Curse of the Homophobe (Part 11)

As soon as Evan thought about giving into this persona, however, the spirit welled up inside him–warning him. Telling him that it would get its satisfaction one way or another, whether he helped it along or not–and so, it would be best for him if he simply cooperated. He looked over at Harry, who was now naked, and felt that familiar squeamishness rise up in his throat at the sight of him, like looking at naked men always seemed to do to him, like he was some fucking queer–and he hated it. He hated Harry, most of all, in that moment, and he thought of all the vile things he could do to him…but he held back and restrained himself. He couldn’t lose himself again, like before. Stay in control of himself, and maybe he could keep his wits about him.

“You know, I just don’t think you have what it takes, Harry,” he said, the power twining out and around him–but not changing him yet, just…sliding a little bit of doubt and confusion into his mind.

“What are you talking about, Evan?” Harry asked him.

“I mean, as far as recruits go–you’re a pretty sorry looking fucker, you know that? I mean, what are you, five foot five? 240 pounds? Decided to tuck into those doughnuts even before you got through the academy. Can’t fucking imagine how you managed to pass the physical tests with that sort of frame, but maybe the standards just aren’t quite what they used to be, back when I went through. They’ll let any short fat dumbfuck become a cop these days.”

Harry tried to rebut him, but the spirit was too quick, warping him as Evan spoke, until the lean, muscled, veteran of the force had almost entirely disappeared. In his place was a short, stocky young cadet, fresh out of the academy, who had been given to Evan to train. The words…stung, but while Harry knew he should try and defend himself, and his honor…he couldn’t seem to make his brain work fast enough to come up with a retort.

Evan just continued, feeling more confident, feeling his cock hardening in anticipation, “I did have a chat with Grant, though, about you. I always check in with him when I get a new cadet to train–and you know what he told me? Grant and I go way back you know–he paired me up with you for good reason, boy–he told me all about those special skills of yours you used to get through the academy. That sweet mouth and tight ass. See, we let the occasional faggot through, you know. Not many–they never make good cops, but they sure can make great bootlickers. You a good bootlicker, boy?”

Evan put his booted foot up on the bench, and watched Harry’s eye go right to it. He knew what was expected of him–and he walked over, got down on his knees, and started shining his superior officer’s boot with his tongue–first one, and then the other, paying special attention to the bottom of the soles (where Evan reminded him he’d walked through dog shit earlier that day) and then shoved the young cub up against the lockers and fucked his tight ass, showing the boy what he could expect his proper place to be in this precinct–though he knew what he was signing up for, didn’t he? He’s fantasized about being a cop’s sex slave for as long as he could remember, which is why he signed up for Grant’s special recruitment program, after all.

He came deep, pulled free, and made the cadet clean off his cock, before ordering him to get changed and out of his sight. Harry did as he was ordered, his own cock rock hard the entire time, and Evan knew he would be jacking off as soon as possible–these little faggot cadets were all the fucking same, after all. Evan went back to changing, and noticed that he had changed as well. No longer just a beat cop anymore–he was the captain in charge of this entire precinct–which is exactly why Grant had sent this pig here–he was just Evan’s type after all, and his last pig had finally broken down and quit a month ago. He wasn’t worried about they talking–they all wanted it, after all, even if the reality was always too much for them. Still, this one was…particularly eager–he might last longer than most, but Evan would grind him down eventually. That was his favorite part, after all.

He was dressed in his street clothes, admiring his broad shoulders, silver hair and mustache, thinking about how nice it would be to get home for dinner…but something was nagging him. This wasn’t quite right, after all. He knew he should be remembering something…but he was so tired, and maybe it was easier to just finally forget. (will check 60%: success! The story goes on!) He did remember though–how could he forget? This wasn’t real, but his task was, at least, finished…and maybe he’d be able to avoid the same fate as before now, if he was careful when he changed back. If he changed back, that is.

