No One Else Will Want You Now (Part 1)

“Look, all I’m saying is that…if this is the path that you go down, these curses, it’ll fuck you up too. It’s not going to see you as a person getting revenge–hell, it won’t see you as a person at all, really. These curses have a target, and everyone else is just a tool it can use to bring about that target’s downfall.” Jack paused, and stared his client in the eye. “Look, why not just cast this curse, or something like it, on him and one of his lovers? Because trust me…I ended up getting sucked into one of these myself a little while ago, it isn’t…fun. And I can reverse the effects–mostly, but I still…nevermind, that’s not important. Here’s the point: you’re never going to be able to back out of this, if you make this choice.”

The older man, Walter, sitting across from him in the cafe nodded along, but Jack could see in his eyes that he wasn’t changing his mind, but Jack was still hesitant to give the man the curse he’d requested, in the manner he’d requested it. Fuck, he still couldn’t break himself of that fucking pig Clyde. No matter how hard he tried, he’d go back there every few weeks, rent that pig for a weekend, and…and go back to being that brute all over again. Jack shook his head, his cock rock hard in his pants, the need to see that fucker growing again at the thought of him, but he had other shit he needed to focus on.

Walter wanted a curse cast on his boyfriend, Donny. They’d been in a relationship for close to five years, and Walter had just found out that Donny had been seeing a variety of other men behind his back, despite his promise to be monogamous. This had especially hurt Walter, because, well, he’d always secretly suspected that Donny was with him more for his financial security than his looks. Walter was by no means bad looking–no, he’d met Donny at the local gym, shortly after Donny had moved to the city. Most men over fifty would kill to have a physique like Walter, and both he and Donny were muscular and built. Walter had done his best to keep himself looking attractive for his younger boyfriend, trying to keep up with a more modern styling–goodness knows, there had been plenty of time when he could have picked up an admiring young boy from the gym for an afternoon. But none of this made Walter’s case unusual. If anything, stories like this gave him the majority of his clients. No, what set Walter apart was that, while most people wanted to curse them and get them the fuck out of their lives, Walter was asking Jack to channel the curse through him.

This was no minor matter. If Jack did what Walter was asking, he would be cursed as well–or as he’d been trying to explain, the curse would be using him as it’s primary tool to do as much damage to Donny as it possibly could…and given how hurt Walter was, it meant that the curse would likely end up becoming quite powerful if it did use him. Whatever the result ended up being, they’d both be stuck–and he was trying to convince Walter that being stuck with one of his curses wasn’t something most people wanted to volunteer for.

Walter sighed, “I understand” –he didn’t, Jack thought– “but I…look, it’s hard to explain, but I want it to fucking ruin him. I want to be there when it happens. I want him to know that it was me.”

“This is going to sound mean, but you’re way too emotionally involved in this–”

“‘Emotionally involved’? He’s my fucking boyfriend? What did you fucking expect?”

“These curses feed off that, and if you put yourself in a room with him, with a curse guiding your hand, you will end up in a situation you’ll regret.”

“What if I don’t care?”

Jack sighed, “Maybe you should care? Why in the world would you want to ruin your life for the sake of his shitty behavior?”

Walter didn’t reply, but the answer was there, in his eyes. He still loved the fuck. More than that even–he still wanted to be with him, but more than that, he wanted to bring him to heel. Feeling the emotions swirling in Walter, Jack could feel the curse beginning to form inside him, taking shape, responding to the emotions between them. It was too late now, in a sense. Whatever curse Jack ended up making, it was going to be tainted with this emotion. Walter would probably end up pulled into the vortex no matter what he did–still, that was no reason to put him at the eye of the storm…or maybe, that was the exact reason to put him there. If this is what he fucking wanted, why not just give it to him? He wasn’t sure he would have protested this much in the past, before he’d been sucked into one of these himself. He knew what it was like, how much power you felt like you had, even though everything was out of control. Fuck, he needed to fuck that pig–he had a feeling he should cancel his appointments this weekend, and reserve his usual 72 hour rental. It wasn’t the pig he wanted–it was that sensation of…as that brute, Jack was in complete control, but no longer able to choose for himself. Power without responsibility. That’s what Walter was searching for, he realized. That’s what he needed, and if Jack could give that to him…who was he to deny him, when he himself couldn’t seem to kick the habit himself?

“Fine,” Jack said, “I get it. But I warned you. It’s going to be a rush, but there will be a moment when that well runs dry, and you’re going to realize what’s happened to you both. That this curse is what you both will have to live with for the rest of your life.”

