Tag: abuse

How long has he been under? Not sure at this point, but probably close to three weeks. Picked him up as a baseball game was letting out–he was with a couple of friends, so I had to wait until they split up, so I could get close to him, chat him up a bit, walk with him, guiding him in circles around town for a few hours, sinking him deeper and deeper into himself and under my control until he wasn’t even really there anymore. Just a new toy for me to have some fun with.

Been playing around with him quite a bit, actually, bringing bits of that old him to the surface and sanding them down a bit, tweaking memories here and there, switching a few things around for him. Sure. I’ve fucked him–you gotta try it a couple of times before you commit, you know? And he’s sweet, both his ass and his mouth, but I’m not really looking for sweet–you remember Faggy? Toy I just got rid of? He was sweet. No, something rough this time around. Something I can really sink my fists into.

No, no marks on him yet, that’s true. That’s because punching a fucking doll isn’t much fun, and sure as hell doesn’t turn me on. That’s not to say he hasn’t been having some painful experiences lately, just to open up his mind to the pleasure he’s going to be receiving from me here soon. No, when I wake him up? The first time I hit him? He’s going to be assaulted by so many damn feelings, he won’t know what to do, but if I did my job right, he’ll ask for another one. Because he’ll want more, even if he doesn’t really understand why. Even though, deep down, he just wants it all to stop. 

Think of tonight as a trial run–I even got something to celebrate. Since I found him at a baseball game, I know he’s a fan. But I doubt he knows how versatile of a tool it really is. Once his face is good and bloodied with it, then I’ll ram it up his hole, and we can start getting to the real fun, how does that sound? Alright Bruise, on the count of three, you’ll wake up, just like we discussed. Got it? Good. Alright, one…two…three…  

Dale’s Story (Part 9 – Finale)

Thank you all for the input over the last month, this has been a lot of fun to do again! I’ll probably take a break on this for a little while, and go back to just photo captions for a bit (look for them on Wednesdays, Saturdays and Sundays). Here’s the finale, which is option #3 with a twist of #2 for all of you desperate pups out there.

His dad did look rather lonely, nursing that beer over there all by himself, looking around at the bar as more and more men succumbed to the new reality slowly taking them all over, exuded by the stranger…or the mayor, right? Dale looked over at the old man, shoving pipe smoke down George’s throat at the bar, and wondered how he could have not recognized him all this time. The damn town mayor! What in the hell was wrong with him, that he’d forget something like that? Oh well, it wasn’t like his head was screwed on too tight when it came to anything that wasn’t food and cars, so he’d make do.

The two young men, Jack and Terry, were still licking him clean, and he started tweaking their brains a bit, a little at a time, pulling and unraveling a few strings at a time, making sure they knew what was happening, but also knowing there was nothing they could do to fight it. Soon enough, they actually kind of liked it–the idea of a man having total control over them, especially someone like Dale. A big man…a father figure, even. Someone they could respect. Someone they could serve, perhaps.

The mayor gave him a funny look, and then shifted his attention to the man who, yesterday, had been Dale’s father. He’d gone to pot a bit since his wife’s death a few years ago, putting on a spare tire, and getting a bit too attached to the beer and whisky. As dale watched, his gut expanded into a firm, hard ball belly, his shirt disappearing, revealing skin coated with hair. His beard filled in but remained a bit scraggly, his nose growing red and bulbous from a few breaks, scars from brawls due to his mean streak, a real roughneck, as rough as they come. A denim vest covered with biker patches and regalia appeared on his shoulders, some well worn chaps over his jeans–Bubba, as everyone called him, knocked back another shot of whisky, stood up, swayed a moment, then stomped his way over to where Dale was sitting with the two young men, and he definitely liked what he saw, liked it even better when Bubba lit a cigar, leaned over and fed Dale a deep lungful of smoke while his two boys went to town on Dale.

Yeah, they were going to be Bubba’s boys for sure, not that the rest of the town couldn’t have a piece of either one whenever they felt like it. He looked down, and saw them changing under the stranger’s gaze. Jack first, his body bulking up with a muscle and fat, a bushy goatee around his mouth, body covered with scars, sores, welts and bruises, but that’s just normal for a punching bag fag like him. He’d grown up taking everything Bubba had felt he deserved, and Bubba thought he’d deserved a whole damn lot–thankfully, the boy’d grown to like it well enough, and generally was happy enough to let anyone abuse him as long as he got a fuck out of it in the end. Bubba tapped him on the head, and Jack looked up, mouth open, letting Bubba drop a cinder in his mouth to swallow, and then he went back to licking Dale’s chest, his tongue leaving a trail of sodden ash wherever it went.

Next came Terry, or Terrier, as everyone called him. A simple boy, he hadn’t really been up to being a man, so Bubba had trained him to be a pup instead. He was smaller than his brother Jack, more lithe and muscular, and he dropped down onto all fours, wagging the buttplug tail in his ass to and fro, as he scrambled under the table, buried his nose into Dale’s fat and started working on his cock, lapping up Dale’s cum as he moaned, and Bubba hauled out his own cock and fed it to Dale’s hungry mouth, and he looked again at the stranger, whose eyes were on him now.

He could feel his awareness dulling, his memories of the last twenty four hours dimming and dulling away into this new sense of normal. He saw Farmer Mick burst into the bar, hauling his massive pig behind him on a leash, coated with mud, and it was just…normal. His sucking Bubba’s cock was normal too, of course. He’d always had a thing for rough types like him, and Bubba had always liked pounding his big, fat ass into the ground, whenever he came in to get a tuneup for his harley. Course, Dale did have a bit of a reputation to uphold–he couldn’t just go around letting the whole town think his fat ass was open to just any fucker who wanted it, but he did have a soft spot for the big lug, he had to admit it. “Ya know Bubba,” Dale said, when he pulled away for a moment, “How ‘bout you ‘n yer boys, ‘n me ‘n mah boys, all spend a nice long night at mah place tahnight?”

“Heh, I had a date with a few biker buds of mine, but I wouldn’t pass up a chance at yer big ass, the way I’m feelin’ tonight,” Bubba growled down at him, and they shared some more smoke, before Bubba hauled him up out of the chair. Dale gave a whistle, and his two boys came over, and all six of them headed off into the night, happy denizens of the new town, where they lived happily ever after, in one life or another.

Yeah, it wasn’t…quite what I’d planned I suppose, when I said I wanted to help my dad get a date. I never really could figure out why mom decided to leave, exactly–I’d always gotten along great with him. I mean, sure, he had a bit of a temper at times, but mostly he just seemed, well, lonely. He never showed much interest in dating, and I was planning on leaving for college at the end of the summer–I wanted him to have someone he could rely on while I was away, you know?

The fortune teller at the fair…I don’t know why I told her all about us, all about my dad’s problems, and how worried I was about him. The old woman had just given me a smirk, and odd look, and said that the next morning my wish would be granted. I didn’t quite understand what she meant by that, but I went home a while later, and my dad was still up, watching TV. I was tired, but joined him for a beer, and then six beers, and then…

Well, then I woke up with my head pounding, and my dad’s arms wrapped around me, tight. And fuck, it felt good, you know? I pushed back into him, unable to help myself, his cock hardening and he slipped it inside me again, nibbling at my ear, like it was perfectly normal for him to be fucking his own son. I was more than a bit freaked out, but the damn fair had disappeared like it had never existed…and before too long, I started to understand why my mom had left my dad in the first place.

That temper of his? In the bedroom, he was in charge, whether I liked it or not. I mean, I did like it, surprisingly enough, and when he saw how…compliant I was with him, suddenly that domination was creeping into the rest of our relationship too. We fought about me going to college–he ripped up my acceptance forms, I tried to leave, he shoved me up against the wall and raped my ass in just the right damn way…and so I stayed. I can’t just leave my dad all alone after all, right? Besides, this hole of mine has turned into quite a money maker online, so I think everything worked out alright in the end, don’t you?

Source: opiumdaze

The Trophy (Part 2)

***WARNING*** Abuse, rape, and physical mutilation ahead.

You have to start off by destroying their pride, you see.

You have to figure out what, more than anything else in the world, they treasure–that thing about them they love more than anything else, that thing where they store their idea of themselves. If you aren’t very experienced, you might need to rely on trial and error, though for most guys, it’s pretty obvious, I suppose. Got yourself a muscle man? Chain him up immobile for a few months with a catheter, feed him some gainer shakes until he’s good and plump, along with his own piss–ruin his body, and you can ruin his spirit faster than anything else. He’ll do anything you want so long as you don’t make him eat anymore. But for some guys, it can be as simple as a good, cleanly shaved head.

This one, it was so fucking obvious. His hair was the cleanest thing about him, primped and curled and flowing down past his shoulders. Sure, it looked nice, and there’s nothing wrong with a guy who wants to look pretty–everyone wants people to think they’re pretty, at the end of the day. But you want to break someone like this? Make them ugly. Of course, you can’t *just* shave their head. I coddled him for a few days, got him feeling better, gave him a bit of hope as his wounds were healing. He thought, just like a good beta, if he could perform submission well enough, I might just let him go. Then, when I couldn’t stand his false simpering anymore, I drugged him, hauled him out of the cell in my basement where he’d been staying, and bound him up naked–leaving just one arm free. I laid out the tools of his torture, while he slept–scissors and an electric razor, both within his reach, and then I waited for him to wake up, so I could explain the rules to him.

