Curse of the Homophobe (Part 8)

Well, it was close, but the frat won out by a few votes thanks to the Patreon poll.

Evan thought about changing back. He even started to, for a moment, but something else welled up in him, something he could only describe as a great exhaustion. So he’d turn back, and then what? He’d be back to his old self, more or less, with a third whore obsessed with him, and sure, he might be straight acting enough that he could get away without another slur, but the curse would always drag him back, somehow. He could feel it. And then he’d be back in some new nightmare–but what if he didn’t go back? What if he just said screw it, and…and just gave in?

He couldn’t believe he was actually contemplating it. Giving up. Living…like this. The spirit lingered around him, a fog on his mind, coaxing him along, seeing if he would do it. He didn’t want to be this though. He didn’t want to be this person. He could tell, somehow, that he would only inflict more pain on others like this, other guys on the team, other guys at the college. How was this better? How was he solving anything by simply taking Jerry’s place as the asshole in charge? There had to be something he could do. He couldn’t let this thing win.

He didn’t know where the idea came from, if it was his, or if the spirit whispered it into his mind. It was a terrible idea. A nightmarish idea…but he couldn’t ignore the simple brutality of it–but would it even work? No, there was no way it would work. Hand shaking, he poured himself more scotch, but his mind wouldn’t let the idea go. It was the only way–the only way he could make sure he didn’t hurt anyone else ever again–that this curse would end here for good. He drank more scotch, enough to dull himself, trying to bury himself back under the coach, mack under the homophobe, but he was terrified, all the same. Unable to contemplate it anymore, he decided he simply had to do it–he threw on a coat, and slipped out into the night, making his way towards the campus.

It was a Friday night, and the parties were still going strong. Evan made his way to Delta Kappa Alpha, widely considered the jock frat, and the most homophobic one on campus–one which had, on a few occasions, sent kids to the hospital, not that any of the jocks had ever faced punishment for it. It made him angry, which was good. He was going to need lots and lots of anger for what was coming next. He went inside, and began insulting every member of the frat he could find.

He started simple–turning them into faggots, the women in the house all disappearing one by one as the young men lost interest in them, and became far more interested in each other–and in Evan. But he didn’t make them weak. He didn’t fuck them. They needed to be strong. They needed to be brutes. He made them thugs and skinheads. Brutal biker tops and leather queens. All of them addicted to sex, the rougher and meaner the better. Sadists, rapists, abusers–he hurled out everything he could think of, until one of them had had enough, slammed Evan into the wall, and started fucking his hole raw. He demanded more. He wanted them to make it hurt. He wanted them to show him what they did to homophobic assholes like him.

Part of him was horrified and disgusted by what was happening to him, but another part of him was enjoying it. That new part urged them on, told them to use him as their urinal and cum dump, told them that they didn’t see him as a person at all, but as a gimp, a pig, a slave, an object, a whore. He said it over and over again, he said it so much he found himself believing it, as the gang dragged him down into the basement of the now condemned building they used as their hangout, where they brought the homophobes they bashed on the street to be reeducated and repurposed.

They beat him. They fisted him. They shaved him bald, and then stripped the rest of his hair off too. Pissed on him, made him clean out their holes, made him beg for their cocks, and he tried to squeeze that last little homophobic part of him out, but it remained, burning at the core of him, horrified at what he was doing, but it was too late to turn back now. He was marked. Tattooed all over his body, pierced everywhere as well. He’d lived down here for months, if not a year, brutalized by these men–and he’d grown to enjoy it. Relish it. Beg for it–because he deserved it. He deserved it for all the times he’d been cruel, and bashed queers with his friends. He deserved all of it, and would deserve it for the rest of his life too.

Dawn came, and the gang grew tired, slipping away to their homes, another enjoyable night spent working over one of their favorite straight slaves. They locked him back in his cage, and Evan shivered, exhausted–there was a kernel of himself still, deep inside, but it was so small…he was scared now. Terrified of what he’d done to himself. He grasped for it, tried to rekindle it. He didn’t want to stay here–even if he had started to believe he might deserve it. (Success Check–success! The story goes on for the moment!)

It took most of the day, down in that basement, to remember himself. To crawl back out of this, to remember who he’d been–or at least pieces of it. Everything was so…jumbled up. High school, college, middle age. Had he been a jock? A coach? Working in construction or on a farm? He didn’t know how to piece it back together, but he had to. He had to be something else, if he was going to get out of here in one piece.

********

Evan is starting to lose track of his identity, and of his sanity. What sort of gay reality is he going to revert to in the aftermath of this?

Fat, slobby, cigar smoking construction worker.
Closeted, burly, college football coach.
Young, grungy, muscled redneck farm boy.
A muscled abusive leatherman who belongs to the gay gang here.

Here’s the twitter poll

Here’s the Patreon poll

Voting ends on Sunday!

The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 3 (Part 2)

I found myself wondering if Ray, before meeting the rapist, had wanted this too, in a way, like Bernard had. Maybe the reason the two of them weren’t being honest with me, was because these weren’t really rapes at all…no, no, I didn’t really mean that, I suppose. These men had been violated, and twisted somehow, but it was like the rapist was channeling their own desires back at them. But then why had Ray been gone for four months, but Bernard only a week? The inconsistencies had to add up to something, but I didn’t know what, and it was getting harder and harder to think, my hand drifting to my crotch to grope my cock again as I sat there on the weight bench.

Why Jules? Had Ray pissed on him on purpose? Had he chosen him, or had it just been luck–good or bad, depending on how you were feeling about it? I wondered if I had been closer to him, if I’d pushed through his musk, and it had been me struck by that piss…would I have done what Jules had done, gotten him right out of the jail? He’d seemed interested in me, when we’d been driving, and while in the interview room, but it was Jules he’d been wanting to see. He…knew Jules was weak, somehow. I didn’t have any explanation for it, or how it could have worked, aside from magic, but I didn’t believe in magic. In this job, I had increasingly come to believe that all sex is just power. Holding power over someone, or giving power up to someone else, willingly or not. Maybe I hadn’t been good enough for him. Jules was bigger than me. Stronger than me. I was the weak one. I wasn’t…strong enough, was I?

