VIP Package (Part 7)

It was a sensation he’d never experienced, and that he could barely figure out how to describe. Earlier, he’d witnessed his body, but he hadn’t felt surprised by it, and that old body that he’d had was very difficult to even remember. When he heard the name “Gerald”, it was like even more of himself slipped under, only to be replaced by an entirely alien, and yet utterly familiar persona. “That’s…that’s not my name, sir, please don’t call me that,” he said, his voice different–weak and quiet, just a mumble. He looked up at his master, and his knees quivered a bit at the sight of him. His master–he was so fucking sexy. All that muscle, and that fucking cock…he wanted to feel that inside him so badly, but he knew his master would never want to fuck him–no, the only person he wanted to fuck was Sammy, on the bed–and the flash of hatred he felt stunned him.

He hated him. His youth, his neediness, his bratty tone.

No, he didn’t hate him, that was Samuel in there, that was his husband, but Gerald hated him. Gerald hated him so much, because he was jealous. Because he was just an old, fat slob, with a nub for a cock, and he did everything he could for his master, and he never got fucked, no, the best he got was a load of cum sucked from that awful cub’s hole!

“That’s not your name?” Mr. Bishop asked, “But that’s what I’ve called you for years. If Gerald isn’t your name, then what is?”

More of him slipped away, his memories dimming. He could…remember someone named Samuel, that he was married, that he lived in a city, and he had worked in finance, but it didn’t feel like his life anymore. It felt like a story from a book, or a description of one of the men his master had made him serve over the years. Years–those he could remember. Serving Master Bishop, doing everything he required, no matter what, serving whoever he demanded, happily so, because…because his master was a god. Because he was Gerald’s god, and he wasn’t worthy of him, no man was worthy of him, but just being privileged with his presence lit an erotic flame in his chest that couldn’t be dampened. But Master had never fucked him. Never. No matter how much he’d begged, he’d never given him that gift, not once. But he didn’t begrudge him that. It was hardly surprising that Master Bishop wouldn’t want to fuck him. He was, after all, an ugly, fat, old faggot. No one wanted to fuck him. But the envy, the jealousy. It was even hotter now, and he couldn’t even look at Sammy there, couldn’t even think of him. That such a rude boy could receive his Master’s gift, while a loyal, obedient slave was forced to do without. It wasn’t fair–but life wasn’t fair, was it? “I–I’m sorry sir, I don’t know what I was saying, I just…everything is so confusing all of a sudden.”

“That’s alright Gerald, you’re just a stupid faggot, aren’t you?”

“Yes sir, I’m a stupid faggot pig. I’m no good at thinking, I just do as my god tells me to do, please forgive me, sir,” he said, lowered himself onto his knees, and prostrated himself on the ground, feeling his massive, obese body spread out on the carpet around him.

“He looks like a fucking blob, he’s so disgusting…” Sammy said, quietly, but loud enough that he knew the old man could hear him clearly. His face burnt a bit red…but the boy was right. He was disgusting…and…and he liked it. He always had. He knew he could improve himself. That with effort, he might even, one day, earn the privilege of taking his master’s cock, but he knew he never would. He was incapable of improving himself. He was weak, so weak. The sight or smell of food sent him into a ravenous hunger, and he would gorge himself without care. He’d gone without washing or caring for himself so long, his own filth no longer even bothered him. The fact that this disturbed and disgusted the men around him only thrilled him further because…because…

“Now, now, Sammy. Gerald has his place here too, just like you do.”

Jeremy slipped away entirely, and Gerald could finish that thought. His own vile nature thrilled him, because it only made his god of a master appear even greater by comparison. His corpulence, his sloth–it only made Master Bishop more powerful and graceful. Almost as though Gerald were storing his Master’s own vile tendencies inside him, protecting him from their influence. He would chainsmoke cigars, so Master would have no need to smoke. He would guzzle beer and wine, so Master might be temperate. And he…he would abstain from sex, so that his Master might pleasure himself with anyone, at anytime. His pleasure would be gained through his master, through service to his master, and maybe, one day, his devotion would be rewarded. He looked up, the massive cock swinging hypnotically between Master’s legs, and he longed to be called to service it, his entire body quaking with desperation…but Bishop just turned away, and walked back to the boy. “Alright Sammy, where were we?”

