VIP Package (Part 8)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Orwell’s Demon (Sketch)

“Look, I’m going to be honest with you Orwell. This is the fourth disappearance this year–and all four of them were connected to you in some fashion or other. This is the second case where we know, for a fact, that you were the last man to speak to him,” Sheriff Hurlbane crossed his arms where he was sitting on Terry’s couch, “Now, you’ve been very cooperative, and I appreciate that. And I also know that all of this is circumstantial. But you understand how bad this looks, don’t you?”

Across from him, in an armchair, was Orwell Beckert. In his late forties, he seemed so…normal. A little overweight, clean shaven, easy going. He was a teacher at the local high school, and every student the sheriff had spoken to had had the same opinion–a good teacher, but boring as hell. But over the last few months…men had started disappearing around town–first a fellow teacher at the school, then a trucker from a local truck stop passing through. One of the students in Beckert’s homeroom, and now Beckert’s neighbor down the street. The men only had one thing in common, and that’s the normal, boring man sitting across from him, twiddling his thumbs, staring down at the carpet, looking like he was desperate to say something he couldn’t let himself say. The sheriff hadn’t wanted to believe this man could have done this–not that they had any idea what had happened to them. Their bodies hadn’t shown up anywhere, there was no evidence of them anywhere–just…gone. One day there, the next there was no sign of them anywhere. This normal man…maybe he wasn’t responsible. But he was involved–Sheriff Hurlbane knew a look of guilt when he saw one, and this was textbook–the guy was too boring to even be creative with it.

I have to tell him. I have to go to jail for this, I can’t, not anymore. I can’t let you do this anymore.

You don’t have to go to jail, Orwell. We can have fun with this one too.

No! No, please don’t, he’s a good man, he has a family!

I know what you’re thinking, Orwell, don’t forget. I know what you want. Everytime he comes over to ask you questions, that little pecker of yours gets hard. You have such a wonderful imagination, but you’re so…scared. Still, every time he’s alone with us, you think about it, about what we could do to him, just like all the rest. Come on, we can start small, can’t we? Just a little?

The sheriff leaned back into the couch, settling in. Orwell had muttered something under his breath. “What was that?”

“Nothing, please–please, just leave. You need to get out of here, sir.”

“No…No, not this time Orwell. You have something you want to tell me, something about these missing men, and I’m not leaving until you tell me,” Sheriff Hurlbane took a drag off the cigar that had appeared in his hand a moment earlier, and exhaled the smoke in Orwell’s direction, some of the smoke twining through the mustache growing from his lips, and the beard sprouting around his smooth face.

Please…don’t. Not him, please…

But doesn’t he look good like that? So much sexier, turning into a nice cigar daddy for you, I know how much you like those, Orwell.

“Okay! Okay, it was me. It was me! I…I found this necklace, alright? But it’s fucking possessed!” he said, hauling a medallion out from under his shirt, “I…I didn’t know what it would do, and I can’t take it off. Please, Sheriff, get out of here before it takes you too.”

Sheriff Hurlbane laughed around his cigar, groping his cock through his uniform pants, a wet spot of precum already soaking into the fabric. “No…No, I don’t think so Orwell, I don’t think I’m going anywhere.” He felt so…strong all of a sudden. He flexed, and heard the fabric of his uniform start to rip. With a growl, he grabbed at the shirt, clawed at it, tearing it away from himself, revealing underneath a skintight rubber tank, which he ran his gloved hand over, feeling his full gut and meaty pecs, blowing smoke through the fur sprouting all over him.

Oh…oh fuck, he’s so…fucking sexy…why, why him? He didn’t…didn’t deserve this.

He didn’t deserve it, but this is what you wanted Orwell, I know this is what you want.

I–I didn’t think it could happen, it was just…just supposed to be a fantasy…

You want the rest though, don’t you? I can feel how hard you are, how much your cock is aching in your pants. You want to see it, you want to see him. He wants you too, you know. Look at how he’s looking at you, through the smoke. Officer Hurlbane knows what you want–what you need. He wants to give it to you, he wants to help you, Orwell. He knows how much you want to be punished.

I…I do…deserve to be punished.

Yes, you do, for telling the truth like that, for trying to tell him about me.

“You were a bad boy, Orwell,” Hurlbane said, his voice suddenly deeper, with an edge like charcoal, his eyes suddenly red, and he stood up from the couch. The rubber top suddenly was lined red, and his uniform pants tightened, becoming rubber, the crotch opening, allowing a massive, foot long cock to fall free, dribbling cum onto the carpet. “Bad boy, trying to tell me the truth. But that’s ok, Officer Hurlbane will teach you a lesson, won’t I, boy?”

Orwell whimpered, tried to get up from the chair but tripped–he looked down at himself and found he was naked, aside from the necklace around his neck which had tighted around his neck like a collar. “No…God no.”

