The Power of Reality – Preview (Part 1)

The continuation of “The Power of Belief”, featuring the further rise and eventual fall of Professor Larson, is up on Patreon for everyone contributing five dollars or more a month. You can find the download link here if you’re a contributor. It’s quite long, and I’ll be posting the first few chunks of the story here on tumblr, but if you want to read the whole thing, Patreon is the only plave to find it (for now).

Professor Harold Larson had quickly discovered that belief can only get you so far, in this world. “So far” had turned out to be a massive house full of personal slaves, all of them previous students of his, all of them helping keep his butler, Carter, company, and keep the house in perfect order. Two fat cooks, who believed they were identical twins, made him meals when they weren’t cleaning each other’s fat bodies. Two more butlers, as old and weak minded as Carter himself, tended to him and his occasional guests, and would often spend their free time outside, being fucked by the massive gardeners and pool boys. But beyond his house, every attempt to change the world beyond his small realm had proved nearly impossible.

It was, he discovered, rather impossible to believe something if everyone else around you didn’t believe it along with you. He tried making several of his students smokers, but generally they would quit after a day or two, and eventually they wouldn’t remember smoking at all. Attempts to make his fellow professors gay perverts like him had all ended disastrously–thank goodness none of them had any memories of what he’d done, or he would have been jailed for certain. Worse, he could feel that wall of belief wearing on him every day–no one took him seriously. Few believed him to be as old as he claimed, or as fat, or as mean spirited and selfish as he believed himself to be. Worse, he would come home each night, and have to reinforce his own self-image, or he might very well return to being ‘Harry’–stupid, young, thin, straight, naive Harry. That would never happen if he could help it. And so, he’d started tinkering with Carter’s original device, and he’d come up with a new plan.

***

“Thank you for coming to see me, Aaron,” Professor Larson said, “Please, have a seat.”

He was perfect. Relatively dumb, desperate to please, willing to believe. Aaron Gorman was a freshman athlete from the professor’s introductory seminar. If he wanted to stay on the team, then he’d need at least a passing grade–and he was just under it, with only a few weeks left in the semester. Still, if he was willing to help his Professor out with a special project, he could probably see a way to helping him out.

“What did you want to talk about, Professor?” Aaron asked, taking a seat. He looked around the room–there was a strange buzzing in the air, like static from a TV, but he didn’t quite know where it was coming from exactly.

“I wanted to ask you here to talk about your grade. I know that you need a passing mark to keep your athletic scholarship, but after that last test result, I’m afraid its looking like you’ll need some extra credit to pass.”

“Really? I thought I’d done pretty well on it.”

In truth, he had done well–well enough to push his grade up, but the test the Professor handed him was covered with red marks. “I mean, it’s really not a surprise you did so poorly, you were having quite a hard time focusing that day. In fact, it seems like you have a hard time focusing in my class regularly.”

That much was true. Honestly, Aaron just found engineering rather boring, and now that the professor said something…he could remember having trouble on the test. It wasn’t really a surprise he’d failed, now that he thought about it.

Professor Larson leaned back in his chair–this was the hard part, if he could just get him to go along with him. “Is everything alright with your health? I notice that you seem to touch your crotch often.”

Aaron looked slightly aghast, “What?”

“Now, I know it’s somewhat embarrassing, but whenever you’re distracted in class, I notice your hand is in your lap.”

“No it isn’t! I mean…”

“It’s in your lap right now, Aaron–you’re touching yourself right now, aren’t you?”

Aaron pulled his hand away from his lap, and stood up. He had to leave, this was too strange.

“Sit down Aaron, I really think you should talk to me about what’s wrong. If your cock in distracting you, I assure you I can help.”

Aaron felt pulled in two different directions at once. Something told him he should sit back down, that he should listen to what his professor wanted to say, but the rest of him told him to get out, and get out fast. The buzzing grew louder, and the first voice started to make more sense; he eased himself back down into the chair, but kept his eyes on the door.

The Professor had been holding his breath, one hand on his watch, adjusting the dial up. He kept it high, and spoke again. “Listen, it’s nothing to be ashamed of, right?”

“R-Right.”

“It’s just a body after all.”

“Of course. I’m not, it’s just…”

“I mean, an athlete like you, I bet you’re rather proud of your body.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“And you probably like showing it off, displaying yourself for other people to see.”

Aaron blushed a bit, but that was true–he did like having people stare at him.

“So let’s see what’s wrong–go on, drop your pants and let me have a look.”

He shouldn’t do this, but why not? It made sense…didn’t it? He stood up and dropped his pants and underwear–immediately the Professor let out a whistle. “Well goodness boy, no wonder you’re having a hard time focusing in class–that’s big, massive cock of yours must be quite demanding!”

Big, massive cock? It had always seemed pretty normal to him, but when he looked down, it did seem…bigger than he’d remembered.

“It’s no surprise you’re always jacking off in class, if you’re trying to keep that ten inch cock in check, especially with those huge balls of yours too. I bet you jack off, what, fifteen times a day?”

That seemed excessive, didn’t it? But he did jack off a lot. “I don’t know, I never really thought to count.”

“Well, it just so happens that you have just the kind of equipment I’ve been looking for, to help me out with a little problem of mine. If you’d help me out, I’ll make sure you get a passing grade in my class–how does that sound?”

“That sounds great, professor!” Aaron said, not noticing he’d started stroking his now huge cock absent mindedly.

“Alright, here’s what I need you to do–go ahead and wait here for a few minutes. Say, ten or so. And then, I’d like you to walk down the hall and knock on Professor Hubert’s office door, alright? I just have to have a quick chat with him about some things, and then you can come help me out–how does that sound?”

Aaron wasn’t really paying attention–he was too busy jacking off. After a minute, he finally came, pumping a torrent of cum onto the professor’s desk.

“It sure is good that you love the taste of cum, and you’ll clean that up for me, right Aaron?”

Aaron nodded, still in an orgasmic daze, got down and started licking up his own seed.