I found myself searching for the place where Ray had pissed all over him, found a bit of it still pooling in the ridged floor of the shipping container, and just stared at it, inhaling the fumes off of it, feeling my mind slowing down even more. I…wanted to be enough. I wondered where they were, and what they were doing. No–I knew what they were doing, or I could guess well enough. After all, I knew what I would have been doing with him, if he’d taken me. I managed to keep myself from licking it up, jacked off again, shooting my cum onto the floor, and then left while my head was still somewhat clear. I was too jittery to drive, so I sat in my car, thinking about Ray, and Bernard, and wondering what all of these thoughts in my mind even were. I’d never been interested in men before this–I wasn’t a fag, and I didn’t really have anything against them, either, but this also didn’t…feel like I had somehow become gay, either. This was a specific desire. I didn’t want men, in general–I wanted these men. Either one of them, both of them, I didn’t know–but the desire was so specific, and I no longer knew, honestly, if I wanted to solve the case so I could stop this rapist, or if I just wanted to find either of them and see where these thoughts led.

I tried to calm down, but at this point, the only thing that seemed to work was jacking off. I hauled my cock out again, and noticed how many cum stains I had on my shirt and slacks from the day. It seemed like so much more than it could have possibly been, and I wondered if I’d been jacking off more without even realizing it, or maybe just leaking cum right into my pants this whole time. I didn’t want to think about it, I wanted to think about Ray, about getting…bigger for him, about smelling him, and smelling like him, about my mind fading away until nothing else mattered, until it was just him, and I came again, spraying myself with another load, the skin of my cock red and a bit chaffed. I needed to get home and take a shower–I’d feel better if I got cleaned up. Clean myself up, and then call the Captain and tell him I was done–that something was wrong with me–and wrong with this case. I’d gotten too close to it, or it had gotten too close to me, and they needed someone to blame this mess on, so it might as well be me. I could take the hit to my career, if it meant I could stop feeling like this. For the first time in my life, I wondered if this career, if being a cop was too much–but I pushed that away. If there was one thing about me, some core thing that I know, that I still know, it’s that I want to be a cop, whatever that means. To me, it means order–someone who orders the chaos, who makes sense of it, who judges it and controls and moderates it. That I’d questioned it for even a moment shook me more than the smell of that piss had, and I knew I needed to get out of here.

I started the car, and in the rearview mirror I noticed something–there was a bike parked behind me with a big brute on it, not doing anything in particular. I pulled away from the crime scene, and when I did, the biker revved up his bike and followed me back onto the main roads. He was tailing me, but he wasn’t very good at it–that, or he wanted me to know he was following me. Should I go back to the precinct? That was the smart idea, the better idea, but if I spooked him and he ditched me, it would be back to square one with this case. No–I needed him to follow me. I needed a lead, badly, and this might be my only shot.

The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 3 (Part 1)

If you need a refresher, you can find the first two episodes collected here: https://www.gayspiralstories.com/newSeries/show/216537

With no leads to be found, and with my two primary victims gone, I had nothing to do but return to the scenes of the crimes, in order to find something I could use to try and find this Bruiser, or at the very least, to figure out where either Ray or Bernard had gone to, so I could get them back and get to the bottom of what had happened to them both. Things at the precinct were going south quickly. The media was hounding us, and it was clear that the brass was looking for someone to blame–and presently, I was the only one left who could be seen as having any real responsibility for the mess this case was quickly becoming. It was good to get out of there for a bit, but going back to Bernard’s home, and going back to that storage container especially, were difficult for other reasons.

Do you know how, when you’re trying not to think about something–something bad, like a traumatic memory, or some shitty thing you did to someone–that trying to not think about it always seems to make you think about it more? That forgetting something isn’t something you can really do, consciously? Down in that basement, where we’d found Bernard chained to the wall, I just kept seeing him there, thinking about him, naked, thinking about what I could have done differently, and wondering what in the world had happened to him to just make him snap like that. But mostly I thought about that evening when I’d come here, after that interview, and I’d…I’d wanted to fuck him.

More than fuck him. I’d been so furious with him, for blowing apart my case like that, especially angry now that everything else was falling apart on me, angry at him for lying about his past, angry at him for…for so much that I couldn’t even blame him for. Angry at myself for not being able to save him, angry that I hadn’t dragged him back down here and chained him back up, chained him here were he could have been…safe.

How fucked is that. I was thinking about putting him back down here, thinking about chaining him to the wall and fucking him, fucking him day and night, abusing him over and over because…because I don’t know why! It was just a thought–no, more than a thought, just a need, or a delusion that seemed to follow so logically from one thing to another, that even though I knew it was immoral, and wrong, and fucking monstrous, but I couldn’t make myself stop thinking about it, no matter how hard I tried. The harder I pushed against it, the hornier I became, and if I gave in and even started to consider it, it would worm in deeper, and I…I jacked off down there, in the basement, jacked off thinking about him, how I should have kept him down here, down where a slave like him belonged, that I shouldn’t have missed my fucking opportunity to make him mine. If I’d made him mine, he would have had to tell me everything. He’d have to be honest, but I’d…I’d let him go like an idiot. He could have been mine, but I’d been too stupid to see it.

I left, and the thoughts came with me. I couldn’t get them to quiet down–the only thing that seemed to help at all was jacking off, but they’d return after an hour or so, stronger than ever. I went for a drive, telling myself I just needed some time to think, a chance to clear my head a bit, but without even thinking about it, I ended up driving down to the docks, back to that abandoned warehouse, finding my way to the taped off shipping container. The doors had been closed and relocked, and after I opened it, it smelled nearly as strong as when we’d opened it the first time, but now, it didn’t seem to bother me. His musk hadn’t bothered me at all, really, since he’d ridden with me in my car back to the station. If anything…I found myself enjoying it. I felt calmer, the mania that had been gripping me since going to Bernard’s house began to ease off a bit, losing myself a bit in the tight space and the dark.

I walked past the workout equipment, trying to imagine what it must have felt like, being stuck in here. Ray hadn’t seemed upset by it, he’d been content to just workout…but there had been something else odd about this place. Bernard’s house had shown signs of being lived in. We found no evidence of anyone else, of course, but there had been new food in the cabinets and in the fridge, no dust on the table–little things. There had been someone there, even if we had no idea who. But no one could live here. There was barely space to turn around in, and no space to lie down and rest, no source of water, no plumbing, not even a bucket. It didn’t make sense–why collar Bernard down in a basement and supervise him, but go to the trouble of locking Ray in here, alone–possibly for months?

Unless it hadn’t been months. Unless he’d been somewhere else, and the rapist had only moved him here when he was ready to reveal him. But what was special about this place? Why risk moving him, when Ray could use that information against him when he got free? I supposed that Ray hadn’t exactly had the same sort of privacy as Bernard had had, since he’d allegedly been living in an apartment at the time of his disappearance, but then where had he gone in the meantime? I took a seat on the bench, and noted the weight still on the bar behind me–285 pounds of weight. There were only one or two guys on the force who could bench something like that.

