Curse of the Homophobe (Part 3) [Interactive]

“Fuck, I ain’t been this drunk in years, what the fuckin’ *hic* hell?” Robbie slurred. Evan was half carrying, half dragging, him along the sidewalk, back to his truck, feeling buzzed for sure, but he’d drivin’ drunker than this before plenty of times.

“Yeah, well, just be thankful I’m feelin’ generous tonight. Could just leave ya passed out on the sidewalk, let the faggots git ya.”

“Fuck Ev, fuckin’ faggots would be better than the rank stink rollin’ off yer pits.”

“That’s what a real man smells like, one who actually works instead a just standin’ around like a lazy fuck all day,” Evan grumbled, then added, “Ya probably like it anyway, ya smell worse than I do.” When he did, he felt the shiver of the curse roll though him, which he hadn’t felt much at all that day, aside from a few weak, casual remarks. Sure enough, the smell from Robbie grew a bit more intense–and he felt a stirring in his guts. Thankfully they were at his truck so he could unsling Robbie against the passenger side and let him lean there, and get a hold of himself. After all–he had a job to do first, if he wanted out of this awful life.

“Did…smell kinda nice…” Robbie muttered under his breath.

“What the fuck was that?”

Robbie realized what he’d said, and his face went pale, “Nothin’ just…just drunk shit.”

Evan glared at him, and then looked down, “Is your fuckin’ dick hard?”

Robbie looked down, and saw that he had a tent in the front of his jeans, “Just…happens when I get drunk, sometimes…”

“Didn’t realize eight beers could turn you into a faggot,” Evan said, and felt another shiver as he walked around the truck and climbed in, Robbie following suit, trying to wrestle with the feelings of attraction for Evan he’d never expected, but which he could not deny. The truck smelled like Evan–and that did nothing to make his sudden hard-on go away. If anything, all he could think about was how good his pits had smelled before. He scooted over a bit as Evan pulled out, hoping to catch another whiff, and then just…leaned over onto him, feigning he was fainting, got a good sniff before Evan cursed and shoved him back upright. “Fuck! I’m tryin’ tah drive.”

“Can’t…I lean on ya, sleep it off a bit?”

Evan sneered at him, “Tell ya what, faggot–I got a place ya can rest yer head–smells ‘bout as good as my pits, too,” he reached under the wheel while he was stopped at a light, undid his jeans, grabbed Robbie’s face and shoved him into his crotch under the wheel, where the smell of Evan’s piss and cum stained underwear made Robbie release an unexpected moan. Horrified at himself, and knowing how this looked to Evan, he tried to pull away, but Evan shoved him down harder, holding him until he stopped fighting, and then got on the highway–heading for his trailer, rather than Evan’s home. None of his usual bitches would be around this late…and in all honesty, having this faggot all horned up on his stink was turning Evan on in a way he hadn’t quite felt before. He wasn’t a faggot of course–but real men like him could use faggots for whatever they fucking wanted–and faggots at least never whined like bitches did, when he wanted to put it in their ass.

Robbie had stopped fighting, but when Evan saw his hand drifting towards his own cock, he slapped it away. “Get your filthy hand off that thing, faggot–focus on what you really want.”

By the time they reached his trailer, Evan was already hard and leaking, and he could see that Robbie was too, judging from the wet spot on the front of his jeans. He parked and hauled Robbie up by the hair, his beard matted with slobber, eyes dazed with drunkeness and the discovery of new delights. Robbie wiped his lips with the back of one hand, “Didn’t…think you were a fag too…why…this ain’t my place, where–”

Evan snarled and slammed him against the door of the truck, one huge hand around his neck, “I ain’t a fuckin’ fag! I’ve fucked every cunt in a twenty mile radius, and they all want more. You ain’t here cause I’m a fag–yer here because faggot pigs got their own qualities I happen to enjoy. We ain’t the same. I’m a real man, and you’re a faggot. A stupid, nasty minded, perverted pig faggot who’ll do fuckin’ anything to get a taste a real man’s body once in your life–you understand that?”

Robbie nodded, and the shiver ran through them both. “Yes, sir,” he croaked out.

“I could kill you, bury your worthless corpse out here and no one would ever know. No one would care about a worthless fag like you. That means, yer only gettin’ through this if you keep me very happy, and do everything I say–got it faggot?”

Robbie tried to speak, but Evan gripped him tighter, and all he could do was croak. Then he released him, and got out of the truck, leaving Robbie heaving for breath, horrified that as terrified as he was…he was still more turned on by this than he’d ever been in his life. Evan came around, opened the passenger door, grabbed Robbie by the collar of his shirt and hauled him out onto the ground. He started to get up, but Evan planted a heavy work boot on his back, “Pigs crawl in the presence of real men–understand?”

Robbie snorted in agreement, and followed Evan into his trailer on his hands and knees. He was horrified that someone might see him…but did he really care? Anyone who looked at him could see him for what he was. He couldn’t deny it anymore, feeling his heavier gut scraping the gravel as he crawled, smelling the stench of his body around him–but it wasn’t the same as Evan’s scent. Evan…he was a real man, not like him at all. He deserved to be worshiped. He’d…do anything for him, anything he demanded, and as humiliating as that revelation was, he couldn’t deny any of it.

The next few hours passed in a haze for them both. Evan didn’t need to encourage Robbie much further than he had, to get the fledgling pig to give up the last remnants of his self-respect, groveling on the flithy floor of the trailer, begging him to allow the pig to taste his feet, eat out his pits, and wash out his sweaty, hairy crack with his tongue. As he did, Evan felt himself warping too, loving the power of his musk, feeling his body full of strength and vitality even as Robbie seemed to grow fatter and filthier. He ended up filling the pig’s ass with his cock on the bed, making him snort and grunt and beg for more, beg him to go deeper, sealing his fate as he came–but even as the curse’s power ebbed within him, the desire to fuck didn’t. He…could go further. Push the pig further, or hell, go find another pig around here. He knew of a few assholes in the trailer park who could use a little…discipline from a real man like him. He could make a weekend of it. After all, he could always find his way back to himself on Monday….right?

Alright, so, this vote (and others that will follow this one) has a bit of a twist. Because of how this curse works, Evan always has a chance of being trapped in these personas, and the deeper he goes, the more likely he will forget his real self, and be stuck as the curse’s twisted persona for the rest of his life. The first choice below, “pull out now” comes with no risk of him being trapped. Evan will change back, suffer some consequences from his time as a musky construction worker, and will continue on until he gets insulted again by someone else. The other options below will continue along with this persona, each with a risk of trapping him in this persona permanently–which will be a game over for this branch. Not a total ending to the interactive though! I’ll backtrack to the beginning, and we can pick a different path to pursue instead.

Pull out now and change back to himself. (0% risk of ending)
Turn an abusive neighbor into a cuckold. (20% risk)
Some young redneck brothers get a little closer to each other, with his help. (40% risk)
Spend the weekend focused on Robbie, making them both filthier. (60% risk)

Here’s the twitter poll!

Here’s the Patron poll!

Voting ends on Wednesday the 6th!

