Buried Treasure (Part 2)

I don’t remember much of what happened that first night. Mostly, I remember both Mike and Cory abusing me for hours. Mike…he was begging Cory to let him stop, that he was exhausted, but Cory wouldn’t let him, he would force Mike’s cock to get hard again, and force him to fuck me, or make me suck him off, or…or hit me, or whatever Cory wanted to see. Cory had his way with Mike as well, telling my brother how he’d always loved him, but that me–his stupid asshole brother–would have never let anything like their love happen, but now that I was taken care of…well, now they were going to be together, no matter what.

My only hope was that when my parents got home the next morning, there was some chance that all of this could be put right–but Cory got to them first. He’d locked me in the closet in my room, and Mike…Mike was firmly under his sway at that point. Cory…explained things to them, and from that day onward…I don’t like thinking about it, to be honest. Cory told my dad that I’d been a very, very bad boy. That I needed to be punished. Now, my dad is no slouch by any means, and he’d beat my ass quite a few times, but after that first spanking…I realized just how much he’d been pulling his punches before. Still, nothing compared to when…when he fucked me after that…my own fucking dad, shoving me down on the carpet, telling me that I deserved this, Cory watching us both while Mike sucked him off–I was an asshole, but Cory–Cory was a fucking monster.

My mom was in the kitchen, cooking–for me. These massive meals, and Cory would sit me down at the table, my dad next to me, and I would eat. I would eat like my life depended on it, because Cory had unlocked within me some…unspeakable hunger, and my dad would just watch, ridiculing me, making fun of me, warning me that if I kept this up I was going to be the fat ass around here, not Cory. The worst part, I think, was that no matter how bad things got, I…I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t cry, because I was enjoying all of it. I hated how good it felt, stuffing myself, having my dad and brother brutally fuck my hole, worshipping Cory’s body. All of it. My cock was rock hard the entire time, but I couldn’t cum–I could just leak and leak and leak, and the hornier I got, the more…I believed all of it, everything my dad and Cory and Mike were telling me. After a week…he finally gave me permission, that I could hump my father’s leg like a fucking dog, and cum that way–and I did, I fucking did cum and I licked it up afterwards, and then I thanked my dad and Cory for allowing me to humiliate myself for their pleasure.

I watched the calendar. I counted down the days. I was stupid to think anything would get better after Cory left, but things…had to, right? My parents had told the school we’d both come down with an awful flu–Cory had even gone with them to “convince” our doctor to forge a note saying so. But we couldn’t just stay here, right? Eventually Cory would have to let us go–eventually Cory would have to leave, and then…I promised myself I’d do better. I’d been wrong, I could see that now. I’d be a good person, I’d be nice to my brother. I’d be nice to everyone, if Cory would just…leave. If he’d just leave, and let everything go back to the way it was. Cory did leave, of course–but nothing went back to normal afterwards.

I…still couldn’t stop eating, no matter how hard I tried. Both Mike and my father teased me relentlessly, as my muscles began to disappear under a layer of flab. Mike kept working out, of course–he needed to keep up his physique for his boyfriend. He still raped me every night–my dad did too. I tried to tell them that they didn’t have to do this, that they could stop–but none of us could. Whatever magic Cory had inflicted on us, it wasn’t going away with him. By the time school ended, I was over 200 pounds, Mike was…well, Mike looked amazing, actually, and both our parents announced that we’d be spending the summer at our uncle’s farm out in the country. After all, we’d done a very good job helping Cory develop culture, and Uncle Bill needed some help out on the farm with a special project.

I was terrified. I begged them to resist, that they didn’t have to do this. Mike…I’ve never seen Mike like that. On the surface, he was overjoyed–desperate even, to see Cory again. But beneath that surface, he, I think, was even more terrified than I was. He didn’t sleep for days, and I’d wake up and find him rocking on his bed, just staring at the wall…and…and only a blow job could calm him down. I’d gotten very good at them, you see…and I…I liked making Mike happy. School ended, and we loaded our bags into the car and drove off with our dad, who’d decided to spend some time with his brother as well, leaving the house in our mom’s care, and we all drove off to discover what sort of fate Cory had in mind for us for the entire summer.

Daddy Whores (Part 3)

“Boy, boy please, I can’t…this isn’t who I’m supposed to be! This isn’t right, you can’t just do this to people,” Carson pleaded, as they walked down the row of cells. “Boy, I’m…I’m your daddy, and you should listen to what I’m telling you.” He was trying to be assertive, but no matter what, his old mouth could only sound mealy.

“No, you’re my daddy now,” the boy said, shooting him a glance with his eyes, “and that means, from now on, you’ll be doing what I say, and thinking what I want you to think, just like all of my daddies.”

