Interactive: Porno Virus (Part 8)

Harrison Drake–Harry to his friends, and son of Theodore–was down in the den of the house, watching TV on that Saturday afternoon. His father had left for his golf game a few hours before, and his mother was out running errands, leaving him alone in the house, which he honestly preferred. Harry was a couple of years out of college now, and had imagined himself pretty much anywhere else beyond living with his parents at the age of 25. But while he’d landed a few unpaid internships, and the occasional side job, he hadn’t found anything that made him enough money to move out on his own, much less feel like he was going anywhere with his life. He just felt aimless–and his father and mother nagging him constantly didn’t help matters at all. He wanted change–but probably not the kind that the virus had in store for him.

Theodore had well-adopted the so called “internet of things” into his home. Everything from his lights, to his windows, to his door locks, to his speakers and TV were all hooked up to the wifi, and so, the virus had access to everything inside the house–and through it, Terrance was observing the lone Harry on the couch, snacking and staring at the TV, and considering what to do with him.

He was not an ideal subject for the virus. While he was infected, Terrance did not find much in his sexual proclivities that would allow the virus to take hold. Similar to his father, Harry had always been a bit of a prude, and didn’t look at much porn, even as a young man–but while Steve’s proclivities had accelerated and warped Theodore’s corruption, Terrance was going to have to start from scratch with Harry. If the virus was going to corrupt him and turn him into a proper carrier, he was going to have to change substantially.

Harry saw the screen of the show he was watching flicker once, and then the entire screen began to waver and shake. He reached for the remote, or at least he tried to reach for it, but discovered that his body was…frozen, or paralyzed. He couldn’t move a muscle, the virus had taken control of his motor functions, ensuring that it had all of his attention focused on the screen, as his show disappeared, and was replaced with pornography–gay pornography.

Harry was appalled at the sight of it. He’d always had a thing against faggots, thinking that they were all dirty, horny old perverted men looking to prey on younger men like him. The virus captured that idea from him, and the porn shifted, showing just that sort of filthy scenario on the screen, and the speakers around the room began to speak to him, telling him what a dirty old man he was, how much he loved looking at porn, the stranger and more obscene the better.

Harry resisted as long as he could, but the virus was stronger. His hand was no longer reaching for the remote, it was now wrapped around his cock, stroking it. He could hear himself moaning in pleasure and excitement, and as the minutes turned into hours, his moans got lower and lower as his voice dropped into a growl, the virus accelerating the aging process inside his body, advancing Harry into a middle aged man around the age of fifty. His mind was warped further and further, all the desire to be a normal, well adjusted, contributing member of society was replaced by new desires–to jack off and have sex of course, but first and foremost, to corrupt the handsome young men he encountered, and warp them into perverse, kinky sex addicts that were hungry for sex with a dirty faggot daddy like him.

When Terrance was finally happy with the result, the virus allowed Harry to cum, a massive load spurting from his achingly hard cock, arcing up onto his chubby belly, where his old hand rubbed it into his hairy gut, enjoying the sticky sensation, the stench of it, and he stood up from the couch and had a short stretch, looking at himself in the mirror. A little voice in the back of his mind told him that this wasn’t right, that he wasn’t supposed to look like this, with his grey beard, and sunken eyes, and shaggy receding hairline. But that wasn’t an important voice, it wasn’t the voice that mattered–there was a new voice, a horny voice, and it didn’t want porn today–it wanted something more…satisfying. Thankfully, the virus saw an opportunity, and gave it to him.


Here’s a few options for what Harry does next. Regardless of what path we decide to go down, I’ll try to work in as many of the kinks as people were interested in as I can! The bonus poll for patrons is over here as well.

Spitty Lives His Life (Part 6)

Things get a bit filthier starting here. WARNING SCAT.


