The Fetish Gun (Part 3)

He was enveloped in light again, but a different sort of light than before, not that he was able to really explain what that meant. If forced to try, he might have described that first light, in the alley, as a kind of pressure, pushing itself around his body and into him–permeating his body from the outside. However, this second shot felt like an odd warmth, like how he might imagine a plant reacting to sunlight, spurring him to grow, working on him from the inside out, encouraging him, rather than forcing him. It felt so good he held the trigger down for longer than he had initially intended to do so. When he did finally release it, the light dissipated and he shivered, looked at himself in the mirror, and his jaw dropped.

This wasn’t better–this was worse. In fact, it looked like the gun had simply taken who he’d been, and just dialed the knobs up to eleven, like an even kinkier version of his already kinky self. He was even shorter–probably just an inch or two shy of five feet tall, but incredibly wide and heavily built–his head sitting directly on two thick shoulders, his arms hanging off at an angle, like his musculature couldn’t quite let them rest at his sides. He looked like he used steroids…and now that he thought about it, he did…use steroids. He’d used them for years, along with…with some other things he couldn’t quite remember. His head felt so sluggish, suddenly–thinking had been a bit harder before, but now he felt even dumber.

His balls, however, had been stretched down to an obscene length–at his height, the length from his groin to his knees was a bit shorter than average, but he reached down and found them swinging between his knees, each of his balls the size of an orange. The stretchers he’d put on earlier now appeared to be permanent–there was no way he could fit his balls through the opening, and looking closer at the metal weights, he saw that they appeared to be soldered into place…and, and he couldn’t wait to get his next one. He tugged his balls down, looking at the space between the highest weight and the top of his sack–he could almost fit another one on right now. It would hurt, of course, but he’d get used to it. He fucking loved getting used to it. Maybe if he called Rick in the morning he would put another on him tomorrow afternoon.

Tugging on his balls had made his cock start leaking–then again, when wasn’t it leaking? His cock was…larger, but not because it had grown. Rather, it looked thick and inflamed, like it had been pumped larger over time. It had a massive ring through the head, however, and his cum simply ran down the ring, dribbling from there to the floor, and he had two other massive rings through his nipples, and they looked to be even larger than his engorged and pumped cock. The rings he had on were all connected to thick chain, and the three chains were tied together below his pecs with a heavy padlock–guys at the club fucking loved tugging on his chains, getting him all riled up and leaking…but there was something…off about his nipples, and his pecs. Sure, he was a massive roided muscle freak, but there was no way his pecs could be that big, and they felt…kind of soft. He twisted a nipple and felt it immediately become wet between his fingers, and he moaned, his hand moving to his other nipple. Fuck, he loved milking himself–when the steroids had started fucking with his pecs, he’d decided to just roll with it–sure, the hormones were experimental, but the feeling he got from them–it was almost better than his little puny cock, and guys fucking loved his man milk. In fact, he felt pretty full–he should probably give himself a milking before going to bed.

He waddled away from the mirror, forgetting the gun on a side table, and went into his bedroom, where a couple of milking machines he’d ordered especially for himself were set up in a corner. After unlocking the chains and disconnecting the rings from his flesh, he put two tubes leading to one tank on his nipples, and a third around his cock, and turned on the machine. The sensation of all three milkers sucking on his tits and cocks overwhelmed him, and he fell to his knees, one hand reaching around behind him to start pumping the huge, eight inch dildo crammed in his loose hole in and out, working his prostate and forcing even more cum out of him.

A part of him was horrified. A small part, growing smaller. His new mind simply didn’t have much room to feel much of anything beyond pleasure, and he rode the waves of his near constant orgasms for hours, until his cock and pecs were finally empty. Exhausted, he disconnected the tanks and carried them to the huge fridge in the kitchen–milk on the shelf, cum in the door–and then slumped off to bed. But he felt better in the morning–in fact, he felt great. He took his shots, ate a huge protein heavy breakfast, and then brought the milkers out to the living room, hooked himself up, and milked himself empty while he worked out all morning and into the early afternoon. It wasn’t until he got up to make himself a shake that he saw the gun on the table where he’d left it, and dimly remembered that as natural as this might feel, this wasn’t him. He knew he should do something about this, should try to fix this, but fuck it. He…liked this. Why fix what ain’t broken? He didn’t need fixing, he loved this body…but he could always try and…and fix some other people, right? In fact, he had a few neighbors that could use some fixing, and he still had a few settings on the gun he hadn’t tried yet…why not see what those could do, eh?

The Fetish Gun (Part 2)

He got to his apartment building, and quickly realized that he was so skimpily dressed, that he had absolutely no idea where his wallet or keys were. They weren’t on him–not that he would have had anywhere to put them. Wade thought for a moment, trying to figure out how to get into his apartment, when a thought that had been nagging him since he arrived finally caught him–that he should check his mail box. He wasn’t quite sure why he’d thought that–but the mailboxes were all combination locks–not keyed–and sure enough, stuffed inside was his key ring. With a sigh of relief–even though he had no idea how they had gotten there–he hurried up the stairs, praying no one would see him, got inside his apartment and breathed a sigh of relief.

He walked inside, gun still in his hand, and started examining it, hoping there would be somewhat clear controls. Unfortunately, there weren’t really any controls at all. In fact, the only thing of note beyond the trigger itself was a single dial on the side with five marked positions equally around a circle, all labeled rather unhelpfully with letters–“A”, “B”, “C”, “D”, and “E”–rather than any indication as to what they might do. The gun was currently in the B position. Was it labelled B for balls or something? Certainly that’s what it had done to him, but it had done other things too, like turn him into a thick fireplug, shaved his head down, grown a goatee around his mouth…

Wait a minute, how did he know that?

He hadn’t looked at himself in the mirror. How did he know what he looked like? Or that he looked different from…from…

Wade couldn’t remember. He knew he’d been someone different–he could kind of describe that old self–potbellied, wearing a suit, clean shaven, and had he been…straight? Ugh, that’s disgusting–who’d want to put their cock in a cunt anyway?

