The Kingston County Line (Part 2)

Yesterday went to hell, so here’s a double length post to make up for it!

He knew the answer to his own question as he looked them up and down–these guys were doing whatever the hell they wanted to do. All three of them were probably in their midthirties, more in shape than out, and wide, square shoulders, and none shorter than six foot three. What in the hell was he doing even asking guys like this a question like that? The one the attendant had called Butch, the biggest, and meanest looking of the three, his body so thickly coated with tattoos even his face had thick blocks and swirls of black on his cheeks and forehead, pulled a dark leaf, near black cigar from the pocket of his worn leather vest, a lighter from the other, and took a moment to light it, puffing it to life with an odd gentleness. How long since he’d seen someone smoke indoors in a place like this? Decades? It was such a strange sight, that it was almost comical to him, and the joker in him blurted out, “I don’t think you can smoke in here,” and immediately regretted it.

“Definitely new around here,” Butch mumbled with a chuckle, and then stared Howard down, “I think you’ll figure out soon enough that, here in Kingsford, we can smoke wherever the fuck we want to, bitch.”

Howard tried to retort, but his throat was frozen shut, his eyes unable to look away from Butch’s. He heard Doug let out a despairing moan, “Aww come on! You know he should be mine! Let me have him, ya’ll don’t have to be so damn greedy! Besides, I know you came in here for my fat ass, Butch, don’t tell me you aren’t gonna give me a good reaming now just cause someone new came in the door!”

“Slim, smack Dougy for me,” Butch said without breaking eye contact, and one of the bikers–neither of which was at all slim, turned and slapped the attendant hard across the face, dark chewing tobacco spittle flying from his mouth. “Thanks, Slim.”

“Sure thing boss.”

“Dougy, you can watch if you fuckin’ want, I guess, but I sure as hell don’t want your ass now, none of us want your nasty, loose hole, you’re just fuckin’ easy, and you know it. No, not when we have someone new inside the county line,” Butch stepped closer, puffing on his cigar, until he was toe to toe with Howard, and then took the cigar from his mouth, leaned down until he less than an inch from his face, and exhaled a thick plume of dark grey smoke right at him.

He didn’t want to breathe in, but the sudden surprise made him jolt and inhale anyway, pulling the rank smoke into his lungs…but more than that. He felt the soot stick to his face, to his eyes, cloud up his mind. He swayed on his feet, as Butch took a second deep drag off his cigar, and again leaned in, but this time he was ready–Howard…opened his mouth, allowing Butch to lock their mouths together, feeding him the smoke directly into his lungs, the two of them sharing smoke even as Butch ran his knife down his bare arms, making Howard shiver, before using it to cut the buttons from his shirt, one by one until it opened up, revealing his hairy belly beneath. At this point, Howard wasn’t thinking anything at all, his eyes blank and staring into the middle distance, jaw slack, but more than happy to take another load of smoke when Butch fed it to him, while he undid the fly of Howard’s jeans and pushed them down, helping him shrug off his now buttonless shirt, the father now naked aside from the tennis shoes. His cock was rigid, but Butch had no interest in that–he spun him around, bent him over at the waist, and got down on his knees, taking another drag off his cigar, this time spreading apart Howard’s ass, and pushing the hot, acrid smoke right into his ass.

The effect was immediate–his hole loosening, but more than that–a strange, desperation pushed it’s way into his hazy mind. Though Howard had never once in his life entertained being with another man, suddenly, the only thing he needed, more than anything else, was a cock buried deep in his ass. Howard kept feeding him smoke, four or five more loads, and each time he didn’t believe the desperation could grow, but it did all the same. By the third lungful of smoke, he heard himself begging, almost outside of his body, pleading with the bikers to fuck him, to rape him, all of them, that he needed their cum, he needed their smoke, he needed them all inside him, all at once, if possible. When he needed a fuck so bad he was nearly sobbing, Butch finally decided he was ready, lined up his thick, nine inch cock, and slipped it inside Howard’s now welcoming ass, teasing him, holding his hips tight in his gloved hands to keep the older man from impaling himself on it, making him quiver and beg for every inch, until Butch was nestled in deep.

“First of many, bitch, first of so fucking many, don’t you worry,” Butch said to the quivering man, “Now, tell me, how much do you want my brothers’ cocks shoved down that hungry throat of yours? How bad do you need them to rape your throat rough and hard?”

“So…so badly, more than I’ve needed anything, other than how much I need you inside me right…right now.”

“That’s good–because their cocks deserved to be worshiped, don’t they? Look at them, think about me. We’re the only kind of men you desire. Rough, violent, willing and happy to treat a desperate pigwhore like you how you deserve to be treated. The only people who can give you, what you know, in your heart, you need, and deserve. Men like us, we deserve to be worshiped, deserve your service, isn’t that right?”

“Yes…yes sir, fuck, they’re so…you’re all the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen, please, please let me serve you, please give me your cocks, I need them, I want…I want to give you pleasure, do whatever you want to me, use me however you want, just…just please…please.”

Slim and Leon, the third biker, were more than happy to give the pig what he was asking for. Both of them released their own cocks from their greasy jeans–Leon’s was a more modest five, but heavily pierced, with a thick gauge PA and a jacobs ladder, while Slim’s was ten inches and again, hardly slim, with a meaty foreskin. Howard didn’t know where to start–he hopped from each cock, back and forth with Butch started fucking him, drawing his cock all the way out before slamming back inside him with enough force to impale his face on whatever cock had his attention at the moment. And inside his head, Howard scrambled for any kind of foothold he could find. What was he doing? These…these men were raping him, and he was just going to let it happen? No, he wasn;t just letting it happen, he wanted it to happen. He wanted them to be even rougher, he wanted it, he needed it. How could he have not known this about himself? How was he just discovering this part of him? It felt…it felt like that smoke–it had been more than smoke. It had planted something inside of him, something that was growing…or festering. Butch came inside him, and he felt that…thing, it latched onto him, wrapping itself deeper into him, watered with the cum filling his bowels. Butch pulled out, motioned to Slim, and the massive man took his place, burying his even larger cock in to the hilt.

Butch had been gentle, compared to Slim. Even as loose and pliable as he’d become, he still groaned and moaned in pain, even as he tried to focus on worshiping the cocks in front of him, cleaning his own filth from Butch’s tool, tasting his own humiliation. It was then that he realized that his own cock had been wrapped around his own cock this whole time, and he’d already cum once–he hadn’t noticed because the force and pleasure of his own orgasm hadn’t compared at all to the pleasure of his service at the cocks of these rough, abusive bikers, these gods, as he was coming to see them now. His gods.

“D-Dad? Dad!”

Some small fragment of whatever spell was holding him snapped, and Howard flung his head away from the cocks, and found himself staring at Jeremy, his son, who must have come in to look for him, when he hadn’t returned to fill up the car.

