DA ITCHY BUTT PLAGUE
By - firstname.lastname@example.org
published September 17, 2020
You can lock your doors and bar your windows, but nothing can protect you from the sexy new plague sweeping the globe. Only the truly strong of heart will be able to stomach the mind-altering terror of that ass-centered affliction–That’s right, my friends, today we will be interviewing those who have experienced DA ITCHY BUTT PLAGUE.
NOTE: Doing this for fun, so I didn’t work hard to research that the below interviews were all culturally accurate. If my approximation of your culture is laughably wrong, enjoy your laugh with my apologies. If it’s offensive, let me know in the comments or at email@example.com and I’ll take it down.
PART 1: OUTBREAK AND DETECTION
It’s hard to remember, no? But in the early days, no one knew what was going on. They say that the outbreak in our shipyard was the first, but I think we were just the first to tell someone who listened. Doctors, I mean. Hell, it’s true we had the thing in our yard and no one knew what the fuck was going on, but then–bang! On the TV the next day, there it was being reported everywhere–in France. India. Mexico. So ignorant people like to say the whole thing started here, fucking denigrate my country like the assholes they are, but I don’t think Patient Zero was Surinamese. Just too many other places it could have started, yeah?
What happened the day of? It was the yard foreman, on my little corner of it at least. Of course, there were four or five other men who had it too, I just didn’t see them that day. The foreman was this huge, hairy guy–father of two kids. Responsible, I mean. Took his job seriously. Hardly ever talked about anything but work. A real hard-ass, if I’m being honest. Anyway, we’re working together that morning and he keeps squirming, kicking his legs a little and wiggling his hips–you know the signs. ’Course, I didn’t know what was up then, so at last I tell him to fucking calm it ’cause it’s making me nervous and he says, ‘I can’t help it, man, my ass is fucking itchy.’ Well, we weren’t friends exactly like I said so this was a lot of info for me, yeah? So I tell him to go take a shit or something or at least keep it to himself. Ballsy to say to your boss, but he was making me antsy, you understand? Well, he just stared at me with this real puzzled look on his bruiser face, like he was looking at something that wasn’t even there. Then he just fucking went for it, digging down the back of his pants like a man possessed so he can scratch his fucking ass–and from the angle of his arm and the way his forearms are pulling open his pants I can tell that he’s really digging, you know? I mean, right up his asshole.
So I freak the fuck out–well, you remember how sensitive we all were to shit like that back then. How weird it was. And I said something like, “Fucking hell, man, I don’t want to see that,” and he just moans, “I can’t help it, man, I think I need something in me,” and the next thing I know he’s shucked his pants and boxers down to his ankles and he’s down on the ground with his face practically planted in the dirt and his bare brown ass waving in the wind, and his fingers are plunging in and out of his grasping asshole so fast I can feel the heat from the friction. The foreman is fucking moaning–like, a sound I never heard from a man before, like he loved it and needed more all at the same time.
Well, I didn’t know what to do, did I? If it’d been anyone but the foreman I would have sent it up to the bosses, right? But the man who was finger-blasting himself was the most senior guy on the yard that day, so I called the paramedics. I kinda think that’s why we were the first case reported–i mean, I bet there were men all over the world giving themselves relief that week, but I was the first one to get the doctors involved. Maybe that makes me a hero, man, do you think?
It’s almost impossible to overstate just how unique this disease is, and how widespread. First, it’s communicability is off the charts. After the incident in Suriname, we saw incidences across the world, all with the same severity and stage of advancement. Very difficult to get any sense for the method of spread or vector of contagion. As best we can figure out, the disease is what we call a ‘sleeper’–an infection that lies dormant until a particular set of circumstances sets it off. What that infection is, and where it came from, is a mystery. For all we knew, this was something in our DNA from the beginning of time, just waiting to be set off.