This gun had most definitely changed more than just his balls–it had changed everything about him. Looking around his apartment, he realized that this wasn’t quite what he’d expected to come home to at all. Instead of his fancy computer and gaming systems he used to use to unwind, there was a well equipped, if compact, home gym. His book shelves no longer had books on them, but instead all sorts of dildos, ball stretchers and other bondage gear he’d never known existed before, but which he now knew…rather intimately. He walked to his bedroom, and sure enough, his new memory was correct–in addition to a now king sized bed, he also had a leather sling suspended from the ceiling. In the closet, where he was almost certain he should have found a small collection of suits, there was instead a bunch of leather gear–harnesses, jackets, pants, chaps–all leather, and all of them fairly worn and…supple to the touch. None of these things looked new–the entire apartment looked well lived in, in fact, but what had happened to his life? His internship?

He looked at the gun again, but no clues appeared. Were the letters some sort of measure of intensity? Why wouldn’t they just be numbers then? Maybe they were different modes? Would one of them be able to change him back? He let out a growl and tossed the gun onto the couch–all of this damn thinking was just making his head hurt. It wasn’t even eleven, and he wasn’t at a club, finding some hot leather daddy to pummel his nuts all night–what was he even doing? Maybe…maybe he could go find those two leather men, give them back their gun…in exchange for a night of some fun. He smiled, one hand reaching down and squeezing his massive nuts firmly, feeling cum leak profusely from his nub of a cock. Fuck, he could always have some fun at home first, right?

He got a two inch ball stretcher from his toy shelf, and started working his balls through it, one at a time, slowly, using his own cum to help him lubricate until both balls were through, the heavy steel pulling them away from his body, causing a steady stream of cum to flow from them and out his cock. He worked a dildo in his ass and began fucking himself, swinging his balls too and fro, milking himself with the pain, gasping and sweating and…and what in the fuck was he doing?

This was filthy, and perverse, and disgusting, and…and what he did every night, when he couldn’t find anyone to come home with him for some fun. What in the fuck had this gun done to him? He was a fucking freak, and…and he liked it. He liked all of it, and that terrified him even more. He got up from the couch, after pushing the dildo deep inside himself, and picked up the gun again, walking to the mirror he had hung in the hallway and staring at the person he’d become. Suddenly, he didn’t really care what the gun might do to him–he didn’t want to be this–he didn’t want to live like this for the rest of his life, even though he was having a hard time articulating why, all of a sudden. Still, there had to be a way to fix himself–one of these settings had to be an undo button, right?

There were three settings he hadn’t tried. He…kind of knew what B did, although it seemed unreliable. It had given him this body, but when he’d shot those two uniformed men, only their balls had grown–nothing else had seemed to change, like he had. So…he kind of knew what it did–probably something to do with balls…maybe. That left four other options, and he had no idea what they might do to him, but the dial could spin all the way around in a circle…so he gave the dial a hard spin–he’d just shoot himself with whatever letter came up. It couldn’t be worse than this, right? The dial came to a stop on D–and with a shrug, he turned to gun towards himself, and pulled the trigger.

The Fetish Gun (Part 1)

The life of a lowly intern–first into the office, and nearly always the last to leave–it was well into night by the time Wade freed himself from his menial work, packed some things up in his briefcase, and started the walk home. It was friday night and the streets were busy–he had to pass through a hub of bars and small concert venues to get to his apartment, and while he always imagined on Fridays that he’d just go straight from the office to the bar, he was almost always too tired to do much beyond walk home and fall into bed–he could always go have some fun on Saturday night, right? Miranda had seemed to enjoy their last date–maybe he’d give her a call and see if she wanted to go out, if he wasn’t too tired. Fuck, twenty-five, and he already sounded like he was middle aged.

He turned into an alley which cut between a brick wall and the back of a small nightclub…though the clientele seemed a bit strange tonight. Usually there were a few straight couples smoking out back, talking quietly, but as he walked down, he saw that the small crowd was all men, and they seemed to be especially…fetishy. Leather, rubber, guys on their hands and knees in dog masks. It was almost enough to convince him to turn around, but there was no reason he couldn’t skirt the edge, right? He moved around the group, and felt everyone…staring at him. As he tried to escape the crowd around him, someone inside shouted, “Hey Greg! There’s one, out back.”

Some odd light covered Wade’s body for a moment, holding him in place, and then it was gone a second later. He stopped, trying to figure out what had just happened…and why he was so much colder all of a sudden. He looked down at himself and quickly saw why–he was nearly naked. The suit he’d been wearing (Suit? Had he been wearing a suit? It seemed…hard to imagine, him in a suit…) had simply disappeared, and in its place he was wearing a leather bulldog harness, a leather jockstrap, and two boots–nothing more. He gawked at himself, and then looked at everyone else around him–their eyes…some looked at him eagerly, but others…it looked like pity, or maybe just resignation.

“Did I get him?”

“Fuck yeah, your aim is impeccable.”

“Oh please, it’s just the guidance system, but thanks anyway.”

Two men emerged from the club, both of them nearly six and a half feet tall, heavily muscled, and wearing identical black leather uniforms. The men standing around and smoking all ducked back into the club almost immediately, aside from a few who hung back, and Wade tried to figure out what he had been doing. He’d been going home, right? Or…or had he been in the club…this whole time? He felt rather uncomfortable, his body bared for these two men. He wasn’t in very good shape–or rather, he had almost no shape at all–and the harness did nothing to hide it. He wasn’t exactly fat–though he did have a bit of a potbelly. More, he just looked like he spent his days behind a desk, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He also wasn’t sure how he felt about the men in front of him…he’d never felt much attraction towards men, but suddenly…looking at these two huge muscle gods, he’d never felt this horny in his whole life.

“How’s the ratio in there?”

“I’d say make him a sub,” the other replied, and lifted up the strange looking gun he had in his hand, adjusting some of the knobs on the side, “Can always use more subs, right? Any preference?”

“Eh, surprise me.”

Before Wade could ask what was going on, the man pointed the gun at him and pulled the trigger–the same light enveloping him as before, and disappeared a moment later–leaving him mostly the same, but with…several differences. His…physique, for one thing, and gone through a remarkable improvement. It looked like he had spent hours in the gym, bulking and building muscle–but with a sudden loss of height, he’d become a stout fireplug. Unfortunately, as he’d grown bigger, his cock had shrunk to a nub, while his balls had exploded in size, each nearly as large as a lemon, forcing the jockstrap to bulge out. With a grunt, unable to control himself, Wade dropped to his knees, the man with the gun releasing his seven inch cock from his pants. Wade felt drool immediately start flowing from his mouth, and he walked forward on his knees and swallowed it to the hilt.