Did I fucking tell you that you could stop?” Butch asked, grabbed Howard by the iar and yanked his face back around, cheeks burning as he continued nursing the head of Butch’s cock, tasting the last bit of cum dribbling from his balls. “Looks like it’s your fucking lucky day Doug, we have a two for one.”

Jeremy pulled his eyes away from the disgusting scene of his father’s willing rape, and looked to where Butch had turned, finding himself staring at the gas station attendant behind the counter. He had hefted his huge gut up onto the glass surface, like a shelf, and squatted down so he could access his puny cock buried there in the folds–it was one of the only ways he could reach it at his size. The young man, however, found his eyes locked to something else–the massive man’s undulating belly, as he jacked his cock. It was…it was huge. Jeremy had never even seen anything like it in his life, and…and suddenly, what he wanted more than anything else, was to just stare at it. Or…or even touch it. It was only after he’d registered that as a thought, that he realized he was walking forward, past the bikers fucking his father at both ends and around behind the counter, where he found himself grabbing onto Doug’s flab, shaking it, watching and feeling it jiggle against him. Doug pulled off his uniform, revealing his monstrous upper body, smooth aside from a moderately thick trail running the impossibly long distance from belly to chest, and he got down, yanked down Jeremy’s shorts before he could do anything about it, and began slathering it from root to tip with his dark spit.

It was like a jolt of caffeine shot directly into his bloodstream. Suddenly, Jeremy was so aware of everything occurring around his cock, that he was completely unaware of anything else. He began thrusting his cock into Doug’s fat mouth–awkwardly, but the fat man knew how to handle strangers fairly well–he’d certainly seen his fair share of them, since this was usually their first stop in Kingsford County, and he took the opportunity to lick his black slobber all over Jeremy’s balls as well, which only intensified his need. When he pulled away, Jeremy didn’t even really notice–he simply kept fucking the air, completely unaware of what was going on around him as Doug dropped his pants to the floor, bent over in front of him, and helped guide the young man’s cock into his hole, where Doug needed it most. All it took was that first deep thrust, and Doug let out a loud, long moan, his balls pumping a huge load of cum across the seat of the chair where he’d been sitting.

“Fuck yeah! That’s what I’m fuckin’ lookin’ for. You love pounding a fucking hole, don’t you boy? Best fuckin’ feeling in the whole goddman world, ain’t it? Go on, show me how much you love it, give it to me like Slim’s giving it to that pig!”

Jeremy shot his first load after about a minute, but Doug coaxed him to keep going, that no young stud like him was satisfied with just one load in a fat hole like his. So Jeremy just kept going, his mind still on a livewire as he fucked, no longer even caring that his father was still getting reamed by the bikers feet away from him. Slim had finally finished, leaving Leon to pick up sloppy third, grumbling about the fact that he had to go last, now that Slim had stretched the hole to “fuckin’ oblivion,” as he said. Butch told him that if he didn’t want it, he could just skip his turn entirely, but Leon still wanted to cum. Jeremy shot again, but still couldn’t bring himself to stop, and was close to his third load when another face came around the corner–a filthy looking chubby hick, smoking a short, thick cigar, who surveyed the scene with mild interest before turning to Doug.

“Ah see yer a bit busy. I’ll git what Ah need ‘n leave cash on the counter?”

“Fuck-Fuckin’ fine, Pa, whatever.”

The man browsed the beer for a bit, settled on a cheap twenty-four pack, left a few bills on the counter and left with the beer under his arm like nothing strange was happening at all. It wasn’t too much longer after that, when Leon finally finished up, and pulled out of Howard’s hole.

“Good job, pig,” Butch said, patting him on the head. Now get down there and clean up that cum of yours you shot everywhere like a good pig, got it? Come on boys, let’s see what we have outside, and then we can round up the rest of the gang for a roadside pickup, eh?”

“Sounds good to me, Butch.”

“Fuck, everyone’s gonna be so fuckin’ happy to have another pig around here.”

Boy’s Daddy [Flash Commission]

Now that, Evan thought, was a boy he would like to get his hands on. Couldn’t be older than 25 at the most, but maybe even a little younger. Dressed like he wanted people to look at him, but hanging on the wall like he didn’t know what to do once he had the gaze. Blonde hair, probably not natural, toned body, and he’d caught the boy looking at Evan more than a few times tonight. He knew how to cruise, if nothing else, so he wasn’t a novice, but he knew how to make you think he might be. Evan’s tastes, on the other hand, were a bit rougher than this boy might be ready for, but that could be fun too. Evan tugged down on his leather vest, straightened his muir cap, and went over to the bar, bought a couple of drinks, and took one over to the boy. He took it and drank it–trusting, which was never a good idea.

They didn’t say much to one another, the boy didn’t seem very interested in what Evan might have to say. Instead, he just pulled ‘Daddy’ (as the boy called him, not even bothering to get Evan’s name into the dark corridors of the bar. Sex wasn’t kosher here, but that had never stopped anyone before. Things got heavier, and the boy was supple, giving into Evan’s dominance, but never breaking. The boy was so damn hot–Evan couldn’t recall the last time he’d been this into anyone, but as horny as he was, his cock was…unresponsive. The best he could manage was a half mast, and the boy’s hole was too tight for him to penetrate. The boy was nice enough about it, but from the smirk on his face, Evan could tell what he had to be thinking. Evan was going to break it off graciously, but instead, the boy shoved him to the wall with surprising force, hauled down Evan’s pants, was the boy’s cock was inside him before Evan even really realized what had happened.

It had been a long time since Evan had been fucked, and it hurt–the boy was too new to know how to break someone in, or too self-centered to care. Evan let him have it though–because it did feel surprisingly good, and the boy blew a load in him quickly, gave Daddy a parting kiss, and then slipped away. It wasn’t until his pants were back up, and he felt something leaking down the inside of his thigh, that Evan realized the boy had fucked him raw–without even asking. It had been hot though, all the same.

The next few days, as Evan went about his normal life, he kept…noticing things. Little details about himself that seemed a bit off. He’d just turned 31, but he’d always been proud of how gracefully he’d been aging–not that he necessarily looked young, but that he looked, well, hot. He looked mature, without looking, well, old. Each time he looked in the mirror though, he kept seeing something off–a few grey hairs in his beard, his hairline receding a couple of centimeters, a little extra paunch around his waist that made his pants feel a bit too tight. On their own, nothing would have caused too much alarm, but all together, it made him feel, well, out of sorts. It didn’t help that his cock still wasn’t performing as well as he was used to. He jacked off a few times, and while he was plenty horny, his cock just never seemed to get quite as still as it used to. The next weekend, he decided to go out again–what he needed was a fresh conquest, something to help him feel alive again. He put on his leathers, and headed for the bar–but he hadn’t gotten his first drink before the boy from before was on him.

