Orwell’s Demon (Part 2)

-Before-

Orwell was at his desk, distracted again, but then again, he was usually distracted these afternoons, ever since the wrestling coach, Mr. Diamond, had moved his office into the open office space as Orwell’s. He wasn’t the only one afflicted by any means–several of the young women teachers around the school would stop by periodically to say hi, though their eyes were glued to the young hunk everyone was talking about. Still, as good a guy as Ray Diamond was, Orwell knew he would never have a chance with him–he was hopelessly straight, or else so deep in the closet no one would ever find him.

He looked back at his computer and tried to focus on entering grades, but there was something else bothering him. The amulet he was wearing–the thing he’d bought on a whim at a little thrift shop downtown a few days prior, which he’d been wearing since, was…warm. Not just warm, actually, but hot against his skin.

He could be yours, you know.

It was a voice. A voice in his head, but it wasn’t…his voice. He looked around, just in case, but no one around Orwell had spoken.

I know you want him. I know everything that you want, Orwell. You want so many things, so many men. It’s beautiful, but so many of them don’t want you back. So much…unrequited desire built up in you, with nowhere to go.

The heat welled up somewhere new now–in Orwell’s crotch. His cock was rock hard, suddenly, throbbing with need. The voice was right, to some extent. Orwell was gay, but he wasn’t lacking for sex. He was twenty-six, had a decent body (though not as nice as Ray Diamond had) and was by no means a virgin…but he did have a habit for falling head over heels in lust with the straightest of men–men like Mr. Diamond.

He was certain his cock was going to explode, but it didn’t–as rapidly as the heat, and the voice, had come–they disappeared, leaving Orwell to heave a sigh of relief. A couple desks away, Ray Diamond shuddered, and then stood up from his desk, adjusted his crotch, and walked over to where Orwell was sitting. Orwell could…sense something was off about him. His eyes…had a tinge of red, and his mouth was curled in a snarl that he’d never seen on the coach’s face before. “Well Orwell?” Ray said–and it was the voice. The voice from his head, speaking through Ray’s mouth, “Do you want me or not? Come on and let’s have some fun.”

Orwell didn’t know what to do…but when Mr. Diamond grabbed his hand and hauled him out of the office chair and pulled him down the hall, towards the gyms on the other side of the building, Orwell’s heart did a little flutter. “A-Are you sure, Ray? I mean…at school?”

“Please–what Ray wants doesn’t matter anymore. The only person I aim to please, is you.”

“But…who are you?”

Ray turned around, and the flicker of red around his eyes Orwell had seen earlier had grown more pronounced, the hand round his own was hotter, and the grip was tight. “You’ll see…Now come on. Ray knows just the place.”

They ended up in a storage room inside one of the gyms, and among the spare jerseys, balls, and other gym equipment, Ray tore at Orwell’s clothes, ripping them away, even as his own seemed to simply…disappear. No–not disappear. They were burning up. In the dim light, Orwell could see the fabric simply burning up, like paper turning to ash. The coach’s skin underneath was red and inflamed, almost too hot to the touch–but the hottest part of him was, by far, his cock. If Ray had been that endowed before, Orwell was sure he would have noticed–it had to be at least ten inches long, and as thick as a beer can. He started to get on his knees, but Ray had other ideas–he shoved Orwell down and started running the massive member up and down his crack.

“I don’t think–it’s so big…” Orwell said.

“I know,” Ray said, and shoved the head into Orwell’s ass, unlubed, making him scream in pain, the coach driving his cock in deeper and deeper–but there didn’t seem to be an end to it. Orwell had never felt someone go this deep inside him before, his guts churning and coiling and burning with every thrust. “But it’s what you want, Orwell–I promise to always give you what you want.”

It felt like hours, the cock driving into him deeper and deeper, Orwell losing track of how many times he came. Then, suddenly, he felt the urge to gag, and then something forced his jaw wide, and with one mighty heave, Ray forced the head of his cock out through Orwell’s mouth, leaving him groaning and muttering in panic. “Like a pig on a spit,” the voice said, and Orwell felt himself…lifted from the ground, impaled on the bestial cock his fellow teacher had grown–or who he assumed was his fellow teacher. Claws dug into his skin and twisted him around on the shaft until he could see the thing which was now fucking him–and found himself staring at what he could only call a demon. “How does the little piggy feel?” the thing asked, licking his lips, “Does it feel good? I am yours, five times, but give in, and you can be mine for all eternity. Say yes, pig. Say yes–I will give you such glorious pleasure, I promise.”

Orwell just screamed, trying to haul himself free of the demon’s massive cock.

“A ‘no’ then. Four more, piggy. Four more,” the demon said, gripped Orwell’s sides, and began fucking him on the massive shaft, the head thrusting up and down Orwell’s throat until the demon gave a long roar, tugged Orwell up so the head slipped back into his stomach, and he came. Orwell felt the cum flooding his guts, flooding his body, and as it did…he could see his body changing, sagging, filling up with fat–enough fat that he dragged the demon’s dick down and he landed with the thud, the dick snapping off and turning to ash. The air around him was full of ash too–the remains of Ray’s body fluttering down around him, and his now obese body, hole gaping, as he hauled on his clothing (clothing which had somehow adjusted to his now flabby frame) and fled the scene as fast as he could, trying to ignore the laugh dogging him in the back of his mind the entire way home.

Orwell’s Demon (Part 1)

Alright, here’s the expanded version of Orwell’s Demon! I should also mention that several aspects of this story have been…somewhat inspired by the work of Major, over on Gay Spiral Stories, and if you’re familiar with his stuff…it can get pretty extreme. Consider yourself warned.

The room is chilly, and yet, Orwell’s shirt is sticking to his back when he sits forward in the plastic chair, trying to get comfortable, looking around again for a clock, but knowing he won’t find one. How long has he been in here, now? Probably not as long as he thinks he has, probably not even an hour, but waiting feels…excruciating. To his right, there’s a mirror stretching the length of the wall–one way, he assumes. In the TV shows, they’re always one way, at least.