Taming the Beast (Part 8)

Jacob didn’t know what to make of it. He didn’t feel like he was getting better, certainly…but he did trust Mark, didn’t he? After all, he never would have gotten out of the hospital at all, if it hadn’t been for his help, and if Mark thought he was a danger to anyone at all, he knew that he would never let him hurt someone else again. He decided to do as he suggested, and trust that he would pull his way out of the slump soon, and things would become a bit more normal…but were things becoming normal, or was he just getting used to how filthy his life had become? Men kept coming around to see him, men he couldn’t even remember calling, and the sex he had with them was getting…stranger. He fucked them, always, but also took to soaking them down in his piss, and covering them in his cum, making sure that when they left, they smelled like him…like his property, like his mates.

Then, he went into another rage at work, and this time went too far–they fired him on the spot, and he was just…so frustrated, so angry, and he didn’t feel like he had anywhere to put it…so he ate. He ate, and he fucked, and he drank, and he didn’t rest for days. The next appointment with Mark blew past without him even thinking about it, he just didn’t want to care. He didn’t want to exist. It was two days after that, when Mark arrived at his door…and he was so relieved to see him, that he fell to his knees and sobbed. He didn’t know what he was doing anymore. He couldn’t trust himself, he’d given the beast too much control because…because he was weak. So weak. That’s what Mark told him, that he’d spent so long with the beast out, that he didn’t have the capacity to contain him anymore. Jacob didn’t want to believe it, it couldn’t be true…but when Mark hauled him up and dragged him into the bathroom to look at himself–really look at himself, he was terrified.

It wasn’t his face in the mirror. Or, it was kind of his face, but it was…twisted and bestial, with a snout pushing out around his mouth and nose, two tusks pushing out from his lower jaw, the hair on his head and beard looking more like boar bristle than human hair. He begged Mark to take him back to the hospital, to take him somewhere where he would be safe…but Mark told him he thought the hospital would be the worst possible thing for them both. The beast would panic. He would fight, and turn vicious, and most likely, Jacob in his weakened state wouldn’t be able to regain control, and in the end, he’d just be locked up in a cage for the rest of his life, in a ultramax prison with the rest of the villains of the world. But he wasn’t a villain, right? No–he just needed some time to get back on his feet…but he did need to be supervised. Mark graciously offered him a room down in the basement of his house, and Jacob was so thankful he didn’t think twice. So thankful in fact, that he sucked the doctor’s cock, right there in his apartment. It was just…the right thing to do. To show how much he respected him. To show him how important he was. Some time under the doctor’s direct care was just what he needed. He left with him, not wanting to wait in case the beast resisted, and they got to Mark’s home shortly before dark. They went downstairs and into a large, bare room with several doors on each wall. Mark ushered him into one of them, and while it wasn’t much larger than the room he’d had in the hospital, he should be appreciative, shouldn’t he?

Mark shut the door behind him, and told him he would be back soon with some food for him, and Jacob couldn’t shake the sense of unease he was feeling. The beast had hated being stuck in the hospital, and he’d been certain it would fight this too. But it hadn’t. If anything, he felt better now than he had in his apartment. Safer. Like everything was working out exactly like he thought it should…except it wasn’t. He had none of his things, not even a change of clothes or a toothbrush–not that he’d been using one lately. He hadn’t told anyone where he was going. He looked around, but there wasn’t a phone anywhere, or a TV…or really anything. There wasn’t even a bed, or a window, just some lights inset in the wall behind glass or plastic. It was a cell. He was in a cell.

He went to the door and tried to open it, but it was locked. He was locked in here–he’d let himself get trapped in here, like an idiot! Still, the door was nothing compared to what the beast was capable of, right? He focused, trying to reach for it, trying to harness it…but while it was there, it was calm. No–more than calm, it was relaxed, and watching him panic, and enjoying this. It wanted to be here.

There was a loud thunk from the long wall of the cell, and the bottom foot or so angled out, revealing a shallow trough running the entire length. A moment later, slop slid down into, steaming slightly, and Jacob felt his gut rumble, and the beast licked its chops. No–no, he licked his lips, right? Jacob was still trying to understand what was happening to him in his mind, as his body lowered itself down onto his hands and knees and crawled over to the trough, shoving his short snout into it and devouring as much of it as he could, as quickly as he could, while it was still warm and delicious.

Taming the Beast (Part 4)

This is a double post, for today and tomorrow, because there was no good place to split lt!

Indeed, the beast had manifested after he’d been put under, but not immediately. Mark had guided him into a dream, a peaceful, happy dream with a friendly, fluffy dog, and when the beast came out, it was not the fierce, pacing monster he’d seen before. He was a reflection of Jacob’s own imagination–fluffy, happy, soft, and eager to be petted, apparently. It was a bit…strange to see everyone in the room petting him, when he could remember nothing at all of any of it, but he had to admit it was promising. He could, apparently, control the form and personality of the beast to some extent, through his dreams. Mark believed his control was likely stronger than that–that with some practice with guided imagery and meditation, he would likely be able to call the beast at any time, and control it’s form directly. Once he was showing progress along those lines, then he would be ready to rejoin the regular population of the hospital, and then, be released. That was something they were both desperate for, and so, Jacob agreed to give it a try.

It was frustrating work, at first. Jacob found it difficult to focus, and the beast bristled at Jacob’s attempts to harness and control him. Still, they forged an uneasy path forward, mostly with the help and guidance of Mark, who Jacob was beginning to think knew the inside of his own mind better than Jacob knew it himself. In time, he managed to come to an understanding with the beast–largely predicated on the snacks the beast received when it followed Jacob’s direction when manifesting. Mark seemed to enjoy that part the most–it was one of the rare times that he seemed to smile, when feeding the monster in his room a dog biscuit. Jacob could always taste them when he came back, and while it disgusted him to some extent, it did seem to be helping. He went one month without an episode in the night, and then two. He was allowed back into the ward’s general population, at last, and he’d never been so thrilled to be surrounded by freaks. There was the occasional backslide, usually when the beast didn’t get its treat, but after a year and a half, Jacob was confident in his abilities, the beast was largely tamed–though Mark was sure it would always be a bit headstrong–and Mark cleared him for outpatient release. He would still have to check in regularly at the hospital, attend therapy sessions–both solo and group–but finally, he would be able to start putting a life back together outside the nearly three year long nightmare this had become. He wouldn’t be able to register as a vigilante again until he could show better control over his developed powers, but that was, honestly, the furthest thing from Jacob’s mind. He was free. They were free. Mark helped him find a small studio apartment to rent nearby until he could get a job and be back on his feet, though the restitution from his time under Baccanal’s control was nearly enough for him to live on, if he kept life meager.