The game was simple enough–he had a choice to make. Either he could cut his own hair and shave himself bald, or he could take his punishment, whatever that might be. I remained vague, on that last part, of course. In his mind, he knew what I might be capable of, but a man’s vanity can be much stronger than good reason. He laughed, he thought this was ridiculous. Didn’t I know how long it takes to grow out hair like this? In truth, this was a test to see if I had guessed right. Any normal pragmatist would, perhaps, balk at shaving their head, but they would all do it, in the end. But him? No, his hair was the one thing about him which, in his mind, redeemed the rest of his failed life. Without his locks, what even was he anymore? I told him he had half an hour to complete the task–he didn’t even pick up the scissors once. So I bound his arm back down, and set up his punishment.

I hooked his cock up to a milker, put electrodes on his sack shoved a plug in his ass designed to vibrate against his prostrate, turned them both on, and sat back, to watch. He shivered at first, until the first load exploded out of him, and into the milker, which pulled out and dribbled into a quart mason jar, which I had set in his vision. He turned to me, and asked me how long this would take, and I informed him he could return to the cell when he had filled the jar. This, he thought, was ludicrous–a fucking quart of cum? I, however, was completely serious, and knew how long it would likely take–I kept him in that chair for six days straight, feeding him, giving him only two breaks a day, to shit and piss in a bucket under the chair, before hooking him back up. By the end, his cock was red and inflamed, he couldn’t even speak, having lost his voice after all the screaming, and I returned him to the cell to think about it for several days, before I dragged him back out, tied him down, and gave him the same choice: cut your hair, or take your punishment.

He actually picked up the scissors, that time, hands trembling, but he couldn’t do it. Still, progress. I knocked him out again, and hooked him up to a fucking machine–pounding his hole relentlessly until he could take my arm to the shoulder. As a relative virgin, his was…fairly tight–it took two days of work before he finally did it, and I locked him back up. At this point, I was sure he was imagining that this abuse was the worst I could do, the furthest I could go. I could wreck him, certainly, but I couldn’t destroy him. As expected, he again refused to cut his hair, certain he could take anything I might throw at him–but I had anticipated this, and so I took the thumb and index fingers from his left hand. He screamed for days, unable to believe what had just happened to him, what I had just done. This time, I let him stay in the cell with his ruined hand for close to a month, allowed him to heal slowly, without any relief from the pain. Then, I put him back in the chair.

He was terrified, but I told him that, this time, if he still refused, he could take his punishment and I would release him. However, I told him what that punishment would be. I would place a rubberband around his balls every ten minutes he failed to have his head completely shaven, and at an hour, I would take his nuts. He picked up the scissors before I even started the timer, and was hacking away at his locks. I got three bands on him, the pain and terror of his balls dying making his hand shake so much he had trouble finishing the job, but he made it, sobbing, and when I cut the bands, he shot a load from the sensation alone. I told him I was proud of him, and threw him back in his cell.

The Trophy (Part 1)

You know how it is: sometimes all you really want is a project. A big project, something you can really sink your teeth into, something that takes work, something big enough to give you that special kind of frustration, a puzzle to crack, a man to break. You can’t find someone like that in a leather bar–hell, you can’t find someone like that at any kind of gay bar. No, that’s too easy, when I get in one of those moods, when I start feeling restless, when every guy I bring home and keep around for a few days, perverting them further, just doesn’t do shit for me, not really. This is one of those times–so I figure, why not go on a hunt?

I can’t very well go out in my usual gear of course–the rubber tanks and leather chaps tend to scare off the prey, if they think they can smell a faggot. Still, getting dressed up for a hunt means considering what kind of prey I’m looking for, and also what’s in season. If it was summer, a bar by the beach would be ripe with muscle alphas ripe for the picking, but with the clouds rolling in and fall turning to winter, that wouldn’t be easy–or honestly, very desirable. No, I was feeling like something…something a bit rougher. Someone who might try and bite back. Flannel, I think. Yeah, but not a vest–don’t want my gut hanging out, as fun as that is. Flannel shirt, a bit worn and grungy, my biker vest over it. Jeans–not the best pair. They don’t fit quite right, and they’re still muddy from that night in the park a few days back with Rick. Still, if I’m straight acting they’re perfect. Finish the look with some boots, roll up the sleeves and show off my burly, hairy forearms, a ballcap, cigars of course, and I’m out the door into the early, already darkening evening. I’ll take the truck–play the part, and go for a drive.

I head out of town, through the suburbs and out onto the highway, skip a few exits and hop off when I spot a dive bar that seems busy. It’s a friday, the guys are all off work and celebrating–I slip in among the rowdy crowd like I know them, pick up a beer from the overwhelmed barkeep, and take a spot at the bar, where I can survey most of the room, and see how things develop. I nurse my first draft for a couple of hours, and start narrowing down the possibilities. It’s good, fertile. Any number of these guys would be great, but what I want is a challenge. Not necessarily the leader–if the leader disappears, people will ask questions after all. But the betas, the ones fighting for rank–those are who I watched, waiting for one of them to speak to me more than the others…and finally, it happened during the second fight of the night.

Two betas. One of them muscled, but short. He was intriguing, but just didn’t seem to give me much inspiration. The other, however, he was lovely. Tall, probably six foot two–not quite as tall as me, but close. Not muscled exactly, but more…toned. Not a gym toned–a work toned, a lower middle class hunger toned. He had this…lovely hair–long and curly, a dark blonde, which fell past his shoulders. I could see tattoos running up his arms, and the white tee he was wearing looked none to clean–the same with his jeans. He was also staggering drunk, which is really the only reason the short bearish one ended up winning, I think–yanked the guy down by the hair, got him off balance and with a sharp punch sent him tumbling into a table, overturning it. The crowd threw him out, but it was the tantrum he threw that sealed the deal for me–the rage, the anger, the pride. Just what I was looking for. I excused myself–no one even noticed that I’d been there, and followed him out into the parking lot, lighting a cigar as I did.

He was by one of the beat up trucks, trying to fit the key into the lock; I walked over and suggested that he not drive, as drunk as he was. That didn’t make him particularly happy, and he wheeled around, only to find himself facing me–he wasn’t too eager to lose a second fight, and he could tell he’d lose against me. Instead of throwing a punch he tried to insult me–I grabbed him by the long flowing hair and dragged him off, back away from the building, where a small stand of trees would give me some cover. He fought–but it was obvious he was proud of his hair–he didn’t dare risk ripping it out of his scalp enough to really fight me–at least until I threw him to the ground, got on top of him, and yanked down the back of his jeans.

Fuck, I needed this, so fucking bad. He fought, so I beat him to submission, breaking his nose and giving him a fat lip and two black eyes–then he gave in…kind of. He’d obviously never had someone in his back door. As soon as I forced my way in, he started hollering all over again–I had to ball up his shirt and shove it in his bloody mouth. I fucked him till I came, and then I slipped the popper bottle full of chloroform under his nose, and he was out like a light. The bar noticed nothing, as I backed my truck up to the trees, bound up my kill, threw him in the back, and headed home, ready to get to work.

Christmas III: A Brand New Stanta Claus (Part 9)

It all would have been so much easier, if anything that Joshua did to him had actually felt like a punishment. It was the first crack of the bullwhip across his back which caused Stan to jolt awake, screaming in pain from the lash, and yet, by the fifth strike, his cock was already throbbing hard and leaking. He tried to understand that reaction for a moment, but the pain was so intense, that Stan didn’t have much time to process much of anything, but he knew one thing–he deserved this. He deserved all of this, for flaunting God, for attempting to pass judgement on his fellow man, for being weak willed and giving in to the desires he’d kept locked away for so long. he deserved this, and he loved it.

After his introductory whipping, and seeing how hard his newest catch had become, Joshua decided that Stan’s pleasure should simply be another source of discomfort–he hooked his balls up to electrostimulation, and attached a milker over his cock–by the third load, he was begging for mercy, but Joshua shoved his hand inside his hole and began milking his prostate, draining him over the next several hours, until the old man was sweating, shivering and shooting completely dry loads every ten minutes, over and over again. Joshua was exhausted himself, and decided his victim had had enough for this round–he’d leave him in his cage, and in a few hours wake him up for another round. He detached the milker and locked up Santa’s cock in a chastity cage, and released the chains holding him in the air, sending him crashing to the concrete floor. Stan struggled to his hands and knees, his eyes still bright and desperate, and all he said was, “No, more.”

Not ‘No more,’ Stan wasn’t asking him to stop. He wanted him to continue. He wasn’t sure if this was because of how much he’d enjoyed it, or simply because he was terrified that if Joshua gave him a moment to recover, he would be able to free himself, but he needed more. Joshua ignored him, but Stan felt the magic welling up in him once more, pulsing from him, watching Joshua bulge further, revitalized, and felt his own body changing as well, but he didn’t understand how, until Joshua attached a leash to the collar which had appeared around his neck, and led him over to a mirror–and Stan saw his body had become covered in a riot of tattoos and piercings from foot to face–but he’d wanted them all. He’d wanted the pain, he loved it, and…and he loved inflicting it too, he loved the look on someone’s face when he was hurting them, he loved being cruel, he loved–no, no! What was he saying? This isn’t what he wanted, but looking up at Joshua, what he wanted more than anything was…was to join him. To play…with him. He focused, caught up in his erotic momentum, and the room shifted once more, and Stan and Joshua found themselves with a third member–Troy the cubslut, his first victim, the man Stan now believed he’d let off far too easily. He was chained to the St. Andrew’s cross, wondering how he’d gone from sucking off his elderly, perverse neighbor to this dank dungeon, but Stan grabbed a cat o’ nine tails from the table and began lashing him, laughing, leaking cum from his cock cage, enjoying the painful sensation of his huge cock trying to harden against the steel, and Joshua joined in with glee.

