I Dream of Bacchus (Part 1)

“Don’t make this a big deal, Aarin,” Raury said, as he got his clothes on, “You’re the one who said you didn’t want any strings, remember?”

“These are fucking strings, you fucker, and now I’m in the fucking middle of it. You could have at least fucking told me that I’m the fuckbuddy in this situation. Does he even know about me?”

Raury laughed, and shook his head.

“Oh that’s real fucking sweet of you. Turn me into a fucking homewrecker. Do you know, what this sort of shit does to people’s spiritual health?”

Raury just rolled his eyes and got dressed a bit quicker. Aarin was sexy–lithe, dark Mediterranean complexion, that fabulous hair rolling past his shoulder is waves, and that black beard set against his blue eyes, but as soon as he started in on his druidic, gypsy, paganistic bullshit, he did his best to exit the conversation, and the room, as quickly as possible.

“You have to tell him–I’m not going to have my balance fucked with just because you’re too chickenshit to ask someone for an open relationship. No fucking wonder I haven’t felt like myself lately, this is all fucking you!”

“Would you fucking calm down with your fucking magic mumbo-jumbo? It’s fucking fine,” he grabbed his bag, and headed for the door. “I’ll text you, alright?”

“If you don’t fucking tell him in two fucking days, I’ll know, Raury.” Aarin said, following him to the door, “If you don’t, then I’ll take matters into my own fucking hands.”

Raury whirled around, “You stay the fuck away from him–and like he’d believe you anyway, if you tried and tell him. You know what? Fuck this–I’m sick of your fucking magic shit anyway. I’ll go find someone else to fuck around with, since you can’t fucking be cool.”

With that, Raury pulled open the door and left Aarin’s apartment, leaving him fuming inside. He should have known this would happen with someone like Raury, but the energy he put out was so damn useful. Still, Aarin knew he couldn’t simply let this stand. He’d give him two days–48 hours-and if he hadn’t done anything to right this, then Aarin would be forced to balance the scales some other way instead–and Raury would have to deal with the consequences in…other ways.

A forest. Deep forest. He never remembers how he got there, or why he entered, and while he knows he should be trying to find his way out, he can sense that, instead, his path is taking him deeper still. The air is still and muffled, but on occasion, he can hear the sound of…animals in the distance. Goats bleating, donkeys braying, cows mooing.

It was now two weeks since Raury had fought with Aarin at his apartment. True to his word, Raury had ghosted him, even when he’d sent him some cryptic text a few days later–he didn’t even remember what it had said, he’d just deleted it and blocked the contact. But starting that night, he’d had a recurring dream, or nightmare…he wasn’t quite sure how to classify it. What he did know, was that each time it occurred, it was so vivid–every detail remaining with him when he awoke. He’d wanted to tell Jared, his boyfriend, about it when he woke up…but each time he’d hesitated, feeling like it would be wrong to mention it to anyone for some reason.

He was getting closer to the sounds now. Where before there was only a hint of sound in the stillness, it was becoming a rather raucous noise. Other sounds were coming through as well–the clink of metal and glass, stomping and clapping, flutes and drums and strings playing odd, discordant tunes.

Each night, the dream had grown longer. The first few nights, he’d only been lost in the forest, certain that someone–or something–was watching him, but nothing ever made itself known to him. Now, he’d begun hearing the sounds of some strange celebration deep among the trees, but the closest he’d gotten was the glint of a torch between two trunks. Tonight, however, felt different. He was deeper in the wood, but also deeper in his sleep, deeper in his mind. He was so…desperately curious, as to what was in the woods. He felt that if he could just find whatever event was occurring, that then, perhaps, the dreams would stop.