Mark encouraged him to find some work, however–it would help him adjust back to normal life, if he had something to occupy his time. Before all of this had happened, he had worked in kitchens, mostly, and he found a job as a line cook at a little restaurant not far from his studio. It wasn’t much of a life, he supposed, but it was better than being stuck in the hospital, never getting a taste of fresh air. Life settled into a new, better routine. Group therapy one day a week, therapy with Mark twice a week, and as long as he checked in with the hospital, he was free to just…live, at last.

“Six, a bit over halfway down the stairs now. You know where you’re going, and there is no fear–only trust. Just my voice, guiding you down into the darkness below, that comforting, gentle dark of deep sleep.”

The induction was easy now–Mark knew that he had Jacob’s full trust, as misplaced as that trust was. As long as he’d been in the hospital, Mark had had to be careful–a suggestion here, a nudge there, a test or two on occasion to see how pliable he and his beast were, but never anything too unseemly. It wouldn’t do to get himself tossed out of his favorite hunting ground, after all.

“Seven….getting deeper now. You feel yourself sliding down the steps, floating down them, every inch taking you deeper and deeper towards a restful, peaceful, dreamless sleep.”

They met at Mark’s home now for their therapy sessions–it was more convenient than going to the hospital for Jacob, and they both felt more comfortable here. That, and the only cameras in the corners here were controlled by Mark. He controlled everything, and everyone here–just like he would control Jacob, and his beast, before too much longer.

“Eight, you feel very heavy, so heavy, and the dark is pulling you into it, embracing you, enveloping you in a calm nothingness.”

Mark wasn’t a Super–he couldn’t literally control people. Not like his patients had been controlled–not like how he, himself had been controlled, all those years ago, while he was just a student at college. He had been…close to a young man as an undergraduate, though rather clueless. The young man had thought there was something brewing between them, but Mark put that notion to bed quickly–he wasn’t gay, and also wasn’t interested in a relationship with anyone, really. That hadn’t been what his friend had wanted to hear, and unknown to Mark, his friend was an unregistered Super–and one with the ability to…warp personalities. Mark found himself falling head over heels for him in less than a week, desperate to be with him…but the power had been so raw. He’d wanted to be with any man–every man, and his friend enjoyed making him humiliate himself, whoring him out to men all over campus, and Mark refused to report it, out of love. Thankfully, it was found out after a couple of weeks before too much damage had been done to him, but he’d never been the same person since–how could he be?

“Nine. The light seems so far away now, and the darkness is so close. You long for it. You feel so content down here, in the dark, that you will happily stay down here for as long as you can. You feel safe here, safe where no one can harm you, listening to only my voice.”

He never could find women attractive after that, for one thing. But his personality soured, warped, and settled in other ways too. He still craved sex, but also control. He became domineering with his partners, and rarely did a guy return for seconds–not that Mark was interested in having any one normal man more than once or twice. The only person he wanted was his friend–a love he’d never been able to quiet, but it had mutated, and Mark found himself becoming fascinated with other Supers like him. In time, even the love faded, but a furious spite filled its place instead. When he met another Super in graduate school, years later at that point, he decided that was close enough, manipulated him into bed, and then threatened to tell everyone on campus he’d raped Mark, if he didn’t do everything he demanded. The rush of power was unlike anything else, and he had him under his thumb for a month, before the Super ran off–and Mark as furious at having lost him. He wanted more–more Supers, more sex…but he would be more careful, and make sure they would never be able to abandon him. So far, he hadn’t lost a single one yet.

Ten. The floor melts away beneath you, and you are floating, in a deep, peaceful sleep. The only thing besides the darkness is my voice, which you must listen to. My voice is the most important thing to you, here in the darkness. You must obey it, right Jacob?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good, Jacob. Now, in the darkness, you are going to prepare yourself to dream of the beast–but you will not begin dreaming until we have discussed what this dream will be like, understand?”

Mark had, thus far, been unable to deduce how, exactly, Jacob’s dreams were related to the beast, but he had found that guiding his dreams could determine what sort of form the beast took when the dream began. In fact, the beast seemed rather mutable, never emerging in the same form twice, as far as Mark had seen, though his control over both of them was still very loose. In fact, this was the most dangerous moment of the entire venture, he supposed. If the beast rejected his offer, or simply attacked him–no, that wouldn’t happen. He knew what the beast desired, and he could provide it. Stick to the plan, and everything would go perfectly.

Now, you are going to dream something different, this time. Something you haven’t dreamt about in a very long time. You are going to dream of your time with Baccanal. However, this dream will not scare you, and when you wake, you will not remember any details, only that it was very pleasant. You will dream that you are a glutton. That you eat and drink anything given to you, like a pig. You will dream that you are lecherous and horny, lazy and heavy, satisfied with earthly delights like sex, food and wine. You are going to dream that you are a pig–do you understand?”

Jacob nodded, and Mark had him repeat the details of the dream back to him. Then he told Jacob that the darkness was beginning to clarify, that he was slowly entering the dream, and Mark heard the couch Jacob was sitting on creak slightly. There was always a change in mass before any change actually appeared–almost like both Jacob and the beast were inhabiting the same space at the same time, one taking the place of the other, Jacob let out a snort, and a bit of drool ran down his chin–likely imagining the food and wine from the dream, and his mouth and nose began to grow out into a short snout.

The rest of his was growing as well. Jacob was not a particularly large man–five foot five and a slightly chubby 200 pounds–he’d largely lost the gut he’d had when he first entered the hospital years prior. He could certainly hit hard for his size, though, as his power had manifested, but Mark had come to believe that Jacob, before being controlled by Baccanal, had only been using a small fragment of his potential power. Likely, it would have remained completely dormant, if the beast hadn’t been freed. Baccanal deserved some sort of reward or recognition, surely, but his life sentence would be difficult to work around, sadly. Now, Jacob was close to six feet tall, and still growing (the beast rarely manifested as a creature below seven feet tall or so, and had, on occasion, outgrown the eight foot ceilings at the hospital) his leaner physique lost now under a rapidly expanding belly, his arms packing on some muscle, but really, he seemed…flabby and rotund, just as Mark had hoped. The beast was a singular mind, with a memory separate from Jacob’s, but it’s manner and behavior differed widely depending on its form when it manifested. If Jacob dreamed of a frightening monster, it would be vicious–if he dreamed of something gentler or peaceful, the beast would be…more amenable to something resembling conversation. It had never spoken a word, or at least not to Mark, but it understood everything he said, as far as he could tell.

