A Brief Revenge (1 of 2)

Vance woke up that morning–late, as usual for him–yawned, got up and when and had his morning piss, thankful that today’s hangover wasn’t too extreme. The party last night had been a good one all the same, even if that fucking old neighbor of theirs had caused a ruckus, barging into the party, trying to be a fucking buzzkill. He could have sworn he’d seen the old man in the hallway, coming out of his room before he’d kicked him out, but the memory was pretty hazy.

Vance was one of the hot jocks at the college nearby, and his off campus house was party central almost every weekend. It helped that his father was a local official, and so the police largely left him alone to do what he wanted, as long as he did his best to keep minors away from alcohol. He went back into his room from the bathroom, idly stroking his eight inch cock. The only downside from the night was that he hadn’t gotten laid, but it wasn’t that big of a deal. He opened his drawer and found a clean pair of underwear on top, grabbed it and put it on…and shuddered, looking down at the grey briefs.

It felt…alive, almost. Squirming around his waist, around his cock. He tried to push them back down and take them off, but the elastic…fought him, gripping his waist tighter as he pushed, growing a bit scared, when the underwear gripped his cock and pumped the first load out of him, making him moan in pleasure. He stumbled back, feeling a bit woozy, but his cock was still hard, and he could feel another orgasm building. It was as big as the first one, his vision going a bit swirly, and he tried to fall on the bed, but collapsed onto the floor instead.

He only remembered the first three or four loads, as the world started to dim, the underwear milking him for all it was worth, sucking him dry. He lost consciousness, and his skin began to turn pale, looking almost…dry and shriveled, the underwear still pulling his cum and life force right out of him, sealing his spirit in the cotton underwear. His muscles atrophied, his bones collapsed into jelly, his skin wrinkled and shrinking, the underwear dragging it all into its desperate, aching hunger. Anb hour later, Vance was gone–there was no trace of him anywhere, aside from a pair of grey briefs on the floor, but Vance was there, embodying his own briefs, trying to scream, but finding he no longer had a mouth. Later that day, the old man from next door slipped into the room, looked about, spied the briefs on the floor, picked them up and slipped back out of his house, happy to have another jock to add to his collection, and his business.

Locker Room Spirit (Sketch)

No one thought anything strange was going on at first. Sure, there were several awkward incidents, as the spirit settled into the walls and lockers, the floor, the sauna, the toilets and the mirrors. As it investigated the space and the men inside it. Occasionally, as they were changing a man might…lose focus for a few moments, idly rubbing his cock, only to break from the odd trance a moment later, embarrassed but thinking little of it. But the spirit began to feed in earnest soon, gripping the place tighter as it gained strength, and before too much longer, things became a bit stranger–not that the men inside noticed anything wrong. In their minds, they would walk into the room, change, and leave, just like they always had. They might not remember the details particularly well, but it was just a locker room, after all…right?

However, as soon as they entered, the spirit would grip them, and begin bending them to it’s will, urging them to strip, urging them to become horny, urging them to cum. All around the room, men were on benches, kneeling on the floor, their hands wrapped around their cocks, standing around the drains, shooting their loads down them, and into the spirit’s gullet below, feeding it, allowing it to become stronger, and each time they shot, the spirit would grip them a bit tighter. Men who only occasionally bothered to change at the gym suddenly found themselves needing to go in every time, somehow…excited to be changing. It did seem strange to them, but harmless. But spirits like this one–they want to feed, yes, but more than that. They want to spread and expand, and to do that, well, let me tell you, it isn’t pretty, watching it happen to an unsuspecting person, not after all of these years doing this work.

Hopefully, I can catch them early, around this point. Pull the spirit out by the root, before it can do any real damage, but I can’t catch everything, and sometimes…sometimes these spirits are smart. And this one, it’s the smartest one I’ve seen in awhile, as I’ve been investigating it, watching it, watching the men enter and become its victims.

Spirits like this one, they can get you in two ways. The first is, in many ways, the better fate–at least in my opinion. Or perhaps, it just seems quicker. Certainly it’s the one most spirits prefer. The longer a human spends under the sway of a spirit, the deeper a hold the spirit has on the person. It can start eating away at their soul–their thoughts, dreams and desires–replacing it with the spirit’s instead. So, in time, the men who were in the locker room the most…well, they found their minds overwhelmed with desire for sex and cum and fucking. Men would enter the room to feed the spirit, and were often fucked and abused by these avatars in the process, until, in time, they were fully taken over, their original soul corrupted beyond any sort of recognition. Several bodybuilders–they were held in there for a week by the spirit, fucking each other nonstop as the spirit absorbed them, and then sent on their way, mindless, to seek out other places where the spirit might take root. It wasn’t enjoyable, putting them to rest, but there quite simply wasn’t anything human remaining inside them.

