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 4)

“Um…how are we supposed to piss in these things?”

Several other hands dropped down. It was the first question Harold had expected, of course. “That’s rather easy–you simply piss through the uniform. Who has another question.”

“Wait, if we piss through it, all day long, and if we can’t wash it or take a shower, then…” the young man paused, hoping the rest of the question would be clear, but Harold motioned for him to continue–he wanted to hear the young man say it. “Then won’t it…be kind of dirty?”

“Yes, it will. That’s the purpose of the uniform.”

“No way, fuck this shit–I’m cutting this thing off,” one of the other men said, and stood up, heading for the kitchen, and a knife.

“Now, I feel a demonstration would help make this a bit clearer. After all, now that you are all dressed, I can demonstrate the purpose of this study. Come up here, and tell me your name.”

He wasn’t quite sure what made his feet veer off from his intended direction, but the stocky young man made his way to the front and stood by Harold. “My name is Adam.”

“Alright Adam. Now–I’m sure that your desire to remove your uniform was driven by the fact that you need to piss like a racehorse, don’t you?”

Adam nodded, though admitting the fact in front of his housemates made his face flush red.

“Well, go on then. Piss.”

“Right here?”

“Yes, right here please.”

“But I don’t want…to?” he said, only noticing that his cock had obeyed the professor already, and a stream of piss was arcing out the front of his jock pouch–well, spraying, was a bit more accurate, perhaps. Several men in the front scooted back to avoid the piss, and while Adam tried to stop himself, he couldn’t.

“Now, it is my hypothesis, that the dirtier a jock behaves and becomes, something happens to his brain chemistry,” Harold said, passing his hand through the spray of piss, and then slathering the wet hand across Adam’s face and hair. “They begin to lose access to their higher mental functions. They become more and more obsessed with perverse, filthy behavior. Their bodies put out copious amounts of musk, they desire one another’s stink and piss, they find themselves obsessed with fucking and masturbation.” He stopped, and adjusted his watch a moment, “In short–at the heart of every jock, I believe, is a filthy perverted animal, which can be unlocked by forcing that jock to become filthy, by forcing them to debase and humiliate themselves in front of their fellow jocks and the outside world. That this true jock is shameless, a complete faggot, hungry for cum, piss and sweat, their only desires in the world are working out, perving out, and wrestling and fighting their fellow jocks for dominance.”

Adam’s piss had slowed to a trickle, which was now running down his inner thigh. He licked his lips, tasting the piss left there by Harold’s hand, and shuddered, a dribble of precum leaking out the head of his cock. He tried to stop himself, but he started rubbing the pouch with one hand, groaning and snorting, switching hands to lick the piss and precum from the first. The rest of the house stared on in horror. “As you can see, Adam is one of these jocks, as are the rest of you, I believe.”

“I’m not…fucking like that. That’s fucking disgusting,” another man said, but everyone could hear the tremor of doubt in his voice.

“That’s what the experiment is setup to find out,” Harold said, “But I assure you, my hypotheses are never wrong. Reality has a way of…working out in my favor, right Adam?”

With a grunt, Adam’s cock started leaking cum through the pouch, and he smeared it back over the fabric. He didn’t know what was wrong with him, or why he couldn’t control himself. The…stink was opening up something deep in his mind, something he’d never known was there. He could smell the piss soaking into the carpet, and he dropped to his hands and knees, sucking it up in front of everyone. Some in the front, who could smell the piss, had begun rubbing their own cocks through the mesh pouch prisons, without even really noticing–imagining that it was them, there, instead of Adam, thinking about whether than piss might taste as good as it smells.

“Now, any other questions?”

One more hand went up, tentatively, “How, uh, how are we supposed to have sex, like this?”

“Oh, well, in your new uniforms, you are, of course, unable to penetrate anything. That said, you are free to frot as much as you desire on one another. Demonstrate, if you would, Adam.”

