'The Blow-up Doll'
By: Ryan Michaels
Rob and I first crossed paths working at a local
bathhouse. We hit it off almost immediately, transitioning quickly from
coworkers to close friends who hung out regularly outside of shifts. We’d
candidly trade stories about our encounters with customers, though the boundary
between us remained strictly platonic; we never crossed that line.
Eventually, the owner of the bathhouse passed away,
the business closed its doors, and the estate put the building up for sale.
Rob, who only worked there part-time while running a small business on the
side, managed to stay afloat until he picked up another part-time gig to
supplement his income. I wasn’t as fortunate. The bathhouse had been my
full-time livelihood, and the local job market was bleak. As my savings
dwindled and the job hunt turned up dry, I was forced to pack up and move forty-five
minutes outside the city to stay with my parents until I could get back on my
feet financially.
The distance changed our routine. We couldn't just
hang out on a whim anymore, but we kept the connection alive through phone
calls and online chats.
Over time, our conversations took an unexpected turn.
I can’t pinpoint the exact moment the shift happened, but we eventually started
having phone sex. It felt like a natural progression; we had spent years
sharing the intimate details of our sex lives, and now that we were physically
apart, sharing those stories began to trigger something deeper. We’d get horny,
the tension would build, and we’d end up jerking off together over the phone.
It was during these intense phone sessions that Rob discovered a side of me
he’d never suspected—just how kinky and raunchy my tastes actually were.
The reality was that Rob’s sex
life was thriving while mine was completely stagnant, leaving our catch-ups
heavily dominated by his latest conquests. The town where my parents lived had
a population of about one hundred thousand, but it lacked any visible gay
community or cruising spots. Hard as I tried, I just couldn't find anyone
locally to hook up with. I could have driven down to the city to visit a
bathhouse, but my work schedule barely left me the time, and I hated the
thought of driving all that way, paying admission, and still possibly striking
out. Rob, meanwhile, was still in the heart of the city, surrounded by the gay
village, bathhouses, and cruising areas. For him, a hookup was always just a
short walk or subway ride away. My sex life had become entirely solitary.
I never cared for cam sex, and cybersex was just as
unappealing—reading typed-out messages felt completely sterile and did very
little for me. If someone was going to say dirty things to me, I wanted to hear
the inflection in their voice; a phone call was the only thing that actually
worked. So, I relied on a small collection of porn and the occasional phone sex
session with Rob.
This was the early 2000s, long
before the explosion of free tube sites, back when most online adult content
required a paid monthly subscription. Since smartphones didn’t exist yet (only
the basic cell phone), I didn't own a PC or laptop, and I certainly wasn't
going to pay a monthly fee just to browse on my parents' desktop, I was left
entirely dependent on physical media, which wasn't all that unusual back then.
Before long, though, my small
collection of videos grew stale. Desperate for variety, I drove down to a local
adult bookstore to rent some DVDs. It was there, while checking out at the
counter, that I noticed a row of boxes containing blow-up dolls stacked on the
shelf directly behind the cashier.
Later that night, while I was masturbating to the new
porn I'd rented, my mind drifted back to those boxes. If the real thing wasn't
an option, maybe a cheap doll could serve as a decent substitute.
When I returned to the store a few days later, I made
up my mind. As the cashier scanned my new rentals, I spoke up, keeping my voice
low.
"Um, how much are those?" I asked, nodding toward the shelf of blow-up dolls.
The clerk looked up. "How much is what?"
"Those," I said, pointing directly at the
boxes.
He turned around, assessed the stock, and faced me
again. "Depends on which one you want. They range in price."
"Which one is the cheapest?"
He pulled a box down and set it firmly on the counter.
"That'd be this one. Sixty bucks."
"Okay, I’ll take it."
The clerk let out a dry chuckle. "Good choice. No
sense spending big bucks on a gag gift."
"Oh, it’s not a gag gift," I replied evenly.
"It’s for me. I’m actually going to use it."
The guy stopped, gave me a long, bewildered look, and
muttered, "Okay, buddy." He punched in the total, bagged everything,
and shoved it across the counter. As I walked toward the exit, I could see him
out of the corner of my eye, shaking his head and laughing quietly to himself.