You might live in suburbia, but it didn’t always feel like it, from where you lived. You could see your neighbors, sure, but your property backed up onto a nice wooded area and undeveloped wetland which still gave it a nice sense of nature. Unfortunately, soon after you moved in, you heard from your neighbors that part of the natural fauna of periurban space were the homeless. Still, they never seemed to bother anyone, and people in the neighborhood seemed reluctant to go into the wetlands all the same. It wasn’t really considered…safe, for reasons none of them could really describe, but you figured they were just scared for no real reason. After all, even if they were homeless they were people too, and so you would take your short walks through the woods, often with a backpack ready to hand out water or a snack if you should happen across anyone who needed it.

In fact, you never really saw a soul out there, but that didn’t stop you from getting the eeriest sensation that someone was watching your every move while you were within the treeline. You assumed it was just your imagination getting the better of you, the stories your neighbors told about some of the strange folk they’d seen here getting the better of you. But over time, the sensation became…more curious, and it wasn’t too much longer before, as you were walking through the woods, you came upon an older man leaning against a tree in raggedy clothes–a long coat and jumpsuit, but under the jumpsuit he had on some leather straps, and the jumpsuit was unzipped down, revealing no underwear and an erect cock.

You backtracked as quick as you could, but now you were seeing others surrounding you on all sides, all of them filthy, and all of them leering at you lustfully, most stroking their cocks as they approached. You tried to talk to them, but they ambushed you, stole your pack, ripped your clothes off of you, and they all started…grabbing at your flesh, at your cock, tugging at your hair, licking your face, feeling your ass–

You scrambled up and ran for your house as fast as you could, breaking through the treeline with the men pursuing you, running to the sliding glass door and trying to pry it open, but it wouldn’t bugde. You know you’d left it unlocked–hell, you’d left it open aside from the screen, hadn’t you? You look around, but is this even your house? Then–in the glass window you see your reflection, and nearly scream. Who is that? That can’t be you, can it? The reflection looks to be an old man in his late fifties, short with a underdeveloped chest and bulging, taut gut coated with white hair. A huge, bushy beard and matted hair–you miss the rest as someone else comes down to the door, sees you, and screams.

You flee back into the woods, but they’re waiting for you. They pin you down and fully initiate you, seeding you with their cum, your memories fading. You can no longer even remember the house you lived in, you can’t remember anything at all about that life you knew you had, only this new one lying before you, as they dress you in filthy, cast off clothing and drag you deeper into the wetlands.

Reflections on Vanity (1 of 2)

It seemed like a really strange birthday present, to be honest. I mean, who in the world gives someone a mirror for their birthday? But my uncle has never really been the most normal of people–there’s a reason my parents never really went over to his house. It’s just crammed with junk. He says he’s a collector, but he never could explain what, exactly, he was collecting. When that show hoarders came out, we realized what might be happening and tried to have an intervention, but he fought tooth and nail, refusing to give up anything. Old, chubby, a bit of a miser, and honestly? A bit of a creep too. But he was family, and so I took the mirror with a smile, surprised he’d been willing to part with any of his junk at all.

I was just going to leave it in a closet or something, but he came over the next day and insisted he help me hang it on the wall in my room, and I couldn’t very well say no. I figured I’d just take it down when he left, but reconsidered. It was my first year living alone, and he’d generously offered to help with the rent at the apartment where I was living alone while going to college, so I couldn’t really afford to be ungrateful to the guy, even if that meant he had a habit of dropping in randomly, using the spare key to let himself in.

But one he was gone, and I was in my room alone, the thing was…captivating. Something about how the surface caught the light. I took a selfie with it, mostly for a laugh…but then things got weird. I didn’t remember much of the next few hours, but I do now I sat in my room, looking at myself in the mirror, and masturbated…just…staring at myself. I swear I could hear someone whispering in my ear, but I told myself it was nothing.

But a few days later, scrolling through my albums on my phone, I found pages and pages of nudes I’d taken that day, all of them in that mirror. I couldn’t remember taking any of them, and I’d always been more of a modest guy, so I deleted them and resolved to take that mirror down when I got home from class…but things only got worse from there.

Pig Bros (Part 2)

Ethan found his body drawing closer to the massive figure, and squeezed into the booth with him, Avery still screaming across from them. The man shoved his face into Ethan’s personal space and started snorting, and came up for air, “Not bad, actually–good thing I always come prepared, right, boy?”

From the pocket, he withdrew a second crystal–still pink, but with darker striations running through it. He made Ethan take off his shirt, and then pulled him close, the crystal pressed to his breast, “Now, give me a kiss boy, eh?”

He fought harder than he ever had in his life, but he leaned in and allowed the massive farmer to shove his thick tongue in his mouth, as he pressed the crystal through his skin, Ethan feeling the same searing pain as his brother, screaming into the fat man’s snorting mouth. He pulled away a moment, and said, “You won’t remember much, but you will remember this–in one week, you and only you, come find me here. Understand?”

