Where Boys Become Men (Part 8)

They took Marcus first, and an hour later, the warden and guards came to escort Tanner back to the conference room for his own hearing. It was the same set of five as before, including Jackson, but none of them seemed surprised by the changes which had been forced on him over the last year, since the last time he’d sat before them.

“As you know, Tanner,” the head warden said, “We’re discussing your status as a provisional level one subject. At the end of this hearing, we will either determine whether to continue provisional status at some level, or classify you permanently. We are particularly interested in your experiences as a level one under Mr. Ambrose. How would you describe your last six months?”

“It was terrible. I hate that fucker.”

“I see. Please elaborate as best you can.”

“He made me do all the fucking work! He hated me, he’s always hated me, apparently, despite the fact that I made us both fucking rich as provisional candidates. He’s lazy, he’s cruel, and he’s selfish, and I hope you fucking make him my fucking one after this, so I can fucking show him what it’s like.”

“We have already made an assignment in Mr. Ambrose’s case, but we won’t be sharing that decision with you,” another warden said, “but tell me, what would you like to see happen to him?”

“I’d want us to switch positions. I want fucking revenge, alright? I want to show that fuck how good I was before, and how fucking cruel I could have been. I’d fucking ruin his fucking holes…his fucking body.”

“See?” Jackson said to the panel, “He can only deal with this through the frame of tit-for-tat,” then turned to Tanner, “Do you think you deserved anything that Mr. Ambrose did to you, for your past behavior?”

“Fuck you,” Tanner said to him, “This is all your fucking fault anyway, you fucking told me they wanted to see fucking strength, you fuck, and now look where I fucking am! Look what this fucking place did to me!”

Another warden looked at Jackson, who shrugged, and chuckled, “I told him to show strength of character, and he wildly misunderstood what I meant. I may…have primed him somewhat.”

“Fuck you! Fuck all of you! I don’t fucking deserve any of this fucking shit! I’m going to tear this fucking place apart, when I get the fuck out of here, you’ll fucking see. You fucks are going to fucking regret messing with me.”

“Well, I think we’ve heard enough to make a decision,” the head warden said, “he obviously still demonstrates a complete lack of understanding, compassion, and empathy. I suppose that leaves us with three options. We can continue his provisional status and hope he comes to some sort of epiphany, which appears unlikely. Or we can designate him a one or a zero.”

“You know my thoughts on this,” Jackson said. “He’s hopeless. Break him as a zero and be done with it.”

“I highly doubt that further attempts at education will assist him,” another warden said, “He’s…particularly resistant to any form of self-criticism. Still, I don’t think he is without use. After all, he did submit. Remove the ego and he’ll be harmless.”

“I tend to agree, but more time in the provisional program will definitely be wasted on him,” one of them said, and the rest of the panel nodded.

“Alright–will each member of the panel announce your vote?”

“One.”

“Zero.”

“One.”

“Zero.”

“Subject will be designated a one, and placed on a release plan. Any resistance will be met with automatic, and permanent, placement at the zero level.”

“Well, at least make sure the fucker stays the fuck out of civilized society, at least,” Jackson said.

The head warden thought a moment, “That can be arranged.”

“Wait–that’s it?” Tanner said, “That’s all I fucking get?”

“Subject is approved for pilot release plan Gamma as a level one subject. Solitary detox won’t be required, his current shape is workable. Guards, please take him to the lab for initial cognitive treatment.”

“No–No please, I’m sorry! Just tell me what you want from me and I’ll do it, I swear,” Tanner shouted, as the guards dragged him from the room, “I don’t know what you want from me!” He didn’t get anything else out before the guards tranquilized him, and his entire body sagged between their arms.

The lab was close to the conference room–a white, sterile room filled with doctors in lab coats. He was strapped to gurney, wires and needles poking into him, all focused on his brain. He was certain it should have hurt, but he couldn’t feel much of anything, but he tried to stay awake as best he could, he fought, against the sleep overwhelming him, but when the first shock ripped through his mind, he howled and collapsed back, unconscious.

He didn’t know where he was, when he awoke. He wasn’t even quite sure who he was. He was mumbling, but it was gibberish–he wasn’t quite sure how to find the words he knew should be in his head…but everything felt so jumbled up all of a sudden. Two doctors unstrapped him from the table and helped him stand up on his shaking legs–he tried to ask them questions, tried to ask them what had happened, and they assured him that after a few exam he would get his answers. They made him walk. They had him write his name, but that was difficult. He couldn’t quite grip the crayon they gave him, and remembering letters…he ended up scrawling “Toner” across the page, and even though he knew it wasn’t right, they seemed satisfied, and directed him to the next task. He knew the puzzles should be easy–putting shaped pegs in like holes, stacking blocks, basic math, but every challenge required all of his focus and attention and even then he couldn’t finish half of them.

“Think we did too much?” one of the doctors said.

“This is what the wardens requested.”

“He’s pretty stupid, even for a one.”

“Yeah, but trust me–in Gamma, he’s not going to need wits.”

“Please–tell me what happened. Why is thinking so hard?” Tanner managed to ask, his tongue thick in his mouth.

“Just a couple more tests, Tanner, and we’ll have a nice chat–I promise.”

Where Boys Become Men (Part 7)

Tanner tried to speak, but with a prick he felt exhaustion overwhelm him. One of the guards caught him in his arms and helped him fall to the floor, but Tanner remembered nothing, until consciousness returned to him, and he found himself lying on the ground, close to an hour later.

“Excellent,” the doctor said, “you’ve got the hang of it.”

Tanner tried to stand up, tried to speak, but his sleepiness was still wearing off.

“You lied to me,” Marcus said, “Why did you lie to me?”

Tanner tried to force out an excuse, but found his tongue was tied up somehow.

“You’ll find that it’s impossible to lie to any superior from now on, Mr. Wilkins,” the doctor said, “Try being honest–it’ll come naturally to you soon enough.”

“Tell me why you lied,” Marcus repeated, and words spilled out of Tanner’s mouth, almost unbidden.

“I didn’t want to look like an idiot, for ending up lower than a meathead like you.”

“Meathead?” Marcus said, glowering at him.

“Please–let’s move on. We’re already a bit behind,” the doctor said, and motioned to the main room, where there were two large chairs against the wall. “Both of you, please have a seat, and I’ll load up a simulated work session.”

The chairs were quite comfortable, Tanner found, until the bands appeared, securing his arms and legs to the frame, and a helmet descended–covering his head and blocking out all light and sound. He felt a prick from his band, a wave of euphoria, and then…he was somewhere else. A wide field of dirt stretching in every direction, two shovels, and Marcus standing beside him.