The two of them pummelled the cub for hours, and Troy enjoyed it from about the second hour on, after Stan made him Joshua’s newest subwhore and pain pig. After all those hours of denial, when Stan finally released his throbbing, heavily pierced cock from it’s cage and rammed it into the pig’s open hole, he only managed to thrust twice before he exploded, Joshua leaning over and sharing a kiss, Stan’s mouth tasting of metal and pipe smoke, and Stan knew himself now, at last, his deepest, truest self. It should scare him, he knew that, but all Stanta could do was smile with a strange glee.

It was true. He was weak. He was a sinner. He was corrupted and foul and unworthy of God’s love, just like everyone. A freak and abomination, of body, mind and spirit. But so was everyone else, whether they knew it or not. None of them was perfect, or ever would be. There was no escaping flesh or pain–in fact, both of them were the fundamental pleasures of human existence. He climbed from the basement, leaving Joshua and Troy to continue a more intimate session, made his way to the bathroom and stared at himself. At his shaved head, dotted with metal spike implanted in the bone of his skull, at the riot of bars and rings coating his wrinkled face, accented by the tattoos running up his neck and onto his cheeks. At his massively fat body, sagging over his well worn leathers, feeling the foot and a half long cock he now wielded, pierced and modded, as he locked it back in it’s cage, so his pleasure could build up again until it’s next painful release. This was him. This had always been him, he’d just been afraid of his own nature. He remembered now, back in his childhood bedroom, how he’d ripped open his friend’s pants and swallowed his cock, so…clumsy, and yet it had been the most satisfying thing he’d ever known–until his father had walked in on them both. Ever since, he’d done everything in his power to tamp down his desires, to erode the edges of himself to fit into the square society set for him, but no more. He’d been given more power than he had ever dreamed possible, and he was never going to relinquish it now–not ever. He’d punish the whole world, drag out their true selves, and he’d be there at the very center of the orgy, where he’d always wanted to be.

Case Closed (Part 3)

Walker seemed surprised by my sudden use of force, but he rolled with it, leaning in closer himself, a big, cocky grin on his face, pinning Richard in tighter at the table.

“Look, I…I don’t think…I mean, I–”

“Richard,” Walker said, “There’s nothing wrong with being gay. But there is a little something called ‘filing a false report,’ which is a crime. So I need you to tell me now–right now–if this is all some stupid game to you, because there are real victims out there who could use our help, and you’re obviously wasting our time.”

“I’m not lying!” he said, “This really happened, I know it sounds crazy, but it did!”

At this point, by detective intuition was going crazy. We had this lying pig right where we fucking wanted him, and all three of us knew it, but even then, what came out of my mouth next surprised me–hell, it surprised all of us. “Well, if it really happened,” I said, “then you’d be able to, you know, provide us with details of that night only you would know. Like, how did it feel, pig? How did it feel, getting fucked by all those cocks? How did all your frat brother’s cum taste, eh? Did you enjoy it? I bet a pig like you could use some more, right?” I had stepped closer at this point, by crotch inches from his face. I was…hard, but then again, good detective work always gets me hard…I think. He was staring right at the bulge in my black pants, unable to look away. “My eyes are up here, fucker.” He looked up at me, and the emotion there–he was terrified. Truly terrified. And that…that set me back a bit. I felt like…like maybe I was making a mistake, maybe I was…wrong about him.

“Please…please, if you aren’t…aren’t too far gone, just let me go, please…”

“No pig, you aren’t going anywhere until we get some answers from you,” Walker said, “Right Bailey?”

“R-Right…” I said, but something was wrong about all of this. “I’m…I’m gonna cool off for a bit, take a walk.”

“Sure thing, partner,” Walker said, unbuttoning the first few buttons of his white shirt, pushing up his sleeves again, showing off forearms which looked…bigger than they had, “I think Richard and I here might enjoy some private time, right Richard? In fact, I bet we can get this all sorted out by the time you get back, Bailey.”

I didn’t say anything, I just backed out the door and didn’t stop until I was out of the building entirely, but I felt better as soon as I was outside, like the air was fresher, somehow. But I did need to walk, for a bit. Walking always helps me with my cases. I started off down the city streets, and after a few blocks, I realized one thing didn’t add up. If Richard was lying, which he had to be, of course, then why report it to us? Why come all the way here and report an impossible rape? It wasn’t like he could get anything out of a stupid story like that, with curses and suddenly gay frat houses. So why tell us at all? I could only come up with two possibilities. One, the guy was just desperate for attention, all of this was some weird cry for help or something. The second, more disturbing possibility was that he was telling the truth–and for some reason, I was coming around to seriously considering that might be the case. I mean…I’d felt…different in that room, or so I’d thought. Walker seemed to have been acting strange as well. Maybe…Maybe both of us were being affected, and we didn’t even know it. But if that was the case…then I might have just left the kid in the worst possible position–alone with my partner.

I double timed it back to the precinct and up to the interrogation room where I’d left them. I’d been gone for about half an hour, and all I could hope was that I was either wrong about this, or that I wasn’t too late. I opened the door, and immediately my cock hardened in my pants at the smell, and I looked at the two of them. Richard was now handcuffed to the chair, through the back, and looked like he’d been roughed up a bit, one of his eyes started to blacken. Fucking Walker and his hot head, getting started wwithout me! My partner was sitting on the table in front of him, his fly down, cock out…and Richard had the entire thing down his throat, moaning. Walker looked up and saw me standing there, told me to get in, and without really thinking about it, I stepped inside and shut the door behind me, groping my own crotch as I did.

“Fuck,” Walker said, shoving Richard down on his shaft until he gagged, “Did you get the cigars? Can’t believe we ran the fuck out.”

Cigars? Neither of us smoked, and yet, I reached into my plastic shopping bag I was carrying–even though I couldn’t remember buying anything–and pulled out two. I walked over, handed one to Walker, got it lit for him, and then lit one for myself as well. I noticed, then, that Walker seemed…different, all of a sudden. For one thing, his head was shaven. He’d always liked his hair a bit longer, but when had he done that? I…suddenly couldn’t remember either look very clearly. He was also bigger–more muscular. His shoulders made his neck look smaller, his arms bulging from bicep to forearm, and I could see his cock was substantially larger than the one I’d glimpsed in the showers before.

“Well Bailey, we finally had ourselves a fuckin’ breakthrough!” Walker said, puffing smoke with that cocky grin on his face he makes when he figures out a clue, “Yeah, the two of us have made some very good headway, isn’t that right, Richard?”

I knew his type. They only come on Friday nights. Wealthy, but not wealthy enough for true luxury. Closeted out of the fear that coming out would jeapordize their climb up the corporate ladder. They only fuck men who they would never see in the city. They also want to fuck us out of a twisted desire they barely understand. They want to be cruel, they spend a career climbing up the backs of hard working men like us, and fucking us is just that last humiliating victory they need to feel justified. They don’t want our names, only give out aliases of their own, and they can’t look us in the eye. This one gave the name Dave–and I made him keep it.

He arrived too early in the day, fresh off work. Like many, he was still in a suit, smoking a pipe. I came later, and he was still looking. You see, some of us just can’t resist that aura–the fantasy. They just haven’t been burned enough. They see that suit, they see that money, that mid-shelf whiskey double in the glass, and they think, “Maybe he wants me, the real me.” But they don’t, and that hope, fuck, they feed on it, they fucking suck it out of us, but I’ve had enough of it, I’ve had enough of them, and I sat down at the bar next to him, and he smelled me, and he smirked. I was the one, he thought, I was the one he wanted, even though he didn’t really know why.

He introduced himself. I remained aloof. This confused him, and he pressed harder for conversation. I berated him, and as insulted as he was, he wanted me more and more. He bought me a drink and tried to drug it; I left it untouched. He bought four more doubles for himself, and got plastered. We ended up in the back of my truck, his tongue all over my body before I skull fucked him. He couldn’t get enough of me, and the whole time, I could see his confusion. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. He was supposed to string me along. He was supposed to have the reins, he was supposed to be on top, this was supposed to be about him, about his manhood, about his pride, about his need to be in control. When I ordered him to cum, with his mouth buried in my asscrack, and he stroked his cock off, he didn’t want that to happen, he hadn’t wanted any of this, and yet he’d never said no. I dropped him off at his sedan without a word.

He was back on Saturday night. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about me. He’d spent the whole day at home, mouth dry, hands shaking, horny as hell but unable to cum. He wasn’t in a suit this time, just a shirt and jeans, still smoking a pipe. I made him plead and beg in the bar, in front of everyone. I ridiculed him some more, because I enjoyed watching him want me more after every barbed insult. I got him drunker than the night before and brought him all the way home this time, to my single wide trailer, to my floor littered with beer cans, to my bed covered with sheets I haven’t changed in a year, the whole place stinking of me. As much as it disgusted him, as much as he loathed everything the place stood for, he fell into it. The sweatier and hotter we got the more of himself he lost until he was at my feet, whimpering, sucking my toes, words lost, desire at the center of his mind.

