The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 3 (Part 4)

I realized how vulnerable I was, then. I hadn’t told anyone on the force where I was going. I hadn’t brought along a partner. I had no one waiting for me at my home. My resistance was beginning to fade, and when the big brute started groping me through the front of my pants, I humped up into his palm, unable to stop myself. I did it on purpose, I realized. I’d wanted this to happen. I’d missed my opportunity twice, but not this time, not now. Now, I was going to get what I wanted–what I needed so desperately. Answers, yes, but more than that, I needed…these men. To taste them, and fuck them, and be fucked my them, drink their cum and their piss…anything. Anything they wanted, I would do it.

“Someone’s had a busy day–nice and crusty. How’d you know what I like, pig?”

Words failed me, and I doubt he expected an answer. He leaned in and kissed me instead, and everything just…faded away. I could smell the cum in his beard, taste it on his breath. He forced his hand down the front of my pants, got it wet with my own cum, and fed it to me, right there in the booth. I was so…eager, and I didn’t even know how to describe what I feeling in the moment. “How–How are you doing this?” I muttered.

“I wondered the same thing, for a long time. How he did it. In the moment, I didn’t even realize it was happening. If you want to know more though–you’re going to have to do something for me in exchange–after all, I don’t know if I can trust you with sensitive information like this sort of thing. Master would get pretty upset, knowing I spilled the beans to the detective who’s supposed to be finding him. Then again, that’s why he sent me to meet you. He’s…so close now. Closer than he’s ever been–I had no idea that he…I mean…” he was shaking, thinking about something. He’d been with the rapist recently, more recently than his first encounter with him, that he’d talked about, and he knew about Jules. If I could get him to talk, without losing my own head in the process, this was the opportunity I had to blow this whole thing wide open and put a stop to it before he got to anyone else, before anything got even more out of control than it already was.

At least, that’s what I told myself. Part of me believed it, but part of me…wanted something else entirely, the same part of me that had taken me to the two crime scenes. The part of me that was less interested in solving the case, and that I think was more interested in experiencing it. “I…I don’t know what kind of hold he has on you–on all of you, but you don’t have to do what he says. We can help you. Tell me where he is, and we can put a stop to it.”

He laughed then, louder than before, “Cop–you still don’t get it, do you? I’m not helping him because he’s telling me to, because he’s controlling me. I’m here, fucking with you, because I want to–because I know what he can do, and what he wants to do, and I can’t fucking wait to see it–and until you understand, I’m going to keep you…occupied.”

“But he…he raped you.”

“He raped someone that night, but it wasn’t me. You’ll understand, when he’s ready for you.”

“What does that even mean?”

“You want to know more? I’ll tell you things. Things you think you want to hear. But not here–you want to know more? Let’s go back to your place, get a little more intimate…”

He tried to kiss me again, but this time, I managed to push him away, and he let me slide out of the booth this time and stand up, panting, sweating, fresh cum in my sticky underwear. “No–come with me to the station. If you have something to say, say it there. Help me understand this, I want to understand what…what this is…”

“I know you do, pig, but I can’t do that. This isn’t about a crime. This isn’t about laws, or justice. Not anymore, not for you, is it? Why were you back at the house today? At that warehouse? You weren’t investigating shit–you were there because you wanted to be there. This is about you now–and I’m happy to tell you more, but only you. That, or you can find out with everyone else, soon–but I don’t think you’ll last that long, because part of you already knows, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know anything, I don’t understand how any of this is possible.”

“There’s…a voice you keep hearing, isn’t there? A voice, but it isn’t words. It’s feelings. If you ignore it, it gets louder, and if you listen to it, it gets bigger. It’s always been there, hasn’t it? Even before all of this?”

“No, there’s nothing.”

The biker looked at me then, and then shrugged, “Well, there’s something there now, isn’t there? You obviously know what the hell I’m talking about, or you wouldn’t be shaking like that.”

I turned and left then. I needed air, but outside, it didn’t help. Had I heard the voice before? Had I felt this before? Maybe. I lived alone, and had for years at this point, as everyone else from the academy I’d known had settled down, gotten married, and was having kids. I’d gone on dates, sure, and I’d always considered myself straight, but was that really true? Did I like having sex with women? I honestly didn’t enjoy their company, and usually prefered getting a drink with another guy or three from the department, but nothing had ever gone further than that. I jacked off, sure, but…but was there more? Should there be more? Was there something there I’d been forgetting all of this time? There were…times. Times I’d slipped on my leather gloves, jacked off with them on, jacked off in uniform. I’d wanted to be a cop for so long–that was the voice I’d felt, I realized. Was it quiet now, just because I’d made it happen?

The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 3 (Part 3)

It wasn’t until I was closer to my home that the thought occurred to me that the man tailing me could very well be The Bruiser himself. Whoever he was, it was likely he didn’t mean me well. I got my gun ready, in any case, as I pulled into the driveway of my home, and watched as the biker drove on by, head turned to look at me as he passed, turned the corner, and drove off again. A threat? Maybe. Maybe just reconnaissance. Was this rapist working with a group? It didn’t seem to fit what Bernard had described to me, but the level of planning taken in Ray’s case suggested the rapist could have outside help. In any case, all I could do was wait.

I went inside, checked that the doors and windows were secure, and then went to get my clothes off so I could take a shower, when there was a pounding on the door. By the time I opened it, whoever it was had left, leaving just a note taped up. It promised information, but said they didn’t trust the police enough to go in for questioning. Instead, they wanted to talk somewhere else–a bar known for having a relatively rough reputation, but nothing I couldn’t handle. The time on the note didn’t leave me a lot of time to change or get ready, so I grabbed a quick bite to eat, got back in my car and left, heading for the rendezvous with the mysterious biker–and I still hadn’t managed to shower, and the horniness was only getting worse.

Was he another victim? It seemed likely, but if he was, how had he escaped from the rapist’s clutches? Unless it had happened a while ago–from Marcus’s account, the rapist had been active for years at this point, even if this was the first time he was operating in the open. Could I trust him? Did I have a choice? Given what the rapist could do to his victims, it could be I was walking right into a trap, but this was a risk I was willing to take at the time. I think I would have been willing to do anything for answers, at that moment.

