Use It or Lose It (Part 7)

The one thing that didn’t change at all, however, after a day without masturbating, was how horny he was. By the time he got home, it was even more intense than it had been the day before. He’d hoped, at least, that as the curse wore off the urge would dissipate as well–but it appeared that things were going to get harder before they would get any easier. Still, he managed the evening well enough, in the same way he’d done the day before–taking a long walk around the neighborhood–which was much easier now without an extra hundred pounds to lug around–stopping at a restaurant for dinner, and then going back home for an early bed.

Trouble came in the night. His dreams were vivid and filled with men. Sexy men. Cocks in his mouth, cocks in his ass. He was lost. It was too late by the time he began to struggle awake, and realized how close he was to cumming. “No!” he said to himself, desperate trying to will his hand off his cock, “No–not now, not after getting this far, you will…you are not–”

His objections dissolved into moans as his body unloaded a massive amount of cum all over his body and his sheets. A minute later, his body was back to the way it had been–a hundred pounds heavier, no body hair, reeking of cum…and as much as he hated it, the relief at finally releasing his load flooded through his body like lemonade on a summer day. Still, he hated himself. He’d managed to crawl one rung back up the ladder, and he’d lost it almost as quickly. Still–if he’d managed to do it once, he could do it again–at least he’d get a better night’s sleep this time.

In the morning, he checked the nightstand and saw the dildo had reappeared, good as new, but left it there. He didn’t even dare touch it, not as horny as he was. The morning went well enough, and by lunch he knew he’d passed the point of no return–he was either going to climb back up, or fall down yet another rung. It was clear that he was going to have to be smart about this, and so he started planning things out. So long as he managed to go two days–and reverse two sets of changes–he could afford to slide back. It wasn’t ideal, but two steps forward and one step back would have to do. In less than a week, he’d be back with his wife–and as long as he fucked her regularly, he’d be home free!

The day wore on. He was impatient with his students. They no longer respected him, now that he was a fat slob, and not the commanding sort of muscle pig he’d been before. Fuck, he could use a muscle pig fucking his old right about now…if only his dildo hadn’t left it at home! He snapped out of his fantasy, and refocused. At last, school was out, but Randal lingered in his office, twiddling his thumbs. It seemed harder today than it had the day before, and his dildo was there at home, waiting for him. He couldn’t face it, not yet. He worked on some lesson planning instead, playing with himself gently as he did–it seemed to help, though it did make him leak into his underwear.

“Not even bothering to slip into the bathroom today, eh Mr. Gray?”

The voice made him jump, and he spun around in his chair to find Mr. Jones, the janitor, behind him. He was younger, probably in his thirties, and not particularly attractive…though from the bulge in his uniform pants, it was clear he had plenty to work with.

“Like what you see, Mr. Gray?”

His eyes snapped up. “N-No…No, I…I think you’re mistaken.”

“I’m not mistaken, Mr. Gray. You slip off all day long into the bathroom. I can hear you, moaning. Watched you just yesterday, after than meeting, how you fucked yourself silly. Busted a load myself, listening to a slut like you! I’m glad you’re here, Mr. Gray–and that no one else is. I can offer you a real cock this afternoon instead, right here at your desk.”

The young man zipped down his fly, letting his seven inch cock out for air–no underwear to be seen. It smelled musky and ripe, but as delicious as it probably was, he couldn’t do this. He couldn’t afford this, not right now. “I…maybe…I can’t, not right now…” he muttered, but the young man stepped forward, pushing the head to Randal’s lips, and they parted easily, his tongue slipping out for a taste, and he moaned.

“Don’t be a fucking tease–I know what you want.”

More of his cock slipped into his mouth, and he moaned around the shaft.

“Yeah, I know what you need, you old faggot.”

He sucked harder, getting it good and wet, his ass clenching and hungry for a taste as well. His cock was leaking more, and was hard as a rock–if he kept this up, he didn’t think he’d be able to stop. Maybe he could salvage this–after all, if he came without jacking himself off, it wouldn’t count, right? He pulled away from the cock, and trying to sound as seductive as possible, he said, ”Suck me off first, then you can fuck me all afternoon.”

“Hell no!” Mr. Jones said, “I’m not some fucking faggot. You’re just a hole–now get up, and bend over that desk–this thing has a date with that ass of yours. I might not be as big as that dildo of yours, but I think I can make you moan like yesterday all the same.”

Use It or Lose It (Part 6)

“Look…I’m sorry, alright? I’m sorry I lost my temper with you, and I’m sorry that I lied to your son about masturbation. It was wrong, alright?”

“Well, thank you for the apology. I trust you’ll be sticking to the facts from here on out?” Ms. Eleway asked.

“Yes, yes. I promise. Just…just change me back, alright?”

Silence. Her face didn’t change one whit, not even a turn at the corner of her lips. Randal just stared at her, waiting for something, even some confirmation that this wasn’t all just in his head. It…it wasn’t all in his head, was it? He got hit with a wave of doubt, suddenly. What if he’d…just thought things were changing? What if he was just crazy? No–No, he wasn’t crazy, this bitch was doing this to him, and this bitch was going to cut it the fuck out. He’d said his apology, he’d learned his lesson–now everything was supposed to go back to normal!

“I know you’re doing this to me,” he said, a hint of manic conspiracy in his tone, “I know it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Gray.”

Did she not remember either? No one else had noticed any of the changes happening to him. “Please…I feel like I’m going insane, and…I need to know that this is really happening. Please, just give me my life back, I don’t want to be this person, I don’t want to be like this anymore.”

“Well, then why don’t you just stop?” she asked, a slight smile on her face.

“Because you’re making me do this! I don’t know how, I don’t know if you’re some kind of witch, or what this shit is, but it needs to stop,” He took a deep breath, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m trying to not get angry, but you have to understand that the last weekend was…hard for me.”

She stood up, and put her purse over her arm, pressing a few wrinkles from her shirt. “You’re apology is accepted, but it isn’t enough. You need to learn restraint and self-control. If you want to get your life back, Mr. Gray, you’re going to have to follow your own bad advice, and stop masturbating–for good.”