They’re over there, they’re talking about you, about how weak you look, about how it couldn’t possibly be you, Orwell.

Orwell shook his head, and glances at the mirror–he sees something, and the camera in the room flickers for a moment, like a shadow gathering at the edges of the lens, and he yanks his eyes away, back down to his lap. He came here of his own will. That would count for something. Besides, if they knew it was him, they would have arrested him already, before things…had gotten more and more out of his control. He clutched at something under his shirt for a moment, and then let it go, leaning forward, like he was trying to keep something under there from touching his skin, and tried to relax.

On the other side of the glass, was Detective Hurlbane of the city police department, who had been investigating the series of disappearances which had occurred over the last several months. No trace of the men who’d disappeared–four in total–and no bodies or trace of the men had been found. The one connection between them all was the man sitting in the chair–Orwell Englewood. An unassuming teacher of English at a local high school. He was, maybe, five foot four, and weighed close to 350 pounds. He had no prior record, and everyone who knew him had assured Hurlbane that Orwell was a kind, generous fellow–even if he’d seemed a bit odd over the last few months. Then again, anyone who found themselves as the prime suspect in a series of mysterious disappearances would behave a bit oddly.

Hurlbane decided Orwell had stewed enough, and he walked around to the door, and stepped inside. “Afternoon, Orwell. Thank you again for volunteering to come down to the station today and answer some questions about Mr. Piper.”

Mr. Piper, the fourth man to disappear, was Orwell’s next door neighbor. He’d hosted a poker night with some of his friends last Tuesday, while his wife was out with her own friends. His poker buddies had left early, around nine, and when his wife had arrived home at midnight, he was gone–no sign of forced entry or foul play–and he hadn’t been seen since. Orwell hadn’t been at the party, but he had been home, next door. He claimed he hadn’t noticed anything odd during those three hours, but he had no alibi. Hurlbane had a difficult time imagining this short, chubby fellow overpowering anyone…but at some point the coincidences had added up–what he needed was a confession, and he was going to get one.

“Anything I can do to help, although…I don’t know how much help I can be. Like I told you on the phone, I went to bed early that night, and I didn’t hear…anything suspicious.”

“Did you have much of a relationship with Mr. Piper? It seems odd that you’d be his neighbor and not get invited over for a poker night.”

Orwell shrugged. “We…didn’t share much interests I guess. I’d rather sit at home with a good book, than play poker.”

Hurlbane sat down in the chair across from Orwell, and leaned over the table. Orwell avoided his eyes, and seemed…nervous. “That seems understandable. But for someone who likes to sit at home, you have to admit it’s suspicious.”

Orwell didn’t say anything, or take the bait.

“It’s suspicious that of all the men who have disappeared, you’re the only person in the city who knows all of them.”

Orwell shook his head, “No–I didn’t…I told you, I have no idea what that whole…rest area thing was about.”

Hurlbane nodded, “Yes, of course. My apologies. Three out of four then. I just have a hard time imagining that you wouldn’t know something–especially since you were the last one to see one, or possibly two, of these missing men alive and well.”

“I’ve told you everything I know, Detective, I really have.”

Liar. If only he knew the truth. Think he’d like to find out for himself, Orwell?

Hurlbane saw Orwell grip at something by his chest, and wince, as if he were in pain. “Are you alright Orwell?”

He nodded, but the detective could see something had changed about him. He looked…pale, and was sweating even more. “I could just…use a smoke is all.”

“I didn’t know you smoked–there were no ashtrays in your house when we searched it.”

“I only do it outside.”

Hurlbane sat back, a bit confused–but it wasn’t important. If anything, needing to smoke would make him more likely to slip up. “Well, before we talk about Mr. Piper, Orwell, I’d like to review some of the facts of the other men we’ve discussed anyway, just in case you’ve remembered anything else that might be helpful to the investigation.”

“Is that really necessary? I think…I should go, I really need to go, actually.”

Orwell started to get up, but Hurlbane was faster, and blocked him in. “It won’t take long, Orwell. I promise. Now–can we start with Mr. Diamond? The gym teacher. He was the first one to go missing as you know, and your desks weren’t too far apart. In fact, some of the other teachers said the two of you were rather friendly with one another–but you said you can’t recall even one conversation with him.”

I can remember a few conversations with him–and a few other things too. Come on Orwell, you had a good time, didn’t you? With Mr. Diamond and his cock?

Smoke Spirit (Part 10)

He could feel Howie groping his fat tits while his son, Stew, sucked the last few drops of piss from the head of his cock, and then started sucking on the fat head. He could feel Pete stroking his cock while he watched his own father fist his cousin’s tight hole. He could feel Stew’s ass clench tight around his own fist. They were all one. They were all one with the spirit in the smoke surrounding them, and with a cry, all four of them came, sealed away in their new fate–four slaves to the spirit of the smoke which had infested Doug that night, and the thick haze in the house finally began to disperse, allowing them all to see Stew, their final member, in between them all.

He was fatter than the rest of them–even Howie–large enough that his gut hit the ground where he was on his knees, mouth still wrapped around his dad’s cock, sucking hard, making sure he sucked down every drop of cum to go with the piss swilling around in his gut. Their history had shifted as well–now, the prostitute Howie and Doug had fucked had brought twins, and the two of them had raised the boys in their…respective fashions. Where Pete was turning into a handsome muscle cub, taking after Doug, Pete had learned to indulge his greed and gluttony, just like his father. Howie leaned back, moaning, a thick cloud of smoke escaping his mouth as he did, and Doug could feel how close his brother was. He walked over, straddled his nephew’s back and started tugging on his brother’s tits, knowing just how to push him over the edge, feeling how happy the spirit was inside them all, now that it had a family again, a family like it had had before.