***

The brothers woke up the next morning in a ditch, both of them shirtless, on the far south side of town. Neither of them could remember what had happened the night before, at The Watering Hole, but neither one of them could imagine it having been a good experience. Ethan was furious at his brother for convincing him to do something so stupid, and Avery was apologetic for once. The first half of the morning they spent walking back into town to their car, and by the time they got there, both of them were utterly famished. They went back to their dorm room for new shirts, and then went to the dining hall, where both brothers found themselves going back for second and third helpings of heaping plates–far more than either of them would have ever eaten previously, but neither of them could quite work up the will to stop. When they finished, they both swore up and down that they’d never eat like that again, but a few hours later the grumbling had begun, and they devoured just as much for dinner that evening.

The next week, they did their best to get back into the swing of their classes, but neither of them found it easy to focus on their studies. Ethan in particular was having issues–normally he was fairly calm and collected, but in the days after their trip to The Watering Hole, he found himself becoming irritable and even aggressive–not to mention the fact that he was horny all the time, suddenly. At first he thought it was just blue balls, but women…didn’t interest him much, for some reason, so he ended up just masturbating seven or eight times a day, trying not to think about how his cock seemed to be getting longer, his balls bigger, his bush thicker.

Avery, on the other hand, found his sexual interest dropping like a stone. Well, that wasn’t quite true, it was just that his cock just…didn’t seem very interested in getting hard for much of anything at all. He was still horny, however, and it was becoming…difficult to deal with. He found that eating helped keep the edge off more than anything else, and so he would often hang around the dining hall even after Ethan had retired, still stuffing his face, trying to fill some…hole in him he couldn’t quite identify. Each day, he’d stare at himself in the mirror, in clothes that now hugged his frame tight, looking at his growing gut, his thick thighs and ass, and promise himself he’d stop, but he couldn’t. And things only seemed to get stranger.

The weight gain only sped up. The two brothers were being openly gawked at and mocked as they crossed campus–Ethan usually shouting back angrily while Avery just hurried along faster, blushing. His beard fell out over the course of a day, emphasizing his second chins and puffy face, his body hair thinning as well, leaving him with a slight treasure trail and a tight bush around his cock and balls, both of which seemed…smaller than they had been. While he’d been losing hair, Ethan had been gaining everything he’d lost, and more, with a full beard appearing all over his face in the course of a night, along with enough hair to cover his front and back. It was…odd hair too, almost bristly to the touch. They tried to talk about the changes, but neither of them could say much of substance–while each of them was disgusted and repulsed by their new bodies, they also felt…normal, somehow. They knew they should be different, but were at a loss of imagination as to what they might be instead. Instead, Avery found himself hoarding his brother’s cumrags, sniffing them, desperate for some form of sexual satisfaction, while Ethan kept catching an odd, urgent whiff of something around his brother, a smell which made him both uneasy and incredibly horny. Come Saturday, he knew he had to get out for a bit, by himself. Pulling on his biggest clothes, which now barely fit him, he told Avery he’d be back later, took the car, and went for a drive, his body on autopilot, taking him back to The Watering Hole.

The farmer was there in his booth, waiting. Ethan didn’t know how he knew the man…but he did. He waddled over and the smell of him, the sense of need suffused his mind, and he grunted and snorted, close to cumming in his pants. “There ya are,” the farmer said, “Have a seat, and try not to cum yet, if you can help it.”

Pig Bros (Part 1)

Avery and Ethan were twin brothers attending college in a small town out in the sticks. It had seemed like a nice place when they’d visited as high school seniors, but after three years spent there, their patience was wearing a bit thin with the place, and they were both eager to finish their senior year and be gone. The town always felt this tension, however, between the college student population which bloomed each fall and died back in the summer, and the farmer and ranchers who remained there the whole year long. Both of the brothers had turned 21 over the summer, and now that they could drink legally, they were stretching their legs a bit–and it was Avery who suggested they go to The Watering Hole, just to see what it’s like.

There were a few unspoken rules in the small town which kept tensions lows between the students and everyone else–one of those rules was that the college kids would keep to the North of town, where the small downtown had been rejuvenated and hipsterized, while the rest of the folks would stick to the southern side, where they had their own set of bars and restaurants–all of them quite a bit cheaper, but with the expectation that students weren’t particularly welcome there. The Watering Hole was one such bar, and Avery had always been curious about it, but that was Avery. While the two were identical in appearance, their temperaments were a bit more varied. Avery was brash, always up for a good prank, a shortcut, and rule bending. Ethan, on the other hand, was quieter, thoughtful, and usually the one who got Avery out of the trouble he inevitably stirred up in his wake.

The bar wasn’t much to look at–just a fairly normal pub, beaten up tables, chairs and booths, a craggy bartender who wasn’t particularly happy to see a couple of students in his bar, but he served them, and they took a seat. The rest of the patrons, mostly cattle ranchers, pig farmers and corn growers, shot them a few dirty looks, but when that wasn’t enough to deter the brother’s they opted to ignore them–all aside from one man, propped up in a corner booth, slouched over, his huge gut propped up on wide thighs, chewing tobacco and staring at the young men…trespassing. It had been a while, he realized, since the students had been…reminded what could happen when you go where you don’t belong. Perhaps, he would make an example of these two, or perhaps not. He watched, making up his mind.

