Where Boys Become Men (Part 3)

His time as an initiate lasted eight weeks, and while Tanner hated every moment of it, whenever he looked back later–as best he could look back on anything, really–he realized he’d taken his time with Jackson for granted. At the time it had seemed like his ‘counselor’, as Jackson had forced Tanner to address him, was mostly interested in punishing and humiliating Tanner at every possible opportunity. Indeed, for the first week in particular, Tanner lost count of how many different people Jackson offered him to as a cumdump. Guards, friends of Jackson’s, other initiates–seemingly anyone could use any of his holes, whenever Jackson felt like it. On occasion, Jackson would turn him into a ragdoll like his first day, but generally, he would simply give the order. Tanner tried to resist the first few times, but the band had multiple ways of ensuring his compliance: electric shocks, drugs which made him immediately nauseous, and other drugs that flooded him with pleasure as soon as he obeyed. At some point, he decided that it was just…easier to go with it. He didn’t have to like it, and as soon as he could contact anyone on the outside, he’d make sure this place was shut down immediately and permanently.

It was a week before he realized something else–he was changing, somehow. It was gradual enough that from day to day he didn’t quite notice anything in particular. Sometimes it was physical–soreness in his muscles, or some extra hair on his chest–but also odd mental shifts like mood swings, a general irritability (which wasn’t surprising given his situation) and a raging horniness that never seemed to ebb away no matter how many times he came. Jackson enjoyed that part, it seemed, and often, when they weren’t doing much, he would make Tanner masturbate for fun, either alone or in front of other people. Still, enough little things added up over time that led him to realize something bigger had to be at work.

He confronted Jackson about it, and his counselor told him that he had, in consultation with Tanner’s doctors, selected his initial hormone regimen for him, and that he’d best get used to it; all of the men at Halverson took various hormone supplements, even him. One of the main goals of the initiate program, in fact, was to give newcomers a chance to adjust to this, grow a bit, so they’d have a better time managing as a provisional candidate. Tanner wanted to know what sorts of hormones he was being given and he raised a stink about consent–which got a laugh out of Jackson–but his counselor wouldn’t tell him much more beyond that. Now that he was aware of the changes, however, he became a bit paranoid, looking for signs of what Jackson had been talking about. In particular was his use of the word grow that worried him. Tanner was tall and strong, but as a swimmer he’d become hyper focused on maintaining a sleek, trim form, and as the days passed, it became more and more obvious that he was beginning to lose that shape he’d come to treasure above most everything else.

It was in the third week, when he was in the thick of his initial hormone treatments, that the anger broke through the wall he’d tried to build around it. They were in the room, and Jackson was smoking a cigar, like he always was, really. He was reading some manual or other, while Tanner cleaned up the room for him. He hated smokers. He always had–it had always been an indicator of moral weakness that someone would allow themselves to be addicted to something so harmful. The room had almost no ventilation, aside from the door, which Jackson wanted closed, trapping all of the smoke in with them…and whether it was the hormones that made him explode, or just his general misery, he screamed and shouted at Jackson, furious at his smoking, at his treatment here, and the anger overwhelmed him. He lunged, and collapsed to the ground like a brick, as Jackson sent a tranq through his system in a heartbeat, and fucked him for good measure.

The next day, he was more irritable than usual. By the afternoon, he realized he was craving…something, but he had no clue what. They were back in the room when Jackson offered him a cigar, and he refused–only the craving doubled in strength. His head ached, his muscles too–he was miserable. Jackson again offered a cigar, that smirk on his face…Tanner realized what he’d done, and he still refused–so Jackson started feeding him smoke, mouth to mouth, until Tanner finally broke down and accepted the fact that his counselor had just made him hopelessly addicted to nicotine in less than a day. Later, fucking him while Tanner smoked his second cigar Jackson told him, “Be careful who you piss off here–there are worse things I could do to you then make you into a damn sexy cigar smoker.”

After six weeks, Tanner barely recognized himself in the mirror. He’d gained close to 75 pounds in a little over a month, bringing his weight up to 260 pounds. He hadn’t gained much height, leaving him with a physique closer to that of a husky football player than a swimmer, with not only a large amount of muscle, but also fat, giving him a definite gut. Adding insult to injury, Jackson had made sure to fill in his previously hairless body–now, if ever wanted to swim again, he would have to shave his entire body every single day, from neck to shin. Running his hands over his body, it didn’t feel like his. There were small changes too–he reeked for one thing. Whether it was Jackson’s request, or simply a general side effect of this new body, his B.O. was out of control now, and Jackson refused to give him deodorant, or let him shower more than every few days. In fact, the guy seemed to enjoy it, eating out Tanner’s pits and crack before fucking him. Other changes were more welcome–like his cock and balls. He was nowhere near the size of Jackson, but his modest four inch cock had beefed up to a generous six, and his balls were more than twice the size, and he’d become a rather copious leaker.

Life had gotten easier, as well, as he’d adjusted to life in the facility. On days when he’d done exceptionally well, Jackson had begun letting Tanner fuck him, or someone else–including a few initiates, which he found he rather enjoyed. Jackson actually seemed to rather enjoy getting fucked, though he let Tanner know he was hardly the best fuck he’d gotten in the facility. Still, if even an amateur performance could get Jackson to growl like that–Tanner wasn’t quite sure he wanted to know what he’d do during good sex. He hadn’t thought of women in days, he realized. At some point, he’d simply…gone gay. He found himself checking out men around the mess hall and in the hallway, thinking about their cocks, fantasizing about them, his dreams full of men and generally wet. And then, just as he was beginning to realize how good he had it, Jackson told him he’d been approved for transfer to the provisional block, where he’d likely be spending the next year of his life, at least.

