Sorry I forgot to post this yesterday!
Jordan fought, as best he could, for the first few weeks. Direct disobedience was an utter fool’s errand, he quickly realized–the beast had plenty of control over him in his waking state, and seemed much less concerned with his body’s appearance than Jordan was. Oliver too, seemed to enjoy it–running his hands over the scars crisscrossing Jordan’s back, shivering and getting a bit hard. Was he thinking about the scars that also marked his own back, that the beast was giving him in the night? Certainly, Oliver appeared exhausted, and when Jordan pressed him on it, he revealed he was only receiving two, maybe three hours of sleep a night, but that for Master, he’d suffer anything.
Oliver remained a puzzle Jordan soon realized he’d never be able to disentangle. Half the time, Oliver never even seemed to be addressing him, when he spoke, and all of Jordan’s pleas to him–both rational and physical–would run headlong into the massive brick wall that was Oliver’s utter devotion to the thing which had taken up residence in Jordan’s brain and body. However, Oliver’s exhaustion soon grew so extreme that he woke one morning to the appearance of a second slave in his apartment (or a third, rather, but be refused to count himself, even though Oliver was constantly reminding him of his alleged status). The newcomer slept all day long, and it was several days before Jordan even learned his name–Paul–because his role was different from Oliver’s. He was only there for the nights, to sate the Master’s desires from dusk to dawn.
The workouts remained murderous. He was forced to smoke until the desire for nicotine took over and Jordan no longer had the will to resist his own internal desire for the cigars Oliver kept him supplied with from the moment he woke, to the time the tranqs took hold in the evening. As months wore on, Jordan felt, more and more, like he was trapped in some strange dream of a life, without reason or logic, but which he sensed he’d never be able to escape. The beast inside him sensed the weakness, and seized it, pushing at him as he woke, with whispers and secrets–but the mirrors were the worst. Looking down at himself, he still mostly resembled his lanky form, though he had put on some muscle under Oliver’s direction. But looking in a mirror, his eyes would trick him. He would see the beast there, mimicking him, mocking him perhaps–well over six feet tall, thick, strong, hairy, confident, all of the things Jordan had always despised, and yet he found himself obsessing over this new image, as disgusted as he was by the idea. When he’d been especially good, he was allowed to fuck Oliver facing a mirror, experiencing the beasts pleasure vicariously, while Oliver merely tolerated his master’ vessel attempting to please his hole.
What did it want? Jordan found himself asking that often. Wasn’t there some way it could allow them both to exist, together? No–the beast was too desperate for control to allow such an arrangement, but this situation, Jordan trapped in his own apartment with two mindfucked slaves, he could tell this wouldn’t satisfy the beast either. He was certain he’d be able to solve it f he could just get a restful night’s sleep! But everyday, he woke up exhausted, spent, barely able to keep up with Oliver’s training, hating his body, how weak he was, taunted by that image haunting him in reflections all over the apartment. He wanted it to just…stop. He just wanted to sleep. And then, one morning, Oliver led him into what had been his bedroom.
Jordan hadn’t set foot in the room since arriving home that morning–after all, his body was essentially active all day and night, while the slaves slept in shifts on a small cot in the living room. His bedroom was no longer a bedroom–it had, somehow, been converted into a small, makeshift lab without him even knowing. His notes, which he’d assumed had been destroyed, were all there–everything he needed to continue his work on the serum, in fact, or…or an antidote. He felt a twinge of pleasure at the thought–yes, of course–this is what the thing wanted as well–an antidote to him. In the end, only one of them could survive like this, and they both knew it, and the beast was willing to bet it’s control over him was, even while he was awake, strong enough to convince Jordan to murder himself–but Jordan’s sense of self-preservation lingered on all the same.
From that day on, his days were consumed with work in the lab, the beast in his mind at all times, forcing his hand in small and large ways, the two of them battling out as he mixed and crafted what he simply called the antidote, but in all honesty, he wasn’t quite sure what the thing would do, if one of them took it. He thought–he hoped–that he had successfully pushed the serum to stabilize erratic brain activity in the patient, in order to restore a normal sleep cycle–but the serum the beast wanted…he wasn’t quite sure what it was, really. The beast didn’t operate through science or rationality, but through impulse and desire. The one thing he knew, was that it wasn’t something he wanted to take–but on the day it was finished, he didn’t have a choice–The Beast took control, prepped the needle, and injected it straight into Jordan’s arm.
Jordan was never quite clear on what happened next. There was pain–a lot of it, all across his body, but also, somehow, in his very brain, like every synapse had turned on and began firing simultaneously. For a while, he was certain he was going to die. For a shorter time, lying on the floor, he was equally certain he was dead…but he wasn’t. However, he didn’t really know who, or what, he was. The man pushed himself up from the floor, looking around at the smashed up lab equipment around him, trying to process what had happened–there were so many memories, and too many people in his mind to sort them all out. Jordan and Harry, who was he? Which was he?
In the mirror, he looked like Harry–massively muscled, rough of face, massive cock, and certainly a desperate desire to fuck, but Jordan was there too, in ways. Perhaps less of him than Harry, but enough to make a certain difference in his mind, in how he thought, in what he wanted. His slaves, Oliver and Paul, entered the lab timidly, but both were ecstatic to see him, and he them. He could figure out who, or what, he’d become in a while–but right now, his slaves needed their master inside them, and he was only too happy to do so.