The Third Day of Christmas

“Fuck yeah! You faggots are going down so fucking hard,” Vance shouted into the headset as he teabagged the virtual corpse he’d just shot on the screen. He’d lost track of time, then again, Vance was never really sure what time it was. Christmas break was a time for video games–he hadn’t had much time to play at college, and Christmas Eve or not, he was going to play until he couldn’t keep his eyes open.

“Goodness, doesn’t anybody sleep anymore?” a voice said behind him, and Vance looked over his shoulder, finding a very strangely dressed Santa Claus by the chimney in the living room. “Oh well, if you want to be up all night with your video games, I suppose you could at least spend your time playing something better…” He shot Vance’s console with a strange, sparkly light and disappeared back up the chimney, before Vance felt his headset start to squirm next to his ear, and begin to grow. In a matter of moments, it had become a full helmet, and while Vance tried to fight it off, wires and cords had snaked out of the console, entangling him, wiring their way into his very body, and then the screen on the inside of the helmet lit up, and Vance was staring at a title screen–something called, “A Night at the Bathhouse.”

The screen shifted almost immediately, telling him to wait a moment while it obtained his starting character, and then he was standing in some sort of locker room, completely naked, and the entire simulation felt so real, but he had to still be in his living room, right?

“Choose your class,” a booming voice said in the room.

“I’m not playing this fucking game! Let me out of here you freak,” he shouted.

“’Fucking freak’ class selected. Please wait.”

“No! no, that’s not what I meant–”

It was too late. Looking down at himself, he was already changing, tattoos covering his entire body, all of them having to do with filthy sexual acts, but by far the greatest change was to his cock and balls. He’d always had a relatively short cock, but that was changing rapidly, as it expanded and extended into a monstrous shaft over a foot long, permanently hard from the amount of silicone he’d implanted into it, his balls pumped to obsecene proportions as well.

Terrified, he watched the tattoos swarm up onto his face and head, his hair becoming a bright red mohawk, and he reached down and started stroking his new member, feeling the powerful sensation overwhelm his mind, sexual desire and need creeping in and consuming his mind until he was panting, jacking his cock has hard as he could with both hands, his muscles swelling to equally obscene proportions until he came buckets on the floor in front of him. Licking his lips, he stumbled out of the room to play the game, finding a bottom bitch in one of the first rooms, and fucking the daylights out of his ass, and he was awarded with his first achievement of the game, “First fuck,” and rewarded with a fat PA in the head of his cock. He grinned down at it, the bottom bitch groaning with satisfaction on the bench, and Vance thundered off. He had all night to play after all, and he was sure there would be many more achievements to gain by the morning, and he could already tell that the changes in the game were probably going to last even after the system was shut off, and that he would be a fucking freak for the rest of his life.

“Just focus on the beat, just…keep on walking,” Mikey told himself as he walked the block, keeping his hands in his pockets, glancing around nervously. The day was going fine, he could…just forget about how he’d woken up that morning, on the couch…

No, best to just not worry about it, best to just get through the day. Still, how could he forget them? The tattoos covering both of his arms, the fact that his body was completely devoid of hair? He’d been able to laugh that off with the guys at the station as a bar bet gone wrong, but the tattoos…how could he explain those? And worse…he was certain they were spreading. He couldn’t be sure considering he hadn’t taken his uniform off all day, but he could feel this strange itch all over him, and the back of his hands…Just focus on the job, he only had a few more hours of his shift left, and then he could sort this all out. It was almost the weekend, he could…go get them removed or something, and his hair would grow back eventually, it would all be fine.

He was passing a shop window, and looked at himself in the evening reflection, and he stopped. His face–what was wrong with his face? He had…piercings? A huge ring in his septum, rings in his lips, bars in his ears and eyebrows, gauges in his lobes. When had that happened? How long had he been walking around with his face like this? And his neck, he could see the tattoos crawling up there as well, and he ducked into an alley to try and figure out what to do. He couldn’t go back to the station looking like this, he couldn’t go anywhere looking like this–

“Well, well–here’s our little piggy, right where we left him yesterday,” a voice said, and Mikey spun around, finding the alley blocked by a gang of skinheads, and he remembered the day before, how they’d dragged him in here, the needle, the drop of ink–

“What–what did ya do tah me…” he said, his head thickening. He couldn’t stop staring at the ringleader’s…at Ringo’s cock outlined in his bleached jeans, licking his lips, feeling his short, heavily pierced cock try to harden in his tight rubber shorts.

