Soft (Caption)

There…was nothing wrong with being a bit soft, Jack supposed.

After all, football season was over, and while he’d been fattening up somewhat over the last few months, ever since he’d moved into this new place, where his kind landlord, Mr. Robbins, insisted on having Jack eat every meal with him. The meals were huge, and while he’d tried to object at first, at this point, he couldn’t. He’d just sit down and eat everything his landlord put in front of him, and the smiling happiness on the old man’s face would make Jack happy too, and he’d feel better about being…softer.

But other things were softening too, it seemed like. Like his mind was getting softer, flabbier, and slower–just as his body was now too. He’d been finding it really difficult to work on his school work, and often would just sit on the couch, keeping Mr. Robbins company while his landlord smoked one of his pipes, musing idly, talking about nothing in particular, or at least nothing that Jack could seem to remember.

But there was nothing wrong with being soft, he told himself. If anything, he liked being soft–both soft in the body, and soft in the mind. Mr. Robbins would take care of him, of course–Mr. Robbins was such a good man, so handsome, so…so sexy, even. Maybe…maybe one day, Jack would be as sexy as him, with his big belly, and big beard, and that sweet pipe smoke of his–but while Mr Robbins might look soft at first, his mind was…sharp. Much sharper than Jack’s could ever be.

Still, there was nothing wrong with that, with being all soft inside and out. It was good showing off his softness–just wearing his underwear in the house, enjoying how much Mr. Robbin’s liked looking at his growing boy, feeling how horny he’d get when Mr. Robbin’s would shake and pat his belly, thinking about how he couldn’t jack off anymore without thinking about the old man in the house with him, how…how badly he wanted his landlord to fuck him, how he wanted to worship him.

Maybe…tonight. Yeah, tonight, when he had his smoke. He would ask him. Ask Mr. Robbin’s if he could touch his soft gut, see if he could suck his cock–soft was good after all, but a hard cock…he had a feeling that nothing would be better than a hard cock, surrounded by soft. His soft mouth, his soft ass, so…soft. He begged him for it, and Mr. Robbin’s obliged–and he was right. He felt like a marshmallow, Mr. Robbin’s big cock the tine sliding into him without any resistance, his insides so sticky and sensual, just like the cum that exploded from Jack’s cock in the middle of his virgin fuck, the smoke swirling around him while Mr. Robbin’s just smiled, kneading the boy’s soft ass, knowing that soon he wouldn’t even go back to school, wouldn’t even leave the house. Jack would be too soft to stand, too soft to get out of bed, too soft to think, too soft to talk, too soft to do anything other than eat, and roll over so Master and his friend’s could fuck him, skewer him–and one would purchase him, eventually. Men loves Mr. Robbin’s soft boy’s after all–no one could make them like he could.

Slave Swap (Part 4)

When Master woke him up, they most certainly were no longer in his sizable mansion, where Cameron had been living in his first year of service. Now they were in a small studio apartment–deep in the city, from the sound of traffic outside–the sort of living quarters any citizen could expect as a guarantee in this era. Nothing fancy, and none of clean from the looks of things, but it was similar to where Cameron had spent much of his youth. “Where are we, sir?”

“This is where you’ll be living, Slave. I’d rather not have you dribbling any more piss on my carpets. You’ll still be working for my company, but I can’t have someone like you as my personal assistant. You’ll be a janitor now–something which will…suit your body’s tastes, I assume. You’ll also be receiving a much smaller allowance from this point further, although there will be…opportunities for you to earn more, if you’d like. After all, if there is one thing I know about you, it’s that you’re highly motivated by financial reward. Still, we have one final adjustment to make, but I wanted to make sure you were awake. Slave, run personality file: Jug.”

The sensation was always…nerve wracking, when Master ran a personality file. Still, he’d been through enough of them to know what to expect, from his first day–after all, it was how Master had turned him gay. The contract gave Master wide licence to modify not only his body, but also his mind, his memories, his personality, his intellect–provided a backup of his original is kept on hand. But this one lasted longer, and the mental nausea was more severe. Whatever Master was doing to him, it was more substantial than anything else he’d done to him previously. At last, it was over, and Jug reached out for a wall to steady himself, and let off a great big belch. “Fuck sir, mah head feels like ya screwed it off in shook it up real fuckin’ good.”

That…didn’t sound like him, but his thoughts were suddenly running much slower than he was accustomed to.

“Don’t worry Jug, you’ll feel better soon enough. It’s just something to…smooth your transition. After all, if you’re going to be a janitor, you’d better think and sound like one, right? And someone your age…well, you need a bit of history, don’t you? In any case, I’ll be in touch.”