“This is a basic simulation,” the doctor’s voice came as some disembodied spirit in the empty air, “While the facility does utilize hard labor for most subjects, you both will be taking part in our virtual beta program. Each day, you both will enter a simulation and be given a series of tasks or quotas to complete. Your credit allowance for the day will be determined by how well you succeeded in the simulation. Marcus, as the Two, you will receive the entire allowance and be able to decide how to spend the funds. You can retain complete control of the funds, or divide it as you please. Also note, that you retain complete authority over your one within the simulation as normal. Now, to end the simulation, as a team you will need to dig five holes in the ground, three feet in each dimension. Guidelines will appear on the ground to guide your progress.”

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Tanner said.

“Come on, let’s get to work, I guess,” Marcus said, handing Tanner a shovel.

Together, they each started digging a hole. Despite the simulation being virtual, it felt completely real–Tanner could even feel his sweat, and smell Marcus’s musk on the still air. Marcus finished first and sat for a moment–Tanner went to join him, but Marcus shook his head. “No, you keep digging–you’ll get a break when we’re done.”

Tanner couldn’t disobey the command, and so he kept digging, and digging, and digging. Marcus would help, but more and more he would relax a bit, shouting suggestions and orders to Tanner, obviously enjoying his position of authority for a change. Eventually, they did finish–the simulation ended and the helmets removed themselves from their heads, the straps allowing them to stand. Tanner found that his muscles actually ached like he really had been in that field all day, and he stood on shaking legs in front of the doctor.

“Well done. You are both required to complete one simulation a day, but you may volunteer for more if you so desire. Please keep in mind that your actions in the virtual reality will impact your physical forms–we monitor your behavior and provide hormones based upon that. Hence, why you both feel the effects of physical exertion, despite having not moved at all. Marcus, you will find your first allowance in your account–spend it wisely. I will check in over the next few days to make sure everything is going smoothly.” The doctor and the guards left, leaving them alone again.

“Get on the bed, you fucking asshole–we’ll see who’s the fucking meathead before too long,” Marcus said, and the sneer told Tanner than his situation may have gone from bad to worse in ways he would have never imagined. Indeed, Tanner had been utterly oblivious to the extent that many members of the gang had resented him, but Marcus in particular had always felt he deserved a bigger piece of the pie, that Tanner disrespected him on a regular basis, that this was exactly what he deserved.

The days settled into a routine rather quickly. The tasks they were given through the VR system were all oriented towards physical labor–digging holes, hauling heavy rocks, cutting lumber, clearing brush–all without much meaning or any context at all. Early on, Marcus helped somewhat, but he always forced Tanner to work longer and harder than he ever did. Back in their apartment, he toyed with the idea of forcing Tanner to quit smoking to save credits, but decided to give him a meager supply of the cheapest variety–never quite enough to scratch the itch Tanner had grown accustomed to satisfying. Marcus would determine their hormone packages, their meals, their entertainment.

It was clear after a month, to Tanner, that they were both changing again. He was taller and packing on even more muscle than before, while Marcus had begun to soften slightly, putting on a slight gut. Soon, Marcus was doing almost no work at all in their simulations, forcing his “workhorse” and “meathead” to do everything, threatening him with punishment if he missed the quota meant for them both. Tanner tried to object, early on, but each time he resisted Marcus would devise some humiliating new punishment or desire for him to try and satisfy, and he learned to bear the burden as best he could, but kept the hatred nurturing in his heart all the same. One day, the table would turn, he told himself. All he had to do was wait, put up with it for now, but once the wardens saw how Marcus was treating him, they’d show him–then Tanner would be the one back on top.

Still, he hated himself more. This massive body which should be able to pound Marcus into the dust, and he couldn’t lift a finger to oppose him. All he could do was beg for his cock, beg for cigars, doing anything to try and please his master in order to get a bit more allowance for himself. He felt inhuman, and seeing Marcus expand in size, growing flabbier each day as he ate massive meals for himself, leaving Tanner subsisting on protein mash, it was somehow worse than the solitary had been, being trapped with this fucker day in and day out. He counted the days down to their two hearings–knowing that even if things didn’t get better, they would hopefully be different.

Where Boys Become Men (Part 6)

All Tanner could do with his mouth was shout and scream incoherently as the two guards who had escorted him in, carried him out, hauling him like a sack of trash down several corridors until they arrived at the solitary ward, and heaved him onto the floor of a cell, shutting the door and abandoning him there. It was several minutes before feeling returned to his body and he could stand again, looking around at where he had been deposited. It was a small dorm similar to where he’d lived with Jackson the year before, but somewhat smaller and with fewer furnishings. He tried the door, but it was locked and sealed tight. Lastly, he tried his band, looking to see if it could tell him anything, but it too had gone dark, just like before. There was a TV with a decent movie and porn selection, there was a tablet with a digital library, but beyond that, he was alone.

The first few days were almost pleasant. He hadn’t had privacy is ages, not truly. He had a small humidor which refilled with a supply of cheap cigars each day. He could do whatever he wanted, within a very small scope of want. By the end of the first month, he felt like he would go insane. The guards wouldn’t speak with him when they delivered his meals. He had a one hour socialization session with his new warden each week, but all that did was remind him of what awaited him after these next six months.

Three months in, he’d figured out which guards were willing to be merciful, and would agree to fuck his ass when they brought his meals. It wasn’t much–but at least it was contact. At least he had a few minutes every few days where he felt good, where someone would want him, at least for a moment. By this point, the hormones he’d purchased for himself had been scrubbed from his system, and he looked essentially as he had on his first day in the provisional block–hulking, hairy as a caveman, and terrified to death. The changes that came next were less obvious. Up to that point, he’d mostly stuck to watching movies and reading–he preferred reading, because getting lost in a book helped the hours move faster than watching something broken into definite two hour blocks. But as the last few months wore on, it was harder to focus on the text, he would run across words he should have known, but which had disappeared from his memory. It was frustrating, and so he largely abandoned the tablet, watching movies–but more and more, he found himself watching the porn channels, masturbating all the while. The room reeked of smoke, sweat and cum now, but he barely noticed any of it–or bothered to shower much at all, the scents around him only fueling his sexual drive further. Physically, the changes were subtle as well. His cock was shrinking somewhat, back to a more modest four inch size, but on his frame it looked puny, if thick as a beer can. His muscles had filled in further, as had his gut–and his hands and feet had grown as well. Even his face seemed different–more angular under his beard, with a heavier brow and his hairline receding slightly. He hated his reflection–both because he was so objectively ugly now, but also because he found his image so…fucking arousing.

