Pugsley’s Bachelor Party

Commissioned for @pugsleypig – Hope the big day goes well!

When Pugsley told me that he wanted a bachelor party–I knew what he really wanted. After all, he wouldn’t have asked me if he hadn’t had something in mind. I told him I’d organize the perfect party for a pig like him–that he just needed to show up at my apartment on Saturday, at two pm sharp. He arrived a bit early, he’s conscientious like that.

He was wearing his usual clothes: camo tank, shorts, boots and hat–I told him to strip out of those, he wouldn’t be needing them. Then I gave him his uniform for the party–a black leather waistcoat, crotchless and assless rubber shorts, a black bowtie, white cuffs on his wrists, knee high socks and black dress shoes. He was, I told him, going to be the waiter and service at his own bachelor party–thankfully, I had the good instinct to lock up his cock before telling him this, so I could watch his cock strain in it’s tight cage. Then I sent him into the kitchen to start cooking–guests would be arriving at seven, and he needed the appetizers ready to serve on the dot.

He worked hard–he always does. I watched him a bit, and then went to prepare another room for the poker game I had planned with a few acquaintances of mine–Pugsley might have thought it would be his friends coming by later, but I had something a bit better in mind. Seven rolled around, and as the men arrived, I made Pugsley answer the door and greet them all, and when he saw them, I could see him struggling with disgust and arousal at the same time. They weren’t, after all, his type. All four were older, in their forties to sixties, hairy, chubby, several of them smelling of smoke–not the fit, military men he usually fantasized about serving. He served well all the same though. After I got everyone seated at the table for the game, he brought out appetizers, and the men started berating him, groping him, ordering him around, and I saw he was properly enjoying himself.

For the first few hours, while we played the game, he focused on keeping everyone’s beers full and cigars lit, their feet massaged under the table, their plates supplied with food. Once everyone was a bit drunk and enjoying themselves, I moved onto the next part of the party–paused the game, and told Pugsley that it was time for his bachelor gifts. I went over to a bookcase and took down a small jewelry box, opened it, and handed the small stone inside to the first man in the group, one of the younger and fitter fellows by the name of John. Pugsley had noticed, when he’d entered, he’d smelled more strongly of smoke and booze than the others, and he was quite a bit more drunk already.

“Alright, Pugsley–my four friends are going to give you some very special gifts now, and you’re going to be a good pig and accept they all gladly, right?”

He nodded, but he still didn’t quite understand what I was talking about. John cleared his smoky throat, and said, “Alright pig–I’m gonna be giving you my two pack a day cigarette habit, and my alcoholism. I usually drink a six pack every night–so you’d better get used to it.”

The stone in the man’s hand glowed, and a ray shot out at Pugsley, striking him in the chest, and he felt new needs rise up in his chest. He’d been ambivalent about the smoking before–but he had a new need in his eyes–taking a bit of pity on him, I tapped the ash off mine into his mouth, making him thank me for it, and then took a longish butt from the table and worked it into his ass–he’d be feeling better soon, as the nicotine seeped into his system.

John passed the stone to the next man, Craig, who was by far the most heavyset of the men in the group, with a large apron of hat hanging down between his thighs. “Alright pig, I’m going to give you 300 pounds of fat, but in exchange, you’re going to give me a six inches off your height.”

Pugsley looked at me, wondering if that was allowed, but the stone glowed, another ray shot him, and in a matter of moments, the rubber shorts hand split apart on him, the buttons on the waistcoat popping off, the bowtie cutting into his flabby neck. He clawed at it until he got it undone, and heaved for breath, looking down at his five and a half foot frame, now packed with over 500 pounds of fat, hanging off him in massive rolls. A much slimmer, and taller, Craig passed the stone on to the next fellow, Rex. “Well, I’ve always had real bad B.O., you see, and a problem with belchin’ and fartin’–so why don’t you take those pig? I think they’ll suit you.”

The stone glowed again, shot out and struck Puglsey, and he belched immediately, his flabby frame shaking, making all the men laugh. He could feel the sweat rolling off him now, in all the cracks of his body–he reeked, but there was nothing he could do about it. Lastly, Peter took the stone, who was the oldest fellow, with a thick white beard. “Alright Puglsey–I’m going to give you…say, thirty years of my life, and also this impotence I’ve been struggling with a lot lately. A pig like you doesn’t need to use your dick though, right?”

I think he wanted to cry, as the years piled on his new body, his fat sagging further, hair receding and turning white, and we all heard to clink of the metal cock cage falling to the floor–his already meager cock had shrunk back so far into his flab, that it had simply fallen off. We all laughed, and turned back to the game, Pugsley trying to recover and keep serving, but he kept choking back tears. I heard him whispering, “It’s just…for tonight, just for a bit.” He’d seen me take the stone and put it back in the box–he probably thought he would get to give back his gifts–instead, I ushered all the men out into the night, making the new Pugsley thank all of them for their nice gifts for his wedding the next day–and then we were alone, and he finally let it out, sobbing in fear.

“I can’t–I can’t show up like this, I can’t–you…you can fix this, right?”

I shook my head, “I thought you wanted to serve, pig? This is service–you should be thanking me for giving you this opportunity. Besides–you’re still in there, the real you. If he loves you, he should be able to love this you as well, right?”

He didn’t know what to say to that.

“You’re going to stand at that alter tomorrow–in that ill-fitting tux, and in front of all of your friends and family, you’re going to have to ask him to love you. To prove that he’ll love you, no matter what. If he means it? Then he will. And if not…well, you can always come back here, and serve me instead. I’ll always have room for a dirty, fat, worthless pig around here, you know.”

