Taming the Beast (Part 2)

Mark stared at him over the edge of the tablet for a moment, made a note, and then moved onto someone else, with some other unique trauma that Jacob couldn’t care less about. He was hungry, and group therapy was always right before dinner. He had such an appetite now–Baccanal had fed him well, and the extra fifty pounds on his frame showed. He wanted to lose it…but the hunger was worse now. Better than it had been, those first days, but would he ever feel normal again? He hoped so–or maybe he just couldn’t really remember what normal felt like anymore.

“So no more dreams?” Mark asked. He and Jacob were alone in his office, for some one-on-one therapy. The tone of his voice was neutral, but it was clear that he was skeptical.

“I wasn’t lying at group yesterday, no.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“Good. I mean, shouldn’t I feel good? Those dreams…they were disturbing. I’m glad I’m not having them, at least. I feel like I’m getting better.”

The dreams Jacob had been having, ever since he’d regained control over the beast, usually precipitated one of his…slippages. He would wake up, howling and barking, nails like claws, fur all over his body, two minds panicking at the same time, and he would have to fight to put the beast back where it belonged, deep in his mind, where it was supposed to be–where it had always been, at least. But he hadn’t been dreaming, and he hadn’t had a single slip in a week. How could that not be good?

Still, it was clear from the look on his therapist’s face that he was missing something. It made him feel…crazy, when he did that, keeping cards close to his chest. He could handle the truth–he didn’t need to be coddled like some drooling, drugged out problem. Like the rest of them.

“You don’t seem…convinced.”

“I honestly hope you’re lying to me Jacob, because if you aren’t, I’m afraid things are getting worse.” Mark said, and set down the tablet. “You have to be honest in these sessions. I can’t help you regain control of your powers if you don’t trust me.”

“I…I am in control of my powers.”

Mark sat back, said nothing, but the stony look didn’t change on his face.

“Is…there’s something you’re not telling me? What am I missing?”

Mark sighed, toyed with his tablet a moment, and then the screen on the wall lit up, showing a video feed from surveillance footage–footage of Jacob’s room.

“You…you were recording me?”

“We record everyone. It’s for your own safety, and all the files are encrypted and destroyed after your discharge. It’s all in the privacy policy included in your admission packet.”

The admission packet was an entire three inch binder, and Jacob hadn’t exactly been given time to pour over it, before being committed to the center. Mark ran the tape forward a bit, and Jacob watched himself get ready for bed, and then climb in. Nothing happened for a moment, as two hours slipped by. “Was this…when was this?”

“Three nights ago, though there were similar…events during the night’s since, as well.”

“Events?”

“You’ll see.”

It was shortly after one in the morning that it started. In the video, Jacob say himself begin to turn, and then thrash. He was breathing heavily, then panting, then growling, from the look of his mouth, though the video was silent. He started to change, then–fur growing in all over his body, a short snout pushing out his mouth and nose…then his eyes opened, he sniffed the air, and looked around. The beast paced the room for close to half an hour, watching out the window for guards, testing the window and the grates…obviously planning on some sort of escape plan…and Jacob had absolutely no memory of this ever happening. But he couldn’t say that. He couldn’t tell the doctor that.

“I…I was lying before. I did…I did have, some dreams, I…” Jacob didn’t know why he was so terrified. He felt like he’d been…caught, but he hadn’t done anything. It wasn’t his fault.

“Actually, Jacob, I believed you the first time,” Mark said. “I don’t think you had any dreams. I think the beast persona inside of you has been testing ways of gaining control over you, and it has…succeeded, for moments, while you sleep. It doesn’t seem to last too long, no more than a half an hour or so at a time…but my worry is that it will get better, and it will seriously injure someone, trying to escape. I’m afraid that, for the time being, we are going to have to move you to a secure cell, until we get a better understanding of what, exactly, is happening with your power.”

Jacob was still watching the screen, unable to believe he was looking at himself–at something…using his body like that. He started to shake. It was a…thing that kept happening, ever since he’d gotten free, this anxiety. He’d lost a year of his life, a whole year to that fucker and the animal inside of him, and now he was going to lose, what, years to this place? Was he going to be like Richie, still here in five years, just an animal locked in a cell? He didn’t remember starting to scream, just when the guards came in, tranquilized him, and dragged him out of the office, to his new cell. Mark just sat behind the desk, watching, trying not to give away the sizable erection the entire scene had given him, and he played back the video feed, pulling his cock free, and stroking it slowly, watching that beast pace back and forth, looking for a way out of this cage.

Well Mark had broken bigger monsters than this in his tenure here. He’d break this one too–and he already had a thought of how he was going to do it. He’d give Jacob some time to adjust to this new revelation, settle on a new drug cocktail, and then the real tests would begin.

