Serving the Cloth

Ty pulled his car into the driveway, still trying to wrap his head around what had just happened to him at the store. It had just been a regular grocery store, and yet, when he’d gone back to pick up some more cleaning equipment–everything was gone. The shelves were simply empty, and when he’d asked an employee what was going on, they hadn’t even been able to give him a straight answer. He’d left the building in a huff, but as soon as he had, a short elderly man with a beard running down to the pavement had stopped him and shoved a spray bottle into his hand.

“Here boy,” the man said with a chuckle, “You’re going to need something extra-strength to deal with that house you’re trying to clean up!” Before Ty could even say anything, the man had run off, laughing. He must have just been a crazy guy–but every store he’d been to after that had been just as empty as the first. It seemed that no one in town had any cleaning equipment–well, aside from the bottle of “Clean-All” the old man had given him. Annoyed, he climbed out of the car and went up to the front door of the house he and his dad were cleaning after their lessee had skipped out on them, and went inside.

“Dad! I’m back. You’re not going to believe this–I went all over town and no one had anything! How crazy is that?”

“Pretty…pretty damn crazy. Son…Son, get in here, I got…we got something you need to do. I’m in the living room.”

Ty walked into the next room, taking the bottle of Clean-All with him, turned the corner, and froze when he say his dad sitting on the chair, a half-smoked cigar clamped in his maw, wearing a filthy yellow jockstrap he was certain he’d thrown out, along with a black muscle shirt and denim vest. “Dad–what the fuck are you doing? Is this supposed to be some kind of joke?”

“Son–I need you to…to get over here, and lick…lick up all the piss–all the fuckin’ piss!” Mick said, laughing then, and he stood up, “Gonna make you fucking lick it up, son. Gonna…Gonna turn you intah mah little pigcunt!”

Mick charged Ty, tackling him to the ground. He went down hard, scattering a pile of trash all over the floor as he landed, the spray bottle skittering from his hand, and then his dad was on him, pinning his son’s arms to his sides with his piss damp thighs, grabbing the back of his head and shoving him face first into the filthy jock he was wearing. “Dad! Dad, what are you doing, let me go!”

“Now now, jus’ calm down son, it’ll all be alright soon, we…we have it all planned out, don’t you worry, we have it all planned out.”

Ty tried to fight back, but when he opened his mouth to fight–the jock wiggled and then shoved its way into his mouth like it was alive, and as he tasted the rank piss, musk and cum of the jock, he felt–and heard–a voice. A strong, powerful will assaulting his mind, telling him to suck on it, to lick it to worship it. To crawl over, snorting and grunting, and lick up all his Pa’s piss while his Pa fucked his fat–fat piggy hole, how hot it was gonna be, servin’ his Pa, ‘n cleanin’ his filthy body, ‘n wearin’ all these fuckin’…fuckin’ filthy clothes. They needed to be worn, he could hear them, and he would, he’d wear them all he’d wear them–

With a scream, Ty managed to block out the voice for a second, long enough to put his hands up on his dad’s back and shove himself underneath him, disgusted as his nose squeezed past his dad’s reeking taint, but he was free, and he rolled over onto his hands and knees, grabbed the closest thing to him as a weapon, and stood up.

The spray bottle. He’d grabbed the fucking bottle of Clean-All–what fucking good was that going to do? Still, it was better than nothing, and he held it out as his dad stood up, laughing. “Slippery little pig–not gonna matter. Gonna rape ya little pig, gonna rape yer hole till ya like it, we’re gonna wear ya little pig, we’re gonna wear ya, ‘n wear ya out!”

His dad charged him again, and Ty squeezed the trigger, a cloud of spray slamming into his dad, who screamed in pain and stumbled back. As Ty watched, he saw the shirt and vest he was wearing writhe in agony, before they dissolved into some sort of goop on the ground, and his dad looked clean–normal–or at least the top half did. In a panic, Mick grabbed the jockstrap and clambored out of it, wadding it up and hurling it across the room, where it slammed into the wall, landed on the floor, and…stood up.

Ty couldn’t believe what he was seeing, and then he noticed that the whole room was shuffling–all of the clothing was climbing out of bags, and then they swarmed. Ty was able to keep them back from him and his father for a few moments, long enough for Mick to stand up, and then they were rushing through the house, a horde of filthy clothing pursuing them, and a few seconds too late–Ty realized they were actually herding them deeper into the house. A grungy flannel shirt opened the basement door, and the clothes surged forward, shoving Mick and Ty into the doorway, sending them tumbling down the stairs and into the darkness below.

Neither of them had been down into the rental’s basement yet–they’d been too afraid. Mick quickly untangled himself from his son and stood up–his head bonking the chain attached to the single light. Thankful he’d found that at least, he reached up and clicked it–light flooding the basement–or what had been a basement. Now, well, he didn’t know what their lessee had been up to, but the room looked more like a dungeon more than anything else. In the room, he saw a sling and some sort of wooden cross, and the walls were lined with all sorts of paddles, dildos, whips, and then he saw it. The mass of leather and metal coalescing in one corner of the room–there was so much of it. He watched as the mass stood up–a seven foot tall golem of leather and chain which stalked toward them. “Ty! Look out!” Mick shouted, but one thick arm swung out, extending as it flew and slammed into Mick, throwing him back against one of the concrete walls if the room, before wrapping itself around his son and dragging him into the mass.

“No!” Mick shouted, and crawled up, his head spinning. He had to find the bottle his son had used, he looked around the room, saw it lying below the stairs and ran over, only to have something fly into his face and send him stumbling back–the jockstrap.