Bishop slammed his fifteen inch cock back in, and Sammy nearly screamed, while on the other side of the room, Gerald died a bit inside. He stumbled up, and walked to the humidor–he needed a cigar, a rough one–Sammy always hated how much they stank up the room–and then…and then something to eat, hopefully. Gerald could use a good gorge–he always felt better stuffed to the gullet.

VIP Package (Part 5)

Jeremy sat, and watched Samuel fuck himself on Mr. Bishop’s massive cock. He didn’t watch because he wanted to–he kept trying to force his eyes to look in any other direction, but Mr. Bishop had ordered his undivided attention, and so he sat, and took it all in, and felt…sick to his stomach. It wasn’t just that his husband was having sex with another man in front of him–part of it was how fucking ugly that man was: old, massively obese, obviously a total pervert. It was also…the fact that Samuel hadn’t once bothered to even look over his shoulder at him. Jeremy wasn’t even sure if Samuel even knew he was sitting behind him. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if this was realy Samuel at all, anymore.

It was hard to say for sure, given how drunk he’d been in his room two days prior, but his husband seemed to have changed even more than before. He really was fatter–and not just by a few pounds. His entire body type had somehow shifted over the course of a few days. Where before, Samuel had been a seasoned muscle bear, the man fucking himself and crying out in pleasure didn’t look like he could be much older than twenty. It was…his skin. He could remember noticing that detail before, but his entire body was just a perfect, pale peach. Barely a freckle or a mole, and not a single hair that could be seen anywhere, aside from on the top of his head, and even then, the thin, short hairs had become a startling blonde. It couldn’t be possible, people couldn’t just change like that, but he could still see that birthmark on his shoulder–it was the one mark that remained on his skin at all. It had to be him, but then how was any of this even possible?

“Boy–I think we should change positions, for a bit, you’re giving me a cramp. Be a good boy and bend over the table–look that husband of yours in the eye, while you push back on my cock.”

“Yes daddy,” Samuel moaned, and without even dismounting, he twisted himself around the shaft, facing Jeremy now, and slid down so he was standing on the ground–the massive member remaining deep inside him the entire time. Mr. Bishop leaned back a bit, legs wide, and two waiters pushed his chair a bit closer to the table, allowing Samuel to thrust his hips back and fuck himself while leaning over the table. Jeremy could see both of them now, his husband’s eyes staring at him–they were so…cold, and uninterested in him–and Mr. Bishop, smiling at him around that cigar of his.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Jeremy?”

“Fuck you–what the fuck did you do to him?”

“Oh, the salon here is capable of the most fabulous makeovers. You can be anyone you’d like, provided you can afford it, like me.”

“This is fucked. You can’t fucking do this to people! We aren’t your fucking slaves, you sick fuck.”

Mr. Bishop just laughed. “You, Jeremy, work in finance. Hedge funds. Your husband works as a corporate lawyer. Just who, exactly, do you think you serve every day already?” Mr. Bishop waited a beat. “Me. Men like me. You make me money. You could very well have made me the money I’m paying to control you right now. Besides, it’s not like you won’t be duly compensated for your…services.” He took a long drag off his cigar, and when Jeremy said nothing, he continued. “I’m honestly surprised you care so much for him, the way you so casually fucked off with that whore the other day, and all those other days. Poor Sammy here didn’t have much choice but to numb himself, to just stop caring about you. It was easy, after your last rebuff. He has more important things to worry about now anyway, don’t you boy?”

“Yeah daddy, like your big cock!”

“Yes, just like that–pretty much only that, in fact.”

“I don’t know how you know any of that shit,” Jeremy said, “But–so what, this is just some fucking game to you? You get to just fuck with our lives for fun, because you’re rich and you can?”

Mr. Bishop leaned forward a bit, and spoke in Sammy’s ear, “He caught on quicker than you–he really is the more cynical one. Fuck a little faster boy, I’m getting close.” he leaned back, and kept smoking, while Sammy picked up the pace, sweat pouring from his smooth skin. “Yes. Because I can. And because the two of you were going to be miserable anyway. And because you’d be divorced within the year. And because if someone is going to ruin your relationship, I might as well be the one to do it, since I’ll actually enjoy watching the two of you fall apart. Or who knows, maybe a change of pace will give the two of you a better appreciation for one another. Oh fuck boy, that’s it–here it comes. Daddy’s gonna fill up that boyhole nice and full.”

