It was a sensation he’d never experienced, and that he could barely figure out how to describe. Earlier, he’d witnessed his body, but he hadn’t felt surprised by it, and that old body that he’d had was very difficult to even remember. When he heard the name “Gerald”, it was like even more of himself slipped under, only to be replaced by an entirely alien, and yet utterly familiar persona. “That’s…that’s not my name, sir, please don’t call me that,” he said, his voice different–weak and quiet, just a mumble. He looked up at his master, and his knees quivered a bit at the sight of him. His master–he was so fucking sexy. All that muscle, and that fucking cock…he wanted to feel that inside him so badly, but he knew his master would never want to fuck him–no, the only person he wanted to fuck was Sammy, on the bed–and the flash of hatred he felt stunned him.
He hated him. His youth, his neediness, his bratty tone.
No, he didn’t hate him, that was Samuel in there, that was his husband, but Gerald hated him. Gerald hated him so much, because he was jealous. Because he was just an old, fat slob, with a nub for a cock, and he did everything he could for his master, and he never got fucked, no, the best he got was a load of cum sucked from that awful cub’s hole!
“That’s not your name?” Mr. Bishop asked, “But that’s what I’ve called you for years. If Gerald isn’t your name, then what is?”
More of him slipped away, his memories dimming. He could…remember someone named Samuel, that he was married, that he lived in a city, and he had worked in finance, but it didn’t feel like his life anymore. It felt like a story from a book, or a description of one of the men his master had made him serve over the years. Years–those he could remember. Serving Master Bishop, doing everything he required, no matter what, serving whoever he demanded, happily so, because…because his master was a god. Because he was Gerald’s god, and he wasn’t worthy of him, no man was worthy of him, but just being privileged with his presence lit an erotic flame in his chest that couldn’t be dampened. But Master had never fucked him. Never. No matter how much he’d begged, he’d never given him that gift, not once. But he didn’t begrudge him that. It was hardly surprising that Master Bishop wouldn’t want to fuck him. He was, after all, an ugly, fat, old faggot. No one wanted to fuck him. But the envy, the jealousy. It was even hotter now, and he couldn’t even look at Sammy there, couldn’t even think of him. That such a rude boy could receive his Master’s gift, while a loyal, obedient slave was forced to do without. It wasn’t fair–but life wasn’t fair, was it? “I–I’m sorry sir, I don’t know what I was saying, I just…everything is so confusing all of a sudden.”
“That’s alright Gerald, you’re just a stupid faggot, aren’t you?”
“Yes sir, I’m a stupid faggot pig. I’m no good at thinking, I just do as my god tells me to do, please forgive me, sir,” he said, lowered himself onto his knees, and prostrated himself on the ground, feeling his massive, obese body spread out on the carpet around him.
“He looks like a fucking blob, he’s so disgusting…” Sammy said, quietly, but loud enough that he knew the old man could hear him clearly. His face burnt a bit red…but the boy was right. He was disgusting…and…and he liked it. He always had. He knew he could improve himself. That with effort, he might even, one day, earn the privilege of taking his master’s cock, but he knew he never would. He was incapable of improving himself. He was weak, so weak. The sight or smell of food sent him into a ravenous hunger, and he would gorge himself without care. He’d gone without washing or caring for himself so long, his own filth no longer even bothered him. The fact that this disturbed and disgusted the men around him only thrilled him further because…because…
“Now, now, Sammy. Gerald has his place here too, just like you do.”
Jeremy slipped away entirely, and Gerald could finish that thought. His own vile nature thrilled him, because it only made his god of a master appear even greater by comparison. His corpulence, his sloth–it only made Master Bishop more powerful and graceful. Almost as though Gerald were storing his Master’s own vile tendencies inside him, protecting him from their influence. He would chainsmoke cigars, so Master would have no need to smoke. He would guzzle beer and wine, so Master might be temperate. And he…he would abstain from sex, so that his Master might pleasure himself with anyone, at anytime. His pleasure would be gained through his master, through service to his master, and maybe, one day, his devotion would be rewarded. He looked up, the massive cock swinging hypnotically between Master’s legs, and he longed to be called to service it, his entire body quaking with desperation…but Bishop just turned away, and walked back to the boy. “Alright Sammy, where were we?”
Bishop slammed his fifteen inch cock back in, and Sammy nearly screamed, while on the other side of the room, Gerald died a bit inside. He stumbled up, and walked to the humidor–he needed a cigar, a rough one–Sammy always hated how much they stank up the room–and then…and then something to eat, hopefully. Gerald could use a good gorge–he always felt better stuffed to the gullet.
Bracken's Corner 