The Catcall Curse (Part 6)

Jack awoke in his bed, feeling every muscle ache, in parts of his body he hadn’t even known existed. His huge cock was halfway into the pig’s hole, snoring beside him in his bed, and he was immediately torn. Slip it in and keep fucking? Pull it out and see what he could about extricating himself from this mess of a spell? At least the choice was there–he had almost no memory of the night before, ever since the spell, and Clyde the pig, had seized control over him and used him to corrupt the entire bar around them. He had been a willing accomplice of course, but he still hated the idea that, at the end of the day, it was the curses that manipulated him, not the other way around.

Gently, he inched his hulking form away from the pig’s warm body, letting his semi-hard cock slip out, bit by bit. Clyde snorted a time or two, but didn’t wake–he had to be exhausted too, after everything he’d been through. He was able to roll away–slowly, trying to not let his body disturb the mattress too much, and got off the bed, not at all adjusted to the body he had at the moment. The simple size of himself alone was enough to give him waves of vertigo–he was so damn far from the ground! Wide too, his shoulders were almost as broad as two smaller men, and the mere idea that he’d never be able to go somewhere without people gawking and staring at him, it was enough to send a shiver over his skin, his cock engorging to it’s full thirteen inch length, and he turned back to look at the pick, licking his bearded lips.

He must have weighed in somewhere a bit north of five hundred pounds at this point. He’d kicked the covers off, giving Jack quite the show of his new body–he didn’t remember all of those tattoos before, they must have showed up after the spell got control of him. They were everywhere, running all the way to his fingers, and up onto the pig’s hairless face. Fuck, his fucking face–he’d never seen that much metal on a body before, just there. He couldn’t get a good view of the pig’s junk, but he knew what was down there anyway–his mind just…supplied the image. It’s cock was nearly invisible, but it’s balls were so huge they formed an impossible bulge in the front of anything the pig wore, and it had to walk bowlegged, or just crawl–which the pig obviously preferred. Fucking whore, disgusting piece of shit pig, fuck, he’d teach that bitch another lesson or two–

Jack bit his lip, hard, to stop himself from storming back onto the bed and ramming his cock deep inside the pig’s loose hole. He couldn’t afford to get anymore lost in this, he’d wasted too much time already–there were appointments to keep, curses to cast. He retreated to the bedroom, walking as soft as he could, unable to believe how loud a simple footstep of his size twenty feet had suddenly become. He faced himself in the mirror, and recoiled–he’d known he was a brute, but even…that was more severe and extreme than he’d expected. He was quite a bit older, his hair and beard mostly grey, the skin lined with wrinkles–where skin was even visible. So much of his body was simple coated in hair. He ran his two, huge, scarred hands through his pelt, proud of how much of a man he was, what a beast he was, a fucking beast! Fuck yeah, should go fuck that pig again, show that bitch what a real man’s like–

He gripped the sink, hard enough to worry his new strength might just break it, and took a few deep breaths. Enough of this–he focused on himself–his real self–pushing back past the curse, stripping away the layers the spell had painted on him, a bit at a time. After twenty minutes, he took another look at himself–still too big, still to hairy, still too old, but more manageable at least. The urges, while there, were easier to control. It would be a few more days before he could recall himself well enough to put the curse completely behind him, but this would be enough to get rid of the pig–as long as it was still here, he’d never get out entirely.

He walked back into the bedroom and shook the pig awake. “Hey, you’ve had your fun, now you gotta get lost,” he said, keeping the gruff attitude going, figuring it might help him out here.

The pig yawned and lolled in bed, before it said, “I thought you were bigger–didn’t you like being bigger?” It reached out for jack’s now more modest cock, but he pulled away before he could touch it.

“I mean it, get out. We’re done here, and I have other work to get to.”

“But daddy,” the pig whined, “You don’t have to return me for hours, you know. It’s twenty four hours for a reason…Now where’s my big stupid daddy fucker? I know he’s in there somewhere…”

Jack felt his control start to weaken, his body suddenly expanding at the pig’s words. Damn, this pig was still strong. He had a feeling it wouldn’t have a hard time finding new men to abuse it every night, and every man it touched would probably end up as yet another brute at the bar. “No…No, I’m stronger than you, you don’t have the spell helping you now.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about daddy,” the pig said, wiggling it’s ass at him, “I have a hard time thinking before my first fuck of the day–better than coffee. Now get over here you stupid fuck, and plow me rough.”

One step forward. One more fuck couldn’t really hurt, right? Another step. Fuck, his cock was so fucking big, fucking nasty, fuck. He pressed the head to the hole and slipped in. “One more, then yer goin’ back, ya fuckin’ slut,” Jack snarled, as big as he’d been when he woke up. He knew he shouldn’t give in like this, but he did need a day off–besides, it was a 24 hour rental, and Jack would hate to waste something as good as that.

The Catcall Curse (Part 5)

“Come on now, don’t be scared–don’t you want to play with a nasty pig like me?”

