Business as Usual

An open ended, multipart story following the various tales of a business that has been taken over by a new CEO. However, the men working there soon discover that with new leadership, it is going to be anything but business as usual for them.

Last updated: 10/21/2019 – Part 3 is now public!

Click the button below to see the table of contents, and read the story!

Continue reading “Business as Usual”

Losing Control (Original Version)

I’m hoping to publish a longer story once a week or so, but I know that I won’t be able to always have sizable new content for you all. However, one thing I have been wanting to do for years is organize all of my stories in one place with a more comprehensive tag/category system, so this is the beginning of that project. When I don’t have a new story to post for the week, I’ll go back in my archives, clean up an old story, and repost it here. I’m going to be starting off with some stories that I haven’t touched in a very long time–like this one! My first story, almost twelve years old! Like a small child. Almost a teenager even. A story that is also a tween. I think this is now sufficiently weird.

In addition, for some of these, I’m planning on working on fixing up some of the writing, and also potentially extending them. I already have an extended rework of this story is process in fact. Some of those enhanced versions will be published here, others will be for Patron eyes only, depending on how I feel about them. I do want to preserve the original work, however, so I won’t be cleaning these archive versions up too much. The writing is a bit…well, it was twelve years ago! I was trying very hard. In any case, some of you might not have ever seen these stories, and others might like to revisit them, and now they will all be in one place, eventually! Hooray!

(Original version, published 4/22/2007)
I’m not a fan of destroying peoples’ lives, but sometimes they just deserve it. Being a wizard, it’s important to not lose control and let your power go to your head. Of course, I feel that I have a certain duty however to assist other people in realizing that they shouldn’t let their power go to their heads either. For example, do you remember Mike, the quarterback?… No of course you don’t remember Mike, Jerry’s the quarterback now and always has been. Let me just tell you a story then. Let’s say that there was this guy on campus, and he was a quarterback, and very popular, with a great body. All of those things would give a guy a lot of power, right? And a reasonably good person might use that power to do something good, right? You know…instead of picking on a wizard just because he would rather read a good book of spells than spend hours at the gym grunting like an ape, right? Well let’s say Mike wasn’t a reasonable good person, and that he did pick on a wizard, and that wizard felt like Mike was out of control. Or perhaps he had to much control. So all I did was make him lose a little. Ok, so it wasn’t really a little, but let me get to the story.

Mike had just got home from a frat party where he had a wonderful Saturday night. Not only was there plenty of beer, but the girls had been almost as bottomless as the stockpile of kegs as well. If he counted right, he had made out with ten, gotten blowjobs from six, and fucked two. The girls went crazy over his six foot three, 230 pound chiseled body, and blue eyes. Of course, he may have lied to a few of them, like when they asked if he loved them. He didn’t, but their bodies were damn hot, and that’s all that mattered to him. He unlocked the door to his apartment off campus and stepped inside. Dodging a pile of old pizza boxes, he threw his coat onto the couch and stumbled into the kitchen for a final beer before going to bed. He should clean up his apartment, but he didn’t really care that much. We wasn’t here most of the time anyway, he reasoned. He opened the fridge, pulled a can out of the 12 pack box, and sat down at the table, shoving a stack of papers aside to make room. One of them fell in front of him, and as he picked it up, the salutation caught his eye, “Dear Mike, the asshole jock.” He read the first line a few more times, thinking it was the beer, but there it was, written in script on a piece of plain paper. Curious, he went on the read the rest of the letter:

Continue reading “Losing Control (Original Version)”

Digital Manipulation (Finale)

Trax spent a few months honing his new, and in his mind, much improved version of Perrion. It wasn’t too long before any trace of the old version was gone–he’d replaced his whole past with new memories, scrubbed all of his old desires and left behind a muscled out, dumbfuck skinpig desperate to be as big and freakish as his master desired. Still, it was only virtual. Trax had started this just as a way to get even, to vent some of his anger out on something that, in the long run, he figured he’d eventually just delete in a fit of shame and horror. But that wasn’t happening at all–instead, he was becoming obsessed.Obsessed not only with PJ, but also with the skinmaster persona he’d created for himself in the virtual realm. He wanted more–and he wanted it to be real…but how?