Jacob had been naked–one of the earliest hypnotic work the doctor had done was get Jacob used to being naked in his presence. He doubted Jacob even noticed that he stripped automatically when he stepped in the door every time now. Mark found himself focused on the beast’s growing cock–this time, it was becoming more porcine, engorging and spiraling from a slimy sheath, with two massive balls hanging below, against the cushion of the couch. The hair came next–less than usual, mostly a thick coating of boar bristle all over his back and across his chest, arms and legs. Then the eyes flicked open, no longer Jacob’s human blue, but a bestial black. The beast was awake, Jacob was lost in the dream, and would be until Mark woke him from it.

Curse of the Homophobe (Part 5)

No–no, this isn’t him. This isn’t his life! He was younger, he was younger and he…he lived in the city, and he was going to school…but so many of the details were missing. This life seemed so much more real than that one–he’d let himself get sucked in too far. The pig was sucking on his foot, and he kicked it off, making it squeal, and ran to the bathroom. He needed to be alone, he needed some time to think. The bathroom was filthy, filthier than anything he’d seen before in his life, but he felt so…comfortable in it. He looked at himself, at the hulking, stinking man he’d become, hair everywhere, and he…hated himself. He hated that he’d let himself become this disgusting thing, this thing he’d never wanted to be, and he wanted out.

But do you remember?

Was that his voice? No–he remembered that voice. Is was that darkness, from that night in his room, a room he couldn’t remember, but the darkness he knew very well. It terrified him, the searing laughter in the question. It knew he couldn’t remember, not all of it.

You can’t go back if you don’t remember–just forget it all. Wouldn’t it be easier to stay?

He shook his head, hair flying. He focused on what he could remember. On youth, on…school, of some sort, on sports…he could remember something about sports, and being a jock…or had that been another life? It all seemed so muddled together in his memory, and trying to pull any of it apart only made it seem like it would crumble at any moment. It was working, though. He could feel his body shifting–shrinking somewhat, his mind clearing, the redneck pig farmer slipping away into the dark, back into the spirit that had conjured it. His memory was becoming clearer now. He could remember school–college. College? Hadn’t he been going to high school?

He opened his eyes and saw his face. A face he could recognize better, without all of the hair around him. Younger, but still grungy. He had a short beard now, mostly because he was too lazy to bother with shaving, or really much hygiene at all…right? Hadn’t he been cleaner? It was too hard to remember, and resisting the spirit was too much of a struggle. This wasn’t…right, but it was better. It was what he had. He splashed some water on his face, and the room around him started to twist as well. Still a bathroom, but not the bathroom from the trailer…but also not his own bathroom in the dorm where he lived. Where…was he?

There was a knock on the door. “Hey, sexy fucker–I’ll throw in another 200 if you…leave me something in that toilet.”

His guts twisted–it was Robbie, the filthy construction worker he’d sleep with on occasion because he’d pay him 500 for a fuck–and honesty…Evan did kind of like how much of a filthy pig he was. Didn’t like him enough that he’d fuck him for free of course, but he couldn’t get sex like this from anyone else. Robbie would do anything to lick Evan clean after football practice, among other things…and 200 hundred extra dollars couldn’t hurt. He sat down, did his business, didn’t flush, and then left. Robbie took a look, shoved the 700 into his hand and pushed him out of the apartment, barely giving Evan a chance to get his shorts and shirt back on, and then he was out, his life sorting itself out in his mind as he left the shoddy apartment building where Robbie lived a few blocks from campus, and headed for his dorm.

His memory was clearer now–he could remember better who he’d been–Evan the slender twink, a senior in high school–but the opportunity to get back there had closed. Who he was now was…substantially different, especially physically. His body was packed with muscle and fat, the perfect build for an offensive lineman. He’d aged up, and was a junior in college, on track for a potential pro career, if his sexuality didn’t torpedo things for him. He was also out of the closet–a rarity, and the team kind of hated him for it, but he was so good, no one gave him shit…usually. In fact, walking back to campus, it was the first time he could remember walking anywhere in the city, and no one called him a queer, or a faggot…or even really noticed him much at all. It was a relief in some ways. It meant that the curse was less likely to trigger, if nothing else.

He got a text on his phone, and saw, with some surprise, it was from Curtis. He, apparently, was going to college now too, and had sent him a pic of him naked, bent over, ass to the camera–one of his standard booty calls. Evan’s cock jumped to attention, tenting out the front of his mesh shorts. Even though he’d just plowed Robbie’s fat ass…he could always use a round with Curtis. No one had a hole like his…but he couldn’t. He needed help–someone somewhere had to know about this curse, and how to get rid of it, but where could he go? He didn’t know anything about this stuff, after all. Maybe it would be best to try and forget about it, if there was nothing he could do about it. So he headed for Curtis’ dorm instead, let himself in, and spent the next half hour fucking the twink’s tight hole until it was nice and loose, loving how high the bitch could moan, loving how he could make him beg–loving the power he had. The power he had over both of them now, he supposed, since Robbie was the same…just with different inclinations. No one was going to talk shit about him, not to his face at least. Maybe…maybe he could be safe like this, if he just kept his head down, and didn’t make waves. Maybe the spirit would get tired of him, and go away on its own, if he refused to give it what it wanted.

He did his best, for a few days. He went to practice, and went to class, fucked Curtis regularly, finding the rhythm of this new life. Not once in that time did he hear a slur…and he was beginning to have hope that he might be normal enough now to get through this. The curse was willing to be patient though, because it knew he would hear something soon enough–not even something necessarily directed at him. Someone would be talking about him behind his back–or he would hear a slur directed at someone else he was with. It wouldn’t matter–he’d change again, and the spirit would have its satisfaction.

***

Alright, who’s going to insult him this time?

His preppy, conservative roommate complains about him.
He overhears two coaches talking shit about him after practice.
He and Curtis get stopped by cops after going to a gay bar.
Some ROTC members gossip about him nearby.

Here’s the twitter poll

Here’s the patron poll

Voting ends on Tuesday!

The Unholy Trinity (Sketch)

Warning: Satanic references and scat, if that bothers you.