Of course, it hadn’t been a family quite like this one–Bandgar had gotten into a fight with a rough biker gang one night, and as he’d always been able to do, he turned them into a single spirit of smoke, and absorbed them into his body, where he’d begun warping and twisting them into something else. Bandgar liked to think of the spirits he made as gifts, and this spirit was a gift he’d decided to give to Douglas after that concert. Doug couldn’t be more thankful–he was alive again! He’d forgotten what it had been like, to be alive, and made of flesh, and how good it felt to cum in one of his boys’ nasty fucking holes. He–no, they needed to thank him.

“Keep playing you dirty fucks,” Doug said, “I gotta check a message.” He went upstairs and found his phone–or Douglas’ phone, rather. He wasn’t…quite the spirit, but he wasn’t quite Doug either. He was someone new–someone better. Something better, actually, because he couldn’t forget that he wasn’t alone here. Sure enough, Bandgar had sent him a message–a link to the band’s touring schedule, and that night they were playing in a big city one state over–close enough that they could make it if they ride all day. Of course, to do that, they’d need bikes. His family had to ride hogs, right?

He went back downstairs, and felt the rest of his family falling into yet another smoky orgy, but with a few smacks upside the head, he set they straight. They had to get on the road, and they had to get going soon. The smoke in the house had thinned somewhat, but hadn’t dissipated–it had been waiting, it seemed for the thought to form that they needed to leave, and it starts to swirl around each of them. It wasn’t like before, where they’d been swallowed up–this time it stuck to them and became clothing–and like their identical tattoos, all four of them were dressed in the same basic outfit–ragged jeans and leather chaps, boots, leather vests with no shirts. The two boys had on collars, of course, showing their place in the hierarchy below their fathers. They headed for the door, and the rest of the smoke followed them, flowing out into the late afternoon sun and forming a cloud on the driveway. It faded away after a minute or so, revealing four old Harley’s–the men all headed for them, instinctively knowing which of them was theirs, and with a cry from Doug, they all drove off, abandoning their house, and their lives, without a second thought.

It had been a decent gig, and tear-down was going smoothly–smoothly enough that Ned felt he could justify taking a break for a cigar outside, while the rest of the crew got shit wrapped up. He wondered how that kid from the night before was getting on–from the sound of his message that morning, the spirit he’d been working on had been…vigorous. Still, those were the best kind, in the end. The kid might not have deserved it, but fuck, Ned had been horny, and having the four of them hanging around in his head had been getting a bit tiresome. It was time to start a new project, but to do that, you gotta get rid of the old shit first.

He stepped out into the alley, cigar out, when he saw them–four hulking men standing beside four Harley’s, smoking cigars and watching the door. “There you are, ya fucker!” one of them shouted, and ran for him. Ned braced himself–depending on how things had settled he was either about to get punched, or…well, something a bit more pleasant, hopefully.

It was a kiss–a nice smoky one, though it didn’t last long enough for Ned’s liking. “Heh, guess the day went well for you. Got the family back together?”

“Sure fucking did! All four of us. I–We…fuck man, what ya fuckin’ did tah us–we’re so fuckin’ happy to be out again man. We owe ya a nice long night before we hit the road again, what do ya say? You wanna fuck around with four dirty fuckin’ biker bears?”

It sounded like a real good time to Ned–he was getting good at this. He lit his cigar, and hauled open the door, “Hey boys! I gotta take off. I’ll see ya in the morning before we leave!” A few guys complained at the boss ditching work, but Ned didn’t give a shit–he was following Doug over to his family for introductions, and then climbed on with him and rode off for a night of sex with his creations, before sending them off again in the morning. Still, he had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last time he met up with the four of them–after all, the highways could be a surprisingly small place, when you’ve been on them as long as Ned had. He reached around and groped Doug’s hard cock, admiring the size, and knew he was in for quite the ride himself later that night.

Smoke Spirit (Part 9)

It wasn’t long before Steven got home from class. He was shy and a bit of a loner, keeping to himself in the house. Wiry and short, with medium length hair cut into bangs, he managed to hide from attention more often than not–while he honestly didn’t care much about Douglas’ smoking, he sided with the other two just to avoid conflict as much as possible. And so, when Steven entered the house and saw the thick haze of smoke, his only thought was whether he could get away fast enough to avoid dealing with whatever must be going on inside, but instead, he found the sweet smelling smoke drawing him in, and he shut the door behind him, almost in a daze. The smoke was so thick, he could barely even see, and he started coughing immediately. In his head, he knew he should turn right back around, leave, and call 911, but instead he found himself stumbling into the haze, still coughing, trying to keep the smoke out of him as best he could, pulling up the collar of his shirt over his nose and mouth.

“In here, Steve!” A voice called, and it wasn’t a voice he recognized at all. Who in the world could that even be? He…he didn’t know why, but he needed to find out. He needed to…to join them? No, why had he thought that? He froze in the middle of the living room, holding his breath, trying to focus, telling himself he had to leave, that it…it was dangerous in here. The voice called out again, “Steve! Git yer ass in here, Howie’s about tah blow his bladder all over the floor, ya pig. Unless ya wanna lick it all up–I know…I know ya wanna do that sometimes…” the voice started chuckling then, and then groaned. He realized, too late, that his legs had started moving him closer to the doorway into the kitchen, and it was…hard to see, for some reason, like something was wrong with his eyes. But inside, he saw the most disturbing sight of his life–three men, all of them covered with tattoos–the same tattoos, in fact, in the midst of of a sweaty, smoky sex session. He could smell it on the air, the musk, and…and it was making his…his piggy cock so fucking hard.

No–why the fuck was he in here? Something was obviously very wrong, but…but didn’t he need to help out Howie? He always helped out Howie, and Pete, and Doug, of course. He was frozen in place, between his good sense and this strange compulsion, when Doug walked over to him, reeking of smoke, eyes bloodshot and smirking at him. “Don’t think too hard pig–we all know ya ain’t good at thinkin’. Hell, yer fucking dumber ‘n yer dad, ain’t that right Howie? This boy a yers popped out with even fewer fuckin’ brain cells than you did.”