I kept him for five days. I pimped him out to my bar buddies. I made him ditch his pipe, and forced him to smoke the cheapest cigars I could buy at the reservation smoke shop. And after five days, when he reached that limit of both saturation and exhaustion, I dumped him at his car with a note. Well, really it was a to do list. Everything he had to do, if he ever wanted to see me again, if he ever wanted to taste me, if he ever wanted to smell me, if he ever wanted my cock balls deep in his hole again.

I’m sure he tried to go back. He was charismatic enough to pass off four days of missed work as a mistake, or poor judgement. But I’m also sure he dreamed about me. I’m sure he tried to jack off, over and over, but never managed to work out a load. I know he didn’t wash the clothes he’d had on, because I could still smell my musk on them when he arrived back at the bar, two months later, with nothing but a suitcase. I made him go through the list. Some of the tasks I could tell on my own–the horseshoe mustache, the fresh tattoos, the smell of him after a week without a shower. I made him tell me about quitting his job, how it had felt to flush his career down the toilet so he could taste my pits one more time. How it had felt, giving away all of his shit, just so he could live in a trailer park for the rest of his life. It was funny–he’d actually thought he’d be moving in with me, but I straightened him out on that shit real quick. No, he was moving in with Big B–he wasn’t too happy about that, Big B hadn’t been very nice to him when I loaned him out to him for a half a day–and he stormed out, and I just laughed. He came back, of course–where was he gonna go? He felt better after he sucked my cock out behind the bar, and I let him spend the night with me, on the condition he give my unwashed and unwiped asscrack a proper cleaning.

He’s settled in pretty well now, here at Louisiana Acres. Doesn’t even really remember his old name, and spending so much time with me and my filth had eroded the edges of his brain. Big B still doesn’t treat him very well–I’ll see him with a black eye on occasion, but he takes it because he knows he deserves it, and because deep down, he likes the abuse. Besides, he knows he can’t complain, or heaven forbid, leave us! If he left, he knows he’ll never get to smell me again. He knows I’ll never holler at him across the yard again, I’ll never make him crawl across the overgrown grass, and up the steps into my trailer. I’ll never let him suck on my feet or eat out my pits. He’ll never cum again, because smelling me is the only way he’ll shoot a load for the rest of his sorry life. He spends his days managing one of the smoke shops down on the road through the reservation, and his nights are spent at the bar with the rest of us. He sees the men like him come in on Friday nights, and he wants them more than anyone else. He hooks up with them often, willing to do anything they want, with the hope that some his old life might rub off on him, but they always leave him behind, laughing at him like he’d used to laugh at us, but who’s laughing now, fucker? Who’s laughing now?

Commission: Hey, Daddy

Commissioned by @hughmichelsen

Jerry’s phone started ringing in his pocket. He pulled it out, saw it was Simon, and sighed. On a Tuesday? Seriously? They both had work in the morning, and he wasn’t really in the mood for a hook up. And Simon…well, he was into some crazy stuff. He always wanted Jerry wearing his leather gear, but he’d never had much interest in the whole BDSM scene. The few pieces he had were from a halloween party a few years earlier, and he’d worn them only when Simon begged. Pain and humiliation always ended up turning his stomach more than turning him on, but they got Simon off big time. It was fun on occasion, he supposed, but he couldn’t handle it tonight. He let it go to voicemail, and went back to watching TV. Simon didn’t leave a message, but a moment later, he heard the chime of a text message. Curious, he opened it up.

>>Hey Daddy, call me I know yr horny

Jerry felt his cock start to get hard, but seriously? Daddy? He was twenty-three–a year younger than Simon–and far closer to a twink than a daddy. But damn, if he wasn’t horny all of a sudden. He reached down his sweats and started stroking his cock, reading the message again and again, unable to help himself. After a moment, another message arrived.

>>I know you’re reading these Daddy
>>Tell me about that hot cock of yours I want it in me so bad

His thumbs were frozen over the phone keyboard. He wasn’t actually thinking about replying…was he? He was hard though. Fuck, why the hell not? He slipped his cock out of his sweats–he must be horny because it seemed bigger than usual–snapped a pic and sent it Simon’s way, and added a text.

>>Hell yeah daddy’s hot

After he sent it, he blushed, realizing he’d actually called himself “Daddy.” Why was he even encouraging him in the first place?

>>I love that big dick of yrs
>>You should put it here

A pic arrived–Simon’s puckered asshole. Jerry’s earlier hesitation was forgotten–he was horny, and he could use a fuck, even if it was Simon. He redialed Simon, and after a couple of rings his friend picked up.

“Hey, Daddy,” he answered.

“Fuck…why are you calling me that?” Jerry asked, his heart pounding in his ears, “Look, whatever. You wanna come over?”

“I don’t know, daddy. What are you doing right now?”

“Don’t tease me, boy.” Jerry winced. Boy? Simon wasn’t a boy. What was he even saying?

“Heh, I can imagine you right now, lounging on the couch, smoking one of those thick big cigars of yours, drinking that whiskey you love. I can almost smell it on you over the phone.”

Now this was getting weird. Jerry wasn’t really into role play, and so he paused before he replied, taking a drag off his cigar. He was kind of drunk though–how much had he had? The fifth he’d bought earlier was about half empty–when the fuck had he drank all that? “Heh, you know what daddy likes, I’ll give you that, boy.”

“I bet you’re wearing that leather gear of yours too. Not that you wear anything that isn’t leather, right daddy?”

“Hell yeah boy, got my harness on, vest and chaps, and those big boots you like.” The words were rolling off his tongue, bypassing his head entirely, but what it the hell was he saying? He was telling the truth though, he had his boots up on the coffee table, one gloved hand wrapped around the shaft of his big cock, thinking about the boy’s ass. “Now, you comin’ over or not?”

“I bet those boots could use a shine. You want me to shine them for you, with my tongue, daddy?”

“Aww, fuck boy–you can suck on these until your tongue’s black as long as I can fuck that hole of yours.”

“I bet that harness looks good on you, cinched tight against those thick muscle of yours. I’ve never seen a daddy as built as you, especially one in his fifties. Makes you look so hot, that grey hair cropped short, your thick beard, and of course the hair all over your body. It shows off those tattoos of yours too, daddy.”

What was he talking about? Jerry was the same age as him–certainly not in his fifties. And yet, when he looked down at himself, everything Simon had described as plain as day. He ran a rough hand up his ridged abs to his slab pecs, tweaking one of his thick nipples. Inside his head, he was screaming. This was wrong, all of this was wrong. He didn’t know what was happening, but all he could do was give a low growl over the phone, “I’m tired of talkin’ boy, get your ass over here.”

Behind him, there was a knock on the door.

“I’m already here daddy, come and let me in.”

Jerry set down his phone, wondering what kind of game Simon was playing here. He took his booted feet off the table and stood up, but lost his balance, nearly falling over as tottered to one side. He couldn’t have drunk that much, could he? The world was spinning, but something else was wrong too–this body didn’t feel like his, it didn’t feel right at all. Nauseous and worried that he might throw up, he stumbled into the bathroom, but paused when he saw himself in the mirror, Muir cap on his head, his face coated with grey beard, his muscular chest heaving. If felt like two minds were trying to fit into his head at the same time. One of them, Daddy, was wondering what the hell they were doing in here, when there was some hot boypussy right outside for him to fuck, but the other, the real him (was it the real him? What was even real right now?) was trying to figure out what had happened. This wasn’t right, this wasn’t what he was supposed to look like, and yet, he looked exactly like Simon had described.

Simon. There was another, more insistent knock on the door. Simon had done something to him, but what? This was crazy, people couldn’t just…change like this! But what else could it be? That freak. He was gonna get it. Yeah, he was gonna pummel that boy good, and then plow that hole deep with his cock, fuck yeah. That’s what you get for messing with Daddy.

Growling, he stalked to the front door and flung it open. Simon stood there on the porch, shivering in the cold evening air, dressed in tight leather pants and a harness. “Fuck, what took you so long!” Simon said, “ I was waiting forever.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jerry said, grabbed Simon by the neck (fuck, did one of his hands actually reach around this boy’s whole neck?) and hauled him inside, before shoving him up against the wall, blowing a cloud of thick smoke into his face. “What the fuck did you do to me, boy?”

“Simon just stared at him, agape, “Holy fuck, it worked…it worked even better than I thought it would.”

“What worked, fucker?”

Simon smiled, “Oh come on Daddy, you don’t really wanna talk, do you? Let’s just fuck and have some fun.” He reached down and grabbed hold of Jerry’s cock. He glared at Simon, but when he plucked the cigar from his mouth and started kissing him, Jerry didn’t stop him. The boy’s mouth felt so soft and tasted sweet–he couldn’t wait to see how it felt around his cock. But this didn’t answer anything, Simon was just trying to distract him.

He pushed away from the boy and the wall, trying to get a hold of his thoughts. “No…no, first you tell me what you did. Tell me how to fix this.”

“Oh Jerry, you’re such a bore, did you know that?” Simon asked, and walked up to him, “A boring vanilla twink like all the rest, but this is such an improvement.”

“You did do something to me!”

“I wanted a daddy, and I just happened to have a hair of yours at my place for the spell. No hard feelings, Jerry, but I have a feeling you won’t mind much soon enough. In fact, once you cum in this hole of mine, the old you will be gone forever, and you’ll be my hot, rough, abusive daddy for the rest of your life.”