I got to the bar, and the biker was waiting for me inside–he’d taken a booth in the corner, where we could have a reasonably private conversation. I slid in across from him, and as far as first impressions went, I had little doubt he was someone the rapist had gotten his hands on at one point or another–he was of the same type. Tall, thickly muscled, though not as much as Ray, with a thick gut. His bare arms were extremely hairy, he had a tangled beard running down to his belly button, and when I slid into the booth, the smell of him made me gag for a moment, though I couldn’t pinpoint it immediately. There was smoke–cigars, I thought, and the smell of booze and unwashed musk, but overpowering all of that was a thick, heady scent of what I eventually pegged as dried cum.

It had been difficult to see in the dim light of the bar, but the man’s denim clothes were stiff and yellow with it, and the reason his beard and hair seemed so tangled was because it was caked and flaky. I was just…stunned, sitting there, wondering how many loads, how many men it had taken for him to look like this. He grinned at me, and leaned closer. “Didn’t think ya were stupid enough to come, ya pig. Good ya did though–makes all this a whole lot easier than breakin’ intah yer house woulda been.”

The rapist…was this him? I tried to get back up, but he grabbed me by the hand and yanked me back down into the booth, this time next to him. Inches away from his body, the smell was so much more powerful, and while I was still revolted, by nose was already growing used to it, just like I had to Ray’s stench in the car. I had to get away from him. I didn’t know what caused it exactly, but I couldn’t have this biker affecting me like Ray or Bernard had before. “You piece of shit, I won’t let you get away with this again, you’re going away for a very long time,” I said, or something to that nature.

The biker gave me a surprised look, and then laughed, “You got it all wrong man, I ain’t the master–trust me. If he was here…well, you’ll understand when you meet him yourself, soon enough. He ain’t ready for you yet, but boy, I think he’s got plans fer you…should see the way he smiled when he told me about you earlier.”

My mind was racing. Who could have known about me? Someone from the station? Maybe Marcus wasn’t a victim at all, but the mastermind behind this whole thing.

“Had a nice long chat with that copper that muscle pig brought with him from the station, told Master all about you and the case, or what he knew about it. Master ‘n I–we go way back. Tah think I was just some skinny little faggot, sucking cock in the rest area. He knew what I really wanted though–he knows what every man wants, and is too afraid to take for themselves. But I learned. I…fuck, I didn’t want to at first, none of us want to, right away, but we all learn to love it. To love who we can be. To love him most of all–but fuck, this shit is off the hook now! Don’t know what happened to him since last time I saw him, but whatever he pumped me full a this time…I don’t even know how tah describe it.”

The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 3 (Part 2)

I found myself wondering if Ray, before meeting the rapist, had wanted this too, in a way, like Bernard had. Maybe the reason the two of them weren’t being honest with me, was because these weren’t really rapes at all…no, no, I didn’t really mean that, I suppose. These men had been violated, and twisted somehow, but it was like the rapist was channeling their own desires back at them. But then why had Ray been gone for four months, but Bernard only a week? The inconsistencies had to add up to something, but I didn’t know what, and it was getting harder and harder to think, my hand drifting to my crotch to grope my cock again as I sat there on the weight bench.

Why Jules? Had Ray pissed on him on purpose? Had he chosen him, or had it just been luck–good or bad, depending on how you were feeling about it? I wondered if I had been closer to him, if I’d pushed through his musk, and it had been me struck by that piss…would I have done what Jules had done, gotten him right out of the jail? He’d seemed interested in me, when we’d been driving, and while in the interview room, but it was Jules he’d been wanting to see. He…knew Jules was weak, somehow. I didn’t have any explanation for it, or how it could have worked, aside from magic, but I didn’t believe in magic. In this job, I had increasingly come to believe that all sex is just power. Holding power over someone, or giving power up to someone else, willingly or not. Maybe I hadn’t been good enough for him. Jules was bigger than me. Stronger than me. I was the weak one. I wasn’t…strong enough, was I?

I found myself searching for the place where Ray had pissed all over him, found a bit of it still pooling in the ridged floor of the shipping container, and just stared at it, inhaling the fumes off of it, feeling my mind slowing down even more. I…wanted to be enough. I wondered where they were, and what they were doing. No–I knew what they were doing, or I could guess well enough. After all, I knew what I would have been doing with him, if he’d taken me. I managed to keep myself from licking it up, jacked off again, shooting my cum onto the floor, and then left while my head was still somewhat clear. I was too jittery to drive, so I sat in my car, thinking about Ray, and Bernard, and wondering what all of these thoughts in my mind even were. I’d never been interested in men before this–I wasn’t a fag, and I didn’t really have anything against them, either, but this also didn’t…feel like I had somehow become gay, either. This was a specific desire. I didn’t want men, in general–I wanted these men. Either one of them, both of them, I didn’t know–but the desire was so specific, and I no longer knew, honestly, if I wanted to solve the case so I could stop this rapist, or if I just wanted to find either of them and see where these thoughts led.

I tried to calm down, but at this point, the only thing that seemed to work was jacking off. I hauled my cock out again, and noticed how many cum stains I had on my shirt and slacks from the day. It seemed like so much more than it could have possibly been, and I wondered if I’d been jacking off more without even realizing it, or maybe just leaking cum right into my pants this whole time. I didn’t want to think about it, I wanted to think about Ray, about getting…bigger for him, about smelling him, and smelling like him, about my mind fading away until nothing else mattered, until it was just him, and I came again, spraying myself with another load, the skin of my cock red and a bit chaffed. I needed to get home and take a shower–I’d feel better if I got cleaned up. Clean myself up, and then call the Captain and tell him I was done–that something was wrong with me–and wrong with this case. I’d gotten too close to it, or it had gotten too close to me, and they needed someone to blame this mess on, so it might as well be me. I could take the hit to my career, if it meant I could stop feeling like this. For the first time in my life, I wondered if this career, if being a cop was too much–but I pushed that away. If there was one thing about me, some core thing that I know, that I still know, it’s that I want to be a cop, whatever that means. To me, it means order–someone who orders the chaos, who makes sense of it, who judges it and controls and moderates it. That I’d questioned it for even a moment shook me more than the smell of that piss had, and I knew I needed to get out of here.