Ethan was bored and suggested they leave, but Avery was disappointed their arrival hadn’t caused more commotion–so he ordered more beer, got drunker, and louder. Everyone ignored him, but the massive man in the corner had made up his mind–an example indeed, he thinks, of that one at least. He gives off a massive, beery belch, making sure the young man notices him, encourages him to notice him, encourages him to think poorly of him. He can see the young man looking over, looking down, sneering a bit. Just you wait boy, just you wait.

Avery kept looking over at the massive, obese farm fuck in that booth, grossed out in one way…and yet obsessed in another way. The man was staring at him with his tiny eyes, glaring really, and Avery met his gaze each time, feeling emboldened each time. Ethan excused himself to go to the bathroom, and as soon as he was gone, Avery knew this was his chance to confront him, to taunt him. He got up and made his way to the back of the pub–the rest of the patrons staring at him and the massive farmer in silence. A few men got up and left, others tore their eyes away and kept them there, as Avery sat down across from the fat farmer and leaned on the table. “What the hell man? You’ve been looking at me all fucking evening. You have a problem or something?”

The man let out a low, snorting laugh, and then heaved himself up into the light. He was…uglier than Avery had thought, and he leaned back a bit. “Oh, silly boy–you think you’re in any control here? In my booth? In this bar? In this town?”

“Oh, I get it–you’re not just a dumb fat fuck, you’re a delusional fat fuck.”

Faster than Avery was expecting, the man lunged over, and with his fat fingers grabbed hold of the young man’s shirt collar and dragged him closer, their eyes inches away. He hadn’t been able to see from across the room but his eyes…they didn’t seem quite…human. He tried to pull himself away, but his body was limp–he couldn’t do anything as the man, snorting and chuckling, undid a front pocket on his overalls and pulled out a small crystal shard. In the light, it shone a brilliant pink between two fat, stubby fingers. “Don’t worry, you won’t remember this in the morning,” the man said, “It’s more fun when you forget, after all.” With one hand, he gave a sharp tug on Avery’s shirt, ripping the front away and revealing his furry chest. Avery kept trying to quirm away as the man pressed the sharp point of the crystal to his left pec, and forced it into him, where he could feel the thing dig deeper into his body. It hurt, and he screamed in pain, throwing himself back against the back of the booth, clawing at his chest, trying to fish the crystal up from the wound which sealed itself up behind it, leaving just a raw scar.

Ethan had emerged from the bathroom, and heard his brother screaming. Everyone in the bar was purposefully paying the noise no attention, but he ran back to the booth, where he found his brother shouting and digging at his chest. “What the fuck did you do to him?” Ethan said to the farmer.

“Don’t think I forgot about you now–come here, and sit on my knee boy. Let me get a better smell of you.”

Derelicted (Part 3)

Caden recovered slowly. He missed the last half of his senior year–he had developed a crushing phobia of walking the streets of the city he’d called home for his entire life, or rather, a crushing fear that in some dark alley, he might encounter that thing, and whatever might be left of Wyatt. It was a year before he was able to walk the sidewalks again, but the color always made him think of those eyes, and the mouths of alleys seemed so much blacker than they had before. He tried to only go out during the day at least, and while he kept telling himself he’d finish his degree or get his GED, somehow he never managed it. Before, he’d been a good student–not at the top of his class or anything, but he’d been accepted to several colleges. Now though, the basic act of reading or writing was excruciatingly difficult. Nothing came out right, and nothing stuck. His mind was a sieve, leeching out knowledge and memories–but never the memories he wanted to forget. After a few years living at home with his mom, doing nothing with himself beyond eating and packing on two hundred more pounds, a sympathetic uncle in the construction industry managed to get him a job on a crew as a favor.

It was hard–harder than it should have been for him. He knew that, and at the same time, he felt himself slowing down even further. People spoke to him differently–slower with as few large words as possible, and even though he knew what they were saying, he’d still manage to fuck shit up on a regular basis. People called him a fuck up long enough that even he started to believe it. He turned thirty, and could barely believe what he’d become–450 pounds, hairy, a thick briown beard flecked with white like dirty snow beard balding, stinking, alone, masturbating every night, lying to himself that he wasn’t thinking about that night, that he wasn’t thinking about that thing each and every time.

