Tag: revenge

No One Else Will Want You Now (Part 8)

“Are…y-ya fuckin’ h-h-happy now, s-s-sir?” Donny stammered out, staring at himself. “Ain’t no one g-g-onna want me now.”

“No–No, fuck you, no we’re not finished.”

Donny flinched at the edge in Walter’s voice. It hadn’t been there before–and neither had those steel grey eyes he was looking at him with. Appraising him with, like an object. Like an object, trying to figure out what part of it he hadn’t quite vandalized completely.

“That face,” Walter said, “I still see you in that fucking face.”

With a cry of pain, Donny’s facial features began rearranging themselves. His mouth grew wider and his lips thinned, his nose growing out, the point turning up and flattening, nostrils flaring wide to either side. His brow thickened considerably, hiding his now beady eyes in shadow, even as his forehead grew shorter. His ears flapped out to either side, one noticeably larger than the other.

“Too young too. You don’t fucking deserve youth. No–there’s nothing uglier than awkward middle age.”

His hairline receded, but left a noticeable tuft of hair behind offset to one side, and a few strands of grey appeared in his hair and sideburns–not enough to form a pattern, but enough to be apparent. His gut and moobs sagged a bit further, his skin growing cracked, dry and weathered, spotted with moles and freckles. Donny no longer recognized himself in any part of his body, and yet, looking at his own reflection…he knew this life of his intimately. No one had ever loved him. No one had ever touched him without also wanting to hurt him.

“Fuckin’ ugly pig,” Walter said, giggling for some reason, feeling unhinged in his own mind. What a name for you! Fuglet! The fuckin’ ugly piglet. What’s your name, slave? I want to hear you say it.”

“It’s…Fuglet s-s-sir,” Donny said…and it was true. Somehow, that nickname had followed him his entire life. He’d forgotten his real name often enough, and it was easier just to introduce himself as that–it got the messy business over faster…sometimes.

“Fugglet, oh my fucking christ, what the fuck have I done!” Walter said, still giggling. “I…I knew this was going to…to be rough, but fuck, I can’t even look at you.”

“I k-k-know sir, I’m g-g-g…” he tried to say, but couldn’t get anything past his lips.

“I fucking did this, fuck, I have to get the fuck out of here, I need some fucking air,” Walter said, and stumbled for the apartment door, intending to run and never come back. He’d done what the curse had wanted, hadn’t he? It didn’t need him anymore. He couldn’t stay here, he couldn’t stare that thing in the face everyday and…and not see himself reflected in it. He grabbed the door handle and hauled the door open six inches, but the door slammed against some immovable and invisible force, which slammed it back shut. It was in him. It was in him, the curse was in him, and it was angry. Now he knew what Jack had meant, when he’d told him not to resist, that the curse only wanted to use him. In the end, he hadn’t been the right tool, even if he’d been close. The curse was realizing this now, and decided to fashion him into something which would better suit its needs.

“You have to stay.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll stay, I’ll be your tool!” he shouted into the room, but he could tell the curse was rather unimpressed, and it was right. He couldn’t do this. He hadn’t imagined it might be this intense, this terrible, watching the man he loved…destroyed like this. This wasn’t what he’d wanted, not really, but it was the curse calling the shots. It was the curse which had seen this in him, deep inside him, and called it forth. This had come from him, but he’d never had to stomach to grapple with it–that the only way he could know–truly know–that someone was his, was to make sure no one would ever desire them.

“You cannot leave. You won’t leave. You don’t want to leave.”

The curse was pulling him away from the door, dragging him back towards the room, back towards Fuglet, back towards the mirror.

“Fuglet needs to be punished.”

“Please, I know, I’ll do it.”

“You both need to be punished.”

“No…no…” he whined, but he could already feel it, his body changing in ways he could barely understand.

“You hate. You hate, it is what you do. You hate, you wound. You are cruel. You are waste. You are wasting. No one would ever submit themselves to someone like you, no one other than someone who no one would want to dominate. You will both be cursed to have no one but one another.”