He was the first one who’d ever gotten away. I was so fucking angry when it happened–at him, at myself for being so stupid to imagine that anyone might actually enjoy the shit I do to them. I should have known better. My uncle told me to know better, when he taught me how to grow the shit, but…well, hope springs fucking eternal, I guess. No one on the crew even knew anything had happened–not really. There was an odd hole in reality that everyone had to get used to, but after a few days, it was like Spitty had never even been there–only I remembered him, and I still had his tin of tobacco, and if our paths ever crossed again…well, he was going to be getting one hell of a surprise from me.

Of course, I couldn’t exactly go search him out. I didn’t even really know what the fucker had done to himself. I’m sure that what he’d wanted to do was to try and get his old life back, but it takes some skill and plenty of brains to do that–and hell, the leaf don’t let anyone go backwards anyway! As fucked up as he was, I doubt things worked out how he’d planned. I did, at least, know what he looked like now–I’d gotten into the bathroom in time to see him fade out–the physical change always happens first, before reality folds them in somewhere else…and that fucker is definitely not some football playing college student, you can trust me on that one. No, the fucker I saw on my bathroom floor? Spitty looked to be about 350 pounds, most of it fat, covered in filth, his hair and beard even longer than before. Pale skin, meaning he probably almost never saw the sun, and he’d aged up to somewhere close to 50–or at least he looked 50, but he could have been a bit younger, in all honesty. Still, one thing I could know for sure was that my name had probably stuck nice and hard–names are hard to get rid of. So life went on, but I kept my ear to the ground, corrupting a few truckers and bikers passing through, telling them that if they saw any old pigs around going by the name of Spitty, they should let me know, and I’d reward them handsomely.

A couple of years went by, and I’d figured he managed to get out and escape my net. Either the spell had whisked him away further than I’d thought possible, or he was such a recluse now that he never actually went anywhere. I’d…become a bit meaner, in all honesty. Some of the guys on the crew who I hadn’t fucked with in years were brought over to my house, so I could take them down a few more notches, fantasizing that it was Spitty I was ruining, thinking about some of the nasty shit I could do to him if I ever got my grubby hands on the fucker. I…went a bit overboard with Gary, our foreman. Dude…fucking loves ass now–eating it out, sniffing farts, even eating shit on occasion. I feel a bit bad about it, but fuck, watching that fucker eat a turd, imagining it’s Spitty instead, nothing makes me nut quite as hard as that.

And then, sure enough, someone gave me a tip. They’d heard about some fat pig matching my description who occasionally cruised a rest area ten miles out of town, with a particular thirst for tobacco spit. I’d fucking found him–I couldn’t fucking believe it. Still, I couldn’t fucking scare him off, now that I’d gotten a clue, and so I started pressing other guys for details, had a biker follow the fat fuck home one night, and sure enough–the spell had sent him off into the weeds, a good thirty miles out of town, in the middle of fucking nowhere. Still, I knew where I was going now, and I decided it was time to pay my lost boy a visit.

Heh, the look on his fat, nasty face when I busted my way in though–it almost made my humiliation worth it. He’d honestly thought he’d gotten away with it, and there he was, watching some of his porn, sitting in a lazy boy surrounded by trash, bouncing up and down on some massive dildo, and he looked over, saw me, and he fucking shot his load right then and there. Yeah, he’d missed me–I could fucking tell, not that he wanted to fucking admit it. I pinned him down and fed him spit for a couple of hours–there was nothing he could do to fight me, he’d made himself so fucking weak. I got the rope I’d brought in with me, hauled him over to the bed and tied him down, spread eagle–and then took off. I had to go get some supplies for my revenge, after all. I called Gary and told him I’d need a few weeks off, and he was more than happy to accommodate me–I’d be staying with Spitty for little while, getting him ready. I haven’t used a whole tin on someone in a very long time, but this reunion calls for a celebration. Spitty isn’t going to see it that way, of course, but he’s fucking earned this–and he’ll enjoy it plenty, soon enough.