He saw the glint of light, in the distance, and realized then, how dark the forest had become. Whether it was because twilight had arrived, or because the forest overhead had become so dense as to block the sky, he didn’t know. He could barely see his hand in front of his face, and he crept closer, drawn to the light, drawn to the sound of laughter, following the odd, muddled scents of musk and manure and wine. He drew closer, so he could see who was there, and found himself confronted by the strangest sight–the creatures weren’t animals at all–or rather, they weren’t…entirely animals. He recognized the forms of some from myth–satyrs and centaurs, though their forms were uglier, more bestial than what he might have imagined. There was no clear distinction between the human and the animal in their bodies–everything seemed to have grown together into a jumble. But the faces, at least, if slightly warped, were human. That seemed, easier, somehow. It wasn’t until he’d overcome the shock that he realized how quiet things had grown, and that the beasts had turned towards him at the edge of the clearing, staring at him. They didn’t seem surprised–they seemed to have been expecting him, and from the glint in their eyes, he was no longer certain he should have found this place at all.

He tried to run back into the wood, but he got only a few yards before two satyrs rushed after him and tackled him, driving him face first into a mass of loam. “There’s our new Bacchus! Just like he promised.”

“Then we keep the deal. Come, little Bacchus! Come with us and be merry.”

What Brothers Are For

“Fuck, it hurts! Take it out–take it out!”

“No–this will make it feel better, just stick with it.”

Biff groaned, as his brother wormed his fingers in a bit deeper. He didn’t want to admit it, but the itch…did seem to be going away a bit. He’d been feeling it ever since he’d broken up with Amy last month, this…constant, frustrating, mind numbing itch in his ass. It hadn’t been bad a first, but lately, it had been almost impossible to cope with, and he’d finally confessed to his older brother his…problem. Immediately, he’d proposed this as a possible solution, and for some reason, Biff had just gone along with it.

The pain had eased away at this point, but while he felt some relief from the itch, it was still there, just…deeper than the inch of his brother’s finger that was in there. “How’s it feel, any better?”

“Yeah…” Biff admitted, “But…it’s still there, just…deeper, I guess?”

“Oh…Well let’s try this.”

Biff didn’t have time to ask what his brother meant, before he’d pushed the head of his hard cock against Biff’s ass and started pushing it into him. He screamed at him, and tried to crawl away on the bed, but his brother grabbed him by the hips and hauled him backwards, impaling him on the shaft. The pain was there for a few minutes, but then…nothing. No itch at all! Had it really worked? “Fuck that…it’s gone,” Biff said, “You…can pull out now, I guess.”

“Nah, it’ll be back. Better just…keep scratching it for a while, right bro?”

Biff wasn’t sure, but it did feel good, having his big brother fuck him for a while. So good, in fact, his cock got hard and blew a massive wad all over the sheets beneath him, and his brother shot deep inside him as well–after all, a bit of lotion can help a itch, right? And cum…looks a bit like lotion, he told himself. Still, Biff needed nightly scratchings and lotionings from that day on, which his brother, and all of his friends, were more than happy to provide, and Biff settled into his new role as the high school whore in a few month’s time.

Source: thisutahbear

A Home of Mirrors (Part 3)

“Alright boy, here we are!” Eli said. He didn’t slow down much on the street, as he peeled into the driveway and brought the sedan to a sudden halt, hard enough to catch Jean’s seatbelt. He noticed that he’d said it again–”boy”. His father had never called him that, ever, and yet after he’d returned home from his last house hunting venture out here, where he’d bought this house, he’d started using the diminutive with him more and more. It was far from the only change he’d noticed in his father, of course. He had a temper suddenly. Well, he’d always had a temper, but where before it would simmer, now his father was throwing plates and glasses at the wall. He’d started smoking, and he always seemed to have on those leather gloves of his, which he said he’d bought out here on a whim. He wouldn’t dare voice it, but he wasn’t quite sure this even…was his father, the disconnect was so sudden and sharp, but he hadn’t been able to pin his father down to discuss it. In fact, as soon as he’d returned from buying the house, he’d announced that he was moving the timetable up on their move by six months. They had planned on waiting for Thomas to finish the spring semester so they could move together during the summer, but now, all his father could talk about was this house, and how he wanted to move in right away.