But the other fate–that I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Should someone be able to resist the spirit’s mental hold, and be able to recognize what’s happening within its domain, the only way they can be contained is physically. The men inside will secure them, and the spirit will begin to…incorporate their body into it’s own physical form. For two weeks now, a young man has been chained to the wall by the urinals. I…doubt he remembers being human at this point. All of his body has been sucked into the wall, leaving only his head, which has begun to contort, becoming identical to the other urinals beside it with each load of piss the men feed him and the spirit he is now connected with.

The spirit, in the end, is a simple mind, governed more by instinct than any real intellect, though the more men it absorbs, the smarter it becomes. I do, at least, have the advantage of surprise, and thankfully I found it before it had grown any larger, or I would have had a sizable challenge on my hands. Still, only a fool would run into a place like that, magic blazing. No, I have to size this thing up first, and that’s why I’m waiting for it to send out another drone it’s been preparing. I won’t kill this one, but merely capture it, so I can better understand the nature of this thing, and how best to contain it before it gets further out of hand. In fact, looking through my scrying pool, I can see the drone is preparing to leave now! If I hurry, I can intercept it, bring it back here, and proceed with my analysis.

Strange Sketch (Part 2)

WARNING: Still super weird!

I got lightheaded and stopped tugging; the harness relaxed, but the jock didn’t stop milking me. It felt…good, I’ll admit that, but that sure as hell didn’t stop me from freaking out on the inside. I tried to call for help, but each time I tried, the harness would squeeze shut before I could even get a scream out, like it could read my fucking mind. So I stayed there, huddled in this dark, tiny bathroom, my cock being milked by an autonomous jockstrap. Then, I heard footsteps, and a distant voice. The voice didn’t sound like words, or if they were words, it was like the words made by someone choking on something. He crossed in front of the doorway, and I gave a breathless scream when I saw him in the light of day…

The uniform…it was squirming, rippling up and down his body as he walked. His legs were thick, the knees had popped and were bent backwards. The boots…they weren’t shaped like human feet anymore. The boot toes had split into three and had bent out, like their own toes. His cock–fuck, that thing–it was at least a foot long, but didn’t dangle–it drooped, and then arced back up, like a fucking prehensile arm. Shiny black rubber, looking like it should have been pulled tight against the skin, but no sign of veins or anything normal, just a swollen head leaking something black onto the floor as it looked around, like an eye on a stalk. The jacket–his chest looked caved in, his back hunched and too big–he was the same height, so he must have grown taller…but his fucking face…he did have a hood on, or what might have been a hood once, but perfectly smooth, like his cock. No nose…no eyes, no brow, and the hood–it looked like it was digging in under his skin along the line of his cheeks, black tendrils shoving their way down into his jaw around his mouth…and out again. From a distance, they may have looked like a full, long beard, but they writhed and wriggled and…and it was alive somehow, and it was speaking, but it was clear why it couldn’t do so well–it’s tongue was growing and extending out of his mouth. It sounded scared. It sounded like it was in pain. The cock and beard swung towards me, and I wondered if it was looking at me somehow, and then it kept going, pacing, moaning and choking.

It would check on me regularly, cock and tendrils inspecting me, a few more times. I was feeling hungry–or what I thought was hunger…then I started throwing up some strange, grey slime. I tried to spit it out, but it felt like it was coating the inside of my mouth and throat. Then, it came back past, surveyed me, and stepped into the bathroom. I tried to crawl back, but there was nowhere I could go as it came closer, the strange beard worming it’s way over my face, pushing it’s way into my mouth, each tendril with more strength than I thought possible. I tried to bite them, it was like chewing plastic. They forced my mouth open…and it stretched. It stretched wider than I thought possible, like my bones and tendons had gone to jelly. The tendrils gripped my teeth and began tugging them out–they came away so easily, and I heard them bouncing as they hit the floor below me, and I heaved. I heaved, and something came up from inside me, pushing it’s way up through my throat. It felt massive. I thought it would kill me, but every part of me just stretched, as the thing, a strange, goopy ball, hauled it’s way free of my mouth…and then crawled back up over my face, sticking below my eyes and stretching over my entire scalp to the back of my head. There was a sharp pain, and I couldn’t feel my body anymore. I could hear the thing inside my brain, and I fought, I’m still fighting, but I don’t even know what it is.

