Ticketed 5

Greetings all. This has been a bad week, unfortunately. Not to go into too much personal detail, but I've lost a family member and have bad news about another, and my ear problem continues for seemingly no reason I can discern, which is starting to become worrying in and of itself.

I've been trying to write as much to get my mind off things as for any other reason, so today's post may be a bit less polished than normal. It's almost entirely new, I'm straying away from the original stuff I posted on Patreon a few weeks ago. I have a better plotline to follow now, I think. I may post some more of my finished renderings on the Patreon, just for feedback and to add some unique content. A few I'm probably not going to get to use, due to changes in the storyline I'm planning out.

Anyway, thanks to everyone who has commented lately, I'm happy to see so many were interested in my Wedding Crasher work-in-progress. I'll try to finish it sometime. Also a huge thanks to FFQ, who made a caption directly inspired by the story. I enjoyed it very much, it's actually not that far off from my plans for the eventual wedding scene, though different enough not to spoil anything.

Also thanks to everyone who has been visiting and commenting on Kandi's new caption blog.

Well, enough of all that, on to Hugh Jazz Mofo's latest ordeal.

- B-Rex

Ticketed 5

Hugh Jazz Mofo groaned as he finally managed to pull his new cut-off denim hotpants over his XXXXL ass, and sighed down at the sight.

Having a bunch of gay guys pick out his new wardrobe had been a nightmare, especially given the limitations the ticket holder had set. Fully half the things in his new wardrobe were some shade of pink or lavender, and all of them had been entirely too tight. It had been a real pain to get dressed in the morning, and more than once he'd been forced to ask for help just to get a garment over his gigantic derriere.

But that was nothing compared to the line of products he was now legally obligated to wear and promote.

He'd signed the new sponsorship contract, too shocked by the massive check to even bother reading the list of requirements. It was, after all, just a normal clothing sponsorship. The sponsor, Hot2Trot, was well known for their high-end sportswear line. They sponsored hundreds of athletes and minor celebrities the world over, he'd simply been their first real foray into the online gaming streamer market.

He'd expected to be wearing someone else's logo on top of his clothes, and maybe even get some free new outfits.

Instead, he'd become the glorified mascot for Hot2Trot brand new urban youth product line.

“God, that's tight.” He looked across his newly refurbished walk-in closet and groaned at his reflection.

Practically all of his new clothing was purpose built to show off his new ass, apparently. A thin, flexible patch of partially spandex material was sewn into the front of every pair of pants, to accommodate (and make painfully obvious) his male parts, but the back seams were intentionally sewn too short and extra thick, causing every pair of pants to dig deeply into his augmented rump, effectively giving him the mother of all wedgies.

It was more than just humiliating to wear, it was damned uncomfortable too!

He finally tore his gaze away from his huge ass, and looked around his walk-in closet, sighing as he took in his assortment of new shoes.

His pants weren't the only uncomfortable part of his new wardrobe.

After several minutes of deliberating, he plucked a pink pair of strapless sandals from the immense pile of new high-heels sitting in his closet, and tried to balance on the unfamiliar footwear.

At a mere three-and-half-inches high, the heel was technically the shortest in his new collection, but the shoe's ultra-thin sole made it feel more like four inches to his Achilles's. He cursed whichever fan had found the 'Well-Heeled' golden ticket the week before....

“Aren't you dressed yet?” Gemma snapped, suddenly bursting through the closet door. He glared at her, hopping awkwardly on one foot as he tried to wedge the other shoe on.

“Just wait a damned minute!!”

She rolled her eyes. “You've been in here like thirty minutes already, the show is going live in three minutes, and you don't even your makeup on yet, Jazz.”

“Why did you have to remind me of that?!” He sighed in annoyance. Why the hell was his fanbase suddenly so obsessed with turning him into some sort of faggy crossdresser anyway? Half the games he played were gore-filled zombie kill fests.

“And dammit, you didn't shave!! Quick, I'll go and keep the crowd busy, get that stubble off your face. And hurry!! If you mess up your first runway show, you can kiss your sponsorship deal goodbye.”

