Musky Poppers

“Yeah, don’t bother with any of that pesky thinkin’ boy, just take another hit. I know how much you like the smell of this one. Here, let me just hole that nose for ya….yeah, real good snort, piggy boy, fuck! Now get back on that cock.”

“Stupid fuck–should be careful who’s drugs you borrow, boy. These poppers a mine are real fuckin’ powerful. In fact, you might recognize the stink of ‘em at this point, with that nose of yours pressed in my sweaty bush. Yeah–it’s me. My fuckin’ stink, all intense and shit. So fuckin’ intense, it short circuits stupid little boys like you, ‘n ya start doin’ everything I say.”

“I mean, I ain’t any real looker–at least, not if you ain’t lookin’ fer a roughneck! My musk’s always been real strong too, most guys hate it, but once they get a nice long whiff of it, well, they tend to stick around. They just can’t help it.”

“That brain of yours will turn back on in a few more hours, once I’ve got ya good ‘n broken in. Course, ya ain’t never gonna be smart like ya were! Nah, that head a yers is takin’ a real beatin’ right now, I can promise ya that. Ya also ain’t gonna be able tah go without smellin’ mah stinkin’ body fer more ‘n an hour or so–ya’ll probably try tah leave, but ya’ll come crawlin’ back, like they all do eventually. Sure, I’ll git bored a ya eventually, but you…maybe not for a while. Yer pretty fuckin’ cute, I gotta say.”

“Yeah, you…I’m gonna like keepin’ you real close, boy. Maybe get you a job with me, in the trash truck–all day, you’ll be smellin’ my pits, suckin’ my cock–have you smellin’ real filthy soon enough. Git tah know yer musk as well as I know mine, put some more tattoos on ya, put some more fat on that frame, grow out that beard.”

“Still, daddy gets tired a every boy eventually. Few years down the road, I’ll sell ya off tah some other stinky son of a bitch. He ain’t never gonna be enough fer ya, but ya’ll live. Course, if yer real good, I’ll help ya make some poppers a yer own, ‘n ya can make yerself a boy–but we’ll have tah see, won’t we? Yeah, here it comes boy–first taste a daddy’s cum. First taste of many, trust me.”

Think Bit To Be Big (2 of 2)

This isn’t me. This isn’t me. I have to focus on that, I have to remember that. If I can just…get out of here, if I can just focus on that, and leave without…without any of them suspecting anything, maybe I can get away.

How long have I been coming here? Six months? This seems impossible–there’s just…just no way, I could look like this, not in that short amount of time. I’m a fuckin’ beast! Yeah, fuck, look at those fuckin’ meaty ass thighs on me–gotta get back out there, it’s fuckin’ leg day, ‘n I gotta get big!

No! Fuck, I almost went out there again, but I have…to stay in here. Collect myself, calm down, and focus. I’m not like this. I’m not one of them. God, I can’t believe I’m wearing fucking camo shorts, like some fucking hick or something. The goatee doesn’t help either or the hat. And…and does this shirt say West Virginia? I’m not…from West Virginia, am I? But why do I…fuck, everything’s so hazy in my head, I don’t know who I am.

“Ford? Bro? Everything all right in here?”

Fuck, it’s fucking Mike!

“I saw you out on the floor. Looked like you were thinking a bit, Ford. You know how we feel about you all thinking here. What are we supposed to think about, Ford?”

“Think Big! Be Big!”

Oh fuck, I just said that out loud, didn’t I?

He opens the door, and he’s blocking the entire frame of the bathroom stall, where I sought refuge. He’s bigger than all of us, but he’s fucking smart as hell too. He’s the one who does this to us, who…changes us. Warps us around his little fantasies and desires.

“There you are, Ford. Yeah, you’re thinking, aren’t you? Come on you stupid hick, you know you’re shit brain isn’t good for thinking.”

Fight it, gotta fight him, “Ya fucker, I ain’t no fuckin’ hick, yer fuckin’…ya did somethin’ tah me, tah all a us.”

Oh fuck, he’s got his fucking hand on my cock–is…isn’t even…bigger? Fuck, I think it is, ‘n look at that fuckin; foreskin on my damn shaft, fuck! Yeah, that there, that’s a real fine piece a redneck meat. Gonna fuckin’ stroke that fucker off, that big thing, big…big, yeah, think big, like Mike always says. Think big, ‘n be big…yeah Mike’s gonna feed me that cock a his, then it’s back tah fuckin’ leg day, just like everythin’s supposed tah be.

The Power of Society (Part 7)

“Come on Brodie–just come lift with us! Classes aren’t for fucking jocks,” his two frat brothers guffawed and laughed–that was about as close anyone in the house got to a joke these days. After all, Jocks weren’t really known for their subtlety. Well, except for Brodie, and a few others. Against the orders of the study, Brodie still showered himself down at nights, when no one else was awake, and that helped him keep his mind clear enough that he could still go to a couple of classes on campus, even if he was nearly failing both of them. The professors were patronizing–they knew he didn’t really belong there as much as Brodie did, but they also found his attempt charming, and tolerated it. Brodie ignored his bros, and left the frat house, heading for campus–it wasn’t until after a few blocks that he felt warmth in the pouch of his constantly wet uniform, and realized he was pissing himself in the middle of the sidewalk–but the piss streaming out wasn’t what unnerved him–it was that he had completely forgotten to put anything else on over his uniform.