Eli was already out of the car, hands shaking, fumbling for the house keys he’d picked up from the real estate agent on the way here. Jonas unbuckled himself, leaned forward and peered up at the house in front of him. It seemed…normal. From the way his dad had been describing it, he’d been expecting a luxurious manor, but it just looked like a reflection of every other house on the block. In fact, it was a reflection of every house on the block. It was a cookie cutter development, but every house they’d passed had the garage on the left, but theirs had it on the right. Someone must have mixed up the blueprints. He saw his dad waving at him, and urging him to follow, that…vein in his head popping out like it had started doing, when he was getting frustrated and about to blow. Jean got out of the car, went around the back for the bag he’d packed in the trunk.

“Just leave it in there boy!” Eli shouted at him, “and get in here! I want this place to see you!”

“What?” Jean asked, but his dad had already slipped through the front door, leaving it open for Jean to follow. Leaving his bag, he climbed the front steps to the porch and followed him inside.

“Fuck, it feels good to be home,” Eli said, heaving a heavy sigh of cigar smoke through the foyer. The house was empty of furniture, which was hardly surprising. They had barely started packing before this, and his father had insisted they let another company handle the moving, so they could focus on getting settled. Of course, how they were supposed to get settled here without any furniture was a mystery to Jean. Little did he know, that his father had canceled the moving truck entirely–he knew the house would provide everything they might need. His son would understand too, soon enough. Eli stared at his son’s reflection, longingly, his groin aching worse than at any point in the last week.

Jean, his younger son, was seventeen and heading into his senior year in high school, not that Eli would bother enrolling him down here. They would have other work to do, soon enough. Before, he’d always been…disappointed in his younger son. He had no ambition or discipline for anything other than football in the fall and soccer in the spring. His grades were barely enough to even allow him to play, and he had all of his eggs in athletic scholarships to various colleges, but fuck, looking at him now! His lithe, muscular body, coated in hair in all of the right places, and he fucking smelled so…sweet. Eli had, when his needs became too intense, stolen a pair of his son’s cleats and his jock, smelling them , jacking off into them, pushing smoke into them, staring at the mirror in his own bedroom, longing to be home. But the house needed him, needed to see him as much as he needed to see himself.

“Why don’t you explore a bit and pick a bedroom for yourself upstairs? I need to spend some time in my room for a bit.”

“Time doing what, dad?” Jean said, “Shouldn’t we, like, go buy some beds at least?”

“Go pick a damn room, boy!” Eli screamed at him, and Jean backed up to the mirrored wall of the foyer, his reflection leaning into him, sampling him. Jean felt the whisper of breath on the back of his neck, and spun around, facing himself. “Go find yourself a room,” Eli repeated, forcefully, sucking down smoke to calm himself down. Soon, he reminded himself. So soon.

“I’ll…go pick…a room…” Jean said, and without really understanding why, or how, he’d said that, he climbed the stairs slowly, and slipped into a room halfway down the hall. Eli, meanwhile, took the stairs two at a time, heart pounding with need, and entered his own room, the master suite, and there he was–there both of him were. His reflection, and that…other him. That him from before. He can barely remember anything about being him, and seeing him now, collared on his knees, beard and hair shaved off, covered with welts and cigar burns, Eli viscerally hated the very idea that there could have ever been a connection between them. Still, it was clear that the house had been busy, now that it had energy to power it. The room, which had been empty before, was now furnished. A king sized bed made up with leather sheets, a personal humidor, racks and shelves full of equipment, a closet full of gear–his gear.

“It’s good to be home,” Eli said, walked to the mirror as his reflection stepped forward, and he kissed himself, tasting his own smoke with relief.

