going to be spending quite a lot of time like this."

"Yes, Doctor," said Teresa. Her voice had a far-off quality. She attached the leash to my collar.

Camille knelt and rubbed my head. "Robbie," she said. "You'll stay here now. With your new friends." She kissed my forehead. "You be a good boy."

I smiled dumbly. Yes. Robbie will be a good boy.

As Teresa began leading me from the office, Doctor F asked, "So, Mrs. Ross. Are you pleased with your investment?"

"Quite pleased," said Camille. "And half of what he brings in comes to me?"

"Mmm-hm," said Doctor F. "You'll make your money back within a month. We have many well-paying clients."

"May I come visit the kennel? To watch the training sessions? And the group play time?"

"Of course," said Doctor F. "You may even participate, if you wish. Bring friends. With a little adjusting, we can get him interested in both women and men, again. That's all part of the arrangement."

The door closed. Teresa led me away. I smiled, padding off to the kennel—whatever that was—to meet my new friends. My wife was happy. And I'd be happy. For as long as we both would live.