“Oh fuck daddy, yes! Fill me up nice and full!”

With a smoky groan, Mr. Bishop’s balls began pumping a massive amount of cum into Sammy’s guts, and the young man’s eyes rolled back in his head, his body shivering–after all, his daddy’s orgasms was ten times more powerful for him than one of his own. Mr. Bishop looked out at the table, and shook his head. “Oh Jeremy, you didn’t eat any of your meal. You must be starving.”

“I couldn’t very well eat without being able to look at the plate,” he spat back.

“Well, I suppose you’ll just have to eat something else then–something…more suited to your palate. Boy, please feed your husband all of that cum in your ass. After all, that’s now your favorite food in the world, right Jeremy? Other men’s cum felched from the dirty ass of your slutty husband? I’m sure you can remember all of the many times you’ve eaten it now.”

Jeremy felt like his mind was twisted out of shape, but a moment later, everything was clear–especially all of his new memories of sucking cum from Samuel’s ass. He knew that they weren’t real, that they hadn’t actually happened, right? Or…or had they? In either case, as Sammy moved around the table, he quickly got down on his knees behind him, pressed his tongue to his husband’s crater like hole, and started lapping up the cum dribbling helplessly from it, quaking with pleasure and hunger. The load was massive, but he ate all of it while Mr. Bishop watched, humiliated and yet…so satisfied in other ways.

“Alright–Sammy, a friend of mine wanted to use you for an evening. I told him he would have to wait a day or two, but he should be happy to take you tonight only. He’s in suite 23. You’ll obey him like you would me, but return to our suite at midnight, understand? If he turns you down, then I want you to find as many men to fuck you as possible before midnight, and then return home.”

Sammy nodded, “But what are you doing, daddy?”

“Oh, your husband and I have an appointment in the Salon this evening. Don’t worry, I’ll be there tonight when you get back.”

Sammy nodded, gave his daddy a kiss, pulled on his skimpy bathing suit and ran off, leaving Jeremy alone with Mr. Bishop. “You’re a fucking sicko,” he said.

Mr. Bishop just laughed, and led the newest part of his VIP package to the Salon, for a makeover of his own.

VIP Package (Part 4)

The next morning, Jeremy woke up, and wasn’t quite sure what to make of what had happened the night before. Most of the details had been lost in the drunken blur, but he was certain it had been Samuel waiting for him in the room, and yet…it hadn’t seemed like Samuel. He certainly hadn’t behaved like Samuel, or even looked much like him. For a bit, he tried to convince himself that it hadn’t actually been him at all, but then how could he explain the birthmark, or how he’d gotten into the room, or how he’d even known who Jeremy was? Still, he’d seemed…out of his mind, first trying to jump his bone, and then he’d just up and left. Where in the world had he even gone? After his hangover subsided, he searched the ship, high and low, but quickly discovered just how much of the ship was, in fact, off limits to him.

The boundaries were as invisible as they were strict; he would be heading down an unmarked corridor, when a member of the staff would appear–seemingly out of nowhere–and escort him back to the main concourse, with a gentle, pleasant reminder not to be too much of an explorer. He found himself growing a bit obsessed with the ship’s VIP passengers, but as hard as he sought them out, he was unable to even find one to talk to. They all seemed to be cloistered within their own section of ship, none of them bothering to mingle with the rest of them. They had a separate dining room, separate floors, separate rooms, separate casinos…he again accosted the help desk, and was rebuffed even faster than before. Samuel was safe, and when the cruise ended, he would be returned–they spoke of him with the same care they would discuss a piece of lost luggage.

Samuel ended up back in the room that evening, hoping that Samuel would come back–but he didn’t. This was, somehow, even worse. Could things have been different if he hadn’t gotten so drunk the night before, and maybe managed to fuck his husband? Would things be different if he hadn’t fucked everything else up already? Why was he even blaming himself? This was fucking Samuel’s fault, running off with some fucking rich fuck behind his back! But in the room…he hadn’t seemed happy. He’d seemed terrified and desperate. Jeremy didn’t know how to process any of this; he’d never been good with relationships and feelings. Around midnight, he went out and got drunk again, and then continued his bender early the next morning after work, not planning on stopping until the cruise was over, or Samuel showed up with an explanation.