Symptoms vary widely according to sex and age–so widely, in fact, that for a while we thought we were dealing with two separate diseases for a while. The most catastrophic symptoms were exhibited by women. After interacting with a person with the disease, women will go into a coma-like state until they are removed from the presence of anyone with the disease. The same is true of children under the age of eighteen.
That was the hardest announcement of my career–telling the world that women needed to be quarantined for their own good. The disease was so widespread, though, and the effects so dramatic, that to my the world listened. Every country set up safe zones for women and children, special areas that would keep them safe from interacting with any men–because as far as we can tell, even those men who don’t show symptoms can still be carrying the disease.
As for the men who do show symptoms–well, they can range from slight to extreme, but all involve some sort of itchy, needy feeling in the anus coupled with heightened sexual desire. You’ve seen the video footage of symptomatic men in isolation–they beg for help to scratch the itch, hump the air or rub up against the walls in hopes for relief. We’ve given them implements to use, and while they help somewhat, what seems to be most effective is something warm and living. Fingers, for example, can bring a sufferer some relief, especially if the fingers belong to someone else. Tongues are slightly better.
It was one of my graduate students who found out the ultimate treatment. Watching one of the sufferers humping the air, he had a sudden thought. It was late at night, and he’d been working hard on the problem all day, alone in the lab. Taking both ethics and the situation in hand, he went into the observation chamber where the poor symptomatic bastard was on his hands and knees, whimpering as his ass bounced in the air. It’s hard to retain professional detachment in that situation, as you can tell by my choice of words. Well, the student, acting on inspiration, shrugged out of his scrubs and applied the most primitive of tools to the situation–his eight-inch, throbbing cock. Again, you see the difficulty with maintaining detachment. We have the security footage of that first therapeutic fuck and it–well, it’s a thing of beauty. It’s like watching the discovery of penicillin.
And, to our surprise, after the grad student had unloaded his sperm into the sufferer’s clenching asshole, the symptoms subsided. The sufferer returned to his previous, non-desperate stage, and was coherent and content for at least eight hours, at which point he began to feel again the feelings of rising itchiness and sexual need. We quickly discovered that if a sufferer was fucked properly, at least once a day, they could live a relatively normal life, symptom free. It was an astounding breakthrough.
Incidentally, it was the graduate student who came up with the common name for the disease. I won’t bore you with the scientific name, which is fifteen words long. But the name he came up with–Da Itchy Butt–is perfect. Most people just say DIB, I know. But I can brag that both the name of the disease and its treatment originated right here, in my very own lab.
When the government came out with the detection system, I told myself it was a father’s duty to protect his family. My wife and daughter were already in the safe zones, but I have twin sons who were finishing their first year at the University. They are Axel and Oliver, very fine boys, and very close together. I was worried that they would be unhappy because they have lost their girlfriends, but they have shown great support to each other.
As head of the household, I was given the government handout on how to tell if I or my family are suffering from DIB. I know the world laughs at the handout, since it was made by the IKEA people, but I think using the style, with the little cartoon man demonstrating the best ways for detection, shows great solidarity for the Swedish people. And it made a difficult task somewhat easier.
I brought my sons to my bedroom and had them strip off their clothes. “Don’t worry,” I told them, “this is just the same as checking your temperature.” They nodded at me and assumed the government position on the bed, faces down with their muscular white buttocks in the air.
I took a breath and started with Axel. The handout suggested I use no foreign substance in case of contamination, so I sucked briefly on my finger and carefully inserted it into the asshole of my son. He winced a little as it pressed into him, but he took it like the brave man he is. On the bed, his brother stared into his eyes, watching his face carefully.
I tell you something–my son’s asshole is tight! Both of them, truly, but at that moment I was only experiencing Axel’s, which gripped my finger as I slowly explored his anus. I have had the prostate exam, and I know it to be uncomfortable, so the more Axel grunted the more my heart settled, for if my boy didn’t joy at his father’s knuckles pressing through his ass-muscles, then he must be safe from this terrible disease. I was just at the point of declaring him free of the contagion when my finger brushed something deep inside him and his whole young body shuddered. Letting out a wild, needy moan, Axel cried, “Oh, Pappa, more, please–more.”
