VIP Package (Part 5)

Jeremy sat, and watched Samuel fuck himself on Mr. Bishop’s massive cock. He didn’t watch because he wanted to–he kept trying to force his eyes to look in any other direction, but Mr. Bishop had ordered his undivided attention, and so he sat, and took it all in, and felt…sick to his stomach. It wasn’t just that his husband was having sex with another man in front of him–part of it was how fucking ugly that man was: old, massively obese, obviously a total pervert. It was also…the fact that Samuel hadn’t once bothered to even look over his shoulder at him. Jeremy wasn’t even sure if Samuel even knew he was sitting behind him. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if this was realy Samuel at all, anymore.

It was hard to say for sure, given how drunk he’d been in his room two days prior, but his husband seemed to have changed even more than before. He really was fatter–and not just by a few pounds. His entire body type had somehow shifted over the course of a few days. Where before, Samuel had been a seasoned muscle bear, the man fucking himself and crying out in pleasure didn’t look like he could be much older than twenty. It was…his skin. He could remember noticing that detail before, but his entire body was just a perfect, pale peach. Barely a freckle or a mole, and not a single hair that could be seen anywhere, aside from on the top of his head, and even then, the thin, short hairs had become a startling blonde. It couldn’t be possible, people couldn’t just change like that, but he could still see that birthmark on his shoulder–it was the one mark that remained on his skin at all. It had to be him, but then how was any of this even possible?

“Boy–I think we should change positions, for a bit, you’re giving me a cramp. Be a good boy and bend over the table–look that husband of yours in the eye, while you push back on my cock.”

“Yes daddy,” Samuel moaned, and without even dismounting, he twisted himself around the shaft, facing Jeremy now, and slid down so he was standing on the ground–the massive member remaining deep inside him the entire time. Mr. Bishop leaned back a bit, legs wide, and two waiters pushed his chair a bit closer to the table, allowing Samuel to thrust his hips back and fuck himself while leaning over the table. Jeremy could see both of them now, his husband’s eyes staring at him–they were so…cold, and uninterested in him–and Mr. Bishop, smiling at him around that cigar of his.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Jeremy?”

“Fuck you–what the fuck did you do to him?”

“Oh, the salon here is capable of the most fabulous makeovers. You can be anyone you’d like, provided you can afford it, like me.”

“This is fucked. You can’t fucking do this to people! We aren’t your fucking slaves, you sick fuck.”

Mr. Bishop just laughed. “You, Jeremy, work in finance. Hedge funds. Your husband works as a corporate lawyer. Just who, exactly, do you think you serve every day already?” Mr. Bishop waited a beat. “Me. Men like me. You make me money. You could very well have made me the money I’m paying to control you right now. Besides, it’s not like you won’t be duly compensated for your…services.” He took a long drag off his cigar, and when Jeremy said nothing, he continued. “I’m honestly surprised you care so much for him, the way you so casually fucked off with that whore the other day, and all those other days. Poor Sammy here didn’t have much choice but to numb himself, to just stop caring about you. It was easy, after your last rebuff. He has more important things to worry about now anyway, don’t you boy?”

“Yeah daddy, like your big cock!”

“Yes, just like that–pretty much only that, in fact.”

“I don’t know how you know any of that shit,” Jeremy said, “But–so what, this is just some fucking game to you? You get to just fuck with our lives for fun, because you’re rich and you can?”

Mr. Bishop leaned forward a bit, and spoke in Sammy’s ear, “He caught on quicker than you–he really is the more cynical one. Fuck a little faster boy, I’m getting close.” he leaned back, and kept smoking, while Sammy picked up the pace, sweat pouring from his smooth skin. “Yes. Because I can. And because the two of you were going to be miserable anyway. And because you’d be divorced within the year. And because if someone is going to ruin your relationship, I might as well be the one to do it, since I’ll actually enjoy watching the two of you fall apart. Or who knows, maybe a change of pace will give the two of you a better appreciation for one another. Oh fuck boy, that’s it–here it comes. Daddy’s gonna fill up that boyhole nice and full.”

“Oh fuck daddy, yes! Fill me up nice and full!”

With a smoky groan, Mr. Bishop’s balls began pumping a massive amount of cum into Sammy’s guts, and the young man’s eyes rolled back in his head, his body shivering–after all, his daddy’s orgasms was ten times more powerful for him than one of his own. Mr. Bishop looked out at the table, and shook his head. “Oh Jeremy, you didn’t eat any of your meal. You must be starving.”

“I couldn’t very well eat without being able to look at the plate,” he spat back.

“Well, I suppose you’ll just have to eat something else then–something…more suited to your palate. Boy, please feed your husband all of that cum in your ass. After all, that’s now your favorite food in the world, right Jeremy? Other men’s cum felched from the dirty ass of your slutty husband? I’m sure you can remember all of the many times you’ve eaten it now.”

Jeremy felt like his mind was twisted out of shape, but a moment later, everything was clear–especially all of his new memories of sucking cum from Samuel’s ass. He knew that they weren’t real, that they hadn’t actually happened, right? Or…or had they? In either case, as Sammy moved around the table, he quickly got down on his knees behind him, pressed his tongue to his husband’s crater like hole, and started lapping up the cum dribbling helplessly from it, quaking with pleasure and hunger. The load was massive, but he ate all of it while Mr. Bishop watched, humiliated and yet…so satisfied in other ways.