Unable to resist, he crawled forward to the nearest jock in front of him, and began rubbing his cock on his housemate’s thigh, groaning and grunting as he did, the other man disturbed, and yet…incredibly aroused by the sight.

“You are, of course, free to pleasure one another orally, and many jocks find themselves…desiring anal stimulation, as the process progresses. I imagine many of you will likely come to desire one another’s fists deep inside of your assholes, as the study continues. This kind of desire is completely normal for jocks like all of you, who are all rather…submissive creatures, in nature.” He saw one or two men’s hands slip between their thighs, poking and prodding at their hole, already accepting the suggestion as fact. “Now, I fear I must get going. A work crew will be here in an hour or so to install cameras throughout the house, but none of you will notice a thing out of the ordinary, and will behave as though you are not being observed. I leave you jocks to it! I hope you all deeply enjoy your journeys of self discovery.” With that, he left–even more thrilled. This was going to be a very fruitful experiment, he believed.

Within five hours, every jock in the house had piss through their new uniforms, and all of them found themselves in positions similar to Adam’s–new desires were welling up within them, and very few found themselves capable of controlling themselves for long. A small orgy erupted in the living room, when some of the jocks gathered to discuss a way of escaping…but found themselves too distracted by the scents of one another to resist their new, inner urges. Other’s resisted, as best they could…but no one in the house believed that the jock within them would remain dormant for very long.

The Power of Society (Part 3)

The jocks of Alpha Phi Delta were oblivious to what had just occurred at Sigma Mu Tau right next door to them, but they were as confused as those young men had been, when Harold entered and told them all to gather in the living room for a house meeting. The house here was in considerably messier shape than next door had been. Piled by the door were sneakers and cleats of all kinds. Personal items, dirty bowls and plates, and even some clothes littered the room as the jocks filed in and sat down on the couches and floor around the fireplace, where the older gentleman was standing, checking his watch, and looking around at the men gathering. While the men next door had all been in rather good shape, Alpha Phi Delta was known to attract the star athletes on campus. It had always been a bit of a joke on campus that the two fraternities were right next door to one another, but the two houses had always embraced that, and turned it into a rivalry–brains against brawn, as they called it. But Harold had other plans in mind for the two houses this year. He hoped to bring the two groups closer than they’d ever been before.

“Hello everyone,” Harold said, “I just wanted to take a moment out of your busy first week to introduce myself. I’m professor Harold Larson, from the psychology department, and the dean of students has been kind enough to allow me to use your fraternity as a subject in a little experiment I’m conducting.”

No one said much of anything here, but Harold hadn’t anticipated much pushback, like at the other house–or at least, not yet. Looking around the room, the men all seemed rather bored and uninterested in this–but that would change soon enough. Harold had a small bag with him, and at this, he set it down on the table and began pulling some things from it. “Now, for this experiment, I’m going to need you all to help me out, by wearing a new house uniform, which I will explain now.

“Wait, uniform?” someone asked.

“Yes–I will need each of you to wear one of these jockstraps 24/7 until I tell you otherwise. I assumed you wouldn’t object, given that you all are likely rather accustomed to wearing them anyway.”

“A jockstrap? All the time? What for?”

“I’m afraid that until you put on the uniforms, I am unable to explain their purpose fully. It’s part of the study.”

“What if we don’t want to?”

“I was told by the dean that all of you would be very excited to participate in this. You all find this very intriguing, and are more than happy to comply. Now, if you would all please strip off your clothes, we can begin putting all of you into your new uniforms.”

No one in the room found anything to object to it that, so the entire room stood up and began to strip off their clothes. That was rather easy, since they were all fairly accustomed to seeing each other naked in the locker rooms, but Harold couldn’t help but enjoy the sight of so many well formed young men, naked in a room with him. What fun he was going to have with them all.

“Now, I’ll ask you all to form a line. I will give you a jockstrap, and then we will secure it, to ensure it remains in place for the remainder of the experiment.”