Whispers (Sketch)

“What’s wrong bro? It looks like your arms are starting to shake a bit. It’s only been half an hour.”

Devin kept stroking his brother’s cock, watching him struggle against the mental control he had placed on him when he’d gotten home from college. The little faggot–he didn’t know how it had happened even, but he was helpless. There was just…a voice in his mind, a whisper, and he couldn’t shut it out–and he couldn’t move. Jerome been in this plank position long enough that his muscles were screaming at him to stop, but it was hopeless–he wouldn’t break it until his little brother allowed him to move again–whenever that might be.

They’d never really gotten along as brothers. Well, really, Jerome had bullied him every day after he found out his brother was gay, and their father had as well. But they were older now–both in college, and they’d largely resigned themselves to the fact that Devin was gay–but apparently Devin hadn’t forgiven them. He just kept stoking Jerome’s cock, watching it leak precum onto the floor, smiling the whole while, the whispers growing louder, until they were interrupted by the sound of the garage door opening. “Oh goody, Daddy’s home!” Devin said, “I’ve been wanting you to see this.”

It was a few minutes before their father came in–or at least, the man who looked somewhat like his father. He was…massive, and seemed so much older than he had been, with a thick gut, hair all over, the white beard stretching down to his chest, the cigar clamped in his jaw. “There’s my boys,” he said with a grin, and Devin went to him and kissed him–and not in a familial way. Devin tried to look away, but his eyes were glued to his brother and father as they sucked on each other’s face. His father pulled away and looked down at Jerome, “Fuck, what a handsome young man–can…can I use him yet?”

“No daddy–we discussed this,” Devin said, “He was a very, very bad boy. We have to punish him, don’t we? He doesn’t get your cock–that’s only for good boys like me, right daddy?”

“Of-Of course, boy, you’re right–you know yer daddy isn’t too smart–only really good for fuckin.”

And they fucked right there, in front of Jerome, his body screaming in pain, unable to look away from his brother, wondering how he had done this to their father–not just warped his mind…but his body too. Daddy came, filling Devin’s ass with his cum, and then left, leaving the brothers alone again. “Alright, you can go down now,” Devin said, and Jerome collapsed to the floor, shaking and panting. He tried to get up and run, but he was too weak to even push himself upright.

“What…what the fuck did you do to dad?”

“Daddy you mean? Isn’t he handsome?” Devin said, “I always had a crush on him you know–even before he got even hotter. I helped with that. Turned him into a proper leather daddy bear, nice and rough, always smoking a cigar. Of course, he knows that it’s his boy who calls the shots around here…and he squeals like a piggy when I fuck his ass–you’ll see.”

“You can’t do this–this is so–”

“Wrong, I don’t have to do anything. All I have to do is plant the little whisper of an idea in your simple little minds, and you do everything for me. Now, why don’t you crawl on down into the basement? Everything is ready for you down there, and what you’re going to do, is…” Devin said, and pushed his mouth closer, close enough that, to Jerome, he could almost feel his brother’s tongue sliding into his mind, his eyes glazing over as he crawled away to the basement steps, Devin watching, knowing his brother would be in a much better mindset soon enough.

How long had it been? Days? Weeks? His muscles screamed at him to stop, but he couldn’t.

This is what he had to do, after all. What he was…made to do. The whispers in his head, he couldn’t really understand what they were saying, but they were changing him–warping him, just like he was certain they had warped his father. He had to fight them. Fight the bad voices, trying to tell him lies.

The bad voices telling him he wasn’t a gimp. An object. A rubber thing to be used by his two masters. The bad voice telling him to stop sucking the gag in his mouth, to stop riding the dildo in his ass. The bad voices telling him his cock shouldn’t be locked up–no, he had been bad, very bad. He didn’t deserve to have a mind, or thoughts, or anything at all. All he deserved to be used, and abused.He was winning though. The bad voices were getting quieter every day, leaving his mind empty–a blank slate for his master to toy with. Maybe one day, there wouldn’t be anything at all. Nothing left of him, just a thing. He could…see it.

Chained in the basement, covered in rubber that never came off. Cock sealed away, or maybe removed all together. It didn’t matter–it wasn’t there to feel anything, after all. Rear hole plugged, ready for dildos, or fists, or anything its masters desired. Front hole fitted with a funnel, ready to receive piss or cum, or anything from its masters thought it should eat or drink. It’s body was flabby from the fattening gruel it was fed–that, and it hadn’t walked anywhere in…months, or maybe years. Or at least, no further than the sling and the rack, when it had been good enough to earn a night spent hooked up to the fucking machine. After all, it was too filthy a thing to be fucked with a cock–no, it had never had a cock inside it…and it ached for it. Hoped that one day, it might earn the right to service its masters properly…but until then, it would serve as required.

That’s what the good voices were saying. That’s what he had to listen to, what he had to focus on. He would get better soon, he knew he would. He would be exactly what he was supposed to be, and everything would be alright, and at last, there would be silence.

The Unholy Trinity (Sketch)

Warning: Satanic references and scat, if that bothers you.

Do you wish to be cured of your sinful weakness?

He did. God, did he. Neville wanted to be good, had always done his hardest to be good in all things. To be christ-like, to be worthy of God, but the struggle–it was so hard now, at college, away from his family. Even at this Christian school, they were still here, he was certain of it. Faggots of all descriptions, looking at him, wanting him (or was it just him, wanting them? Seeing his own gaze reflected in their glances at him?) and he…he was too close to succumbing to temptation, closer than he’d ever been, even when he’d snuck a kiss from Tanner Abrahms in the woods, which had gotten him a summer long stay at the conversion camp. It was all he could think about. He was weak…and he was willing to try anything to be free of this sin.

So he’d found this website. A website claiming it could cure him of all the desires that ailed him, if he would just put his full faith in the Trinity. Idolatry, really, he knew that. No website could do what God alone was capable of, but maybe, at least, it would make him feel better. He hovered the cursor over the yes button, clicked it, and the screen loaded with a strange, undulating spiral, and the words:

As Christ worshiped the feet of men, so you too, worship the feet of all men, the first of the trinity.

What happened next, he couldn’t describe. It was a vision, yes, but also a memory, and a desire–so many things all at once, he didn’t know how to describe it–all he could do was experience it, helplessly.

“That’s good pig–you like the taste of that filth?”

“Yes sir, thank you sir,” he said, running his tongue along the sole, tasting the filth the man had been building up. He claimed he hadn’t changed his socks in days, and Neville believed it as he licked, stroking his own cock, feeling a load building in his balls.

“Never known a faggot who got off more on a rank foot than a nice cock–good thing I got both for ya, whenever ya need ‘em.” He took one foot and kicked Neville’s hand away, grinding it against his cock and balls, and it was too much–he exploded all over the man’s foot, and then licked his own cum off it, thanking him for allowing him to serve him as a foot pig.

Then, it was gone–well, hardly gone. It was seared into his soul. It had happened, it, and so much more. He looked over and could see the collection of shoes he’d bought off filthy men he’d met, how he knew their smells so personally–and quickly, he tried to shut to window on the computer, but it refused. The screen simply faded to black, and a new spiral appeared, and a new phrase below:

Baptized in the piss of our lord, drinking of his waters and allowing his perversion to root out the weakness inside you.