The man Carson had arrested–his fellow daddy Emil, apparently–was in one of the last cells, and Carson could hear activity in there. He discovered that the door to the cell was wide open, and two of his fellow officers were inside, fucking Emil from both ends, the old pig moaning in between them. He saw his boy there, and his eyes went wide–he pushed the two officers away, and they stumbled back in a daze, and he got on his knees in front of his boy, then bowed to him, muttering and whimpering. “Please boy, please–he just resisted me, I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t come home! I’m sorry for calling you, for making you leave, I’m sorry, please, I…I made some more money for you!” he pulled a wad of cash from a pocket, “There’s so many young, strapping men in here, and they’ve all been paying me, all evening! Please…I don’t…I was doing so good…”

“It’s alright, Emil,” the boy said, allowing Emil to kiss his shoe, “I know it wasn’t your fault. We’ll be going home now–Jefferson’s waiting in the car for me, and you’ll have to drive home by yourself.”

Emil nodded, “Thank you, my boy, thank you…”

I’m sure none of you officers will have a problem letting my daddy go? You aren’t going to be pressing any charges, right?”

The two officers shook their heads no, still trying to figure out what had happened.

“Run along Emil.”

“But…but boy, they weren’t finished, and they didn’t pay me yet.”

“It’s alright–go home. You’ve had a long day.”

Emil got up and left the building, passing by Carson on the way, and when their eyes met, Emil’s seemed…haughty. “Oh…Oh I see what our boy did, such a clever boy!” he said, laughing, “I’ll see you at home!”

Carson felt his eyes drawn back to his boy, their eyes meeting once more. “You’ll be finishing these men for Emil, won’t you Carson? You do love having men abuse those old holes of yours, after all, just like all of my daddies.”

The twisting was there, but not as violent. It was…hardly much of a shift, really, but when Carson looked away and at his two fellow officers, their cocks hanging out of their pants, he started to salivate.

“And you two–do be rough with him. He’s been a very naughty daddy, and he needs a bit of rough treatment, don’t you Carson? You like it rough, don’t you?”

He should run, he needed to fight this, but before he could do anything, the two officers grabbed him, and shoved him up against the bars of the cell, handcuffing his wrists high, and tearing down his pants. One got behind him and rammed his cock into Carson’s ass, hard–making him groan–but it didn’t hurt nearly as badly as he wanted it to. No, he was…this body was already well broken in, after all, and he did like it rough and brutal. His voice was demanding the two officers rape him harder, really give it to him, beat him like the bad, naughty daddy he is. While the first fucked him, the other started biting and twisting at his nipples, calling him all sorts of filthy names, and after the first finished, they switched roles, all under the boy’s supervision and encouragement. As the second officer was getting close to finishing, however, the boy walked around, inside the cell so he was facing Carson through the bars, and their eyes met again. He could feel the world beginning to dissolve all over again, and he started to cry.

“Please…I’m sorry boy, please…”

“Don’t worry–as long as you keep me happy, you’ll be well taken care of, daddy.”

The words didn’t seem to come from the boy’s mouth, but from everywhere around him. He lost track of everything–he couldn’t even really feel much of the cock still lodged in his hole. This time, he could feel reality growing even further away from what he’d been before, more and more of himself lost to the strange void of the boy’s eyes, and when everything stopped, he just collapsed, hanging by the handcuffs, sobbing for the loss of something he couldn’t even really remember all that well–after all, Carson’s memory was shot from all the liquor he drank, right?

“Thanks officers, that’s just what my daddy needed,” the boy said. That’ll be twenty dollars from you both, of course–can’t have daddies getting fucked for free, right?”

The two officers exchanged confused glances, and then pulled out their wallets. One handed him a twenty, while the other just stared at the empty wallet. “I…I don’t have a twenty, I’m sorry.”

“Then here’s what we’ll do, officer. Go to an ATM tonight, and pull out at least forty dollars. A daddy will come by tomorrow to give you a blowjob in the restroom–and will be coming by every day from now on. You’ll be paying him forty dollars–for this fuck and tomorrow’s–and always have at least twenty dollars in cash on you from now on, understand? Now, I need to get going. Please release my daddy, if you would.”

The officers did so, and Carson slumped to the floor–confused, horny, desperate for a beer and a smoke–and his boy got down beside him. “You’ll come straight home, understand?”

“Yes boy.”

“Good. I’ll see you soon. We’ll discuss your punishment there, understand?”

“Yeah boy. I understand.”

“You won’t forget? I know you’re a stupid fucking faggot.”

“I won’ boy, I promise. I’ll hold on real good, cause ya told me to.”

“You’d fucking better.”

VIP Package (Part 10)

WARNING: DARKER STILL! Scat, incontinence, furry, snuff, abuse.

Every few days, Gerald–in the middle of the night–would cart his filthy body downstairs to collect the mail from their box. However, after several paranoid rants, he’d been forbidden from opening any of it before Sammy had inspected it–and so it was Sammy who gave a squeal when he found the letter addressed to them both from Gay Fantasy Cruise Lines. It seemed to Gerald, that he’d been expecting it for some reason, and so he was filled with terror as his petulant master read the first note aloud with great excitement.