Spitty Lives His Life (Part 5)

Things didn’t quite go according to plan that night, neither for Chuck, nor for Spitty. To start with, for Chuck at least, everything seemed to be going perfect. In fact, he couldn’t quite believe his luck, with this boy. He’d hated that cocky fucker as soon as he’d started working with them on the crew, so certain that he didn’t fucking belong with nasty fucks like them–most of whom Chuck had been ‘developing’ for years now–he was the perfect target, and wearing down that jock nice and slow had been…fucking amazing. In fact, he hadn’t had that much fun ruining someone in a while–but now he knew why. Spitty, it turned out, had wanted it. He’d wanted this life the whole fucking time, but he’d only found the balls to admit it after his first taste of the real shit Chuck grew himself, using an heirloom seed grown in his family for generations. But now, Spitty was hooked–hooked on tobacco, hooked on spit, hooked on cock…and hooked on Chuck, most of all–and that had, perhaps, clouded his judgement. Chuck, after all, had given up on ever finding someone who might want to be with him, or hell, even finding someone he might want to be with, but Spitty was the closest thing he’d felt to love in a very, very long time–and that’s what gave Spitty the opportunity he’d been looking for.

They showed up at Chuck’s house and went inside–this time heading right for Chuck’s bedroom upstairs. He got Spitty out of his cum crusted clothes, and gave the whore one last fuck in his current form–but made him keep his hands off his cock while he did–he needed Spitty to start building up some energy for the chaw he was going to get in a little bit. He told Spitty to take a break, that he’d be back with his special tin in a couple of minutes–he went downstairs to his locked cabinet, opened it up and pulled out the tin with Spitty’s name on it, and then headed back upstairs, his cock already leaking even though he’d just shot a huge load in the pig’s ass, and when he stepped into the room, the butt of the shotgun he kept in his closet slammed into the side of his head, sending him teetering and crashing to the floor. Spitty hit him again, and then a third time–hoping that would be enough to knock him out, grabbed the tin from the floor where it had fallen, and hurried into the bathroom, where he locked the door.

It had worked–his plan had actually worked. Spitty could barely believe it, and it was all he could do to keep himself from masturbating in relief. But this–he had to try and focus. Last time, when he’d chewed this stuff, Chuck had been with him, guiding his thoughts, directing him into his new life–but he wasn’t going to have anyone helping him this time–Spitty was going to have to try and do this on his own. Through the door, he heard a loud groan from the bedroom down the hall–in a panic, he opened up the tin, grabbed about the same amount of leaf as Chuck had given him last time–spit out the shit he was currently chewing and put the special wad in his cheek, that same amazing sensation of floating pleasure seeping into him. He…didn’t remember how he ended up on the floor, but one hand started jacking his cock, and the other found its way around to his hole and started fingering it, just…awash in pleasure.

But he also knew he had to focus–still, his stupid brain couldn’t think like before, and with the pleasure coursing through him, he was having an even harder time getting his thoughts in a row. He…tried to focus on the person he’d been before this–younger, muscular, sports–but someone was pounding on the door and screaming at him, and it was so hard to think! He didn’t want to think about anything, not really. All he really wanted was to be alone, away from Chuck, away from everyone where he could jack off and fuck himself in peace–yeah, fuck, he could…he could just fucking imagine what that would fucking be like. A place of his own, out in the sticks, not even having to work, just lounging around like a total, fat fucking pig, jacking off and fucking himself all day long, stuffing his face, maybe venturing into town for some load of cum or a real fuck on occasion, but usually just happy with his own fucking company. He…swallowed the leaf, just as Chuck managed to bust through the door and stand over him, shouting at Spitty, but they both knew it was too late to change anything. The world went all swirly like it had before, dissolving into…quiet darkness, and then Spitty woke up.

He knew, right away, that things had gone both very wrong, and also…very right. He wasn’t in his parents house anymore–he was in his own fucking trailer, out in the middle of the woods–right where he fucking wanted it to be. His cock needed attention, of course, like always–he grabbed hold of the dildo that was still lodged in his hole from when he’d fucked himself to sleep the night before and started thrusting in into him, jacking his cock, feeling his gut jiggle as he did, moaning and groaning loudly as he came over and over again onto the sticking, filthy sheets of his bed. Part of him, a deep part, was absolutely horrified, but the rest of him, most of him, couldn’t imagine anything better. He’d found a slice of accidental paradise, and he had no plans on ever leaving. At least, as long as Chuck didn’t find him–and he didn’t want that, right?