“Yes sir,” he said, and Master left him in the apartment, to explore the small space, and to try and sort out what, exactly, his master had fucked up in his head. Why had Master called him Jug, anyway? His name was…was something else, but then again, he’d been called Jug ever since he’d drank that whole gallon of piss in one fucking sitting, years ago, and the name had stuck. It was…it was a badge of pride, wasn’t it? The memory horrified parts of him–the vividness of it. It wasn’t real, he knew that, and yet, to Jug, it felt as real as anything else. He sat down, diaper squishing audibly under him, his body still shaking, the pain coming back now that he had nothing else to focus on.

His body has needs, that he knew, but they weren’t needs that he wanted to satisfy. Why had Master just…left him here? With no guidance, and no direction? He hadn’t even…fed him before he’d left. In a sense, he knew he should feel…free on his own, and yet the hungers growing inside him made him feel more boxed in and controlled than any time in his first year of service. He turned on the TV, but then got up from the chair to explore the room. There was a small supply of cigars in a battered humidor on the shelf, but he fought the urge to smoke. There were a few beers in the fridge, and his thirst…but he also knew he wanted cum…and piss more than alcohol or water. There was no food anywhere, but Jug also didn’t know how to cook. He’d…have to get something delivered, or go out if he wanted to eat.

He heard his phone buzz and shake on the side table, and he went to retrieve it, and found a message from Master. “I’m sure the monkeys on your back have started scratching. I selected this location particularly for you. There’s several gay bathhouses and bars within several blocks, many of them with rather seedy reputations. I’m sure you can find some men willing to feed an old faggot like you, especially in the dark. I’ll be watching. Or you could always kick the habit. I…weakened the original desires, as hard as that might be for you to imagine–the body’s owner wanted his slave’s body to be insatiable. It won’t be pleasant to resist them, I can assure you, but I admit I might find your strength of will to be quite arousing–though I think I’d still rather see you submit, slave. Still, perhaps you’ll surprise me–I do love surprises.”

Was this really just a game to him? Jug felt used, but he knew what he would do–he was going to fight this shit. He didn’t want this life, he wasn’t going to give into this filth. He’d fought so long, his entire life–hadn’t he? He could recall a youth where he’d struggled, but it was like someone else’s story now. Jug, on the other hand, had led a life of debauchery and excess, and just thinking and remembering all those loads of cum he’d sucked down, all those jugs of piss he’d emptied to prove his earned nickname, it was making his old cock rock hard.

But that wasn’t real. This wasn’t real. He sat down on the chair with a glass of water, and ordered some food from the tablet on the wall. He could fight this, he was stronger than any of this. He’d…prove to his master that he was different, that he’d earned his last body, that he could please him by being close to him, that he didn’t deserve to be treated like this.

Police Auction

“Wakey, Wakey, Officer Prescott–I wouldn’t want you to miss this.”

The gloved hand slapped his face, hard, palm and then backhand, making the man groan. He could smell smoke, and piss, and dank. He could remember being out on patrol, but after that–things got fuzzy. He opened his eyes. The room was dark, aside from red lighting overhead, and some man in a leather uniform he didn’t recognize was smiling at him a few inches from his face–close enough that he could feel the heat from the man’s cigar on his cheek. “Wha–where the fuck am I?” he said, struggling a bit, testing the strength of the ropes binding him to the metal bars behind him.

“Where you are isn’t important, officer. This is only going to be your home for a few days, while I get you sorted out. You’ve made quite a few enemies on the force, these last ten years–I haven’t had someone rack up the bidding like this in a long time.” The leather stranger stepped to the side, and Prescott saw, behind him, a laptop with some program running. Every few seconds, another line would pop up on the bottom. Squinting…he saw they were numbers–dollar amounts. “Let’s see here,” the man said, and looked closer at the screen. “Looks like we’re down to a bidding war between the Aryan Nationals, and the Lobos.”

Prescott had been working in the gang unit for quite a while, and he’d been instrumental in arresting several higher ups in both groups. Ironically, both groups were engaged in an on and off again turf war in a few neighborhoods. Still…had he said, bidding war?

“Yeah–looks like I’ll be getting over 10,000 for your ass.”

“You’re what, you’re fucking auctioning me off? For what, who gets my head?”

“Oh, nothing so easy as killing you, no,” the man said, taking a drag off your cigar. “No, I specialize in more…complex manners of revenge. If the Aryans win, they’ll probably want another pig, like a made a few years back–think the guy’s name was…Anderson?” Prescott recognized him, but his name had been Anderstone. He’d gone missing from the unit a few years back, but a body had never turned up. “You’ll be much more interested in scoring drugs, eating boots, and taking their fists than much else. The Lobos–you’re a bit old for what they usually ask for, which is young guys to whore out on the block. That said, I’ve heard a rumor that one of their new leaders, he likes white guys–but big ones. Fatties. Pretty crazy guy too–likes beating them pretty rough. Still, if you beg for me, I’ll let you…enjoy that part.”

