A Home of Mirrors (Part 3)

“Alright boy, here we are!” Eli said. He didn’t slow down much on the street, as he peeled into the driveway and brought the sedan to a sudden halt, hard enough to catch Jean’s seatbelt. He noticed that he’d said it again–”boy”. His father had never called him that, ever, and yet after he’d returned home from his last house hunting venture out here, where he’d bought this house, he’d started using the diminutive with him more and more. It was far from the only change he’d noticed in his father, of course. He had a temper suddenly. Well, he’d always had a temper, but where before it would simmer, now his father was throwing plates and glasses at the wall. He’d started smoking, and he always seemed to have on those leather gloves of his, which he said he’d bought out here on a whim. He wouldn’t dare voice it, but he wasn’t quite sure this even…was his father, the disconnect was so sudden and sharp, but he hadn’t been able to pin his father down to discuss it. In fact, as soon as he’d returned from buying the house, he’d announced that he was moving the timetable up on their move by six months. They had planned on waiting for Thomas to finish the spring semester so they could move together during the summer, but now, all his father could talk about was this house, and how he wanted to move in right away.

Eli was already out of the car, hands shaking, fumbling for the house keys he’d picked up from the real estate agent on the way here. Jonas unbuckled himself, leaned forward and peered up at the house in front of him. It seemed…normal. From the way his dad had been describing it, he’d been expecting a luxurious manor, but it just looked like a reflection of every other house on the block. In fact, it was a reflection of every house on the block. It was a cookie cutter development, but every house they’d passed had the garage on the left, but theirs had it on the right. Someone must have mixed up the blueprints. He saw his dad waving at him, and urging him to follow, that…vein in his head popping out like it had started doing, when he was getting frustrated and about to blow. Jean got out of the car, went around the back for the bag he’d packed in the trunk.

“Just leave it in there boy!” Eli shouted at him, “and get in here! I want this place to see you!”

“What?” Jean asked, but his dad had already slipped through the front door, leaving it open for Jean to follow. Leaving his bag, he climbed the front steps to the porch and followed him inside.

“Fuck, it feels good to be home,” Eli said, heaving a heavy sigh of cigar smoke through the foyer. The house was empty of furniture, which was hardly surprising. They had barely started packing before this, and his father had insisted they let another company handle the moving, so they could focus on getting settled. Of course, how they were supposed to get settled here without any furniture was a mystery to Jean. Little did he know, that his father had canceled the moving truck entirely–he knew the house would provide everything they might need. His son would understand too, soon enough. Eli stared at his son’s reflection, longingly, his groin aching worse than at any point in the last week.

Jean, his younger son, was seventeen and heading into his senior year in high school, not that Eli would bother enrolling him down here. They would have other work to do, soon enough. Before, he’d always been…disappointed in his younger son. He had no ambition or discipline for anything other than football in the fall and soccer in the spring. His grades were barely enough to even allow him to play, and he had all of his eggs in athletic scholarships to various colleges, but fuck, looking at him now! His lithe, muscular body, coated in hair in all of the right places, and he fucking smelled so…sweet. Eli had, when his needs became too intense, stolen a pair of his son’s cleats and his jock, smelling them , jacking off into them, pushing smoke into them, staring at the mirror in his own bedroom, longing to be home. But the house needed him, needed to see him as much as he needed to see himself.

“Why don’t you explore a bit and pick a bedroom for yourself upstairs? I need to spend some time in my room for a bit.”

“Time doing what, dad?” Jean said, “Shouldn’t we, like, go buy some beds at least?”

“Go pick a damn room, boy!” Eli screamed at him, and Jean backed up to the mirrored wall of the foyer, his reflection leaning into him, sampling him. Jean felt the whisper of breath on the back of his neck, and spun around, facing himself. “Go find yourself a room,” Eli repeated, forcefully, sucking down smoke to calm himself down. Soon, he reminded himself. So soon.