Neville tried to tug his eyes away from the spiral, but already, he could feel a second vision overwhelming him.

It was warm. He stuck out his tongue, and the man directed his stream onto it, and as soon as he tasted it…he knew he would need more.

“That’s a good fucker, drink it all down. You wanna smell like my piss, don’t you?”

He nodded, and looked up at him. It was the same man as before–older, chubby, and while a name didn’t come to him, Neville knew he always called him Daddy, his…Father. Not his real father, but that seemed…so far away now. This was the man who cared for him, who nurtured him, who taught him the ways of the true Lord.

He pulled out his own cock, pointed it up, and started pissing on himself, as Daddy directed hos own stream onto the filthy shirt he was wearing. “A fuckin’ natural–they’re gonna love ya, fuck.”

The vision left him again, but the smell didn’t. The sensation of dampness. He reeked of urinals, he could taste piss on his tongue, and it was divine. He couldn’t help himself–he hauled his cock free of the yellow briefs he had on and started jacking off as the second spiral disappeared, and a third came into focus:

You feast of the shit of men, and it shall sustain you in ways the body never could. The lord provides, and you shall be a true servant of the unholy trinity.

He tired to resist it. He knew he should be able to resist it…but his faith had been weak. He had been tempted, and now, he could feel himself falling into the clutches of Satan, a third and final vision overwhelming him.

“Tell me what you want, slave,” Daddy said.

“I want your shit, sir.”

“You wanna be daddy’s toilet pig? If you start–I ain’t gonna be usin’ that toilet much anymore. It’s all gonna go down that nasty throat of yours.”

He pushed his ass back, into Neville’s face, and let loose a wet fart. He snorted the stench down, his already rock hard cock throbbing. He’d eaten Daddy’s nasty crack plenty of times before, and he…he was ready. He wanted this, he wanted to be this…this pig, forever. Daddy grunted and bore down, and Neville ate–and as he ate, he felt the shame, the horror–all of it curdled into a single ball of lust. Lust like he’d never known before, and he devoured it all, licking his lips after Daddy helped him wash down the last of it with his piss, and then jacked Neville off with his foot. “Your mine now, boy. Mine forever. You’re Satan’s Pig–and your name is now–”

“Ville!” he screamed in his room as he came, cum exploding all over his nasty underwear he wore when he was at home, reeking of sex and musk, just how he liked them. Neville was gone–he could feel that weak thing falling down into the darkness, lost to the fires of hell and damnation–right where it belonged. Ville was free now–free, and with a new mission, to serve his own, unholy trinity for the rest of his life.

He got dressed in his favorite gear, making sure everyone could see looking at him what kind of pig he was, and lit a red as he hit the pavement. He was a missionary now–a disciple, and he would find someone to share the gospel of the unholy trinity with before the night was through–or hell, maybe two, he thought, seeing two cute college students pass him by, catch a whiff of his filthy body, and freeze. “Hey boys,” he said, putting an arm around each of their shoulders, “Why don’t you two come back to my place? We can have some real fun together, I bet.”

Curse of the Homophobe (Part 2) [Interactive]

It was pretty close, but the construction workers pulled ahead by a few votes, thanks to everyone over on Patreon.

The next morning, Evan looked at himself in the mirror, at his slightly taller, slightly more muscular self, and tried not to be sick to his stomach. Had he really done that to Curtis? Turned him into a sex-addicted little twink? It didn’t seem possible. Maybe it had all been a dream or something, the whole day…but he knew that was a lie. He could feel the spirit in him still, biding its time, waiting for someone else to trigger the curse. Waiting to change him again, into some new homophobic nightmare.

He tried to get his mom to call into school and say he was sick, but she refused–he had never been that good of an actor, unfortunately. So he got his books and notes together, and decided the best thing he could do would be to just play hookie, and find somewhere safe he could hang out and try and figure out what to do next–but he hit the sidewalk outside his apartment building, and there, waiting for him, was Curtis. Curtis wearing a bright pink tank top, barely long enough to cover his waist, a pair of short jean shorts, hair bleached and coifed, lips pouting, and Evan’s cock throbbed.

“Took you long enough, hot stuff,” Curtis said to him with a smirk, “You never replied to my pic last night.”

“Oh, yeah, I saw it this morning,” Evan said, looking around him, seeing who might see them. With his curse, he couldn’t afford to be around Curtis looking like this–it was an insult waiting to happen.

“Well if we hurry, we can get to our usual spot, come on.”

Usual spot? As they walked–well, Evan walked, but Curtis strutted–he felt memories filling in the gaps. He and Curtis were, for lack of a better word, fuckbuddies. Their usual spot was an abandoned alley on the way to school where Curtis would usually suck Evan off–or if they were feeling bold and extra horny, he’d fuck his tight hole instead. Evan was horrified, but he was so horny, and he could feel the spirit warping things so that when the time came, he wouldn’t be able to resist.

And so, it was a bit of a relief, in some ways, that they passed by a crew of construction workers renovating a building along their route. Talking to themselves, but loud enough that Evan could hear, one of them said, “Look at that kid–those faggots get to them early now. Remember when men were fucking men, like us?”

“Yeah, might as well be a bitch. All the boys these days are just sissy little cocksuckers like that.”

Evan prayed that it wouldn’t affect him, since technically they’d been talking about Curtis, but apparently, to the spirit, any homophobic remark made around him was enough to satisfy the curse. Curtis just flipped off the workers and kept on strutting, while Evan grabbed his stomach, lurched against the wall, and then into a little doorway of a business that was still closed. It was the same as when he’d changed at school the day before–the heat of his muscles expanding, the hair growing in all over him…but there were differences too. He packed on a substantial gut for one thing, and this time, he also grew a thick beard all over his face. The clothes he had on shifted, becoming a grubby, dirt covered shirt and hi-viz vest, some patched up jeans held up by suspenders, and a pair of work boots that had definitely seen better days.

“Fuck! Nah, come on, I ain’t some fuckin’ dumbass worker like them!” he said, looking at himself in the glass, hardly even recognizing the face looking back at him. It was a good mug though–little worse for wear over the years, and missing a couple of teeth, but it gave him character. Let everyone know he was a real man who didn’t turn away from a fight. Evan was receding into the back of his mind, clawing at it, but helpless as the spirit gave him a new reality. He was in his mid-forties, and unlike the rest of the guys on the crew, a confirmed bachelor–not that he didn’t sleep with bitches on occasion, of course. He just preferred life of his own–just him and his trailer in a mobile home park a outside of the city. He told himself that he just didn’t want to deal with women–but the truth was, he much preferred the times he got his cock sucked at the rest areas on the highway, years ago, while he was truckin’, before he got fired for drinking on the road.

Evan hiked up his pants, gave his ass a scratch, then put on his hardhat and walked back to the work site.

“Where the fuck ya been Evan, you lazy fuck?” Robbie said. He was the one who’s insulted them first–and Evan could sense he was the main target of the curse. If he wanted his old body back–he was the one he was going to have to change…somehow.