It was easier when I could still see. For a while, the thing was stretched thin and clear, like a dirty window over my eyes, but it began to darken soon. I thought it was just turning black…but something tells me what I witnessed was actually my eyes simply…dissolving away underneath it. I can’t smell anything. I can’t hear. I can feel–the thing is still with me, and my body is…moving. I just can’t control any of it. I’m just a passenger now, and I don’t think I’ll be that even for much longer either. No, I think…I think I’m going to be…a womb. The thing has been fucking me for a while now–it’s cock is so big…but I’d feel so empty without it inside me, at this point. It kissed me for a while as well–or I thought it was kissing me, but it was shaping my mouth, reforming it into a tunnel, and now it’s burrowing deeper, opening me up even more. The thing holding me to the wall, the web–either it’s tighter, or I’m lighter, because I’m suspended in the air now, tied to the wall where…where I belong. Yes, the seed it’s filling me with, I can feel it. I’m heavy with it, and…I…I can use this. Make more, more…eggs. More eggs for the master. I can’t do anything else, so I will make eggs for the master.

Strange Sketch (Part 1)

This one’s a little out there, just as a warning. The second part especially.

It had been dark, but that was the fucking point, right? How in the hell could I have known what he was? Hell, for all I know, last night, he’d looked normal, just like everyone else in there, just like me, dressed up in my leather harness, kneepads advertising my preferred position, looking to have some fun with people I wouldn’t have to introduce myself to the next morning. I was young, muscular, men wanted me, this, I felt, is what I was made for, in some way. Is that what drew him to me? Did he just choose me? I don’t remember, but I saw the shadow of him framed in the dim light of the bar away from the depravity, and that was enough to catch my interest.

His silhouette was leather–a bit bulkier than someone in rubber, body heavy with a jacket, legs thick with pants. The smoothness of his head signaled a hood of some kind, and from the sheen of it, I guessed rubber, but couldn’t be certain. We cruised each other; he seemed hesitant, taking one step closer, then backing up quickly, like he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to, like something was worrying him. In the end, I approached him. I told him I was clean, that he didn’t have to worry–all he did was moan in response, and press his leather clad body close to mine. The feel of the fabric was strange, not quite like real leather at all. Maybe he was just being cheap, and went for something less expensive and easier to clean. The jacket was closed and zipped, so I couldn’t access his body, aside from the lower half of his face. We were kissing, and I remember how sweaty and hot he felt, almost feverish, pressing his body to me, I felt his cock pressing against mine, through his leather, and my jockstrap. He must have unzipped, though I hadn’t heard a zipper, because a moment later it was out and grinding up against my pouch, exploring it, getting it sopping wet with precum.

I remember I reached down to touch it, and faster, he grabbed my wrists and pinned me to the wall, grinding up against me, sucking at my neck, drool all over me. It was…sticky, I remember thinking that, but it was kind of hot, how hungry he was for me, and then he flipped me around against the wall, wrists still pinned above me, and he started poking at my hole with his cock. Now, I knew he couldn’t have had a condom on–the soaked pouch cupping my junk was proof of that–but as his cock slipped between my cheeks it felt…rubbery, like it had a condom on it. That was the first thing that I really noticed, that triggered a bit of alarm, but I was on PrEP, and happy to fuck raw if that’s what a top wanted. I thought I was safe. His cock, it seemed soft, somehow, the way it seemed to explore my crack, slip around my hole. I worried he might not be able to get inside of me, but with one thrust, he pushed in deep, my hole just, opening up for him. I remember feeling really wet, and assumed he was just that much of a leaker, and he just kept fucking me. My hole went numb, and he kept fucking me. I thought he was shooting inside me, but he just kept going, and then I started to feel…strange. Sick to my stomach and dizzy. His hands were still locked on my wrists, but I remember looking down, my vision going blurry, and my stomach, which was always meticulously flat, looked…distended.

I passed out not too long after that, I think. He was still fucking me, and then I woke up here. I still don’t know where here is–some derelict building from the look of it. I think we’re a few floors up, from the way the light came in when I woke up. I was still in my gear from the night before–or at least, I assume it was the night before. I don’t know how long I was out, but it couldn’t have been that long, right? When I woke up, I was alone, as far as I could tell, and I stood up, my legs shaky, trying to remember what had happened, but knowing whatever was going on, I needed to get the hell out of here. I tried to get out of the bathroom, but felt something tugging me back. Looking back…something rubbery was connecting the back of my harness to the tile behind me, like a leash, or a web. I grabbed hold of the door frame, trying to pull myself through, and while the thing stretched to a point, it refused to break, I snapped back, reached around and tried to feel what the thing was–I couldn’t get a good grip, really, but it was adhered to the back of my harness somehow, and I couldn’t feel a seam–it went straight from odd goo to the feel of my leather. I figured I could at least just get out of my harness, but soon discovered something strange as well. I couldn’t unhook the buckles. I couldn’t even pull the leather straps away from my skin–it hurt when I tried, like someone had superglued the thing to me…and then…I think it had had enough of me fucking with it, because it started to squeeze–hard. The leather just…contracted, and I couldn’t breathe…and at the same time, I felt my jockstrap start…squeezing my cock, all on its own. I tried to get that off too, but it too, had somehow stuck to my body. I couldn’t rip it, not without feeling like I was going to rip my cock and balls apart in the process.