Fuck, did he ever. Jack quivered, the energy building up inside of him. He’d never really been able to have that much control over, whatever power this was. All he’d ever really been able to do was point it in someone’s direction, give it an idea to go on, and then push–but it was moments like these that terrified him the most, because this was when he realized how little control he had. This would kill him one day, this energy–he could feel it–but at that moment, all he felt was life and vigor throbing in every bit of his body. There was too much light up close and too much dark at a distance, like his vision was scrubbing away everything that wasn’t this…this sexy, disgusting pig in front of him. But he had to fight it. This had already gone too far, no one deserved this. He could feel what the spell wanted, but it needed more from him to make it happen. If he could just get away before it got anything else out of him, then it would lose strength eventually. However, getting away was going to be…difficult.

“Well? Why are you just standing there? Go on, say something, talk dirty to me, tell me what a disgusting fucker I am, I want to hear it.”

“Please…I know you want this, but…but pick someone else, anyone else. You don’t want me,” Jack said, but even as he said it, he knew reason would fall deaf in this space. Curses spoke a twisted logic all their own–the pig had no time for this. But more than that, the spell was…angry. Not that spell could feel emotions, but it could sense him pushing against it, and it was more than ready to push back.

“Oh, but look at you daddy. You obviously came to play tonight. I love a man in uniform–are you here to punish me, officer?” The pig ran a finger down the front of Jack’s leather uniform shirt, tight against his body. Hadn’t…he been wearing something more casual, earlier? It was the spell–it was trying to weaken his resolve, and it was working. The pig started groping Jack’s cock through the tight leather breeches he was wearing, and he groaned, precum leaking into the gap between skin and leather. “Such a big tool, and you don’t want to use it? Am I not naughty enough for you, sir?”

“No–No, I’m not going to fall for this. I know what you’re trying to do.”

“What’s that, daddy?”

“You’re…it’s not going to work, you…stupid pig.”

“Fuck, I am stupid, aren’t I, sir?”

“So fucking stupid, no fucking brains at all. The only thing a pig like you is good for is as a couple of holes for big fucking cocks,” Jack said, his voice turning to a snarl. No, what was he saying? He shook his head, and forced himself to take a step back, ignoring how…hard his cock had gotten saying that. “No, I can fight this. Have some fucking will, Jack!” He said to himself.

The pig laughed, “You don’t have any fucking will daddy. Big fucking stupid brutes like you only know how to do two things–drool, and fuck. Look at that fucking body of yours, every bit of you stuffed with testosterone. No room in that skull for brains. You won’t have any fucking will when I’m done with you,” the pig said, it’s voice dropping into a lower register which made Jack shiver with terror and lust, but the words he said kept reverberating in him. He tried to fight, but he didn’t know how, his body expanding, coating itself with hair, every thought draining from his mind aside from a deep, endless desire to fuck. With one hairy forearm the brute wiped drool from it’s beard, and snarled.

“Fuckin’ pig, damn slut, bend the hell over, gotta fuckin’ plow you!”

He was so…big all of a sudden. Nothing felt right, or was he just clumsy? It didn’t fucking matter, not anymore. He slammed the pig down onto a table and yanked his cock free, ramming it deep, fucking like a beast, huffing and roaring, spittle flying everywhere, pushing his energy out now. Had to fucking punish this pig. This pig was nothing, this pig was property, this pig was worthless! Now there really was a vortex around them, the men surrounding them could feel the curse pulling at their lives, their will, their souls. The room started to bend and warp, shifting and changing into something entirely new, Jack powerless to stop it, powerless to do anything at all. The pig beneath him was shifting as well, changing into…into something. It was coming from him, some image, but he couldn’t keep it straight, all he knew was to fuck, to punish, to brutalize, to mark, to humiliate.

He exploded, at some point. He came, and the spell sucked the last bit of energy from him that it needed, and finally completed itself, the leather bar slowly coming back into focus, no man in the room unchanged at this point, but all Jack could do was keep fucking, and fucking, and fucking.

The Catcall Curse (Part 4)

In the dimness of the bar, it seemed to the pig that he’d been surrounded by a single wall of flesh, the lines and boundaries between men indiscernible from the shadows. The wall was in constant motion, the faces at the top shifting as men jostled for position at either end. No sooner would a cock slip into his mouth or ass, that someone else would push him away and take his place. There were…too many of them. Too many men. He couldn’t do this by himself, he couldn’t please all of these men. The spell needed outlets, and so, the singular mass around Clyde began to break apart, smaller bubbles forming.

The jeers would start out as benign, masculine posturing. One man would challenge the other’s prowess or form. But always one or two would be isolated, torn down further, unable to muster a returning challenge, finding the constant barrage of humiliation from the men now surrounding them to be…turning them on, not making them upset or angry. Soon, they were asking for for, begging the men to abuse them further, unable to keep their hands from their cocks, licking their lips, thinking about how good all of these men’s cocks would taste. From one pig came four. When four was too many, the spell made twelve pigs scattered throughout the room. Twelve was still too few–so it made twenty. All of them were slightly different–reflections of the particular crowd that shaped them and called them forth.