“Lazy? The only weight you pull ‘round here is that gut of yers,” Evan said, watching Robbie’s stomach balloon out with another fifty pounds. Maybe if he was quick, he could get it over with, and move on.

Before he could do anything else, though, the foreman hollered at them to get back to work, and his persona took over, Evan receding into the background, but never entirely gone. He spent the whole day on the site, part of him loving the work, happy as could be doing manual labor like real men were built to do–but inside, he seethed, and the spirit laughed. When work was over, he tried to catch Robbie alone, but found him with the rest of the guys on the crew getting ready to go out for a beer–it was Friday after all. Evan’s guts churned a bit–if he didn’t change Robbie tonight, he wouldn’t see him until Monday–and that meant a whole weekend spent in his trailer, drinking beer…and probably calling over one of the single hags for a fuck, so he could feel like a man for a bit.

So he went out with the boys, and stuck close to Robbie the whole time–plying him with extra booze, calling him a “lightweight” and getting him plastered. When he called it quits, Evan offered to take him to his truck–but instead piled him into his own, and drove off–already knowing where he was gonna take him, and what he was gonna do to him.

Alright, what sort of treatment is Evan going to give Robbie? Keep in mind, what you choose will also determine the changes Evan suffers too, as he changes him.

They go to a rest area, turns him into a derelict trucker whore.
They go to a biker bar, he becomes a biker gang’s slave pig.
He takes Robbie back to his place, makes him worship his feet and musk.
They stay in the city and he turns him into an old pervert hungry for twinks like Curtis.

Here’s the twitter poll

and here’s the Patron poll

voting ends in two days on Sunday!

Remembrances – Episode 1 (Part 8)

Strange, how in all of their talk that evening, not once had either of them brought up his son. In fact…it was hard to even remember him clearly, for some reason. It made him feel uncomfortable, and he poured himself another glass to settle his nerves. Mr. Elroy noticed, “What’s wrong Harry? You’re not letting those bad thoughts in again, are you?”

Harry shook his head, “No…No…sir…I was just…I know my, uh, son is visiting tomorrow, but I…well, I don’t really remember what he looks like, is all. Isn’t that…odd?”

“Don’t worry, Harry. You’ve had a severe episode, but you’re already doing much better. I’m sure you’ll remember him tomorrow, just fine.” Mr. Elroy stood up, exhaling a thick plume of smoke as he did, and when he stepped out of it–it was…Wilbur standing there, a few feet from him, and Harry’s breath caught in his throat. “Anything else you need tonight, buddy?”

“Wilbur, I…I miss you so much…” Harry said.

“Now, now–I can help you with that, bud. Come on–let’s get you to bed for the night.” Wilbur helped him up, and being this close to him, he even…smelled right, that musk of his that had always gotten Harry so hard on the factory floor, that aftershave he’d always wear. When he fucked him that night, it was so…good. One of their best, and when he was finished, he helped Harry under the sheets, kissed him good night, and he fell asleep almost immediately, his dreams full of the past.

Harry woke up in a good mood, and Mr. Elroy helped him get dressed after his shower, but all he was really wanting was his first cigar of the day–that, and a shot of bourbon to help the lingering headache from his indulgence the night before. The smoke helped clear his mind, and he felt sharper than he had yesterday. Everything from two days ago just felt like a horrific dream–all of the terror and confusion…he didn’t want to feel that way again. Thankfully he had Mr. Elroy to help him along, and get him back to himself. He was…safe here. Happy here.

“Are you excited to see your son today, Harry?” Mr. Elroy asked from the bedroom, while he made the bed.

His son…he still didn’t remember much about his son. That should worry him right? Shouldn’t all of this worry him? He took another inhale from his cigar, and that helped settle him back down. “Yes. Of course I am,” he said, “Why the hell wouldn’t I be?”

Mr. Elroy didn’t respond–not that Harry needed a reply. Still, it was bothering him, all the same, and so he decided to just…imagine what his son might be like. What he hoped he’d be like. Mostly, he hoped he was a man. A proper man, like Harry was. Smoking, drinking, working with his hands. Not afraid of a fight. That’s the sort of boy Harry would have wanted to raise–that would be a good legacy, in his mind. He finished his cigar and went down to breakfast–after that, Mr. Elroy put the finishing touches on the apartment, making sure everything was in place for Harry’s son, when he arrived. Harry, however, was feeling more and more nervous, and doing his very best to make sure Mr. Elroy didn’t notice. He…didn’t want his nurse to know that he was starting to think that something about all of this was wrong.

His memories–they just weren’t lining up at all. Yes, he was suffering from…dementia, allegedly, but even that didn’t seem to account for everything. He could remember so much about himself, and yet, about other things, there was just…nothing at all. Nothing about his son, nothing about how he’d gotten here, and while he could recall Patricia and Wilbur, all of his memories of them were…ancient. Weren’t those the ones that usually went first? And why did he keep having this feeling that all of this was wrong? That it was fake? He could remember other things, it was true. Things about going to school, about being a teenager–not back in the fifties, but a teenager today. They…they seemed more real to him, in some ways. Brighter, if that made any sense. But they couldn’t be real. If those were real, then that meant everything else–Patricia, Wilbur, Mr. Elroy–that meant it was all…all a lie. That meant that what he could remember of the night before last, of becoming…old in a moment. That meant it might be true, but he…he didn’t want that to be true. He wanted to be past that.

They went down to breakfast, Harry hobbling along with his cane, and then back up in his room, there was nothing for him to do except sit in his chair, watch TV, drink coffee and chain smoke cigars, his eyes checking the clock every few minutes, eager for lunch time to come. Mr. Elroy busied himself around the apartment, unpacking more and more of Harry’s things. “Everything alright Harry?” he said, when he took a break, “You seem…tense. You aren’t feeling the dementia coming on again, are you?”

Harry shook his head, a bit of ash falling in his lap, which Mr. Elroy scooped away quickly, “No sir, I’m…I know who I am..” he paused, “I just…I don’t remember nothin’ ‘bout my boy.”

“Oh, is that all that’s bothering you?” Mr. Elroy said, “Don’t worry about that now–I’m sure that once you see him, and get to chatting about the past, you’ll remember him just fine in time. You’re just going to have to relax, and do everything I tell you to do, and remember everything I tell you to remember. You can do that, right Harry?”

He nodded, “Yes sir, Mr. Elroy.”

“That’s a good boy,” Mr. Elroy said, stroking the side of his face just like Wilbur used to, when they were alone. “I think we’ll have lunch here, in your room today. How does that sound to you?”

“I’d…I’d love to…Wilbur,” Harry said, already lost in his memories, as Mr. Elroy allowed him to undo the front of his pants, Harry alternating between sucking on his cock and smoking his cigar–and occasionally blowing smoke all over his cock. Wilbur liked that, the heat of his breath, and he pulled Harry out of the chair, got him on his hands and knees, right in the living room, pulled down his bracers and pants, and fucked him like a dog. “Wilbur…not…what if Patricia sees us?” he muttered.

“Don’t worry about it, Harry–everything is gonna be just fine. You let me take care of everything.”