Well, I stopped right there with my heart in my throat, I can tell you. But Axel wouldn’t let me, pushing back on my finger, his asshole suddenly hot and greedy.
“Oh, my son!” I cried as I began lightly plunging my finger into him to give him some relief, as explained in the handout. “I am so sorry, Axel.”
“Pappa, test me,” begged Oliver from next to him. “I can’t bear for my brother to be sick alone.”
"Nodding, I licked my other finger–for there was no way Axel was letting go of the original. Oliver reacted almost at once to my questing digit, jerking his pale body and moaning into the bedclothes. I began fingering the two son-asses presented before me, doing my fatherly best to give my precious boys some relief from their suffering.
“I should be ashamed to admit it but I was proud to be able to give my sons their medicine. When they began wriggling on my fingers and crying “More, Pappa, please,” I did what any loving father would do–I used three fingers on their hot, slick assholes each, driving them in and out roughly enough for my athletic sons to really feel my ministrations. On the edge of the bed their bare feet, pressed together, flexed with each push of my fingers. And who can blame me if I slid my crotch into their feet as I finger-fucked them in tandem? I would not want my sons to bond over the pleasure of the disease without me, would I? Of course not, no loving father would. And if I came in my pants rubbing against their feet at the same moment they blew their own youthful loads across the bedspread, all it meant was that I knew the next time I gave them relief, I should join them in stripping off my own clothes, so they could see their father’s cock spurting along with theirs and know there is no shame in spraying man-milk on your sons’ round white asses when it is part of a simple medical procedure.”
PART 2: RESISTANCE
It was a biological problem first, then it was a political problem second. This is always how it is.
I think in Turkey we handled the loss of our women better than some others. There were always those people in our society who said that women should be separated from men, and so when that became the safest thing to do, there were fewer who protested.
But what to do with the men who needed–well, you know. It is a fascinating question to a student of human nature such as myself. Would we purge them like some of our neighbors? Or let them live free in society?
Well, like most things in this country, we ended up doing something halfway, that just didn’t work. The government’s plan was just to round them all up and put them in camps till we could figure out what to do with them. It didn’t work. I mean, it really didn’t work. Well, you tell me–if you have a population of young men with a medical need for a good ass-pounding and itchy butts that drove them out of their minds, would you cram them all together behind a chain-link fence and hope for the best? And yet that’s what we did.
I was one of the guards on patrol when the breakout happened. I was walking along the perimeter when the first of them crawled over the fence–a big, hairy wrestler sort, a real mean guy. The others were right behind him, pushing on the fence so hard that it folded like wet paper. I didn’t even have time to lift my gun before they were on me. The mob swarmed all around me, tearing my clothes off so rabidly I only found bits of fabric afterward. Suddenly there were men all around me, pushing and whining and grunting and begging, and all of them pawing desperately at my dick. And I–well, I’m only human, and even though it wasn’t really my scene or anything I got stiff just the same, and that was all the mob needed. The next thing I know they’re lifting me right up the ground and forcing me into their leader’s spread asshole. Every bit of my stripped body had hands on it, shoving me in and out of that hot wet–
[Clears throat] Well, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. It was more like the mob was fucking him, using me, than me doing it on my own. Fuck, though, in honesty I came buckets in pretty quick order. I should have gone limp after that, but however it was, I had only about ten seconds before I was being pushed into another needy asshole. Might have been pheremones or something, I don’t know. All I really know is–it was the weirdest and sexiest thing of my life. I mean, eventually I was pushed up and over the mob, with my dick slamming into asshole after asshole below while my head and shoulders were above the crowd. It was like floating in the ocean, except the ocean is a crowd of writhing naked men and you’re fucking the ocean as you floated. I don’t know–I guess no one else will really understand how it felt.