Heh, look at it, how eager it is. It actually fucking believes me, can you believe it? Actually believes that I’d let that thing look like me, that I’d let it smoke the same cigar I did? Fat chance. It was my boyfriend once, and what a fucking prick it was, always riding my ass, always cruel, always fucking around behind my back. But now that I look like this, the fucking sexy cigar daddy of it’s dreams? Now it wants to be with me. Well fine, if it wants to be with me, then I’ll find something for it to do, but it sure as hell ain’t going to be a man when I’m through with it. Don’t even think it’ll be a person.

I think it’s starting to realize something’s wrong. It’s cock is going soft and shrinking, and the cigar is growing in his mouth, stretching his jaw obscenely wide. It tried to pull it out, but his teeth have cut into the tobacco–that thing’s not coming out until it smokes it all the way down. I shove it up against the wall, holding it up by the throat with one hand, and with my other, pinch it’s nose between two fingers, forcing it to breathe through the cigar, laughing at it’s face, looking at how terrified it is.

Shopmaster said it’d become whatever I thought it would be, and holding it here? I know just what my apartment needs. Still by the neck–either I’m just that strong or he’s gotten surprisingly light all of a sudden–I head for the bathroom, and stick him to the wall beside the toilet at about waist height, hold him there for a moment, and then let go. He tries to get away, but he’s stuck to the wall now, arms and legs beginning to shrivel up into it’s body, mouth growing even wider, if that’s possible. Has it figured it out yet? Probably not, but soon enough.

I sit and watch it’s body contort, it’s cock and balls shrink up into it’s body, it’s body shrink up into it;’s neck as it’s head grows longer. The cigar has burnt down all the way, and crumbles onto it’s tongue, and see it swallow it down helplessly. Still alive–good. I want it to know what it is now, that it’s mine now. What’s left of it’s soul will shirvel up in a few more days, and it’ll become a proper urinal, but for now, it knows. And it knows that I did, and it’s tasting my piss, it’s master’s piss, and knows it’ll be mine for the rest of it’s sorry existence.

Source: goa1701

Requested by Anonymous

Derrick and I, we did everything together; we were twins, and we hated being apart, even when we were little. As we grew up, we played sports together, we worked out together–we were great on the field, because it was almost like we always knew what the other was thinking. Of course we went to the same college–but then, well, we’re still together, just not like we’d been before.

We shouldn’t have picked on that fag, but how in the hell were we supposed to know he was a wizard? One day, everything was normal, and then, the next…I wasn’t human at all–I was my twin brother’s jockstrap, and that fucking faggot was my brother’s roommate, in my place. I didn’t know how it had happened–I screamed, I shouted, I did everything I could, to get Derrick to notice me, to remember me, but he didn’t even remember that he’d had a brother–no one did. It was like that fucking faggot had erased me from existence.

Life as a jockstrap–it was terrible. I can…kind of access what’s going on around us, through Derrick. But I can’t do anything, and worse…I can taste everything. It’s like having my tongue pressed to my brother’s cock all day and night–because he never takes me off anymore. That wasn’t the worst thing, though–the worst was seeing what that faggot did to my brother. My brother was a fag now–ever since that first day, when he begged that fucker for his cock, and he rode my twin’s ass while gripping my waistband–see, he can hear me, and he can talk to me, and he taunted me, telling me everything about the spell he’d cast, but things only got worse from there.

He started…changing my brother. In less than a year, he went from a star athlete to a fat, filthy slob–it hurt, getting stretched out by his huge thighs, feeling how…how disgusting I was becoming. I’m a dingy brown at this point, he’s worn a few holes into me, and…and it’s wearing at my mind. It’s hard to not…enjoy the taste of his cock, of his cum. I…I kind of crave it, actually. I’ve been so close to him for so long, I don’t think I could live without it. That fag made Derrick into a complete piss pig, a few weeks ago–now he goes out to clubs, dressed in this disgusting leather gear, climbs into these tubs and scores of guys just piss on us, and I drink it all up too. I drink it all up…because it tastes so…damn good.