“I…lo–I…” But he couldn’t say it. Love wasn’t something two men like them could have, in Harry’s mind. “Thanks for being with me, Wilbur, I…I missed you so much…”

“I know buddy–now open up. You want this dick in you bad, don’t you?”

“Fuck Wilbur, you know how I like it.”

“Rough and raw–I know what you need buddy,” Mr. Elroy said, and slipped in Harry’s hole, watching him chuff on the cigar and bore down with a grunt. Mr. Elroy, on the other hand, couldn’t wait for Harry’s new son to arrive. He had a feeling it was going to be quite the reunion.

End of Episode 1 – More to come soon.

Remembrances – Episode 1 (Part 7)

The fear he felt, when Mr. Elroy said that, was different. It was existential. Harry had, to that point, known that the nurse held power over him, but it wasn’t until that moment that he understood exactly how much. If he could make him live through something like that, see something like that…remember something like that, then Mr. Elroy–he could do anything to him. And worse…he could make Harry want it. Make him beg for it.

“Things could be good for you Harry. You could be happy here. All you have to do, is give me what I want, and help me out along the way, with a couple of…other projects.”

“Other…there’s other people here, like me?”

“At the moment? No. I prefer to just keep one of you around–but you’ll understand, in time. So–what do you say, Harry? You going to be cooperative? Or maybe we could start showing you some other memories? Maybe turn you into a nice, faggot cuck–watching Wilbur, that best friend of yours, fuck your wife right in front of you. That sound like a memory you want to relive, Harry?”

He shook his head. He…he knew Wilbur would have never treated Patricia like that, but Mr. Elroy…well, he could make Wilbur treat them however he wanted.

“Good–now, why don’t we go get some lunch? We still have time.”

Harry thought that was a good idea, mostly because he didn’t want to be alone with this man anymore–not if he could help it. He got up from the bed and tottered to the hall, passing his cane as he went, but Mr. Elroy cleared his throat, and pointed to it. “You’re going to have to accept some things, Harry, even if they are hard to swallow. Get your cane.”

Harry stared at it, and remembered how much of a trial it had been to get to the dining hall that morning, but he didn’t want to use it. He didn’t want to admit that Mr. Elroy had won. “Please…I’ll do whatever you want, just fix my leg.”

Mr. Elroy shook his head, “I can’t fix things, Harry. I only break them. There’s no going back–I told you this. Now get your cane like a good little faggot.”

He hobbled over, and took it in his hand, hating how comfortable it felt against his palm, and how much easier it was to move with it supporting him.

“Good boy,” Mr. Elroy said, and opened the door, “Now, let’s go eat.”

The evening was easier, at least. The cane helped more than Harry wanted to admit, and Mr. Elroy seemed to be in a better mood, now that he sensed that Harry was beginning to give in. It was easy, almost, to accept that what he remembered as that rather strange childhood was what Mr. Elroy told him it was–just the ravings of an occasionally demented mind. But he was feeling better now, more certain about himself. Mr. Elroy chatted with Harry about his past–about Patricia and Wilbur in particular, and Harry found himself able to answer the most…personal of questions about them both. That shouldn’t be possible, if they hadn’t been real, right? But if he’d just been a kid the day before, how could he know any of this? How could he remember Patricia on their wedding night, how could he remember how Wilbur had cried next to him in the hospital room, after the accident? That…that was the only time Wilbur had ever cried in front of him, and it was enough to make his weep too. But men weren’t supposed to be weak like that. Harry…he didn’t understand men these days, wearing makeup, and flouncing about. Everything seemed so…out of sorts. It was better to stay here, and just trust Mr. Elroy. Trust his memories–his real memories–and push that dementia as far away as he could, because if he let it get too close, Mr. Elroy told him it would just…eat him away, until he was nothing at all. Just a husk lying in bed, drooling, diapered, just…trapped in this old thing until someone merciful allowed him to die–but Mr. Elroy told him that could be a long time, because this place had very strict policies against euthanasia.

Mr. Elroy was so pleased with his behavior that day, that he allowed Harry to go to bridge that evening. It was a treat, and Harry enjoyed it–he and Patricia had loved hosting bridge nights with other couples in the neighborhood, and while the first few hands were a bit rough (Harry, for some reason, struggled to recall some of the rules) by the end of the night, he was back to his old tricks–and more than a few women, widows mostly, were eyeing him handsomely, but he allowed Mr. Elroy to escort him back to his room. After all, it was time for his evening smoke, and drink, right?

He settled down in his recliner, in front of the television, watching a sports network, smoking a cigar and drinking his bourbon, talking with Mr. Elroy about how much he loved smoking, how he thought it was important for a proper man to smoke, that they seemed so much more…attractive. Mr. Elroy chuckled, and lit one for himself, “What do you think, Harry? Do you think I’m more attractive now?”

Harry didn’t answer–that…that wasn’t something one man should say to another, but it was difficult to deny it. He was…rather attractive with a cigar in his mouth, it only made him look even more like Wilbur. He drank back the rest of his glass of whiskey, not noticing the spidery veins spreading across his nose and cheeks, as he did, and took a deep draw off the cigar, only to give a deep, raspy cough. Still, that’s what you got, when you smoked four or five cigars a day, like he did–he…needed them, as much as he hated admitting it. In him a voice was screaming at him, trying to convince him this was all wrong, that he needed to stop, but he pushed it away. That…that was just the senility talking. He needed to be clear eyed, for when his son visited tomorrow.

Curse of the Homophobe (Part 1) [Interactive]

Evan was tired of it. Tired of the insults, of being shoved into lockers at school, of guys shouting “faggot” and “queer” at him from the windows of passing cars. All of it. There wasn’t anything he could do about it though–and in his opinion, there wasn’t even anything that “faggy” about him–not like some of the guys he’d seen, or some of the guys in the porn he liked to watch, he supposed. Yeah, he had a bit of a lisp, and he tended to sashay slightly–that, and he definitely loved sucking dick. Still, where the insults would have reduced most people to tears and depression, Evan reacted differently. He was angry. Angry all of the time, so angry, he barely even noticed it anymore, it was just a constant, seething, bubbling mass in his guts that never went away. He’d have fantasies though. Fantasies about the men who bullied him, about beating them, humiliating them, doing what they did to him right back, but tenfold. Maybe it was that, which drew the spirit to him–but in any case, he never really knew why it appeared to him that night in his bedroom, after one particularly cruel fantasy, thinking about some jocks he had a run in with earlier that day. He’d wiped up his cum, and there it had been, a massive, hulking shadow glued to his wall, two bright, gem-like eyes where it’s head was, staring at him.

The terror in him was unlike anything he’d ever felt before, as it slid along the wall, closer to him. Then, he saw something. A powerful vision overtook him, similar to the fantasy he’d just had, but far more powerful. Bending over Curtis Barrister, the top jock of the school, and Evan raping his hole while he rained abuse down on him–but it was so vivid…like it really was happening. Then, it was gone, and he heard a voice in his mind.

I can give you the power. You can have your revenge on all of them, if you so desire it.

