Hopeless (Part 3)

You stumble into the parking lot, still pumping cum out the bottom of your shorts, where it’s running down your thick, hairy legs. There’s something wrong with you. Well, of course there is something wrong with you, you’re worthless, but this is different. You’d gone so long without cumming, for weeks–or maybe even months, you couldn’t quite remember, and now that the dam had been broken, your gut was churning, your balls are aching, you’re sweating from head to toe. People stare, no–gape at you plodding to your car, mouth open, snorting, eyes wild. You throw open the door and go to climb in, but hit your head on the frame, your knees scrunched under the wheel. It isn’t until you process the fact that the space is smaller than usual that you manage to reach under your seat, past your massive cock, and shove the seat as far back as it will go. Is this even your car? Your key worked, it…smells like you, but it doesn’t feel right. You shut the door and immediately feel claustrophobic, panting and panic rising in your chest, but you have to get home, you’ll be safe at home, you aren’t safe here.

It’s a fifteen minute drive to your home from the gym, and it’s harrowing. Your bones ache, muscles pulse. More than once, a sudden, full body spasm of growth sends you speeding forward or swerving into other lanes–the fact that you don’t end up in an accident or arrested is a minor miracle. You park, throw open the car door, and manage to squeeze yourself free of the confines of the car, whimpering and moaning. The exit is anything but graceful, and you end up toppling out face first onto the pavement, but you’re free, at least. you grab the car door to help yourself up, but when you pull on it, rather than gaining any leverage, you feel the car door bend down in the frame towards you instead, the car tipping slightly to the side as you drag yourself up. It’s so…small, like one of those clown cars at the circus. You abandon it, running for your apartment, and your shorts finally can’t bear the pressure of your package and thighs, bursting at the seams, your foot and a half long cock and massive balls flopping out into the open, your shirt following soon after–you tear away the tattered remains once you reach your door, crouching in the hallway, fumbling with the keys you’d kept in your hand, but they’re so small and you’ve grown so clumsy that you can’t fit the key in the lock–in frustration you simply start pounding on the door–and it opens.

Without worrying how, you start the next task of finding some way of squeezing through the doorway, the only thought you have is making it inside. You end up pushing yourself in sideways–you’ve grown much too tall to walk in, and your shoulders are too broad. It’s close, but you squeeze inside, heaving for breath, feeling your body continue growing as you do…and you realize you’ve trapped yourself. There’s simply no way you’ll be able to fit yourself back out–but why would you want to leave? Out there, all there are are people who will stare at you, look at you like you’re a freak–because you are a freak. You don’t want to go out there, you don’t want to leave. Your trainer, who’d opened the door for you, closes it behind you but doesn’t lock it–you don’t even notice that he’s there until he standing beside you, stoking one massive, hairy arm, talking to you, calming you down bit by bit, that buzzing sound returning, and soon you’re shivering at his touch, at his words–and you realize that you are sitting down on the ground–and he’s standing next to you–but he barely comes to your shoulder. How…how big are you, really? How big is your cock? It doesn’t seem real, hanging there between your legs. You must be at least ten feet tall–far too tall for your ceilings. The only way you’ll be able to move from room to room is by crawling…but is this even your apartment? Now that you’re more calm, this doesn’t…seem familiar. The floorplan is too open, there’s almost no furniture…where did you drive yourself, anyway? Where did you just trap yourself?

“Look at you, you’re a beast–a gigantic, disgusting beast,” he says, walking around you in a wide circle, taking all of you in–the hairy body, the long beard, the massive cock and balls, “You’re going to be so popular, so many people have been waiting for you to finally blow.”

You have no idea what he’s talking about, and he doesn’t elaborate. You try to talk, but words…don’t come easily to you anymore, and he has no interest in anything you might ask or want to know. He leaves you alone–but you don’t feel abandoned. For the first time in a long time, you feel safe. The the men begin arriving. You have several visitors each day, and all of them come for one reason–to abuse your massive cock. The ride it, they worship it, the suck it, they drink your cum by the gallon. None of them care about you, about the body attached to this marvelous beast of a cock–but then, why should they? You know you’re worthless, unworthy of anyone’s attention. You’re simply happy to know that there’s one part of you which is worthy of desire and that’s enough for your simple mind. The only person who sees you is your trainer–no, your owner now–when he visits. He comes every few weeks–you look forward to those visits more than any other, because finally, he has allowed you to serve him. You pull him close, gently, lick him clean from head to toe, worship his cock and balls with your mouth, letting him know how thankful you are. How thankful you are that he has given you purpose. How thankful you are that a hopeless, giant-cocked beast like you, could ever hope to be owned by a man like him.

