Interactive Story: Arctos Dating (Part 4)

Ken remained at the sex shop into the early hours of the morning, until he’d essentially run out of dick to suck. Mostly satisfied, he let off a little belch and left out the back door–though it took him a second to realize why. He no longer lived at the apartment he could vaguely recall living at, but instead rented out the basement in a rundown house back behind the sex shop, where the owner of the shop also lived. It was convenient to say the least, and given how popular Ken’s mouth and cock were, the owner gave him a steep discount on the rent provided he put in at least a few hours in the hall every night. He was a bit worried about having to show his face at the office the next day, but that, he realized, was fading quickly as well. Phil, after all, thought a filthy daddy like him ought to be working in a dirty job himself, so he’d never gone to college. He worked menial construction jobs, the dirtier the better, and then after gorging himself on fast food, would spend his free time at the shop, or at home, if he decided to get to know someone better.

He descended the stairs and unlocked the door to his new place, and was momentarily disgusted by the state of things, before the acceptance settled in over it. He went in and remembered that he had finally managed to level up on the arctos dating app. He pulled it up, expecting to be as disappointed as he had been when he’d gotten the bronze designation–but found that, at last, the app had given him a much larger range of permissions than before. For one thing, he could see some profiles, finally. Scrolling through a few of them, he realized that they all seemed to be bronze or trial members. He still didn’t have access to everyone on the app, then, including the guys he’d already dated before this. It was better than nothing, though, and when he clicked into a profile or two, he saw that he could request a date with them, if he so desired.

He explored a bit more of the app though, and saw something else–a tab that said, “Edit Profile”. He hadn’t even seen his own profile at all, so he clicked it, and sure enough, there it was–everything about him. His cigar smoking, his porn addiction, his gaining and incest fetishes, his craving for humiliation, his gloryhole hobby. It was…kind of hot, reading all of it, but he didn’t really want everyone to know that, did he? He clicked something to edit, but instead of opening up a text box, he got a little pop-up. Apparently, he could modify some of the changes that had been inflicted upon him, but for each one he reduced–another one would have to increase. As a silver member, he could modify his profile three times before it would lockdown again.

He knew what he’d change first, for sure. He opted to minimize the ugliness that Phil had given him, along with the humiliation fetish, and opted instead for some additional body growth, bulk, and body hair that had been gifted to him by Jack. He accepted the change, and watched in the mirror as his ugly face straightened out into a more rugged look, and his body grew even larger–with his sizable build, he eventually hit six feet eight inches tall, and weighed in at 450 pounds, a good amount of that packed onto his massive gut hanging off him.

Satisfied with that, he looked through the rest of his options. He decided that, as much as he enjoyed sucking cock, he didn’t really want to be known all over town as a gloryhole pig. He reduced that option, and decided that he could afford to lean into the redneck, blue collar persona that Phil had given him a bit more. It didn’t seem that bad, after all. His reality shifted around, and while he still was a regular at the sex shop, usually it was to get his massive, ten inch, uncut cock serviced by a couple of cockwhores in the hall while he watched some porn in a booth. Then, he smelled it–apparently, when he’d opted for increasing his redneck persona a bit, he hadn’t accounted for the loss in hygiene that came with it. He showered–on occasion. Maybe once a week, sometimes with soap even! He had a constant farmer’s tan from years working outside in just a tanktop, and his hair grew out into a ponytail down his back, even as his beard grew thicker and longer.

He had one final change to use, and decided he might as well address the masturbation and porn addictions as well. Looking over the remaining options, he decided he could stand being a bit older–he found that he actually didn’t miss his younger looks from before, and had quite enjoyed the thought of being the “daddy” to another cub or two…or more. His history shifted again, no longer spending much time at all in the shop at all, other than to go down the hall and get himself serviced, if there was a cute young fellow who liked being called “son”. Hell, he didn’t even mind playing with a guy closer to his own age, so long as they played along as his younger brother. Too late, he realized he had also intensified his incest fetish, so that it was one of the only ways to get him hard–and he could remember fondly how, in his youth, he’d played around with his own redneck brothers, uncles, and even his father and grandfather on one occasion. He wished he could have had a boy of his own…though he supposed, with this little app, maybe he could, one day.

He stroked a load out, thinking about setting up a date with an unsuspecting cub, and then warping them into a total pig for daddies, longing for a proper father to set them right, dominate them, train them, abuse them–anything for family really. After he came, he was surprised by how domineering he’d become after those three revisions, but again, it wasn’t unwelcome. He looked around at the cameras in the corner of the room–since the owner of the shop wasn’t making money off his mouth anymore, instead he had rights to the videos he recorded down in the basement, when Ken brought home his young boys to play with. He was quite popular on the internet, and anything he brought in over rent went right into Ken’s pocket. It was late though, and he had work on the construction site in the morning. He collapsed onto his bed for a few hours of rest, got up with his alarm, rolled through the fast food joint for a few bags of breakfast to feed his gut, and got to the site mostly on time. All day long, he kept checking the app, browsing the various bronze and trial members, narrowing down his selection until he decided on one young man in particular that he quite liked the looks of.

He was twenty three, looked like a bit of a hipster with a nice beard for just a young guy, and quite a few tattoos and piercings. He was wearing a nice shirt and khakis in his profile picture, and it looked like he had a job at some tech startup in the city as a programmer. He’d been on one date already, with a rather grungy leather daddy, who had given him a bit of a stink fetish and a definite kink for leather and BDSM. It seemed like the perfect opportunity to try out some of Ken’s now more domineering nature. He sent the dating request, and told the boy that he wanted to meet him for a drink a rather run down pub near the worksite–some place that would make him feel plenty out of place. Before it sent the request, however, he got a pop up from the app, alerting him that placing a date with this profile would also result in some changes to his own profile, in order to enhance compatibility. He hesitated for a moment, but then figured, why not? It’s not like he hadn’t changed plenty already. He accepted the note, sent the request, and then headed for his truck–except he didn’t own a truck. There, instead, was his motorcycle–an absolutely massive hog custom built for his massive frame. It had cost a pretty penny, but he fucking loved riding it. Looking down, he saw that his clothes had changed as well–adding a pair of leather chaps, motorcycle boots, and a heavy leather jacket. Nothing to object to so far. He climbed on, and rode off to the bar, and parked out front a few minutes early.

He got a beer, and a table where he could see the entrance, and sure enough, there the young man was–named Ryan. Ken gave a wave, and he could see Ryan’s face turn into one of trepidation. The app wouldn’t let him walk away though, and so Ken threw his arms behind his head, leaned back in the chair as Ryan came over and sat down beside him. “Evening boy, how ya doin’ this evenin’?” Ken said in his now heavily accented voice.

“Oh, uh…I think…there’s been a mistake. I tried to delete the app off my phone, and then I still got this notification, but I…I think I should go.”

