Idolized (Part 2)

“Jesus, what the fuck is happening to you?” Toby said, looking at the skin of Darren’s chest and arm. “Is…is this, contagious? What even is this? I’ve never heard of anything like this.”

It had been a few days since Darren had dragged the idol back to camp, since he’d first worshiped at the altar of Kal’Ragek. That was the closest he could come to pronouncing it, the name in his head–the consonants didn’t quite fit right in his mouth, and saying it made his tongue itch and burn like someone had struck a match and laid it across the surface. The next day, he’d left the idol at camp, and gone back to the excavation, but he hadn’t been able to focus at all, and he felt physically ill. He barely managed to make the trek back to camp that evening, and he told everyone that he was just feeling exhausted and a bit sick. He’d need a few days of rest, he thought, and he’d be back to normal, or perhaps, better than normal. He’d confined himself to his tent, and everyone had largely forgotten about him–they had made a great discovery back at the site–a third dwelling–and everyone was busy working around it, cataloging finds, and so Darren managed to catch a few days without being disturbed–just him, the idol, some food snuck from the mess, and the god slowly revealing himself to Darren’s mind.

The changes had only continued, and while Darren was concerned, his god assured him that this was the way things ought to be–that in order to serve him and worship him properly, Darren would need to become…something else. He had laid awake for hours on end, sweating and shaking with fever, scratching at his skin, feeling the patch of green spread further and further over his body. Now, it was nearly impossible to hide. His entire right arm was covered with the new skin, as was most of his chest, stomach, and back. Even his cock had turned color, grown an extra four inches of length, with a thick foreskin extending over the previously circumcised head. The cum from his balls had turned sour and yellow, but delicious–he found himself compelled to eat every load he shot during his periods of worship–gifts from his god–but what they might be doing to his insides, he was too terrified to try and imagine it, but from the cramps and muscle aches, it was clear that the transformation was more than superficial. He was getting bigger, for one thing–both taller and more muscular, with patches of dark hair sprouting on his green skin. His hair and beard had grown out as well. The hair he could at least keep knotted behind him, where it fell past his shoulders, but his beard was wild and tangled, nearly an inch long and impossible to tame.

Toby was staring at him, disgusted by him, but Darren steeled himself, and refused to be humiliated, standing straight and tall, looming over him. He’d hidden for long enough, now. It had become clear to him that hiding in his tent and hoarding Kal’Ragek to himself–it wasn’t right. His god, it was pleased to be worshiped again, and very pleased with Darren’s devotion, but it had been…a very long time since the last tribe had dispersed, since Kal’Ragek had been forgotten, and he was starved for praise and devotion. Toby and Darren had been close, as close as two academic rivals could be, he supposed. They had been the two students selected to go on this dig by their mutual professor, Dr. Edwin Jeral. He had seen Toby crossing camp, and called out to him, knowing Toby would want to drag him away from his god, but that was only because he didn’t yet understand. Everyone had forgotten the tribe, like each time before, but they could learn again. They would learn, and Darren would teach them with the light of Kal’Ragek.

“I’m not sick,” Darren said to Toby. He’d put on a pair of tight fitting pants, knowing that if he’d been completely naked his friend would have likely bolted, but the feel of the fabric against his skin felt…wrong. Leather or hide or nothing at all would be better, but this would have to do. He had to be careful when moving not too flex too much–he’d ripped apart nearly all of his other clothes by accident, as he’d grown. “I know how this looks, but I feel great. I…I just wanted to show you something, I want your opinion on it.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Darren? We need to get you to a hospital! Your…skin, I mean, and…how could you not tell any of us about this? It looks like gangrene or something.”

“It’s not something I can explain, it’s something I need you to see, or taste, or smell…” Darren said, and pulled the oil cloth from over the idol. He had constructed a rudimentary altar–it was wrong for Kal’Ragek to rest on the ground–and the hours he had spent polishing the smooth green stone with his own spit showed–the green was luminescent, and nearly shown of its own accord in the dim daylight filtering in through the flaps of the tent.

“Is…Is that from the dig? Did you fucking smuggle that thing down here? Are you insane?” Toby said, and stepped closer, “What…even is it? I’ve never seen stone like that before. Is it jade?”

“I don’t know–you were always better at stone materials than me. That’s why I wanted you to look at it, Toby. Go on, look close, kneel down in front of it, and tell me what you think.”

Idolized (Part 1)

Five miles in, and five miles out, every day. The history was worth it, of course, but that didn’t exactly make it easier for Darren. After all, as a PhD candidate in cultural anthropology, he spent most of his time with his nose stuck in a book, or looking at centuries old artifacts in secure laboratories and museums–five mile hikes were not part of his usual activities. He wasn’t exactly out of shape–but at five foot seven and skinny as a rail, he had a hard time keeping up with some of the more sizable men working on the excavation. It was the hike back that was always the hardest. After ten hours focused on meter by meter sized squares of dirt: digging, brushing, cataloging, and measuring–all under the hot sun–hiking back at dusk to base camp was a trial, when all he and everyone else wanted was a meal, and to collapse for another night.

But field work was where you made a name for yourself. You could spend a career analyzing the discoveries of other researchers, sure, but if you wanted to be on the cover of magazines, you needed to be out there, and this dig…nothing had ever really been found quite like it, ever before. A dwelling had been revealed by a muddy rockslide, and spotted by some shepherds, miles from the nearest city…and no one knew what culture it belonged to, and as they’d been digging, things had only made less and less sense. But Darren…he’d found something today, something he was somehow certain was a key to all of this mystery. An idol, carved from some stone–he’d thought it was jade at first, but a far deeper green than he’d ever seen before. He’d touched it, and he’d…felt something, a power inside of it, a logic…but more than anything else, he’d felt…possessive. He’d found it, so it was his, right?