For real? Was this just some hallucination? A nightmare? If it was, then does it really matter? He did want it. He had a feeling this thing wouldn’t have come to him, if he hadn’t known he would accept its offer. The darkness slid closer to him, and then slid over him, and everything went dark, and he couldn’t move his body. The darkness was more inside him, and he could feel it, in that anger in his stomach, changing it, changing…him somehow, and he came again, the most powerful orgasm he’d ever had, and then fell right asleep, the spirit chuckling in the dark, as it faded away. Evan would have his revenge, certainly, but it likely wouldn’t be the sort of revenge he was expecting. Anger could twist people in strange ways, after all–and vengeance was never kind to the avenger.

Evan woke up the next morning, certain it had been a dream, and nothing more. He got up and got ready for school, but he still couldn’t shake the sensation that something about him was different. He was still angry, but it…tasted different, when he felt it, but that didn’t make sense even to him, when he experienced it. There was a definite sense, too, that things would be different today, like how he felt when a thunderstorm was on the way. He said goodbye to his mother, left the apartment and hit the street, walking to school…wondering when the first insult would hit. But the anticipation was different too, in his guts. Usually he just felt fear and anger as he braced himself, but today, part of him was almost…excited. Eager to experience it, and that terrified the rest of him even more. Still, who knew what the day would hold? Maybe everything would be fine. The spirit in him knew better, though–and it was eager to see the curse it had laid on Evan work for the first time.

He made it all the way to school, however, before the first insult came his way–and sure enough, it was none other than Curtis Barrister himself, and his posse of football friends, calling him a faggot. His face burned red…but he felt that same heat infusing the rest of him too, and he was feeling a bit…sick. He went to the bathroom near the entrance of the school and ducked into one of the stalls–and as soon as he was alone, he looked down, and saw his body was…changing. He grew six inches taller, body filling out with muscle, his skinny jeans and tank top became gym shorts and a t-shirt bearing the mascot of the high school–along with word football. No–he tried to fight it, but there was nothing he could do–when he stumbled out a minute later, Evan was gone–or at least, he wasn’t the Evan he should be. He was…a jock. Strong jaw, flat top, cocky grin, and worst of all, he knew he was best friends with Curtis.

His head throbbed, and Evan–the gay Evan, receded. In his place, someone else took control of his body, a very, very straight Evan–sort of. He was, still gay, actually–but this version of him was deeply in the closet, barely able to admit it to himself. Still, this new version of himself would know exactly how to act around his straight jock friends–and with his girlfriend, Stephanie Hawkins. The whole day was torture, hanging out with his new jock buddies, kissing his girlfriend, making fun of nerds and even throwing a few barbs at his friends…but as he did, Evan noticed something else. Whenever he threw a casual insult at Curtis or one of the other jocks…they changed. Not much, but enough that he began to understand what this curse was–and what the spirit was offering him.

After practice, he and Curtis happened to hang back chatting a bit, and showered alone together. He accused Curtis of looking at his cock, and called him a faggot, and watched as his bully started to get hard–and so Evan decided to have his way with him, shoving him up against the shower wall and fucking his loose hole, calling him a faggy sissy, a weak little cocksucker, and watched as his words came to life. When he finally came, it was a very different Curtis who fled the locker room–barely 150 pounds, short, ass and mouth hungry for cock all the time–the exact kind of faggot Curtis had always seen him as. He was horrified by what he’d done–but even more horrified when he saw himself in the mirror of the locker room. He was…massive. Thick with muscle, hairy all over, the exact kind of alpha jock he’d always detested–and feared. This…he wasn’t stuck like this, was he? He could…sense that the curse would, now that he’d dealt with his primary target, let him change back, or he could visit a few of the other jocks on the team too. But if he did…who would he become then? Would he even remember who he’d been before? No–he wanted to change back–he pushed his way forward, and saw the hulking frame in the mirror begin to recede at last.

He was back in his old body, but not everything was back to normal. He was more muscular for one thing, and he remembered, now, that he was on the track and field team, when he’d never played sports once in his life. He was hairier too–was this all because of what he’d done to Curtis? He got home as quickly as he could, but struggled to fall asleep–and got a text from a number he didn’t know late at night–it was Curtis, looking for a fuck. He had new memories now of Curtis, a hopeless sex addict, as a frequent fuckbuddy at school, and his stomach turned into knots all over again. He could hear the spirit laughing in his very soul, and Evan knew all he could do was wait until someone else insulted him–and he’d be forced to change them as well.

Alright, so for those of you who visit CYOC, this is loosely inspired by the branch of straight TF and “were-breeder” stories that are somewhat popular (and which I have contributed to in the past). I’ve always found an appeal in them, but also found some of them super uncomfortable, so I want to push them in a slightly different direction with this interactive. This intro is a bit longer than usual, just to give an overview of how the curse functions, but for clarity’s sake, Here’s an explanation:

First, when Evan hears a homophobic insult directed at him, he will find himself helplessly transforming into someone similar to the person who insulted him. For example, if it’s a jock, he becomes a jock too, or a redneck, or a skinhead, or whatever it might be. Evan is still present, but his body’s new persona is doing most of the driving–that is, he can’t really act out of his new “straight” character. That said, his personas are all still, technically, gay–but deep in the closet.

Then, in his straight-acting persona, reality shifts so that he is friends with the person who insulted him–and he discovers that whenever he insults him (and people around him who share his views) those insults are capable of changing them.

However, the more he changes them, the more he changes as well, the persona becoming more and more extreme, and the more danger he is in of forgetting about his real self, and the persona taking over for good. He can only change back after he turns the original insulter gay and has sex with them (he can be bottom or top, but will usually tend towards top in this scenario), but he can remain in the persona longer if there are other people he wants to change–at the risk of losing more of himself. When he changes back, he keeps some of the qualities of the persona he had before–the more extreme he became, the more likely the changes will stick.

So, with that out of the way–what sort of person is going to insult Evan next?

A gang of skinheads threaten him on the street.
Some gaming nerds at school being edgelords.
Some middle-aged construction workers on his way to school.
A prudish, older conservative christian neighbor.

Here’s the twitter poll!

Here’s the Patron poll!

Polls close in two days.

Remembrances – Episode 1 (Part 6)

“No!” Harry said, and crossed his arms, “I’m…I’m not hungry.” He was, in fact, a bit peckish, but as far as he was concerned, this was one hill he was willing to die on.

“Not hungry, eh? Something else you’d rather do on our lunch break, then, buddy?”

That hadn’t been Mr. Elroy’s voice. It had been Wilbur’s, but it had come out of Mr. Elroy’s mouth. Just…hearing him again, filled him with such longing, but Harry pushed back, as best he could. Wilbur wasn’t real. None of this was real. “You’re…not him. You can’t be him…” Harry said, shaking his head, hand shaking and dropping the ash of his cigar onto the floor beside him, where Mr. Elroy stamped it out, before plucking the half smoked cigar from Harry’s hand.

“Careful now–if you can’t be careful, I won’t let you smoke in here anymore–you’ll have to do it outside.”

“I don’t…I’ve never smoked before in my life…” Harry said, staring at the cigar, trying to remember where it had even come from.