“That’s fucking…that can’t fucking happen!”

“Oh?” the man said, and Prescott felt something…in his head. A presence, wiping things clean, removing memories, putting in new ones. He realized, after a few minutes, he was losing every memory of every woman he’d ever been with, including his wife, and each was being replaced with some dirty, brutal encounter with rough men off the street. When the man left, Prescott was shaking, and vomited a bit on his uniform, and looked back at the screen. Only a minute left on the auction, and then he’d learn what his new position on the block was going to be from here on out.

Medical Trials (Part 3)

He knew he should be more shocked than this. He tried, as hard as he could, to make himself *feel* shock. To convince himself that because things like this didn’t usually happen to bodies, what he should be registering is shock, alarm, fear, terror, but beyond a general sense of unease, Evan mostly just…looked at himself, like he’d appraise an object. As something he didn’t have much attachment to, emotionally.

Before becoming a police officer, Evan had served in the army, serving two tours in Iraq. He’d never really enjoyed his time in the army, but he had always appreciated the routine it had instilled in him. As a teenager, he’d been a bit of a troublemaker, and he appreciated the fact that the military had helped him get past that. He’d kept up his exercise and diet even after leaving the army, moving through a few jobs before he ended up in law enforcement. He’d always been told, by the various women he’d dated, that he had a strong jaw, and a stronger body, with a six inch cock he knew how to use. Beyond his muscled frame, he was moderately hairy, with more than a few tattoos he’d picked up with his army buddies.

Looking down at himself now, however, it was clear this drug–whatever it was–had already ruined him, substantially. It was the gut which disturbed him the most. It made sense, to some extent, given how much cum he’d eaten, and how full he’d felt each time. The skin was paler though, and even the stretchmarks from such rapid growth were a mild pink where they should have been violently red. He ran his hands over the surface, feeling how soft and flabby it was, and noticed that his body hair was less thick than it had been, and appeared lighter than before. He’d always kept his face clean shaven, but brushing a hand over his face, he couldn’t even feel stubble there, and even the hair on his head seemed too fine, and thinner than it had been before.

Everywhere, he’d lost muscle and replaced it with fat. He felt weak and tired, lifting his arms was tiring, and he could see several of his tattoos looked like they were fading away somehow. His skin was smooth and pale–he couldn’t have been in here long enough to lose his tan, but he looked like someone who never went outside. He’d forgotten about his cock, in all of this. He…didn’t really want to think about it, or feel it. The pain and agony of the sessions had made him slightly afraid to touch it, but he did, eventually. It was swollen and red, but also smaller–only about three inches, and his balls had shrunk quite a bit as well, each the size of a large grape. Touching himself for the first time in…days?…weeks?…he felt nothing, beyond a vague sickness in his gut, and he pulled his hand away, happy to just let the calm wash over him. Though he would feel better, if he had some cum to eat–but it wasn’t worth the pain.

He was in a room similar to the one with the chair–the same white walls, the same mirror, the same door–but this one had a small bed, a simple chair and small table, a sink and a toilet. More like a prison cell, which wasn’t exactly much of an improvement. He heard a buzz, and the door unlocked. A man stepped into the room, dressed in a well tailored suit. Evan couldn’t recall his name in the haze, but he remembered interviewing him about Trinq’s missing employees. A vice president of…research and development? He wasn’t sure, but he had a disarming smile, not that Evan cared that much. Of all the questions he wanted to ask:–“What am I doing here?” or “What have you done to me?”–the one that feel out of his mouth was, “Can…can I have some cum?”

It was the first time he’d heard his voice unmuffled in all this time, and it was higher, thinner, than it had been.

“Ah, straight to pleasure, detective? No time for business?”

“I’m just…hungry, is all.”

“Yes, I’m sure you are. We’ll get to that, don’t worry. Still, I’m mostly here to check on your progress, in our Calmura trials. Are you enjoying them? We’re working with some private prisons to develop new systems of inmate management, though we’re still trying to work out some of the side effects. Still, in your case, I don’t see anything wrong, do you? Do you like some of the changes? How do you feel?”

“I…” Evan started to say, but he didn’t know how to talk about his feelings. After a moment of silence, he just shrugged. “I don’t…like it. I think.”

“Not sure?”

“Just don’t feel much of anything, really.”

The man sighed, “I was worried seven doses would take too much fight out of you–this would have been more fun after four or five. Oh well, next time, I suppose.” The man pulled a vial and a needle out of his pocket and set them on the table. Even in the dull world his eyes were registering, he recognized the blue in the jar.