“Yeah boy, git yer dumb ass over here ‘n help out yer Pa with this big ol’ load a piss I been savin’ fer ya. Ya know I ain’t gonna use a toilet when mah nasty boy is thirsty, right?”

No. No, he wasn’t doing this. None of this could be real. Everything seemed so…fuzzy all of a sudden. He tried to step back, but his Uncle Doug tugged him back, and shoved his cigar in Steve’s mouth, and the smoke made his head go light, his stomach turning itself into knots. Did he want to throw up? No…No, he…he was thirsty, wasn’t he?

“Come on, you dumb fucker, git down there ‘n drink.”

Everything seemed even more hazy than before, like something was clouding up his eyes, but one thing he could se was his fat, lazy pa, sittin’ in a chair by the table, cock hanging out, and fuck, that thirst of his was only getting worse. He stumbled forward, his body feeling…too light all of sudden, like he might blow away if he wasn’t careful, but he was down in front of his dad, mouth around his thick cock head, and as soon as his dad started pissing, all his other cares just…slipped away. Why in the hell had he been trying to worry about all of that other shit before? He was no good with thinking stuff–hell, none of them were, aside from Uncle Doug, who called the shots. The smoke was getting thicker around him, and when Pete stepped up and started pissing all over his filthy cousin, he could feel the stream running down his head and his back, but all he could see was Pete’s cock–the rest of him was lost in the thick smoke surrounding them.

On the outside, Doug could see the clouds condensing around the scrawny kid who’d come into the house–he could…kind of remember him from before, like he could kind of remember all of them, but none of that really mattered. No, what mattered to him now, was family. His family. His dirty, nasty, piggy biker family, and fuck, he was so fucking horny, he could just fuck his boy’s ass again, or hell, maybe he’d take a turn with Stew’s hole–that boy’s ass was so fuckin’ loose, but then again, when you got fists shoved up there as often as he did, that’s what tended to happen. Yeah, that’s…that’s what he should do, give his nephew a good fisting–break him in right.

He barely noticed the spirit pulling him over towards the other three, all of them already disappearing into the thick clouds of smoke surrounding Steve, where he was kneeling on the ground, moaning and gulping piss. Doug got down, fished around in the haze until he found Stew’s ass–not quite wide enough yet, but he’d be himself soon enough–and started probing it with his fingers, feeling the boy shove back onto his hand, hungry to have his filthy hole filled up. The spirit was in front of him, his smoky cock right in Doug’s face, and he…swallowed it to the hilt. It wasn’t solid…but it was there. It was energy, it was force, it was…him, in a sense he could barely describe. The thing started pumping smoke into Doug’s guts, and he could feel the heat of it infusing every bit of him, burning away the last remnants of Douglas from every corner of his mind, the spirit slowly losing form, shoving its way down Doug’s gullet until it disappeared entirely, and then, Doug’s eyes–like the rest of his family–clouded over, becoming a swirling mass of smoke even thicker than the others…and he realized that he could feel them.

Smoke Spirit (Part 8)

Doug tried to fight and push back, holding onto his own memories, but every time he tried to bring forth something to counter the spirit’s assault, it seemed to catch fire, and before he could even think of it, it was gone. There was just him, his dirty minded brother and equally perverse son…and…and someone else, too, but they’d find him eventually too. And then the whole family would be back together, like nothing had happened at all. The searing burns were more frequent now, and he could feel his boy flinch a bit as well, on occasion, meaning he was probably suffering the same sensation. He realized, at last, what he was feeling–it was his tattoos, of course! He and Howie had gotten matching tattoos when they were teenagers, and had just…kept on going. It wasn’t hard to see that they were related, given how similarly decorated they were, and as soon as they could convince someone, they’d started tattooing their boy the same as they were, when he was a teenager. He was getting close now, as was his son, and Howie, and the three of them came within seconds of one another, the smoke finally beginning to dissipate, and Doug could step back and haul his cock free of Pete’s sweet hole, and look at the damage the spirit had done to them all this time.

Then again, maybe damage wasn’t quite the right word, because when the smoke began to lift away from Howie’s body, where he was in the chair, all Doug could do was let out a gruff moan, climb over his son between them, and start groping his brother’s flabby body. His…his twin brother’s flabby body. Yeah, he was only ten minutes older, sure, but he was still the big brother–although Howie had him beat in the weight department. He’d settled in at around 275 pounds at this point, and he carried it well–his thick gut sticking out in front of him, two meaty tits with massive nipples resting on top. His ass was plenty wide, and jiggled a bit more than his gut ever would–Doug could…remember how it reverberates when he’s pounding his brother’s fat hole over…over the back of their bikes–fuck! What the fuck is he thinking? What the fuck is he doing?

“Fuck, I gots the hottest fuckin’ big brother in the whole fuckin’ world,” Howie said, looking up at Doug, his eyes the same solid grey as Pete’s below him. “Hottest fuckin’ nephew too! That’s fer suckin’ down Unc’s cum, Petey.”

“Welcome, Uncle Howie! You know I love the taste a yer fuckin’ cum. Dad’s too!”

“Yeah…yeah, yer a little fuckin’ slut. Take after yer Unc like that, boy,” Doug said, but even though the words felt…right, and that new twang sounded so natural and easy, part of him was fighting for dear life against this. But then, Howie took a deep breath of cigar smoke, grabbed Doug by the collar and locked lips with him, and fuck, the sharp taste of tobacco on his brother’s lips had him hard all over again, and ready for another round. But he…they…they had to wait, because…because wasn’t someone else still missing? He had his bro, his son, but wasn’t there someone else? Yeah, there was, but his brain was being dumb–hell, he was pretty fucking dumb, but not as dumb as Howie and Pete, that’s for sure. Someone had to be the brains in this family after all. He took a breath off his own cigar, got Pete’s mouth around his cock so he could clean it off like a good boy, and kept kissing his brother. He could…tell, everything was going to sort itself out. All he needed to do was wait. Or…Or should he be fighting this? Resisting? Isn’t…that what he should be doing?