Thinking back on the moment–often after waking up from nightmares in the middle of the night, trying to scream through a dry, empty throat–it was like he had been set on his knees in a sandstorm, being buffeted by the wind and thousands of sharp, cutting grains of glass. Every cut removed a piece of him–thoughts from his mind, strength from his body, kindness from his soul. He would imagine being buried, but they were simply stripping everything away from him that was no longer necessary. The best tools, after all, were lean and efficient, honed for a single purpose, and obvious in intent. The storm disappeared, leaving him curled up in a ball on the floor, Fuglet backed up against the wall, unable to understand what had just happened, but terrified all the same. He just stared at his Master, wondering if he was dead. It looked like it could be dead, and then there was a rasping breath, and his Master uncurled himself with a groan.

No One Else Will Want You Now (Part 2)

The apartment was quiet. Walter was sitting on the couch, taking a short break from pacing around the apartment. He’d met the guy–Jack–the guy who could allegedly lay down curses for a hefty fee–earlier in a cafe. He’d been, hesitant about Walter’s idea, but had agreed to do it, in the end. They’d come back here, and Jack had told him to go in and stay inside. Once Donny got home and entered the apartment, the curse would activate. Walter had tried to ask him details about what sort of spell he was planning, but Jack didn’t give him much. He said that his curses had a habit of taking on a life of their own, once they were let loose, so predicting what would happen was difficult. One thing Jack pressed, however, was that Walter do his best to not resist or fight the curse. The curse saw him as a tool. As long as he was helping further the curse, he would remain less affected, but if he resisted–the curse would likely reshape him into a tool it would find more useful. Whether he was telling the truth of feeding him bullshit, Walter couldn’t tell. He checked the clock again, and saw that Donny should be home in the next fifteen minutes or so, or at least, that’s when he usually arrived. Should he go through with this? It was more likely that nothing would happen at all, and he’d just been conned out of a couple thousand dollars. But if he didn’t even know what the spell was, then how would he even know if it was working? He thought back to Jack’s various warning about what he was doing, and his feet were starting to chill a bit–but Jack had said not to leave, or there was a chance the curse could trigger on him instead.

He really only had one option–wait until Donny got back. Chances are, nothing would happen anyway, and if something did happen? Well…this is what he wanted. He wanted Donny to suffer, sure, but more than anything, Walter wanted to be the one inflicting it himself. He wanted Donny to know that the reason his life was about to go down the tubes was because he’d decided to screw with the wrong daddy. He got up from the sofa and paced a bit more, pausing to look himself over in the mirror, wondering for the hundredth time why. He’d styled himself just how Donny had wanted him–full beard, a slicked back hairstyle he hated and which took too much maintenance, but which Donny assured him was perfectly on trend. Designer clothes which showed off his muscled body–which had gotten even larger, since Donny have become his workout partner. Should he have dyed his hair? Was he not giving him enough sex? It seemed like they fucked every other day. Why hadn’t it been enough? He needed some other reason beyond…beyond the fact that maybe Donny was just a money grubbing little shithead. At least if there was something wrong with him, he could have fixed it, but if this was just Donny being a horrible person–then it was Walter’s judgement that was off, and that hurt more.

He was still looking at himself when the door opened, and Donny came through the threshold, shaking his hand as he did, “Dang, that was weird..” he said to himself, “Hey daddy–sorry I’m a bit late. You ready to hit the gym?”

“Are you alright?” Walter asked, pointing at his hand.

“Just some static off the doorknob,” Donny said, “Oh, you aren’t ready for the gym yet?”

Walter almost always got home from work before Donny did, and he usually spent the extra time getting ready for their evening gym date, but the routine had completely slipped his mind. “Sorry, I got home kind of late too.”

“Well come on then, let’s get dressed and go.”

“He doesn’t care. He knows that you know, and he doesn’t even give a fuck.”

Walter shook his head. That had sounded…like a voice, or maybe it was more like a thought. It had come from his head, in any case, but it hadn’t felt like him. It was true, though. Donny had to have figured out by now, that Walter had intercepted some of his texts with his other guys, and he was just going to fucking pretend like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter.

”Like you don’t even matter.”

He followed Donny into the bedroom, feeling even angrier than before.

”Confront him. Make him see you. Make yourself matter.”

“Is there anything you’d like to tell me, Donny?”

Donny was stripping off his work clothes, and shrugged. “I don’t think so. Is something on your mind?”