The staff cut him off around three in the afternoon, after he got into a one sided screaming match with another guest he’d stumbled into by the pool bar, and the staff insisted that he get something to eat. Two men escorted him to a dining room, Jeremy protesting and raving. They were entering the dining room–a massive, three story tiered room, and he looked up, and there, on the third floor overhead, next to the railing, he saw him. It was Samuel, sitting at a small table across from some old fat fuck, laughing his fucking head off, and all Jeremy felt was rage. He threw off the two hulks helping him walk, and staggered over to the nearest stairway, ignoring the “VIPs and Guests Only” sign, and got up a floor. The staff above was already waiting to intercept him, but he just started screaming out Samuel’s name, but his husband didn’t even notice…until he tried the name ‘Sammy’. At that, his husband’s head turned in curiosity, saw him, his eyes rolled, and he turned back to the old man across from him, who had been watching Jeremy’s entrance with a smirk. Cursing and punching, the staff dragged Jeremy back downstairs, where he supposedly belonged, and deposited him at a table–but if he hadn’t felt like eating before, now the thought of food did nothing for him at all.

The waiters brought him platters, he asked for booze, and was turned down. He tried to steal a bottle of wine from a table near him, and was intercepted before he could even stand up, like the fucks knew what he was thinking. He felt trapped in a massive room, convinced that he could hear his husband’s unusually high laughter drifting down from above, and he was certain it was over. His marriage was over, his life was over–and then a member of the staff approached him, and said that a VIP guest had requested that Jeremy be added to his package.

He listened, numbly, as the man gave him the same limited explanation that had been given to Samuel at the pool, and he had only one question for the man, when he’d finished the offer. “If I agree to this, I can go upstairs?”

“Guests who have been added to VIP packages are granted access to VIP exclusive areas and events provided their VIP has given them permission to be there. This is covered in more detail in our terms of service, which again, I am required to strongly suggest you read before providing your affirmative consent.”

“I don’t want to read it, I agree.”

The staff member smiled, and presented a small screen to Jeremy–he pressed his thumb to it, but barely felt the shock race through him, as drunk as he was. It froze him in place all the same, and the man inserted his VIP control chip at the top of his spine. “Thank you for helping us provide our VIP members with exceptional fantasy experiences. Please follow me, and I will take you to your VIP, where he will assume control of you for as long as you remain a part of his VIP package.”

Jeremy had a difficult time understanding what the man was talking about, and he’d already stood up and followed him for several paces before he even realized he was walking. He wasn’t stumbling like he had been, either–as drunk as he was, his pace was perfectly even–nearly robotic, in some way. The anger in his gut began to melt into fear–is this what Samuel had gotten himself into? At the top of the stairs, the waiter let him directly to the table where his husband was sitting with the older man, or rather…on the old man. Samuel was straddling him, naked, the man’s massive cock buried in his hole with Samuel moaning in pleasure, gripping his daddy’s rolls of fat tight.

Mr. Bishop turned to Jeremy and smiled. “Hello there, Jeremy. I wasn’t planning on inviting you to join us for another day or two, but since you’ve proven to be rather…nosy, I figured, why not move on? My boy was getting a bit boring, all by himself, anyway. Do have a seat. We’ve already eaten, but I’m sure the waiters can find something for you.”

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.

A Home of Mirrors (Part 4)

***WARNING: Things get fairly violent/abusive from here on out.***

Jean stepped into the room and shut the door behind him, surprised by just how large is was–until he realized it was only half the size. The mirror taking up an entire wall, opposite the window, had fooled him into thinking the space as massive. He shook his head, and rubbed his eyes, feeling almost drowzy. He’d seen something downstairs in that other mirror, but what? It had been him, but…but not quite. Something about this house was wrong, something about the way his dad was acting was wrong. He stepped into the room, avoiding his own gaze from the mirror, suddenly…afraid of himself.

Fear wasn’t something he felt often, but he’d been afraid, this last week, with his father. His drinking, the screaming, how he kept catching his father staring at him, and even after being caught, he just…kept staring him down. Once, he’d woken up in his room, and the door to his room was open. He could smell that foul smoke off his dad’s cigar, from the dark hallway, and hear…huffing, and puffing…and why was he even thinking about this? It didn’t matter–he was almost out of here. Just one more year of school, and then he can get to college, and he won’t have to be the family disappointment anymore.