He was standing on the sidewalk in broad daylight, wearing nothing but his yellow and brown, cum and piss stained uniform, cock bulging in the pouch, his muscular, dirty, hairy ass hanging out for everyone to see…but that was normal, wasn’t it? He entertained the thought of heading back to campus and putting on some other clothes–or at least a pair of shoes–but that was ridiculous–the house didn’t have any other clothes. Jocks didn’t get to wear clothes–what did he think he was…a normal person? He felt frozen there, on the sidewalk, not really certain how to take what was happening. He’d worn clothes yesterday, hadn’t he? When he’d gone to class? Or had he? It was hard to focus, with the stench of his piss wafting up from the pavement, and he kept walking before he gave in and started lapping at the puddle. It would be delicious, of course, but if he got distracted he’d never make it to class on time.

He kept going, crossing the road onto campus proper and headed for his campus building. He saw, up ahead, a crowd gathering around a bench–some Nerd was making a scene on the bench. He took a different path, wanting to avoid it. Nerds could be…distracting, for a Jock like him, and that one looked…especially dirty.

“What the fuck is up with that Jock?” he heard someone say, as he walked, “They don’t usually walk like that do they?”

“Yeah, it’s kind of weird–almost looks like a human or something, when it does that.”

God, what was he doing, Brodie asked himself. He knew better than that. He hunched forward and crouched down a bit, so his hands were on the ground and kept walking. He was aware that this position should be…very uncomfortable, if not impossible…but something odd had happened to his body. It was like his legs were shorter–squat and thick–and his arms had lengthened. He seemed almost simian, as he walked, and the copious amount of hair coating his body didn’t help. Still, he felt less naked, with his pelt on. He always felt sorry for swimmers, and the shaving and waxing they had to put up with. So much easier just being a dumb football jock like he was.

He was almost to the building where the class was being taught, when something flying through the air caught his eye. He dropped his books to the ground in a heap and launched after it, tongue hanging out of his mouth, every concern in him pushed aside. A thing was in the air! A ball? No–no, a frisbee! Brodie fucking loved frisbee! He launched himself into the air–a sense of vertigo washing over him when he saw how…high his squat legs could propel him–and intercepted the disk in the air, grabbing it with a sound something between a howl and cheer, and landed on the ground with a roll. Some focus returned to him, and looking around, he realized he’d interrupted a game of catch being played by three normal guys on the quad, and he felt a bit embarrassed.

“God, fucking Jocks,” one of them said.

“Hey, be nice! It’s not like they can help it.”

He loped over, holding the frisbee in his mouth, and handed it to one of the men, who tousled his hair like a kid, or a dog…and Brodie felt a surge of pride.

“Throw!” he said, his voice gutteral, almost a growl. “Throw again! Brodie catch! Brodie good catcher. Brodie play football.”

The guy rolled his eyes, “Hey guys, the jock wants to play.”

“Of course he fucking does.”

“Throw!” Brodie said, jumping up and down, an odd glee and exuberance filling his chest. “Throw for Brodie!”

“He’s not going to stop, is he?”

“How about keep away?” one of them suggested, and the other’s agreed. So the three of them began throwing the frisbee between them with Brodie in the middle, chasing after the disk like a pup, intercepting it often…and sometimes letting it go, because he liked seeing the people happy. Jocks, after all, wanted to make men happy, right?”

They stopped after an hour. Brodie hadn’t thought about his class once, and to thank the men for letting him play with them, he blew them all in sequence, and drank down their piss on the quad. No one really batted an eye at that–after all, Jocks could be a bit…forceful if the didn’t get their way. In the end, Brodie heard the four o’clock chime ring from the bell tower, said a hasty goodbye, and took off in the direction of the fieldhouse. Practice started at four fifteen, after all, and Brodie didn’t want to be late. Brodie wanted to play football! Maybe tomorrow, those guys would be playing frisbee again. He liked frisbee too, and their cum had been delicious as well. Maybe, if he was extra good tomorrow, they’d fuck his dirty ass too.

The End for now…

The Power of Society (Part 5)

And with those two visits, Professor’s Larson study was set in motion. He returned to his home a few blocks away from campus, and spent a few hours working out his sexual energy on two of his butlers down in the dungeon. warping the minds of the young men on campus always got him…riled up. He’d wanted to abuse the men then and there, but for the purposes of his research, it was best if he retained an appearance of objectivity and distance from his latest subjects. When he was feeling better, he left the two servants to tend to one another’s wounds, dressed himself in his house leathers, and ascended to his study–where he found that the campus maintenance crew had already installed the cameras in both houses. He had live feeds in every room–some from multiple angles–to make sure he wouldn’t miss anything which might be relevant to his research program.