“Alright–Sammy, a friend of mine wanted to use you for an evening. I told him he would have to wait a day or two, but he should be happy to take you tonight only. He’s in suite 23. You’ll obey him like you would me, but return to our suite at midnight, understand? If he turns you down, then I want you to find as many men to fuck you as possible before midnight, and then return home.”

Sammy nodded, “But what are you doing, daddy?”

“Oh, your husband and I have an appointment in the Salon this evening. Don’t worry, I’ll be there tonight when you get back.”

Sammy nodded, gave his daddy a kiss, pulled on his skimpy bathing suit and ran off, leaving Jeremy alone with Mr. Bishop. “You’re a fucking sicko,” he said.

Mr. Bishop just laughed, and led the newest part of his VIP package to the Salon, for a makeover of his own.

VIP Package (Part 2)

They reached their destination floor after a few moments, and stepped out onto a level of the ship Samuel hadn’t explored–and he realized a minute later, after walking across the plush carpet in his bare feet, looking at the gold trimmings and elegant decor, that he was probably not even supposed to be aware that this floor existed. It wasn’t like Samuel and Jeremy hadn’t splurged on decent tickets, booking a fairly large room with an ocean view right below the main deck, but he had seen those astronomical VIP packages on the website…is this what that bought?

The waiter rounded a corner, and Samuel followed, finding himself in a spacious, high ceilinged lounge–or whatever you might call something between a restaurant, bar, and bathhouse. There was a haze of smoke hanging in the air, a mix of pot and tobacco, and in the haze he could see men lying around the room, fucking, relaxing, and looking out the windows through binoculars at the deck below–where Samuel had been lying a moment earlier–occasionally consulting a small tablet they had with them.

The waiter led him close by the window, where an older man was sprawled across a fluffy sofa, wearing a silk robe which had fallen open, exposing most of his body for anyone to see. He was…not quite Samuel’s type. He usually went for muscle bears like himself. A bit of a gut was alright, as long as the guy could carry it well, but anything like this man–Mr. Bishop, the waiter had been calling him–was quite simply out of the question. He likely weighed close to 450, or perhaps even 500 pounds, the rolls of flab cascading around him, almost like he was a massive pillow, a part of the sofa itself. The one thing standing apart, quite literally, was the massive, erect cock jutting out from the flabby rolls. It was…impossibly large, at least a foot, if not longer. Realizing he’d been staring at the cock a bit longer than he’d like, he jerked his eyes away, taking in the flabby body coated with a thick layer of grey hair, and up to his face. He had a thick, well trimmed beard, glasses, and was smoking a cigar. Mr. Bishop smiled when he saw Samuel there, and set down the glass of whiskey he’d been sipping. “Ah, I can’t believe it! I’d never thought a lawyer–but then, hope springs eternal. Come boy, have a seat with me, don’t be shy.”

Samuel tried to resist, but like before, his body was far more keen to obey Mr. Bishop’s voice than his own desires. He sat down, gently, on the edge of the sofa, only for Mr. Bishop to grab him and pull him back, so he was reclining against his fat body.

“Is there anything else I can do for you sir? Someone else for your package perhaps?”

“Oh no, Samuel here will suffice. Though do schedule an appointment for him in the Salon, in one hour.”

“Of course, Mr. Bishop. A pleasure, as always, to have you sailing with us.”

The waiter left, and Samuel heaved himself up and away from the man, tried to stand, but his ass stayed stubbornly planted on the sofa. “Please, I don’t understand what’s going on. I’m…flattered, really, but this isn’t what I thought this was.”

Mr. Bishop laughed, smoke pouring from his mouth. It’s alright boy, I’ll be happy to answer some questions for you, in a moment. First, however, I want to…take care of a few things. Samuel, please go unaware for programming.”

He had no clear recollection of what happened next. He seemed to be…floating. Present, but everything in his mind turned off, and open. Mr. Bishop was speaking to him, and he would respond on occasion, but it seemed…unimportant. Natural. And when he awoke, a few minutes later, this loss of memory didn’t unnerve him–even though he knew it should terrify him out of his wits. He was standing now, looking down at the fat man, still reclining in front of him, like nothing strange had happened at all. “What…just happened?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Mr. Bishop said, waving a bit of smoke away with a hand, “Now, I’ll answer a few questions for you, at least, until you can’t control yourself any longer, and have your way with me, boy.”

He leaned on that last word a bit, and when he did, a mild shot of pleasure raced through Samuel’s body, from the top of his spine, right to his cock, and he moaned, breath quickening. He looked at Mr. Bishop again–no, at…at Daddy again, and…and where before he’d been quite turned off, he found himself beginning to appreciate the man’s appearance a bit more than he had. “What…why did that feel so good?”

“Oh, that’s an easy one. Every time I address you, boy, you’re going to feel an escalating sensation of pleasure, and find me more and more attractive each time. We’ll see how long before you can’t stop yourself from climbing up and fucking yourself on my massive daddy cock, boy, like the slut you’re going to be, soon enough.”

