There’s a new party drug on the streets, produced by some strange company called Arctos, and it’s a doozy, as Avery found out, when he went out to a club on Saturday night with a couple of his friends. He noticed the two skinheads–not the usual clientelle of the bar’s he frequented as a college student–but he didn’t pay them any mind, until around his third drink–which he’d accidentally left at the table unattended for a few minutes. He began to feel a bit like he was floating, and before he could get help from his friends, the two skinheads had cornered him, and rather easily convinced him to go home with them instead.
This decision confused him, but he found himself unable to say no to either of their demands. They got back to their slummy apartment a few blocks from the bar, and they immediately made Avery strip…and he didn’t remember much after that, to be honest. But when he woke up, Avery wasn’t quite Avery anymore. In fact, he wasn’t quite sure who he was. His two mates in the apartment–Len and Jack–told him he was part of their crew…but that didn’t quite feel right somehow. He thought he was going to school or something, but his mates just laughed at him–Aver was too dull to ever think of going to college after all. Then they hauled out their cocks and fucked him at both ends…and Aver figured his mates were probably right.
His mates kept him drugged regularly–the entire personality usually reverts after a day or two, but with repeated doses, the person loses more and more sense of themselves, and eventually they lose their old self entirely. Poor Aver–he’s been with his mates for a year now, but he’s been dosed so many times, he barely has a mind left. He’s just their skinhead pup slave now–and will be forever. So mind your drinks–this is one drink you don’t want to have end up in your glass.
“Ha, damn dude how about that party! That was amazing,” Nick said, “Man, these temporary tattoos are the bomb, they really sold the biker costume, eh? Man, I’m beat, gonna go wash this crap off and then go to bed.”
Nick tromped up and you hear him turn on the water, but your heart is racing. You’ve had a hard on all night, watching Nick strut around in those biker leathers, and he damn well deserved the best costume prize he’d gotten at the end of the night, but you hadn’t been entirely honest about the tattoos.
See, they weren’t temporary, like you’d said. And on your computer, you loaded up the program which controlled the ink and started making some changes, switching the pattern from “Rough Biker (Full Body)” to “Gay Pig Bottom (Full Body)” and then checked the box next to “Modify Personality to Match Selection.” After a second, you hit submit. Yeah, Nick was going to have those tattoos for the rest of his life, and be your nasty pig slut to top it off.
I make a new one every Bear Run I go to–I never get tired of it. It’s the first timers I like the most, the ones who don’t run in the usual circles, the ones desperate for friends and attention. They’re always nervous with me at first, but they so want to be liked–to be needed–and I can give them that, even if it’s never in the way they expect.
I ply them with liquor–with compliments. In turn, they open up about themselves, as though I care one lick about who they are. They come up to my room, and then the fun starts. That first night, breaking them down, destroying them, remaking them–by morning they’re begging for it, and a whole new man walks out my door.
Bareback only. Fistpigs. Painplay. Urinals. Toilets. Nothing is too extreme for the whores I craft. The second day, they endure heavy use, and they revel in it. If there are any doubts, any vestiges of their old selves remaining, they’re wiped out soon enough–the pleasure is too much–and people need them so much, how could they refuse?
The bidding process is silent, discrete. I introduce them to their new owner on the final day, and they leave–happy slaves all. Finally needed, just like they wanted.