Where Boys Become Men (Part 2)

They climbed to an upper level of the facility, and down a few hallways that looked like the interior of a college dorm more than anything else. They came to a door marked “Jackson / Initiate (Tanner Wilkins)” and went inside. It was a small dorm, basically, but with one full size bed on one wall and a cot on the other. They also had a small bathroom with a toilet, sink and shower. “This is…nice.”

“Don’t get too comfy, you aren’t going to be here for long,” Jackson said, and shut the door behind them. “Now, the band. It can do a lot of things, but most important is that the band is how your hormones will be distributed. That said, because you’re my initiate, I have pretty much complete control over your band. For example, if I do this–” Jackson turned the screen of his band on, pressed a button, and Tanner felt a prick on the inside of his wrist. “We can have some real fun right away.”

Tanner wanted to ask what that meant, but the words came out as a muddle, his vision blurring, and he collapsed to the floor in a heap. He was still perfectly aware of what was going on around him, but couldn’t move a muscle–everything was limp.

“Your file says that you raped her while she was drunk–but this seems much more efficient, and I know you’ll remember everything. How do you feel, comfortable? This is usually designed to subdue troublesome candidates, but can be used for other activities as well. It usually wears off in an hour or so, which is plenty of time.”

Jackson stripped off his clothes as he spoke–all of them–revealing a body coated with hair from neck to the tops of his feet, with a massive, nine inch cock half hard hanging above two massive bull balls. Then, he got down and started hauling off Tanner’s clothes, and all he could do to protest was get out a meek mumble.

“I believe you said, when the police interviewed you, that she never said no–right? Well you can’t say no either, so I guess that means, I can do whatever I want,” Jackson said, running his calloused hands over Tanner’s smooth body, finding his ass, spreading his cheeks and pressing his hand against the hole, which loosened immediately as he pushed. “I think you also said something about how she sounded like she enjoyed it–how about that? Would you like to enjoy this? Maybe later, I think, but the band can do that too.”

Jackson climbed on top of him, Tanner desperately trying to get his body to respond to his rising terror, but nothing happened aside from a few twitches, Jackson pressing his massive cock to Tanner’s hole and sliding inside. It hurt. It hurt, but he couldn’t do anything. He realized he was crying silently as his counselor raped him roughly, both hands clutching his hips, hauling his limp body backwards onto his cock. He didn’t know how long this lasted, but no one came to pull Jackson off like those men had pulled him off and called the police. Is this really what it had felt like? No–no, he hadn’t done this–this was horrible, but he wasn’t horrible like this!

“Now…How about…we make you like it, eh?” Jackson said, ramming his cock home each time, and then adjusted his watch. Another prick, and a new sensation flooded him–pleasure. Simple, basic, pleasure. His cock grew hard and started to leak as Jackson continued fucking him, and now–now it felt amazing, but now he only felt worse! He felt betrayed by his body, as he found himself eager for each thrust, trying to push back but still unable to move a single muscle. “You’ll be happy to know that this lovely substance doesn’t just made things feel good–it makes things always feel good. After I give you a few more shots of that stuff, getting fucked will always feel this good for you. How does that sound?”

That couldn’t be possible, could it? No, he had to be joking. Jackson kept fucking, and soon enough, Tanner wasn’t able to hold back, and he came across the carpet beneath him with an involuntary shudder.

“That’s what I was waiting for–welcome to the club, Tanner–this is what Halverson is all about!” Jackson picked up his pace, cumming a few moments later, deep in the young man’s hole, and then pulled out and got up, finishing his cigar and snuffing it out in an ashtray on the table. “Now–why don’t you just go ahead and hang out in here–I’ll be back in a few minutes with some food for us both–after all, we can’t have you growing on an empty stomach, right?”

Jackson got dressed, opened the door, and left–but from the sound, Tanner could tell the door was still open, where literally everyone could see him as they walked down the hall. Why would he do that? He was both terrified that someone would see him like this, frozen in place with cum dribbling from his ass, or hopeful a guard would find him and help him get to safety. In the end, it was two guards who came along, chatting, and stopped at the doorway.

“Well damn, Jackson didn’t waste any time.”

“He never does–but ain’t that the kid? That rapist everyone was freaking out about online a few months ago?”

“Shit, it is, isn’t it? You want a turn?”

“Nah, but you go ahead if you want.”

Tanner screamed inside his head as heard the guard unzip his fly, and for the second time in his life, and for the second time that hour, a relative stranger fucked his ass, and Tanner wondered what, exactly, he had volunteered for…and realized he’d been tricked by that damn prosecutor. This wasn’t a deal at all! This–well, he still didn’t have much of an idea of what this was, but it was clearly a nightmare. But now, the only way out for him was through.

Where Boys Become Men (Part 1)

She’d been drunk. She should have been more careful. Tanner had been drinking too, and everyone knew guys can’t be trusted when they’re drunk. If she hadn’t wanted to have sex, why had she been there in the first place? Everyone knew that if you’re a girl and you show up at a frat party, someone is going to fuck you, especially if you get drunk and tease every guy in the room. He shouldn’t be held responsible for something he could barely remember doing himself…but it hadn’t been looking good for him, once news of the…incident had been leaked to the media. It seemed like everyone in the world had a pitchfork pointed at him, and when the prosecutor had offered him a plea bargain–the opportunity to participate in a reform program rather than serve a prison sentence…he’d taken it. Not because he’d done anything wrong, but because he knew he, as a man, would never get a fair trial, not with the political correctness brigades hounding the court for “justice”. The facility was private, and still very much a secret from the wider world–he hadn’t even been able to tell his parents where he was going, because he didn’t know himself. And now here he was, in some sterile room, stripped of his clothes, having just received a cursory medical examination–waiting.