Who would have thought? An all american jock athlete, a disappointment to a family?

“It’s not your athleticism he hates, you know. Is the fact that you could do so much, and yet you do so very little.”

He spun towards the voice–towards the mirror, and found himself facing his reflection–or a reflection, anyway. He was a good distance from the mirror, but the version of himself that…that had spoken, was inches from the glass, barely on the other side. “Did…How did…”

“I see I got your attention, finally,” his double said, and stepped through the mirror without so much as a ripple. Jean could tell it was him, and yet they were so different. Jean was no small figure, at six foot three and two hundred and fifteen pounds of muscle, but his reflection was about an inch taller, and much thicker. Rather than a sleek build made for running, like his, this other him–it was clear he was a fighter, or boxer, really. Brawler would have been more accurate. Not only from the burly muscles and firm stance, but the scars, the puffy eyes, the missing tooth, when he grinned at him. “See, I don’t think it’s how little you do, but how little you do with it, which is such a shame. All you do is run. Run to catch the ball, run after the ball, back and forth in your little world on the field, chasing nothing,” he spit, and a wad of something black landed on the carpet between them. “Think you can run from me, little boy? Think you can outrun yourself?”

He tried. He dashed for the door, as his double finished speaking, but he headed Jean off and drove him into the wall hard enough to crack the drywall, stepped back, and let Jean fall to the floor. He cracked his knuckles, hauled out his cock, and started pissing all over Jean, where he was struggling to find his feet after taking that hit. “You’re mine boy,” the thing sung at him, and laughed, “You’re mine now, so better take it like a man.” Jean stumbled up, aiming for the door, but his double clocked him in the face, and sent him back to the floor. “You’re daddy’s gonna be so proud of you soon, though–wonder who’s gonna take our cocks better, you or him?”

Dazed from the punch, Jean couldn’t do much as his double started tearing at his clothes, ripping them to shred as he growled and gnashed at him, hammering him with a fist if he tried to get up. He shoved Jean’s face down, forced his ass high, lined up and forced it’s way in–quick, enjoying the scream as Jean lost his virgin hole to himself. “Fuck man, yer gonna love being me! This hole’s so fuckin’ sweet, fuck, gotta hand it to the fuck, this catch is real nice…”

Jean tried to ignore the stench of the piss soaking his skin, tried to pretend it wasn’t happening. With some embarrassment, he discovered his own cock was hard, and it almost felt like he, too, was inside someone. A greasy hole, that felt real…tight. He was pushing back without noticing, enjoying the phantom sensation of fucking himself, and then, clear as day…he could see himself, through the other’s eyes.

He looked down at himself, at his body, at how small he was, and all he felt was contempt. He had always been so weak, a waste of space, a waste of good time and energy. Well people would notice him now. He’d make a mark on the world with his fucking fists if need be!

As soon as it had appeared, it was gone, but Jean rebelled. That wasn’t him. This thing wasn’t what he wanted to be. He planted his hands to the wall, and shoved back, catching the other off guard, throwing him out, and off of him, and in a rage, Jean whirled on him with a scream kicked the thing in the groin, and watched his foot slide through it like it was brittle, shiny paper, and dissolve to dust.

Heaving for breath, not knowing what had just happened, he grabbed up what fragments of clothes he could and pulled them back on–at least until some thick hand wrapped it’s way around his wrist, a foot planted itself in the small of his back, and with a sickening pop, his shoulder came right out of the socket with a scream. “We’re not done yet–you think that’s all the darkness in your little soul? That was just the surface scum, boy.” His voice–it was his voice, but deeper, each syllable edged with blunt violence.

Jean rolled over on the floor, and saw the massive brute looming over him, body packed with muscle, arms, chest and belly coated with tattoos, black tobacco split leaking from it’s mouth down it’s chin to land on Jean’s chest–then it crouched down, and slammed its fist into Jean’s face.

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.

The Power of Society (Part 4)

“Um…how are we supposed to piss in these things?”

Several other hands dropped down. It was the first question Harold had expected, of course. “That’s rather easy–you simply piss through the uniform. Who has another question.”

