Smoke Spirit (Part 6)

Downstairs, they both heard the front door of the house open and close, followed by someone cursing. “Fuck, why does it smell like smoke in here? Douglas? Are you smoking up there, you fuck?” It sounded like Howard, another of their housemates. Before Douglas could decide what to do about that, however, Pete got an excited look on his face.

“That sounds like Unc!” he said, and before Douglas could stop him, he’d shot out the bedroom door, still naked, and ran down the stairs. With a growl, Douglas took off after him, hoping he could put a stop to this before anyone else he knew got sucked into whatever nightmare he was creating around him.

He hit the top of the stairs, when he heard a short exchange.

“Hey Unc! Wait…you don’t look like Unc, but you do sound like him…”

“Who the…what the hell is this, Douglas?”

“Oh I see, you just aren’t Unc yet! Daddy, get down here!”

He rounded the top of the stairs, and realized a bit too late that this is exactly what that smoke thing would want–after all, it had just taken one sniff of smoke for Pete to fall under whatever spell this was in the backyard, but as hard as he tried to get himself to stop, his feet were still moving, heading down the stairs, smoke pouring from his mouth around the cigar, heading out in thick tendrils right for Howard across the room. “You have to get out of here, Howard! Fucking run man, run!” he managed to say, before the smoke clamped his jaws shut around the cigar.

Howard had no clue who that burly, hairy, naked cigar smoking fuck was coming down the stairs, but running was something he was more than happy to do. Hell, it was something he was good at too–Howard was on both the cross country running team, and the swim team at school–both of which gave him a powerful, wiry build, and made him real fucking fast. He did his best to not make a stink about his housemate’s habit, but it disgusted him all the same–and he hated being around smokers, it always hurt his lungs. He turned towards the front door, but the other guy–the younger one who had come down first–blocked his route, so he turned around and headed for the back of the house.

“Don’t worry daddy, I got him!” Pete shouted, and before Howard could get very far, and build up much speed, the cub had leapt and slammed into him, sending them both to the floor of the living room, and the smoke coming from Douglas twined forward and slid into Howard’s mouth. Douglas had expected him to go under like Pete had, outside, but almost immediately, Howard began hacking and coughing, trying to push the smoke back out of him, kicking his legs violently, trying to free himself from Pete’s hold on his legs, and finally a kick connected right in Pete’s gut, making him grunt, and loosening his grip enough for Howard to wriggle free.

He stumbled up, still coughing and hacking at the smoke around him. It defied reason, but for some reason, it felt like the stuff was…trying to get into him, somehow. He hacked harder, and stumbled off towards the kitchen, and the back door to the house, but he felt winded all of sudden, like he just couldn’t get enough air. His head was swimming, and his vision was foggy. He got into the kitchen, and collapsed, still coughing, trying to breathe, and then, two people were on either side of him. “Come on, Howie–let’s get you sitting up. Tied one on a bit too hard last night, I…I think…”

Howie felt his blood chill. On one side of him was the older man from the stairs, but on the other…it wasn’t a person at all. It was some strange figure that seemed to be made out of smoke itself. He thought it just had to be the younger man who’d tackled him, but he could hear him staggering up in the living room, behind ten feet behind him. Still, for being made out of smoke, the thing…could still lift him, and together, Douglas and the spirit hefted Howard up and sat him down in a chair, at the table.

Douglas felt like he was in some fucked up dream. He knew that what he was doing was wrong, that he should be trying to help Howard escape, but he didn’t seem to have control of his body. It was the spirit that was controlling him, putting words in his mouth, and even stranger, they felt like the right words. The words he would say…if he was really in his right mind.

“You…told me to run,” Howie said, but his voice sounded all wrong. Deeper, with a grating rasp, like his neighbor who’d smoked for years sounded.

“Run? Howie, we both know you haven’t run in decades, man. Fastest I’ve seen you go is a quick lumber over to the cupboard for a nice, big snack.”

“Unc ok?” Pete said, coming down the hall, “He was going crazy back there!”

“Yeah son, your uncle’s just hungover is all, not quite all there sometimes.”

“I wasn’t fucking drinking…I was…I just got back from a run.”

Douglas laughed, “Fuck, you hallucinate some strange shit when you’re drunk. Still, best way out is through, right bro? First of all, let’s get you lit up…here, have mine, I’ll light another.”

Smoke Spirit (Part 5)

Douglas didn’t know what to say–and just looked from the cub to the spirit and back again. He could remember Pete–the old Pete, but looking at the cub–no, at his cub–here in front of him, he could remember him too, somehow, though those details were fuzzier, like he was trying to find them through a haze that wouldn’t quite clear from his mind. “It’s…alright, boy,” he said, finally, but the voice that emerged from his throat surprised him. It was deep, with a smoky rasp that made it seem…old. He sat up on the bed, and from there he could see himself in the mirror, and while he somehow already knew what he was going to see, that did nothing to diminish his shock.