Those two slammed into him with more force than the first. Samuel’s cock was hard, his ass twitching, and looking at Mr. Bishop now…fuck, he suddenly was finding the old, fat fuck attractive. He shook his head, trying to clear it as best he could, fighting whatever was happening to him. He needed answers. “Please, please stop this, this isn’t what I wanted.”

“Silly boy, you still think this cruise is about what you want?” Mr. Bishop saw Samuel’s knees start shaking. Mr. Bishop heaved himself forward on the couch, grabbed Samuel by the crotch, and pulled him closer. He stumbled forward, and collapsed in front of him, on his knees, staring at…at all of that fat. But he didn’t want this…right? “I can see how you might make that mistake, and think that the fantasy in the name of the company implies a fantasy for everyone. And sure, mid level guys like you, there are a few fantasies for you, boy, like that whore who talked your husband into bed with him, and that bear you were eyeing down at the pool. Sluts, hired by the company, to please upper deck passengers, and you never even know it. But no, the real fantasies that come true, boy? You have to be a real VIP for that, like me. And my fantasies? They’re rather…complicated.”

Samuel had stopped listening. He was too busy ripping off his swimsuit and climbing up, straddling his daddy’s massive frame and slowly dropping himself onto his massive cock, not even taking the time to lube it up with more than a handful of spit. He needed it inside him, needed this beautiful daddy to fuck him. The waiter arrived an hour later, to remind Mr. Bishop of his appointment at the VIP Salon, and he led Samuel away, towards the back of the ship, for his first proper makeover.

Faggot Therapy (Part 2)

After that session, Lonnie found himself unable to cope with his new knowledge and memories, and within a day, he’d suffered a complete, emotional breakdown. The doctor had ordered him be committed, but suggested it would be better for Lonnie if he stayed and lived with his therapist, until he was back to his usual self. Lonnie didn’t resist–he couldn’t resist. The doctor had done so much for him, after all. He packed a small bag, and moved in with him that evening, staying in a small room up in the attic.

The therapy didn’t cease, however. Lonnie would have moments of clarity, where he would deny what had happened, deny that he was even sick at all. The shock collar was medically necessary, to control his patient. To remind him, at any moment, that he wasn’t really a man, as he was trying to insist. No, Lonnie was just a pathetic faggot. He would be put into a trance for hours, reliving horrible, violent, humiliating memories, the therapist slowly rewriting his patient’s entire life. Now, every man he’d known had used him–his father and uncles, his two brothers, his friends and bullies. Everyone knew he was a faggot, other than him. When he’d gone off to college, Lonnie had put all that away, he’d been pretending for decades that he was a real man–this is what had caused his anxiety, he learned–only by returning to his proper nature, could he feel at peace once more.

His therapist would make him relive his memories, particularly in the shower. It would trigger violent flashbacks, and Lonnie would helplessly get down in front of his therapist and service him in any way the man demanded, like he had all those boys in his school, and much to his surprise…the feelings of terror and anxiety began to fade away. The therapist encouraged his progress and good behavior. Helped him feel more at home in his new identity. Still, the road to recovery was long. It was two years later, when Lonnie was finally released from his therapist’s care–no longer a man, but just a humble faggot.

He made amends the only way a proper faggot could–my servicing as many men as he possibly could. He would cruise bars and bathhouses every night, worshiping cock, begging for it, and the crueler the top, the happier he found himself. Of course, finding work was difficult for him. He’d quit his previous job after his breakdown, but every time he sat down for an interview, especially with another man, he found himself compelled to explain to them exactly what he was, and why. Occasionally, the man interviewing him would use him, but after three months he was still unemployed. It was Dr. Halvers who found a solution for him.

The only job suitable for a faggot as lowly as Lonnie, was as a complete slave. It turned out, the therapist knew of a…rather unconventional auction, held a couple times a year–and he was happy to sponsor him, of course. Lonnie fetched a fair price, and Dr. Halvers collected the fees himself–Lonnie’s treatment hadn’t been cheap after all. Last he’d heard, Lonnie–or Scum, as he’d been renamed, had never been happier. Four hundred pounds, completely hairless, castrated, kept in a cage for twenty hours a day, brought out only for service. The only future a faggot could ever desire.

Faggot Therapy (Part 1)

Lonnie entered the office, feeling rather…uneasy, especially after his last session with the therapist. He’d approached Dr. Halver for help dealing with social anxiety, but nothing the man had been doing seemed to be helping much. Sure, the hypnotherapy was…relaxing, but the things that the doctor wanted to focus on only seemed…well, he didn’t quite know, to be honest. The doctor had him lie down on the chaise, and Lonnie tried to tell him about his reservations, but he barely made it through a sentence before the doctor had him feeling tired and sleepy, pushing the older man into his own memories.

You see, Dr. Halvers was certain that his patient’s anxiety was stemming from traumatic events in his past–memories that Lonnie had hidden away, deep in his mind, for fear of dealing with them, but they were still there, and wrecking havoc on his life. They were getting closer, however, to the truth–the doctor was certain that today they would finally confront what happened to him in the boy’s locker room at school.

In fact, the dear doctor was so certain they would, because he had fabricated the memory himself, and in this session, he was going to force his patient to confront it.