“Good boy. Now finish cleaning up, and then come down to Professor Hubert’s office, won’t you?”

“Yes Professor.”

“Good boy, I’ll be waiting for you.”

The Fetish Gun (Part 3)

He was enveloped in light again, but a different sort of light than before, not that he was able to really explain what that meant. If forced to try, he might have described that first light, in the alley, as a kind of pressure, pushing itself around his body and into him–permeating his body from the outside. However, this second shot felt like an odd warmth, like how he might imagine a plant reacting to sunlight, spurring him to grow, working on him from the inside out, encouraging him, rather than forcing him. It felt so good he held the trigger down for longer than he had initially intended to do so. When he did finally release it, the light dissipated and he shivered, looked at himself in the mirror, and his jaw dropped.

This wasn’t better–this was worse. In fact, it looked like the gun had simply taken who he’d been, and just dialed the knobs up to eleven, like an even kinkier version of his already kinky self. He was even shorter–probably just an inch or two shy of five feet tall, but incredibly wide and heavily built–his head sitting directly on two thick shoulders, his arms hanging off at an angle, like his musculature couldn’t quite let them rest at his sides. He looked like he used steroids…and now that he thought about it, he did…use steroids. He’d used them for years, along with…with some other things he couldn’t quite remember. His head felt so sluggish, suddenly–thinking had been a bit harder before, but now he felt even dumber.

His balls, however, had been stretched down to an obscene length–at his height, the length from his groin to his knees was a bit shorter than average, but he reached down and found them swinging between his knees, each of his balls the size of an orange. The stretchers he’d put on earlier now appeared to be permanent–there was no way he could fit his balls through the opening, and looking closer at the metal weights, he saw that they appeared to be soldered into place…and, and he couldn’t wait to get his next one. He tugged his balls down, looking at the space between the highest weight and the top of his sack–he could almost fit another one on right now. It would hurt, of course, but he’d get used to it. He fucking loved getting used to it. Maybe if he called Rick in the morning he would put another on him tomorrow afternoon.

Tugging on his balls had made his cock start leaking–then again, when wasn’t it leaking? His cock was…larger, but not because it had grown. Rather, it looked thick and inflamed, like it had been pumped larger over time. It had a massive ring through the head, however, and his cum simply ran down the ring, dribbling from there to the floor, and he had two other massive rings through his nipples, and they looked to be even larger than his engorged and pumped cock. The rings he had on were all connected to thick chain, and the three chains were tied together below his pecs with a heavy padlock–guys at the club fucking loved tugging on his chains, getting him all riled up and leaking…but there was something…off about his nipples, and his pecs. Sure, he was a massive roided muscle freak, but there was no way his pecs could be that big, and they felt…kind of soft. He twisted a nipple and felt it immediately become wet between his fingers, and he moaned, his hand moving to his other nipple. Fuck, he loved milking himself–when the steroids had started fucking with his pecs, he’d decided to just roll with it–sure, the hormones were experimental, but the feeling he got from them–it was almost better than his little puny cock, and guys fucking loved his man milk. In fact, he felt pretty full–he should probably give himself a milking before going to bed.

He waddled away from the mirror, forgetting the gun on a side table, and went into his bedroom, where a couple of milking machines he’d ordered especially for himself were set up in a corner. After unlocking the chains and disconnecting the rings from his flesh, he put two tubes leading to one tank on his nipples, and a third around his cock, and turned on the machine. The sensation of all three milkers sucking on his tits and cocks overwhelmed him, and he fell to his knees, one hand reaching around behind him to start pumping the huge, eight inch dildo crammed in his loose hole in and out, working his prostate and forcing even more cum out of him.

A part of him was horrified. A small part, growing smaller. His new mind simply didn’t have much room to feel much of anything beyond pleasure, and he rode the waves of his near constant orgasms for hours, until his cock and pecs were finally empty. Exhausted, he disconnected the tanks and carried them to the huge fridge in the kitchen–milk on the shelf, cum in the door–and then slumped off to bed. But he felt better in the morning–in fact, he felt great. He took his shots, ate a huge protein heavy breakfast, and then brought the milkers out to the living room, hooked himself up, and milked himself empty while he worked out all morning and into the early afternoon. It wasn’t until he got up to make himself a shake that he saw the gun on the table where he’d left it, and dimly remembered that as natural as this might feel, this wasn’t him. He knew he should do something about this, should try to fix this, but fuck it. He…liked this. Why fix what ain’t broken? He didn’t need fixing, he loved this body…but he could always try and…and fix some other people, right? In fact, he had a few neighbors that could use some fixing, and he still had a few settings on the gun he hadn’t tried yet…why not see what those could do, eh?

The Fetish Gun (Part 2)

He got to his apartment building, and quickly realized that he was so skimpily dressed, that he had absolutely no idea where his wallet or keys were. They weren’t on him–not that he would have had anywhere to put them. Wade thought for a moment, trying to figure out how to get into his apartment, when a thought that had been nagging him since he arrived finally caught him–that he should check his mail box. He wasn’t quite sure why he’d thought that–but the mailboxes were all combination locks–not keyed–and sure enough, stuffed inside was his key ring. With a sigh of relief–even though he had no idea how they had gotten there–he hurried up the stairs, praying no one would see him, got inside his apartment and breathed a sigh of relief.

He walked inside, gun still in his hand, and started examining it, hoping there would be somewhat clear controls. Unfortunately, there weren’t really any controls at all. In fact, the only thing of note beyond the trigger itself was a single dial on the side with five marked positions equally around a circle, all labeled rather unhelpfully with letters–“A”, “B”, “C”, “D”, and “E”–rather than any indication as to what they might do. The gun was currently in the B position. Was it labelled B for balls or something? Certainly that’s what it had done to him, but it had done other things too, like turn him into a thick fireplug, shaved his head down, grown a goatee around his mouth…

Wait a minute, how did he know that?