He…was important, now, after all. He had ambitions, and…needs. He could becomes someone even more important–he was attending a gala with the mayor and the commissioner in a few days, after all. But is that what he wanted? Thinking about Harry’s young hole…there were some young men in the neighborhood who could use his If he changed back now…what if he did end up back with Robbie, or maybe even something worse? But what did he want, really?

Alright, Evan can either change back into something else at this point, or he has a couple of options if you’d like to see him continue in his cop persona. If he changes back, there’s two different options below–each has two possible outcomes (two cleaner, two grungier, depending on your tastes).

Changes back into either a campus security guard (50%), or burly ex jock coach (50%).
Changes back, into a grungy, chain smoking redneck sheriff (50%), or Robbie’s fat, slobby mall cop boyfriend (50%).
Pursues his ambition, and corrupts the commissioner and mayor of the city. (80% end)
Pursues his needs, and corrupts some young Mormon missionaries in his neighborhood. (80% end)

Here is the twitter poll

Here is the patron only poll

Polls close on Saturday!

The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 4 (Part 4)

He didn’t tell me much more after that. I pressed him for more, tried to get him to tell me how the bruiser had changed him, how he had accomplished the physical changes, to make the man in the mugshot into the man in my basement, because it just…wasn’t possible. It wasn’t just a matter of years–no one could grow six inches in height. No one’s jaw went from a triangular point, to a flat square. No one’s eyes went from a bright blue to gray. He just laughed, and said that he might tell me more later, if I was good.

I reminded him that I was the one in control here, and he just laughed at me, and told me I owed him five loads for the story…and I refused, but he pulled me close to him, my head to his cum coated chest, and I…I lost it. I couldn’t stop jacking, grinding my cock against him, my dress uniform filthy now, and he whispered in my ear, twisted things, filthy things, and I heard them like my own voice, I heard my own voice shifting slightly, changing inflection, saying more, saying different. Saying how horny I was. Saying what a dirty, filthy, corrupt little copper I was. I came again, spraying a massive load all over his face, the largest load I had ever seen, and realized just how much my body had changed in the course of the night, my balls swelling to twice the size they had been, throbbing desperately, aching to empty themselves onto him, onto the filthy pig I owned and controlled, onto my property, my right.

In the end, I gave him seven loads before I finally collapsed and exhausted, and could crawl away from him–but not without attaching his cuff to the pipes on the wall again. Did it really matter if I had cuffed him or not? Probably not. He could have made me do anything he wanted, probably. He could have escaped, he could have taken me with him. No–he wanted to be here. He was supposed to be here…but I needed the illusion of control all the same. I retreated upstairs to my bedroom, saw myself, and I was…horrified.

My uniform was trashed. Wrinkled and soaked in cum, front and back. I stripped out of it, knowing I should wash it…but the voice told me no. I couldn’t wash it, it had to stay dirty. I was a dirty pig cop, and a dirty pig cop needed a dirty uniform. I snorted at the thought, cock throbbing again in need, and started jacking off–but before I could cum, I had to find…something. Something to catch it, because I couldn’t spill it just…anywhere, now could I? No, my cum had to go on Cumster. I ended up shooting my load into the water glass I kept by my bathroom sink, and I watched it gout from the head of my cock, filling the eight ounce glass nearly three quarters of the way to the top before it finally slowed and stopped. Still naked, I went back downstairs, got some water and food, and took them down to Cumster, along with my cum still in the glass. Before eating or drinking, he drank a mouthful of cum, swished it around in his mouth, and then let it fall from his mouth down into his beard…and fuck, the sight of it made me horny all over again, and I came for the ninth time while he ate, letting it spill on the top of his shaved head, watching it run down the sides and back, coating him, knowing I was sealing him in a layer of my spunk, and I just felt so…powerful. I felt more alive in that moment, than I ever had before in my life, and I was so scared, that when I went back upstairs, I was shaking uncontrollably. I wanted a shower…but I couldn’t. I had to be dirty, I needed it, I deserved it.