He forced Lonnie to narrate, to describe himself as he’d been in high school. A small, slight boy, hairless, nerdy and socially awkward, with very few friends. That description didn’t sem quite…correct to Lonnie, but he’d found himself doubting more and more of his past experiences, ever since entering Dr. Halver’s care. But it was that afternoon, when he’d been dragged into the locker room by some of the jocks and their older brothers, where they’d…finally shown him that all Lonnie was, really, was a faggot.

A hopeless faggot. A faggot whose only purpose in life was to serve domineering men like them. They’d raped him for hours that day, forcing him to worship every inch of their bodies, violating every hole–and the doctor, for hours, forced Lonnie to describe what had happened to him, insisting on more and more detail, making him repeat entire chunks if he was unsatisfied with Lonnie’s newly recalled humiliation. And not just that day–he forced him to recall how after that first time, he’d…begged for more. Pleaded with those older boys to abuse him further, because they were right. He was just a faggot, nothing more.

At last, late that night, he brought his patient up from hypnosis, and the big bear of a man burst into tears. His therapist was there for him, of course, and told him what a great breakthrough this had been for him. Now that he was being true to himself, now, with Dr. Hasker’s help, he could finally be the man he needed to be. He could finally find his true calling a complete and utter faggot slave.

Stinkers – Coach’s Senior Gifts (Part 4)

After his demonstration, the coach forced Anton into a long sleeve compression shirt–long enough that the spandex and the rubber of his new mitts overlapped slightly, making it difficult to tell where one fabric ended and the other began. Much to Anton’s surprise, even after he’d lost the feeling of his flesh under the shirt, he found that he could still move…but without bones or tendons, he also had a…surprisingly large range of movement. He was like some living doll, and every touch of the coach’s hands on his new “skin” sent waves of pleasure through him. He didn’t want this to be so enjoyable. He was terrified, certainly, but also somehow…excited.

Coach forced him to bend over the desk next, revealing his ass for him. Anton thought coach might want one last fuck before sealing away his asshole underneath the uniform pants, but instead, he took a wide, semi-flexible rubber tube, told Anton to open up his ass, and began sliding the tubing into him. He could feel the rubber wanting to cling to the sides of his ass, as it went in, but Coach kept forcing it deeper–deeper than Anton had ever really taken much of anything before, until there was just an inch or so of tube sticking out from between his ass cheeks. Then, coach stopped, and after a few seconds, the rubber had adhered to the inside of his hole. The inside of the tube was filled with silicone, almost like a fleshlight. The coach’s finger pushed against the rubber sphincter and entered him, making Anton shiver, and an odd…need, overwhelmed him. “There–you might be a dummy, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be useful, right?”

“R-right…” Anton moaned back, without much thought.

“Yeah, I think you like being used, don’t you?”

Anton just moaned again. Coach played with his dummy’s new hole a little longer, and then got the pants and socks he’d already prepared–black spandex, like the shirt, but with pads built into the knees and ass. Socks first, and while Anton’s feet and ankles began to numb up and turn to fluff, Coach forced the pants on, all the way up to his waist. A ragged hole had been left in the front, allowing the jock pouch to peek through the front, and a small hole had been left in the seat of the pants as well. It took a bit of maneuvering, but coach pushed the end of the rubber tube through the hole, and the pants sealed themselves around it–joined with it seamlessly, in fact. Anton was left with an ample butt oddly without much of a crack–just a hole leading deep into Anton’s body, and the fluff it was rapidly becoming.

Now that most of his body had been…converted, he had a better feel for the substance which was now filling his body. It felt more like…foam, than anything else. Pushing in, his body would indent substantially–much more than flesh–but would return to it’s shape rapidly. It reminded him of those memory foam mattresses, or an unused but first-wetted sponge. He tried to stay standing, but the foam feet kept giving way under his weight. Coach put on two cleats next, which helped–giving strength and structure to his ankles and soles, allowing his the ability to walk–slowly, but he…could tell he would become better at it in time.

It was with some fear that Anton realized that, for several minutes now, he hadn’t heard, or felt, his heart beat. He also wasn’t breathing, now that he had no internal organs to pump air or blood through him. He tried to speak, but while his mouth could move, there was no air inside of him which could be forced out to make sound–he was just a human head, miming language uselessly.

“Almost done, dummy. Just a few more pieces. How about we get your jersey and pads on, eh?”

Anton had seen the yellow jersey with black writing in the corner, but it wasn’t until Coach had put it on him that he saw his new number on the front–34, the same number he had out on the field, in fact, but the name on the back was different. Instead of his last name, all it said was “Sponge.” The word filled his head with fear, thinking about what coach had demonstrated earlier, with his crotch, but the foam body…it had begun to ache. It needed to be wet, if it was going to move, after all. If he hardened, then he’d be frozen in place, like a statue. He was…damp at the moment, thanks to the water held in all the flesh he’d been before, but if he didn’t get more, he’d shrivel up.

Sensing his thoughts, Robinson patted him on his padded shoulder, “Don’t worry Sponge, I have lots of guys who will be keeping you well…saturated. My teams always love my dummies, and use them plenty. You’ll be holding onto all of our piss and cum and spit and sweat for a long time–everything might have just wiped off you before, but now, you’re going to be keeping everything.”