“Excuse me?”

“It shouldn’t be that difficult for you–after all, you yourself said you fucked your wife often enough that you’d never needed to masturbate before. For each full day you go without masturbating, you’ll get an inch back, and that set of changes will reverse. Of course, the more you lose, the harder it’s going to be to get everything back, and if you try and resist, but give in anyway…well, you know what will happen then,” she turned to leave, but added one more thing over her shoulder, “It’s probably best if you just stay as you are now–that’s the safest thing. In a couple of months, the curse will lose force, and you’ll never even remember being anything different. In any case, I wish you good luck with whatever you decide to do–just know that if you lose everything–” her eyes flicked down to Randal’s crotch, and then back to his face, “then there’s no going back for you, ever.” She started on her way, “Best to get used to being a fat, ass hungry faggot–I don’t think you have it in you to be much else now.”

Should he beg? No–no, he wouldn’t beg. He wanted to kill her, is what he wanted. He rose from his desk, intending to follow her, perhaps bash her head in against the wall, but as the thought of harming her flared up, his need to masturbate flared as well–almost strong enough to signal another possible loss. Still, he couldn’t just let her leave, could he? She had to fix this! He’d learned his lesson, he wasn’t going to put up with this awful shit anymore! He hefted himself up and headed out the way she’d left, but didn’t see her down any hallway–and his cock was growing more insistent each moment. In the end, he retreated to the bathroom down the hall, dropped his grungy pants, and spent a few minutes fucking himself with his dildo he kept in his ass all day (for safety’s sake), jacking off until he came with a grunt all over the wall of the stall. Still shoving the rubber in and out, he got down and licked up his own cum, savoring the taste, thinking he might have to give someone a call today. Rubber was nice, but real was so much more satisfying, he’d discovered.

God, is this really what things had come to? Was he really ready to surrender to this?

He resisted the urge to break down into tears, hiked his pants back up–dildo shoved deep inside his ass–and left the bathroom again, heading back for his office. He needed to focus on the positives here–she wasn’t going to just give him his life back, that much was clear–but he could get it back all the same…assuming she was telling him the truth about the nature of the curse. Then again, he had no reason to doubt her, right?

Actually, he did. Not masturbating…it might change him back, if he could control himself, or maybe she was just laying a trap for him, knowing he’d attempt it and fail, losing more of himself in the process. Still, she hadn’t…sounded like she was lying. What choice did he really have? He’d have to take a chance and trust her–he could abstain for a day…right?

He pulled the dildo out, cleaned it off, and stashed it in a drawer in his desk–then he left and headed for home. He could do this–it was just one day, right? In fact, it was one of the most difficult days of his life. All evening, jacking off was all he could think about. It was hard to believe how central the act of self-pleasure had become to his daily routine. He walked, instead, exhausting himself, and settled in late for a restless night. There were a couple of close calls, when he woke–one hand in his ass, the other mindlessly stroking off–the orgasm of change building–but he managed to stop himself. Work the next day was worse. The dildo was right there, in his drawer. Just…one time. It couldn’t hurt, his body screamed, but he held off, all day long. He’d met her at 3:00, she’d left around 3:15, he’d last jacked off before 3:30. He watched the clock, cock screaming with need, groping himself, nervously opening and shutting his desk drawer. But the clock slipped closer, and he felt something happening to his body–it was shrinking. The fat he’d gained last time was disappearing, along with the beard. His clothes turning cleaner–it was true! She’d told the truth! There was a way out for him–he could do this. The dildo had disappeared, and he left the school, humming to himself, full of hope. Three more days, and he’d have his life back–then he’d teach that bitch a thing or two about self-control.

Use It or Lose It (Part 5)

Six inches now–almost half the man you were. What did you say back then? Fat dirty slobs who couldn’t get any action?

The note was taped to the bathroom mirror, but Randal could see the results well enough right in front of him. The nice clothes he’d put on were gone, replaced by grubby sweats and a t-shirt–both heavily stained with what he suspected was his own cum–and probably that of other men too. He’d been able to see some of his old body left in him before, but now, all of that was gone for good. He’d lost most of his muscle mass, and had packed on at least a hundred and fifty pounds of fat instead. The scruffy beard he’d started growing was now a shaggy mass, and his hair was balding severely, almost past the crown of his head–much of it now grey where it had been a younger black. His body hair, on the other hand, had greatly diminished, leaving his fat body looking much smoother than before. In fact, all of him seemed…a little less masculine. His angular face was rounder, he was an inch or two shorter, and his ass had gained at least as much size as his belly.

He was disgusting. He was the kind of man he would have sneered at before, whom he would have considered lower than dirt in his, and in God’s, eyes. He was that low. He realized that now. He was worthless–he hated looking at himself, and yet, in some twisted way, that line of thinking was only making him…even hornier. He hadn’t jacked off since leaving the church, and the need was rising. He reached under his gut and found his cock…and trembled at how short it suddenly felt. Not only was it quite a bit shorter than before, his new gunt swallowed at least an inch. The five inches left for him to stroke was new–as was how skinny it seemed. His balls, too, were shrinking–they were closer to his body and didn’t swing as much as he was used to–still, it shouldn’t stop him from getting off, right? But much to his surprise, it was difficult to get off. His arm got tired, but the need to cum was only getting stronger. It wasn’t strong enough to change him–yet–but if he didn’t cum soon…

He saw the note and yanked it off, but before he could wad it up he saw something written on the back:

P.S. I don’t want to make this too easy for you. If you want to get off–you’re going to need…assistance from now on. Living, or rubber, should do. Check your nightstand, faggot–I think you might recognize it. Go fuck yourself.

Afraid of what he might find, but more afraid of what might happen to him if he doesn’t cum quickly, he heads into the apartment bedroom and to the nightstand. In the top drawer, where he’d usually kept his bible, there was now a flesh colored dildo and a container of lube. Like it might bite him, he reached in and pulled the cock out, worried about how large it was. The thing had to be ten inches long–and as he held it, he realized that the dildo was probably ten inches long exactly, just like his old cock had been. In fact, the dildo was exactly like his old cock–a complete replica.