Jerry just stared at him, “No–no fucking way. This is insane.”

“Don’t mess with a witch, Jerry,” Simon said, turned around and bent over, “Now get over here and plow me, I need your seed.”

“You can’t just fuckin’ erase me! I have a job! People will notice I’m gone.”

“Oh the spell is much too complex to be tricked by that,” Simon said, “Once you shoot, reality will warp around you–no one will think anything’s amiss at all. Now, get over here, I’m done talking–it’s time to fuck.”

Jerry backed away, and Simon followed him across the room, laughing as he tried to get away. Finally, Jerry stumbled against the coffee table and tumbled onto the couch, and Simon leapt onto him, pinning him there, grabbing each of Jerry’s thick nipples and giving them a twist, grinding his ass against Jerry’s rigid shaft.

“You know what your problem is Daddy? You think too much. Good thing you’re just a dumb brute. Yeah, a violent, rough brute–you don’t need to think when you can solve your problems with those fists of yours.”

“No…no, fuckin’ shut up, boy!” Jerry shouted, but he could already feel the edges of his mind dulling, and in their place came a deep well of anger he’d never felt before.

“Yeah, just a stupid, muscle bound, aggressive daddy. That’s all you are now!”

“I said shut the fuck up!” Jerry screamed, grabbed Simon around the waist, sat up and threw him over his lap. He ripped open the back of Simon’s leather pants and started slamming his palm against his ass cheeks, “Don’t call me stupid! I ain’t smart, but I can still throw ya round the room if I gotta, boy! Now fuckin’ count ‘em out, bitch.”

Simon enjoyed the paddling a whole lot more than Jerry would have liked, but he’d have plenty of time to teach him some real discipline later. He finished up after twenty smacks, and he couldn’t resist anymore. He slid one thick finger into Simon’s ass, and then another one. “Oh Daddy, go on, taste that boy hole, I know you love the taste of boy butt.”

Simon crawled forward on the couch, and Jerry got down behind him, running his beard against the boy’s soft crack, probing deep with his tongue, getting the hole good and slick. When it was loose, he got up, lined the head of his cock up with the hole, and drove it in deep with one thrust. Simon groaned loudly, but Jerry’s simple mind could only focus on one thing–fucking. “Yeah, you’re gonna get it boy, this what you get for messin’ with Daddy!”

“Fuck yeah Daddy, pump me full of your seed!”

Through the fog of his mind, Jerry realized too late that Simon had tricked him into giving him exactly what he wanted. He tried to stop, but his body refused to obey him, no matter how hard he fought. His load was building and he exploded deep in Simon’s ass, and as he shot, he felt the final shreds of his old mind rip apart and scatter like ash on the wind…but that wasn’t the only thing coming apart. Looking around him, the world was bending and warping, even Simon beneath him. The spell was warping everything, and he pulled his cock free and stumbled through the mess of reality until everything finally came to rest.

Looking around, his apartment was gone. He didn’t live in an apartment anymore–he lived in a house–and he was in his basement. No, his dungeon. Yeah, his dungeon, where he trained his boys and pigs…yeah, that’s right. What had he been thinking about? He was certain there was something else he should be remembering, but he couldn’t think of what, and the sensation faded away quickly. He licked his bearded lips–a cigar, where was his cigar? He lit himself a new one from a humidor against the wall, and sighed a thick cloud of smoke.

“Oh…oh no, what the…what the fuck happened? This isn’t right…”

Jerry looked over his shoulder and saw his pig Simon standing in front of the full length mirrors that lined one side of the dungeon. He’d picked him up a few years ago–Simon had wanted to be one of his boys, but the fucker had a huge attitude problem. Jerry had decided to make him a pig instead–a hot, nasty muscle pig, and the work was showing nicely. At five foot seven, the two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle and fat made him look like a thug–and the tattoos and piercings that covered his entire body helped too. The one thing he had liked about the pig was his masochism–he’d never met someone who liked pain as much as Simon. It showed on his body, which was covered with scars from heavy floggings, his nose bulbous from multiple breakings, his eyes puffy and black. His cock was locked up tight, in a cage lined with spikes. The ultimate torture for the pig–he loved pain so much, once he started getting hard he couldn’t stop himself–he’d broken the skin plenty of times, and Jerry had to take the cage off regularly to make sure he didn’t get an infection. But now, the pig was looking at himself in horror.

“Pig, what the fuck are ya doin’ standin’ up? You forget yer fuckin’ place?” He picked up a billy club as he passed a table and smacked it across Simon’s shoulder blades hard enough to knock him to his knees.

Simon looked up at him, terrified. “Jerry! Jerry, it;s me! Something went wrong, the spell was too strong!”

The club slammed into his mouth this time, hard enough to knock a tooth loose, but the pig ought to know better than to use any name other than master. He loos good with a few teeth missing anyway–Jerry planned on getting them all replaced with gold caps before selling the pig off to a new home. Still, they’d just had a pretty long session–maybe the pig just needed a rest. Of course, he couldn’t let this dumbshit go unpunished–he grabbed the pig by the chain collar and dragged him, gagging, across the dungeon floor to the isolation cell. “I think someone needs a few days in isolation, for all this crap.”

Simon protested, but Jerry tossed him inside and locked him in. Perfect darkness and perfect silence–give him a few days of that and he’ll remember his place. Daddy Jerry admired himself in the mirror for a moment–and went upstairs. As much fun as this Pig was, he was starting to get bored–almost time to sell him off. He had a few guys looking to be trained by Daddy–maybe he’d invite a few of them over and see what they had in them. With a chuckle, he turned off the dungeon lights–he couldn’t hear Simon screaming in the darkness, and wouldn’t have cared if he could have.

Renovations (Part 3)

– July –

The clouds hovering in the high afternoon were so dark as to almost belong to the night. Carl, feeling restless, was in the living room looking out the window at the thunderstorm building overhead, annoyed that the cloud cover wasn’t actually cooling down the house at all, and the humidity was making everything feel even stickier than usual. He reached behind him and gave his damp asscrack a deep scratch and belched a bit, before taking another drag off his cigar which he had resting in an ashtray on the windowsill.

Around the fourth, the summer monsoons had started just in time to dampen all of the firework displays in the area, and the refreshing rain after two months dry was quickly displaced by fears of flash floods and lightning strikes. This summer, it seems, was not one for anything done halfway. Carl gave his cock a rub, reaching under his gut to reach it, but he wasn’t even horny. He felt…he felt like he had forgotten something, misplaced it, but he’d misplaced it so long ago now that he couldn’t even remember what it was, only that it was important. When Bud was around, he never really had a chance to do much about the feeling, because Bud usually kept him occupied with food, booze or sex, not that he minded, but when he was alone for these brief moments, when Bud ran to the store or out for take out, Carl would feel uneasy on the couch, and end up wandering the living room or the rest of the house, unsure of what he was doing.

He walked into the kitchen, wondering if he should just eat something. Food had become his filler over the past month–if he had nothing else to do, he could always eat, and he loved it. His gut had gone from what he’d thought of as huge at the beginning into a true apron. Two weeks ago was the last time he could remember being able to see his cock, and over the last few days in particular it was becoming a bit too much effort to jack off even, and he usually had to beg Bud to play with his cock for him when they were fucking, something Bud mocked him for ceaselessly, but he’d usually do it if he pleaded enough. Still, he wasn’t hungry, and he foraged through the fridge and pantry, grazing a few chips and some bits of candy here and there, but he wasn’t satisfied.

He walked back into the living room and as he did he passed by the staircase, and came up short. He couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d gone upstairs. He and Bud had fucked in his bedroom once or twice a while back, but…but hell, he hadn’t slept in his own bed in almost a month. In fact, it felt more like that was Bud’s room, to him now, but that wasn’t right. It was his house after all, not Bud’s, but he was having a hard time suddenly imagining what it might be like living alone. He was uncertain when exactly Bud had moved into his house, but unofficially he was Carl’s roommate–well, his boyfriend really, he might as well just admit it.. First he was just staying over on occasion, bringing in more and more of his things as he did, slowly filling up the house, and then he simply never left again one day, sleeping in Carl’s old master bedroom while Carl slept on the couch most nights, passing out after drinking buckets of cheap beer, and usually after several hours of Bud using him however he wanted.

Carl grabbed the banister and started hauling himself upstairs, but it ended up taking more effort than he’d expected. How heavy was he now, anyway? He can’t remember the last time he’d weighed himself, but at his last doctor visit, he’d been 180 pounds or so. He certainly wasn’t that small anymore, and if he had to guess, he’d put himself around 250 or so, right? The truth was that he simply didn’t know. He was just bigger. He knew there was a scale in the bathroom, under the sink, and as he rested halfway up the flight of stairs, listening to another grumble of thunder outside, he started to feel anxious, and he had to fight off a full scale panic. He had no idea what had triggered it, but he took deep inhales off his cigar for a minute to calm down, and then resumed his climb to the second floor, finally reaching the top in several minutes, when it used to take him ten seconds flat.