Dear Samuel L. Prescott and Jeremy T. Lute,

We want to thank you again for participating on our VIP Package Program on your recent cruise with us. It requires all of our hard work to ensure that our VIP guests truly have the cruise of their fantasies. The VIP who purchased you as part of your package, a certain Mr. Bishop, was so pleased with you both, that he has requested that you be added as a part of his package on his next voyage! The details of his next trip are outlined below:

Cruise Destination: VIP Exclusive Six Month Around-the-World Trek.

Departure Date: January 18th

Arrival Date: June 23rd

It should be noted that terms of service for VIP exclusive treks are somewhat modified from standard voyages. We are required to inform you that due to the length of the voyage, any Salon Modifications maintained for an extended period are likely permanent. Given this fact, VIP members are given the opportunity to craft new post-cruise identities for individuals who are a member of their package. Any individuals who are removed from a package early, or who are not provided with a post cruise identity, will be converted into standard crew personnel at the end of the voyage.

Your VIP has included a personal message for you both. If you wish to join us in helping our VIP’s experience their perfect fantasies, please register your affirmative consent online, and we will arrange travel for you to join us.

Sincere thanks for sailing with us,

Gay Fantasy Cruise Lines

On a second sheet attached to the cover letter from the cruise line, they found the letter Master Bishop had included for them both. Sammy read this one silently, and then read it again, demanding Gerald masturbate him while he did. Only after he’d cum, did he allow Gerald the chance to see what details Master Bishop had added for them.

Dear Sammy and Gerald,

As I told you both, my fantasies are complicated. I must say that the two of you have been developing quite well, over the last year, and I have…enjoyed much of the footage I’ve gathered from the cameras I had installed in your apartment before you arrived back at home. That said, I want the two of you to know exactly what I have planned for you both–and I do emphasize the word both. I simply won’t sail with just one of you. If one comes without the other, I’ll be forced to do without–you’ll be slave gym bunny like all the rest of the waiters after the first day at sea. But if you both come, well, then we’ll all have some grad fun.

Sammy, my sweet boy. After six months at sea with me, I’ll be proud to call you my son. In fact, you will be my son–or rather, my genetic duplicate, with a few extra splices to keep things interesting. You’ll be groomed into a proper sociopath–unfeeling and uncaring about the needs and emotions of others, consumed by your own desires, greedy, deceitful, lustful, proud, completely incontinent and full of rage. While you’ll always prefer having daddy’s cock plowing you into oblivion, you’ll be given a sizable endowment of your own, and learn how to use it very effectively. Yes, balls the size of grapefruit, a cock over a foot long and permanently erect. My son, you will become a proper freak as well–covered with tattoos and piercings, obsessed with violence and pain. You will be one of my masterpieces, and live with me and my other sons for the rest of my life. You will enjoy them, I promise–our special family is like nothing you can possibly imagine, but it’s everything you’ve ever dreamed of having for a life.

Gerald, on the other hand–there will be nothing on this ship for you but misery, though I can assure you that you will enjoy every moment of it. The Salon has been doing some amazing work with animal splicing, something I have been desperate to try, and watching you over the past several months, seeing you fatten up and stuff you face…I can’t help but imagine you as a disgusting hogman. Weighing over a thousand pounds, castrated, nearly mindless, utterly filthy, living life on all fours, your body no longer capable of standing upright, hands and feet and face all twisted into monstrous caricature. It will be a slow process. You will witness yourself lose your own humanity–it will horrify you and thrill you, in equal measure. Watching you suffer this loss will bring me such pleasure, however, and I know that is most important to you–it always has been, right Gerald? Sammy, of course, will have the honor of castrating you himself. But in the end, if you please us well, I will give you what you desire most. I will fuck you, once. I will ram my massive cock into your new piggy cunthole, where your balls had been days before, and you will squeal so deliciously. You will have the most powerful orgasm of your life, as the last remaining bits of your human mind die, and you will be left as nothing more than a filthy pet for me, and especially my new son, to abuse until he likely butchers you in a petty, childish fit of rage a few years–or months–down the road, depending on his eventual temperament.

With that, I’m sure I have secured your mutual interest. After all, what else is left for either of you, besides a life with me in my fantasy? I’m eager to receive notice of your affirmative consent, and will see you on deck in a month for our very special cruise.

Regards,

Master Bishop

Gerald tried to throw out the letter, but Sammy refused. Sammy wanted to go, Sammy saw nothing wrong at all with anything that their Master had told them. Gerald was terrified. He wasn’t terrified of what might happen to him if they went–he was terrified by his own desire to experience it. He had spent the last year constantly fantasizing about his master’s cock, but he’d given up on ever receiving it inside him, and that had made it easier to consider leaving all of this behind him. But now…now he had a chance at happiness, didn’t he? Isn’t this what he’d wanted? At least, that’s what Sammy told him he wanted. But simpler than that, this is what Sammy wanted to do, and what Sammy wanted, Sammy received–like always. In the end, Gerald’s resistance lasted only a few hours, and they both sent in notification of their consent that evening, and sealed their fate.

A month later, Gerald watched the Florida coast recede, while Sammy was having his first reunion fuck with their Master on deck. Soon, all that surrounded them was a brilliant blue haze, the sea and the sky melding together at the horizon. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, he thought, mouth pressed to his husband’s stinking hole, feasting on Master’s cum at his favorite trough. At least, if nothing else, they’d be together until the end.

