Jack walked up the aisle of the airplane, and finally found his seat–in the aisle like he preferred–at his height, having the extra room to stretch his legs was a necessity. The plane ended up being lightly packed–he did have someone sitting in the row with him, an older gentleman in a suit and vest, who slipped past him and sat down at the window. It was only after they’d taken off that Jack noticed the older man looking at him.

“Could you not stare at me please? You’re creeping me out.”

“Oh!” the man said, blushing a bit, “I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized…I was just wondering how long you’ve been growing your hair out–it’s quite long.”

Jack rolled his eyes. Great, a faggot, probably. “A while.”

“Yes, it must have been a while. And goodness, you are a big man aren’t you? Why, I suppose the reason I was staring is because you look like a real life Samson! Sorry, I know that’s a bit rude. My name is Bart, by the way.”

“Look, that’s fine, but can you just, not look at me please?”

“You see,” Bart continued, as though Jack hadn’t said anything, “I’ve been doing some research lately on the Samson myth–did you know, that in many cultures, the length of one’s hair could determine everything from caste to social rank? Simply fascinating! Why, there’s evidence from Mesopotamia that…”

It was too late–apparently the man wasn’t a faggot at all. Worse–an intellectual. Still, Jack found his voice easy enough to ignore, and he laid the seat back, closed his eyes, and soon enough he was falling asleep.


A jungle. He was searching for someone, a princess? Yeah, a princess. Some hot princess who’d been captured, and he was going to save her and fuck her brains out, yeah. And he was a prince, a warrior…no, he was more than all of those things, he was someone…someone in particular, he was…Samson. Yeah, Samson the strong, the great. He paused and looked down at his bronzed body, naked aside from a loin cloth, his nine inch cock hanging down below the front flap, letting everyone who he’d encounter know that he was meant to be in charge. To be an alpha–a leader. He could feel his braided hair, longer than he could remember, running down against his muscular back, his beard knotted and reaching down nearly to his navel, both of them testaments to his power, his virility and strength as a man. No, it was more than that, they were the source of his power. It was the hair itself that granted him authority, that made him an alpha, that made him a man.

He was moving through the jungle, climbing up now, his body sweating in the humid heat. The trees began to thin out, and he arrived at a plateau, covered with grassland–there, in the center, was where he would find the princess. She had been taken by a man…no, by a wizard. Yes, a cruel, evil, weak wizard. He would defeat the wizard, he would win the princess for himself. He pressed onward, and soon he came to a small camp. By the fire, a cage with the princess inside, and between him and the cage, the wizard.

He was much smaller than Samson–but then Samson was larger than everyone. No one could challenge Samson–he would be king. And the wizard was old and frail and feeble. Why was he confronting him? Didn’t he know to be afraid? And yet, there was something wrong, something very wrong. He was frozen–the wizard had done something to him, and he couldn’t move. He could hear the wizard saying something, hear him speaking, mumbling and Samson could feel his hands moving against his will. He drew his knife, the knife meant to kill the wizard, the knife that could cut anything, even the strongest steel, and with his other hand, Samson grasped his braid. He begged, he fought his own hand, and yet his knife, with a single slice, cut the hair from his head, the braid falling to the ground, and unable to believe what he’d just done, he cut the beard from his face.

Defeated–he had been defeated. He was no longer free–somehow the princess had disappeared, and now he was in the cage, now he was the captive. Weak, powerless, without a will of his own. Helpless to obey, a slave, a foggot–worse than a woman. Yes, a faggot now. He could feel the lust rising in his throat, the wizard approaching the bars of the cage, revealing his cock–no, not his cock–he had some how stolen Samson’s nine inch beast–feeling between his legs, he felt his own shrivelled cock, unable to get hard or even feel pleasure. And old man’s cock now, a faggot’s cock. The wizard–he had a cock that was worthy of worship. The head slipped between the bars, and Samson suckled at it, the cum slaking his faggot thirst. More men were surrounding the cage now, more men than he could service in a thousand lifetimes, but he had to serve. That was his purpose, his only desire. To serve. To serve. To serve. To serve…


He was in the bathroom of the airplane, a battery powered razor in his hand. He watched his body shave the hair from his head and face–he threw it into the trash, and returned to his seat, weak–a faggot.

“How is my Samson?” Bart asked when he returned and sat down.

“I’m no longer a Samson any more sir, I’m now a faggot, meant to serve.”

“I see. Well faggot, you’d best get busy then,” Bart said, pulling his cock out. Licking his lips, Jack leaned over and sucked down his old cock.


His plane had landed earlier that day, and he’d parted ways with Bart after one last fuck in the airport bathroom stall. Now, Jack had found the place Bart had told him of, a haven for faggots like him, who were destined to serve. He went inside–the owner was expecting him, and told him to strip down–he wouldn’t be needing his clothing anymore. All he would wear is a pair of old boots, to guard against the filthy floor, and the owner led him to his new home, a small three foot by three foot cubicle, with several holes. Cocks would be shoved through. He would serve them. The cage of his servitude, a multitude of men he’d never be able to fully satisfy. But it was no longer his fear–it was his fantasy. His true dream.

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