Do you wish to be cured of your sinful weakness?

He did. God, did he. Neville wanted to be good, had always done his hardest to be good in all things. To be christ-like, to be worthy of God, but the struggle–it was so hard now, at college, away from his family. Even at this Christian school, they were still here, he was certain of it. Faggots of all descriptions, looking at him, wanting him (or was it just him, wanting them? Seeing his own gaze reflected in their glances at him?) and he…he was too close to succumbing to temptation, closer than he’d ever been, even when he’d snuck a kiss from Tanner Abrahms in the woods, which had gotten him a summer long stay at the conversion camp. It was all he could think about. He was weak…and he was willing to try anything to be free of this sin.

So he’d found this website. A website claiming it could cure him of all the desires that ailed him, if he would just put his full faith in the Trinity. Idolatry, really, he knew that. No website could do what God alone was capable of, but maybe, at least, it would make him feel better. He hovered the cursor over the yes button, clicked it, and the screen loaded with a strange, undulating spiral, and the words:

As Christ worshiped the feet of men, so you too, worship the feet of all men, the first of the trinity.

What happened next, he couldn’t describe. It was a vision, yes, but also a memory, and a desire–so many things all at once, he didn’t know how to describe it–all he could do was experience it, helplessly.

“That’s good pig–you like the taste of that filth?”

“Yes sir, thank you sir,” he said, running his tongue along the sole, tasting the filth the man had been building up. He claimed he hadn’t changed his socks in days, and Neville believed it as he licked, stroking his own cock, feeling a load building in his balls.

“Never known a faggot who got off more on a rank foot than a nice cock–good thing I got both for ya, whenever ya need ‘em.” He took one foot and kicked Neville’s hand away, grinding it against his cock and balls, and it was too much–he exploded all over the man’s foot, and then licked his own cum off it, thanking him for allowing him to serve him as a foot pig.

Then, it was gone–well, hardly gone. It was seared into his soul. It had happened, it, and so much more. He looked over and could see the collection of shoes he’d bought off filthy men he’d met, how he knew their smells so personally–and quickly, he tried to shut to window on the computer, but it refused. The screen simply faded to black, and a new spiral appeared, and a new phrase below:

Baptized in the piss of our lord, drinking of his waters and allowing his perversion to root out the weakness inside you.

Neville tried to tug his eyes away from the spiral, but already, he could feel a second vision overwhelming him.

It was warm. He stuck out his tongue, and the man directed his stream onto it, and as soon as he tasted it…he knew he would need more.

“That’s a good fucker, drink it all down. You wanna smell like my piss, don’t you?”

He nodded, and looked up at him. It was the same man as before–older, chubby, and while a name didn’t come to him, Neville knew he always called him Daddy, his…Father. Not his real father, but that seemed…so far away now. This was the man who cared for him, who nurtured him, who taught him the ways of the true Lord.

He pulled out his own cock, pointed it up, and started pissing on himself, as Daddy directed hos own stream onto the filthy shirt he was wearing. “A fuckin’ natural–they’re gonna love ya, fuck.”

The vision left him again, but the smell didn’t. The sensation of dampness. He reeked of urinals, he could taste piss on his tongue, and it was divine. He couldn’t help himself–he hauled his cock free of the yellow briefs he had on and started jacking off as the second spiral disappeared, and a third came into focus:

You feast of the shit of men, and it shall sustain you in ways the body never could. The lord provides, and you shall be a true servant of the unholy trinity.

He tired to resist it. He knew he should be able to resist it…but his faith had been weak. He had been tempted, and now, he could feel himself falling into the clutches of Satan, a third and final vision overwhelming him.

“Tell me what you want, slave,” Daddy said.

“I want your shit, sir.”

“You wanna be daddy’s toilet pig? If you start–I ain’t gonna be usin’ that toilet much anymore. It’s all gonna go down that nasty throat of yours.”

He pushed his ass back, into Neville’s face, and let loose a wet fart. He snorted the stench down, his already rock hard cock throbbing. He’d eaten Daddy’s nasty crack plenty of times before, and he…he was ready. He wanted this, he wanted to be this…this pig, forever. Daddy grunted and bore down, and Neville ate–and as he ate, he felt the shame, the horror–all of it curdled into a single ball of lust. Lust like he’d never known before, and he devoured it all, licking his lips after Daddy helped him wash down the last of it with his piss, and then jacked Neville off with his foot. “Your mine now, boy. Mine forever. You’re Satan’s Pig–and your name is now–”

“Ville!” he screamed in his room as he came, cum exploding all over his nasty underwear he wore when he was at home, reeking of sex and musk, just how he liked them. Neville was gone–he could feel that weak thing falling down into the darkness, lost to the fires of hell and damnation–right where it belonged. Ville was free now–free, and with a new mission, to serve his own, unholy trinity for the rest of his life.

He got dressed in his favorite gear, making sure everyone could see looking at him what kind of pig he was, and lit a red as he hit the pavement. He was a missionary now–a disciple, and he would find someone to share the gospel of the unholy trinity with before the night was through–or hell, maybe two, he thought, seeing two cute college students pass him by, catch a whiff of his filthy body, and freeze. “Hey boys,” he said, putting an arm around each of their shoulders, “Why don’t you two come back to my place? We can have some real fun together, I bet.”

Carnival (Part 7) [Interactive]

The Daniel on the ground started to laugh, and then let off a loud belch, rolling over and giving his ass a scratch as he did. “Fuck, feels so fuckin’ good being outta there,” he stood up, tottering slightly, and then faced one of the mirrors in the room, looking at himself and taking it all in.

When he’d entered the maze, Daniel had been in the best shape of his life–swimming and playing soccer, watching his diet, keeping himself at a lean 160 pounds or so. He was stunning on campus, but had been with his girlfriend for a couple of years now, and was planning on proposing to her after graduation. But that Daniel wasn’t here anymore–and the Daniel looking at himself in the mirror, was, in almost every way, his physical opposite.

Where Daniel had been tall, a couple inches over six feet, he was now about five and a half feet tall. His lean body had been replaced by rolls and rolls of fat, his smooth body coated in hair, his cleanliness replaced by filthy unwashed clothes and grimy skin–the embodiment of his worst drives and impulses, his greed, lust and sloth made manifest my the twisted mirrors of the maze–and these needs were powerful, and starving. Still, the reflection didn’t leave without grabbing a shard of the broken mirror and sliding it into his pocket–after all, he had lots of other friends in here eager to escape the maze into the lives of the people who wandered into the funhouse, and he was generous.