He sucked me off, and I sent him on his way in the same short, tank and boots he’d arrived in–though he could barely fit any of the ensemble now. I knew he’d go through with it, because he knew I was right–if he loved him, truly loved him, he’d love him no matter how he looked. Besides–in 24 hours, after the ceremony, I’d fix him right up, good as he was before–and send those gifts into the void for good. But he’d know if he’d found a man–a man who could truly love a pig like him, no matter what.

House of Marvels – Episode 1 (Part 7)

“Alright…but what’s the game called?”

Eric didn’t say anything, he was looking at Raury’s, trying to see what the smoke was showing him, and trying to understand what it wanted him to do. That night with Mr. Fields had been so…natural–just feed him his smoke, and he’d given in easily–desperately, really. But Raury was something else–he wasn’t right yet. He didn’t belong here with him yet…but he could, with…time. With time, and something else. “It’s a roleplaying game. But one that I’d say is a lot more focused on story and character, than fighting or anything like that.”

Eric leaned in closer, a bit more smoke unfurling from his mouth, sliding through the air and into Raury’s mouth and nose, his friend’s eyes unfocusing slightly. “Can I…use my usual sort of character?”

Eric laughed–Raury always liked to play as an elf mage, or the closest thing he could get to it, in whatever game they might be playing at the moment. The idea disgusted him–some young, tall, skinny thing. No–nothing like that was worthy of him, of his attention. “No, why don’t you try branching out a bit? Trying something a little different? I’m thinking something a little…more sizable…something I can really sink my nails into…”

Before Raury could say anything else, Eric had taken a deep breath of smoke from the pipe, and closed the distance between them, locking lips with his friend and pushing the smoke deep into his lungs. Raury wasn’t ready for it, and he started coughing and hacking, shoving Eric off of him and getting up from the couch. “What…what the fuck, Eric?” His head was spinning, and he nearly tripped over the coffee table. What was he doing down here, anyway? He should have left with Sam, he’d wanted to leave with Sam, but something…he’d gotten distracted by the smoke, and by Eric–but this wasn’t right. Eric wasn’t playing a game down here–there were no books, there were no dice. He coughed some more, trying to get the smoke out of him, but he could feel it clinging to the inside of his lungs, working its way into his body.

“Mr. Fields, help Raury out, would you? Help him back over here, so we can talk some more about the game.”

Mr. Fields walked towards Raury and pulled him close for a moment, and something about the older man’s skin against him reminded him of the smoke inside him, made him feel warm, and safe, and…and a little horny too, for some reason. He pushed him away, but Mr. Fields held tight to his arm, and tried to drag him back to where Eric was sitting–but he yanked his arm away. “Eric, what are you doing? This isn’t like you–something is wrong with you, you need to get help!”

“I don’t need help, Raury–you need help. You need my help. Come over here, let’s…chat some more. You’ll feel much better soon, you’ll understand. You’ll be happy here, I promise, you all will.”

Mr. Fields tried to grab him again, but Raury had no intention of getting near him again, if he could help it. He pushed his way past him and ran for the stairs, Eric shouting at him, demanding he get back down there, and as much as Raury wanted to obey him, for reasons he couldn’t understand beyond their sheer force, he pushed on, upto the main floor of the house, where the smoke was thinner, and then outside into the clean air–and breathing it hurt, somehow, even though it made him feel better all the same. He looked around for Sam, but his friend was nowhere to be seen–he didn’t blame him, honestly–he too wanted to put as much space between himself and this house as he could. He knew he should call someone for help, but who? The police? There wasn’t a crime, really–and Eric was his friend. No…no more than his friend, really, but the word he was looking for escaped his tongue. He’d…remember it eventually. No, he just needed some space. He’d connect with Sam back on campus, and together they’d figure out what to do about this. As he walked, he kept coughing on occasion, but nothing else was coming up. He felt winded though, and a bit…heavy, somehow–but he chalked it up to being a bit high on whatever Eric had been smoking in that pipe, and tried his best to forget about it.

Back in the house, Eric was in a fury. When Raury had made it up the stairs and back into the house, Eric had tried to follow him–but hadn’t been able to make it halfway up before he’d started shaking and trembling. He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready to go outside yet, he wasn’t…strong enough, he wasn’t finished, and he’d gotten away! He’d been his, Eric had claimed him, marked him, started…working on him, and he’d escaped, and it was consuming him in hatred and anger he could barely understand or grapple with. It was irrational, he knew that, but his reason was drowned out by the simple fact that he couldn’t dispute–Raury was his. His! His, just like Mr. Fields was his, and Eric had let him get away, like a weak fool. He had to get him back, but he had no way of knowing if he would come back here or not–most likely not. But if Eric couldn’t get him back…it would consume him, this anger, and jealousy, and rage. He felt hot, so hot, like something had kindled a fire in his chest, and he let off a roar into the room, Mr. Fields cowering away from him in fear.

Eric hated him. He desired him, but he hated him. He owned him, but he hated him. He hated how weak he was, how small he was, how he was helpless against losing him. If he lost Mr. Fields like he’d lost Raury…he didn’t know what he would do. Just thinking about it made him ache with need, and he stalked over to him, threw Mr. Fields to the floor, and mounted him then and there, pouring out smoke from the pipe, grunting and roaring and snarling, reminding him of his place, reminding him that he belonged to Eric. He had been too kind to him, allowing him to keep a bit of his humanity, allowing him a name, allowing him to be anything other than an object. He was too kind–he would need to rid himself of that if he was going to be happy–if he was going to survive.