He was old. Alright, so he wasn’t that old. His head was telling him that he was 46 now, but still, he’d just doubled his age in a matter of moments, and that wasn’t the only change which had happened to him. His old body hadn’t really been anything special–lean, average height, a small goatee, but looking at himself now, he was heavily muscled, even more so than the hulked out Pete kneeling in front of him on the bed, and his new height of six foot three only made him seem even larger. He got up, trying to push back the sense of vertigo which threatened to overwhelm him, and strode over to the spirit standing off to the side of the room, watching him. “What the fuck is going on? What the fuck did you just do to me and my son?” he asked, the word “son” popping out without him even thinking about it…and he realized it was true. He looked at the mirror again, where he could see both him and Pete, and realized just how…similar they looked to one another. His gut started churning again, but he felt a warmth against his cheek–the spirit’s hand had stroked his bearded cheek. He turned back towards it, and saw it was already dissipating into the air. “Wait! Please, just tell me what’s happening to me! What the fuck do you want with me?” he asked, and this time, he did get something in return.

It was difficult to describe what he felt. Some of it was emotion–that was the strongest bit. There was longing, and a deep abiding love that surged through him, a love for…for a family. His family! Douglas tried to think back, tried to think of his mom and dad, but he couldn’t catch anything. Instead, he could see… his son and two other people, but the haze was so thick around the others, it was difficult to tell even broad details about them, but they were there. He had to find them! No…No, “find” was the wrong word. The smoke was trying to tell him something else. He didn’t have to find them.

He needed to make them.

With that, the spirit was gone from the room, losing form and becoming a fog, sliding it’s way back into the head of Douglas’s cock, even as he tried, with his hands, to keep it from returning to him. Pete got up and walked over to his father, wrapping his own strong arms around Douglas’s broad chest, and he was surprised how comforting it felt, being close with his son.

“Don’t worry dad, you’ll help them too, I know you will! Just like you helped me. And then we’ll be a family again, just like before.”

Douglas pulled away, and went to his phone, where he pulled up Scruff. He hadn’t expected to see a reply from that fucker, but sure enough, there was. He pulled up the message and saw what Bandgar had told him in reply.

I did try to warn you. Still, I gave you someone I’m sure you’ll enjoy. Just don’t fight him, and help him make his–well, your–family. Then, when all is said and done, come find me, and we can all have some real smoky fun together. The way ya’ll ride, you’ll catch up to the tour in no time. See you soon, Daddy.

He needed a cigarette. No–No, fuck that, he needed a fucking cigar. His big hands shaking, he grabbed one of the cigars his son had brought back–they had seemed so much larger, back when he was smaller–but found lighting it to be completely natural. He took a deep inhale of the smoke, glad that Pete had brought his favorite brand, and exhaled two thick plumes through his nose. What was he stressing about, anyway? He looked over at Pete, his own cock stirring again, and fuck if his boy wasn’t the sexiest cub in the whole damn world! All he really wanted to do was plow that boy’s ass like he’d been doing earlier–or had he been doing that? He had felt, for a second, like he’d witnessed himself in two places at once, but the feeling disappeared quickly.

No–he shook his head, harder, and pulled the cigar out. He was falling into this trap, whatever it was. He could fight this, he could! But as soon as he’d thought that, a second vision came to him. The spirit leaving him, and entering his son instead. Then he…well, if Pete became the new father, then that meant he would be the new son. It was a threat, and a good one. His eyes, unlike Pete’s, were still human, and somehow, he didn’t think there was really much of a mind left in his old roommate’s head. Or at least, not much of his old mind.

Smoke Spirit (Part 4)

He begged him not to, but Pete walked over, after getting the cigar blazing nicely, and slid it into Douglas’s mouth. It tasted…heavenly. More than just tobacco, it felt…right, in his mouth. What he should have been smoking this entire time. The taste of it, the feel of the smoke in his mouth and in his lungs as he drew it into him. The thing inside him–the hunger–it gobbled down the smoke, so much that when he exhaled, almost nothing came out of his nose aside from a wisp–and he took a deeper inhale, feeding it, desperate for the pain to stop, he never wanted to feel that way again. The hunger, however, remained. It twisted into something else, and when he looked up at Pete, watching him light a second cigar for himself now he could…sense something unfinished. Still, it could wait a moment, but as soon as Pete got his own cigar burning, Douglas grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him closer to the bed, Pete’s knees buckling as he swallowed Douglas’ throbbing cock to the hilt.

Smoke was pouring out of Douglas again with every shuddering exhale. The cigar–it was more powerful somehow, and the spirit began to form again–a full head now, hands up past the elbow, and a massive, throbbing cock and pendulous balls. He found himself entranced, watching the spirit’s cock, how one moment it seemed to literally float in the air, while the next it had all the heft and weight of flesh. It kissed him again, and while before he had gotten weak…impressions, this time it was forceful, directions and orders imprinted across his consciousness. He backed up on the bed, forcing Pete to climb up onto it with him as he chased Douglas’s cock–taking breaks only to take in more smoke himself. Douglas watched the spirit for any sign of acknowledgement, but received nothing. Still, he had done what it had…asked, in a sense. It floated around behind Pete, it’s hands lying on his clothes, and embers leapt from them. Douglas panicked, as flames consumed them, worried his roommate was about to be set on fire, but he was unharmed–simply naked. Then the thing came closer, hands gripping Pete’s hips and slid it’s cock inside him.

