Sugar walks you bare assed and leaking to the showers.

You start to come to your senses and shamefully look for a pair of pants to cover your sissy seed splattered ass, but Sugar slaps your hand away and admonishes, "Whatcha doin', Dani? Youse is a skirt now, remember? Youse don't gets to wear pants no more. Youse is gonna walk wiff me to the shower so everyone knows what a sissy slut you are." It stings to hear her call you by some sissified version of your name, but you can't exactly argue that it doesn't fit you at this point. Nor can you argue that you aren't a skirt or a slut, not after cumming your brains out and crying out so loud that the entire cell block could hear it.

Instead you try your best to hold your top down over your dripping derriere and follow her out of the cell and down towards the showers. You hear hoots and hollers echoing through the halls describing in pornographic detail all the things they want to do to you. You hang your head and try your best to cover yourself, but no matter how hard you clinch, Sugar's thick syrup leaks down your leg, leaving a telltale trail of shameful seed behind you. As if this wasn't embarrassing enough, your body once again betrays you, your cock rising and rock hard, tenting against your top as you pull it taut to try to hide your humiliation.

Your mind is in turmoil as you trod along timidly behind your sissy cellmate. You aren't really a sissy slut, are you? It was just your body betraying you again, wasn't it? It's the sickness making your ass pucker everytime some inmate yells that they are going to fuck you until your pregnant. It's the fever making you lick your lips and drool dumbly when skels pull out their sissy shafts and dangle them between the bars. Deep down, where it counts, you know you are still a straight man that made a terrible mistake in the heat of the moment...okay a series of mistakes, but all under the influence of your traitorous tempting flesh.

"So'se youse know, the showers ain't some mad orgy or nothing. Most goils just want to wash the spunk stink off and get on with their day. So'se youse shouldn't have anyone make a move on youse right away." You feel a modicum of relief hearing that, but it is short lived as your body is already starting to feel a dull ache deep inside, as if it needs to be filled with cock just to feel normal. Sugar seems to sense this somehow, adding, "Course, if youse asks real noice, youse can probably find a top or two to fill youse up."

That's even more worrying. If they **** you, at least you could blame them for making you love it. If you end up begging for cock on your first day in the one place you aren't guaranteed to get stuffed, then what hope do you have of ever being able to look yourself in the mirror again? Whatever else happens, whatever is done to you because of the hedonistic hierarchy of this perverted place, you can control your own choices. If you chose to be the man you know you are on the inside, then you can at least be, if not proud, then less ashamed of yourself. You make a solemn vow to never submit to your degenerate desires ever again if you are given a choice.

Then, you step foot in the showers and you lose your train of thought. You are too busy staring at the buff, bald butch bitch flexing as her soft, squat, but stacked sissy washes her gleaming muscles for her. You look away to avoid imaging its you washing her with your tongue, but everywhere you look is another temptation. Two tantalizing twin sis'sies are soaping each other up and sucking face in the corner. A group of trap queens shower in a circle, watching each others backs, black and beautiful and bad ass. Across from them a group of Aryan Amazons shoot them dirty looks that you can't tell is an invitation to fight or to fuck. Everywhere you turn is a throbbing temptation, and you can feel their eyes dart over to you as you walk to the wall and stand under the hot spray.

"Just ignore them, Dani. Wash up and we'se can go get dinner and turn in. Youse should be able to get through the rest of the night without getting stuffed." Sugar is right. They are just showing off, stroking their huge, soap slicked shafts and stretching their tongues out so far that it makes you want to lick them. You turn and stare at the wall, but you can still hear the SHLLKs and THWWPs of wet flesh being slapped and stroked and squeezed. You can still smell their precum dangling from their dicks and the sweet musk of their sweat fogging up the room. Something has to give, are you going to beg to get filled? Or can you think of a way to resist the urges?