He was…flattered, to say the least, and more than happy to have a second chance with the young stud. They had some beers together, and then headed for Evan’s place, where he had decided he was going to give the boy a night he wouldn’t soon forget. But like before, in the bar, all of his plans went sideways. He’d wanted to shackle the boy to the bed, but as soon as the boy saw the setup, he ordered Evan into them instead, face down. He hadn’t wanted to, but the boy could be…convincing. Once tied down, the boy had explored his closet, and Evan soon found out the boy was not the novice he had expected. He whipped him, paddled him, used all manner of toys on his hole before fucking him again, ordering Evan to beg him his boy for his cock, and while it wasn’t the scene he’d imagined, like before, it was…hot as hell. Exhausted, he passed out on the bed, the boy’s load still in his ass, while his boy cooed at him, telling him what a good daddy he was going to be.

When he woke the next morning, he was no longer shackled to the bed, but he found that he was still bound in a set of irons he kept in his toy chest. The chains on the hands and legs were long enough that someone in them could walk, and do most basic tasks, but not long enough to run or escape easily. The boy was sleeping in bed with him, and Evan woke him up, asking the boy to release him. Instead, the boy told him to get started on breakfast for him–he was going to sleep in for another hour or so.

He wanted to insist the boy give him the keys…but he didn’t. Instead, he got out of bed and shuffled into the kitchen, where he started making breakfast for the boy–frustrated, but more horny than anything else. He still hadn’t cum during all that session, and while his cock was stubbornly soft, he was aching with need all the same. The boy wandered in, yawning, as Evan finished up the meal, took a seat at the table, and let Evan serve him. Before Evan could sit to join him, the boy told him to get under the table and take care of his morning wood first. Again, he wanted to resist, but he couldn’t stop himself–he got under the table and sucked the boy off while he ate, swallowing another load from him. After, the boy had him clean off his feet until he finished eating, and when he was done, he got up, and got dressed.

“Boy, aren’t you gonna let me out of this?” Evan asked, but his voice sounded…strange. Raspier, and older–and weaker.

“I’ll be back in a few hours, daddy–your collection is good, but I need some…special stuff from my stash. We have all weekend together–don’t you worry. Clean up the kitchen, have lunch ready for when I get back, and if you finish before that, you can fuck yourself with a dildo for a while, alright?”

After the boy left, it was the first time Evan saw himself in the mirror–and now he knew for certain. The boy’s cum…it was fucking with his body, making him look older–his hairline now receding even more, his beard half grey, and he looked to be in his forties. He wanted to run, or get help, but instead he shuffled in and cleaned up, and fixed lunch, and then fucked himself until his boy got back, and the boy didn’t leave again until Sunday night, when his daddy was finished. He gave him a proper whipping as a send off, the old leather fag begging his boy for more, to hit him harder, until with a series of full body spasms the old fuck came, a measly few drops of cum dribbling from his permanently soft cock, onto the floor of his house. After that, the boy fucked him one final time, and then let his new, wonderfully masochistic daddy down. Evan thanked his boy for allowing him the pleasure of serving him, that he was so lucky to have a boy as strong, and smart, and young, and fit as he was. Then the boy left–and Evan was alone with his aching body, a back full of welts, and no idea of what to do next.

Still, he was retired now. That gave him plenty of time to have young men around. He especially loved inviting over boys, giving them lessons on how to abuse a daddy’s body properly–but he always made time for his boy, when he wasn’t busy. After all, the boy had so many daddies to attend to–he couldn’t get to them all on a regular basis. Evan could be patient though–because a weekend with his boy made the waiting all worthwhile.

The Fetish Gun is Loose! (Part 6) [Interactive]

Well it looks like we have a power struggle! The votes (on both polls!) were tied between Rick and the bouncer, so we’re going to have a little skirmish between the two and see what happens.

The bouncer, named Parker, hadn’t been able to believe what he’d seen happening in the bar over there. Some chubby guy, on the younger side, wearing a diaper, and some older, much filthier old man, also wearing a diaper of his own–though his was much fuller and sagging around his waist–on his hands and knees, sucking the young man off. Parker had no interest in letting play like that happen here in this bar–but as he went over to eject them both, something strange happened. The young man saw him coming, held up a strange looking gun, and before Parker could try and dodge it, it fired a yellow ray of light that engulfed him…and when it faded, he felt…decidedly differently about what he was seeing than he had before.

He walked over, taking the flogger from his belt (a flogger he both knew he always carried with him in the bar for fun like this, but which he also couldn’t ever remember having in his life) and started laying into the old faggot’s back with it, laughing as he moaned and cringed in pain–but he deserved it. Anthony was such a fucking pig slut–Parker had beaten him multiple times before, always with Rick’s blessing of course. Anthony’s son had some…strange tastes in play, but Parker wasn’t going to question it, so long as he got to hurt someone. After beating him for a few minutes, Rick shot Parker again, and a whole new set of ideas filled his head–disgusting, wonderful ideas.

He hauled down Anthony’s full diaper and started fisting the old man’s shitty hole, Parker’s own cock throbbing in the front of his own filthy, leather pants. Part of his was still reeling, however, and he looked at the gun Rick was holding. Everytime he shot him with that thing…something changed. About him, about what he wanted. Rick kept fucking his father’s face while Parker fisted him, leering at him. “Fuck, look at you, you nasty piece of work. Can’t decide if I want to keep you as some fucking bruiser, or turn you into my diaper for a few days–or maybe you’d rather be my dad’s diaper–he could use a new one at this point.”

One thing was for sure, and that was that Parker had no intention of doing what anyone else wanted him to do. He was in charge! He hauled his fist out and lunged for the gun, grabbing hold of the barrel before Rick could fire it at him. They fell to the ground, fighting for it, the dial spinning around in their hands.

((Gun fires randomly! Setting C [objectification]))

Rick thought he had Parker in his sights, but he hadn’t realized the dial had spun to setting C, objectification. He fired a bit wildly, and hit Parker in his biker boot–it glowed for a moment, but did nothing else. Confused, he went to fire it again, but Parker shoved the barrel to the side, and the beam struck Anthony instead. They both watched as he moaned, and shrank in on himself, the ray not dissipating until all that remained where Anthony had been was a filthy looking boot, lying on the ground.

“That was my daddy, you fucker!” Rick shouted, trying to wrench the gun away from Parker once and for all, and they kept fighting, the dial getting spun around once more.

((gun fires randomly! Setting E [absorption]))

Parker, however, had both height, and strength on him, and at last, he hauled the gun away from Rick, turned it around, and shot him, not realizing that the gun was on setting E, absorption. He held it down, and then released it–both of them confused that Rick hadn’t seemed to have changed at all. He fired again, holding it down longer, but he didn’t realize that the one changing wasn’t just Rick–but them both. Rick charged him then, and the gun got knocked from Parker’s hands, but he was…confused. The aggression, the filth, the sadism–it felt like it was draining from his mind, the more they fought, but more than that. He’d been…big before, but suddenly, Rick was…monstrous. A huge, leather clad, heavy bearded beast, who pinned him to the ground and sent his head reeling with a punch to the face.