I can’t remember being human anymore. I don’t even know what that would be like. The fag–he keeps telling me that my minds just going to keep disappearing, bit by bit, that soon, I won’t even have thoughts anymore–I’ll just be a perfect, filthy jock, and nothing more. Derrick, on the other hand, dropped out of school and took a construction job. He’s only going to be getting fatter, and filthier too…and…and there’s no man I’d rather be with, than my nasty, stinking brother.

The Trophy (Part 3)

***WARNING*** Extreme abuse, rape, body modification, mutilation, and snuff ahead. Read at your own risk.

Once a man is broken, you’ve won. They don’t always realize it right away, and so, it’s best to start them off small. I forced him to shave his head every day from then on, and then, after he did that without complaint, he graduated to shaving his face and body as well. At this point, I also faced a decision of my own–now that he’d been broken down, what should I do with him? I had enjoyed taking his fingers, to be honest–I hadn’t done anything like that in ages–so why not go a bit further?

I began by getting him adjusted to bondage, immobility and darkness. I would keep him bound, first for hours, then days and then eventually for a week at a time. In his bondage, I would have men arrive and abuse him as they saw fit, or I would simply have them use him as a dump or urinal. At this point, I had treated him with products designed to remove his hair permanently–no more shaving would be required, ever. And then, I began the modifications. with the help of a dentist friend, I removed his teeth and tongue, and then together dropped his jaw, opening his mouth impossibly wide, and we crafted a new mouth with latex putty–soft, tight and inviting–a mouth pussy, as I called it. It got rave reviews from all the men who used it, and so I began crafting various attachments that could be inserted, in order to give different sensations and textures, different degrees of tightness.

Since he was no longer able to eat like a man, I fed him by tube–and soon he realized that he was becoming fat, his lithe body from before slowly expanding with mass, first a small gut and moobs, but as the drug cocktail broke down his metabolic rate, he expanded faster and faster–in six months, he had ballooned up to four hundred and fifty pounds, with no sign of stopping. The only thing clothing he wore now were full body rubber suits designed to deprive him of his senses. His eyes and ears were covered nearly all the time–he was only really aware of himself by feel and heft, rather than by sight or sound. When I took his eyes and ears, I don’t think he even noticed a thing aside from the pain–not that he could have registered disapproval with his mouth pussy anyway.

At about eight hundred pounds, when he was no longer able to move much at all, I decided it was time for permanent installation in my dungeon–we removed his cock and balls, his arms and legs, anchored him on a concrete block, and kept him growing, kept him alive, so he could feel what we were doing to him, carving out chunks of his fat, and installing latex holes for men to fuck, turning him into a jiggly fuckcushion for men to pin. I wonder what it felt like, to him, to have men fucking him in every direction, caught in the middle of their orgy. The rubber holes all over his body all drained out, along with his bodily fluids, into the sewer below the concrete slab–I would rinse him out once a week or so, to keep the pincushion from stinking up the room too much.

Alas, a little after one thousand pounds, he finally expired. I didn’t get rid of him, of course–he was mostly rubber at this point anyway. With the help of a taxidermist I knew from previous catches, we got rid of the flesh and stuffed what remained with rubber filling, preserving it’s squishy, fleshy feel, and it lives on in my dungeon, though I often rent it out to parties and local clubs as a fucktoy statement piece. I often have people ask me how, exactly, I made the thing, what had inspired me to create something like that, but I usually just remain silent. “I like my projects,” I say sometimes, happy with the double meaning.

You probably think I’m mad, don’t you? But how different is it, really, from a hunter keeping their trophies in the living room? That massive bear looming over them in the armchair, stuffed with fluff? I caught him–this is my token, my own personal trophy for my kill. Still, I’m getting the hankering for another project here soon–maybe not something quite so massive. Maybe I’ll make a pup for myself, or for a friend–I haven’t done one of those in ages. In fact, I’ve heard some rumours of an illegal dog fighting ring around town, and I bet I could extract an invite from one of my contacts–hell, maybe I’ll just run a kennel for a while? Pups are fairly easy, after all, I can make a few. After all, the only cruelty towards an animal I can condone is against a fellow human, you know?

I’ll Make You Fell Small (Part 3)

***WARNING*** Strangenesss ahead. Mind death and implied snuff.

He didn’t permit Trash to ride in the front cab with him–no, George had brought along a dog carrier, just for this purpose. The bitch was too short to get up into the back of his truck, so George had to lift him up by the armpits, and the sensation of being held, helpless in the air, only cemented for Trash his new status, not even as a bitch, but as some kind of pet, a freak, a worthless, meaningless animal, especially when George padlocked him in, without another word. The crate was cramped–he could barely fit inside it–at first, though it grew more comfortable as he rode. The ride was long, about an hour, and Trash tried to sleep. But the crate was unsecured, and slid from one side of the truck bed to the other with each turn–and he thought his Master might be taking the turns a bit too hard, just to make it harder for him to relax. Finally, however, they came to a stop on a gravel drive–but George didn’t let the bitch out–he just dropped the back, grabbed the crate, and carried Trash into the house still inside it.

