Interactive: A Pigtown Halloween (Part 2)

The imp was laughing–cackling more like–the entire way down the hall, as Ken raced to keep up. For as small as the little monster was, he sure could run fast! Hurtled around a corner, and ran flatout into something solid. He bounced back and ended up on his ass, staring up at what he thought would be a wall–but in fact was a massive, hulking man.

He was clad head to toe in a leather uniform, reflecting dimly the red light of the hallway. He had to be several inches over six foot, and while his eyes were shrouded in shadow, he grinned at Ken, his teeth…far, far too sharp for a normal man.

“Well hello there little one, what are you doing, running around in my hallways?” the man said. His voice was deep, but didn’t seem to be coming from the man’s mouth. He was still just…smiling, the teeth seeming to grow ever sharper. He could hear the voice coming from all around him, and when he looked around, he saw that they were not alone in the hall–in fact, there were another five men surrounding him there on the floor, all of them masked, so it was impossible to see much of their faces, especially in the dark.

“I…I was chasing…a little imp guy, he took my tag.”

The men around him all laughed at that. “Oh no, the little one lost his tag–and so soon! What do you think men, should we show the little one a good time tonight? Show him what happens when little ones lose their little tags?”

Before Ken could do anything, the men swarmed him, grabbing hold of his limbs as he tried to fight them off, and they hauled him off, away from where the imp had gone down a darker, downward sloping path that emptied out into a large sex dungeon. The men tore off his costume, including his mask, and then raped him, one after another, passing him around, filling him at both ends, coating him in their cum. Ken shouted and screamed for help the entire time, but no one came–and all the while, the hulking, leather clad figure just loomed over them all, watching, that sharp toothed grin never leaving his face, his eyes never emerging from the shadow of the brim of his cap. And the more that happened to him…the more Ken found himself enjoying it.

Soon, he was begging the men to fuck him, crawling across the cold stone floor to get to their drooling cocks, swallowing thier piss, his rational mind feeling like it was getting smaller and smaller, almost like it was being eaten away at. He looked over at the leader, at the Master of the Halls–as he…somehow knew he was called, and saw him lick his lips. It…was being eaten, wasn’t it? He could feel it, somehow, feel him crawling around inside his mind, warping him further and further towards depravity. He didn’t even know how to resist it–at last, with a cock in his ass, one one in his throat, Ken came, an explosive load adding to all of the cum and sweat and piss all over his body, and the men finally retreated away from him.

Ken was left as a quivering, sweating, sobbing mess. His mind…felt like it had been torn to pieces, he could barely manage to string words together at first, but finally managed to force something like a sentence out. “What…the fuck did do to me?” he said, looking up at him, “Why…why am I still so…so fucking horny…” he moaned, one hand reaching around to his well fucked ass, sliding three fingers in effortlessly, moaning as the men around him laughed. That was when the Master of the Halls stepped forward, putting one leather boot on Ken’s chest, and forcing him to the ground. “Men–it looks as though you have torn up this man’s costume! I know that we’re done with him, but we can’t allow him to roam the halls without one, right? It is Halloween after all.”

The men, laughing harder now, all ran to the walls of the room, and returned with arm loads of gear, fighting amongst themselves over who would get to dress Ken in his new costume. Finally, after a little deliberation, and a couple punches, it was settled, and the men forced the squirming, resistant Ken into his new clothing. As they were, he looked over, and saw the imp crouched in the doorway, watching him with glee, his clothes check tag hanging off the imp’s arm. He tried to crawl towards him, but the men dragged him back, still gearing him up. The imp laughed, and then took off again down the hall, back into the maze–and as the gear piled on, Ken wondered if he’d even have the will left to chase him down again.


Alright, what sort of gear does Ken end up in? Some of these below might be dead ends! You’ll never know until you pick them. Again, if we hit an ending, we’ll go back to one of the earlier branches, and carry on from there instead. The bonus patreon poll is over here too!


Of Favors and Family (Part 4)

“Well Jeremiah, I’m gonna level with you. You’re a bit late with the blackmail, because your dad is already threatening the same thing, and honestly? His word in my favor is going to count quite a bit more than the words of you and your friends, whether you have a tape or not.”

Jeremiah went a bit pale at that, but didn’t say anything.

