Six inches now–almost half the man you were. What did you say back then? Fat dirty slobs who couldn’t get any action?
The note was taped to the bathroom mirror, but Randal could see the results well enough right in front of him. The nice clothes he’d put on were gone, replaced by grubby sweats and a t-shirt–both heavily stained with what he suspected was his own cum–and probably that of other men too. He’d been able to see some of his old body left in him before, but now, all of that was gone for good. He’d lost most of his muscle mass, and had packed on at least a hundred and fifty pounds of fat instead. The scruffy beard he’d started growing was now a shaggy mass, and his hair was balding severely, almost past the crown of his head–much of it now grey where it had been a younger black. His body hair, on the other hand, had greatly diminished, leaving his fat body looking much smoother than before. In fact, all of him seemed…a little less masculine. His angular face was rounder, he was an inch or two shorter, and his ass had gained at least as much size as his belly.
He was disgusting. He was the kind of man he would have sneered at before, whom he would have considered lower than dirt in his, and in God’s, eyes. He was that low. He realized that now. He was worthless–he hated looking at himself, and yet, in some twisted way, that line of thinking was only making him…even hornier. He hadn’t jacked off since leaving the church, and the need was rising. He reached under his gut and found his cock…and trembled at how short it suddenly felt. Not only was it quite a bit shorter than before, his new gunt swallowed at least an inch. The five inches left for him to stroke was new–as was how skinny it seemed. His balls, too, were shrinking–they were closer to his body and didn’t swing as much as he was used to–still, it shouldn’t stop him from getting off, right? But much to his surprise, it was difficult to get off. His arm got tired, but the need to cum was only getting stronger. It wasn’t strong enough to change him–yet–but if he didn’t cum soon…
He saw the note and yanked it off, but before he could wad it up he saw something written on the back:
P.S. I don’t want to make this too easy for you. If you want to get off–you’re going to need…assistance from now on. Living, or rubber, should do. Check your nightstand, faggot–I think you might recognize it. Go fuck yourself.
Afraid of what he might find, but more afraid of what might happen to him if he doesn’t cum quickly, he heads into the apartment bedroom and to the nightstand. In the top drawer, where he’d usually kept his bible, there was now a flesh colored dildo and a container of lube. Like it might bite him, he reached in and pulled the cock out, worried about how large it was. The thing had to be ten inches long–and as he held it, he realized that the dildo was probably ten inches long exactly, just like his old cock had been. In fact, the dildo was exactly like his old cock–a complete replica.
He couldn’t think too hard about this, or he’d never get it done. Besides, the sight of it…had made him so much hornier, and hadn’t he always kind of wondered what it must have felt like, whenever he slammed that big cock of his into a tight pussy? He squeezed some lube on the head and shaft, laid back on the bed and started trying to force it into his hole, but the head was just too large to fit in easily, and his horniness was making him impatient. He had to work some of his fingers in first, stretching at the hole, before he could finally manage to impale himself on the dildo successfully. It hurt, he screamed, but one hand couldn’t leave his cock. He stroked faster, ignoring how much his weaker arm was burning, and forced the dildo in deeper, feeling his ass begin to adjust, the pain disappearing and being replaced by a deep satisfaction. He was a faggot. He could do this. This is what he was made to do! He slid down further, and started fucking himself on it, stroking faster, and even after he shot he kept fucking himself until he got hard again, and blew a second load, his fat body shaking and soaked with cum, lube, and sweat. At last he collapsed back, dildo still buried deep in his ass, and the first sob escaped his lips.
He’d lost. He had to admit it. He’d been wrong, and he’d lost. He didn’t know what that witch had done to him, but he wasn’t strong enough to fight it. He’d lost his body, he’d lost his family, and he’d lost his faith. He’d been wrong to lie, and he’d been wrong to lose himself to pride and anger like that in front of her. He’d assumed he was superior, when clearly, he had badly misjudged the situation. He would have to talk to her. He would apologize, and he was certain that she would put this right. He’d certainly learned his lesson, or so he’d thought. Still, there wasn’t anything he could do until he got to school in the morning, and so he left the dildo inside him for the rest of the day. It was comfortable–he had to admit that. By the evening, it seemed normal that he’d have to fuck his loose ass to get off–after all, what would keep an old fat faggot like him happier than an ass full of cock?
Bracken's Corner 