The spell tended to focus on deserving parties. Two of Clyde’s lieutenants, who had often been the crudest and loudest calling to the women, always competing with the old Clyde for the best comment of the day, found themselves surrounded by men, who began taunting them together:

“Look at you two, like a couple of faggots. Bet all you two brutes want is to have your cocks in each other’s faces!”

“Yeah, they might look like men, but you know they’ll moan like a couple a whores!”

The constant barrage of comments formed a constant static. They heard all of it, and yet couldn’t separate any one bit from the mass of sound, as they stroked and rubbed each other’s hair bellies, leaning in close for a deep kiss that only grew more intense as the crowd pulled in tighter around them. The two of them were still kissing, face to face, as the men forced them over a table and started working their asses over, first with their cocks, then with their fists, the two men’s construction gean becoming leather and rubber highlighted with red.

Others were pulled in by the spell because they showed an odd resistance. A younger man, who’d remained pressed to the wall–caught between a terror at what he was seeing urging him to flee, and a strange, external compulsion planting his feet and urging him to join in. The men noticed his reluctance, they began to break off, laughing, pointing and jeering at him:

“Hey little boy, don’t be shy, I know what that pretty ass of yours likes!”

“Got nothing to say? Good! Everyone knows a mouth like that isn’t meant for talking.”

One man stepped forward and started working the young man over, and the crowd surrounded them both, urging them both on, the daddy finding himself holding the leash of his cub’s collar, proud of how good his little boy was doing, his first night out. He was nervous, sure, but the catcalls were turning him on–everyone could see it–and after he’d drank a full load of his massive daddy’s cum, he was more than happy to be led around on his hands and knees, servicing anyone else his daddy liked.

Eventually, enough attention was diverted away from Clyde, that he discovered there was no one else around him–they had all lost interest, and gone off to look at the new whores forming their own orbits around the room. He was angry, frustrated. People were supposed to be looking at him, wanting him, disgusted by him, and he looked around until he laid eyes on the one person still paying him attention–a man he could just make out through the grimy window of the bar, hunkered down and staring at him. He beckoned him in, and saw the man’s eyes go wide.

Jack hadn’t wanted to be noticed. He’d been…happy observing the festivities inside the bar, content to avoid the full force of this incredibly savage curse as best he could. It wasn’t like it could do him any real damage–or at least he hoped it couldn’t. He hadn’t made one of these storms in a while, and he’d always been careful to keep his distance before. Now, he didn’t really have a choice, but to try and keep to the edge, and hope the wind wouldn’t pick him up with a sudden gust and whirl him in closer.

Then, Clyde saw him. Clyde didn’t just see him, however–it was more that Clyde knew him. The spell, through Clyde, recognized him, the power he had in him, and it was…hungry. It wanted to be bigger, it wanted to exact more justice. He was too close, this was too powerful, even for him. The pig…wanted him. He stood up, and fought his body moving him inside the bar, trying to protect himself from the power threatening to engluf him, but he felt helpless. That was, really, how curses worked–the harder you fought, the more they ensnared you until you couldn’t even fight anymore, until you couldn’t even imagine why anyone would fight this. But he had to fight, he had to. With all of his will, he froze himself a few yards inside, focusing his mind as best he could, pushing against the spell, trying to create a zone of protection for himself.

That, of course, couldn’t stop Clyde from approaching him. The pig could sense the power rolling off him, and he was so hungry for it. So hungry to be punished, desperate for it now. And this man, whoever he was–he could sense that no one would be able to punish him like he would, and with a laugh, he whispered in Jake’s ear with a voice not quite his own, “Come on now, don’t be scared–don’t you want to play with a nasty pig like me?”

Case Closed (Part 2)

Richard stayed quiet for a moment. Gathering his thoughts? Rehearsing his lies? Here’s what he said:

“Look, I know this is going to sound crazy, I know, but just…just listen. Last night…that…it was Meghan’s fault! She did this, I know she did.”

Ah, so the plot thickens, I thought to myself.

“Who’s Meghan?” I asked.

“Meghan is–was–my girlfriend. She found me after my psych 301 class yesterday and started screaming at me for cheating on her with someone else.”

“And were you?”

He waffled, before finally nodding, and kept talking, “Look, it was…an accident. But she told me, then, that she was going to get me back. She’d always been bragging that she came from this line of witches or something, and how she’s an expert at curses. This has to be what happened to me, it has to. I can’t think of any…any other reason why that would happen. Why they’d do that to me. Why I’d…change like that, like this,” he said, grabbing his hefty gut and giving it a jiggle. For some reason, watching him do that…I felt a tingle in my crotch, but I did my best to ignore it.

“Alright, and what exactly did they do to you? Your frat brothers, I mean. You were a member of the fraternity in question, right?”

Richard nodded. The two of us looked at each other, a bit doubtful, and he must have seen what we were thinking. “Look, I know…how I look right now, alright? But I didn’t look like this yesterday. I was buff, hell, I was one of the school’s football stars.”

“I don’t remember a Richard being announced at any of the games I’ve gone to,” I said.

“No, I mean, that’s all part of it. Look, I just…I just don’t want to sound like a crazy person.”