In fact, it belonged to countless other governments and bureaucracies…but before anyone else spotted him, he took the idol, surprised by how heavy it was, wrapped it in some oilcloth and shoved it into his bag. Now, hiking back, feeling the heavy stone knock against his pelvis with each step, he wondered what in the hell he thought he was doing. Not only was this completely unethical, it was criminal! If anyone caught him with this thing, he’d be thrown in prison–and not a relatively nice American prison. The prisons here–well, his advisor travelling with him and another student on the excavation had warned them both, and he knew better, but he’d done it anyway. Still, when he’d felt it…he’d been so sure, somehow. He’d just have to take it back with him the next day, and pretend he’d found it in another square.

The crew arrived back at the base camp, where they all ditched their packs by their tents and then went to the mess hall to eat–everyone except Darren, who pulled his pack into his tent with him, dug around inside and hauled out the wrapped idol. He needed to see it again. He needed to touch it, to know that what he’d…felt earlier hadn’t been some strange folly of his own imagination. He unrolled the cloth, and there it was–he turned on his flashlight in the dusk light and examined the statue a bit closer.

It was obviously masculine in appearance, though done in slight caricature–that is, unless people in this society regularly had penises that hung to their knees. The figure was corded with muscle, and a bit squat–arms a bit longer than normal, but not quite ape like either. The surface of the stone was smooth, but the pattern of the green material almost gave an impression of hair all over the surface of the idol’s body. It was the face that fascinated him the most–rough, beastial, with short tusks emerging from the mouth, surrounded by a thick beard hanging to the idol’s belly. It had to be a god of some sort, and yet it was no god he was familiar with, especially not in this region of the world.

He stood the idol upright on the ground by his cot–it didn’t seem right to leave it lying down on it’s side. Touching it again…it felt good. Cool against his sweaty hand, but with some kind of deeper warmth. It was difficult for him to recall what, exactly, happened next. The idol needed him, it needed his praise and his worship, and in return, there was a promise–but what that promise was, he couldn’t tell. It came to him in feelings and scents, more than words and images, but he found himself prostrated in front of idol, watching it glow with a soft light, the light spreading to him as well, infusing him, and as terrified as he was, his cock was so hard it was nearly ready to burst without him so much as touching it.

Half an hour later, the idol was stashed back in the oil cloth and tucked under his cot bundled with some spare clothing. He’d had to change clothes, because he’d shot a massive load of cum right into the front of his pants, the largest load he’d ever seen, and his cock and balls were still throbbing. He went to the mess hall and piled his plate high with food, more food than he ever would have eaten normally, and stuffed himself, trying to forget what had happened–what he’d allowed to happen, and what he…knew he would let happen again. He did his best to pay no mind to the extra inch his cock had grown, or that…strange patch of green skin that had appeared on his torso, stretching from under his chest around his side and to his back, or to the fact that his clothes didn’t seem to fit quite right, suddenly. When he got back to the tent and prostrated himself before the idol to worship again, he was surprised by the sound of cloth tearing, as a burst of growth across his back and shoulder muscle tore the yoke of his shirt apart. He tugged it away from him, hand shaking, and chucked the tattered shirt towards the wall of the tent. It would all be alright, he told himself, worship the idol, and everything would be as it should be, once again.

Pigtown Prison (Part 3)

Keith, in his mind, was desperately trying to make his body stop, but he couldn’t. He’d never topped another person in his life, but all his body wanted to do now was fuck–and fuck rough. The pig under him had gotten used to the assault and was starting to enjoy himself, so he redoubled his force, plowing him harder until the pig squealed in pain…and hearing that, he felt so fucking good, it nearly made him shoot. “What…the fuck did you fucking do to me!” he shouted at Rod, his voice deep and gruff, completely alien to the one he’d known his whole life.

“Don’t be mad at me, fucker–it was Oliver, who did this to you.” Rod got down and stared Keith right in the eyes, “You wanna be mad at anyone, then be mad at him.”

Something…changed in him. The rage he was feeling flared higher, and Keith felt all of it focused on Oliver. He tried to fight it and push back–he loved Oliver! Sure, their sexual chemistry was a bit of a struggle, given that they both preferred to bottom, but he’d thought they’d been working through it, right?

Rod just chuckled, “Oh no, Keith, no, no, no. Oliver never really wanted you. That’s why you’re here. He wants a top, a brutal top, a mean fucker who only wants to plow him into next week. He doesn’t care about who you are–he just wants the fuck. All this? All this pain? He doesn’t care as long as he gets what he wants. Well guess what Keith? You don’t have to care either. In fact, I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”

There was a flicker in Rod’s eyes, and a moment later, Keith screamed again. His mind–it felt like it was on fire–or at least parts of it were. All of his memories of Oliver, all of the times they’d shared together, all of them were aflame–but it wasn’t just memories–it was his compassion and his love. He could feel it shrinking and withering to ash, and the pain was horrific but soon he didn’t even care. He enjoyed it, he reveled in it–he gripped the pig by one hip, hard enough to bruise, and drove in deeper still, his other hand planted on the back of the pig’s head shoving his face into the filthy, pissdamp floor of the bathroom. “How’s that feel, you fucking piece of shit?” he screamed, and his cock exploded, filling the pig’s ass to the brim, but he kept fucking until he went soft, and only then did he pull out–body shaking with some caustic mix of pain, exhaustion and exhilaration.

Who…was he now? He remembered so little, but he did know one thing, and remember one person. Oliver–he remembered him, and he hated him. Hated him, because it was his fault that he’d just been put through all of that pain and suffering…and Keith knew he was going to have to pay for what he did.

“That’s a good boy,” Rod said, giving Keith a pat on the shoulder, “Now, why don’t we get you deputized?”

Rod’s hand settled on his shoulder, and underneath his palm, something like a shadow spread out and down Keith’s body, down his chest and back. He braced himself for more pain, but this didn’t hurt–it was warm and supple–he first thought it was some kind of rubber, but he touched it with a finger, and discovered that he somehow being coated in leather. It covered his entire body, aside from his neck and head, in less than a minute, a smooth, body hugging layer–and once it had coated him, he felt the entire body suit shift and morph around him. It split at the waist, becoming a shirt and pants, and then split again at his knees, the leather around his feet shaping into a pair of perfectly shined leather motorcycle boots. The pants were tight against his muscles, with a red stripe down the side, his huge cock bulging in the crotch and running down one leg. The leather…adjusted to it, and it felt so comfortable, like his cock always laid there, in a stretched out pocket of his pants. The shirt took a bit longer to form, but the details were more intricate–lapels and pockets, the sleeves shortening, exposing his massive biceps and forearms, hands encased by the tightest fitting gloves he’d ever felt, like they were painted on his hands.