VIP Package (Part 9)

WARNING: VERY DARK. Scat, incontinence, humiliation, violence.

Samuel’s first thought upon waking–as had become normal over the past week and a half–was that he needed to get fucked. But Bishop wasn’t there for him, which was a relief for many reasons, but then who would fuck him then? He looked over, and was so happy to see Jeremy–the old Jeremy–Jeremy his husband, looking like nothing had happened to them both. In fact, he realized that Jeremy looked…quite a bit like Mr. Bishop had appeared over the last week, though he’d need a bit more work in the gym to match him, and his cock would never be big enough, but that was alright, he tried to tell himself. Jeremy was just beginning to waken as Samuel rolled over, trying to coax his husband’s cock to life so he could climb on and ride it, but as hard as he tried, it remained stubbornly soft. In fact, Jeremy didn’t feel any pleasure at all from having his cock fondled, but seeing Samuel there, remembering all the horrible things he’d said, all the pain he’d inflicted, he smacked his hand away and leapt out of bed away from him.

They fought. Samuel demanded he fuck him, that he was desperate, while Jeremy kept trying to get him to grapple with the horrors they’d just been through, but his husband seemed to have no interest in anything beyond his own immediate pleasure. Samuel started shoving his own fist in his hole, berating Jeremy for being worthless as a man, and Jeremy found some micro liquor bottles in the fridge and started downing them, eager for the numbness he’d grown accustomed to over the last week to settle back in over him.

They disembarked. Each hoped that things would improve quickly–the ship had promised that they would be normal again, though it had mentioned lingering side effects. They didn’t speak all the way to the airport. Jeremy was starving, and he parked himself at a fast food restaurant and stuffed himself. Samuel tried to pull him away, tried to get him to overcome the bad habits which had been ingrained in him over their time with Bishop–not for Jeremy’s sake of course, but simply because Samuel had no desire to ever look on someone as ugly as “Gerald” had been. All he could do was criticize and berate him, which only seemed to drive Jeremy further into his gorging. In any case, Samuel needed a fuck–he found a guy on Growlr, and got plowed in the restroom–and when Jeremy learned what had happened, instead of being jealous…he found himself begging Samuel to let him eat the load in a stall, and he relented. Both felt a bit better at least, one with a full stomach, and the other with a fucked ass.

A few hours into the flight, Samuel pissed himself. Jeremy is the one who noticed, when he caught the pang of piss and started…craving the taste of urine on his tongue. Samuel was so flustered he couldn’t figure out what to do–Jeremy had to take care of him, get him into the restroom, change his pants…and suck a bit of piss from the fabric, just…just to see if it tasted as good as he recalled. To his great concern–it tasted even better.

They got home, at last, but the trauma quickly rendered them completely unable to function in work, or society at large. They had plenty of money from their stint on the ship, and so Samuel simply stopped going. Jeremy lasted a bit longer, but the quality of his work suffered from his lack of care and confidence. A math error cost the company a million dollars, and he took the blame–his severance was sizable, but the humiliation was horrific. Alone together, they soon found themselves establishing a new, hellish routine that neither knew how to escape.

Jeremy found himself as little more than a servant, unable to stop himself from obeying and catering to Samuel’s demands, which were growing more and more childish by the day. His own habits from the ship resurfaced, one by one. He drank from the time he woke to the time he passed out. He started smoking again, despite Samuel’s–or rather, Sammy, since he no longer responded to Samuel–angry and belligerent criticism of the habit, but every cruelty only seemed to make Jeremy more eager to smoke the next cigar, being sure to blow thick clouds in Sammy’s direction, the boy coughing and sputtering in anger. The one thing they could agree on was food–both of them needed a lot of it, and each began packing on the pounds. It wasn’t long before Sammy ceased to find Jeremy the least bit attractive, and Jeremy resented his husband more and more by the day. But…but he needed him. He needed someone, right? It was becoming impossible to imagine a life alone, without a…a master. That was one thing they could agree on at least–how much they found themselves missing Master Bishop. They’d each fantasize about him, discuss him, dream of him–neither wanted to admit it, but they secretly hoped they might have a chance to see him one more time, that maybe there was a way out for them yet, and their master would give it to them.

Sammy demanded Jeremy put him in diapers again, and he relented, secretly feasting on the piss and shit, unable to stop himself. Two or three times a day, he would have to find muscular men online willing to fuck or fist Sammy’s hole. On occasion, Jeremy would get to watch, and that was the closest he got to having sex with anyone. He bathed Sammy, shaved his body smooth from head to toe, he cleaned up after him, and whenever Jeremy messed something up–or even if he didn’t–Sammy would fly into a rage, beating him senseless…and whenever he did, that was the only time Jeremy’s cock would ever harden, and occasionally shoot. It was several weeks before he even noticed that Sammy had begun calling him Gerald again–and that he actually prefered that name over his real one.