“I’ll…go pick…a room…” Jean said, and without really understanding why, or how, he’d said that, he climbed the stairs slowly, and slipped into a room halfway down the hall. Eli, meanwhile, took the stairs two at a time, heart pounding with need, and entered his own room, the master suite, and there he was–there both of him were. His reflection, and that…other him. That him from before. He can barely remember anything about being him, and seeing him now, collared on his knees, beard and hair shaved off, covered with welts and cigar burns, Eli viscerally hated the very idea that there could have ever been a connection between them. Still, it was clear that the house had been busy, now that it had energy to power it. The room, which had been empty before, was now furnished. A king sized bed made up with leather sheets, a personal humidor, racks and shelves full of equipment, a closet full of gear–his gear.

“It’s good to be home,” Eli said, walked to the mirror as his reflection stepped forward, and he kissed himself, tasting his own smoke with relief.

A Home of Mirrors (Part 1)

“And it’s for sale by the bank?”

“Yes–at a wonderful price in fact. Foreclosure, still leftovers from the slump. It’s a shame too, because this neighborhood is lovely, and this poor house is just sitting here, aching for a family like yours, Mr. Billings. The agent opened the door, allowing the older, suited man to step inside the house, before following him inside, the agent feeling the house…examine them both.

The agent, after all, wasn’t quite your usual real estate salesman. He didn’t buy properties from banks, and he didn’t work for homeowners, per se. His specialty was houses which were, shall we say, off-market. No, his client was no one alive–in the colloquial sense–no, he had been hired by the house itself. He was rather indifferent for whom he worked for–he placed families with hauntings and curses, he works with a nice mythic portal in South Dakota after every solar eclipse, but this home was a new client, one he hoped to please, because it was…powerful, to say the least. The agent, after all, didn’t do this work for money, but for access to, and power from, the beings residing in these walls. This was his third walkthrough, and the house had been…displeased with the other two. The agent hoped this one would suffice. “It seems well kept up,” Mr. Billings said, as he walked through the foyer and into the kitchen and den. “Is there a reason for all of the mirrors everywhere?”

“They come with the house, actually. Most of them are fabricated right into the walls. It isn’t a house for the modest.”

“No…no, it isn’t that…” Mr. Billings said, a bit absent mindedly. He was staring at his reflection in the large mirror which stretched from end to end in the den. It seemed to be a single sheet of perfect, reflective metal–without a hint of blemish anywhere…but then why did his reflection seem…off somehow? It was disconcerting, but he couldn’t quite look away. The agent watched the subtle exchange, feeling out to the house, wondering what it might be thinking…it seemed intrigued, but not convinced.

“Do you think your two sons will like it?” The agent asked, feeling a swell of interest from the house.

Mr. Billings didn’t reply. He didn’t even seem to have heard him. He was still staring at himself in the mirror. He was in his early fifties, but the age, rather than weakening him, had given him a rugged confidence instead. The agent knew that would fade in another decade or so, but he was in his prime at the moment. His full beard, and hair flecked with a bit of grey, his muscular physique packed into his power suit. The house was getting a taste, and the more it tasted, the…better it was feeling about this one. “Could…I see…the master bedroom please…” Mr. Billings said. His voice came out softer, with little inflection, almost like he was dozing off where he stood.

“Certainly!” the agent said, took Mr. Billings by the arm, and led him back the way they’d come. This was further than he’d gotten with the last two buyers he’d brought by, who’d taken one look at themselves in the mirrors around the house, and demanded they leave immediately, unable to even speak about what they’d seen in their own, supposed reflections. The agent hadn’t looked in any of the mirrors himself–his consultation with the house had been done blindfolded, and he carefully averted his eyes as he walked Mr. Billings through the hall, up the stairs, and towards the sizable master suite at one end of the house.

“I will need…to be alone for a while…” Mr. Billings said.

“Take all the time you need,” the agent said, and Mr. Billings went into the room, and shut the door behind him. “Don’t get greedy now,” the agent said quietly, pushing the words out in his mind as much as through his mouth, “You won’t be getting those sons until after your down payment, and you definitely won’t be getting them if you can’t control yourself.”

He felt the house lash at him, glints in the mirrors trying to catch his eye as he slipped down the stairs and out the front door, taking a moment to breathe. It was going…surprisingly well, as frustrating as his client was. These first placements were always difficult–however, once they saw what The Agent could provide them they almost always became rather appreciative.