Eventually I did run out of juice and the mob moved on, leaving me in nothing but my boots in the churned-up, cummy mud of the camp. Some of the other guards came to pick me up after a few hours. A lot of them were naked too, and smeared with the prisoner’s sex stuff. We didn’t say anything to each other about it, but I could tell we all agreed that containment just wasn’t the answer.
My Pa’s the pastor of the Holy Jesus Rising Evangelical Church, and when they took Ma and my sisters away he was one of that group that marched on the Capitol. Well, they shut down that march of it like we seen on the TV, but that didn’t stop my Pa, no sir. He jus’ kept on preaching that it was the end times and that the homosexuals was ruinin’ civilization.
It scared me something terrible ‘cos I had an itch in my ass that just wouldn’t go away, no matter how I dug at it. Almost drove me fuckin’ nuts, needin’ something up in there all the time. And shit, it was confusing but every time I was around a man I felt fuckin’ drawn to him, like he had the answer to that itch. Was randy as a goat, when it came down to it, but needed somethin’ my Pa taught me was unnatural.
Well, hell, to make it short one day he caught me bareassed on my bed with my legs up over my head and half my hand up in my asshole. Pa went all red-faced and said I was possessed and dragged me still bareassed to the church, which was just a barn on our property with a sign in front of it. He called the elders of the church and told ‘em I needed exorcisin’ and that the devil was among us and the whole time I was trying to be good but fuck I needed somethin’ to scratch that itch.
When he finally got his exorcism together he had all the men stand around me in a circle shoutin’ at me, and fuck but with all them good ol’ boys around me smellin’ of man I guess I did wonder if I had the devil in me, because that need for something thick and live in my ass grew till it was near screamin’ in my head as loud as them elders screamin’ I was damned.
I don’t know what would have fuckin’ done with them screamin’ at me and me writhing on the floor needin’ it so bad, but just when I thought I couldn’t take it no more the door of barn slams open and there’s Joe the mailman for these parts, buck naked except for his boots and holding a sawed-off shotgun, his pecker like a fuckin’ third arm sticking outta his crotch.
“You let that boy go,” he says to my Pa, pointin’ that shotgun at him. The other elders back off real quick, but Pa ain’t budging.
“Ain’t your concern, Joseph,” he says. “Boy’s got the devil in him. He needs exorcisin’.”
“Boy don’t need nothing but medical treatment,” says Joe, advancing on my Pa, keepin’ that shotgun trained on him. Well, Pa kinda swallows and backs off, and the next thing I know Joe’s leaning over me and saying, “They hurt you any, son?”
“I need it bad, Joe,” I say, thinkin’ I’m gonna start bawlin’ it itches so much.
“Don’t you worry none,” he says, and the next thing I know he’s got my ankles in one fist, that’s how big his hands are, and he pushes them up over my head so my ass is all spread out for him, and then he just sinks into me–like I was expecting it to hurt some but he locked into me like my ass was molded to his cock, and I start whimperin’ like a kitten coz it my fuckin’ ass is finally gettin’ some relief.
So Joe fuckin’ deep-dicks me, right there in front of my Pa and the elders of the church, and I’m there actin’ like any chick on her first crush, starin’ into old Joe’s eyes as he’s slammin’ me and thinkin’ he’s the finest man I ever saw. And all the rubbin’ on my ass is gettin’ me really hot, too, and when I come it’s this weird long cum that just keeps getting more and more intense, and I grab.Joe’s shoulders as my cum just sort of flows outta my cock between us. By that time Joe’s doin’ his own stud-man cum, and lemme tell you it’s like havin’ a firehose sprayin’ hot gravy up inside me, sortin’ out the itch and makin’ me curl my toes.
Joe didn’t even let me go after we both came down from it. He just scooped me up in them huge arms of his, not even shakin’ even though it’s not like I’m a small man myself or nothin’. Joe carries me up and outta that barn, and I’m so wiped I just put my head on his neck and focus on feelin’ sexed-up and safe.