“You’re seriously going to do this? How fucking stupid do you think I am?”

Donny rolled his eyes, and Walter could almost see the response there, ready to roll off his tongue. That Walter should be thanking him. That Walter should have known this would happen, that no one like him could ever really satisfy a young stud like him. That he should appreciate the fact that he gets to taste Donny’s hot cock a few times a week at all. That if he can’t get on board with an open relationship, then Donny has plenty of other options open. He could see all of that in his younger lover’s eyes, in the sneer, in the stance…but then it faltered, and none of that came out. There was doubt in those eyes, maybe even a bit of fear. He tried to catch that fleeting confidence, but something had sucked it right out of him. “I…I mean…it was an accident.”

“An accident? You just accidentally fuck someone else? That happens a lot?”

Donny was stammering, unsure of how to recover. He’d been ready for this. He’d had a whole script, but something had pushed that right off the rails, and now he was scrambling for something say, for some excuse. He walked across the room towards his seething boyfriend. “Please, Walter, I’m sorry, I really–”

”He’s lying. Show him what happens when he lies to you.”

The force of the slap caught them both off guard. Never, in his life had Walter struck someone else, and never before had Donny been slapped. It sent him off balance and tumbling to the floor of the bedroom, stunned, cheek tingling, red with shame and embarrassment. Walter felt the power surging through him, out of his hands, and he realized, then, what Jack had been talking about–but it was far too late to turn back now.

No One Else Will Want You Now (Part 1)

“Look, all I’m saying is that…if this is the path that you go down, these curses, it’ll fuck you up too. It’s not going to see you as a person getting revenge–hell, it won’t see you as a person at all, really. These curses have a target, and everyone else is just a tool it can use to bring about that target’s downfall.” Jack paused, and stared his client in the eye. “Look, why not just cast this curse, or something like it, on him and one of his lovers? Because trust me…I ended up getting sucked into one of these myself a little while ago, it isn’t…fun. And I can reverse the effects–mostly, but I still…nevermind, that’s not important. Here’s the point: you’re never going to be able to back out of this, if you make this choice.”

The older man, Walter, sitting across from him in the cafe nodded along, but Jack could see in his eyes that he wasn’t changing his mind, but Jack was still hesitant to give the man the curse he’d requested, in the manner he’d requested it. Fuck, he still couldn’t break himself of that fucking pig Clyde. No matter how hard he tried, he’d go back there every few weeks, rent that pig for a weekend, and…and go back to being that brute all over again. Jack shook his head, his cock rock hard in his pants, the need to see that fucker growing again at the thought of him, but he had other shit he needed to focus on.

Walter wanted a curse cast on his boyfriend, Donny. They’d been in a relationship for close to five years, and Walter had just found out that Donny had been seeing a variety of other men behind his back, despite his promise to be monogamous. This had especially hurt Walter, because, well, he’d always secretly suspected that Donny was with him more for his financial security than his looks. Walter was by no means bad looking–no, he’d met Donny at the local gym, shortly after Donny had moved to the city. Most men over fifty would kill to have a physique like Walter, and both he and Donny were muscular and built. Walter had done his best to keep himself looking attractive for his younger boyfriend, trying to keep up with a more modern styling–goodness knows, there had been plenty of time when he could have picked up an admiring young boy from the gym for an afternoon. But none of this made Walter’s case unusual. If anything, stories like this gave him the majority of his clients. No, what set Walter apart was that, while most people wanted to curse them and get them the fuck out of their lives, Walter was asking Jack to channel the curse through him.

This was no minor matter. If Jack did what Walter was asking, he would be cursed as well–or as he’d been trying to explain, the curse would be using him as it’s primary tool to do as much damage to Donny as it possibly could…and given how hurt Walter was, it meant that the curse would likely end up becoming quite powerful if it did use him. Whatever the result ended up being, they’d both be stuck–and he was trying to convince Walter that being stuck with one of his curses wasn’t something most people wanted to volunteer for.

Walter sighed, “I understand” –he didn’t, Jack thought– “but I…look, it’s hard to explain, but I want it to fucking ruin him. I want to be there when it happens. I want him to know that it was me.”

“This is going to sound mean, but you’re way too emotionally involved in this–”

“‘Emotionally involved’? He’s my fucking boyfriend? What did you fucking expect?”