After six months, which had felt like a miniature hell, Tanner was willing to do anything, to go anywhere, as long as he didn’t have to be alone anymore. He had an introductory session with his warden, but he found it difficult to follow everything the man was talking about. As a provisional level one, the older man said, he would be placed in a six month cohabitation and dual training with a provisional level two, in order to better judge their capacity for reform. After those six months, he would have a second hearing with the warden panel, and they would determine whether to continue the provisional relationship, or designate him as a permanent two or one for and moved into a formal reform and release program. Tanner spent much of the conversation simply begging the man to let him see his parents, or his lawyer, telling them that what they were doing was illegal, was inhumane, but the warden showed no sympathy. “I’m afraid, Mr. Wilkins, that you won’t be seeing your parents again. You knew that was a risk when you signed your release forms.”

“I didn’t!” Tanner cried, “I didn’t know any of this, I didn’t know!”

“I’m afraid ignorance is no excuse. Guards, please escort Mr. Wilkins to his cell–an assistant warden will meet with you both later today to provide a more detailed orientation.”

The guards hauled Tanner off again, and led him to another area of the facility–C Block. If Block A was order, and the provisional block was anarchy, block C was silent. There was no one anywhere in the hallways, no common areas–just row after row of doors, looking more like a concrete hotel than a prison. He was escorted to his new room and pushed inside, the door shutting behind him, and he found himself, again, in a small apartment like he’d been in solitary, if slightly larger than before. His heart rate quickened, now that he was back in a place like this, terrified that he’d be alone again, but a young man emerged from the bathroom, and he nearly cried–he wouldn’t be alone at least. If nothing else, he had company. Then, looking at his roommate’s face a moment longer, he realized that he knew him.

“M-Marcus?”

“Holy shit–Tanner? Is that you? You ended up here too? What the fuck! Everyone in the gang was certain you’d be headed for the top.”

Marcus had entered the provisional block around the same time as Tanner had, but they hadn’t met until a couple of months in, when seeing how viciously he’d fought one of Tanner’s goon squads one morning, he offered Marcus a position in his growing enterprise. If Tanner had been the light–offering protection, greasing wheels, organizing patrols–Marcus had been the dark. As one of the leaders of the offensive squads, he’d spend the day shaking down everyone who had refused Tanner’s gracious and reasonable prices for safety. They chatted a bit, catching up. Marcus had been pulled out of the provisional block a few days after Tanner, but he told him that the system had started to crumble as soon as Tanner had left–the gang had broken into factions warring outright over territory and control–Marcus had been glad to escape the fallout, only to end up being assigned as a provisional two.

“How’d they grade you?” he asked Tanner, “You must be a two at least.”

“Yeah–same as you,” Tanner lied, and moved to another subject.

It wasn’t too much later that their door opened and a younger man in a lab coat entered the small space, with two sizable guards. “Marcus Ambrose, and Tanner Wilkins, correct? I’m Dr. Logen. I’ll be overseeing your provisional period here in C block. Now, I’ll be turning on your bands, and giving you an introduction to what your time will be like here for the next six months or so.”

The screens on both of their bands lit up again. Tanner examined his, but it had almost no functionality at all, beyond the ability to order supplies for credits–of which he had none.

“Now Marcus, as the provisional two in this relationship, you will find that you have ample means of controlling and disciplining your provisional one.”

“One? Who’s the one?” Marcus asked.

The doctor raised an eyebrow, and looked over at Tanner, “He is, of course. I’m going to put him to rest for a bit, while I go over some of the details with you.”

Where Boys Become Men (Part 5)

By the time his first year was done, everyone knew his name–and most of them feared him. The gang had become a company at this point, and a rather wealthy one. If anyone wanted to travel the halls safely, they knew not to count on the guards–they counted on Tanner and his guards–or else they were certain to be raped by Tanner’s goons. He had more credits than he knew what to do with. He finally found a hair suppression package, and while it also made him bald, he was finally clean of that disgusting coat of fur that he’d learned to live with but still hated. He could pay anyone to service him, whenever he wanted-he hadn’t been fucked in months, and it was nice being a top again. When the guards came soon after to escort him to his assignment hearing, he actually asked them if he could stay–the guards just laughed, told him no, and hauled him off. He worried, fleetingly, about whether his company would survive, but why should he care? He wasn’t going back there–no one came back from an assignment hearing, that he’d heard of. He wasn’t even sure what an assignment hearing was–he knew it involved a panel of wardens determining a candidate’s future path through the facility, but no one really knew what those paths were. Of course, he knew about Jackson’s path as a level five candidate, and he assumed there were levels all the way down to one, but he didn’t have to worry. He’d done well as a provisional candidate, in his mind–he’d reformed the place, for goodness sake! Everyone was much safer, provided they were paying him to be so. They should be thanking him for doing the damn job their guards were refusing to do.

The guards led him to a small conference room, where five people were seated at a table. One of them was Jackson, though he was dressed in civilian clothing without his band–he must have been released at some point in the last year. He looked good, actually–Tanner wondered if he might want another round with Tanner’s cock, it was substantially longer than it had been when he’d been an initiate, and in his opinion, he as much more skilled with it. He sat down in front of the panel, and they began speaking about his performance and character in the provisional block–and the confidence he’d felt began to wither with doubt. They didn’t seem happy with him. If anything, they were quite distressed by what he’d done. There were lots of statements like, “We’ve rarely had someone display such a cold, calculating, and callous approach to the welfare of their fellow candidates,” and “the mere fact that he never even pursued legitimate means of obtaining credit demonstrates his utter contempt for society’s laws and customs.” He looked to Jackson, but the man avoided his gaze–the one time he caught his eyes, the emotion was difficult to understand–equal parts pity, fear and deep contempt.

“I don’t understand,” Tanner said at some point, interrupting them, “I thought–I mean, if there’s no rules, then what does it matter what we do down there? I was making people safer! I got raped my first fucking day in that damn block–now, newbies have a week grace period! I fucking did your guards damn job for them, and now you’re mad at me?”

“So, you really believe that what you did was not only worthy of praise, but also moral?” an older man asked.

“Yes! That’s how the world works, right? I mean, I was successful. I had more credits than anyone else. I thought we were supposed to want credits, right? Doesn’t that count for something?”

“Generally, greed counts against you,” said another panel member.

That stunned Tanner into a moment of silence. “I wasn’t being greedy, I just thought it was a game.”

“A game he says,” the panel member said, “This is why he should be classified as a one.”