“But if you go, ya ain’t gonna be able tah git a whiff a these, boy,” Ken said, wrapped one arm around Ryan’s neck, and pulled him into his chest and pit. Ryan moaned in surprise and pleasure, Ken reaching down to grope the boy’s now rock hard cock, and knew that he had him right where he wanted him. He played with him while he finished his beer, softening him up a bit, making sure Ryan knew to call him Daddy, and that every time Ken called him boy, or better, son, he would get more and more turned on each time. When Ken was finished, he suggested they head back to his place. He threw Ryan in front of him on his motorcycle, pulling him close into his sweaty chest, Ken’s massive cock pressed against the small of Ryan’s back, and they drove off to his house, and Ken led his new son down into the basement.

His apartment down there had changed a bit. Half was still a bedroom and kitchenette, but most of the living area was now a well equipped dungeon, with quite a few cameras all around to record the action. Ken undressed Ryan, and while the boy worshipped his grungy body and dirty leathers, he started warping him, twisting him–and especially his hipster tattoos until he was covered with redneck sayings and references–especially trucks, musk and bikers. Then, he got him bent over the fuck bench, and after warming up his son’s ass with a couple of paddles, he hauled out his massive, stinking cock and worked it into his son’s hole, giving him a good rough fuck until they were both sweaty and smelly. Ryan’s own scent was intoxicating, and only served to make Ken even harder and hornier. He came once, unloading a massive wad of cum into his ass, but his cock didn’t soften–he just kept fucking his hole until it was gaping, and dumped in a second load. Ryan could barely stand afterwards, but Ken just led his boy over to the bed, telling him how proud he was of him, that Daddy loved him so much, laid him down and licked his boy clean for aftercare, sucking a huge load from his own uncut cock at the end of it.

Ryan took his leave after that, no longer a programmer, but now a truck driver with a fetish for big dicked bikers–though none of them could compete with Ken. In the basement, Ken felt incredibly satisfied and more than a little drunk with power. He pulled up the app and began poking around in the other profiles, wondering who his next target would be. What Ken didn’t know though, was that there were levels to the app above silver–and someone else had already set their eye on him.

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Interactive: A Pigtown Halloween (Part 9)

“God damn it, get the fuck back here, you little fuck, I’m gonna fuck your hole and then tear new ones in you and fuck those too!” Ken roared as he chased the imp through the halls, his rock hard, rubberized cock swinging painfully as he ran through the halls, shoving his way through all of the other freaks and men fucking in the dark as the night came to a climax. He saw a clock as he ran, giving him about an hour and a half before the window of escape closed off forever, and he was stuck here. While this wasn’t exactly…bad, he still had no intention of letting that imp get away with his tag–and with his life.

But as he ran, it was getting harder and harder to ignore all of the men–and especially all of the holes–he was passing by. His cock was aching for a fuck, and he…well, he was built to fuck, wasn’t he? He was a hot fucking top, and every hole needed him inside of it, pumping his cum deep into their guts, showing them who was really in charge in these halls, warping and changing them into freaks just like him, and–

He had to stop for a moment, and try and get his head back under control. That wasn’t him, that was this fucking gear trying to think for him. He wasn’t going to be whatever freak this place wanted him to be–he wasn’t! He saw the imp round a corner up ahead in the halls, and took off after him, growling. There was only one hole that he really wanted in this whole fucking place after all, and he wasn’t going to give up until he got it.

He rounded the same corner at top speed, and ran right into another person, sending them both tumbling to the floor of the hallway in a tangle, that Ken struggled to extract himself from. By the time he got himself out, he looked down the hallway, and realized he’d lost the imp in the mess. “Fuck! God fucking damn it!” he shouted, and whirled on the man he’d crashed into, “You fucking piece of shit, he got away! I…why I oughta…F-Fuck! Fuck you!”

The man on the ground looked up at him in a bit of terror. He was a bit older, and a little chubby. He must have entered the area later than Ken had–he still had on his black shorts, and even had his clothes tag around his arm. “Please…please don’t, I just want to get out of here! Don’t hurt me, please…”

Ken growled at him, and kicked him in the gut, sending him to the ground, gagging…and seeing that, Ken smiled cruelly. Fuck…it felt real fucking good, hurting him, and he gave him another kick in the balls, just to make sure he stayed down. “Fucking faggot–fucking pig, I’ll fucking do whatever I fucking want to you–you’re fucking mine, understand?”

The man tried to crawl away from him, but Ken grabbed him by the hips and dragged him back, tearing open the back of his shorts like they were paper, and shoved his rubber cock between the man’s fat ass cheeks. He could feel him…shudder, the fucking bitch wanted it, didn’t he?

“You fucking want this, don’t you? This big fucking cock in your sloppy pig hole,” he growled at him, as he kept fucking the man’s cheeks, his cock starting to leak a thick, black, rubbery cum.

“I…fuck, please Sir, please…fuck this slutty faggot’s hole Sir…”

He couldn’t afford to get distracted. He couldn’t do this–right now, that fucking imp was probably heading for the exit, Ken’s tag in hand, and if he didn’t get there first to intercept him…there was no way he was going to get out of here in his own body. But this…this fucking hole, he needed it. He needed it in a way he could barely articulate, like it was his purpose. He was a fucking top–and when a hole like this presented itself, begging to be used like this, how could he possibly say no? He pushed the head in, and shuddered, the strange cum working as lube, the man moaning in pain, trying to pull away, but that only made Ken grab him by the hips and drag him back, inch by inch, his massive cock slipping inside him.

“That’s it faggot, just fucking take it like a good bitch,” he said.

“Oh…oh fuck Sir, it’s so big!”

“Trust me, you aren’t going to want any other dick other than mine one I’m through with you,” he added…but Ken also knew that if he didn’t stop now, he wouldn’t want anything else too. Looking up, he saw…the teeth in the darkness. The Master of the Halls was there, observing, wanting to see his new top’s first performance for himself, and…part of him was excited. Excited that Master wanted to see him, excited that Master…no–no, this isn’t right, it isn’t what he should be, is it?

He looked down, and saw the tag around the man’s arm. He looked back at the Master’s teeth. He thought about the imp, scurrying through the halls. He had to make a decision, but what?

This next one is the last entry! Here’s the bonus patron poll as well. I’ll start something new next week, that may or may not be holiday related–haven’t decided yet.

Commission: Serving the Cloth 2

Brett liked to run. He’d always been good at it, even when he was younger, running from cops through the streets. But he’d always felt like there was somewhere he had to run to, or something he was running from. Now though–he was just running. Running through this nice suburban neighborhood, running without really feeling like there was anywhere to go, running in a circle, starting at Regis’ sizable house, and ending right back at that sizable house again, an hour later, sweaty and exhausted, but not feeling like he had gotten anywhere.