He hadn’t looked at himself in the mirror. How did he know what he looked like? Or that he looked different from…from…

Wade couldn’t remember. He knew he’d been someone different–he could kind of describe that old self–potbellied, wearing a suit, clean shaven, and had he been…straight? Ugh, that’s disgusting–who’d want to put their cock in a cunt anyway?

This gun had most definitely changed more than just his balls–it had changed everything about him. Looking around his apartment, he realized that this wasn’t quite what he’d expected to come home to at all. Instead of his fancy computer and gaming systems he used to use to unwind, there was a well equipped, if compact, home gym. His book shelves no longer had books on them, but instead all sorts of dildos, ball stretchers and other bondage gear he’d never known existed before, but which he now knew…rather intimately. He walked to his bedroom, and sure enough, his new memory was correct–in addition to a now king sized bed, he also had a leather sling suspended from the ceiling. In the closet, where he was almost certain he should have found a small collection of suits, there was instead a bunch of leather gear–harnesses, jackets, pants, chaps–all leather, and all of them fairly worn and…supple to the touch. None of these things looked new–the entire apartment looked well lived in, in fact, but what had happened to his life? His internship?

He looked at the gun again, but no clues appeared. Were the letters some sort of measure of intensity? Why wouldn’t they just be numbers then? Maybe they were different modes? Would one of them be able to change him back? He let out a growl and tossed the gun onto the couch–all of this damn thinking was just making his head hurt. It wasn’t even eleven, and he wasn’t at a club, finding some hot leather daddy to pummel his nuts all night–what was he even doing? Maybe…maybe he could go find those two leather men, give them back their gun…in exchange for a night of some fun. He smiled, one hand reaching down and squeezing his massive nuts firmly, feeling cum leak profusely from his nub of a cock. Fuck, he could always have some fun at home first, right?

He got a two inch ball stretcher from his toy shelf, and started working his balls through it, one at a time, slowly, using his own cum to help him lubricate until both balls were through, the heavy steel pulling them away from his body, causing a steady stream of cum to flow from them and out his cock. He worked a dildo in his ass and began fucking himself, swinging his balls too and fro, milking himself with the pain, gasping and sweating and…and what in the fuck was he doing?

This was filthy, and perverse, and disgusting, and…and what he did every night, when he couldn’t find anyone to come home with him for some fun. What in the fuck had this gun done to him? He was a fucking freak, and…and he liked it. He liked all of it, and that terrified him even more. He got up from the couch, after pushing the dildo deep inside himself, and picked up the gun again, walking to the mirror he had hung in the hallway and staring at the person he’d become. Suddenly, he didn’t really care what the gun might do to him–he didn’t want to be this–he didn’t want to live like this for the rest of his life, even though he was having a hard time articulating why, all of a sudden. Still, there had to be a way to fix himself–one of these settings had to be an undo button, right?

There were three settings he hadn’t tried. He…kind of knew what B did, although it seemed unreliable. It had given him this body, but when he’d shot those two uniformed men, only their balls had grown–nothing else had seemed to change, like he had. So…he kind of knew what it did–probably something to do with balls…maybe. That left four other options, and he had no idea what they might do to him, but the dial could spin all the way around in a circle…so he gave the dial a hard spin–he’d just shoot himself with whatever letter came up. It couldn’t be worse than this, right? The dial came to a stop on D–and with a shrug, he turned to gun towards himself, and pulled the trigger.

The Fetish Gun (Part 1)

The life of a lowly intern–first into the office, and nearly always the last to leave–it was well into night by the time Wade freed himself from his menial work, packed some things up in his briefcase, and started the walk home. It was friday night and the streets were busy–he had to pass through a hub of bars and small concert venues to get to his apartment, and while he always imagined on Fridays that he’d just go straight from the office to the bar, he was almost always too tired to do much beyond walk home and fall into bed–he could always go have some fun on Saturday night, right? Miranda had seemed to enjoy their last date–maybe he’d give her a call and see if she wanted to go out, if he wasn’t too tired. Fuck, twenty-five, and he already sounded like he was middle aged.

He turned into an alley which cut between a brick wall and the back of a small nightclub…though the clientele seemed a bit strange tonight. Usually there were a few straight couples smoking out back, talking quietly, but as he walked down, he saw that the small crowd was all men, and they seemed to be especially…fetishy. Leather, rubber, guys on their hands and knees in dog masks. It was almost enough to convince him to turn around, but there was no reason he couldn’t skirt the edge, right? He moved around the group, and felt everyone…staring at him. As he tried to escape the crowd around him, someone inside shouted, “Hey Greg! There’s one, out back.”

Some odd light covered Wade’s body for a moment, holding him in place, and then it was gone a second later. He stopped, trying to figure out what had just happened…and why he was so much colder all of a sudden. He looked down at himself and quickly saw why–he was nearly naked. The suit he’d been wearing (Suit? Had he been wearing a suit? It seemed…hard to imagine, him in a suit…) had simply disappeared, and in its place he was wearing a leather bulldog harness, a leather jockstrap, and two boots–nothing more. He gawked at himself, and then looked at everyone else around him–their eyes…some looked at him eagerly, but others…it looked like pity, or maybe just resignation.

“Did I get him?”

“Fuck yeah, your aim is impeccable.”

“Oh please, it’s just the guidance system, but thanks anyway.”

Two men emerged from the club, both of them nearly six and a half feet tall, heavily muscled, and wearing identical black leather uniforms. The men standing around and smoking all ducked back into the club almost immediately, aside from a few who hung back, and Wade tried to figure out what he had been doing. He’d been going home, right? Or…or had he been in the club…this whole time? He felt rather uncomfortable, his body bared for these two men. He wasn’t in very good shape–or rather, he had almost no shape at all–and the harness did nothing to hide it. He wasn’t exactly fat–though he did have a bit of a potbelly. More, he just looked like he spent his days behind a desk, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He also wasn’t sure how he felt about the men in front of him…he’d never felt much attraction towards men, but suddenly…looking at these two huge muscle gods, he’d never felt this horny in his whole life.