“But I’ll tell you what–maybe we can come to a compromise. You won’t have to go to war, and your dad will think you’ve gone to war. Wait a couple of years, come back, honorably discharged, and everything will be just fine.”

“How the hell is that going to work?”

“I grew up around here–still have lots of my family pack living up in the hills around here. They keep to themselves–I’m the only one around here who even knows where they live. You stay with them, and I’ll cover for you here.”

“Bullshit, I’m not going to live in the fucking hills with a bunch of dumb mutts!”

“Well, even if you stay here, you really think your dad is gonna stop trying to get you sent off? You’re going to war one way or another, whether I get you there, or someone else. You’re going to have to give up something, if you don’t want to die in Vietnam–because trust me, I know, when I send a boy off, if I’m sending him to die–and you wouldn’t last very long–and I have seen a great many young men in my office, and my accuracy would haunt you, trust me.”

Jeremiah was weakening, and Wade refused to budge. In the end, he gave in, signed the enlistment form, but didn’t get on the bus with the rest of the recruits at four in the afternoon. Instead, he called his friends, told them he was going into hiding, but to hide the tape in case anything happened to him, and then got in Wade’s car and drove off into the hills.


He’d told him to wait in the car. That had been close to half an hour ago, and Jeremiah was growing more and more suspicious by the minute that all of this was bullshit cooked up by this idiot recruiter to buy himself more time. They’d been driving for hours now, following twisting back roads up hills and back down into valleys, going deeper into the country than Jeremiah had ever been himself, where his nannies had told him when he was younger feral packs of hounds and wolves still roamed around, looking for trouble. Those had all just been stories of course, but there were old families out here–hell, Jeremiah knew he came from a few of them himself. All the hounds in the city could trace themselves back here one way or another, Wade too, he was sure. But why park here, and tell him to sit tight? He had no idea where he was, he had no way to get help. He was starting to wonder if he was the idiot for agreeing to these terms at all.

The sun was setting, but he couldn’t see it behind the ridge. He was already in shadow down here, the light growing dimmer with each passing minute. They hadn’t eaten all day long, and his stomach kept growling louder each time. Could he really do this? Live out here in the sticks? Now that he was here, it just seemed…so damn uncivilized. It…only had to be for a little while. Long enough for his dad to think he really was shipped off, and then he could come back down and just skip town for a while, live with some sympathetic family one state over. Just a couple of months, and then he could have a normal life again.

There was a rustle of brush, and then Wade turned the corner on the dirt road, hauling ass, hat in hand. He slid to a stop by the car, nearly losing his footing, then climbed in, fumbling with his keys.

“Are–what happened?”

“Shut the fuck up, and keep your head down.”

Jeremiah didn’t know what to think of that, until he heard the gunshot in the near distance, followed by a whoop.

“What the fuck was that?”

“Family issues, get your damn head down!”

The car started up, and Wade through it in reverse. A few overall clad cur-looking hounds bounded onto the road, holding rifles and shotguns, and leveled them at the car as it rolled back. Then, Jeremiah finally got down. They were lucky–none of the windows ended up getting busted out. Wade was sure it was meant more to scare him off than actually hurt him–he was, after all, family…just not as close to family as he might have been when he was younger. He’d been hoping for a slightly more sympathetic ear, but the great uncle who had been the local alpha a decade back had passed on, leaving his much more…aggressive son to take the helm of the family. The negotiation had started strong, until the alpha wanted to test the newcomer for the purity of his bloodline, and Wade had made…a misstep or two, and now he was rolling back down the road, night falling, cursing himself for being an idiot.

“What the fuck–are those the fucks you were going to have me stay with?”

“I never said it was going to be a hotel.”

“They were fucking shooting at us!”

“Well, usually they’re a bit more welcoming to family.”

Wade slid the car to a halt, now that he was sure the pack wasn’t following them, and sighed, wondering what to do now. There were a few other pockets of family around that he could check on, but he’d thought this one might be most…accommodating, and now that he’d riled up one part of the family, leaving Jeremiah with another chunk was liable to rekindle old feuds.

“I’m done with this–take me home,” Jeremiah said.

“This is not a deal you can back out off just because you’re a little uncomfortable now.”