He felt a hotter pair of hands on him, and beside him he saw the spirit. It was so solid now, and he was certain that if he reached out he wouldn’t be able to push his hand through it. It looked…so much like him, somehow. It came closer, it’s smoky belly pressed against Doug’s side, and he sighed in pleasure–from the heat, the smell of the spirit, wishing…wishing he could smell like that, even.

“It says you’ve done real good, bro. It’s real happy with ya. One more, ‘n ya’ll be one a us too,” Howie said, looking up at Doug.

“Yeah Pa, I can’t wait until yer wit’ us. Yer gonna love it. It says yer gonna love it, ‘n I love it, so it’s gotta be true, right?” Pete had crawled out from under Doug and was standing beside him, opposite the spirit, and looking at the three of them, he couldn’t believe how…similar they all looked to one another. The differences were there, sure, but no one would ever not guess they were family. That…that they were…one. Together. “One more Pa, we can wait. He’ll be home soon.”

Steven, of course. What time was it, even? He couldn’t see a clock, he couldn’t tear his attention away from his family long enough to care. He was getting hard again–they all were–he leaned down and kissed his twin again, feeding the hog some smoke, listening to his snort a bit in excitement, while his boy licked at his musky pit, blowing smoke over his skin. He could…feel them somehow. Hear them in his head, if he focused hard, but it was too hard. “Soon,” came another voice, his own voice, actually, “Very soon.”

Smoke Spirit (Part 7)

He shoved his lit cigar in Howard’s mouth, who kept trying to spit it out. Douglas ended up shoving it in, nearly down his throat, while Pete plugged Howard’s nose, forcing him to inhale the smoke, watching as Howard’s eyes clouded up–again, not as quickly as Pete’s had, but he could tell that there wouldn’t be much fight left in him soon, and the two of them released his arms.

“Y-Yeah, don’ know what I was thinkin’!” Howard said, “Me…fuckin’…runnin’.”

The smoke was pouring out of him now, like it had out of Pete in the bedroom–first from his mouth, but then it seemed to be pouring out of his very pores. The spirit touched Howard’s running clothes, and they turned black, dissolving into ash and crumbling away, as the smoke began to envelop him. “Son…help your uncle out, would ya? Suck his cock, while I have a…another go at your hole.”

“Aww…fuck yeah, ain’t nothin’ like mah hot nephew’s mouth round mah thick cock, tah clear my drunk ass head out!” Howard said through the cloud of smoke, which had swallowed his entire head. His voice had shifted again, lower, and picked up an accent so thick Douglas thought it only existed in movies and stupid TV shows for hicks. Still, even if it was heavy, it was also…familiar to his ears. Comforting even. The cloud of smoke began to descend lower, covering his chest and flat stomach, and when it reached Pete’s head, it began swallowing up his son as well. He wanted to run, he wanted to do something to save them. He managed to take a step back, and then another, watching the smoke absorb the bottom half of Howard’s body, as well as Pete’s head and neck, planted in his crotch, sucking his cock.

“Come on Pa, thought ya’s was gonna give mah cubby hole another rough plowin’!”

It was Pete’s voice this time, drifting from the cloud of smoke–he wasn’t going to let this happen to him, he wasn’t going to give into this any more. The spirit beside Howard on the chair walked over to him, once it realized he wasn’t simply going to give in, and started stroking Douglas’s cock, pulling him forward into a kiss, the things mouth hot and dry–like eating an ashtray, and yet he was so turned on, he couldn’t help but moan.

“Please…don’ do this tah us,” Douglas said, his own voice picking up the same accent as his two roommates, “We ain’t done nothing tah deserve this, it ain’t right. I’m sorry ya lost yer family, but I ain’t gonna do this.”

But even as he protested, the spirit was stroking harder on his cock, pulling him forward, step by reluctant step, until the spirit had it lined up with Pete’s ass, and unable to resist–just…wanting to know if his son’s hole felt as good as he remembered it–he slid inside with a low groan. The spirit straddled Pete’s body, weightlessly, it’s form joining the thick cloud of smoke covering the front half of his body and still spreading further, inching closer to where Douglas was now fucking his boy’s tight, wet hole. He had to stop, but he couldn’t. The spirit kept kissing him, pushing into him, breathing into him, and Douglas…felt little bits of his soul heating up, drying and blowing away with each smoky exhale. The smoke was beginning to coat him as well–he could feel his son’s hole, but he couldn’t see him anymore, and the only evidence he had that Howie–no, not Howie, Howard–existed was the occasional moan and smack of his boy’s mouth around his uncle’s cock. Douglas gave in, too tired to fight, too hungry for smoke, and the smoke enveloped him again–but this time, the sensation was different.

Before, the heat had been inside him body, as his muscles had grown–and there was still some of that heat, mostly concentrated in his gut and chest. He also felt heat on his skin however, sometimes searingly hot, enough to make him wince and flinch as he fucked his son’s hole. The tenuous connection he’d felt form between his son and him deepened, and he found himself forming the same link with Howard–no, with Howie, of course. With…with his brother. Memories came to him, more than he could really begin to process, from his time spent growing up with Howie, the two of them jumping one another’s bones every chance they could as soon as they’d figured out what their cocks were even for. In the trailer park, in the woods, back behind the school when they should have been in class–they’d been, quite literally, as close as two brother’s could be. As the older one, Doug had always been the one to call the shots, and Howie had been his always willing accomplice.

They’d fucked the bitch together, one night at a truckstop–one of the very few times they’d even bothered with pussy, and they’d been surprised with the appearance of Pete about a year later–a three month old infant left in their care–and they’d done as well as they could with Pete. They still weren’t totally sure who the father really was, but for ease, Doug had accepted the official title, while Howie had been the ever-present uncle. Pete had, thankfully, turned out to be as much of a pervert as his daddies, sucking their cocks, getting fucked–anything was good for Pete, as long as a cock was inside him.