He couldn’t just kidnap Perrion–that would raise too much suspicion. Instead, he haunted him for a while, looking for a weak point he might be able to use to his advantage–and then he discovered, one night while spying on him, that Perrion had made a new purchase–a dream recorder. It was perfect–it was relatively new tech, and a lot of people had been raising concerns that they could be hacked and give people access to your subconscious. No one seemed too concerned about it. After all, companies already had complete access to your conscious already, what more could they really want?

A little malicious malware with PJ implanted inside, and a quick slip into Perrion’s apartment while he was at work, and everything was set up–PJ would have complete control over Perrion’s dreams soon enough–and a good deal more than that. The more Perrion exposed himself to the infected machine, the more PJ would slide into him, replacing more and more of his subconscious mind with his own perverse ideals and desires. Still, it had to burn slow, because PJ could be…a bit much upon introduction. He set the malware to trigger slowly, and make sure things only really ramped up once PJ was firmly rooted in Perrion’s mind. The process was set to take a year.

It was a grueling time to wait, but Trax had his own projects–namely, himself. He needed to be the skinhead master that PJ would want to be with in a year, or else the fucker would just ditch him for someone else. Trax wasn’t a large guy, but some of his less legal work had landed him a substantial windfall–mostly after making a few copies of some other people on mental vacations for clients. That money was pumped right back into his body–cybernetics mostly, growing his frame and skeleton from five and a half feet tall to nearly seven feet tall, and once he got a taste for cyber…it was hard to stop. He could pass for human, at times. But he liked how people looked at him, he liked how his metal snake of a cock could wrap around his wrist–or around his thigh under his bleached jeans.

He corrupted himself gladly, ruining his intellect, getting himself addicted to tobacco, and several substances harder than that. Still, he always had an eye on the calendar, and as the day approached, he was desperate to check in on Perrion, to see how he’d progressed…but he resisted. Better to wait for the day he’d arrive on his doorstep, begging his ex to take him back, unable to explain how he’d been dreaming about him for ages, and all he wanted was for him to twist him into some sick minded pervert pig skinslave.

The day came, and he didn’t have to wait long–Perrion arrived before noon, knocking on his door, and when he saw Trax–the new Trax, a stain of precum appeared on the front of the jeans he had on, shading the massive bulge of his somewhat siliconed cock. He was bigger than he’d been, his head shaved, looking shabby. He must have lost his job along the way, and now here he was, begging this alpha brute to take him and make him his–and Trax did just that, because Perrion, or PJ as he began calling him immediately still had so much further to go.

He’d been too terrified of the piercings to get many of them, but Trax quickly caught him up–he wanted hoops in his flesh everywhere, and he used them all the time to bind his skinpig up–to himself, or to the walls, where he’d put other hooks, using them to chain the pig in excruciating positions, while Trax’s massive metal cock wormed its way into his ass, or his thick fist drove its way into his guts. More and more, he’d see the look in his eye–that glazed look of awe–that he’d come to know so well in the simulation. It was PJ, taking more and more control, and helpless, Perrion was losing more and more ground, until he was locked away, and the only person left was PJ, or more often known as Chains, from the decorations Trax liked the thread through his piercings around his body, his massive, amorphous, mounding piece of cock meat bursting through the worn jeans Trax allowed the pig to wear when they were outside.

On occasion, Trax would plug PJ into VR, and boot up the original Perrion, just to introduce them. Introduce them, and then Trax would appear, and have his way with them both, revealing to Perrion that the hulking beast was him–the future him, the only him that really existed anymore. He wouldn’t believe it, of course, until he started changing as well, PJ overwriting him in the scenario, and Trax would get to relive the corruption all over again.