“Look at those crazy fucks! I’m not staying with them!”

“Boy, if you go back now, your daddy will ship you off himself.”

“If you don’t take me back, then I’ll make sure that tape sees the light of day, as soon as I get word to my friends.”

“Yeah? And how the fuck do you plan on getting back there?” Wade said.

Jeremiah just glared at him, and then got out of the car. “I’ll fucking walk.”

Wade…had not expected that, and so he didn’t quite know what to say. Walking back was impossible of course–they were a good 20 miles away from town at this point, and he knew Jeremiah hadn’t been paying well enough attention to get back there. He couldn’t risk it though–and he also…well, he might be alright with the cocky brat getting a limb blown off in the jungle, half a world away, but the thought of him getting lost and dying in the woods (and with it being far more directly his own fault) wasn’t something he wanted to live with. Wade got out of the car, and started after him. “Hey–get your ass back here, we had a fucking deal boy.”

“The deal is off, faggot–I’m done. Once I get back there, the whole fucking town is going to know what a pervert you are, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Wade growled, and wished he’d brought his pistol along–not to hurt him, but a shot between his legs would do more to straighten the boy out than pretty much anything else. He felt the cuffs there on his belt…Jeremiah was younger than him, and probably a bit more fit…but he had a feeling he wasn’t particularly used to roughhousing. Wade on the other hand–well he had too much at stake to lose. He charged at Jeremiah’s back and slammed into him, knocking them both to the ground where they rolled about and tussled. Jeremiah was surprised that someone would dare attack him–anyone, and when Wade landed a paw across his face, leaving a nice scratch across his cheek–he just laid there, stunned. Pain, apparently, wasn’t something he was accustomed to. It gave Wade an opening, and he rolled him over and cuffed him on the ground, panting a bit…and his cock hard in his uniform slacks.

“You fucking piece of shit, get these fucking things off of me?”

Wade just watched him squirm there, and fuck, if it wasn’t turning him on something fierce. He’d only cuffed a few boys in the past, usually one’s he’d already broken in, or who were enjoying the treatment themselves, and every time, it had been…a rush. But what could he do? They were in the middle of the woods, night falling…and he wanted that ass, badly. He’d wanted that ass this whole time, but had been restraining himself out of a sense of respect for Jeremiah and his father–well, his respect had run out, and Wade had a feeling a good, rough fuck would put the runt in his place faster than words could anyway.

Jeremiah had managed to push himself up onto his knees, and Wade shoved him back down, snout first, into the dirt, and then got on top of him. Jeremiah began to struggle further, now that he could more…directly feel the older man’s erection, and he started to shout for help.

“Who the hell do you think is going to come save you boy?” Wade said, “Everyone out here is my kin–not yours. They won’t take too kindly to a racket like that–but I’ll be in the car and gone, and it’ll just be you out here, cuffed and alone…and shoot you in the back is the kindest they can be to an outsider like you–trust me. I know all the old stories…”

Wade tugged down Jeremiah’s pants and underwear, running one of his claws up the boy’s crack, feeling him shiver. He undid the fly of his pants, and his cock was already hard and out of its sheath–he thought about warming the boy up…but he didn’t deserve it, and honestly, Wade liked hearing them shout, and beg, and pull away from him. It made it all the more exciting. He pressed the head to Jeremiah’s ring, and felt the boy try and crawl away–he didn’t get far, and Wade bore down, sliding the head in, and then the shaft, shuddering with pleasure as jeremiah started shouting in pain and anger. Wade ground the boy’s snout into the dirt, hard enough to make him shut up, and started fucking him, driving his cock in deeper, inch by inch, with each thrust, panting as he did, feeling how close he was. “Maybe I should just take you home with me boy instead–keep you in my basement. You have a real nice hole, I have to say. Better than Ashton and Dusty–I’ll be sure to tell them that, next time I see them.”

Jeremiah was whining now, just wanting it to be over. It was…less sexy, but probably better. Wade pumped a little faster, pulled out, and nutted all over his ass, tugging his pants back up, watching the cum seep into the fabric in the twilight, before hauling the boy upright, and half dragging him back to the car, and shoving him in the backseat.