Curse of the Homophobe (Part 4)

So somehow the two polls ended up being mirror images of one another, which seems incredibly unlikely, but hey, here we are. Some of you voting in the Patron only poll are either splitting your vote, or else need to discover Twitter! In any case, the winner (by one vote) was wanting to see Evan spend the rest of the weekend corrupting Robbie even further, with a 60% chance this branch of the story ends here, and we head back to the beginning for another round.

Also: WARNING: Scat

It was early in the afternoon on Saturday when Evan managed to pull himself out of slumber, blinking his bleary, hungover eyes at the grungy ceiling above him. He only dimly recalled the night before–and he felt the familiar curdle of shame in his gut that he always felt after giving into his worst impulses and messing around with a faggot or a pig. He…shouldn’t want to do that–he was a real man, and real men like him should only want bitches, but damn, something about watching a man lust after him and his filthy body got him so riled up, he couldn’t resist it. After all, he wasn’t really one to resist his natural impulses very often.

He sat up, dug around in the bag of chaw sitting on the table by his filthy bed, and pulled out three pinches, packing them in his lower lip, feeling the first buzz of nicotine start to push back against the haze of beer from the night before. He got up and went stumbled into the bathroom, planning on pissing, but didn’t make it to the toilet before seeing himself in the mirror and giving a start. He…didn’t quite recognize himself in the filthy glass…but how else was he supposed to look?

He was huge–six and a half feet tall, body full of muscle, hair all over. He hadn’t cut his hair or his beard in–hell, even he had lost track at this point, and they were both shot through with the first streaks of grey. His beard was so thick, he could barely see the bulge of his cheek from the chaw–and he took a second to spit in the sink–though some of it hit his beard like usual, not that he cared. He was naked, nine inch cock hanging between his legs, thick calloused hands running their way over his greasy, dusty body…and he could almost remember something else. Being young, a curse, a…task.

The pig–had he left?

He turned around, and there he was, on the couch, snoring away. Evan felt a flash of anger, seeing the animal on the furniture, and he stomped over, grabbed him by the leg and dragged him off and onto the floor, amid the unwashed laundry and trash littering Evan’s little trailer. “Pig, I thought I told ya last night animals sleep on the goddamn floor!”

The pig started to say something, but Evan just smashed one of his massive, size eighteen feet into his face, pinning him to the floor, watching the pig’s pathetic three inch cock immediately come to attention. He…he knew he had to stop this. That he had to…remember, and go back…but he didn’t want to. He had all weekend with this pig, after all…and it was clear it was going to need quite a bit more training. Foot still smashed into his face, Evan pointed his dick at him and blasted him with a load of piss, soaking down the pig, and his foot, and the clothes around them, not that he cared. If anything…he kind of enjoyed the smell. He made the pig lick, it up, and then made him clean the toilet as punishment–with his tongue, of course. He whined about it, begged Evan to let him go home, but a good asskicking reminded him of his proper place.

By that evening, Evan had decided to skip it–why the hell would he need a clean toilet, when he could just make the pig be his toilet? Sure, the pig was willing to drink piss, but it balked at having to eat Evan’s shit–so he force fed the fucker, and when he puked it back up, Evan made him eat that too, until it was all gone, until the pig realized how good he was being to it. Until he realized that he wasn’t a man anymore, or a person, or much of anything at all. Faggots like him didn’t amount to shit–no, they just consumed it. Hungered for it, ached for filth. Knew that it was all they deserved from the world, because filth was all they were–and Evan grew filthier too.

He didn’t work on construction anymore–he was too dirty even for that. No, Evan worked out on a pig farm, where it didn’t matter how bad you smelled, the manure almost always stank worse. The pig didn’t make the mistake of trying to get on the furniture Saturday night–it just curled up in a pile of its master’s filthy, manure stinking laundry and went to sleep, dreaming of more filth, the curse scrubbing its mind of anything else–and scrubbing at Evan’s mind as well, sanding off the edges, wondering if it should just abandon him here with the pigs he hated so much.

Sunday, Evan spent on the couch, watching porn–straight porn, of course. Evan told himself he preferred women, even though he hadn’t been with a woman in years at this point. He hadn’t managed to find one who would put up with his stink for more than an hour to even consider sleeping with him, and he didn’t have the cash for a prostitute. No–all he had was his pig…right? As he lounged about, he could feel the flicker of something else around the edges of his mind, trying to connect to the world around it, trying to find something to anchor itself on, if anything even remained for it to cling to. [[Dice roll…drum roll…success!]] In the end, it found something, and Evan–the real Evan, crawled his way back to the fore.