The building had been massive, when he’d approached it with his lawyer, to turn himself in. Fortress like walls, several layers of tight security, every man at each checkpoint was just…huge. Tanner wasn’t a big guy, but as a championship swimmer he was in great shape–just small compared to the hulks surrounding him at every turn. The paperwork he’d signed had identified the place as simply the Halverson Men’s Reform and Punishment Center, which told him next to nothing, other than that it sounded like a prison. Still, “reform” or whatever generally took one year–much better than the fifteen year mandatory minimum he was looking at had he gone to trial. Even if it was a prison, he could hold out for that long at least.

The door opened. The doctor who had examined him came in, followed by a hulking man, easily as large as the men guarding the facility. He was dressed in a crisp, simply decorated uniform smoking a cigar, but the smell of him when he walked in didn’t seem to match the proper dress: smoke, sweat and a hint of rust. “Alright Tanner. I’d like to introduce you to Counselor Jackson, a level five reform subject here at Halverson. He, like you, is a subject here, but like all of our counselors, he is well on his way towards successful reform, isn’t that right, Jackson?”

“Hell yeah Doc!” the man said, grinning around his cigar, “One hundred percent man here, just like you could be, if you put your mind to it,” He crossed his thick arms, and stared down at Tanner.

Tanner was appalled, but said nothing. “Is he allowed to smoke in here?”

“Smoking is allowed throughout the facility, yes,” the doctor said, and made a note on a clipboard, “Now, Jackson here will be your mentor while you remain an initiate. He will take full responsibility of helping you adjust to the unique reform environment we foster here. Once we have determined you are prepared, you will transition into the broader subject population as a provisional subject. Generally, this initial mentoring period lasts around four to six weeks, depending on your physical and mental response. Each candidate spends a required year within the provisional population, or sometimes longer, if the assignment committee feels more observation is required to make a decision on a candidate’s appropriate reform level–”

“I don’t understand any of this,” Tanner said, interrupting him.

“Oh,” the doctor said, making a scribble on the clipboard, “Our counseling and reform structure was well detailed in the admissions packet you received. Did you read it?”

He’d been afraid to look at it, so he hadn’t. “Look, how long am I going to be here, exactly? How long has he been here?” he asked, looking at Jackson.

The doctor looked to the hulking man, who took a deep inhale off his cigar as he thought. “I suppose…four years now? But the release committee is meeting in two months to discuss my case, so I don’t think I’ll be in here too much longer–unlike you,” he indicated Tanner with a grin. “And some guys have been in here for, what, a decade? Especially at the lower levels?”

“Yeah, but I’d still say six or seven is a good estimate,” the doctor added.

“Six or seven years? No fucking way! This was supposed to be better than prison.”

Jackson guffawed at that line, and even the doctor smirked.

“Screw this, I’ll take my chance in court.”

“I’m afraid that once committed, no candidate has the ability to refuse reform. You are, one might say, stuck,” the doctor scribbled a bit more, and then set the clipboard down. “That’s enough for my initial observations, Jackson–you have Tanner’s file, of course. I’ll leave the explaining to you. All that leaves, then, is your band.”

Before Tanner could ask what he meant, the doctor slipped a metallic band, almost like a smartwatch with a blank screen around one wrist, and it cinched up tight to his skin–too tight to slip off, he discovered when he tried to tug it off. “What the hell is this thing?”

“Ask your counselor; I have another initiate to process.”

Tanner looked to the hulking mass of muscle, but he didn’t say anything, just waved him to follow him out. Two guards escorted them to a security checkpoint, they passed through into what Tanner saw was A Block. As they walked, Tanner was struck by the fact that there didn’t seem to be any cells around, nor many guards at all. If anything, the candidates had the run of the place…and everything was calm. The place did seem to get results, it seemed.

“This is A Block–if you’re good, you’ll end up here,” Jackson said, “As for your band, we all have one, see?” he held up his own wrist where a similar metal band hung. “As for what it does–well, it’ll be easier to show you than anything else. Come on, I’ll show you my room, where you’ll be staying for the next few weeks.”

Daddy Whores (Part 5)

Rumor quickly spread through the house, and out to the barn, about the task set forth for the newest daddy of the boy’s harem, and every single one of them assumed it was a death sentence. It was true, a few of the oldest members of the stable had, on occasion, seen the boy allow a man to rise up from the cellar–but in every case, they were little more than a shell. No one even knew what happened down there–on occasion, the house would reverberate with screams rising up from below, chilling the daddies to the bone, freezing them all in place, until they could shake off their mutual terror and return to the task of tending to the boy. So it was with great surprise that the first daddies to rise in the morning went into the kitchen to prepare breakfast, only to find Carson, filthy and covered in grime, leaning up against the cupboards, staring off into the middle distance and unresponsive–but there all the same. He’d gone down, and he’d returned.

He screamed, when someone tried to touch him, looking around, unsure of where he was, of who he was. He could barely speak, and when several daddies tried to ask him what he’d seen down there, his tongue knotted up and refused to answer. Whether it was because he simply couldn’t bear to describe it, or because the boy’s magic literally sealed the truth up in his mind, no one could know. A daddy told the boy of Carson’s return, and he seemed mildly surprised, but not incredibly. Carson had shown, as a man, incredible resilience–and even as a daddy, some of that spirit remained. But the boy knew something else, that merely witnessing the cellar would be enough to…convince Carson to cooperate with him. After all, even this was better than the cellar. Nearly anything, was better than the cellar. He ordered Carson be fed, but not cleaned–he was never to be cleaned, unless explicitly told to do so, and when the boy was finished eating, he would speak with him.