He took off his watch and placed it on the charging system. He’d improved the power source quite a bit over the last year, but two big groups like that in one evening had nearly drained the device dry. Since inventing it, he’d used it almost exclusively on individuals–but it was time to set his sights on…bigger targets. It was clear that belief and persuasion had social elements, but what he wanted to test, was whether fostering a set of beliefs in a social group like these two frats could instigate and force changes without his explicit direction–and without the presence of the watch. In other words, was it their own belief which changed them, or was it the direct presence of the sonic waves itself, coupled with the belief? More importantly, would the effects fade over time, without further interference from him? He was testing the very limits of his power, and observing the feeds from both houses that evening, he couldn’t have been happier with the results.

It was clear that his meetings with both houses had created two camps. First, were what he called the “early adopters”–the men who had taken to his suggestions readily, and had already begun to change by the time he’d finished. The others were all “deniers”–those who, despite believing him, still tried to insist that what he’d said wasn’t true. In both houses, the early adopters were winning handily. The nerds, with their new tendency to drag one another downward, had banded together and isolated several deniers and were busy “convincing” them of the certainty of what the professor had said. Much to his surprise, the changes forced on the deniers, as they came to believe, were as rapid and substantial as those he could cause with the watch–clearly then, it was only the subject’s belief that mattered, or perhaps merely being subjected to the sound was enough to open the capacity for these changes. Either case was troubling to him–it signaled that he might not be as in control as he thought.

The jocks had no real collective drive–rather, each individual jock was battling their own internal…monster. The early adopters gave in readily, frotting, pissing and working out mindlessly all night, while the deniers cloistered themselves away, fighting–though several found the growing orgy to tempting, and gave in before the night was through. It seemed then, that internal and external pressure had similar levels of effect on behavior. So far, his hypotheses were being confirmed. He would wait a month, and see how things developed.

After around three weeks, each house settled down into what Harold considered a new status quo. In each house, everyone had been convinced of the certainty of the professor’s beliefs. None of the “nerds” in the house weighed under 300 pounds, and several of the early adopters were closer to 600. The house was a wreck, and TV’s were in every room–some dedicated to video games, others playing a near constant stream of gay porn. The nerds largely settled down and rarely moved, aside from getting up to order more food for the house and devour what was there. That said, while they all believed what Harold wanted them to…not all of them responded in the same way. While most gave into their sloth, a small minority maintained a certain drive to escape their fate. They continued going to class, would leave the house a few times a day for fresh air, and a few even tried to maintain a bit of hygiene and self-care. He would have expected these to come from the deniers, but in fact, the six or seven who strived for more were about evenly split between the two groups.

A similar situation had developed over with the jocks next door. All of them knew, for a fact, that deep inside them resided a jock with the basest of impulses–driven only by desires for filth, sexual stimulation, and physical exertion. Unlike with the nerds, however, Harold had made no effort to keep the jocks in the house. They continued their athletic activities, though most ceased going to class, and the school saw a greater success from their teams that month. Harold attributed it to the loss of ego for the jocks in the house, coupled with an innate desire to fight and compete. But like the nerds, there were those who resisted. They would sneak showers at night, violating the professor’s rules. They continued going to class, despite the fact that their reduced mental capacities made the attempt laughable. But they pushed on all the same. The question then, was what to do about these two groups of resistors.

Of course, Harold could simply force them to obey him, but that wasn’t the point of the study, now as it? He wanted to see the power of society at work. No–he’d done enough focusing on ingroups–it was time to test something else he had been developing. He’d see how well these young men could resist, after Harold turned the rest of campus against them. All over campus, he had installed speakers which could both transmit the frequency of belief, as well as directives. He’d already tested the device before, and it had worked surprisingly well–since most men of campus now preferred to go shirtless, even in winter. He began planning his next move, and a few days later, the entire campus had a few new beliefs regarding Nerds and Jocks, which he was excited to witness for himself.

The Power of Society (Part 2)

“I can’t have this thing, I have to trim this,” Edwin was muttering to himself, “No one respects a neckbeard…”

“That is true,” Harold said, “No one would ever respect someone with something like that on their face. You know that, but you haven’t trimmed it in years. That means, you either like it, or you’re too lazy to care. I think…it’s probably both.” Ed tried to interject, but Harold kept talking over him. “You’re too lazy to care about a lot of things. Too lazy to care about haircuts or styling that mop of yours. Too lazy to care about dressing well–all you wear are t-shirts and cargo shorts–usually for weeks on end. Too lazy to care about anything beyond all that nasty gay porn you watch, at least, when you aren’t playing video games or watching stupid TV shows. Too lazy to care about your figure, since all you eat is fatty junk food all the time. That about sums it up, right, nerd? You are a dirty gay nerd, aren’t you Ed?”

The room was still, unable to believe what they’d just witnessed. The clean cut Edwin who’d been standing before them a minute before was gone, replaced by Ed. His suit was replaced by an ill fitting black tee riding up, showing off his gut where it spilled out the bottom, hanging down over his cargo shorts. His hair had grown out long, and looked as greasy and unkempt as his beard. Ed was trying to talk, trying to figure out what to say, what he could possibly say to defend himself in front of the entire house.

“Go on Ed, just admit it. We can all see what you are,” Harold said.

“I…I’m a dirty…gay nerd…” he muttered, suddenly embarrassed to be standing up in front of this many people. He hated attention, he hated being seen. He usually just spent his day holed up in his room, with his porn and video games, where he belonged.