I started the car, and in the rearview mirror I noticed something–there was a bike parked behind me with a big brute on it, not doing anything in particular. I pulled away from the crime scene, and when I did, the biker revved up his bike and followed me back onto the main roads. He was tailing me, but he wasn’t very good at it–that, or he wanted me to know he was following me. Should I go back to the precinct? That was the smart idea, the better idea, but if I spooked him and he ditched me, it would be back to square one with this case. No–I needed him to follow me. I needed a lead, badly, and this might be my only shot.

The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 3 (Part 1)

If you need a refresher, you can find the first two episodes collected here: https://www.gayspiralstories.com/newSeries/show/216537

With no leads to be found, and with my two primary victims gone, I had nothing to do but return to the scenes of the crimes, in order to find something I could use to try and find this Bruiser, or at the very least, to figure out where either Ray or Bernard had gone to, so I could get them back and get to the bottom of what had happened to them both. Things at the precinct were going south quickly. The media was hounding us, and it was clear that the brass was looking for someone to blame–and presently, I was the only one left who could be seen as having any real responsibility for the mess this case was quickly becoming. It was good to get out of there for a bit, but going back to Bernard’s home, and going back to that storage container especially, were difficult for other reasons.

Do you know how, when you’re trying not to think about something–something bad, like a traumatic memory, or some shitty thing you did to someone–that trying to not think about it always seems to make you think about it more? That forgetting something isn’t something you can really do, consciously? Down in that basement, where we’d found Bernard chained to the wall, I just kept seeing him there, thinking about him, naked, thinking about what I could have done differently, and wondering what in the world had happened to him to just make him snap like that. But mostly I thought about that evening when I’d come here, after that interview, and I’d…I’d wanted to fuck him.

More than fuck him. I’d been so furious with him, for blowing apart my case like that, especially angry now that everything else was falling apart on me, angry at him for lying about his past, angry at him for…for so much that I couldn’t even blame him for. Angry at myself for not being able to save him, angry that I hadn’t dragged him back down here and chained him back up, chained him here were he could have been…safe.

How fucked is that. I was thinking about putting him back down here, thinking about chaining him to the wall and fucking him, fucking him day and night, abusing him over and over because…because I don’t know why! It was just a thought–no, more than a thought, just a need, or a delusion that seemed to follow so logically from one thing to another, that even though I knew it was immoral, and wrong, and fucking monstrous, but I couldn’t make myself stop thinking about it, no matter how hard I tried. The harder I pushed against it, the hornier I became, and if I gave in and even started to consider it, it would worm in deeper, and I…I jacked off down there, in the basement, jacked off thinking about him, how I should have kept him down here, down where a slave like him belonged, that I shouldn’t have missed my fucking opportunity to make him mine. If I’d made him mine, he would have had to tell me everything. He’d have to be honest, but I’d…I’d let him go like an idiot. He could have been mine, but I’d been too stupid to see it.

I left, and the thoughts came with me. I couldn’t get them to quiet down–the only thing that seemed to help at all was jacking off, but they’d return after an hour or so, stronger than ever. I went for a drive, telling myself I just needed some time to think, a chance to clear my head a bit, but without even thinking about it, I ended up driving down to the docks, back to that abandoned warehouse, finding my way to the taped off shipping container. The doors had been closed and relocked, and after I opened it, it smelled nearly as strong as when we’d opened it the first time, but now, it didn’t seem to bother me. His musk hadn’t bothered me at all, really, since he’d ridden with me in my car back to the station. If anything…I found myself enjoying it. I felt calmer, the mania that had been gripping me since going to Bernard’s house began to ease off a bit, losing myself a bit in the tight space and the dark.

I walked past the workout equipment, trying to imagine what it must have felt like, being stuck in here. Ray hadn’t seemed upset by it, he’d been content to just workout…but there had been something else odd about this place. Bernard’s house had shown signs of being lived in. We found no evidence of anyone else, of course, but there had been new food in the cabinets and in the fridge, no dust on the table–little things. There had been someone there, even if we had no idea who. But no one could live here. There was barely space to turn around in, and no space to lie down and rest, no source of water, no plumbing, not even a bucket. It didn’t make sense–why collar Bernard down in a basement and supervise him, but go to the trouble of locking Ray in here, alone–possibly for months?

Unless it hadn’t been months. Unless he’d been somewhere else, and the rapist had only moved him here when he was ready to reveal him. But what was special about this place? Why risk moving him, when Ray could use that information against him when he got free? I supposed that Ray hadn’t exactly had the same sort of privacy as Bernard had had, since he’d allegedly been living in an apartment at the time of his disappearance, but then where had he gone in the meantime? I took a seat on the bench, and noted the weight still on the bar behind me–285 pounds of weight. There were only one or two guys on the force who could bench something like that.

Curse of the Homophobe (Part 5)

No–no, this isn’t him. This isn’t his life! He was younger, he was younger and he…he lived in the city, and he was going to school…but so many of the details were missing. This life seemed so much more real than that one–he’d let himself get sucked in too far. The pig was sucking on his foot, and he kicked it off, making it squeal, and ran to the bathroom. He needed to be alone, he needed some time to think. The bathroom was filthy, filthier than anything he’d seen before in his life, but he felt so…comfortable in it. He looked at himself, at the hulking, stinking man he’d become, hair everywhere, and he…hated himself. He hated that he’d let himself become this disgusting thing, this thing he’d never wanted to be, and he wanted out.

But do you remember?

Was that his voice? No–he remembered that voice. Is was that darkness, from that night in his room, a room he couldn’t remember, but the darkness he knew very well. It terrified him, the searing laughter in the question. It knew he couldn’t remember, not all of it.