The exit revealed itself quickly–the mirrors posed him no danger now, after all–and emerging from the curtain and into the noise of the carnival was thrilling. So many delicious smells, and so many men! Daniel stared at the dads and college students passing him, imagining them naked, imagining sucking their cocks and cleaning their bodies, and any number of lewd acts Daniel would have never imagined doing in his life, but this Daniel did all of that. This Daniel didn’t go to college–no, this Daniel worked some menial labor job to pay the bills, lived in a rundown apartment, and spent all of his free time hunting down men to fuck–but fucking could wait. Right now, all he wanted was to eat.

He found the midway, and went from food cart to food cart, loading up on everything fried and sweet that he could find, polishing off each meal as he stood in line for the next. He could feel his gut heaving and bloating, hanging heavier on him, dropping out the bottom of his shirt, and the looks of disgust from the people around him only made him hornier–and he would stare back until they looked away uneasily, just like they always did when he’d been a reflection in a mirror, unable to bear the sight of themselves, but now they had no choice. Now, he was one of them–and he kept feeling the rough shard in his pocket, thinking about it, his little cock getting hard, buried in his fat (Daniel had been quite well endowed, but his reflection had never found length necessary to have a nice time).

In the end, his horniness overwhelmed his hunger, and he retreated into the shadows between two booths dropped his grimy pants, and started jacking off, intending to let off a bit of steam before finding some action later–but was rudely interrupted by a voice shouting at him. Daniel didn’t stop jacking–why would he after all, he was enjoying himself–but looked over and saw that the voice had come from a young police officer, likely working off the clock in uniform, providing a bit of security for the carnival while it was in town.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, you fucking pervert?” the young man said, and started towards him. Daniel went down for his pants, but not to pull them up–he dug out the fragment of the mirror maze, got it in his palm, and as the young man approached, he pointed it at him, and watched the young man’s eyes be drawn to it, lock onto it, and contort into a vision of horror. Daniel didn’t know what he saw in there, but it was clear that he couldn’t look away–well, he had an idea what he might be seeing in there, but even a fragment, outside of the house, was a powerful force. The horror dulled, and when the young man looked away, he had a very different look in his eyes than before.

“How about I offer ya a little somethin’ and you just keep quiet about what you saw here, eh officer?” Daniel said.

‘Fuck–you nasty fucker, get to it.”

He got down and sucked the young man off, jacking off as he did, both of them cumming after a couple of minutes, and then they both got dressed and went off their separate ways. The young cop, found himself drawn to the food carts, stuffing himself silly for the rest of the night, filled with a hunger that he couldn’t explain–but which he had to indulge.

Meanwhile, three other frat brothers were standing in line for the Tunnel of Love, but they had just reached a surprising fork in the line. One direction was labeled for couples only, while the other was marked for single passengers. It just so happened that the three of them were single at the moment, which was part of why they’d thought it would be funny to go on the ride in the first place. One brother suggested they head down the couple line anyway, just for fun, but another one said they should go down the line for singles, hoping they might find some girls down that way for dates.

Which line did they end up in?

They go down the couple line together and ride as a threesome.
They go down the singles area and get paired up with other single passengers.

Here’s the Twitter poll!

Here’s the Patron poll!

Digital Manipulation (Finale)

Trax spent a few months honing his new, and in his mind, much improved version of Perrion. It wasn’t too long before any trace of the old version was gone–he’d replaced his whole past with new memories, scrubbed all of his old desires and left behind a muscled out, dumbfuck skinpig desperate to be as big and freakish as his master desired. Still, it was only virtual. Trax had started this just as a way to get even, to vent some of his anger out on something that, in the long run, he figured he’d eventually just delete in a fit of shame and horror. But that wasn’t happening at all–instead, he was becoming obsessed.Obsessed not only with PJ, but also with the skinmaster persona he’d created for himself in the virtual realm. He wanted more–and he wanted it to be real…but how?

He couldn’t just kidnap Perrion–that would raise too much suspicion. Instead, he haunted him for a while, looking for a weak point he might be able to use to his advantage–and then he discovered, one night while spying on him, that Perrion had made a new purchase–a dream recorder. It was perfect–it was relatively new tech, and a lot of people had been raising concerns that they could be hacked and give people access to your subconscious. No one seemed too concerned about it. After all, companies already had complete access to your conscious already, what more could they really want?

A little malicious malware with PJ implanted inside, and a quick slip into Perrion’s apartment while he was at work, and everything was set up–PJ would have complete control over Perrion’s dreams soon enough–and a good deal more than that. The more Perrion exposed himself to the infected machine, the more PJ would slide into him, replacing more and more of his subconscious mind with his own perverse ideals and desires. Still, it had to burn slow, because PJ could be…a bit much upon introduction. He set the malware to trigger slowly, and make sure things only really ramped up once PJ was firmly rooted in Perrion’s mind. The process was set to take a year.

It was a grueling time to wait, but Trax had his own projects–namely, himself. He needed to be the skinhead master that PJ would want to be with in a year, or else the fucker would just ditch him for someone else. Trax wasn’t a large guy, but some of his less legal work had landed him a substantial windfall–mostly after making a few copies of some other people on mental vacations for clients. That money was pumped right back into his body–cybernetics mostly, growing his frame and skeleton from five and a half feet tall to nearly seven feet tall, and once he got a taste for cyber…it was hard to stop. He could pass for human, at times. But he liked how people looked at him, he liked how his metal snake of a cock could wrap around his wrist–or around his thigh under his bleached jeans.

He corrupted himself gladly, ruining his intellect, getting himself addicted to tobacco, and several substances harder than that. Still, he always had an eye on the calendar, and as the day approached, he was desperate to check in on Perrion, to see how he’d progressed…but he resisted. Better to wait for the day he’d arrive on his doorstep, begging his ex to take him back, unable to explain how he’d been dreaming about him for ages, and all he wanted was for him to twist him into some sick minded pervert pig skinslave.

The day came, and he didn’t have to wait long–Perrion arrived before noon, knocking on his door, and when he saw Trax–the new Trax, a stain of precum appeared on the front of the jeans he had on, shading the massive bulge of his somewhat siliconed cock. He was bigger than he’d been, his head shaved, looking shabby. He must have lost his job along the way, and now here he was, begging this alpha brute to take him and make him his–and Trax did just that, because Perrion, or PJ as he began calling him immediately still had so much further to go.