He had, of course. He’d gotten here. He’d leveraged his body, and his wits, and his charm, and he’d gotten out. Here he was, twenty years old, slender and lean, cute face, good hair, a perfect little twink for older men to slather over–but he’d caught one. From whoring himself out on street corners, to settling down with a sugar daddy like this–it was everything he’d wanted, right? But then why did he hate it so much? Why was he feeling so miserable? He had money, a credit line, could whatever he wanted. The sex was…sex. He had never really felt much for anyone, and Regis was no exception–but over the last few months, things had gotten…harder. Regis had been so excited about moving him into his place, promised him the world–but it was really just a gilded cage. He was so controlling, and outright abusive at times. It was easier being on the street, in some ways. He was comfortable here–but for how long, really? He could tell already that Regis was tiring of him, and as much as he hated it, it hurt. It hurt, because while Brett had been using him to get out of there, he’d also…loved him, in a way. Loved a version of him. Loved what he could provide him with–safety and security. Regis was away on a business trip right now, and they’d had such a fight when he’d left a few days ago, that Brett was not looking forward to him coming home tomorrow. He thought about just running–taking what he could, and just…be gone. Maybe.

He probably would have talked himself into it that day, if he hadn’t run past that house. The haunted one, he thought, though haunted houses weren’t real, of course. All of the houses in the neighborhood were a bit…odd, but this one was especially odd. No one had lived in it consistently for ages now–it was either left empty, or someone would buy it, and then…well, no one really knew what. Brett had seen haunted shit before–the back alleys of the city were full of places like that, where you could feel the souls of people in anguish. This place was like that, and he usually avoided it, and took the long way around. However, he wasn’t focused on his route, and so he was already running past it before he realized where he was. The same car was parked out front, in the same place, where it had been for weeks. He’d seen a father and son pull up a few weeks ago, looking like they were going to overhaul it and flip it, but he hadn’t seen them since. Today though, something had changed. There was a bunch of detritus on the lawn–old clothes, actually, filthy looking stuff, and one of the windows on the upper floors was broken out, like someone had thrown everything out of it. Brett picked up his pace, but then he heard…something.

He picked up the pace, eager to be past it, but all the way home, he had a curious sense that he was being followed, by someone or something. He got to the garage of Regis’s place, unlocked the door, when something slammed into him, sending him stumbling through the doorway and onto the pavement inside.

He awoke a few moments later, and rolled over, looking around for who, or what, had slammed into him–but there was nothing around him. Cautiously, he stood up, locked the door, and listened…but he didn’t hear anyone or anything inside the house. Or…or was there something? A voice?

You don’t have to run anymore.

Brett nearly jumped out of his skin. The voice was so close, almost inside his ears, and yet seemed so…quiet, a whisper recorded and played back at an impossibly loud volume. Then, he felt something squirm under his running shorts, and in a panic, he dropped them–and saw that instead of his usual briefs–there was a rancid looking jockstrap that had somehow materialized under his clothes. Worse, he could feel the pouch…moving, groping him. It was unsettling, and yet…also arousing, and he groaned a bit.

You want things. We want things. Others…waste. We don’t want to waste, We want to help…

Brett looked down and saw that something was happening to his running shorts too–they were…beginning to squirm as well, the orange nylon darkening, becoming a light denim cut off short, ones that smelled as rank as the jockstrap he had on smelled in the enclosed space of the garage…but he didn’t mind it, did he? Brett groped himself with one hand, torn between trying to understand what was happening, and simply…wanting to enjoy it. The change was spreading to his tanktop now, becoming a simpler, ribbed wifebeater…and Brett pushed back. He hauled the clothes off of him–all of them, his shoes too, and hucked them across the garage into a pile, and stood there, naked and breathing heavy…but the smell wasn’t going away. He looked down, and saw that his…cock and balls had changed. He’d never been well endowed, in all honesty, but that had changed substantially–his cock was now close to eight inches long, as thick as a beer can, and had a long, wrinkled foreskin around the head. His balls, too, were massive–and his usually hairless crotch was seething with a riot of curly black hair. 

“What…what the fuck did…how did that…” Brett looked up in time to see the clothes had stood up, of their own accord, and were crawling, rolling and hopping into the house proper. His sneakers were the last, shuddering as they changed into a pair of heavily worn work boots, and they stomped off after the other clothes.

What could he do? He didn’t have anything to wear. He couldn’t call the cops and complain about living clothing. Regis wouldn’t be home for another day. He had no friends he could call. It…was up to him. He cautiously stepped into the house, listened, and heard the clothing on the stairs, and he followed them up.

Come here, follow us…

Was he hearing voices, or was it his own head? Brett didn’t know for sure. He also was no longer certain that following this…weird shit was the smartest thing he could do…but when he tried to turn around and go find a weapon downstairs…his feet wouldn’t stop climbing.

Up here, we have so much to show you…

–He should run, he should be running he had to run he had to run–

You don’t have to run anymore.

The thought struck him hard. Not having to run–what would that be like? He’d been running his whole life now, it was ingrained so deep inside him, that he didn’t know what it would even be like to…not do it. To plant his feet. To stay. He was at the top of the stairs now, one hand still on his now massive, uncut cock. He missed the feeling of that nasty jock now, how it had caressed him, how it had loved him. It had loved him, his body, in a way nothing else had. No one else had.

He was making his way to the bedroom now. He pushed open the door, the voices louder now, but…but more than just loud. There were more of them. All of them speaking differently, and yet at the same time, amplifying each other, louder and louder and firmer. He saw now, what was happening. The jock, the shorts, the boots and the socks and the wifebeater–they had found their way to the closets and were pulling out the clothes they found there, touching them, changing them, and throwing them into a pile in the middle of the room, a seething, warping…mass, and Brett stood there, gaping at it. 

Let us love you we love you, we will love you

The mass threw itself at him, surrounded him, absorbed him. The smell was intense and impossible to avoid, but it…it was his smell. They were his clothes, after all, weren’t they? The jock was on him again, groping him, and more, so much else, but he couldn’t breathe. There wasn’t enough air, and as he blacked out, the last thing he heard was:

No more running, you’ll be a man who doesn’t run from anything or anyone ever again.


Brett wasn’t sure how much time had passed, when he came to again. The light coming from the window hadn’t changed–it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, but he felt like he had slept for ages. He groaned, and pushed himself up from the floor onto his hands and knees, got his feet underneath him, and forced himself upright. His head ached–his whole body ached, really, but his head hurt the most. The voices were there and so loud–it was difficult to try and parse apart into anything meaningful. They also…didn’t seem to be from outside him anymore–they were in him. In his mind. Or they were his mind, digging in and pushing out anything that wasn’t right, that old him that…that other him. He turned, still a bit wobbly on his feet, saw himself in the mirror, and just…stared at himself, at what the clothes had done to him.