“That’s right Ed. That’s exactly what you are. But like I said before, just because you’re a nerd, doesn’t mean you’re smart, right?”

“I mean, sure, I suppose.”

“Because you aren’t very smart, are you Ed? How could you be, when all you do all day is jack off, stuff your face with food, and play video games? You know, just like the rest of you,” Harold added, looking out at the rest of the room. That was enough for a couple of them scattered around to shift, their clothes morphing into equally filthy versions of Ed’s, beards and hair exploding out, as their waistlines did as well. Most of the young men, however, had enough sense to resist a bit, as Harold had expected. “That’s not me. I’m not like that,” one of them said, and several others voiced their agreement. “We’re going places. Ed’s just a fucking loser. None of us want to be like him.”

“But he’s your fraternity president, isn’t he? Why would you elect someone like him to represent him, if you don’t consider him to be representative of your entire house?” A few others lost it, shifting along, gazing down, confused at their new bodies, unable to believe what had happened, unable to remember themselves being anything other than fat, dirty slobs. “In fact–he’s probably the most well adjusted among you, right? The only one of you with any sort of charisma, to be willing to step up and lead a group of outcasts, loners, and losers like you all are. You should all be thanking him, I think.” That was enough to affect them all, at least a little. Only three or four had gone as far as Ed, but there wasn’t a single young man left in the room without stubble, or a potbelly, or wearing anything nice. “Still, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by your denial–none of you really want to believe that you’re as bad as Ed here. You’re all scared of embracing yourselves, but deep down, you all know the truth, even if you refuse to admit it right now. But more than that, you hate the idea of any one of you rising up and being better than the rest of you, don’t you? That’s why you spend so much time ridiculing one another, dragging each other through the dirt, and…reinforcing each other’s worst instincts.”

“I don’t…know what you mean,” one of them said.

“That’s why you all force each other to watch porn together, masturbating on one another, coating each other’s clothes in your cum. That’s why you tie each other down and force feed each other until you can’t eat another bite. That’s why you broke all the washers and dryers down in the basement. Because if even one of you is exceptional, then that means that the rest of you all are nothing but complete losers. But if you all fail, then there’s nothing you could have done right? You don’t have to feel any shame about the way you want to live your lives.”

Harold could see the suspicion in each of their eyes, as they looked about at one another–the one’s further gone particularly eyeing the one’s who had so far managed to better resist the professor’s persuasions. “Now, I think I’ll take my leave. A work crew will come in soon to install cameras throughout the house, but none of you will even notice, or behave like you’re being watched. You will forget the details of this meeting, but remain convinced of the truths we’ve uncovered together. That all of you are dirty, faggot nerds–even if some of you won’t admit it–and if even one of you succeeds, then the others will all know nothing but shame for the rest of their lives. Alright–now, I have another meeting I must get to, but the lot of you can entertain yourselves, I imagine. Have a good evening!”

Harold left the house, leaving the frat to itself. Most of the young men retreated to their rooms, trying to deny their new beliefs, but finding them already rooted deep in their cores. Later that evening, Ed and another neckbeard dragged Louis, who had remained thin through the professor’s lecture, down to the kitchen, tied him to the table and force fed him for hours, until he was close to 400 pounds. Others pinned their housemates, who were struggling to study and resist their new desires, to the couch while they played porn, jacking off in their hair and on their clothes until they, too, no longer wanted to stop. In all, a wonderful success for the professor’s latest experiment on campus, he thought, as he headed next door, to Alpha Phi Delta for his second meeting of the evening.

No One Else Will Want You Now (Part 7)

“Get dressed, you dumb fuck–I want you to see what a stupid faggot you are,” Walter said, and he pitched a grungy wifebeater at Donny’s chest. He shrugged it on, the fabric gritty to the touch from the sand and mud ground into it–it lined up perfectly with his tan lines, which only made everything seem so much more…real. He got off the bed, grabbed the first pair of jeans he found on the filthy floor–it didn’t occur to him to find any underwear, since he never wore any–and pulled them on too. Now that he was standing, he realized how ill-fitting both things were–they seemed too big for him, and even when he cinched up the belt he’d left in the jeans, they still sagged around his thighs, but were too short for his legs, only coming to his upper ankle. “Shit don’t even f-f-fit,” he muttered.

“What, you were expecting them to come tailored? You buy whatever fits well enough at the thrift store–you know that, dumbass. Now get in front of the mirror–take a look at the new you. Tell me what your other boyfriend would think about you now.”

One hand keeping the pants up, Donny shuffled over to the mirror and looked at himself–his lank hair falling down in front of his eyes, his bushy mutton chops. The unwashed clothes, his unwashed body. He looked like a fucking loser. “F-F-fuck…” he said.

“Fuck?” Walter said, coming behind him, “As in what, slave? As in you’d fuck yourself? As in you think I should take a picture of you, send it to that boy of yours, and see if he’s still down to fuck?”

“N-No, as in I’m f-f-fuggin’ ugly, sir.”