Inside the master suite, Eli Billings shook his head, trying to process what he’d experienced down in the living room while staring at his reflection. He’d heard himself speak, but it hadn’t quite been…him doing it. Rather, he’d seen the image of himself speak, and he’d…spoken with it, but not out of his own will. It was difficult to explain, but what he did know, was that he wanted out of this place. He didn’t quite feel…like himself. He turned around to open the bedroom door and leave, when he felt a hand land on his shoulder, grab him, and spin him around–but when he’d turned to face the room, there was nothing there. Just an empty, unfurnished room, and like below, one entire wall was coated with that same, mirrored surface. It had the effect of making every room seem twice as large, and again, the surface was so pure that he could almost imagine himself stepping through, like water.

He was in the mirror, too…but not where he was supposed to be. The angle was wrong–even though he was looking at the room diagonally, his reflection was staring at him straight on, smiling. Unable to tear his eyes away, he watched himself pull a cigar from the pocket of his suit coat along with a lighter–it flared to life, and the smoke…moved from within the mirror to beyond–into the room where Eli was standing. His reflection beckoned, and he stepped forward, terrified, but unable to stop his body from doing what his reflection demanded.

Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 9)

~~September 14th~~

In their early meetings, Lenny made it clear where he stood, regarding the last few years struggles for power in the north–that, while he held Stanta in relative contempt, so long as he considered the elves to be equals and they continued their joint work towards reshaping the world in this new image, then he was perfectly willing to accept the majority of Petey’s proposals regarding detente between Stanta and the elves. Timmy, he said, in delivering the love gun to John, had acted recklessly, and alone. Petey concurred on that point, and while Stanta had tried to pry deeper into some sort of understanding regarding why Timmy had acted so rashly, neither Lenny or Petey would–or even could, give an answer. Of course, Timmy’s love for Marty had been well known, but none of them could have known about that chance encounter on the porch, and the deep longing that it had awakened in Timmy. His actions had never, really, been aggression towards Stanta, but only the hope that John could replace the love which had never been requited.

Stanta did not particularly trust Lenny at all, and even towards Petey, who did his very best to demonstrate his good intentions, his paranoia demanded caution. Still, production continued apace–and Stanta knew that if Lenny was planning something, either with or without Petey’s assistance–it would strike on his yearly ride around the world or immediately afterward, when he was at his most vulnerable. This meant, that if he was going to secure himself, he would need to strike first. Stanta had no real desire to put either Lenny or Petey out of commission, of course–in fact, the two of them, despite their deep philosophical disagreements, were both able managers and generally cooperated on the floor. Their interests were aligned after all–both sought to secure the future well being of the elves, and keeping Christmas alive was the only way to do so, but their sizable long term disagreements could be set aside, now that Christmas was mere months away. Stanta, however, couldn’t afford to wait. He needed to know now if he was facing a threat, and so he retrieved the love gun once again.

Lenny would be his target. After all, if there was a plot against him, Lenny would be leading it in any case, whether Petey was colluding or not. If Lenny revealed that Petey was a pawn of his, then Stanta would deal with him as well, but this was the reasonable first step. Lenny, this particular evening, left the workshop to discuss logistics with Stanta while Petey managed the floor, and Stanta was surprised that an opportunity had presented itself so readily. He hadn’t quite anticipated that Lenny might have already made preparations against a first strike. When he leveled the gun at the elf and fired, intending to make the small man fall deeply in love with him, the pink ray slammed into some invisible force surrounding the small elf, and bounced right back at him. Before Stanta could do anything, he felt emotion overwhelm him, the gun dropping to the floor as he stared at Lenny, at the love of his life, weeping slightly at the sight of him, horrified, now, at his own attempted betrayal.

In fact, Lenny had been true to his word. He’d promised Stanta that so long as he allowed elves equality, then nothing would happen. However, his shield charm had been in place for just such a possible act on Stanta’s part, since he’d already revealed himself as someone who preferred striking first. Lenny’s main surprise was that Stanta had resorted to the same trick twice. He made the large man get down on his knees and crawl over towards him, kiss his leather boots and properly apologize, and then Stanta got his first taste of elf cock, and their magic, addictive semen. After Lenny had sampled both holes, and found a collar and lead for his loving pet, he led the large man through the snow back to the workshop. Petey saw them enter, and his jaw dropped at the sight.