He managed for a time. He turned forty. He buried his mom, and then his uncle. Cracks had begun to form, but he didn’t notice them. His hygiene slipped, until he rarely even thought of showering, or brushing his teeth. A pack a day habit became two, and then he switched to cigars. Masturbation wasn’t enough, reliving it wasn’t enough, so he sought out the filthiest men he could find, and begged them to abuse him however they saw fit. It was in those moments that happiness found him–digging toejam from between a derelict’s feet, his first taste of shit, the powerful memory jogged whenever his mouth was flooded with piss. Winter’s were the best. He never felt cold, somehow, in the snowy streets. He stayed out one night, amazed that no one would even see him, like he blurred together with the grey and brown and filth around him. Feeling himself slipping, he drank to forget, but it only made things worse. His uncle’s replacement wasn’t as forgiving as he had been, and Caden wore out his goodwill in a matter of months, until he was fired, after getting caught masturbating to the stench of the porta-potty for the hundredth time.

That night, he saw them again. Depressed, he’d gone to his usual bar and drank himself under the table, the bartender chucking him out at two in the morning. He’d meant to head home, but a whiff of something on the air caught his attention, and he turned in the other direction instead, heading downtown. The city had changed over the decades, neighborhoods falling in and out of style, in and out of wealth. The smell grew stronger, but he didn’t recognize it until he saw them, deep in an alley, the glint of two pins in the dark, two flat steel disks, and a third hanging from twine. He screamed–the police arrested him, when he’d accosted a woman looking for help, but a few days in jail did nothing to help him. He got out, and knew the only thing he could do was try and turn himself around.

He did have a few friends, sexual and otherwise. A master found him work as a janitor, which lasted a few months until he pissed himself in the middle of an office building without even noticing. A few other gigs came and went, until he managed to land a job out of town. He was so hopeful–maybe getting away from the city would break this curse of a life, but as he left town in his truck, his hands began to shake, his gut churning. He vomited, and had to pull over. He couldn’t drive, so he staggered back several miles until he was back across the city limits, shirt crusted with vomit, the seat of his pants filled with shit. He wandered the city for a few days, unable to remember where his apartment was, derelicts whispering to each other as he passed, and fleeing away from him, terrified of being caught in the thing’s path. They knew it well–it would swallow them all eventually, but not that day, if they could help it.

They found him, shivering behind a dumpster. He’d smelled them coming for hours, but had decided not to run–it had been easier to jack off, the smell giving him the first taste of sexual energy he’d felt in ages. The thing loomed. In a voice better described as a sigh, it turned to the thing that had been Wyatt, and asked, “Ripe?” the word drawn out into a muggy breeze.

Wyatt dropped to his knees beside the shivering Caden, and with a black tongue, cold as ice, licked the side of his face from second chin to forehead. “Overripe,” it rasped.

“Then…sweeter,” it said. It bent at the waist at an excruciating angle, pressed its face to Caden’s, and he felt it’s tongue push its way into his mouth, stretching his jaw wide, stopping his breath, wriggling deep into him. It found his soul and gave it a lick, and then everything turned brown, like filthy snow.

Derelicted (Part 2)

That was all he was able to notice before Wyatt got up from the couch, cock still leaking piss, and he rushed to the bathroom and locked the door behind him. “What the fuck!” was all Caden heard–and not knowing what else to do, he got up, went into the kitchen and opened another beer for himself–that piss had been rancid.

He heard the first pounding on the door, but ignored it, and went to the bathroom, but Wyatt refused to open the door.

“Come on man, just let me see!”

“Fuck no! Fuck this fucking shit!”

His voice sounded different–deeper and raspier than before.

There was another pound on the door.

“Dude, you need to call the hospital or something,” Wyatt said.

“The hospital? Why? Because you pissed yourself?”

“No, you don’t get it man, you don’t fucking get it! Just call 911!”

The pound came again, but this time it kept coming, a relentless beat.

“Dude, what the fuck would I even tell them?”

“Just fucking call them! Get a fucking ambulance!”

Caden backed up from the bathroom door, trying to focus. Call 911? What the hell for? What was going on in there? He tried to calm down and think a moment, but the pounding on the door was growing more urgent and he…he needed to get the door. Yeah, he could at least tell them to leave, and then he might be able to focus on what the hell had happened. He went to the apartment door, and flung it open, more than ready to tell whoever it was to fuck off, but the words froze in his throat when he saw, and smelled, the man from the alley, well awake and grinning a mouth of rotten teeth at him, eyes black aside from a glimmer so deep Caden could barely see it without falling into them.

He couldn’t breathe. The smell had locked up his lungs, and he stumbled back and collapsed to his hands and knees, fighting, trying to get his lungs to function again, and managed a weak, rasping breath. The man gave him a short look, sniffed the air noisily, and then pushed open the door, stepping into the apartment and walking right to the bathroom door, where he pounded once again on that door.

“Caden, did you fucking call them? Why are you pounding on the damn door?”