The fuck had helped clear his mind, and had also brought back some…memories, of fucking in these woods with his family, usually during family reunions that seemed to be happening less and less as of late. Still, when he’d been a cub, around Jeremiah’s age or a bit younger, he and his cousins had run off regularly to go “exploring”, though they spent most of their time exploring each other some days. But one memory in particular stood out to him–of his third cousin, Bart, once removed (that is, his great great grand aunt’s grandson–one generation older than he was) had caught him and another boy playing…and joined in. He’d…particularly enjoyed fucking Wade that afternoon, but he seemed to have a thing for cubs around that age–around Jeremiah’s age. He’d be pushing sixty at this point, but Wade knew he lived alone, and that he was on generally good terms with the rest of the family. He’d probably be more than willing to keep an eye on Jeremiah, especially if he could get a fuck out of it. Sure, giving Jeremiah to his family as a sex slave was going to…complicate returning him later, but he was low on options, and as far as he was concerned, Jeremiah deserved it.

He put the car in gear, and drove off again–thankfully, Bart’s shack wasn’t too far off from here–assuming he still lived there. Then again, Bart’s family had lived there for ages, though Bart was, as far as Wade could recall, the last of the line. He took a little too firmly to cock, to be able to pick out a wife and bed her for an heir–or maybe that had changed too, in the last few years. Still, he was an old hound, and particularly stubborn, as far as Wade could recall. He doubted much would have changed.

Prison Psychology (Flash Commission)

CW: Rape

“I guess I just don’t understand why I’m here,” Officer Galloway said, looking around at the psychologist’s office, there at the prison where he worked as a guard.

“Oh,it’s just a formality, really. I like to have regular chats with the staff here, and make sure they are mentally fit enough for the work. It can be…overwhelming for some, the things they see here, the people they have to deal with on a regular basis. It’s part of my job to make sure that you’re up to the task.”

“I mean, I’ve been working here for six months,” Galloway told the psychologist, “I haven’t had any issues, I don’t think.”

“Yes, well, you might not even notice them. Still…are you sure you have the…constitution for this kind of work? You seem…rather small, I suppose. Well, I’m not in charge of determining physical fitness, so I suppose we should skip that, now…”

Galloway was caught off guard by the slight insult, and he had a hard time remembering everything else they talked about during that first session, he was so focused on that. He wasn’t a small fellow by any measure–he’d played football in high school and college, and the warden had hired him in part because he was big. Intimidating, he’d said, in fact. And this doctor, this short, chubby fellow, didn’t think he was big enough? He laughed it off at first, until he saw himself in the mirror later, changing out of his uniform to go home. Nothing had changed about him–he was still the six foot two, 220 muscular guy he’d been–he even weighed himself to check…but the doctor had been right. He was…small. He could fix that though, he could get bigger–he needed to get bigger.

He added another two days at the gym, and filled his diet with protein, but it wasn’t…enough. By the time he had another appointment with the psychologist a month later, he’d given into temptation, and started using steroids he bought from some hefty fellows at the gym–just to give himself a boost. He was bigger now–230–but the psychologist still wasn’t impressed–and was worried about his job performance too. He was concerned that he was too…nice. That he had developed a bit too much camaraderie with his fellow prisoners. Again, he left the session questioning himself, trying to sort out the truth, re-remembering…everything. He had been too soft. These people were thugs, they were criminals. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down. He looked down at the pills the psychologist had prescribed him–allegedly something for his depression, regarding BDD, whatever that was. Something about…his body looking wrong, but he’d fix that soon enough.

The pills worked alright. He had more energy, and he used it all to work out. The increased aggression, from the steroids and from the pills, were helpful on the job as well, and he put the prisoners he’d started getting too friendly with back in their place, with his fists, if he had to. In a few more months, and with a few more sessions with the doctor, he was up to 260, the largest he’d ever been, but it still wasn’t enough. He still looked too small, and too soft. Sure, the pills were helping. He was hairier. His face…looked different. His jaw more square, his brow deeper, and even his eyebrows were growing together, his beard thicker. He should shave it, but he’d stopped caring about…hygiene, lately. Not showering, and no deodorant–he wanted men to smell him coming, wanted them to fear getting close to him. He could be scarier though. He had some savings he could use, and he booked the tattoo and piercing appointments right away, and got started on his full body tribal tattoos, and all the piercings he needed. He got…so hard, whenever the needle pierced or stung him, but he was horny all the time now, but he hadn’t been with a woman in…ages. He was fantasizing about…about men, about the prisoners, and his fellow guards. About dominating them, but he couldn’t…do that, could he?