“How’s the ratio in there?”

“I’d say make him a sub,” the other replied, and lifted up the strange looking gun he had in his hand, adjusting some of the knobs on the side, “Can always use more subs, right? Any preference?”

“Eh, surprise me.”

Before Wade could ask what was going on, the man pointed the gun at him and pulled the trigger–the same light enveloping him as before, and disappeared a moment later–leaving him mostly the same, but with…several differences. His…physique, for one thing, and gone through a remarkable improvement. It looked like he had spent hours in the gym, bulking and building muscle–but with a sudden loss of height, he’d become a stout fireplug. Unfortunately, as he’d grown bigger, his cock had shrunk to a nub, while his balls had exploded in size, each nearly as large as a lemon, forcing the jockstrap to bulge out. With a grunt, unable to control himself, Wade dropped to his knees, the man with the gun releasing his seven inch cock from his pants. Wade felt drool immediately start flowing from his mouth, and he walked forward on his knees and swallowed it to the hilt.

“Nice muscle pig.”

“Thanks–he’s got a very nice mouth too. But try squeezing his balls.”

The other man knelt down, reach down and gave Wade’s sack a squeeze–immediately Wade felt a series of spasms and grunts wrack its way through him, his tiny cock releasing a massive amount of cum right into his jock.

“Dang, that’s pretty sensitive man–like, what would happen if I did…this?” He stood up again, and delivered a solid kick right to Wade’s massive balls with his boot.

It hurt–it hurt so much that he crumpled to the ground away from the cock he’d been sucking and curled up on the ground, but the pain eased away and pleasure took over–his cock pumping out blast after blast of cum for half a minute, his seed soaking and overflowing the jock he had on until it formed a puddle on the pavement beneath him as he shivered, grunted and groaned.

“He could go further though.”

“What would you suggest?”

“How about a complete pain pig? Piercings, tattoos.”

“I could see that, but what if we–”

He had to get out of here. he had to get away from these guys, but even if he did, he’d just be trapped like this…wouldn’t he? Wade took a few deep breaths–the men were still talking…or plotting, rather, what to do to him. The man’s grip on the gun was loose, and a plan formed in his mind. He rolled over slowly, to his knees, and as quick as he could, grabbed the gun from the man’s hand, and before either of them could stop him, he fired the gun at them both, watching their nuts swell in their pants–perfect targets. While they both gawked at their crotches, he pummeled each of them into submission, until they were sobbing on the ground, their cocks pumping cum into their pants, and then he took off running as fast as he could towards home, gun in hand–praying he could figure out how to fix what they’d done to him.

Office Slut (Sketch)

“…and so you see, when we take a look at our earnings last quarter, we have quite a few opportunities in several divisions…” Jake said, and saw a hand go up around the conference table. “Yes, a question, Mr. Kitridge?”

“Yes, this is all very interesting, but I suppose…well, I suppose that I’m not alone here in the expectation that you were going to be, well, I suppose this isn’t quite the presentation we were all expecting.”

Jacob just stared at him. Not the presentation they’d been expecting? He’d been planning this presentation for weeks! He’d discussed it in detail with his boss just the day before, but he could see him nodding on the other side of the table, agreeing with the question. His face turned bright red, matching his short strawberry beard. “I…I don’t understand. I thought this was supposed to be about my analysis on potential revenue opportunities–”

“Oh Jakey, quit trying to sound so smart. We admire your commitment to the role, but I think what Mr. Kitridge is saying is that he’s less interesting in what you might have to say, and more interested in, well, you know.”

He didn’t know. Or…did he? Mr. Kitridge was smirking at him, one hand dropping into his lap. The other men around the table all seemed to have a similar idea, and…and he was so hot all of a sudden. “Is…is it hot in here, or is it just…just me?”

“Maybe you should take something off to help cool you down, Jakey.”

Jacob was already loosening his tie, pulling it off slowly, unbuttoning his shirt, rubbing his body seductively. The men around the table all stood up, each of their massive cocks hard and jutting out in their suitpants. They encircled him, Mr. Kitridge pushing him down to his knees, and he started sucking each cock in turn, the men jacking off around him. He swallowed a few loads, but the majority of them ended up all over his shaved head, in his beard, the shoulders of his unbuttoned shirt. His hands were busy fondling his own cock in his suitpants, shooting twice into his underwear.

The meeting lasted the rest of the hour, and when the men adjourned, they left Jake to clean himself up as best he could, his boss telling him to go home early–he deserved it for doing such a fantastic job today. Jake didn’t feel like he’d done a fantastic job–he felt violated. He had no idea why any of them had done that, and after cleaning himself up as best he could, he hurried from the office, but everyone was looking at him, he could tell that everyone already knew. All he wanted was to be home, away from all of them. Thankfully the commute was short since he’d left work so early, and when he got to his apartment, he discovered a package at the door, no address or shipping information, and he took it inside with him, and unwrapped it.

Inside was a manuscript, obviously written on a typewritter, at least one hundred pages thick. The top page had only a title, no author–Jakey: The Office Slut. He recalled what his boss had called him, and dreadfully curious, he started reading–discovering that the first chapter covered, in graphic detail, everything that had happened that day in the meeting, and when he reached the end, with Jakey returning to his apartment that afternoon, happy in his role as the office slut, he pushed the book away. What even was this? Who could have written this? And what, exactly, was the rest of the book even about? The future? What would happen if he read it? What would happen if he didn’t?

He left it there for an hour, but curiosity finally got the best of him–he opened up the next chapter and started reading, and kept reading, slowly jacking his cock until he had finished every word. Somehow, it had taken him all night–and Jakey stood up from the table and realized that if he didn’t leave soon, he’d get in trouble for not being in Mr. Kitridge’s office when he arrived for his first blowjob of the day. He got on his suit–now immaculately tailored to emphasize his body, the back of his pants equipped with an subtly obvious zipper for easy rear entry, no underwear of course, and he hurried to the office, already excited to get started on his day of slutting around the office.