House of Marvels – Episode 1 (Part 6)

“Mr. Fields,” Raury said, “You have to see how fucked up this is. We have to get you out of here–both of you.”

“No!” Eric screamed, “No, he’s mine, you can’t have him, you can’t take him away from me, he’s mine!”

“Eric, calm down,” Sam said, “We’re just worried about you, and I don’t think you really know what you’re saying right now. What is in that pipe, anyway? That smoke…it doesn’t smell right.”

Eric, however, couldn’t calm down. After what Raury had said, about taking his daddy away from him, a horrific paranoia and fury had erupted in him. They’d come here to take him away from him. They knew how sexy he was, what a hot, beautiful daddy he was, these two young men, and they wanted him for themselves. He wasn’t going to let that happen–he should…he should kill them.

He gasped, horrified by what he’d just thought. He couldn’t kill them, they were his friends, weren’t they? But what good friend would take his property away? Didn’t they understand how important this was to him? No, that was the problem. They didn’t understand, but perhaps he could…help them understand a bit better, just like how he’d helped Mr. Fields understand his role here better earlier.

“No, you see? It’s just a game, that’s all. A big game,” Eric said, his voice soft and silky on their minds, the smoke twining around them both unnoticed, sliding into their noses, their mouths and ears. “Just a…a role playing game, is all. Mr. Fields was curious about them, about how we played them, and so we’re doing some roleplaying together. That’s all. We’re just in costume, and maybe we got a bit carried away, but we’re both fine–neither of you have anything to worry about. In fact…if you wanted to play too, I’m sure we could find a role for you both in here too. I know how much the two of you like games after all.”

“O-Oh…I guess that makes sense,” Raury said softly, eyes looking slightly distant.

“What?” Sam said, “No it doesn’t! It doesn’t make any sense at all!”

“Sam, calm down,” Eric said, “You came in here, raving like a lunatic, when obviously, we’re all just playing a silly game here. There’s nothing strange about this at all.”

Was he being silly? But if this was a game, then why in the world had Eric missed nearly an entire week’s worth of classes? If this was a game, why was Mr. Fields even playing it? He seemed way too suspicious of the games they played, and was way too strict of a figure to ever try playing one with them when they’d offered, to be polite. It didn’t make any sense, but what other explanation was there? “Alright then, if you two are roleplaying something, then what are you playing at exactly? Because to me…well, it doesn’t look like anything I’ve ever seen you play before with us, and I know all of the games you know, Eric.”

“Well we don’t have to keep playing this one by any means, I was getting a bit bored with it, honestly. In fact, I’m glad you two came, I was starting to get…well, why don’t we play something? All four of us? It’ll be more fun that just the two of us. Your choice Sam, anything you’d like.”

“Eric, I…really think that something is wrong here, with both of you. I don’t…want to play a game, I want to get you help.”

“If you don’t want to play a game, then why are you here, Sam? You only come here when you want to play games after all.”

Sam didn’t want to listen to anything else, and the smoke was making his head spin. “I…I need some fresh air, I…I don’t know what’s going on here, and I don’t want to know…” He headed for the stairs and got out of the house into the evening air, taking deep breaths and coughing up as much smoke as he could, but it was a few moments before he realized that Raury hadn’t come up with him. He’d…come up on his own, surely. Something told Sam that he should go back in and get his friend, but he didn’t want to go down there again. He didn’t want to smell that smoke ever again, if he could help it. Raury…Raury would be fine, he should just go, and put as much space between him and this house as he could.

Downstairs, Raury had watched Sam go, and part of him had wanted to go with him, knew that staying down here was…dangerous for some reason, but he couldn’t figure out why, exactly. After all, it was just Mr. Fields and Eric down here, playing a game. There was nothing dangerous about that. Still…Sam had seemed really freaked out by something, and he wanted to make sure he was alright. But before he could get to the stairs, Eric spoke, “Come on Raury, stay for a while. Play a game with us. It’ll be a fun one, I promise. Entertain me, I’m so bored today…”

Raury paused, and turned away from the stairs. “What…game do you want to play?”

Eric thought for a moment, and stared at Raury across the room. He wasn’t his type at all–too skinny, too smooth, too small, too young most of all…but could he do something about that? Something…was telling him that he could, that even though Raury wasn’t fit to be his property just yet…he could make it happen somehow. He could almost see it, even, like the smoke was forming around him in clumps, hinting at a larger frame, wisping around his clothes like white fur…thinking about it was making him hard, and Raury went red in the face at the sight of Eric’s cock openly engorging. Had…had Eric been naked all this time, and he just now realized it? “I kind of feel like playing something new–something I just found out about the other day, in fact. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

Remembrances – Episode 2 (Part 8)

“He’s…fuck, ya can’t do this to ‘em, ya can’t do this tah us, it ain’t right!”

“Right?” Mr. Elroy said, “Right doesn’t have anything to do with it. This is about what I want, Harry.” He gave his belly a pat, and belched, “Gotta say, he was tasty though. I think he still has a little potential in there for some leftovers later, but we drained him pretty well.”

“I didn’t…This is yer doin’, I ain’t doin’ anything!”

Mr. Elroy laughed. “I could only do it because you let me in, Harry. But that’s water under the bridge at this point–I gotta say, that meal made me hornier than hell though.”