The next session, a few months later, was a joint session, to his surprise, with another guard, Officer Mandel. He was a sorry looking fellow–very fat, easily 300 pounds, and he smelled about as bad as Galloway did, but…weaker. He was weak, and Galloway was strong, and their doctor suggested they do some roleplay–with Mandel as the prisoner, and Galloway as the guard. He knew he should have been worried, when he ripped down Mandel’s pants and fucked him–but it felt so good, after being alone for so damn long…he wanted more, he needed more, he deserved more. That’s what his psychologist said, and Galloway always agreed with him, no matter what.

It felt like something had been…unleashed in him, after that. He would smell a guy at the gym, musky and strong, and he…he had to have them. He resisted for a while, but one night, he followed one of them home, and raped him in his apartment–making sure he never saw his face. He loved it–and that helped calm his urges, for a while. Using prisoners was easier–they were more…pliant, the ones the doctor suggested needed his special kind of attention. It caught up with him in due time however. The trial was short–he was too stupid to lie, and close to a year after his first meeting with the psychologist, Galloway found himself back in the prison, but this time, as an inmate, serving twenty-five years with no chance of parole.

Prison did nothing to contain his urges. He was a brute, a beast, and he fucked every cellmate they placed him with, until they were forced to place him in solitary confinement. It wasn’t…so bad, not really. He could work out. The psychologist visited him regularly to give him his drugs, to make sure he stayed big and strong, like he needed to be. The doctor, or his master, as he thought of him now, would keep him safe, and keep him happy, as long as he served him, here at the prison. The psychologist would bring men to him, troublesome ones, resistant ones, and they would spend a day or three with Galloway in his cell, raped by him over and over again, until they were begging to be released, until they were willing to do anything master told them to do. He enjoyed fucking the warden. The old faggot would show up, let himself into the cell, and drop his pants, cock locked in chastity, and beg for the beast to plow him. For him, getting raped by the brute in solitary was a reward. Mandel visited often too, larger every time, now over 500 pounds, snorting and squealing like a pig.

In the mirror…he finally looked right. Bestial face with the heavy brow over his eyes, hair and beard hanging all around him, growing higher up his cheeks with each month. He weighed over 300 pounds now, all of it muscle, and he couldn’t speak–he’d been alone for so long, he’d forgotten how to use his words–though he could listen. He liked listening to Master, he liked it more than anything. Soon, Master said, he would be free again. Free to roam the halls of the prison as Master’s head guard. Free to take any hole he wanted. Patience, Master said, soon, everything would be exactly as it should be.

The Bruiser Rapes – Case One (Part 3)

The next few days were…strange. I kept trying to put all of the pieces together, tried to figure out what I was missing, tried to find the whole I knew had to be there somewhere, but nothing turned up. We found no evidence of anyone else being in Bernard’s home–unbelievable if the rapist had been staying there the whole time, and it was impossible for the story to make sense if he hadn’t. Part of me wanted to bring Bernard back in and hold him until he finally told us the truth–the whole truth–but I in the end, I didn’t have to do that. Instead, Bernard called the local TV station, and told the truth on the evening news for the entire city–and soon enough the entire country to hear.

I didn’t see the interview until the next day, when someone from the department told me to watch it online. I couldn’t fucking believe what I was looking at, what I was fucking seeing. He got on there, and talked about the rape with the anchor, and what I was expecting was for him to rip into us, the police, for not doing enough to try and find his rapist. But what I saw instead was something else altogether. He denied it was a rape at all. The anchor was confused, because he had obviously told them he wanted to talk about his rape on the air, but he had been given a soapbox, and so he used it. He looked right at the camera, ripped off the turtleneck he had on, and there he was, still wearing that fucking collar around his neck. He starts raving, begging for his Master to come back, begging to know what he’d done wrong, and why he’d left. He told Master, whoever he was, that he loved him, that he wanted to be his slave forever–and then the station finally pulled the plug.