He couldn’t think too hard about this, or he’d never get it done. Besides, the sight of it…had made him so much hornier, and hadn’t he always kind of wondered what it must have felt like, whenever he slammed that big cock of his into a tight pussy? He squeezed some lube on the head and shaft, laid back on the bed and started trying to force it into his hole, but the head was just too large to fit in easily, and his horniness was making him impatient. He had to work some of his fingers in first, stretching at the hole, before he could finally manage to impale himself on the dildo successfully. It hurt, he screamed, but one hand couldn’t leave his cock. He stroked faster, ignoring how much his weaker arm was burning, and forced the dildo in deeper, feeling his ass begin to adjust, the pain disappearing and being replaced by a deep satisfaction. He was a faggot. He could do this. This is what he was made to do! He slid down further, and started fucking himself on it, stroking faster, and even after he shot he kept fucking himself until he got hard again, and blew a second load, his fat body shaking and soaked with cum, lube, and sweat. At last he collapsed back, dildo still buried deep in his ass, and the first sob escaped his lips.

He’d lost. He had to admit it. He’d been wrong, and he’d lost. He didn’t know what that witch had done to him, but he wasn’t strong enough to fight it. He’d lost his body, he’d lost his family, and he’d lost his faith. He’d been wrong to lie, and he’d been wrong to lose himself to pride and anger like that in front of her. He’d assumed he was superior, when clearly, he had badly misjudged the situation. He would have to talk to her. He would apologize, and he was certain that she would put this right. He’d certainly learned his lesson, or so he’d thought. Still, there wasn’t anything he could do until he got to school in the morning, and so he left the dildo inside him for the rest of the day. It was comfortable–he had to admit that. By the evening, it seemed normal that he’d have to fuck his loose ass to get off–after all, what would keep an old fat faggot like him happier than an ass full of cock?

Spitty Lives His Life (Part 8)

WARNING: SCAT, INCONTINENCE

Chuck is telling me it’s time for me to finish my tin. I’m…relieved, to be honest–though there’s still plenty of terror. Still, I’m exhausted. I haven’t moved from the bed here in years–or at least, I remember the years, but I also know it’s only been a couple of months since Chuck found me again, and put me back under his control–showed me what I really needed from him, from everyone, as ashamed as I was to admit it. Showed me that I’m more than just a spittoon–I’m a full blown human toilet, and…and fuck, I couldn’t be fucking happier. I wish Jack was here–Chuck told him he couldn’t be here for the last chunk out of the tin, that it was too dangerous. He won’t tell me what the last step is, but I can guess.

I’m old now. I’ve gotten older every time he’s fed me a bit more from that tin. How old am I going to be when I finish it? Eighty? Ninety? I won’t live long in any case, not in the sort of state I’m in. He’s coming around now, and looking at me–appraising me, almost. I’d expect him to be saying goodbye, but he doesn’t. The moment doesn’t seem to carry much weight with him at all, actually. Does he hate me that much? I can understand that–I hate myself too. I’m excited to be dead, finally. He cleans the leaf I’ve been working on out of my mouth, takes the final wad–making sure to get every last bit of tobacco from the tin–and he packs it into my mouth for me, and fuck, the taste of it–it gets more intense every time. I tell myself I should spit it out, that I need to fight it, that I can’t let it all end like this, but what’s the use, really? I should have known I’d never escape Chuck. I was his as soon as that truck of mine had broken down on the road, after all the special spit he’d been adding to my gas tank finally pushed the engine over the edge. So instead, I relax–one last load of shit falls out of my ass, and I…fuck, I’m sad I’m not going to get to taste it. Chuck is there, but he’s not…coaching me like he usually does, guiding me. He knows I’m already there–I’m at the end. There’s nowhere else for me to go, not anymore. Everything is fading away now, but different than before. Where before, it felt like the world was…tightening, I don’t think anything can get more twisted. Instead, everything seems to be loosening up and unwinding, pulling away from me instead of dragging me deeper. I’m not…me anymore. Everything is just dissolving away, until–

“Goddamn it Sammy, git the fuck up already! Chuck’s outside ready tah take ya tah work.”

I jolt awake in my bed, the vision still fresh in my head for a moment, me pinned to that mattress by the weight of my own body, covered in shit–but it’s fading away, thank fucking god. I look around and see my familiar room around me. I live with my dad in a trailer outside of town. We’re poor as shit, and he’s finally making me drop out of school so I can get a proper job and bring in some cash. Still, I don’t wanna fuckin’ work! All I wanna do is lay around, stuff my face and jack off, but he’s told me that if I don’t do what he says, he’s gonna kick me out, so I guess I don’t have much of a choice.

The heady scent of piss is hanging in the air, and my sheets are wet, so that means I pissed myself last night too. Fuck–seventeen years old, and still wetting the bed like a fucking kid. It wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t fucking like it so much–think I’ll work out a quick load real quick, and then throw on some clothes or whatever. I’m getting close when my dad opens my bedroom door and finds me jacking off there, but I don’t stop–my dad…he’s fuckin’ sexy as hell, with all those biker tatts, and I know he wants to fuck me, but he’s too fucking chicken. His face goes red and he slams the door shut again and waits for me to finish, and thinking about my burly pa balls deep in my loose hole–fuck, I explode all over myself. I enjoy it for a few moments, rubbing the cum all over my hairy gut, and then finally roll out of bed and start picking some clothes out of the piles littering the floor, and decide to just pull on a wife beater and some muddy overalls–fuck it, right? Dad said Chuck worked in construction, so I’m just going to get dirty anyway. Dad gave me some of his old work boots, so I haul those on with some socks, and I’m ready. Hungry though, like always–maybe Chuck can stop for some fast food on the way or something.