Inside, he carried Trash right down into the basement, to his dungeon, and only there, did he finally unlock the door, and allow Trash to crawl out of the crate–which was easier than getting in, because he’d shrunk once again, now only about three feet tall, his skin pale and hairless, arms bony. He felt like he was…disappearing, slowly. He may be worthless, but he didn’t want to disappear, he didn’t deserve that, did he?

He barely reached his master’s crotch now, and he watched George light himself a cigar, and sit down in a leather armchair with a sigh, “Bitch, lick my boots clean.”

The thought of disobeying didn’t even cross his mind anymore–he got down on his knees and started licking at the leather, though his small tongue barely covered any area of leather.

“You know bitch, you’re lucky–did you know that? Don’t you think so? After all, you have the privilege of serving a man–a real man like me, isn’t that right? Do you really think you’re worthy of such a privilege, someone as disgusting as you are?”

“N-No sir, no, of course not, I’m the luckiest bitch, I really am,” Trey said.

George puffed on his cigar for a few minutes, considering a few possibilities, before saying, “Do you…admire me slave?”

“I…I do, sir.”

“Yes, I suppose you would, but a true bitch, no, you aren’t even a bitch, really, are you? Even bitches don’t ride around in crates, even bitches aren’t as small as you are. You’re just my pet, my obedient, dumb, desperate pet, eager to please, utterly dependent on me to provide for you. But I wouldn’t want a pet that looks like you–no, a proper pet takes after it’s owner, don’t you think? I mean, you certainly can’t be a man like I am, but if you really did admire me, I think you’d want to look like me right, Trash? No, it doesn’t even matter what you want to look like–that’s just what you are. All pets are simply reflections of their owners, you couldn’t look any different even if you were capable of thinking otherwise.”

George sat up and bent down, grabbing Trash and pulling him up. He was much heavier than before–not too heavy to lift, of course, but the bulging, hairy gut he’d sprouted had doubled his weight. His face and head was coated with white hair, and his face, while still…humanesque, no longer had any real sense of self, his eyes glued to George’s face, filled with wonder and love, wrinkled with age like George’s own.

“What would you like boy, you want to make your master happy?”

Trash whined. George lined him up with his hard cock, and slipped his pet onto him, his ass opening wide and taking him easily, George’s cock pressing deep into his body, giving him some discomfort, but Trash could handle it. For him, for his Master, he would do anything.

“Yes, such a good pet,” George said, sliding him all the way down onto his cock, and leaving him impaled there, stroking his fat hairy body, “So stupid. Do you even realize that, without me, your existence wouldn’t even matter? That I am the reason you exist, the only thing in the world that cares about you? That without me, you’d just wither away? I’m not your Master. I’m not your owner. I’m your god. You worship me. My pleasure is the only reason you exist. To me, you’re little more than an object to please me–so please me, suck the cum from me with your worthless body.”

Trash’s hairy, fat began to jiggle, clutching at the cock buried inside him trying as hard as it could to squeeze the huge cock inside it. It’s arms were withering–it no longer needed them. It’s legs, too, disappeared, it’s body contracting squeezing as hard as it could, slowly milking it’s god, growing smaller, feeling the cock take up more and more of it’s body, allowing it to constrict harder and tighter, it’s body focusing around it’s now singular purpose–to bring as much pleasure to this godly man as it could. Finally, it heard a roar–cum filling it’s body–it had succeeded, it had done what it was made to do. It was good.

George reached down, and pulled Trash free from his cock, and set it on his massive belly. It was now less than a foot tall, it’s arms and legs gone. He could feel the body still trying to suck, it’s inside cavity coated with cum–he petted it’s hairy body with two fingers, feeling it shiver with pleasure, it’s face melting into the body as it shrank. “It’s time. The only purpose you have now is to join with me. Become a part of your god, it’s the only thing you have left to do.”

He kept stroking. He could see the last bit of it fighting, struggling against what it knew it must do. It shrank smaller and smaller, now just an inch, looking like a hairy nipple in the midst of his belly, and soon he couldn’t see it at all–it had become shapeless, microscopic, nothing at all, now that it was simply a part of him. George sighed, and stroked his belly, satisfied. It was what he’d deserved, after all. Small men like that, small weak men who could only hurt others, the only thing they deserved was to be nothing at all.