Digital Manipulation (Part 7) [Interactive]

PJ knew it was a dream, though how he knew that exactly, was difficult for him to explain. It didn’t feel any different to him than real life, but it had felt like he’d been in a dream for ages, now. So long, he was beginning to doubt that he would even be able to wake up–so long, he didn’t even know what he could wake up as, anymore. So how did he know this was a dream? Because he wasn’t anywhere. It was just dark. He was standing, but he wasn’t standing on anything. He was breathing, but there was nothing to breathe. He could see, but there was no light that he could tell.

“Oi! There ya are mate.”

He spun around at the voice, and discovered that while he wasn’t anywhere in particular, he was no longer alone. There, standing in the nothing space with him, was someone else–and while it took him a few moments to catch on, he realized he was looking at himself. At a version of himself. At another version of himself…right? The similarities were obvious–both of them were huge–roided out with muscle, with prominent guts, their cocks and balls grown to obscene proportion, as where their chests and asses, which had been given implants as well. The differences though–they were so very different.

His doppelganger–his head and face were completely shaved–as was the rest of his body. It the place of the hair he had, tattoos and piercings covered his body–but it was the piercings which horrified PJ the most. They were everywhere–not just in the usual places like ears and nipples and noses. No, he had loops of metal dotting his flesh, running down his arms and legs, barbells were implanted in his gut in a spiral out from his belly button. The hoops were threaded in some places with twine and chain, in other places they were left unadorned. He took a step towards PJ, and he could hear the metal shake like some musical instrument of torture. “No–no, that’s…I’m not going to let you.”

He tried to run, but as he turned, he felt some awful yank on the head of his cock. He looked down, and saw that the massive, doorknocker sized ring running through the head of his double’s siliconed cock had somehow pierced his own as well, hooking them together. “Don’t worry Mate, it ain’t gonna hurt too much, trust me–you’ll love it anyway, soon ‘nough.”

He stepped closer, and the Jacob’s ladder running down the underside of his cock drew his own closer, and he felt every pin slide into his own flesh, until their cocks were completely connected from root to tip, jutting up between them. “Please, please, not this, I’m not you.”

“Not yet, ya ain’t,” his skinhead double said, “But come a little closer now, and let’s see about that.”

PJ raised a hand to strike him, to try and push him away, but the skinhead’s arm raised at the same time, and the tattoos running down his arm lashed out, wrapping their way around PJ’s arm and binding them together. He couldn’t help but be tugged in, and their gut’s touched, and every barbell spiralling around his gut joined to his, fusing them together, the tattoos sliding onto his body, the ink caressing him, and he shuddered, feeling the flesh of their cocks beginning to fuse together, phasing into one another until they were joined at the groin, one singular, and massive, cock jutting to one side, as their guts began to fuse as well.

“Gettin’ closer. Feels good, don’t it, mate?”

“Fuckin’ get off a me!” PJ shouted, but the skinhead lunged at him, spearing his tongue on the thick barbell through his own, tugging his face into his own, and PJ cried out as the rings, studs and bars in his doppelganger’s face all stuck to his own as well. He tried to move his arm…but he couldn’t feel his arm. Looking to the side, there was just one arm now–the skins, though it seemed…bigger and meatier after absorbing his.

“Yeah, we’re gonna be huge together, ain’t it gonna be great, mate?”

It took PJ a moment to realize that he shouldn’t have been able to hear the man’s voice, since their mouths were stuck together–no, he was hearing his voice in his mind, and it was getting louder, even as his own was getting quieter and quieter. The skin wrapped his spiked arm around PJ’s back and pulled him closer, pulled him into his body, and PJ lost sense of himself. There weren’t…really two of them, were there? Had there ever been two of them? All he felt was a sense of vertigo for a moment, and then he awoke with a jolt, looking around him, trying to figure out where he was…but he was right where he was supposed to be.