“See? I told you the fucker was going to try something,” Lenny said, tugging Stanta in front of him, “Tried to hit me with Timmy’s love gun.”

Petey sighed–he’d been worried something like this was going to happen. He’d talked Lenny out of trying any tricks of his own, but in turn, had promised him that should Stanta try anything first, then “that fat ugly pig”, as Lenny called him, was going to get what was coming to him.

“Just make sure he can still fly the sleigh, please,” Petey said.

“Oh, I will–I think Stanta here will do anything for me, right?”

“Yeah Lenny, please–can…can I have some more cum please? I can’t believe how good that shit tasted before,” Stanta said, the tone…meek and quiet, compared to the brutish shouting the elves had grown accustomed to on the workshop floor.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be getting plenty of that. Why don’t you crawl around the floor, and beg some of the elves for theirs? It would make me very happy to see you do that, you stupid pig.”

“R-Really?” Stanta said, “Ok! I…I really want you to be happy Lenny, I really do.”

“Don’t use my name cunt–you address us all as sir, understand?”

“Yes sir, sorry sir,” Stanta said, and the crawled off to the nearest elf, who he politely asked for his cum. Petey just watched the sorry sight, but he still felt relieved. Christmas would survive, at any rate, and if that took maintaining a lovesick, cumdump Stanta, then so be it.

My Son the Whore

“There’s been a fucking mistake! That’s what the fucking problem is. What the…he’s my own fucking son!”

Carl looked over at his teenage son sitting on the edge of his bed, naked, a dazed, pleased look on his face, like they all had. But before, when he’d seen that, he’d always felt a thrill of excitement at having a young man completely at his disposal for hours, with permission to do whatever he wanted to the body while it was absent any mind…but now. He’d been with the service for years now, and it had always been a different young man. This time, however, when he’d opened the door it had been Anthony–his own fucking son! The son who was so involved at school that he usually came home late, going out at odd hours on occasion–how long had this been going on? And fuck, he was…hard. He’d never thought of his son like that, though he was…his type. Smooth, hairless, chubby, sweet and pliable. How had he never noticed that before?

“We do not take prior relationships into account when assigning guests to clients. If you do not wish to use your assigned guest, he will remain until his scheduled departure.”

“No–no you don’t understand. You need to fucking wake him up, right this fucking instant. You are not doing this to my son.”

“I can assure you your current guest has no knowledge of his employment with us. You are free to use him without repercussion.”

“If you don’t fix him, I’m going to the fucking police.”

The piercing tone in the receiver of his headset caught him off guard–but after a few seconds, Carl wasn’t thinking much of anything at all–he had the same pleasant look on his face as his son, a few feet away.

“Threatening our company is against your contract, as you well know. We’re within our rights to conscript you on the spot, but given your…emotional state and long history as a client, I am willing to be lenient. You won’t be telling the police anything. Please, go lie down on the bed, and allow your son to service you.”

Carl did as he was ordered. In some distant part of himself, he was fighting himself, but there was nothing he could do. He got on the bed, and his son immediately began sucking on his cock like a complete whore…and fuck, if he wasn’t incredibly turned on by the sight.

“Now, we’re going to have a little chat, Carl. And by the end of it, you’re going to realize that what you want more than anything else in the world, is a sexual relationship with your son. Then, we will move on to discussion of long term leases of our hosts out to…clients with needs like yours.”

Carl just nodded, and listened, and by the time he hung up the phone, he ruffled his son’s hair–his new slave’s hair, and plowed that boy’s chubby ass–pleased with the company’s excellent service, as usual.

“What’s up, professor? You alright?”

Mr. Allen snapped his head back up. He must have spaced out for a second there–he hadn’t really been sleeping well lately. “Sorry James, but I really can’t pass you with your performance this semester.”

“But coach said–”

“I don’t grade according to the athletic department’s requests,” he said, but couldn’t stop himself from yawning. “Sorry, I haven’t been sleeping well lately. I’m trying out a new CPAP, but it hasn’t really been doing as good a job as my old one…” he shook his head, “I don’t know why I just told you that, sorry.” The professor was a rather chubby guy, and he’d been diagnosed with sleep apnea years earlier. James, a football player, just smiled…like he was in on the joke, and it made him feel a bit uneasy.