Harry expected Mr. Elroy to use him like he had earlier, but instead, he walked back over to Pete, tapped his shoulder, and his son woke up, looked at him, blinked a few times, and then said in quiet disbelief, “U-Uncle Wilbur? I thought…you’s were dead!”

“Not yet boy,” Mr. Elroy said, gave Pete a hand and pulled him up into a hug, “How about a wrassle, boy? Could use a little fun with my favorite nephew.”

Harry tried to speak, tried to stop it, but it felt like he was frozen and forgotten. He couldn’t move–all he could do was watch as Mr. Elroy helped Pete out of his grungy clothes, took off his own, and then the two of them started grappling. It wasn’t long before they hit the floor, rolling around, both of them hooting and hollering, but Pete wasn’t in the same shape he’d been in when he was a rough twenty-something, playing around with his uncle, naked in the bedroom, not quite sure why his cock kept getting hard, until Wilbur showed him what to do with his cock and a man’s hole. Mr. Elroy was toying with him–Harry could see it, and he kept flashing him looks from the floor as he maneuvered his son into a pin, making Pete cry for mercy.

“You give up, boy? You know what that means, don’t ya?”

“Yeah Unc, yeah, just let go my arm!”

Mr. Elroy did, and then spread Pete’s ass cheeks and wormed one finger in, and then two, watching Pete squirm. “You forget the magic words? Seems like ya ain’t lost in a while, boy,”

“N-No sir, I ain’t a loser, ya know that.”

“Heh, you are today, and every other day too, if you don’t get your shit together and fight like a man ought to. Now say it. I wanna hear ya say it. Don’t forget–the words were your idea, boy.”

“I…I’m a loser.”

“The whole thing boy! Say it! Say, ‘I’m a stupid, fat, filthy, faggot loser.’” Mr. Elroy pulled harder on his leg, making Pete moan and smack the floor with a free hand.

“Stop it!” Harry had found his voice again, but Pete didn’t seem to hear him. Mr. Elroy, on the other hand, looked up at him with a grin.

“I thought you liked to watch, Harry,” he said, “Go on, pull that worthless cock of yours out. I want to watch you try and jack off, I wanna see if you can get it hard at all.” Mr. Elroy leaned closer to Pete’s ear, “And I can’t hear you boy, fuckin’ say it.”

“I…I’m a stupid, fat, filthy faggot loser…” Pete moaned, as Mr. Elroy pushed a third finger into his ass.

Harry pulled his cock free of his jeans, and felt how small it was, how dull it felt in his hand. He was horny–so damn horny watching this, and yet his cock felt nothing at all. “Please, please stop this, he didn’t deserve this…”

“If you really want me to stop, Harry, I’ll stop,” Mr. Elroy said, “But I don’t think that’s what you really want. You’re just jealous–you were always jealous of me. But he would have, you know. If you’d just offered, but you were too much of a coward. All those years, wrestling with your boy, and never once had the guts to get what you really wanted from him. All you did was watch. Well that’s ok, Harry–you can watch plenty. I’ll have your son over here every day, and I’ll fuck his fat hole in front of you, and you can just watch to your heart’s content. Now, how does that worthless cock of yours feel? Getting any satisfaction, watching your best friend get ready to pound your worthless son’s fat ass? Sure you can’t even get it to half mast, for us?”

Harry stroked a bit harder, but it was clear his cock wasn’t responding to anything at all.

“If that doesn’t work, you can always play with yourself somewhere else, that you’ll enjoy more.”

Harry didn’t quite know what Mr. Elroy meant, but his hands and body were already tracing familiar patterns, shucking the suspenders from his shoulders, leaning forward and tugging his jeans and underwear down past his ass, the fingers of his hands feeling around for his hole and sliding inside, and now, Harry moaned. Moaned while he watched Mr. Elroy finger his son right in front of him–saw Wilbur fingering his boy in his old room, saw himself watching, wishing, jealous and turned on all at the same time. Wilbur finally slid his cock into Pete’s ass, and he moaned in humiliation, but allowed his uncle to have his way with him, Harry worming more of his hand inside his ass, pressing against his inflamed prostate, feeling more pleasure and delight there than he had from his cock in ages. “Fuck Wilbur, fuck–fuck me next,” Harry muttered, “Fuck me just like that.”

Wilbur turned towards him, mouth turned up in a sneer. “You? Why would I want to fuck you, when I can fuck your boy, Harry? Why the fuck would I waste my cock on a broken old man, when I have this fat loser hungry for my cock day and night? Right faggot? Are you hungry for your uncle’s big cock?”

Remembrances – Episode 2 (Part 7)

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

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

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

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

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

Remembrances – Episode 2 (Part 6)

He drank more. He smoked more. He cussed more, and had a reputation around town for having a short temper and a mean right hook. He never used it on her though–he didn’t think he’d be able to forgive himself if he had–and never with Pete either, aside from the occasional stern spanking when the boy had talked back. He looked like a filthy lout, but as horrified as he knew he should be at these memories, as hard as part of him clawed back and tried to hold onto something from his other self, from either of his other selves, there just…wasn’t anything there. Just this brutish fuck, and nothing more.

They slipped away, back into his mind, slotting right into place, exactly where Mr. Elroy wanted them, and he looked down at Harry, at his dull eyes spinning their dull wheels, trying to sort out what had just happened, but Harry had never been much of a thinker, had he? “Ya…ya fucker,” he said, his voice picking up a heavy drawl, “Ya piece a shit, I ain’t supposed tha…this is all a crock a shit.”

“It’s true as far as you’re concerned, Harry–this is what you get. If you can’t be trusted with a mind, then this is what you get to be from now on, just a simple minded, illiterate dumbfucking brute.”