“I just think that with the right rehab, he would make a fine two,” a member replied.

“Do you really think that’s worth the risk?”

“If we just motivate him in the right direction–”

“He has no instinct for the right direction,” it was the first time Jackson had spoken. He spoke to the panel, but was glaring at Tanner, “I lived with him for two months, and while I knew he was never going to amount to a four, or even a three, I never would have imagined this. He belongs with the zeros.”

The panel was silent, considering the thought.

“What’s…I don’t understand what these numbers mean.”

“We’re discussing what level of candidacy to assign you, Tanner. Didn’t you read the packet we provided you a week ago, in preparation for this hearing?”

He recalled the packet, handed to him by a guard, but he’d ignored it.

“I think we’ve deliberated enough. We appreciate your input, Jackson. The vote will be put to the five committee members present. Please indicate your score for the candidate, and we will average the result.”

“One.”

“Three.”

“One.”

“Two.”

“Zero,” said Jackson, the final vote. The malice in his voice was very apparent, and somehow this wounded Tanner more than anything else. He remembered that advice Jackson had given him, before all this had happened.

“You told me–you told me I had to be strong!” he shouted at Jackson, but he didn’t reply–he just stared Tanner down until he averted his eyes away from him.

“The candidate’s average is one-point-four; The candidate will be designated a level one candidate, with a possible promotion to level two upon later review.”

“No–No! I fucking deserve better than this!” He shouted, standing up from his chair. “You can’t just fucking do this shit to me! I didn’t know what I was doing, it’s not my fault that you don’t give us any fucking direction in there! What the fuck did you expect to happen?”

“We expect you all to reveal your innermost selves and desires,” one of the warden’s said, “and you made yours quite clear to all of us here.”

He stalked forward, but with a prick from his band his legs turned to jelly underneath him, and he collapsed to the floor of the conference room.

“Guards, take the subject to solitary. Reset his hormone levels and begin him on a basic level one regimen. Once complete, the subject will begin a provisional level one reeducation program under the direction of Warden Bitterman.”

Where Boys Become Men (Part 4)

Jackson had given him some details of what to expect, and to sum it up in two words, it was relative anarchy. Guards were always on patrol, but they only intervened in extreme cases, generally only when someone’s life was at stake. Other than that, provisional candidates were free to do whatever they liked, and to associate with whomever they wanted in the block. That said, there were certain incentives in place. While each provisional candidate was provided with a guaranteed level of hormones and food–anything else, including tobacco or alcohol products, would have to be purchased. Credits could be obtained by completing jobs and chores, or traded from other candidates if they could be persuaded to do so. What that meant, in the end, was that the young men in there would often do anything to get the credits they needed to thrive. Jackson told him, with that same odd smirk, that the most important thing he could have there, was power and strength. “They want to see if you have what it takes to be a man,” he said, “because that’s what they want to see. It takes real strength of character though, if you want to be classified a level five candidate like me–and I don’t think you have it.”

Tanner took offense at that–and from the smirk on Jackson’s face, he wondered if that was exactly why he’d said it to him. Still, nothing Jackson described would have really prepared him for that first day in the provisional block–P Block, as the guards called it. Now, he really was in a prison. The guards led him through the block on his first day, and the young men in there all gave him the same look as he passed–some odd combination of suspicion and desire that made him incredibly uncomfortable. Thankfully, candidates were given their own personal cells–small, but private with doors that could lock, though any guard could open them if they needed to. He was also given his introductory allowance of credits, and the screen on his band turned on for the first time, allowing him to look through the virtual store.

In addition to any number of personal items, he could purchase a variety of tobacco products (he immediately ordered a few cigars–which to his annoyance cost him half the allowance right there) as well as magazines (all of them erotic and all of them covered with faggots) extra food rations he could collect at mess, and even beer. But it was the hormones and supplements that interested him. He couldn’t purchase drugs individually–instead, the store offered packages which promised certain benefits. He discovered that pretty much all of them guaranteed some level of body hair growth, and he turned the band off, disgusted with himself and his body, and laid down on the bed for a few minutes, before deciding he should go get something to eat–only to be jumped by a gang of boys who’d been waiting for the newbie to emerge from his room. They beat him to the floor in a moment, and told him they wouldn’t drag him back to their place for a gangbang if he dropped his entire allowance in their accounts. He didn’t have his full allowance, of course, but the young men settled for the rest of his credits and blowjobs in the hallway instead. Thankfully, he thought as he struggled up, he’d thought to buy cigars ahead of time–and then kicked himself for being thankful for something as dumb as that.

Things got worse before they got better for Tanner. Jobs were first come first serve each day, and he’d never been that motivated to do anything other than swim, and certainly not to do anything as boring and dull as work in the kitchen or do laundry. Still, once that initial supply of cigars ran out and he tried to quit cold turkey, he realized just how dependent Jackson had made him to tobacco–and he found himself in the horrifying position of trading sexual favors with his fellow candidates for enough credits to support his habit, but his sense of self-importance wouldn’t allow him to sink to that level for too long. After about a month, he fell into the orbit of the small gang who’d assaulted him the first day he’d arrived, and remained there.

He told himself he wouldn’t hang with them for long, that he’d get the credits some other way once he was able to survive on his own. He just…needed to smoke, and a few of the guys in the gang would fuck him in exchange for enough credits to keep his addiction fueled. However, it wasn’t too long before he discovered the gang wasn’t exactly being run by the brightest young men in the world–if anything, he seemed to be a bit of an anomaly in the facility. Most of the men here were diverted from prison sentences to fuel this experimental brand of reform, and so most didn’t even have a high school diploma. He was smarter than them, and he could use them. He figured out who the alpha was and hooked himself to him, flattering him, fucking him, anything he could do, and when he had him, well, suddenly he wasn’t aching for credits like he had been, and things got easier. He could smoke when he wanted to. He could afford more expensive hormone schedules, allowing him to bulk up substantially and hold his own in the hallways of the block. Before too long, he was joining the gang on raids, and under his direction, the group was pulling in more credits than they’d ever had before.