“You bring my son back, Joseph Meers,” snarls my Pa after us, all red-faced like his heart is acting up.
“I reckon you ain’t got a son no more,” says Joe, pattin’ my ass as he carries me to where he’s got his pickup. “Boy needs to have someone watchin’ over him who knows when to give him what he needs, not a lot of bullshit.”
But that’s Joe–he’s got a heart bigger than a whale, no mistake. We live out on his farm now, and he’s always goin’ out and savin’s other men like me who are gettin’ punished by their religion just for havin’ an itchy butt. And honestly–and I know I ain’t supposed to say this–but I’m kinda glad I got sick, especially when it gets bad and I know that Joe will be right there to sort me out good and proper.
Of course it was very restrained, very middle-class. Our leaders relied on us, they said, to react with dignity and decorum. It was unfortunate that there were men in our society who needed what they called “penetrative therapy,” but we were not to make the matter worse for everyone by calling attention to it. It was an approach my grandfather might have appreciated–look at a problem full in its face and pretend with your full force of will that you aren’t seeing what is in front of you.
One of the most telling moments, for me, was one incident on the morning train. We were on the long stretch into Nagoya proper, and there was a man who was a sufferer across from me. Nice business suit, expensive watch–he was obviously one of the city’s more successful businessmen. He kept his eyes straight ahead, but every so often a tiny agonized moan escaped his lips.
Someone must have rung a bell somewhere because one of the train officers in his tan uniforms worked his way to the man and drew up close behind him. “Sir,” he said, in a voice so quiet only I could hear it, “do you need some relief?”
“Yes, thank you,” said the businessman, not even looking back at the officer. The officer then unlatched his fly and pulled out a dark-colored penis, so thick it looked like a snakehead coming out of his pants. From the way everyone in the car stood straighter you could tell we were all watching and none of us thought there was room in the businessman’s narrow bottom for that monster. Still, we didn’t say anything.
The officer pulled the businessman’s expensive suit pants down so that they were snugly under the curve of the businessman’s buttocks, and then slowly sank into the businessman, his feet set wide apart on the floor to keep from being knocked off balance by the movement of the train. The businessman was pretending to check his phone while the thick pillar of the officer’s manhood pressed deeper and deeper into him, but he couldn’t help small happy moans from escaping as the officer at last stepped slightly forward and locked their hips together, his enormous penis wedged firmly into the businessman’s grasping bottom. The two men began to sway very slightly in rhythm with the swaying of the train, the officer staring blankly past the businessman’s shoulder while the businessman continued to pretend to watch his phone, saying “Oh!” from time to time as the officer’s snake stirred in his guts. And you know, every man in that train car kept his eyes on his phone, but we were all watching that businessman getting quietly fucked by that horse-hung officer.
And then the businessman suddenly gripped the overhead straps and said his final “Oh!” and a dark spot bloomed on the crotch of his pants even as the officer’s mouth trembled and he stiffened to attention, only twitching very slightly as he unloaded into the businessman. The two of them stood for a moment in a rigid pose like a statue, then the officer pulled his cock from the businessman’s bottom and bowed very slightly.
“I hope you will have a pleasant rest of your day, sir,” he said, respectfully pulling the man’s pants back up over his recently-seeded buttocks. The businessman nodded, and returned to looking at his phone for real this time. And the rest of us did too, but as the officer tucked his penis away and strode off I think most of us were glancing at the wet fabric at the crotch–and now the seat–of the businessman’s pants and thinking that it could have been any one of us.
So they pair us up and tell us we’re health workers now, yeah? Let us go door to door like them American missionaries. You got a sufferer in the building, you get an X on the door, super simple. X’s get food handouts, but they can’t leave. Gotta stay at home, using whatever they can to scratch that itch. Poor fuckers, right?
Now I’m paired up with a man named Chigaru, looks like a model, lots of smooth thick muscle and that smoldering look like he’s got sex on the brain. They tell us the itchy butts don’t got preference or nothing, just want something fat and warm up in them–but I tell you, the way they look at Chigaru says they aren’t missing that he’s a handsome fucker. Think he was dating some actress before all the women went away, that level of looks.