Rod gave a flourish with his hand, and a cap appeared in his hand–and a silver steel badge. He placed the police cap on Keith’s head, and pinned the badge to his chest, and then gave him a smoky kiss. “Beautiful–now, you have a suspect to interrogate, right officer?”

“Y-Yes sir,” Keith said.

“Good fucker–work him over nice and proper. Figure out what sort of shit he pulled here yesterday. But whatever he did, don’t bring it back here! Just…deal with it as best you can. Probably some knick knack or something–it surprised me, but wasn’t that strong.”

Keith nodded, and a few minutes later he was out on the sidewalk, cool in his leathers despite the hot night. He found his motorcycle and rode off into the dark, heading for Oliver’s place, and more than eager give the man who’d done this to him a bit of payback.

Pigtown Prison (Part 2)

The pain was spreading to the rest of his body now, radiating from his guts but manifesting in entirely different ways. There was…a burning ache deep inside him–everywhere inside of him–and it was only becoming worse. He heard, and felt, the first unsettling crack in his knee, and his leg gave out under him, sending him crashing to the floor…and he felt the bones in his left leg grow and extend…but the muscle and tendons attached didn’t. He screamed then, clutching at his thigh, watching his ankle extend from the leg of his jeans, and with another couple of cracks, his right leg did the same. He didn’t remember much of the next few minutes, as the rest of his skeleton followed suit–it was just a constant sensation of burning in his bones, and the feeling of his meat and skin stretching to try and accommodate his growing body. Over him, he could see the filthy ceiling, Rod leaning against the wall smoking a cigar, and certain he must be dying. But as his bones finished, his muscles followed–each beginning with a horrific, gut churning cramp, and then releasing an explosion of searing heat as they grew, matching the new length of bone, but also doubling or tripling in size and strength.

At some point, he realized he had either grown accustomed to the pain, or it had actually eased slightly; he rolled over onto his knees, jeans and shirt growing tighter across his frame, and forced his feet back under him. He felt off balance and stumbled–nearly falling over again before he found a wall to steady himself with. The entire room seemed to have shifted around him, the scale smaller–but it wasn’t the room that had shrunk–he had grown taller.

He heaved himself towards the sinks again, and in the mirror, he saw his body changing right in front of his eyes. His limbs…they seemed so long, many of his muscles still stretched taut, but everywhere he’d felt his muscles explode in size, he looked like some…brute. His chest constricted suddenly, and he gripped the sink in front of him, trying to not scream in agony. A moment later, two huge pecs burst forth on his chest, huge slabs popping open the front of his button down shirt and stretching the t-shirt underneath to the breaking point. He could barely move, and with his hands he clawed at the fabric, eventually tearing it off his body, giving him a view of his body below, the muscle speeding up and growing faster now. His pants didn’t last long–when his glutes grew, the seam down the ass tore, letting him rip them away as well, and his underwear came off in shreds soon after. He barely recognized himself in the mirror–his pretty young face resting on top of the body of some steroid ridden bodybuilder–at least until he felt the bones of his face beginning to crunch and shift against one another. He clutched at it, screaming, his chin growing angular, nose breaking and rehealing a few times, brow growing fuller and extending over his eyes which sank back into his skull.

He sobbed, looking at his new face–and then came the hairs. He could feel them, millions of hairs erupting through his skin, every single one of them like an impossibly thin needle. He scratched at his body, watching a thick, black pelt erupt across his chest and down his thick roid gut, over his shoulders and across his entire back, down his ass, arms and legs. He was distracted by an invisible hand gripping his cock and balls and tugging at them, hard, making him retch again. His sack dropped as the hand tugged, balls doubling in size, cock growing to nearly ten inches before the hand finally released him, and the pain subsided, only to be followed by a knee shaking puncture in the head of his cock. He watched a thick ring push its way out of his flesh under the head of his cock, circle up and shove its way into his piss slit where it joined with itself, becoming a thick gauge PA. Exhausted, he tried to stay upright, but his shaking legs collapsed under him and he fell to the floor, adding a small dribble of blood from his cock as the piercing healed up behind it. He barely felt the three other rings follow suit–two bursting out of his nipples and one forcing its way out of his septum. His eyes were tearing up, and he choked back a sob. The pain slid away, and what remained was exhaustion–he just wanted to collapse, wanted to sleep, wanted all of this to be some mad dream.

The door to the bathroom swung open, and Keith heard two or three sets of boots clomp into the room. “Fuck Rod, someone dying in here?”

“Nah, just a fucking pussy is all.”

“Hot piece of ass in my opinion–he been broken in yet?”

“Heh, you sure you want this one? Might be a lot to handle.”

“He sounds like he’ll moan real fucking nice ‘round my cock, is what I think!”

There were hoots and hollers, and hands started grabbing at Keith and forcing him onto his hands and knees. All he could smell around him was smoke and booze on breath, musk and piss and cum and leather. He felt someone pull his ass cheeks apart and a bearded face shove its way in, tongue slathering his hole, another face grabbing his face and kissing him. He felt…something else boiling inside him, some other lingering heat from the change. This…it wasn’t right, this wasn’t right! He wasn’t going to let these men take him, no, he…he…

He shoved the man in front of him away with a snarl, turned around and saw a squat piggy looking fuck behind him in leather gear and assless chaps, stroking his cock with one hand. He lunged at him, the others watching him pin the man down and start fucking his ass in surprise, and then they edged their way back out of the bathroom–all of them except Rod, who walked over, observing Keith roughly fucking the pig. “Good instincts, nice technique–you’ll do nicely.”