The hallway was littered with Bud’s clothes, and Carl took a moment to smell the stale, humid air, feeling his cock shiver at the musk. It smelled like home, it smelled like him even. He lifted his arm up and took a deep smell of himself, and realized his passing thought was true–he and Bud did smell the same, that same scent of heavy musk and stale beer which had so attracted him to him at first…hadn’t it? Or had he thought it was disgusting? It seemed so fuzzy now, and it didn’t really matter. Still, he should probably get some clothes of his own, because he’d simply been wearing all of Bud’s cast offs and none of them were in particularly good shape, and he was so fat that many didn’t even fit. He was wearing a pair of clammy, jersey boxers stretched tight over his thighs and ass, and the wifebeater he had was stained with cigar ash, food and sweat, with one hole in the breast large enough that his moob tended to hang out of it if he did nothing.

He went into the upstairs bathroom, and the place was filthy, and stank of piss and shit. The shower was still in pieces, but he found it hard to care. If he’d already gone this long without a shower, what harm was there in going even longer? he obviously didn’t need them. He paused at the sink and looked himself over in the mirror, a bit disgusted by himself. His hairline had receded back past the crown of his head, and the majority of his hair was now grey. He looked older than Bud now even, and the mustache didn’t really help. At Bud’s insistence he had started growing out a horseshoe around his mouth, and the white hairs on his lip were already staining yellow with smoke. He looked old, and he looked tired. What had gone so wrong? Shaking his head, he dug around under the sink and found the scale, turned it on and stepped on it. He couldn’t read the number past his gut, so he had to step back off it quickly before the number disappeared, and he couldn’t believe his eyes the first time, so he did it again, and then again.

“Three hundred and sixty-nine?” he said to himself. “Three hundred and sixty nine pounds?”

He managed to get the scale up off the floor, figuring it had to be calibrated wrong, or measuring kilograms, or something. That couldn’t be right, it just couldn’t be. He threw the scale back under the sink and left the bathroom, sucking on his cigar nervously, but rather than go back downstairs, he went down the hall towards Bud’s room, but as he did he passed by a room he hadn’t used in weeks. He couldn’t even remember what it was for, actually. He opened the door, and felt it coming back to him–it was his office.

About a month ago, Bud had told him he was going to paint it over a few days, and suggested Carl just take a brief vacation from work. Carl hadn’t really protested, because it had been really hard for him to get much of anything done, but he’d completely forgotten about it, and it looked like Bud had too. The furniture was all shoved into the middle of the room, arranged so he couldn’t even get to the computer, which was unplugged, and while tarp was laid out and the walls taped, nothing had been painted, aside for one wall of primer. But his work, his job, his clients–he’d been awol for almost an entire month. He’d had deadlines, consultations…what had he done? What had he been doing?

He felt like he was going to throw up, and the panic which had hammered into him suddenly on the stairs minutes before rammed into him again. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. He was fucked–just absolutely fucked. All of his credibility, all of his customer base–if it hadn’t evaporated yet, he would never be able to salvage this. A computer meltdown? An illness? He didn’t have an excuse, he couldn’t think of anything to even say, and all he wanted to do was gorge and drink himself into a stupor, and beg Bud to fuck him when he got home. That wasn’t a solution though, that was the problem. This had all started with these damn renovations, this had all started with Bud. The anger that hit next was so unexpected, that when he punched the wall and his hand disappeared into the plaster, he just stared at it for a moment, and then pulled it out of the hole he’d made, and stared at his bloody knuckles, and then punched the wall again, and then he marched into Bud’s room, and started hurling the things he’d brought with him out the window and onto the front lawn, where it had just started to rain.

“You fucker!” he shouted into the storm, “You ruined my fucking life!”

Bud drove up in his truck and parked on the sidewalk, just in time to see a heap of clothes fly from the bedroom window and fall with the rain onto the walk and the lawn, and he got out and walked up underneath the window, and shouted up, “Carl, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Fuck you!” Carl shouted down, “Fucking–fuck!” He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t even look at him, and he grabbed a glass ashtray and chucked it at Bud’s head. He dodged to the side, and the ashtray struck the lawn and stuck in the ground, like a coin on it’s side, the wet, sludgy ash clumping on the grass. “Fuck!”

Bud went up to the front door, and Carl realized he could get into the house, and he knew he had to get down there and lock the door, but this fucking body, this shitty fat fucking body couldn’t do anything. He got to the top of the stairs as Bud got to the bottom, and they started at each other for a moment, Carl huffing and red in the face. “Carl, what the fuck are you doing,” Bud asked.

“You…I don’t…” Carl said, trying to unravel the bundle of emotions and humiliation in his chest enough to force out the words he suddenly couldn’t formulate. “You…you did something. You fucked up my whole life!” Carl shouted. “What the fuck did you do to me? I weigh…I weight, three hundred and seventy pounds, Bud. I weighed one hundred and eighty when I hired you. Where in the fuck…how in the fuck did I gain three hundred pounds in two months? How in the fuck Bud?”

“A hundred eighty? Are you fucking with my Carl?” Bud said, “You’ve been a fucking fatass since the day we met! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Carl just stared at him. He’d expected denial, he’d expected…he didn’t know what he’d expected, but not that.

Bud pressed the silence, “Get out there, and pick up my fucking clothes, you fucking nutter.”

“No,” Carl said, “I want you out. I want you out of my fucking house. I want you out of my room, I want you to leave and never fucking come back, I never want to see you again.”

“You don’t fucking mean–”

“Yes I fucking mean it! Don’t fucking try and tell me what I fucking think!” Carl shouted, spit flying down the stairs, and then he was crying, and he couldn’t stop. He’d run out of anger, and he just collapsed into the top step, and when Bud tried to pull him close, he lashed out, hitting at him, but Bud just shoved his arms down to his sides, and then his head was against Bud’s familiar chest and he was sobbing, and he didn’t even know why anymore, he couldn’t even remember.

Bud didn’t let go, he just held him close as Carl sobbed, letting it out, and waited it out, waited for him to exhaust himself, and then he asked him what had happened, and Carl told him what he’d done, and how he’d been feeling. The restlessness, the forgetful feeling that had been haunting him, the anxiety and panic. How he’s weighed himself, and the unbelievable result, his office, his work neglected, and when he finished his story, Bud just pulled him closer, and said, “God, you’re such a fuckup.”

Carl had bared his heart to Bud for a moment, and that single phrase was enough to cut him even deeper than he could immediately grasp. He couldn’t even speak.

“You’ve always been a fuckup Carl, you know that. You should have never tried to do all of this without me. Running a business, are you fucking with me? Of course it was going to turn out like this, you just aren’t capable, Carl.”

“I…I was doing fine before…before…”

“No you weren’t,” Bud said, “This house was falling apart. Hell, I’ve just barely been able to get it put back together, but you were living in a fucking sty, bro. You were a mess! You can’t even work a computer, much less run a business.”

“I did to have a business! It was…it was…” Carl said, but he couldn’t quite figure out what he had been doing, “It was design…design something.”

“Don’t lie to me Carl.”

“No, no it–”

“Carl,” Bud said, pulling away so he could look him in the eye, “You’re my brother Carl, you’re my brother, and I love you, but you gotta stop this. You have to stop living in these fucking fantasies. You have to face the fact that you’re in way over your head. You have to trust me, and you have to let me help you.”

“But…but my work…my fucking life…” Carl said.

“You don’t have a fucking life, Carl. You fucking live on my couch!”

“It’s my fucking couch! This is my fucking house, and I fucking want you out!”

Carl started beating Bud back, and frustrated, Bud grabbed Carl around the neck and pushed him down, shoving him against the hallway floor, looming over him. “Not anymore, you fucked this all up Carl, you fucked it up–you. You ruined yourself, you did all of this. You fucking need me, you fucking pig, you’re fucking worthless.”

Carl still fought him, and Bud released him, and thought for a moment, and then got up and went into the office. Carl saw where he was going, and fought himself back up to standing, and hurried after him, pushing through the doorway in time to see Bud grab the desktop monitor, and hurl out the open window and into the back yard, where he heard it smash to bits in the rain. “No!” Carl said, but while he tried to stop him, Bud shoved him back against the wall, grabbed the computer tower, and chucked that out too, and Carl just slumped to the carpet and sobbed.

“You made me do that, Carl!” Bud said, standing over him, “You made me do that, you fucking piece of shit, you made me smash my own fucking computer!”

“You’re…you’re a…” Carl started to say, but he just sobbed, not at all certain what to believe, and Carl knelt down and wiped his tears from a cheek, Carl flinching away, and when Bud kissed him he didn’t resist, and when Bud started kneading his heavy, sweaty moobs, he moaned and thrust his chest up, closer to him, his cock hard against the bottom of his fat. He let Carl fuck his face against the wall, let him ram his cock hard against him, slamming the back of his head into the wall roughly, neither of them speaking, but the horniness was overwhelming him again, and when Bud grabbed him by the hand and pushed him down the hall into the bedroom, Carl went, discarding Bud’s used boxers as he walked, bending over the side of the bed like Bud liked, spreading his legs apart, giving him his ass, and Bud took it, he took it raw, and it hurt like that first time, but Carl, for some reason, he knew he deserved it, and he heard himself say as Bud fucking him, “I’m sorry, Bud, I’m sorry…” over and over, but Bud didn’t say anything back.

He finished with a grunt and pulled out of Carl’s and then said, “Get out–fucking get out of my room, you fat piece of shit,” and Carl did. He left, suddenly certain that he had been in the wrong in all of this, but not entirely sure why he felt that way. Crying, he went downstairs, and with his hands shaking, lit a cigar and chugged a beer. Bud had done so much for him, hadn’t he? And…and he’d just…what had he done? He started out in horror at the piles of crap he’d thrown into the yard, and rushed out, picking up everything that the high wind hadn’t swept off down the street. He wanted to dry the wet clothes, but the washer and dryer had been broken for weeks now, and so he hung them up around the living room and kitchen, and the he looked out the sliding glass door at the shattered computer, and couldn’t even recall why it had been so important to him, and drank himself to sleep on the couch.

