“Yeah, you’re gonna be a good piggy from now on, aren’t you–not that you have a choice. Can’t look away, can you?”

Bruce again tried to twist his head down and away, but Ivan’s gaze kept him locked. He sank lower towards the bathroom floor, dropping onto his knees, face level with Ivan’s bulging crotch, and he felt the piss he’d been storing up all day at his desk release into the front of his pants, the fabric wet and sopping almost immediately, a puddle growing out from his knees. He whimpered, but couldn’t speak.

“What, you don’t like pissing yourself? Well too fucking bad. From now on, you piss when I want you to–and if I want you to piss yourself tomorrow in front of the entire board, during that big presentation of yours, well…I don’t think that promotion you’re angling for is going to end up working out. They’ll probably have to pick me instead. Now open your mouth, I got something for you to taste.”

That was when Fred walked in–their boss. Ex-military, Fred kept his head shaved, a full beard, and his body muscular, the suits he wore tailored a bit too tight. A notorious homophobe–if Ivan hadn’t been out, the promotion would have definitely been his, but Fred liked straight, married Bruce better. Ivan had his old family trick to tip things his direction, but he hadn’t quite anticipated Fred joining them so soon.

“W–What the fuck is going on here!” Fred shouted, staring right at Ivan, as those cold blue eyes, it was that faggots doing, he knew he was no god, he should have…should have tried harder to get…get him fired. Should have…

Fred stumbled into the wall, suddenly exhausted. Blinking fast, his eyes never left Ivan’s. “What…you doin’ to me…” he muttered, and then he collapsed to the tile floor, face first in the puddle of Bruce’s piss, and Ivan chuckled, reconnecting with Bruce’s eyes.

“Guess we’ll have to speed up the plan a bit. Good thing most everyone is gone for the day. Come on, help me carry him down stairs–you can suck me off later.”

***

Fred woke up slowly–another fuckin’ faggot dream. He wasn’t a fucking faggot, he was a man, a real man. Real men didn’t have faggot dreams, what the fuck was wrong with him? Ivan again, too–but this was was strange. Bruce had been there too, in the bathroom…everything else was fuzzy. Whatever. He wasn’t a faggot, no fucking way.

He pried open his eyes–this wasn’t his apartment. His mind told his body to get up quick and figure out where he was, but all he could manage  was to writhe a bit beneath the sheets. The scummy sheets. He couldn’t feel them–for some reason he was still dressed in the blue suit pinstripe suit he’d had on in that dream–but he could hear them. They sounded crispy, and he nearly retched. He might have even vomited, if he hadn’t felt so tired.

He was tired. He was never tired. With great effort, he rolled over and saw a small window high on one side of the room–a basement, he was in a basement. The sun was up–what time was it? Shouldn’t he be at work? That big presentation was today, he had to be there for Bruce, right? Work suddenly seemed like too much work. He lolled about instead, settling in deeper. Between the sheets, the musky quilt and his suit, he was sweating heavily, but didn’t mind the heat. His cock was too hot though, he let it out of his fly and started jacking off, and then rolled over and began grinding his erection against the mattress. He came after a few minutes, but kept thrusting, the cum coating the front of his suit, and then he collapsed again.

What in the world was he even doing? He had to get out of here. Instead, he laid in bed for the rest of the day. The duration between his overwhelming periods of horniness decreased–by the time the basement door opened and Ivan and Bruce tromped down the stairs, Fred was unable to stop, just endlessly thrusting against the mattress, the front of his suit saturated with cum.

“Well, it looks like someone has made himself at home already, eh Bruce? See, I told you.” Ivan said.

Fred managed to regain control long enough to roll over, but his hand immediately wrapped itself around his tender, chaffed cock and kept stroking, “This is just…just another dream. Just another faggoty dream…”

“Oh Fred, I assure you that this is entirely real. Everyone at the meeting was very surprised by your letter of resignation by the way, and with Bruce fired for pissing himself and then jacking off in front of the board, I suppose you two will have to live here, with me, for the time being.”

“You…you fucker…”

“Don’t worry about rent or anything like that, I know the two of you are going to be pretty well occupied. Why, Fred, I doubt you’ll ever be getting up from that bed ever again–so it’s a good thing Bruce here is going to be taking good care of you, right Bruce?”

Bruce hadn’t spoken–he was just staring at Ivan, drool leaking from his open mouth. He nodded, and then spoke, slowly with a bit of a slur, “Yes…sir. I’m gonna f…fatten up Fred, n….and piss all o’er him, ‘n fuck his holes, like you said.”

“That’s right,” Ivan said, now it looks like Fred is pretty uncomfortable in that suit–why don’t you get him dressed in those clothes me bought off that bum on the way home?”

Fred tried to fight Bruce off, but he was so tired, and all he really wanted to do was jack off, as he dressed him in the filthy pants and shirt, dyed filthy by months on the street, and as disgusted as he was with himself for thinking so, they were much, much more comfortable, and much, much hotter. Yeah, they stank, they reeked, and when Bruce pissed on him in the bed with he jacked off and came again, he smelled even better, and when Ivan ordered a stack of pizzas, and watched Bruce force them all down his throat, that was hotter still. And two years later, the now five hundred pound Fred, still confined to his bed, thought he had never been hotter in his whole life.

~~~

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