Needless to say, that caused some waves. We had to make a statement assuring the city we were investigating it as a rape. Somebody paid to have opinions on things on the television called Bernard a bruiser, and wondered if it was even possible to rape someone who looked as strong and burly and tough as that, and the name stuck, but to the wrong person. It was a mess, obviously, and the next day, I went over to Bernard’s home to try and get some better answers out of him, now that he’d gone and made him, and his rape, a national issue.

He was a wreck. One minute, he was lucid, and the next, he was raving at me to tell me where Master was, demanding to know where I was hiding him, demanding to know what he had to do to get him to come back. He’d told everyone, he’d told the world, but what else could it possibly take to get him to come back to him? I wondered if I should commit him to a psych ward, and as I tried to pin him down and get some straight answers out of him, I found myself getting rougher, and more demanding, and angry, and…well, horny.

He could feel it too, I think. I could see the fear in his eyes in what was happening between us, even before I realized anything strange was happening at all. I saw the fear for just a moment, and then he began pushing back, becoming obstinate and standoffish, arguing with me one moment, and then backing off and agreeing with me the next, always apologizing, and always calling me Sir.

I pushed and I pushed, and he retreated to his bedroom upstairs–I assumed out of shame and fear of what was happening to him, and locked the door. I demanded he let me in, I demanded he tell me exactly what the man had done to him, and when the door to the bedroom finally opened, all he told me was that he would show me exactly what Master had done, that we would learn together.

He was nearly naked, and that was worse, somehow. He was wearing only a leather harness, a cock cage, and a leather hood–and that fucking collar he still hadn’t removed, the collar I doubt he will ever take off for the rest of his life–and he got on his knees, and he told me he understood now. Master had left, but he’d sent him…me. A new master, someone he needed to serve as well as he’d served Him. He crawled over to me, where I was standing in shock at the doorway, and started prying open the front of my pants…and I let him.

I wanted him to do it, I wanted him to suck my cock, and I could hear…all of these little things in the back of my head, things some alien voice was whispering to me, just like how Bernard had described it to me in the interrogation room. I fought it off though, and pushed him away. I tried to talk some sense into Bernard, I told him he was traumatized, that he was suffering from some extreme PTSD, and that he needed to get help, but the only thing Bernard wanted was my cock. I ended up leaving–I couldn’t handle being that close to him, I didn’t know how long I’d be able to resist that voice, before I ended up doing to Bernard everything that rapist had already done to him down in that basement.

I went back the next day with a social worker for a welfare check, but Bernard was nowhere to be found. Eventually I found a note in his bedroom, addressed to no one, but I felt like he was speaking to me, or maybe at his rapist. He told him he understood what he needed to do now, that he’d found someone to serve, someone he needed to serve, and most importantly, someone who wanted him to serve him. He wouldn’t be returning here, apparently, and he didn’t care what happened to his possessions. We looked for him, but he did not want to be found. I’m sure, somewhere this very moment, he’d chained up somewhere, in some pervert’s home…and I think he might even believe he’s happy. I think about him too, some nights, the way I think about…all of them. The way I think about the rapist, the way I think about…so many men now. I can’t help it, I’m too close, too close to get away from it now, but I didn’t realize how close until a couple weeks later, when an old cold case came to my desk, wanting to talk about the bruiser.

The Bruiser Rapes – Case One (Part 2)

The questioning took a rougher turn. I demanded to know why he was lying, and he insisted that he wasn’t. We questioned him about details on the license, and he knew everything. He knew Bernard’s social security, his mother’s maiden name, and the city where he’d been born. Still, none of us could believe–really believe–that this hulking man was actually the man from the photos. So we cuffed him (I noticed at the time, to my disgust, that it gave him an erection) tried to undo the collar, but discovered the lock had been glued shut. It ended up being easier for us to cut the chain instead, we arrested him for filing a false report, and took him to the station.

It was when we took him to the interrogation room that he first got a good look at himself in the one way mirror–and his reaction…I have never seen a man look so horrified at himself in my entire life. He denied it, he thought it was a trick, he started raving about how this was Master’s doing, that he was being tested, that of course he wouldn’t abandon him, but that Bernard believed he had failed him somehow. I didn’t get anything useful out of him, so we stuck him in a cell for the night, and in the meantime, we ran the stranger’s prints in the database to try and figure out who this fucker was claiming to be Bernard Goldwell.