Dad can’t even look at me, but whatever–he’s just gonna jack off as soon as I’m out of the house. I’ve watched him before, through the window, when he’d thought I’d already left. Outside, there’s a rusted out truck…and I fucking swear I’ve seen it before, somewhere. That dream is nagging me again, but I can’t really remember much at this point. The guy’s been honking the horn a few times now, so I head out of the trailer and climb into the truck next to him. I don’t…think I’ve ever met Chuck before this, but he seems familiar, just like his truck–and the guy is sexy as all hell, and the way he’s looking at me…he just might have the balls my fucking dad doesn’t.

“Took ya long enough, boy,” Chuck says to me–the way he says the word “boy” making my cock immediately stiff. Some black, tarry spit is rolling down his bottom lip and into his beard, and somehow, I…I know just how it would taste, if I leaned over there and licked it off him. I’m feeling kind of freaked out, actually, but I do my best not to show it. “Let’s git goin’,” he says, and puts the truck in gear.

“Could…we stop and get some food on the way?” I ask, “I didn’t eat yet.”

Chuck grumbles a bit. “Fine, can’t have ya workin’ on an empty gut I suppose. Ya got cash?”

I shake my head.

He leers at me, and adjusts his crotch. “No worries boy–from what your Pa’s told me, you might not mind payin’ me back some other way, right?”

Half an hour later, we pull up to the worksite, my gut full of a bunch of fast food and a big load of Chuck’s cum…and I swear, I feel like I’ve stepped right into some strange trap I didn’t even know was there. Like before this morning, I had…so many possibilities, so many ways life could go, but now, I’ve been put on rails, slowly rolling towards some foregone conclusion. I don’t know where I’m going…but I keep…seeing that dream, feeling myself back there on that bed, some filthy, disgusting old fat man–but that’s not me. I ain’t never gonna let myself be that. I mean, I may be a cock obsessed, chubby roughneck, but I gotta have some dignity, right? The foreman, Gary (I swear I smell shit on that fuck’s breath) has Chuck train me, and all day long, I keep seeing him…looking at me. Looking through me, even, like he can see something I don’t. But I have my whole life ahead of me still, and he’s some middle aged slob–a hot one, sure, but I can still make something of myself. My name’s Sammy, and I got a whole life tah live ahead of me, and I can’t wait.

Spitty Lives His Life (Part 7)

WARNING: SCAT, INCONTINENCE

I got back to the nasty trailer where Spitty had been hiding out about twelve hours later, and as soon as I stepped inside, I got the strong stench of piss and shit on the air, like I’d been expecting. Spitty hadn’t been able to hold anything in for that long, but he didn’t seem to distressed by what had happened–I doubt, in his current state, that it was the first time he’s messed himself like that, or even if it was, it wasn’t the first thing on his mind. As soon as I got in there, he started begging and pleading–not to let him go, but to help him cum.

I don’t know how often Spitty was cumming a day at this point, but back when he’d been under my thumb, he was blowing fifteen or so loads a day–and chances are he was shooting even more at this point. I could see, on his gut, at least a few loads he’d managed to work out just out of desperation, but it was clear he was aching, but I ignored him–after all, if I was going to make Spitty suffer, then I was going to have to deny him everything he longed for–and that meant he was going to be cumming much, much less in the future. So we got started, and I started feeding him his own shit, washing it down with my piss, and rewarding him with my spit for being such a good little shitfaced pig. For the next few days, I fed him almost non-stop. Food, mostly, but plenty of shit as well. I got him to embrace his lack of control, enjoy the sensation of pissing all over himself, of shitting right wherever he was, but above all, making him understand how worthless his cock was, how small it was, how hard it was for him to cum, how pointless and hopeless. No, he was just horny now–horny all the time, but never satisfied. The only satisfaction he could find now, was pleasing the cocks of others, and maybe–maybe–he’d manage to explode once or twice a month, but that was good enough, right?

He protested, of course. He tried to tell me that he regretted what he’d done, that he’d been fantasizing and longing for me for all these years, that he’d been trying to find me too, that he wanted to be my little whore, just like I’d planned to begin with. I didn’t believe him, of course. How could I possibly believe him, after what he’d done? No–this was better. This is what Spitty really deserved. I gave him another dose of leaf from his special tin, after a week of treatment. He hadn’t been up from the bed in all this time, he begged me to not do this to him, that he was sorry–but I took a sizable wad–a third of what remained in the tin–shoved it in his mouth, and watched him succumb to the pleasure of the leaf. I told him that he was going to be a good pig, a fat pig, that he wasn’t going to be moving much, that he hated moving. That he loved shitting and pissing himself wherever he was, that his cock was so small he couldn’t even reach it up in all his fat, and he was desperate for cock–any cock. He swallowed the leaf, and when reality centered itself again, he was still on the bed–but it wasn’t rope pinning him down now, it was his own massive body.

He woke with a snort, and immediately started begging me for a load of shit–and I knew he was mine again–but I wasn’t finished with him, not yet. No, I started inviting my new circle of friends around. Filthy truckers and bikers–and if they were too grossed out by Spitty to fuck him, a bit of spit or leaf was enough to bring them around to seeing things my way. Spitty never left the bed anymore–he was just on his belly, ass up, ready for a cock, or a fist, or anything to slide inside him, his mouth constantly calling for more shit or piss or tobacco, but pretty soon I had one guy coming around a bit more than all the others. Jack was the biker who’d tipped me off to Spitty and helped me find him, and I felt he deserved a reward. Of course, Jack wasn’t too…keen on the kind of reward I was planning on giving him, but after a dose of leaf from his own special tin…well, he was just the dirty, nasty biker bear Spitty needed. Fuck, watching the two of them go at it–Jack was a beast in bed, with a massive cock, loved getting himself covered in shit and then making his pig lick it off–and when I gave Spitty another dose of leaf from his tin–leaving just one last dose in it…well Jack was more than a regular companion–Jack was his biker master, and Spitty was his raunchy pigslave.

