Tales of the Cursed Jockstrap
An introduction

	The tiger sat down in a chair. His chair. His favorite chair. It was old - not terribly old - but it had seen its share of owners. It’s back sprouted high on either side of the tiger, with the thick, tough-cushy padded leather you would expect. The leather itself, very soft, very well worn, was patched together, a puzzle mosaic of different shades of brown and black and red. The stitches spider webbed out from behind the tiger, 

	He leaned back into the worn, comfortable chair, bare-chested and bristle furred. A pipe, it’s wood matching that of the feet of the chair, tucked under his arched whiskers, and a curl of soft grey smoke tickled up between them. 

	Across from him, his company for the evening was beginning to wake up. The body was slack, hanging limp as freshly washed clothes from a pair of sturdy leather-wrapped manacles. Glossy dark fur sheathed the powerful body, thick pelt gripping tightly across a broad chest, lean muscles all nudging attention downwards. Thick thighs were spread, ankles similarly trapped, and the male’s - oh yes, it was quite male - first adornment stole what pleasure the tiger may have enjoyed from peering at his captive’s tender privates. The loose, silken cloth hung at the narrowest part of the spread-eagled fellow’s hips, and gently flowed forward, glimmering in the flicker of the fireplace, bulging over and then under and then behind the male’s endowments.

	Puff. The sharp, bitter smoke coiled from the corners of the tiger’s mouth, and he stood, rising above his hazy musings. Two steps brought him close enough to feel the heat radiating from his prisoner’s chest. He peered up, studying the leather hood that sheathed his companion’s muzzle. It was thick, blocky, with two silly rabbit ears peeking out of the back. There were no eye-slits, and the mouth was zippered closed, leaving only a line of small perforations to allow air flow. 

	Striped fingers slid into the soft, conditioned fur of the male’s belly. Pressing against the flesh underneath, he stroked upwards, feeling the ridges of hidden abdominals. Quite the meaty fellow. He was not going to be disappointed. Another hand slid around the male’s waist, resting just above his rump, pulling forward. 

	“Wakey, wakey, wakey....” the tiger purrrled, deep and glottal, as his fingers diverted to the right. He found one nipple, hidden almost in a thick ruff of chest fur, and he pinched it savagely. “It’s time to Play...”

	The figure stounded awake, then, lurching backwards, lifting his feet off the ground as he tried to push at his assailant. The manacles held firm, though, despite a good bit of rattling, and after another attempt at fighting or flighting, the figure went still. Standing tall, chest heaving, it was taut and ready.

	Perfect.

	“So sorry,” the tiger explained, as he re-sank his fingers into the figure’s pelt, stroking, smoothing, scrunching this way and that. “.. for all of the craziness, with the tying you up and everything.” He found the other nipple, smiling as he felt two solid smooth bumps on either side of it. He pinched along the piercing, gripping the bar, and twisting it firmly.

	There it was, a muffled, guttural shout of shock - and what was that? Did something nudge against the tiger’s hip? He shifted to the side, giving the trapped stud nothing to flex against, moving to rake his claws down that broad back.

	“It’s just that I’ve been so Lonely...” he continued, a reply cut off as claws dug into that firm, warm, rounded bottom. “... it’s so hard to get handsome fellows like you down here to play with me. You -do- like to play, don’t you?”

	He leaned up, nuzzling the back of his new friend’s neck, as fingers worked on untying that glossy satiny thong. “You certainly looked like you liked to play, sitting at the bar with your crotch out and your legs to the side. I could haaaaarrrdly wait, but I did, patiently, watching, and following you into the bathroom.... ahh... but I suppose you don’t remember that, do you?”

	The knot gave way, and grasping either corner of the now untied thong, the tiger pulled. The fabric slid along either hips, gripping and tightening around the bulk of flesh trapped on the other side of it. 

	“No, you wouldn’t. And I wouldn’t, if I did. That life is... well...behind you now. You have a much more... interesting life ahead of you.” A sharp yank, and the thong fwobbled loose, twanging like a rubber band against the male’s hips. 

	“I own you now. I know, you weren’t exactly compensated, and yet, here you are... tied up in my hidden, underground lair... is that a hint of a fear boner I see there?” He released the thong, whick slid and draped over the male’s dangling endowments, before dropping to the floor. Embracing his new toy, the tiger stroked his tummy once more, his fingers dipping to tickle gently against what he had freed to the open air and the kisses of the flickering firelight.

	“Maybe not fear... maybe not Entirely fear. You’re excited.” He smiled, nuzzling to the other side of the trapped male’s neck, pressing his cheek along the back of the helmet that was wrapped so snugly around his friend’s skull. “Good. You should be. You’re going to have a... wonderful time. My only regret, my large friend, is that I forgot to bring your wallet with you. I have no idea who you are. What your name is.” 