Always Another Curse (Sketch)

“What the fuck did you do to me?”

Jerry looked next to him, and saw Mac–by far the fattest kid in school–had waddled up next to him and was staring at him. Of course, Mac hadn’t been the fattest kid in school for very long–before, that title had belonged to Jerry, and Mac had been one of his biggest bullies. “You did this to me, fucking fess up, you…you said something to me yesterday and I…” his pudgy jowls turned bright red, and he looked away, unable to keep going.

“Tell me everything you did yesterday–but make sure you speak loud enough that everyone in the hallway can here,” Jerry said calmly. Mac’s eyes went wide, but words were already tumbling from his mouth.

“I was gonna beat you up yesterday, but you…said something, and I decided I had better shit to do, but…but my ass was itching really bad when I got home…”

It was obvious from his face that he was desperately trying to keep the words back–Allie was right there–and her loose lips murdered reputations just as easily as the sucked down cum behind the bleachers. Jerry knew that she was there, of course–this was too perfect.

“…When I got home, I…I got undressed and I stuck a finger in my ass to…to try and itch it, but it felt really good, and I had two fingers in there, when I started growing fatter! I tried to stop, but I kept using my fingers, and now I’m like, 700 pounds. So…so what did you do to me?”

Allie’s eyes had lit up at the mention of anal pleasure–she’d already fled to tell everyone she could find. “Do you have something up your ass right now, Mac?” Jerry asked.

“One…one of my mom’s…dig dildos. Please…Don’t make me keep talking!”

Jerry smirked. “Meet me in the bathroom after school, and try not to cum–you won’t like what happens.”

“I can’t even reach my cock! I haven’t been able to cum all day,” Mac said, but Jerry just turned and walked away, leaving Mac to heave himself to class, until they met up in the bathroom after school, where Jerry immediately told him to strip naked. Mac did as he was told–standing there in his obese glory. “Please, just fix this, please…”

“Lift up your gut,” Jerry said. Mac did so, and he got down on his knees and started fiddling with Mac’s cock. “The only way to get your body back is to cum three times–but you’ll keep twenty five pounds for each day you remain in this form, so I’d suggest you hurry.”

There was a click, and Mac felt something pulling his cock down slightly–and like his cock was…restrained. “What…”

“I just put a chastity cage on you.”

Mac just stared at him. “But…But you said–”

“Well I didn’t want it to be easy for you, you fucking asshole. Besides, the only way you can cum is with a cock in your ass–a real cock, not a dildo. Anyway, I have to get home–I have homework to do.”

Mac screamed and tried to grab him, but he ended up just falling to the ground, Jerry stepping out of the way.

“Screaming isn’t going to make a difference–I suggest you find some guys to fuck you, and soon, if you don’t want to be that fat permanently. Of course, with that stubby cock of yours locked, you’re going to have to rely on anal stimulation, so fisting would really be the best option.”

“Fuck…fuck you.”

“Heh, no Mac. Fuck. You.” Jerry said. “But if you ask me nicely, maybe I’ll give you some help.”

Mac glared at him, and spat at his feet–he didn’t give in and accept Jerry offer until after school three days later, after he’d been relentlessly bullied by all of his previous friends, and spent every evening fucking his ass raw with his mom’s stolen dildo. Jerry made him beg, and suck his cock, before giving him assistance, mumbling a second spell over him. Mac didn’t notice a difference; Jerry told him he would soon enough. Mac was pissed, but he walked home–and nothing at all seemed strange until his dad came home, and they smelled each other…

They ended up in the garage, his dad’s cock buried deep in Mac’s asshole, fucking him deep, but as good as it felt, with the cage on he couldn’t cum–that didn’t stop his dad from fucking him again that evening, twice during the night, and one last time before work. Worse than getting fucked by his dad, was that Mac liked it. He wanted to submit, he wanted to be fucked by him, and it felt…it felt so fucking good, to have his dad’s cock in his hole. Still, it was time for school–he passed several men before another one caught his nose–a chubby roughneck wearing some dirty workgear, and they fucked in a narrow gap between two houses. At least twenty men smelled attractive at school, including several teachers and his old coach, but between the orgy that kept him occupied in the bathroom most of the day, he managed to eek out one load from his locked cock.

It took him all weekend and two more days to come all three times, and then, finally, he felt the fat beginning to fall off his body–but not all of it. He had been a muscular 225 before all of this, but after the curse, he only lost about half–resting at a still obese 450 nine days later. But the men still smelled amazing…and he quickly realized that just because he’d overcome the first curse, didn’t mean he’d beaten the second–who knew what sort of demands Jerry was going to make if Mac wanted all his freedom back?

Jockstrap Curse (Sketch)

No one’s first spell is the greatest. A first spell is usually like first sex–awkward, not at all what you were expecting, and something you can’t take back. I was a wizard sure–but before I knew that I was a nerd, and gay, and the target of every bully in my high school. Tim was a linebacker on the varsity team, and he was as cruel as he was stupid. He cornered me after school one fateful day, dragged me into the locker room, and tried to force one of his unwashed jockstraps into my mouth–without knowing what I was doing, the world shifted between us, and suddenly it was him shoving the jockstrap into his mouth…and sucking on it…and…moaning, as he groped his cock. Needless to say, I didn’t want to be anywhere near this scene, and so I beat it as fast as my short legs could carry me.

I avoided him for days, as best I could, but he caught up to me eventually. But while I expected him to bash my head in, instead he was begging me to fix it, whatever I had done to him. I tried to tell him that I had no clue what he was talking about, but he refused to say anything. Just when I thought he might open up, Zane–another linebacker, and well regarded as one of the dirtier guys at school, found us–but instead of them both teaming up to bully me–he ordered Tim to come with him–and sure enough, Tim followed, though from his face he was none to happy about it, and more curious than anything else, I followed after them both. They went into the bathroom and took the handicap stall together–I peeped through the crack, and found myself watching Tim sucking and licking at Zane’s filthy jockstrap–crusted with piss and cum, Zane humiliating him the entire time, before fucking his throat. Zane left, leaving Tim in the stall, face coated with cum and tears in his eyes.