“Nice muscle pig.”

“Thanks–he’s got a very nice mouth too. But try squeezing his balls.”

The other man knelt down, reach down and gave Wade’s sack a squeeze–immediately Wade felt a series of spasms and grunts wrack its way through him, his tiny cock releasing a massive amount of cum right into his jock.

“Dang, that’s pretty sensitive man–like, what would happen if I did…this?” He stood up again, and delivered a solid kick right to Wade’s massive balls with his boot.

It hurt–it hurt so much that he crumpled to the ground away from the cock he’d been sucking and curled up on the ground, but the pain eased away and pleasure took over–his cock pumping out blast after blast of cum for half a minute, his seed soaking and overflowing the jock he had on until it formed a puddle on the pavement beneath him as he shivered, grunted and groaned.

“He could go further though.”

“What would you suggest?”

“How about a complete pain pig? Piercings, tattoos.”

“I could see that, but what if we–”

He had to get out of here. he had to get away from these guys, but even if he did, he’d just be trapped like this…wouldn’t he? Wade took a few deep breaths–the men were still talking…or plotting, rather, what to do to him. The man’s grip on the gun was loose, and a plan formed in his mind. He rolled over slowly, to his knees, and as quick as he could, grabbed the gun from the man’s hand, and before either of them could stop him, he fired the gun at them both, watching their nuts swell in their pants–perfect targets. While they both gawked at their crotches, he pummeled each of them into submission, until they were sobbing on the ground, their cocks pumping cum into their pants, and then he took off running as fast as he could towards home, gun in hand–praying he could figure out how to fix what they’d done to him.

Master of Men (Part 3)

WARNING: Furry, Feral, and Mind Death

Craig turned back to him, and Paul screamed and snarled once more–but then continued to do so. Slowly he became aware that he was no longer doing it because he wanted to, but because he had no choice. This wasn’t him. Craig had done something to his mind, had broken in and changed him…but that wasn’t right. This rage he felt, he knew this rage. This was a rage he’d felt all his life, the rage that he’d used on his little brother whenever he’d beaten him into the dust, the rage that had pushed him into sports where he’d revelled in breaking other men and sending them from the field screaming, the rage that had propelled him to murder men he’d never met in foreign countries and cities he’d never bothered learning to pronounce. Craig had simply undone it’s chains, the chains he’d learned from society to channel his anger in acceptable directions, and now it felt like a beast was loose in his mind, rampaging around, bristling with hate and fear and loathing for everything beyond itself, including Paul. He realized too late that he had counted on those walls and chains to protect him from his own wrath as much as society had, the beast ripping through him, his memories, his thoughts and desires. It was eating his mind from the inside out, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

The man named Paul was no match for his own beast, and he was devoured in a matter of minutes as the men watched, his eyes growing dull, the screams and howls becoming less human, the beast’s body changing before their eyes. His body grew hairier, and was soon coated with a thick pelt all over, including his face. It remained fat, but the rage poured itself into muscle, the animal growing taller and thicker, and its face. It was no longer a human face, with a powerful set of jaws lined with teeth, something between a wolf and a bear, and two thick horns bursting from his head, turning forward, points sharp and ready to gore. They expected it to tire at some point, but the transformation only seemed to give it more power, and it fought harder against the metal binding it in place, it’s paw like hands tipped with sharp black claws tensing and untensing, trying to leap at any of them. It could smell their fear, their hatred. Their blood.

“Fear not, my Men–it cannot get loose,” the Master said, coming close to the beast, which tried to twist it’s head and snap at him. “This is rage. This is false masculinity. This is the corruption of a man’s spirit, rendered flesh. This is not a miracle–this is shockingly common. The world is filled with men like him who have allowed their rage to consume their better selves. But I am the Master of Men–I possess the true power necessary to tame this beast. Bear witness.”

The metal retracted, and the men scooted back to the edge of the dias, suddenly aware of just how high up they were from the ground below. The beast shook, and pushed itself up, revealing just how large it had grown. It was easily eight feet tall, with a huge, bright red cock emerging from a sheath running up it’s furred torso. It flexed it’s body and howled, turning to Craig, the fat, pudgy, sweaty man unafraid and facing the beast. “Fuck…you. Fuck you and eat you and tear you apart!” it screeched at Craig. It charged at him, and he stepped to the side out of the beast’s way with a surprising amount of agility.

The beast charged again, and Craig continued dodging. The men noticed that the beast was favoring one leg over the other–the remains of Jason’s damaged knee, but they knew their Master was outmatched–and when the beast had consumed him, it would take them next. Craig seemed unworried, but the beast knew it could win. It could smell him, it could smell that musk, and…and…

And it felt fear. This was no simple man. This man did not smell like the others. The beast redoubled it’s efforts, growing more crazed, when the Master slammed one fist into it’s wounded knee, bringing forth a crazed howl as the beast crumpled to the floor in pain. Before it could react, the man had shoved the beast’s long tail to one side and plunged his cock deep into the beast’s ass. It screamed, but already it could tell that it was too late, that the man had beaten him, that this man would always beat him, had beaten him before in a hundred other lifetimes. Still it fought, trying to crawl away, but the man was gentle, petting it’s hair softly. “Accept your defeat beast, and rage no further–for I am Man, and I will tame you.”

Tame. That scent, that musk. it was so close now, and the more the beast smelled it, the quieter it’s howls became, the more it began pushing it’s hole back, allowing the man to penetrate deeper, the more it felt like it’s very nature was being slowly manipulated and transformed. Indeed, the awestruck men outside the circle watched at the beast’s form began to shift once more, it’s muscled body dissolving into fat once again as it shrunk in size, becoming as large as the Master, and then even smaller, no more than five feet tall at most. That gaping maw full of teeth had softened into a pig’s snout filled with short, stubby, harmless teeth, the horns on it’s head shorter and rounded at the tips, it’s clawed paws becoming clunky trotters. Now it was grunting and squealing loudly, rage forgotten in pleasure, and it’s short, stubby cock exploded with cum, the men watching it’s balls shrink in size, pulling up into it’s belly. The master continued fucking for another moment before cumming as well, and the men cheered, unable to believe the miracle they had just witnessed. The beast, now simply a pet, turned around, grunting softly, and began sucking it’s Master’s cock clean with it’s long tongue, looking up at him lovingly as a strand of metal curled up from the floor, wrapped it’s way around it’s neck and detached from the floor, leaving it with a thick metal collar.