We got a match, but not the one we expected. The fingerprints of the victim did in fact belong to Bernard Goldwell, from a background check done for a security firm a few years prior. But the picture attached to the file, again, bore no resemblance to the man we had sitting in the cell. I didn’t sleep much that night, let me tell you. I spent the entire night trying to figure out how, exactly, this man could fake all of this, because the possibility that the man was in fact who he said he is…I didn’t even know how to begin processing that. I didn’t know how to begin processing most of what I had witnessed that day–thought at this point, I can officially say I have seen stranger shit than this.

So the next day, I sat down with him, alone, and started the conversation over. I didn’t know how to explain any of this, and so I asked Bernard to explain it. I wanted to know exactly what the man had done to him down in the basement for ten days, and maybe, along the way, I would learn what, exactly, had happened to take the Bernard from the photos and turn him into this man sitting across from me, still wearing that heavy metal collar like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He was hesitant, but I worked it out of him, eventually. He confessed that he’d invited the man who’d done this to him over to his house for a hookup, and that night…something had happened. When he arrived, the man was slight, wore glasses, seemed awkward and small and a bit nerdy. However, he had warmed up quickly, and gotten horny quickly, and plans for a beer and a chat were skipped, as the man took Bernard straight into the bedroom, but somewhere between the front door and the bedroom, he’d…changed.

He got taller, and hairier, and rougher, and more muscular. Bernard had always had fantasies about rough, submissive sex, but nothing he’d ever acted on, or imagined doing beyond mere imagination, but that night, something inside him unlocked. It…started out as a rape, the man definitely raped him that night, though in the interview Bernard tried to hedge it somewhat. It was forced, but not bad. He’d been asking for it. He wasn’t into it at first, but as it went on, he started actually enjoying the rough treatment, even if the man he was with didn’t seem to be engaging with what he was doing at all. He didn’t speak, and he didn’t do…much at all, aside from fuck, for…hours, reaching orgasm several times that first night. When Bernard assumed he’d finally finished, the man had drugged him, and when he woke next, he was down in the basement, collared, tied up, and watching the man hammer the spike right into the brick wall–barehanded.

He’d been even bigger, then, and his eyes, apparently, had turned entirely black. When Bernard got to that detail, he shook in his seat, and he looked at me, holding back tears, and then looked at himself in the mirror. He couldn’t believe it either, I think. I still thought it was impossible. Even after talking with Bernard, and coming to believe he was telling me something he thought was true, I still thought it was impossible until the next case surfaced a couple weeks later. Bernard went on and detailed some of what the man had done to him…which mostly was a lot of sex. The man didn’t speak at all that Bernard could recall, but he had somehow always known what Master desired from him, almost like there was a whisper of some kind in the back of his mind, some other voice, something between his own fantasies and some other entity entirely speaking to him, speaking about him, right into his mind.

He slept in the basement. He was given food and water twice a day. He used a bucket as a toilet, and Master emptied it promptly after he used it. Beyond that, he would rape him, over and over again…and as far as Bernard could really tell, whatever had happened to him, whatever had happened to change him from the scrawny guy in the photos to the hulking bear sitting across from me, had happened slowly, so slowly he never he realized it was happening until he’d seen himself in the mirror here. Then, that morning of the 911 call, Master had never come down with his breakfast. A couple hours later, we’d arrived, and here we were.

It wasn’t the whole story, I could tell well enough, but it was as close to the truth as I was going to get, but the confusion had ruined our chance of getting anything useful from his body in a rape kit, and he, and his body, was so unreliable, even if we’d found a suspect, there was no way this story was going to work in court–mostly because Bernard had no interest in pressing charges. With no crime that I could see, even if I couldn’t explain Bernard’s strange transformation, and with nowhere to go on this rape and kidnapping, we let him go–and in doing so, we forgot to get that damn collar off of him, believe it or not.

The Bruiser Rapes – Case One (Part 1)

The Bruiser.