No, no–not the jockstrap. His jockstrap. His favorite jockstrap. His one and only jockstrap. He wore it everywhere, all the time, why in the world had he taken it off? He took a deep inhale of the pouch, and then pulled it back on, shivering as the pissdamp pouch cupped his cock and balls, gently massaging him until he was half hard and leaking like a faucet. He let out a groan of pleasure, and felt his body growing grungier as he stood there–and took a deep whiff of his pits. Not dirty enough–he wasn’t dirty enough. Still, he…he could fix that, but he had to…destroy it. Yes, destroy the evil thing, destroy it destroy the thing that hurts them destroy it–

He tromped over to the bottle of Clean-All and picked it up, but before he could obey the jockstrap, because he knew he would only have one chance–he turned the nozzle towards his crotch and sprayed.

The scream that ripped through his mind was excruciating, but only lasted a moment, as the jockstrap, caught in the full blast, dissolved in moments, leaving Mick panting and shaking. He did it–he didn’t know it that would work–but it had.

“Dad! Help!”

Mick turned and saw his son tangled up in the mass of leather. As soon as he spoke, however, a strap of leather wrapped around his throat, turning his face blue, and then he was gone, swallowed up by the beast. Mick ran over, bottle outstretched, and sprayed the leather before it could smack him again. The golem yanked itself back and then recoiled, his son dropping unconscious from it’s body to the concrete floor as the leather retreated to its corner. Mick grabbed his son under his arms and flung him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and tromped up the stairs, one hand steadying Ty, and the other brandishing the spray bottle.

At the top of the stairs, it was clear that destroying the jockstrap had meant something to the rest of the clothing. They menaced them, but kept their distance, well out of the spray bottle’s range, and so Mick, huffing and puffing by the end, managed to weave his way out of the house, stumbling down the front steps naked, threw open the car door with the keys from his son’s pocket, and laid Ty out in the back seat. He hurried around before anyone could see him, climbed in and started the car, driving off as fast as he could, before he slowed down and pulled off to the side of street, shaking and panicked and terrified of what had just happened. He laid his head on the steering wheel, taking a few deep breaths…and then he heard his son chuckle.

He looked back, past the center console, and saw that Ty was awake–and that he’d changed. His son had been a string bean, but in the course of a few minutes, as they’d driven away, he’d put on a ton of muscle, and as Mick watched, tattoos snaked their way past his bicep and down his forearm. “Too…too tight…” Ty said, his voice deep and thick. He grabbed his shirt in one hand and ripped it away with a grunt, revealing a thick leather harness underneath. It must have wormed its way on when Ty had been in the grip of it, and Mick hadn’t checked–

Before he could grab the bottle of Clean-All, however, a slender leather collar which had twined its way around one of the harnesses straps shot out and coiled its way around Mick’s neck, choking him. He clawed at it, but it was no use–he was too weak, too…too submissive, too pitiful he had to serve, serve his son, serve the master the master was more important. Struggling for air, and for his sanity, Mick watched his son continue to change, growing taller, and more brutish by the minute, his eyes dull and cruel and masterful and Mick loved him so much, didn’t he? Loved him as a son as a master yes his master. His one and only master.

“Back.” Ty growled, sneering at his pitiful father as he spun around, turned the car on and sped back towards the house, desperately fighting with the collar for control, but realizing he’d already lost. Ty, however, grabbed the bottle of Clean-All from the passenger seat, considered in dumbly for a moment, and then tossed it out the window. They weren’t going to need that. He had more important things to do. They pulled back into the driveway, and Mick was pleading with his son, “Please, please Ty, snap out of it–don’t do this, don’t do this to us! You have to fight it–you have–”

He was silenced by Ty grabbing him by the throat with one massive, furred hand and squeezing the voice out of him, “Shut up slave. Inside, now!”

Mick felt his cock pulse in desire, and then he was out of the car and hurrying up the walk and back into the house, his son lumbering after him. Inside the living room, the clothing had all gathered, and Mick stood there–terrified and naked. “This one,” Ty growled, shoving Mick forward, “Yours–This one–ours, in the basement. Leave collar.”

The clothing swarmed then, tackling Mick to the floor, all of it so filthy, so wonderfully, amazingly filthy. They fought over him, and he wanted to wear them all, he did, but he couldn’t. A disgusting wifebeater several sizes too large slipped onto him, followed by a muddy pair of overalls with a bit too much room for a gut, and a pair of grungy socks and boots, and then the rest backed off, and Mick stood up, feeling his body change as the clothing wanted. He was growing, his gut filling out with fat, the collar needing to expand as his neck thickened, and was soon covered my a massive wiry beard that grew out of him chin.

“Aw yeah, filthy fuckin’ redneck hick, gotta cum, gotta git dirty, we gotta git so fuckin’ filthy, fuck…” Mick groaned, massaging his cock into the denim. But almost as soon as he had changed, the clothes were ripped away by others which pulled themselves onto his body, and changed him again. He lost track of how many outfits he wore over the next few hours, his body changing to suit each other, and they all wanted him–needed him. He could never leave, there were too many–but then, he heard the voice, the deep roar of his son from the basement, “Come. Time for punishment.”

The collar wouldn’t let him say no, and he hurried down into the basement, where he found his son. He was massive, at least eight feet tall, and it looked like every bit of leather in the basement had managed to wrap itself around him. His eyes were cruel and angry and vicious, and as soon as Mick fell in front of him, straps shot out and wrapped their way around him, and then it began, his son beating and torturing him for hours, the leather feeding off his pain and agony. This was their life now, serving the cloth, and it would consume him before long, like it had consumed the ones before him, but he would serve, and serve happily.

One thought on “Serving the Cloth

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.