“I don’t…want any more.”

“No?” the man said, smiling. “How about we make a deal. You inject yourself with the next dose of Calmura, and I let you suck my cock. You did say you were hungry, right? Still, if you don’t want anymore, you can leave–all you have to do is walk out that door–it’s still unlocked.”

Even before he’d worked out the logic, he was sitting in the chair, readying his next dose. It was simple really. He loved cum. He needed it. If someone offered him cum, he’d do anything to get it. The man was a bit disappointed to see how well the subject had responded, the police officer finding a vein and injecting himself without any apparent reservations, and he set the needle down. “Can I suck you off now?”

The man shrugged, and pulled his cock out of his suit pants, Evan getting down in front of him and sucking, hard, eager to get his next dose of cum. Still, he wasn’t very experienced, and eventually he just let the man fuck his throat roughly, until he came, and he swallowed all of his cum down, feeling…better. It would hurt, cumming again, but this had been worth it. Cum was worth anything. Cum was priceless.

The man just shook his head, and set a beaker down on the table. “There’s probably not much left in those balls of yours, but that will give you a snack for later, right?”

He left the room, and watched Evan position the beaker under his cock, the first orgasm building, and he shot into the glass, over and over again. “Well, that was so successful, I’m almost disappointed,” he said to the scientists observing Evan, “When will he be finished?”

“Another few weeks, at least. We’ll begin his final stage of programming today, once he finishes the ejaculation phase.”

“Good. Keep me updated.”

“Yes sir.”

Medical Trials (Part 2)

The feeling of calm indifference only lasted for about half an hour–but the tank had only been drained by about a third, when he felt like he was finally free of whatever strange mental state that drug had left him in. As disconcerting as it had been, he actually missed it in a sense, as he kept swallowing his own seed, desperate to not drown on his own spunk, his gut aching, because at least for that short window of time, he had genuinely enjoyed this. The speakers in his mask continued to repeat the message, however, about once a minute, and the repetition wore on him, and he fought it for a while. Now however, he was sobbing, about an inch of cum remaining in the tank, his gut feeling like it would burst at any moment. He’d gagged a few times, spewing cum out his nose, where it ran down the outside of his mask and dripped onto his chest and swollen gut. He let out a cry of relief when the flow eased up, and the tank was dropped back down to the floor, out of sight. The machine beside him administered something else to him, and he feared he’d see that ame blue liquid, as before, but all he felt, after a moment, was pleasantly floaty, and he fell asleep in the chair.

When he woke up, he was once again in the chair, though his gut didn’t ache as bad as it had, and he felt less stiff, like he’d been out of the chair for a bit, while he was asleep, and then returned to the same position. He tried to beg and plead through the mask attached to him, but he saw the drip once more turn blue, and he fought harder against his bonds. Fifteen minutes later, the first orgasm ripped through him, and he just focused on his mind, on maintaining his focus, but he was broken, sobbing and whimpering after an hour, and after two, when his cock was merely spasming weakly, the fact that the mask was pulling his head back to the chair was the only thing keeping his head upright. Once more, the tank was raised up to the ceiling, and the flow began again. The world was dull, meaningless, aside from a slight bright spot. The tank. He…enjoyed cum. He could remember that, somewhat, but little else.

“You love the taste of cum, officer Timmons.”

The tank grew brighter in his focus, and once the flow began, he drank it down hungrily. He drank, and the messages continued, though with greater variation than the last time.

“You crave cum, Officer Timmons.”

“If a man offers you his cum, you will do anything he demands of you to obtain it.”

“Cum is priceless, you will never have enough of it.”

The dullness lasted longer than it had the first time, and was more difficult to shake off. Or was it just that the tank hadn’t been as full as it had been the first time? He wasn’t sure, everything felt like a blur. He pushed the sensation away as quickly as he could, but he couldn’t deny that he felt a more lasting effect this time, a…craving for more. The taste of cum lingered in his mouth, and he didn’t want it to fade. His gut ached, but surely he could fit in another load or two, right? Oh fuck, what in the world was he thinking? It was a relief when the tranquilizer flooded his system again, and sent him to sleep, it was easier than trying to understand what was going on with his mind.

He was forced to endure five more sessions like this. He would wake up in the chair, once again. As soon as he was awake, the strange drug would be administered. He would cum, violently and repeatedly, for several hours, after which he would ingest every drop of cum he’d just expelled. The voice would repeat in his mind, and he was no longer certain whether everything he thought was his or not. One thing he did know, as the sessions wore on, was that, more and more, he looked forward to eating the cum. He could…survive the onslaught of orgasms (though they had become so painful, he was certain that if he ever left this lab alive, he would never cum, or have sex, ever again) so long as, when they were over, he could eat the cum. He loved cum, after all. That much he knew for sure. They wouldn’t be able to take that away from him, that was just…just who he was, right?