So here we are. Jack living in the trailer now, full time. Spitty is close to 700 pounds, I think–I don’t exactly have a scale to weigh him with. He’s gotta be pushing seventy years old at this point: teeth rotting out, biker tattoos all over his filthy body, too stupid to read–all he cares about is where his next load of shit is coming from, and who’s going to fist his loose, hungry hole. Or, at least most of Spitty cares about that. See, I know there’s that old jock, still in there. That bit of them, it always hangs around in their head. There’s nothing he can do, of course, but he’s in there. Sometimes I bring him forward, and we chat a bit–or rather, he sobs and begs me to change him back, and I fuck his throat and feed him shit until his little cock squirts out a load of cum into his fatty folds. I’m thinking it’s about time for the last dose, however. Spitty is terrified–he thinks he’s going to be some fucking geezer, or just fucking dead, but not quite–no, there’s a reason I don’t usually give anyone a complete tin, you see, but for Spitty? Well, I think it’s a well deserved end–or beginning.

Spitty Lives His Life (Part 6)

Things get a bit filthier starting here. WARNING SCAT.

He was the first one who’d ever gotten away. I was so fucking angry when it happened–at him, at myself for being so stupid to imagine that anyone might actually enjoy the shit I do to them. I should have known better. My uncle told me to know better, when he taught me how to grow the shit, but…well, hope springs fucking eternal, I guess. No one on the crew even knew anything had happened–not really. There was an odd hole in reality that everyone had to get used to, but after a few days, it was like Spitty had never even been there–only I remembered him, and I still had his tin of tobacco, and if our paths ever crossed again…well, he was going to be getting one hell of a surprise from me.

Of course, I couldn’t exactly go search him out. I didn’t even really know what the fucker had done to himself. I’m sure that what he’d wanted to do was to try and get his old life back, but it takes some skill and plenty of brains to do that–and hell, the leaf don’t let anyone go backwards anyway! As fucked up as he was, I doubt things worked out how he’d planned. I did, at least, know what he looked like now–I’d gotten into the bathroom in time to see him fade out–the physical change always happens first, before reality folds them in somewhere else…and that fucker is definitely not some football playing college student, you can trust me on that one. No, the fucker I saw on my bathroom floor? Spitty looked to be about 350 pounds, most of it fat, covered in filth, his hair and beard even longer than before. Pale skin, meaning he probably almost never saw the sun, and he’d aged up to somewhere close to 50–or at least he looked 50, but he could have been a bit younger, in all honesty. Still, one thing I could know for sure was that my name had probably stuck nice and hard–names are hard to get rid of. So life went on, but I kept my ear to the ground, corrupting a few truckers and bikers passing through, telling them that if they saw any old pigs around going by the name of Spitty, they should let me know, and I’d reward them handsomely.

A couple of years went by, and I’d figured he managed to get out and escape my net. Either the spell had whisked him away further than I’d thought possible, or he was such a recluse now that he never actually went anywhere. I’d…become a bit meaner, in all honesty. Some of the guys on the crew who I hadn’t fucked with in years were brought over to my house, so I could take them down a few more notches, fantasizing that it was Spitty I was ruining, thinking about some of the nasty shit I could do to him if I ever got my grubby hands on the fucker. I…went a bit overboard with Gary, our foreman. Dude…fucking loves ass now–eating it out, sniffing farts, even eating shit on occasion. I feel a bit bad about it, but fuck, watching that fucker eat a turd, imagining it’s Spitty instead, nothing makes me nut quite as hard as that.

And then, sure enough, someone gave me a tip. They’d heard about some fat pig matching my description who occasionally cruised a rest area ten miles out of town, with a particular thirst for tobacco spit. I’d fucking found him–I couldn’t fucking believe it. Still, I couldn’t fucking scare him off, now that I’d gotten a clue, and so I started pressing other guys for details, had a biker follow the fat fuck home one night, and sure enough–the spell had sent him off into the weeds, a good thirty miles out of town, in the middle of fucking nowhere. Still, I knew where I was going now, and I decided it was time to pay my lost boy a visit.

Heh, the look on his fat, nasty face when I busted my way in though–it almost made my humiliation worth it. He’d honestly thought he’d gotten away with it, and there he was, watching some of his porn, sitting in a lazy boy surrounded by trash, bouncing up and down on some massive dildo, and he looked over, saw me, and he fucking shot his load right then and there. Yeah, he’d missed me–I could fucking tell, not that he wanted to fucking admit it. I pinned him down and fed him spit for a couple of hours–there was nothing he could do to fight me, he’d made himself so fucking weak. I got the rope I’d brought in with me, hauled him over to the bed and tied him down, spread eagle–and then took off. I had to go get some supplies for my revenge, after all. I called Gary and told him I’d need a few weeks off, and he was more than happy to accommodate me–I’d be staying with Spitty for little while, getting him ready. I haven’t used a whole tin on someone in a very long time, but this reunion calls for a celebration. Spitty isn’t going to see it that way, of course, but he’s fucking earned this–and he’ll enjoy it plenty, soon enough.

Spitty Lives His Life (Part 5)

Things didn’t quite go according to plan that night, neither for Chuck, nor for Spitty. To start with, for Chuck at least, everything seemed to be going perfect. In fact, he couldn’t quite believe his luck, with this boy. He’d hated that cocky fucker as soon as he’d started working with them on the crew, so certain that he didn’t fucking belong with nasty fucks like them–most of whom Chuck had been ‘developing’ for years now–he was the perfect target, and wearing down that jock nice and slow had been…fucking amazing. In fact, he hadn’t had that much fun ruining someone in a while–but now he knew why. Spitty, it turned out, had wanted it. He’d wanted this life the whole fucking time, but he’d only found the balls to admit it after his first taste of the real shit Chuck grew himself, using an heirloom seed grown in his family for generations. But now, Spitty was hooked–hooked on tobacco, hooked on spit, hooked on cock…and hooked on Chuck, most of all–and that had, perhaps, clouded his judgement. Chuck, after all, had given up on ever finding someone who might want to be with him, or hell, even finding someone he might want to be with, but Spitty was the closest thing he’d felt to love in a very, very long time–and that’s what gave Spitty the opportunity he’d been looking for.