	Fingers caressed, tugging, kneading, in easy, playful strokes designed to coax and thicken. 

	“No matter, though. I think I shall call you... Mister X. Yes, Mister X, on account of your new... position in life.”

	He chortled, and pulled away, as Mister X convulsed and yanked at his bindings once again. 

	“Don’t be such a child, Mister X. It’s not a permanent position. Your name, and what it is describing, is only describing you as you are... right now. It can very easily change. Things.. Things can change so easily, don’t you agree?”

	He stepped away, moving towards that fireplace. The logs that were on it were sulking, white and pink chips hiding under the charred remnants of what must have been a cozy dinner fire. A poker nudge them this way and that, sparks tumbling up the chimney with the incitement. 

	He set the poker aside, and stood tall. From the mantle he plucked a smooth black box. It was metal, with the solid double clasping lid one would find on an ammo box. He brought it back to his chair, sitting with it carefully resting on his knees. 

	“I have a surprise for you, my friend, Mister X.” the tiger purred, the metal hinge of the metal buckle creaking ominously as he unfastened it. “A gift. It’s been locked away for quite some time.”

	The lid was swung up, and the tiger’s hand disappeared inside. He let the box slide down, dropping between his feet with a metallic clatter. Mister X tensed at the sound, blinded muzzle turning towards the sound. The tiger had grasped a fuzzy, velveteen bag, purple, with Crown Royale in golden letters down one side. 

	The tiger stood, kicking the ammo box to the side with a chalky scrape. He stepped close, again, leaning in against Mister X’s side as he worked on the bag’s drawstring.

	“Do you believe in curses? Medieval, I know. They’re real, though. Always have been, probably always will be. The three fold rule, they say, a corruption of the Threefold Rule. Everything you do, happens back three times. Or some junk like that. And speaking of junk...”

	The tiger slipped a claw in to the bag, just under the drawstring, and cleanly separated the two. He turned the bag over, and out tumbled an old, yellowed, cotton looking jock. It hung limply in his hand, obviously well used. 
	“I think you’re going to like this. You have a nice set, of course, don’t get me wrong.” He grinned, handling Mr. X’s dangling maleness, skinning the dark sheath back to bare the smooth pink flesh within. “Yes, quite a delight, I’m sure. And so easily stimulated! Tsk tsk, I’ll have to put you through some endurance training. That said, though... do you feel this?”

	The tiger cupped the male’s nuts, the warm, soft pouch filling the tiger’s paw nicely. His thumb folded over top, and he kneaded them. “Feel that? It’s my paw. Feel how warm it is? How I can scrunch my fingers and rub you just so?” He let them dangle, and the jock was brought to bear.

	At some point, the waistband had been torn, the elastic completely burned out, and some entrepreneurial spirit had fastened velcro on either side of the hips. He pressed the cup of the jock, stretched and torn, stained and distorted, up into Mister X’s groin. One paw kneaded, massaging it in, as the other pulled the leg straps through the captive beast’s thighs, pulling them up and around to latch them onto the front piece. It worked, the jock bulging thickly with it’s heavy load. 

	“Excellent. It fits.” His fingers massaged into the soft cotton, and he heard the softest of moans from inside that leather hood. “It fits well. Feeling sensitive, all of a sudden?” He purrs, his fingers continuing, squeezing and stroking, a thick log doubling up in the snug jock, heavy nuts being tickled and nudged.

	“The jock, they say, is cursed. Like all cursed objects, it grants a boon - for a price. A very dear price, in fact. I would tell you what it is, but... well, I just feel like that would ruin all the fun. Wouldn’t you rather find out yourself?”

	Mister X did not move. His hips twitched, a couple times, buttocks clenching and relaxing, but he did not move. His head was canted to the side, as if listening. 

	“Yes, I think you would. And in the meanwhile, I think I am going to enjoy sharing a couple stories with you. Stories about this jock. Stories about... what it can do - and what it can undo.”

	The beast’s length flopped up into the open, jutting out over top of the cotton jock, and the tiger roughly scraped the old worn strap’s waistband along the shaft of the squirming male’s cock. 

	“What do you think, hmm?” the tiger said, then, turning away from the beast, to look to you directly. “Would you like to hear some stories of rampant lust, disorderly conduct, and disastrous consequences? Of proud studs and timid sissies, fat jerks and the boy next door, and their encounters with The Cursed Jockstrap?”
	Mister X whimpered, and the tiger reached, gripping part of that bulging jock with his other paw, pinching. “I’m not talking to You, ninny. I’m talking to our guests. Our wonderful Greek Chorus, those who are going to decide what happens with you and your own fate.”

	So what shall it be? Would you like to hear a story or two?