The clothes he was wearing weren’t his clothes, or Regis’s clothes either. Neither of them had anything like this in their wardrobe. Somehow the jockstrap had…changed them into this. He was wearing a wifebeater under a leather vest, both of them looking like they’d been worn for years, and not cared for particularly well. On his legs were a set of leather chaps, biker boots, and under them a pair of filthy looking jeans–though he could only judge that by the crotch, which was more yellow-brown than blue at this point. But him–underneath the clothes. That couldn’t be him, it just…it couldn’t.

He was huge–easily a few inches over six feet tall, broad shouldered, thick pecs, massive muscular arms covered in a riot of tattoos–and over those, a thick layer of hair. His face though–that was the worst part. He’d been handsome before, even beautiful. His face had gotten him out of poverty, further than even his body could have, and now, he was…ugly. A wide mouth and nose, a heavy brow, a thick black beard a couple inches long and growing high on his cheeks, a scar across one side of his face, brown eyes staring out at himself. He was…fuck, he looked like a brute. He felt like a brute, and the voices, they wanted him to like it, they wanted him to enjoy this, but all he could feel was horror.

He started trying to pull the clothes off of himself, but they fought him, refusing to budge. He could hear the voices starting to panic, shouting louder, so loud he had to scrunch up his eyes and clasped his massive, calloused hands over his ears in an effort to clock it out, but nothing worked. 

You want to be a real man, you want this. You want to stop running, be the kind of man who doesn’t run. 

He could feel them rummaging through his mind and his memories, trying to find something else to use against him, and they found Regis, and suddenly, he was all he could think about. How…how angry he was at him for being such a manipulative and abusive asshole. He’d never been this angry at him before in his life, but the voices were amplifying it, intensifying it, making it the only thing he could feel.

We’ll fix him. We’ll fix him for you, we’ll make him love you, we’ll pay him back for everything he did to you just let us in let us in and let us stay stay with us stay keep us on live in us we live in you and we’ll fix you and fix him and

Something broke. Something in his head broke, and Brett just stared at himself in the mirror for a moment, the voices quiet…and then he said, in a voice not quite his own, but one…better than his last one. “I’ll fix him…” It was low and gruff. It sounded mean. He liked it. He liked being mean. “Yeah, I’ll fucking fix him real fucking good, we’ll fix him, fuck yeah…” He hauled his cock out of the front of his jeans and started jacking off, thinking about Regis now, so many cruel, mean, nasty ideas, and all…all he had to do, was listen. Stop thinking so hard, just…just do what the voices told him to do, and everything would work out just fine. He lumbered over to the remaining mass of clothing piled in the middle of the room, looming over it, jacking harder now, and he came with a groan–a massive load of cum splattering all over the clothes there, drying instantly, and Brett felt much better. No more running. No–he would…wait here. Some planning to do of course, some preparations had to be made, but Regis…Regis would love him, really love him. He would fix them both for good.


Regis was fuming as he climbed out of the uber parked on the sidewalk in front of the house, went around to the trunk, and hauled his luggage out. That fucking boy–he knew he was supposed to pick him up from the airport today, one fucking job to do, and he couldn’t even do that properly! He’d even done him the courtesy of texting him that morning, but he hadn’t even been checking those apparently. Regis straightened himself out a bit, and braced himself. He’d settle this–that boy was out, as of today. He didn’t care where he went, or with who–this had been a mistake.

Brett had been charming, when they’d first met. But then, Regis had paid him to be charming, and Brett had known what was good for him. The sex had been great too, of course, and Regis had stupidly tricked himself into thinking that this one might be different. He might be worth bringing home. But as the months had worn on he’d grown bored of the boy, the allure of him standing on the street corner dashed when you could have him whenever you wanted him. Regis had been seeing other boys of course–on the trip he’d fucked two just yesterday, and they’d been better and more interesting than Brett by a mile. Yes–he was done with him. Go in there, throw him out on his ass, and pretend that none of this had ever happened. It was for the best, really. At least for him–but then, Regis generally only cared about what was best for him.

He was in his fifties, and not exactly the most handsome man to grace the earth. He was short, and pudgy–a little top heavy really, with a fat chest and gut riding on small legs. He was balding badly but didn’t put much effort into either hiding the fact or embracing it. He had a mustache, and usually a bit of stubble around his face. His looks had never mattered to him, not when he could grease his path with money–and that had served him well enough. 

He walked up the drive and in through the front door–and there was the first sign that something was amiss. There was a smell in the house–something…heady and musky and certainly human but also…not. There was also no sign of Brett anywhere–he’d hoped the boy would have enough sense to at least beg for forgiveness–it would make it that much more satisfying to throw him out. But there was…nothing. No one. He shut the door behind him and set his bag by the door, and called out–but no one replied. The smell grew…more intense though, and then he heard the sound of boots on the hardwood floor, and someone came around the corner.

Regis had no idea who the massive fucker was, standing there in those filthy clothes and all of that leather gear, leering at him. “Hey daddy,” the stranger said, “Glad to see you made it home in one piece.”

The voice…it couldn’t be. It was too deep, and yet…something about it rang familiar. “I…I don’t know who you are, but I will call the police and have you arrested.”

Before Regis could even make a move to grab his phone, however, the man charged him, slammed into him and pinned him back against the door. Now he knew where the smell was coming from–it was coming from him. It wasn’t just him though–it was the clothes…and this close to him, he could feel them…squirming against him like they were alive, the man just staring at him with his eyes, slightly vacant, but the erection pressing against Regis’s gut was very much eager and excited. Regis was frozen for a moment, before he managed to shove the massive man away–he was so large, that Regis was sure he only stepped back because he wanted to–not because of Regis’s shove. The man was just leering at him, groping his crotch and the massive bulge there, and Regis realized that the strange writhing sensation was still there–because his own clothes were…shifting.

He looked down, and saw that a multitude of stains were spreading across the front of his white dress shirt, and he quickly tried to pull it off–but the fabric fought him, the buttons disappearing under his fingers as the shirt sealed down the front, the fabric shifting from the expensive cotton he always wore to something far cheaper, his suit pants changing similarly, becoming rougher, and dirtier, becoming ragged denim–even as a voice started speaking in his mind, a voice he didn’t recognize–more forceful and powerful that the brute’s had been.

Down, down piggy, such a good little dirty piggy daddy yes go down down hands and knees before him before us before your masters

He tried to speak, but as he did, the tie he had on constricted suddenly, choking him, making him gargle and snort for breath. Brett just watched as his daddy’s fancy suit began to assume it’s new form–a cheap, threadbare t-shirt, covered with all manner of food stains with several holes in the front and under the armpits. The pants turned to denim, and started to grow up–his belt becoming denim as well and looping up over his shoulders, completing the new set of filthy overalls, his suit coat picking up color, a checkered pattern, turning to a flannel vest–the sleeves disintegrating before his eyes, the tie turning dark brown and becoming a thick leather collar cinched tight around his daddy’s throat. He clawed at it for a moment more, and then he fell to his knees, and the collar loosened, allowing him to gasp for air, snorting for it really, the voice louder in his ears, telling him what a good obedient pig he was, what a good slave he was going to become for his new master.

