No one said anything for a moment–the man just stood there, holding Trey’s face in his hand, and Dirk, across the table from him, gaped at his nephew’s body, limp in the seat, lying across the table. Slowly, it began to slide until it tumbled off and rolled onto the floor, face up–or what would be a face, if it had one. Something was happening to it, while Dirk watched. The clothes didn’t change–but the body underneath was. The skin didn’t look like flesh anymore, it looked…like some mix between rubber, plastic, or cloth. The dummy’s hands were just simple mitts as well. Whatever it was, it most certainly wasn’t a body anymore. Dirk took a step back from it, and ran into something–while he’d been distracted, staring at the thing, the two gimps had slid around the table behind him. Before he could react, both of them grabbed an arm, holding him in place, while their master came around the table, one hand inside Trey’s face, looking at him with a grin.
“See? Nothing under there at all. Most people are like that. Once you take away everything on top–well, there’s just nothing left for them to be, which means, they can be anything at all, isn’t that right?”
The two gimps on either side of Dirk nodded in tandem.
“They were like the two of you once, decided to mouth off a bit. I have their faces now, and if they serve me well, I might give them back one day. Would you like that?” he said, addressing one of the gimps, “Do you think you’ve earned the right to be someone again yet?” The man ran a gloved hand across one of the gimp’s facelessness, and it shuddered with pleasure, and nodded quickly. “Well too fucking bad–you don’t fucking think shit. You know that. You’re nothing. Fucking forget it. Maybe I should go home and just throw your face in the fire. Hell, maybe I should give your face to someone else, someone who might enjoy it. What do you think? Some derelict off the street? Think he could pretend to be the hotshot vice president like you were once?”
The gimp didn’t do anything this time–it didn’t move an inch.
“That’s what I thought,” the man said, and turned to Dirk, “Now, how about you? I wasn’t planning on adding to my collection tonight, but since the two of you were trying to leave, why don’t we just keep you two here? Well, your bodies at least. Your faces will come with me, for the time being. Set the two of you up as a couple of cumdumps and urinals in one of the backrooms, get you good and full, and maybe in a week, I’ll put your faces back on, just so you can feel what it’s like.”
Dirk shook his head, “No, look, I’m sorry alright? I–he’s a dumbass, I know, but we didn’t want to cause any trouble.”
“Well trouble found you anyway, fucker,” the man said, pushed his fingers against Dirk’s neck, and slid them under his face. “Don’t worry–you won’t have to think about anything, soon enough–you’ll be too busy drinking piss and cum to worry about anything for a good long while.
Dirk fought, and the man teased him, running his fingers gently underneath his face, the gimps’ grip on him tightening. He could…sense them getting excited, but they were always excited when Master was excited. Dirk could feel it–the skin starting to pull away from him–except then he was the skin. He was pulling away from himself. He couldn’t scream or shout for help, he could see, but his eyes couldn’t move, he just felt himself being lifted away from the head, and then he was there, hanging from the stranger’s hand, and he heard a strange, and yet familiar voice let out a long whoop, and laugh, while the man stepped back.
“Fuck man! Fucking hell! I’m fucking free, free at fucking last!”
Dirk landed on the table, face down. He couldn’t see what was happening, but he could hear. Something was wrong. He…he was missing something, he realized. That voice in him, that voice that was always there, whispering to him. Sometimes loud…but that had been when he was young. He’d kept it quiet for so long, but it, that voice–it was the voice that had urged him into the bar.
The stranger was just staring, confused. When you took someone’s face–there wasn’t usually another one beneath it. But here, staring right at him, was the same face of the man he’d just stolen–or at least, kind of the same. He had a full beard, for one thing, his mouth twisted in a crazed smile as he laughed, eyes bloodshot and wild, nose crooked with a thick ring in the middle of it. “Fuck!” he said, “I could just fucking kiss you, ya fucker, thank you!” he said, and lunged forward, slipping from the two gimp’s grasp, and slamming into the stranger, pushing him back onto the table, and he did kiss him, roughly, the master unused to such–forwardness, but he did enjoy it. Still–he pushed him off, and stood up, wiping his lips of the man’s slobber.
“Alright, what the fuck just happened. How in the hell were you under there?” he asked.
“I’ve been under that fucker his whole fucking life man. Fucking trapped. You don’t fucking know what he’s fucking like! The shame, the inhibition. Never wanting to do anything, fuck, it was all I could do to get him to masturbate every other day, and even then he had to do it in the damn shower, where no one would even fucking hear him! Fuck! I’ve wanted that fucker off me my whole god damn life, and I knew…somehow I knew this place could do it, I fucking knew it! And you–fucker, I owe you a fucking blow job, is what. The name’s Dick by the way,” he said, got down, and started opening the fly of the Master’s pants.
“Uh…Ash…I’m Ash,” he said, and then gasped as Dick swallowed his cock to the hilt.
Bracken's Corner 