“Men, let us celebrate my victory!” Craig shouted, and the men revelled, an orgy erupting on the dias, their new pet crawling among them, licking their bodies clean, sucking their cocks and begging to be fucked. It lasted for hours, until the men, exhausted, climbed back down from the dais and returned to their homes, and Master’s newest pet stood on it’s hooves and followed his Master down the stairs as best it could, but the path was treacherous, and it’s knee ached. Master could see this, and knelt next to his pet, holding it’s wounded knee in his hands, a dull light coursing beneath them as the pain dissolved. “Thank you,” Craig said, “Your sacrifice was great, for my Men, but you will be happy, I promise.”

His pet grunted it’s thanks. It knew. The rage had hurt so much, all it’s life. To be rid of it was enough for him to follow his Master anywhere, until the end of it’s days.

Master of Men (Part 2)

Craig opened a trapdoor in the floor of his garage, revealing a staircase which descended into the ground below. Paul followed him, no longer able to think of doing anything beyond following the stink of the older man’s sweat down into the depths. The stairs gave way to a ramp, the tunnel linked up with other tunnels, and soon they emerged into a broad, high ceiling cavern. In the center of the room was a dias poised a story and a half off the ground–it looked ancient, and far too well crafted to have been made by anything crude–rather, it seemed to have erupted from the ground as a fluid mass, before something froze it in place. Paul reacted instinctively, tugging back when he saw it, but Craig yanked the lead, and he followed him up a winding stair to the surface above.

The men of the neighborhood were already there, milling about, finding their places around the circle. Paul saw Jason there, limping, but he wouldn’t look at him. Unlike the other men, who all bore plain robes, he was naked aside from a solid ring of steel around his cock and balls. Paul wanted to cry for help, but his jaw was slack. He didn’t think he could even muster a single word. The surface of the dais was perfectly even, yet bore an intricate pattern of metal inlay, winding around the black rock, glinting in the torchlight. However, as soon as Craig stepped into the circle, the metal began to glow a dull red, the other men hurrying to the edge of the circle, where they knelt in a ring around them both.

He waited for them to settle, and for the cavern to return to silence, before booming out, “Welcome, my Men.”

“Glory to the Master of Men,” they replied, in unison.

“Today, my men, is a very special day! A day all of you know well, a day when we welcome a man into our midst, the day we elevate another to our height, a day when we add another to our service. Jason, come here, come, stand tall and be joyful! Today is your day, a day you have been working toward for such a long time.”

Jason stood, he limped into the circle, head bowed away from his brother, and stood on the other side of Craig.

“You have completed your duties, as an initiate, and you have provided a worthy sacrifice. Today, you will claim what you seek, the true manhood you desire. We shall witness your re-manning, and we shall welcome you into our midst.”

Craig waved his hand over the floor, and the metal shimmered, slithering up as though it were alive, before grasping Paul’s neck, ankles and wrists, tugging him down to his knees, and then all fours, holding him in place on the floor. He tried to fight against the enchantment addling his brain, but he couldn’t, just drool on the stone, as Craig turned to his brother.

“Your brother has failed to use his gifts. You shall make better use of them than he has. But the Beast in him will not give up easily–a true man must be firm of hand and strong of spirit. If you want to join us, you must take from him what he has abused.”

Craig stepped to the edge of the circle, leaving the two brother’s alone in the center of the platform. Jason stood still for a moment, and then walked around behind Paul, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but I…I can’t…”

“Ja….son…” Paul managed to force from his slack mouth, but it dissolved into a moan, as his brother’s thick fingers slid into his sweaty hole, loosening him, and then he felt Jason’s cock push into him. It was hot, it was so hot, and he wanted to crawl away, but the metal held him tightly in place, as Jason fucked him. Craig began a chant; the men around them were soon following him, and floor began to glow a brighter red. Jason was panting, but he was close. The chant grew louder, and he groaned loudly, cumming into his brother’s hole, and Paul felt a searing force push it’s way into him from his brother, twisting him, destroying him. He fought it, he but it was so strong–it ripped his defenses to shreds. His body was gurgling, and his muscles began to fade as fat filled up the place they left behind, his barrel chest dissolving into a heavy gut and two pendulous moobs, and his knee. His right knee, it hurt–a desperate, searing pain. Is this what Jason had felt? Is this what he’d suffered with for so long?

The force ebbed, the tatters of himself settling within him, and Jason withdrew, standing up. Craig approached, “Welcome! Welcome, my newest Man!” he said. Paul couldn’t turn his head with the metal clamped around his neck, but Craig led him around his fat body, and he could see his brother–he was huge. At least seven feet tall, and packed solid with muscle, far more muscle than he could have simply stolen from Paul. He was sobbing. He was sobbing, and he fell to his knees before Craig, “Master…Master, thank you. It doesn’t hurt. The pain–”

“I know,” Craig said, caressing his bearded face, “I know, and you are a Man now. Your sacrifice was great–you should be proud.”

“I promise…I promise to serve you, to obey, anything, anything for you Master, anything, I swear, for what you’ve given me…” Jason tried to continue, but he dissolved into wrenching tears, and Paul could only watch. Craig stepped away, the men of the neighborhood came forward and helped Jason stand, bringing him back out of the circle. But what about him? What about his sacrifice? Paul was broken too–why should he be forced to carry Jason’s burdens as well as his own? How was that fair?

Craig walked back to him, and kneeled in front of Paul. His face was kind, and that only made Paul angrier. “You provided your brother with a great thing, you know. You should be proud.”

Anger. Anger greater than anything he’d ever felt in his life, greater than anything he’d felt in war welled in him, pushing Craig’s musk from him. He screamed and cursed at him, his body tensing, but the metal refused to give an inch. In that moment, he felt like all of the layers of himself were being stripped away, and he was simply an animal. Craig didn’t flinch, he waited until he stopped, heaving for breath, before standing up and turning to the men behind him. “All men are broken. All men are flawed, are deficient. They are prone to vice and sin. This man, is more than broken however. He was welcomed the Beast into his heart. It is not his fault–he has been trained to shurg off empathy and fellowship, to replace them with hatred and rage. This, my Men, is no man at all, but a beast in the guise of a man. But I am the Master, and I can free him of his self-imposed illusion. Bear witness to my miracles.”