He told me, that at first, it had just been his jockstraps that he was obsessed with, but then, one practice, he’d caught a whiff of Jack’s–the quarterback–and immediately he’d been unable to resist him, begging his team captain to fuck his ass after practice–after worshiping his jockstrap of course. Jack had essentially owned him for a day–until he’d smelled Zane’s even filthier jock, and he’d started worshiping and serving him instead. He’d tried smelling Jack’s again, but suddenly it did nothing for him–he needed the filthiest jock he could find, and he didn’t know what to do. I, of course, didn’t know what to do either. I had no idea I was even a wizard at that point, but I promised him I’d try to do something. That was Friday–but come Monday, Tim had disappeared–he never returned to school again.

The whole town was worried–but clues were scarce. That said, I had more information than anyone else. I found out that Tim held down a part time job working at a gas station frequented by truckers–and I had a sneaking suspicion as to what might have happened to him, but who would believe me? Even if they believed me, what good could they do? I thought about telling the police, but before I could, the guild intervened and took me in for proper training–still, I always wondered what had happened to him. So when I graduated, I tracked him down with the intention of freeing him from the curse I had never meant to cast in the first place.

Now, keep in mind that I might look thirty, but I was training for close to twenty years. Finding Tim was still easier than I had expected–first spells always left a rather strong trail through the world, if you knew what to look for, and so I traced his path. I found the trucker–now in his sixties–he had rode off with that weekend, unable to help himself. After that, he ended up living at a small truck stop diner a few states over for a while, enslaved to the previous owner and chef, before someone even filthier picked him up–another trucker, who he remained with for a quite a few years, before a chance run in at a biker bar brought me to his current home.

A single wide trailer which looked like it had never been cleaned. The man who owned him was unemployed, but made a small living off running drugs with a local motorcycle gang. Tim hadn’t left the trailer in years, by that point. Even if there was someone filthier than the biker, it was doubtful he would ever have a chance to find them and escape. But I also discovered that with each subsequent owner, the spell had grown stronger–eroding more and more of Tim’s mind away until serving jockstraps–and his owner’s cock, was all he could think about. He was chained in the small bathroom beside the toilet, surrounded by a pile of filthy laundry, soaked in piss, that served as his bed. He seemed to be well fed, at least, judging by how large he was–if I had to guess, around three hundred and fifty pounds–his hair and beard long and unwashed. Still, a promise was a promise–I tried to free him, only to discover that this new mind had no interest in being free. I was at least five years too late. I can’t say he didn’t deserve some of what happened to him–but…well, that’s the way curses work, I suppose. Now, are you going to cooperate, or would you like to see what I can do to you now that I know what I’m doing?

Father’s Rules (Part 6)

***Warning*** Really dark. Physical and emotional abuse, extreme aging, amputation.

His father rarely brought home the same man more than once, and once he had Blake willing to do anything he wanted, he rarely brought home anyone at all. There were a few that came over regularly, but it was always focused on sex. But as soon as they stepped in the door, Blake could immediately sense something different between them. They came home, and his dad wasn’t drunk off his ass, and they were…laughing. He introduced Anthony to his filthy brother, but instead of using him…Saul told Blake that he should go spend a few hours at the gym–give them some privacy. A small part of Blake was relieved, but his new self was…hurt. Hurt that his brother didn’t want to use him, hurt when he saw the look of contempt and loathing in Anthony’s eyes. He worked out, but during his multiple breaks for a cigar outside, he fumed. What did that guy have that Blake didn’t? Sure, he was young, he was clean. He wasn’t obese, just chubby and soft in all the right places. But could he take two dicks in his ass at once? Could he drink a gallon of piss in one sitting? Did he have teeth you can take out, like Blake’s proper mouthhole? No! So why send him away? Why do all of this to him, if you didn’t want to use him?

Blake returned that night. Anthony was still there, sleeping with Saul in the bed, and Blake started a fight. He wanted to know why Saul had sent him away, why he couldn’t play with him. Anthony was disgusted, and told him so. Saul suggested he leave–that he needed to have some words with his brother. Saul finally confessed everything to him. He’d been dating Anthony for a few months now, behind Blake’s back. Blake wanted to know why, and Saul told him it was because he wanted someone in his life who wasn’t a pig. Who had some self-control, and some basic hygiene and who wasn’t in their sixties. Blake exploded. Saul stopped responding, marched over to the list, and scrawled a new rule:

My son has to move out out of the apartment.

Blake begged and pleaded. Where was he even supposed to go? Saul was uncaring, and shoved him out of the apartment and locked the door behind him; he searched his key ring for the key to the apartment but it had somehow disappeared, so he started banging and pounding on the door, screaming threats until the police arrived, cuffed him, and dragged him off.

Saul posted his bail, but said that was the last he wanted to see of him. He’d already talked to their boss and gotten him fired, and told him he’d have to find something else to do with his “retirement”. That if he ever came near him or Anthony again, there’d be hell to pay. With nothing else to do, he emptied his wallet at the bar, and decided he might as well use the only skill he had left, and started turning tricks with anyone desperate enough to fuck him, usually only asking for a bed or a couch and a meal for payment, instead of money. He knew enough perverts from his years living with his father that he was able to survive, at least–although now that he was at their disposal and rather helpless, he found himself at the mercy of each man’s own extreme natures. One man offered him a home in his basement, but only if he slept in a cage, and he suffered as the man’s old helpless pig for two month, until he too grew tired of him and kicked him out again. He met several men who would pay him to be in amateur porn flicks, and he found his sexual limits pushed in all sorts of strange–often painful–directions. Throughout, he would still see Saul and Anthony on occasion at various bars. The meetings were always coincidental–the list wouldn’t allow him to seek them out–and he would always leave as soon as he noticed them, but not without incurring another year or two of aging each time. Before too much longer, he was nearly eighty–his hair pure white, contrasting with his riot of tattoos. It was around then that he went home with someone too rough–someone who beat him senseless, shattering his arms and legs in multiple places, before dumping him at the hospital.