“And the two of us, we want to believe you, Richard,” Walker said, leaning over the table a bit, “But if we’re going to be able to help you, we have to understand what happened, and we’re going to need you to give us as much detail as possible,” I saw my partner’s…nose flare, suddenly. I don’t know why I noticed it at the time, but he seemed…eager, somehow. He always gets that way though, when he thinks he’s caught someone in a lie, but that just seemed so much more…hungry.

“I was…Meghan left me standing there in the hallway, and I went back to the frat house. Everything was fine that whole afternoon. The guys were all normal, I mean. Nothing changed until after dinner that evening, when I got back from the dining hall. Some of the guys were already drinking–I mean, we all drink on Friday, so that wasn’t strange, but…but some of the guys kept…giving me this strange look.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…they were looking at me, like I’d see them look at the sorority girls at our parties. I saw them looking at me like…like they wanted me. It was really weird, but they wanted me to drink with them, but after one beer I was already blasted. Marco…I think he might have drugged it, I know he has a stash of roofies in his room–and they started yanking my clothes off me. I punched…one of them, and they…they tied me down, over the table, and they started…”

The waterworks were flowing again, but at that point, I have to be honest, neither of us were buying it, but he wasn’t likely to give us a straight story–besides, something else had been bugging me. “So they tied you down. This morning you must have still been tied up, so how did you escape this morning, when you couldn’t all last night? I also don’t see any rope burn on your wrists, which we usually see from someone struggling.”

He was quiet–guilty quiet. “That’s…that’s the worst part. I didn’t want to tell you, not yet. I mean, at first, I didn’t want them to do it, I mean, I was fighting them, but for some reason, I…I started to enjoy it. When…when they untied me, so they could…could use my…mouth, I didn’t even run. I didn’t want to have sex with them, but I also couldn’t…stop myself. I just felt like…like such a pig! I didn’t even notice it happening at the time, but when I woke up today, and I…I was fat, somehow. I mean, yesterday I was a star football player, and now I look like I haven’t worked out a day in my life! How does something like that even happen?”

Easy answer–it doesn’t.

“Alright, so…you enjoyed it?” Walker asked.

“I don’t…I mean, I’m straight! I’m not gay. I didn’t want to like it, but it was like something in my head wouldn’t let me say no.”

“So you never said no?”

“No! I said no at first, but then, I…” he looked at each of us, and the look in his eyes–it’s that first moment they realize they’ve been caught. “I should go,” he said quickly, “I think I need to get out of here.”

He stood up, but I positioned myself between him in the door, “No, why don’t you go ahead and sit back down. We need to sort out what exactly happened last night, I think.” I stepped closer to him, and…and something shivered in me, some strange…desire. I couldn’t even really process it, but I shoved him back into his seat. I wanted answers, and this pig wasn’t going anywhere until I got them.

Case Closed (Part 1)

You see a little bit of everything, in our line of work, a lot of it that you want to unsee, too. Still, it takes a certain kind of person to be able to work sex crimes, and if I do say so myself, you won’t find two cops more dedicated than my partner, Detective Walker, and I. Still, this case, from the very beginning we knew it was going to be strange one, but let me go ahead and set the scene for you. It was a Saturday, which meant the precinct we work out of was pretty much empty aside from the usual weekend skeleton crew. Both of us had had a rough week, and were busy catching up on paperwork together. We’re both single in our early thirties–married to the job you might say, and dressed down a bit. Gotta look professional, you know? For the victims, but we’d discarded our coats and were just in our shirts and slacks, showing our suspenders, sleeves rolled up to our elbows, trying reports and shooting the shit, thinking about hitting the gym together after work. Both of us were in good shape–you had to be, to be a good cop, but beyond that, we were normal, middle Amercan guys, just trying to make the city better. That’s when an officer came in with Richard, claiming he’d been raped.

Now don’t get me wrong, I know guys can be raped, I’ve seen it plenty of times, but when Richard started telling us his story, well…it was a bit hard to believe. He was trying to claim that, the night before, he had been raped by every single fellow in his fraternity house, the whole night long–that he’d only managed to get out of the ropes holding him an hour ago, escape, and make his way here. It was obvious the guy had been through some kind of trauma, sure–that, or he had some of the best crocodile tears I’d ever seen working these cases. Towards the end of the story, he was sobbing so hard he could barely get his words out, so we parked him in one of the interrogation rooms to calm down, while the two of us discussed what he’d been telling us behind the observation mirror in the next room.

“So, what do you make of it? What he was saying about all that?” I asked, looking over at Walker.

“I don’t know, Bailey–something…something about him just rings a bit…off, you know?”