Pigtown Prison (Part 1)

“Look, I know what you can do here, I know the stories,” Oliver said to the bartender, “I just…I do like him, you know? But I can’t be with a bottom–two bottoms, what the fuck are we supposed to do? And he’s fucking clueless. If he was a top, a bigger, and…well, you can do all that, can’t you?”

Rod looked the young man up and down–he had to admit, he might be small and a twink to boot, but he had balls to come into his bar, and start making requests. “I got plenty of pigs in the back room who would love a turn at your hole, boy–how about I just give you to them?”

“No thanks–I like myself plenty. This isn’t about me, it’s about him. Besides, you can’t do shit to me, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll help me out here,” Oliver smiled, “I’m trying to be nice, and polite.”

Now Rod was fuming. Who the fuck did this punk think he was, walking into Pigtown, his bar, and thinking Rod owed him a favor. “Boy, get your ass around this bar, and suck my fucking cock.”

Oliver just sat there, looking calm, and Rod resisted the urge to let his jaw drop. Pigtown was his, and by extension, everyone inside it was his too. No one should be able to resist his orders, but this fucker was just sitting there, flaunting his control, and worse…he knew it. Apparently this was a bit more…complicated than Rod had thought. “You do this for me, or else you’re going to find yourself with a much more normal bar than you’d like, Rod. Make my boyfriend my perfect top, and you’ll never see me again. He’ll be here tomorrow night–his name is Keith. Big muscles, huge cock, hairy all over–your usual sort of clientele. Don’t fuck with his head any more than you have to, though.”

Oliver got up from the bar and walked to the door, leaving Rod sputtering. “Somebody stop that fucker!” He shouted. The room was full of men–his men. Men who would do anything for him, be anyone for him…but no one moved an inch. Oliver threaded through them at a leisurely pace, feeling all of their eyes following him, and then he was gone. When the door shut behind him, Rod felt something he hadn’t felt in a very long time–he felt scared. “Jimmy, he said to one of his regulars, “Piss yourself.”

He worried for a moment that he’d lost it, that something had happened to the magic of the place, but a second later, Jimmy’s grubby jeans turned dark with piss, and the big bear blushed behind his beard. Rod breathed a sigh of relief–still, Oliver had figured something out, a way to nullify his magic–not just for him, but for everyone around him. If he thought Rod was going to respond to a threat like that and just roll over, well, Oliver was hardly the most formidable opponent Rod had bested in his years. Still, why not give the boy what he asked for? Rod would make it perfectly clear that in this case, the young trickster had bitten off much, much more than he could hope to swallow.

Keith shoved his way into the bathroom, his guts churning and vision swimming, wondering just what had been in that drink that dirty old bartender had given him–and where in the hell was Oliver? His boyfriend had told him to meet here for a date tonight, but he’d texted him to say he’d be late–telling Keith to go ahead and get a drink while he waited. Now, though, it felt like his guts were ripping themselves to shreds, and the look the bartender had given him when he’d stood up and rushed for the bathroom…it hadn’t been a very sympathetic look, by any means.

The bathroom was even grungier and filthier than the bar outside…and he swore he could hear the grunting and moaning of a couple guys fucking in the far stall. Still, he got done in front of one of the nasty toilets and tried to force himself to throw up, but even though his stomach was heaving nothing came, and the pain in his stomach was starting to spread. Had that fucking bartender poisoned him or something? He stood up and stumbled back out of the stall, hanging onto one of the sinks to stay upright while he reached for his phone to call for help, but once he’d gotten it into his shaking hand, someone grabbed it from him, dropped it to the floor, and crushed it under the heel of his boot.

The bartender, still with that cruel grin of his across his face. “Now, now–take your medicine like a man. I gotta keep my side of the bargain after all, but you don’t get to fucking enjoy this, by any means.”

Jeremiah’s Biggest Fan (Part 2)

“Are you doing ok? You seem jumpy–no one’s going to notice, I promise.”

It was a few days later, and the longer Jeremiah had stewed on the strange shit he’d witnessed in Terry’s, or Terrance’s room that afternoon, the more angry he had gotten. It was clearly a honeypot–he was hoping to get Jeremiah on video having sex, and then expose him. But what fucking right did he, or they, have to do any of that shit to him? Maybe in another life, Jeremiah would have been able to be open about his sexuality–the world was changing fast. Hell, if he did make it to the pros, maybe he could come out then and help change some minds. But it was his fucking decision to make, not some stranger’s, so they could raise their own profile at his own expense. Still, was this the right decision? He stepped into the dorm building while Terry held the door open for him, and then followed him upstairs to his room, pretending to not know where they were going after he’d followed him before.

It was that…change, which still confused him the most. How had Terrance gone from being that five and a half foot wisp of a twink to being Terry–six two, 250 pounds of muscle–in the course of a second? He still found it hard to believe what he’d seen with his own eyes. He was going to get to the bottom of it, in any case, and after a nice rough up, he was sure Terrance, or Terry, or whoever they were, would be happy enough to go find someone else’s life to fuck up. Terry unlocked the door with another wink at Jeremiah, who did his best not to look too flustered in return, and followed him inside. As soon as they were in, before the door even closed, Terry was stripping off his shirt–but Jeremiah didn’t give him a chance to do much else. He grabbed him by the head, tangled in fabric, and slammed him into the wall beside them.

“You fucker–you think my life is a fucking joke, eh? Think it’s fucking funny, ruining someone’s fucking life?” he shouted, and started kicking at him where he’d fallen and was struggling–with one solid kick to the chin, however, he stopped moving. Worried he might have killed him, he hauled the shirt away from Terry’s face and felt for a pulse–it was there, he was just unconscious for the moment, which gave Jeremiah plenty of time to find that strange device, and see if he could solve the other piece of this puzzle.

It was on Terry’s desk, where he’d picked it up before. It looked like a really thick smartphone, with an operating system he’d never seen before. As soon as he picked it up, the screen flashed a message:

“Chronivac 5.0 has detected a new user. Download manual?”