You can’t go back if you don’t remember–just forget it all. Wouldn’t it be easier to stay?

He shook his head, hair flying. He focused on what he could remember. On youth, on…school, of some sort, on sports…he could remember something about sports, and being a jock…or had that been another life? It all seemed so muddled together in his memory, and trying to pull any of it apart only made it seem like it would crumble at any moment. It was working, though. He could feel his body shifting–shrinking somewhat, his mind clearing, the redneck pig farmer slipping away into the dark, back into the spirit that had conjured it. His memory was becoming clearer now. He could remember school–college. College? Hadn’t he been going to high school?

He opened his eyes and saw his face. A face he could recognize better, without all of the hair around him. Younger, but still grungy. He had a short beard now, mostly because he was too lazy to bother with shaving, or really much hygiene at all…right? Hadn’t he been cleaner? It was too hard to remember, and resisting the spirit was too much of a struggle. This wasn’t…right, but it was better. It was what he had. He splashed some water on his face, and the room around him started to twist as well. Still a bathroom, but not the bathroom from the trailer…but also not his own bathroom in the dorm where he lived. Where…was he?

There was a knock on the door. “Hey, sexy fucker–I’ll throw in another 200 if you…leave me something in that toilet.”

His guts twisted–it was Robbie, the filthy construction worker he’d sleep with on occasion because he’d pay him 500 for a fuck–and honesty…Evan did kind of like how much of a filthy pig he was. Didn’t like him enough that he’d fuck him for free of course, but he couldn’t get sex like this from anyone else. Robbie would do anything to lick Evan clean after football practice, among other things…and 200 hundred extra dollars couldn’t hurt. He sat down, did his business, didn’t flush, and then left. Robbie took a look, shoved the 700 into his hand and pushed him out of the apartment, barely giving Evan a chance to get his shorts and shirt back on, and then he was out, his life sorting itself out in his mind as he left the shoddy apartment building where Robbie lived a few blocks from campus, and headed for his dorm.

His memory was clearer now–he could remember better who he’d been–Evan the slender twink, a senior in high school–but the opportunity to get back there had closed. Who he was now was…substantially different, especially physically. His body was packed with muscle and fat, the perfect build for an offensive lineman. He’d aged up, and was a junior in college, on track for a potential pro career, if his sexuality didn’t torpedo things for him. He was also out of the closet–a rarity, and the team kind of hated him for it, but he was so good, no one gave him shit…usually. In fact, walking back to campus, it was the first time he could remember walking anywhere in the city, and no one called him a queer, or a faggot…or even really noticed him much at all. It was a relief in some ways. It meant that the curse was less likely to trigger, if nothing else.

He got a text on his phone, and saw, with some surprise, it was from Curtis. He, apparently, was going to college now too, and had sent him a pic of him naked, bent over, ass to the camera–one of his standard booty calls. Evan’s cock jumped to attention, tenting out the front of his mesh shorts. Even though he’d just plowed Robbie’s fat ass…he could always use a round with Curtis. No one had a hole like his…but he couldn’t. He needed help–someone somewhere had to know about this curse, and how to get rid of it, but where could he go? He didn’t know anything about this stuff, after all. Maybe it would be best to try and forget about it, if there was nothing he could do about it. So he headed for Curtis’ dorm instead, let himself in, and spent the next half hour fucking the twink’s tight hole until it was nice and loose, loving how high the bitch could moan, loving how he could make him beg–loving the power he had. The power he had over both of them now, he supposed, since Robbie was the same…just with different inclinations. No one was going to talk shit about him, not to his face at least. Maybe…maybe he could be safe like this, if he just kept his head down, and didn’t make waves. Maybe the spirit would get tired of him, and go away on its own, if he refused to give it what it wanted.

He did his best, for a few days. He went to practice, and went to class, fucked Curtis regularly, finding the rhythm of this new life. Not once in that time did he hear a slur…and he was beginning to have hope that he might be normal enough now to get through this. The curse was willing to be patient though, because it knew he would hear something soon enough–not even something necessarily directed at him. Someone would be talking about him behind his back–or he would hear a slur directed at someone else he was with. It wouldn’t matter–he’d change again, and the spirit would have its satisfaction.

***

Alright, who’s going to insult him this time?

His preppy, conservative roommate complains about him.
He overhears two coaches talking shit about him after practice.
He and Curtis get stopped by cops after going to a gay bar.
Some ROTC members gossip about him nearby.

Here’s the twitter poll

Here’s the patron poll

Voting ends on Tuesday!

Curse of the Homophobe (Part 3) [Interactive]

“Fuck, I ain’t been this drunk in years, what the fuckin’ *hic* hell?” Robbie slurred. Evan was half carrying, half dragging, him along the sidewalk, back to his truck, feeling buzzed for sure, but he’d drivin’ drunker than this before plenty of times.

“Yeah, well, just be thankful I’m feelin’ generous tonight. Could just leave ya passed out on the sidewalk, let the faggots git ya.”

“Fuck Ev, fuckin’ faggots would be better than the rank stink rollin’ off yer pits.”

“That’s what a real man smells like, one who actually works instead a just standin’ around like a lazy fuck all day,” Evan grumbled, then added, “Ya probably like it anyway, ya smell worse than I do.” When he did, he felt the shiver of the curse roll though him, which he hadn’t felt much at all that day, aside from a few weak, casual remarks. Sure enough, the smell from Robbie grew a bit more intense–and he felt a stirring in his guts. Thankfully they were at his truck so he could unsling Robbie against the passenger side and let him lean there, and get a hold of himself. After all–he had a job to do first, if he wanted out of this awful life.

“Did…smell kinda nice…” Robbie muttered under his breath.

“What the fuck was that?”

Robbie realized what he’d said, and his face went pale, “Nothin’ just…just drunk shit.”

Evan glared at him, and then looked down, “Is your fuckin’ dick hard?”