“Yes, but are you ugly enough? See, I think the right person could still find you fuckable, don’t you? After all, you have your nice physique. If you bothered to brush that hair out of your way you still have a handsome face, even if it is greasy. This is all surface shit–we haven’t tackled anything foundational. We haven’t made you a freak. No-you’re going to be so repulsive, that for most people, the thought of having sex with you turns their damn stomach. Then I’ll be happy knowing no one is ever going to touch you again–no one except me, of course. Like that nice, clean skin of yours–how about we mark that up a bit?”

Donny felt the same, sharp sting as he had earlier, when that tattoo had appeared on his ass–although this time it was everywhere. Not enough to cover his entire body in any sort of understandable pattern–some places were blank, while others were covered. None of the tattoos made much sense, and all of them looked to have been crudely done on the cheap. Misspelled words were rampant, some shapes just looked like blurs. Over them, came an itching, as hair erupted from his body–but again, mostly in patches. His chest remained fairly light, but the hair was thick and long on his shoulders, running down his back. He could feel his ass clumping up with sweaty hair, and while his upper arms remained thinly covered, his forearms were coated down to the back of his hands and onto his fingers. Lastly, he noticed that his facial hair had thickened–his mutton chops growing higher on his cheeks, his eyebrows thickening into a single, heavy mass of hair over his eyes.

“We’ll have to do something about that physique as well, of course,” Walter said, running his gloved hand over Donny’s hairy shoulder, “and your proportions are just…too damn sexy as well. That silhouette could rouse some dirty thoughts if we don’t do something about it.”

This time, the ache was all inside of his body. His muscles felt like someone was twisting them, milking the strength from them, draining it from his body. As he watched, he…just began to deflate. His arms lost the most mass, he thought, as did his legs, looking more like toothpicks compared to what he’d had moments before. He lost all of his definition in his chest, and when the fat started to pile on, he ended up with two full mantits and a potbelly. Still–something else was off as well. His legs seemed too short, and were bowing outward. His arms hung down too low. His torso seemed scrunched, and his head sat right on his shoulders–barely enough neck for his collar to wrap around, if you could see it under his second chin. His face had puffed out with fat, making his head look even wider, his square jaw dissolving into a mass of indiscriminate flab. Other details were smaller–his feet were bigger–close to a size 18, which his hands seemed…way too small. His shoulders weren’t nearly as broad, giving him even more of a lumpy shape. His ass was flabby, but it sagged down in a rather disgusting fashion. His clothes fit even worse now–his gut poking out from his wifebeater, a crescent of tan indicating that he should get used to exposing it. His pants kept falling down even with a bigger waist because he had no ass–everytime he bent over he’d be showing off his hairy crack. At his shorter height, the pant legs were pooling around his feet…but his eyes kept being drawn back to his Master standing behind him, and the look of unexpected disgust across his face.

Indeed, even Walter was having a difficult time looking at what he’d done. There was simply something so…off about his body. Donny didn’t even seem human any more. He didn’t like it, and he didn’t want to be around it. He took a step back, but the curse redoubled inside him, sensing the resistance.

“Don’t lie to yourself, you enjoy this.”

“He’s disgusting.”

“He’s yours. That’s what you wanted. You don’t have to like looking at him. In fact, you don’t want to like looking at him, The more disgusting he is, the easier he is to hate. You hate him, you want to hate him.”

“This…I didn’t think–”

You hate him. You want to see that thing suffer. You want to make it suffer.”

The hatred which welled up in his chest–it wasn’t his. It felt like someone had taken his heart and dropped it into a bucket of freezing ice water. He didn’t want to be this person. He didn’t want to be enjoying this, but he was enjoying it. What use was there in fighting it? “I do hate him. I just…never realized how much.”

“Then finish it. Make him the embodiment of that hatred. Make him everything you hate, and then, you can be free.”

No One Else Will Want You Now (Part 6)

“I don’t…this shouldn’t be possible, none of this should be happening.”

“You’re not answering my question, slave.”

“Please, you don’t have to do this. I’m your slave! No one’s going to–”

Walter grabbed Donny by the lock on his collar, and hauled him up to his feet, before grabbing him by his filthy locks, and dragging him over the bed, yanking him so he was face down and bent over. A paddle was in his hand. He had no idea how it had gotten there, but like the boots, like the cigars, it had simply appeared when he’d needed it. He realized, again, that he was changing too, and he hesitated with the paddle, unsure of what he was doing, but after a moment, he swung back, and slammed it into Donny’s ass, enjoying the howl that followed. “I’m not going to be tolerating any back talk. I’m not going to tolerate any disobedience. I own you, and I…will shape you into whatever I need you to become,” Walter said, his own voice unsettling him. It hadn’t sounded like him–it had sounded like that voice in his head earlier…and somehow it had felt like the words had been directed at him, as much as at Donny. “Now count, you fuck. Slaves always count.”

Ten heavy slams with the paddle, enough to raise welts, enough to leave his skin red and angry. Donny was crying–it was clear he’d never experienced anything like this before, and again, Walter wanted to feel sorry for him, wanted to pull back, but the curse shoved him away, climbed up onto the bed, and yanked his slave’s head up by the hair. “There must have been more that he liked about you, fucker. No one would fuck you for your fucking hair. If he liked your hair, I bet he liked your beard, didn’t he? The color, how well trimmed you keep it. Well fuck that shit.”