The jocks lined up, and Harold handed the first one a jockstrap. The young man put it on, and then Harold took a metal cable tie from inside the bag. With one hand, he got a firm grip around the young man’s cock and balls through the pouch and the jock, tugging them away from his body, and then secured the metal tie around the base, tighter than a cock ring, but not quite tight enough to interfere with circulation entirely. The result was the jock’s cock and balls locked inside the pouch of the jock, with the metal tie on the outside. Harold lastly trimmed the loose end of the tie with shears, applied a quick drying super glue to the locking mechanism of the tie, and sent the jock back into the room. Seeing what was going on, the men in the cue grew a bit wary and confused, but a few words of comfort from the professor were enough to settle them down. Fifteen minutes later, the jocks were all secure in their new uniforms, sitting around the room, each of them touching and examining the pouch where their cocks and balls were locked in. The ties were snug enough to act as a cock ring, and several of the men were sporting erections, though they found them rather…uncomfortable, when confined inside the relatively small space of the jock pouch.

“There, I must say that the new uniforms look excellent on you, and I’m sure you all agree, right? None of you feel any desire to try and tamper with and remove your uniforms, correct?”

The men murmured agreement and nodded, but the reluctance was palpable.

“Very good. Now, There are also two house rules which all of you will need to abide by, through the course of this study. I’ll go over the rules, and then take any questions you all might have. First, when in this house, the only clothing you are allowed to wear is your new uniform. If you need to leave the house, you will dress only right before leaving the house, and as soon as you arrive back, you will strip naked once again. Second, your new uniforms must not be washed. Because they cannot be removed, that means you all will have to forego showers for the duration of the study. Now–any questions?” the professor saw several hands rise, nervously, and he smiled, pointing to one young man in the front.

“Um…how are we supposed to piss in these things?”

Five Film Contract (2 of 2) WARNING: FILTH, BESTIALITY

Just one more, Evan was telling himself. Just one more film, and he’d be done. The contract would be over. He could…be normal again, himself again. He wouldn’t have to keep doing this, why was he still doing this?

He’d gone back to his room after the second film, stunned, unable to look at his reflection in the mirror, at his shaved head. He could still smell Rick on him, and he liked it. He’d left the set still wearing that dirty jock, and he’d jacked it, trying to find a dildo large enough to make his ass happy, disgusted with himself, but more turned on than he’d been in his life, and terrified that he still had three more films to go, that…that he might lose control of himself like that, again. That, even worse, he might lose control of himself like Rick. After their film together, he’d been even larger, with huge, meaty forearms–one of them marked like a ruler, lumbering off to his own room. He didn’t want to be like that…but he could tell, the directors had something else in mind for him.

The third film he’d done better, he’d kept his head around him. He’d taken every toy the other two actors had used on him and loved every second of it, watching the two of them…shift. The rubber, the tattoos, the piercings, the dullness in their eyes, but he’d fought off the worst of it. Sure, he couldn’t…quite bring himself to take off the rubber when he got back to his room, and the rings in his nipples did feel good, but he hadn’t given in like they had. That had been a victory–he could see the frustration in the director’s eyes. But the fourth film, yesterday…

The piss…the filth…he’d lost himself in it, and they’d caught every second of his debauchery on film. He still reeked of piss and shit now, the next morning. He’d tried to sleep, but he hadn’t been able to–he’d been too…wired, looking at himself in the mirror, at his new body. His missing muscles, his paunch, how he’d aged into at least his early forties. Now he was pissing into condoms to drink later–he…he liked it cold–and working his fist back into his ass at the same time, losing himself, whatever bit of himself there still was…but there was just one more film. He could make it through one more, right?

He left his room, but instead of going to a set, he was led to a car–rubber sheet placed over the backseat–and driven out of town. “We have a special final set for you all prepared, Evan,” the director said, “everyone is going to love this, watching you collapse. You’re going to be a star after this, just you wait.”