I did know, actually. Neither of us were new to sex crimes, and both of us had plenty of compassion for the victims we worked with routinely, but something about this guy, it was just…strange. I mean, the story he was trying to tell, about the entire fraternity raping him–what the hell? That was crazy all on its own. It wasn’t like I’d seen gang rapes before–hell, two years prior we’d busted a bunch of guys in one of those frats for drugging and gangraping a couple co-eds, but frats didn’t usually target men, you know? What would you have to do to get those kinds of alpha straight dudes mad at you enough for all of them to tie you down and rape you? There was something else to this story he wasn’t telling us, we both knew that. But then there was just the guy’s…I don’t know, there was something about him that just–look, it’s a detective’s instincts, you know? You can tell when someone is being straight with you, or when someone is trying to jerk you around, and both of us were feeling a bit jerked by him. At the time, I figured it might just be my exhaustion from the week.

We both fell quiet, looking at the guy. He was starting to calm down, and something else occurred to me–he didn’t quite fit the bill of a typical fraternity brother himself. Richard was considerably overweight–I mean, I might as well just say obese. A couple of chins, moobs, a bit gut stretching out his shirt. He had the right hair, he even had on the right, trendy clothes, but I knew that college, I knew what those frats were, and none of them were likely to let in someone looking like Richard. And yet, he’d been most distressed by the fact that he’d been raped by his “brothers and friends” as he’d called them. Was the guy delusional? Let’s just say I had plenty of alarm bells going off.

“Well, looks like he calmed down, at least.” Walker said, “How about we talk to him, see if he give us a more believable story.”

Obviously we’d come to the same conclusion–there was simply no way Richard was being totally straight with us. We went into the room together. Richard was sitting at the table. His eyes were still red from his crying earlier, but he was just looking…flat, at the moment. Stunned, maybe. Walker sat down across from him, but I stayed standing, by the door. This was our usual set up–normally when we had a victim come to us we’d try to find a more comfortable place for them to tell us what happened, but this guy–no, we needed to get the truth out of him, and if that meant making him a little uncomfortable, so be it.

“Feeling a bit better?” Walker asked.

Richard nodded, and let out a meek word that might have been, “Yeah.”

“Alright,” Walker said, leaning back in the chair, “Now, why don’t you tell us what happened last night. Start at the beginning.”

Jockstrap Curse (Sketch)

No one’s first spell is the greatest. A first spell is usually like first sex–awkward, not at all what you were expecting, and something you can’t take back. I was a wizard sure–but before I knew that I was a nerd, and gay, and the target of every bully in my high school. Tim was a linebacker on the varsity team, and he was as cruel as he was stupid. He cornered me after school one fateful day, dragged me into the locker room, and tried to force one of his unwashed jockstraps into my mouth–without knowing what I was doing, the world shifted between us, and suddenly it was him shoving the jockstrap into his mouth…and sucking on it…and…moaning, as he groped his cock. Needless to say, I didn’t want to be anywhere near this scene, and so I beat it as fast as my short legs could carry me.

I avoided him for days, as best I could, but he caught up to me eventually. But while I expected him to bash my head in, instead he was begging me to fix it, whatever I had done to him. I tried to tell him that I had no clue what he was talking about, but he refused to say anything. Just when I thought he might open up, Zane–another linebacker, and well regarded as one of the dirtier guys at school, found us–but instead of them both teaming up to bully me–he ordered Tim to come with him–and sure enough, Tim followed, though from his face he was none to happy about it, and more curious than anything else, I followed after them both. They went into the bathroom and took the handicap stall together–I peeped through the crack, and found myself watching Tim sucking and licking at Zane’s filthy jockstrap–crusted with piss and cum, Zane humiliating him the entire time, before fucking his throat. Zane left, leaving Tim in the stall, face coated with cum and tears in his eyes.

He told me, that at first, it had just been his jockstraps that he was obsessed with, but then, one practice, he’d caught a whiff of Jack’s–the quarterback–and immediately he’d been unable to resist him, begging his team captain to fuck his ass after practice–after worshiping his jockstrap of course. Jack had essentially owned him for a day–until he’d smelled Zane’s even filthier jock, and he’d started worshiping and serving him instead. He’d tried smelling Jack’s again, but suddenly it did nothing for him–he needed the filthiest jock he could find, and he didn’t know what to do. I, of course, didn’t know what to do either. I had no idea I was even a wizard at that point, but I promised him I’d try to do something. That was Friday–but come Monday, Tim had disappeared–he never returned to school again.

The whole town was worried–but clues were scarce. That said, I had more information than anyone else. I found out that Tim held down a part time job working at a gas station frequented by truckers–and I had a sneaking suspicion as to what might have happened to him, but who would believe me? Even if they believed me, what good could they do? I thought about telling the police, but before I could, the guild intervened and took me in for proper training–still, I always wondered what had happened to him. So when I graduated, I tracked him down with the intention of freeing him from the curse I had never meant to cast in the first place.

Now, keep in mind that I might look thirty, but I was training for close to twenty years. Finding Tim was still easier than I had expected–first spells always left a rather strong trail through the world, if you knew what to look for, and so I traced his path. I found the trucker–now in his sixties–he had rode off with that weekend, unable to help himself. After that, he ended up living at a small truck stop diner a few states over for a while, enslaved to the previous owner and chef, before someone even filthier picked him up–another trucker, who he remained with for a quite a few years, before a chance run in at a biker bar brought me to his current home.