It was difficult to compare from session to session, but Evan thought that he was orgasming less and less each time. Certainly the cum he was fed wasn’t enough to sate his desire, and the tank never looked as full as it had that first time. He also wasn’t sure…but his body felt different, somehow. Of course, he hadn’t been able to see his body since waking up in the room, with his head pulled tight against the back of the chair, but he…sensed something was wrong, or at the very least, different than it had been. Most worrisome, however, was that the world really was beginning to lose some of it’s color, even after the drug had worn off. It was hard to care about anything beyond drinking more cum. He felt dull…but even stranger, he felt calm. Relaxed and at ease. Rationally, he knew that what was being done to him was terrifying, but the emotion attached to the thought was losing force. Every emotion was losing force. He’d think of his girlfriend naked, but only received a dull throb of arousal and love, nothing like he could remember feeling.

And so, when he woke up after that seventh session, and he wasn’t strapped to the chair, he didn’t really know what to feel. Or rather, he knew what he should be feeling–relief, happiness, anticipation–and all of those things were there to some extent, but mostly he just felt…calm, as he looked down at himself, and saw for the first time what the drug had done to his body.

Baby Bear – Part 2

How could I have forgotten? I’d sucked his cock nearly every night, and most nights he’d fucked my ass as well. I’d licked his body clean from neck to toes. He’d fed me pipe smoke right into my eager mouth. And I had somehow forgotten all of it, gone off to school each day like nothing strange was going on at all. I realized I had done none of my studying that I’d needed to do, and I was failing all of my classes. The semester was nearly over, and I had no idea how I was going to turn any of it around. Perhaps it was silly to worry about school when you discover some old man has been manipulating you and forcing you into diapers, but it was something I could think about. I didn’t want to think about his old cock in my mouth–I didn’t want to think about how much I wanted his cock in my mouth, really. Because I did. And I wanted him to fuck me. And so I ran.

He probably expected me to try and run; he didn’t even try and stop me. I didn’t even care that all I was wearing was a diaper soiled with my own cum, I just wanted out of that house. I flung open the front door and ran out across the lawn, but as soon as I was outside, this monstrous fear rose up inside me. I was outside. More than outside, I was lost. I didn’t know where I was. The world was gigantic, and I had no idea where Daddy was, and I might never get home, and who was going to take care of me? I made it to the curb, tears rolling down my face, no longer able to focus on getting away, not even really understanding what I was feeling, and then he was beside me, pulling me close–Daddy. I was so happy to see him. I gave him a huge hug, and he led me back up the driveway and into the house, where the fear immediately disappeared, and my mind tried to get a grip.

“I wouldn’t try to run away again, baby bear. You all try it once, but if you keep trying, then I’m going to have to punish you,” he said. Daddy said. I struggled with his name, trying to find it in my mind, but his name was just that–”Daddy”. I remembered that was the same thing all those strange men who visited called him, and before I could ask, he explained what he had done to me, and to the rest of them over the last several decades.

It was true–he was lonely. He had been a very skilled hypnotist when he was younger, and he decided to make himself what he called “Baby Bears”–young men he’d keep in diapers, and raise to be better men than what they might have otherwise been. Better from his perspective, of course–I was horrified at the thought, but he assured me that there would be no escaping my new fate. He told me that I had already accepted the first round of conditioning, and now it was time for us to decide what kind of bear I was going to grow up to be, and how much work it was going to take for me to grow up.

You see, he would only be able to make me into a “proper bear” after he’d destroyed and erased most of who I was now. This could be, he told me, a rather violent process, and leave a person’s mind quite damaged, unless they went along with him, and willingly allowed him to destroy their old selves so they could be reborn again. I, of course, was freaking out. He assured me that the more I fought, the worse it would be for me. I was convinced that if I tried hard enough, if I proved indestructible, he would have to let me go. He smiled. It was almost like he liked the idea of me fighting back. And then he said something, some phrase I can’t remember, and things grew slippery. I could feel him ripping out chunks of my personality, and I was fighting him, trying to hold onto them, but he would just tear harder, and it would hurt, like a massive migraine, but I couldn’t let him win, I couldn’t.