“These curses feed off that, and if you put yourself in a room with him, with a curse guiding your hand, you will end up in a situation you’ll regret.”

“What if I don’t care?”

Jack sighed, “Maybe you should care? Why in the world would you want to ruin your life for the sake of his shitty behavior?”

Walter didn’t reply, but the answer was there, in his eyes. He still loved the fuck. More than that even–he still wanted to be with him, but more than that, he wanted to bring him to heel. Feeling the emotions swirling in Walter, Jack could feel the curse beginning to form inside him, taking shape, responding to the emotions between them. It was too late now, in a sense. Whatever curse Jack ended up making, it was going to be tainted with this emotion. Walter would probably end up pulled into the vortex no matter what he did–still, that was no reason to put him at the eye of the storm…or maybe, that was the exact reason to put him there. If this is what he fucking wanted, why not just give it to him? He wasn’t sure he would have protested this much in the past, before he’d been sucked into one of these himself. He knew what it was like, how much power you felt like you had, even though everything was out of control. Fuck, he needed to fuck that pig–he had a feeling he should cancel his appointments this weekend, and reserve his usual 72 hour rental. It wasn’t the pig he wanted–it was that sensation of…as that brute, Jack was in complete control, but no longer able to choose for himself. Power without responsibility. That’s what Walter was searching for, he realized. That’s what he needed, and if Jack could give that to him…who was he to deny him, when he himself couldn’t seem to kick the habit himself?

“Fine,” Jack said, “I get it. But I warned you. It’s going to be a rush, but there will be a moment when that well runs dry, and you’re going to realize what’s happened to you both. That this curse is what you both will have to live with for the rest of your life.”

Student Blackmail (Sketch)

“Ah, Mr. Troman–can’t say I was expecting you to show up for my office hours this semester,” Professor Porter said, “I’m afraid it’s a bit too late to do much good, really, as far as your grade will be concerned.”

The older man only half suppressed the grin on his face as the young football player sat down in the chair in his office. They always came, eventually, but Porter was well known for his unrelenting distaste for athleticism. College, in his opinion, was for study–there was quite simply no reason for a school to possess a sports team. The coaches had learned, over the years, that not even pressure from the dean could get Porter to give their athletes a passing grade, and so they urged them to avoid his classes. Trent Troman, fraternity bro and football player, hadn’t followed his coach’s advice, but he didn’t seem to be sweating it much. “Look, Mr. Porter,” he said, “I’m just going to give it to you straight. I’m going to pass this class, and you’re going to give me at least a B, or I can tell you, you aren’t going to enjoy what happens next.”

Porter chuckled–he had to admit, the young man was…confident. “First of all, I’d suggest you refrain from threatening people, going forward, either other teachers or your future managers in whatever retail business you find yourself when you leave here. Second, you have repeatedly skipped my class, turned in your assignments late or not at all, and what I did receive was of such a poor quality that it’s almost like you wanted the F I plan on giving you after your final in a few days. I know you haven’t been here very long, but there’s nothing this school can do to me, to keep me from my decision. Now, I have other students who could actually use my counsel, so feel free to show yourself o–”

The last syllable didn’t actually manage to make it’s way out of his mouth, because something else appeared in it. He felt it with his tongue–it was some strange rubber ball, and he could feel straps running around his face and over the top of his head. He reached up and felt them, crying for help as best he could through the gag, Trent just watching him like nothing strange had happened at all. His hands followed the straps back, to where they latched, and he found a small padlock there–with a light jingle, Trent displayed a key in his hand, and then pocketed it. Porter just glared at him for a moment, unable to believe what had happened, and then went to get up from his chair…but in an instant, something…pushed him back into the chair, and when he went to get up again, he found his wrists and ankles had been bound to the arm rests and feet of the chair with leather straps. Calmly, Trent stood up, shut the office door, and locked it.

“Now professor, I think…you need some time to think this over again,” Trent said, as he fished through Porter’s pockets, found his keys and phone, and stepped back. “I’ll be back around…say midnight, and see if you’re a bit more…comfortable with my offer then.”