“We are the men who witness,” the men reply.

Albert’s Last Party (Part 2)

The revelers began to arrive, and the house was oddly quiet–usually Albert had the stereo going early, but the young men approached the house, not really paying attention as the girls arriving turned away, each of them suddenly realizing they had better ways of spending their time. The young men entered, and found the foyer littered with small, wrapped boxes–all of them with names on the tags, aside for a few left aside, unnamed, for anyone who had come uninvited or unexpected. The young men were suspicious, but the tags were all written in Albert’s hand writing. Still, a few managed to resist the pull and left–good for them, they didn’t deserve to be punished, in my opinion. Others were greedy enough to open the boxes, revealing a pipe of their own given from my collection–and found themselves unable to resist packing them with the provided tobacco and lighting them up, the room full of smoke, as they filed their way down the basement stairs, where they found that the rec room–the usual dance floor–had been converted into a sex dungeon, and that there in the center of the room, chained into a sling, was Albert.

None of them knew how they knew it was Albert–but they knew. They also knew that they were here to help punish him–and more than a few, I could sense, also could tell that they might be down here to be punished as well. I was next to Albert, no longer wearing a suit, but my own leather gear, smoking a huge boswell pipe, and watched as they lined up at my boy’s ass, the first in line stripping off his clothes, stroking his cock hard, before pushing it into his friend’s ass.

I took this chance to poke around in his mind, seeing what kind of person he was. The first was lazy, greedy, and had raped several young girls at previous parties of Albert’s. By the time he came, I had shrunk his height to just under five feet, his cock to a meager one inch nub–he went and climbed into a sling as well, one thick hand toying with his loose, eager hole. One by one, the men filled my boy’s hole with their cum, and I judged them–some deserved leniency–I let them go on their way, though they would remain pipe smokers for the rest of their lives–a reminder that they should behave. Most, though, remained. I changed them as they fucked–my boy’s hole. Thick, burly, hairy bruisers covered with tattoos and hair, all of them dumb as rocks and no longer able to even think about something beyond their cocks. Other’s grew soft and fat, smoother, finding their minds consumed with various hungers–food, cum, piss, musk, filth. Before the line had ended, the room around us had turned into an orgy–the first in line taking town fists in his hole, another obese man surrounded by a group of muscle bears, bathing in their piss and cum, other’s in pairs and triples, exploring each other’s bodies and various holes, hungrily sharing fluids and smoke. But finally the last one finished his fuck, and joined the others, allowing me to finally take my turn at my boy’s hole.

Boy. It was tongue and cheek now. Every load of cum had aged him, and Albert now looked to be in his mid fifties, only a few years younger than I appeared. His massive beard was a tangled mass with a streak of white down the middle, his body covered with a riot of tattoos, his head bald aside from a short horseshoe of grey. His hole was loose and slick with cum, but he wanted to please me. He’d forgotten all about the old Albert at this point–now, he remembered something entirely different. How he’d pledged his life to me, promised to be my horny, cock hungry and cum starved fuckslave for the rest of his days. I came, and several men returned for seconds helpings of his hole–one especially filthy looking bear more interested in eating the cum from it and licking it off the floor than anything else. I took a tour of the room, filling in gaps here, intensifying a fetish there, cementing a relationship or two in stone. It was early morning by the time I was satisfied, and the men, all of them exhausted, but still sucking smoke from their pipes, filed their way back up from the basement, their old clothes and old lives forgotten in heaps left on the basement floor.

In the entry way, there were more gifts–larger ones this time, again with their names on the tag. New lives for all of them–they had all wasted the silver spoon gifted to them by their parents, and so I saw no reason why they shouldn’t have to work just as hard as I had, if they wanted to reclaim the quality of life they’d wasted partying, and ruining my sleep. Dirt crusted construction workers, grimy trash collectors, older men in cheap suits still plugging away at dead end office jobs–those were the lucky ones. Others became sex addled, unemployed rednecks who’d lived in the same filthy single wide trailers their whole lives, homeless bikers who spent their time whoring their bodie out at truck stops, and the worst became derelicts who spent their time begging for piss and cum outside of gay bars in the city. But none of them knew lives other than those any longer, and I didn’t regret it, watching them stumble out to their trucks and motorcycles and beat up sedans, driving off into the dawn, leaving me and my fat, old boy alone, and we returned to my–well, our–home.

The couple returned from their vacation on Monday, now childless, and stopped by to thank me and my “boy” for watching the house for them while they were away. I told them it had been no trouble at all, and we would be happy to do it again in the future. In fact, I had quite enjoyed that party I’d thrown, not that I told them about that, and figured I might host a few more with the men I’d changed in the future, to check on their progress. They did have one question which almost got me to laugh–there as a strange stain that had appeared on the Persian rug in the entryway–they wanted to know if either of us knew what had happened.

I shared a knowing look with my old boy through the haze of our pipe smoke, but told them no, neither of us had any idea. Still, if they needed help getting it out, I had an old secret for stains–it worked like magic.

Coach’s Summer Training – Part 2

Phillip Emerson was my next pupil. I’d met him while helping out with a few local wrestling meets at the college level. Part of what I liked about him was he was more than an exceptional all around athlete, he was incredibly smart to boot, in the midst of pursuing some degree in an advanced math program. Just the kind of guy I can destroy, and love every second doing it, usually with a bit of challenge along the way. Wrestling was his chance to not think for a while, he told me, and I figured that by the time we were through, he wouldn’t be thinking much at all. We spent a day in the ring getting nice and sweaty, and I offered him a massage to help him cool down afterward. I started on his shoulders, and immediately his body went limp, and he let out a groan. I urged him to relax, to just focus on his good it felt as I kneaded all the tension from my body. He still eventually noticed what I was doing, of course, once he saw his legs shrivelling up and disappearing into his torso. I started pulling him on, and he couldn’t do anything but flap his withering arms at me, his head shrinking down into his neck of the shirt as I pushed my head through. I sniffed the sweaty fabric and jacked off, making sure to shoot up the front–the first load of seed of many more to come.