“Maybe you just haven’t been using it right,” James said, and stood up in Mr. Allen’s office, dropping his shorts, revealing a rather…musky looking jockstrap beneath. The scent him the professor a second later, and he groaned, feeling an odd lethargy wash over him. James strutted over, rubbing the jock in his professor’s face, watching the old man lick at the mesh, eyes rolling back in pleasure as he tried to stop himself from debasing himself. “Yeah–let’s give you a proper dose tonight–how about we head home early today?”

Unable to resist, Mr. Allen left his work as it stood, threw on his coat, and walked out the door, with his student following behind.

At his house, James led him right to the bedroom, made him strip and lay down, and then tied his hands and feet to the four posts of his bed. Then, as Mr. Allen tried to clear his head, James stripped off his jock, pulled out the cup, and a roll of duct tape from his bag. He wadded up the jock and crammed it into the cup, and then taped the whole thing over his professor’s nose and mouth, watching the fat man bliss out almost immediately, his cock rock hard in a matter of seconds.

“Yeah, that should do it. I’ll make sure your CPAP gets a pheromone boost as well. Don’t worry professor, by morning, you’ll be happy to do anything I tell you to do. Well, anything anyone on the team tells you to do. I’ll have my A, and you’ll have the privilege of smelling my junk whenever I feel like you deserve it.”

Source: gaggedbear

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 3)

“Get out. You fucking disgusting little piece of shit, get the fuck out of my apartment. I never want to see that ugly face of yours ever again.” That wasn’t his voice. It was so hard-edged and vicious. Whatever curse this was, it was like it had tapped into some deep reservoir in his mind, and all of that hatred was pouring out of him, all of that anger. More terrifying than anything else, thought, was how good it felt. Walter felt good, he felt good telling this little prick exactly what he thought of him. “What the fuck are you waiting for? Get the fuck out of my sight!” he screamed, spit flying from his mouth.

“Please, Walter, I’m–” Walter’s kick caught him in the ribs, sending him rolling over, coughing.

“You think you have permission to ever speak my fucking name again?”

“Please sir, please–I fucked up. I know that, but I…I don’t know where else to go. Please, don’t make me leave.”

“What, you’re telling me none of those fucks want anything to do with your lying, cheating ass? What a fucking surprise.”

“It was a mistake sir, I won’t make it again. I…I love you, sir,” Donny said. His eyes were confused, like he wasn’t entirely sure where his own words were coming from, or why he was saying any of them.

“This is all fucking fine and good, except for one fucking problem. I don’t fucking believe you. Now get out, you lying sack of shit.”

Donny, eyes defeated, started to stand up, but Walter planted one boot square on his back and pinned him back to the floor. “Did I say you could fucking stand up? Fucking crawl.”

“Please, don’t do this to me, I need you, sir.”

“Bullshit.”

“Please, I’ll do anything.”

/”Anything you want. Anything you tell him to do.”/

Walter’s head was flooded with ideas, suddenly. If Donny wanted to be with him so badly, then fine. But he’d have to prove that he was really sorry. And then, they were going to be revisiting the foundations of their relationship, because Walter was certain nothing like this would ever happen under his watch, ever again. He lifted his boot off Donny’s back, toed him over onto his back, and then planted the sole right over his mouth, pressing down hard enough to make his jaw ache. “This is the only fucking part of me that you’re worthy of servicing. So get to it. Show me just how fucking sorry you are.”

Leather, domination, humiliation–none of that had ever had much of a place in their relationship before. The closest they may have gotten was a bit of dirty talk off and on, but it was usually Donny talking, and Walter feeling a bit silly and self-conscious. But there was an energy thrumming between them, reverberating through the entire apartment. It was the curse–it had to be. The chunk of Walter who could still recognize how insane this all way was desperately trying to put on the breaks, but his body was no longer under his own control. It was riding a different past–the curse had hijacked him, and now he was just a tool to be used in Donny’s degradation. Sure enough, he started licking at the bottom of Walter’s filthy, muddy boot, moaning softly–thought whether it was out of desperation or unexpected excitement it was unclear. And when, exactly, had his shoes become boots? Looking down at them, they were nothing like anything that Walter had ever owned in his life–knee high black leather. Obviously old, and caked with dried mud and filth from toe to top. He tried to tug his foot away, but instead he only pressed down harder, listening to Donny groan in pain. “Lick faster if you don’t want a broken jaw, bitch.”