Pete howled–though whether it was in pain or pleasure Douglas wasn’t sure. One thing he did see, was his eyes immediately clouding over entirely, becoming a solid smoky grey–even cloudier than they had been before, outside on the patio. He began sucking harder on Douglas’s cock, neglecting his own cigar entirely now, and Douglas gripped the sheets in pleasure. It was like the night before, when that…mouth had sucked him off, how it had drawn…something out of him, or through him, perhaps. The spirit was fucking Pete at a slow, steady pace, sliding in deep with each thrust, and the next time Douglas managed to look up, he could barely see Pete at all. The smoke in the room had become so thick it was difficult to see, though breathing was somehow easier than ever. It took a moment for him to realize where the smoke was coming from–not from their mouths, and not from the spirit–but from Pete, like it was somehow seeping from his very pores all over his body, like everything inside him was smoke now–like he had been consumed from the inside out. A minute later, he couldn’t be seen at all–though he had to be there in some form, because something was still sucking forcefully at Douglas’s cock. His eyes shifted up, and he saw that the spirit’s eyeless face was directed at him now, and the smoke from Pete’s body was curling up into wisps, and they were swirling towards him now. He tried to pull away, but the mouth sucking him off kept him rooted in place as the smoke settled over him, dug into him, seeped into every crevice, coating him in a blanket of soft grey. He couldn’t see, but he could feel something happening to him and his body…but he could also feel Pete, somehow. Not just feel him sucking him off, but some…connection to him, in a way he couldn’t quite explain. Pete was tethered to him. Pete was his. He owned him. The sensation was building inside him, and he came forcefully, bucking on the mattress, but Pete’s mouth never left his cock, and continued to suck even after he had collapsed back, heaving for smoke.

Soon after, the smoke began to dissipate. Much of it was drawn back to Douglas, sliding back into his body, where he could sense it…belonged. He could see the room again, through the haze. The spirit was still there, but standing off to the side of them both at the foot of the bed. Whether it had cum or not–whether it needed to cum or not–he could sense it was finished with Pete. His muscles ached for some reason, but Douglas managed to prop himself up and look down at Pete, who was still nursing his cock, and saw that the nerdy, long limbed roommate he’d had that morning was no longer there. Instead, he saw some muscled cub sucking hungrily at his cock, taking occasional breaks for an inhale off his cigar, before continuing. Douglas pushed him off, and the cub sat back on his heels, giving Douglas a better look at his new body. His chest and arms were thick with muscle, but with a slight gut–and a sizable cock jutting out below–all of it coated with a perfect dusting of brownish red hair. His beard was trimmed short, as was his hair–but his eyes…they were empty. A…perfect, flat grey surface. “Sorry Daddy,” Pete said, smiling around his cigar and seemingly perfect normal aside from his empty eyes, “Guess I got a bit carried away there, but your smoke always gets your cubson horned up so bad.”

Smoke Spirits (Part 3)

“Pete? What’s up man?”

From the movements of his mouth, it seemed clear Pete was trying to speak, but no sound came out, and his mouth closed again in a moment. Douglas just watched, rooted in place, as his housemate dropped to his knees in front of him, reached out, and tried to yank down the front of Douglas’ pajamas.

He stepped backwards and yanked them back up, “Whoa now, what the fuck’s up with you?” he said, not noticing that the smoke around them both had grown thicker, some of it beginning to pull together off to his side. There, like the night before, was the form of a lower jaw, nose and neck, formed from smoke–but also two large, burly hands. The placement of all three in the air implied the existence of an invisible body lying somewhere between them, but nothing else materialized. Pete, on the ground, shuffled forward on his hands and knees, focused only on Douglas’s crotch and ignoring his housemate’s shouts, backing him up against the side of the house. Douglas looked around, trying to figure out where to go to get away from his suddenly creepy housemate, when both smoky hands clamped down on his wrists, hauled his arms into the air and pinned them above his head and too the wall. “What the fuck?” he said, trying to pull away, but he saw the face hovering in front of him, the same face as the night before, and his guts chilled. Pete, however, took advantage of the opening, pulled down Douglas’s pants and started sucking on his cock.

He tried to protest, but the smoky face only turned up into a sneer. The hands above readjusted their position, so only one hand held both of Douglas’s arms up, the free hand moving down and sliding his shirt up, tweaking one nipple while the mouth moved down and started sucking at the other. He tried to push Pete off with one of his feet, but before he could, he felt a sudden surge of pleasure as something spewed out of his cock. He looked down, expecting to see Pete’s mouth flooded with cum, but instead all he saw was smoke pouring from his nose and mouth, the cloudiness of his eyes now nearly opaque. He wanted to stop, but he could already feel another massive load swelling in him, his balls nearly pulsing, as another load of smoke flooded into Pete’s mouth and lungs. He hadn’t noticed that his cigarette had burnt down to the filter and finally gone out, and he could sense some frustration in the smoky mouth as it began to lose it’s shape and dissolve into the air. The hand was no longer holding him in place, allowing him to shove Pete off his cock, but Pete didn’t seem to be home. The color of his eyes hadn’t returned, and as Douglas watched, what smoke remained slid back into his cock, or down Pete’s gullet.

He didn’t want to be there when Pete did come back around–if he came back around. He didn’t want to try and understand what had just happened to him, why he had just sucked his housemate’s cock. He went back inside, thankful the other two men living there hadn’t seen them, and went back up to his room, crumpling and ripping up his remaining cigarettes as he went, and dumping them all in the toilet before flushing them away. He found his phone and pulled up Scruff, looking for Bandgar’s profile page. All of this insanity had started with him, with that strange sex they’d had the night before–maybe he was still in town, and if he was, he might know what in the world was going on with him. However, he didn’t appear to be online, and so he sat on his bed, desperate, feeling the itch start up all over again, but refusing to give in to it anymore.