Brett stepped up, grabbed his pig by the hair, and dragged his face into the crotch of his filthy jeans, forcing the pig to snort in his stench now, the voice urging him to breath it in, lick it, taste his masters, taste the filth, serve the man, serve the cloth, serve them all–they would both serve them so well now, serve them well forever.

“I’m not running anymore, you fucking piece of shit,” Brett said, hocking a wad of spit right in Regis’s face, “You’re going to do exactly what I say, from now on–got it? You’re just my fucking pig, and…and yeah, fuckin’ hell, you’re gonna be so fucking hot, fuck–come on pig, let’s go play.”

Brett walked to the basement door and went downstairs, leaving Regis there, spit running down his face, more humiliated and disgusted than he’d ever been in his entire life…but it was too late, wasn’t it? The voices were already inside him. He was so much less resistant, so much more…pliable. As he crawled towards the basement, his body sagged heavier, more and more fat piling on him, the cloth growing to accommodate his new size, even as his cock shrank down. He didn’t need a big cock, not that it had ever been large to begin with. But he needed a pig cock, short and thick and always leaking. He crawled down the stairs, and when Brett saw him, more changes had appeared–a thick beard all over his face, growing longer by the moment, all of it a filthy off-white. He walked around his pig, found the convenient hole in the ass of his new pig’s overalls, and the nasty, unwashed briefs underneath, unleashed his cock, and rammed it into the pig’s hole, listening to him snort in excitement as his master fucked him for the first time of many, his own mind draining out his cock and soaking the front of his overalls in cum–and piss soon enough, the pig losing total control of his bladder, soaking his clothes and the concrete floor under him in it–though a number of filthy garments crawled out from the dark corners of the basement and soaked up every drop they could find. Yes, these two would feed them well, but the cloth would be smarter here–smarter than the cloth over in the other house, who simply devoured mindlessly. They would be careful, feed from them, and lure others, yes, already, Brett knew what he would do, what this pig would do for him. He hauled his cock free, and unloaded his cum all over the clothes swarming them, feeding them, the pig whirling around and sucking the last few drops from the cheesy head of his master’s cock, already eager for more–rough fucks, piss, anything it’s master wanted, the filthier the better, the pig would do anything to be with him, anything at all. He loved him, loved him so much he could barely stand it.

But the pig also had work to do–he understood that. Brett would find the men–online sometimes, or more often in person. Entrance them with his own powerful musk, but bring them home with him, tell them that he had a sex pig willing to do anything for anyone. Sure, once the men caught sight of the massive, old, hairy, stinking pig, some of them had second thoughts–but not for long. The cloth would swarm them, show them the error of their ways, and usually the men would leave with a brand new wardrobe different than what they had arrived in–more than willing to come back and feed the pig–and the cloth–whenever they could. Yes, this way they would survive–no, more than survive. They would thrive.

Pigtown Prison (Part 3)

Keith, in his mind, was desperately trying to make his body stop, but he couldn’t. He’d never topped another person in his life, but all his body wanted to do now was fuck–and fuck rough. The pig under him had gotten used to the assault and was starting to enjoy himself, so he redoubled his force, plowing him harder until the pig squealed in pain…and hearing that, he felt so fucking good, it nearly made him shoot. “What…the fuck did you fucking do to me!” he shouted at Rod, his voice deep and gruff, completely alien to the one he’d known his whole life.

“Don’t be mad at me, fucker–it was Oliver, who did this to you.” Rod got down and stared Keith right in the eyes, “You wanna be mad at anyone, then be mad at him.”

Something…changed in him. The rage he was feeling flared higher, and Keith felt all of it focused on Oliver. He tried to fight it and push back–he loved Oliver! Sure, their sexual chemistry was a bit of a struggle, given that they both preferred to bottom, but he’d thought they’d been working through it, right?

Rod just chuckled, “Oh no, Keith, no, no, no. Oliver never really wanted you. That’s why you’re here. He wants a top, a brutal top, a mean fucker who only wants to plow him into next week. He doesn’t care about who you are–he just wants the fuck. All this? All this pain? He doesn’t care as long as he gets what he wants. Well guess what Keith? You don’t have to care either. In fact, I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”

There was a flicker in Rod’s eyes, and a moment later, Keith screamed again. His mind–it felt like it was on fire–or at least parts of it were. All of his memories of Oliver, all of the times they’d shared together, all of them were aflame–but it wasn’t just memories–it was his compassion and his love. He could feel it shrinking and withering to ash, and the pain was horrific but soon he didn’t even care. He enjoyed it, he reveled in it–he gripped the pig by one hip, hard enough to bruise, and drove in deeper still, his other hand planted on the back of the pig’s head shoving his face into the filthy, pissdamp floor of the bathroom. “How’s that feel, you fucking piece of shit?” he screamed, and his cock exploded, filling the pig’s ass to the brim, but he kept fucking until he went soft, and only then did he pull out–body shaking with some caustic mix of pain, exhaustion and exhilaration.

Who…was he now? He remembered so little, but he did know one thing, and remember one person. Oliver–he remembered him, and he hated him. Hated him, because it was his fault that he’d just been put through all of that pain and suffering…and Keith knew he was going to have to pay for what he did.

“That’s a good boy,” Rod said, giving Keith a pat on the shoulder, “Now, why don’t we get you deputized?”

Rod’s hand settled on his shoulder, and underneath his palm, something like a shadow spread out and down Keith’s body, down his chest and back. He braced himself for more pain, but this didn’t hurt–it was warm and supple–he first thought it was some kind of rubber, but he touched it with a finger, and discovered that he somehow being coated in leather. It covered his entire body, aside from his neck and head, in less than a minute, a smooth, body hugging layer–and once it had coated him, he felt the entire body suit shift and morph around him. It split at the waist, becoming a shirt and pants, and then split again at his knees, the leather around his feet shaping into a pair of perfectly shined leather motorcycle boots. The pants were tight against his muscles, with a red stripe down the side, his huge cock bulging in the crotch and running down one leg. The leather…adjusted to it, and it felt so comfortable, like his cock always laid there, in a stretched out pocket of his pants. The shirt took a bit longer to form, but the details were more intricate–lapels and pockets, the sleeves shortening, exposing his massive biceps and forearms, hands encased by the tightest fitting gloves he’d ever felt, like they were painted on his hands.

Rod gave a flourish with his hand, and a cap appeared in his hand–and a silver steel badge. He placed the police cap on Keith’s head, and pinned the badge to his chest, and then gave him a smoky kiss. “Beautiful–now, you have a suspect to interrogate, right officer?”