Carson was brought in, shaking and exhausted, barely able to stand or even speak. He fell to his knees in front of the boy on his sofa-throne, and kissed his toe, shuddering in thanks and gratitude at being allowed the chance to return at all. He understood now. He understood more than he’d ever wanted to believe. He wouldn’t fight any longer–he wasn’t even sure he’d be able to, if he could. Something in him had died down there, something indescribable, but the boy held power here–no one else. All he could be was a daddy, and the only way for a daddy to experience anything close to happiness, was through complete devotion and obedience.

“Bring my poor daddy Carson whiskey and a cigar–he needs to satisfy his vices,” the boy said.

“T-Thank you my boy, you’re too kind.”

“I know. Now–as for your assignment. I’ve decided that if I’m going to…expand into the city, as I’ve been trying to do, I’m going to have to find ways to…deal with the police, which don’t require me to leave home–because I hate having to leave home, as you know.”

“Yes boy, I know…”

“So you, Carson, will have two tasks. During the day and afternoon, you will be tasked as a worker whore. You will go around the city and find filthy, disgusting workers–old, young, fat, muscled–it won’t matter, so long as they’re in their gear, and you will…convince them to allow you to service them, as cumdump, fuckhole, and urinal. You have no objection to that, I am sure.”

“No boy, this daddy loves…he loves serving as all of those…those things…” Carson said. He was crying–why was he crying? He shouldn’t be crying, he didn’t want the boy to see tears. The other daddy had brought whiskey–he grabbed the bottle and glugged half of it down, his gut burning, but it was enough to kill the emotion which had begun to overwhelm him.

“Good. As for your second task–you are going to be a drunk. As evening comes, you will settle into a bar, and drink, and drink, and drink. You will convince the bartenders to give you a bottle of whiskey each night, in exchange for a blowjob. When you have finished, you will become belligerent, and attempt to force yourself on the men of the bar, until you get arrested. Once arrested, you will spend the night in the drunk tank of the local precinct, and in there, not only will you service the other drunks–for free–but also any guard and cop who comes in ear shot. And these cops, you will ensure that if they see any daddies, other than you, arrested, they will make sure they are released promptly, and without charges–do you understand? After all, the only daddy they will want to have pleasure them, will be you, do you understand your tasks?”

“Yes boy, I do. Thank you.”

“You will return home Sunday Wednesday and Friday mornings, to make deposits, and so I may be updated on your progress. Now, you should get going, Carson. And remember that guard last night? You will be the daddy meeting him, and collecting his forty dollars for me, understand?”

Carson nodded. He was exhausted, but he didn’t dare ask his boy for permission to rest. He was lucky enough already to even be above ground. “I won’t disappoint you, my boy.”

“I certainly hope not, or you know what will happen, where you will go, and what you will be.”

Carson nodded, and struggled upright. He took the whiskey bottle and lit a cigar, before heading out to his truck and getting inside. The tears he’d held back finally gushed forth, and he sobbed, violently, for a moment or two, before composing himself so he could get at least get a mile down the road before continuing to sob, and as he wept…he couldn’t decide why, exactly he was crying. Party, it was because he loved his boy so very, very much, and was thrilled to be given the chance to serve him in this way. But there was also the terror, and there would always be the terror, of what he had seen. He finished the bottle of whiskey and an entire cigar, and then got back on the road. He had a job to do, after all, and a new family he wouldn’t dare disappoint.

A Home of Mirrors (Part 5)

***WARNING: Still substantial violence and abuse.

“Was that thing really me?” Eli asked.

“It’s still you–never forget that. We’ve brought you to heel, given you our power, but this is still you. You belong to us now.”

Eli was still looking down at the pitiful slave beside his reflection, on hands and knees. It glanced up at him, met his eyes, and for a flash, Eli could see himself looking down in contempt, could feel the burns and aches all over it’s body, how…how hard it’s cock was, how hungry it was now, for cum, for pain, for punishment. He broke his eyes away, terrified that he might be trapped there, and delivered a swift kick to the slave’s chin, hard enough to flip it over onto it’s back. The anger and rage didn’t surprise him, but the fear behind it did. Fear wasn’t something he had felt, in the last week. Fear was something he wasn’t supposed to feel, not anymore. He walked over and pressed his boot to the slave’s neck, pressing hard, “Never meet my eyes again, do you fucking understand? I never even want to know that you fucking have eyes, you fucking worthless piece of shit!” His measured words had grown into an unhinged shout, the boot pressing harder, and he could see the slave’s face turning red. It wasn’t fighting him, it wanted him to do it, wanted him to kill it, wanted him to set it free, but a hand grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him back, the slave choking, gasping for air.

“You can’t kill it, no matter how much you want to. We won’t allow it. Hurt it as much as you like, but it must live.”

Eli looked at the thing, at himself–at that old self. It had curled up into a ball on the floor and rolled away from him, hiding it’s face.

“Displease us, and you know where you’ll find yourself.”

“Eli looked back at his reflection, at the stern, hard stare. “I apologize, I…I was weak.”

“You are weak. The last time we met, we couldn’t free much of you. Much remains to be done.”

“Please, I…I know,” Eli said, one gloved hand running down his reflection’s shirt. “I can’t…tell you, how difficult this was, being away from you. I’ve felt so…broken. I know I can be so much…better.”

The reflection smiled, though it wasn’t clear what it found worthy of the smirk. “Better, yes. But now, we can…improve you, can’t we?”