“Wait, if we piss through it, all day long, and if we can’t wash it or take a shower, then…” the young man paused, hoping the rest of the question would be clear, but Harold motioned for him to continue–he wanted to hear the young man say it. “Then won’t it…be kind of dirty?”

“Yes, it will. That’s the purpose of the uniform.”

“No way, fuck this shit–I’m cutting this thing off,” one of the other men said, and stood up, heading for the kitchen, and a knife.

“Now, I feel a demonstration would help make this a bit clearer. After all, now that you are all dressed, I can demonstrate the purpose of this study. Come up here, and tell me your name.”

He wasn’t quite sure what made his feet veer off from his intended direction, but the stocky young man made his way to the front and stood by Harold. “My name is Adam.”

“Alright Adam. Now–I’m sure that your desire to remove your uniform was driven by the fact that you need to piss like a racehorse, don’t you?”

Adam nodded, though admitting the fact in front of his housemates made his face flush red.

“Well, go on then. Piss.”

“Right here?”

“Yes, right here please.”

“But I don’t want…to?” he said, only noticing that his cock had obeyed the professor already, and a stream of piss was arcing out the front of his jock pouch–well, spraying, was a bit more accurate, perhaps. Several men in the front scooted back to avoid the piss, and while Adam tried to stop himself, he couldn’t.

“Now, it is my hypothesis, that the dirtier a jock behaves and becomes, something happens to his brain chemistry,” Harold said, passing his hand through the spray of piss, and then slathering the wet hand across Adam’s face and hair. “They begin to lose access to their higher mental functions. They become more and more obsessed with perverse, filthy behavior. Their bodies put out copious amounts of musk, they desire one another’s stink and piss, they find themselves obsessed with fucking and masturbation.” He stopped, and adjusted his watch a moment, “In short–at the heart of every jock, I believe, is a filthy perverted animal, which can be unlocked by forcing that jock to become filthy, by forcing them to debase and humiliate themselves in front of their fellow jocks and the outside world. That this true jock is shameless, a complete faggot, hungry for cum, piss and sweat, their only desires in the world are working out, perving out, and wrestling and fighting their fellow jocks for dominance.”

Adam’s piss had slowed to a trickle, which was now running down his inner thigh. He licked his lips, tasting the piss left there by Harold’s hand, and shuddered, a dribble of precum leaking out the head of his cock. He tried to stop himself, but he started rubbing the pouch with one hand, groaning and snorting, switching hands to lick the piss and precum from the first. The rest of the house stared on in horror. “As you can see, Adam is one of these jocks, as are the rest of you, I believe.”

“I’m not…fucking like that. That’s fucking disgusting,” another man said, but everyone could hear the tremor of doubt in his voice.

“That’s what the experiment is setup to find out,” Harold said, “But I assure you, my hypotheses are never wrong. Reality has a way of…working out in my favor, right Adam?”

With a grunt, Adam’s cock started leaking cum through the pouch, and he smeared it back over the fabric. He didn’t know what was wrong with him, or why he couldn’t control himself. The…stink was opening up something deep in his mind, something he’d never known was there. He could smell the piss soaking into the carpet, and he dropped to his hands and knees, sucking it up in front of everyone. Some in the front, who could smell the piss, had begun rubbing their own cocks through the mesh pouch prisons, without even really noticing–imagining that it was them, there, instead of Adam, thinking about whether than piss might taste as good as it smells.

“Now, any other questions?”

One more hand went up, tentatively, “How, uh, how are we supposed to have sex, like this?”

“Oh, well, in your new uniforms, you are, of course, unable to penetrate anything. That said, you are free to frot as much as you desire on one another. Demonstrate, if you would, Adam.”

Unable to resist, he crawled forward to the nearest jock in front of him, and began rubbing his cock on his housemate’s thigh, groaning and grunting as he did, the other man disturbed, and yet…incredibly aroused by the sight.

“You are, of course, free to pleasure one another orally, and many jocks find themselves…desiring anal stimulation, as the process progresses. I imagine many of you will likely come to desire one another’s fists deep inside of your assholes, as the study continues. This kind of desire is completely normal for jocks like all of you, who are all rather…submissive creatures, in nature.” He saw one or two men’s hands slip between their thighs, poking and prodding at their hole, already accepting the suggestion as fact. “Now, I fear I must get going. A work crew will be here in an hour or so to install cameras throughout the house, but none of you will notice a thing out of the ordinary, and will behave as though you are not being observed. I leave you jocks to it! I hope you all deeply enjoy your journeys of self discovery.” With that, he left–even more thrilled. This was going to be a very fruitful experiment, he believed.