He tried to speak, but all he could do was cough and wheeze for air. His phone, where the hell had his phone gone? He saw it–it was on the table, he reached for it, but before he could grab it his entire body froze, midbreath, his eyes snapping toward the bathroom where the dark-eyed derelict was staring at him, and pounded once more on the door, louder.

“Fuck off Caden, and leave me the fuck alone until the ambulance fucking gets here!”

This must be what turning blue felt like. The derelict pounded again, and then again, and then a third time, louder and louder. Someone else would hear, someone else would have to come see, right? He managed to twist his eyes to the apartment door, but it flung closed in a snap. Did it read his mind? Was he going to die here?

“Fucking what?” Wyatt opened the door, and Caden came to life again, heaving for breath, the thing’s attention away from him and focused entirely on Wyatt, or at least the man Wyatt had become. He was shorter now, with a sagging gut heaving out, arms and legs withered sticks. He was old now, at least in his fifties–his eyes lined with wrinkles, beard and hair the grey sidewalks. His eyes were wide, lungs frozen, the thing leaning in and locking lips with him, filthy fingers running through Wyatt’s tangled locks, down his body to his cock. It looked like he was trying to scream, but something was caught in his throat, and eventually he collapsed to his knees. Caden’s first thought was that he was dead–but he could hear the slick smack of mouth on cock, and Wyatt was swallowing the thing’s cock to the hilt. Satisfied, it’s neck twisted a few degrees too far to look back at Caden behind him, those black holes freezing him in place. The medallion was once again back around it’s neck, a black tongue hanging down past it’s chin. Caden didn’t want to look, but couldn’t peel his eyes away.

Eventually, it was satisfied, and broke the gaze itself, leaving Caden a whimpering, sobbing heap on the floor. Wyatt stood up, lickiing cum from his lips, his eyes now a solid steel grey, and followed it out of the apartment. Caden was found that morning by Wyatt’s father, still curled up naked in a puddle of his own piss, cum and sweat. He claimed to remember nothing, when the police questioned him–he knew no one would believe him. They suspected him in Wyatt’s disappearance, but without any evidence of anything beyond Caden’s severe trauma, the case went cold.

Derelicted (Part 1)

“If I can get it off him without him waking up, then you have to blow me again,” Wyatt said, slipping closer to where the homeless derelict was slumped over in the alley. The man looked like the rest of the trash around the city, but the medallion around his neck had glinted in the streetlights, catching the young man’s eye. He would have taken it even if he wasn’t with Caden–but hey, if he could get another bj out of his closeted friend, why not kill two birds with one stone?

“Dude, I was drunk, I’m not–” Caden shook his head. Wyatt wasn’t exactly a good friend. In fact, he was a shitty friend, but he was Caden’s only real friend, and so he tagged along like he always had, trying his best to keep the trouble that always followed Wyatt off himself. He looked at the necklace which had caught Wyatt’s eye for some reason–it was hard to tell in the dark of the alley, but it looked like a rusty gear hung around the guy’s neck with a piece of twine. “What the hell do you want that for anyway? It’s just junk.”

“It’s not junk, it’s a challenge,” Wyatt said, the metal glinting for him in a way that it didn’t for his friend. It wasn’t the first time he’d lifted something interesting off a hobo–he stepped close, checking to make sure the guy was deeply out, then he carefully caught the disk in his fingers, and lifted it away. The hobo’s head was hanging forward–all Wyatt had to do was slowly guide the ring back over his head, slipping the twine out of the man’s filthy, matted hair, and it was his. “Yes!” he said, skipping down the street with the medallion in hand, “One free blowjob for me!”

“I never even said…” Caden started to say, but Wyatt was already off down the block. He took another look at the man, and then hurried after. Once he’d caught up, he tried to finish, “I never said I would blow you Wyatt! That was an accident last time, and you said–”

“You know you can’t trust anything I say,” Wyatt said, “Besides–I’m horny. Come on to my place, my dad’s working all night.”

Caden didn’t dare say no. He’d snubbed Wyatt a few times before, and every time his wrath had been quick and humiliating. Now, Wyatt had his deepest secret, and he’d be holding it over his head until Caden had the courage to come out proper–and maybe even after that. If he ever said no…well, Wyatt would be more than happy to tell the whole school for him, he was sure. So he followed after, Wyatt slipping the medallion around his neck before lighting a cigarette from the pack he’d stolen earlier for himself, and handing a second to Caden.

They were back at Wyatt’s place fifteen minutes later, and it was empty, like Wyatt had promised. “You need to get drunk again, or do you want to get straight to it?”

“A drink.”

Wyatt brought him a beer and cracked one for himself as well, and they both watched TV for a bit on the couch, smoking and sipping, and occasionally Caden would catch a whiff of something…else. It was like musk, but fouler somehow. He gave himself a sniff first, but it wasn’t him–was it Wyatt? Something in the apartment? Granted, neither Wyatt nor his father were big on hygiene, but even this was bad. Two beers later, he didn’t notice it as much, and Wyatt started getting insistent on his blowjob–so Caden swallowed his pride, got down in front of him on the couch, and waited a moment for Wyatt to undo the fly of his shorts.