He was lying on a few sheets beside his master’s bed, where he slept every night. He wanted to get up, he wanted to see, but he couldn’t risk it. If master knew he was awake, he’d be punished…not that he minded being punished, of course, but Master could be…rough in the morning, before his coffee. It wouldn’t be the first time PJ had been confined to bed, his arms laced to the eye hooks running up the sides of his body, the barbells on the insides of his legs laced together as well, bound up in himself. Still…that dream. There was something he needed to remember, or someone he needed to remember, perhaps. It was all foggy now, and almost gone from his memory. He laid back down, and soon he was sleeping again until morning, when his master roused him with a boot to the ribs, and told PJ it was time to get the day started.


Trax, in his VR set, had taken on the roll of PJ’s skinhead master, and spent the next few days putting his heavily modded and warped ex-boyfriend through his paces, making sure everything was nice and cemented in this new version of him. All in all, he was very pleased with the result…but at the same time, he was a bit disappointed. As much fun as it was playing with a copy of his ex, what he really wanted was the real thing–but with this copy of his…well, there were a few ways he could have some fun with him in the real world, if he got close enough.


This next entry will be the finale. Below are a few options Trax could use to bring this copy of Perrion out into the real world. Choose the one you’d be interested in seeing.

  1. Trax downloads the copy into an artificial body, and has the copy rape the real Perrion.
  2. Trax kidnaps Perrion and replaces him with the copy. Together, they enjoy warping Perrion’s body into a twisted version of itself.
  3. Trax implants the copy into Perrion’s subconscious, and let’s his ex’s new subconscious desires slowly ruin his life.

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Masturbation Workout [Pics]

Evan didn’t want to be fat, but he also didn’t really want to do anything to lose it either–or at least, nothing that felt like work. He was a slacker, and a gamer, and as far as he was concerned, being fat was just the price he had to pay, in order to live the life he wanted. He worked an easy job from his apartment as an editor, and spent the rest of his downtime gaming–well, that and masturbating. He didn’t exactly have much of a sex life, since he didn’t even leave the house most days, but he liked his hand more than the few women he’d been with anyway.

Of course the ad seemed too good to be true. “Lose weight doing what you’re good at! Jack off and lose the pounds at the same time!” The first time he saw it on one of his porn sites, he laughed out loud, and didn’t think about it again, until it kept popping up. Eventually, the curiosity got the better of him after a quick wank session, and he clicked on the ad just to see what it was offering–and the site seemed to be just that–jack off to their porn stream, and the pounds would literally cum right off. There was no explanation of how in the world this was supposed to even work, but the site did offer a free trial…so the next time he got horny, he accepted the offer, and after a moment, the site started a slideshow–a rather…rapid one, and one which contained only men.

The site hadn’t given him an option for whether he wanted gay porn or straight porn, but this definitely wasn’t what he was into. He tried to close the window, but it refused, saying he hadn’t finished his workout yet. He spent another minute trying to escape it, and then he found himself getting drawn into the slideshow, and then, a minute later, he had his cock out, and was happily masturbating to the men on the screen.

He lost track of time–and of how many times he shot. He also didn’t think about where he was shooting, he just kept unloading all over himself until, at last, the slideshow stopped, the site said he’d finished his workout, and told him to subscribe. Only after he’d put in his payment information, and signed up for a daily workout regimine, did he finally come back to himself, disgusted, and horrified to find he’d been masturbating for nearly an hour straight. One thing he knew for sure, was that he was never going anywhere near that site again–he closed the window, and went to take a shower, unaware that he was a couple pounds lighter already.


But Evan quickly learned he didn’t have much of a say in what he did with that site, now that he’d subscribed. Every day, he’d get a notification reminding him to workout, and unable to stop himself, he would navigate to the site and watch another slide show, jacking off constantly, only regaining control after the session had ended. To his horror…he actually found himself enjoying the sessions. He’d finish them, covered in cum, and feel a…rush, or a high, and just loll in his own cum, rubbing it into his clothes–no longer bothering to shower after. The results were apparent after a couple of weeks. He really was losing weight, and he could barely believe it. It seemed like a price he was willing to pay, and so he kept at it–but then things started getting…strange.