Robbie looked down, and saw that he had a tent in the front of his jeans, “Just…happens when I get drunk, sometimes…”

“Didn’t realize eight beers could turn you into a faggot,” Evan said, and felt another shiver as he walked around the truck and climbed in, Robbie following suit, trying to wrestle with the feelings of attraction for Evan he’d never expected, but which he could not deny. The truck smelled like Evan–and that did nothing to make his sudden hard-on go away. If anything, all he could think about was how good his pits had smelled before. He scooted over a bit as Evan pulled out, hoping to catch another whiff, and then just…leaned over onto him, feigning he was fainting, got a good sniff before Evan cursed and shoved him back upright. “Fuck! I’m tryin’ tah drive.”

“Can’t…I lean on ya, sleep it off a bit?”

Evan sneered at him, “Tell ya what, faggot–I got a place ya can rest yer head–smells ‘bout as good as my pits, too,” he reached under the wheel while he was stopped at a light, undid his jeans, grabbed Robbie’s face and shoved him into his crotch under the wheel, where the smell of Evan’s piss and cum stained underwear made Robbie release an unexpected moan. Horrified at himself, and knowing how this looked to Evan, he tried to pull away, but Evan shoved him down harder, holding him until he stopped fighting, and then got on the highway–heading for his trailer, rather than Evan’s home. None of his usual bitches would be around this late…and in all honesty, having this faggot all horned up on his stink was turning Evan on in a way he hadn’t quite felt before. He wasn’t a faggot of course–but real men like him could use faggots for whatever they fucking wanted–and faggots at least never whined like bitches did, when he wanted to put it in their ass.

Robbie had stopped fighting, but when Evan saw his hand drifting towards his own cock, he slapped it away. “Get your filthy hand off that thing, faggot–focus on what you really want.”

By the time they reached his trailer, Evan was already hard and leaking, and he could see that Robbie was too, judging from the wet spot on the front of his jeans. He parked and hauled Robbie up by the hair, his beard matted with slobber, eyes dazed with drunkeness and the discovery of new delights. Robbie wiped his lips with the back of one hand, “Didn’t…think you were a fag too…why…this ain’t my place, where–”

Evan snarled and slammed him against the door of the truck, one huge hand around his neck, “I ain’t a fuckin’ fag! I’ve fucked every cunt in a twenty mile radius, and they all want more. You ain’t here cause I’m a fag–yer here because faggot pigs got their own qualities I happen to enjoy. We ain’t the same. I’m a real man, and you’re a faggot. A stupid, nasty minded, perverted pig faggot who’ll do fuckin’ anything to get a taste a real man’s body once in your life–you understand that?”

Robbie nodded, and the shiver ran through them both. “Yes, sir,” he croaked out.

“I could kill you, bury your worthless corpse out here and no one would ever know. No one would care about a worthless fag like you. That means, yer only gettin’ through this if you keep me very happy, and do everything I say–got it faggot?”

Robbie tried to speak, but Evan gripped him tighter, and all he could do was croak. Then he released him, and got out of the truck, leaving Robbie heaving for breath, horrified that as terrified as he was…he was still more turned on by this than he’d ever been in his life. Evan came around, opened the passenger door, grabbed Robbie by the collar of his shirt and hauled him out onto the ground. He started to get up, but Evan planted a heavy work boot on his back, “Pigs crawl in the presence of real men–understand?”

Robbie snorted in agreement, and followed Evan into his trailer on his hands and knees. He was horrified that someone might see him…but did he really care? Anyone who looked at him could see him for what he was. He couldn’t deny it anymore, feeling his heavier gut scraping the gravel as he crawled, smelling the stench of his body around him–but it wasn’t the same as Evan’s scent. Evan…he was a real man, not like him at all. He deserved to be worshiped. He’d…do anything for him, anything he demanded, and as humiliating as that revelation was, he couldn’t deny any of it.

The next few hours passed in a haze for them both. Evan didn’t need to encourage Robbie much further than he had, to get the fledgling pig to give up the last remnants of his self-respect, groveling on the flithy floor of the trailer, begging him to allow the pig to taste his feet, eat out his pits, and wash out his sweaty, hairy crack with his tongue. As he did, Evan felt himself warping too, loving the power of his musk, feeling his body full of strength and vitality even as Robbie seemed to grow fatter and filthier. He ended up filling the pig’s ass with his cock on the bed, making him snort and grunt and beg for more, beg him to go deeper, sealing his fate as he came–but even as the curse’s power ebbed within him, the desire to fuck didn’t. He…could go further. Push the pig further, or hell, go find another pig around here. He knew of a few assholes in the trailer park who could use a little…discipline from a real man like him. He could make a weekend of it. After all, he could always find his way back to himself on Monday….right?

Alright, so, this vote (and others that will follow this one) has a bit of a twist. Because of how this curse works, Evan always has a chance of being trapped in these personas, and the deeper he goes, the more likely he will forget his real self, and be stuck as the curse’s twisted persona for the rest of his life. The first choice below, “pull out now” comes with no risk of him being trapped. Evan will change back, suffer some consequences from his time as a musky construction worker, and will continue on until he gets insulted again by someone else. The other options below will continue along with this persona, each with a risk of trapping him in this persona permanently–which will be a game over for this branch. Not a total ending to the interactive though! I’ll backtrack to the beginning, and we can pick a different path to pursue instead.

Pull out now and change back to himself. (0% risk of ending)
Turn an abusive neighbor into a cuckold. (20% risk)
Some young redneck brothers get a little closer to each other, with his help. (40% risk)
Spend the weekend focused on Robbie, making them both filthier. (60% risk)

Here’s the twitter poll!

Here’s the Patron poll!

Voting ends on Wednesday the 6th!

The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 2 (Part 4)

I didn’t tell him about the apartment just yet–instead, I asked him about Bernard, about whether anything he’d seen him say reminded him of his own experiences. He was dismissive of him. Bernard didn’t know anything, really. He said that he didn’t matter, that he could see Master had gotten tired of him, found nothing worth his time and effort, not like him–and only realized after the fact that he’d let his guard slip. I pressed him, and he clammed back up, refusing to say anything at all. He knew more about this–all of it–than he was willing to tell me, but I didn’t understand why. What sort of loyalty could this rapist possibly engender in his victims, that they would go to these lengths to defend him, and praise him? I had seen Stockholm syndrome before, on rare tragic occasions, but this…this was something else. This was a degree of change and control that, I had no reasonable explanation for at all.