Wyatt wasn’t anywhere near being a looker–chubby, hairier than most of the teachers at school at seventeen, with a scruffy beard, girls weren’t exactly lining up to be with him. He bragged a lot, sure, but Caden knew he was a virgin–aside from his mouth of course. He himself was a bit cleaner, less hairy, but mostly the same. Together at the bottom of the social ladder–he couldn’t fucking wait to go to college. Wyatt opened the fly, and that stench appeared again with even greater force–and Caden saw right where it was coming from–Wyatt’s cock.

He’d been drunk, sure, but he still remembered what he’d seen. Wyatt had been cut, with smallish balls, about four inches and decently thick–but the thing he had in there now–it was eight inches at least, with low hanging balls coated with hair–but mostly it reeked to high heaven like it hadn’t been washed in ages. Even more disturbing, a foreskin had grown up over the head–as it hardened, the head emerged, crusted with cheese. “Wyatt…Wyatt, what the fuck happened to your cock, man?”

“Don’t try backing out now,” Wyatt said, “A deal’s a damn deal man.”

Before Caden could protest further, Wyatt grabbed him by the hair, yanked a bit, and when Caden’s mouth opened to yelp, slipped his cock into his mouth. The taste was horrific, but Wyatt held on tight, skull fucking him a few times. Wyatt was a quick shooter, and he felt himself getting close–but it wasn’t cum that filled Caden’s mouth–it was piss. Horrified, Caden flung himself back away from Wyatt, who realized what his cock was doing–the stream was still flowing, arcing from where he was sitting onto the carpet. “Dude–what the fuck!” Caden shouted, wiping his mouth and spitting, before reaching for what remained of his beer in an effort to get rid of the taste.

“I can’t–it won’t stop!” Wyatt said, gripping his cock, piss still streaming everywhere. “Shit is this…what the fuck is this thing! This isn’t my fucking dick.”

“That’s what I tried to tell you!” Caden said, he looked up at Wyatt from where he was sitting on the floor, and saw something else–Wyatt’s cock wasn’t the only thing that had changed. It was a bit difficult to figure out what was different at first–he just seemed grungier than he had been. Beard longer and tangled. The hair he usually kept cropped close had grown out and was receding, flecks of grey appearing in it. His skin was shiny, whether from oil or sweat Caden didn’t want to know. He was looking both fatter and skinnier than he had been–his arms and legs wasting slightly, while his gut and chest filled out with fat.

Trust me, none of these fuckers are going to make it to the end of pledge week, I can assure you that. Oh sure, we like to lead them on for a few days, but you can always tell the losers from the pack right at the beginning, they sure as hell aren’t cut out for this frat–we’re the fucking elite on campus, and we can’t have losers like them dragging us down. We’ll have them beaten to a pulp and they’ll run away with their tails between their legs–we don’t haze lightly around here. Still, I don’t know what’s up with that drink of theirs–one of them told me some upperclassman on campus gave them the brew as a good luck charm, telling them they’d get in for sure if they had some. Whatever, if someone else wants to use our reputation to make a few bucks what do I really care? But no silly drink is going to save their skins.

For pledge week, all of the new meat has to live out behind the house in a small shed we reserve specifically for the week. There’s no privacy, it’s cramped, but the real goal is to start weeding out the runts like these ones. We make sure the real pledges know who has a target on their back, and after a couple of days they’ve been hazed, beaten and ridiculed so hard by their fellow pledges they all drop out before too long. Trust me, none of these three can take that, not to mention everything else we’ll be throwing their way soon enough–they’ll be gone for sure.

***

Alright, so maybe things haven’t gone quite according to plan. It’s weird–we told all the freshman football jocks to break these three fuckers…but it almost seems like it happened the other way around. All of the jocks are suddenly these meek little bitches, doing whatever those three demand. There’s been some other strange things happening too–the three guys weren’t much to look at before, but all of them have packed on quite a bit of muscle…even as the freshman jocks have all lost a bit of size. Hell, I saw one guy, Kyle, in the shower–I swear he had a eight inch cock, but it’s less than an inch now. He’s packed on weight, and his uniform doesn’t fit right, like he’s a bit too short for it now. Whatever–I had a talk with the three of them, and all of them suggested they go ahead and move into the house with us. Doesn’t bother me any, we’ll beat some sense into them, and show them who’s boss soon enough.