Rick stood up, amazed at how…good that had felt. Then he looked down at himself, and then down at the gun, and realized why–he had been absorbing all of the fetishes and changes he’d put into Parker while they’d been fighting. He wasn’t complaining though–but he was angry at what he’d done to his Pa, turning him into a boot like that–though he was a sexy boot for sure. In fact, so sexy, he could use a friend.

Rick turned the dial around to C, and fired at Anthony, and then turned the gun at Parker, trying to stand, blood flowing from his nose, and shot him with the gun, until he was a perfect match to Anthony–both of them new boots for Rick to wear for the rest of the evening, while he had some more fun around here, with his toy. He stepped out of his old shit kickers and into his new ones, and grinned. They felt real nice–Parker especially. He might let his dad change back in a bit, but Parker–Parker might be staying as his boot for a good long time.

He was still fucking horny though–he’d have to find someone else to play with, until his Pa changed back.

What happens with Rick and the gun next?

He decides to make himself some more clothes from the people around him.
The gun sustained some damage during the fight, and releases a few random bursts of power before returning to normal.
Davie confronts him, gets the gun away, and uses it on Rick.
Anthony and Parker both change back, but now, Parker is Anthony’s identical twin brother–the gun copied everything when it shot Anthony as a boot.

Here’s the twitter poll

Here’s the patron only poll

Voting ends on Thursday!

The Fetish Gun Is Loose! (Part 5) [Interactive]

So it was a tie, between giving Rick some additional humiliating fetishes, and having Anthony become his father, so we’ll do a mash up of both. Also, there’s a 42% chance that this is going to end up backfiring on Anthony–and since there’s two changes, there’s two chances it’ll backfire on whoever has the gun at the moment! So we’ll see what happens!

WARNING: SCAT

Anthony was enjoying the hell out of his diaper boy–but he wanted to push things a bit further. What he was really fantasizing about was taking him home and treating him like a stupid little boy…but why not push that in a more taboo direction, and actually become Rick’s father? He didn’t want that idea to turn him on quite as much as it was…and he wasn’t even sure if the gun could do it. Sure, it could create relationships–all he had to do was turn it to dial D–but why not just give it a shot, and see what happens? He turned the dial around to D, while Rick was still busy sucking his cock, and he pointed it at–

(Backfire save roll……Failure! Anthony’s plan backfires.)

Rick. What he forgot, was that the person that gets shot with the gun first, is the person who will be more dominant in the relationship. He pulled the trigger, the ray engulfed Rick in the yellow aura, and then bounced back and swallowed him as well. It was the first time he’d experienced the gun itself–and it was…unsettling. He found all of these new ideas and memories in his mind, how he’d raised his son Rick–and he’d always hated potty training. He’d throw tantrums, insist his father put him back in diapers, and Anthony had always relented–just to get him to stop. He’d assumed he’d grow out of it–and he did, somewhat, but not out of his brashness, and his domineering attitude, and Anthony had just…never been able to say no to him.

Rick wet the bed constantly as a teenager–so much that Anthony believed he must have liked it. If he washed the sheets, then he’d come home from work to discover his own mattress soaked in piss as well. It wasn’t long after that, when Rick coaxed his father into sucking his cock one evening, while they were both drunk, and things had only spiraled out of control from there. Now, here they were–Anthony in his late fifties, and Rick in his mid-thirties, and his son had…total control over his father’s life.

He realized what he’d done, as the gun faded away, but Rick was too quick–he snatched the gun from his father’s hand, and then stood up, and Anthony…quaked. “That’s a very naughty daddy–turn around, someone needs a spanking, don’t you think?”

Anthony realized he was nearly naked in the club–Rick liked to bring him here on busy nights to humiliate his father, usually with both of them diapered. He hadn’t messed his yet–so Rick pulled it down and started spanking his fat father’s ass, and Anthony…liked it. He felt his cock getting hard, knowing his own son was punishing him, and he craved it–Rick had warped his mind so much over the years, that he was willing to do anything for him, now. When Rick was satisfied, he pulled his dad’s diaper back up into place, sat down with a squelch (his own diaper, at this point, was rather full) and ordered his father to sniff his diaper, while he examined his new toy.

He saw the dial on the side, with the settings, and had his daddy explain them to him. He considered lying…but what was the point? He’d just get punished for not telling the truth, if he did. “Well dad, did you shoot me with this earlier? Be honest now.”

Anthony nodded, his face pressed to his son’s pissy diaper. “I…I turned you into a diaper obsessed pig, son, I’m sorry…”

“Don’t apologize daddy–you did good, but you need to be punished for using my toys without permission. If you got to change me, I think it’s only fair that I get to change you, right?”

Anthony gulped, as his son turned the dial to setting A, turned to gun on him. He fought…hard. He had to stop him, he had to regain control, and push back against this…

(Backfire check #2! The risk is still 42% percent, that things will, this time, backfire against Rick, who is holding the gun. Backfire save roll…….Success! No backfire.)

But before he could work up the will to fight for the gun, his son fired–and Anthony found himself losing the will to do…anything, really. More memories filled in, how he’d always been just as lazy as his son–if not even lazier. He…liked being a slob, and being fat, and being…being a loser. It was natural that he serve his son–after all, he was so much smarter and better than he was. When the gun stopped, Anthony had gained close to 300 pounds, kneeling there in his own oversized, saggy diaper–the same one he’d been wearing, and filling, for days at this point. He could smell himself, and he was so filthy–he loved it, and he loved his son even more for showing him just how much of a pathetic loser he could be.

The people around them were just as disgusted as they ought to be, and they’d also attracted the attention of a bouncer, who was coming over to eject them from the bar–but Rick had a plan for that. He fired the gun at the man, and instead of ejecting them, he shoved his dad down and started hitting him–lightly at first, but then harder. Rick just watched the bouncer abuse and beat his father, berating him the entire time, shooting him on occasion with the gun to push him further, until the bouncer–now a filthy, ugly bruiser obsessed with physical abuse, hauled down Anthony’s full diaper, and shoved his hand into the old man’s ass, fisting him roughly right there in the bar, while Rick watched–until he couldn’t resist joining in, fucking his father’s face while the bouncer kept fisting him, jacking off with his free hand, all of them lost in the moment–and none of them minding the gun.

No one else intervened. The longer it had gone on, the more…normal it seemed for everyone. After all, as disturbing as the trio were, they were all regular sights here, at the bar–the same with Davie and his posse of admirers on the other side, all of them worshiping his massive, monstrous cock–though none were as devoted as Phil–who had an…unhealthy obsession with Davie’s cock. But who gets a hold of the gun next?

So, now that we have a few characters involved, things can get a bit more…interesting. Who gets a hold of the gun next?

Davie recovers it–and starts modifying the three of them to suit his interests.
The brutish bouncer claims it, and uses it on Rick, making him his submissive pain slave as well.
Anthony gets hold of it again, and uses setting E on himself–so the bouncer and Rick will absorb his new fetishes.
Rick keeps hold of it, and uses it to warp some other people into permanent fixtures of the bar’s bathroom.

