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

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.

A Home of Mirrors (Part 5)

***WARNING: Still substantial violence and abuse.

“Was that thing really me?” Eli asked.

“It’s still you–never forget that. We’ve brought you to heel, given you our power, but this is still you. You belong to us now.”

Eli was still looking down at the pitiful slave beside his reflection, on hands and knees. It glanced up at him, met his eyes, and for a flash, Eli could see himself looking down in contempt, could feel the burns and aches all over it’s body, how…how hard it’s cock was, how hungry it was now, for cum, for pain, for punishment. He broke his eyes away, terrified that he might be trapped there, and delivered a swift kick to the slave’s chin, hard enough to flip it over onto it’s back. The anger and rage didn’t surprise him, but the fear behind it did. Fear wasn’t something he had felt, in the last week. Fear was something he wasn’t supposed to feel, not anymore. He walked over and pressed his boot to the slave’s neck, pressing hard, “Never meet my eyes again, do you fucking understand? I never even want to know that you fucking have eyes, you fucking worthless piece of shit!” His measured words had grown into an unhinged shout, the boot pressing harder, and he could see the slave’s face turning red. It wasn’t fighting him, it wanted him to do it, wanted him to kill it, wanted him to set it free, but a hand grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him back, the slave choking, gasping for air.

“You can’t kill it, no matter how much you want to. We won’t allow it. Hurt it as much as you like, but it must live.”

Eli looked at the thing, at himself–at that old self. It had curled up into a ball on the floor and rolled away from him, hiding it’s face.

“Displease us, and you know where you’ll find yourself.”

“Eli looked back at his reflection, at the stern, hard stare. “I apologize, I…I was weak.”

“You are weak. The last time we met, we couldn’t free much of you. Much remains to be done.”

“Please, I…I know,” Eli said, one gloved hand running down his reflection’s shirt. “I can’t…tell you, how difficult this was, being away from you. I’ve felt so…broken. I know I can be so much…better.”

The reflection smiled, though it wasn’t clear what it found worthy of the smirk. “Better, yes. But now, we can…improve you, can’t we?”

Eli groaned, and fell to his knees in front of himself, pressing his head to the floor a moment, shuddering, trying to suppress a sigh of relief, “I’m yours. Remake me in your image, so I might better serve you.”

“Debase yourself, faggot. Then you can look at me.”

The voice sent a shiver through him. It was his voice, and yet…not. The only emotions he could imagine it communicating were contempt and loathing. The voice of someone utterly superior in every way. He inched forward and began licking at the boots before him, and noticed they were different than his own. Since buying the house, Eli had found wearing anything other than leather to be…uncomfortable. He wore the gloves night and day–he wasn’t ever certain he could take them off, but he’d broken down, and purchased a pair of boots. The ones he was licking, however, were not those. These were shined bright, nearly bright enough to see a reflection in the spit wet surface. They ran up the calf–that was as far as Eli dare look without a direct order from above. He cleaned each boot, top and bottom, thanking his reflection for the privilege of serving him, and only after, was he allowed to rest up on his knees, and look up.

He was beautiful. Standing tall in his leather uniform, every detail immaculate, the lush grey beard flowing from around his mouth, with the thick cigar burning bright. Between the leather and the hair, the only skin Eli could see of himself was the space around his eyes, aged and weathered, but far from weak. He looked lower, down the barrel chest and firm gut held in check by the leather dress shirt, to the crotch, bulging with flesh. “Please, sir, may I?” Eli asked, looking back to meet his reflection’s hard eyes.

“No hands. Earn your fucking reward, you hungry faggot.”

Thankfully, the pants had a double zipper, giving him an easier task. First one, and then the other, and then after the flap fell down, he got his first sight of his cock, his first smell of it–musk and sweat and smoke. He licked, careful with his teeth, taking it slow, knowing one false step would mean his prize taken away. He coaxed the cock to it’s full, eight inch length, and then swallowed it to the hilt, shuddering at the ghostly sensation around his own head and shaft, in his pants. His better half allowed him a moment to enjoy himself, and then wrapped both, gloved hands around the back of his head, and began skull fucking Eli’s throat mercilessly.