A Home of Mirrors (Part 2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Home of Mirrors (Part 1)

“And it’s for sale by the bank?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Family’s Legacy (2 of 2)

That summer, the father noticed an improvement in his son’s temperament and commitment to the family legacy. He worked out less, took a greater interest in his father’s business, and that summer, accepted an unpaid internship at his father’s suggestion. Of course, he still worked out quite regularly, but he accepted some of his father’s other advice–taming that hair of his and making it a more conservative style. Pruning back the wild beard he wore, though he insisted on keeping at least a small goatee. But a week before he was set to leave for college, his father discovered something…disturbing on his son’s computer–a very large stash of porn. Gay porn.

No–no, this would not stand. A great family required an heir, after all. He resolved to demand answers from his son, to send him for counseling if he needed it, but the time never felt…right. His son went off to college, only to return for Thanksgiving with a young woman on his arm–and assurances from both of them that his son was very much interested in her, both romantically and sexually. He thought his fears unfounded, and after he’d returned to school, he realized he’d kept the folder of porn on his own computer. He went to delete it…but instead, found himself…looking through it, curious. The photos were all of rather chubby, hairy men–ages ranging from their young twenties to early fifties. James found himself unable to comprehend how his son could have found anyone like this attractive–and found himself equally unable to explain why he, now, was masturbating to the images and videos every night.

His son excelled in college, and with each success, James seemed to suffer setbacks and distractions. The spring of his son’s freshman year, James could no longer resist his new desires–he began going out at night incognito, cruising bars and parks, sucking off men, letting them fuck him–the fatter the better. He found himself disgusting. He could barely look at himself in the mirror, he was so aghast at the state of his soul–and at the state of his body. He’d let himself go to pot, over the years, he realized. His singular focus on work and family had left him middle aged and closing in on 300 pounds. No–that he wouldn’t let happen.

So that summer, while his son toiled away at two unpaid internships, saving an hour a week to date his girlfriend, his father found himself toiling away in the gym. He’d hoped it would prove to be a distraction from his new obsession with sucking cock, but working out only seemed to make him…hornier. He began collecting pictures and videos of his own, expanding his son’s collection, finding his tastes drifting in a certain…grungier direction. Unkempt beards, musk, armpits, big cocks, dirty asses. He was down to 250, and was looking beefy. He’d decided to grow out a beard, but hadn’t kept it well trimmed. His hair had gone wild as well, but something about it–he liked it.

Then, someone caught him. The tabloids made his life hell, and the board removed him immediately. His severance was…substantial, but without work, James–or Jimmy, as he was calling himself these days, when he introduced himself to the big men he thought about constantly–found he only had two things left he wanted to do: have sex, and work out. His son came home that next summer, and announced his engagement. Jimmy was happy for him, but all he could think about was…how handsome, his son had become, in just two years. He’d packed on a good amount of weight, and he seemed so…powerful. Confident. James was all too happy to let his faggot father beg for his cock, of course. He’d have to keep his failure of a father well under control, if the family was going to survive his massive fuckups. Still, James the Third had no doubt he’d be able to rise to the challenge. The Wilheim line would ascend–just like his father had always wanted.

A Family’s Legacy (1 of 2)

“It’s a fucking embarrassment, is what it is. I mean, if I’d known this was how he would turn out, I would have made that bitch give me two, before booting her sorry ass out of my house.” James Willheim the Second, chuckled over his lunch, before wiping his mouth with his napkin, taking another bite, and continuing. “Still, you should fucking see him. I tried to tell myself that it was just a phase, that it was good to have a son interested in athletics, but I barely fucking got him into college as a legacy, his grades were so poor! Really, I’m just embarrassed that he even has my name, we’re so different.”

“Well, you could always get a new wife, couldn’t you? Try again?”

“In my fifties? I suppose so. Hell, maybe two girlfriends, and I’ll marry whichever gives me a better boy than this one!”