Before he could respond, she was off, to buy time. He glared at his reflection in the mirror across from the pile of shoes, and glowered.

***

Hugh Jazz clomped his way down the brightly-lit runway, as the small, but energetic crowd of Gemma's marketing team and a few extra photographers (and to his utter horror his fake ex-boyfriend Lance Faggette) clapped with excitement at his modeling debut.

The runway show was being streamed live for his growing subscriber base, and was part of his sponsorship deal. Hot2Trot wanted nightly modeling sessions, before he started his gaming reviews and letsplays.

Glancing out into the darkened room, he had to admit, humiliating as all this was, Hot2Trot had seriously come through for him on the gaming front. Massive multi-screen displays filled the corners of the room, so he could play his games in opulent luxury normally reserved for only the largest, most popular online personalities.

Then again, he reminded himself, spinning around at the end of the stage to a roar of hoots from his marketing consultants, I'm over four million subscribers now. I am one of the most popular online celebs.

As he spun around, involuntarily twerking his oversize butt at the onlookers to maintain his balance, he bit back a gasp as his piercings bounced, particularly his new belly button piercing, as it nearly touched part of his still very sore stomach tattoos.

When he'd seen the tops his sponsor had wanted him to wear, he'd practically refused on the spot. There was no way he was going to wear a bunch of tube-tops and bras on stream!

The new tattoo had been Gemma's idea of a compromise; Hot2Trot wanted their logo prominently displayed, and he wanted to avoid wearing their tops during his nightly shows.

Now he wished he'd thought it over better. Surely a few bras would be less embarrassing than this?

Of course, when he'd agreed to the new tattooed logo, he'd not realized the new urban youth product line had been re-dubbed the 'BOY TOY' line....

***

“How many more times do I have to do this!?!” Jazz exclaimed, thoroughly irritated as he strolled back down the runway.

He'd spent the last hour walking endless circles up and down the stage, his six-inch heels slowly turning his calves into jelly.

“Until you do it right!” Sasha replied, smirking. “Now, spin and walk like you mean it, Yuge'Azz!”

He glared back at taller woman, but obeyed, marching down the catwalk again, swinging his rump for the empty room like she'd taught him. Much as he hated to admit it, the motion did help him keep his balance on the stilt-like heels he wore now.

After his first few nights of runway modeling, his ex-boyfriend Lance had informed him that the gay lawyer's mysterious client, 'Mister Dick' - apparently some bigwig at Hot2Trot - had decided that Jazz was in desperate need of some professional training.

Sasha had shown up the next night, and his life had been a fresh hell ever since. A professional runway model since her early teens, the girl had ran him ragged for the last week, turning his stumbling footwork into a semblance of a real model's perfect catwalk prancing.

“Look, my stream is nearly over and I haven't played one minute of my new game yet! Plus my feet are fucking killing me!” Jazz declared, spinning around in a huff at the end of the stage. “I'm not walking another step!”

“Suit self,” Sasha said in her oddly-accented English, shrugging nonchalantly.

Just as he thought he'd finally won some little victory over the East-European beauty, he felt her surprisingly strong hand slide down the waistband of his impossibly-tight shorts, and yank downward.

“NOOOO!!!!” Hugh Jazz Mofo shrieked, as his trainer pants him on live camera, before 100,000 adoring fans, and inadvertently showed them all the results of his latest Pick-My-Ink golden ticket.

Before he could react, the woman had practically thrown him to the stage floor, yanking the pants off entirely, then holding them above her triumphantly like some macabre denim trophy.

He jerked to his feet, one hand trying futilely to cover his groin, while he jumped in his heels for the hotpants.

“You want pants back, you march big bottom up and down catwalk like pretty model you are,” Sasha pronounced, easily holding the pants out of his reach. “You done when I say you is done, not before.”

Groaning, Jazz turned, carefully covering his crotch with one hand, and his rump with the other as he started the long, embarrassing trek back up the catwalk.

*****