I don’t know how much time passed before I came back to myself again, shaking on the floor in a fetal position, Daddy sitting in an armchair beside me. I was still me. I still had lost some, but I still remembered who I’d been. He told me to quit fighting him, that if I kept fighting him, he was going to have to make things worse for me. I laughed, and told him to give it his best shot. He looked disappointed, repeated that mysterious phrase, and this time, I had no real understanding of what was happening. When I resurfaced, however, something had changed in my mind. I was moving slower. I tried to ask him what had happened, but all that came out was baby talk. I also realized, to my horror, that I had pissed my diaper again–and that I had also taken a massive shit as well. I tried to get up, I tried to stand, but my body wasn’t working quite right. All I could do was crawl. Daddy got down at eye level with me, and told me that I was being a very dumb baby bear. That I was going to grow up and become a very dumb baby bear, and if I didn’t let him win, I was going to be the stupidest bear he’d ever raised, that I’d never even be able to go potty like a big boy again. I didn’t want to be that stupid, I really didn’t. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life wearing diapers. One day, I wanted to be a big boy, I wanted to grow up again. I was crying, and he asked me if I was done fighting him. I wanted to say no, but I was exhausted, and I knew he would win. When I went under that final time, I let him remove every bit of me that he could find. This is the last of me, this is the last little bit, the last chunk, and I’m holding on, but he’s coming, he’s coming and–

Commission: The Secrets of Fitzroy Abbey (Part 2)

Commissioned by Anonymous

It had been a whole week now–should he count himself lucky? Surely it could have been worse, right? Then why did it feel like he was sitting here, just waiting for the Master Fitzroy’s other perfectly shined shoe to drop? Mr. Windsor mopped up the gravy on the plate with a hunk of bread, and then got up from the table. He was still hungry, but the cooks had given him a sour look when he’d gone in for a third helping. Why the kitchen was still so busy at this time of evening was a bit of a mystery to him, but he was thankful for the extra food all the same. His gut was pleading for food all the time now, and he no longer had the willpower to resist the temptation to eat every chance he got. Mr. Livingston, however, had looked absolutely delighted when he’d seen Mr. Windsor’s plate piled high with food. He’d been an especially smug twat all week, ever since the master had sentenced Mr. Windsor to another round of edification, but if all Mr. Windsor had to deal with was an insatiable hunger, he would count himself lucky. He’d been especially on guard with himself all week, desperately trying to check himself and his actions, searching for anything new about himself that the Master had intended him to not notice. Still, he was almost certain he had forgotten something important…but what?

A bell rang. It struck Mr. Windsor with a pang of deja vu. He could remember…he could almost recall…

“Room 205–is that one of yours, Mr. Windsor?”

He started, and looked up into the face of another servant, Mr. Hooker. He had been here longer than Mr. Windsor, but not so long that he had forgotten himself entirely like Mr. Livingston. From their casual dealings, he seemed to be a firm pragmatist about their situation here. “N–No. I do believe Mr. Williams is assisting that guest.”

Mr. Hooker sighed, “He’s probably sobbing in his room. I’ll go fetch him.”

Mr. Williams was slightly newer than them both, and still spent much of his personal time lamenting his new position. While everyone regarded him with a bit of pity, they all hoped he would resign himself soon. His weeping tended to keep the men in the rooms next to him up at night.

Alone in the room, Mr. Windsor considered actually licking his plate clean, but besides feeling it might be a bit humiliating if someone walked in, it also seemed to be outside the bounds of his required decorum. He hefted himself up to return the plate to the kitchen for washing, when Mr. Livingston poked his head in.

“I thought I’d find you in here, stuffing yourself,” he said, with a rather cruel grin, “The Master of the House requests your presence in the dining room, immediately.”

Apparently, this snide tone was the sound of the other shoe. His heart thumping loudly in his ears, his nose reddening, he stood up and made his way to the main floor of the abbey, and saw that evening had well and truly passed into twilight. The rest of the guests were in their rooms or out on the grounds, enjoying themselves and each other as the master wished, but Master Fitzroy was not among them. He was standing in the dining room, with a stocky, heavy gutted, fat faced cook from the kitchen, someone Mr. Windsor didn’t recognize. He hadn’t heard that anyone new was joining the staff yet this summer–what was going on, and what did it have to do with him?

“Welcome Mr. Windsor,” Master Fitzroy said, “Would you kindly take a seat at the table? At the head there is fine, don’t be shy.”

He settled himself down into the chair usually reserved for the master himself, carefully, and stammered, “I–I’m not sure I know what is going on, sir.”

“Oh, I know you do not, yet. I simply wanted to take this chance to personally re-introduce you to our newest member of the kitchen crew. His name is Mr. Bartholomew Marsden, but you were previously acquainted with him as the guest in room 307.”

Memories flashed back across his mind, memories the master had locked away from him for an entire week. How could he have forgotten them? How could he have forgotten…forgotten…his name, what had Mr. Marsden’s name been? Bar…Bart? No, that was the Master’s name for him! Not Bart, something…something else. Something else! He’d heard his old name too, but it was gone, they were both gone now.

