Horst arrived home, detouring through the garage to stop at the washer and dryer at the back of the spacious garage. He plopped his gym bag down on a tabletop and removed his football cleats so he could fish jockstrap Ryan from the bag. He felt the jockstrap shimmy feebly in his fingers and laughed in surprise.
"You trying to tell me something, Ryan?" Horst said aloud.
Ryan was screaming in his own head, but his words couldn't reach Horst. Or maybe they couldn't breach the slovenly jock's thick skull. "Take me back to Vinnie," Ryan demanded.
Simply wiggling his fabric form while being held by Horst took every ounce of strength he could muster. Sure, it was mostly mental concentration, but it left the jockstrap spent.
He "saw" Horst lifting a heavy blue and white plastic jug and a measuring cup.
"We'll give you a quick spin through the washer, but that will be the last time for a long while," Horst warned. "I intend to get a lot of use from my new jockstrap."
Horst, whose mom usually did his laundry, did not really know his way around the laundry room, nor did he know much about how much bleach to add for his whites. He eyed the cup and thought filling it to the brim was probably a good idea. Ryan was extremely dirty after soaking up cum, sweat, and piss from his last few wearers.
"Horst, you idiot, you'll pay for this," Ryan blustered.
Horst's phone chimed, and he saw a text had arrived from Carter. He grunted and swiped the glass, but in doing so he overturned the cup and spilled the concentrated bleach onto Ryan's cotton form.
Ryan screamed from intense pain as the bleach soaked into the fabric of his body. Ryan felt the tight weave of his cotton form actually fray and loosen its cohesion as the corrosive liquid soaked into him. Looking through a red haze, Ryan shrieked for help. "Rinse me off!" Ryan pleaded, desperate to end the burning sensation. "Horst, do something!"
To his horror, Horst hadn't even noticed. His fingers were stabbing at his phone as he composed a reply to Carter's text.
The taste of the bleach left Ryan nauseated.
Horst finally noticed the spillage. He simply shrugged, picked up the jockstrap, tossed him into the washing machine, and started a wash cycle. For Ryan, the water eased the agony from the caustic bleach.
He felt like he had tears in his eyes, except he obviously had none. "I'll get you for this," he vowed again just as Horst closed the lid on the washing machine.