A single wide trailer which looked like it had never been cleaned. The man who owned him was unemployed, but made a small living off running drugs with a local motorcycle gang. Tim hadn’t left the trailer in years, by that point. Even if there was someone filthier than the biker, it was doubtful he would ever have a chance to find them and escape. But I also discovered that with each subsequent owner, the spell had grown stronger–eroding more and more of Tim’s mind away until serving jockstraps–and his owner’s cock, was all he could think about. He was chained in the small bathroom beside the toilet, surrounded by a pile of filthy laundry, soaked in piss, that served as his bed. He seemed to be well fed, at least, judging by how large he was–if I had to guess, around three hundred and fifty pounds–his hair and beard long and unwashed. Still, a promise was a promise–I tried to free him, only to discover that this new mind had no interest in being free. I was at least five years too late. I can’t say he didn’t deserve some of what happened to him–but…well, that’s the way curses work, I suppose. Now, are you going to cooperate, or would you like to see what I can do to you now that I know what I’m doing?

Father’s Rules (Part 1)

Blake had never met his father–he’d abandoned him and his mother when he was just a kid. When his mother died of cancer, he certainly hadn’t expected his dad to take him in, but when the state found him and gave him little choice, the two were forced to co-exist. Blake was a sixteen year old rebel, with no interest in authority. His father was a burly, hairy lower class slob, holding down a construction job when he wasn’t too drunk to go to work. Their first few days together, unsurprisingly, were difficult. Saul–his father–refused to make room for him in the small one bedroom apartment he kept downtown, forcing Blake to sleep on the couch. Blake refused to accept any sort of authority, and when his dad brought home a burly coworker one night for a fuck, he was disgusted and stormed out of the place after screaming at Saul, calling him a “disgusting faggot,” and spitting in his face. He stayed away for several days, and only relented to returning home when a police officer picked him up as a runaway and took him back against his will. Saul was waiting, and they sat down to talk some of this out.

Much to Blake’s anger, Saul had no real interest giving any sort of ground–in fact, Saul told him that if Blake wanted to live with him, then it was going to be on his terms, under his rules. Blake told him that if he was grown up, he’d be out of there immediately, but since he wasn’t eighteen, then he didn’t have much of a choice. Saul leaned back on the couch. He confessed that when he’d knocked Blake’s mother up as a teenager, his father had been furious–and he decided that Blake would just have to see what it meant to live by his rules. He’d still be living by them if his dad hadn’t died the year before.

Blake just narrowed his eyes, and did some math. As a teenager? But his dad was at least in his fifties, and Blake was a teenager. How did that even make sense? Saul just got up, picked up a strange looking piece of parchment and pinned it to the wall by the front door of the apartment. Something was already written on it–a header in some fancy calligraphy which simply said, “Father’s Rules.” The rest of the page was blank. Saul leered at him, and then said to the paper, “When at home, my son can only wear his underwear.”

As he watched, Blake say the words appear on the parchment, and immediately after he stood up, his hands stripping off his clothes until he had on nothing but his boxers. “What the fuck, you fucking pervert!” he shouted at him, and Saul laughed.

“My son must jack off at least fifteen times a day. He can only cum while looking at gay porn featuring older hairy men, or while watching his father jack off or have sex with another man.”

“You’re fucking sick.”

Saul chuckled, “You’re in my house now, son,” Saul said, “I swore that I’d never put someone through what my dad did to me, but you know what? Fuck it. Because you’re a fucking brat, and someone needs to teach you a fucking lesson, and who better than your dad?”

“You can’t make me, I’ll just fucking leave!”

Saul turned to the list, “My son can’t leave home without my explicit permission.”

Blake pushed past him, but his hand couldn’t grab the knob for some reason. Saul laughed, pushed Blake back, and said, “I’m going out–see you in a few hours. You might want to get started, or you aren’t going to be sleeping tonight, son–I got plenty of old mags you can use under my bed, since I don’t have a computer.”

Blake spent a few more minutes trying to get out of the apartment, and trying to ignore his rock hard cock. Finally he started stroking himself, but just like the rule said, he found it impossible to shoot–he was only rubbing himself raw trying to think about women. Finally he relented, dug around under his father’s filthy bed and found a box full of gay porno mags. Most of them were well used–their pages crinkled with who knew how many of his father’s loads, but looking at the burly, hairy, fat men in the magazines let him finally start pumping out load after load of cum–shooting on his father’s bed and pillows out of spite. After ten or so loads, his arms aching, he heard the door to the apartment open, his father laughing drunkenly with some other guy. Terrified that someone might see him, he fled his father’s room, clutching a magazine and dashed to the bathroom, but the more he listened to his dad and the man talk and grunt outside the door, the harder he got, and the more curious he became.

Unsure if he could stop himself or not, he opened the door and slipped out into the hall. Saul had left his door open–his dad was fucking some other man on the bed, a man as fat and hairy as the men Blake had been staring at all evening, and he wrapped his hand around his cock and continued.

He shot twice before the man heard him, looked over and saw Blake in the doorway, letting out a yell.

“What the fuck! Who the fuck’s the kid?”