Porter protested through the gag in his mouth, but Trent turned out the lights and left the office,  locking it behind him, abandoning the professor in the small room. It was nearly five, and thankfully he didn’t have a class he’d be missing–or at least then, someone would have found him, tied up in his own office! For a while, he kept trying to make enough noise to attract someone’s attention, but as the evening wore on, the building emptied out, leaving him alone, without even a janitor to find him. All he could do, in the dark, was stare at the clock, and watch the minutes tick by until it finally reached midnight.

However, like usual, Trent was late, arriving a quarter after. He unlocked the door, turned on the light, and took his seat again. “Now, since you’re being stubborn, I’ll revise my offer. Give me an A, and I’ll let you go, and we can forget this ever happened.”

Porter didn’t know how the young athlete had managed to do this, but even after all of those hours stuck in his chair, his fear still hadn’t surpassed his principles. But he did want the gag removed, that much he did know. So he decided the best technique would be to lie. He gave a nod, and as fast as it had appeared, the gag was gone, and he could breathe and speak again. “Fine–whatever you want, just…get me out of this shit.”

Trent chuckled, and the rest of the bonds were removed, allowing him to stand up, feeling blood rush to his limbs, which had fallen asleep in that position. But he could feel…something else, which didn’t feel quite right at all. He hefted up his gut and felt his crotch, where he discovered…something was on his cock. “I call that a little insurance policy. Give me my A, and then that comes off. Now, I’m late for a party, so I’d best be on my way. See you in class, professor.”

Porter waited until Trent was out of the office, before dropping his slacks and looking at what was around his cock–a solid steel chastity device. He fiddled with it, trying to figure out how to get it to work, but the thing seemed…completely solid, and he had no clue how to even begin extracting himself without simply pulling his cock off. That young bastard had this well planned, apparently–still, one thing Trent and his strange powers couldn’t account for was plain old stubbornness, as he discovered a few weeks later, when he received his grade report, with a bright red F under Porter’s name, among the rest of his A’s. That was new–and Trent nearly hurled his laptop across the room in rage. Still, he would have the last laugh, he’d make sure of that, oh, he would be laughing for a long time after this.

He’d been so focused on his bicep curls, that his six pack had already disappeared by the time he set down the weight, and went to flex at himself in the mirror. He realized the reflection seemed off, but it took him a moment, and another ten pounds gained, before he realized what was happening, lifted up his shirt, and nearly screamed in the middle of the gym floor.

What the fuck was happening to him? He grabbed the flab in his hands, just to see if it was real, and discovered that…he could feel it growing and expanding. He looked around in a panic, unable to understand how something like this could even be happening, and then he ran for the locker room. He had to get to a doctor or something, he had to figure out what was wrong with him!

But by the time he got to the locker room, his clothes no longer fit. The changes had accelerated, and he pulled on his jeans just in time to have the seams ripped apart my his expanding ass. He stared at his new, hairy body in the mirror hanging over the sink, disgusted with himself, when he noticed someone watching him with a smirk…someone…he thought he should be able to recognize.

It wasn’t until he was bent over the sink, the stranger’s cock buried in his fat ass, holding his hair back, filming the video to post later, and he realized it was Ian, a massively obese guy he’d bullied for years in college, now looking slim and trim after transferring all of his fat to his old bully, and taking his muscles for himself. He was nice enough to leave him some 4XL clothes once he was finished, but for his old bully, getting clothed was only the beginning of his problems. His hole was still itching for a cock…and if he didn’t find something to plug up there, he felt like he was going to go insane.

“Who’s the fat ass faggot now?” was all Ian said as he left the locker room, and the ex-jock to his new life.

Source: hotchubsblog

I’d fired that stupid bitch of a secretary the week before–I’d never liker her much. Sure, nice legs and a good ass, but she refused to put out, which is the only damn reason I hired her–that’s what secretaries are fucking for. But when she started getting “ideas” about the business (and let’s be honest, no idea a woman has about business can be good, right?) I fired her on the spot. Still, turns out the bitch had been doing her work, so I had to hire a temp while I do a search for a better candidate to match the position.