The workouts got longer for one thing. One hour became two, two became four, four would occasionally be six. The men in the sideshow were changing as well. At first, it had been fairly generic men, models, pornstars…but lately, they had been taking on a certain different flavor. Skinheads featured prominently, as did men in workwear. Grungy men, dirty men, piss play and rubber and leather. He was hornier outside of his workouts, and would search out more porn like it to jack off to, thinking about what it might be like to shave his own head…until he came to from a session and discovered he was totally shaved, from head to toe.

More changes came, usually during longer sessions. Tattoos in particular. He was getting rather trim now–he could barely believe it, how much weight he’d lost in a few months. His old clothes had disappeared, replaced by new gear that better fit his new body, all of it like the gear he saw on the skinheads on the screen. To his pleasure, even as his cock and balls had…grown. His balls especially–each was the size of a orange now, and he leaked almost constantly. There was no longer a time when he wasn’t horny–gaming was no longer of interest to him, all that mattered was self gratification. 

Well, that, and the men on the screen.

They were all of a similar type now. Fat, dirty skinheads, mean fuckers, covered in tattoos and piercings, wearing leather and rubber. He found himself admiring them, envying their size. Imagining himself on his knees, licking their guts and cleaning their boots, drinking their piss. The knock on the door startled him one evening–he hadn’t left the apartment or seen another living person in weeks now, and he had no idea who it could possibly be. He…knew he had to answer it though, and who he saw in the hall took his breath away.

“Hey mate–nice tah finally meet ya. I’m your sponsor–or rather, your…”

“M-master,” Evan muttered.

“Exactly,” the huge brute said, and pushed his way inside. “I think you’re done with those silly workouts now–how about you get some experience with the real thing?”

Use It or Lose It (Part 12)

He went home after work, horny but so excited at the same time. Part of him could barely believe that he was preparing to actively lose another inch of his cock, but that old part of him was so far away and so small now that it was easy to ignore. He’d cum once on the bus, just from the vibration of the engine, but he went into his bedroom, laid down on his cum crusted sheets, and kept still, feeling the need and desire rising within him. He was impatient and growing desperate, but he made himself lie there for two hours–long enough to feel the curse kick into high gear. Then he got up, shoved one of his favorite rubber fists into his hole, and started fucking himself, expecting to cum in a few minutes–but while his cock quickly reached the edge, it stubbornly refused to shoot. Twenty minutes later, he collapsed back on the bed, drenched with sweat, cock and balls aching to release and yet unable to do so.

He waited fifteen minutes, until he had his breath back, and tried again, but like before it refused to cooperate. Like the last time, he had a distinct sensation that his cock was somehow resisting him. It didn’t want to shrink any further, it wanted to grow again–but he couldn’t let that happen. He wasn’t going back to that old life, he wasn’t going to be some stupid Christian breeder. He was a pig now, a filthy perverted sex pig, and he had no intention of ever being anything else for the rest of his life. Still, after four or five sessions, he still had no luck, and his hunger was increasing. He decided it might be best to take a break, have some dinner, and then see if he could find someone willing to help him out.

Most of his contacts weren’t available–generally everyone had something more important to be doing on a Monday night other than abusing a pig, but Randal was becoming more and more desperate. He had to go to his B-list before he finally found someone willing to come over–a fat, greasy skinhead sadist he’d played with a couple of times, but who was always…too rough for Randal’s tastes. Still, it would work, wouldn’t it? The man wasn’t willing to come over, but he gave Randal his address, and told him to wear nothing other than leather and rubber. He got dressed and set out for the man’s place at around ten in the evening, not even embarrassed that other people were staring at him in his fetish gear–it was more important to get off.