New Lube (Sketch)

Noah took a look at the odd tube again, now that he was back in his apartment, which he’d received from a vendor offering out free samples to men passing by his table at the gay pride celebration he’d just been to. It appeared to some kind of specialty lube, but the matte black packaging didn’t say much about what was inside it. Still, he was curious, and the half naked guys he’d been checking had him horny. He was planning on bringing someone home tonight, of course, but why not blow off a little steam now? It was still early after all.

He stripped down and squeezed a bit of lube out onto his hand, but already it was different than any kind of lube he’d seen before. It was pitch black and opaque, but oddly shiny, almost like liquid rubber. He squeezed a bit more out onto his palm and set the tube off to one side, before tentatively rubbing it on his cock, groaning as the lube started pricking and tingling all over the surface of not just his shaft, but also the palm of his hand. It wasn’t a bad feeling, but the lube wasn’t very effective–he kept needing to apply more, and the tingling gave way to something more like numbness. It was keeping him from getting off, though he remained completely hard, and switched hands after a couple of minutes, gett the palm of his other hand coated in the stuff as well. It reminded him, when he was a kid, of sitting on his arm and putting it to sleep, so it felt weird when he jacked off, only instead of his hand being asleep, it was his dick.

To that point, he’d had his eyes closed, focusing on a fantasy involving some of the hot men he’d seen that day, but as his frustration grew, he finally opened his eyes and looked down–and gasped. His…cock. It was completely coated with the lube, but rather than drying away, it looked like it had simply coated his cock…and now it really did look like rubber. He ran his hands over it, and saw that the palms of his hands, and even the sides and some of the backs, had turned the same black color all over–his balls too, even though he was certain he hadn’t gotten anything on them. He knew he should try to wash it off, but his hands just kept stroking–faster now, fast enough that he could feel the lube drying harder. It didn’t feel good anymore, but he also couldn’t stop, and with a sudden, gut wrenching sensation, his cock and balls came right off his body, in his hands.

He stared at his cock and balls, unable to believe what had just happened to him…but they didn’t look like his equipment anymore–in fact, they looked just like a rubber dildo. Still, this had to be a dream, it couldn’t be real. He looked down, and where his cock had been attached was just a smooth patch of rubber. In a panic, he got up to go to the bathroom and wash his hands, but one hand reached out and grabbed the tube of lube–without him thinking about it–and brought it along.

In the bathroom, he set his dildo on the counter and tried to turn on the faucet. Instead, his hands–working against him, squeezed out even more lube into his palms, and started slathering it up and down his arms and legs. He screamed, trying to get his limbs to obey him, but it was like they didn’t even belong to him anymore–hell, he couldn’t even feel his hands at all, now that he thought about it, and when he grew too loud, one hand grabbed the dildo, lubed it up, and shoved it in his mouth.

The taste was vile, and the stinging and numbing was almost immediate, as the hand thrust the dildo deeper, down into his throat. He tried to scream, but suddenly he couldn’t get anything out–not even a whisper or a cough. His teeth and tongue went numb–he couldn’t even tell whether or not they existed at all, and after a few minutes, the hand pulled the dildo back out. Noah didn’t have a mouth anymore–all he had in it’s place was a puckered, rubberized hole.

By then, his legs were coated entirely, and they began to collapse underneath him, breaking off his body as he fell, and he could see from where he landed that they were now simply a pair of rubber, thigh high waders. His hands continued their work, coating his entire body with the substance, even smearing it across his eyes, nose and ears, sealing them shut, and then he sensed them deflating and falling away from him too, a pair of shoulder length rubber gloves, leaving him as a rubber torso and head on the floor of his bathroom, trying to scream with no mouth, no lungs, no hope at all.

He only had a dim knowledge of what happened next. He was picked up at some point, and driven somewhere. Before too long, the first cock shoved its way into his mouth, raping him brutally, and cumming in less than a minute. Then, a steady stream of cock followed. Some fucked him, others simply slipped inside and pissed. He could feel his torso–now completely hollow–slowly filling up with cum and piss, sloshing about inside him. He could, distantly, feel his old arms and legs being worn by men, like phantom sensations he only had distant access to, but his only pleasure came from his now disconnected cock, being ridden by some unknown asshole, or sucked on by a mystery mouth. He could never cum, of course, and the pleasure drove him closer and closer to insanity, his mind slowly turning to complete rubber, eventually only happy when it was being of service.