Walter saw movement out of the corner of his eye–one of Donny’s hands was creeping over to his cock, which was erect and bulging in the underwear he was wearing, a wet spot of precum visible. He picked the boot off Donny’s mouth, and slammed it into his cock instead, crushing it and his balls, grinding them against his body, watching him scream and beg.

“If you really want to stay, bitch, then you’re going to have to learn that your pleasure doesn’t matter anymore. You don’t get to feel good–ypou don’t fucking deserve pleasure, and you fucking know it. No, you get pain, and you thank me for it after, do you understand?” Walter said, grinding harder.

“Yes! Oh god, yes sir, I’m sorry, please!”

He kept up the pressure for another fifteen, twenty seconds, making sure the message was well established, and then released his boot, Donny reflexively cradling his junk and curling up into a fetal position, gasping. Walter just walked over to a wooden chair in the bedroom, and sat down, legs stretched out and boots presented. “You can still leave, for the moment. Or you can get the fuck back over here, and finish the job.”

It was clear, from his eyes, that Donny knew what he should want. He should crawl to the door and leave–but he wasn’t doing that. He didn’t…really want that. Instead, on foot and knee, he was slowly drawn over to where Walter was sitting. The filth off the boot had tasted foul, but he…deserved it, for what he’d done. For what he was. This is what he’d needed, all this time. This is what he’d been searching for, and he hadn’t even known it. He went back to the book, licking and wetting the chunks, using his teeth to scrape them off and swallow them. Walter just watched him, idly reaching over to the humidor on the table next to him, taking out a cigar, clipping the end and lighting up. He’d never smoked before, but the rush of nicotine was wonderful–almost as wonderful as the rush of watching his fucking bitch slaving over his nasty boots. A few minutes later, he’d forgotten about the oddity of his own smoking, puffing slowly, massaging his own cock through his jeans, and listening to the voice, as it told him what kind of punishment would be fitting for a young cheater like Donny.

Why the fuck was he doing this, Hugh screamed in his head as he shoved his nose deeper into the stinking boot, snorting up as much of his neighbor’s musk as he possible could, his cock hard and leaking in his jeans. He’d always considered himself an alpha, a true man–and an alpha most certainly did not helplessly sniff a fat fuck’s nasty work boots, and get hard while he did it.

“See? I told ya,” his neighbor, Clark, said. He sat forward so he could pull out the can of chaw from the back pocket of his grungy coveralls he always wore, take out a wad, and tuck it in his lip–but his beard was so thick you couldn’t even see the bulge. “Knew a fuck like ya wouldn’ be able tah help yerself.”

They were in Hugh’s garage, where Hugh spent most of his free time working on his trucks. Clark had been passing by on the way to the mailbox when the two of them had gotten into a bit of an argument–and Clark had ended up taking off his ripe boots…and as soon as Hugh had smelt them, he’d been unable to resist them. Hugh managed to haul his face free for a moment, drool running down his chin, but he just fell back in, pushing his face in even deeper.

“Don’ feel too bad that ya lost–ya ain’t the first, ya won’ be the last.”

“Please, let me stop!” Hugh shouted into the boot.

“But ya don’ wanna stop, do ya? Ya can’t have those one though, I ain’t done wit’ ‘em. Got lots a other stuff back home ya can keep though–trust me, once ya gots a taste…ya ain’t gonna be able tah stop. Just wait til ya gets a sniff a mah jock–yer gonna be a brand new man–in fact, git over here.”

Thankfully, Hugh could take his head out of the boot, but he found himself crawling towards his fat, smelly neighbor, watching him zip his coverall down to his crotch and part the sides of the suit, revealing the filthiest pouch of a jock Hugh had ever seen…but he couldn’t stop himself from shoving his face in, huffing his neighbor’s fumes–no…no, his Master’s stink, yeah, his Master.

Hugh wasn’t quite himself from that day forward, but he didn’t mind. Instead of working on his trucks, he spent most of his downtime over at his Master’s house–along with most of the other men from the neighborhood. But what choice did he have? He needed to smell his Master, right? He needed to smell a real man, to remind him of his proper place in the world–at that man’s feet.