It wasn’t long before the usual withdrawal symptoms started–the headache, the nausea, the anger and anxiety, however, within an hour they were all more intense than he’d ever experienced them before, and came coupled with something even worse–it felt like his balls were somehow…drying up. Even that description, which was the best he could use to describe the itching, burning, and crushing sensation inside his sack, didn’t seem to adequately describe what was wrong with him. Further, something inside him was…frustrated. He thought it was just the nausea being somehow worse than usual, as he threw up his morning coffee into the trash can, but something in his lungs, in his head, in his heart was…angry. Angry that it had no smoke, angry at him, a burning, vicious, instinctual anger. This helped, in other ways. It gave him something to focus on, something to hate back, something to resist and fight, and for a while, he was convinced that he was winning. The thing in him–it was small. It had a grip on him, but even it could sense that if he kept up his resistance long enough it wouldn’t be able to hold on.

But that turned out to be a rather false hope, because the thing, whatever it was, already had a contingency in place. The door to Douglas’s room swung open after a few hours, and there was Pete holding a shopping bag in one hand, his mouth slack, his eyes still grey–though the occasional flicker of their original green peeked through every once in awhile. He shut the door behind him, pulled a cigar from the bag, clipped it and lit it, and walked over to where Douglas was whimpering on the bed, knowing he’d greatly underestimated the forces at work inside of him.

Smoke Spirits (Part 2)

He laid down in his bed and tried to get to sleep, but every time he got comfortable, the cough would start up again–mild at first, but after a few minutes he got going and couldn’t stop. There was something in his lungs that he had to get up. He thought it was mucus at first, but it felt…alive somehow, squirming about inside him, until with a last hack, smoke gushed out of his mouth and nose, and hovered in the air in front of him. He tried to wave it away and disperse it, but all he managed to do was sever the connection between him and the small cloud of smoke; when he did, the cloud pulled in tighter, and created a shape hovering a few inches from him. In the dark room, he couldn’t see very well, but it looked like the lower part of a face, from the upper lip down, and seemed almost scruffy or hairy–perhaps it was just the nature of the smoke that made it seem that way. What he did see, in the dark, was the lips of this strange, floating face turn up in a smirk, before the cloud drifted closer and planted itself on his mouth…kissing him, somehow.

It was warm, and it was alive. It didn’t feel like flesh at all, but it was solid, and quite forceful, a dry, whispy tongue prying open Douglas’ mouth and exploring it, leaving the entire surface coated with a fine layer of ash, but as disturbed as he was, as terrified as he was, as certain as he was that this was all some hallucination or fever dream, Douglas liked it. He shivered as the mouth licked it’s way down, nibbling at his neck, pushing him back so he was lying on the bed, the smoky mouth hovering a moment over each nipple, warming them with its heated breath, before dropping lower still, until it was licking and sucking at the head of his cock. What he felt then–it was difficult to describe.

The mouth was drawing his cock like Douglas would draw his cigarette, pulling air through it–not that there was really air in his cock, but something was being pulled out, and whatever it was, it felt amazing. Each time the mouth inhaled, Douglas would spasm, groan and quiver in pleasure until after a few minutes he came in a monstrous gush, with more force than he could remember having. He clutched the sheets of his bed as it overwhelmed him, allowing it to ebb back–he raised his head, expecting to see his cum everywhere–but his body, the floor, the sheets– all were dry as a bone, aside from his sweat. The mouth was gone, or almost gone. One last wisp of smoke remained visible, as it slid into his urethra before vanishing back inside him, like it had never even been there at all. Had it been there? Everything seemed so hazy, and more than anything he wanted a cigarette, but the mere thought of putting smoke inside him suddenly made his stomach turn. He got back into bed and tried to forget about what had happened, telling himself it had just been…nothing at all. He was still coughing a bit, but not as violently as before, and he fell asleep soon after lying down.

The next morning at around ten, he woke up feeling like he had five days into his last attempt to quit cold turkey. Shakes, nausea, irritable and angry. He grabbed his cigarettes from the table, threw on a shirt and some pajamas, before heading down and out into the backyard for a smoke he desperately needed. Even though the sky was clear it was chilly out in the shadow of the house–he smoked one cigarette quickly, and when that barely took the edge off, he started right in on a second. Thinking that might be enough, he went inside and joined his housemates for a cup of coffee, as they were just then waking up as well, but halfway through the cup, the itch started up again, and he was back outside for a third, and then a fourth cigarette. What in the hell was wrong with him? He’d been cutting back pretty well, managing to keep to about half a pack a day–but it wasn’t even noon and he’d blown through a fifth of a pack already. He felt gross, but the itch was already ramping up again.

“Don’t you ever give those things a rest?” Douglas looked over and saw Pete had stepped outside and joined him. “I was going to do some studying in the sun, but don’t really want to if you’re going to be smoking all day.”

Douglas sighed, but didn’t reply. Pete had shown himself to be the health crusader of the house. Howard and Steven hadn’t put up much of a fuss, but Pete made sure to get at least one jab in at his smoking every day. “Calm down, I’m almost finished, and you can have the patio to yourself.”

