Curse of the Homophobe (Part 8)

Well, it was close, but the frat won out by a few votes thanks to the Patreon poll.


Evan thought about changing back. He even started to, for a moment, but something else welled up in him, something he could only describe as a great exhaustion. So he’d turn back, and then what? He’d be back to his old self, more or less, with a third whore obsessed with him, and sure, he might be straight acting enough that he could get away without another slur, but the curse would always drag him back, somehow. He could feel it. And then he’d be back in some new nightmare–but what if he didn’t go back? What if he just said screw it, and…and just gave in?

He couldn’t believe he was actually contemplating it. Giving up. Living…like this. The spirit lingered around him, a fog on his mind, coaxing him along, seeing if he would do it. He didn’t want to be this though. He didn’t want to be this person. He could tell, somehow, that he would only inflict more pain on others like this, other guys on the team, other guys at the college. How was this better? How was he solving anything by simply taking Jerry’s place as the asshole in charge? There had to be something he could do. He couldn’t let this thing win.

He didn’t know where the idea came from, if it was his, or if the spirit whispered it into his mind. It was a terrible idea. A nightmarish idea…but he couldn’t ignore the simple brutality of it–but would it even work? No, there was no way it would work. Hand shaking, he poured himself more scotch, but his mind wouldn’t let the idea go. It was the only way–the only way he could make sure he didn’t hurt anyone else ever again–that this curse would end here for good. He drank more scotch, enough to dull himself, trying to bury himself back under the coach, mack under the homophobe, but he was terrified, all the same. Unable to contemplate it anymore, he decided he simply had to do it–he threw on a coat, and slipped out into the night, making his way towards the campus.

It was a Friday night, and the parties were still going strong. Evan made his way to Delta Kappa Alpha, widely considered the jock frat, and the most homophobic one on campus–one which had, on a few occasions, sent kids to the hospital, not that any of the jocks had ever faced punishment for it. It made him angry, which was good. He was going to need lots and lots of anger for what was coming next. He went inside, and began insulting every member of the frat he could find.

He started simple–turning them into faggots, the women in the house all disappearing one by one as the young men lost interest in them, and became far more interested in each other–and in Evan. But he didn’t make them weak. He didn’t fuck them. They needed to be strong. They needed to be brutes. He made them thugs and skinheads. Brutal biker tops and leather queens. All of them addicted to sex, the rougher and meaner the better. Sadists, rapists, abusers–he hurled out everything he could think of, until one of them had had enough, slammed Evan into the wall, and started fucking his hole raw. He demanded more. He wanted them to make it hurt. He wanted them to show him what they did to homophobic assholes like him.

Part of him was horrified and disgusted by what was happening to him, but another part of him was enjoying it. That new part urged them on, told them to use him as their urinal and cum dump, told them that they didn’t see him as a person at all, but as a gimp, a pig, a slave, an object, a whore. He said it over and over again, he said it so much he found himself believing it, as the gang dragged him down into the basement of the now condemned building they used as their hangout, where they brought the homophobes they bashed on the street to be reeducated and repurposed.

They beat him. They fisted him. They shaved him bald, and then stripped the rest of his hair off too. Pissed on him, made him clean out their holes, made him beg for their cocks, and he tried to squeeze that last little homophobic part of him out, but it remained, burning at the core of him, horrified at what he was doing, but it was too late to turn back now. He was marked. Tattooed all over his body, pierced everywhere as well. He’d lived down here for months, if not a year, brutalized by these men–and he’d grown to enjoy it. Relish it. Beg for it–because he deserved it. He deserved it for all the times he’d been cruel, and bashed queers with his friends. He deserved all of it, and would deserve it for the rest of his life too.

Dawn came, and the gang grew tired, slipping away to their homes, another enjoyable night spent working over one of their favorite straight slaves. They locked him back in his cage, and Evan shivered, exhausted–there was a kernel of himself still, deep inside, but it was so small…he was scared now. Terrified of what he’d done to himself. He grasped for it, tried to rekindle it. He didn’t want to stay here–even if he had started to believe he might deserve it. (Success Check–success! The story goes on for the moment!)

It took most of the day, down in that basement, to remember himself. To crawl back out of this, to remember who he’d been–or at least pieces of it. Everything was so…jumbled up. High school, college, middle age. Had he been a jock? A coach? Working in construction or on a farm? He didn’t know how to piece it back together, but he had to. He had to be something else, if he was going to get out of here in one piece.

********

Evan is starting to lose track of his identity, and of his sanity. What sort of gay reality is he going to revert to in the aftermath of this?

  1. Fat, slobby, cigar smoking construction worker.
  2. Closeted, burly, college football coach.
  3. Young, grungy, muscled redneck farm boy.
  4. A muscled abusive leatherman who belongs to the gay gang here.

Here’s the twitter poll

Here’s the Patreon poll

Voting ends on Sunday!

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