‘Ill–Illita-what?”

“Illiterate,” Mr. Elroy said, slower, enunciating clearly, “It means, Harry, that you never learned to read.”

“I can read shit!”

“Well, I suppose you can read a bit. Some numbers, simple sentences, but tell me Harry, what’s the last book you read in school?”

“I…I dropped the fuck outta school! Learnin’ ain’t something a man should care about. A man don’t gotta think tah work, after all.” He paused, running what he’d just said back to himself. “Wait..no, that ain’t right, is it?”

“On the contrary, Harry, I couldn’t have said it better myself. Well, I could have, because I have an above average vocabulary and a mastery of grammar, but you can’t have everything, right?” He took his hand from Harry’s shoulder. “Now, do we have an understanding again, Harry? Because I was just beginning to enjoy tasting your son here, and I would very much like to enjoy him some more–and I’m sure you would too, right Harry? Or are you going to give me more trouble than you’re worth?”

“No sir, I won’t…” he muttered.

“Good. Now, we’re going to have to start all the way back in the beginning, now that you went and messed up my flow. Still, I think this will be much more fun this time around, for both of us–and for your son too.”

Mr. Elroy went back over to the sofa and sat back down beside Pete, who gave a sudden start and woke up from his sudden slumber, and gave a hacking cough, not quite as severe as Harry’s had become, but still concerning. “Fuck, did I fall asleep?” he muttered, “I feel like I got hit by a fuckin’ semi.”

Mr. Elroy laughed, “You haven’t felt anything yet, Pete–now, we were strolling down memory lane, right?”

Just like that, they were back in the past, back in their memories, back in the house he remembered…or at least, the house Harry thought he remembered. It didn’t seem quite right to him, actually. Everything was a bit…dirtier, and grungier, and when Patricia flitted through the room in a flicker, she wasn’t the prim and dainty 50’s housewife he thought he’d recalled. She seemed…harder, and fatter, smoking her slim cigarettes in the kitchen and listening to the radio, the dishes undone in the sink. There was a thick layer of smoke everywhere, he sensed–he’d been a heavy smoker before, but now he could barely recall a time when he didn’t have a cigar in his mouth, from the moment he woke to the moment he crawled into his lonely twin bed to masturbate, thinking about Wilbur.

“Focus Harry,” a voice said, Mr, Elroy’s voice said, but it was Wilbur speaking, in the memory. And there was Pete, his boy, looking up at him…but not quite as handsome as he was. Then again, mix a brute like Harry with a comely woman like Patricia, and you weren’t going to get movie star looks. “Focus on your boy–on what he needs to know to be a man, a real man like you.”

Suddenly, they were wrestling, him and his son, in the middle of the living room. He’d always loved wrestling and brawling, and he wanted his son to love it to–dominating other men, beating them down. That was how you showed them you were important, that was how you showed them what a man you were. There were other flashes, his notes coming home from teachers and administrators, accusing his boy of being a bully–but he was just being a boy, in Harry’s opinion. In fact, he encouraged it in him, told him it was good to push other guys around, that it was just a sign of how strong he was. That is, until he broke that kid’s arm one day, pushing him into a gully. That had been enough for the school, and they’d expelled him from the eighth grade. Still, that was plenty of school for a boy, in Harry’s opinion. He was old enough to start working, and so he helped him find some jobs around town, sweeping the mechanic’s garage, mowing the lawns at the church–good things for a big boy like Pete to do. Still, he needed an outlet, and Wilbur had the best suggestion–Pete ought to be a boxer.

Wilbur knew just the gym to take him to as well, and Pete took to it like a fish to water. But like before, there were a lot of complaints coming from guys at the gym, as Pete got older, that he tended to fight dirty, and once he was an older teenager, and picked up a taste for alcohol, he took to picking fights and starting brawls in the bars around town. Still, Harry just waved it off, when he wasn’t outright enabling him. Wilbur didn’t see anything wrong with it either–it was just youthful abandon. They’d been the same way when they were young after all, before they’d settled down. Once Pete found a woman, they said, he’d mellow out a bit.

Remembrances – Episode 2 (Part 5)

Harry didn’t say anything–he knew that whatever this demon was thinking, nothing that Harry did would sway him one way or another.

Mr. Elroy just turned back to him, with that same dreadful smile he had on, when he was contemplating something horrible. “I like you Harry–You’re a man–you’re a whole set of possibilities that’s meant to be savored, but I just don’t know if I can trust you. You’re just a bit too…strong willed, I think. That, and I’ve been a bit too kind to you. I’ve let you imagine that you can make a difference here. Tell me, how did it feel, when you found out your best friend was screwing your wife, Harry?”

The memory slammed into him like a freight train. He’d been gone on a trip, a few years before the accident, but arrived home early, when he was bumped up to an earlier flight. He’d come home and found Wilbur’s car in the driveway, and inside, he’d snuck to the bedroom and watched them fuck. It wasn’t like how he fucked Patricia. She never made those sorts of noises when he was on top of her, and Wilbur…he had the same virile energy coursing around him that Harry felt when they were in bed together. He hadn’t been able to help himself–he’d pulled out his cock–his much…shorter cock–and jacked off in the hallway, watching them. He was so ashamed of himself–he’d fled the house, gone to a bar for a few too many drinks, and then arrived home at the correct time. He’d never said anything about it to either of them–he loved them too much, even though he knew now that neither of them really loved him in the same way. He…wanted them to be happy. He would vacate the house at convenient times, and then sneak back in to watch, just to try and capture some of their energy, just to feel close to them, even if they didn’t know he was there.