He wanted to leave, and I told him it would be best if he settled down, and waited for his clothes to arrive, so he wouldn’t leave walking around in a prison jumpsuit. He didn’t argue with the point…but I think he also realized that no one was going to be finding anything of his back at the address he’d given me in the car. Instead, I went to my superiors–I wanted to hold him overnight, or really, as long as I could manage. I knew, if I wasn’t careful, that as soon as he was out of here, he’d disappear just as quickly as Bernard had. Ray changed tactics, and instead started asking about Jules–he still wanted to apologize to him for his accident earlier, and I told him I’d do my best to find him…but he was beginning to panic. Jules, however, had returned from his place, wearing a new change of clothes, and so I told him Ray wanted to talk to him and apologize–and that anything he could do to convince him to cooperate would be a big help.

Jules was a bit off, though. I didn’t realize it in the moment–after all, what we’d been through that day had us all a bit on edge, but I remember smelling the piss on him still–piss and something else, something that I now think was probably his own cum, judging by what happened later. Maybe if I’d been less distracted, I could have prevented what happened next–but as I was about to go down with Jules to see him, Marcus, Mr. Cold Case, came barging in, demanding to see the latest victim I was holding. Jules went down to talk to Ray, while I dealt with him. I refused to let Marcus get involved, of course and he had no legal ground to demand anything from me at all– but I was more interested in how he’d learned about us bringing him in, because as far as I’d heard, no one from the media had caught wind of the case yet. He made a scene eventually–I think he was trying to get locked up down in the hold with him, but in the end he left without doing anything stupid. With that taken care of, I went down to holding, only to discover that, while Marcus had been distracting me, Ray had simply left.

To say I was furious was an understatement. I demanded to know who, exactly, had cleared him to leave, and the officers on duty told me that Jules had gone into the room with him for a few minutes, alone, and then the two of them had left the precinct together. I went into the room where the session had been taped, rewound the footage, and watched and listened to what had happened when Jules had gone into the room, but as…normal as the encounter might have seemed on the surface, something was very, very wrong.

Jules had entered the room and hurried over to where Ray was standing, getting…very close to him, and on the tape, I think I can hear him sniffing, or maybe even snorting. “There you are,” Ray said, “I wanted to say sorry for gettin’ my piss all over you earlier,” Ray says, putting one massive arm around Jules’ shoulder, and bringing him close, turning around so their backs were to the camera. Whatever was said next I can’t make out on the tape–they’re both talking too quietly, but I can see Jules leaning in closer and closer, nodding along to whatever Ray is telling him, and then they leave–and when they leave, I can see that Jules is hard as a rock in the front of his uniform pants, eyes a bit distant, licking his lips–and Ray just looks…thrilled with himself, somehow.

I called Jules immediately, but he didn’t answer. The Captain was furious that we’d just let a victim walk out without getting any information about where he was going or what he was planning on doing–and I didn’t have a good answer for him. I went by Jules house that evening to talk to him, but his wife told me he’d come home to change, reeking of something awful, and had left again without even bothering to shower. He didn’t show up again the next day either, and now the Captain was even more furious–not only had a victim walked out on us, leaving us with a dead end on the most high profile case in years, apparently he had kidnapped one of our own cops in the process.

I had no leads. All I had was the video from the interrogation room, and so I poured over it, turned up the volume as much as I could, watching body language from those few minutes, trying to understand. Trying to understand why, without even knowing why, I kept trying to jack off while I watched it. Trying to understand why I could still…smell him, even now, as I walked around the precinct. I found nothing–and so I started digging into Ray’s past, only to discover it was scrubbed. No employment records. No driver’s license. No birth certificate. Someone had wiped him off the face of the Earth, whoever he’d been, and left a stinking brute in his place–and the monster who did it had who knew how many other victims in the wings, ready to reveal to the world whenever he wanted–and there was nothing I could do to stop him.

To Be Continued…

The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 2 (Part 3)

Eventually, what I had first assumed to be the man’s mindless obsession shifted into…something more self-aware. Jules, the only one of us who could get close to him, and honestly, the only one of us large enough to really compare to him, kept trying to get him to stop, and at one point, tried to block his way when he went to move to a different machine. The huge fucker just stood chest to chest with Jules, his jaw as slack and eyes as distant as they had been since we entered, sounding confused…and then he pissed all over him. In the halflight, as Jules sprang back, cursing, uniform soaked, I swore I saw the man sneer nostrils flared, his cock half hard as he pushed past Jules and worked through the next set in his routine. Jules went home to clean himself up, and the rest of who remained discussed whether we were going to have to drag him out of there by force. As we reached the decision to get some gas masks if necessary and drag him out, he dropped the barbell he’d been lifting with a clatter, announced that he was finished, and that he could leave with us.

We suggested he go to the hospital to get checked out and cleaned up, and he refused. He didn’t want to go to a hospital, he insisted that he felt perfectly fine, and he didn’t see any reason at all why he needed to get clean. I told him that there was no way he would be riding back with us anywhere smelling like that, and he just shrugged. “I don’t even know why you’re here. I was just doin’ my workout, when you barged in here.” His voice was gruff, with a practiced stupidity I didn’t quite believe was authentic. I told him that someone had called 911 and reported a rape victim, and since he was the only person in the area, we assumed the call had meant him. He looked down at himself, clenching and unclenching his fists a few times. “I…I mean, at first…” he muttered, then shook his head. “No, I’m fine, but…but I…I’m sorry for, uh, pissin, earlier, I don’t always have the best control or focus when I’m workin’ out. Is he…around? The guy I soaked? I’d like to apologize.”

“He’s back at the station,” I lied, “Why don’t you ride back with me, answer a few questions I have, and you can get a chance to apologize then.”