Here is the twitter poll

Here is the patron poll

Voting ends on Monday!

Remembrances – Episode 2 (Part 7)

But Pete wasn’t really interested in one woman–he wanted all of them. He wasn’t much of a looker though, and so he usually had to settle for women a bit older, with the sort of reputation you didn’t want your son associating with. Harry and Patricia tried their best to get him to find a nice, younger girl, but Pete seemed determined to be a bachelor. Before Harry had really been able to tell that any time had passed at all, his son was eighteen, two inches taller than he was, broad of shoulder and big of fist, working alongside him and Wilbur at the factory. He couldn’t have been prouder of him, in all honesty, he had turned into the exact kind of rough, manly sort of son he could have wanted. They still wrestled even, but now his son had a height and a weight advantage, and Harry noticed something else–that his son seemed to get an erection every time he pinned him to the ground, grinding his cock against his ass until his father was crying uncle. Then, one day, when he’d expected to walk in on Wilbur and Patricia fucking in the afternoon, he discovered, instead, Wilbur and his son wrestling in the bedroom, naked, his son pinning Wilbur to the ground and fucking him rough–Harry had never seen anyone fuck Wilbur. Wilbur had only ever fucked him, and seeing his son top him…he didn’t know what he felt, exactly. Jealousy, envy. He grew a bit distant from Wilbur after that, and then the accident, and all those nights stuck in the hospital, spent wondering who Wilbur was fucking with that night. His wife? His son? Both of them? He could just slide into his place and take over…and why not? Wilbur was a better man than him. Hell, Pete was a better man than him, especially after the accident, when Harry could barely walk. When Harry couldn’t even get hard anymore.

He couldn’t fight it. He knew it wasn’t right, he knew he was letting this man, this thing, whatever Mr. Elroy was, ruin his life, and the life of his son, but he couldn’t stop him. He was weak. He’d been weak ever since that day, ever since fate had pushed him in front of that machine, ever since his entire future had been ripped away from him. But Pete–Pete could have been something too. He was a good boxer, when he fought fair and followed the rules, but the visions followed him. Followed him into a little single wide trailer, where he smoked, drank, and masturbated himself to sleep every night–jacking off to porn–men, women–it didn’t matter as long as he imagined himself on top. The factory closed, and he had to struggle for work, and while he was a good worker–he had issues with authority. He had his ass booted from one job after another. He just couldn’t work well with anyone else, and Harry could see his son’s potential withering down and dying on the vine, until now, here he was, working as a truck driver–sometimes–still living in that same trailer, still drinking and smoking and masturbating, no longer even caring about being anything more than that. It was horrible, but what else could he have possibly been? There should have been more. Harry knew there had been more, but the spell was closing, the life was sealed, and he was back in his recliner, wishing his tears weren’t dried up now, and staring at his new, familiar son sitting to his side.

He was…massive. He hadn’t been taking up that much of the sofa before, but Harry couldn’t quite tell it was simply a question of his son’s size, or just his demeanor. The years…well they hadn’t really been kind to either of them, he supposed, but the last really clear memory he had of his boy was back in his early twenties, strapping, heavily muscled, the smell of heavy gym musk and cigar smoke trailing behind him, always giving Harry a bit of a stiffy whenever he was nearby. But now–another thirty years beyond that…well, time had taken it’s toll on him, or rather, Mr. Elroy had.

As a single man, and one who had never been very interested in home economics, most of what Pete ate was junk–fast food, snacks, microwave dinners. He hadn’t been back to the gym in almost twenty years, but he still ate like he was lifting weights every day–the result was that he’d blown up to 350 pounds, or hell, maybe even more, a thick, soft gut hanging down between his wide thighs. He was wearing a pair of ragged shorts, marred with quite a few cum stains–the same with the t-shirt he had on, which had grease spots, cum shots, and sweat stains under the armpits and moobs. His beard and hair had grown long and tangled, both of them pulled into quick ponytails, and when he shifted the cigar in his mouth, Harry saw he was missing a number of teeth–some from ancient bar fights, and others had just started rotting out of his mouth lately. “Damn Pa, ain’t a bad place, gotta say–sure beats the ol’ trailer I got! Maybe I oughta move in wit’ ya.”

“Maybe one day, Pete,” Mr. Elroy said as he gave him a light tap on his shoulder, and Pete’s head slumped forward into a deep sleep. He caught the cigar as it fell and twirled it in his fingers, and stood back up, looking at Harry, who couldn’t peel his eyes away from his son. “What do you think? He’s just the kind of stupid, worthless, disgusting brute a failure like you would raise, don’t you agree Harry?”

Curse of the Homophobe (Part 10)

He didn’t want this. Evan could remember better now, that he was away from Robbie, who he’d been before. Not…all the way back, his recollections of the young twink in high school that he’d been were cloudy with his own, new memories of his own high school experience as a drop out–he’d been too busy sucking cock and drinking piss in filthy alleys and bathhouses to care much about school, after all. But he hadn’t always been this. He’d been a jock in college, he’d been a coach, he’d been trailer trash–he could go back, maybe. He could be better than this fat, stinking filthy faggot pig the curse had warped him into as some sick joke.

But what was he going to do? He didn’t exactly read like a faggot–not anymore. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had said something like that to his face. He was going to have to be a little more forward now, if he wanted a reaction. That, and he’d have to find a suitable target–though that was a bit harder than he’d expected. He kept walking, but he was exhausted after a long day at work already–and all he really wanted was to go home, have Robbie stuff him silly, and then sit on his face and fill his boyfriend with a load of his shit–and maybe get a taste of it himself. He was about to give up, and give in, when he saw someone approaching him–a beat cop with a reputation around here for roughing up twinks on occasion…though he wasn’t quite sure how he knew that. Whether the curse was offering him a way out, or whether he was just lucky, it didn’t matter–he hiked up his pants, went over to the cop, and said, “Fuck, ya look sexy as hell in that uniform buddy–let me suck that dick a yers,” the worst part, was how…authentic he sounded, when he said it. That, and he really did want the officer’s cock, he realized.

The officer recoiled away from him in disgust, just like Evan had hoped he would, “Get the fuck out of my face you dirty fucking faggot–talk to me again, and I’ll arrest you for indecency.”

The word washed over him like some soothing balm. The officer pushed past him, and Evan felt himself shifting–though perhaps not as much as he would have liked to. He grew a bit taller, but didn’t lose his entire gut. He was left with a hefty beer belly stretching out his shirt, which was growing cleaner, buttons appearing in the front as it morphed into a blue uniform shirt, his grubby jeans similarly changing into navy slacks. He felt the beard disappearing into his face, leaving him with just a thick bushy mustache trimmed to his lip, his hair buzzed down into a flat top under his patrolman’s hat. He was so relieved to be someone different, he didn’t even care about the disgusting homophobia welling up inside him–it was better than who he’d been, in any case.