That’s what happens when the media catches wind of something like this, they need something catchy, a phrase that they can use to reduce the entire investigation into a second, something Pavlovian they can use against their audience. They say it, send that jolt of fear into the hearts of everyone they’ve been conditioning, and watch the eyes turn to them, and the money pour in. The Bruiser, fuck, what a fuckup that whole fucking thing was, right down to the interview, that really capped the whole thing off with a fucking cherry. Still, I’m getting ahead of myself. I told myself I would start at the beginning, leave this as a…final report, of a sort. I have a feeling I’ll need something like this, once this is all said and done. Once I finally find him, and I’m close. Closer than he thinks.

Me. Right now, as for most of my life, I’m Detective Adam Hoft, the lead investigator of the…bug-fucking crazy serial rapes of men in the city, of which there have pressently been four known cases. I regarded myself as jaded, I thought I had seen everything, but this shit–this shit defies reason. All of it. I can’t explain some of the things I have seen in the course of this case, and I don’t think I ever will be able to explain it until I finally catch this crazy fuck…but I gotta be honest, I’m fucking terrified of him, and you should be too. That Pavlovian shit? Good. Be terrified of him, lock your doors, observe the curfew, because the few details you know? You don’t know shit. But let’s start at the beginning, like I said, with the first victim, Bernard Goldwell.

On the morning of September 24th, the precinct 911 received an anonymous call from a cellphone, which ended up being a burner, about a rape victim. The speaker gave the address twice, and then hung up without answering any of the questions asked by dispatch. I myself wasn’t called in until around noon, once the cops who responded to the call realized they weren’t dealing with something…conventional.

When the officers arrived at the small house the caller had identified, they found the door unlocked, and entered. The building was empty, but down in the basement, the officers found a man, later identified as Bernard, sleeping on the concrete floor wearing nothing other than a thick metal collar, which was attached to a heavy metal chain, attached to a stake which had been driven into the brick wall of the basement. He was dehydrated and disoriented, and for several minutes he demanded the officers get “Master”, that he needed him, screaming for him, attacking anyone who tried to get close in order to free him, telling them that if he got free, Master would be furious.

Like I said, hardly a conventional case, and I’ve seen some strange shit before. I was called in, and conducted my first interview with him down in the basement, still in the collar and chained to the wall–and still completely naked. It was…hell of a first impression, and I could see why some of the officers initially thought this must be some elaborate prank, because Bernard did not seem to be the kind of person you would expect to get raped.

Now don’t misunderstand me, I know that men can be, and regularly are, sexually assaulted, but there are some kinds of guys that you don’t think would go down easily–and Bernard appeared to be one of those sorts of guys. He was big–several inches over six feet tall, and burly. Hell, more than burly, he was built like a brick shithouse, as my dad would say. Thickly muscled, with a thick layer of fat, lots of hair–a real man’s man, if you get the picture. Not the sort of character you might associate with being chained down in a basement, calling out for a master.

Still, by the time I arrived, he had gained some coherence, though he still refused to let any of us unlock the collar. It had to stay on, he told us. Master had told him it had to stay on, and so on it would stay. We chatted a bit, I got him comfortable with me, and then I started probing…but his answers were…well, a bit unbelievable. He didn’t know how long he had been down in the basement, but he guessed it had been several days. In fact, when we nailed down the timeline later, we determined he had been held captive for almost ten days, all told. I asked him if he knew where he was, and he said that he did–that this was his house. He lived here alone, but when I asked him who had done this to him, and how he’d gotten in (since no one had found any evidence of forced entry) he clammed up.

At first, I thought he was just ashamed. After all, ten days locked down in a basement can do strange thing to someone’s mind, but it wasn’t that. I asked him a few other questions, and he gave clear answers, showing he obviously remembered what had happened well enough, but when it came time to ask him who had done this to him, and what he had done, he would go vague and try and tell me he didn’t remember anything, which I could tell was bullshit. Then, one of the other officers who was looking for evidence upstairs, found the photos.

They were photos of Bernard Goldwell, but the man in the photos was most certainly not the man down in the basement. We went looking for other things, and found his wallet in the pocket of some pants upstairs in the master bedroom, and sure enough, the man on the license was the same man in the photos, which is to say, we all assumed that the man down in the basement was not, in fact, Bernard. No–the picture was of some young fellow, easily a foot shorter and a hundred pounds lighter than the man down in the basement, with no beard, and no hair to be seen.