Fewer and fewer men were willing to fuck Sammy soon, in part because Sammy’s standards were becoming higher and higher. When he didn’t have someone to fuck him, he would demand Gerald fuck him with a dildo, and when that didn’t satisfy, he would give Gerald a savage beating and bondage session, which was usually enough to blow off some erotic steam. Both of them found themselves longing even more for the cruise, longing for Master Bishop, longing for anything other than this new nightmare they’d been trapped inside.

Soon enough, it had been a year. While Sammy seemed to have fully embraced his authoritarian and childish persona, Gerald was beginning to sense the possibility of an end to the madness consuming him. The compulsions felt less forceful, he could almost imagine a life other than this one. He was secretly making plans to leave Sammy, to abandon him and never return, if he could help it. He knew that if he could just get away from him, he might be able to find his way back to Jeremy, to that man he’d been before all of this. He might have been a fuckup before too, but at least he wasn’t this…bearded, shit covered, stinking slob of a man. If the letter had arrived a few weeks later, he might have even escaped, but Bishop had been keeping a close eye on them this whole time, after all, and their master knew when to deliver the killing blow. All along, he’d known exactly how to get what he wanted. After all, Master Bishop’s fantasies were complicated–but not impossible.

VIP Package (Part 8)

I wanted to mention, at this point, that I’m rather heavily indebted to @vikingzombieboyfriend for this story. He has a…particular skill for writing about corrupt, abusive relationships, and it was this theme in several of his tales which helped inspire the twists of this one, as you may have been able to tell.

I also wanted to give a warning: the final three parts of this story, today’s entry and the final two coming next week, are very, very dark. It’s one of the more horrific tales I’ve ever written actually–it easily ranks in the top five. Themes include SCAT, RUINATION, HEAVY BDSM, DIAPERS/INCONTINENCE, FURRY, AND SNUFF. Read at your own risk, as always.

Of course, neither Jeremy nor Samuel was ever truly gone; they were both idle passengers in their bodies, witnessing everything, feeling everything, doing everything, unable to resist, unable to deny their compulsions and desires and humiliating drives. Over the next week and a half of their vacation, each time either one of them, trapped in their skulls, believed that things couldn’t get any worse, that surely Bishop couldn’t conjure some further humiliation or depravity for them to suffer through, one of them would find their new selves descending to some until then unknown depth.

Over the next few days, Bishop focused his attentions on Gerald, making sure his cuckold slave properly understood his purpose and place in their dysfunctional triad. He made sure Gerald’s hatred towards Sammy was only matched by the young man’s revulsion. Jeremy, inside himself, tried to resist, but he found himself hating the young man too, hating him, because…he’d always hated him, throughout these years of their marriage. Hated his passivity, hated his banal indifference, hated how little he seemed to care about what happened between them. Now all of those feelings were so intense, and channeled every time he looked at him–it was impossible for them to not overwhelm what remained of his love. He wanted it to end–all of it. He wanted to beg his Master to throw him out, dispose of him, anything so he wouldn’t have to bear this any longer, but he couldn’t. He needed Master Bishop. Without him, he was just filth–and growing filthier. By the third day, his Master decided that his slave wasn’t…disgusting enough, and so he began serving as their toilet as well, drinking their piss and eating their shit with the same fervor he dedicated to his hours long meals each day, never even bothering to wash his face, horrified at his shit crusted image, and yet…so satisfied with himself at the same time.

It was then that Bishop turned his attentions to Sammy, and began twisting him further still. Samuel had learned to cope, had learned to deny what was happening to his body, to try and dissociate himself. If he could just convince himself that this was a dream, that one day, he’d wake up and everything would be normal, if he could just not care–with perfect indifference–perhaps he wouldn’t have to feel everything so…intensely. It was with some surprise that Bishop harnessed that, and began to turn it against him. Soon, Sammy was becoming indifferent to everyone–the only thing that mattered in the world was his own satisfaction and pleasure. Everyone else–aside from his daddy–existed to make him happy, to obey him, to please him, and if it didn’t please him, then it should be hidden. Gerald’s presence offended him more and more with each passing moment, and he found himself compelled to spout the cruelest comments he could imagine, pleased with how they stung the old cuck. It wasn’t long before he enjoyed hurling the abuse, and he began abusing everyone–especially the waiters and servants aboard the ship, but always saving the harshest barbs for Gerald. Not long after, he began to believe in his, and his daddy’s, utter superiority, and it only fueled his love for Master Bishop further.