He pushed Anton over at the waist–it didn’t feel like bending over, it felt like he was just some doll, being manipulated by an owner. The rubber tube emerging from his new ass was a couple inches wide–an easy target, though Coach missed on purpose, soaking the seat of Anton’s ass in piss, before sending the rest of the stream into the tube, where Anton could feel it reach the end, deep within him, and the piss just started…suffusing him. It was warm, and pleasant…almost like the time coach had made him piss himself out on the field, after a particularly humiliating fumble. “Yeah, feels good, doesn’t it? It’ll take a while, but pretty soon, you’ll be dribbling filth with every step you take, heavy with everyone’s fluids. I bet you’re already starting to ache for it, right? Well, we just have to take care of that head of yours, now, and once that’s done, you’ll be a dummy through and through, Sponge–isn’t that exciting?”

Stinkers – Coach’s Senior Gifts (Part 1)

For those wondering where the rest of “A Home of Mirrors” is, the answer is that it’s unwritten. More is planned though! Sorry if your disappointed. Kind of sorry. A bit. Like a twinge. Here’s something else instead! It also takes place in the same “Stinkers” universe as some of the other stuff I’ve put out before.

Erik’s heart was racing, and he had butterflies in his gut, but that was how he always felt, when he was going to meet Coach Robinson for one of their…secret meetings in the locker room. He was a senior on the varsity football team, but he’d been having these meetings with the coach for several years now, ever since he was a sophomore. It’s not that he was gay–no, he had already banged enough pussy to put that possibility to rest–but whenever he got around his coach…he couldn’t fucking stop himself, getting down on his knees in front of, either in or out of uniform, and sucking his cock, or begging for raw load of the older man’s cum in his ass. Still, the team had had their last game last weekend, which meant it was the last time he’d be playing for his coach. Robinson had told him to meet him in the locker room this afternoon, after school, so he could give his best player a little parting present.

He slipped into the locker room, after making sure no one had seen him head down here. It wouldn’t exactly be very good if after all this time, he finally got caught now! Sure, he was eighteen at this point, but…hadn’t always been. He got inside and headed for his locker, knowing how coach liked to find him in here–naked, aside from the filthy jock he reserved for their special sessions…but when he looked into the locker, it wasn’t there. He dug around a bit, confused–he’d seen it in there just the other day, and the door had been locked, so where could it have gone?

“What the…where the hell…”

Erik froze–was he…not alone in here?

“I swear I had it…”

Erik thought the voice sounded like Anton, one of the wide receivers on the team. He slipped over to the other side of the locker room, and sure enough, it was him, naked, in front of his own locker, digging around for something, cursing under his breath. Should…he say something? Why was Anton even here? He was about to slip back to his own locker, and wait for him to leave (because he was surely going to leave, right?) when the door leading out of the locker room opened up, and in strode Paul–the largest linebacker on the team, and a senior like Erik and Anton.

Paul froze, looking at a naked Erik, watching an equally naked Anton pawing through his locker–well, now both of them were staring at him as well, and watching Paul’s face turn a violent red, underneath his short goatee. “Oh…I, uh…is coach around?” Paul asked.

Neither Erik, nor Anton, knew how to reply to that.

“I’m here boys–just finishing up a bit of work!” came the voice of coach Robinson from the officer in the room, “Paul, get undressed like your compatriots. Don’t worry about your…usual gear, boys. I’ll be with you all in a moment.”

That “moment” seemed to last forever. Paul got undressed like the other two, and they all just stared at one another. They didn’t…need to speak, to confirm anything. It was clear that, even though they all believed they were the only one sharing the coach’s affections, they’d been one of…well, who knew how many, really? The three of them were all seniors, after all. Did the coach have even more young men he was having sex with, in other grades? Anton felt dirty, and used. Erik was slowly being consumed by jealousy. Paul was mortified, his eyes glued to the tile floor.

Eventually, the coach did join them, however. He was in his 40’s, and while it was clear he’d been quite the athlete in his youth, he’d packed on quite a bit of fat in the intervening years. He had his usual layer of stubble around his jaw and neck, and was wearing only his own jockstrap–far dirtier than his boys’ were, and the musk was alone to send each of them into a bit of a daze. “Ah, there’s my seniors! I apologize for the three of you meeting like this, but all three of you smelled so good, I couldn’t quite settle on just one. Keeping you all a secret fro one another..well, that was a bit of a challenge for myself is all. Now, I do have gifts for all of you, as I promised–but I must say, that one of you really…well, I have something special reserved for you, Anton,” he added a wink at the young man, making him blush. Erik gritted his teeth, and nearly shouted at the coach, but one look from the older man’s eyes cut the words short. “Now, don’t feel like this is a popularity contest, you two,” he said, looking at Paul and Erik. “Anton, would you kindly go wait in my office for me, while I give these two their…own presents?”

“Y-Yes sir,” Anton said, surprised that he had been chosen, of the three. Terrified, really. He’d never…felt that comfortable about what was happening between him and the coach, and now that he knew there were others in the same position…he should run, he should report him, but instead, his feet plodded him over to Robinson’s office, where he waited.