So we’re in a neighborhood one day and we come on this abandoned house, so we stop to take a smoke and Chigaru says to me, “You ever think about what it feels like?” And I’m all man so I say hell no, but I’m watching the handsome man out of the corner of my eye because–well, you know, with the women gone no one but the itchy butts are getting any, yeah? And Chigaru tells me all about how, before we were partners, he was out X-ing out a neighborhood and came on some dudes going at it, and the itchy butt on the bottom was squealing like he was seeing Jesus and all the Saints together while the guy on top plunged him good and proper. And Chigaru, that fucking stud, says to me, “If it’s that good, maybe it’s worth a try, yeah?”
And I’m not gonna say what all happened after that because there are still some people who think it isn’t decent or something, but what I can say is that it turns out that two men who haven’t got the itchy butt at all can make a pretty good showing of buttsex. Was only once and we weren’t partners for long after that, but fuck was it intense. We didn’t leave the house for three hours. Almost got in trouble with the brass.
So, yeah, I’ve indulged a little since then. Haven’t met a man yet like Chigaru who I slotted into all perfect, and for sure I haven’t tried to get off with a non-sufferer–but who needs that? There are plenty of itchy butts begging for it, yeah? And the real nice thing is that all the places I can sink my cock into a willing ass have nice bright X’s on them, so I always know where to go.
PART 3: INTEGRATION
There’s money to be made in it, in my opinion. Recognizing the situation, not being afraid of it, I mean. Saying, “So, things aren’t changing, so what now?” Taking advantage of a market before most people even realize there’s a market there.
So I run a little pub, right? Nothing too posh, but we got ambitions. We were pretty much just your basic neighborhood pub up until the pandemic happened. We suffered along with everyone else when people were worried about getting sick and all. But when we came back–well, I wanted to come back proper, right? Really make a splash.
I got the idea from watching on the telly what they did down in Germany, the holding cells for the DIB-ers. All them men in a small room, aching for a fix, you know, and some of them getting it good from the volunteers, and I think–well, what if they had a beer, too? To go with their, you know, treatment?
So when we come back I just go for it. Let people know that DIB-ers are all right in my pub. Encourage them, even. I got this new uniform on my staff, a smart button-up and no pants. Just let their beef and potatoes swing, right? And maybe I start hiring for it. Nothing discriminatory or anything, but maybe if a bloke I’m interviewing has a hefty sausage he don’t mind showing off, maybe that’s a point in his favor, yeah?
And let me tell you, they come in fucking droves. Most pubs wouldn’t even let the DIB-ers in at the start, but my doors were wide open. And if they get a little poke from the staff while they’re getting their beer, that just means a better night for them and a bigger tip for us, right? And the government can’t do a thing about it, because all my servers are performing a fucking medical service! It’s priceless.
I tell you–sometimes I just stand at the bar and watch all the customers getting their asses reamed out by my staff and it gets me going, you know? It’s the sound of pure money, all that moaning and spurting. And–hell, it’s true that there’s been some noise complaints and the floor’s a little stickier than it used to be, but we’re making max tips and in another month we’ll open up another branch in a better part of town. Gonna call it the Cock and Balls, really lean into it. And we just gotta hope they never come up with a vaccine for this shit, am I right?
The new approved exercises are optimized for our soldiers’ health and focus. We run these exercises every morning and night.
Soldiers are to pair up for a partner exercise. Partners may be bunk mates or others, but we find it helps morale if partners are chosen from the same company. Partners elect a position, primary or secondary. The soldier selecting primary is instructed to bend over. Discipline suggests that the primary be able to grasp his own ankles in this position. Soldiers who are unable to manage the position should increase flexibility until the position is more comfortable.