His petulance had other effects–particularly a certain laziness when it came to various duties. He demanded that Gerald feed him before the cuck could eat himself. Watching the old man salivate over the food he shoved into the young boy’s mouth could bring him enough enjoyment to overcome the disgust he felt at the old man’s shit caked hands and beard. He found himself losing interest in controlling his bowels and bladder, and it made perfect sense, when his daddy told him he would have to be diapered from then on–after all, his precious boy couldn’t be expected to control himself. He was changed twice a day by Gerald, and the cuck would retreat to his room with the soiled linens, where he would devour the contents in private–unless his Master wanted to watch. Jeremy lost control of his emotions, he would throw violent tantrums, throw things, beat Gerald with the whips and canes from Daddy’s closet, and these beatings developed into full blown BDSM sessions–Gerald tied down while Sammy, diapered, clad head to toe in leather or rubber gear selected by his daddy, would beat and lash him, hurling abuse at him, while Bishop sat off to the side, watching, filming, masturbating his massive cock, always fucking his boy’s sloppy, shitty hole afterward, and forcing Gerald to devour the filthy slurry as his reward–sometimes making him crawl behind while he was undiapered, lapping it up from the floor, wherever Sammy’s permanently gaping hole dribbled it.

But for them both, the only thing which they were sure of, was how much they loved Master Bishop, the man at the center of their lives, at the center of their entire universe. One word of praise from him directed at one of them would cause the lauded to melt, while the other would descend into fits of jealous rage. Only one of them could possibly matter. Only one of them could be the most important. Gerald believed it was him, as the vessel for all of his master’s filth and vices, allowing his god to be utterly clean and perfect. Sammy believed it to be him, for he was the hole, the son, the being who his daddy had created–the vision of the world Bishop longed to see. As the cruise drew back towards harbor in Florida, each was certain that their Master would keep one of them and cast the other aside–that they would be the chosen one.

But true to their contracts, he could choose neither, and Samuel and Jeremy awoke back in their own cabin that final morning, in their old bodies, packed to return to their old lives, with their account credited for the cost of the cruise, as well as extremely generous stipends for them both, equal to several years of work at their already high paying jobs. But when they looked at one another for the first time that morning, they each could tell, in their bones, that nothing could ever go back to the way it had been, before they’d met Master Bishop.

Twenty Lashes

“You ain’t too good at learnin’, are ya, boy?” Boss said.

It was just advertised as a summer job, out on a farm in the sticks, but what Nick hadn’t known was that the position was, actually, rather permanent. Whoever Boss was, the guy who owned the farm, he had some weird magic voodoo shit going for him, and Nick…he found he had to do everything the fucker said. What that meant, was close to ten hours of backbreaking labor all day, and then, at night…well, he’d service Boss then, before being put to bed in the shed outside, where he’d be living, eating slop like the pigs, pissing and shitting in a fucking bucket…

So of course, he’d been trying to escape. He’d noticed, that sometimes Boss would lose focus on him, and he’d be able to slip out of his control. He’d tried to take the truck the first time, but hadn’t even been able to get to the keys before Boss had reasserted control over him. This was his…third attempt, trying to just get away into the woods, out of Boss’s range, but he’d fucking found him all the same, and now here he was again, tied up to the fucking whipping tree, Boss and his bullwhip behind him, trying to brace himself.

“Well, maybe ten lashes just ain’t enough fer ya. Ah mean, ten ‘n ten makes twenty already, right? Well, maybe another twenty wil properly…settle ya down, boy.”

Nick’s gut dropped. It wasn’t the number of lashes which concerned him, exactly. It was what happened with each lash. Every time, he…aged another year. He’d been 22 when he got here, and now he was 42–hairy, a bit of a gut, long beard…he hardly recognized himself in the mirror anymore. Twenty lashes–he’d be fucking 62! He tried to fight, tried to pull free of Boss’s control, but couldn’t…and then, the whipping started.

The worst part, still, was that as much as it hurt–and it did hurt–his cock throbbed with excitement each time, all the same. He…enjoyed being hurt by the Boss, it made him feel good. Hurting himself for the Boss, giving himself up for the Boss, sacrificing for the Boss–

No! No, those weren’t his thoughts, he had to fight, but fuck, he was getting so…tired all of a sudden. Ten lashes in, and he was in his fifties, his gut much larger now, his hair turning white, skin tanned dark from…from years, under the hot sun, in Boss’s service. No–he had to fight the memories, they weren’t real, but his head was dulling more than it had before. He felt so…fucking stupid all of a sudden. It was hard to tell what was real and what wasn’t. After twenty, the sixty year old Nick was panting, his old cock having blown three loads in the front of his grungy jeans, moaning in pain, and pleasure. Boss walked over and fucked his old ass, feeling the blood smear between them, and Nick pushed back, feeling Boss’s world…swallow him. He couldn’t escape, not looking like this. No, best just to…to serve.

“Wish you boys would catch on sooner–yer only gonna have a few more years a work left before ya keel over, ‘n I’ll have tah find another one,” Boss said, “Still, gotta love yer old loose holes while they last, right boy?”

“Yes sir…anythin’ fer ya, Boss.”

“That’s what I like tah hear boy, that’s what I like tah hear.”

Source: hhoncho2

A Home of Mirrors (Part 6)

***WARNING: Violence and abuse.***

The scene Eli found, upon opening the door to his son’s chosen room, would have likely turned his stomach before. There was a surprising amount of blood on the carpet, and several parts of his son’s body didn’t seem to be arranged properly. In particular, his right arm was hanging limp at his side, as the massive brute behind him rammed his cock into his son’s ass like a piston. This all should have affected him emotionally–Eli realized this, as he took a long, steady drag from his cigar–but all he saw was a mess. An appealing one, perhaps, but so…inefficient.