Blake woke up in a bed, his father looming over him. He tried to speak, he tried to yell, but his dad shushed him.

“Don’t worry dad,” Saul said to him, “I’m here for you.”

“But…but where am I?” Blake replied, “Where–did you say…dad?”

“Of course–you know me. It’s Saul, your son.”

Blake couldn’t speak, tears welling up in his eyes. He hurt all over, but he managed to look around the room. It was small, and looked like a hospital–some other old man was in a bed next to him, sleeping, some monitor beeping quietly. “Is this the hospital? Why…why can’t I feel my legs…”

“I’m…the doctors said you were too obese to save your legs–they had gone necrotic. I’m afraid that they had to amputate them, dad–after, you know, your fall? They saved your arms, but they say you won’t be able to use them very much in the future. ”

Blake refused to believe it. He started screaming, and an orderly came in, helping him calm down, before showing him his missing legs–one at the hip, and the other at the knee. His arms and hands were still in casts, but he could…feel the damage enough to know they weren’t lying. He was too terrified to do anything but cry, and his dad stroked his bald head gently.

“Don’t worry, I picked out this nursing home especially for you. You’ll be quite happy here, and I’ve made sure you’ll be well taken care of now, isn’t that right Mr. Allan?”

“Of course, Mr. Emerson–I’ll follow your instructions to the letter, I promise.”

“Good,” Saul said, “My father has a very particular set of needs, after all, and I’m sure you’re just the man to help him through these last years of his life.”

Blake tried to protest, but he was too tired to speak. Saul turned and left, leaving him with Mr. Allan. He was young–probably in his thirties and very muscular. He came around the side of the bed, unzipped his pants, and pulled out his cock. “Yeah, your dad’s told me that you need all sorts of special treatment to stay happy, and it just so happens this sort of thing is my specialty.”

Blake tried to resist, as the young man reached in his mouth and pulled out his dentures, but once the cock was in his mouth, he decided to just enjoy it–and he did enjoy it. He was especially thankful when Mr. Allan shot deep down his throat, and followed the cum with a load of piss–just how Blake liked it. After, he helped him into a wheelchair and pushed him outside, lighting a cigar for him and helping the old man smoke it, before reaching one hand under the blanket covering his stumps and jacking his old, soft cock until it leaked out a load of cum–and then wheeled him back inside, and lifting him into his bed–but only after hooking up a milker to his cock and a sliding a large vibrating dildo into his hole–to help keep him happy, Mr. Allan said.

Yeah, happy. This…this wasn’t so bad, was it? He told himself, as he spasmed and let loose another load into the milker. But then again, if this wasn’t so bad, why couldn’t he seem to stop himself from sobbing?

Father’s Rules (Part 5)

***Warning*** Darkness ahead.

The list began growing longer all over again. His dad would still bring home men, but now instead of just watching, Blake was forced to serve them and his dad sexually all night long. To further his sexual education, his daily routine of masturbation began incorporating any number of toys–at first, just dildos, but then also clamps, stretchers, pumpers–before long Blake was compelled to fuck his hole regularly as he masturbated, and had to wear a buttplug at work and the gym. His father forced him to have his nipples and cock pierced, and they were pumped and stretched as well. He fought, of course. He fought hard, but there was nothing he could do, except watch himself grow older and older in the mirror, his hair picking up strands, and then streaks of grey–though grey was a bit of a misnomer. He smoked so much, that they were really just yellow. His face grew wrinkled, his eyesight failing and forcing him to wear glasses. Eventually, one day–either from exhuatsion or simply terror at his own age, he decided to give in.

He worshiped his dad happily, cleaning his entire body every chance he could get. He would offer up any of his holes to any man his father took a liking to, and happily submit to any kind of sex. Slowly, he even began to forget that there was ever a time when he wasn’t his dad’s personal whore. Reality, thankfully, shifted with him. He went from being his father’s son to his brother. He hoped that would be enough for his father, he hoped that, maybe, he would let things slide, let the list die, so he could be free–instead, Saul saw his son’s new eagerness as an excuse to double down and force him to go even further.

He established a cum quota on the list–the number of loads Blake would have to swallow or take in his ass–raw–every day. The number began at a manageable five, but soon escalated to a nearly impossible fifty. Blake was forced to spend nearly every moment of his day seeking out men to service sexually–and he soon became a regular feature of local gloryholes, bathhouses and gay saunas, where he would occasionally collect enough loads to satisfy his father’s demands, but often his failure would simply mean disobedience, and he continued aging. He hoped that when he grew older than his own father, the list’s power would wane–but it made no difference, as he became his father’s older brother, resting in his upper fifties, once he realized how low he had to go in order to meet his father’s arbitrary quota.

His desperation had rooted out any remaining desire to disobey–he became meek and desperate to please, one eye always on the list, hoping it would finally shrink to nothing, but there was always something else–a new commandment that he drink ten loads of piss a day. Another, forcing him to eat his own cigar butts, as well as any cigarette or cigar butts he found, not to mention he would happily serve as a spittoon for anyone who asked. His nicotine addiction became crippling in short measure–before too long, simply smoking his cigars wasn’t enough for him–he would have to smoke and chew at the same time, swallowing his own foul spit, just to keep the tremors at bay, but finally, his father seemed pleased. He encouraged him, told him that his son had finally become a real man, and the praise…the praise made him so happy, it disgusted him. But the list waned, it waned slowly, but he held out hope that the end was finally in sight.