He woke up with a hangover more severe than usual, but he wasn’t sure if that was because he could still clearly recall the argument from the night before in all of its detail, but when he thought about it now, he couldn’t believe what he’d done. What in the world had possessed him to behave like that in front of Bud? He sat up on the couch, and spotted an unopened beer on the coffee table, and chugged it back, trying to chase the feeling of horror away, and it was only after he’d chucked the empty can away across the room that he noticed the tattoos, and he just stared down at his arms and gawked for a moment.

They were both covered in full sleeves, and getting a closer look at them, he saw that his left arm was done in a smoke motif, littered with cigars and ashtrays, and his right arm looked more like some sort of liquid pouring down all the way to the top of his wrist, and he saw that on his shoulder he had a huge beer can pouring it down his entire arm, and he didn’t even know how to feel about it. On one level, shouldn’t he feel ashamed? But why? He did love cigars, and he did love beer, right? On his gut he saw something else written in thick, black letters, and he got up and went to the mirror, and saw written in bold lettering, “FAT, DUMB, LAZY and PROUD.”

He laughed, looking at it, but it was true–he was proud of it, wasn’t he? He rubbed his gut, feeling how big it was, and he really did love it. Why had he been so freaked out by the weight last night? There was nothing wrong with being this big, why should he fucking worry about what other people might think, so long as he liked it? Well, he did care what Bud thought–he cared what Bud thought about him a lot, he realized, and the shame of how he’d acted threatened to overwhelm him again. He had to do something to make up for how he’d acted, he had to…he didn’t know.

He lit his first cigar of the day and thought about getting something to eat, but he really wasn’t hungry. Instead he went around the room and checked on Bud’s stuff that he’d recovered the night before, seeing how it was coming along. The clothes were still pretty wet, but nothing had been broken or destroyed at least. He finished his inspection, and then tried to figure out what to do next, when he realized what he should do–he should make Bud breakfast. That would show him that he was sorry, and that he’d been wrong the night before, and that he just wanted everything to go back to normal.

He dug around in the pantry and found some pancake mix, and then in the fridge, finding some eggs, but then had to spend five or ten minutes trying to figure out the directions on the back of the package. He couldn’t really seem to focus, and it was like as soon as he read a sentence, he would forget what he’d read in the last one, and reading was hard. The words swam in front of him, and he couldn’t quite piece some of the words together, trying to sound some of them out, but he was flummoxed. He ended up just pouring some of the mix in a mostly clean bowl with some eggs, milk and oil, but the result seemed way too runny to be right. Still, he pressed on, and found a frying pan, but he kept forgetting to check the pancakes, and before long he just had a stack of burnt, thin cakes piling up on a dirty plate, and he heard footsteps upstairs, and Bud call down, “Is something burning? Fuck CJ, what the fuck have you done this time?”

Carl didn’t know what to do, and so he just stepped back from the stove and when Bud came into the kitchen, he stammered, “Bud I…I jus’ wanted tah make ya breakfast, bro. Look, I’m sorry ‘bout last night, man, I don’ know what I was doin’ it was jus’ a mess man.”

Carl listened to himself, and he sounded like a bumbling idiot, slurring some of the words, his voice deep and raspy from the smoke, and he just felt this huge wave of shame well up over him, and he tried not to start crying in front of Bud, who just looked from Carl to the stove, at the lumpy, runny pancake mix, and the black stack next to the stove, and he sighed. “CJ…”

“God, I know, I’m a fuck up, alright?” Carl said, “I know, I can’ even make ya a fuckin’ batch a pancakes right. I’m just a fuckin’ piece a shit.”

Bud walked over and pulled him into a tight hug, and Carl let him, “Look, I’m here for you CJ, I’m your brother–I’ll always be here for you, but you just gotta…you gotta stop trying so hard. You just aren’t what you thought you were, you know? You’re just a fat loser, living on his brother’s couch, no job, an alcoholic, and when you accept that, when you realize that, it’ll be better, alright?” and then he chuckled, “and maybe leave the cooking to me? You know, someone who can read a recipe?”

“I can read a recipe!” Carl insisted, “That one was just confusing.”

“CJ, you dropped out of school in the eighth grade, you can’t even read a fucking book.”

“I didn’t, I mean, I went to college, I was…I…” Carl said, but while he thought he was telling the truth, he couldn’t actually scrounge up any facts to back up what he was claiming. He couldn’t remember the name of the college, hell, he couldn’t even remember the name of his high school. “Well, you didn’t do much better, you dropped out at sixteen,” he added defensively, not entirely sure how he knew that about Bud, but he knew it was the truth.

“Ha, well, you have me there. Still, why don’t we start over with pancakes, eh? I don’t really want those.”

Carl nodded, and helped Bud clean up, and then sat down at the table, watching his brother make these perfect pancakes, just a bit amazed at him. He was the big brother after all, he should be the one in charge, but he was just hopeless most of the time. Even that didn’t seem right to him–Bud wasn’t his brother. But he could remember them growing up together, he could remember the first time he’d begged Bud to fuck him, when he was in his twenties and Bud was just seventeen. Carl stood up suddenly from the table, in the middle of one of his panic attacks, feeling like he’d suddenly realized he was in a cage a bit too small for him, and Bud hurried over, shouting the name CJ at him a few times before slapping him across the face, bringing Carl around to him.

“Why the fuck are you calling me CJ?” Carl shouted, “My name is Carl, man, why…”

“What the fuck are you talking about? You’ve always gone by CJ.”

“But…but my last name doesn’t even start with ‘J’…”

“We have the same last name, bro, Johnson. We’re brothers.”

“No…no, I…that’s not.”

“CJ!” Bud shouted at him, and slapped him again, “Fucking stop it! Quit it with this fucking fantasy you fucking insist on trying to live! You don’t own this house, you don’t have a fucking job, you don’t have a fucking life! Fucking shut the fuck up, and quit playing these fucking games!” He shoved CJ back into the chair, and went over to the stove, cussing, “You made me fucking burn one, you piece of shit…”

“Sorry…sorry…” Carl muttered, and just stayed silent, looking down at his arms and gut, at his tattoos that he’d had for years, even though he couldn’t remember having them last night. Looking over at his brother cooking breakfast for him that he’d completely forgotten about, and wondered what was wrong with him. What had he been doing? It felt like he’d been in the most beautiful dream–he’d been thin, successful, ambitious, everything he should have been, and he was slowly waking up into a reality which was none of those things, and somehow the dream felt more real to him than his actual life, and he wanted to fall back asleep, he just wanted to go back to the dream, but now that he knew it wasn’t real, now that he knew it was a lie, he couldn’t even get there.

The two of them ate breakfast, mostly in silence, Carl trying to think about what was happening, and about what was real, and he couldn’t even imagine what Bud was thinking about. After breakfast, Bud said he was going out for a bit, and Carl settled onto the couch, watching TV and masturbating, discovering he had a PA like his brother’s through his cock now. It was disturbing finding it, because again, he couldn’t remember getting it, but it felt like it had been there forever, and it was…it was hot, having it, and he came two or three times, fantasizing about his brother, like he always had, all of his life, and as another storm developed in the afternoon, he started to wonder where Bud had gone, and part of him even started to worry that he might have been abandoned. He was so relieved when Bud’s truck pulled up, that a knot of worry he hadn’t even noticed building up in him immediately released, and he didn’t know what he would do without him. What would he do? He was just a hopeless loser.

Bud came in the house with a small bag, and he told Carl that they needed to have a talk, and so Carl plopped down on the couch, and Bud thought for a moment, before he spoke. “CJ…I need to know that what happened last night will never happen again.”

“It won’t,” Carl said immediately, “It won’t I promise it won’t, I swear.”

“I can’t trust you CJ, I can’t trust you if you won’t listen to me. If you keep insisting on these fantasies, if you keep trying to lie to me.”

“I’m not…I’m not lying…”

“That’s what I mean, I can’t have you here, CJ, I can’t have you say things like that, and still keep you here.”

“Are you kicking me out?” Carl said, “Are…are you throwing me out? Please, please Bud, I’m sorry, I’ll do my best, I will. I can’t…I can’t live without you, I need you, I’m fuckin’ hopeless on my own, I can’t even get a job, I have nowhere tah go…”

“But I can’t have you fucking up my life, and fucking up my stuff.”

“I don’t know what came over me Bud, I don’t. But it won’t happen again, I promise.”

“How can I believe you CJ? How can I believe you, when you try to tell me we aren’t brothers? When you can’t even remember that you haven’t ever, not once in your life, ever asked to be called Carl. I mean, I feel like I don’t even know who you are sometimes, like you’re a completely different person.”

“I…I feel like that too…sometimes.”

“That’s a problem CJ. That’s a really big problem. Look, I know you aren’t always happy with who you are, but where’s the brother I remember man? Where’s the brother who loved life, and loved drinking and smoking? He was so fun man, what the fuck happened to him?”