“Y-Yes sir,” Keith said.

“Good fucker–work him over nice and proper. Figure out what sort of shit he pulled here yesterday. But whatever he did, don’t bring it back here! Just…deal with it as best you can. Probably some knick knack or something–it surprised me, but wasn’t that strong.”

Keith nodded, and a few minutes later he was out on the sidewalk, cool in his leathers despite the hot night. He found his motorcycle and rode off into the dark, heading for Oliver’s place, and more than eager give the man who’d done this to him a bit of payback.

Pigtown Prison (Part 2)

The pain was spreading to the rest of his body now, radiating from his guts but manifesting in entirely different ways. There was…a burning ache deep inside him–everywhere inside of him–and it was only becoming worse. He heard, and felt, the first unsettling crack in his knee, and his leg gave out under him, sending him crashing to the floor…and he felt the bones in his left leg grow and extend…but the muscle and tendons attached didn’t. He screamed then, clutching at his thigh, watching his ankle extend from the leg of his jeans, and with another couple of cracks, his right leg did the same. He didn’t remember much of the next few minutes, as the rest of his skeleton followed suit–it was just a constant sensation of burning in his bones, and the feeling of his meat and skin stretching to try and accommodate his growing body. Over him, he could see the filthy ceiling, Rod leaning against the wall smoking a cigar, and certain he must be dying. But as his bones finished, his muscles followed–each beginning with a horrific, gut churning cramp, and then releasing an explosion of searing heat as they grew, matching the new length of bone, but also doubling or tripling in size and strength.

At some point, he realized he had either grown accustomed to the pain, or it had actually eased slightly; he rolled over onto his knees, jeans and shirt growing tighter across his frame, and forced his feet back under him. He felt off balance and stumbled–nearly falling over again before he found a wall to steady himself with. The entire room seemed to have shifted around him, the scale smaller–but it wasn’t the room that had shrunk–he had grown taller.

He heaved himself towards the sinks again, and in the mirror, he saw his body changing right in front of his eyes. His limbs…they seemed so long, many of his muscles still stretched taut, but everywhere he’d felt his muscles explode in size, he looked like some…brute. His chest constricted suddenly, and he gripped the sink in front of him, trying to not scream in agony. A moment later, two huge pecs burst forth on his chest, huge slabs popping open the front of his button down shirt and stretching the t-shirt underneath to the breaking point. He could barely move, and with his hands he clawed at the fabric, eventually tearing it off his body, giving him a view of his body below, the muscle speeding up and growing faster now. His pants didn’t last long–when his glutes grew, the seam down the ass tore, letting him rip them away as well, and his underwear came off in shreds soon after. He barely recognized himself in the mirror–his pretty young face resting on top of the body of some steroid ridden bodybuilder–at least until he felt the bones of his face beginning to crunch and shift against one another. He clutched at it, screaming, his chin growing angular, nose breaking and rehealing a few times, brow growing fuller and extending over his eyes which sank back into his skull.

He sobbed, looking at his new face–and then came the hairs. He could feel them, millions of hairs erupting through his skin, every single one of them like an impossibly thin needle. He scratched at his body, watching a thick, black pelt erupt across his chest and down his thick roid gut, over his shoulders and across his entire back, down his ass, arms and legs. He was distracted by an invisible hand gripping his cock and balls and tugging at them, hard, making him retch again. His sack dropped as the hand tugged, balls doubling in size, cock growing to nearly ten inches before the hand finally released him, and the pain subsided, only to be followed by a knee shaking puncture in the head of his cock. He watched a thick ring push its way out of his flesh under the head of his cock, circle up and shove its way into his piss slit where it joined with itself, becoming a thick gauge PA. Exhausted, he tried to stay upright, but his shaking legs collapsed under him and he fell to the floor, adding a small dribble of blood from his cock as the piercing healed up behind it. He barely felt the three other rings follow suit–two bursting out of his nipples and one forcing its way out of his septum. His eyes were tearing up, and he choked back a sob. The pain slid away, and what remained was exhaustion–he just wanted to collapse, wanted to sleep, wanted all of this to be some mad dream.

The door to the bathroom swung open, and Keith heard two or three sets of boots clomp into the room. “Fuck Rod, someone dying in here?”

“Nah, just a fucking pussy is all.”

“Hot piece of ass in my opinion–he been broken in yet?”

“Heh, you sure you want this one? Might be a lot to handle.”

“He sounds like he’ll moan real fucking nice ‘round my cock, is what I think!”

There were hoots and hollers, and hands started grabbing at Keith and forcing him onto his hands and knees. All he could smell around him was smoke and booze on breath, musk and piss and cum and leather. He felt someone pull his ass cheeks apart and a bearded face shove its way in, tongue slathering his hole, another face grabbing his face and kissing him. He felt…something else boiling inside him, some other lingering heat from the change. This…it wasn’t right, this wasn’t right! He wasn’t going to let these men take him, no, he…he…

He shoved the man in front of him away with a snarl, turned around and saw a squat piggy looking fuck behind him in leather gear and assless chaps, stroking his cock with one hand. He lunged at him, the others watching him pin the man down and start fucking his ass in surprise, and then they edged their way back out of the bathroom–all of them except Rod, who walked over, observing Keith roughly fucking the pig. “Good instincts, nice technique–you’ll do nicely.”

“Hey handsome. Top or bottom?”

“What, you don’t want to buy me a drink first?”

“Heh, I’m just curious is all.”

“Oh, I guess I’m pretty vers, though I probably bottom more.”

“Seriously? Too bad–you’re hot, but I’m looking for a top.”

“Well hey now, I’m more than willing to give it a shot for a hot guy like you. It’s not like I’ve never fucked a guy before.”

“Well, I’m looking for a bit more than a fuck, but I suppose you could do in a pinch–the pickings are a bit slim tonight…still, this whole look isn’t going to do. Way too “nice guy,” you know? Don’t you own any leather?”

“Are you kidding? That stuff is so expensive.”

“Maybe so–but I don’t think you care, do you? You need leather on, it makes you feel powerful. Helps you display your dominance.”

“What…I feel…”

“Hush…just listen, and pay attention. Those chaps are looking good, and that vest, showing off that hot body of yours. You want guys staring at you, don’t you? You want them to need you inside them, all ten inches.”

“That’s…I wasn’t wearing this…shit.”

“Sure you were–this is what you wear when you go hunting for ass. You’re a beast. Hairy, muscle bound, aggressive, rough, and none too bright. Operating out of need and instinct. You just let that dick to the talking, don’t you?”

“Fuckin’ slut, you’re–no, this…isn’t me!”

“Sure it is. Stroke that big cock, feel your brain draining, that alpha aggression taking over your whole mind. You know what you want sir, now fucking take it.”

“Shut up!”

“You’re gonna have to make me shut up, you stupid brute. Now drag me into the alley back there and show me what you do to talky bottoms like me.”