Donny could feel the hair on his face shifting, his beard parting down the center and pulling back from his mouth until it was just a pair of muttonchops remaining with nothing around his mouth, trimmed at an awkward, uneven line. Then, the hair began to grow, curling and puffing out, the color dulling to the same dingy brown as his hair.

“That’s better–no one in their right mind is going to find something like that sexy. Now, tell me–why the fuck did he want you? Why the fuck did he want to see scum like you three times a month?”

“He liked fucking being with me!” Donny seethed, “He said he always felt stylish when he was with me, fucking hip. He felt like a cool kid. He said I was charming and smart. He said I was funny. Fuck you–sometimes we didn’t even fuck, we just talked for hours. He loved me–he told me that. You sentimental fucks.”

“You’re being disrespectful, slave,” Walter said, and slammed the paddle down on his ass again, making him cry out.

“Please sir, I’m sorry sir, please.”

“Count–from one again.”

Twenty more this time, plus two extra when the slave missed the count. When he was finished, Walter set the paddle back on his chair, and took a long inhale of smoke, thinking, and imagining, and scheming. “Stylish and hip.” he said, walked back over to the bed, and rolled Donny over onto his back, seeing him flinch when his ass touched the sheets. “Charming, smart, and funny.” Walter ran a gloved hand over Donny’s skin, lightly, knowing he’d be the last one to touch it. “Not for too much longer, I don’t think.”

Donny tried to speak, but he felt it, his body…shifting, his mind–it was like a splitting headache, ripping his head apart.

“I don’t think someone who cares so little about their own hygiene could ever be considered stylish. More like slovenly and lazy.”

He could smell himself, suddenly–he reeked. It wasn’t just that he was unwashed, it was everything he’d done to take care of himself, all of his routines–deodorant, cologne, lotion–he couldn’t remember any of it. Why would he ever bother with shit like that? But he’d smelled his own BO before–and this was far worse than anything he’d ever put off in the past. Each time he caught a whiff, he just felt…ashamed that he would let himself stink like that, but knowing with as much certainty that he’d never lift a finger to do anything about it.

“I mean you do have a style. I’d call it dirty labor chic. Wifebeaters, ripped jeans and boots coated with mud and grit. Even when you’re naked, we can all see your tanlines, slave–we know what you are. Lips packed with that nasty tobacco of yours, juice leaking down your chin all the time. Not exactly a look that’ll be featured on magazines anytime soon.”

Donny lifted up his head, feeling his lip bulge out with a wad of tobacco–he tried to spit it out, but only ended up dribbling dark spit down his now bare chin. He did have a tanline–his arms a burnt orange, which his chest and belly were a pale white. It was clear what he wore, day in and day out now, under the sun. But other details too–his broken and cracked nails with dirt packed beneath, making them look black or brown.

“As for charming. As for smart. As for funny. We know the truth, don’t we? That crude language of yours you’ve picked up from being on worksites your whole life. That stutter. Even if that drop-out mind of yours had anything smart to say, you can’t get it out half the time. Plus you’re so dull, you still haven’t realized you’re the butt of every joke on the worksite.”

All Donny could do was shake his head side to side, but he could feel it, his mind collapsing in on itself, sharp edges dulling, the world seeming so…simple all of a sudden. S-Shit M-M-Master. I ain’t got shit in my f-f-f-fuckin’ head. You f-f-f–f…Shit, I’m fuckin’ not a s-stupid f-f-faggot.”

Walter just laughed his head off, and under his mutton chops, Donny’s cheeks flared as red as his heavily tanned shoulders. He was a stupid faggot, but he could also tell that Walter wasn’t satisfied that his third condition had been entirely met just yet.

Dirty Daddies (2 of 2)

WARNING – SCAT

Here’s to my five years with the dirtiest daddies in the whole world. You know, I never thought I might be this lucky, to find two daddies like this–of course, it’s taken a lot of work to get them here, but I’m so much more powerful now than when I was a kid. Sure, that first year was rough. They both fought, hard, trying to get control of their relationship back, trying to get control over me, but I’m the one who does the controlling–I’m always in control. They realized that, eventually. Marty first, but he was always easier–weaker, easier to bend. Fuck, I had him begging for my cock the first day we were alone together, and Bill never had a clue–not until I wanted him to know.

But it took a lot of work, getting them here–helping them both become the perfect dirty daddies for their perfect dirty boy. Neither of them liked the facial hair at first, or the cigars, or the booze I made them drink all the time, but I want daddies who are fuzzy, who reek like an ashtray. I want daddies who are so stupid they piss themselves half the time, and laugh their asses off when they realize what they just did. I want daddies fighting for the privilege to eat out their boy’s nasty hole–fuck, can you imagine any expression of love deeper than that? Than begging to be your son’s toilet paper? I let them take turns, usually, but Bill’s the real toilet around the house.