Once the primary has taken the stance, the secondary is expected to erect his penis and use it to breach the now exposed anus of the primary. At the barracks, this exercise can be supplemented by an assist who prepares the secondary’s genitals with military-grade lubricant, but soldiers should be instructed on methods for providing their own lubrication during field operations.
Once secured in the primary’s anus, the secondary is to gyrate his hips in a pistoning motion, stimulating the length of his own penis while providing maximum surface contact to the lining of the primary’s anus. This is repeated until the secondary achieves climax and deposits sperm into the anal cavity of the primary. Once that exercise is complete, the primary and secondary switch roles and the exercise begins again.
Several significant changes have occurred to this now mandatory exercise regimen over the past year. At first, this exercise was only required for sufferers of DIB, but we found that, given the prevalence of the disease, it was more efficient to have all soldiers participate. There was initial resistance among the non-DIB soldiers, but after weeks of forced participation in the exercise many of the loudest protesters became the most dedicated supporters.
We have also relaxed some of the requirements of the exercise itself. Initially, the primary was instructed to remain silent for the duration of the exercise while the secondary counted out the strokes of his penis inside the anus. However, we found that morale was improved and the exercise was more effective if soldiers felt free to express individual thoughts during the proceedings. Now, against our general practice, primary’s are encouraged to comment on the feel of the secondary’s erected penis and it’s motion inside their anus, the extent that they need the exercise, and appreciation of the size, girth, temperature, and enthusiasm of the secondary. The secondary, on the other hand, is encouraged to describe his appreciation for the tightness of the primary’s anus, positive traits of the secondary’s buttocks and general physique, and his enjoyment of the process. We are currently reviewing whether the secondary should also be allowed colorful expressions of aggression, such as “I am going to fuck you up,” “You’re going to feel my swimmers colonizing your guts,” and “I am going to pound you so hard you’ll taste my cockhead in the back of your throat.”
The People’s Army stands ever-ready to protect our country and our traditions. With these exercises, our military force is more engaged, integrated, and powerful than ever.
Something my dad always taught me was to pay it forward. It’s a big deal to me, helping others out. Sure, my volunteer work looks good on my resume for when I’m done with University, but the real drive is to make the world a little better place.
You’ve seen the security around the safe zones, where they keep the women and children. Seems like the powers that be walked them off and then forgot they existed in there. But now that the walls been up for a while, there’s something that has to be done for the male children becoming adults in there. They can’t stay there, of course, but they have no conception of life on the outside. That’s where we come in.
[Laughs] No, the name “Freedom Fuckers” is just a nickname. Our official name is “The Transition Corps,” but I admit most of us refer to it as the FF, as well.
So, how does it work? Well, when an eighteen or nineteen year-old crosses over, he’s alone, and often disoriented. Mostly, he’s worried he’s got DIB and what it will be like to be fuck–to get the treatment. That’s where our Givers come in. You can see I’ve got this red ribbon on my sleeve? That marks me as a Giver. A Giver’s responsibility is to be ready to fuck–sorry, it’s just the terminology we use–to fuck a DIB newbie whenever, wherever necessary. We pair up with them and are basically inseparable through their transition period. And any time our newbie needs it, we drop trou and provide, whether we’re at mess or in the shower or in the middle of an orientation lecture.
Of course, many of our Givers and staff have DIB too, so we have to meet our own needs as well. Our newbies are all told they can help us out if they like, but if they’re shy or overwhelmed we can find someone else to soothe the ol’ itch. With everyone needing and giving, it gets pretty wild sometimes.
To be honest, our biggest challenge so far are the newbies who aren’t DIB sufferers. Without the drive to plug their hole–sorry, receive treatment–they tend to feel a little confused and left out. I’ve got a non-DIB newbie right now, and he’s wanted to join in but has this hangup that it won’t be as good for other men because he won’t want it so bad. I’ve been fingering him at nights on our double cot, and from the way he moans I can tell it won’t be long before he spreads his legs for some primo ass-fuck–geez, sorry. I mean, before he integrates with this fellow men in a post-DIB world.