“Following our discussion that evening, I called on Mr. Marsden, and suggested kindly that he forget all about what he had seen, but he proved…reluctant. In fact, he seemed determined to rescue you from service here, long before I planned on retiring you. After all, I don’t think you have learned your lesson quite yet, Rudolph. Regardless, Mr. Marsden became rather belligerent. I decided to bring him on as a temporary staff member–although, depending on his temperament, he could very well obtain a long term position like yourself…but we’ve already discussed that in detail, haven’t we, Mr. Marsden?”

“Yes…Yes sir…” the cook said, when the master stared at him. His puffy cheeks burned red, and he looked at the ground.

“Just so you are aware of our terms, Mr. Windsor, I have brought on Mr. Marsden as your private chef. You see, we have only a short six months until Christmas, and I realized that you would make an excellent Santa Claus to entertain my guests–but with your finicky eating, I doubted you would be able to obtain the girth needed for such a role. Mr. Marsden will be assisting you–and if he can fatten you up such that you are the heaviest man on staff by Christmas, then I have promised to terminate his employment here, and send him home in his original body, none the wiser. However, should he fail…well, he will be employed here for significantly longer.”

Mr. Windsor saw his friend gulp, and look away, his triple chin jiggling slightly.

“Now, as you may or may not know, it is Mr. Parker, the head chef, who is currently the largest servant here, weighing in at 42 stone, or just shy of 600 pounds! So, Mr. Marsden certainly has a lot of work to do…as do you, Mr. Windsor.”

“I…I think this situation is rather manipulative, sir,” Mr. Windsor said, in the kindest tone his tongue could force out, “I sincerely resent this, and suggest that, perhaps, you simply consider allowing us to go free, together.”

“Oh, Mr. Windsor, I don’t see that happening anytime soon.”

“Well, then I simply will have to refuse to eat.”

“Oh? Will you?” the master said, chuckling, “I’ve heard about your new appetite, Mr. Windsor. You seem to be rather insatiable. But you must realize how cruel you sound, to Mr. Marsden here. After all, if you don’t cooperate, he, too, will be employed here for the foreseeable future. Would you really consign him to such a fate, simply because you still have lessons to learn and reparations to make? You may be a fool, but you are not vicious, though you like to believe you are, like many fools.”

His bluff had been called, and he knew it. He remained silent.

“As I was saying, you both have quite a bit of work to do, and I am nothing, if not a fair sport. Mr. Marsden has been given the assistance of the entire kitchen staff for your first meal tonight, and I must say, they have prepared quite the feast for you. I’m confident that, by the end of the night, you will be happily stuffed.” The master plucked a bell off the table and rang it. The wait staff entered, bearing platters of food, easily enough to feed eight or ten guests. “And don’t think about leaving anything behind, Mr. Windsor–that would be so wasteful! Mr. Marsden will be on hand to ensure you finish every bite–including dessert, right Mr. Marsden?”

The fat man nodded, and the master took his leave of the dining room. The meal lasted well into the early hours of the morning. Mr. Windsor would stuff himself, but eventually resist, and stop. Mr. Marsden would begin feeding and encouraging him, telling him that if he escaped, he could bring help. Of course, they both knew that if he were retired, he would have no memory of his time as a cook in the master’s service, but it was enough of a hope to keep Mr. Windsor eating for another hour, and then another. Much to his horror, he realized that as he grew fuller and fuller, he was also becoming rather aroused. He enjoyed the sensation of a full belly, and in the midst of dinner, with a loud groan, he realized that he had cum for the first time in months, right into the crotch of his livery. It became clear that Mr. Marsden was enjoying his role as well, and while neither of them could remove their clothing, he would grind up against Mr. Windsor’s side until he too came, multiple times over the course of the meal.

Finally, they finished dessert, both of them exhausted. Mr. Marsden had to help Mr. Windsor up from the chair, and down to their private quarters, where they discovered they would be sharing a double room–the doubles were reserved for those pairs of servants who the master hoped would share a special relationship. Inside, Mr. Marsden helped Mr. Windsor undress, and then stripped off his own chef whites. Unable to even think of sleep so soon after such a meal, Mr. Windsor instead gawked at himself in the mirror, his old flabby body, his taut, bloated and stuffed gut. He was already over 300 pounds–how would he look with three hundred pounds more? He would need a new livery. He would have rolls of fat, rolls hanging off of rolls. He would…he would be so…so…sexy.