The men around the table chuckled, and chatter turned to other subjects–their businesses, their plans for the coming summer on Martha’s Vineyard. But James’s thoughts still turned to his son, James Willheim the Third, and to what a disgrace he was turning out to be. The Willheim line was supposed to be ascendant–his son was supposed to be the pinnacle, the one who pushed them into real wealth and power. Instead, he’d gotten a dud. All his son seemed interested in doing was lifting weights, playing sports, and running off at nights to do who knew what around town–drinking and carousing most likely. Still, he’d never once brought a woman home–something which also…unsettled him. It wasn’t that he couldn’t tolerate a certain level of…rebelliousness. It was that somethings had to be more important than one’s own selfish desires. Your family’s legacy, for instance.

The men finished their business lunch, paid the bill, and left. James ended up at the back of a group, and as he walked down the city sidewalk, a hand reached out, grabbed his cuff, and stopped him. It was attached to an old man, bent over on the sidewalk–a beggar, most likely. He raised his eyes–they were a pure, milky white.

“You shall have the son you desire, in time. But that which is given, cannot be kept. That which is removed, must be received.”

James gave a tug, but the man’s frail arm was surprisingly strong. After a harder yank, he managed to lurch away, and carried on with his day–but the encounter…haunted him. He returned home, and discovered his son was asleep in his bed–James too, felt an oddly crushing fatigue weighing on him. He made his way to bed early as well, and slept, the man’s words repeating their way through both their dreams.

No One Else Will Want You Now (Part 9)

Waste was surprised that he was still alive. In a sense, he knew that he wasn’t, not alive in the same sense as before, certainly not alive as the same person. He uncurled himself slowly from the ball he crumpled into on the floor, before pushing himself up on shaking legs so he could see himself in the mirror.

What had happened to him? It was like every muscle in his body had been dehydrated and shrunk to a single wire connecting each of his joints. Just from looking at himself, he couldn’t weigh much more than a hundred pounds–the curse had left him as skin and bones. His height only served to exaggerate his new physique, but the loss of muscles wasn’t the most disturbing parts–it was the concave belly with his ribs clearly defined against the skin of his chest. Somehow, the skin seemed both impossibly tight, and also loose and sagging, depending on the angle one looked at. His eyes climbed higher, to his neck, every tendon and vein visible through his much paler skin, and his gaunt face. He looked…old. So much older than he had been, with his now snow white beard growing out in wisps to his chest, his head bald aside from a few errant strands of fine hair that remained. To steady himself, he took a drag off his cigar, able to see his chest inflating with smoke, and then exhaled through his yellowed, crooked teeth, lined with gaps. Cheeks shallow and gaunt, eyes sunken deep. His eyes–he could see clearly, but they were cloudy–eerily so, and he could barely make eye contact with himself for five or ten seconds, before having to look away, but there was nowhere to look that didn’t horrify him. The only part of him that seemed to have any life left was his cock–he gripped it with a bony hand, feeling it’s warmth, feeling alive in some small way, through his shaft.

Waste. The curse had named him Waste, and now he understood. Wasting away, but also discarded by the world. Refuse. That old him, Walter, he was fading faster now, he was dying in the sandstorm, but the curse had saved him from that fate, because he could still be useful. If he didn’t want to suffer the same end, then Waste knew what he had to do, knew who he had to become.

“Sorry about that, Fuglet,” he said, looking over at his slave. His voice was dry, cracking, desperate for water. The shiver that ran down Fuglet’s back was similar to a knife running down a pane of glass. “I got…distracted. You’ve met all my conditions, slave. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? You’re mine now–all mine, forever.”

Fuglet didn’t like this Master. Fuglet liked the old one, the one who he could tell still cared about him, but in those skeletal, cloudy eyes, he only saw hatred.

“Get on the bed–Master wants to use that hole of yours.”

He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t disobey. He got on the bed and let his jeans slip from his ass and around his knees, his master coming over, running sharp, claw like nails along his filthy skin, pressing hard enough to leave a red mark, but not a true scratch. His cock was hungry–it was the only part of him that needed anything anymore. As long as he kept his cock happy, as long as that didn’t shrivel away as well, then he wouldn’t have to worry. The curse would be happy, and Waste wouldn’t have to die too.