He was Officer Evan Pittock now, and he’d been a beat cop for quite a while. He’d been passed over for promotions a few times, mostly because of his fairly common record of roughing up the queers he came across on the street, usually with his partner Harry. Both of them detested fags more than pretty much anything else, and had become fast friends on the force. Thanks to the police officer’s association, and their ability to back up one another’s story, they could get away with pretty much anything, so long as they used some flimsy charge as an excuse, which they usually dropped in exchange for the victim of their abuse not saying anything about what they’d done to him. He hurried along the sidewalk and caught up with Harry at the corner, and the two of them resumed their bullshitting, happy that their shift was nearly over as they headed back to the precinct, stopping only to call out a couple of faggy looking whores as they went.

In the locker room, as he was changing out of his uniform, he did his best to avoid looking at any of the other men around him. He’d always gotten…odd feelings, looking at guys in the locker room. Gay feelings, maybe, but he’d bottled them up for so long that he was used to avoiding thinking about them. No, he had a wife and two kids now. It didn’t matter that looking at her never managed to get his dick hard–unless he was taking her from behind, and better if he was fucking her ass. They just didn’t have much sex anymore–the only sex he’d gotten lately was one blowjob from a particularly desperate faggot he’d extorted one night while Harry was off…just…so he could know what it felt like.

Buried deep inside this new Evan’s mind, the curse roiled, urging him to warp his partner in revenge. He could think of so many things to do to him…but did he really want to? Evan was tired–what if he just…slipped away? Sure, life as some homophobic, closeted, overweight cop wasn’t…ideal, but it was still better than risking ending back up with Robbie, right?

As usual, each choice in the poll comes with a risk of the story ending–and the last one guarantees that the story will end, so choose wisely!

He changes his partner into a young, cubby recruit hungry for his cock, and he becomes his boss.(60%)
He beats and abuses him, until his partner is a masochistic pain slave. (70%)
He takes his partner on a motorcycle ride, and makes him a biker pig, and becomes a biker too. (80%)
He resists the curse and tries to live as the homophobic cop, but the spirit has other plans for him and his partner. (END)

The twitter poll is here

The patron only poll is here

Voting ends Tuesday!

The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 3 (Part 5)

He came out behind me, and lit a cigar. The smoke couldn’t cut through the smell of cum surrounding him though. Somehow it seemed to intensify it. I felt it at the edges of my mind again, I felt myself weakening, but no–no, I wasn’t going to let this happen. I remembered now–I knew who I was. I was a cop. I was order, and control, and force. He thought he understood me, but he didn’t know a thing about me. I shoved him into the alley around the side of the bar, and I think he thought I was going to ask to blow him–instead, I slammed him into the wall, wailing on him, and he didn’t fight back. At the time I assumed he was just caught off guard, but once I put him under arrest and shoved him into my car, I had my doubts. He was still smiling. “Well, where to, pig? You have me now. You can do whatever you want with me.”

I knew I should take him to the station and interrogate him, but I couldn’t explain my many breaches in protocol. If I went back there now–I told myself–soaked in cum, dragging along some unknown cumdump biker with a fresh black eye, telling them this idiotic story, none of them would understand. Besides, the man was right about one thing–this wasn’t about the case anymore–not really. This was about me. The one thing I knew, from what he’d said in the bar, was that this rapist wanted me. This rapist wanted me, and hell if I was going to let him get in my head. So I drove home, parked in the garage, dragged him out of the car and inside, still cuffed, and down into the basement. It wasn’t as large as Bernard’s had been, but it was large enough. I handcuffed him to some pipes down there, cleared out the space around him, but he wasn’t trying to fight…and then I realized that I’d just done exactly what he’d suggested I do. I’d brought him home. This was where he’d wanted to go the entire time…and without even realizing it, he’d manipulated me into doing it for him.

“Brings back memories,” he said, tugging at the handcuffs, testing them.

“Tell me what you know. Tell me about the bruiser. What is his plan?”

“Straight to business? Don’t you want to have some fun with your prisoner first, pig? I’m at your mercy after all–you can do whatever you want to me…”

I stepped up, and slapped him across the face. I didn’t know why I’d done it, and the sheer anger I felt at him was both a surprise, and yet as natural as anything else I’d felt that day. He was mocking me. He was mocking order, and my control. I’d put him in line. I’d show him who was in charge here. He didn’t resist, when I took some scissors from my work bench and cut his cum soaked clothes free, leaving him naked on the concrete floor. That was better, better to humiliate him, but I couldn’t do this right, looking like this. I went up to my bedroom, found my dress uniform and put it on, minding every detail, aside from the white dress gloves. Instead, I put on my leather riding gloves, and then went back down to the basement, where he’d started to shiver a bit in the cold. I demanded answers from him, and he stonewalled me. He laughed at me…and so I had to do it. I had to beat him. I had to…to fuck him. I had to cum in his beard, I had to put my scent on him, I had to mark him as mine, but it wasn’t until I’d cum a massive load on his face, after fucking his ass, that I realized what I’d been doing. I regained a bit of control of myself, and he…he was just laughing. Laughing at me.

“Fuck, he’s gonna love you, pig,” he said, “He’s gonna fuckin’ love breaking you. I hope he let’s me watch, because damn, it’s gonna be quite the fuckin’ show when it happens.”

I slammed the basement door behind myself, and leaned against it, panting. I didn’t understand what had come over me, how my mind had traced the steps from arresting him back at the bar, to imprisoning him in my basement, to putting on my most formal uniform and raping him. It had all…made sense in the moment, and it was only now, looking back on it, that the entire idea became heinous and horrific. But there was nothing I could do now. If I let him go, he could have me arrested. If I kept him here, I was compromised. Any information I got from him was tainted–hardly admissible in court, which was really the least of the problems I was facing. If I did get any information from him, and someone wanted to know the source…what was I going to say?

I was too deep. I was beyond deep, I was drowning, but I only had one way forward now. I had to get to the bottom of this. I’d face whatever repercussions were necessary, after the rapist was caught, and whatever he was plotting was averted. Then, I’d worry about facing my own justice for what I was doing. I threw him some water and food–he didn’t object, or try to resist or escape. He seemed to be exactly where he wanted to be, and that only worried me more. I took a shower, and that helped me feel a bit better at least, and then got some sleep, or slept as best I could. I needed to figure this out soon, or else someone would discover what I’d done, or worse, I’d be too late to stop whatever the Bruiser was planning. That, or he’d come for me next, and I knew, if he did, I wouldn’t have the will to stop him.

Curse of the Homophobe (Part 8)

Well, it was close, but the frat won out by a few votes thanks to the Patreon poll.

Evan thought about changing back. He even started to, for a moment, but something else welled up in him, something he could only describe as a great exhaustion. So he’d turn back, and then what? He’d be back to his old self, more or less, with a third whore obsessed with him, and sure, he might be straight acting enough that he could get away without another slur, but the curse would always drag him back, somehow. He could feel it. And then he’d be back in some new nightmare–but what if he didn’t go back? What if he just said screw it, and…and just gave in?