“I don’ know! I don’ even remember, I don’ know…”

Bud just sighed, and then pulled something out of the bag, a two inch wide strip of leather which Carl saw was a collar, and he was confused. “I need you to trust me Bud. I need you to trust me more than you trust yourself. I need you to believe what I say, more than what your own head says. I need you to do that. I need you to do that, or I can’t let you stay here.”

“I…I don’t…”

“I need you to remember all of it CJ, I need to remember what you promised me. I need you to trust me like you used to, before all of this bullshit happened, before you went fucking crazy.”

“I’m not crazy.”

Bud just stared at him, and Carl looked away from him, sheepishly. He had been pretty crazy last night, even he could admit that. Still, he’d had a good reason, right? Even if he couldn’t quite remember what it was…

“Bud…I’m sorry, I don’t know, I’m just so confused.”

“Do you remember that first time, when you came into my room? Dad was passed out on the couch, and you were living with us, do you remember what you asked me to do?”

“I asked you to fuck me.”

“No, you asked me for more than a fuck, I didn’t even know how to react. You asked me…you asked me to own you, CJ. You told me you wanted to be my slave, that you wanted me to collar you, and fuck you, and you were so drunk man. I fucked you, and it was awesome, I know, but I wasn’t…I didn’t know about all the rest, and you never mentioned it again. You were back on the road, or Dad kicked you out, and I didn’t see you again for a while.”

“I don’t…I don’t remember that, but I was…pretty drunk that night,” he said, blushing.

“Do you still want it?”

Carl just stared at his brother, not sure how to answer. He hadn’t…he hadn’t thought about it, he didn’t know what to say, but…but looking at that collar hanging in Bud’s hand, he gulped and felt his cock start to harden. “I don’t know.”

“You’d be my slave, CJ. I would fucking own you. You’d do what I say, when I say it. You’d believe what I tell you, even if you think otherwise. If I say something is wrong, you trust me first, and your own head second. I’ll keep you safe, CJ. I will, I swear, but sometimes you scare me, when you get lost in these fantasies. I feel like I should have just said yes all those years ago, but I didn’t but here I am, I’ll be your master CJ, do you still want it?”

“If I say no, do I have to leave?”

“Yes.”

“So it’s…it’s not really a choice is it? I mean…I mean, where else would I go, Bud?”

“I don’t know, but this is my offer. You wanted this, this was your idea CJ. I’m just trying to give you what you want, I’m trying to be the best brother I can be, but do you trust me? Do you really want to be with me?”

“Yes! Yes, I do, but…but I…”

“Don’t do this to me CJ, don’t make me throw you out.”

“I’m not…”

“You’d be homeless, you’d probably just end up sucking cock in some alley behind a gay bar, is that what you want?”

Carl was crying now. He didn’t know what to say, and his cock was completely hard now, and he couldn’t look away from the collar, imagining what it might feel like around his fat neck, “Can…can I try it on?” he said, “Just…just try it, see what it feels like.”

“No. If it goes on, it stays on,” Bud said, and pulled out a small padlock, “It stays on, and only I can decide if it ever comes off.”

Carl felt the panic in him start rising up like bile. He wanted to scream, he wanted to throw something, he wanted to beg, he wanted to get fucked harder than Bud had ever fucked him before, he wanted his dream back, his fantasy, his old life, but it would never come back, this was what he had to deal with, this was his life, and he couldn’t be on his own, he couldn’t be alone again, and the word fell out of his mouth, “Yes, yes, please Bud, be my master, please. I trust you, I do, more than I trust myself. I can’t…I can’t take this, please, just do it.”

Bud walked around the coffee table, and Carl was shaking where he sat, but he lifted up his chin, allowing Bud to wrap the leather around his neck, and he shivered as Bud pulled it tight–a bit too tight for him to ever forget he was wearing it, and then padlocked it on, and with that click, it felt both like he had been trapped and freed from a prison at the same time, and he leaned into Bud’s gut while his brother rubbed his head. He’d made the right choice, he knew he had, but it still scared him to death.

Bud grabbed his collar in both hands and pulled Carl’s face down, where he found his brother’s hard, dribbling cock, and he opened wide for it, letting his brother face fuck him on the couch, listening as Bud talked about what he was going to do to him, and how happy he was.

“You don’t have to worry anymore, CJ. I’ll take care of you. You won’t have to worry about fucking up your life anymore.”

“Gonna have to get you some leather gear, eh? Dress you up like some tough biker and then parade you around on a leash. Gotta get you some dildos too, keep that hole of yours filled all the time.”

“I know you’re scared, but it’s gonna be like second nature to a loser like you. Just let me do all the thinking, make all decisions. You’ll be your happy-go-lucky self again before you know it.”

He was going to be happy wasn’t he? Carl felt the panic start to slowly unknot itself, and this time he actively willed it away. It wasn’t important, what had all of that panic and anger gotten him? He’d almost lost Bud, he’d almost ruined his life even more than he had already. Why couldn’t he just he happy? Why couldn’t he just be thankful for what he had? He looked up at Bud from where he was, watching the smoke curl away from the end of his brother’s cigar, the little brother who had always been better at living than he was, and he realized that all he wanted was to be like him. As carefree as him, as happy as him. He couldn’t be as smart as he was, but maybe that was ok. Bud was smart enough to think for both of them now–all Carl needed to worry about was making sure his brother was happy, and obeying his every command. Not just because it was the right thing to do, but because it would make them both happy.

Bud, apparently tired of his mouth, pulled his cock out, and yanked Carl up by the collar, spun him around, and then shoved him forward so he bent over, his ass ready for Bud’s cock, and Carl whimpered as the shaft ran up and down his sweaty ass crack, and he heard a low rumble of thunder from outside. “Do you want me to fuck your hole, slave?”

“Ye–Yes…” Bud said, but let out a sharp cry as Bud smacked his ass cheek hard.

“That is not how you address me pig, try again.”

“Yes sir, please…please fuck me sir.”

“You want me to fuck you?”

“Yes sir.”

“Then repeat after me. ‘I am a giant fuck up.’”

Carl gulped, his mouth dry, and he replied, “I am a giant fuckup,” and whimpered as the head of his brother’s cock slipped into his ass and stayed there. He tried to push back, but Bud retreated, keeping just the head in.

“I am a giant fuck up, and I owe my brother everything for being kind enough to rule me and control my life.”

Carl felt a tear roll down, but he said the phrase back to Bud, “I am a giant…a giant fuck up, and I owe my brother everything–everything for being kind enough to rule me and control my life.” He was rewarded with another inch of his cock into his ass.

“I am an illiterate, filthy dumbass–an obese, cigar smoking, alcoholic slob, and I love it. It’s the only way I want to live.”

Bud drove his cock in a little deeper, and reached around to fondle Carl’s balls. “I am an ill–illiterate, filthy dumbass–an obese, cigar smokin’, alcoholic slob, and I love it, sir. I love it, it’s the only way I wanna live.”

“My name is CJ Johnson. My brother Bud is my keeper and my owner. I’m his slave, his whore, and his pig.”

Bud’s cock was all the way in now, “My name is CJ…My name…” he said, but couldn’t get the rest of it out, and Bud reached around him, grabbed his nipples and gave them a sharp twist, making Carl cry out.

“Say it you fucker, say it, or I take my cock out and you leave right now, naked.”

“My name…My name is CJ Johnson. My…My brother Bud is my keeper. I’m his slave,” Bud started thrusting his cock, “his whore,” too late, Carl felt what was coming, he could feel his ball churning. He tried to hold it off, “his…his…fuck!” He was cumming, his cock was pumping cum all over the couch, “I’m sorry Bud, I’m sorry sir, I–”

“You fucking–god damn it, you’re fucking hopeless, you fucking piece of shit!” Bud said, smacking Carl’s ass as he started fucking him harder, “Don’t think you won’t pay for that, don’t think you won’t fucking regret that.”

“I’m sorry sir, I’m sorry…” Carl said, but Bud shoved his head down, muffling him in the couch cushions and fucked him fast, pounding it in with a few final jerks as he came, and then he pulled out his still leaking cock and started pounding Carl’s ass with his hand, making him cry out in pain with each spank. Bud made him count them out, and when he started crying from the pain, Bud told him he was adding twenty more for being a pussy.

“Man the fuck up and take it pig!”

“I can’t fucking hear you. Fucking count! You can count right, or are you so stupid you didn’t learn that either?”

“You did this! You fucking made me do this, you son of a bitch, so quit your blubbering and take it.”

When he finished, he let Carl stand up, and then pulled him into a hug, Carl not sure what to feel anymore, but what finally came through, in his chest where that knot of anger and fear and panic had been, was love. This overwhelming love for his brother, and he hated that he’d disappointed him yet again. “I’m sorry sir, I’m sorry–it won’t happen again, I swear, I promise bro–sir. I promise.”

“I can’t do this for you CJ, I can’t fix you up if you don’t let me help you, if you don’t do what I say.”

“I will, I promise, I will.”

Bud kissed him, and Carl kissed him back, and then Bud grabbed his hand and pulled him upstairs, where they fucked again on his bed, and when Carl woke up, he was still there, his brother’s cock still in his ass, and he stayed still, not wanting to wake him up, and not wanting the moment to end. However, Bud was awake behind him, and smiling, looking at his brother’s back, where a new tattoo had appeared overnight:

~My Brother is My Keeper~

CJ gave a whimper and pushed closer to Bud, and he pulled his brother tighter to him, as tightly as he could, and didn’t let go for a long while.