Hypno Test Subject

“Look…I just thought you might be interested in it, because you seem like someone hypnosis could really help. A bit more confidence, a little more focus. Maybe even help you with weight loss, of you like it…”

Jerry grimaced at that–sure, he was…fat, but it wasn’t something he liked people mentioning. He looked over at Oliver, his roommate. He’d been working on a project for some strange neuroscience class or something, developing a serum which could induce a powerful hypnotic state. He said it had already been tested in some animals, and was getting ready for human trials, but he was excited to see if it would work, and had asked Jerry if he’d be a willing, and secret, subject.

Jerry eventually agreed, mostly because he wasn’t very good at saying no to anyone, something Oliver was well aware of. His roommate was a wimp, really–chubby, nervous, a bit anti-social…but he was also kind of cute, in a hopeless way. Oliver was no looker himself, with buck teeth and his big glasses–it didn’t help that he was gay on top of that. Jerry rolled up his sleeve and let Oliver inject him with the serum, and a minute or two later, he was feeling…good. Almost like he’d started floating. Oliver was talking to him, but he wasn’t really listening…or maybe he was listening so hard he just couldn’t quite hear anything. Jerry realized he was talking back on occasion too…but mostly, everything just felt…nice, and he barely noticed the hours passing him by.

*~*~*

“Now, tell me what you are,” Oliver asked. The session had gone on for a couple of hours at this point, and he was feeling good about where Jerry was going–with who he was becoming.

“I’m a fat, worthless, faggot pigslave. Your pigslave, sir,” Jerry droned back at him. He was naked at this point, on his knees in front of Oliver. All he had on was a loose collar and leather manacles on his wrists and ankles.

“That’s good. Very good pig,” Oliver said, stroking his own cock in excitement. “What do you want, more than anything, pig?”

“My master’s cum and piss…his sweat…anything you’re willing to give a worthless pig like me, sir.” Jerry’s eyes looked up at Oliver–still not seeing much with any clarity, but he smiled anyway at him.

Oliver ruffled his new pig’s hair–he was going to need a shave tonight, after his first fuck. And then, Jerry wouldn’t be leaving the room for the rest of the semester. Pigs, after all, didn’t go to class. Pigs didn’t think. Pigs just obeyed, and they ate, and they got fatter and stupider for their masters. He’d be lonely for a while, but in a week or two, Oliver would put one or two of his jock bullies under as well. Then he’d have a nice piggy harem. Maybe Jerry would even be top hog, feeding those skinny jocks all day while Oliver was at class. He deserved something, for helping him out like this with his project. He stepped forward, and the pig swallowed down his master’s cock for the first time with a snort, and Oliver knew his days as a virgin were over for good.

Stinkers – Coach’s Senior Gifts (Part 4)

After his demonstration, the coach forced Anton into a long sleeve compression shirt–long enough that the spandex and the rubber of his new mitts overlapped slightly, making it difficult to tell where one fabric ended and the other began. Much to Anton’s surprise, even after he’d lost the feeling of his flesh under the shirt, he found that he could still move…but without bones or tendons, he also had a…surprisingly large range of movement. He was like some living doll, and every touch of the coach’s hands on his new “skin” sent waves of pleasure through him. He didn’t want this to be so enjoyable. He was terrified, certainly, but also somehow…excited.

Coach forced him to bend over the desk next, revealing his ass for him. Anton thought coach might want one last fuck before sealing away his asshole underneath the uniform pants, but instead, he took a wide, semi-flexible rubber tube, told Anton to open up his ass, and began sliding the tubing into him. He could feel the rubber wanting to cling to the sides of his ass, as it went in, but Coach kept forcing it deeper–deeper than Anton had ever really taken much of anything before, until there was just an inch or so of tube sticking out from between his ass cheeks. Then, coach stopped, and after a few seconds, the rubber had adhered to the inside of his hole. The inside of the tube was filled with silicone, almost like a fleshlight. The coach’s finger pushed against the rubber sphincter and entered him, making Anton shiver, and an odd…need, overwhelmed him. “There–you might be a dummy, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be useful, right?”

“R-right…” Anton moaned back, without much thought.

“Yeah, I think you like being used, don’t you?”