It was a farm. He wasn’t shooting with any of his other actors–no, Evan was tied down in the muck and manure, the cameras rolling as animal after animal fucked his hole–a dog, a boar, a cow, a donkey, and finally, a horse. He lost himself in it, he felt his very humanity draining away into the mud. When they finally untied him, all he could do was grunt and crawl through the mud, rubbing his cock raw. But he was a star, when his series premiered on the internet. Most people thought it was a hoax, that he was just a paid actor, but Evan could have confirmed it, if Evan still existed. Now he was just the director’s personal pet–but rumor has it there’s a reunion special coming up–Evan and Rick, together again for one evening–the two nasty beasts rutting in the mud and filth. You should see the preorders–it’s going to make bank.

Five Film Contract (1 of 2)

It was a bucket list thing, but Evan had always wanted to be in a porno. He certainly had the looks for it–he’d had some success as a model off and on, and had even landed a role in a few commercials for local companies, but when he heard through the grapevine that a new porn studio was opening up and looking for new actors, he did a bit of digging for the company around the internet, and sent in an audition tape of him masturbating, as requested.

He got a reply the very next day–apparently, the studio was more than willing to sign him, but the only catch was that he would have to sign a contract obligating him to do five films. They wouldn’t be sequels, apparently–the new business was just looking to film a bunch of these movies with cheap actors, and then release them slowly over the next year or so. Five films in five days–it sounded extreme, but also kind of enticing. Why not? He agreed, and went over to the office to sign his contract.

Filming wasn’t until the next month, and there, he met the various actors the company had hired, and he was surprised to find they had all stuck to a pretty specific type–like him. Model looks, trim, but not overly muscular. Young, in their early 30’s at most. All of them were just the kind of guys Evan liked to fuck–so this was going to be a pretty stellar week. The first day was spent doing an orientation and discussing the kinds of films the company was looking for. They wanted real sex–nothing too scripted. They wanted to see what kind of strange perversions lied beneath all of these pretty faces.

His first film wasn’t too strange. He was with another cute guy like him, and after making out for a bit, his partner wanted to fuck his ass–and Evan was willing to oblige. It didn’t seem strange in the moment, but Evan almost always topped–the guy slipped inside him however, and any desire to top fled his mind. It felt…amazing, to have cock in his ass. Soon he was begging the guy to fuck him harder, deeper, their talk turning kinkier and rougher until they both came–Evan without even touching his cock. He was amazed when the guy pulled out, and he saw his ten inch cock–it hadn’t been that big before, had it?

The night after, he couldn’t stop thinking about how good it had felt to get fucked. Each actor had their own room, at least, but he spent most of the night fingering himself, before he found a dildo in a drawer and fucking himself on that long enough to get himself to cum. He didn’t know what had gotten into him–getting fucked had never been like that before. Then, came the second film. His partner in this one wasn’t someone he’d seen at the meeting before, and he’d gotten a good look at everyone–no, he was a massive, muscular brute, with a full beard and cruel sneer.

“Um…he wasn’t one of the cast, was he?” he asked.

“Oh, Rick here had a very productive shoot at the gym yesterday, didn’t you?”

“Fuck yeah,” Rick said, flexing, “I’m a fucking beast!”

“We think you two are going to have some great chemistry. Your video yesterday, Evan, was good, but a bit…stale. We’d like to see the two of you up the ante a bit today.”

The second film…Evan had a hard time recalling what happened, exactly. Rick skullfucked him first, getting Evan used to his musk, and then shaved his hair off…and Evan let him do it, no, begged him to do it. Then, after forcing him into one of Rick’s filthy jocks, he shoved his fist into Evan’s ass all the way up to the forearm, and only after Evan had shot, screaming in pain, did Rick fuck him rough and cum as well.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about!” The director shouted, “Much better–Just you wait Evan, we’ve only just begun to tap into that filthy, whorish mind of yours.”