The Smoker Tapes (Part 2)

Pictured: The Smoker’s victim (1) at Pride, (2)in his dungeon, and finally (3)living his new life.


<The door opens, Eric walks across the room. The sound of him sitting down again.>

The Smoker: Feeling better?

Eric: How do I even know that you are The Smoker, anyway? How do I know that you aren’t just jerking me around?

The Smoker: Like I said, when the owner of this apartment gets here, I’ll be happy to offer a demonstration, provided he’s interested.

Eric: Well, you have to admit that this is hard to believe.

The Smoker: Of course it is. But just because something is unbelievable doesn’t mean it can’t be true. Hunter existed. All of the men I’ve helped existed. I exist. Why the sudden bout of doubt? You seemed inclined to believe me when we spoke on the phone.

Eric: A journalist has to be skeptical of his sources.

The Smoker: Ah yes. The only way to maintain your integrity is to challenge mine.

Eric: You don’t have to get upset. If you can’t corroborate any of this, then you’re no better than the men spreading legend on the street. You just seem more interested in offering embellishment.

The Smoker: I would call them details. Embellishment implies that I’m lying.

Eric: As far as I’m concerned at the moment, you might as well be lying. I think you’re just trying to shock me into believing you.

The Smoker: If that’s really what you believe, then we might as well stop this interview now. If my testimony has no worth, why seek me out in the first place? You were, after all, the one looking for me. I only contacted you after I heard that someone wanted the truth of things. Like I said, I’m happy to offer you proof when my friend returns. Why not give me the benefit of the doubt until then? At worst, I’m just a fool telling tales. At best, I’m the best story you’ve ever found in your rather lackluster career as a lifestyle journalist.

Eric: It isn’t lackluster–

The Smoker: It is lackluster, and you know it. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost say that you aren’t particularly interested in your career as a journalist. But if that were true, why pursue a story as big as this one, right?

Eric: …Right.

The Smoker: So, while we wait for my friend, I assume you have a few more questions to ask.

<The sound of a notebook’s pages being flipped.>

Eric: How do you choose your…patrons? What do you look for in the men you change?

The Smoker: Well…that’s a bit complicated, actually.

Eric: Complicated how?

The Smoker: I don’t really choose my targets, exactly. I mean, that’s not precisely true. To say…maybe here’s a better way to put it. I can’t just walk down the street, smoking a cigar, changing men left and right. There’s only a small set of men who are even receptive to my assistance. And even then, not everyone in that set is interested in being helped. Not everyone in that set even has a problem that I can solve for them. So to say that I choose anyone isn’t the best way of putting it. It’s more like…there are some people who need help, and I’m the only person who can help them.

Eric: Alright then, so who can you help? What qualities do all of your patrons share?

The Smoker: Well, they’ve all smoked at some point in their life. I can’t do anything to someone who hasn’t tasted smoke before. While it isn’t a requirement that they be gay, I can’t do anything if the person isn’t at least open to the prospect of becoming gay.

Eric: So you make all of your patrons gay?

The Smoker: Considering the sexual nature of my work, it’s hard to imagine how they could turn out any other way.

Eric: Anything else?

The Smoker: Well, they all have a problem. Or rather, they all have a problem I can solve. A problem with themselves…..Again, it’s hard to explain. They have to be dissatisfied with their lives, or with their bodies, but it’s more complicated than that even. They have to be willing to sacrifice, they have to give up and not look back.

Eric: And how do you know when you’ve found someone who you can help?

The Smoker: Well, usually they find me. Or rather, I attract them. The legend attracts them, rather. But when I meet them, I…well, when I meet them, it’s not that I can read their minds exactly, but I can sense their problem and how to solve it. That’s a rather inelegant way to put it, unfortunately, but the details of the process aren’t really…it’s rather unconscious.

Eric: None of that made much sense, unfortunately.

The Smoker: Well, it isn’t something I try and articulate very often. You do something so many times, it becomes a part of you. You don’t think about it anymore. It can become rather dominating at times, and you forget that things could have been any other way. So trying to explain it, is difficult. Perhaps if I used an example.
Last year, during the summer–during pride weekend, actually–I wandered through the street fair in the afternoon. That’s usually how it starts, I end up wandering somewhere with no particular goal in mind, but I’ve come to recognize the sensation of being pulled towards someone who’s looking for me. And in the mob of people, in the street, I saw a young man, beer in hand but not comfortable with it at all. Not comfortable at all, with any of it, and looking at him, I could just tell everything about him. Just started college, but uncomfortable in his own skin. Gay, a virgin, no confidence, desperate for attention and control over his life and situation but he was too busy doubting his own ability and desire to actually attain anything. Overbearing mother, distant father, seeking approval from older men and hating himself for it. Unhappy with his body, but lacking the discipline and determination to change it. Caught at a crossroad, unable to decide where to go. He was lost, and he saw me standing there, smoking a cigar, and I saw this flourish of jealousy there. He wanted what I could give him–well, what he actually thought was, “I want what he has,” but he got the next best thing.
I don’t know if that actually clarifies anything or not. But that’s what it feels like, finding a patron.

Eric: And what happens then?

The Smoker: Well, then I offer them help. In that young man’s case, he was rather belligerent. He didn’t want to admit to anyone that he needed help. Actually, he was one of the harder cases I’ve had recently.

Eric: What was so hard about him? From the way you talk, it doesn’t seem like there’s much anyone can do to stop you.

The Smoker: Well, I do require consent, but even with consent, there has to be acceptance. There has to be a desire to leave the old behind and welcome in the new. But once consent is given, and once the process begins, there’s no going back. It just makes it all the more difficult for me. Hunter, and men like Hunter, the easy ones, they take a matter of minutes or hours. The hard cases, like that young man, they can take days. The longest I’ve ever had took close to three weeks to finish up. Anyway, when we talked in the street, he refused help, but I offered him my phone number and he took it. A few days later, when he was drunk, he called me and wanted to know more. He eventually consented at my home, but in the middle of the process, his doubts and fear stepped in and fought back. I had to go to some…extreme measures.

Eric: Like what?

The Smoker: Well, I have an extensive dungeon in my basement, something I’ve assembled for hard cases. I kept him locked in a cell–he’d already changed quite a bit at that point. His body had grown heavily muscled, but completely hairless. In fact, his body was almost there–it was his head that was fighting back. And so…I made him start masturbating his brains out. He was jacking off almost constantly, and as he came, over and over, the air saturated with smoke, he just got dumber and dumber, and eventually he just lost the will to doubt. He lost all reason to fear. I had to put something else in there of course–he grew into a very aggressive, domineering top. Skinhead, dresses all in leather, keeps a number of slaves now, chain smoking unfiltered cigarettes. He’s very happy, but it was a lot of work getting him there.