He was horrified, wasn’t he? Then why wasn’t he…reacting? He could hear the spirit rattling about in his mind, laughing at him, laughing at how far he’d let himself fall…and he knew he had to escape…right? Then again, this wasn’t so bad, was it? He looked down at his pig, and then thought about his boss on the farm, and what a mean fucker he was. He’d always talked down about faggots, called them lower than shit…the curse was still hungry, and it could offer him a sort of life here…should he give in and take it?

Here’s your choices! Choice #1 is a guaranteed ending, so be mindful if you choose that one. Otherwise, the curse has a few possible ideas for what might become of Evan, as his old life twists to accommodate some of his new experiences.

He gives in, and uses the last bit of will to corrupt his homophobic boss on the farm (guaranteed ending).
He changes back, but now he has a redneck past, and lives in the trailer park.
He changes back, but now he is a grungy dirty jock, though much of his life is similar.
He changes back, but finds himself as a young apprentice on the construction crew.

Here’s the twitter poll

Here’s the patron only poll

Voting ends on Saturday afternoon!

Taming the Beast (Part 1)

“I feel…a little better today, I guess. The…the compulsions are still there, but I know they’re compulsions, even if I can’t…always stop myself. It’s like my head is stuck on a track, and there’s…there’s no way off the track. I keep looking for a switch, someway to move past it, past what he told me to do that night…what I couldn’t do that night. I know that if I just…did it, I’d be free–”

“Richie, you know you shouldn’t think that.”

“I know, I know. I…I don’t…I don’t need more drugs, or a higher dosage! I…I won’t. It was just an admission of fact right? If I killed him. If I found him, and like…strangled him, or shot him, or ran him over with a car. If I just…thought he was dead. Maybe if someone told me he was, and really…really convinced me. Like showed me a finger! I could fingerprint it, and–”

“Richie, I think that’s plenty of sharing for this session. Why don’t you go to the nurse’s station,” the therapist said, tapping on the tablet beside him, while Richie stood up, wringing his hands, and went down the hall to take more pills.

Group. Jacob hated group–it was the worst part of the week, always. Still, Mark, his therapist, insisted on it. It helped, he said, to share your experiences with others. It helped you feel less alone, but Jacob always felt…alone here. He wasn’t like the other people here, in the circle–well, he was, in one very important way. But in every other important respect? He was very, very different.

How were they all the same? All of them had been, at one point or another, mentally manipulated or physically controlled by a Super, by a person with extraordinary powers. Well, more than that. The control had been so extensive, or so damaging, that they were all considered a potential danger to society at large. And so, until they were better, or fixed, they were locked up here. Richie there had been a cop. He’d had a run in with a Super connected to the mob, who had “convinced” him that he had to murder an important witness to a crime. He’d failed–and that had been five years ago. He couldn’t drop it. If he was out on the street today, he’d hunt them down just like before. None of them were responsible for these things of course–Mark always told Jacob that–but it was hard to believe you weren’t culpable in the failure of your own mind, especially when no one was about to let him leave any time soon.

“How about you, Jacob?” Mark asked, looking at him over the tablet, “We had an interesting conversation about your dreams in our last session, perhaps someone else is experiencing something similar.”

“I…I haven’t had any I’ve remembered lately,” Jacob said, trying not to show the frustration with being singled out to perform healing for people he couldn’t care less about. He didn’t see the point. Nothing he said was going to help these people–and nothing going on in their addled minds was going to help him either? Why pretend? And so, he refused–it was the one bit of control he still had. To just disengage. Jacob had only been here for a couple of weeks–this was only his fourth group session, but he refused to share anything. He wasn’t like the rest of them. How could they understand what he’d been through? Besides, he was in control, wasn’t he? The beast hadn’t broken out in days. He felt sane, though he wouldn’t for long, listening to any more of this.

Jacob, you see, wasn’t like the others in one very important respect–he was, himself, a Super. A Super who had, in turn, been controlled by another Super, and made to…well, lose control of something Jacob had never actually known that he possessed. Jacob had always known he was different. Faster, stronger, fiercer than other kids his age, bigger too, and always a certain hunger he could never really explain. He supposed, had things gone differently for him, he could have easily become a villain, of a sort. A bully, more likely. But that hunger had manifested as a desire to correct injustice, and so he’d registered and taken to patrolling the streets…but he hadn’t been at it for a few months before he wandered into a place he should have been more careful around–a bar run by another Super named Baccanal, an enchanter, of sorts.

One sip of his wine, and Jacob had been willing to do anything for the owner of the bar–and the more he drank, the more dedicated to him he became…but also, the more control he found himself losing. Control over something he’d never even known was inside him–a beast. Claws, teeth, fur–he didn’t recognize himself, soon enough, and Baccanal was thrilled at his newest acquisition, particularly when he discovered that the beast inside Jacob could morph into whatever animalistic form its new Master desired to see.