To most people, inviting that kind of judgment would
feel humiliating—and it was. But that was exactly the point. One of my
strongest triggers is humiliation in a sexual context, so the idea of buying
the doll, using it, and admitting it to people was incredibly arousing. While using male
masturbation toys is widely accepted and talked about openly today, the
cultural landscape back then was completely different. The consensus at the
time was clear: these things were strictly bachelor party gags, cheap jokes
that nobody was actually supposed to use for genuine sexual release.
The moment I got home, I opened the box, inflated it,
and used it. To heighten the thrill, I set up my digital camera on a timer and took
a few photos of myself to post online later. I knew the internet would react
exactly how the clerk had—with mockery, assumptions of desperation, and
laughter. Reading those judgmental comments afterward was absolute heaven.
A couple of weeks later, Rob and
I were catching up on a standard, non-sexual phone call, locking in the details
for my upcoming weekend visit—the very first time I’d be making the trip back
to my old stomping grounds since my move. Naturally, the topic of my dry spell
came up, and he asked if I’d had any luck recently.
"Not since I moved back six months ago," I
said. "Just a lot of masturbation."
I knew exactly why he was asking; he was undoubtedly
gearing up to remind me that since I'd be back in the city this weekend, I
could finally go out and get laid. But before he could even start, I decided to
shift gears. "Actually," I went on, "I bought a blow-up doll to
spice things up."
Rob burst out laughing, completely dismissing it as a
joke. I insisted I was telling the truth, but he wouldn't buy it. Finally, I
told him about the photos I'd posted online and gave him the web address.
I heard him typing on the other end. Even looking at
the screen, he remained skeptical. Because the angles of the photos only showed
my naked body resting on top of the doll rather than explicit penetration, and
didn't show my face, he assumed it was a staged prank. "How do I even know
that's you?" he queried. "And if it is you, you probably borrowed it
from a buddy who got it as a joke, and you're just lying on top of it; your
dick isn't actually in it," he laughed.
"I'm telling you, it's mine, I bought it, and I
actually use it," I argued, though it was useless.
Finally, he chuckled. "Bring it with you when you
come down this weekend, then."
"Why?"
"Because the only way I'm going to believe you is
if I see it with my own eyes."
The sudden challenge caught me off guard. "You...
want to watch me fuck it?"
"Yeah," Rob dared, a smirk evident in his
voice. "Unless you're too chicken shit, or—like I think—you're completely
lying."
Even though our physical interactions had always been
strictly platonic, the prospect didn't make me uncomfortable. In fact, the idea
of stripping down and using a novelty vinyl doll while another guy watched
tapped directly into that humiliation fetish. It wasn't about an attraction to
Rob; it was about the raw vulnerability of the act.
"No problem," I said. "I'll bring
it."
When I arrived at Rob's place that weekend, the
skepticism resumed immediately. He challenged me to prove my story right then
and there. Despite our strictly platonic history, I was so intensely aroused by
the raw humiliation of the scenario that I didn't even hesitate. Fully hard
already, I stripped naked right in front of him, unpacked the doll, and
inflated it. I climbed on top, slid my dick inside the plastic opening, and
began driving into it hard and fast, completely determined to erase any doubt.
Rob didn't laugh. Instead, he just sat back and
watched closely. After a minute, he asked what it felt like and if it actually
felt good. I managed a breathless answer, and the room fell quiet again, save
for the squeak of the vinyl. Then, right there on the couch, Rob reached into
his pants, pulled out his cock, and began openly stroking himself while keeping
his eyes locked on what I was doing.
Seeing him get into it, as I continued to pump the
doll, I asked, "You want to try it?"
I figured he’d decline or laugh it off, but he
surprised me. "Yeah," he said and stood up, cock still in hand.
As I started to pull out, he stopped me. "Hold
on." I pressed my weight back down, keeping myself buried inside the front
of the doll, and looked back over my shoulder. Rob explained that he wanted to
go at the same time, utilizing the back opening while I stayed in the front,
and told me to stand up.
I moved to my feet, holding the doll firmly against me
with my dick still inside, as Rob quickly stripped out of his clothes. He
grabbed the lube, coated his cock, then moved behind the doll and applied a
generous amount to its back entry. Standing in the middle of the living room,
with the piece of vinyl sandwiched tightly between us, we both began thrusting
in and out of the doll's openings.
The atmosphere shifted instantly into heavy breathing,
low groans, and vocal encouragements of "fuck that pussy!" and
"fuck that ass!" as we both worked the doll from opposite sides. The
friction and the sheer, unfiltered absurdity of the scenario brought me to the
edge incredibly quickly. I slammed forward and came hard inside the front.