I told the temp agency to send over a hottie, but what I got instead was a fucking flaming faggot! I could tell he wanted me too, because he was looking at me the same way I would have been looking at him if he was some sexy bitch. I confront him…and what I want to do is pound him into the dirt and fore his ass, but what we end up doing instead–fuck, the faggot somehow convinces me to let him suck my cock at my desk. Worse, he’s damn good at it, and he seems like he “needs” it, so instead of calling the agency I decide–what’s the harm in keeping the faggot around for a while, right? If he wants it.

Well, it’s been two weeks, and I can say that decision was a terrible one, but I…I can’t stop now. I swear, I spend all day at the office, fucking his holes, morning to night–and worse, I think…I think I’m changing too. I mean, some of the changes are nice, like how muscular I’ve gotten lately, and I don’t even necessarily object to all the body hair, but these nipple rings make me feel like a fucking slut, especially everytime the faggot tugs on them, and while it’s still plenty for him…I think my cock is actually getting smaller, and it’s harder and harder to get hard for him without…without tugging on my nipples, or…or playing with my ass.

And now…now I keep staring at his bulge…wondering what it would feel like, to have him in my daddy hole. God, did I really just call it that? It’s gotten so hard to think lately, about anything other than sex. It’s a good thing that faggot has a good business instinct, or I’d be fucked for sure…yeah…yeah, fucked. Maybe…just once. Just to feel what it’s like. Yeah, I only need it once, just for curiosity. It’s not like it’ll turn me into some slutty daddy, begging for his young cock all day long. Yeah, I mean, I might…fantasize about something like that, but I’m too much of a man, a real man, to ever let that happen to me.

Source: lustbox

Job Revenge (Sketch)

This shit shouldn’t be legal in the goddamn 21st century, Jordan thought to himself, unable to believe he could be so stupid. Sure, some of the country thought it was a good idea to make sure people couldn’t be fired for being gay, but not here in the fucking Carolinas. Nope, here it was perfectly legal, and after his boss, Rodney, had overheard him the other day telling one of his coworkers, who wasn’t a social troglodyte, that he had a date with a hot guy that evening, he’d had a fucking grin on his face he hadn’t wiped off for a few days. It was no secret that Rodney hated Jordan–in part because everyone knew Jordan could do Rodney’s job better than him, but mostly because he was a little femme, and had always suspected Jordan might be “one of those disgusting faggots,” as he called them. And so, at the end of the day, Rodney had confronted him, and told him that Jordan had two weeks to wrap up his projects and get out.

That was yesterday, and news that he was being fired, and why he was being fired, had spread through the office like wildfire. Still, Jordan wasn’t about to give up without a fight, because what Rodney didn’t know, was that Jordan was descended from a line of witches. He’d never really dabbled much in it, not after seeing some of the crazy shit that had happened to his mother when he was younger, but for this…well, he needed this damn job! The job market wasn’t exactly getting better, after all, and he’d been hoping he could at least crawl his way up to management here before looking for better work with a bit of experience. So, he pulled out his grandmother’s grimoire, and started studying.

It wasn’t easy–it took him a week just to find a spell he thought would do the trick, gather all the ingredients for the curse, and then to make it. The whole time, Rodney had been insufferable. Gloating at every chance, calling him names, turning his coworkers against him–so yeah, he was angry. When he finally wrangled the spell together into a potion Rodney would need to drink, he finally had something to channel his anger into…and the potion didn’t turn out quite right. It was supposed to be a clear blue, but his was kind of a muddy purple. Still, he didn’t have time to do it over, right? If it didn’t work, then it didn’t work, but he had to at least try.

The easiest part was getting Rodney to drink it. He always brought lunch and kept it in the fridge, along with a thermos of coffee which he always forgot around the office all day long. He’d waste hours hunting it down when he was supposed to be doing something more pressing. Jordan waited for it to be abandoned, added the potion, and then had someone return it to him–so he wouldn’t suspect Jordan had done anything to it…but he kind of had. How could he resist, really? He’d slipped into the bathroom, and jacked off into the thermos as well. All it took was a sip, after all–so even if he could taste it, he’d have a bit more revenge.

The spell was supposed to have a suggestive effect on someone, where they would find themselves unable to resist the orders of the witch for a time after drinking the spell. How long of a time was unclear–apparently in varied based on the caster’s skill (minimal) and the subject’s willpower (also minimal, since Rodney could barely grasp the concept of a spreadsheet.) All he’d need was a few hours to…change Rodney’s mind about Jordan’s worth, and everything would be just fine.