He raped his Fuglet for hours. When he grew tired of one hole, he would switch to another. If his slave displeased him for some reason, he would take a moment to punish him–sometimes quickly, with a sharp burn from the end of his cigar, or other times longer, with a prolonged paddling. The whole time, he could see his cock and balls swelling larger, feeding on Fuglet’s pain and humiliation until it was over a foot long and as thick as a two liter bottle, ramming deep into his ass as he screamed with each invasion. When he finally finished, and came–filling Fuglet’s ass with a massive load of cum, Waste finally looked around and realized the apartment had completely shifted around them as well, their new life becoming…clearer.

Fuglet worked in construction during the day–it was one of the few jobs someone as stupid and ugly as he was could still manage to do a decent job and not get fired in the first week. Everyone on his crew hated him, of course. Everyone in the world despised him as soon as they met him. They just…something about him, it was clear that he wasn’t right. He had no friends, he had no family. No one knew about his master waiting back at home. No one who noticed his collar had any desire to know the details or story behind it. Still, he did his menial tasks competently, he stayed out of everyone’s way, and that was acceptable. Then, when the day was done, he went home, where Waste was waiting.

Waste never left the apartment. It wasn’t clear that Waste even could leave the apartment. It wasn’t clear what, exactly, waste was, but Fuglet was fairly certain he wasn’t entirely human, even if he had been at some point. He never ate, he only slept a few hours a night. He would abuse Fuglet until he passed out, and when he awoke, Waste would still be fucking him. As gaunt and sickly as he appeared, he was stronger than any man Fuglet had met on any crew. Waste was his curse to bear, he supposed, for some sins in some past life, and he bore him willingly. At least it was someone. At least he wasn’t entirely alone. At least there was something in the world that needed him, even if it only needed him to suffer.

No One Else Will Want You Now (Part 3)

“Get out. You fucking disgusting little piece of shit, get the fuck out of my apartment. I never want to see that ugly face of yours ever again.” That wasn’t his voice. It was so hard-edged and vicious. Whatever curse this was, it was like it had tapped into some deep reservoir in his mind, and all of that hatred was pouring out of him, all of that anger. More terrifying than anything else, thought, was how good it felt. Walter felt good, he felt good telling this little prick exactly what he thought of him. “What the fuck are you waiting for? Get the fuck out of my sight!” he screamed, spit flying from his mouth.

“Please, Walter, I’m–” Walter’s kick caught him in the ribs, sending him rolling over, coughing.

“You think you have permission to ever speak my fucking name again?”

“Please sir, please–I fucked up. I know that, but I…I don’t know where else to go. Please, don’t make me leave.”

“What, you’re telling me none of those fucks want anything to do with your lying, cheating ass? What a fucking surprise.”

“It was a mistake sir, I won’t make it again. I…I love you, sir,” Donny said. His eyes were confused, like he wasn’t entirely sure where his own words were coming from, or why he was saying any of them.

“This is all fucking fine and good, except for one fucking problem. I don’t fucking believe you. Now get out, you lying sack of shit.”

Donny, eyes defeated, started to stand up, but Walter planted one boot square on his back and pinned him back to the floor. “Did I say you could fucking stand up? Fucking crawl.”

“Please, don’t do this to me, I need you, sir.”

“Bullshit.”

“Please, I’ll do anything.”

/”Anything you want. Anything you tell him to do.”/

Walter’s head was flooded with ideas, suddenly. If Donny wanted to be with him so badly, then fine. But he’d have to prove that he was really sorry. And then, they were going to be revisiting the foundations of their relationship, because Walter was certain nothing like this would ever happen under his watch, ever again. He lifted his boot off Donny’s back, toed him over onto his back, and then planted the sole right over his mouth, pressing down hard enough to make his jaw ache. “This is the only fucking part of me that you’re worthy of servicing. So get to it. Show me just how fucking sorry you are.”