***

No, this shit’s too fucked up. I have…some of the other guys have lost it, fuck, they’re just they’re fucking slaves now! And the Masters–fuck, they’re so…so fucking big now. I mean, of course they should get the house to themselves, of course us slaves should all live in the shed but…I swear things should have been different. I can remember them being different. I…I was in charge, and I can be still, if I can just keep my wits about me. Figure out what the fuck was in that drink, what’s letting them…suck the fucking life out of us, literally! Oh shit, here they come, to decide who gets to stay with them in the house tonight. God…I don’t want them to, but I can see them looking at me. If I have to spend another night between them, I don’t know if I can take it anymore.

A Plea For Help (Sketch)

I don’t know what the fuck’s the matter with him. Nothing I do seems to fucking help! Ok, look, let me start at the beginning. Look, you know Jasper, you’ve known him for years, since he was a kid, hell, you’re his fucking uncle for Christ’s sake! Good all american kid, played every sport that ever existed, and was fucking killer at all of them, ever since he was five. Always working out, cared about his body, just like I raised him. I wasn’t about to have some lardass for a son, you know how I feel about fat, worthless fucks like that. No, I was gonna raise my son right.

But then, a few weeks ago, I come home from work a bit later than usual, and I come in and I find Jasper in the kitchen, standing at the fridge, stuffing his face. He was so fucking focused on eating that he didn’t even hear me come in, and he looks up with his eyes wide, something chocolate smeared around his face, and he knows I’ve caught him red handed. I tear into his ass, reminding him that his wrestling coach has ordered him to shave off two pounds so he can slip down into a lower bracket by the next Saturday, and the kid is crying–fucking sobbing really, trying to tell me that he can’t help it, and I can see his eyes flicking to the fridge, again and again, and I know he’s fucking lying to me, and it’s fucking disgusting, what I just witnessed, and I tell him I’m putting him on a strict diet from now on, that no food’s coming into my house without me knowing about it.

But fuck, if the next day I don’t come home and find him right there again, face in the fridge, stuffing himself. And I look in there, and in the freezer, and at the cans and bowls and containers littering the floor, and it’s all this shit I’d never allow in my house–ice cream, cookies, heavy cream–I don’t know where the hell he gets off, buying this shit, but I’m fucking disgusted, and I berate him again, and he apologizes, swears it won’t happen again, but fuck, every day now, he’s there, stuffing his fat face.

He sure as hell didn’t drop the pounds for that wrestling match, and I was so embarrassed to show my face there, that I didn’t even let him go–I grounded him in his room, telling him to think about what he’s done, what he’s doing to his body. I was relaxing down in the den, having a beer, when I hear something in the kitchen, and fuck if my boy’s not in the fucking fridge again, and it’s full! I threw out all the shit he’d bought, and I know he didn’t leave the house. Needless to say, I’m not fucking happy–and so I decide that if he wants to eat it, then fine, he should fucking eat it–all of it.

He keeps eating, pleading with me to help him stop. He keeps trying, and so I start, just, shoving food in the pig’s mouth as fast as I can, and fuck, if when I’m pressed up against that fat fuck, if I don’t feel his rock hard cock pressing up against my thigh, like a fucking faggot! Yeah, you can imagine how I felt about that, right? So I send him to his room again, and later, I go up to have a talk with him, and I hear him in there, fucking jacking off, fucking calling himself a disgusting, nasty pig while he’s at it…and this…I’m not proud of this. I jacked off too, listening to him. Something about listening to him humiliate himself, fuck if it didn’t turn me on something fierce, way hotter than anything that mom of his had ever done, and I can’t stop thinking about it, about that growing gut of his, about those meaty thighs, wondering how they’d look if they were…even bigger.

Look bro, I need help here. I can’t keep doing this by myself. I’ve been stuffing the pig night and day at this point, but he’s still not fucking big enough to be a proper fuck. Hey now, don’t give me that look, you don’t–no, come here! Come here and look at the fat fuck, bro! Look at your fucking pig of a nephew! Yeah, ain’t that a fuckin’ sight? Fuckin’ disgiusting. Go one, you can call him a pig, call him whatever the fuck you want, it’s just a fucking disgusting animal, a fucking toy, right? Right. See? I knew you’d understand once you saw it.

But we gotta get it bigger, don’t you think? But…fuck, it’s holes are so fuckin’ nice, bro. I can’t fucking feed it and fuck it at the same time, and it’s getting too big to feed itself at this point. So look, here’s what I propose–let’s take turns. You feed, I’ll fuck. Then you fuck, and I feed. Perfect fucking system, am I right? No, hey, calm down, I know you’re not a faggot! I’m not a fag either, but fucking a pig doesn’t make you a fag, you know that. Besides, I can see that tent there in those short of yours, you want to at least feel what it’s holes are like, right? Now come on–I’ll feed, and let you get a taste. Trust me, once you fuck this pig of mine, ain’t nothing gonna feel as good again, and with your help, we can get this nasty fuck over 700 pounds by the end of the week! What do you say? Thanks bro, I knew I could count on you–now make that piggy squeal for me, I love it when that fat faggot squeals.