He waited half an hour, and then decided to go check on Rodney–when he got to his office, he even saw him take a swig from the thermos, grimace, and then set it back down–perfect. That, supposedly, was all it should take! So he went ahead and stepped inside and shut the door behind him–but Rodney just glared at him. “Faggot, get the fuck out of here, unless you want to be packing up your shit today.”

“No Rodney, I think the two of us need to have a little chat. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To talk to me?”

He saw Rodney start to retort, but an odd purple wave washed through his eyes, he shook his head, and said, “Uh…I mean, what…would you like to talk about?”

Jordan had planned this–planned what he was going to say, but he felt…something odd inside him. He felt so…angry all of a sudden. Angry and…horny as hell. This…wasn’t right, was it? The spell wasn’t supposed to affect him. But this…rush! “I think you…should apologize to me. For all the shit you’ve called me.”

The same wave of purple, the same wave through him of anger and horniness. “I’m…sorry,” Rodney said, gritting his teeth, trying to fight it.

“Sorry for what?”

“For…calling you a fag, and…queer and shit.” Rodney said, but something seemed strange about him. He looked…happy, like he’d just had a burst of pleasure. “What the hell is wrong with me?” He said, a bit quiet, “I…why did that feel so good?”

“Maybe because you like submitting to me. I think you do, Rodney, I think the idea of doing whatever I say turns you on.” The words were just tumbling out now, unbidden. Sure, he’d always kind of…fantasized about this, but what in the world was he doing?

“Oh fuck, it…kind of does, doesn’t it?”

“Get over here, and lick my shoes clean.”

He didn’t expect him to do it, but Rodney got up, a throbbing erection obvious in the front of his pants, and he walked over, got down, and started licking, and Jordan felt an uncharacteristic sneer turn up the corner of his mouth. He could have some fun with this, actually, and Rodney would as well, at least if he told him so.

“What do you think, MoJo? You wanna work out some more?” the man smirked at the huge brute, finishing a set at the gym.

“please, I’m tired, I just wanna go home…” MoJo said, “and stop…calling me MoJo, it’s not my name?”

“Oh? Then what is your name? If you can give me another name, a true name, this will all be over. Then again, you can’t, can you? Because I have your name now, which means I get to call you whatever I want.”

MoJo still didn’t understand how this had happened. He’d been downtown, and seen a couple of faggots kissing outside a bar, and chucked a rock at them. Konked one on the head, and then this other guy had been next to him, asking him for his name, and then…and then this! He looked down at himself, unable to believe how big he’d become in just a few hours. He looked like a freak!

“Well, if you really want to stop, we can work on something else, MoJo. I think you’re looking like a proper musclefag anyway.”

“I’m not a musclefag!” MoJo fumed, “Not a fag at all…”

“No?” the man said, “I’m calling you a musclefag. Empty headed, musclefag MoJo, all brawn and no brains, but wouldn’t hurt a fly–you’re too good of a guy for that. More interested in finding some guy to plow one of your holes anyway, though you’ll always stand up for a fag in trouble, right?”

MoJo was shaking his head, but it was emptying out father than he could understand. The guy was right, after all. He’d been called a musclefag all his life, and they were right. He was muscles, and he was a fag! What else could he be? “I don’…” he started to say, but lost his train of thought almost immediately. “Fuck, I’m horny–wanna fuck my ass?”

“Only if I can fuck it right here, where anyone can see you through those windows.”

MoJo nodded dumbly–he was happy for a fuck or a suck anywhere. He bent over the bench and the man yanked down his shorts, sliding into his well used hole, and MoJo sighed, wondering if he could get back to the club before it closed, and find a few other guys willing to plow a dumb musclefag like him before the night was over.

Source: real-thick

Heh, look at it, how eager it is. It actually fucking believes me, can you believe it? Actually believes that I’d let that thing look like me, that I’d let it smoke the same cigar I did? Fat chance. It was my boyfriend once, and what a fucking prick it was, always riding my ass, always cruel, always fucking around behind my back. But now that I look like this, the fucking sexy cigar daddy of it’s dreams? Now it wants to be with me. Well fine, if it wants to be with me, then I’ll find something for it to do, but it sure as hell ain’t going to be a man when I’m through with it. Don’t even think it’ll be a person. 