As I expected, Phillip was too smart to be a screamer–he was a bargainer. He obviously knew that I wanted something out of him, but he didn’t know what. His mind was too adept for me to wear him down to the breaking point like I had Shawn–so I decided to work on him a little differently. I proceeded with what I had been planning, and I started a long, intense workout regimen which had Phillip soaked in my sweat from dawn to dusk, and as I lifted weights and ran my miles, I counted. I counted steps, I counted sets and reps, and I counted at him, and soon, unable to help himself, he was counting too. He didn’t exactly have much else to do, right? And he did love math, after all. Then, while he was busy counting, I could sneak around in his head, sand off off a little cleverness here, erode a little vocabulary there, take off a little bit of wit over there. By the time he noticed that he was getting dumber, it was too late–then he started screaming.

Thankfully he got too dumb to figure out why he should scream soon after that. Soon his mind was so far gone that pretty much all he could do was count–and not very high at that. He’d usually lose track somewhere around ninety during our runs–that jump to one hundred always seemed to confuse him, so he’d happily start back at one again over and over and over again. He was much better with sets and reps, of course–smaller numbers were better, he said. I had him eagerly sucking up all of my sweat at this point too. You know those fabrics that are supposed to wick away moisture? They don’t have anything on a jock trapped in a shirt sucking all your sweat up and drinking it down for you. I had also been making him bigger this whole time, baggier, with big arm holes and a low scooping neck. When I was happy with him, I decided it was probably time for the finale.

As I said, if I focus hard enough, I can keep someone as clothing even when they aren’t on my body. One morning, I finally peeled Phillip off my wet body, laid him out on a table, got out a black sharpie, and I started drawing. On the back I wrote “MUSCLE FAGGOT”, in big, thick letters, and then filled in the rest with smaller stuff. Some of it was writing–“Musk pig”, “Fuck my holes” with an arrow pointing down the back–but everything else was just swirls and blocks of black ink all over the shirt. He didn’t understand what I was doing at all–but once he was more black ink than white (well, “white” I suppose, he was really more of a dingy brown at this point) I released my focus, and the brand new Phillip Emerson emerged from his form.

He was huge–at least six and a half feet tall, and packed with muscle from neck to calf. Hell, he could have been an amazing bodybuilder, if it wasn’t for all of his tattoos. He was covered everywhere, even up onto his neck, face, and shaved head with tribal swirls. Of course, the centerpiece on his back was “MUSCLE FAGGOT” in massive letters so large it had to be spread down over two lines, and the simple minded oaf didn’t really know what was going on, but he could smell me, he could smell my musk, and so he got down and started cleaning my body for me. I fucked his surprisingly tight hole in return, before dropping him off at his home, a local gym. He lived upstairs there, and worked out day and night–when he wasn’t getting gangbanged by the regulars in the locker room. Being as stupid as he was came with some issues of its own. He was lucky that the owner was a sadistic fucker who loved the idea of keeping a big, stupid, muscle faggot pet for himself and all of his friends. Still, because he didn’t quite understand social standards, Phillip’s dick was kept locked 24/7, so he couldn’t just drop his shorts anytime and start jacking off like a pig during business hours. When he kept stripping his clothes off anyway, his master forced him to wear singlets, because he was too stupid to figure out how to take them off without help–and so he never did, usually wearing them until they started ripping and tearing at the seams, his locked cock obvious underneath the spandex. Needless to say, I keep a membership there now, but rarely to work out–I mostly just like to drop in on my muscle faggot on a regular basis. He’s always so excited when he smells me coming–even though he doesn’t even know why.

Rick and The Beast – Part 4

Alone in the room for the next several hours, there was very little Rick could do. His cock remained hard the entire time–he could still smell Officer Pike in the room, he could smell the sex they’d had, and he didn’t know which was worse–the fact that he kept hoping that the officer would come back and fuck him again, or the fact that he couldn’t stop himself from groaning and grunting and bucking the air in a mostly-mindless froth, desperate to cum, but the cage around his cock only made him ache. One month. One month, and he could have had a chance, but now he was never going to have a free cock ever again. What was Jim going to do to him now? What could he possibly do to him that was worse than everything he’d already done to him?

The door opened. Officer Pike was in the doorway, and so was The Beast, both of them stooped to enter the room. It was obvious that The Beast was unhappy. Rick could smell the anger rolling off him, even worse than the anger that evening in the cafeteria, and suddenly he was crying–sobbing really, pleading with him, asking for mercy, his cock still painfully hard at the smell of both men. Suddenly, he wasn’t begging for mercy anymore–he was begging for their cocks. He was begging them both to let him please them, and he couldn’t stop himself, he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t–

“Shut the fuck up, pig–I’ll deal with you in a moment.”

His mouth clamped shut. Is was both a relief and a terror, to know his master had that much control over him. It did nothing to bottle up his mounting lust, but at least he didn’t have to speak, at least he didn’t have to listen to himself beg. The Beast stripped off his practice clothes and then closed his eyes, his brow furrowed. Immediately, the scent of him in the room tripled in force–and Rick felt a searing pain in his crotch, as his cock pumped out a load of cum through the cage, unable to stop itself. It looked like The Beast’s muscles were rippling, and they were expanding. He was growing taller, his head nearly colliding with the eight foot ceiling. His hair and beard grew out longer and thicker, his body coated with hair, soaked in his sweat and musk. Rick had never imagined that he’d see someone so massive. He was a god. He was his god, he thought, and he came again in his cage.

Behind The Beast, Officer Pike’s eyes were rolled back into his head with pleasure, and he collapsed to his knees, the crotch of his pants darkening as he came uncontrollably as well. “Thank you, Sir, thank you…” he muttered to himself, as he spasmed. The Beast opened his eyes, and the scent died down, now that his transformation had finished. He turned around, and helped Officer Pike back up onto his feet. “Pike,” The Beast said, “you have disappointed me before, you know.”

“Yes sir, I know sir.”

“Today, you have proven your loyalty to me,” he pulled him close, bringing the officer close to one of his putting pecs, crowned with a thick nipple, “Drink–drink and grow, Alpha Pike.”

