Waste was surprised that he was still alive. In a sense, he knew that he wasn’t, not alive in the same sense as before, certainly not alive as the same person. He uncurled himself slowly from the ball he crumpled into on the floor, before pushing himself up on shaking legs so he could see himself in the mirror.
What had happened to him? It was like every muscle in his body had been dehydrated and shrunk to a single wire connecting each of his joints. Just from looking at himself, he couldn’t weigh much more than a hundred pounds–the curse had left him as skin and bones. His height only served to exaggerate his new physique, but the loss of muscles wasn’t the most disturbing parts–it was the concave belly with his ribs clearly defined against the skin of his chest. Somehow, the skin seemed both impossibly tight, and also loose and sagging, depending on the angle one looked at. His eyes climbed higher, to his neck, every tendon and vein visible through his much paler skin, and his gaunt face. He looked…old. So much older than he had been, with his now snow white beard growing out in wisps to his chest, his head bald aside from a few errant strands of fine hair that remained. To steady himself, he took a drag off his cigar, able to see his chest inflating with smoke, and then exhaled through his yellowed, crooked teeth, lined with gaps. Cheeks shallow and gaunt, eyes sunken deep. His eyes–he could see clearly, but they were cloudy–eerily so, and he could barely make eye contact with himself for five or ten seconds, before having to look away, but there was nowhere to look that didn’t horrify him. The only part of him that seemed to have any life left was his cock–he gripped it with a bony hand, feeling it’s warmth, feeling alive in some small way, through his shaft.
Waste. The curse had named him Waste, and now he understood. Wasting away, but also discarded by the world. Refuse. That old him, Walter, he was fading faster now, he was dying in the sandstorm, but the curse had saved him from that fate, because he could still be useful. If he didn’t want to suffer the same end, then Waste knew what he had to do, knew who he had to become.
“Sorry about that, Fuglet,” he said, looking over at his slave. His voice was dry, cracking, desperate for water. The shiver that ran down Fuglet’s back was similar to a knife running down a pane of glass. “I got…distracted. You’ve met all my conditions, slave. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? You’re mine now–all mine, forever.”
Fuglet didn’t like this Master. Fuglet liked the old one, the one who he could tell still cared about him, but in those skeletal, cloudy eyes, he only saw hatred.
“Get on the bed–Master wants to use that hole of yours.”
He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t disobey. He got on the bed and let his jeans slip from his ass and around his knees, his master coming over, running sharp, claw like nails along his filthy skin, pressing hard enough to leave a red mark, but not a true scratch. His cock was hungry–it was the only part of him that needed anything anymore. As long as he kept his cock happy, as long as that didn’t shrivel away as well, then he wouldn’t have to worry. The curse would be happy, and Waste wouldn’t have to die too.
He raped his Fuglet for hours. When he grew tired of one hole, he would switch to another. If his slave displeased him for some reason, he would take a moment to punish him–sometimes quickly, with a sharp burn from the end of his cigar, or other times longer, with a prolonged paddling. The whole time, he could see his cock and balls swelling larger, feeding on Fuglet’s pain and humiliation until it was over a foot long and as thick as a two liter bottle, ramming deep into his ass as he screamed with each invasion. When he finally finished, and came–filling Fuglet’s ass with a massive load of cum, Waste finally looked around and realized the apartment had completely shifted around them as well, their new life becoming…clearer.
Fuglet worked in construction during the day–it was one of the few jobs someone as stupid and ugly as he was could still manage to do a decent job and not get fired in the first week. Everyone on his crew hated him, of course. Everyone in the world despised him as soon as they met him. They just…something about him, it was clear that he wasn’t right. He had no friends, he had no family. No one knew about his master waiting back at home. No one who noticed his collar had any desire to know the details or story behind it. Still, he did his menial tasks competently, he stayed out of everyone’s way, and that was acceptable. Then, when the day was done, he went home, where Waste was waiting.
Waste never left the apartment. It wasn’t clear that Waste even could leave the apartment. It wasn’t clear what, exactly, waste was, but Fuglet was fairly certain he wasn’t entirely human, even if he had been at some point. He never ate, he only slept a few hours a night. He would abuse Fuglet until he passed out, and when he awoke, Waste would still be fucking him. As gaunt and sickly as he appeared, he was stronger than any man Fuglet had met on any crew. Waste was his curse to bear, he supposed, for some sins in some past life, and he bore him willingly. At least it was someone. At least he wasn’t entirely alone. At least there was something in the world that needed him, even if it only needed him to suffer.