Pete sat down at the table there, and Douglas moved to the other end of the concrete, making sure he was downwind as he exhaled a lungful of smoke and…watched it blow away in the completely wrong direction, into the wind. He looked over and watched it, confused, as the plume formed a snaking trail through the air towards Pete, formed itself into a hand, gave Pete’s cheek a gentle stroke, making him flinch, before, sliding gently into his nose and mouth–Pete’s head falling forward as it did, and then, Douglas watched Pete’s head swivel over and stare right at him, but something was wrong. His eyes–they seemed cloudy, like his irises and pupils were coated with a layer of smoke. Pete stood up, a bit unsteady, and started walking towards him.

Smoke Spirits (Part 1)

The crowd from the concert noisily filled out onto the sidewalk and street. It was quarter to midnight, and if people were quick, they could catch the five or six little joints that stayed open that late, mostly to cater to the young, tired fans. Douglas, however, shoved his hands in the pockets of his pants, looked around, and joined a small stream of people who were heading around the side of the building, towards the back, where a bus was idling. A roadie was back there–a big fellow, at least six foot three, tattoos running all over his hairy body to his neck, chuffing on a cigar of all things, telling the crowd that it would be at least an hour and a half before the band came out for autographs.

This news was enough to deter a good chunk of the people, leaving about a score behind, milling around behind the building in the cold, including Douglas, who walked up to the roadie while he was leaning by a door, smoking his cigar slowly.

“No private audiences,” the guy said as Douglas approached.

“I was just going to ask for a light,” he said, holding up a cigarette.

“Heh, sure thing.” he hauled out a zippo from one of his pants pocket, Douglas leaned in closer to the roadie’s massive frame, enjoying the heat coming off of him, got his light, puffed a few times, and then stayed close enough to give the guy an idea or two. The roadie remained aloof, but not quite disinterested or oblivious, like a straight guy would be.

“How much longer?”

“Probably an hour–longer, if you keep asking.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to make conversation,” Douglas said, smiling, leaning his smaller, lean frame against the wall beside the roadie. “Are you local? I haven’t seen you working here before.”

“Travelling with the band. I…like to be on the road.”

“Understandable. Still, that’s a lot of work. Not much time for relaxation.”

The roadie was sizing him up, which was an improvement. He shrugged, and they just smoked for a bit, the fumes thicker in the cold and condensation.

“If you don’t want to talk, we can do something else to pass the time,” Douglas said.

“Rather blunt.”

“Easier than beating the bush. I saw you on scruff earlier.”

“I don’t fuck around with smokers, sorry.”

Douglas pushed off the wall, and just stared at him. “Excuse me? What’s that thing in your mouth then?”

“Don’t have to explain why to you. It’s for your own good anyway.”

“So you are at least interested, if it’s the smoking that’s the turn off.”

The roadie took a deep inhale off his cigar…and shuddered in a rather peculiar fashion. It didn’t look like something caused by cold, but rather something…pleasurable. “Look, you should get out of here. I’m done talking.”

“Well, so am I,” Douglas said, still a bit drunk off his three overpriced beers, “and your excuses are lame. So, what would you like me to do, then?”

Two more jets of smoke shot from his nose, more than should have been possible, and then bent against the wind, whisping around their faces, shrouding them, pulling them closer. The roadie leaned over, looking almost like he was fighting the desire, and they kissed a moment, before grabbing Douglas by the wrist, and hauling him off down an alley. “Fine, but don’t think I didn’t try to warn you.”

The sex was better than average but odd–the roadie sucked him off, and when Douglas tried to reciprocate, the man shook his head. Instead, he gave the roadie a handjob while they made out–though it was more of a smoke out. For being so against smokers, he sure did love feeding Douglas that cigar smoke of his. Douglas had never tasted a cigar before–in fact, he wasn’t much of a fan of cigarettes, but he didn’t quite have the willpower to quit, but it was actually…surprisingly nice. It made his cigarettes taste like a week old slim jim, next to a nicely grilled steak. In the end, the guy didn’t even cum. He assured Douglas that he’d enjoyed himself all the same, but it was time for him to get back to the door. Douglas did stick around for the band, who appeared a few minutes after they finished. He got his autograph and then booked it without saying another word to the guy, or getting his name–but he did at least add him as a fave on Scruff. The roadie’s username was Bandgar–which made a bit more sense now. It was half past one at this point, the streets were dead aside from the derelicts, and Douglas lit another cigarette with his own lighter, and headed back towards his house, a few blocks away from campus, near the venue. He had a couple of coughing fits along the way–thinking it was just all that smoke during sex from Bandgar, he did his best to be as quiet as he could as he let himself into the house, not wanting to wake his three roommates.

The houses near campus were all part of the campus housing program–basically an upscale dorm system students could get into for a higher fee. Douglas had ended up with three other guys he didn’t know every well–a sophomore named Steven, another Junior like him named Pete, and lastly a senior named Howard. They’d only gotten back to campus the week before, and so they were all still just trying to get settled–Douglas had invited the other guys to go with him tonight, but none of them had been interested in the sort of alt-folk stuff Douglas was seeing. Granted, he wasn’t that interested either, but the vocalist was a burly, cuteass cub and the music was tolerable. Really, he would have rather fucked him–but he was definitely straight. Still, that roadie had been a good consolation prize. He got up to his room before he realized he still had the cigarette in his mouth. He cursed, and snuffed it out in an old coffee cup on his desk. None of his housemates were smokers, and they all thought his habit was pretty gross–and it was, but he didn’t need them pissed at him for smoking in the house, which was against campus policy anyway. He didn’t notice the wisp of smoke which left his throat as he yawned, and coughed again. Hoping he wasn’t getting sick, he fell into bed, thankful it was the weekend, and he could relax all Saturday and Sunday before getting back into the college grind again.