“Dad? Dad! Is…what happened to you?”

Eli looked at the body of his son being fucked, but realized that wasn’t who had spoken in his voice–instead, it was the brute. He saw now, what his reflection had meant, about his son resisting.

“Shut up and fuck me, you pussy?” the young man on the floor screamed, blood flying from his mouth. “You wanna be this fuckin’ sack a shit for the rest of your life? You’re weak! Weak! Rape my fucking hole!”

“Dad, if that’s you, you have to help me, please dad, I don’t understand what’s happening–I can’t stop!” the brute looked down at his body, at his massive hands gripping his hips hard enough to leave bruises under his fingers. “This isn’t me. This isn’t me! I don’t want to be this thing!”

“You were fucking right about him–you were always right,” the other said, grinning up at Eli, “He’s such a disappointment…”

“Shut up!” Jean shouted, and fucked a bit harder, not noticing his change in pace.

“Fucking let me handle this,” Eli said, walked forward, and slid his cock into the bloody mouth, focusing on Jean, trapped in the brute’s body, matching his rhythm, slamming into his old body at the same time, feeling the body cracking and breaking a bit between them. “Jean–Boy,” Eli said, locking eyes with him, “We’re going to break you.”

“No…dad, please,” Jean said. He felt like crying, but this body, this face, didn’t seem capable of doing so.

“You want to disappoint me again? Look at this thing you were. Look at how fucking pitiful it is. That’s what you want to be, when you could be this?” Eli reached out with a gloved hand, stroking his son’s stubbly cheek, seeing him shudder.

“Fuck–Fuck you, fuck you, I fucking hate you!” Jean shouted at him, “You never fucking loved me, you never even wanted me. Nothing I wanted was ever enough for you.”

“You want your dad to love you, boy? Then quit fighting.”

Jean didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what he could do. That body, it hurt all over, everywhere. Broken ribs, missing teeth, dislocated shoulder–but this body felt so broken too. Broken in spirit, broken in mind. All he could feel was anger and rage, every other emotion seemed to have ceased existing for him, and looking at his father, looking at the man he’d resented for so fucking long, the anger was winning. He could…embrace it. He could use it. “I hate you so fucking much.”

“I know boy–I want you to hate me. I want you to hate the fucking world, and everyone in it.”

Jean tried to speak, but all that came out was a snarl, black slobber flinging from his tobacco packed lips and splattering across his father’s immaculate uniform, and he started fucking in earnest now, feeling that pain still but accepting it. Life was fucking pain, after all, and he could revel in it, couldn’t he? Eli fucked harder too, and his son came deep within his own ass, and in a flash, the thing between them hollowed out. The two thrusted forward, feeling the shell crack and crumple between them–they crushed it as they drove towards one another on their knees. Jean landed the first blow, a fist across his father’s jaw, Eli sneering up at him from the floor. “Fuck boy, that’s fucking it! Fucking bring it, you fucking pig!”

Eli got a few blows in, but even he knew there was no way he could stand against the wrath he’d just unleashed. His punches only seemed to drive Jean to new heights of rage, and when he threw Eli to the floor and jumped on a femur, snapping it with just his weight, all Eli did was laugh. The pain was nothing. What was pain but a sensation? It didn’t mean anything. Nothing seemed to mean anything to him, any longer. There was him, a consciousness. There was the other, the house itself. He served the house, and his son would too. Jean tore down his father’s pants and raped his hole, Eli urging him on, demanding he fuck him harder, be as brutal he could be, that he make his hole bleed. Jean was only too happy to comply, and as he fucked, the rage lost…focus. The anger he felt towards his father seemed to expand into a general fury at everything. He came again, struggled to standing, giddy with excitement, cock and hands rusty with blood, and saw that he meek thing he’d been had appeared there, on the other side of the glass.

He wanted to kill it. He wanted it to die, more than anything. He stomped over towards it, ready to choke it’s breath and snap it’s little neck, when his own, newly formed reflection barrelled into him, and pushed him up against the wall. “You belong to us now–you want to hurt someone? Hurt me.”

Eli watched his son and his double wrestle on the ground, biting and kissing and punching and sucking and fucking. He couldn’t move, not with his leg busted, or he’d have joined in. A figure stepped in his view, however–he looked up at himself–a new version. His uniform was no longer immaculately pressed, but looked well worn. His leather pants were now chaps, his coat a thick biker jacket, grey beard wild with a lank ponytail hanging past his neck. “Gonna have tah be a bit rough, tah match that fuck,” it said, looming over him. “Pity, I liked ya.”

The reflection planted a boot on Eli’s neck, and he bent over, stroking him off. He couldn’t breathe (or could he) but right before he passed out, he felt his cock explode, and his his boot collapsed through the neck it had been pressing down on. “Hey, you fuckin’ pigs! Daddy wants tah play too,” he said, and joined the merry brawl.