Source: sluttyfathers

Pigtail (2 of 2)

The physical changes were relatively minor, in the end–the most obvious was the weight gain and your new tail, as well as a few other details–a slight upturn in your nose, a propensity for snorting with little provocation…and a raging horniness which wouldn’t abate for anything, no matter how many times you masturbated. You went back on the website, desperate to find out what had happened to you, but found nothing much, beyond the fact that, apparently, this is what asslickers were designed to do. He discovered that the more pigtails he used…the more piggish he’d become, and the rush of excitement which hit at that thought…was upsetting, to say the least.

But beyond the physical changes, it was the mental shift which caught you off guard the most. Over the next week, you found yourself changing your entire wardrobe, preferring tight rubber and spandex which would show off your chubby thighs and big gut, your tail always sticking out the back. You found yourself unable to say no to any man who wanted to fuck you…and most any man who saw your tail ended up with his cock in one, or more, of your holes.

You also had a harder time controlling your impulses, which you’d always managed to keep under firm handle. You got your cock and septum pierced after a few days–you’d always wanted to, and you no longer had the willpower to resist that simple desire to debase yourself. You grew a beard, finally…and took up cigar smoking after a rather…intense night with a cigar bear you met through one of Arctos’s hookup sites. But every night, you’d look at that three pack of Pigtails on the Arctos website, thinking about it, fantasizing about it…but always fighting back the desire, too afraid to lose even more of yourself, but that resistance is fading now, isn’t it?

Everyone loves your cam shows. Everyone wants to see you humiliate yourself. Everyone wants to see you be a pig. More than one man has simply offered to buy the three pack for you, and finally…you give in. You’re going to do a three video series next week, one Pigtail a day. You don’t know what you’ll be when you finish…but you know you’re going to finally be the pig of your dreams, and you’re going to love every second of it.

No One Else Will Want You Now (Part 8)

“Are…y-ya fuckin’ h-h-happy now, s-s-sir?” Donny stammered out, staring at himself. “Ain’t no one g-g-onna want me now.”

“No–No, fuck you, no we’re not finished.”

Donny flinched at the edge in Walter’s voice. It hadn’t been there before–and neither had those steel grey eyes he was looking at him with. Appraising him with, like an object. Like an object, trying to figure out what part of it he hadn’t quite vandalized completely.

“That face,” Walter said, “I still see you in that fucking face.”

With a cry of pain, Donny’s facial features began rearranging themselves. His mouth grew wider and his lips thinned, his nose growing out, the point turning up and flattening, nostrils flaring wide to either side. His brow thickened considerably, hiding his now beady eyes in shadow, even as his forehead grew shorter. His ears flapped out to either side, one noticeably larger than the other.

“Too young too. You don’t fucking deserve youth. No–there’s nothing uglier than awkward middle age.”

His hairline receded, but left a noticeable tuft of hair behind offset to one side, and a few strands of grey appeared in his hair and sideburns–not enough to form a pattern, but enough to be apparent. His gut and moobs sagged a bit further, his skin growing cracked, dry and weathered, spotted with moles and freckles. Donny no longer recognized himself in any part of his body, and yet, looking at his own reflection…he knew this life of his intimately. No one had ever loved him. No one had ever touched him without also wanting to hurt him.

“Fuckin’ ugly pig,” Walter said, giggling for some reason, feeling unhinged in his own mind. What a name for you! Fuglet! The fuckin’ ugly piglet. What’s your name, slave? I want to hear you say it.”

“It’s…Fuglet s-s-sir,” Donny said…and it was true. Somehow, that nickname had followed him his entire life. He’d forgotten his real name often enough, and it was easier just to introduce himself as that–it got the messy business over faster…sometimes.

“Fugglet, oh my fucking christ, what the fuck have I done!” Walter said, still giggling. “I…I knew this was going to…to be rough, but fuck, I can’t even look at you.”

“I k-k-know sir, I’m g-g-g…” he tried to say, but couldn’t get anything past his lips.