He couldn’t breathe, but he could also taste the sweet cigar smoke he kept sucking into his lungs. He could feel his hands both wrapped around his head, and around both of his thick thighs. For one glorious moment, he was fully together, and then the next, he came, slammed the thing’s head to his crotch, and felt it crumple and flatten with the force, his thick cock bursting out of the back of the husk’s head, cum spraying all over the carpet. In his gloved hands, he crumpled up the husk until it no longer even had a head, and then pulled his cock free, brushing off the dust from his shaft and pants. “Clean it up,” he snarled at his slave, and the meek thing scurried over and began sucking the cum from the carpet as best it could.

The husk crumbled away after a few more moments, and the dust disappeared into the air. He turned back to the mirror, and saw himself there, beside the slave. “I’ll mind him–you should go tend to your son. He’s having trouble…accepting us.”

Eli gave a growl of agreement, and didn’t bother putting his cock away, as he strode down the hall, following the cries of pain which filled his newer heart with an odd, delirious joy.

Every Pig in His Place (2 of 2)

My personal life started to suffer. I couldn’t get any work done, normal clothes no longer felt normal. Friends who had known me for years couldn’t even recognize me, passing them in the street. I wasn’t even sure I knew who I was anymore. Membership in our little club swelled and diminished over the weeks, and I found myself in a new role–now I was the person looking for a place there, now I was the one looking to stay, and these new men joining us, thinking they could just fly forever. Now I was the one smiling at them, knowing how fucking wrong they were too, how wrong I’d been myself.

Every night now, I went straight to the bar. It was the only place I felt alive anymore, the only place where I felt like I belonged/ I’d stopped looking at myself in mirrors months ago, whenever possible…after the tattoos had started to appear, after I couldn’t even see anything human in my eyes any longer. I started dressing in rubber, preferably with a mask. I felt more comfortable that way, without a face, without a name. In the bar, I was just an object–I’d gone from a big dicked fucker to a servicer. Drinking cum and piss, everyone helping themselves to my holes whenever they wanted me. I got to know the man I’d seen that first night, watching me–that, was Rod. The owner, the ringmaster, the warden. He never used me, but he did watch me, and every night, he’d take the pleasure of 86-ing me onto the street, personally, telling me I couldn’t stay, that I still wasn’t ready!

And I would slink back out, sucking as much cock on the way out as I could, thrown back up into the air from the pond again, but I was losing momentum fast. So one night, I found Rod first, and I begged him. I begged him to find a place for me, to let me stay, that I couldn’t live out there anymore, that I didn’t belong out there–I belonged here now, and he knew it as well as I did. So he found a place for me alright–right here, where I’ve been for…well, a good long time.

I tried to deny it, I tried to take it back. I wasn’t supposed to be here, in the bathroom, I wasn’t a toilet…was I? He had to chain me down for a while, keep me in place, until I understood, until I felt it in my bones. Until the time he let me try to leave, and the thought of leaving…terrified me. I wasn’t worthy of leaving, this is where I belong–and it’s where you belong too. Yeah, you can struggle against those chains all you want, but they aren’t what’s really keeping you here–it’s you, pig. It’s who you are. Who we both are. Don’t worry, we’ll have lots of fun together. It’s been lonely, all by myself, and Rod promised me I’d have a friend soon…and now I do! I have you.