Hopeless (Part 1)

You met him at the gym, but whether it was by accident, or by a choice he made, you never found out. He asked you to spot for him on the bench press so he could push his max, and you were willing to help him out. You’d seen him at the gym before, but had never thought much of him–probably in his mid 30’s, bearded with a shaved head, a bit hairy. Muscular, but with a small gut all the same. On the bench, while you guided the bar up and down, you listened to him grunt, your eyes focusing on the curve of belly that appeared, inch by inch, as he lifted, an odd…buzzing in your head, vision tunnelling slightly, until he failed, and you snapped back, helping him rack the weights back, your head still…fuzzy. You worked through a few more sets with him, and then he offered to help you, counting for you as you pressed. You couldn’t lift nearly as much as him, but he encouraged you, he made you feel…good. You parted ways with a handshake, and from that then on, you noticed him more and more, every day, and both of you struck up an acquaintance, spotting each other from day to day.

He wasn’t the first guy you’d been attracted to, but he was…different. The way he made you feel, when you were close to him, it was something you’d never felt before. At the same time, life outside of the gym started to become more…difficult. You found yourself messing up at work more often, you felt…exposed in public. Friends you’d known for years were suddenly saying strange things–that you seemed distant and disconnected, that you were quieter and didn’t talk as much. You felt hurt at their comments, and saw them less, even as you started going to the gym more. Whether that was because you simply had more time, or because, at heart, you wanted to see him more, you couldn’t tell. You couldn’t quite be honest with yourself yet, could you?

Still, he never pushed you away. He never said you were too quiet, or too disconnected. Without really noticing when it had happened, he’d taken control of your workouts, almost becoming your personal trainer. You would arrive early and wait for him–the idea of working out without him felt…wrong. Scary, even. You might hurt yourself, or do something wrong, if he wasn’t there, watching over you. He pushed you away from your cardio focus, and you began lifting more, and longer. It was exhausting, but you were doing so good! You could see it, too. You were bulking faster than you’d ever imagined possible…but it was more than just muscle. You seemed…taller, too, although you convinced yourself that was probably your imagination. Your cock, too–it seemed longer. Thicker. It felt thicker when you jacked off, thinking about him, about your trainer, about…about how good he made you feel.

Without really noticing, the gym became the center of your life, and he was the center of your workout. Everything else was driver further and further to the periphery, so when your boss called you into his office, it felt like…some strange intrusion. You hoped it wasn’t more work he needed you to do today–you wouldn’t want to be late for your workout. You knew that your work had been slipping, but when he laid it all out in front of you: the missed deadlines, the simple errors, the poor presentations, your unprofessional appearance, the ill fitting clothes, your lack luster hygiene, it made you…feel so small, even though you towered over him. You wished your trainer had been there, so that you wouldn’t…have had to care. So that comfortable buzzing could have taken over, so he could have just…just told you what to do, what to say. You had no excuse, no reason to give, you could barely even speak at all. Your boss had only been planning on reprimanding you, but somewhere in the one-sided conversation he decided to just cut you loose entirely. You packed up your things, and didn’t know what to do–so you went to the gym, and you waited.

It was hours before the two of you were supposed to meet for your workout, but what else could you do? It was so hard to…to think, to make a decision. You felt paralyzed. But he…he was so confident, and he was so…such a natural leader, and you had to follow, you had to. When he arrived, you tried to tell him what happened, but getting the words out was difficult. Talking, in general, had become more and more difficult lately, and the buzzing when you were near him only made it worse, the stuttering, the words missing from your vocabulary, you couldn’t get it out, and so you just worked it out. You worked out, hoping that would help you focus, but all you felt was dimmer. It made you feel hopeless, and even more overwhelmed than before. What was wrong with you? You hadn’t always been like this. Thank goodness he was here, watching out for you, or else you would probably hurt yourself so much. At least you were looking good, looking bigger. With his help, you’d been packing on the pounds lately, and even the beard was looking better, now that you’d been growing it for a few months, though your hair was lank and greasy, and…just ugly. You stank too–when had you taken a shower last, or brushed your teeth? You hadn’t been taking care of yourself, not at all. You were disgusting, you were filthy, and ugly and…and you hated it.

You hated yourself, and there, on the bench, you started sobbing. You’d been trying to keep it inside, trying to ball it all up, but you had no guard left anymore, and you were certain, as soon as he saw how weak you really were, he’d leave. Abandon you, forget about you–worthless, hopeless you…but he didn’t. He sat down next to you, and put his arm around your now hulking shoulders, cooing at you, consoling you. The buzzing grew a bit louder, and you, slowly, calmed down. When you felt up to it, you continued your workout, and things felt…easier, for the moment, until you were finished…and he walked away from you in the parking lot.

Of course he was walking away, he had his own home, but the terror that gripped you, when he did, was something you couldn’t comprehend, and you started following him, chasing after him, and caught up to him as he climbed in. He saw you there, the desperation on your face. “Don’t….leave me…” you said, those three words so inadequate to how you felt, but the only three you could find in your empty head.

He thought for a moment, looking you over, and said, “Go home, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

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.