Bloke’s cute as fuck, too–but of course it’s not about having sex with hot men or anything. It’s all about helping people.
Are you fucking kidding me, man? Don’t listen to that bullshit. Idiots who say Hollywood is finished have got it all backward. Fucking old men, thinking everything has to stay the same. Sure, by that limp-dick measurement of before we’re not churning out the same sappy chick flicks the way we were. Of course we’re not. But, I tell you, man, Hollywood’s in its second golden age. Third or forth, what the hell ever. What I’m saying is the shit we’re doing now beats the schlock they tried to pass off before the plague, let me tell you.
Like, take the buddy comedy. Did you see Harddick and Takeham? Who would have thought you could have a a tight, hilarious cop comedy where the two leads are porking each other for half the show? Not any of the executives, that’s for sure. But that movie grossed millions. Dudes out there in our viewing demographic–I’m talking the horny, DIB masses here–want to see their lives on the big screen. And they’re all screwing 24/7–fuck, half of them are sinking their dicks into each other while they’re in the movie theater–so why shouldn’t they see their heroes do the same?
Love that movie. My favorite scene? Gotta be the car chase. With Harddick driving, and Takeham sitting on his lap shooting at the bad guys? Took fucking ages to shoot, but damn that glossy picture of Harddick’s mammoth cock gripped by Takeham’s lily-white ass? Oscar-worthy, if you ask me. We took some heat for not being sensitive to police who don’t want to fuck their partners–but shit, find me a cop partnership that hasn’t been all up in each other at some point, right? Like, you can’t listen to the whiners.
Of course we have to do the traditional movies still. But it’s a super hassle, and we lose box office every time we release a new one. Like this new rom com the higher ups are forcing us to limp through. We’ve got to fly in a woman from the safe zones, and we can only film for fifteen minutes at a time. Seriously, it’s an exercise in fucking patience, man, and none of us are too thrilled about it. And let me tell you, the male lead? Well, I guess I shouldn’t say anything, because this is gonna be published, yeah? Let’s just say he’s a big deal, picture of manhood, all that. Well, the big secret is that he’s one of the biggest DIB sufferers out there. Seriously, the man has an itchy butt probably every four hours. Think he’s just being dramatic–you know how talent is–but he’s fucking debilitated by it. Humping the air in his trailer, that level of disease. I finally had to sign a contract with a few members of the crew, and they give him what he needs, sometimes right there on set. Wish we could film that, makes for a better copy than the shit we’re working on.
Fuck, I really shouldn’t tell you this, but man, I’m just so fucking pleased about it. That actor I was telling you? The one who’s name rhymes with–fuck, I dunno, banning? I was walking around the set the other day, and ducked around a tent and bam! –there he was, that famous ass going up and down with that celebrity fuckhole trying to take in air or something, he was so desperate for it. Now this is against every union law in the book, but fuck it, right? You don’t get that opportunity every day. So I fucking split him open, dude. Drop trou and just wedged myself right up in there. Shit, I can tell you this, there’s no feeling like it in the world. Pushing your dick into a celebrity’s ass, I mean. God, makes me want to pound the pud right in front of you, dude. He was all into it too, thanking me, I mean. Fuck, but it was fucking golden, being on top of that dude that people all around the world know, feeling the grip of that ass, being the fucking master of the fucking universe while a superstar stud milks your balls dry. Fuck, man, hope you get the chance to experience that someday. Fucking hell, the only thing that would be better would be fucking that handsome face, really painting him with my load, and then taking a picture of that to enjoy for the rest of my life.
But, of course, that’s a crazy thought. I mean, it’s not like there’s a disease out there that makes men crazy for the taste of cum, right? Can you imagine what a crazy world that would be? I guess I’ll just have to be content with buttsex with the stars, yeah? And maybe after this fucking travesty of a film we can do a real movie, with all these stud stars taking it from fat cocks–you know, the way it should be.