Anton just moaned again. Coach played with his dummy’s new hole a little longer, and then got the pants and socks he’d already prepared–black spandex, like the shirt, but with pads built into the knees and ass. Socks first, and while Anton’s feet and ankles began to numb up and turn to fluff, Coach forced the pants on, all the way up to his waist. A ragged hole had been left in the front, allowing the jock pouch to peek through the front, and a small hole had been left in the seat of the pants as well. It took a bit of maneuvering, but coach pushed the end of the rubber tube through the hole, and the pants sealed themselves around it–joined with it seamlessly, in fact. Anton was left with an ample butt oddly without much of a crack–just a hole leading deep into Anton’s body, and the fluff it was rapidly becoming.

Now that most of his body had been…converted, he had a better feel for the substance which was now filling his body. It felt more like…foam, than anything else. Pushing in, his body would indent substantially–much more than flesh–but would return to it’s shape rapidly. It reminded him of those memory foam mattresses, or an unused but first-wetted sponge. He tried to stay standing, but the foam feet kept giving way under his weight. Coach put on two cleats next, which helped–giving strength and structure to his ankles and soles, allowing his the ability to walk–slowly, but he…could tell he would become better at it in time.

It was with some fear that Anton realized that, for several minutes now, he hadn’t heard, or felt, his heart beat. He also wasn’t breathing, now that he had no internal organs to pump air or blood through him. He tried to speak, but while his mouth could move, there was no air inside of him which could be forced out to make sound–he was just a human head, miming language uselessly.

“Almost done, dummy. Just a few more pieces. How about we get your jersey and pads on, eh?”

Anton had seen the yellow jersey with black writing in the corner, but it wasn’t until Coach had put it on him that he saw his new number on the front–34, the same number he had out on the field, in fact, but the name on the back was different. Instead of his last name, all it said was “Sponge.” The word filled his head with fear, thinking about what coach had demonstrated earlier, with his crotch, but the foam body…it had begun to ache. It needed to be wet, if it was going to move, after all. If he hardened, then he’d be frozen in place, like a statue. He was…damp at the moment, thanks to the water held in all the flesh he’d been before, but if he didn’t get more, he’d shrivel up.

Sensing his thoughts, Robinson patted him on his padded shoulder, “Don’t worry Sponge, I have lots of guys who will be keeping you well…saturated. My teams always love my dummies, and use them plenty. You’ll be holding onto all of our piss and cum and spit and sweat for a long time–everything might have just wiped off you before, but now, you’re going to be keeping everything.”

He pushed Anton over at the waist–it didn’t feel like bending over, it felt like he was just some doll, being manipulated by an owner. The rubber tube emerging from his new ass was a couple inches wide–an easy target, though Coach missed on purpose, soaking the seat of Anton’s ass in piss, before sending the rest of the stream into the tube, where Anton could feel it reach the end, deep within him, and the piss just started…suffusing him. It was warm, and pleasant…almost like the time coach had made him piss himself out on the field, after a particularly humiliating fumble. “Yeah, feels good, doesn’t it? It’ll take a while, but pretty soon, you’ll be dribbling filth with every step you take, heavy with everyone’s fluids. I bet you’re already starting to ache for it, right? Well, we just have to take care of that head of yours, now, and once that’s done, you’ll be a dummy through and through, Sponge–isn’t that exciting?”

Stinkers – Coach’s Senior Gifts (Part 3)

Out in the locker room, Erik and Paul had both spent the last ten minutes becoming acquainted with their gifts. Even though they were only a few feet away from one another, they had nearly forgotten about the other’s existence, and the locker room entirely. The jocks…the scent imbedded within them (or the scents they were made out of–it was difficult to know, exactly, what this gear was) was incredibly powerful and overwhelming, but not by force–it was the nuance and the detail which had absorbed the attention of the two jocks so intently.

For Erik, the scent wasn’t only musk, though it was plenty heady. There was also loam, and tinges of evergreen. The chill of a cave, or perhaps a den. Smelling it made him feel both…sleepy, and yet also incredibly powerful, like a boulder at the top of a spruce covered mountain, waiting for a single tap, to send it careening down the slope, flattening anything in it’s path. There was the sweetness of fresh berries, and the pungent rot of raw fish in the sun, the taste of iron and blood in the back of his throat. He was gnashing at the jock now, filling it with spit, and then sucking it down his throat, tasting everything more intensely by the moment.