The longer he stayed there, the better picture he got of the small, strange, twisted society that was fostered in the block. The majority of candidates did their best to abide the rules–they did tasks and jobs, they got paid, they tried to survive. Then, there were the gangs like Tanner had found himself tangled within. They would work on occasion, but the bulk of their credits they got from their fellow candidates however they could–and Tanner expanded their racket considerably. Half the gang would provide protection of workers while the other half would then attack the protected group, simply to demonstrate the importance of the first group so they could raise their rates. Tanner rarely felt bad about this–after all, this was the world, right? If the facility wanted to prevent this, all they’d have to do is allow the guards to step in and stop them. In his mind, there was little distinction between what Jackson had done to him for the last month, and what he was doing down here–in fact, he imagined that Jackson must have done something similar to end up where he was–after all, what could be more important than entrepreneurial spirit? The men in the gang who’d been there longer were one by one pulled away by guards to go to their assignment hearings, and Tanner recruited men he’d identified with promise to help him cement his power in the block.

Where Boys Become Men (Part 3)

His time as an initiate lasted eight weeks, and while Tanner hated every moment of it, whenever he looked back later–as best he could look back on anything, really–he realized he’d taken his time with Jackson for granted. At the time it had seemed like his ‘counselor’, as Jackson had forced Tanner to address him, was mostly interested in punishing and humiliating Tanner at every possible opportunity. Indeed, for the first week in particular, Tanner lost count of how many different people Jackson offered him to as a cumdump. Guards, friends of Jackson’s, other initiates–seemingly anyone could use any of his holes, whenever Jackson felt like it. On occasion, Jackson would turn him into a ragdoll like his first day, but generally, he would simply give the order. Tanner tried to resist the first few times, but the band had multiple ways of ensuring his compliance: electric shocks, drugs which made him immediately nauseous, and other drugs that flooded him with pleasure as soon as he obeyed. At some point, he decided that it was just…easier to go with it. He didn’t have to like it, and as soon as he could contact anyone on the outside, he’d make sure this place was shut down immediately and permanently.

It was a week before he realized something else–he was changing, somehow. It was gradual enough that from day to day he didn’t quite notice anything in particular. Sometimes it was physical–soreness in his muscles, or some extra hair on his chest–but also odd mental shifts like mood swings, a general irritability (which wasn’t surprising given his situation) and a raging horniness that never seemed to ebb away no matter how many times he came. Jackson enjoyed that part, it seemed, and often, when they weren’t doing much, he would make Tanner masturbate for fun, either alone or in front of other people. Still, enough little things added up over time that led him to realize something bigger had to be at work.

He confronted Jackson about it, and his counselor told him that he had, in consultation with Tanner’s doctors, selected his initial hormone regimen for him, and that he’d best get used to it; all of the men at Halverson took various hormone supplements, even him. One of the main goals of the initiate program, in fact, was to give newcomers a chance to adjust to this, grow a bit, so they’d have a better time managing as a provisional candidate. Tanner wanted to know what sorts of hormones he was being given and he raised a stink about consent–which got a laugh out of Jackson–but his counselor wouldn’t tell him much more beyond that. Now that he was aware of the changes, however, he became a bit paranoid, looking for signs of what Jackson had been talking about. In particular was his use of the word grow that worried him. Tanner was tall and strong, but as a swimmer he’d become hyper focused on maintaining a sleek, trim form, and as the days passed, it became more and more obvious that he was beginning to lose that shape he’d come to treasure above most everything else.

It was in the third week, when he was in the thick of his initial hormone treatments, that the anger broke through the wall he’d tried to build around it. They were in the room, and Jackson was smoking a cigar, like he always was, really. He was reading some manual or other, while Tanner cleaned up the room for him. He hated smokers. He always had–it had always been an indicator of moral weakness that someone would allow themselves to be addicted to something so harmful. The room had almost no ventilation, aside from the door, which Jackson wanted closed, trapping all of the smoke in with them…and whether it was the hormones that made him explode, or just his general misery, he screamed and shouted at Jackson, furious at his smoking, at his treatment here, and the anger overwhelmed him. He lunged, and collapsed to the ground like a brick, as Jackson sent a tranq through his system in a heartbeat, and fucked him for good measure.

The next day, he was more irritable than usual. By the afternoon, he realized he was craving…something, but he had no clue what. They were back in the room when Jackson offered him a cigar, and he refused–only the craving doubled in strength. His head ached, his muscles too–he was miserable. Jackson again offered a cigar, that smirk on his face…Tanner realized what he’d done, and he still refused–so Jackson started feeding him smoke, mouth to mouth, until Tanner finally broke down and accepted the fact that his counselor had just made him hopelessly addicted to nicotine in less than a day. Later, fucking him while Tanner smoked his second cigar Jackson told him, “Be careful who you piss off here–there are worse things I could do to you then make you into a damn sexy cigar smoker.”

After six weeks, Tanner barely recognized himself in the mirror. He’d gained close to 75 pounds in a little over a month, bringing his weight up to 260 pounds. He hadn’t gained much height, leaving him with a physique closer to that of a husky football player than a swimmer, with not only a large amount of muscle, but also fat, giving him a definite gut. Adding insult to injury, Jackson had made sure to fill in his previously hairless body–now, if ever wanted to swim again, he would have to shave his entire body every single day, from neck to shin. Running his hands over his body, it didn’t feel like his. There were small changes too–he reeked for one thing. Whether it was Jackson’s request, or simply a general side effect of this new body, his B.O. was out of control now, and Jackson refused to give him deodorant, or let him shower more than every few days. In fact, the guy seemed to enjoy it, eating out Tanner’s pits and crack before fucking him. Other changes were more welcome–like his cock and balls. He was nowhere near the size of Jackson, but his modest four inch cock had beefed up to a generous six, and his balls were more than twice the size, and he’d become a rather copious leaker.

Life had gotten easier, as well, as he’d adjusted to life in the facility. On days when he’d done exceptionally well, Jackson had begun letting Tanner fuck him, or someone else–including a few initiates, which he found he rather enjoyed. Jackson actually seemed to rather enjoy getting fucked, though he let Tanner know he was hardly the best fuck he’d gotten in the facility. Still, if even an amateur performance could get Jackson to growl like that–Tanner wasn’t quite sure he wanted to know what he’d do during good sex. He hadn’t thought of women in days, he realized. At some point, he’d simply…gone gay. He found himself checking out men around the mess hall and in the hallway, thinking about their cocks, fantasizing about them, his dreams full of men and generally wet. And then, just as he was beginning to realize how good he had it, Jackson told him he’d been approved for transfer to the provisional block, where he’d likely be spending the next year of his life, at least.