Leather, domination, humiliation–none of that had ever had much of a place in their relationship before. The closest they may have gotten was a bit of dirty talk off and on, but it was usually Donny talking, and Walter feeling a bit silly and self-conscious. But there was an energy thrumming between them, reverberating through the entire apartment. It was the curse–it had to be. The chunk of Walter who could still recognize how insane this all way was desperately trying to put on the breaks, but his body was no longer under his own control. It was riding a different past–the curse had hijacked him, and now he was just a tool to be used in Donny’s degradation. Sure enough, he started licking at the bottom of Walter’s filthy, muddy boot, moaning softly–thought whether it was out of desperation or unexpected excitement it was unclear. And when, exactly, had his shoes become boots? Looking down at them, they were nothing like anything that Walter had ever owned in his life–knee high black leather. Obviously old, and caked with dried mud and filth from toe to top. He tried to tug his foot away, but instead he only pressed down harder, listening to Donny groan in pain. “Lick faster if you don’t want a broken jaw, bitch.”

Walter saw movement out of the corner of his eye–one of Donny’s hands was creeping over to his cock, which was erect and bulging in the underwear he was wearing, a wet spot of precum visible. He picked the boot off Donny’s mouth, and slammed it into his cock instead, crushing it and his balls, grinding them against his body, watching him scream and beg.

“If you really want to stay, bitch, then you’re going to have to learn that your pleasure doesn’t matter anymore. You don’t get to feel good–ypou don’t fucking deserve pleasure, and you fucking know it. No, you get pain, and you thank me for it after, do you understand?” Walter said, grinding harder.

“Yes! Oh god, yes sir, I’m sorry, please!”

He kept up the pressure for another fifteen, twenty seconds, making sure the message was well established, and then released his boot, Donny reflexively cradling his junk and curling up into a fetal position, gasping. Walter just walked over to a wooden chair in the bedroom, and sat down, legs stretched out and boots presented. “You can still leave, for the moment. Or you can get the fuck back over here, and finish the job.”

It was clear, from his eyes, that Donny knew what he should want. He should crawl to the door and leave–but he wasn’t doing that. He didn’t…really want that. Instead, on foot and knee, he was slowly drawn over to where Walter was sitting. The filth off the boot had tasted foul, but he…deserved it, for what he’d done. For what he was. This is what he’d needed, all this time. This is what he’d been searching for, and he hadn’t even known it. He went back to the book, licking and wetting the chunks, using his teeth to scrape them off and swallow them. Walter just watched him, idly reaching over to the humidor on the table next to him, taking out a cigar, clipping the end and lighting up. He’d never smoked before, but the rush of nicotine was wonderful–almost as wonderful as the rush of watching his fucking bitch slaving over his nasty boots. A few minutes later, he’d forgotten about the oddity of his own smoking, puffing slowly, massaging his own cock through his jeans, and listening to the voice, as it told him what kind of punishment would be fitting for a young cheater like Donny.

No One Else Will Want You Now (Part 2)

The apartment was quiet. Walter was sitting on the couch, taking a short break from pacing around the apartment. He’d met the guy–Jack–the guy who could allegedly lay down curses for a hefty fee–earlier in a cafe. He’d been, hesitant about Walter’s idea, but had agreed to do it, in the end. They’d come back here, and Jack had told him to go in and stay inside. Once Donny got home and entered the apartment, the curse would activate. Walter had tried to ask him details about what sort of spell he was planning, but Jack didn’t give him much. He said that his curses had a habit of taking on a life of their own, once they were let loose, so predicting what would happen was difficult. One thing Jack pressed, however, was that Walter do his best to not resist or fight the curse. The curse saw him as a tool. As long as he was helping further the curse, he would remain less affected, but if he resisted–the curse would likely reshape him into a tool it would find more useful. Whether he was telling the truth of feeding him bullshit, Walter couldn’t tell. He checked the clock again, and saw that Donny should be home in the next fifteen minutes or so, or at least, that’s when he usually arrived. Should he go through with this? It was more likely that nothing would happen at all, and he’d just been conned out of a couple thousand dollars. But if he didn’t even know what the spell was, then how would he even know if it was working? He thought back to Jack’s various warning about what he was doing, and his feet were starting to chill a bit–but Jack had said not to leave, or there was a chance the curse could trigger on him instead.