He found himself back in his apartment, and he couldn’t stop himself–he started sobbing. Mr. Elroy laid a hand on his shoulder. “Now, now, Harry, men shouldn’t cry, you know that.”

He looked up, and Wilbur was looking down at him, or was it Mr. Elroy now? He didn’t know for certain anymore–he didn’t know anything, beyond the fact that he’d never felt so humiliated in his whole life. Humiliated, and yet, he missed them both so damn much…he had his son though–at least he had that. His son loved him, right?

“Look at you, Harry. You’re fucking weak.”

Harry tried to yell at him, but it just came out as gibberish without his teeth in. Mr. Elroy was kind enough to hand them back to him, and Harry shuddered as he put them in. “S-Shut up, this is all a damn pack of lies.”

“Lies? These are your memories, Harry. This is all you know. Can you tell the difference? I know you can’t. This is your truth now, Harry. Your best friend fucked your wife for years, and you never did anything about it, not once. It only got worse after the accident–especially since you couldn’t get hard anymore.” Mr. Elroy slid a hand up Harry’s thigh, and he felt his cock shrivel back, the pain from his knee running up into his hip now, “You’re lucky they could save at least one of your balls, though–the other one popped like a grape.”

Pain. So much pain in that memory, his leg and groin crushed under the machine, it must have weighed two tons, and he couldn’t do anything he couldn’t move, he just saw the blood running out on the ground under him, and Wilbur was there, and he just hoped he would…kiss him one last time, and take care of his family.

He flung himself back out of the memory and into the apartment. He hadn’t remembered the accident, not like that. He never wanted to feel that again.

“I could leave you there, you know,” Mr. Elroy said, “You could be pinned there, in your mind, for the rest of your days. Out here, you’ll look like a vegetable, and in there, just that horrific, wracking, neverending pain.” he knelt down, “Do you see how kind I have been to you Harry? Do you see how you’ve taken my kindness and flung it back at me, like a spoiled child?”

All he could do was sob, but he felt that same energy from Mr. Elroy’s hand on his shoulder, the same chill, and his eyes just dried up. The hurt, the anger, the grief and sadness was all still there, but calcified. He couldn’t let it out, he couldn’t show it; all he could do was live with it, remain stoic and unaffected by any emotion. That’s who he was–that’s what a real man was.

“You know why she loved being with Wilbur, Harry?” Mr. Elroy asked him, “It was because, with him, she found someone who could show some emotion. You were a real man, Harry, a real tough one, like a stone. But not very exciting in bed–just a couple of minutes on top of her until you came, and then you’d just fall right asleep. You could never give her satisfaction, and you knew it. You’re not a lover, Harry–you’re just a brute. Well, not anymore, I suppose. Now you’re just a weakling, but before…well, you remember, don’t you Harry?”

He was flung back into the past, back into himself, but while so much of it was the same…so much of it was…completely different. He saw himself in the mirror, his younger self, the unkempt hair and beard he always let grow out too long, until Patricia nagged him into cutting it off. Face caked with oil and sweat, because he rarely bothered showering–especially after Patricia insisted they start sleeping in separate beds, because he kept ruining the sheets with his dirt. He could see himself there, alone in that twin bed, sheets plain, smelling of grease and smoke and his own sweat…but he liked it. It felt comfortable, and he liked being comfortable, and if she wasn’t comfortable with him being a man–a real man–then why in the hell had she married him?

Remembrances – Episode 2 (Part 4)

“You, boy, need to go to sleep while your father and I have a conversation,” he said, touched Pete’s temple, and he slumped over on the sofa, Mr. Elroy plucking the cigar from his hand before it could fall and setting it down in the ashtray. “As for you, Harry, I thought we had an understanding. What you were trying to pull back there…that’s a problem Harry, trying to give your son his life back. You know full well that his life isn’t his anymore, it’s mine. Mine! Just like yours is. He gets to be whatever I allow him to be, you see, and you can either help, or I can send you off to hospice to die, Harry. Is that what you want? A slow, withering death, lost in your own mind, not even knowing your own name?”

He rested a hand gently on Harry’s knee, but as gentle as it appeared, he might as well have brought a sledge hammer down on his body, soul, and spirit. It was happening again, just like the other night, he could feel his entire body weakening, curling in on itself as he sat there, almost like he was drying out under the heat of an impossibly hot sun. Mr. Elroy stood back up and looked at Harry, who was no longer a middle aged man in his late forties–he had gained at least another two decades in the span of the short touch. His already balding head had progressed all the way past his crown, and turned a dingy, dishwater grey. The same had happened to his beard, which was also thicker and longer, hanging down a couple of inches past his chin, looking tangled, matted, and uncared for.

Harry tried to speak, but all that came up was a rasping, hacking cough, deep in his lungs, his entire body shaking with the force of his coughing, until he felt something dislodge from his mouth and fall into his lap. He looked down…but was having a difficult time seeing anything clearly. “Oh, you might be needing these, Harry,” Mr. Elroy said, “The things you adjust to with age, right?” He slipped a pair of glasses on his face, and everything came into clarity, and Harry moaned at the sight of the dentures he had accidentally coughed out. “Those just do not want to stay put, do they, Harry? It’s almost like you want to be able to remove them on occasion,” the nurse unzipped his fly, his cock freeing itself from his slacks. “I think we need to remember who is in charge here, Harry. Tell me, is it you, you old, feeble piece of shit?”