Within five hours, every jock in the house had piss through their new uniforms, and all of them found themselves in positions similar to Adam’s–new desires were welling up within them, and very few found themselves capable of controlling themselves for long. A small orgy erupted in the living room, when some of the jocks gathered to discuss a way of escaping…but found themselves too distracted by the scents of one another to resist their new, inner urges. Other’s resisted, as best they could…but no one in the house believed that the jock within them would remain dormant for very long.

Five Film Contract (2 of 2) WARNING: FILTH, BESTIALITY

Just one more, Evan was telling himself. Just one more film, and he’d be done. The contract would be over. He could…be normal again, himself again. He wouldn’t have to keep doing this, why was he still doing this?

He’d gone back to his room after the second film, stunned, unable to look at his reflection in the mirror, at his shaved head. He could still smell Rick on him, and he liked it. He’d left the set still wearing that dirty jock, and he’d jacked it, trying to find a dildo large enough to make his ass happy, disgusted with himself, but more turned on than he’d been in his life, and terrified that he still had three more films to go, that…that he might lose control of himself like that, again. That, even worse, he might lose control of himself like Rick. After their film together, he’d been even larger, with huge, meaty forearms–one of them marked like a ruler, lumbering off to his own room. He didn’t want to be like that…but he could tell, the directors had something else in mind for him.

The third film he’d done better, he’d kept his head around him. He’d taken every toy the other two actors had used on him and loved every second of it, watching the two of them…shift. The rubber, the tattoos, the piercings, the dullness in their eyes, but he’d fought off the worst of it. Sure, he couldn’t…quite bring himself to take off the rubber when he got back to his room, and the rings in his nipples did feel good, but he hadn’t given in like they had. That had been a victory–he could see the frustration in the director’s eyes. But the fourth film, yesterday…

The piss…the filth…he’d lost himself in it, and they’d caught every second of his debauchery on film. He still reeked of piss and shit now, the next morning. He’d tried to sleep, but he hadn’t been able to–he’d been too…wired, looking at himself in the mirror, at his new body. His missing muscles, his paunch, how he’d aged into at least his early forties. Now he was pissing into condoms to drink later–he…he liked it cold–and working his fist back into his ass at the same time, losing himself, whatever bit of himself there still was…but there was just one more film. He could make it through one more, right?

He left his room, but instead of going to a set, he was led to a car–rubber sheet placed over the backseat–and driven out of town. “We have a special final set for you all prepared, Evan,” the director said, “everyone is going to love this, watching you collapse. You’re going to be a star after this, just you wait.”

It was a farm. He wasn’t shooting with any of his other actors–no, Evan was tied down in the muck and manure, the cameras rolling as animal after animal fucked his hole–a dog, a boar, a cow, a donkey, and finally, a horse. He lost himself in it, he felt his very humanity draining away into the mud. When they finally untied him, all he could do was grunt and crawl through the mud, rubbing his cock raw. But he was a star, when his series premiered on the internet. Most people thought it was a hoax, that he was just a paid actor, but Evan could have confirmed it, if Evan still existed. Now he was just the director’s personal pet–but rumor has it there’s a reunion special coming up–Evan and Rick, together again for one evening–the two nasty beasts rutting in the mud and filth. You should see the preorders–it’s going to make bank.

Five Film Contract (1 of 2)

It was a bucket list thing, but Evan had always wanted to be in a porno. He certainly had the looks for it–he’d had some success as a model off and on, and had even landed a role in a few commercials for local companies, but when he heard through the grapevine that a new porn studio was opening up and looking for new actors, he did a bit of digging for the company around the internet, and sent in an audition tape of him masturbating, as requested.

He got a reply the very next day–apparently, the studio was more than willing to sign him, but the only catch was that he would have to sign a contract obligating him to do five films. They wouldn’t be sequels, apparently–the new business was just looking to film a bunch of these movies with cheap actors, and then release them slowly over the next year or so. Five films in five days–it sounded extreme, but also kind of enticing. Why not? He agreed, and went over to the office to sign his contract.