It had a yes/no prompt, and he his yes–not really caring–and felt his brain start…exploding for a few seconds. When it stopped, he looked down at the device in his hands, and realized that it had downloaded the instructions right into his brain. This thing was a Chronivac, and this thing could…change people. Make them different in about every single way possible. It seemed impossible, but between his sudden burst of knowledge from the thing, and what he’d seen happen with Terry/Terrance the day before…could it really be true?

He found Terrance’s profile, and sure enough, he was currently in the middle of a transformation–a profile he’d called Terry. He reverted him, and watched as the massive hunk on the floor shrank, and a few seconds later the twink was there, moaning slightly and nursing the side of his face where he’d struck the wall. He looked up at Jeremiah, standing over him with the Chronivac in his hand–his eyes went wide and he lunged, but Jeremiah stepped back, swung, and sent him careening back, before finding the freeze command on Terrance’s profile. In a moment, he was stiff as a statue on the ground, obviously in a panic.

“You fucker–you little fuck!” Jeremiah screamed at him, “This was your fucking plan? Not only would you get me to fuck you, you were then…what, going to make a video of it? Show the whole fucking campus?” He looked around, and sure enough, there were a few small, inconspicuous spy cameras on some of the shelves around the room. He grabbed them, stomped on them, and then started looking for more. Terrance was desperately fighting his frozen body, but every muscle had locked solid–even drawing breath was a struggle. How in the world had a brute like Jeremiah even figured him out? This was supposed to be the easy one! He had a few articles that were going to take the whole year to pull off–and now he’d been brought low by some closeted fucking football player.

Jeremiah sat down on the bed, and tried to control himself. He’d done it–he’d won, but he didn’t feel any better. This fuck–this machine. It could fuck with everything. Terrance could just wipe his memory of this, he could get him one way or another. No–this…he was going to have to do something about this, to get rid of this rat permanently. He scrolled through some menus, and found the settings he needed–making Terrance obedient to his commands, first and foremost, and then unfreezing his mouth, so he could talk–after ordering him not to scream or try and get help.

“Look, we can work this out,” Terrance said, “I’m sorry–this was shitty to do, but you can help me! That’s what this was really about. I…needed an inside guy, to get to the rest of the football team. I wasn’t going to leak it, I really wasn’t!”

“What, you would just blackmail me for the rest of my life?”

“No!”

It was a lie, and they both knew it. Jeremiah was going to have to make sure this fucker couldn’t talk–or that…he’d never want to talk. A bit of an idea was starting to occur to him, and with this Chronivac thing, he could do it easily. “Well, first of all, you should know that ‘Terry’ isn’t really my type at all. If you really want me to fuck you, then we’re going to have to fix you up a bit first. But why don’t you take a quick nap, Terrance? I’ll wake you up when you’re ready.”

Before Terry could even beg, Jeremiah had put him to sleep with the chronivac, and started working on a new custom profile for the little faggot. Little did he know, but he’d just solved a few of Jeremiah’s problems–he certainly wasn’t going to have to worry about going without sex anymore–not with Terrance helping him out from now on.

Jeremiah’s Biggest Fan (Part 1)

Jeremiah snuck a quick glance over down the row of lockers, and sure enough, the guy was still staring at him with that smirk on his face. Did he know? How in the world could he possibly know? His cock throbbed a bit–it had been a few week since Jeremiah had last gotten laid–it wasn’t the easiest thing getting tail when you’re a deeply closeted football player at a southern university, so he took what he could get. In any case, he certainly wasn’t going to let being a faggot ruin his chances at going pro in a few years time, and he certainly couldn’t risk fucking around with anyone on campus–or even anyone in the little college town where the school was.

He got dressed quickly, trying to ignore the guy he’d noticed the last few weeks, ever since the start of school. He was…ripped. Impressively so, even Jeremiah had to admit that, but when he’d asked around…no one had known who he was, beyond the rumours that he was a transfer from some other college. For someone in that good of shape, he didn’t seem to be on any sports teams either. It wouldn’t have mattered one bit, in any case, if the guy didn’t have a weird habit of ending up in the locker room with Jeremiah all the damn time, cruising him openly. Did the guy want to get a fucking beating? Didn’t he know how risky this shit was for them both?

“Jeremiah, right? I just gotta say, you were amazing last Saturday–especially that last touchdown–a 47 yard run! Got me pretty damn excited, if you know what I mean.”

The brazen little fuck. Jeremiah gave a strained smile, and looked over at the guy. “Thanks, but it’s a team effort.”

“Modest too–wouldn’t have expected that,” the guy said, and extended a hand, “My name’s Terry–transferred here this year. Heard a lot of rumors about you–hoping to go pro, some other stuff…”

Jeremiah glanced around, but thankfully the rest of the locker room was empty. Terry must have known that too, because he reached out and openly groped his crotch, giving his thick cock a couple of squeezes, before Jeremiah had the sense to knock it away.

“Fucking faggot, I don’t know what the fuck you’re fucking thinking, but I should beat your face in.”

Terry just gave him a wink. “Well, I think you’d rather do a few other things to me, back in my room. What do you say?”

Jeremiah just grabbed his clothes and shoved past him, feeling eyes on the back of his neck–real or imagined–the whole way out of the athletic facility. It was too fucking risky, he fucking knew that–especially with someone on campus, someone who could blackmail him. The guy wasn’t even really his type, but in all honesty Jeremiah was so lonely he would have taken any port in the storm. There were a stand of trees off to the side, and he slipped among them, trying to keep the tears to a minimum–when he saw the guy–Terry–leave the building, glance around, and then head off towards campus proper. Should he? He…what would it hurt? The guy obviously wanted him, right? But something about it all didn’t feel right at all–it felt like a trap. It was too perfect of a scenario–and how did Terry even know about him? Maybe it was time to do a little investigating of his own, and find out a little bit more about his strange admirer.

He followed a good distance behind him, watching Terry, but nothing seemed that strange beyond the fact that as they walked, he didn’t say hello or even wave to a single person on campus. Sure, it was a big school, and few people were as popular as Jeremiah was himself, but not a single person seemed to even recognize him. Was it just because he was a transfer? That could be, he supposed, but it still rubbed him the wrong way.