They showed up at Chuck’s house and went inside–this time heading right for Chuck’s bedroom upstairs. He got Spitty out of his cum crusted clothes, and gave the whore one last fuck in his current form–but made him keep his hands off his cock while he did–he needed Spitty to start building up some energy for the chaw he was going to get in a little bit. He told Spitty to take a break, that he’d be back with his special tin in a couple of minutes–he went downstairs to his locked cabinet, opened it up and pulled out the tin with Spitty’s name on it, and then headed back upstairs, his cock already leaking even though he’d just shot a huge load in the pig’s ass, and when he stepped into the room, the butt of the shotgun he kept in his closet slammed into the side of his head, sending him teetering and crashing to the floor. Spitty hit him again, and then a third time–hoping that would be enough to knock him out, grabbed the tin from the floor where it had fallen, and hurried into the bathroom, where he locked the door.

It had worked–his plan had actually worked. Spitty could barely believe it, and it was all he could do to keep himself from masturbating in relief. But this–he had to try and focus. Last time, when he’d chewed this stuff, Chuck had been with him, guiding his thoughts, directing him into his new life–but he wasn’t going to have anyone helping him this time–Spitty was going to have to try and do this on his own. Through the door, he heard a loud groan from the bedroom down the hall–in a panic, he opened up the tin, grabbed about the same amount of leaf as Chuck had given him last time–spit out the shit he was currently chewing and put the special wad in his cheek, that same amazing sensation of floating pleasure seeping into him. He…didn’t remember how he ended up on the floor, but one hand started jacking his cock, and the other found its way around to his hole and started fingering it, just…awash in pleasure.

But he also knew he had to focus–still, his stupid brain couldn’t think like before, and with the pleasure coursing through him, he was having an even harder time getting his thoughts in a row. He…tried to focus on the person he’d been before this–younger, muscular, sports–but someone was pounding on the door and screaming at him, and it was so hard to think! He didn’t want to think about anything, not really. All he really wanted was to be alone, away from Chuck, away from everyone where he could jack off and fuck himself in peace–yeah, fuck, he could…he could just fucking imagine what that would fucking be like. A place of his own, out in the sticks, not even having to work, just lounging around like a total, fat fucking pig, jacking off and fucking himself all day long, stuffing his face, maybe venturing into town for some load of cum or a real fuck on occasion, but usually just happy with his own fucking company. He…swallowed the leaf, just as Chuck managed to bust through the door and stand over him, shouting at Spitty, but they both knew it was too late to change anything. The world went all swirly like it had before, dissolving into…quiet darkness, and then Spitty woke up.

He knew, right away, that things had gone both very wrong, and also…very right. He wasn’t in his parents house anymore–he was in his own fucking trailer, out in the middle of the woods–right where he fucking wanted it to be. His cock needed attention, of course, like always–he grabbed hold of the dildo that was still lodged in his hole from when he’d fucked himself to sleep the night before and started thrusting in into him, jacking his cock, feeling his gut jiggle as he did, moaning and groaning loudly as he came over and over again onto the sticking, filthy sheets of his bed. Part of him, a deep part, was absolutely horrified, but the rest of him, most of him, couldn’t imagine anything better. He’d found a slice of accidental paradise, and he had no plans on ever leaving. At least, as long as Chuck didn’t find him–and he didn’t want that, right?

Marination

I wasn’t the same, after going there the first time. I don’t think anyone can be the same, in there. I had always had a kinky side before, but I had no problem with vanilla sex either–I just liked sex! I suppose it wasn’t a surprise that I’d end up at Pigtown eventually. I think…all of us will, at some point. After that night there, I was still the same person on the outside–the handsome daddy bear, nicely muscled, successful, high achiever, all of the good stuff…but inside. Inside I felt like an entirely different man, and I had no words I could use to articulate it. Nothing could get me off anymore. It’s not that I wasn’t horny, understand–it’s that nothing appealed. None of my usual porn did anything for me, none of my usual fuckbuddies. I was so frustrated, but I couldn’t explain it. I didn’t cum for days, and then weeks, no matter how much I tried, and while…I thought Pigtown might give me an answer, I was too terrified to ever go back there again.

After nearly a month of desperation, and self-reflection, I could finally articulate the problem. Everyone on the outside now fell within two groups. On one hand, there were the men I was now attracted to–young, innocent, preferably questioning or straight. Their…lack of experience thrilled me, made me want to ruin them, but none of them would tolerate anything extreme, if they would tolerate gay sex at all. In the other camp, were the freaks. The men who would willingly satisfy all of my perverse desires, but none of them, no matter who they were or what they looked like, were the least bit attractive. How could I possibly bridge that gap? How could I fall in love with a man in the first group, but force him into the second, so I could actually be satisfied? The answer, as happens sometimes, came to me in a dream.

There was an intern at my work, who I’d befriended, a young man by the name of Timothy. Sweet, twenty-two, straightish but without anyone significant. He liked me, I think, as a bit of a proxy father, and oh fuck, did I want him. I wanted to ruin him, but how could I? In my dream one night, I found myself in complete darkness, but not within a void. There were scents of smoke, piss and beer. The thump of bass from a dance floor somewhere nearby, and as I watched, a man emerged from the darkness. I couldn’t see his face, just his body. I could smell him, the musk and sweat and cum crusted on his skin. That cocky smile, the bulge in his rubber shorts, those fucking nips begging me to tear into them. I knew him. I didn’t need to see his face to know that, but he was…so perfect, and before I could ravage him, I woke up, sheets full of cum, screaming Timothy’s name at the ceiling.

The next night, I suggested the two of us go get a drink together, so we could discuss his career goals and further education. I told him that I knew the perfect bar for us. We arrived at Pigtown, and he knew what the place was as soon as we stepped inside, and he tried to leave…but I shoved him in, watching the freaks pull the clothes from his body, dragging him deeper into the club, and…and I left. I didn’t want to see what would happen to him, until it was finished. Let him marinate for a few days–maybe a week, and then he’d be ready for me. Perfectly corrupted…but I don’t think he’ll satisfy me for long, a night or two at most. I’ll have to make offerings at Pigtown’s altar regularly, I think, if I’m going to stay sane, but if that’s what it’s going to take, then that’s what I’ll do.