VIP Package (Part 6)

Jeremy woke up the following morning–or at least, what he assumed to be the following morning–in an unfamiliar room. After dinner the night before, Mr. Bishop had taken him to the Salon, a sprawling complex in the tail of the cruise ship–though he could remember almost nothing of his time spent there. The staff had told him that the experience was proprietary–in order to maintain secrecy, not even VIP guests were allowed to remember the inner workings. The two of them stepped inside, and then he was here, lying in what seemed to be a very small bed, in a room quite a bit smaller than the one he’d been staying in with Samuel–and he was alone. He tried to get up and sit on the edge of the bed, but the first couple of attempts were thwarted by some massive weight that seemed to be dragging him back down. At last, he managed, and he felt…his own flesh shift around him in the most uncomfortable, disturbing fashion–and looking down…he was no longer in his body, or more accurately, he was no longer in the body he remembered being in.

But where he’d expected to feel some measure of shock, there was…just a recognition. He knew this body wasn’t correct, and yet, he also couldn’t clearly every remember looking any different. With two hands, he hefted up the massive apron of hairy fat which hung down between his thighs, pushing them apart, and let it fall, the flab smacking against his thighs. Her knew, in his mind, that he’d never felt anything like this, and yet his body…already knew what it would feel like. With the help of a night stand, and quite a bit of grunting and groaning, he managed to get up on his feet. He felt disgusting, and it wasn’t just the fact that he was appalled at his sudden size and body. He felt greasy, and when he lifted a flabby arm, he actually stank–more than just simple body odor, and more like someone who hadn’t bothered to wash in quite a while. Again, the disgust was muted–it simple seemed…right to him, that he be like this. In any case, he needed to piss. There were two doors in the room, and the first he tried did lead to a small toilet–no shower–with a mirrored wall on one side. He had to sit down to piss, when he discovered he couldn’t even find his cock buried inside his own fatpad, and as he released, feeling…piss pour out from his gunt, and run down his balls, he stared to the side at himself in resignation.

He was old. At least sixty, if not seventy. Most of the hair on his head was gone, aside from a wispy horseshoe around his temples, though he had a massive beard hanging down to his chest and a thick mustache which nearly hid his mouth. Grey hair coated him wherever he looked–in fact, he looked rather similar to Mr. Bishop–although his current standard of hygiene was quite a bit lower, and he certainly hadn’t graced Jeremy with his endowment. Once he’d finished pissing, he continued searching for his cock, and was able to feel the presence of a nub, though he had no ability to grab it. His balls were sizable, but seemed to have been absorbed into his fat. He got back up with some effort, relying on the metal bar installed on the other wall, and went back into the bedroom. There were no clothes anywhere that he could see, so he opened the other door and stepped into a massive suite–and on a king size bed below a bay window, he saw Samuel, or Sammy, getting plowed by a muscular bear, with the kind of body he’d always wanted to have, but between work and his own limits, he’d never managed to realize it.

At the sound of the door opening, the muscle bear looked over at him, and Jeremy recognized him by his face–it was Mr. Bishop. “Ah, there’s the sleepyhead. I was worried you’d sleep the day away, you fat, lazy fuck.” He pulled out of Sammy, who moaned in displeasure. His cock seemed to be even larger than before, if that was possible–perhaps it was the same size, but more had been buried away in his previous body. “I trust you slept well? How are you adjusting?”

“This–what, you turn me into a fat old fuck like you were?” Jeremy asked, “And you get the kind of body I can only dream of. What the hell is any of this for? I don’t fucking get it–why not just do this to two of the ship’s muscle fucks?”

Mr. Bishop laughed. “I’ll tell you what I told your husband, the first afternoon we spent together, before he rode my cock for the first time. My fantasies are complicated.”

“Daddy? Daddy! My boyhole’s still so fucking hungry, please fuck me some more, daddy…” Sammy moaned, one hand reaching back to the rosy crater his hole had become, probing it, aching inside for more.

“Boy, you’ll get plenty more in a bit. But come here and tell me what you think of your husband. Do you think he’s sexy?”

Sammy looked over, and his face twisted up in a grimace. “He looks…kind of dirty. And where’s his cock?”

“He has a microcock buried up in that gunt of his, that’s all,”

“What good is a cock like that?”

“It’s not good for anything boy. But suppose he had a cock that was worth something. Would you want him to fuck you?”

“A fat old man like that? No, he’s gross–I want you to fuck me some more daddy–come on!” he said, and wagged his ass to and fro.

Jeremy just scowled, “That’s not Samuel–that’s some fucked up toy you turned him into. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying.”

Mr. Bishop smiled, but it conveyed no warmth. “True–he doesn’t. But I play a long game, and it’s quite satisfying. So Jeremy, why don’t you fuck off to the depths of your brain for a while. I’d rather play with Gerald.”

Stinkers – Coach’s Senior Gifts (Part 3)

Out in the locker room, Erik and Paul had both spent the last ten minutes becoming acquainted with their gifts. Even though they were only a few feet away from one another, they had nearly forgotten about the other’s existence, and the locker room entirely. The jocks…the scent imbedded within them (or the scents they were made out of–it was difficult to know, exactly, what this gear was) was incredibly powerful and overwhelming, but not by force–it was the nuance and the detail which had absorbed the attention of the two jocks so intently.

For Erik, the scent wasn’t only musk, though it was plenty heady. There was also loam, and tinges of evergreen. The chill of a cave, or perhaps a den. Smelling it made him feel both…sleepy, and yet also incredibly powerful, like a boulder at the top of a spruce covered mountain, waiting for a single tap, to send it careening down the slope, flattening anything in it’s path. There was the sweetness of fresh berries, and the pungent rot of raw fish in the sun, the taste of iron and blood in the back of his throat. He was gnashing at the jock now, filling it with spit, and then sucking it down his throat, tasting everything more intensely by the moment.

Paul had begun on the bench, but at some point, had fallen off and onto the concrete floor, where he was rolling about, the jock almost draped over his face, as he snorted at it, grunting, grinding his crotch against the rough concrete. His jock smelled of food–fat and sugar and grains, fermented slightly and beginning to foam. There was mud and dust as well; the jock was incredibly dry, and seemed to be sucking the moisture from him, almost pulling at his face, in some strange way he couldn’t quite explain, even to himself. He felt lazy. He felt like he never wanted to stand upright again, if he could help it. He felt hungry, and thirsty, and as horny as could be. But in his rutting on the ground, the jock came loose from around his head, and without it, he felt a bit of clarity and focus return to him, letting him sit up and stare around him, blinking.

It was a familiar confusion. Every meeting of his with the coach left him in a similar state–exhausted, confused, mortified at what he’d just done, and certain that–if he could–he’d just climb into bed and sleep for days, and days, and days…but he should keep…smelling it, right? Coach would want him to keep smelling it. He grabbed the jock in a hand, but kept it from his face–and took a moment to look over at Erik, where he was huffing his own jock on the bench.

