It was getting harder and harder to remember I’d asked him to come over so he could help me, and not so I could make him like me. Maybe…maybe the former was just a lie I’d told myself. When I picked up my phone to text him, hands shaking, the cigar still between my fingers where I couldn’t release it, had my cock been hard? Had it…wanted me to bring someone over? Had it wanted me to try to escape?
It doesn’t matter now of course. There is no escape. When I’d called, I’d had a hairy ballgut covered with hair. I could have passed for a man in his fourties. Now, I’d be lucky to be in my sixties. I hadn’t grown much larger, but I can grown weaker, my muscles weakening and dying , making it…so much easier to just sit here in my chair (my chair–this chair? Its chair? Our chair?) and smoke this endless cigar, and drink this endles bourbon that appeared not too long before, and watch him lap at my cock.
He was about where I’d been, when I’d called him. He hadn’t believed me, when I tried to tell him who I was, his best friend, and before he could get out, his eyes had glazed slightly, and I’d had all these…ideas suddenly. They were in him too, I knew, because he’s the one who got down on his knees and started sucking at my cock–now shorter and thicker than before, and we’d moved here, to the chair.
I don’t know how many loads I’ve fed him at this point. I don’t know what time it is, it’s stopped all the clocks. Its timeless. We’re timeless. Almost like we’re caught in a loop, changing a bit more each time we go around. My hairline still creeping back. I didn’t have these glasses earlier, I’m certain. He’s only getting larger and fatter, chins jiggling around my shaft, hair sprouting everywhere, even as his head balds messily. Maybe it will let us go, eventually, but will we want to leave? Will there even be anything out there for us? Maybe we should just stay–that would be easier, wouldn’t it?