“There’s no god here, Orwell, only your real Master. Now lick my boots pig, and then I’m gonna shove these thick fists in your hole until you scream,” Hurlbane said, shoving the toe of his rubber wader in Orwell’s mouth, “Hurry up, before I burn my way through this one too.”

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.

We met through a cigar group. I was new–he was a founding member. My relationship with cigars, at that point, was little more than curiosity backed by fascination–the sexuality of it too, I guess. I had smoked them a few times, always jacking off while I did, but I knew next to nothing about them, or what to smoke. A few guys I chatted with online recommended the group to me, and I figured I might as well go to one. I was hardly someone to be as nervous as I was then–muscled, young, gay but passing–I could have anyone I wanted, and usually that translated into cockiness, but plunged into a group of cigar smokers while knowing next to nothing, I was a bit intimidated. If Nate hadn’t been so welcoming and jovial, I probably wouldn’t have gone back for a second outing.

I usually hated chubby guys. I mean, they’re just slobs at heart, they don’t care about themselves, about their bodies, about their health. So I tolerated Nate, I guess, since he was in charge. Actually it was hard to get a word in–he dominated the conversations like he dominated the space with his huge frame. It was a turn off, to say the least…and yet…maybe even then, I was just deluding myself about that, like I was about everything else. He was certainly interested in me, and made no attempt to hide it. In fact, I became a sexual joke for him–he would go into these strange scenarios with the two of us, ask me to take our shirts off so we could compare, apron to abs. He was more articulate than I was, smarter too, more knowledgable. Anything I could talk about, he could too, but better, with more humor, with more interest. And so I listened instead, trying to figure out why this huge, obese man fascinated me as much as the cigars we smoked together, when every other fat man I’d ever met was so easily dismissible before this one.

He showered me with favors, bought me expensive cigars at group outings to cigar shops. The tobacco was fabulous, and after the fourth or fifth meeting, he invited me back to his home for a tour of his humidor, with plenty of innuendo. I…I was curious. I was curious about my own budding attraction to him. I thought that, maybe, if we could just have sex, or if I could just see his (hopefully disgusting) body without clothes, I could maybe shed this growing desire. His humidor was massive–a small climate controlled room in his massive house. Wealthy, rich as fuck. The money he has, I had no idea what I’d do with it. It’s no wonder he succumbs to food–as rich as he is, he can afford to become obsessed. He was overly generous. The cigars he offered gave me a high closer to strong pot than tobacco. I was out of it; he stripped off my shirt and felt my body. I kept trying to take off his clothes, trying to take back some kind of control, but he remained stubbornly clothed. Soon, I was naked, he was not. He touched me everywhere, and I let him. I expected him to suck me off–I expected him to want to consume me, like a cigar, but instead he pushed me to my knees, and fucked my face, came, made me jack off while he watched, and then we shared a glass of bourbon. He kept me naked the whole time, I let him stare at me, and then went home, somewhat disgusted, but more aroused than anything I had experienced.

I went over to his house more often after that. I found myself unable, or unwilling, to turn down any invitation. It was months before I saw him naked, but by that point any possibility that he could disgust me enough to abandon sex was out of the question. I was attracted to him. When he fucked, it was like nothing else–I was strong, and yet he could (and often did) crush the breath out of me. He made me feed him. He made me clean every sweaty fold of his flabby body. I was the one devouring him. I was the one with the addiction. I soon stopped smoking cigars, and stopped attending group meetings. He was the new object of my fetish–the smoke he fed me in our kisses was far more powerful than anything else I’d ever tasted.

He grew more demanding, and I accommodated him. I shaved my body smooth, from head to toe. I started practicing with dildos at home, so I could take his cock without resistance. I learned how to cook, and the weekends I spent at his home would often be consumed with feeding his hunger more than fucking my holes. He sent me a particularly exhausting exercise routine, and I followed it religiously. he introduced me to his dungeon soon after that. I had noticed the stairs down into the basement before, but when he led me down into the space filled with all manner of bondage and pain equipment…I was eager. I asked him to show me everything, to use it on me. He was more than happy to do so, and then he showed me to small room off to the side–a windowless cubby barely large enough to fit a cot and a small chest. He told me I would move in with him–that I could bring only enough that might fit in the chest, and everything else would be sold off. I told him no, that I couldn’t–so he beat me until I came twice over and asked again. I agreed.

My new life revolved around him. The demands of my body became more extreme. Every week, a new tattoo or piercing. Soon, I could barely even recognize myself. I worked out more than ever, I cooked all of his meals, he paid me in fucks, pain, bondage, and smoke. For two years, I haven’t left this mansion. It is my home, my prison and my sanctuary. In my chest, I have a small collection of photos I printed out to keep, and I compare my selves. Who was I? This freak with the tattooed face and head, with padlocks hanging from my nipples, with my balls weighted down six inches? I have never been happier, but…

I can’t finish the thought in any manner that rings true. I lock up my photos. It’s time to start cooking dinner anyway.

~~~

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