Smoke Spirit (Part 6)

Downstairs, they both heard the front door of the house open and close, followed by someone cursing. “Fuck, why does it smell like smoke in here? Douglas? Are you smoking up there, you fuck?” It sounded like Howard, another of their housemates. Before Douglas could decide what to do about that, however, Pete got an excited look on his face.

“That sounds like Unc!” he said, and before Douglas could stop him, he’d shot out the bedroom door, still naked, and ran down the stairs. With a growl, Douglas took off after him, hoping he could put a stop to this before anyone else he knew got sucked into whatever nightmare he was creating around him.

He hit the top of the stairs, when he heard a short exchange.

“Hey Unc! Wait…you don’t look like Unc, but you do sound like him…”

“Who the…what the hell is this, Douglas?”

“Oh I see, you just aren’t Unc yet! Daddy, get down here!”

He rounded the top of the stairs, and realized a bit too late that this is exactly what that smoke thing would want–after all, it had just taken one sniff of smoke for Pete to fall under whatever spell this was in the backyard, but as hard as he tried to get himself to stop, his feet were still moving, heading down the stairs, smoke pouring from his mouth around the cigar, heading out in thick tendrils right for Howard across the room. “You have to get out of here, Howard! Fucking run man, run!” he managed to say, before the smoke clamped his jaws shut around the cigar.

Howard had no clue who that burly, hairy, naked cigar smoking fuck was coming down the stairs, but running was something he was more than happy to do. Hell, it was something he was good at too–Howard was on both the cross country running team, and the swim team at school–both of which gave him a powerful, wiry build, and made him real fucking fast. He did his best to not make a stink about his housemate’s habit, but it disgusted him all the same–and he hated being around smokers, it always hurt his lungs. He turned towards the front door, but the other guy–the younger one who had come down first–blocked his route, so he turned around and headed for the back of the house.

“Don’t worry daddy, I got him!” Pete shouted, and before Howard could get very far, and build up much speed, the cub had leapt and slammed into him, sending them both to the floor of the living room, and the smoke coming from Douglas twined forward and slid into Howard’s mouth. Douglas had expected him to go under like Pete had, outside, but almost immediately, Howard began hacking and coughing, trying to push the smoke back out of him, kicking his legs violently, trying to free himself from Pete’s hold on his legs, and finally a kick connected right in Pete’s gut, making him grunt, and loosening his grip enough for Howard to wriggle free.

He stumbled up, still coughing and hacking at the smoke around him. It defied reason, but for some reason, it felt like the stuff was…trying to get into him, somehow. He hacked harder, and stumbled off towards the kitchen, and the back door to the house, but he felt winded all of sudden, like he just couldn’t get enough air. His head was swimming, and his vision was foggy. He got into the kitchen, and collapsed, still coughing, trying to breathe, and then, two people were on either side of him. “Come on, Howie–let’s get you sitting up. Tied one on a bit too hard last night, I…I think…”

Howie felt his blood chill. On one side of him was the older man from the stairs, but on the other…it wasn’t a person at all. It was some strange figure that seemed to be made out of smoke itself. He thought it just had to be the younger man who’d tackled him, but he could hear him staggering up in the living room, behind ten feet behind him. Still, for being made out of smoke, the thing…could still lift him, and together, Douglas and the spirit hefted Howard up and sat him down in a chair, at the table.

Douglas felt like he was in some fucked up dream. He knew that what he was doing was wrong, that he should be trying to help Howard escape, but he didn’t seem to have control of his body. It was the spirit that was controlling him, putting words in his mouth, and even stranger, they felt like the right words. The words he would say…if he was really in his right mind.

“You…told me to run,” Howie said, but his voice sounded all wrong. Deeper, with a grating rasp, like his neighbor who’d smoked for years sounded.

“Run? Howie, we both know you haven’t run in decades, man. Fastest I’ve seen you go is a quick lumber over to the cupboard for a nice, big snack.”

“Unc ok?” Pete said, coming down the hall, “He was going crazy back there!”

“Yeah son, your uncle’s just hungover is all, not quite all there sometimes.”

“I wasn’t fucking drinking…I was…I just got back from a run.”

Douglas laughed, “Fuck, you hallucinate some strange shit when you’re drunk. Still, best way out is through, right bro? First of all, let’s get you lit up…here, have mine, I’ll light another.”

Smoke Spirit (Part 5)

Douglas didn’t know what to say–and just looked from the cub to the spirit and back again. He could remember Pete–the old Pete, but looking at the cub–no, at his cub–here in front of him, he could remember him too, somehow, though those details were fuzzier, like he was trying to find them through a haze that wouldn’t quite clear from his mind. “It’s…alright, boy,” he said, finally, but the voice that emerged from his throat surprised him. It was deep, with a smoky rasp that made it seem…old. He sat up on the bed, and from there he could see himself in the mirror, and while he somehow already knew what he was going to see, that did nothing to diminish his shock.

He was old. Alright, so he wasn’t that old. His head was telling him that he was 46 now, but still, he’d just doubled his age in a matter of moments, and that wasn’t the only change which had happened to him. His old body hadn’t really been anything special–lean, average height, a small goatee, but looking at himself now, he was heavily muscled, even more so than the hulked out Pete kneeling in front of him on the bed, and his new height of six foot three only made him seem even larger. He got up, trying to push back the sense of vertigo which threatened to overwhelm him, and strode over to the spirit standing off to the side of the room, watching him. “What the fuck is going on? What the fuck did you just do to me and my son?” he asked, the word “son” popping out without him even thinking about it…and he realized it was true. He looked at the mirror again, where he could see both him and Pete, and realized just how…similar they looked to one another. His gut started churning again, but he felt a warmth against his cheek–the spirit’s hand had stroked his bearded cheek. He turned back towards it, and saw it was already dissipating into the air. “Wait! Please, just tell me what’s happening to me! What the fuck do you want with me?” he asked, and this time, he did get something in return.