Jacob…didn’t recall much from the next year or so, of being pressed into Baccanal’s service. What he did remember…made him shiver with rage and humiliation. Becoming a satyr, waiting on tables in the bar, telling jokes and humiliating himself, usually. When Baccanal had a few special patrons come through, he would take on other forms, and service them as whatever mythical stud they desired–a minotaur, a centaur, more freakish forms he was glad the couldn’t fully recall. At long last, Baccanal had slipped up and gotten caught. Free of his enchanted wine, Jacob had managed to take control again…mostly. Due to the occasional slippage he’d experienced, and the fact that all Supers who were controlled had to undergo mandatory treatment, he’d ended up here, with these freaks, just waiting until he got the green light, and was released again. He hated being caged more than anything–and the beast in him was none to happy about the situation either.

VIP Cam Show (Sketch)

WARNING: This one is…weird. Male Pregnancy, dog TF.

“I don’t know, Anthony,” Hugo said, “I still…I mean, the money is good, but doesn’t it make you feel kinda shitty?”

“Just pretend the camera isn’t there. You’re doing great–and we pull in way more cash together than I ever did alone,” Anthony said and came up behind him, pulling him into a hug, “Besides, this new site is a fucking goldmine from what I’ve heard. Invitation only, and they requested us both. We get 5000 up front just for doing a show–not counting what we get in tips.”

Anthony and Hugo had been dating for around six months, after they’d met at the gym one morning–glancing at each other across the gym floor, then in the shower, and finally in the sauna. Things had been going well, but a month into the relationship, Anthony fessed up that he made most of his money working as a cam model, filming videos of himself and putting them online, taking requests from followers, and…other things. It didn’t bother Hugo at first–at least until Anthony started pressuring him to participate with him. Hugo had been game to give it a try, and the chunk of cash he made off it was…more than he usually made at his usual job, but it was hard to shake the feeling of humiliation that washed over him each time he did it. Still…money was money, at the end of the day.

Anthony got the cam set up and logged into the site, called VIP Cam Show. After a couple of moments, the screen changed, displayed a message saying, “bidding begins in one minute. Open requests.”

“What does that mean?”

“The guys watching can see us, and are bidding right now on what they want us to do.”

“Do…we have to do it?”

“Of course not–they can’t make us, after all.”

The timer ran down and struck zero, the message changed and read, “Bid accepted! Processing scenario, please wait….”

Both Anthony and Hugo felt a jolt run through them, and without being able to help themselves, they both fell to their hands and knees. “What–what the fuck, Hu–Huwwooof!” Anthony tried to say, but his words weren’t coming out as words, but as barks and woofs. Hugo tried to respond, but he was suffering the same problem. As they looked at each other, clothes and gear began to appear on their bodies–leather hoods, fist mitts, rubber chaps and heavy chain collars. They heard a ding, and unable to control themselves, they began to kiss each other, fighting against the compulsion, but unable to resist.

Both of them were still changing though–they could feel a stirring in their groins, but both of them were feeling something…very different. Hugo could feel his cock and balls aching, like some invisible force was cramming them against his body and shoving them inside him. Anthony, on the other hand, felt a heat stirring in his cock and balls–that, and a desperate, aching need to fuck. He went around behind Hugo and sniffed at his ass–and smelled something…amazing. He mounted him, and after a couple of thrusts found a hole…but it didn’t quite feel like Hugo’s ass usually felt. Still, it didn’t matter–he had to fuck. He kept hammering into Hugo’s hole until he came deep inside him–only for his cock to swell, and he found himself locked to him, unable to pull his cock free, leaving him whining and whimpering for several minutes, before he could finally pry himself free.

It felt like a dream. The gear disappeared, both of them felt their ability to stand and speak returning–and without the hoods obstructing their vision–they could finally see what had happened to their groins. Where Anthony’s cock had been, he now had a bright red dog’s cock sliding back into a sheath running up his belly–and Hugo didn’t have a cock anymore. He had a full fledged pussy…and Anthony could still smell it…and he wanted to fuck it all over again.

“Why…why the fuck haven’t we changed back?” Hugo stammered, running his hands over his groin–and also noticing that he seemed to have several extra sets of nipples–and that all of them were starting to swell. He went to the computer and tried to click around–and saw that the session countdown timer had to be wrong. It was reading 90 days–three months long, and the payout had risen to several million dollars–dependent on successful delivery.

“D-Delivery?” He said, and looked down at his belly, and then back at Anthony, who was stroking his dog cock, and coming closer, unable to resist the scent of Hugo’s new pussy, and he fucked him again. At least he got to end up on top, he supposed–and since Hugo didn’t work, he was free to stay at home and let their…puppies grow. He suppressed a shiver, wondering what, exactly, would pop out of Hugo’s body in a few months…but if they wanted that money, they were going to have to find out.

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.