Where Paul was an offensive lineman–wide and thick and designed to be a wall–Erik was a running back–all muscle, lean, and ready to charge into, and run over, anything or anyone in his path. His teammate had almost the entire jock stuffed in his mouth, where he was almost…chewing on it, rolling it over in his mouth, but this gave Paul a clear view of the fact that Erik’s mouth…it wasn’t quite human any longer. The more he gnashed at the wad in his mouth, the more his mouth and nose seemed to extend, pushing out into a thick, short snout. His beard was filling in thick, turning a dark brown, while his nose flattened and widened, turning black. The changes were spreading down his throat and over the rest of his face–especially the thick pelt of brown hair, and Paul–with his free hand–gingerly touched his own face, recalling the strange sensation of pulling he’d felt earlier.

It wasn’t right. It wasn’t human. He too, had a snout–perhaps slightly longer than Erik’s now was, but not nearly as hairy. His nose was flat, dry, and he could feel wrinkles along the side, with two open nostrils, making him snort slightly with each breath…and he had tusks jutting out from his lower jaw, out of his mouth by an inch or so on each side. He looked down at the jock in his hand, feeling it, wondering what in the world coach Robinson was doing to them both. Wondering what they were becoming.

Erik gagged, and with a hack, threw up the jock he’d nearly swallowed into his hand. It was soaked with spit, and Erik’s face looked more like a grizzly bear than human. He looked over at Paul, where he was sitting on the floor–trying to understand why Paul had put on a pig mask of some sort…only to realize that it wasn’t a mask at all.

“We…we have to stop,” Paul said, “I don’t want to do this anymore, I never wanted to do this.”

“Yeah, that’s because you’re a stupid pig,” Erik said, standing up, unwringing the jock, and pulling it on, “I can’t fucking believe I wasn’t the only one. I can’t believe–fucking Anton. But fuck, I feel fucking good, and I’m going to feel better, soon enough.”

“Erik, we have to get help, we have to tell someone.”

Erik just looked at him, and laughed a bit. “If you’re so scared, then why’s the jock around that bulge of yours?”

Paul looked at Erik, and then looked down. Without even realizing it, he’d pulled the jock on, where the pouch had settled around his crotch. It felt…warm. Comfortable. He was horny, but also…kind of sleepy. Lethargic. He tried to get up, using the bench beside him, but couldn’t quite manage to get his feet under him. He was just so…heavy, all of a sudden. He could see Erik’s jock was beginning to sprout hair, like his saliva had been enough to make it germinate. His own pouch seemed to be drying out, darkening, becoming almost skin colored, though slightly darker than Paul’s own flesh. Erik got down on his hands and knees, on top of Paul, and pushed his muzzle to Paul’s snout, each smelling the other’s breath, the strange animal musk they’d begun to produce, and the world began to fade away again for them both.

A Home of Mirrors (Part 6)

***WARNING: Violence and abuse.***

The scene Eli found, upon opening the door to his son’s chosen room, would have likely turned his stomach before. There was a surprising amount of blood on the carpet, and several parts of his son’s body didn’t seem to be arranged properly. In particular, his right arm was hanging limp at his side, as the massive brute behind him rammed his cock into his son’s ass like a piston. This all should have affected him emotionally–Eli realized this, as he took a long, steady drag from his cigar–but all he saw was a mess. An appealing one, perhaps, but so…inefficient.

“Dad? Dad! Is…what happened to you?”

Eli looked at the body of his son being fucked, but realized that wasn’t who had spoken in his voice–instead, it was the brute. He saw now, what his reflection had meant, about his son resisting.

“Shut up and fuck me, you pussy?” the young man on the floor screamed, blood flying from his mouth. “You wanna be this fuckin’ sack a shit for the rest of your life? You’re weak! Weak! Rape my fucking hole!”

“Dad, if that’s you, you have to help me, please dad, I don’t understand what’s happening–I can’t stop!” the brute looked down at his body, at his massive hands gripping his hips hard enough to leave bruises under his fingers. “This isn’t me. This isn’t me! I don’t want to be this thing!”

“You were fucking right about him–you were always right,” the other said, grinning up at Eli, “He’s such a disappointment…”

“Shut up!” Jean shouted, and fucked a bit harder, not noticing his change in pace.

“Fucking let me handle this,” Eli said, walked forward, and slid his cock into the bloody mouth, focusing on Jean, trapped in the brute’s body, matching his rhythm, slamming into his old body at the same time, feeling the body cracking and breaking a bit between them. “Jean–Boy,” Eli said, locking eyes with him, “We’re going to break you.”

“No…dad, please,” Jean said. He felt like crying, but this body, this face, didn’t seem capable of doing so.

“You want to disappoint me again? Look at this thing you were. Look at how fucking pitiful it is. That’s what you want to be, when you could be this?” Eli reached out with a gloved hand, stroking his son’s stubbly cheek, seeing him shudder.

“Fuck–Fuck you, fuck you, I fucking hate you!” Jean shouted at him, “You never fucking loved me, you never even wanted me. Nothing I wanted was ever enough for you.”

“You want your dad to love you, boy? Then quit fighting.”

Jean didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what he could do. That body, it hurt all over, everywhere. Broken ribs, missing teeth, dislocated shoulder–but this body felt so broken too. Broken in spirit, broken in mind. All he could feel was anger and rage, every other emotion seemed to have ceased existing for him, and looking at his father, looking at the man he’d resented for so fucking long, the anger was winning. He could…embrace it. He could use it. “I hate you so fucking much.”

“I know boy–I want you to hate me. I want you to hate the fucking world, and everyone in it.”

Jean tried to speak, but all that came out was a snarl, black slobber flinging from his tobacco packed lips and splattering across his father’s immaculate uniform, and he started fucking in earnest now, feeling that pain still but accepting it. Life was fucking pain, after all, and he could revel in it, couldn’t he? Eli fucked harder too, and his son came deep within his own ass, and in a flash, the thing between them hollowed out. The two thrusted forward, feeling the shell crack and crumple between them–they crushed it as they drove towards one another on their knees. Jean landed the first blow, a fist across his father’s jaw, Eli sneering up at him from the floor. “Fuck boy, that’s fucking it! Fucking bring it, you fucking pig!”