What Comes Around…

It wasn’t that Professor Hargrove was a particularly vengeful man; it was that he hated Mason–the frat boy football jock currently ruining his class–with such a passion that it was making him understand, for the first time, the appeal of revenge. Perhaps the worst part was that they both knew there was nothing Hargrove could do to him–football was so important at the school that athletes could get away with pretty much anything, while Hargrove was still fighting for a shrinking number of tenured positions. If he flunked a star player he’d never get his contract renewed. So Mason could make him look like a joke and humiliate him in front of the rest of the class while drinking beer in the back, and Hargrove had to take it. At least Mason hadn’t figured out he was gay–apparently the jock had a particular distaste for faggots.

But what could be done? Hargrove humored him and did his best to mitigate the damage, but inside he fumed and wished there was some way he could get back at him. Cruising the internet, looking for porn one night, Hargrove found a strange site he’d never seen before–a video service calling itself “What Comes Around Media”. The videos were all free, and all of them seemed to be focused on revenge fantasies–mostly making men commit humiliating acts on camera–and Hargrove found them all, very arousing, particularly the ones featuring jocks like Mason.

After a little while on the site, a pop-up alerted him to the fact that he could request a particular video if he wanted to. He expected such a service to come with an astronomical cost, but after poking around, it seemed that the service was entirely free of charge–all it required was joining the site as a registered video creator–a process which seemed…very intensive for whatever reason. It required a photo taken with his webcam, a slew of personal information about him, his job and his hobbies…still, Hargrove was a trusting, older fellow. He doubted anything would come of it.

Once he’d finished that process, he discovered that requesting a video was more than a simple suggestion box–the site even gave him a space to suggest a target for the video. Was this for real? How could it be? Still, he did hate Mason, and watching that jock get his comeuppance would be so…fucking satisfying. He put in the young man’s name, the reason why Hargrove wanted him to be in a video, and followed it up with suggestions of what should happen to him. That was something Hargrove hadn’t quite considered completely–but he did have a basic idea. He wanted to see Mason humiliated–in public. Paraded around on a leash by older men, who each take their turns fucking him in every hole, before they auction him off to the highest bidder, making him the personal slave to the winner.

Maybe he had put more thought into it than he was comfortable admitting.

He thought about deleting the whole thing, but decided to just submit it–and then jacked off afterwards, thinking about the whole scenario. The site thanked him for the submission, and told him he’d hear in a few days if it was accepted. It wouldn’t be, he was certain, but it was fun to imagine. Then, three days later, Mason didn’t show up to class–he was a complete no-show. This was strange–because attendance was the one thing every football player knew they couldn’t mess up. He might be late every day, but he always made an appearance, because not even the friendly dean could change attendance records. Hargrove went home and found a message from the site telling him his request had been accepted, and that the video would be released in a day or two. He couldn’t believe it–and when Mason was missing the next two days as well…he started to feel a bit uneasy. Then, that weekend, the video came out, and it was everything Hargrove had asked for.

Mason was dragged into a room full of older men on a leash, dripping with sweat, sobbing. The older men all examined him, toyed with him, and then raped him for close to an hour, before he was finally sold off to the highest bidder. Had it actually happened? It had to be fake…but then where had Mason gone? He asked around campus the following Monday, but he’d disappeared entirely, and no one knew where. It was a dream come true, until Hargrove got a new message from What Comes Around Media.

“By granting your request, as stated in our video creator agreement, you are now obligated to participate in videos yourself. Compliance is required–you may try to resist, but subliminal commands will ensure your compliance, so simply try to enjoy yourself. We will deliver any required equipment to your mailing address. Thank you for choosing to become a part of What Comes Around Media!”

Hargrove thought it had to be a joke, at least until the dildo arrived on his doorstep the next day. It was massive–easily as large as a fist–and he found himself compelled to bring it inside, sat down at the computer, and found an email had been sent with his first request to fulfill. He was to spend at least ten minutes licking and sucking on the dildo, making himself gag on it repeatedly, before fucking himself on it as painfully as possible, and riding it until his legs give out and he collapses down onto the entire length, cumming spontaneously as he does.

He wasn’t going to do that! That was insane. But he began stripping off his clothes, turned on his webcam, and started sucking on the dildo with great enthusiasm, being sure to make himself gag loudly.

With his lack of exercise, his legs gave out after half an hour, and he had to lie on the ground, sobbing in pain for a while before he could haul the massive cock free from his ass and stand up again–when he heard the doorbell. Still naked, he opened the door and found two muscular young men on the doorstep. “Ready to shoot I see,” one of them said, and stepped past him–he spent the rest of the night worshiping their young bodies while they humiliated him over and over again. He hadn’t thought of the possibility that what went around, might come back to him as a nine inch jock cock, just like Mason’s, planted deep in his ass while he begged for more, and more, and more until the early hours of the morning–but you can’t always plan for how revenge will turn out in the end, can you?