Paul had begun on the bench, but at some point, had fallen off and onto the concrete floor, where he was rolling about, the jock almost draped over his face, as he snorted at it, grunting, grinding his crotch against the rough concrete. His jock smelled of food–fat and sugar and grains, fermented slightly and beginning to foam. There was mud and dust as well; the jock was incredibly dry, and seemed to be sucking the moisture from him, almost pulling at his face, in some strange way he couldn’t quite explain, even to himself. He felt lazy. He felt like he never wanted to stand upright again, if he could help it. He felt hungry, and thirsty, and as horny as could be. But in his rutting on the ground, the jock came loose from around his head, and without it, he felt a bit of clarity and focus return to him, letting him sit up and stare around him, blinking.

It was a familiar confusion. Every meeting of his with the coach left him in a similar state–exhausted, confused, mortified at what he’d just done, and certain that–if he could–he’d just climb into bed and sleep for days, and days, and days…but he should keep…smelling it, right? Coach would want him to keep smelling it. He grabbed the jock in a hand, but kept it from his face–and took a moment to look over at Erik, where he was huffing his own jock on the bench.

Where Paul was an offensive lineman–wide and thick and designed to be a wall–Erik was a running back–all muscle, lean, and ready to charge into, and run over, anything or anyone in his path. His teammate had almost the entire jock stuffed in his mouth, where he was almost…chewing on it, rolling it over in his mouth, but this gave Paul a clear view of the fact that Erik’s mouth…it wasn’t quite human any longer. The more he gnashed at the wad in his mouth, the more his mouth and nose seemed to extend, pushing out into a thick, short snout. His beard was filling in thick, turning a dark brown, while his nose flattened and widened, turning black. The changes were spreading down his throat and over the rest of his face–especially the thick pelt of brown hair, and Paul–with his free hand–gingerly touched his own face, recalling the strange sensation of pulling he’d felt earlier.

It wasn’t right. It wasn’t human. He too, had a snout–perhaps slightly longer than Erik’s now was, but not nearly as hairy. His nose was flat, dry, and he could feel wrinkles along the side, with two open nostrils, making him snort slightly with each breath…and he had tusks jutting out from his lower jaw, out of his mouth by an inch or so on each side. He looked down at the jock in his hand, feeling it, wondering what in the world coach Robinson was doing to them both. Wondering what they were becoming.

Erik gagged, and with a hack, threw up the jock he’d nearly swallowed into his hand. It was soaked with spit, and Erik’s face looked more like a grizzly bear than human. He looked over at Paul, where he was sitting on the floor–trying to understand why Paul had put on a pig mask of some sort…only to realize that it wasn’t a mask at all.

“We…we have to stop,” Paul said, “I don’t want to do this anymore, I never wanted to do this.”

“Yeah, that’s because you’re a stupid pig,” Erik said, standing up, unwringing the jock, and pulling it on, “I can’t fucking believe I wasn’t the only one. I can’t believe–fucking Anton. But fuck, I feel fucking good, and I’m going to feel better, soon enough.”

“Erik, we have to get help, we have to tell someone.”

Erik just looked at him, and laughed a bit. “If you’re so scared, then why’s the jock around that bulge of yours?”

Paul looked at Erik, and then looked down. Without even realizing it, he’d pulled the jock on, where the pouch had settled around his crotch. It felt…warm. Comfortable. He was horny, but also…kind of sleepy. Lethargic. He tried to get up, using the bench beside him, but couldn’t quite manage to get his feet under him. He was just so…heavy, all of a sudden. He could see Erik’s jock was beginning to sprout hair, like his saliva had been enough to make it germinate. His own pouch seemed to be drying out, darkening, becoming almost skin colored, though slightly darker than Paul’s own flesh. Erik got down on his hands and knees, on top of Paul, and pushed his muzzle to Paul’s snout, each smelling the other’s breath, the strange animal musk they’d begun to produce, and the world began to fade away again for them both.

Musky Poppers

“Yeah, don’t bother with any of that pesky thinkin’ boy, just take another hit. I know how much you like the smell of this one. Here, let me just hole that nose for ya….yeah, real good snort, piggy boy, fuck! Now get back on that cock.”

“Stupid fuck–should be careful who’s drugs you borrow, boy. These poppers a mine are real fuckin’ powerful. In fact, you might recognize the stink of ‘em at this point, with that nose of yours pressed in my sweaty bush. Yeah–it’s me. My fuckin’ stink, all intense and shit. So fuckin’ intense, it short circuits stupid little boys like you, ‘n ya start doin’ everything I say.”

“I mean, I ain’t any real looker–at least, not if you ain’t lookin’ fer a roughneck! My musk’s always been real strong too, most guys hate it, but once they get a nice long whiff of it, well, they tend to stick around. They just can’t help it.”