Instead, I just went to bed, but sleep didn’t come easy that night. I was too horny, for one thing. I had to keep a bowl beside the bed to catch my cum, when I had to jack off. While I lay there, in between sessions of masturbation, I found myself running Cumster’s story through my head, thinking about what it could possibly mean, thinking about how this rapist could do this, and why he was doing this at all. Perhaps what chilled me most was Cumster’s description of how cold the rapist had been to him. How unfeeling–just rough and brutal, with no compassion, not even speaking to him for as long as he’d been imprisoned there. Breaking him down until…he changed.

I wondered if I was going to change. No, I knew I was changing, but I wondered how far this would go, I wondered what I was becoming. Steven had heard Cumster’s voice there, in the old shop where he’d been imprisoned. Whose voice was I hearing? I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to know, because I was worried that knowing would give it even more power over me. That admitting it was real, that separating it from myself, meant that it was more than me, outside of me…that I could…end. End in the same way Steven had ended, somewhere in that abandoned mechanic garage. Steven had died, and Cumster had been born…and the rapist was the connection between them. I knew more than I had, but I didn’t feel like I had any better understanding of what was going on here. I wouldn’t give in, I told myself. I wouldn’t give into this any further–I would find this rapist and end it, whatever he was doing…and he would fix me. I would go back to who I was, who I was supposed to be–it was the only way I would ever get back, I imagined…but is that what I really wanted? Even now, I don’t know what I want, honestly. I know what I should want…but do I have the courage to take it back?

Curse of the Homophobe (Part 10)

He didn’t want this. Evan could remember better now, that he was away from Robbie, who he’d been before. Not…all the way back, his recollections of the young twink in high school that he’d been were cloudy with his own, new memories of his own high school experience as a drop out–he’d been too busy sucking cock and drinking piss in filthy alleys and bathhouses to care much about school, after all. But he hadn’t always been this. He’d been a jock in college, he’d been a coach, he’d been trailer trash–he could go back, maybe. He could be better than this fat, stinking filthy faggot pig the curse had warped him into as some sick joke.

But what was he going to do? He didn’t exactly read like a faggot–not anymore. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had said something like that to his face. He was going to have to be a little more forward now, if he wanted a reaction. That, and he’d have to find a suitable target–though that was a bit harder than he’d expected. He kept walking, but he was exhausted after a long day at work already–and all he really wanted was to go home, have Robbie stuff him silly, and then sit on his face and fill his boyfriend with a load of his shit–and maybe get a taste of it himself. He was about to give up, and give in, when he saw someone approaching him–a beat cop with a reputation around here for roughing up twinks on occasion…though he wasn’t quite sure how he knew that. Whether the curse was offering him a way out, or whether he was just lucky, it didn’t matter–he hiked up his pants, went over to the cop, and said, “Fuck, ya look sexy as hell in that uniform buddy–let me suck that dick a yers,” the worst part, was how…authentic he sounded, when he said it. That, and he really did want the officer’s cock, he realized.

The officer recoiled away from him in disgust, just like Evan had hoped he would, “Get the fuck out of my face you dirty fucking faggot–talk to me again, and I’ll arrest you for indecency.”

The word washed over him like some soothing balm. The officer pushed past him, and Evan felt himself shifting–though perhaps not as much as he would have liked to. He grew a bit taller, but didn’t lose his entire gut. He was left with a hefty beer belly stretching out his shirt, which was growing cleaner, buttons appearing in the front as it morphed into a blue uniform shirt, his grubby jeans similarly changing into navy slacks. He felt the beard disappearing into his face, leaving him with just a thick bushy mustache trimmed to his lip, his hair buzzed down into a flat top under his patrolman’s hat. He was so relieved to be someone different, he didn’t even care about the disgusting homophobia welling up inside him–it was better than who he’d been, in any case.