I stayed pinned against it, panting heavily as my dick
slowly deflated and slipped out of the plastic opening. Still breathless, I
kept my grip firm, holding my side of the doll steady to keep it perfectly positioned
for Rob as he kept driving away. It was another two intense minutes of vinyl
squeaks and heavy breathing before Rob finally hit his limit and unloaded into
the back.
Afterward, we pulled apart, cleaned ourselves up, and
got dressed in silence. For a second, I worried that we had permanently altered
our friendship or made things awkward, but those fears disappeared when Rob
dropped onto the couch, still catching his breath. He looked up with a grin.
"I cannot believe how hot that was or how hard I came! I never would've
thought a piece of vinyl could feel that good. That was fun."
I just smiled. The whole thing had been fun, but a
small part of me was actually a little disappointed that he hadn't just stayed
on the couch to laugh and make fun of me. After all, that deep-seated desire
for humiliation was exactly what had driven me to buy the blow-up doll in the
first place.
Once the adrenaline faded, I carried the doll into the
bathroom, thoroughly washed out the orifices, deflated it, and hung it over the
shower rod to dry. We didn't bring it up again for the rest of the night; our
dynamic instantly returned right back to normal.
The next morning, I headed to the bathroom for a
shower, pulling the deflated, dry doll off the rod and tossing it onto the
floor. Afterward, I grabbed it and carried it into the bedroom where Rob had
told me to keep my overnight bag. Rob was already awake, sitting out on the
living room couch where I’d slept, watching TV.
I dropped the doll onto the bedroom floor and slipped
off my towel to get dressed. The moment the towel hit the floor, my eyes locked
onto the piece of vinyl lying there, and a sudden rush of the previous night’s
memories flashed through my mind. My dick immediately sprang to life. The urge
to use it one more time before heading back home a short while later was
overwhelming. I tried to talk myself out of it, but the impulse completely won
me over, and I found myself quietly blowing the air back into it.
Just a few minutes later, I was down on Rob's bedroom
floor, completely naked and pinned on top of the doll. This time, I had flipped her onto
her stomach, fueled by the memory of the night before and wanting to drive my
dick into the same hole Rob had fucked. I was driving my dick in and out of it while moaning
quietly to keep the noise down, when the bedroom door suddenly swung wide open.
Rob stopped dead in his tracks and burst out laughing.
"Shit! After last night, I believed you, but I
didn't think you fucked it all the time! Jesus, it hasn't even been
twenty-four hours. I come in here to see what's taking so long, and you're
fucking your dolly again! You could be taking advantage of being in the city
and going out and easily getting laid, and here you are fucking that doll
again."
"I know," I replied, completely exposed.
"But I just couldn't resist when I saw it lying there."
"Well, don't let me stop you." Rob laughed
even harder.
Looking up at him, I leaned into the moment. "You
wanna fuck her again, too?"
"No. I'm going to go out later and have real sex
with a real person," he chuckled, driving the contrast home. "But you
have fun." He gave a final laugh, backing out of the room and closing the
door behind him.
Part of me wished he had stayed to watch, or even agreed
to join in again like the night before. Instead, I stayed where I was and
focused entirely on the rush—not just the friction of the vinyl opening, but
the heavy, thrilling weight of the humiliation. Fueled by the exposure, I
finished very quickly, cleaned up, and got dressed.
When I finally walked out into the living room, Rob
just shook his head with a knowing smile, let out a laugh, and said, "Wow!
Finished already? That didn't take long."
I just smiled back, leaning completely into the humiliation.
"I can't help it," I said, "My dolly feels so good, I always cum
quick!"
Rob lost it, laughing out loud as he playfully called
me a loser, and we happily left it at that.
To this day, we still have our occasional phone sex
sessions. Every once in a while, he’ll drop a casual line like, "Hey,
remember that time we shared your blow-up doll? That was wild," or "Remember
when I walked in on you the next morning on my floor? Hilarious."
Sometimes he'll just ask if I still have it. But as soon as the comment is
made, the conversation moves right along, a shared kinky memory woven into the
fabric of a long friendship.
Author's Note: The audio story "Humiliation
Games" I posted is a fictional piece I wrote using this real experience as
inspiration. I was listening to that audio story recently and decided to write
out and tell the real experience. I suppose you can now look at "Humiliation
Games" as a fictional part two.
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