Officer Pike latched onto the nipple and started sucking, groaning and humping at his master’s body as he did. From behind, Rick watched the fabric of Officer Pike’s uniform grow taut as his muscles grew larger. He was growing taller as well, and soon he had to stoop slightly to continue sucking. After several minutes, The Beast pushed the Officer away, and he turned around, his eyes dim and hazy, something white dribbling from his lips. The front of his pants were soaked, but Rick couldn’t tell if it was piss or cum. The bulge in the Officer’s pants was substantially larger, however, and Rick wondered it it would hurt as much as his Master’s now.

The Beast pulled Pike back into him, listening to him moan. “Now, isn’t obedience so much better than obstinance?”

“Yes sir, thank you sir, for giving me a second chance. I should never have doubted you.”

“Uncuff the pig. Fuck him rough. Show me that you deserve be be one of my alphas, Pike.”

With a growl, the older man grabbed his uniform shirt, and tore it from his body, stripping off his pants in equal force, barely remembering the key to the handcuffs. Rick could feel Pike’s excitement, as he tried to unlock him, smell the energy coming from him. It was difficult to tell the difference between Pike and his Master–but now that they were together, he could detect slight differences. Most importantly, they were both alphas. They were meant to be obeyed. He was meant to serve. Pike finally got the cuffs off, but before Rick could stand up and bend over the table, Pike grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him from the chair, onto the tile floor. With one hand on the back of Rick’s head, grinding his face into the floor, the other planted on a shoulder, he drove his even larger cock deep into his hole with a single thrust. The previous fuck had been brutal, but this was something else. It was like some vital animal had been unleashed in the officer, and he eventually gripped Rick’s hips with both hands and fucked him like a doll, Rick just went limp, allowing Pike to do whatever he chose, trying to distance himself from the act, even as the waves of pleasure coursing through his fat body dragged him back into the act each moment. The Beast loomed over them both, and when Pike finally came, he hauled his cock out, stood up, and finished by soaking Rick down with a blast of piss from head to toe, Rick lapping it up from the floor before it could cool.

“You are a worthy Alpha, Pike,” The Beast said.

“Thank you, Master.”

“Leave us, I need some time with my pig–alone.”

Family Heritage – Part 1 (Patreon Commission)

When Grant heard the knock, his first thought was that Aaron was early for their date that evening, but the knock wasn’t familiar, and when he opened it, he instead found himself facing a package handler from UPS, bearing a small box that needed his signature. He hadn’t been expecting anything, and it wasn’t something he’d ordered online and forgotten about, so he took it in and opened it. On top were two sheets of paper–the top one was a short letter from a lawyer, the executor of his Great Uncle Reid’s estate over in Scotland. He remembered a couple weeks before, that his mother had mentioned him passing away, but none of them had been able to afford a ticket overseas to the funeral. Grant had only met him a few times, when the big, burly scotsman had visited the family when he was a kid and teenager. He’d always seemed especially interested in Grant when he came, but he’d never really thought much of it, and he certainly hadn’t expected to receive anything from his estate. The letter was merely informing him that this was the first of a set of packages he would be receiving, as per Reid’s instructions, as well as a list of what the package contained: one blank piece of paper aside from the number one written on one side, one tartan kilt, one smoking pipe, one bag of pipe tobacco, and one pipe lighter.

Grant had no idea why he’d received these things–he looked at the paper, but it was indeed blank, aside from a small circled number one in one corner. He’d never smoked a pipe, but the tobacco reminded him of dim memories from when he was a kid, sitting on Uncle Reid’s knee, tugging at his big red beard while he laughed, and while he hadn’t thought of him in years, he suddenly missed him very deeply. He remembered the last time he’d seen him, when he was a teenager, over a decade earlier, he’d taken him aside, and told him in a serious tone, with that heavy accent and smoke curling out his nose, he’d said:

“You ‘n me, we’re special guys, you know. Well, you may not know yet, but ye will. Just wish I was closer, so I could keep a better eye out. Still, you’ll understand one day, don’ worry, mah boy.”

And this was it? A pipe and a kilt? He looked down and saw that the blank page wasn’t blank any longer—rather, writing had appeared on it, the words, “Put it on and have a smoke–you’ll see.”

He set the pipe to one side, stripped down (after all, Uncle Reid had been adamant that the only way to wear a kilt was completely “bare arsed”) and pulled it on, but on his slimmer frame, he had to tighten the belt as much as possible just to keep it on him. And then…without really knowing why, he took the old, well worn pipe, packed it with tobacco, doing his best to remember how his uncle had done it, and gave it a light, sucking in smoke, trying not to cough. Almost immediately, he felt something strange–an itch all over his body. At first he didn’t think much of it, and just kept smoking, but it only got worse. He ran his hand over his other arm, and it felt furry–because it was. Where his arm had been mostly smooth moments before, now it was suddenly covered with dark red hairs.

He didn’t know what to do, but something else was wrong. His shirt was too tight, and the waist of the kilt too. He let out the belt a notch, and then another, trying to keep up with his body. Was he growing? He had to be, that was the only explanation. His shirt was becoming tighter and tighter, the collar biting into his neck, and he started tugging at it with both hands until it finally started ripping away, revealing a massive barrel chest covered with red fur, and a thick, muscular gut. He ran his rough hands over it, the terror still there, but now…now he starting to get horny. This was no time to jack off, and yet he reached under the kilt and grasped his cock–his…much larger cock–and gave it a few strokes, groaning and grunting as he did, feeling his balls slap against his thighs as they grew large and swung lower. He bit his lip and shot his load of cum against the underside of the kilt and across the floor in front of him.

He stood there, panting, for a few moments, and then rushed to the bathroom to see what had happened for himself. In the mirror, he still looked like himself…kind of. Like himself if he’d picked up the scottish red in his family, and his hair had grown everywhere. If he’d spent most of his time lifting weights and eating like a horse. He looked to be a few years older as well…or maybe it was just that his skin looked a bit more weathered than before. Strangest of all, the more he looked at himself, the more…normal he felt. In fact, he was having a hard time even remembering what he’d looked like before, and he took a few puffs off his pipe, letting the smoke billow through his mustache and beard like he’d seen his uncle do countless times, and his cock started hardening all over again. Had his uncle planned this whole thing? What was even happening to him?