Spitty Lives His Life (Part 3)

Chuck’s house was a mess, but I hadn’t really expected it to be anything else, to be honest. If anything, it was a bit…cleaner than I would have thought. He pulled me into the den and sat me down on the couch, shoving over some blankets to make room for me, and told me to pull my dick out and make myself comfortable. I did as I was told, tugging on it a bit just to calm my nerves as had become normal for me lately, and he banged around in another room for a moment before returning with a tin of chewing tobacco in his hand.

Now I hadn’t up to this point, actually chewed any tobacco myself–it had been purely second hand spit. If anything, Chuck had been adamant that I not chew, going so far as to bark orders across the worksite, when one guy had offered me some leaf, telling him that I wasn’t allowed, not yet. However, this tin wasn’t sealed, and he laid a piece of masking tape across the label on the top, and wrote “Spitty” across it with a sharpie, showing me it after. “This is your tin, Spitty. Everybody gets one tin of my special shit, you see. Still, no one ever gets more than one tin–and I don’t usually finish people off often anyway. You probably ain’t gonna get much more than this–but you to learn a lesson, and I’m gonna teach it to ya the hard way.”

He took off the lid, and I could…smell the shit from where I was sitting on the couch. It was as strong as some of the higher quality weed I’d smoked in college, but…smelled different altogether. It smelled like Chuck’s breath, actually–is this what he’d been chewing and feeding me all this time? It wasn’t of course–not even Chuck could handle that much of his special stuff, but I wasn’t too far off the mark, even then. He started picking out some of the leaf, probably a sixth of the tin, told me to open up and then shoved it down between my teeth and gums, and told me to hold it there like a good boy.

My gums started tingling and went numb after a second, and then not too long after that, I felt a fuzziness envelop my head, and I slumped back into the couch, drooling a bit helplessly, staring off into space. Chuck entered my frame of vision, fucking around with the TV, and a moment later porn started playing on the screen–then he came back over and sat down on the couch next to me, and started talking into my ear–quietly, but nice and slow making sure I heard every word he was telling me.

He was telling me about my life–well, not the life I’d had, but about…a different life. About Spitty’s life. Spitty never went out for sports. Spitty never even went to school much at all–he’s just a high school dropout. Spitty never had time for much beyond watching porn and jacking off. See, Spitty’s cock has a problem–it almost never goes soft. And Spitty’s usually so fucking horny that he can’t think about much else beyond jacking his cock off. It was worst when he was a teenager, but it’s…eased off a bit in the last couple of years, now that he’s in his thirties. He can hold down a job, mostly. Nothing too difficult, and most of the guys at the site have gotten used to seeing Spitty groping his cock all day long, occasionally blowing yet another load into the front of his cum sodden jeans, but it’s what Spitty has to do to function, right?

Of course, at home, all Spitty does is watch porn and jack his cock. He loves coating himself in his own cum, loves to reek of it, loves to reek of anyone’s cum, really. He’ll beg other guys to jack off onto him, use him like a fucking cumrag–and he loves being a fucking spitoon too, of course. All of Spitty’s clothes are unwashed, covered in dark stains and stiff with cum, but he wouldn’t want them to be any other way. Yeah, Spitty’s a real fucking pervert, but Spitty wouldn’t want any other life than this one, would he?

I was agreeing with everything Chuck told me of course, like the good boy I was. I…lost count of how many times I shot my load all over myself, swallowing down the spit from Chuck’s special leaf, swallowing down his spit too, of course, and when he thinks I’m ready, he puts his hand over my mouth, and tells me to swallow it all down–the spit, the leaf, everything…and I do. I choke it down, and immediately I feel sick to my stomach, like I’m going to throw up, but no matter how hard I heave, nothing comes up. The world’s just spinning around me faster and faster, and I try to hold onto Chuck, or the couch, or anything I can, but pretty soon it doesn’t feel like there’s anything at all, and when I don’t think I’m going to be able to handle it anymore, I wake up–expect I’m not in Chuck’s house, I’m back in my bedroom…except it’s not my old bedroom, it’s Spitty’s bedroom now.