Terry disappeared into a dorm building, and Jeremiah was able to slip inside along with someone else with a key card to that door, and follow him up to the third floor, and get his room number–then he retreated back down, found the building across the way, and climbed up to the matching floor, hoping he might be able to sneak a peek inside his room.

It was a sunny fall day and everyone had their drapes open for the afternoon light, and he had to count twice to make sure he was right–there was only one person in the room Terry had gone into, and it sure as hell wasn’t Terry–he recognized him as one of the few open queers on campus–a guy named Terrance. He had a reputation as a wannabe investigative journalist who had a habit of writing inflammatory articles in the school paper. No one was sure how he got his scoops, but he’d wrecked an entire frat the year before, when he’d exposed how the men were running an entire drug ring, supplying the campus with roofies and party drugs.

He’d been right. He didn’t know where Terry was, but he was obviously in cahoots with that fucker. It wasn’t surprising–if he could out Jeremiah as a faggot, that would be the story of the fucking year–and ruin Jeremiah’s career in the process. Still, he kept watching for a bit, the young man writing something in a notebook–he was waiting to see Terry in there with him, to confirm what was happening…and then, the strangest thing happened–the young guy got up, fiddled with a device that looked a bit like a remote control, and a second later…the little faggot was gone, and there was Terry. He flexed a bit, and then started jacking off…and Jeremiah just gaped. How could they be the same person? Confused and terrified, unsure who he could trust, he retreated back to his own frat house and considered his options. He doubted that Terrance and Terry–or whoever he was really–would just back down, and that meant Jeremiah was going to have to shut him down. Thankfully, he always had his fists for that–it had worked on pushy queers before, and it was bound to work again, right?

April Suggested Stories – Ready to Download! | Wesley Bracken on Patreon

Hey all! I posted this month’s short stories written from your suggestions over the weekend! Anyone who contributes $1 or more a month gets access to these stories, as well previous months’ suggested stories. Here’s one from last month, if you’d like a taste!

Shined Like a Mirror

“Detail oriented”. “High achiever”. “Perfectionist”. These were all terms people had used to describe me at one point or another. So, it wasn’t…surprising that I was being bothered by this, but at the same time, I didn’t exactly make it a habit to notice the condition of people’s shoes around me on a regular basis. Maybe it was the fact that everything else about his wardrobe seemed so…immaculate. The leather shirt that clung to every curve of his torso with barely a wrinkle. The skin-tight gloves holding that thick cigar of his, which I had watched him light with such care a few minutes earlier. The shine off his metal belt buckle–a detail I figured few people would even consider, or notice. The way his pants wrapped his thick thighs as he leaned against the bar, facing out, chatting with another cigar bear beside him–but then, I got to his boots, and the reason for my…annoyance. They rose up to his calves, his pants sliding inside them, and all over, the shine was immaculate, except…except for one blemish on the side of his left boot.

It was easy to see, from my perspective, because one of the lights in the bar was centered on the scuff–there was a perfect circle of shine, with a chunk of matte in the middle. I don’t even know why it was bothering me so much at this point, but I haven’t…really been able to look away from it this entire time. If he’s noticed me staring he hasn’t indicated any sort of interest–and honestly, I’m not interested in him sexually. Leather and kink aren’t really my cup of tea, but still, I should…tell him, shouldn’t I? I mean, if I’d put that much energy and thought into my outfit before going out, I’d want someone to tell me. It’s like…when a friend as food in their beard. Sure, it’s a bit embarrassing–I myself never grow one anyway–but they’d always rather you tell them than just…have them walk around looking like that.

I get up and walk over to him, he notices me as I do. His look is…disinterested. Whatever he’s looking for tonight, it isn’t me. That…makes things a bit easier, I think.

“Hey, I just wanted to let you know that…well, there’s a spot on your boot that you must have missed earlier, that isn’t shined right.”

He looks a bit surprised, and I point out the spot to him I had noticed, but he doesn’t seem concerned, or particularly thankful. Instead, he just looks at me and grins.

“Well, what are you going to do about that?”

I assume I didn’t quite hear that right. It wasn’t my problem to fix. If he wanted to play leather fantasy, then he should at least care about fixing his error, right? He turns away from me and continues his conversation with the other bear, like nothing had even happened, but my eyes are glued to that blemish. I can’t…just leave it. It’ll bother me all night. If he…isn’t going to take care of his gear, it shouldn’t be my concern, but…but in a move that I swear made perfect sense to me at the time, I got down on my hands and knees and started licking at the spot, getting it wet with spit, and then I buffed it with the sleeve of my shirt. To my surprise, it looked…lovely, like the blemish had never even been there. It was so shiny, in fact, I swore I could see my own reflection in the leather. I leaned a bit closer, trying to find myself, and when my face swam into focus, I let out a cry, fell backwards, and then stumbled upright.

In the mirror behind the bar, I was still…me. Young, clean shaven, slight of build, not particularly tall, though I did have a bit of bootblack around my lips and mouth. The man looked down at his boot, appraising my work, and grinned at me again.

“Thanks, boy, that looks much better.”

He pushed off from the bar and walked a couple of steps closer to me. I wanted to back up away from him, but my feet felt rooted to the bar floor.

“Tell me, boy, did you like who you saw in there?”

What…had I even seen in there? It had been my reflection, or a reflection, at least. But…but had that really been me?

“Do you need to take another look, boy?”