“That brain of yours will turn back on in a few more hours, once I’ve got ya good ‘n broken in. Course, ya ain’t never gonna be smart like ya were! Nah, that head a yers is takin’ a real beatin’ right now, I can promise ya that. Ya also ain’t gonna be able tah go without smellin’ mah stinkin’ body fer more ‘n an hour or so–ya’ll probably try tah leave, but ya’ll come crawlin’ back, like they all do eventually. Sure, I’ll git bored a ya eventually, but you…maybe not for a while. Yer pretty fuckin’ cute, I gotta say.”

“Yeah, you…I’m gonna like keepin’ you real close, boy. Maybe get you a job with me, in the trash truck–all day, you’ll be smellin’ my pits, suckin’ my cock–have you smellin’ real filthy soon enough. Git tah know yer musk as well as I know mine, put some more tattoos on ya, put some more fat on that frame, grow out that beard.”

“Still, daddy gets tired a every boy eventually. Few years down the road, I’ll sell ya off tah some other stinky son of a bitch. He ain’t never gonna be enough fer ya, but ya’ll live. Course, if yer real good, I’ll help ya make some poppers a yer own, ‘n ya can make yerself a boy–but we’ll have tah see, won’t we? Yeah, here it comes boy–first taste a daddy’s cum. First taste of many, trust me.”

What Brothers Are For

“Fuck, it hurts! Take it out–take it out!”

“No–this will make it feel better, just stick with it.”

Biff groaned, as his brother wormed his fingers in a bit deeper. He didn’t want to admit it, but the itch…did seem to be going away a bit. He’d been feeling it ever since he’d broken up with Amy last month, this…constant, frustrating, mind numbing itch in his ass. It hadn’t been bad a first, but lately, it had been almost impossible to cope with, and he’d finally confessed to his older brother his…problem. Immediately, he’d proposed this as a possible solution, and for some reason, Biff had just gone along with it.

The pain had eased away at this point, but while he felt some relief from the itch, it was still there, just…deeper than the inch of his brother’s finger that was in there. “How’s it feel, any better?”

“Yeah…” Biff admitted, “But…it’s still there, just…deeper, I guess?”

“Oh…Well let’s try this.”

Biff didn’t have time to ask what his brother meant, before he’d pushed the head of his hard cock against Biff’s ass and started pushing it into him. He screamed at him, and tried to crawl away on the bed, but his brother grabbed him by the hips and hauled him backwards, impaling him on the shaft. The pain was there for a few minutes, but then…nothing. No itch at all! Had it really worked? “Fuck that…it’s gone,” Biff said, “You…can pull out now, I guess.”

“Nah, it’ll be back. Better just…keep scratching it for a while, right bro?”

Biff wasn’t sure, but it did feel good, having his big brother fuck him for a while. So good, in fact, his cock got hard and blew a massive wad all over the sheets beneath him, and his brother shot deep inside him as well–after all, a bit of lotion can help a itch, right? And cum…looks a bit like lotion, he told himself. Still, Biff needed nightly scratchings and lotionings from that day on, which his brother, and all of his friends, were more than happy to provide, and Biff settled into his new role as the high school whore in a few month’s time.

Source: thisutahbear

Stinkers – Coach’s Senior Gifts (Part 2)

“Just…leave. You don’t have to be here, you can just leave, just fucking leave!” Anton was saying to himself, but his body wasn’t having anything to do with his thoughts or words. Then again, he’d grown used to his body betraying him around the coach. Ever since the first practice with him, he’d…sensed something strange between them, between the way they both smelled, and coach knew it too. Robinson had never given him a clear answer, regarding what, about Anton, was so special. All he really knew, was that whenever the coach was around him, he just wanted to get him as musky and stinking as possible–smearing him with the team’s dirty laundry, pissing and cumming on him, making him skip showers, leaving his own uniform unwashed…

Erik and Paul–they made sense, somehow. Neither was particularly clean, they would enjoy the sorts of things the coach did to them–especially Erik. Why not pick Erik for some special treatment? Why him?

“Ah, there’s my special boy,” Robinson said, entering the office and shutting the door behind him. The room was tight, and immediately, the coach’s musk overwhelmed the room. Anton’s breath quickened, and his desire to leave was beginning to fade, but he did his best to keep his focus.

“Sir…what…I don’t understand, why am I special?”