Now, I know the two of you will consider these consolation prizes at first, but I assure you, there’s nothing you could have done to end up in Alton’s position. It’s not…what you’ve done, or how you’ve done it, it’s just who you are…Anyway, you, Erik, noticed that your jock had gone missing. I’m holding it for you–and yours too, Paul–because I have some new ones for you to try on first. I’ve made them myself, but not with myself, I assure you.” He walked over to a locker, opened it, and pulled out one wadded jockstrap–sniffed it a moment–and tossed it to Erik. Then, out came a second jock which he tossed to Paul. “There–now you two take your time with these! Enjoy your gifts. I’ll be back in a while, to see how you’re coming along, when I’m done with Anton in there.”

Robinson headed into the office, leaving the two boys sitting on the bench, each one…sniffing the jock he’d thrown them. They were hardly clean, but they also didn’t smell quite like anything, or anyone, either had smelled before. Soon, each was chewing and sucking at the filth, fading away from the world, while Anton learned his fate from his coach.

A Home of Mirrors (Part 5)

***WARNING: Still substantial violence and abuse.

“Was that thing really me?” Eli asked.

“It’s still you–never forget that. We’ve brought you to heel, given you our power, but this is still you. You belong to us now.”

Eli was still looking down at the pitiful slave beside his reflection, on hands and knees. It glanced up at him, met his eyes, and for a flash, Eli could see himself looking down in contempt, could feel the burns and aches all over it’s body, how…how hard it’s cock was, how hungry it was now, for cum, for pain, for punishment. He broke his eyes away, terrified that he might be trapped there, and delivered a swift kick to the slave’s chin, hard enough to flip it over onto it’s back. The anger and rage didn’t surprise him, but the fear behind it did. Fear wasn’t something he had felt, in the last week. Fear was something he wasn’t supposed to feel, not anymore. He walked over and pressed his boot to the slave’s neck, pressing hard, “Never meet my eyes again, do you fucking understand? I never even want to know that you fucking have eyes, you fucking worthless piece of shit!” His measured words had grown into an unhinged shout, the boot pressing harder, and he could see the slave’s face turning red. It wasn’t fighting him, it wanted him to do it, wanted him to kill it, wanted him to set it free, but a hand grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him back, the slave choking, gasping for air.

“You can’t kill it, no matter how much you want to. We won’t allow it. Hurt it as much as you like, but it must live.”

Eli looked at the thing, at himself–at that old self. It had curled up into a ball on the floor and rolled away from him, hiding it’s face.

“Displease us, and you know where you’ll find yourself.”

“Eli looked back at his reflection, at the stern, hard stare. “I apologize, I…I was weak.”

“You are weak. The last time we met, we couldn’t free much of you. Much remains to be done.”

“Please, I…I know,” Eli said, one gloved hand running down his reflection’s shirt. “I can’t…tell you, how difficult this was, being away from you. I’ve felt so…broken. I know I can be so much…better.”

The reflection smiled, though it wasn’t clear what it found worthy of the smirk. “Better, yes. But now, we can…improve you, can’t we?”

Eli groaned, and fell to his knees in front of himself, pressing his head to the floor a moment, shuddering, trying to suppress a sigh of relief, “I’m yours. Remake me in your image, so I might better serve you.”

“Debase yourself, faggot. Then you can look at me.”

The voice sent a shiver through him. It was his voice, and yet…not. The only emotions he could imagine it communicating were contempt and loathing. The voice of someone utterly superior in every way. He inched forward and began licking at the boots before him, and noticed they were different than his own. Since buying the house, Eli had found wearing anything other than leather to be…uncomfortable. He wore the gloves night and day–he wasn’t ever certain he could take them off, but he’d broken down, and purchased a pair of boots. The ones he was licking, however, were not those. These were shined bright, nearly bright enough to see a reflection in the spit wet surface. They ran up the calf–that was as far as Eli dare look without a direct order from above. He cleaned each boot, top and bottom, thanking his reflection for the privilege of serving him, and only after, was he allowed to rest up on his knees, and look up.

He was beautiful. Standing tall in his leather uniform, every detail immaculate, the lush grey beard flowing from around his mouth, with the thick cigar burning bright. Between the leather and the hair, the only skin Eli could see of himself was the space around his eyes, aged and weathered, but far from weak. He looked lower, down the barrel chest and firm gut held in check by the leather dress shirt, to the crotch, bulging with flesh. “Please, sir, may I?” Eli asked, looking back to meet his reflection’s hard eyes.

“No hands. Earn your fucking reward, you hungry faggot.”

Thankfully, the pants had a double zipper, giving him an easier task. First one, and then the other, and then after the flap fell down, he got his first sight of his cock, his first smell of it–musk and sweat and smoke. He licked, careful with his teeth, taking it slow, knowing one false step would mean his prize taken away. He coaxed the cock to it’s full, eight inch length, and then swallowed it to the hilt, shuddering at the ghostly sensation around his own head and shaft, in his pants. His better half allowed him a moment to enjoy himself, and then wrapped both, gloved hands around the back of his head, and began skull fucking Eli’s throat mercilessly.