A Home of Mirrors (Part 5)

***WARNING: Still substantial violence and abuse.

“Was that thing really me?” Eli asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Home of Mirrors (Part 4)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Home of Mirrors (Part 2)

Eli Billings enjoyed power. He enjoyed being important. Wealth and privilege and status all mattered to him. Yet, his entire life, he’d been very careful to keep himself grounded as best he could. Perhaps it was watching his wife succumb to cancer which had planted that reluctance within him, but whatever it was, he was prone to a certain restrained stoicism. He enjoyed his life, but looked down on the hedonists he encountered among the wealthy. He saw the purpose in being a strong leader, but detested those who abused with their power. He imagined he was a good person, for resisting these temptations, for trying to instill these values in his sons.

But that’s not what he saw in the mirror, as he walked forward. That wasn’t the person which was facing him now, smoking that expensive, elegant cuban cigar. Those weren’t his eyes. His feet drew him closer to the mirror now, close enough that, looking forward, he lost the frame. It was no longer a mirror, it wasn’t even a window–as far as he could tell, the room simply doubled in size, and there was nothing separating him from his doppelganger. When the thing reached out and brushed his cheek, he flinched slightly, and it laughed. “I’ve been looking forward to this, you know. To finally bringing you to heel.”

The slap surprised him, and sent him stumbling a step or two to the side. He felt his stinging, bearded cheek, confused, and looked at his doppelganger adjust the leather gloves which had appeared on his hands, the air filled with a fine layer of smoke. “This isn’t real. This can’t be real…” he muttered, turned, and started for the door, but his reflection moved out of the mirror and tackled him, throwing them both to the ground. Leather gloves circled his throat, and he could feel the air in his throat cutting off, looking at his own face leering over him. He knew that look, from his own heart, that maniacal glee, drool running from his smiling mouth around that thick cigar.

“Oh, to just choke you out and be done with you,” he said, grip tightening a moment, watching Eli’s mouth gasp noiselessly, and then he released his hold. Eli coughed and gagged, as his double rolled him over on the carpet, grabbed the back of his suit pants and underwear and tugged them down, exposing his ass, kneading it with his gloved hands. “Still, if you go, I go–and I’m not planning on going anywhere, any time soon.” Eli tried to crawl out from under him, but he grabbed his balls and tugged, hard, making Eli cry out. “These, I can take, if you want. I’ll still have mine, no matter what happens to yours. Now take it like the man you never could be, Eli, fucking take it.”

He heard the sound of his double’s fly being opened, a bit of spit, and then he was shoving his own cock into Eli’s ass, and he was trying to crawl away again–but each time he did that hand would appear around his balls, and tug him back into position, until he stopped struggling entirely, and just went…limp, hoping it would be over quicker that way.

“Yeah, that’s it, you fucking loser–give up,” the thing fucking him said around the cigar. He could feel it’s heat, an inch from the back of his neck, and his body…he felt strange. Numb, in one way, and invigorated in another. As he lost sensation around his body, he found it was being replaced by something else. He could…feel his cock in a tight, virgin hole, feel hot smoke deep in his lungs, feel his body sweating in his luxurious suit. His consciousness was expanding, filling both of his selves. He felt the pain in his ass, but also the rush of violating it. The pleasure at being in control suffusing his entire body. He clamped his teeth into the cigar, gnawing at the leaf, tearing at his own clothes, wanting to see his own flesh, wanting to feel his own nails raking across his back, wanting to feel them close around his own neck, wanting to violate and be violated, no longer certain who, or what, he even was, as he finally came.

He was still fucking that ass, but he couldn’t feel it inside him anymore. There was a body beneath him, but as he rammed his exploding cock inside it, he felt, and heard, it breaking and snapping under his weight, like a glass husk. Eli put one of his gloved hands on the back of the things head, pressed down, sucking in smoke, and watched his own head cave in, and he laughed. Unable to contain the immense glee at being free, at last, he started tearing apart that thing he’d been, until it was just scraps and shiny dust dissolving into the air, floating through his smoke to the mirror, where he could see his reflection was back…along with a second version of him. That old, weak failure he’d been, rematerializing on the other side. It screamed, soundlessly, one hand thumping against the mirrored barrier, as his new reflection got up, grabbed the pig by the neck and dragged it into the room to be raped again, and Eli watched.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t look away, it was that he no longer wanted to. He wanted to watch this–there were few things that could get him harder than a nice, brutal rape. His cock was hard again, and he stroked off again after a few minutes, and then left the two mirror beings to their play. He found The Agent on the porch–he seemed unsurprised that Eli was smoking, nor question the sudden appearance of his gloves. “I think the place is perfect for me and my boys. Where do I sign?”

They went through the paperwork inside, and while Eli looked over the contract, The agent checked in with his real client–the house was very pleased. “I believe you owe me a down payment?” the agent said. The house bristled at the mention, but he heard a soft crack in another room. A small office–one of the mirrored walls had broken, and a shard had fallen to the floor. The hole in the mirror was already closing back up, like a wound. The Agent collected the shard in a velvet cloth, and then closed the deal with Eli.