Yes, sexy. Yes, he could picture himself, stuffed into a suit slightly too small, the seams stretching a bit, the confinement, the knowledge that he was so large that the tailor had to make a uniform specifically for him. The guests would gawk, but…but he would want them to. He would be swine, and yet revel in it. And at Christmas–at Christmas! He would have a beautiful red velvet suit. Master found grow him a fabulous, snow white beard. Jolly, he would be so jolly, yes he would. He rubbed his belly, feeling his cock grow hard again. On one of the beds, Mr Marsden sat, feeling his own gut, covered with grey hairs, watching his old lover caress himself, feeling his own short, stubby cock grow hard as well. Mr. Marsden crossed the room, got down on his knees, and began massaging Mr. Windsor’s huge gut, heaving it up so he could find the small, two inch cock beneath and suck on it, working his own cock as he did, until they both came one final time. Finally exhausted, they climbed into their respective beds, both creaking under their weight, and dreamed of feedings to come, praying that they wouldn’t enjoy them as much as they secretly sensed they would.

“Aww fuck dad, that feels so nice, you really were paying good attention during that cocksucker hypno lesson I just played for you, weren’t you? You can’t fucking resist cock anymore, and from the way you’re moaning, I bet you are getting hard just from the taste of my precum. Damn dad, you’ve actually got me leaking, even if you keep using your teeth like a fucking novice. We’re gonna have to give you lots of practice I think, before you’re ready for customers.

“Now smile for the camera, or better yet, give me that sultry look of all those fucking whores you used to bring around here, the whores you spent all of our fucking money on, you fucking sex addict. Did you really think I wouldn’t find out that you spent my entire college savings fund? That was from mom’s fucking death benefit, you sick fucker—still, I have a feeling I’ll be able to use those holes to recoup some of the costs.

“Yeah, that’s good—just a few more. I can’t wait to start advertising your services. Too good for jobs eh? Not anymore—you’re gonna be my bitch, my fucking manwhore for the rest of your fucking life. You’re gonna be sucking cocks from now until I decide you’re too fucking worthless, until your ass can’t close anymore, until nobody wants you, and then maybe I’ll put you out to pasture in some rundown nursery home. Still, that’s a good thirty years away, if you’re lucky. For now, go ahead and smile like you love this—oh hell, who am I kidding, you do love this, don’t you? You never thought sucking cock could be so amazing, right? Well have I got some news for you.

“You know Bill? Of course you know Bill—he’s our neighbor—did you know that he’s a fag? A total pervert too, when I told him what I was going to do to you, he wanted to be the first one to rent you, and you know what, he paid me 1000 bucks for one week. He’s gonna keep you in his dungeon dad, and he’s gonna open up that cunt of yours with both his fists. He’s gonna lock your cock up, shave off that beard of yours, and fucking humiliate you day and night—sounds like fun, right? How about another lesson then? After all, he’s gonna pick you up in two days, and I need to make sure you’re a compliant little whore by then. How about Ass Whore: Volume One? That sounds good to me.”

I make a new one every Bear Run I go to–I never get tired of it. It’s the first timers I like the most, the ones who don’t run in the usual circles, the ones desperate for friends and attention. They’re always nervous with me at first, but they so want to be liked–to be needed–and I can give them that, even if it’s never in the way they expect. 

I ply them with liquor–with compliments. In turn, they open up about themselves, as though I care one lick about who they are. They come up to my room, and then the fun starts. That first night, breaking them down, destroying them, remaking them–by morning they’re begging for it, and a whole new man walks out my door. 

Bareback only. Fistpigs. Painplay. Urinals. Toilets. Nothing is too extreme for the whores I craft. The second day, they endure heavy use, and they revel in it. If there are any doubts, any vestiges of their old selves remaining, they’re wiped out soon enough–the pleasure is too much–and people need them so much, how could they refuse?

The bidding process is silent, discrete. I introduce them to their new owner on the final day, and they leave–happy slaves all. Finally needed, just like they wanted.

Here at Fetish Obsessions, we specialize in sexual perversion training. I know that you probably think that you’re alone in your predicament. You find a man you love, the romantic chemistry is fantastic, but the sex is lackluster. He just isn’t into the same things you are, and has no real interest in experimentation. Well, we are happy to take care of that experimentation for him. We guarantee that after a full training, your partner will not only be interested in your fetish of choice–they’ll be obsessed with it.

Here, for example, is our rubber room. Subjects are immobilized in vacuum sealed rubber, and teased for periods of days to months, depending upon the level of obsession desired by their partners. See, our goal isn’t to destroy monogamy–we want to enhance it. In this day in age, why shouldn’t the love of your life be the sex of your life as well? Now, are there any facilities you’d be interested in touring? Oh, don’t be shy…trust me, I’ve heard them all.

Oh? Diaper play? One of my personal favorites. Let me show you to the nursery–I’m sure it will be everything you’re looking for and more.