VIP Package (Part 10)

WARNING: DARKER STILL! Scat, incontinence, furry, snuff, abuse.

Every few days, Gerald–in the middle of the night–would cart his filthy body downstairs to collect the mail from their box. However, after several paranoid rants, he’d been forbidden from opening any of it before Sammy had inspected it–and so it was Sammy who gave a squeal when he found the letter addressed to them both from Gay Fantasy Cruise Lines. It seemed to Gerald, that he’d been expecting it for some reason, and so he was filled with terror as his petulant master read the first note aloud with great excitement.

Dear Samuel L. Prescott and Jeremy T. Lute,

We want to thank you again for participating on our VIP Package Program on your recent cruise with us. It requires all of our hard work to ensure that our VIP guests truly have the cruise of their fantasies. The VIP who purchased you as part of your package, a certain Mr. Bishop, was so pleased with you both, that he has requested that you be added as a part of his package on his next voyage! The details of his next trip are outlined below:

Cruise Destination: VIP Exclusive Six Month Around-the-World Trek.

Departure Date: January 18th

Arrival Date: June 23rd

It should be noted that terms of service for VIP exclusive treks are somewhat modified from standard voyages. We are required to inform you that due to the length of the voyage, any Salon Modifications maintained for an extended period are likely permanent. Given this fact, VIP members are given the opportunity to craft new post-cruise identities for individuals who are a member of their package. Any individuals who are removed from a package early, or who are not provided with a post cruise identity, will be converted into standard crew personnel at the end of the voyage.

Your VIP has included a personal message for you both. If you wish to join us in helping our VIP’s experience their perfect fantasies, please register your affirmative consent online, and we will arrange travel for you to join us.

Sincere thanks for sailing with us,

Gay Fantasy Cruise Lines

On a second sheet attached to the cover letter from the cruise line, they found the letter Master Bishop had included for them both. Sammy read this one silently, and then read it again, demanding Gerald masturbate him while he did. Only after he’d cum, did he allow Gerald the chance to see what details Master Bishop had added for them.

Dear Sammy and Gerald,

As I told you both, my fantasies are complicated. I must say that the two of you have been developing quite well, over the last year, and I have…enjoyed much of the footage I’ve gathered from the cameras I had installed in your apartment before you arrived back at home. That said, I want the two of you to know exactly what I have planned for you both–and I do emphasize the word both. I simply won’t sail with just one of you. If one comes without the other, I’ll be forced to do without–you’ll be slave gym bunny like all the rest of the waiters after the first day at sea. But if you both come, well, then we’ll all have some grad fun.

Sammy, my sweet boy. After six months at sea with me, I’ll be proud to call you my son. In fact, you will be my son–or rather, my genetic duplicate, with a few extra splices to keep things interesting. You’ll be groomed into a proper sociopath–unfeeling and uncaring about the needs and emotions of others, consumed by your own desires, greedy, deceitful, lustful, proud, completely incontinent and full of rage. While you’ll always prefer having daddy’s cock plowing you into oblivion, you’ll be given a sizable endowment of your own, and learn how to use it very effectively. Yes, balls the size of grapefruit, a cock over a foot long and permanently erect. My son, you will become a proper freak as well–covered with tattoos and piercings, obsessed with violence and pain. You will be one of my masterpieces, and live with me and my other sons for the rest of my life. You will enjoy them, I promise–our special family is like nothing you can possibly imagine, but it’s everything you’ve ever dreamed of having for a life.

Gerald, on the other hand–there will be nothing on this ship for you but misery, though I can assure you that you will enjoy every moment of it. The Salon has been doing some amazing work with animal splicing, something I have been desperate to try, and watching you over the past several months, seeing you fatten up and stuff you face…I can’t help but imagine you as a disgusting hogman. Weighing over a thousand pounds, castrated, nearly mindless, utterly filthy, living life on all fours, your body no longer capable of standing upright, hands and feet and face all twisted into monstrous caricature. It will be a slow process. You will witness yourself lose your own humanity–it will horrify you and thrill you, in equal measure. Watching you suffer this loss will bring me such pleasure, however, and I know that is most important to you–it always has been, right Gerald? Sammy, of course, will have the honor of castrating you himself. But in the end, if you please us well, I will give you what you desire most. I will fuck you, once. I will ram my massive cock into your new piggy cunthole, where your balls had been days before, and you will squeal so deliciously. You will have the most powerful orgasm of your life, as the last remaining bits of your human mind die, and you will be left as nothing more than a filthy pet for me, and especially my new son, to abuse until he likely butchers you in a petty, childish fit of rage a few years–or months–down the road, depending on his eventual temperament.

With that, I’m sure I have secured your mutual interest. After all, what else is left for either of you, besides a life with me in my fantasy? I’m eager to receive notice of your affirmative consent, and will see you on deck in a month for our very special cruise.

Regards,

Master Bishop

Gerald tried to throw out the letter, but Sammy refused. Sammy wanted to go, Sammy saw nothing wrong at all with anything that their Master had told them. Gerald was terrified. He wasn’t terrified of what might happen to him if they went–he was terrified by his own desire to experience it. He had spent the last year constantly fantasizing about his master’s cock, but he’d given up on ever receiving it inside him, and that had made it easier to consider leaving all of this behind him. But now…now he had a chance at happiness, didn’t he? Isn’t this what he’d wanted? At least, that’s what Sammy told him he wanted. But simpler than that, this is what Sammy wanted to do, and what Sammy wanted, Sammy received–like always. In the end, Gerald’s resistance lasted only a few hours, and they both sent in notification of their consent that evening, and sealed their fate.

A month later, Gerald watched the Florida coast recede, while Sammy was having his first reunion fuck with their Master on deck. Soon, all that surrounded them was a brilliant blue haze, the sea and the sky melding together at the horizon. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, he thought, mouth pressed to his husband’s stinking hole, feasting on Master’s cum at his favorite trough. At least, if nothing else, they’d be together until the end.