The Contractor’s Boy (Part 8)

Roger arrived back at the house and let himself in, pleased to hear the sounds of fucking coming from the den. He dropped the paint by the door and headed in that direction, where he found Gary bent over on the floor, Shane behind him slamming his cock into his father’s hole, growling as he did–at least until he looked up, saw Roger, and realized what, exactly he was doing. “No–No no no…” he said, pulled his cock out and backed away a few steps.

Gary, confused as to why he wasn’t getting fucked anymore, looked behind him and saw Shane had retreated. “What’s wrong fucker? This faggot hole ain’t gonna fuck itself! I though you were gonna show me what a real man fucks like?” He shook his ass, and Shane stared at it, rapt, but tore his eyes away and glared at Roger.

“You fucking did this, sir, you set this up!” he shouted.

Roger shrugged, “I suppose your father here wasn’t very interested in escaping, eh boy? Did that surprise you?”

“The fucker–all he fucking wants is a to sit around, drink and smoke, and get fucked!” Shane shouted, “He fucking wants this, and this is all your fucking fault!” Shane said, stalking towards him. “We were happy! All of us, and you just fucked everything up. Why couldn’t you have just left us all alone!”

Roger leaned on the doorway, and looked from Shane to Gary. “You want me to leave the two of you alone? I could do that, you know. I’ve been alone a long time, and I don’t want to spend years of my life with someone who doesn’t want to be with me. If you want to be here, with him, I can arrange that. I just…well, you didn’t strike me as someone who’d want to live life as a faggot pig,” he walked towards Gary, “What did my boy think of you, Gary? Do you think he likes you?”

“No sir,” Gary said, face to the carpet, “He thinks I’m disgusting sir. He said so himself. He thinks I’m wasting my life. I got him so angry, he was gonna fuck me real rough like before you came back.”

“That’s not–I didn’t mean that,” Shane said.

“You didn’t?” Roger asked, looking back at him, “So you’d be ok if I made you a faggot pig like your old man here? Just think, the two of you lounging around together all day, doing nothing, men coming over at all hours to fuck your holes, feed you piss–feed you shit, even, if you beg hard enough. A nice family of faggots–like father like son. Sounds hot to me boy–get out of those coveralls and boots. We can find some nasty underwear of your dad’s to wear, I bet.”

Shane started stripping, but as he did, he found himself gripped with fear and loathing. No–he didn’t want to be like him, he wanted to be free of this, didn’t he? “That’s not–I don’t want to be like him sir! I’m not like him!” Shane shouted, but his hands were stripping off his clothes already. He hadn’t been naked in ages, and the thought of it was…unsettling to him.

“I thought you wanted to be with your father, boy.”

“Not like this! I hate this, I fucking hate him!”

“Well boy,” Roger said, walking over, “You only have two choices here, so let me spell them out for you. You strip off that gear of mine and join your father as a total faggot, just as disgusting and appalling and shameless as he is, or you stay with me, and be my boy. My boy for real–you fuck that faggot’s hole, and you cum in deep, and you ain’t gonna remember that old life of yours anymore. You’re gonna be my boy for good–forever. But put on that underwear, and you ain’t never gonna forget what you were. You won’t be able to stop being a faggot, of course, but you’re gonna know boy. But it’s your choice. What’s it gonna be?”

Shane was naked now. He knew there were other options, but what? If he stayed with his dad, there was hope–a thin sliver. He might be able to tell someone. He’d at least know–but did he really want to know? Did he want to live like this? He imagined himself there on the ground beside his father, that hungry look in his eye. “Please, I can’t…”

“I’ll tell you something else, boy–right now? Your father knows too.”

Shane felt his stomach twist.

“He knows who he was. If you fuck him, though, he’ll forget. It’s torture for him, you know. He hates himself. He just wants to be free. You can give that to him, to you both, if you just fuck him.”

It could be a lie, he knew that. He couldn’t very well ask his dad and know for sure. It didn’t change anything, really. He couldn’t imagine being trapped like this–knowing what his life had been, and forced to humiliate himself day in and day out. He walked over, drooled some spit onto his cock, and shoved it back into Gary’s hole. “I’m sorry dad, I’m so fucking sorry…” he muttered.

“Don’t be sorry, you hot fucker! It’s what we both fucking want. Now breed my piggy hole, like a proper fucking man!”

“Yeah–fuck that pig rough. Be selfish. I want a selfish boy,” Roger said, “A boy who only cares about his pleasure, and mine too, of course. Who takes what he wants, and doesn’t bother asking. Who’s greedy, and nasty, and rude. Come on boy, smack that pig around, show him who’s boss around here!”

Shane smacked his father’s ass, and felt a jolt of pleasure. He was close–so fucking close. Could he do this? Was he really going to give into this? He tried to hold back, but Roger urged him over the edge, and…and why fight it? It felt fucking good, didn’t it? Yeah–raping a pig’s hole always felt fucking good though–not that you could really rape a pig like this. They would take a fuck any day, and anywhere–fucking disgusting, but what did he care? Still, he took his own pleasure after, eating his own cum back out from the pig’s hole–he did love a filthy ass, after all, and he was pretty sure this pig hadn’t wiped up in days.

“Boy, you can eat hole later–we gotta finish painting.”

Reluctantly, he pulled free, licking his lips. “Yes sir, sorry–just hungry is all.”

“You’re always hungry boy!” Roger said, but hauled him up and kissed him, “That’s just how I fucking want you though.”