“Oh Anton, all these years! I don’t…find men like you very often. For stinkers like me, well, you’re a real find. So clean! Everything just…wipes right off of you. But don’t worry, I’ve been at this for quite a while,” the older man leered at him, opened a drawer in his desk, which is where he kept the sex toys he used with his harem of young athletes. But he didn’t take out a dildo–he brought out an athletic cup, but no jock to go with it. “Don’t worry, you’ll enjoy this soon enough. I’ve been needing another dummy–my last one finally fell to bits a few years ago. Sold some of his salvageable parts to a few friends of mine, but the rot! It just got in everywhere.”

None of that made any sense at all, but before Anton could get any answers, Robinson had taken the cup and pressed it to Anton’s crotch, over his cock and balls. He felt a series of stings all around it–it reminded him of how it had felt to get stitches, like when he was a kid and had cut open his knee on some glass–and when the coach pulled his hand away, the cup remained against Anton’s crotch, against gravity.

He reached down and tried to pull it free, but it was like he was tugging at his own skin. “Now now, if you get it off, it’ll be a bloody mess. Leave it alone, and stand still!”

Anton obeyed, “Sir, please…I don’t understand what’s going on.”

“I could talk at you for days, Anton, and you’d never get it,” Robinson said, “But more than that, I’m sick of listening to you. Since I can’t get to the mask yet, shut the fuck up, and enjoy this,” he stroked the front of the cup, and Anton…shuddered, and nearly staggered to the side. He could…feel that. He felt coach’s hand on the plastic cup. He realized he couldn’t feel his cock, or his balls, either. “See? It’ll all feel so very good, once it’s finished. Relax! Now, let’s get you dressed.”

A jock next–a clean one, or at least a new one. Anton noticed that it seemed…stiff, somehow, and when it was on, he felt that same…stitching sensation as before, even around the cup. He looked closer at the waistband, and it was a part of his body. There was skin, then there was elastic, then there was skin. What in the world was happening to him? He kept at it, trying to get the jock to pull away from his body, but it refused to come away.

Coach grabbed him by the wrist, and held him tight. “None of that now,” he said, “I can do your fists early, at least.” Anton was expecting gloves, but instead coach pulled out two things that looked like rubber balloons, and started forcing them over Anton’s fists. The rubber was secured with two leather bracelets, not that it was necessary. The rubber edge fused to his skin like the jock strap had, and the leather fused on top of the rubber. He kept moving his fists as long as he could, but they grew numb, quickly, and soon he felt…nothing. Just two bulbous, rubber mitts where his hands had been a moment before. He looked at his coach, terrified, but the leer on his face…it was crueler than he’d ever seen. “Still confused boy? Here, let Coach demonstrate.”

Robinson hauled out his cock, pointed it at Anton’s crotch–which was now just a jockstrap, bulging out like there was a cup beneath it, and started pissing on it. Anton felt the warmth…and felt it seep into him. The piss, it was inside him, under his skin somehow, and he just looked down, seeing the white jock turn yellow from the coach’s acrid piss. Robinson cut off the stream, reached out, and gave the boy’s pouch a squeeze. Anton moaned in pleasure, and felt the coach…wring the piss right out of his body, making it dribble from out around his fist and onto the floor beneath them.

His cock and balls–they were gone. They were just…fluff now, fabric, stuffing. What little structure the flexible cup provided was all that remained. It couldn’t possibly be true, he had to be hallucinating, but he…knew what he’d just felt, and coach could see the realization dawning on him. “Now, how about we get you dressed the rest of the way, dummy? Then we can check on those two teammates of yours, and really have some fun.”

Stinkers – Coach’s Senior Gifts (Part 1)

For those wondering where the rest of “A Home of Mirrors” is, the answer is that it’s unwritten. More is planned though! Sorry if your disappointed. Kind of sorry. A bit. Like a twinge. Here’s something else instead! It also takes place in the same “Stinkers” universe as some of the other stuff I’ve put out before.

Erik’s heart was racing, and he had butterflies in his gut, but that was how he always felt, when he was going to meet Coach Robinson for one of their…secret meetings in the locker room. He was a senior on the varsity football team, but he’d been having these meetings with the coach for several years now, ever since he was a sophomore. It’s not that he was gay–no, he had already banged enough pussy to put that possibility to rest–but whenever he got around his coach…he couldn’t fucking stop himself, getting down on his knees in front of, either in or out of uniform, and sucking his cock, or begging for raw load of the older man’s cum in his ass. Still, the team had had their last game last weekend, which meant it was the last time he’d be playing for his coach. Robinson had told him to meet him in the locker room this afternoon, after school, so he could give his best player a little parting present.