Eli groaned, and fell to his knees in front of himself, pressing his head to the floor a moment, shuddering, trying to suppress a sigh of relief, “I’m yours. Remake me in your image, so I might better serve you.”

“Debase yourself, faggot. Then you can look at me.”

The voice sent a shiver through him. It was his voice, and yet…not. The only emotions he could imagine it communicating were contempt and loathing. The voice of someone utterly superior in every way. He inched forward and began licking at the boots before him, and noticed they were different than his own. Since buying the house, Eli had found wearing anything other than leather to be…uncomfortable. He wore the gloves night and day–he wasn’t ever certain he could take them off, but he’d broken down, and purchased a pair of boots. The ones he was licking, however, were not those. These were shined bright, nearly bright enough to see a reflection in the spit wet surface. They ran up the calf–that was as far as Eli dare look without a direct order from above. He cleaned each boot, top and bottom, thanking his reflection for the privilege of serving him, and only after, was he allowed to rest up on his knees, and look up.

He was beautiful. Standing tall in his leather uniform, every detail immaculate, the lush grey beard flowing from around his mouth, with the thick cigar burning bright. Between the leather and the hair, the only skin Eli could see of himself was the space around his eyes, aged and weathered, but far from weak. He looked lower, down the barrel chest and firm gut held in check by the leather dress shirt, to the crotch, bulging with flesh. “Please, sir, may I?” Eli asked, looking back to meet his reflection’s hard eyes.

“No hands. Earn your fucking reward, you hungry faggot.”

Thankfully, the pants had a double zipper, giving him an easier task. First one, and then the other, and then after the flap fell down, he got his first sight of his cock, his first smell of it–musk and sweat and smoke. He licked, careful with his teeth, taking it slow, knowing one false step would mean his prize taken away. He coaxed the cock to it’s full, eight inch length, and then swallowed it to the hilt, shuddering at the ghostly sensation around his own head and shaft, in his pants. His better half allowed him a moment to enjoy himself, and then wrapped both, gloved hands around the back of his head, and began skull fucking Eli’s throat mercilessly.

He couldn’t breathe, but he could also taste the sweet cigar smoke he kept sucking into his lungs. He could feel his hands both wrapped around his head, and around both of his thick thighs. For one glorious moment, he was fully together, and then the next, he came, slammed the thing’s head to his crotch, and felt it crumple and flatten with the force, his thick cock bursting out of the back of the husk’s head, cum spraying all over the carpet. In his gloved hands, he crumpled up the husk until it no longer even had a head, and then pulled his cock free, brushing off the dust from his shaft and pants. “Clean it up,” he snarled at his slave, and the meek thing scurried over and began sucking the cum from the carpet as best it could.

The husk crumbled away after a few more moments, and the dust disappeared into the air. He turned back to the mirror, and saw himself there, beside the slave. “I’ll mind him–you should go tend to your son. He’s having trouble…accepting us.”

Eli gave a growl of agreement, and didn’t bother putting his cock away, as he strode down the hall, following the cries of pain which filled his newer heart with an odd, delirious joy.

Porn Stash

Jeff and his two friends had decided to spend the weekend hunting up at his uncle’s cabin, and that night after dinner, as the three guys were lounging around on the way to getting drunk, they started arguing over what movie to watch on his uncle’s DVD player–since there was no TV reception. Jeff was the one who found the unmarked box with the disc inside–they’d all been curious, so he popped it into the machine, and it had started playing.

Much to their surprise, it was porn. It was faggot porn. Three burly guys were going at it together in a cabin…kind of similar to their own. They were older fellows, all of them with beards tinged with grey and white, smoking cigars and pipes, and having, apparently, a grand old time together. Now, none of the young men was gay, but they were sufficiently drunk to mostly find the situation funny, and after determining Jeff’s uncle must be a faggot (which explained why the older man’s hunting trips with his own friends never seemed very successful) they watched the video anyway, laughing at the sight…all of them massaging their cocks a bit, eyes all focused on the TV.

The first scene was short, as the three guys had a bit of fun with one another, and then a second scene started–a solo jack off session with one of the men from before, but now he was dressed in some sleazy looking biker leathers, smoking a thick cigar, and milking his cock slowly. Each time the camera zoomed in on the man’s face…Jeff was certain he was looking at someone he knew, but who? It was with some surprise that he recognized him after a couple of minutes–it was Tim. Tim–one of the two guys in that room with him. Just add twenty years to him, a bit of a gut, and lots of hair…and it was fucking Tim!

He tore his eyes away from the screen, and looked over at Tim, to see if he was right in the resemblance, but…Tim wasn’t there. Not the Tim he remembered, at least. No–the grungy biker was sitting right there, stroking his own cock and smoking that cigar, groaning and grunting as he edged his cock, watching himself on the screen. Jeff knew he needed to turn off the TV, but he had…to keep watching. His other friend, Aaron, had noticed Tim’s change as well, when another bear entered the room and started sharing smoke with the biker. This one was also from before, now dressed in leathers like Tim, and as soon as it focused on his heavily bearded face, Jeff recognized him as Aaron.

“No…No, fuck! It’s not…not me…” Aaron groaned next to him, but the voice was…so deep.

Jeff looked over, and saw Aaron changing, aging up, beard growing down to his chest, a big pipe appearing in his hand as his clothes shifted into leather, a heavily tattooed gut hanging out from his vest and over his chaps. He got up and crossed the room to Tim, and started making out with him, the room filled with as much smoke as the room in the video, and…the third man made his appearance.