He couldn’t breathe, but he could also taste the sweet cigar smoke he kept sucking into his lungs. He could feel his hands both wrapped around his head, and around both of his thick thighs. For one glorious moment, he was fully together, and then the next, he came, slammed the thing’s head to his crotch, and felt it crumple and flatten with the force, his thick cock bursting out of the back of the husk’s head, cum spraying all over the carpet. In his gloved hands, he crumpled up the husk until it no longer even had a head, and then pulled his cock free, brushing off the dust from his shaft and pants. “Clean it up,” he snarled at his slave, and the meek thing scurried over and began sucking the cum from the carpet as best it could.

The husk crumbled away after a few more moments, and the dust disappeared into the air. He turned back to the mirror, and saw himself there, beside the slave. “I’ll mind him–you should go tend to your son. He’s having trouble…accepting us.”

Eli gave a growl of agreement, and didn’t bother putting his cock away, as he strode down the hall, following the cries of pain which filled his newer heart with an odd, delirious joy.

“Let’s See How He Likes It” (2 of 2)

He ended up not at the bear bar, but at one of the twink bars he usually went to when he was looking for someone hot to fuck. Only now, instead of his sexy muscled body, he was an old, slobby grandpa, reeking of cigar smoke and booze, holding down the bar and ogling all of the sexy twinks in the room…but he wasn’t…here to just stare. No…no, he needed…to do something more.

He was already ashamed of himself, of his appearance, but when one hot, muscled guy caught his eye (someone he’d fucked around with before, in his old body), he hopped off the barstool, waddled over and started hitting on him, asking that muscle god to plow his old hole into next week. He got turned down of course, and duly humiliated for even trying at all, but much to his surprise, Vince’s now much smaller cock started leaking cum, and he felt…good. Yeah, humiliating himself like that felt amazing. Unable to stop himself, he spied some other muscle fuck and begged him as well. He knew he never had a chance, but that wasn’t what he was after–not really. No, he wanted these hot men to shame him, to humiliate him and berate him. Nothing…nothing got him harder than that now, he was starting to realize.

After a few hours, he’d bugged enough guys that the bouncers tossed him out. Fine–he had…other places to go too. Now his feet were heading somewhere else, in the late night…heading back towards one of the bear bars he always used to fuck with, but now, everyone there seemed to be expecting him. They parked him in the corner on his knees, and he was the night’s cumdump and urinal. Happily so, in fact. Every load of cum and piss just got him hornier, but his cock refused to get hard–it would just…leak, soaking the crotch of his jeans in precum, but his desire only intensified.

Finally, the bar closed, and he waddled home, gut heaving with cum and piss. Home was different now–a filthy studio apartment–but while he recalled his old life clearly…he knew he’d never be going back. He got naked and logged onto the computer, ready to start messaging some of the muscle men he paid regularly–paid them to…humiliate him over video chat. Sometimes, they even shamed him enough that he was able to cum, but that usually only happened a few times a month. This was his life now–spend all day paying young men to humiliate him, cruise the hot bars for more punishment each night, drink cum and piss at the sleazy bars and bathhouses around town until the early hours of the morning, and then get up and repeat. Soon enough, his old life seemed like a dream–but he wouldn’t trade his new one for anything.

“Let’s See How He Likes it” (1 of 2)

You could tell that Vince enjoyed it, that he went to bars like this on purpose. He was a twink, or maybe he just seemed like a twink in the midst of all the bears–he was more of a gymrat, really, on his own. But he seemed younger, and smaller, in those rooms, flaunting his body for all those “old faggots” as he called them, dancing alone, making them all want him–and when someone had the audacity to even approach him, he’d ridicule and humiliated them, berate loud enough for the whole room to hear–what kind of loser would think someone like him could ever be interested in a hairy old fag like that, after all? It was only a matter of time, really, before someone got sick of him, and did something about it.

It was a Friday night, and Vince was planning another raid, as he called them. He’d swing in, get those bears all hot and bothered, and then skip out to a better bar, where he’d actually find some tail worth fucking. Still, seeing how much all of those fuckers wanted him–it was a rush, really. He was everything that they wanted, and they were never going to get him–not in a million years. He was getting dressed for the evening–nice tight fitting band shirt, sexy jeans, smoking a cigarette, when he checked himself in the mirror…and gawked.

He had a beard. Not just a beard, either–it was…jet fucking white. He took off his hat, and saw a bunch of hair fall out as he did–his hairline was receding, rapidly, and the hair that wasn’t falling out was growing longer. He had to shave it, he had to do…something. He hurried to the bathroom, but by the time he got there, the beard was several inches long, and he saw that his body was changing as well, a gut pushing up his shirt, his pecs growing larger and flabby. He started clawing at the shirt, where his neck was tight against the neck, and the thing changed into a stained, grubby looking wife beater, his jeans growing to accommodate his wide ass as well, and suspenders appearing, looping over his massive gut and holding his pants up, now that no belt would really reach around his girth.

He just stared at his new, old body–easily 400 pounds, and at his new height of five foot six, he only looked wider. He couldn’t go out like this, he had to get to a hospital or something…but…but he had to go…somewhere, right? There was a nagging feeling in his head, something he needed to do tonight. He went out and lit one of his cheap, foul tasting cigars, got on his old, ragged boots, and headed downstairs, trying to stop himself, dying from shame at the looks he was getting from people he passed on the street…but little did he know, his night was just getting started.