He was Officer Evan Pittock now, and he’d been a beat cop for quite a while. He’d been passed over for promotions a few times, mostly because of his fairly common record of roughing up the queers he came across on the street, usually with his partner Harry. Both of them detested fags more than pretty much anything else, and had become fast friends on the force. Thanks to the police officer’s association, and their ability to back up one another’s story, they could get away with pretty much anything, so long as they used some flimsy charge as an excuse, which they usually dropped in exchange for the victim of their abuse not saying anything about what they’d done to him. He hurried along the sidewalk and caught up with Harry at the corner, and the two of them resumed their bullshitting, happy that their shift was nearly over as they headed back to the precinct, stopping only to call out a couple of faggy looking whores as they went.

In the locker room, as he was changing out of his uniform, he did his best to avoid looking at any of the other men around him. He’d always gotten…odd feelings, looking at guys in the locker room. Gay feelings, maybe, but he’d bottled them up for so long that he was used to avoiding thinking about them. No, he had a wife and two kids now. It didn’t matter that looking at her never managed to get his dick hard–unless he was taking her from behind, and better if he was fucking her ass. They just didn’t have much sex anymore–the only sex he’d gotten lately was one blowjob from a particularly desperate faggot he’d extorted one night while Harry was off…just…so he could know what it felt like.

Buried deep inside this new Evan’s mind, the curse roiled, urging him to warp his partner in revenge. He could think of so many things to do to him…but did he really want to? Evan was tired–what if he just…slipped away? Sure, life as some homophobic, closeted, overweight cop wasn’t…ideal, but it was still better than risking ending back up with Robbie, right?

As usual, each choice in the poll comes with a risk of the story ending–and the last one guarantees that the story will end, so choose wisely!

He changes his partner into a young, cubby recruit hungry for his cock, and he becomes his boss.(60%)
He beats and abuses him, until his partner is a masochistic pain slave. (70%)
He takes his partner on a motorcycle ride, and makes him a biker pig, and becomes a biker too. (80%)
He resists the curse and tries to live as the homophobic cop, but the spirit has other plans for him and his partner. (END)

The twitter poll is here

The patron only poll is here

Voting ends Tuesday!

Orwell’s Demon (Sketch)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please…don’t. Not him, please…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I…I do…deserve to be punished.

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

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

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

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

Subway (Sketch)

Officer Hugo Mason had been with the city police department for close to ten years, and in that time, he’d always been highly respected by his fellow officers and superiors, enough so that his occasional fag bashings, both in and out of uniform, were usually overlooked and shoved under the rug by the rest of the department. After all, none of them liked faggots–although none of them disliked them nearly as much as Hugo did. Whether it was from a position deep within a closet of his own, or simply lashing out at a particular target, he was merciless either way. He was never quite certain, in the thick of what happened, whether it had been coincidence or some grand scope of cosmic revenge that it was him that ended up on the subway, alone in that car, that late at night. All he could really be certain of was that something strange had happened to him–though in the immediate aftermath, even he hadn’t been quite sure what it was.

It had been a late shift and he was on his way home–that time of night, there were never many people on the subway, but being alone in a car–that was rare enough that generally everyone notices when it happens, and the sensation is always eerie. A place which was usually so full of people–you realize just how large and small the space is at the same time. Hugo once heard a story of someone hyperventilating while alone in a car. It was probably just an urban legend, but sitting there by himself, the tunnel roaring along outside, he could understand how it could do that to a certain kind of person.

It was a decent distance to the next stop, long enough for him to notice–and the lights in the car flickered once, then again, and plunged him into momentary darkness, before coming back alive. The car had never stopped moving, but when he looked around, after the darkness, he say that he was no longer alone in the car. Down towards the other end, standing, holding onto the upper rail, was a sizable man–well, a sizable faggot, by the look of him. He was clad all in some sick, leather mockery of the uniform he wore during the day, and that alone made Hugo furious. Those faggots–was nothing sacred to them? Or was everything just some…disgusting target for their filth? Did faggots see him like that? Is that why they were always looking at him? Because they wanted something like that?