See, Marty was easy enough, but Bill was a fighter. I had to break him pretty badly in the end, to keep him from hurting someone, but he learned his place eventually, right there at the moment, slurping at Marty’s greasy hole, begging for a load of shit while I piss all over them both. This anniversary party’s just getting started, of course–I have some pretty amazing gifts planned for my daddies.

See, Bill can’t work anymore–not after he shit himself in the office a few months back, and started eating it in front of his boss at an important meeting. Martin’s not too smart either, anymore–I tend to have that effect on daddies when they’re under my control for too long. They just can’t quite remember how to think for themselves anymore. So my daddies are getting two new lives this weekend. Bill’s gonna be a brand new trash collector on Monday morning, and Martin’s gonna be a delivery driver. Sure, we’ll have to sell the house and move into a double wide outside of town, but who needs money when you have the perfect family?

The Muse of Fantasy (Part 4)

Nick felt it, the heat of it, burning and searing in his guts, and he screamed. The bull was still cumming, emptying his balls deep inside, and while some cum was dribbling back out, much of it remained within, bloating Nick’s slim belly–but even as the bull’s flow slowed, the bloat kept growing. “Oh god, oh god it hurts so much…” Nick said, panting with exertion, his skin sweaty and clammy as the heat expanded through him. It swallowed his groin, his balls and cock on fire, down his thighs and ass which began to expand, the bones swelling and cracking into new positions, and up his chest, filling out with muscle and more and more fat. “Oh god, what…what am I becoming?” he moaned to himself.

Oliver wasn’t quite sure–he hadn’t been that specific in his fantasy, and he was as eager to find out as any of them in the room. He checked under Nick, and saw his cock, now covered by a sheath, lose it’s human shape even as it grew, balls purging the remaining humanity from them even as they swelled with monstrous seed of their own. It looked like, as it grew, the shaft was twisting, almost as a corkscrew. “It would seem you’re going to be a very handsome piggy.”

“No–No no no!” Nick said, “No, I’m not going to be some fat fucking pig-*Groink*!” he squealed, as a shirt tail erupted above his ass, slightly curled and whipping too and fro. “No, please, you have to help me.”

“There’s no helping you Nick. In a few minutes, you aren’t even going to exist anymore–you’ll just be another dumb, mindless animal, like your boyfriend back there.” Oliver could see the changes becoming clearer, Nick’s skin becoming rough as large patched darkened to a deep brown, leaving him with a clear piebald pattern on his skin. His haunches had filled out as his legs shortened–still thick, but certainly no longer capable of holding up his mass on two legs. His hands changed less–the finger’s shortening, his palms coated it hand black bone to keep from ripping up as he crawled about on them. All that remained of Nick was his head, but even that was losing the battle–his hair falling out in clumps, ears growing larger and floppy as they shifted to the top of his head, breathing more and more labored as his mouth and nose twisted and pushed out into a stubby snout. Nick tried to speak, tried to plead, but he could no longer make recognizable words, just grunts and squeals.

“Hush now, piggy, I know what you need,” Oliver said, pressing the tip of his cock to Nick’s snout, watching the drool form immediately, the pig’s tongue licking the head, hungry for it, even as Nick fought against the beast destroying his mind. His resistance didn’t last long, and the beast crawled forward, the still fucking bull inching ahead with him, to swallow Oliver’s cock, hungry for cum, and cum at all. “Look at me–fucking look at me!” Oliver shouted, and the pig looked up as it slobbered all over his cock–he wanted to look into it’s eyes, watch the awareness dull as the last shreds of humanity left them, and when all traces of Nick were gone–he pushed deep into the pig’s mouth and fed it a load of cum, listening to it gulp everything down. Only then did he step away, and realize from the moans in the room that Amoredie had been enjoying the display as well, and they stood up, crossing the room to Oliver, pressing into him, kissing him, and the desire he felt at that moment–it was indescribable.

“You are the mortal I have spent millennia searching for,” they moaned into his ear, and Oliver wanted them. To fuck them, to be fucked by them, to imagine with them, and when they slipped away, out of his grasp like water, he was only left with an indescribable need, but they had moved over to Oliver’s creations, the two beast still fucking, as the bull had found a second wind, the pig mindlessly thrusting back, eager for more. They touched them, explored them, examined them, and suddenly, they began to dissipate, and in a few seconds they were gone.

“Where did they go?” Oliver asked.

“Oh, I’ve sent them to a pocket of forest. Far enough from civilization that they won’t be slaughtered, but close enough to encourage..legends, and the growth of the herd. Don’t worry–if you would ever like to visit, we can arrange that, but don’t consider joining them–after all, I can’t lose my greatest artist in generations to his own work quite yet.”

They approached him again, sliding back into Oliver’s embrace, and he felt a fantasy of his own filling him. He lost a couple of decades, his body filling in with muscle, his cock growing larger. “Consider it a reward,” they said. “Now, your muse has needs, my artist. You have other clients, don’t you?”

Oliver did indeed–and quite a few wouldn’t object to an unexpected appearance by their favorite makeup artist and fantasy enabler. But he was done with their silly, idle desires. No–Oliver had a new mission for himself, and his muse. From now on, he would be enabling his own fantasies–and he had so many stored away, he was neither sure where to begin, or whether he could ever plumb the depths entirely.