Harry shook his head.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“No, Thir,” Harry said, as best he could without his teeth, “You ahhre.”

He fucked Harry’s mouth for a few minutes, and Harry did his best not to cry. He just felt so…empty, like everything had been drained out of him. Why had he fought? He knew better, he knew this could only get worse, and yet he’d done it anyway. He looked over at his dad, at his son, at his kin, at whoever he was now. At Pete. He was still fast asleep, but it was clear that the things Mr. Elroy had made them remember had affected him. He was…thicker. Stockier and beefier, with a sizable gut he didn’t remember him having a moment ago. He had a full beard as well, and the same high and tight cut he’d kept as a kid–the same one Harry still had as well. He was still in his suit though–that hadn’t changed. He’d made a difference. Maybe…maybe he could still fight this, if he was smart.

No–No, that was idiotic. Look at him. All it had taken was the slightest touch, and Mr. Elroy had taken another twenty years from him. As he sucked his nurse’s cock, he explored the rest of his body, his much larger gut and thin arms, the ache in his knee which had only grown more extreme, throbbing dully even through the pain medications he knew he was on. It was hopeless, and he needed to learn that now, before he just made things even worse, but he couldn’t just give up either. This wasn’t right–none of this was right. He didn’t know who, or what, this nurse was, or how he was doing this to them both, or even why, but that didn’t change the fact that it was wrong, and that he needed to do everything he could to resist him. It had been different, when it had just been him, but this was bigger now–this was about his son–his…father…he didn’t really know for certain, but it wasn’t right.

Still, there was nothing he could do now, he supposed. Maybe, maybe there was something his son could do. After all, he doubted that Mr. Elroy was planning on keeping him here too. Once he got out, he would be able to get help–hopefully, if Harry could keep some piece of his old self safe from Mr. Elroy’s magic, somehow. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had left, he supposed. He kept sucking–it was…much easier, and somehow more pleasurable for him, without his teeth–until Mr. Elroy finally pulled his cock free with a pop.

“Do we have an understanding, Harry?” he said, looking down at him, “You’re so delicious, I would hate to have to eat you all at once–and your son as well. After all, your fates are tied, right?”

Harry looked up at him, a bit confused.

Mr. Elroy just walked over to where Pete was slouched over asleep, and rested a hand on his shoulder. Harry saw his sleeping son flinch, let out a groan, and he aged nearly ten years in a moment. Watching it happen from the outside was no less difficult that feeling it from the inside, seeing him be hollowed out, his gut sagging further over the waistline of his pants, beard filling in with more white, his hairline receding further. “He’s still rather handsome, don’t you think?” Mr. Elroy said, “Maybe he would be more cooperative than you–he could take your place rather easily, you know. Or maybe I should keep you both in here, as brothers. That’s a nice thought too.”

Remembrances – Episode 2 (Part 3)

“Everything alright, Harry?”

Mr. Elroy was over on the couch now, sitting with his son, arm around his shoulder, and his boy had that far off look in his eye again, like he had before. “Looked like you were remembering something. Your boy coming back to you finally?”

Harry nodded, “Yeah, some of it, I suppose.”

“Well, why don’t the three of us take a trip down memory lane together? After all, I think your son here could use a refresher as much as you could.”

They were all back in the old house again, and Wilbur was there, sitting with his son. He was older now, probably around ten or twelve, and Wilbur was talking about working in the factory, about tools, about mechanics and all the cool stuff they did at work all day, and his son was enthralled. He turned to Harry, who was just watching, and asked him if, when he was all grown up, he could go work there too, just like them, and Harry told him that nothing in the world would make him happier than having his son follow in his footsteps, and be a union laborer just like him.

The scene shifted, and now he was in the bleachers of the local high school, watching the two cross town rival teams duking it out on the field. Harry found himself following one member of the defensive line closely, and it wasn’t for a few minutes that he realized it was his son, Pete. But of course it was Pete! He was the biggest fucker out on the field after all–thanks to his mom’s big meals, and going to the gym with Uncle Wilbur. He sacked the quarterback, the stands erupted in a cheer, and he pulled his helmet off and waved to his dad in the stands. Harry waved back, along with Wilbur, and he had a hard time imagining that he could be more proud of his son than he was in that moment.

Time slipped again, but seemed…more fluid this time, like he was existing in more times than just one. He could see his son, eight or so, struggling with his homework, and Harry suggested he just skip it, and they go play football instead. Later, there was something similar, an argument he was having with Patricia while Pete was listening in, talking about his grades–or rather, about how bad his grades were. Harry didn’t think it was a big deal. You didn’t need to be smart to work in a factory, after all, but Patricia was concerned. It dawned on Harry that the reason Pete was so large as a Freshman on the football field in high school was because he’d been held back twice…or was it three times? He could also see Pete talking to him, older now, smoking a cigar with his dad in the garage while they worked on the car, telling him he wanted to drop out of school and just go work in the factory with him. Harry felt the entire time collapse there, somehow…and he knew what he was supposed to say–what Mr. Elroy wanted him to say…but he also knew it wasn’t right.

His son wasn’t stupid. He was clever, and intelligent, and just because school was a struggle didn’t mean he should quit…right? But more than that, Harry knew that what he was seeing…it wasn’t what had really happened. This wasn’t really his son, and he wasn’t really Harry at all! He…he was ruining his father’s life, the one he’d worked so hard to build, and for what?