He stood up, the lights flickering again as he did, the train swaying and keeping him off balance. “Hey! Faggot! What the fuck thinks you have the right to wear something like that?” The man did nothing, didn’t even look at him, like he wasn’t even there. “Hey! Hey fucker, I’m fucking talking to you!”

He stalked towards him. The lights cut again, and when the lights came back up–there was no one there. He looked around, confused–the lights cut again, this time longer, and then came back after a few seconds–the man inches from his face–Hugo staring right into his eyes, smelling his hot breath, tinged with cigar smoke, and Hugo…he felt different. He…he was different. He was cold–his shirt and pants were gone, replaced by a harness and leather shorts…and a collar, which the man grabbed him by, pulling him into a kiss. Hugo knew he should be disgusted, but all he could think was how much he wanted him, wanted this man, wanted to be with him. The train was slowing down as they kissed, and came to a halt. The man stepped away, and asked, “Coming, boy?” He left the train without waiting for a reply.

Hugo crept to the doorway and looked out at the empty station–a station he didn’t recognize from the route. It was…somewhere else. The man walked off and disappeared up a staircase–something in him ached to follow him, but the terror was greater–the door slipped shut again, and started up, the lights flickering off, and he was left standing there again, his old self, the taste of the stranger still on his lips, which he licked. His cock achingly hard in his pants–so hard that he was able to whip it out and jack off onto the seat beside him before the train reached it’s next station–his station, so he could get off, legs shaking, trying to grapple with what he’d just experienced, what he’d just felt, the certainty that soon, very soon, he’d have to feel like that again.

Everybody in town loves the Sheriff–which is pretty rare, even he admits that. He knows everyone in town, and has a habit of dropping in on families unexpectedly, like he did with the Robinson’s just last week. It was late–after dinner, and Mr. Robinson was enjoying a bit of whiskey, when the door opened (everyone left their doors unlocked, in case the sheriff wanted to stop by) and he said hello to Mr. Robinson, and then found the Misses getting dessert ready in the kitchen.

“Betty,” he said, stroking her cheek with a gloved hand, “Be a doll and skip dessert at home tonight. Why don’t you take the kids out for ice cream? And don’t come home until I call and tell you to.”

“Yes sheriff, of course!” Mrs. Robinson said, and bundled up the kids and left the sheriff alone with her husband.

Mr. Robinson wasn’t the healthiest of men, but then again, all of the men in the town had started packing on weight since the sheriff came to town. The Sheriff walked into the living room and started running his gloves over Mr. Robinson’s body. “Strip down, I want to see those fat rolls of yours, Mr. Robinson–and then we’re going to eat that whole cake your wife just baked. After that, I’m going to plow that fat ass of yours all night–how does that sound?”

“Sounds fucking hot, Sheriff, I can’t fucking wait,” Mr. Robinson said, moaning as the Sheriff rubbed his hard cock, and stuck one of his gloved hands into the citizen’s drooling mouth.

“No Officer, you know what? I don’t really think it matters how fast I was going. I think what really matters is how good that rubber feels against your skin. You look surprised–don’t you remember putting your uniform on earlier this evening, thinking about how hot you look with the blue latex pulled tight against your muscles? Go on, rub them–damn those webbed gloves are really pervy. I bet you’re a total pervert, aren’t you? You’re just a giant rubber pig cop, aren’t you? Don’t shake your head like that–I mean, it’s pretty obvious from that mask you’re wearing. Go on, grunt. Grunt like a pig while you rub that hard cock in your rubber pants. Now, you wanted to ask me something officer? What was it?”

“Sir, *grunt* I need you *snort* to step out of your car, Sir.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“I’ve been a very bad pig Sir, *grunt* I need a cock up my ass sir, I need it bad. Please *oink* give me your cum sir? Please?”

“Well, alright. I guess I can spare a moment for a pervy pig cop like you…”