Shane laughed, “Yes sir! I’m your greedy fucking pigboy sir!” he laughed, and lit a cigar. He felt…good for the first time in a long time. He felt like himself. He felt happy, and free, and as always, it was all thanks to Sir.

The Contractor’s Boy (Part 7)

The next few days, while they were alone in the house together, Shane realized that he was zoning out more than he had in quite a while. In fact, over the past month, he’d been surprisingly lucid and aware of himself–and of what Roger was doing and saying at any given moment, but this reminded him of when he’d just arrived home from college. Roger was changing things again, planting ideas and directions in his head, but he had no idea what they might be. College–that was something he hadn’t thought about. The trees were starting to change color, and he should have been back on campus weeks ago–but that wasn’t his life, not anymore, and he was starting to doubt it ever would be again.

After all, even if he could figure out what Roger was doing to him and his father, what then? It felt like his imagination had shrunk–the idea of ever being without Roger, without being his boy, it seemed so far-fetched as to be impossible. Still, it was his father he felt the most sympathy for, more than himself. Watching him everyday, in the same ill-fitting suits, leaving the house for work with a belch, half drunk from the beers Roger made him drink each morning–there was no sign at all that he could even tell something was wrong with all of this. But worse–he seemed so happy now. Before, he’d always seemed so stressed, and angry. It had been hard at times, especially for his mom, but this wasn’t better.

Then, on a Wednesday, Shane was painting when he heard the front door open, and his father came in. At first, he thought he must have zoned out longer than he’d thought, but it really was only shortly after noon–far too early for him to be home already. He came in and found Roger, a big grin plastered on his bearded face, and announced, “Fuck feels good–finally got my ass fired today! Don’t have to wear this fuckin’ shit anymore, don’t have to go to fuckin’ work, fuck!”

He started ripping off his clothes while Roger congratulated him, but Shane could only see the glee on his father’s face–and in that moment, something shifted in him. He knew, as his son, he should feel sympathy for him, that his father had loved his job–but instead, what welled up was contempt. He was so fucking happy about not having to work anymore, but here Shane was, working up a sweat every fucking day. He was too stupid to even realize he was being controlled by Roger! He pushed the feelings aside, but by the time they left, his dad was planted in a recliner, naked aside from some nasty looking underwear, smoking and drinking…and Roger winked at him as they stepped out the door, but didn’t broach the subject.

From that day on, his father was always home while they were working, but he didn’t seem particularly interested in Roger and Shane–that is, unless they were having sex. Then, it seemed like he was always there, watching, staring at Shane in particular with a look of desire in his eye that made Shane…hate him. Didn’t he realize it was his own son he was lusting after? Why couldn’t he fight it? Why couldn’t he at least try and help? Did he want this? Had he been wrong about him all of this time? That weekend, the first of many visitors appeared at the house, other men arriving to see his father, “friends” of his that Shane had never seen before in his life, and his father had sex with all of them, begging the fat, dirty fucks who came by to fuck his drunk ass. Worse, listening to his father beg for cock would make Shane incredibly horny–and Roger, seeing his boy with a hardon, would of course encourage Shane to take a break, and go watch his father get fucked while he jacked off. Shane didn’t know if he obeyed because he had to, or because he wanted to. Still, he held out hope all the same–and then, he was given an opportunity so golden he couldn’t resist it.

One afternoon, they ran out of paint. When they needed supplies, Roger almost always made Shane go with him to the hardware store, but today, he wanted Shane to keep working while he ran over there quickly–alone. That meant, for close to an hour, he’d be alone with his father in the house–if ever there was a chance to escape, this would be it. He watched Roger go, and as soon as he’d heard the truck drive off, he ran for where his father was in his recliner, drunk. “Gary! Gary, come on, we have to go,” Shane said, “Roger’s gone for a while, and this is the only chance we’re going to get.”

His father just looked up at him in the recliner, and nodded. He stood up, groping himself, and leered at Shane. “Yeah boy, let’s go to the bedroom–I was worried you were just a bottom for him, but looks like you can’t resist this ass of mine either.”

“No, don’t you get it? We can fucking escape!” Shane shouted, shaking his father by the shoulders, “Don’t you fucking remember fucking anything?”

His dad didn’t pay any attention–he just dropped to his knees and dug Shane’s cock out through the hole Roger had cut in his coveralls for easier access. “Yeah boy, let me see that fuckstick of yours–fuck, hard already! You really do want it bad.”

He backed up, and slapped his father across the face, “You fucking idiot, you have to fucking wake the fuck up!”

His father just groaned, “Fuck–god, ya really know how tah treat a faggot properly, boy,” his dad said, hauling his cock out of his underwear, “I love the rough ones.”

“You’re disgusting,” Shane said.

“Fuck–you fucking know it, just a disgusting faggot–that’s all I wanna fucking be. So fucking use me! Beat me, I don’t give a damn. Just make sure ya fuck me with that big cock boy, because that’s what makes this faggot pig real fuckin’ happy.”

Gary crawled forward on his knees and licked at the head of Shane’s cock, making him shiver. He should run. Just forget him, and save himself. But that wasn’t what he really wanted, was it? It wasn’t what either of them really wanted. Instead, he shoved his cock down his father’s throat, listening to him choke, and slapped him again. “Be careful what you ask for, faggot,” he growled.

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