He slipped into the locker room, after making sure no one had seen him head down here. It wouldn’t exactly be very good if after all this time, he finally got caught now! Sure, he was eighteen at this point, but…hadn’t always been. He got inside and headed for his locker, knowing how coach liked to find him in here–naked, aside from the filthy jock he reserved for their special sessions…but when he looked into the locker, it wasn’t there. He dug around a bit, confused–he’d seen it in there just the other day, and the door had been locked, so where could it have gone?

“What the…where the hell…”

Erik froze–was he…not alone in here?

“I swear I had it…”

Erik thought the voice sounded like Anton, one of the wide receivers on the team. He slipped over to the other side of the locker room, and sure enough, it was him, naked, in front of his own locker, digging around for something, cursing under his breath. Should…he say something? Why was Anton even here? He was about to slip back to his own locker, and wait for him to leave (because he was surely going to leave, right?) when the door leading out of the locker room opened up, and in strode Paul–the largest linebacker on the team, and a senior like Erik and Anton.

Paul froze, looking at a naked Erik, watching an equally naked Anton pawing through his locker–well, now both of them were staring at him as well, and watching Paul’s face turn a violent red, underneath his short goatee. “Oh…I, uh…is coach around?” Paul asked.

Neither Erik, nor Anton, knew how to reply to that.

“I’m here boys–just finishing up a bit of work!” came the voice of coach Robinson from the officer in the room, “Paul, get undressed like your compatriots. Don’t worry about your…usual gear, boys. I’ll be with you all in a moment.”

That “moment” seemed to last forever. Paul got undressed like the other two, and they all just stared at one another. They didn’t…need to speak, to confirm anything. It was clear that, even though they all believed they were the only one sharing the coach’s affections, they’d been one of…well, who knew how many, really? The three of them were all seniors, after all. Did the coach have even more young men he was having sex with, in other grades? Anton felt dirty, and used. Erik was slowly being consumed by jealousy. Paul was mortified, his eyes glued to the tile floor.

Eventually, the coach did join them, however. He was in his 40’s, and while it was clear he’d been quite the athlete in his youth, he’d packed on quite a bit of fat in the intervening years. He had his usual layer of stubble around his jaw and neck, and was wearing only his own jockstrap–far dirtier than his boys’ were, and the musk was alone to send each of them into a bit of a daze. “Ah, there’s my seniors! I apologize for the three of you meeting like this, but all three of you smelled so good, I couldn’t quite settle on just one. Keeping you all a secret fro one another..well, that was a bit of a challenge for myself is all. Now, I do have gifts for all of you, as I promised–but I must say, that one of you really…well, I have something special reserved for you, Anton,” he added a wink at the young man, making him blush. Erik gritted his teeth, and nearly shouted at the coach, but one look from the older man’s eyes cut the words short. “Now, don’t feel like this is a popularity contest, you two,” he said, looking at Paul and Erik. “Anton, would you kindly go wait in my office for me, while I give these two their…own presents?”

“Y-Yes sir,” Anton said, surprised that he had been chosen, of the three. Terrified, really. He’d never…felt that comfortable about what was happening between him and the coach, and now that he knew there were others in the same position…he should run, he should report him, but instead, his feet plodded him over to Robinson’s office, where he waited.

Now, I know the two of you will consider these consolation prizes at first, but I assure you, there’s nothing you could have done to end up in Alton’s position. It’s not…what you’ve done, or how you’ve done it, it’s just who you are…Anyway, you, Erik, noticed that your jock had gone missing. I’m holding it for you–and yours too, Paul–because I have some new ones for you to try on first. I’ve made them myself, but not with myself, I assure you.” He walked over to a locker, opened it, and pulled out one wadded jockstrap–sniffed it a moment–and tossed it to Erik. Then, out came a second jock which he tossed to Paul. “There–now you two take your time with these! Enjoy your gifts. I’ll be back in a while, to see how you’re coming along, when I’m done with Anton in there.”

Robinson headed into the office, leaving the two boys sitting on the bench, each one…sniffing the jock he’d thrown them. They were hardly clean, but they also didn’t smell quite like anything, or anyone, either had smelled before. Soon, each was chewing and sucking at the filth, fading away from the world, while Anton learned his fate from his coach.

Twenty Lashes

“You ain’t too good at learnin’, are ya, boy?” Boss said.