VIP Package (Part 9)

WARNING: VERY DARK. Scat, incontinence, humiliation, violence.

Samuel’s first thought upon waking–as had become normal over the past week and a half–was that he needed to get fucked. But Bishop wasn’t there for him, which was a relief for many reasons, but then who would fuck him then? He looked over, and was so happy to see Jeremy–the old Jeremy–Jeremy his husband, looking like nothing had happened to them both. In fact, he realized that Jeremy looked…quite a bit like Mr. Bishop had appeared over the last week, though he’d need a bit more work in the gym to match him, and his cock would never be big enough, but that was alright, he tried to tell himself. Jeremy was just beginning to waken as Samuel rolled over, trying to coax his husband’s cock to life so he could climb on and ride it, but as hard as he tried, it remained stubbornly soft. In fact, Jeremy didn’t feel any pleasure at all from having his cock fondled, but seeing Samuel there, remembering all the horrible things he’d said, all the pain he’d inflicted, he smacked his hand away and leapt out of bed away from him.

They fought. Samuel demanded he fuck him, that he was desperate, while Jeremy kept trying to get him to grapple with the horrors they’d just been through, but his husband seemed to have no interest in anything beyond his own immediate pleasure. Samuel started shoving his own fist in his hole, berating Jeremy for being worthless as a man, and Jeremy found some micro liquor bottles in the fridge and started downing them, eager for the numbness he’d grown accustomed to over the last week to settle back in over him.

They disembarked. Each hoped that things would improve quickly–the ship had promised that they would be normal again, though it had mentioned lingering side effects. They didn’t speak all the way to the airport. Jeremy was starving, and he parked himself at a fast food restaurant and stuffed himself. Samuel tried to pull him away, tried to get him to overcome the bad habits which had been ingrained in him over their time with Bishop–not for Jeremy’s sake of course, but simply because Samuel had no desire to ever look on someone as ugly as “Gerald” had been. All he could do was criticize and berate him, which only seemed to drive Jeremy further into his gorging. In any case, Samuel needed a fuck–he found a guy on Growlr, and got plowed in the restroom–and when Jeremy learned what had happened, instead of being jealous…he found himself begging Samuel to let him eat the load in a stall, and he relented. Both felt a bit better at least, one with a full stomach, and the other with a fucked ass.

A few hours into the flight, Samuel pissed himself. Jeremy is the one who noticed, when he caught the pang of piss and started…craving the taste of urine on his tongue. Samuel was so flustered he couldn’t figure out what to do–Jeremy had to take care of him, get him into the restroom, change his pants…and suck a bit of piss from the fabric, just…just to see if it tasted as good as he recalled. To his great concern–it tasted even better.

They got home, at last, but the trauma quickly rendered them completely unable to function in work, or society at large. They had plenty of money from their stint on the ship, and so Samuel simply stopped going. Jeremy lasted a bit longer, but the quality of his work suffered from his lack of care and confidence. A math error cost the company a million dollars, and he took the blame–his severance was sizable, but the humiliation was horrific. Alone together, they soon found themselves establishing a new, hellish routine that neither knew how to escape.

Jeremy found himself as little more than a servant, unable to stop himself from obeying and catering to Samuel’s demands, which were growing more and more childish by the day. His own habits from the ship resurfaced, one by one. He drank from the time he woke to the time he passed out. He started smoking again, despite Samuel’s–or rather, Sammy, since he no longer responded to Samuel–angry and belligerent criticism of the habit, but every cruelty only seemed to make Jeremy more eager to smoke the next cigar, being sure to blow thick clouds in Sammy’s direction, the boy coughing and sputtering in anger. The one thing they could agree on was food–both of them needed a lot of it, and each began packing on the pounds. It wasn’t long before Sammy ceased to find Jeremy the least bit attractive, and Jeremy resented his husband more and more by the day. But…but he needed him. He needed someone, right? It was becoming impossible to imagine a life alone, without a…a master. That was one thing they could agree on at least–how much they found themselves missing Master Bishop. They’d each fantasize about him, discuss him, dream of him–neither wanted to admit it, but they secretly hoped they might have a chance to see him one more time, that maybe there was a way out for them yet, and their master would give it to them.

Sammy demanded Jeremy put him in diapers again, and he relented, secretly feasting on the piss and shit, unable to stop himself. Two or three times a day, he would have to find muscular men online willing to fuck or fist Sammy’s hole. On occasion, Jeremy would get to watch, and that was the closest he got to having sex with anyone. He bathed Sammy, shaved his body smooth from head to toe, he cleaned up after him, and whenever Jeremy messed something up–or even if he didn’t–Sammy would fly into a rage, beating him senseless…and whenever he did, that was the only time Jeremy’s cock would ever harden, and occasionally shoot. It was several weeks before he even noticed that Sammy had begun calling him Gerald again–and that he actually prefered that name over his real one.

Fewer and fewer men were willing to fuck Sammy soon, in part because Sammy’s standards were becoming higher and higher. When he didn’t have someone to fuck him, he would demand Gerald fuck him with a dildo, and when that didn’t satisfy, he would give Gerald a savage beating and bondage session, which was usually enough to blow off some erotic steam. Both of them found themselves longing even more for the cruise, longing for Master Bishop, longing for anything other than this new nightmare they’d been trapped inside.

Soon enough, it had been a year. While Sammy seemed to have fully embraced his authoritarian and childish persona, Gerald was beginning to sense the possibility of an end to the madness consuming him. The compulsions felt less forceful, he could almost imagine a life other than this one. He was secretly making plans to leave Sammy, to abandon him and never return, if he could help it. He knew that if he could just get away from him, he might be able to find his way back to Jeremy, to that man he’d been before all of this. He might have been a fuckup before too, but at least he wasn’t this…bearded, shit covered, stinking slob of a man. If the letter had arrived a few weeks later, he might have even escaped, but Bishop had been keeping a close eye on them this whole time, after all, and their master knew when to deliver the killing blow. All along, he’d known exactly how to get what he wanted. After all, Master Bishop’s fantasies were complicated–but not impossible.