He really only had one option–wait until Donny got back. Chances are, nothing would happen anyway, and if something did happen? Well…this is what he wanted. He wanted Donny to suffer, sure, but more than anything, Walter wanted to be the one inflicting it himself. He wanted Donny to know that the reason his life was about to go down the tubes was because he’d decided to screw with the wrong daddy. He got up from the sofa and paced a bit more, pausing to look himself over in the mirror, wondering for the hundredth time why. He’d styled himself just how Donny had wanted him–full beard, a slicked back hairstyle he hated and which took too much maintenance, but which Donny assured him was perfectly on trend. Designer clothes which showed off his muscled body–which had gotten even larger, since Donny have become his workout partner. Should he have dyed his hair? Was he not giving him enough sex? It seemed like they fucked every other day. Why hadn’t it been enough? He needed some other reason beyond…beyond the fact that maybe Donny was just a money grubbing little shithead. At least if there was something wrong with him, he could have fixed it, but if this was just Donny being a horrible person–then it was Walter’s judgement that was off, and that hurt more.

He was still looking at himself when the door opened, and Donny came through the threshold, shaking his hand as he did, “Dang, that was weird..” he said to himself, “Hey daddy–sorry I’m a bit late. You ready to hit the gym?”

“Are you alright?” Walter asked, pointing at his hand.

“Just some static off the doorknob,” Donny said, “Oh, you aren’t ready for the gym yet?”

Walter almost always got home from work before Donny did, and he usually spent the extra time getting ready for their evening gym date, but the routine had completely slipped his mind. “Sorry, I got home kind of late too.”

“Well come on then, let’s get dressed and go.”

“He doesn’t care. He knows that you know, and he doesn’t even give a fuck.”

Walter shook his head. That had sounded…like a voice, or maybe it was more like a thought. It had come from his head, in any case, but it hadn’t felt like him. It was true, though. Donny had to have figured out by now, that Walter had intercepted some of his texts with his other guys, and he was just going to fucking pretend like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter.

”Like you don’t even matter.”

He followed Donny into the bedroom, feeling even angrier than before.

”Confront him. Make him see you. Make yourself matter.”

“Is there anything you’d like to tell me, Donny?”

Donny was stripping off his work clothes, and shrugged. “I don’t think so. Is something on your mind?”

“You’re seriously going to do this? How fucking stupid do you think I am?”

Donny rolled his eyes, and Walter could almost see the response there, ready to roll off his tongue. That Walter should be thanking him. That Walter should have known this would happen, that no one like him could ever really satisfy a young stud like him. That he should appreciate the fact that he gets to taste Donny’s hot cock a few times a week at all. That if he can’t get on board with an open relationship, then Donny has plenty of other options open. He could see all of that in his younger lover’s eyes, in the sneer, in the stance…but then it faltered, and none of that came out. There was doubt in those eyes, maybe even a bit of fear. He tried to catch that fleeting confidence, but something had sucked it right out of him. “I…I mean…it was an accident.”

“An accident? You just accidentally fuck someone else? That happens a lot?”

Donny was stammering, unsure of how to recover. He’d been ready for this. He’d had a whole script, but something had pushed that right off the rails, and now he was scrambling for something say, for some excuse. He walked across the room towards his seething boyfriend. “Please, Walter, I’m sorry, I really–”

”He’s lying. Show him what happens when he lies to you.”

The force of the slap caught them both off guard. Never, in his life had Walter struck someone else, and never before had Donny been slapped. It sent him off balance and tumbling to the floor of the bedroom, stunned, cheek tingling, red with shame and embarrassment. Walter felt the power surging through him, out of his hands, and he realized, then, what Jack had been talking about–but it was far too late to turn back now.