I think it’s starting to realize something’s wrong. It’s cock is going soft and shrinking, and the cigar is growing in his mouth, stretching his jaw obscenely wide. It tried to pull it out, but his teeth have cut into the tobacco–that thing’s not coming out until it smokes it all the way down. I shove it up against the wall, holding it up by the throat with one hand, and with my other, pinch it’s nose between two fingers, forcing it to breathe through the cigar, laughing at it’s face, looking at how terrified it is. 

Shopmaster said it’d become whatever I thought it would be, and holding it here? I know just what my apartment needs. Still by the neck–either I’m just that strong or he’s gotten surprisingly light all of a sudden–I head for the bathroom, and stick him to the wall beside the toilet at about waist height, hold him there for a moment, and then let go. He tries to get away, but he’s stuck to the wall now, arms and legs beginning to shrivel up into it’s body, mouth growing even wider, if that’s possible. Has it figured it out yet? Probably not, but soon enough.

I sit and watch it’s body contort, it’s cock and balls shrink up into it’s body, it’s body shrink up into it;’s neck as it’s head grows longer. The cigar has burnt down all the way, and crumbles onto it’s tongue, and see it swallow it down helplessly. Still alive–good. I want it to know what it is now, that it’s mine now. What’s left of it’s soul will shirvel up in a few more days, and it’ll become a proper urinal, but for now, it knows. And it knows that I did, and it’s tasting my piss, it’s master’s piss, and knows it’ll be mine for the rest of it’s sorry existence.

Source: goa1701

Trust me, none of these fuckers are going to make it to the end of pledge week, I can assure you that. Oh sure, we like to lead them on for a few days, but you can always tell the losers from the pack right at the beginning, they sure as hell aren’t cut out for this frat–we’re the fucking elite on campus, and we can’t have losers like them dragging us down. We’ll have them beaten to a pulp and they’ll run away with their tails between their legs–we don’t haze lightly around here. Still, I don’t know what’s up with that drink of theirs–one of them told me some upperclassman on campus gave them the brew as a good luck charm, telling them they’d get in for sure if they had some. Whatever, if someone else wants to use our reputation to make a few bucks what do I really care? But no silly drink is going to save their skins.

For pledge week, all of the new meat has to live out behind the house in a small shed we reserve specifically for the week. There’s no privacy, it’s cramped, but the real goal is to start weeding out the runts like these ones. We make sure the real pledges know who has a target on their back, and after a couple of days they’ve been hazed, beaten and ridiculed so hard by their fellow pledges they all drop out before too long. Trust me, none of these three can take that, not to mention everything else we’ll be throwing their way soon enough–they’ll be gone for sure.

***

Alright, so maybe things haven’t gone quite according to plan. It’s weird–we told all the freshman football jocks to break these three fuckers…but it almost seems like it happened the other way around. All of the jocks are suddenly these meek little bitches, doing whatever those three demand. There’s been some other strange things happening too–the three guys weren’t much to look at before, but all of them have packed on quite a bit of muscle…even as the freshman jocks have all lost a bit of size. Hell, I saw one guy, Kyle, in the shower–I swear he had a eight inch cock, but it’s less than an inch now. He’s packed on weight, and his uniform doesn’t fit right, like he’s a bit too short for it now. Whatever–I had a talk with the three of them, and all of them suggested they go ahead and move into the house with us. Doesn’t bother me any, we’ll beat some sense into them, and show them who’s boss soon enough.

***

No, this shit’s too fucked up. I have…some of the other guys have lost it, fuck, they’re just they’re fucking slaves now! And the Masters–fuck, they’re so…so fucking big now. I mean, of course they should get the house to themselves, of course us slaves should all live in the shed but…I swear things should have been different. I can remember them being different. I…I was in charge, and I can be still, if I can just keep my wits about me. Figure out what the fuck was in that drink, what’s letting them…suck the fucking life out of us, literally! Oh shit, here they come, to decide who gets to stay with them in the house tonight. God…I don’t want them to, but I can see them looking at me. If I have to spend another night between them, I don’t know if I can take it anymore.