Source: lukasgardiner

The Power of Society (Part 6)

WARNING: INCONTINENCE, SCAT

Simon tugged his shirt down again as he walked, trying to cover his hairy gut as best he could already sweaty and winded after the one block walk towards campus proper. Fuck, why did he keep doing this? He hated walking, he hated going to class. He felt like a fucking dumbass now–and everyone at the frat hated him for even trying. Hell, he kind of hated himself for trying, even, but he did it anyway. Sure, he was just a fat, slovenly, cum-hungry nerd, but maybe he could still make something of himself. There had to be something more to life than jacking off to filthy porn and playing video games, right? Well, maybe there was, for guys who weren’t nerds like him, but something still told him that he needed to try.

“Oh fuck, is that–who the fuck let the fucking Nerd out of it’s cage?”

Simon had crossed the road over to campus proper, only for a guy passing with a friend by to shout that at him. He looked over, embarrassed a bit for even existing, but he wasn’t quite prepared for the look of sheer revulsion in the young man’s eyes, looking at him. It was like he’d never seen anything more disgusting in his life, like Simon was a smear of dog shit across the man’s carpet. He tried to stammer a reply, but he’d developed a severe stutter after discovering what a nerd he was, and so he’d never really been able to get words out of his mouth.

“Dude, I know it’s gross, but if you say shit like that to it, you’ll only encourage it. You know how nerds get,” the guy’s friend said, and tugged him along.

The guy followed reluctantly, “If we don’t say anything, then the fucking things will start thinking they’re allowed here.”

Simon just stared after them. He’d thought he’d built up a resistance to it–to the stares, the disgust, the avoidance, the pity–but something about that cut right through him. But rather than feeling hurt, what he found instead, was that…it had turned him on, somehow. Unable to help himself, he groped the front of his filthy cargo shorts, feeling a wad of precum squeeze from the head of his filthy cock, forming a bit of a wet spot around the fly, and then yanked his hand away. Class–he needed to get to class. He had to stop worrying about what people thought of him–just because he was a perverted, disgusting nerd, didn’t mean he couldn’t go to class…as long as he controlled himself.

Where that last thought had come from, he wasn’t certain, but it was…right, somehow. Everyone knew nerds had no real self-control. Simon kept walking, trying to avoid people as he headed for class, but along the way, he let off a massive, stinking belch–it tasted so filthy he just stood on the sidewalk a moment, groping himself helplessly, and every cruel comment from the people passing by only made him hornier. He had to stop. If he kept this up, and campus security caught wind of him, he’d really be in trouble. He spied a bench along the path, and thought that if he could just sit for a bit and collect himself, he might be alright. After a few more heaving steps, he got there and plopped down on the bench, as a massive fart escaped his ass…and a little something more than that, which he could feel, warm, in the back of his crusty, cum coated briefs.

He’d just farted so hard, he’d shit a bit in the back of the pants. Fuck, he’s such a fucking nerd–such a disgusting, ugly, fat, perverted, filthy nerd! He licked his bearded lips and started clawing at the front of his shorts, hauling up his heavy gut so he could haul his cock out of the front of his shorts and start jacking off in public, sitting in the stench of his own shit, staring down the people passing by, wanting them to insult him, wanting them to be utterly disgusted by him. After all, he couldn’t really help himself–he was just a fucking nerd. This is just what nerds do, right? He ground his fat ass against the bench, feeling the shit smearing between his cheeks, the first load exploding from his cock, arching up onto the front of his t-shirt. A guy passing by saw him–smelled him, and stumbled past, retching. Simon just laughed, and started jacking off again, but didn’t manage to finish before the campus security guards found him. The two hulking guards ran up, wearing gas masks and their standard rubber containment gear, and the first to arrive used his cattle prod right on Simon’s junk, making the nerd scream and writhe on the bench.

“Fucking nerds–you just can’t fucking help yourselves. An infraction this bad–you’re getting house arrest for two months, you fat fuck.”

The men dragged Simon’s fat ass back to the frat house–he was laughing and belching the whole way. He couldn’t believe he’d lost control like that, but fuck, it had just felt so fucking good! On the porch, the guards secured a shock collar around Simon’s neck and armed it–if he stepped more than ten feet out of the range of the house, he’d receive a debilitating shock and security would be alerted to his violation. Then they opened the door and shoved him inside, still laughing.

“Fuck Si, is that you?”

He looked up and saw a couple of his fellow nerds on the couch, staring at the screen, playing a video game together. “Got all the way to campus, you should’ve seen them. Shit myself on a fucking bench!” he laughed again, and started jacking off again, “Fuck, why the fuck did that feel so fucking good?”

“You shit yourself in fucking public! I bet you fucking jacked off after that,”

“Oh fuck man, I fucking did!”

Fuck man, you’re such a fucking nerd!”

“I know, right?”

“Fuck, I could shit myself right now, man,” one of the nerds said, and bore down, letting off a vile fart. Si crawled over, smelling the fumes as he jacked his own cock. He was stuck in here with these fucks for two months, but it was worth it, right? Some part of him told him this was wrong–the same part of him which tried to get him to leave the house that night, until the collar went off. It summoned security, who beat his fat ass on the lawn and threw him back in the house. There was no denying it–as far as the world was concerned he was just a fucking nasty nerd, and he’d never be anything else–best to just accept it.