He tromped back to the box, and discovered that the blank sheet of paper was now covered with writing on both sides–a letter from his uncle letting him know that Grant was the next in line to become the family warlock. This first box was merely a little gift from his uncle to prepare him, but in the next few weeks he would be receiving more packages full of various magical equipment. If he hadn’t just changed right before his own eyes, Grant never would have believed a single word. He was rereading the letter when someone knocked at the door, and he walked over and answered it, revealing Aaron.

Grant’s mind went blank. He tried to stutter some explanation, but Aaron just smiled and stepped inside like everything was normal, joking at his boyfriend for wanting to show off his body around the house. Grant shot some wit back, easing into his new accent like he’d been speaking that way his whole life, and it was only a few minutes later that he had Aaron on his knees under his kilt, licking as his “knob and bawbag”, and Grant smiled to himself, wondering what sorts of things might be coming arriving from his uncle’s estate in a few more weeks.

Stinkers (Part 3)

Jed slammed the door, and then punched a hole in the apartment wall. That was the third one. The third fucking prostitute, and every single one of them had reeked. Not unwashed reek, but this fucking reek of woman, and Jed hadn’t even been able to get past the nausea to fucking tough any of them. He stared at the hole he’d made, his arms raised up on the wall, his own unwashed stink calming him down, making him horny, making him hornier. He should take a shower. He’d already taken three showers, in fact, but as soon as he stepped out, it was like his body would immediately start sweating, and in less than five minutes, he’d be as filthy as before. But he had to do something, right? He had to try to get this faggot stink off of him somehow. He tromped back into the bathroom, and while he waited for the water to heat up, he stared at himself in the mirror.

What had that faggot done to him? He didn’t even look like himself anymore. He looked to be a good three or four inches taller, and his entire body was built like he’d been pumping iron at the gym for years. He was hairier, especially his chest, but even his arms and legs had a thick coating which hadn’t been there before, and his pits! They looked like fucking nests now, and the hair was always sopping wet with sweat. The same with his bush. If his cock hadn’t grown several inches longer, it would have been completely swallowed up by the mass of hair. Yeah, his cock. With that new foreskin which had grown over the head, he pulled it back and saw all the cheese he’d eaten off his fingers earlier (he hadn’t been able to control himself, he’d just had to taste it) had already been replaced with even more than before. It was disgusting. He was disgusting, he was turning into some freak faggot, and there didn’t seem to be anything he could do to stop it.

There was another knock on the door. Probably that prostitute angry that he’d refused to pay her. He could set her straight, get her and her stink the fuck away from him, but as he stomped towards the door, he smelled something else. Something familiar on the other side. Something far more…appetizing. No, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t let him in, he wouldn’t do that to himself, he wouldn’t be some stinking faggot like that! He’d fought it this long, he could fight it some more, he could bottle it up all over again, like he’d had to do before, but fuck. Fuck if his cock wasn’t hard as a rock. Fuck if his ass wasn’t twitching. Fuck if he wasn’t drooling into the two inch long beard he’d grown out in a single day. Fuck. Fuck it. He opened the door, and there, in the hall, was Sam.

He grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and hauled him inside, shoving him up against the wall, door still open, and just smelled him. Smelled his pits, smelled his neck, fell to his knees and pressed his face against his crotch, smelling his cock, the cock he’d been wanting to taste all day, the cock he fucking wanted so fucking much. Sam reached out, and swung the door closed. Jed kept sniffing for a few minutes, fighting the urge to rip the jeans apart and swallow him then and there, but he pulled himself back from the brink, and stood back up.

“How…how did you find me here?”

“How do you think I found you? I can smell you across the city, you idiot. Why’d you run off like that?”

“I’m not…not gonna let you make me a faggot.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “I can’t make you a faggot man, you just are one.”

“No…Fuck that. I’m not.”

“Look, this is my fault, I should have made sure you were finished before finding someone to stink up together. Let me help you man, cause you smell fucking amazing, and I can’t fuckin’ wait to see what you’re gonna be once you really let loose.”

Sam brought his mouth close; Jed could taste his hot breath. He’d never wanted to kiss a man before, that was true faggot territory, but…but he was so hungry, he was so horny, he closed the gap, pushing their mouths together, sucking Sam’s tongue into his mouth, chewing his lips, licking his mustache, pulling him closer, tighter, and then shoved him away, turning back, retreating into the apartment.

Sam stripped off his shirt, dropped his pants and dirty brown underwear, kicked off his shoes and pulled off his socks. Jed just watched from a distance. “Please, just leave. Don’t make me do this.”

Sam walked past him, Sat down on the couch, and put his feet up on the table. “I’m not going to make you do anything. You just do whatever feels good.”

So many, different, smells. Crotch, feet, ass, cock, balls, pits, neck, navel. Why was he fighting this? Why? He got down on his knees, and started at Sam’s feet up on the table, licking the tops, and then the bottoms, burrowing his tongue between the toes, milking his cock with one hand, licking his own precum off his palm. Sam was nursing his own hard cock, Jed could see the cheese under the foreskin, and he ran his tongue underneath it, collecting it, savoring it, and then took the head and sucked, and then swallowed the whole shaft. Faggot. He was a faggot. But instead of shame, he just felt…nothing. He just felt like himself. He felt more like himself. He felt his muscles swelling, his beard growing longer, hair coating his body in an even thicker layer than before. Sam pushed him off his cock, rolled over, got on his knees, ass towards Jed’s face, and he shoved his tongue as far up the chute as he could, grinding his beard into the shitty crack, and when Sam farted directly in his face, he almost lost it, he almost shot his load, but no, no, he needed to fuck. He stood up, licking the scum from his lips and beard, pressing his precum slick cock head against Sam’s dirty hole and forced it in. humping and fucking, holding out as long as he could, but he was shooting, and shooting deep. And he felt…free.

Free.

He stayed in Sam’s ass as long as he could, licking the sweat from his friend’s back, sniffing his pits, Sam telling him what a good fucker he was, what a good stinker he was, what a good faggot he was. He was a good faggot. And Sam was a good faggot. Or maybe bad and good had nothing to do with it, maybe they just…were. His cock slipped out, and he finished Sam off, sucking the cum out, letting most of his load splatter into his bushy beard, smiling up at Sam, seeing him smile back. Just a couple of stinking fags, like Jed had always wanted, even if he’d never really known.