He crawled into the frame, snorting and grunting. Jeff hadn’t noticed how fucking fat the man had been before, but now that he was wearing that harness, pulled tight against all that flab…he crawled over and started licking at Tim and Aaron’s boots, and one of them started pissing on the fucker’s head. Thankfully, though, he had on a hood…for a moment. The camera panned in, and the hood came off, and Jeff…Jeff saw that he was the pig. Forty years older, sure. Head shaved clean, a massive white beard stained yellow from smoke, and all…all that fat…the change was over in a few moments, and Jeff got on his hands and knees and crawled over to his two masters, to service their dirty cocks. The video ended abruptly, but the two new biker bears and their slave pig kept going all night long, all on their own–and when Jeff’s uncle showed up with some of his own dirty minded friends, the weekend only got longer.

A Home of Mirrors (Part 2)

Eli Billings enjoyed power. He enjoyed being important. Wealth and privilege and status all mattered to him. Yet, his entire life, he’d been very careful to keep himself grounded as best he could. Perhaps it was watching his wife succumb to cancer which had planted that reluctance within him, but whatever it was, he was prone to a certain restrained stoicism. He enjoyed his life, but looked down on the hedonists he encountered among the wealthy. He saw the purpose in being a strong leader, but detested those who abused with their power. He imagined he was a good person, for resisting these temptations, for trying to instill these values in his sons.

But that’s not what he saw in the mirror, as he walked forward. That wasn’t the person which was facing him now, smoking that expensive, elegant cuban cigar. Those weren’t his eyes. His feet drew him closer to the mirror now, close enough that, looking forward, he lost the frame. It was no longer a mirror, it wasn’t even a window–as far as he could tell, the room simply doubled in size, and there was nothing separating him from his doppelganger. When the thing reached out and brushed his cheek, he flinched slightly, and it laughed. “I’ve been looking forward to this, you know. To finally bringing you to heel.”

The slap surprised him, and sent him stumbling a step or two to the side. He felt his stinging, bearded cheek, confused, and looked at his doppelganger adjust the leather gloves which had appeared on his hands, the air filled with a fine layer of smoke. “This isn’t real. This can’t be real…” he muttered, turned, and started for the door, but his reflection moved out of the mirror and tackled him, throwing them both to the ground. Leather gloves circled his throat, and he could feel the air in his throat cutting off, looking at his own face leering over him. He knew that look, from his own heart, that maniacal glee, drool running from his smiling mouth around that thick cigar.

“Oh, to just choke you out and be done with you,” he said, grip tightening a moment, watching Eli’s mouth gasp noiselessly, and then he released his hold. Eli coughed and gagged, as his double rolled him over on the carpet, grabbed the back of his suit pants and underwear and tugged them down, exposing his ass, kneading it with his gloved hands. “Still, if you go, I go–and I’m not planning on going anywhere, any time soon.” Eli tried to crawl out from under him, but he grabbed his balls and tugged, hard, making Eli cry out. “These, I can take, if you want. I’ll still have mine, no matter what happens to yours. Now take it like the man you never could be, Eli, fucking take it.”

He heard the sound of his double’s fly being opened, a bit of spit, and then he was shoving his own cock into Eli’s ass, and he was trying to crawl away again–but each time he did that hand would appear around his balls, and tug him back into position, until he stopped struggling entirely, and just went…limp, hoping it would be over quicker that way.

“Yeah, that’s it, you fucking loser–give up,” the thing fucking him said around the cigar. He could feel it’s heat, an inch from the back of his neck, and his body…he felt strange. Numb, in one way, and invigorated in another. As he lost sensation around his body, he found it was being replaced by something else. He could…feel his cock in a tight, virgin hole, feel hot smoke deep in his lungs, feel his body sweating in his luxurious suit. His consciousness was expanding, filling both of his selves. He felt the pain in his ass, but also the rush of violating it. The pleasure at being in control suffusing his entire body. He clamped his teeth into the cigar, gnawing at the leaf, tearing at his own clothes, wanting to see his own flesh, wanting to feel his own nails raking across his back, wanting to feel them close around his own neck, wanting to violate and be violated, no longer certain who, or what, he even was, as he finally came.

He was still fucking that ass, but he couldn’t feel it inside him anymore. There was a body beneath him, but as he rammed his exploding cock inside it, he felt, and heard, it breaking and snapping under his weight, like a glass husk. Eli put one of his gloved hands on the back of the things head, pressed down, sucking in smoke, and watched his own head cave in, and he laughed. Unable to contain the immense glee at being free, at last, he started tearing apart that thing he’d been, until it was just scraps and shiny dust dissolving into the air, floating through his smoke to the mirror, where he could see his reflection was back…along with a second version of him. That old, weak failure he’d been, rematerializing on the other side. It screamed, soundlessly, one hand thumping against the mirrored barrier, as his new reflection got up, grabbed the pig by the neck and dragged it into the room to be raped again, and Eli watched.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t look away, it was that he no longer wanted to. He wanted to watch this–there were few things that could get him harder than a nice, brutal rape. His cock was hard again, and he stroked off again after a few minutes, and then left the two mirror beings to their play. He found The Agent on the porch–he seemed unsurprised that Eli was smoking, nor question the sudden appearance of his gloves. “I think the place is perfect for me and my boys. Where do I sign?”

They went through the paperwork inside, and while Eli looked over the contract, The agent checked in with his real client–the house was very pleased. “I believe you owe me a down payment?” the agent said. The house bristled at the mention, but he heard a soft crack in another room. A small office–one of the mirrored walls had broken, and a shard had fallen to the floor. The hole in the mirror was already closing back up, like a wound. The Agent collected the shard in a velvet cloth, and then closed the deal with Eli.

A Home of Mirrors (Part 1)

“And it’s for sale by the bank?”