Ringo didn’t answer, he just unzipped his fly and let his ten inch cock flop out, Mikey dropping to his knees with a grunt and swallowing it hole, the gang’s newest sexpig, eager to taste all of their cocks before heading back to the hideout–where they’d be fisting his piggy hole all night long.

***This caption uses a picture and some ideas submitted by Changemechainme***

“What do you think–is he ready?”

The two men stand towering over you, but you can’t even muster the energy to look up at them anymore. The chain around your neck has been draining the life out of your for days now–maybe even weeks. You’ve lost track of time in this room. The men have been checking up on you more frequently now, checking your shrinking cock, now less than an inch long, guessing at your age, talking to you on occasion, but you can’t even speak any more. You aren’t sure if that’s because your voice is literally gone, or because you simply don’t have the energy to fight back. In your heart, though, you sense that no words will cross your lips ever again. They have your current age pinned down somewhere between seventy and eighty. You were twenty-nine when they locked you up–how did they do this to you?

“I think this is the best we’re gonna get. His sack is finally big enough for what the guy wanted at least–that took longer than I’d expected. I think the guy will be satisfied. Still a lot of work to do, we’d better get going.”

They unlock the chain from around your neck–the burden is gone, finally. You’d hoped that you would feel better, that energy would come back to you, but it doesn’t. You feel the same, and when the first man puts a collar on your neck with a lead attached, all you can do is crawl after him, into the fluorescent white corridor beyond the door of your cell, and down the hall to a white, sterile room.

The modifications all take place there. They begin with the difficult changes first–prying your teeth from your head one by one while a surgeon severs your Achilles’ tendons, ensuring you will never walk upright again. Then, after spreading your legs apart, they examine your massive ball sack–the surgeon cuts into it, removing your balls, and fills it back up with four, two inch diameter metal spheres before sewing it back up. Then they permanently remove all of the hair from your body, your face and your head, and begin the process of tattooing and piercing your body to the specifications of the man who purchased you. The entire time, in your mind, you’re trying to scream at them to stop, begging them to let you go, but your voice–you have no voice anymore. You remain perfectly silent and unresisting as they modify you beyond any sort of recognition.

You heal, and then are given to your new master, and you discover why he wanted your mind to remain as it was–it was because he wanted to watch it wither as he trained you himself. He wanted to see you struggle and fight as the hypnosis whittled away at the will that remained, and you did fight. You fought hard, but it was no real contest. You accepted your fate, eventually, and now you enjoy being his slave. His old, voiceless, castrated cumdump, and there’s nothing in the world you’d rather be.

***

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You and your brother have always been close. You’re only separated by a year, and your parents didn’t have any other kids after you, and even though your childhood was dotted with periods of intense rivalry, after attending different colleges you both ended up living in your old hometown, and found a bit of comfort in each other’s company. It was then that the dares started–alternating, one of you would suggest something that the two of you would then have to do together, but when your brother brought over the two cigars to your apartment, even you thought that was a bit strange. He’d always been a vehement anti-smoker, and when you asked him where he’d gotten them, he never gave you a clear answer. Still, they were just cigars, right? One wouldn’t hurt you certainly.

You lit them together and coughed up your first draws, laughing at each other as much as yourselves, but after those first few inhales, the smoke didn’t seem as bad as before, and it was really relaxing, actually. The two of you had smoked your cigars down a quarter of the way when the itching on your belly grew severe enough that you decided to slip into the bathroom to investigate, and what you saw shocked you so much you nearly dropped the cigar. A tattoo had appeared on your belly–a tattoo of three intertwining cocks snaking their way up to your chest, and dropping your pants, you saw that there were equally obscene tattoos running down both your legs.

You went out, naked, and saw that your brother was on the couch, still smoking, but his clothing was different. Now, instead of his button down shirt, he was wearing a rubber tank and nothing else, and a goatee had appeared around his mouth, along with an equal number of tattoos…and he looked hot–really hot. You felt yourself drawn to him, the cigar leading the way, and you laid back on him, your head against his swelling gut, and he reached around and started yanking on your nipples, and you gave a sharp gasp as two rings appeared in them, and a third, massive PA through the head of your cock.

“Where…where did you say you got these cigars again?” you ask, before letting out a soft groan.

“Don’t worry about it, bitch,” he says back, grabbing underneath your chin, “Just smoke it all the way down, bro–enjoy it.”

You still had so much more to smoke though, and you had a feeling the changes were just beginning. With a shudder you leaned back into your brother, you cock hardening, and took a deep, long draw deep into your lungs.

***

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