It was difficult to describe what he felt. Some of it was emotion–that was the strongest bit. There was longing, and a deep abiding love that surged through him, a love for…for a family. His family! Douglas tried to think back, tried to think of his mom and dad, but he couldn’t catch anything. Instead, he could see… his son and two other people, but the haze was so thick around the others, it was difficult to tell even broad details about them, but they were there. He had to find them! No…No, “find” was the wrong word. The smoke was trying to tell him something else. He didn’t have to find them.

He needed to make them.

With that, the spirit was gone from the room, losing form and becoming a fog, sliding it’s way back into the head of Douglas’s cock, even as he tried, with his hands, to keep it from returning to him. Pete got up and walked over to his father, wrapping his own strong arms around Douglas’s broad chest, and he was surprised how comforting it felt, being close with his son.

“Don’t worry dad, you’ll help them too, I know you will! Just like you helped me. And then we’ll be a family again, just like before.”

Douglas pulled away, and went to his phone, where he pulled up Scruff. He hadn’t expected to see a reply from that fucker, but sure enough, there was. He pulled up the message and saw what Bandgar had told him in reply.

I did try to warn you. Still, I gave you someone I’m sure you’ll enjoy. Just don’t fight him, and help him make his–well, your–family. Then, when all is said and done, come find me, and we can all have some real smoky fun together. The way ya’ll ride, you’ll catch up to the tour in no time. See you soon, Daddy.

He needed a cigarette. No–No, fuck that, he needed a fucking cigar. His big hands shaking, he grabbed one of the cigars his son had brought back–they had seemed so much larger, back when he was smaller–but found lighting it to be completely natural. He took a deep inhale of the smoke, glad that Pete had brought his favorite brand, and exhaled two thick plumes through his nose. What was he stressing about, anyway? He looked over at Pete, his own cock stirring again, and fuck if his boy wasn’t the sexiest cub in the whole damn world! All he really wanted to do was plow that boy’s ass like he’d been doing earlier–or had he been doing that? He had felt, for a second, like he’d witnessed himself in two places at once, but the feeling disappeared quickly.

No–he shook his head, harder, and pulled the cigar out. He was falling into this trap, whatever it was. He could fight this, he could! But as soon as he’d thought that, a second vision came to him. The spirit leaving him, and entering his son instead. Then he…well, if Pete became the new father, then that meant he would be the new son. It was a threat, and a good one. His eyes, unlike Pete’s, were still human, and somehow, he didn’t think there was really much of a mind left in his old roommate’s head. Or at least, not much of his old mind.

Smoke Spirit (Part 4)

He begged him not to, but Pete walked over, after getting the cigar blazing nicely, and slid it into Douglas’s mouth. It tasted…heavenly. More than just tobacco, it felt…right, in his mouth. What he should have been smoking this entire time. The taste of it, the feel of the smoke in his mouth and in his lungs as he drew it into him. The thing inside him–the hunger–it gobbled down the smoke, so much that when he exhaled, almost nothing came out of his nose aside from a wisp–and he took a deeper inhale, feeding it, desperate for the pain to stop, he never wanted to feel that way again. The hunger, however, remained. It twisted into something else, and when he looked up at Pete, watching him light a second cigar for himself now he could…sense something unfinished. Still, it could wait a moment, but as soon as Pete got his own cigar burning, Douglas grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him closer to the bed, Pete’s knees buckling as he swallowed Douglas’ throbbing cock to the hilt.

Smoke was pouring out of Douglas again with every shuddering exhale. The cigar–it was more powerful somehow, and the spirit began to form again–a full head now, hands up past the elbow, and a massive, throbbing cock and pendulous balls. He found himself entranced, watching the spirit’s cock, how one moment it seemed to literally float in the air, while the next it had all the heft and weight of flesh. It kissed him again, and while before he had gotten weak…impressions, this time it was forceful, directions and orders imprinted across his consciousness. He backed up on the bed, forcing Pete to climb up onto it with him as he chased Douglas’s cock–taking breaks only to take in more smoke himself. Douglas watched the spirit for any sign of acknowledgement, but received nothing. Still, he had done what it had…asked, in a sense. It floated around behind Pete, it’s hands lying on his clothes, and embers leapt from them. Douglas panicked, as flames consumed them, worried his roommate was about to be set on fire, but he was unharmed–simply naked. Then the thing came closer, hands gripping Pete’s hips and slid it’s cock inside him.

Pete howled–though whether it was in pain or pleasure Douglas wasn’t sure. One thing he did see, was his eyes immediately clouding over entirely, becoming a solid smoky grey–even cloudier than they had been before, outside on the patio. He began sucking harder on Douglas’s cock, neglecting his own cigar entirely now, and Douglas gripped the sheets in pleasure. It was like the night before, when that…mouth had sucked him off, how it had drawn…something out of him, or through him, perhaps. The spirit was fucking Pete at a slow, steady pace, sliding in deep with each thrust, and the next time Douglas managed to look up, he could barely see Pete at all. The smoke in the room had become so thick it was difficult to see, though breathing was somehow easier than ever. It took a moment for him to realize where the smoke was coming from–not from their mouths, and not from the spirit–but from Pete, like it was somehow seeping from his very pores all over his body, like everything inside him was smoke now–like he had been consumed from the inside out. A minute later, he couldn’t be seen at all–though he had to be there in some form, because something was still sucking forcefully at Douglas’s cock. His eyes shifted up, and he saw that the spirit’s eyeless face was directed at him now, and the smoke from Pete’s body was curling up into wisps, and they were swirling towards him now. He tried to pull away, but the mouth sucking him off kept him rooted in place as the smoke settled over him, dug into him, seeped into every crevice, coating him in a blanket of soft grey. He couldn’t see, but he could feel something happening to him and his body…but he could also feel Pete, somehow. Not just feel him sucking him off, but some…connection to him, in a way he couldn’t quite explain. Pete was tethered to him. Pete was his. He owned him. The sensation was building inside him, and he came forcefully, bucking on the mattress, but Pete’s mouth never left his cock, and continued to suck even after he had collapsed back, heaving for smoke.