Eli got a few blows in, but even he knew there was no way he could stand against the wrath he’d just unleashed. His punches only seemed to drive Jean to new heights of rage, and when he threw Eli to the floor and jumped on a femur, snapping it with just his weight, all Eli did was laugh. The pain was nothing. What was pain but a sensation? It didn’t mean anything. Nothing seemed to mean anything to him, any longer. There was him, a consciousness. There was the other, the house itself. He served the house, and his son would too. Jean tore down his father’s pants and raped his hole, Eli urging him on, demanding he fuck him harder, be as brutal he could be, that he make his hole bleed. Jean was only too happy to comply, and as he fucked, the rage lost…focus. The anger he felt towards his father seemed to expand into a general fury at everything. He came again, struggled to standing, giddy with excitement, cock and hands rusty with blood, and saw that he meek thing he’d been had appeared there, on the other side of the glass.

He wanted to kill it. He wanted it to die, more than anything. He stomped over towards it, ready to choke it’s breath and snap it’s little neck, when his own, newly formed reflection barrelled into him, and pushed him up against the wall. “You belong to us now–you want to hurt someone? Hurt me.”

Eli watched his son and his double wrestle on the ground, biting and kissing and punching and sucking and fucking. He couldn’t move, not with his leg busted, or he’d have joined in. A figure stepped in his view, however–he looked up at himself–a new version. His uniform was no longer immaculately pressed, but looked well worn. His leather pants were now chaps, his coat a thick biker jacket, grey beard wild with a lank ponytail hanging past his neck. “Gonna have tah be a bit rough, tah match that fuck,” it said, looming over him. “Pity, I liked ya.”

The reflection planted a boot on Eli’s neck, and he bent over, stroking him off. He couldn’t breathe (or could he) but right before he passed out, he felt his cock explode, and his his boot collapsed through the neck it had been pressing down on. “Hey, you fuckin’ pigs! Daddy wants tah play too,” he said, and joined the merry brawl.

A Home of Mirrors (Part 4)

***WARNING: Things get fairly violent/abusive from here on out.***

Jean stepped into the room and shut the door behind him, surprised by just how large is was–until he realized it was only half the size. The mirror taking up an entire wall, opposite the window, had fooled him into thinking the space as massive. He shook his head, and rubbed his eyes, feeling almost drowzy. He’d seen something downstairs in that other mirror, but what? It had been him, but…but not quite. Something about this house was wrong, something about the way his dad was acting was wrong. He stepped into the room, avoiding his own gaze from the mirror, suddenly…afraid of himself.

Fear wasn’t something he felt often, but he’d been afraid, this last week, with his father. His drinking, the screaming, how he kept catching his father staring at him, and even after being caught, he just…kept staring him down. Once, he’d woken up in his room, and the door to his room was open. He could smell that foul smoke off his dad’s cigar, from the dark hallway, and hear…huffing, and puffing…and why was he even thinking about this? It didn’t matter–he was almost out of here. Just one more year of school, and then he can get to college, and he won’t have to be the family disappointment anymore.

Who would have thought? An all american jock athlete, a disappointment to a family?

“It’s not your athleticism he hates, you know. Is the fact that you could do so much, and yet you do so very little.”

He spun towards the voice–towards the mirror, and found himself facing his reflection–or a reflection, anyway. He was a good distance from the mirror, but the version of himself that…that had spoken, was inches from the glass, barely on the other side. “Did…How did…”

“I see I got your attention, finally,” his double said, and stepped through the mirror without so much as a ripple. Jean could tell it was him, and yet they were so different. Jean was no small figure, at six foot three and two hundred and fifteen pounds of muscle, but his reflection was about an inch taller, and much thicker. Rather than a sleek build made for running, like his, this other him–it was clear he was a fighter, or boxer, really. Brawler would have been more accurate. Not only from the burly muscles and firm stance, but the scars, the puffy eyes, the missing tooth, when he grinned at him. “See, I don’t think it’s how little you do, but how little you do with it, which is such a shame. All you do is run. Run to catch the ball, run after the ball, back and forth in your little world on the field, chasing nothing,” he spit, and a wad of something black landed on the carpet between them. “Think you can run from me, little boy? Think you can outrun yourself?”

He tried. He dashed for the door, as his double finished speaking, but he headed Jean off and drove him into the wall hard enough to crack the drywall, stepped back, and let Jean fall to the floor. He cracked his knuckles, hauled out his cock, and started pissing all over Jean, where he was struggling to find his feet after taking that hit. “You’re mine boy,” the thing sung at him, and laughed, “You’re mine now, so better take it like a man.” Jean stumbled up, aiming for the door, but his double clocked him in the face, and sent him back to the floor. “You’re daddy’s gonna be so proud of you soon, though–wonder who’s gonna take our cocks better, you or him?”

Dazed from the punch, Jean couldn’t do much as his double started tearing at his clothes, ripping them to shred as he growled and gnashed at him, hammering him with a fist if he tried to get up. He shoved Jean’s face down, forced his ass high, lined up and forced it’s way in–quick, enjoying the scream as Jean lost his virgin hole to himself. “Fuck man, yer gonna love being me! This hole’s so fuckin’ sweet, fuck, gotta hand it to the fuck, this catch is real nice…”

Jean tried to ignore the stench of the piss soaking his skin, tried to pretend it wasn’t happening. With some embarrassment, he discovered his own cock was hard, and it almost felt like he, too, was inside someone. A greasy hole, that felt real…tight. He was pushing back without noticing, enjoying the phantom sensation of fucking himself, and then, clear as day…he could see himself, through the other’s eyes.

He looked down at himself, at his body, at how small he was, and all he felt was contempt. He had always been so weak, a waste of space, a waste of good time and energy. Well people would notice him now. He’d make a mark on the world with his fucking fists if need be!

As soon as it had appeared, it was gone, but Jean rebelled. That wasn’t him. This thing wasn’t what he wanted to be. He planted his hands to the wall, and shoved back, catching the other off guard, throwing him out, and off of him, and in a rage, Jean whirled on him with a scream kicked the thing in the groin, and watched his foot slide through it like it was brittle, shiny paper, and dissolve to dust.

Heaving for breath, not knowing what had just happened, he grabbed up what fragments of clothes he could and pulled them back on–at least until some thick hand wrapped it’s way around his wrist, a foot planted itself in the small of his back, and with a sickening pop, his shoulder came right out of the socket with a scream. “We’re not done yet–you think that’s all the darkness in your little soul? That was just the surface scum, boy.” His voice–it was his voice, but deeper, each syllable edged with blunt violence.

Jean rolled over on the floor, and saw the massive brute looming over him, body packed with muscle, arms, chest and belly coated with tattoos, black tobacco split leaking from it’s mouth down it’s chin to land on Jean’s chest–then it crouched down, and slammed its fist into Jean’s face.