Everything reeks of cum, and it’s so fucking nasty I start humping my mattress a few times until I spray a load into the stiff sheets I sleep on with a loud groan–then I roll over and start milking out load number two right away. My cock’s the same size it was before, but my fucking balls must have doubled in size, and while my arms are still muscular, my gut and chest are flabbier than before, and my legs look so much smaller. Then again, I never played sports, not in this lifetime. Nope–all I did was jack off day and night like a fucking pervert. I still live with my parents, even after dropping out, and they both fucking hate my guts…but I don’t really care. All I care about is jacking off again, and again…and something else…right? My mouth feels a bit fuzzy, and without really thinking, I reach over and grab a tin of chaw, pop it open, and stuff a wad in my lip, feeling better almost immediately. It tastes…normal, at least, but nothing else is right, even though that old life just feels like a dream now. I’m Spitty now–I can’t even remember my old name anymore, and when Chuck shows up to give me a ride to work, I get in and suck down his spit, and milk out another load of cum from my cock, like nothing is wrong at all.

They were having another crazy party across the cul-de-sac, those fucking faggots over there, I fucking hated them. So yeah, I called the cops on them, and I watched the officer arrive from my window and go up to the door, figuring everything would be settled, but a few minutes later the party started up again, louder than before, and I heard a knock on my door. I got up and answered it, and found the cop on the other side of the door–except he wasn’t quite the same cop. He was chuffing on a massive cigar, and looked to be quite a bit burlier and hairy than I’d thought he’d been across the street. “Sir, I’ve been receiving reports that you’re a complete faggot pervert in hiding–I’m here you administer your punishment,” the cop said, and shoved me back into the house, and slammed the door shut behind him.

“What the fuck are you talking about? I’m not–” I tried to say, but the officer took the cigar from his mouth and shoved it into my mouth, plugging it shut, and then ripped my shirt off my body, and did the same with my pants. I tried to pull the cigar from my mouth, but it had somehow grown so large that it stretched my jaw to the limit, my teeth digging into the tobacco, forcing me to draw almost all of my breath as smoke. I immediately felt woozy, and while I tried to fight the cop off, he shoved me over onto my hands and knees and started working his nightstick into my ass.

Fuck, my cock was so hard, knowing this hot cop was violating me in my own living room, and he started regaling me with a litany of all of my perverse acts that he was punishing me for. They started innocently enough, some public indecency and drunkeness where I’d jacked off and urinated in public, but slowly grew more sinister. How I’d gotten lewd and obscene tattoos all over my body. How I’d cruise cubs in public spaces before begging them to come home, abuse me and fuck my lights out. How I went from gay bar to gay bar, keeling in the bathrooms as a urinal and cumdump, until my belly was taut and bloated with beer piss. How I could take two fists up my loose cunt, and had to keep it plugged at all time. How I was obsessed with sex, leather and men, unable to think about anything else, forced to earn money by selling my mouth and ass in back alleys and at house parties like my hot neighbors liked to throw most nights.

The cop finished me off with his ten inch cock, and I begged him to fuck me rough and hard, and he was even nice enough to fill my sloppy hole with a load of piss after he came, and plugged me up with the four inch diameter plug I wore almost constantly now. He deemed me sufficiently punished, dropped a couple wrinkled twenties by my head and left, and I hefted myself up, discarding the butt of my huge cigar and lighting another one, admiring my freaky, hairy and tattooed body in a mirror, before throwing on some leather gear and hurrying across the street, feeling the officer’s piss leaking out my hole and down my legs as I went, eager to join in with the party I couldn’t believe I was missing.