It was just advertised as a summer job, out on a farm in the sticks, but what Nick hadn’t known was that the position was, actually, rather permanent. Whoever Boss was, the guy who owned the farm, he had some weird magic voodoo shit going for him, and Nick…he found he had to do everything the fucker said. What that meant, was close to ten hours of backbreaking labor all day, and then, at night…well, he’d service Boss then, before being put to bed in the shed outside, where he’d be living, eating slop like the pigs, pissing and shitting in a fucking bucket…

So of course, he’d been trying to escape. He’d noticed, that sometimes Boss would lose focus on him, and he’d be able to slip out of his control. He’d tried to take the truck the first time, but hadn’t even been able to get to the keys before Boss had reasserted control over him. This was his…third attempt, trying to just get away into the woods, out of Boss’s range, but he’d fucking found him all the same, and now here he was again, tied up to the fucking whipping tree, Boss and his bullwhip behind him, trying to brace himself.

“Well, maybe ten lashes just ain’t enough fer ya. Ah mean, ten ‘n ten makes twenty already, right? Well, maybe another twenty wil properly…settle ya down, boy.”

Nick’s gut dropped. It wasn’t the number of lashes which concerned him, exactly. It was what happened with each lash. Every time, he…aged another year. He’d been 22 when he got here, and now he was 42–hairy, a bit of a gut, long beard…he hardly recognized himself in the mirror anymore. Twenty lashes–he’d be fucking 62! He tried to fight, tried to pull free of Boss’s control, but couldn’t…and then, the whipping started.

The worst part, still, was that as much as it hurt–and it did hurt–his cock throbbed with excitement each time, all the same. He…enjoyed being hurt by the Boss, it made him feel good. Hurting himself for the Boss, giving himself up for the Boss, sacrificing for the Boss–

No! No, those weren’t his thoughts, he had to fight, but fuck, he was getting so…tired all of a sudden. Ten lashes in, and he was in his fifties, his gut much larger now, his hair turning white, skin tanned dark from…from years, under the hot sun, in Boss’s service. No–he had to fight the memories, they weren’t real, but his head was dulling more than it had before. He felt so…fucking stupid all of a sudden. It was hard to tell what was real and what wasn’t. After twenty, the sixty year old Nick was panting, his old cock having blown three loads in the front of his grungy jeans, moaning in pain, and pleasure. Boss walked over and fucked his old ass, feeling the blood smear between them, and Nick pushed back, feeling Boss’s world…swallow him. He couldn’t escape, not looking like this. No, best just to…to serve.

“Wish you boys would catch on sooner–yer only gonna have a few more years a work left before ya keel over, ‘n I’ll have tah find another one,” Boss said, “Still, gotta love yer old loose holes while they last, right boy?”

“Yes sir…anythin’ fer ya, Boss.”

“That’s what I like tah hear boy, that’s what I like tah hear.”

Source: hhoncho2

Arctos: Audio (Part 1) | Wesley Bracken on Patreon

Here’s January’s exclusive story for Patreon backers contributing five dollars or more a month!

It’s another entry in the Arctos universe, exploring one of the company’s many product lines–audio books! Sounds dry, right? Well many satisfied customers can assure you that their book selection is…transformative.

The story is pretty standard fare: general bear changes, some slob, cigars, domination, age progression–you know the drill. Thanks for the support as always, and Part 2 will be along next month!

If you aren’t backing me on Patreon, and would like access to this story, as well as all of the others I’ve posted on Patreon for backers (and a sizable archive of unpublished work), the above link will help you out. Thanks again for your support!

Arctos: Audio (Part 1) | Wesley Bracken on Patreon

A Home of Mirrors (Part 6)

***WARNING: Violence and abuse.***

The scene Eli found, upon opening the door to his son’s chosen room, would have likely turned his stomach before. There was a surprising amount of blood on the carpet, and several parts of his son’s body didn’t seem to be arranged properly. In particular, his right arm was hanging limp at his side, as the massive brute behind him rammed his cock into his son’s ass like a piston. This all should have affected him emotionally–Eli realized this, as he took a long, steady drag from his cigar–but all he saw was a mess. An appealing one, perhaps, but so…inefficient.

“Dad? Dad! Is…what happened to you?”

Eli looked at the body of his son being fucked, but realized that wasn’t who had spoken in his voice–instead, it was the brute. He saw now, what his reflection had meant, about his son resisting.

“Shut up and fuck me, you pussy?” the young man on the floor screamed, blood flying from his mouth. “You wanna be this fuckin’ sack a shit for the rest of your life? You’re weak! Weak! Rape my fucking hole!”