He’d been too terrified of the piercings to get many of them, but Trax quickly caught him up–he wanted hoops in his flesh everywhere, and he used them all the time to bind his skinpig up–to himself, or to the walls, where he’d put other hooks, using them to chain the pig in excruciating positions, while Trax’s massive metal cock wormed its way into his ass, or his thick fist drove its way into his guts. More and more, he’d see the look in his eye–that glazed look of awe–that he’d come to know so well in the simulation. It was PJ, taking more and more control, and helpless, Perrion was losing more and more ground, until he was locked away, and the only person left was PJ, or more often known as Chains, from the decorations Trax liked the thread through his piercings around his body, his massive, amorphous, mounding piece of cock meat bursting through the worn jeans Trax allowed the pig to wear when they were outside.

On occasion, Trax would plug PJ into VR, and boot up the original Perrion, just to introduce them. Introduce them, and then Trax would appear, and have his way with them both, revealing to Perrion that the hulking beast was him–the future him, the only him that really existed anymore. He wouldn’t believe it, of course, until he started changing as well, PJ overwriting him in the scenario, and Trax would get to relive the corruption all over again.

The Bruiser Rapes – Prologue

This is just a one shot for the moment, but there’s more to come.

“Look, you’re drunk. You can’t even stand up straight.”

“I’m fucking fine man, give me my keys.”

Logan held Graham’s keys higher, and his drunk friend swung at them wildly a couple of times, but couldn’t get them back.

“Let me drive you home, alright?”

They were seniors in college, and had been friends for since they were Freshman, and attended their first seminar together. Logan was tall–a couple inches over six feet, and generally thin, with a bookish look and glasses. He was the responsible one of the pair, and always had been–while Graham tended to get a little…wild, especially if he knew Logan was there to keep an eye on him. He’d always resented it, somewhat–and had always wondered what Logan might be like if he ever really let loose. Still–he was right. His vision was swimming and he was in no state to drive anywhere.

He didn’t pay much attention on the drive–he was trying to keep from falling asleep mostly. Beside him, was he drove, Logan kept sneaking glances at his friend, breathing a bit heavy, adjusting the front of his pants a couple of times. He came up to a light. If he was heading to the house where Graham lived, he should have taken a left. Instead, with a quick glance to see if Graham was noticing, he took a right, and drove towards his own apartment. Logan came from money, and his trust fund financed a small, one bedroom apartment near campus, while most everyone else stayed on campus, or shared houses together.

“Hey, this…why are we at your place, man?” Graham muttered.

Logan didn’t say anything as he parked, came around, and opened the passenger door. “Come on, you can…sleep on the couch.”

Graham insisted that he’d be happier back in his own bed, but Logan just grabbed him, hauled him out of the car and dragged him towards his apartment, and it took Graham a moment to even realize it was happening. Logan wasn’t someone known for their strength, exactly. It wasn’t until they were inside, and Logan had locked the door, that Graham was able to get a few steps away from him, and size him up again…but he seemed wrong, somehow. Thicker, somehow, his usually clean shaven face filling in with stubble. He tossed his glasses onto the side table (Graham had never, once in their friendship, ever seen his friend handle his glasses so carelessly) and he walked over to him.

“Let’s get you undressed, and into bed.”

The words were stern, somehow. They didn’t seem to have any real emotion to them, it was just…fact. He hauled Graham’s shirt off before he could really do anything to stop him, and then he was unbuckling his belt. Graham tried to shove him away, but Logan just pushed back, pressing Graham to the wall, kissing and sucking at his neck, his stubble scratching at his chest as he tried to squeeze away from him. This…this wasn’t like Logan. It didn’t feel like Logan, it didn’t look like Logan–what in the world was even happening? He struggled harder, trying to punch and hit at him, and Logan didn’t even seem to notice–he just grabbed his wrists in each hand, pinned them to the wall above him, and continued biting and kissing at his neck. He was so damn strong–how in the hell was any of this even happening?

Logan pulled away after a few minutes, and released his wrists. He tried to bolt for the door, but Logan caught him, and dragged him deeper into the apartment, to the bedroom. Graham was pleading, but Logan said nothing at all. Just threw his friend onto the bed, dropped his pants and underwear, and climbed up on top of him, pinning him to the mattress. Graham kept struggling, but no matter what he did Logan never lost control. The more desperate and horrified he got, in fact, the rougher Logan seemed to become with him, until he rolled him over onto his belly, planted one hand on his back, spread his legs and began forcing his massive cock into Graham’s hole, inch by inch.

Graham had never in his life felt pain like this before. He tried to crawl away, screaming, but Logan just gripped his hips, hard enough to bruise, and hauled him back with a few grunts, slowly dragging him back until he was fully impaled on his cock, and then he started thrusting into him, rutting really.

Graham gave up, at some point. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could do to stop his friend or fight back. Maybe, he thought, if he just relaxed and let it happen, it would be over quicker. But Logan just kept fucking, hammering the cock deeper and deeper into him. It didn’t seem to matter to him, whether Graham was resisting or not–he didn’t even seem to exist as a person to him, just…just as a hole. Looking back over his shoulder, Graham saw he was even larger now, with a full dark beard across his cheeks, eyes focused, and yet vacant, like nothing was really on his mind beyond the simple physical pleasure of the fuck.

Graham didn’t really notice when it happened, but he let out the first gasp of pleasure at some point, and then another. He was rocking back, meeting his friend’s thrusts gently, then he was pushing back avidly. He…He wanted to get fucked. He deserved to get fucked. He was moaning, begging Logan to fuck him harder, but Logan just continued his same pace, unchanging, while Graham found himself descending into some crazed cycle of depravity he could barely understand, begging for the darkest, strangest things from the perverted corners of his mind, until he came, shooting his load all over the sheets below him, but it wasn’t enough, and thankfully, Logan wasn’t nearly finished for the night.

The next day, Graham awoke on the couch with a raging headache, and an inexplicably sore ass. Logan was in the kitchen, fully clothes, skinny as a rail, glasses on, cooking breakfast. Graham…didn’t know what to think, but the reality was too much to really take, and so he just…assumed it was a dream. A dream he would take to his grave, most likely. Still, he was never able to really feel comfortable around Logan again, but whether that was out of fear, or some inexplicable desire he never quite knew. A few months later, they graduated, and Logan moved across the country for a job offer, while Graham pursued graduate study in the heartland. He didn’t think about Logan again, until a few years later, when the bruiser rapes pushed their way onto the national news. The details chilled him, but in a way he couldn’t quite explain, and he did his best to not think about it anymore beyond that.