“Yes–at a wonderful price in fact. Foreclosure, still leftovers from the slump. It’s a shame too, because this neighborhood is lovely, and this poor house is just sitting here, aching for a family like yours, Mr. Billings. The agent opened the door, allowing the older, suited man to step inside the house, before following him inside, the agent feeling the house…examine them both.

The agent, after all, wasn’t quite your usual real estate salesman. He didn’t buy properties from banks, and he didn’t work for homeowners, per se. His specialty was houses which were, shall we say, off-market. No, his client was no one alive–in the colloquial sense–no, he had been hired by the house itself. He was rather indifferent for whom he worked for–he placed families with hauntings and curses, he works with a nice mythic portal in South Dakota after every solar eclipse, but this home was a new client, one he hoped to please, because it was…powerful, to say the least. The agent, after all, didn’t do this work for money, but for access to, and power from, the beings residing in these walls. This was his third walkthrough, and the house had been…displeased with the other two. The agent hoped this one would suffice. “It seems well kept up,” Mr. Billings said, as he walked through the foyer and into the kitchen and den. “Is there a reason for all of the mirrors everywhere?”

“They come with the house, actually. Most of them are fabricated right into the walls. It isn’t a house for the modest.”

“No…no, it isn’t that…” Mr. Billings said, a bit absent mindedly. He was staring at his reflection in the large mirror which stretched from end to end in the den. It seemed to be a single sheet of perfect, reflective metal–without a hint of blemish anywhere…but then why did his reflection seem…off somehow? It was disconcerting, but he couldn’t quite look away. The agent watched the subtle exchange, feeling out to the house, wondering what it might be thinking…it seemed intrigued, but not convinced.

“Do you think your two sons will like it?” The agent asked, feeling a swell of interest from the house.

Mr. Billings didn’t reply. He didn’t even seem to have heard him. He was still staring at himself in the mirror. He was in his early fifties, but the age, rather than weakening him, had given him a rugged confidence instead. The agent knew that would fade in another decade or so, but he was in his prime at the moment. His full beard, and hair flecked with a bit of grey, his muscular physique packed into his power suit. The house was getting a taste, and the more it tasted, the…better it was feeling about this one. “Could…I see…the master bedroom please…” Mr. Billings said. His voice came out softer, with little inflection, almost like he was dozing off where he stood.

“Certainly!” the agent said, took Mr. Billings by the arm, and led him back the way they’d come. This was further than he’d gotten with the last two buyers he’d brought by, who’d taken one look at themselves in the mirrors around the house, and demanded they leave immediately, unable to even speak about what they’d seen in their own, supposed reflections. The agent hadn’t looked in any of the mirrors himself–his consultation with the house had been done blindfolded, and he carefully averted his eyes as he walked Mr. Billings through the hall, up the stairs, and towards the sizable master suite at one end of the house.

“I will need…to be alone for a while…” Mr. Billings said.

“Take all the time you need,” the agent said, and Mr. Billings went into the room, and shut the door behind him. “Don’t get greedy now,” the agent said quietly, pushing the words out in his mind as much as through his mouth, “You won’t be getting those sons until after your down payment, and you definitely won’t be getting them if you can’t control yourself.”

He felt the house lash at him, glints in the mirrors trying to catch his eye as he slipped down the stairs and out the front door, taking a moment to breathe. It was going…surprisingly well, as frustrating as his client was. These first placements were always difficult–however, once they saw what The Agent could provide them they almost always became rather appreciative.

Inside the master suite, Eli Billings shook his head, trying to process what he’d experienced down in the living room while staring at his reflection. He’d heard himself speak, but it hadn’t quite been…him doing it. Rather, he’d seen the image of himself speak, and he’d…spoken with it, but not out of his own will. It was difficult to explain, but what he did know, was that he wanted out of this place. He didn’t quite feel…like himself. He turned around to open the bedroom door and leave, when he felt a hand land on his shoulder, grab him, and spin him around–but when he’d turned to face the room, there was nothing there. Just an empty, unfurnished room, and like below, one entire wall was coated with that same, mirrored surface. It had the effect of making every room seem twice as large, and again, the surface was so pure that he could almost imagine himself stepping through, like water.

He was in the mirror, too…but not where he was supposed to be. The angle was wrong–even though he was looking at the room diagonally, his reflection was staring at him straight on, smiling. Unable to tear his eyes away, he watched himself pull a cigar from the pocket of his suit coat along with a lighter–it flared to life, and the smoke…moved from within the mirror to beyond–into the room where Eli was standing. His reflection beckoned, and he stepped forward, terrified, but unable to stop his body from doing what his reflection demanded.

Corporate Sabotage

“Hey, Bishop,” Frank said, knocking on the door of my office, “I just heard you landed the promotion to VP–congrats! I put my name in the hat too, but I had a feeling you were a shoe in.”

I smirked at Frank. We’d been…something between friends and rivals in the office for years now. To each other’s faces, we’re all smiles, but we’d fought hard for every last scrap–projects, bonuses, promotions–but I suppose you could say that with this, I’d finally won, in a sense. “Thanks Frank, I appreciate it. You would have been a great choice too. Who knows? Another slot might open up in a few years–I’ll certainly recommend you.”

“Heh, or even sooner,” he said, “Anyway, I got you a gift–something for you to enjoy tonight, while you’re celebrating,” he walked over and handed me a small, wrapped package, “I’d come to the party, but I’ve got plans.”

“No worries–don’t be feeling too sorry for yourself. You always fight hard.”