He couldn’t believe he was actually contemplating it. Giving up. Living…like this. The spirit lingered around him, a fog on his mind, coaxing him along, seeing if he would do it. He didn’t want to be this though. He didn’t want to be this person. He could tell, somehow, that he would only inflict more pain on others like this, other guys on the team, other guys at the college. How was this better? How was he solving anything by simply taking Jerry’s place as the asshole in charge? There had to be something he could do. He couldn’t let this thing win.

He didn’t know where the idea came from, if it was his, or if the spirit whispered it into his mind. It was a terrible idea. A nightmarish idea…but he couldn’t ignore the simple brutality of it–but would it even work? No, there was no way it would work. Hand shaking, he poured himself more scotch, but his mind wouldn’t let the idea go. It was the only way–the only way he could make sure he didn’t hurt anyone else ever again–that this curse would end here for good. He drank more scotch, enough to dull himself, trying to bury himself back under the coach, mack under the homophobe, but he was terrified, all the same. Unable to contemplate it anymore, he decided he simply had to do it–he threw on a coat, and slipped out into the night, making his way towards the campus.

It was a Friday night, and the parties were still going strong. Evan made his way to Delta Kappa Alpha, widely considered the jock frat, and the most homophobic one on campus–one which had, on a few occasions, sent kids to the hospital, not that any of the jocks had ever faced punishment for it. It made him angry, which was good. He was going to need lots and lots of anger for what was coming next. He went inside, and began insulting every member of the frat he could find.

He started simple–turning them into faggots, the women in the house all disappearing one by one as the young men lost interest in them, and became far more interested in each other–and in Evan. But he didn’t make them weak. He didn’t fuck them. They needed to be strong. They needed to be brutes. He made them thugs and skinheads. Brutal biker tops and leather queens. All of them addicted to sex, the rougher and meaner the better. Sadists, rapists, abusers–he hurled out everything he could think of, until one of them had had enough, slammed Evan into the wall, and started fucking his hole raw. He demanded more. He wanted them to make it hurt. He wanted them to show him what they did to homophobic assholes like him.

Part of him was horrified and disgusted by what was happening to him, but another part of him was enjoying it. That new part urged them on, told them to use him as their urinal and cum dump, told them that they didn’t see him as a person at all, but as a gimp, a pig, a slave, an object, a whore. He said it over and over again, he said it so much he found himself believing it, as the gang dragged him down into the basement of the now condemned building they used as their hangout, where they brought the homophobes they bashed on the street to be reeducated and repurposed.

They beat him. They fisted him. They shaved him bald, and then stripped the rest of his hair off too. Pissed on him, made him clean out their holes, made him beg for their cocks, and he tried to squeeze that last little homophobic part of him out, but it remained, burning at the core of him, horrified at what he was doing, but it was too late to turn back now. He was marked. Tattooed all over his body, pierced everywhere as well. He’d lived down here for months, if not a year, brutalized by these men–and he’d grown to enjoy it. Relish it. Beg for it–because he deserved it. He deserved it for all the times he’d been cruel, and bashed queers with his friends. He deserved all of it, and would deserve it for the rest of his life too.

Dawn came, and the gang grew tired, slipping away to their homes, another enjoyable night spent working over one of their favorite straight slaves. They locked him back in his cage, and Evan shivered, exhausted–there was a kernel of himself still, deep inside, but it was so small…he was scared now. Terrified of what he’d done to himself. He grasped for it, tried to rekindle it. He didn’t want to stay here–even if he had started to believe he might deserve it. (Success Check–success! The story goes on for the moment!)

It took most of the day, down in that basement, to remember himself. To crawl back out of this, to remember who he’d been–or at least pieces of it. Everything was so…jumbled up. High school, college, middle age. Had he been a jock? A coach? Working in construction or on a farm? He didn’t know how to piece it back together, but he had to. He had to be something else, if he was going to get out of here in one piece.

********

Evan is starting to lose track of his identity, and of his sanity. What sort of gay reality is he going to revert to in the aftermath of this?

Fat, slobby, cigar smoking construction worker.
Closeted, burly, college football coach.
Young, grungy, muscled redneck farm boy.
A muscled abusive leatherman who belongs to the gay gang here.

Here’s the twitter poll

Here’s the Patreon poll

Voting ends on Sunday!

The Bruiser Rapes – Case One (Part 3)

The next few days were…strange. I kept trying to put all of the pieces together, tried to figure out what I was missing, tried to find the whole I knew had to be there somewhere, but nothing turned up. We found no evidence of anyone else being in Bernard’s home–unbelievable if the rapist had been staying there the whole time, and it was impossible for the story to make sense if he hadn’t. Part of me wanted to bring Bernard back in and hold him until he finally told us the truth–the whole truth–but I in the end, I didn’t have to do that. Instead, Bernard called the local TV station, and told the truth on the evening news for the entire city–and soon enough the entire country to hear.

I didn’t see the interview until the next day, when someone from the department told me to watch it online. I couldn’t fucking believe what I was looking at, what I was fucking seeing. He got on there, and talked about the rape with the anchor, and what I was expecting was for him to rip into us, the police, for not doing enough to try and find his rapist. But what I saw instead was something else altogether. He denied it was a rape at all. The anchor was confused, because he had obviously told them he wanted to talk about his rape on the air, but he had been given a soapbox, and so he used it. He looked right at the camera, ripped off the turtleneck he had on, and there he was, still wearing that fucking collar around his neck. He starts raving, begging for his Master to come back, begging to know what he’d done wrong, and why he’d left. He told Master, whoever he was, that he loved him, that he wanted to be his slave forever–and then the station finally pulled the plug.

Needless to say, that caused some waves. We had to make a statement assuring the city we were investigating it as a rape. Somebody paid to have opinions on things on the television called Bernard a bruiser, and wondered if it was even possible to rape someone who looked as strong and burly and tough as that, and the name stuck, but to the wrong person. It was a mess, obviously, and the next day, I went over to Bernard’s home to try and get some better answers out of him, now that he’d gone and made him, and his rape, a national issue.

He was a wreck. One minute, he was lucid, and the next, he was raving at me to tell me where Master was, demanding to know where I was hiding him, demanding to know what he had to do to get him to come back. He’d told everyone, he’d told the world, but what else could it possibly take to get him to come back to him? I wondered if I should commit him to a psych ward, and as I tried to pin him down and get some straight answers out of him, I found myself getting rougher, and more demanding, and angry, and…well, horny.

He could feel it too, I think. I could see the fear in his eyes in what was happening between us, even before I realized anything strange was happening at all. I saw the fear for just a moment, and then he began pushing back, becoming obstinate and standoffish, arguing with me one moment, and then backing off and agreeing with me the next, always apologizing, and always calling me Sir.