Saul looked over, “Oh, sorry. That’s my son–he’s a bit of a pervert. He loves watching me fuck.”

“That’s fucking disgusting,” the man said, “I’m getting out of here!”

He grabbed his clothes and pushed passed Blake on his way to the front door, shooting him a look of disgust Blake had never imagined might be directed his direction in his life. He just sat in the hallway, his dad padding to the doorway, stroking his still hard cock, “Now who’s the pervert, son?”

“F-Fuck you.” His eyes were locked his his father’s cock, and he jacked off again, watching his dad stroke himself off as well.

“Have a good night son,” Saul said, and stepped back into the bedroom, “Hope you won’t be up too much longer now–we have quite a few more rules to discuss in the morning.”

“Bloody Mary, Candyman–you know–you kids still do that stuff, when you’re hanging out? Or are you too busy with your video games and shit like that for an old fashioned dare and scare?” Uncle Harry laughed, and slugged back some more beer, and I took another drink too. Harry was pretty much to coolest uncle–all my friends were jealous that he let me drink beer and smoke a cigar with him when my parents were out of town for vacations. He was pretty cool, but he was also a bit of a creep. He’d never done anything with me, but I was pretty sure he was gay. I mean, I don’t have anything against gay guys, right? He was more creepy because he was always going on about this occult and magic shit, and ghosts and curses and whatever. A real horror movie buff too. He had–he claimed–real movie props from when he used to work in Hollywood or whatever. Still, I liked movies, and a good slasher was always fun. We’d usually watch some horror film and go to bed late, but more than once he’d pranked me pretty well afterwards.

“Candyman–that’s that mirror movie, right? We watched that once.”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“I don’t think any of my friends at school would even know what that is.”

My uncle leaned back, throwing out his gut like he always did when he was getting ready to ‘explain shit to his nephew’. “Well, we always used to do this as kids, light a candle, turn out the lights, and then say ‘Bloody Mary’ three times, and the devil appears behind you. But I saw the other day that the reason it works is because the brain can’t stane at it’s own reflection for very long without getting bored, and it just starts making shit up to entertain itself. Fucked up, right?”

“Yeah, real fucked up. Can I get another beer?”

Harry handed me another can of beer, and the subject drifted off for a bit until we were both drunker, and then he brought up his challenge. “Hey, you know, I got this big mirror from an old movie set down in the basement. How about this–you sit down there, in the dark, for twenty minutes–no, here’s a better idea. You sit down there as long as you want–and I’ll pay you, say a two bucks a minute that you stay down there, staring at the mirror.”

“How do you know I’ll keep staring?”

“Honor system, I’m a nice guy–and you’re too honest.”

I was curious, I admit it. So we went down–everything in the basement was covered with sheets, and he put a chair down there, and uncovered the wide, ornate mirror. I sat down, he turned off the lights and shut the door. He made me give him my phone so I wouldn’t be tempted to cheat. The basement wasn’t perfect dark–there was some light from outside through the garden level windows, just enough that I could just make myself out in the glass mirror.

The first few minutes were fine, just me staring. My eyes adjusted to the darkness, and I could make myself out better and better each time, and then I saw a…figure, materialize behind me, something strange and ghostly, and I spun around, but there was nothing there. I tried to tell myself that there was nothing, that it was just my eyes, but I looked back at the mirror and there it was again, right behind me, and a hand, a fucking hand grazed my cheek, and I swear I felt it, and I shut my eyes, and kept them shut, and tried not to imagine hands groping over me, but they were there, I was sure of it, but I stayed silent–but only because when I tried to scream, there was a chill in my lungs, and I couldn’t get anything out. I was frozen, I was frozen, and my eyes were creaking open again. And it was there, still there in the mirror, staring at me, and the figment looked like it was laughing, and then it faded away into nothing.

The terror eased up slowly, and I laughed at myself for being afraid at all. But my reflection was still strange, and that was when I realized that the mirror had become a window. I couldn’t move, I was tied to myself in the room, and that figment was still there, I could see it inside of myself, in my eyes, and it lifted my arm and waved at me in the dark, with me, it’s reflection, helplessly following. Then, it unzipped my pants, and it pulled out my cock, and started jacking off, and I followed it’s motions, unable to stop. the scene I was looking at, it was changing again. It was changing, and I was changing too. I looked…older, suddenly, older and more muscular. Hairier, my head shaved, a huge bushy beard. I lost myself in the sudden strangeness, I was so horny, the cian around my neck so heavy, the leather around my hard muscles so tight, and I was cumming, fuck, I was so horny, cumming and panting and staring at myself, and then the light flicked on.

“So, how’d my little demon do?” my uncle said, “You have fun with my nephew like we agreed?”

I was still jacking off, but on the right side of the mirror. The figment was still in the glass, staring at me. My master came down, ran his hands my physique, obviously pleased, and let me suck his cock. He was satisfied, and released the demon from bondage into the nether, and I stayed with him, his muscular cigar bear slave nephew, for the rest of my life.