The Bathroom of the Lost (Part 3)

This time, in the darkness, it was different. Before, RJ had been terrified, the strange beings around him a kind of torture. But now, now every touch from a claw sent a burst of pleasure through him, strange mouths fighting for the privilege of sucking and gnawing on his cock, balls and nipples, eager to drink and absorb his cum. Still, RJ had a question, a burning question–when could he leave? He knew, somehow, that he didn’t belong here, that he’d come from somewhere outside–at the thought, the presence around him turned angry, and the pleasure became…painful. He could enjoy it at first, but then he grew terrified, the presence lecturing him inside his mind. There was no outside, there was only here, and he was here to be punished and to punish others–that if he continued harbouring ideas about the world he’d come from…well, he’d just have to see what might happen to him then.

The lights again. Now, they were too harsh to his eyes–the dark, he liked the dark better, he liked being in the pleasures of the dark. He hadn’t changed, much–not nearly as much as before, but his hands…they didn’t seem quite human anymore, and his massive cock was emerging from some strange sheath, that ran up his muscled, hairy belly. In front of him was the endless wall of urinals, but one of them was not like the others. In the place of filthy porcelain, there was instead a body, fused with the wall. It was upside down, the chest emerging from the nasty, grafittied tile, the head looking up at it’s tortured body, arms trapped in the wall, the mouth screaming in terror.

RJ…remembered him. It was the stranger, the stranger he’d fucked earlier. A voice in his head, a darkness, told him that this man had fought them, it had tried to escape, it hadn’t even tried to be good, be free, it still thought it was a person. So now, it had to pay. If it wouldn’t join them, if it wouldn’t help them, then it would be nothing more than an object, a filthy, disgusting object.

The man’s skin had a pasty look to it under the light,; RJ walked forward, hearing something click against the tile floor, the man trying to flinch away from him, and ran his clawed fingers down its abdomen. It…was hard, or hardening. He was hard…too. And he had…had to piss. He bent over, pushing his cock into the thing’s screaming mouth, feeling it widen to take RJ’s unnatural thickness, and with a guttural groan, he released his bladder, feeling much of it flood into this thing, making it bulge out, the skin turning whiter, the screams dying into a gargle as its mouth became the only feature remaining of it’s pasty white face. and RJ’s piss began overflowing the mouth, cascading onto the floor, soaking his hairy, clawed feet. It wasn’t a person anymore, it was just a thing, a filthy urinal. RJ…RJ didn’t want that, he wanted to…to feel good, like he did in the dark. He backed away, leaving the urinal brimming with piss, and the darkness swallowed him once more into their arms.

What they wanted was simple. They wanted his humanity. They wanted his soul, they wanted him to join them, to become the monster he truly was. Part of him fought, but he was weak, he’d always been weak. He always hated that part of him, that morality, that thing which had questioned his cruelty, doubted his self-serving actions his whole life. He was happy to be rid of it. He was…a beast. Violent, angry, vicious. He only followed that which he feared–and he learned to fear the presence, through pain. Pleasure was…so much better, so much more desirable, he would do anything for to feel good.

The light didn’t return for a long time. When it did, he found himself alone, in a small sliver of light just a few yards wide, the light making him shield his eyes. Unlike much of the bathroom, this part he now found himself in wasn’t lined by toilets or urinals, but by two mirrors on either side–and for the first time, he could see himself, his monstrous form. He could no longer stand on his feet alone–the massive bulk of his chest and neck forced him onto his hands as well, like an ape, his hands and feet covered with red-brown fur and tipped with black claws. His face–there was no longer anything remotely human. A snout, a maw, filled with glistening teeth crusted woth something black, white eyes shot with red veins, and deeper…there, right inside him, that same void. It was…in him now, contained him, as he contained it. He licked his chops with a purple tongue, leaving a line of slobber, feeling his cock emerge. Something…was coming. He’d been brought back for a reason, to punish someone, and the lights on one side of where he stood flicked on.

There. There, a few yards away. A man. A nasty, resistant man. He’d been there for weeks, it looked like, his clothing ragged, his face exhausted. He was scooping water from a toilet with filthy, cupped hands, trying to drink, hoping it was clean. The darkness, his God, it had been working on him, wearing him away, but he needed to be forced, he needed violence, he needed to witness his own helplessness and weakness.

RJ roared–the man turned to him, and the look of terror in his eyes made RJ desire the hunt, the fuck, even more. He had no chance–the beast ripped his clothes from him, pinned him to the floor, and rammed his cock into him, biting down, drawing and tasting blood, fucking him not until RJ came, shuddering, which he did over and over again. No, not until the man was sobbing on the floor, and yet pushing back, aching to be filled by this monster’s cock, did RJ withdraw and slink back into the void, into the presence to which he belonged, and together, they cut the lights, and swarmed their new prey into the dark.