“You know it,” he said, with a wink, and then left. At least he had the courtesy to lose with dignity. Maybe I actually will follow through on that recommendation in the future–it’ll be dull without him around, in a way. I put the gift in my briefcase and forget about it, and leave to go get beers with the bosses to celebrate. I get home late, and only remember the gift when I see a bit of wrapping stuck in the hinge of the case. I open it up, and find a pack of cigars–nice ones, by the look and smell of them, but not a brand I recognize. Why not? I don’t smoke them often, but I deserve a treat, and I’m too wired to go to bed just yet.

Frank definitely has good taste in cigars–the first one is a pleasure to smoke. In fact, I feel more relaxed than I have in ages, and surprisingly horny too. I haul out my cock and start jacking off as I smoke, and I swear my cock seems…different. Longer, and…and with a bunch of skin hanging over the head. It feels good though, and I keep at it, feeling my head dull a bit. I take off my shirt and start tweaking a nipple, seeing…tattoos on both of my pecs. I don’t…have tattoos though, right? I blow a load all over my chest, and rub it into my skin, feeling gross as I do so, but it just…feels right. But now I have tah piss like a fuckin’ racehorse, ‘n I get up and head for the crapper–where I see a fuckin’ stranger in the gahd damn mirror, lookin’ out at me!

I look like a fuckin’ hick! I’m so fuckin’ pissed, ‘n I just has a feelin’ it’s gotta have somethin’ tha do with these cigars. I might not be able tah think too good, but ya gotta wake up pretty fuckin’ early tah git one past this cowboy! I find mah work phone ‘n text Frank, demandin’ answers, when I hears a knock on the door. I answer it, ‘n there’s Frank, and somebody’s with him. An old fuck, lookin’ like he just stepped off a pig farm, and…and fuck, he’s…real sexy like. He’s smokin’ a gar too, ‘n the fat fuck has me pressed to the wall in a moment, feedin’ me his fuckin’ smoke, rubbin’ mah tool, ‘n fuck, all I wanna do is taste ‘em.

“Sorry about this, Bishop, but…well, you’re the one who said I always fight dirty. Looks like that cigar of yours is almost done–how about we light another one for you?”

I know I shouldn’t, but fuck…Ah know Ah can’t help mahself.

“Won’t be much left of you after this one, I can promise you that. But don’t worry–this here’s my Uncle Eddie–owns a pig farm out in the heartland. He’s been needing a new boy, and I offered you up, in exchange for a bit of help with our family magic. He’s a mean fucker, and dirty son of a bitch, but I don’t think the new you is going to mind much. Everyone’s going to assume you cracked under the pressure, I suppose–well, at least I can take over for you, right? I’ll just let the two of you finish up here, and he’ll take you home in the morning. Have a nice, new life.”

Course, Ah didn’t hear too much a that–had mah face buried in mah…pa’s reekin’ pit, ‘fore he shoved me down ‘n gave me a right proper skullfuck. Now we’s in his truck, headin’ west–ain’t lookin back though. How can Ah, with mah face buried in Pa’s nasty crotch the whole way home?

Source: wantin2ride

Fantasy Feedback Loop (2 of 2)

When the second flash faded…he was still my dad, but fuck…he was big. He’d added close to half a foot in height, that beard of his had grown out a couple of inches and added some grey, he bulked out too, piling on muscle, thick cords of it, with a hefty, solid gut jutting out. He was, literally, the daddy of my fucking dreams, and then I looked down at myself, and saw he wasn’t the only one who had changed, this time.

Apparently, while he’d been sucking me off for the first time–or the hundredth, it was hard to remember exactly–he’d been…thinking about me, too. I’d never been a big kid, hell, was I kind of a nerd, and my father had always wanted me to jock out a bit more, follow in his footsteps…and now, I realized that I had. I wasn’t going to college anymore–I was working with him on the building crew. I wasn’t as massive as he was, of course, but I looking like a slightly smaller version of him, and fuck, if I didn’t feel sexy as fuck. I knew…that I needed to get up and turn off the generator, but what I did instead was roll over and present my boyhole for him, he lubed his cock up with some spit and slid it into me, nice and fucking deep, right where it belonged. I could smell us both, sweaty and rank from today’s work, how I’d just stared at him all day, longing for this moment, like everyday. He was rough, ramming in deep, pulling my hair, tugging my nipples, and I was enjoying it, wishing he’d be harder still…when I felt that same thrumming in the air, and another flash…

This time, I’d flipped over, and was swinging in the air, in…in our sling. Daddy was in his gear, sneering at me, my legs locked to the chains while he worked on my hole…getting ready to fist his boy into oblivion. He was just as massive as before–maybe even a bit bigger–his beard fuller and longer, and tattoos all over his arms and chest, just…just like my own. I wasn’t just his son now…I was his boy, I was his slave. He lit a cigar for himself, fed me his smoke, making me even more hungry for him, and then worked his hand into me…and fuck, if I didn’t feel just…it was fucking heaven.

He’s in me almost to my elbow now, and I can feel the energy pounding in my ears, vibrating my teeth. This is going to be a big one, and I don’t know if I’m ready for it. He’s grinning at me, and I can almost see my own, twisted reflection in his eyes, and then there’s a flash, a loud pop or explosion, and when the after image fades, he’s…huge. My…my fucking master. Eight feet tall, 500 pounds of almost pure muscle, hair coating every inch of his body. My cock drools in its cage at the sight of him, and he shoves his foot and a half inch long cock into me, nearly making me scream, but I need it. This piggy hole needs to be filled all the time now…and fuck if I’m not the happiest I can ever remember being. I can see the smoking ruins of the fantasy generator on my dresser, and I know I’ll never be going back, but why would I fucking want to? Why would I want to be anything other than a stupid fuckhole for my muscle beast of a father?