Every Pig in His Place (1 of 2)

It’s a rush–there’s nothing else like it–there’s no place like it. You go in there, and fuck, it’s like you’re in some other world, some twisted up version of our own, but twisted in the best fucking way. I don’t know how long it’s been there–everyone just calls it Pigtown, because there’s a bar at the center of it, at the heart of it. The first time I went in, I didn’t know that the place was really…different. I just skirted the edge of it, ended up meeting some kinky looking rubber freak in an alley, and fuck! It was the best fucking sex I’d ever had, right there on the concrete. Guy had no limits, did whatever the fuck I wanted, took everything I gave him, and when dawn came, when I was back here, in the real world, I felt different.

I was still me, but I’d changed. My cock was bigger. My nose was pierced. The clothes I’d been wearing (a tank and jeans, my usual club gear) were rubber and leather, and when I got home, I must have jacked off…fuck, I lost count. I didn’t know his name, I hadn’t even seen his face, but I knew I needed more. I went back to work, I tried to fit in with the world again as best I could–but it wasn’t easy, those first few days in particular. Everything felt so…dull. Just the sight of a woman would disgust me. Every night, I had to find some guy to fuck, the kinkier the better. I felt normal-er, eventually, but I’d already known that I’d have to go back in, and soon.

It became a game for me. I’d slip into Pigtown, and back out again. There were a few guys like me, and we formed a…club of sorts, but none of them were really like me, I don’t think. We all knew, that anyone who went into Pigtown were meant to stay in Pigtown. Most of my compatriots, they wanted in, but they hadn’t yet found their place. Me? I didn’t want a place–I wanted to be the rock skipping across the surface of the pond, gliding across the top of the place every few days, slaps of pleasure against the surface of the water, in between moments in the normal air. I thought, if I kept up my momentum, I would keep flying forever, but maybe I got greedy. I wasn’t satisfied with the alleys, I wanted…I wanted to go deeper, too.

The first time I made it into the bar…it made every back alley session feel like a pale imitation. The place was…alive, with energy. It was the first time that I hesitated, before leaving–but I did, knowing I’d come back again, that I could always come back. But I saw someone watching me leave too…and I started to wonder how many more skips across the pond this stone might have before I got sucked under for good.

A Home of Mirrors (Part 4)

***WARNING: Things get fairly violent/abusive from here on out.***

Jean stepped into the room and shut the door behind him, surprised by just how large is was–until he realized it was only half the size. The mirror taking up an entire wall, opposite the window, had fooled him into thinking the space as massive. He shook his head, and rubbed his eyes, feeling almost drowzy. He’d seen something downstairs in that other mirror, but what? It had been him, but…but not quite. Something about this house was wrong, something about the way his dad was acting was wrong. He stepped into the room, avoiding his own gaze from the mirror, suddenly…afraid of himself.

Fear wasn’t something he felt often, but he’d been afraid, this last week, with his father. His drinking, the screaming, how he kept catching his father staring at him, and even after being caught, he just…kept staring him down. Once, he’d woken up in his room, and the door to his room was open. He could smell that foul smoke off his dad’s cigar, from the dark hallway, and hear…huffing, and puffing…and why was he even thinking about this? It didn’t matter–he was almost out of here. Just one more year of school, and then he can get to college, and he won’t have to be the family disappointment anymore.

Who would have thought? An all american jock athlete, a disappointment to a family?

“It’s not your athleticism he hates, you know. Is the fact that you could do so much, and yet you do so very little.”

He spun towards the voice–towards the mirror, and found himself facing his reflection–or a reflection, anyway. He was a good distance from the mirror, but the version of himself that…that had spoken, was inches from the glass, barely on the other side. “Did…How did…”

“I see I got your attention, finally,” his double said, and stepped through the mirror without so much as a ripple. Jean could tell it was him, and yet they were so different. Jean was no small figure, at six foot three and two hundred and fifteen pounds of muscle, but his reflection was about an inch taller, and much thicker. Rather than a sleek build made for running, like his, this other him–it was clear he was a fighter, or boxer, really. Brawler would have been more accurate. Not only from the burly muscles and firm stance, but the scars, the puffy eyes, the missing tooth, when he grinned at him. “See, I don’t think it’s how little you do, but how little you do with it, which is such a shame. All you do is run. Run to catch the ball, run after the ball, back and forth in your little world on the field, chasing nothing,” he spit, and a wad of something black landed on the carpet between them. “Think you can run from me, little boy? Think you can outrun yourself?”