In those rare times when he was home alone, he would often just stand in the bathroom, staring at himself, trying to hold onto some bit of his past, trying to remember who he’d been. It had been a little over a year now. A whole year, and he was older than his father, his thick, tangled beard reaching down the length of his belly, his hair–what remained, at least, now that he was balding severely–reaching halfway down his back. He reeked all the time–like he hadn’t showered in ages, like a full ashtray someone had pissed in. His teeth had started rotting out of his months ago, and he’d gone into the dentist to get a full set of dentures. Saul and his friends appreciated it–he loved the feel of his “brother’s” gums around his cock, much more than teeth. All of his clothes were soaked with piss, cum, tobacco spit, ash and sweat–no one at work could get within a few feet without facing his stench. Yet, every time, in front of the mirror, cigar permanently clamped in his jaw, a huge wad of tobacco also pushing out his cheek, he would end up jacking off. He would jack off, staring at himself, because a part of him, a part of him growing larger every day, liked it. Liked how much he reeked, liked the feel of the dildo thrusting in and out of his loose hole, loved licking the cum from his gritty, filthy hands after he shot his load. Loved that he was a perverse, nasty old bear, constantly hungry for cum and piss and smoke. Despairing, he’d leave the bathroom, until even that despair abandoned him too. Until that became a routine too–after his father caught him–forced him to enjoy his new body, to feel confident in his perversity.

The list was almost empty again. Saul seemed to have forgotten about it, mostly–that, or Blake had finally become the disgusting pervert he’d always wanted, and had no more desire to change him. Just as Blake had suspected, it had been his father all along. Saul had given up pretending, at this point. He lorded it over him, that he could do whatever he wanted to him, and Blake couldn’t do anything to stop him. Hell, Blake didn’t want to stop him. He liked this. He liked being his father’s–no, not his father. He didn’t think of him as a father anymore, not really. His brother’s pig. His younger brother’s filthy sex pig. But then, his father brought home Anthony.

Father’s Rules (Part 4)

It wasn’t often that Saul didn’t manage to bring someone home–his standards were relatively low–or, he preferred his standards low. Blake was beginning to suspect it was a matter of choice more than anything. Hell, he’d watched his dad have sex with who knew how many men. Some of them he was certain were hobos he’d picked up off the streets. He was drawn to their desperation, it gave Saul a certain level of control over them that he couldn’t otherwise get, a form of control Blake was well acquainted with. He came home, and Blake sensed that he shouldn’t be there. He tried to excuse himself for a late night trip to the gym, but Saul grabbed his wrist and pulled him over the the couch, where he suggested he help his dad out with a blowjob first. Blake told him there was no way he would ever suck his dad’s cock, not after what he’d done to him. Saul slapped him. Blake tried to punch him, but couldn’t–as always. They fought for a moment, but Blake couldn’t keep him from the list, where his dad wrote:

My son must have sex with me whenever I want.

Blake tried to fight it, but his body is no longer interested in what he might think. His dad yanked down his filthy underwear and rammed his cock in his ass, Blake begging him to be gentler, but Saul just spanked his ass, telling him to fucking enjoy it, that this is how real men fuck. He came quickly, and stumbled off to his room where he passed out, Blake sobbing himself to sleep on the couch, staring at the list. He’d been close–so damn close…

Saul woke him up with his cock at five-thirty. Blake sucked him off. They went to work, together, Saul making him blow him in the truck on their mutual cigar and lunch break, and then came home. Blake had said nothing to him all day, and Saul tried to apologize, tried to tell his son that the list had made him do it. Blake exploded, calling his dad a rapist, calling him a pervert, and he stormed out, spending the rest of the afternoon and evening at the gym, trying to lift away his frustration, and he considered simply staying away entirely, and not going back. He didn’t have to go back there, he could just leave, but something…something dragged his feet back home…where he found his father, once again drunk off his ass, sitting on the couch, naked. Blake found himself sinking to his knees and licking his father’s filthy body clean, from his stinking pits and crusty feet, to his sweaty balls and ripe asscrack. Only then, could he finally beg his father to fuck his fat, nasty pighole. Saul was only too happy to oblige him, and it hurt, but not as much as the night before. In fact, Blake realized he’d soon be used to this, just like he’d gotten used to everything else. It was only afterward that he noticed the list had grown longer, again.

My son must worship and clean my body every day.

My son must beg for me to have sex with him at least three times a day.

Saul came up behind him, stinking of smoke and booze, and ran his hands over his son’s body, “You think I’m a pervert, son? Maybe so, but you’ll be a pervert soon enough too, begging me to fuck you every day, obsessed with my body. And last I checked, you can’t rape the very, very willing.”

“You sick fuck! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“No Blake–the question is what’s wrong with you! I think I’ve neglected a very important part of your education, Blake. I don’t think you’ve been properly introduced and educated in the ways of sex, and who better to show you then your father? I thought I was sparing you, by keeping this distance between us, but you haven’t really learned anything, have you? No, you’re still the same prick, you just look hotter. Well don’t worry–we’ll have you singing a different tune here soon. You’ll be a perfect fucking pigson.”

He shoved Blake against the wall, and Blake could smell him, smell them both. Smell the musk between them, the smoke from both of their cigars, the booze and coffee on their breath, and his cock…his fucking cock was getting hard. When Saul leaned in and kissed him, pushing smoke into his lungs, he tried to push him away, but his efforts grew weaker until he was kissing him back, their tongues exploring each other’s mouths. Their lips parted–Blake was panting, Saul at ease with a smirk.

“P-Please…” Blake said.

“Please what, son?”

He meant to ask him to stop–he really did. But what came out was Blake begging his father to fuck his face, his knees buckling, Saul only too happy to use his son’s throat. Blake tried to resist, but his hand found his way into his filthy briefs and started jacking his own cock, cumming even before his father did.

“I don’t think you’re going to be sleeping on the couch anymore, do you?”

Blake didn’t respond, and he tried to hold out for the whole night, but when he woke up to smoke a cigar, the longing in him was undeniable, and he climbed into bed with his father, asking him to for a midnight fuck while they smoked. So close–he’d been so damn close, but things were only going to get worse, Blake realized–or, from a different perspective, better–he thought, as his father wrapped him in his burly arms, cock still lodged in his ass, and they drifted to sleep.