Eric: That doesn’t sound like consent, that sounds like kidnapping and torture.

The Smoker: Well, perhaps, but that’s all the consent I require.

<The sound of scribbling, a page turns.>

Eric: There seem to be a lot of rules involved in your work.

<A short silence.>

Eric: What?

The Smoker: Nothing. Nothing at all. What’s your next question?

Sketch #2 – What I want, What They Want

Everyday, for so long now, it had become a ritual for all of them. They would walk down the street, he would stand on his driveway. They would smoke their cigarettes, he would stand in his work shirt, sweating in the late afternoon heat, just home from his air conditioned office. One or both would wave, shout a howdy. He would wave back, sometimes. Other times he would just smile, sweat, adjust his crotch and then hurry inside. Today, he waved. He liked the days where he waved, he felt like less of a coward for the rest of the day.

Terry loved them. Not them as people, he knew nothing about them. He loved them as this thing, this thing he wanted–no, that wasn’t quite right–he didn’t want to possess, he wanted oppression. He wanted them to strut over, burn holes in his dress shirt, rip it off, rape him on the sidewalk where everyone could see what a bitch he was, how his money meant nothing, how he was just a faggot, a lowly faggot, a pig a whore a cunt–

He took a breath. His short, four inch cock leaked a bit into his briefs. He realized that, instead of continuing onward, like they usually did, the two men had stopped across the way, and were looking at him, then whispering to each other, and then looking at him some more.

“S–Something I can…uh, help you with?” Terry said, a bit too quiet for the slight breeze on the block.

“What?” one of them shouted–the shorter, stockier one. The one he imagined with a huge cock, and a thing for fisting.

“Oh…uh…” Terry said, not quite able to rearticulate.

“You wanna get a drink with us?” the other, taller one asked. He was the leader, the real master. The one who would leash him up, keep him in the backyard in a doghouse. Drive the humanity out of him for good, make him a real bitch in the end.

“Excuse me?”

“Do you want to get a drink, with us?” the man asked again, and then stepped out into the street. “You know, you wave at us everyday, and we don’t know anything about you. What’s…what’s your name?”

“T–Terry. Terry Blankenheim.”

“Nice…nice to meet you Terry. Say, uh, Buck and I, we were heading to the bar for a drink. Would…would you like to come along? I mean, you don’t have to, it’s…kind of silly now that I’m saying it.”

Was he nervous? He sounded nervous. Why would he be nervous? He wasn’t fat, he wasn’t worthless. “Oh, uh…I mean, I don’t usually–”

“Oh, yeah…I mean, if you don’t, then…” the man said, and stepped back, almost glad for the excuse.

It was slipping away, it was almost gone, his chance, “No, I mean, I’d be happy to. Let–let me change though, I mean–”

“No, it was odd of me to ask, I mean–” the taller worker said, “I don’t want you to, uh, feel pressured.”

“No, I’d enjoy it, really. Just let me change.”

“Oh…uh…would you…not?” the taller man asked, “You look…good how you are.”

Terry blushed, but stepped off the curb, and shook the man’s hand. “I didn’t get your name though.”

“Oh, sorry…” the man’s hand was as sweaty as his was. “It’s Dylan.”

“Nice to finally meet you Dylan. So, where are we going?”


It was midnight. Dylan was five drinks drunk, Buck was eight and reeling a bit, Terry at three split up by waters. He’d just heard the opposite of what he’d wanted to hear.


Hungover–very hungover. His bed? Someone elses? The news he’d gotten came roaring back from the night before.

“You’re gay…right?”


“It’s ok, we are too.”

“Oh…sure, I mean, I guess it was kind of obvious, huh?”

“Will you be our master?”

Their master. No, he wasn’t worthy of being their master, that was ridiculous. What a disaster.

He tried to roll up, his hands were tied to the bed posts. He opened his eyes, not quite able to make out the leather clad and collared Buck and Dylan on either side of him. He was dressed in the nicest suit they could find from the closet, Buck had shined some dress shoes for him. They had his cock in a pump they’d brought from their apartment–Terry’s four inches was now six, and purple hard.

“No, what are you…”

“Is it ready?”

“I think so.”

Dylan released the seal on the pump and pulled it off, Buck hopped up on the bed and immediately started fucking himself on Terry’s cock. “Oh fuck sir, oh fuck!”

“Get–Get off! Don’t!”

Dylan circled around to the foot of the bed, and started spit shining his dress shoes, moaning. He yanked, rope burning his wrists, and let out a quiet sob.

“What the fuck? What is this? Where am I?”

“Finally, you’re awake–we’ve been waiting forever. I didn’t think it would take you this long to wake up.”

“Who the hell are you, you fucking leather freak?”

“Oh trust me Brent, you know me–you just don’t recognize me. I’m Phil, you know, Phat Phil? The guy you and all of your frat buddies used to terrorize? I look good, right? I don’t blame you for not recognizing me, really–I’ve lost a lot of weight, and it’s all thanks to this wonderful contraption I’m about to stuff you into. I’ve been working on it for months now, and you’re my first test subject for stage two.”

“What the fuck are you even talking about?”

“Well, it’s a two stage process, you see. Stage one removes fat from someone’s body and stores it–stage two takes that fat and forces it into someone else–that is, you, soon enough. Come on out, guys.”

Brent looked around and saw three other slim men walk out, also clad in leather, and now that he was paying attention, he recognized all of their slimmed down faces as various fat men he’d ridiculed and teased. 

“We’ve been storing quite a bit–at last count, we tucked away over six hundred pounds of flab–and you want to know where it’s going?”

Brent heard the machine around him groan to life, a conveyor lifting his roped body into the machine as he struggled. 

“Oh, and I forgot to mention a quirk about the machine–apparently, and I have no idea why–it makes everyone who uses it gay–not something I was expecting–and the thinner it makes you, the more domineering. Now, this is just a hypothesis, but I think the four of us will have one fat pig slut to abuse by the time it’s finished with you!”

Brent gave one final scream as the doors shut him inside, and the machine entered stage two–the four leather men gathering around, eager to see the results.

“Well, I suppose the problem is that no one in the office listens to me. I might be the boss, but I just don’t have any authority,” Clyde said, the pudgy office manager said to the older salesman.

“Ah, well, the right suit can do wonders for a man’s self-esteem and authority. Come on, I have just the design for you, I think.”


Clyde strutted into the office on Monday, feeling better than he had in years. Of course, losing close to 100 pounds had done wonders, and while the cigar smoking, bald head and new beard were still a bit strange to him, he was growing more and more used to his new reflection. For now though, he had some business to take care of.

“Finn. My office, now.” he said, and the biggest slacker in the office, the perpetual thorn in his side, found himself compelled to march after Clyde into his office. His screams, first of pain, and them of pleasure, as his boss raped his ass, set the entire office into high gear, and no one challenged Clyde’s authority ever again.