“Am I under arrest? I didn’t do nothin’,” he said.

“You’re welcome to do whatever you want…though I would like to know why you were trespassing on private property here. If you were here of your own volition, then I’ll have to charge you with squatting.”

He got real quiet. I didn’t understand what he was playing at, at the time. Why not just come out with it, and admit it? Then again, if he’d been in here more than a few days, he would have had no idea about the other case that had just come to light. Right then, he thought he was alone. “There’s others, you know. You aren’t the first one to deal with this. I know it seems impossible, looking at yourself, but I’m willing to believe just about anything you tell me about him at this point, after what I’ve seen already.”

Another inscrutable look, but one which I was certain contained some anger. That surprised me more than just about anything else had, that day. It was enough to convince him to come along with us back to the station to take a statement, at least–he rode back with me, giving me plenty of time to get…accustomed to his musk. It was heady, but it also wasn’t…old, if that makes sense. Rather, it smelled fresh in a way I couldn’t quite describe, and as I adjusted to it and found myself able to breathe a bit more normal, I felt a stirring in my crotch, and my cock started to harden inexplicably. I distracted myself with some basic questions–getting his name (Ray Campbell), whether he had anyone he wanted us to contact (no one that he was willing to name), and where he lived, so we could get him a change of clothes (an apartment downtown, though at the mention of clothing, he gave a dismissive grunt). I radioed someone to head to his apartment, with his permission to enter, and then we arrived at the station. I got him a blanket, but the only clothing I had for him was a jail jumpsuit. He took it, begrudgingly, and we went into an interview room to discuss the actual subject at hand.

He stonewalled me, right from the beginning. If Bernard had been confused and befuddled by what had happened to him, Ray seemed to fully understand what had happened, but hid it, poorly, behind a feigned ignorance, stupidity and dullness. He didn’t know how long he’d been in the shipping container. He didn’t know anything about who had put him in there, what they’d looked like, or why they had forced him to workout. Instead, he kept trying to flip it around, poking and prodding about the other people I had mentioned this happening to…and so, since he was going to see it at some point anyway, I got the tape of the interview Bernard had done on the nightly news, and let him watch it while I got us some food. It was then that the men I’d sent to his apartment returned, empty handed. The landlord had told them that Ray had disappeared four months earlier, leaving all of his shit behind, and when no one came by to pay the rent, he’d claimed everything in the place, pawned the valuables and junked the rest, and was already renting the apartment out to someone else.

Four months. Bernard had been in that basement for a week (or so he’d said), and Ray had been missing for at least four months. I checked for a missing person report, or anything, but there was nothing–perhaps the one thing Ray had been honest about was that he didn’t have anyone he wanted to contact. Armed with some information, at least, I went back into the interview room, and found the tape finished, and Ray was agitated, pacing the small room, back and forth, muttering to himself something I couldn’t make out under his breath. When I arrived, he did his best to protect the air of idiocy he’d been attempting with me, but he was off balance. I thought, maybe, I’d be able to get something out of him now.

The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 2 (Part 2)

So we talked about Marcus’ encounter, but I quickly realized that while he was trying to appear helpful, he was fishing for something else–information about Bernard’s case. He allegedly didn’t recall much of anything from the night he’d been assaulted, but he’d drop a hint, and then ask if something similar had happened to Bernard as well. When I’d try and get him back on the subject of his own case, he’d twist it back around, quizzing me about Bernard, and the evidence from the case, and whether I had found anything else about the Bruiser during the investigation–and if I had any leads on where Bernard had disappeared to. I didn’t have any leads of course, and I wasn’t about to tell this stranger any details from the case. When it became clear that we were stonewalling each other, he got agitated, and then angry, grabbed the photos he’d brought, accused me of not being interested in justice, and stormed out of the precinct, leaving me more confused than anything.

All I knew now, was that this…this case was big. The biggest thing I’d ever dealt with, by far, and Marcus was right about one thing–Bernard knew more than he was letting on. In fact, it was now quite likely he knew the man who had kept him down there all week, given his extracurricular activities. But if it was a scene gone wrong, why not say so? And how on earth did this even begin to explain how he had…changed? In any case, I had a lead, and so I started hunting down some of Bernard’s associates in the BDSM community, to see if any of them could help me figure out who had done this to him, or where he might have gone. No one was really interested in talking to me, and I didn’t get much in the few days I had before the next 911 call came in, the same voice as before, directing us to an old, abandoned warehouse down by the docks.

The search, however, turned up nothing at first. The building wasn’t being used for anything at the moment, and was just vacant–the docks still hadn’t fully recovered from the last recession, like a lot of the city, and so that wasn’t surprising. The caller hadn’t given us any details regarding who we were looking for, or where they might be, but it turned out that there wasn’t anything inside the building at all. Instead, we got a radio call that one of the cops, an older veteran by the name of Jules, had been searching the perimeter of the building, when he heard an odd sound coming from several supposedly empty shipping containers in the yard beside the building. It was metal on metal, a rhythmic clanking of some sort, and it wasn’t long before we’d identified the container, broken the lock on it, and when we flung open the doors…it was the smell that I remember the most.

You know how a locker room can smell, when it doesn’t get cleaned often enough? It was like that, and yet, somehow a hundred times stronger. The only light in the shipping container was a bare light bulb suspended from the ceiling, and inside the cramped space was one man working out with a collection of weight machines and free weights. Even when we opened the door, he didn’t stop–from where he was, he just seemed like this…monstrous shadow in the darkness, moving back and forth, eyes zoned out in the middle distance, completely uninterested in us.

I want to say that it was the cramped space that smelled the worst, but it was actually him. We tried to get close to him, tried to tell him that he could stop, but none of us could handle the sheer…force of it, and we’d retreat back, eyes watering, coughing and hacking. In the end, it was Jules who managed to get close enough to touch him, and it was like he woke from a dream at the touch, and he stopped drawing the weights up, and looked around at us, confused by who we were, and what we were doing in there with him.