Soon after, the smoke began to dissipate. Much of it was drawn back to Douglas, sliding back into his body, where he could sense it…belonged. He could see the room again, through the haze. The spirit was still there, but standing off to the side of them both at the foot of the bed. Whether it had cum or not–whether it needed to cum or not–he could sense it was finished with Pete. His muscles ached for some reason, but Douglas managed to prop himself up and look down at Pete, who was still nursing his cock, and saw that the nerdy, long limbed roommate he’d had that morning was no longer there. Instead, he saw some muscled cub sucking hungrily at his cock, taking occasional breaks for an inhale off his cigar, before continuing. Douglas pushed him off, and the cub sat back on his heels, giving Douglas a better look at his new body. His chest and arms were thick with muscle, but with a slight gut–and a sizable cock jutting out below–all of it coated with a perfect dusting of brownish red hair. His beard was trimmed short, as was his hair–but his eyes…they were empty. A…perfect, flat grey surface. “Sorry Daddy,” Pete said, smiling around his cigar and seemingly perfect normal aside from his empty eyes, “Guess I got a bit carried away there, but your smoke always gets your cubson horned up so bad.”

Smoke Spirits (Part 3)

“Pete? What’s up man?”

From the movements of his mouth, it seemed clear Pete was trying to speak, but no sound came out, and his mouth closed again in a moment. Douglas just watched, rooted in place, as his housemate dropped to his knees in front of him, reached out, and tried to yank down the front of Douglas’ pajamas.

He stepped backwards and yanked them back up, “Whoa now, what the fuck’s up with you?” he said, not noticing that the smoke around them both had grown thicker, some of it beginning to pull together off to his side. There, like the night before, was the form of a lower jaw, nose and neck, formed from smoke–but also two large, burly hands. The placement of all three in the air implied the existence of an invisible body lying somewhere between them, but nothing else materialized. Pete, on the ground, shuffled forward on his hands and knees, focused only on Douglas’s crotch and ignoring his housemate’s shouts, backing him up against the side of the house. Douglas looked around, trying to figure out where to go to get away from his suddenly creepy housemate, when both smoky hands clamped down on his wrists, hauled his arms into the air and pinned them above his head and too the wall. “What the fuck?” he said, trying to pull away, but he saw the face hovering in front of him, the same face as the night before, and his guts chilled. Pete, however, took advantage of the opening, pulled down Douglas’s pants and started sucking on his cock.

He tried to protest, but the smoky face only turned up into a sneer. The hands above readjusted their position, so only one hand held both of Douglas’s arms up, the free hand moving down and sliding his shirt up, tweaking one nipple while the mouth moved down and started sucking at the other. He tried to push Pete off with one of his feet, but before he could, he felt a sudden surge of pleasure as something spewed out of his cock. He looked down, expecting to see Pete’s mouth flooded with cum, but instead all he saw was smoke pouring from his nose and mouth, the cloudiness of his eyes now nearly opaque. He wanted to stop, but he could already feel another massive load swelling in him, his balls nearly pulsing, as another load of smoke flooded into Pete’s mouth and lungs. He hadn’t noticed that his cigarette had burnt down to the filter and finally gone out, and he could sense some frustration in the smoky mouth as it began to lose it’s shape and dissolve into the air. The hand was no longer holding him in place, allowing him to shove Pete off his cock, but Pete didn’t seem to be home. The color of his eyes hadn’t returned, and as Douglas watched, what smoke remained slid back into his cock, or down Pete’s gullet.

He didn’t want to be there when Pete did come back around–if he came back around. He didn’t want to try and understand what had just happened to him, why he had just sucked his housemate’s cock. He went back inside, thankful the other two men living there hadn’t seen them, and went back up to his room, crumpling and ripping up his remaining cigarettes as he went, and dumping them all in the toilet before flushing them away. He found his phone and pulled up Scruff, looking for Bandgar’s profile page. All of this insanity had started with him, with that strange sex they’d had the night before–maybe he was still in town, and if he was, he might know what in the world was going on with him. However, he didn’t appear to be online, and so he sat on his bed, desperate, feeling the itch start up all over again, but refusing to give in to it anymore.

It wasn’t long before the usual withdrawal symptoms started–the headache, the nausea, the anger and anxiety, however, within an hour they were all more intense than he’d ever experienced them before, and came coupled with something even worse–it felt like his balls were somehow…drying up. Even that description, which was the best he could use to describe the itching, burning, and crushing sensation inside his sack, didn’t seem to adequately describe what was wrong with him. Further, something inside him was…frustrated. He thought it was just the nausea being somehow worse than usual, as he threw up his morning coffee into the trash can, but something in his lungs, in his head, in his heart was…angry. Angry that it had no smoke, angry at him, a burning, vicious, instinctual anger. This helped, in other ways. It gave him something to focus on, something to hate back, something to resist and fight, and for a while, he was convinced that he was winning. The thing in him–it was small. It had a grip on him, but even it could sense that if he kept up his resistance long enough it wouldn’t be able to hold on.

But that turned out to be a rather false hope, because the thing, whatever it was, already had a contingency in place. The door to Douglas’s room swung open after a few hours, and there was Pete holding a shopping bag in one hand, his mouth slack, his eyes still grey–though the occasional flicker of their original green peeked through every once in awhile. He shut the door behind him, pulled a cigar from the bag, clipped it and lit it, and walked over to where Douglas was whimpering on the bed, knowing he’d greatly underestimated the forces at work inside of him.