I pushed and I pushed, and he retreated to his bedroom upstairs–I assumed out of shame and fear of what was happening to him, and locked the door. I demanded he let me in, I demanded he tell me exactly what the man had done to him, and when the door to the bedroom finally opened, all he told me was that he would show me exactly what Master had done, that we would learn together.

He was nearly naked, and that was worse, somehow. He was wearing only a leather harness, a cock cage, and a leather hood–and that fucking collar he still hadn’t removed, the collar I doubt he will ever take off for the rest of his life–and he got on his knees, and he told me he understood now. Master had left, but he’d sent him…me. A new master, someone he needed to serve as well as he’d served Him. He crawled over to me, where I was standing in shock at the doorway, and started prying open the front of my pants…and I let him.

I wanted him to do it, I wanted him to suck my cock, and I could hear…all of these little things in the back of my head, things some alien voice was whispering to me, just like how Bernard had described it to me in the interrogation room. I fought it off though, and pushed him away. I tried to talk some sense into Bernard, I told him he was traumatized, that he was suffering from some extreme PTSD, and that he needed to get help, but the only thing Bernard wanted was my cock. I ended up leaving–I couldn’t handle being that close to him, I didn’t know how long I’d be able to resist that voice, before I ended up doing to Bernard everything that rapist had already done to him down in that basement.

I went back the next day with a social worker for a welfare check, but Bernard was nowhere to be found. Eventually I found a note in his bedroom, addressed to no one, but I felt like he was speaking to me, or maybe at his rapist. He told him he understood what he needed to do now, that he’d found someone to serve, someone he needed to serve, and most importantly, someone who wanted him to serve him. He wouldn’t be returning here, apparently, and he didn’t care what happened to his possessions. We looked for him, but he did not want to be found. I’m sure, somewhere this very moment, he’d chained up somewhere, in some pervert’s home…and I think he might even believe he’s happy. I think about him too, some nights, the way I think about…all of them. The way I think about the rapist, the way I think about…so many men now. I can’t help it, I’m too close, too close to get away from it now, but I didn’t realize how close until a couple weeks later, when an old cold case came to my desk, wanting to talk about the bruiser.

The Bruiser Rapes – Case One (Part 2)

The questioning took a rougher turn. I demanded to know why he was lying, and he insisted that he wasn’t. We questioned him about details on the license, and he knew everything. He knew Bernard’s social security, his mother’s maiden name, and the city where he’d been born. Still, none of us could believe–really believe–that this hulking man was actually the man from the photos. So we cuffed him (I noticed at the time, to my disgust, that it gave him an erection) tried to undo the collar, but discovered the lock had been glued shut. It ended up being easier for us to cut the chain instead, we arrested him for filing a false report, and took him to the station.

It was when we took him to the interrogation room that he first got a good look at himself in the one way mirror–and his reaction…I have never seen a man look so horrified at himself in my entire life. He denied it, he thought it was a trick, he started raving about how this was Master’s doing, that he was being tested, that of course he wouldn’t abandon him, but that Bernard believed he had failed him somehow. I didn’t get anything useful out of him, so we stuck him in a cell for the night, and in the meantime, we ran the stranger’s prints in the database to try and figure out who this fucker was claiming to be Bernard Goldwell.

We got a match, but not the one we expected. The fingerprints of the victim did in fact belong to Bernard Goldwell, from a background check done for a security firm a few years prior. But the picture attached to the file, again, bore no resemblance to the man we had sitting in the cell. I didn’t sleep much that night, let me tell you. I spent the entire night trying to figure out how, exactly, this man could fake all of this, because the possibility that the man was in fact who he said he is…I didn’t even know how to begin processing that. I didn’t know how to begin processing most of what I had witnessed that day–thought at this point, I can officially say I have seen stranger shit than this.

So the next day, I sat down with him, alone, and started the conversation over. I didn’t know how to explain any of this, and so I asked Bernard to explain it. I wanted to know exactly what the man had done to him down in the basement for ten days, and maybe, along the way, I would learn what, exactly, had happened to take the Bernard from the photos and turn him into this man sitting across from me, still wearing that heavy metal collar like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He was hesitant, but I worked it out of him, eventually. He confessed that he’d invited the man who’d done this to him over to his house for a hookup, and that night…something had happened. When he arrived, the man was slight, wore glasses, seemed awkward and small and a bit nerdy. However, he had warmed up quickly, and gotten horny quickly, and plans for a beer and a chat were skipped, as the man took Bernard straight into the bedroom, but somewhere between the front door and the bedroom, he’d…changed.

He got taller, and hairier, and rougher, and more muscular. Bernard had always had fantasies about rough, submissive sex, but nothing he’d ever acted on, or imagined doing beyond mere imagination, but that night, something inside him unlocked. It…started out as a rape, the man definitely raped him that night, though in the interview Bernard tried to hedge it somewhat. It was forced, but not bad. He’d been asking for it. He wasn’t into it at first, but as it went on, he started actually enjoying the rough treatment, even if the man he was with didn’t seem to be engaging with what he was doing at all. He didn’t speak, and he didn’t do…much at all, aside from fuck, for…hours, reaching orgasm several times that first night. When Bernard assumed he’d finally finished, the man had drugged him, and when he woke next, he was down in the basement, collared, tied up, and watching the man hammer the spike right into the brick wall–barehanded.

He’d been even bigger, then, and his eyes, apparently, had turned entirely black. When Bernard got to that detail, he shook in his seat, and he looked at me, holding back tears, and then looked at himself in the mirror. He couldn’t believe it either, I think. I still thought it was impossible. Even after talking with Bernard, and coming to believe he was telling me something he thought was true, I still thought it was impossible until the next case surfaced a couple weeks later. Bernard went on and detailed some of what the man had done to him…which mostly was a lot of sex. The man didn’t speak at all that Bernard could recall, but he had somehow always known what Master desired from him, almost like there was a whisper of some kind in the back of his mind, some other voice, something between his own fantasies and some other entity entirely speaking to him, speaking about him, right into his mind.

He slept in the basement. He was given food and water twice a day. He used a bucket as a toilet, and Master emptied it promptly after he used it. Beyond that, he would rape him, over and over again…and as far as Bernard could really tell, whatever had happened to him, whatever had happened to change him from the scrawny guy in the photos to the hulking bear sitting across from me, had happened slowly, so slowly he never he realized it was happening until he’d seen himself in the mirror here. Then, that morning of the 911 call, Master had never come down with his breakfast. A couple hours later, we’d arrived, and here we were.

It wasn’t the whole story, I could tell well enough, but it was as close to the truth as I was going to get, but the confusion had ruined our chance of getting anything useful from his body in a rape kit, and he, and his body, was so unreliable, even if we’d found a suspect, there was no way this story was going to work in court–mostly because Bernard had no interest in pressing charges. With no crime that I could see, even if I couldn’t explain Bernard’s strange transformation, and with nowhere to go on this rape and kidnapping, we let him go–and in doing so, we forgot to get that damn collar off of him, believe it or not.