He tried. He dashed for the door, as his double finished speaking, but he headed Jean off and drove him into the wall hard enough to crack the drywall, stepped back, and let Jean fall to the floor. He cracked his knuckles, hauled out his cock, and started pissing all over Jean, where he was struggling to find his feet after taking that hit. “You’re mine boy,” the thing sung at him, and laughed, “You’re mine now, so better take it like a man.” Jean stumbled up, aiming for the door, but his double clocked him in the face, and sent him back to the floor. “You’re daddy’s gonna be so proud of you soon, though–wonder who’s gonna take our cocks better, you or him?”

Dazed from the punch, Jean couldn’t do much as his double started tearing at his clothes, ripping them to shred as he growled and gnashed at him, hammering him with a fist if he tried to get up. He shoved Jean’s face down, forced his ass high, lined up and forced it’s way in–quick, enjoying the scream as Jean lost his virgin hole to himself. “Fuck man, yer gonna love being me! This hole’s so fuckin’ sweet, fuck, gotta hand it to the fuck, this catch is real nice…”

Jean tried to ignore the stench of the piss soaking his skin, tried to pretend it wasn’t happening. With some embarrassment, he discovered his own cock was hard, and it almost felt like he, too, was inside someone. A greasy hole, that felt real…tight. He was pushing back without noticing, enjoying the phantom sensation of fucking himself, and then, clear as day…he could see himself, through the other’s eyes.

He looked down at himself, at his body, at how small he was, and all he felt was contempt. He had always been so weak, a waste of space, a waste of good time and energy. Well people would notice him now. He’d make a mark on the world with his fucking fists if need be!

As soon as it had appeared, it was gone, but Jean rebelled. That wasn’t him. This thing wasn’t what he wanted to be. He planted his hands to the wall, and shoved back, catching the other off guard, throwing him out, and off of him, and in a rage, Jean whirled on him with a scream kicked the thing in the groin, and watched his foot slide through it like it was brittle, shiny paper, and dissolve to dust.

Heaving for breath, not knowing what had just happened, he grabbed up what fragments of clothes he could and pulled them back on–at least until some thick hand wrapped it’s way around his wrist, a foot planted itself in the small of his back, and with a sickening pop, his shoulder came right out of the socket with a scream. “We’re not done yet–you think that’s all the darkness in your little soul? That was just the surface scum, boy.” His voice–it was his voice, but deeper, each syllable edged with blunt violence.

Jean rolled over on the floor, and saw the massive brute looming over him, body packed with muscle, arms, chest and belly coated with tattoos, black tobacco split leaking from it’s mouth down it’s chin to land on Jean’s chest–then it crouched down, and slammed its fist into Jean’s face.

A Home of Mirrors (Part 3)

“Alright boy, here we are!” Eli said. He didn’t slow down much on the street, as he peeled into the driveway and brought the sedan to a sudden halt, hard enough to catch Jean’s seatbelt. He noticed that he’d said it again–”boy”. His father had never called him that, ever, and yet after he’d returned home from his last house hunting venture out here, where he’d bought this house, he’d started using the diminutive with him more and more. It was far from the only change he’d noticed in his father, of course. He had a temper suddenly. Well, he’d always had a temper, but where before it would simmer, now his father was throwing plates and glasses at the wall. He’d started smoking, and he always seemed to have on those leather gloves of his, which he said he’d bought out here on a whim. He wouldn’t dare voice it, but he wasn’t quite sure this even…was his father, the disconnect was so sudden and sharp, but he hadn’t been able to pin his father down to discuss it. In fact, as soon as he’d returned from buying the house, he’d announced that he was moving the timetable up on their move by six months. They had planned on waiting for Thomas to finish the spring semester so they could move together during the summer, but now, all his father could talk about was this house, and how he wanted to move in right away.