He looked at him in the memory, grease covering his clothes and face, a thick beard already growing around his cheeks, haircut the same flat top his dad liked, ever since his days back in the army. He looked at him there, wanting an answer, and he could…see how if he gave him permission, there wasn’t going to be anything left for him. The factory would close down in a few years, after the accident, and everyone’s pensions would evaporate. His son needed an education if he was going to be someone–someone who mattered to the world–and not just some washed up redneck living in a dying small town, like Harry had become. So he said it.

He sat down with his young son, and even though Harry himself wasn’t very bright, they worked out the problems together, before going out and playing football in the yard as a reward. He agreed with his wife, and they did his best to work with Pete’s teachers to get his grades back where they needed to be, so he wouldn’t have to be held back. He talked him out of dropping out when things got rough, and told him that he wanted his son to have the sorts of opportunities he never got to have. That there was more to life than just working in a factory, that he could be so much. The potential in him was limitless! Why cut himself off at the knees? He could feel it–feel it having an impact and making a difference. He could almost see him walking across that stage to get his diploma, but before it fully materialized, he found himself flung back out, and he was back in the present, his son looking around, bleary and confused, and Mr. Elroy…did not look pleased.

Remembrances – Episode 2 (Part 2)

He shuddered, felt something inside him well up, and when Harry opened his eyes again, he wasn’t in the retirement home anymore, he was back in the old living room. But better than that–he wasn’t old, either. No he was young again, like he’d been in the picture–strapping young factory worker in his early 30’s, newly married after the war to his old high school sweetheart, his best friend and strange love, Wilbur, standing beside him, and there, on the sofa, was his son. His only son, no more that five or six, just sitting there with a happy grin on his face, without a care in the entire world.

“There he is, Harry, your boy.” Was it Wilbur speaking? Was it Mr. Elroy? Harry was beginning to wonder if there was even a difference between them at all. “This is what I was talking about, Harry, when I mentioned my other projects. See, it wasn’t just you that I wanted–not that you wouldn’t have been…delicious on your own.”

Harry felt an odd clarity returning to him, and he could almost remember what had happened to him, what Mr. Elroy had done to him or whatever this thing was, if it was even human at all. He looked up at his friend from his memory, but it was… wrong. His teeth shouldn’t be that sharp, or his jaw that distended, looking over at his innocent little son like he was nothing more than a snack. Then, just as quickly as it had come over him, it passed, and it was just his best friend again beside him…but the lingering sense of unease persisted.

“Excuse me, for that, Harry,” Wilbur said, “I can get over excited before a meal, sometimes.”

“What…What the fuckin’ hell are you?” Harry asked, a quaver in his voice.

“Something very old, Harry, with a much longer memory than you can possibly understand,” Wilbur said, “But that has nothing to do with you and your son, now does it? See, I know how disappointed you are, seeing that your son has grown up and become just the sort of person you despise, no better than the managers at the factory, the ones who wouldn’t bother listening to the warnings from the union. No better than the mealy mouthed fuckers at the department of labor, denying your claims, or the fuckers at the bank, who took this house from you when you needed it most, those asshole doctors who took not just one, but two of your loves far more early than they ever deserved to go.”

None of what the thing was saying could possibly be true–Harry knew that, for the moment. But as he spoke, memories flooded into him, as real as anything he had ever truly experienced, and along with them came an anger. A deep, bitter resentment at everyone who had ruined his life. He’d had…such promise, and he’d lost it all to fate. He could have been somebody, if it wasn’t for the fuckers of the world like his son had somehow managed to become.

“But we can fix it, Harry, don’t you worry. We can make sure your boy grows up to be exactly the sort of man you can be proud of.”

Harry felt everything in the memory spring to life around him, looked over, and the look in his son’s eyes–it was awe. He was just staring at Harry, smoking his cigar, standing with his best friend, and it seemed to stretch for…so long, somehow, and then it was gone. They were back in the retirement center, but not everything was the same. No, now his son was sitting there, still in a suit, sadly, but now he was smoking a cigar, the same brand Harry always smoked, looking at his dad beside him with the same awe and thrill as he had in the memory. “Well, I hope you’re liking it here, dad. I only want the best for you, you know that,” Peter said, taking a draw off his cigar, adding his own smoke to his father’s in the air. “It seems like they’re treating you well, though.”

Harry didn’t know what to say. He just looked up at Mr. Elroy standing beside him…but what was he even supposed to think? The real him, the kid that was growing more and more distant with each passing moment, was horrified, and couldn’t bear the thought of this monster doing to his father what had been done to him. But this new person he was becoming, with all of these vivid memories…he was thrilled…and he wanted to see more. He wanted his boy to become exactly the kind of man he was, to lose…everything, and be swallowed up and spit back out again.

“I can assure you that your father is very much enjoying his place here, isn’t that right, Harry?”

Harry nodded, and cleared his throat, “Yeah, yeah, it ain’t…home, but it’s alright.”

They all chatted for a few minutes, and Harry couldn’t tear his eyes away from his son’s cigar. The boy had always been obsessed with them as a kid, he’d always thought that when he could smoke them, then he’d be a real man, just like his dad was. Fuck, the first time he’d caught him with one, he’d had to give him a spanking (Patricia had demanded it, and he wasn’t about to contradict her word on household manners) but afterwards, he’d taken him for a ride in the truck, out of town a ways, and shown him the right way to do it, how to cut the cap off (or bite it off, if you were in a pickle), how to light it, how to hold it. He’d inhaled too much, and ended up having to throw open the passenger door and vomit on the side of the road, but it wasn’t like Harry hadn’t done the same thing when he’d smoked his first one too!