The hand he put on top of my head wasn’t…demanding, but it was suggestive. I was…incredibly curious, I admit it. I got back down on my hands and knees, my eyes an inch from the shimmering leather, and this time, when I saw myself, I didn’t flinch away. It was…more than an image. I was there–a different me, a possible me, but even though I could only see my face, I could also…know so much else about him–about me–about…who I could be. I was muscular–massively built, putting in as much time at the gym, under Master’s direction, as I did at work now. Building my chest, especially, those…massive pecs and thick nips I could see in the black shine. My nips were leaking, but the hormones he had me on did that. Master liked milking me, draining my tits and my little cock all at once, while his little muscle tit pig groaned for mercy and release. Distantly, in my real body, I felt his other boot underneath me, rubbing against the crotch of my slacks, making me groan. I could see my massive frame strapped down over a fuck bench, here in the bar, with men lining up at both ends to use me. Master had taken complete ownership of his tit slave now, not that I was fit for much else beyond service. Something…he’d given me had ruined my brain–thinking about anything more complex than sex and working out was almost impossible. My tit milk was squelching under me on the bench–I could smell it, even…taste it, as it ran along my chest and dribbled to the floor–I lurched forward, groaning, my cock exploding in the front of my pants as I rubbed my face on Master’s boot, trying…trying to force my way inside, into that world, but…but it didn’t actually exist. It was just…just a possibility, a figment.

“Seems like you saw something in there you liked, boy.”

I looked up at him. It was the first time I had done so, and yet it felt like the thousandth, like he’d already been a part of my life for so long. I…ached for him, for that…version of myself, as disgusted as I was by the entire vision. But I couldn’t deny it. He didn’t speak to me for the rest of the night, but I spent it on my knees beside him, cleaning his boots, and the boots of his friends. I went home with him that night, for my virgin plowing, my clothes ruined and covered in boot black. I wanted to ask Master if he’d known. If he’d…forced me to see what I’d seen. It didn’t matter, in the end. I wanted it all the same–to be master’s big titted muscle pig, and I was going to do everything in my power to make that vision a reality.

The Alpha’s Pet (Part 2)

Jasper groaned as he woke up, surprised that he didn’t hurt more–he couldn’t remember much from what had happened earlier, but he could recall Daryn straddling him, and wailing on his face with both fists at once–what on earth had possessed him to get Daryn riled up like that? He…he knew better than that, didn’t he? He brought his hands to his face, and while nothing hurt…nothing felt quite right, either, but it was difficult to say what was off. So much had gone screwy since they’d moved into this apartment–he didn’t even quite feel like the same person anymore. Still, he should be thankful. A brute like Daryn could have done some serious damage to him–he’d have to be more careful…more…deferential in the future. Yeah–as long as he let Daryn get his way, things would be fine.

Then he sat up in bed, looked down at himself, and choked off a scream. This wasn’t his fucking body–what in the fuck happened? He’d been toned and ripped before, but now his body was pudgy and soft, with a small gut and wider hips. His cock was smaller, his balls were a whole lot smaller, he was missing most of his body hair, and he was even missing his fucking tattoos. No wonder his face had felt strange earlier, because his fucking beard was gone too!

“Well Jasper, it was a good contest, but I’m sorry to say that you lost.”

He looked over and found Mr. Wadsworth in his room with him, standing there like it was perfectly normal for a landlord to simply appear in the room of one of his tenants, especially with that tenant naked. Jasper didn’t know what to say, just sputtered a moment, and then looked back down at himself.

“Don’t worry–you’ll fit in just fine. After all, this space is much, much too small for two alphas, don’t you agree? You don’t want to be an alpha do you?”

“N-No…but what…how are you here?”

“Just be careful, Jasper. If you don’t keep yourself under control…well, you, might just find these changes have just started. Still, I can assure you, that the more tastes you got of the alpha here, the better you’ll feel…”

The voice was fading, and a moment later, he was alone again–with no memory of the man being there aside from a vague unease and the warning he’d left. Keep control of himself? What in the world could that even mean?

Jasper got up and found some clothes that fit him–in fact, it looked like all of his clothes would fit his new frame, which was a comfort and a relief. Maybe…maybe that had just been some fucked up dream or something. He did sometimes have…weird dreams about Daryn, but he pushed that away, and went back out into the common areas of the apartment, only to nearly fall to his knees at the scent. It was fucking…everywhere, and it smelled fucking amazing. What in the hell was it? It wasn’t food, it was…he knew it from somewhere, but from fucking where?

“That you Jasper? About time you got up, you lazy fuck.”

He managed to keep his head focused long enough to get into the main room, where he found Daryn at the table in the kitchen, naked, eating breakfast…but it wasn’t the Daryn he remembered. No, this Daryn was a fucking beast–at least three or four inches taller than before, with hair covering his body, and…and fuck, he could see his seven inch flacid cock just…just dangling there…

“…this fucking sty up today, got it? I don’t want–are you even fucking listening to me, you fucking idiot?”

It took him a moment to realize that Daryn had been speaking to him that entire time he’d been transfixed by his roommate’s massive cock. “S-Sorry, I…what?”

“I said, you’re going to clean this fucking place up, right? It’s a fucking mess.”

Jasper looked around, and saw that almost all of it was Daryn’s crap, but he knew better than to argue about whose responsibility it was, and Jasper assured Daryn that it would get picked up.

“Good–now I gotta get to class, and to practice. What are you doing today again?”

“Oh…uh, I have class too, and–”

Daryn walked up to him, looming over Jasper…and he realized he must have shrunk too, or else…fuck, why was his cock so fucking hard? “What are you doing today, dumbfuck?”

“I…uh…I’m cleaning up…sir.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Five minutes later, Daryn was dressed in some athletic gear, gym bag thrown over a shoulder, and he left without another word. Jasper just sat down on the couch, trying to wrap his head around what was going on. Had…Had they fought the day before? Wasn’t he different–a jock like Daryn? That seemed silly to him–he was too fucking weak to ever be a jock, right? Still, he didn’t have to just…take the abuse, either. This was all Daryn’s mess–Daryn should clean it up!

But in the end, he did as he’d been told, and skipped class that day to clean up the apartment. He tried not to think too hard about why he was doing it, or feel too bad about how he’d just rolled over and let Daryn boss him around. He tried not to think about how…hard he kept getting when he smelled one of Daryn’s sweaty shirts or jocks, or…or how he’d jacked off in the bathroom, after discovering Daryn had pissed in the bowl and just left it to stew. He wasn’t going to let this get out of hand. He was a person too, after all. Maybe not as…important a person as Daryn, but a person nonetheless.