***

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Jay and Tim were big guys, and they weren’t afraid to show it off, at the beach or anywhere else. Part of the reason they weren’t concerned, was because if anybody made fun of them…well, there were usually consequences. Ever since they’d ended up on the strange side of a curse back in college, anytime someone insulted them, well, the words tended to rebound back on the insulter in the worst way possible.

They were lounging on the beach, enjoying each other’s large company with a hand on each other’s guts, when they heard a high pitched whistle followed by a loud “Soooey!” Jay looked over and saw a group of jocks laughing their ass off, and the middle one, a big burly guy with a good amount of stubble, shouted “Sooooey!” again, and “Hey piggy piggy!”

“I’d be quiet and apologize if I were you,” Jay shouted at him across the beach.

“Jay, you’re such an asshole,” Tim muttered.

“Oh yeah? Or what, you’ll cry like a big baby?” the jock shouted and laughed, but Jay just smirked as the jock’s swimsuit shimmered and turned into a thick padded diaper, and the jock’s friends stopped laughing and just stared, until he noticed and shouted a loud, “What the fuck!”

“Told you…” Jay said, chuckling, and watched the jock stomp over to them across the beach, but he froze on the way over, probably because he realized he was pissing or shitting his diapers–or both.

A bit more anxious now, he hurried over to where Jay was laying and said, “What the fuck *grunt* did you do?”

Jay was looking at the jock as he walked, or rather, began waddling over, his form filling in with fat. “I did warn you,” he said, “Though I gotta say, you look damn fine with a couple extra hundred pounds.”

The jock, or the guy who was a jock, looked down at himself and nearly had a heart attack when he say how fat he was.

“Jay, come on, give the guy a break,” Tim said, “He’s just an idiot kid.”

“Alright–here’s the deal piggy,” Jay said, “You have to do everything I say for the next twenty four hours, and you’ll get your body back. And you’d better be nice, or else I might not change you back at all.”

“Shut the *snort* up you stupid faggot! Now tell me…tell me what ya did to me, *grunt* why my head feel so *oink” funny…”

“I think I’m going to take my little piggy up to the hotel room for a little while,” Jay said, and Tim sighed.

“Just clean up after him–I don’t want a bit mess when I get up there in a few hours.”

“Yes dear,” Jay said, rolling his eyes, and twiddling the pig jock’s fat nipple, “Come on piglet, I got just the hood for you to wear for the next day.”

“*grunt* You’re…fuckin’ hot…” the jock said and then stumbled off after the chub for a day of fun he’d never forget.

(This hot story was submitted by Donald T. Oolong.)

After college, Aaron decided to see the country. While in Tennessee, he heard the legend of the Old Man of the Smokies. Victim to a curse, the Old Man was trapped in a certain hollow, seeking freedom through passing the curse to someone else. There was a goofy T-shirt for sale in one of the shops reading I ESCAPED OLD MAN SMOKEY with a Tom-and-Jerry-style drawing of a fat bearded redneck chasing after younger man looking over his shoulder in cartoonish terror. Aaron bought one as a memento, and decided to go on an excursion. Folklore interested him, and he wanted to check this out for himself.

Early that evening, Aaron set up camp by a stream. No weird Old Man anywhere (of course), but it was still beautiful. He hung his clothes out to dry and read in the tent, playing with his cock absently. God, why was he suddenly so horny? He was fully hard when he noticed the Old Man outside, naked with his own hard cock jutting from beneath the expanse of a considerable belly.

“Hooo-wee! Well ain’t you a handsome devil?” The old man grinned mischievously at Aaron.

He couldn’t understand why he wasn’t terrified when the Old Man entered. Aaron kissed him, nervously at first, until he realized (am I gay?) the Old Man was the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. They rolled about the tent floor, groping at one another, kissing, grinding their cocks until Aaron lifted his legs into the air and felt the Old Man’s cockhead pressing against his ass. It hurt the first time, less so the second. The third was bliss. He fell asleep in the Old Man’s soft yet sturdy arms, whiskers bristling against his neck, the air thick with the scent of semen and the sound of rushing water.

“Mornin’ gramps. Have fun last night?”

Aaron awoke to the oddly familiar grin of fuzzy-faced young man with long red hair leaning over him. The ache in his ass brought back memories of before, but this man was considerably skinnier. And younger. Aaron sat up, noticing an unfamiliar shifting as the fat that blossomed on his muscular frame overnight jiggled. “No!” His voice sounded different too. He grabbed desperately for the hippyish young man.

The hippie playfully slapped his hand away “No tag backs! I’m granted safe passage. It’s cool, the rules will come naturally to you. You could find a guy tonight, tomorrow or…hey, is Nixon still president?” Aaron shook his head, and a look of sadness crossed the hippie’s features. “How long has it been?”

Aaron sat naked by the stream, watching the hippie wade toward the other bank, clad in the now-vintage clothing that had appeared outside the tent. Aaron’s clothes were gone, replaced by a pair of large denim overalls. He somehow knew that he couldn’t cross that far bank. Not yet, at least. Bathing in the stream, he chuckled bitterly “First I gotta escape Old Man Smokey.” He’d earn that shirt back.