Eli was already out of the car, hands shaking, fumbling for the house keys he’d picked up from the real estate agent on the way here. Jonas unbuckled himself, leaned forward and peered up at the house in front of him. It seemed…normal. From the way his dad had been describing it, he’d been expecting a luxurious manor, but it just looked like a reflection of every other house on the block. In fact, it was a reflection of every house on the block. It was a cookie cutter development, but every house they’d passed had the garage on the left, but theirs had it on the right. Someone must have mixed up the blueprints. He saw his dad waving at him, and urging him to follow, that…vein in his head popping out like it had started doing, when he was getting frustrated and about to blow. Jean got out of the car, went around the back for the bag he’d packed in the trunk.

“Just leave it in there boy!” Eli shouted at him, “and get in here! I want this place to see you!”

“What?” Jean asked, but his dad had already slipped through the front door, leaving it open for Jean to follow. Leaving his bag, he climbed the front steps to the porch and followed him inside.

“Fuck, it feels good to be home,” Eli said, heaving a heavy sigh of cigar smoke through the foyer. The house was empty of furniture, which was hardly surprising. They had barely started packing before this, and his father had insisted they let another company handle the moving, so they could focus on getting settled. Of course, how they were supposed to get settled here without any furniture was a mystery to Jean. Little did he know, that his father had canceled the moving truck entirely–he knew the house would provide everything they might need. His son would understand too, soon enough. Eli stared at his son’s reflection, longingly, his groin aching worse than at any point in the last week.

Jean, his younger son, was seventeen and heading into his senior year in high school, not that Eli would bother enrolling him down here. They would have other work to do, soon enough. Before, he’d always been…disappointed in his younger son. He had no ambition or discipline for anything other than football in the fall and soccer in the spring. His grades were barely enough to even allow him to play, and he had all of his eggs in athletic scholarships to various colleges, but fuck, looking at him now! His lithe, muscular body, coated in hair in all of the right places, and he fucking smelled so…sweet. Eli had, when his needs became too intense, stolen a pair of his son’s cleats and his jock, smelling them , jacking off into them, pushing smoke into them, staring at the mirror in his own bedroom, longing to be home. But the house needed him, needed to see him as much as he needed to see himself.

“Why don’t you explore a bit and pick a bedroom for yourself upstairs? I need to spend some time in my room for a bit.”

“Time doing what, dad?” Jean said, “Shouldn’t we, like, go buy some beds at least?”

“Go pick a damn room, boy!” Eli screamed at him, and Jean backed up to the mirrored wall of the foyer, his reflection leaning into him, sampling him. Jean felt the whisper of breath on the back of his neck, and spun around, facing himself. “Go find yourself a room,” Eli repeated, forcefully, sucking down smoke to calm himself down. Soon, he reminded himself. So soon.

“I’ll…go pick…a room…” Jean said, and without really understanding why, or how, he’d said that, he climbed the stairs slowly, and slipped into a room halfway down the hall. Eli, meanwhile, took the stairs two at a time, heart pounding with need, and entered his own room, the master suite, and there he was–there both of him were. His reflection, and that…other him. That him from before. He can barely remember anything about being him, and seeing him now, collared on his knees, beard and hair shaved off, covered with welts and cigar burns, Eli viscerally hated the very idea that there could have ever been a connection between them. Still, it was clear that the house had been busy, now that it had energy to power it. The room, which had been empty before, was now furnished. A king sized bed made up with leather sheets, a personal humidor, racks and shelves full of equipment, a closet full of gear–his gear.

“It’s good to be home,” Eli said, walked to the mirror as his reflection stepped forward, and he kissed himself, tasting his own smoke with relief.