Where Boys Become Men (Part 9)

He did, eventually, get led into an office with a warden he recognized, who in simple words explained to him that, as a one, his cognitive skills had been severely curtailed. “We do this to make your chances of recidivism lower.”

“Recida-what?”

“We don’t want you to get in any more trouble, Tanner. You don’t want to be in trouble, do you?”

Tanner shook his head, no, but something made him suspicious, made him feel like he’d been tricked somehow, but he couldn’t piece enough thoughts together to really form anything coherent.

“Now, why don’t we go meet your two. We’re very excited that you’re going to be helping us with a new release program, Tanner. We think this is going to be perfect for you–you’ll love it. I promise.”

“I just want to go home,” Tanner said, as he was escorted back to block C.

“You will soon. But first you have to be able to remember where your home is.”

“I know where…home is…” Tanner said, but the memory was foggy, “I think I does.”

“It’ll clear up in time,” the warden said, and opened the door to a cell. It was identical to the room he’d been in with Marcus, but someone else was in there, waiting for him. “Good morning Harry. This is Tanner–he’s going to be your one.”

“No, I don’t want a two!” Tanner said, trying to back up, “Twos are mean guys. Twos make me feel bad.”

The guards pushed him inside, and the other man approached him–and pulled Tanner into a hug. “Hey–it’s alright,” Harry said, “I’m gonna be here for you. I promise.”

“Harry will take good care of you, I know he will. He’s going to make an excellent two, aren’t you?”

Harry nodded, “Yes sir!”

“That’s good. Now, your bands will be linked from now on–Harry, I’ll let you and Tanner here get to know each other a bit, so you can have the day off from work, and an extra daily allowance.”

“Really? Thanks!” Harry said, his face sincere only because he didn’t seem capable of subterfuge. “Come on Tanner–we have the whole day for us!”

The warden left, and Tanner pulled himself away from Harry’s thick arms. He was big. But not nearly as large as Tanner was, but the idea of being under someone’s thumb again was filling him with anxiety. “Please don’t hurt me. I don’t wanna get hurt anymore.”

“Hey, it’s alright! I don’t like hurting people. I used to do that, but I don’t want to anymore,” Harry said, and stepped closer, “You smell real good, you know–you wanna have sex? We can fuck if you want. I like fucking.”

“You…you want me to choose?” Tanner asked, feeling a bit daunted by the possibility of having to decide something. He wasn’t quite sure what he wanted. “I…like sex. But I…kind of need a cigar.”

“You like cigars? I like pipes. Let’s smoke, and then fuck.”

Tanner thought that sounded like a good idea. He smiled, as Harry ordered him a pack of cigars–nicer ones than Marcus ever let him have–and after they’d both lit up and shared lungfuls of smoke for a few minutes, Harry guided Tanner’s mouth to his cock, and he got his first taste of his new two’s cum–the first taste of many more to come.

By the end of their first week together, Tanner had discovered that Harry was a very different kind of guy than Marcus had ever been. He didn’t order Tanner around as much, didn’t demand his complete submission. He was more than willing to listen, and would even take suggestions–though Tanner soon discovered that his new brain found the idea of deciding anything more difficult and terrifying than anything else. It was easier to just follow along and do what Harry told him to do–not because he had to, but…because Harry seemed to know what he was doing.

Other than that, his life was similar. The two of them would do their work in virtual reality once or twice a day, and then have the rest of their time to themselves. He noticed after a few days that the work sessions they were doing didn’t seem to be as varied as they had been with Marcus. In particular, they always took pace in the same location–a rather rundown looking farm in the middle of nowhere. The tasks were a bit more complex as well. They were taking care of virtual livestock and shoveling out manure, repairing broken down parts of the various buildings on the farms, or even fixing the trucks and tractors on occasion. Harry was the one who had to do the complex stuff like that, with Tanner fetching tools and helping him lift the heavy stuff on occasion. Taking one look at the complex mechanics of an engine made his head spin–he didn’t know how Harry could do it.

Outside of work, they fucked a lot, ate a lot, and smoked all the time. Tanner liked Harry’s pipe–the tobacco always smelled so sweet, the way it mixed with his cigar. He wanted to switch, but Harry wouldn’t let him–he said he always got so turned on, seeing tanner with a thick cigar in his mouth. The sex was more equal too. Harry did like to top–and Tanner liked to bottom–but on several occasions, usually after some pleading and begging, Harry would let Tanner fuck him as well. Beyond that, they watched a lot of porn, and a movie or two on occasion, but it was hard for Tanner to focus on a narrative. Porn was easier. There were some guys, and then they fucked–he didn’t have to try and understand a story to get what was happening. He just had to get turned on, and suck Harry’s cock.

Each week, the two of them would be escorted back to the lab for more cognitive work. Tanner was terrified the first time–he didn’t want them to make him even stupider, but when they assured him that these sessions were just to help Tanner and Harry get to know one another better, he went along willingly. As long as Harry was there too…he felt a bit safer, at least. These sessions, unlike the first one filled with painful shocks, were more like…dreams, but very vivid ones. He was always there with Harry in them, but they felt more like memories, than anything. After a couple of sessions, while chatting with the warden afterward, they finally realized why they got along so well–they were brothers! How both of them had managed to forget this fact eluded them, but knowing they were with family made them both very excited–and made their sex much hotter too.

In fact, both of them found themselves becoming obsessed with the other’s musk. All it would take was one whiff of the other’s smelly pits or ass crack to drive them make them horny–and neither of them could really stand to be apart for very long. Soon, the brothers were inseparable–never straying more than a couple of feet away from one another, knowing that as long as they were with their brother, they would never have to be alone again.

One significant change from before, however, was that neither of them was in control over their hormones any longer. Their bodies were certainly changing, but in more…subtle ways than before. Perhaps the most obvious shift was that they both were growing older–their hairlines receding, wrinkles appearing around their eyes, a few flecks of grey tinging their beards. Harry stopped around his early fifties, while Tanner looked quite a bit older, with quite a bit more grey in his beard and hair. He might be the older brother, he figured out, but Harry was the one who was always going to be in charge–just like things ought to be.