“Nonsense–you smoke like a chimney, Harry. Now–you said you didn’t want lunch–but don’t you at least want a snack?” Mr. Elroy unzipped the fly of his pants, stuck the cigar in his mouth, and pulled out his cock. It was erect, and inches from Harry’s face in the recliner. “Go on then, you old faggot.”

“I’m not a faggot!” Harry said, bristling at the word. No–he wasn’t a faggot. He was…straight. What he’d had with Wilbur, that was something else. He’d never really known how to explain it, and he’d never dared tried to talk to Patricia about it…though he suspected she’d known something was going on between them. No–but not one of those limp-wristed faggots. But Harry pushed those thoughts aside too. He’d never been married–hell, he’d never even had sex before! He…honestly didn’t know if he’d been gay or straight, not anymore. Everything just felt so muddled in his head, and just impossible to untangle. “I’m…not a faggot…” he said again, less certain this time.

“No?” Mr. Elroy said, and then…something happened. It wasn’t Mr. Elroy standing in front of him–it was Wilbur again, and he wasn’t in that apartment, he was in his old living room. Was it…a memory? Was it something else? “What about for me, Harry–think you could be a faggot for me?” Wilbur said, and stroked his bearded cheek. He looked…so young, like when they’d first met, and when Harry looked down at himself, he saw that he was young too, his leg uninjured, his body strong and vital, and he was so…happy, and so hungry, he leapt on his lover’s cock and started sucking on it. “Yeah, that’s it–I never could keep you off this thing, even if I wanted to try.”

Harry didn’t care–he was happy. He was happy here, in the past, where he…where he felt like he belonged. “Fuck Wilbur, I’ve…I’ve fucking missed you so much,” he said, licking around the head of his cock.

“Yeah, I know how you get without a good fucking, buddy–now come on,” Wilbur said, and hauled Harry into the bedroom, getting his suspenders off his shoulders and his pants down, pushing him over the bed. “This is what you want, right you fucking faggot?”

That…that didn’t seem right to him. Wilbur would have never called him that, but fuck, he did want it. He was so fucking horny for his cock, it felt like ages since he’d been fucked properly. “Y-Yeah, give it to me Wilbur.”

“You old fucking pig–I’ll give you what you fucking need.”

It was rough, and it hurt. He tried to pull away, tried to get Wilbur to slow down, but he just grabbed hold of Harry’s hair and tugged him back onto his cock, told him to take it like the man he claimed he was. It hurt, hearing that…but he was so hard, all the same. He just let it happen, let Wilbur have his way with him, the room filling with his cigar smoke, and when he came, deep inside him, the bedroom scene around him evaporated, and he was back in the apartment bedroom, his leg aching, Mr. Elroy’s cock throbbing inside his ass, laughing. “Yeah, that’s a good old fuckpig–faggot is right. No man would moan like that with a cock deep in his ass, right?”

Harry tried to crawl away, and Mr. Elroy let him, Harry trying to sort out what was real, and what wasn’t. Wilbur…Wilbur had never treated him like that. No, that wasn’t really a memory, was it? It was so hard to tell, like he didn’t even know his own life–but of course he didn’t, because none of it was real! He had to remember that, Wilbur wasn’t real, none of this was real. “You…That wasn’t real. I know this isn’t real.”

Mr. Elroy shrugged, “I suppose. But what’s real, Harry, really? What do you know is real?”

“I’m…I’m not supposed to be old. I’m a fucking kid, goddamnit!”

“Oh? And where’s the evidence? Real things should have evidence, right? But your dad doesn’t even remember you, Harry–or your son, I should say. That’s just a fabrication of a feeble, senile mind. But don’t worry, we can make you better, Harry, if you want to get better. We can help you remember everything. And what you remember–well, that will be more real than anything else, soon enough. So tell me, Harry, what’s real? Is it this?”

Mr. Elroy reached out and touched him, and a fantasy came back. Wilbur was there, they were in bed, a rare moment alone, just…being close, just loving each other in the small, cramped, secret spaces of their lives. It was tender, and it was so…tender. It felt like it would crumble at the slightest touch, if he wasn’t careful. Then, before he could really appreciate it, it was gone, and Wilbur was on top of him, ramming his cock in deep, demeaning him, threatening him, humiliating him–he hated it, and craved it, all at the same time. Then, he was back, and Mr. Elroy pulled his hand away.

“What’s real, Harry? It’s up to you–depending on how much you want to…cooperate.”

Remembrances – Episode 1 (Part 5)

The meal ended, and Mr. Elroy told him it was time for them to get back to the room, so they could get to unpacking. Harry forced himself back to his feet with a grimace, leg shaking–he wasn’t sure he’d be able to make it all the way back there, not like this. “What’s wrong Harry, need some assistance?”

“No, I’m fine,” he said, through gritted teeth, hobbled over to the wall and used it as a prop to get down the hallways, and back up to his room. Mr. Elroy followed a few steps behind, saying nothing, but always being just loud enough to make sure Harry knew he was there–that there was nowhere for him to go, not really. “Why are you doing this?” he mumbled to him in the elevator, panting a bit from the pain in his leg.

“Because I have to. Because I can,” Mr. Elroy said with a shrug, “Bigger reasons than you’ll ever know, really.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s all the answer you’ll get. Besides, I suggest you worry less about me, and more about you.”

Harry didn’t know what he meant by that, exactly, but the elevator arrived at his floor, and he was at the home stretch. He made it to his door and opened it, making a beeline right for a chair at the table in the kitchen, and he sat down in it with a grunt. Mr. Elroy entered behind him and shut the door, and checked the clock. “We’re behind schedule, Harry–if you can’t keep up, then I’m going to have to make you use the cane.”

“Fuck you–just…fix it. I won’t run.”

Mr. Elroy shook his head. “It doesn’t work like that, Harry. There’s no going back, not for you.”

Harry did his best to keep his face neutral…but what if he was telling the truth? He’d want him to think that, no matter what though–so even if it was true, it wouldn’t do him any good to believe it.

“Look, everything will make much more sense in a little while. Why don’t we get some of the sheets here uncovered, eh? I’m sure you’ll be feeling more like yourself in no time.”

Mr. Elroy went around the room and began pulling sheets off the furniture. Everything looked like an antique, and to Harry’s confusion, every piece also seemed…familiar to him, somehow, like he’d seen them before in a store, or some stranger’s house. No–that wasn’t right. He knew them because they’d been in his house!

That wasn’t right. He knew that wasn’t right. He’d never owned a house–hell, he’d never even moved out on his own from his parent’s home. Yet…his mind was telling him something else, that all of this furniture was his. That he’d had it all in his house, and moved as much of it as he could into this cramped little apartment…but the context was simply missing from all of it. “Stop…Stop!” he shouted. “I…how are you doing this to me? Why do I know everything about this stuff?”

“Because it’s yours, Harry,” Mr. Elroy said, “I mean, if you don’t want to remember this, we can do that too. But let me tell you Harry, it can be very, very lonely, not recognizing anything around you. Never knowing who the person at your bedside is–the nurse, your son, your grandson. But we can do things that way, if you want.” He walked over to Harry, and looked down at him, “But trust me–it’s better to have a life like this, than nothing at all. If you’re good, I might even let you forget about that old you–give you a bit of peace. If you beg.”