I started asking him questions, asking him who had locked him in here, how long he’d been in here, but he just stared back at me like nothing I was saying made any sense. I backed up a bit and just asked him his name. That one he thought about for a couple of moments, trying to get something to come up from the depths of his mind, but he just shook his head, a thick mane of hair spraying all of the officers around him with little beads of sweat. “I don’ know, I don’ know! I just…Master said to keep working out, so I…I have to keep going…”

There it was again: Master. Something stirred in me, when I heard him say it, the same thing that had stirred in me when I’d listened to how Bernard had talked about his rapist, both during the interviews, and during that broadcast. It was a zealotry. It wasn’t a name, or a title–the way they said it, it was like they were naming a god. I don’t know if it was the smell finally getting to me, or if it was the horror of it–I left the shipping container, went around the corner, and vomited.

Getting him to come with us was the next challenge. He refused to leave the container–Master had told him to keep exercising, and so, he was going to keep at it, for as long as he could, until Master came back and told him what to do next. We tried to remove him by force, but the scent of him was so strong, no one could get close enough to lay a hand on him–without even dealing with the fact that he was…huge. Seven feet tall was my guess, and packed with more muscle than I could really ever remember seeing on a man before. His hair and beard were grown long–years long, though I knew there was no way he could have been inside here for years (I had to believe there was no way he could have been in there for years, at least) and and his cock…even on his tall frame, the thing was monstrous, and nearly always half erect.

What Would I Do To You? #3 (Boot Cleaner)

What would I do to you this time?

We work together, in construction. It’s the summer, and a sweltering one at that. As we’re chatting one day at lunch, we realize that we both live quite close to one another, and since the site we’re working on is quite a distance away, and neither of us is getting paid the sort of cash we wish we were getting, I float the idea that we start carpooling to the site, instead of driving separately. I offer to drive, if you pitch in on gas, and so the next Monday, I pick you up, and we’re off.

My truck isn’t the nicest, the cleanest, or the largest, but it’s decent enough you suppose, since it’s saving you a good amount of money. The company isn’t bad though, and we have a nice conversation there, the hour long commute flying by. The day at work goes well too, and we seem to be forming a nice friendship–though we run into our first stumbling block on the drive home, when, before we leave, I take my boots off, chuck them behind the seat with a sigh, and drive us both home in the afternoon heat.

The smell is mild at first, but it only grows more intense. You ask if we could use the AC, and I confess it’s broken. The windows too–they only roll down an inch crack before not going any further, and you find it hard to focus as the stench from my boots behind you, and my feet below you, intensify over the next hour and a half, stuck in traffic on the highway. You don’t say anything, because you don’t want to cause any friction–it’s my truck after all, and I should be able to do what I like in my truck, but it’s…unpleasant to say the least. Finally, we get home, you get a breath of fresh air, and wonder how to break it to me that you can’t carpool with me if I ever take my boots off on the way home again.

You never mention it though. It keeps slipping your mind in the morning, and you’re too embarrassed about it on the ride home to say anything. Besides, how can you raise a complaint now that you’ve sat through it a few times? You seem to be getting better at tolerating it at least, but the next week, you say you’d rather drive yourself. I shrug, ask why, but you won’t say. Then tragedy–your truck is having engine issues that weekend, and the mechanic says it’ll be at least a couple thousand to fix it–a thousand you don’t have. You call me up, ask if the offer still is on the table, and I say of course. Come Monday, you’re back in my cab, and this time, you know you have to say something.

That afternoon, as we get to the truck, you confess it–how you want me to keep my boots on, because the smell is awful. But the conversation twists about, and I convince you, instead, to give it a try yourself. It is better, you admit. More comfortable. You even nod off on the way home, and I have to shake you awake. All week, you take your own boots off as well, but on Friday, you make a mistake, and when you go to grab your boots from behind the seat–you grab mine instead.

You don’t realize it until I’m gone, when you catch a whiff of them inside your place. Horrified, you stick them out in the garage…but the smell seems to haunt you. Saturday morning, you wake up and discover the boots are next to the bed…and your sheets are wet with cum–apparently, you had a wet dream. Sunday, the boots are in bed with you, right next to your face, and you’re so horny, you can’t help but jack off with your nose buried in my nasty boots, horrified at what you’re doing, but you can’t help yourself. All day, you keep getting drawn back–you’ve never been this horny in your life, that you can remember, smelling them, licking them clean, loving them like nothing you’ve ever loved.

Monday rolls around, and we laugh about your mistake, but I can see what happened, how my boots have been licked clean, aside from the few cum stains on them, from when you ground them against your dick until you came. That day, going home, you can’t help yourself, can you? Not when I start encouraging you to go ahead, take one of my nasty boots, tie it around your face, and jack off all the way home. How many loads do we get out of you that first time–Four, I think. You’re so horned up, you don’t even question sucking my cock–even if it doesn’t turn you on nearly as much as when I shove my nasty, unwashed socks into your mouth, and get a fifth load out of you.

I send my boots home with you every night now, so you can clean then and worship them properly. If you’re a good bootlicker during the week, I spend the night at your place on Friday and Saturday, wearing my boots for you, smashing your dick with them, using you as an ottoman while I watch TV, tying you up with socks in your mouth and my boot over your face, rubbing you off with the sole of the other until you cum hands free. The commute flies by now, with your face in my crotch sucking my musky cock, or down by the pedals, sniffing and licking my feet after I set the cruise control. But today, I have a new surprise for you.

I’ve told a few other guys on the crew about what a good bootlicker you are, and they agreed to send their boots home with you over the weekend, for a proper cleaning. You look behind the seat, and see six pairs–you know whose they are right away…because you’ve found yourself fantasizing about them more and more. Fifty bucks a pair, for the service, but I’ll keep most of it as a finder’s fee. Still, you aren’t complaining, right? You love your new side-gig more than anything, and it isn’t long before you’re cleaning the boots of every man on the crew–and quite a few of our more open minded neighbors–but mine will always have a special place in your heart. No one, after all, can work up a nice boot stench like me.