Filming wasn’t until the next month, and there, he met the various actors the company had hired, and he was surprised to find they had all stuck to a pretty specific type–like him. Model looks, trim, but not overly muscular. Young, in their early 30’s at most. All of them were just the kind of guys Evan liked to fuck–so this was going to be a pretty stellar week. The first day was spent doing an orientation and discussing the kinds of films the company was looking for. They wanted real sex–nothing too scripted. They wanted to see what kind of strange perversions lied beneath all of these pretty faces.

His first film wasn’t too strange. He was with another cute guy like him, and after making out for a bit, his partner wanted to fuck his ass–and Evan was willing to oblige. It didn’t seem strange in the moment, but Evan almost always topped–the guy slipped inside him however, and any desire to top fled his mind. It felt…amazing, to have cock in his ass. Soon he was begging the guy to fuck him harder, deeper, their talk turning kinkier and rougher until they both came–Evan without even touching his cock. He was amazed when the guy pulled out, and he saw his ten inch cock–it hadn’t been that big before, had it?

The night after, he couldn’t stop thinking about how good it had felt to get fucked. Each actor had their own room, at least, but he spent most of the night fingering himself, before he found a dildo in a drawer and fucking himself on that long enough to get himself to cum. He didn’t know what had gotten into him–getting fucked had never been like that before. Then, came the second film. His partner in this one wasn’t someone he’d seen at the meeting before, and he’d gotten a good look at everyone–no, he was a massive, muscular brute, with a full beard and cruel sneer.

“Um…he wasn’t one of the cast, was he?” he asked.

“Oh, Rick here had a very productive shoot at the gym yesterday, didn’t you?”

“Fuck yeah,” Rick said, flexing, “I’m a fucking beast!”

“We think you two are going to have some great chemistry. Your video yesterday, Evan, was good, but a bit…stale. We’d like to see the two of you up the ante a bit today.”

The second film…Evan had a hard time recalling what happened, exactly. Rick skullfucked him first, getting Evan used to his musk, and then shaved his hair off…and Evan let him do it, no, begged him to do it. Then, after forcing him into one of Rick’s filthy jocks, he shoved his fist into Evan’s ass all the way up to the forearm, and only after Evan had shot, screaming in pain, did Rick fuck him rough and cum as well.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about!” The director shouted, “Much better–Just you wait Evan, we’ve only just begun to tap into that filthy, whorish mind of yours.”

Source: sluttyfathers

Pigtail (2 of 2)

The physical changes were relatively minor, in the end–the most obvious was the weight gain and your new tail, as well as a few other details–a slight upturn in your nose, a propensity for snorting with little provocation…and a raging horniness which wouldn’t abate for anything, no matter how many times you masturbated. You went back on the website, desperate to find out what had happened to you, but found nothing much, beyond the fact that, apparently, this is what asslickers were designed to do. He discovered that the more pigtails he used…the more piggish he’d become, and the rush of excitement which hit at that thought…was upsetting, to say the least.

But beyond the physical changes, it was the mental shift which caught you off guard the most. Over the next week, you found yourself changing your entire wardrobe, preferring tight rubber and spandex which would show off your chubby thighs and big gut, your tail always sticking out the back. You found yourself unable to say no to any man who wanted to fuck you…and most any man who saw your tail ended up with his cock in one, or more, of your holes.

You also had a harder time controlling your impulses, which you’d always managed to keep under firm handle. You got your cock and septum pierced after a few days–you’d always wanted to, and you no longer had the willpower to resist that simple desire to debase yourself. You grew a beard, finally…and took up cigar smoking after a rather…intense night with a cigar bear you met through one of Arctos’s hookup sites. But every night, you’d look at that three pack of Pigtails on the Arctos website, thinking about it, fantasizing about it…but always fighting back the desire, too afraid to lose even more of yourself, but that resistance is fading now, isn’t it?

Everyone loves your cam shows. Everyone wants to see you humiliate yourself. Everyone wants to see you be a pig. More than one man has simply offered to buy the three pack for you, and finally…you give in. You’re going to do a three video series next week, one Pigtail a day. You don’t know what you’ll be when you finish…but you know you’re going to finally be the pig of your dreams, and you’re going to love every second of it.