Dirty Daddies (1 of 2)

It’s hard, trying to figure out what to do, when you’re gay and want kids. Do you adopt? Do you mentor teens? Do you do the whole thing from start to finish with a surrogate? Martin and I had been together for almost a decade at this point, and we’d both talked about wanting kids in some form, but both of us were closing in on fifty, and watching my kid college graduation in my 70’s seemed strange, so we decided the best option for us would to be a foster home. For the first few years, everything went surprisingly smooth. You hear all of these horror stories in the media, but all these kids usually want is some stability. It helps that our two jobs in business keep us with plenty of money, so if a kid is stubborn, gifts and money can help grease the wheels of the relationship a bit, but then, along came Terry.

Placing Terry with us was a bit of a no-brainer I suppose. Two gay guys fostering a gay teen seemed like a good match, especially for a young guy who’d been through as much shit as he had. The caseworker couldn’t give out details, but it was pretty clear some strange abuse had happened in his past. He was really excited, when he found out Martin and I were married and together–he’d never thought he’d get a chance to be a part of a family with two real daddies. I thought it was cute, the way he put it, even if it was a bit childish–but once we’d been living with us for a while, I started to realize that there was something sinister under the surface.

Now, like I said, both Martin and I are in business, but while I work in the city, Martin freelances from home, running his own consulting company. That meant, Martin got to spend a whole lot more time with Terry than I did on a regular basis, and I began to notice that when I got home, Martin would look a bit…confused and out of sorts, but when I tried to ask him about it, he wouldn’t tell me anything. The one thing I did notice was that he was a whole lot more frisky all of a sudden, making out with me as soon as I got home, still in our suits, wanting to have sex every single night. Look, it happens, right? You get married, you settle down, the sex drops off…but he was fucking insatiable, and while I appreciated the attention, it seemed a bit odd–and then, one night while he was fucking me, I realized our door was cracked open, and there, masturbating, was Terry.

I tried to get Martin to stop, but he wouldn’t–and I couldn’t either. I realized I didn’t have any control over my own body, as Terry looked me in the eye, grinned, opened the door, and walked over to me. “Two daddies, just for me,” he said. “You want my dick daddy? My real daddy didn’t want my dick anymore, so he blew his brains out, but you like dick for sure, so I think you want it, right?”

I tried to tell him no, that this wasn’t right, but I felt my mouth get forced open, and Terry shoved his cock right down my throat. Martin sobbed behind me, still plowing my ass, and Terry sighed. “Two daddies, all my own. Two dirty daddies. We’re going to have so much fun, as a family, don’t you think?”

“Hey handsome. Top or bottom?”

“What, you don’t want to buy me a drink first?”

“Heh, I’m just curious is all.”

“Oh, I guess I’m pretty vers, though I probably bottom more.”

“Seriously? Too bad–you’re hot, but I’m looking for a top.”

“Well hey now, I’m more than willing to give it a shot for a hot guy like you. It’s not like I’ve never fucked a guy before.”

“Well, I’m looking for a bit more than a fuck, but I suppose you could do in a pinch–the pickings are a bit slim tonight…still, this whole look isn’t going to do. Way too “nice guy,” you know? Don’t you own any leather?”

“Are you kidding? That stuff is so expensive.”

“Maybe so–but I don’t think you care, do you? You need leather on, it makes you feel powerful. Helps you display your dominance.”

“What…I feel…”

“Hush…just listen, and pay attention. Those chaps are looking good, and that vest, showing off that hot body of yours. You want guys staring at you, don’t you? You want them to need you inside them, all ten inches.”

“That’s…I wasn’t wearing this…shit.”

“Sure you were–this is what you wear when you go hunting for ass. You’re a beast. Hairy, muscle bound, aggressive, rough, and none too bright. Operating out of need and instinct. You just let that dick to the talking, don’t you?”

“Fuckin’ slut, you’re–no, this…isn’t me!”

“Sure it is. Stroke that big cock, feel your brain draining, that alpha aggression taking over your whole mind. You know what you want sir, now fucking take it.”

“Shut up!”

“You’re gonna have to make me shut up, you stupid brute. Now drag me into the alley back there and show me what you do to talky bottoms like me.”

Source: roidsandrants