“I fucking did this, fuck, I have to get the fuck out of here, I need some fucking air,” Walter said, and stumbled for the apartment door, intending to run and never come back. He’d done what the curse had wanted, hadn’t he? It didn’t need him anymore. He couldn’t stay here, he couldn’t stare that thing in the face everyday and…and not see himself reflected in it. He grabbed the door handle and hauled the door open six inches, but the door slammed against some immovable and invisible force, which slammed it back shut. It was in him. It was in him, the curse was in him, and it was angry. Now he knew what Jack had meant, when he’d told him not to resist, that the curse only wanted to use him. In the end, he hadn’t been the right tool, even if he’d been close. The curse was realizing this now, and decided to fashion him into something which would better suit its needs.

“You have to stay.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll stay, I’ll be your tool!” he shouted into the room, but he could tell the curse was rather unimpressed, and it was right. He couldn’t do this. He hadn’t imagined it might be this intense, this terrible, watching the man he loved…destroyed like this. This wasn’t what he’d wanted, not really, but it was the curse calling the shots. It was the curse which had seen this in him, deep inside him, and called it forth. This had come from him, but he’d never had to stomach to grapple with it–that the only way he could know–truly know–that someone was his, was to make sure no one would ever desire them.

“You cannot leave. You won’t leave. You don’t want to leave.”

The curse was pulling him away from the door, dragging him back towards the room, back towards Fuglet, back towards the mirror.

“Fuglet needs to be punished.”

“Please, I know, I’ll do it.”

“You both need to be punished.”

“No…no…” he whined, but he could already feel it, his body changing in ways he could barely understand.

“You hate. You hate, it is what you do. You hate, you wound. You are cruel. You are waste. You are wasting. No one would ever submit themselves to someone like you, no one other than someone who no one would want to dominate. You will both be cursed to have no one but one another.”

Thinking back on the moment–often after waking up from nightmares in the middle of the night, trying to scream through a dry, empty throat–it was like he had been set on his knees in a sandstorm, being buffeted by the wind and thousands of sharp, cutting grains of glass. Every cut removed a piece of him–thoughts from his mind, strength from his body, kindness from his soul. He would imagine being buried, but they were simply stripping everything away from him that was no longer necessary. The best tools, after all, were lean and efficient, honed for a single purpose, and obvious in intent. The storm disappeared, leaving him curled up in a ball on the floor, Fuglet backed up against the wall, unable to understand what had just happened, but terrified all the same. He just stared at his Master, wondering if he was dead. It looked like it could be dead, and then there was a rasping breath, and his Master uncurled himself with a groan.

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.”

What would you give up in exchange for the body you’d always wanted? That’s what I tell my clients, during their first physical training session with me. “What would you give up?” Their answers are almost always the same uninteresting bullshit–junk food, watching TV, playing video games–but it’s always best to plant the seed early. That if they just give up the right thing, they could finally have the body they think will make them happy.

Now, I’m a good trainer. My clients meet their goals, and usually they don’t have to give me much, but sometimes I get a stubborn one. I happen to like the stubborn ones. They show up for training three times a week, but it’s clear they haven’t spent any time exercising on their own. They usually blame me for their lack of progress. I tease them–they lose five pounds for a week, and then gain ten. Some of them, will do anything just to lose some of that flab–and so, on occasion, I’ll offer them a deal.

Some of them think I’m kidding. Most of them think it’s a strange motivational technique. None of them really think I’m being serious, until they first time they give up their will–and I force them through the most rigorous workout of their life, and then fuck their fat, sweaty asses afterwards.

Now, none of them want to keep going after that, but what choice do they have? I make the choices for them now. What they eat, where they work, where they live, who they fuck–and most of them get fucked by me a lot. Of course, I do always follow through on my promises–I give them the bodies they said they wanted. Number 19 here–he wanted the body of a body builder–it took a while to get here from 350 pounds, but he’s not complaining. No, 19 doesn’t have a thought in it’s head anymore–I do all the thinking for it. But if it could think, it would know I followed through, it just might have given up a bit more than it expected to get it.

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.