Next, Mr. Elroy opened a box and started pulling out framed pictures, took a hammer, and started hanging them up around the room. First, his wife–Patricia, who’d passed away close to twenty years ago. How…how could he have forgotten her? Then, a photo of him and several other men in front of an old factory–the factory he’d worked his entire adult life, until the accident, which had mangled his leg, and left him disabled. Lastly, there on a shelf, a smaller photo of him…him and another man, back when he was in his thirties, both of them smoking cigars.

Wilbur. Fuck. His heart broke, looking at him, all over again. Losing Patricia had been hard, but losing Wilbur–he’d never felt like the same man again, after burying his best friend in the ground. No–more than his friend, they’d been…lovers. Lovers since the day they’d met on the factory floor, sneaking around behind their wives all their lives, but fuck, they hadn’t been able to stop themselves. But he was gone, and Harry was alone now. He got up, went to the humidor and pulled out a cigar, lit it, and sat down in his favorite recliner, lost in his resurgent memories, reliving his life as it sprang up around him, feeling those old thoughts and memories begin to recede away into the depths of his mind. Mr. Elroy let him stew for a while, and went about unpacking more of the apartment, arranging things around Harry, until it was a little while before noon, and he went up and gave him a light shake of the shoulder. “What do you say Harry, ready for lunch?”

Harry gave a start–he’d been so lost in his memories, between this life and his old one, that he’d completely forgotten Mr. Elroy was there at all. He looked up at the nurse beside him, and his breath caught in his throat–how…how had he not noticed it before? Smiling down at him, he looked…exactly like Wilbur. Well, not…exactly, but it was so close that Harry muttered his name under his breath, as he stared up at him, trying to sort everything apart in his mind.

“Something wrong, Harry?”

He shook his head, and looked away. “No, it’s a trick. This is all just a trick!”

“Sounds like someone’s a bit grumpy without their meal. Now come on, let’s go eat some lunch.”

Remembrances – Episode 1 (Part 4)

Someone was shaking him in his bed.

“Dad–dad, I’m up, alright? I’m up…” Harry muttered, trying to push the hands away, but something felt…wrong.

“Now now, Mr. Willis, do try to keep that old head of your straight–we do want to try and keep that senility at bay, don’t we?”

Harry’s eyes went wide, and he found himself staring up at Mr. Elroy, looming over the side of his bed, “No–no, no no!” Harry muttered, and went to try and rawl his way off the other side of the bed. He’d hoped it had been a dream, when he’d woken up. That he’d just been late for school, or his dad just wanted to make sure he was awake. Not this–not this still. It couldn’t possibly be real–people don’t just…age 40 years in a day!

Mr. Elroy calmly walked around the bed, and met him at the other side. “I assure you, Harry, that today will be much, much more difficult for me if I have to add a sedative to your medications this morning. I will–but that will only make things so much worse for you, in ways you won’t understand. Trust me when I say that you want to mentally present for unpacking day–you’ll be much, much less confused, and less confusion helps the brian last longer–trust me, I’ve been helping doddering old men like you adjust to their lives here for many years now. I know what works.”

Harry looked up at him, and then at the door of the bedroom. Could he make it?

“You won’t make it–not with those arthritic knees of yours,” Mr. Elroy said, brushing a hand against Harry’s legs, and as soon as he did, a throbbing ache grew in the joint there, making Harry wince. “Getting old can be such a pain, right Harry? Now, are you going to cooperate, or am I going to have you drooling down the front of your clothes, and shitting in a diaper today instead?”

Harry could see in Mr. Elroy’s eyes that he was serious–and after what happened last night, he had no doubt that the man could make it happen. He nodded. “A-Alright.”

“Good. Now get out of bed, and let’s get started on your morning routine. A shower first, of course. While you’re in there, I’ll look around and put together an outfit for you to wear. Then we’ll get you your medications. Breakfast is at 8:30. We’ll come back up here after that and start getting you unpacked. Lunch will be a little later, and if you’re good, I might let you go to bridge night this evening.”

Harry had never even heard of bridge, much less played it–but he kept his mouth shut. He’d just have to bide his time, and wait for an opportunity, when Mr. Elroy let his guard drop, since there was no way he’d be able to take him in a straight fight–not feeling like this. Getting out of bed with his sore knees was a struggle. Mr. Elroy suggested multiple times that he get a cane for him, but Harry refused. He might look like an old man–he might even feel like an old man, in some ways, but he could still walk! Mr. Elroy helped him into the shower, and while the water warmed up, he sat Harry down on the toilet and made him suck on his cock for a couple of minutes, before getting him into the tub. Harry took his time in the shower, trying to sort his thoughts out, and sizing up his body–what he could do, how fast he could move–but it didn’t seem like he was very capable of anything, which is probably just how Mr. Elroy wanted him. Still, he finished his shower, and managed to get out of the tub on his own, toweled himself off, and went back into the bedroom, where Mr. Elroy was waiting, with some clothes laid out on the bed beside him.

Harry knew he could have gotten dressed in them himself, but Mr. Elroy insisted that he help. Harry could sense that he enjoyed it–that he liked making Harry feel helpless, or like a child he was taking care of. First was a plain white undershirt and a pair of briefs–both feeling oddly threadbare. After that came a button down blue cotton shirt, some well worn and well stained jeans held up by wide strap suspenders (Mr. Elroy made certain that the suspenders were tight enough that the pants went over his belly, rather than under it–he said it made Harry look much more “properly old”). Then, woolen socks and some work boots. In the mirror, Harry couldn’t even begin to recognize himself–there didn’t seem to be anything of his old self even left to see in the reflection. It was just…a stranger, an old man wearing what looked like some old work clothes–but Mr. Elroy was certainly pleased.

“Alright Harry–time for your medications!” Mr. Elroy went into the bathroom for a moment, and returned with a small cup with several pills in it. Harry asked what they were for–he didn’t recognize any of the pills himself. “Oh, just the usual things for a man of your age–arthritis, high blood pressure, persistent heartburn. Why? Would you like some more? We can always arrange that, if you’d like.”

Harry just shook his head, and put the pills in his mouth, swallowing them with the water Mr. Elroy had brought with him in a cup. Mr. Elroy offered him the cane again–after all, it was quite a walk to the dining hall for breakfast–but Harry again refused. He had to hobble slightly down the halls of the building, and Mr. Elroy told him they might be late if he didn’t move faster, but he wasn’t about to give into that crutch without a fight. Still, by the time they reached the dining room, he almost wished he had taken it–his leg ached, and pain was radiating up his back as well–he’d never been as thankful to take a seat right then in his entire life. Breakfast was bland, smooth, and nutritious. Mr. Elroy sat with him but didn’t eat anything, but no one else came by who Harry felt he could trust to get help from. After all, who would believe him? Mr. Elroy could just lie, and say he was senile, and no one would believe a raving old man, especially not if he was ranting about some…vampire turning him old.