“Dad, if that’s you, you have to help me, please dad, I don’t understand what’s happening–I can’t stop!” the brute looked down at his body, at his massive hands gripping his hips hard enough to leave bruises under his fingers. “This isn’t me. This isn’t me! I don’t want to be this thing!”

“You were fucking right about him–you were always right,” the other said, grinning up at Eli, “He’s such a disappointment…”

“Shut up!” Jean shouted, and fucked a bit harder, not noticing his change in pace.

“Fucking let me handle this,” Eli said, walked forward, and slid his cock into the bloody mouth, focusing on Jean, trapped in the brute’s body, matching his rhythm, slamming into his old body at the same time, feeling the body cracking and breaking a bit between them. “Jean–Boy,” Eli said, locking eyes with him, “We’re going to break you.”

“No…dad, please,” Jean said. He felt like crying, but this body, this face, didn’t seem capable of doing so.

“You want to disappoint me again? Look at this thing you were. Look at how fucking pitiful it is. That’s what you want to be, when you could be this?” Eli reached out with a gloved hand, stroking his son’s stubbly cheek, seeing him shudder.

“Fuck–Fuck you, fuck you, I fucking hate you!” Jean shouted at him, “You never fucking loved me, you never even wanted me. Nothing I wanted was ever enough for you.”

“You want your dad to love you, boy? Then quit fighting.”

Jean didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what he could do. That body, it hurt all over, everywhere. Broken ribs, missing teeth, dislocated shoulder–but this body felt so broken too. Broken in spirit, broken in mind. All he could feel was anger and rage, every other emotion seemed to have ceased existing for him, and looking at his father, looking at the man he’d resented for so fucking long, the anger was winning. He could…embrace it. He could use it. “I hate you so fucking much.”

“I know boy–I want you to hate me. I want you to hate the fucking world, and everyone in it.”

Jean tried to speak, but all that came out was a snarl, black slobber flinging from his tobacco packed lips and splattering across his father’s immaculate uniform, and he started fucking in earnest now, feeling that pain still but accepting it. Life was fucking pain, after all, and he could revel in it, couldn’t he? Eli fucked harder too, and his son came deep within his own ass, and in a flash, the thing between them hollowed out. The two thrusted forward, feeling the shell crack and crumple between them–they crushed it as they drove towards one another on their knees. Jean landed the first blow, a fist across his father’s jaw, Eli sneering up at him from the floor. “Fuck boy, that’s fucking it! Fucking bring it, you fucking pig!”

Eli got a few blows in, but even he knew there was no way he could stand against the wrath he’d just unleashed. His punches only seemed to drive Jean to new heights of rage, and when he threw Eli to the floor and jumped on a femur, snapping it with just his weight, all Eli did was laugh. The pain was nothing. What was pain but a sensation? It didn’t mean anything. Nothing seemed to mean anything to him, any longer. There was him, a consciousness. There was the other, the house itself. He served the house, and his son would too. Jean tore down his father’s pants and raped his hole, Eli urging him on, demanding he fuck him harder, be as brutal he could be, that he make his hole bleed. Jean was only too happy to comply, and as he fucked, the rage lost…focus. The anger he felt towards his father seemed to expand into a general fury at everything. He came again, struggled to standing, giddy with excitement, cock and hands rusty with blood, and saw that he meek thing he’d been had appeared there, on the other side of the glass.

He wanted to kill it. He wanted it to die, more than anything. He stomped over towards it, ready to choke it’s breath and snap it’s little neck, when his own, newly formed reflection barrelled into him, and pushed him up against the wall. “You belong to us now–you want to hurt someone? Hurt me.”

Eli watched his son and his double wrestle on the ground, biting and kissing and punching and sucking and fucking. He couldn’t move, not with his leg busted, or he’d have joined in. A figure stepped in his view, however–he looked up at himself–a new version. His uniform was no longer immaculately pressed, but looked well worn. His leather pants were now chaps, his coat a thick biker jacket, grey beard wild with a lank ponytail hanging past his neck. “Gonna have tah be a bit rough, tah match that fuck,” it said, looming over him. “Pity, I liked ya.”

The reflection planted a boot on Eli’s neck, and he bent over, stroking him off. He couldn’t breathe (or could he) but right before he passed out, he felt his cock explode, and his his boot collapsed through the neck it had been pressing down on. “Hey, you fuckin’ pigs! Daddy wants tah play too,” he said, and joined the merry brawl.