The revelers began to arrive, and the house was oddly quiet–usually Albert had the stereo going early, but the young men approached the house, not really paying attention as the girls arriving turned away, each of them suddenly realizing they had better ways of spending their time. The young men entered, and found the foyer littered with small, wrapped boxes–all of them with names on the tags, aside for a few left aside, unnamed, for anyone who had come uninvited or unexpected. The young men were suspicious, but the tags were all written in Albert’s hand writing. Still, a few managed to resist the pull and left–good for them, they didn’t deserve to be punished, in my opinion. Others were greedy enough to open the boxes, revealing a pipe of their own given from my collection–and found themselves unable to resist packing them with the provided tobacco and lighting them up, the room full of smoke, as they filed their way down the basement stairs, where they found that the rec room–the usual dance floor–had been converted into a sex dungeon, and that there in the center of the room, chained into a sling, was Albert.
None of them knew how they knew it was Albert–but they knew. They also knew that they were here to help punish him–and more than a few, I could sense, also could tell that they might be down here to be punished as well. I was next to Albert, no longer wearing a suit, but my own leather gear, smoking a huge boswell pipe, and watched as they lined up at my boy’s ass, the first in line stripping off his clothes, stroking his cock hard, before pushing it into his friend’s ass.
I took this chance to poke around in his mind, seeing what kind of person he was. The first was lazy, greedy, and had raped several young girls at previous parties of Albert’s. By the time he came, I had shrunk his height to just under five feet, his cock to a meager one inch nub–he went and climbed into a sling as well, one thick hand toying with his loose, eager hole. One by one, the men filled my boy’s hole with their cum, and I judged them–some deserved leniency–I let them go on their way, though they would remain pipe smokers for the rest of their lives–a reminder that they should behave. Most, though, remained. I changed them as they fucked–my boy’s hole. Thick, burly, hairy bruisers covered with tattoos and hair, all of them dumb as rocks and no longer able to even think about something beyond their cocks. Other’s grew soft and fat, smoother, finding their minds consumed with various hungers–food, cum, piss, musk, filth. Before the line had ended, the room around us had turned into an orgy–the first in line taking town fists in his hole, another obese man surrounded by a group of muscle bears, bathing in their piss and cum, other’s in pairs and triples, exploring each other’s bodies and various holes, hungrily sharing fluids and smoke. But finally the last one finished his fuck, and joined the others, allowing me to finally take my turn at my boy’s hole.
Boy. It was tongue and cheek now. Every load of cum had aged him, and Albert now looked to be in his mid fifties, only a few years younger than I appeared. His massive beard was a tangled mass with a streak of white down the middle, his body covered with a riot of tattoos, his head bald aside from a short horseshoe of grey. His hole was loose and slick with cum, but he wanted to please me. He’d forgotten all about the old Albert at this point–now, he remembered something entirely different. How he’d pledged his life to me, promised to be my horny, cock hungry and cum starved fuckslave for the rest of his days. I came, and several men returned for seconds helpings of his hole–one especially filthy looking bear more interested in eating the cum from it and licking it off the floor than anything else. I took a tour of the room, filling in gaps here, intensifying a fetish there, cementing a relationship or two in stone. It was early morning by the time I was satisfied, and the men, all of them exhausted, but still sucking smoke from their pipes, filed their way back up from the basement, their old clothes and old lives forgotten in heaps left on the basement floor.
In the entry way, there were more gifts–larger ones this time, again with their names on the tag. New lives for all of them–they had all wasted the silver spoon gifted to them by their parents, and so I saw no reason why they shouldn’t have to work just as hard as I had, if they wanted to reclaim the quality of life they’d wasted partying, and ruining my sleep. Dirt crusted construction workers, grimy trash collectors, older men in cheap suits still plugging away at dead end office jobs–those were the lucky ones. Others became sex addled, unemployed rednecks who’d lived in the same filthy single wide trailers their whole lives, homeless bikers who spent their time whoring their bodie out at truck stops, and the worst became derelicts who spent their time begging for piss and cum outside of gay bars in the city. But none of them knew lives other than those any longer, and I didn’t regret it, watching them stumble out to their trucks and motorcycles and beat up sedans, driving off into the dawn, leaving me and my fat, old boy alone, and we returned to my–well, our–home.
The couple returned from their vacation on Monday, now childless, and stopped by to thank me and my “boy” for watching the house for them while they were away. I told them it had been no trouble at all, and we would be happy to do it again in the future. In fact, I had quite enjoyed that party I’d thrown, not that I told them about that, and figured I might host a few more with the men I’d changed in the future, to check on their progress. They did have one question which almost got me to laugh–there as a strange stain that had appeared on the Persian rug in the entryway–they wanted to know if either of us knew what had happened.
I shared a knowing look with my old boy through the haze of our pipe smoke, but told them no, neither of us had any idea. Still, if they needed help getting it out, I had an old secret for stains–it worked like magic.
Bracken's Corner 