The ride over on the bus only made him hornier–as soon as the skin opened the door, smoking a cigarette in his bleached jeans and rubber vest, Randal was on his knees, begging him for release, that the man could do whatever he wanted to Randal, just as long as Randal came. The master chuckled, and dragged the pig in by the collar, making him service his rangers before getting to work on the pig’s hole.

With two hands buried in up to the elbow, Randal finally came. It felt like a torrent, but Master said, afterwards, that it had only been a few pitiful spurts. Still, the pleasure blooming inside him was so powerful, and Randal was so thankful for the man who’d given it to him. He looked back at the chubby man, and he’d never seen anyone more beautiful in his life than his Master, not noticing the scars appearing across his back from whips and chains, the shaved scalp he now had, the tattoos running up and down his arms marking him as a skinpig and slave. He was close now–so close, and after Master had his pleasure, Randal begged him for one last scene–tie the pig down for two hours, make him completely immobile, and then make him cum through any means possible. Do that, Randal said, and he’d be his slave forever.

The man didn’t need much convincing–he forced the pig into a rubber suit and bound him tight for three hours, watching the pig squirm and beg to be released, slowly working his cock while he did, and when he let him free, the pig’s appetite was insatiable. It took hours of abuse before the pig finally came, and when he did, Randal felt his cock squirm and fight, but there was nothing it could do. He’d won. He’d beaten it, finally. He didn’t deserve a cock, he didn’t deserve anything. He was nothing.

When he inspected the area later, while cleaning his wounds, all he found at his crotch now was an old scar. He didn’t remember what it was from, at first, but he recalled in time. His master had always hated how often Randal had jacked off, and so one night, he’d drugged him and while he was asleep, had castrated him and removed his entire cock. He’d protested at the time, but he’d learned soon enough that this was a change for the better. Now, without his own cock as a distraction, all of his energy could be focused on making his Master, and any other man, really, happy. And of course, making them happy was about them abusing the pig in whatever vile, ways they could imagine. He wasn’t a person, not anymore. He wasn’t a pig, either, even if that was his official title. He was an object and a tool. Something men could use to masturbate. That’s what made him happy now, and within a week, the new skinpig couldn’t even remember a life before this one, or having ever been as happy as he was now.

You never gave up on him. What father could give up on his son? The police all said their was no hope of finding him if he didn’t want to be found, but that just wasn’t your boy–you knew he would never run away like that. It was the cities fault. He’d been a small town kid–innocent and trusting–he didn’t know how rough things could get in the city. No–something had happened to him, and you were sure of it, but you also couldn’t prove it.

When the police hadn’t been able to find anything, you’d taken a leave of absence from the shop you owned, and headed for the city to try and find him yourself. You interviewed his roommate from college–he told you that your son had seemed happy and good for the first few months, but one night he didn’t come home to the dorm until the next morning, and something had seemed different about him. Distant. Aggressive. He’d started smoking and drinking heavily, and he was hanging out with a group of guys off campus. He missed class regularly, and then one day he just stopped showing up at all. But that didn’t sound like your boy–what had those guys done to him?

Other people on campus you interviewed gave you similar stories, but no real details you could actually call a lead–that is, until someone dropped the name of some club on the other side of the city–some place called Pigtown. You went there, took one look at the place, and left–utterly disgusted. That was some faggot place! Your son would never have been caught dead in a place like that–he wasn’t a faggot! He’d had a girlfriend and everything all through school, and so you keep looking for clues, but every once in awhile, you feel…like you’re being watched.

Because while you were out looking for your son, your son found you. He doesn’t quite…remember who you are, or who you were to him, but he does know you. He hates you. Hates you for never seeing him. Hates you because so much of him hates now, so much of him lives to cause pain, to humiliate, to abuse. He lurks in the shadows, following you around the city as you search for him, rubbing his ten inch cock through his pants, thinking about you. About what a good pig you’ll be when he gets his hands on you. About how you’ll be getting everything you deserve tonight, when him and a few of his slaves catch you, and drag you into Pigtown kicking and screaming for a night you won’t soon forget.