“Calm yourself, my eager artist,” Amoredie said, “Bed with me first, my love, and then we shall see about improving this dull world of yours with your best dreams and nightmares.”

The Muse of Fantasy (Part 3)

“I still don’t think I quite understand what’s going on.”

“It’s really rather simple, Oliver. I want your help,” they said, and with a snap of their fingers, Kyle’s dull fantasy began to fall away from the room around them, and Nick was back on the bed, moaning for the “bull” to fuck him harder, while Kyle, in makeup, paid him little attention. “I want you to show me what’s in your mind, and in return, I want to help you make your dreams real. Make them true lovers, make them strange beasts, whatever you want them to be. Make them do whatever you want them to do. This is your fantasy now–show me what you can do with these basic bores,” They tittered a moment, and then one slender finger touched Oliver’s forehead–and it was like the world opened up around him, and he looked over at the two young men, smiled, and got up from his chair.

He could…see all of these possibilities, layered on top of them. Forms, acts, perversions–there was so much–but he walked over to Kyle, touched him, and felt him enter into the young man’s fantasy again. He waved away the celebrity skien from Nick, revealing him, and Kyle looked down, confused. “Don’t worry about him,” Oliver said, feeling him, “Think about what you want to be, about what a brute you could be. About how rough you could be.”

Kyle looked at Oliver, as though he was trying to understand why he was imagining Oliver standing beside him, but Oliver put a finger to his lips before he could say a word.

“Don’t talk. We all know beasts don’t talk–and you really, really want to be a beast, don’t you?”

Kyle moaned, his eyes flickering slightly. The makeup appeared on his fantasy form, and he started fucking Nick a bit more rough, making his boyfriend grunt with pleasure. “Yeah, good. That’s good, but it’s not enough, is it?”

Kyle shook his head.

“It’s not good enough, because it’s not real. You want it to be real, more than anything.”

Kyle shuddered, trying to fight the strange desires welling up inside him, but the edges of the latex were already starting to disappear, the short snout Oliver had designed growing longer and wider, like a true bull, the ring at the end punching a true hole through Kyle’s nose, making him snort, and buck harder. Parts of his face untouched by the makeup were beginning to change as well–his hair diminishing and becoming short fur which spread down over his forehead, cheeks and down onto his neck, which had become thick and corded with muscle as his skull grew heavier, his eyes dimmer.

“Still not enough though, is it? No–we need equipment to match, of course.”

Kyle’s cock began to tingle, pulsing slightly as it grew longer and wider, thrusting deeper into Nick’s hole, more and more pleasure overwhelming his increasingly simple, animal mind. The heavy silicone around his balls became flesh and expanded, pulsing with seed, coated with the same fur as Kyle’s new face. His feet began to blacken and harden, until Kyle stood on two wide hooves, human bones cracking and bending, forcing him into an awkward, hunched posture, leaning his full weight on Nick’s back, and his hands became the same, his arms shortening but thickening with muscle. His torso and belly had grown thicker, but still appeared superficially human–same with his now much wider haunches–aside from the long bull tail whipping around behind him. A monster. A brute. A chimera. A beauty.

“Stunning work. Absolutely freakish!” Amoredie said, clapping their hands, “I adore your mind, Oliver, but please, continue!”

As Kyle rutted, Nick had begun to sense that something strange was happening. His moans had become mild protests, asking Kyle to be less rough, but when that had gone unanswered, he opened his eyes and looked back, only to find himself staring at the face of a true bull, snorting and grunting and heaving his huge cock into his ass. He screamed in terror, and tried to crawl away, but the bull was too heavy, and too intent on fucking, to allow him to leave. Nick looked up to Oliver, “Please! Make…make it stop! What happened?”

Oliver squatted down beside the struggling, crying Nick, and stroked his shoulder. “Now Nick, I thought this is what you wanted? To be fucked by a beast?”

This? Is this what he’d wanted? Something…was taking hold of him, making him protest less, push back more, enjoy the sheer…size of the monster’s huge cock, stretching his hole wide. “I…But…Kyle?”

“You shouldn’t be worried about Kyle, Nick. You should be much more worried about what’s going to happen when that beast cums deep in your ass. Do you know the myths, about what happens when you let a beast like that fuck you? You become a beast too. A mindless, monstrous, inhuman fuckbeast, desperate to find other holes for your twisted seed, but also desperate for anything to use your holes, hungry for cum.”

“No–No, this isn’t…I didn’t…”

“If that’s not what you wanted, then why did you let it fuck you? It’s no matter, right buddy?” Oliver said, patting the side of Kyle’s thick trunk, “you’re about ready to fill this boy’s hole up, aren’t you? Any minute now…”

Nick started to struggle harder now, desperate to work himself out from under the monstrosity’s bulk, but even he could sense it was too late. Could sense that, deep down, he…wanted this, as much as he didn’t want to admit it. Something in what Oliver had said had changed him. Flipped a switch deep inside his guts, and now the thought of no longer being this frail, weak thing turned him on. Made him…excited. He’d stopped struggling, wondering what he might become, when the Oliver’s minotaur gave a long mooing cry, slammed in deep, and filled Nick’s hole with his infectious seed.