Slave Swap (Part 1)

Maybe it was neoliberalism run amok. That’s what the protesters and activists said, when the industry was fledgling. How could you put a price tag on freedom or autonomy? But jobs weren’t coming back with rapid automation, and even with a guaranteed income, people didn’t want to simply exist and do nothing with themselves. They were consenting, they were aware of the risks. There were regulations and safeguards, and everyone involved needed to be vetted and approved. Soon enough, it was widely regarded as safe, legitimate, and most importantly, legal. Within a decade, submitting yourself to a human bondage contract for five years was a ticket to wealth–or at least, that’s what Cameron thought.

He’d grown up as poor as you could be, in this world, but it was enough to know that he wanted more. But even as poor as he’d been, he knew he had other things going for him–looks and charm in particular–and they’d served him well in his youth. Now, at 25–the legal age required to indenture yourself–he decided to put himself on the market, and see what came up. There were a few modest offers, looking for modest trade offs. Mostly older men and women with wealth, interested in a sex slave. A few were more extreme, looking for live in help, with greater return at the end of the contract, and then there was one offer, and his eyes nearly popped when he saw how many zeros were attached. The conditions? Complete submission. Five year minimum, with optional renewal at five year intervals at  the master’s discretion. The slave would only receives right to exit after fifteen years. Payment amount compounds with each five year term of service. Yes, it was risky, but he could effectively retire at 40, with three times the amount there on his screen! He accepted the offer for consideration–he could always back out of things got too strange.

He was vetted for psychological competence and sanity. He was required to review his potential master’s psychological profile. They met for an interview, and he seemed…so normal. Older, probably in his fifties, but with a face and a body that seemed…inappropriate for his wealth. At least, all the wealthy people on TV that Cameron saw opted to pay for the appearance of youth, but this man–still unnamed and anonymous–had opted to display his age. Thick beard, balding head, sizable figure. Hardly attractive to Cameron, who was straight anyway–though he was certain the Master would change that if he wanted. After all, complete submission meant giving the Master total control, allowing for behavior and bodily modification. Still, Cameron could handle anything for 15 years, and afterwards, he’ll be so wealthy he could look however he wanted. The required waiting period elapsed slowly, and they signed the contract together. Cameron received his control chip, and Master led him away into a new life.

As Cameron expected, his orientation was the first thing to flip, and that first night, he begged his Master to fuck his hole–and the man was all too happy to oblige him. He’d expected further changes in the weeks after that, assuming the man would want to groom him into his ideal human property, but beyond making him a fuck hungry bottom, Master did relatively little. He provided Cameron with a decent paying job in his company as his personal assistant, and beyond that, allowed Cameron to live a relatively independent life. He couldn’t quite believe he’d gotten so lucky; if this was all the man was asking of him, then he was wasting his money.

Still, Cameron was well aware that he had a job to do, and so he made sure his body was in peak condition for his Master’s enjoyment. He worked out five days a week, and with his generous allowance, purchased a new, flattering wardrobe–both for in and out of the bedroom–and fixed up a few…features which he’d always found rather unflattering about himself. Master was appreciative, but didn’t seem particularly impressed by Cameron’s efforts. He went out of his way to try and figure out what his Master wanted from him, and why he’d demanded such control over him if he was giving Cameron such latitude as his slave. Master revealed nothing, however, but Cameron could sense that there was a larger picture in all of this that he couldn’t see.

This continued for a year. Cameron was in the best shape of his life, and unable to believe how lucky he’d gotten in this deal. Still, Master had…grown a bit distant over the previous few months. He still used Cameron plenty, but he could sense that he’d grown a bit bored with him, which concerned Cameron to some extent, but if Master wouldn’t tell him what he needed, then there was only so much he could do, right?

Rather unexpectedly, Master told him he was scheduled for an upgrade to his control chip. They went to the doctor to have it replaced, and the entire time the procedure was taking place, Master seemed both agitated, and very horny. Cameron tried to service him in the car afterward, but Master pushed him away, telling him there would be plenty of time for that later. Back at home, they went straight into the bedroom, Cameron stripped and assumed Master’s favorite position, but he shook his head, and brought out something that looked like a black rubber sleeping bag.

“It’s time for you to really enter your true service, slave,” Master said, “Get in here.”

Cameron was reluctant, but couldn’t disobey any order. He climbed into the tight fitting rubber sack, and then Master zipped him up into it, stopping at his hips, and brought out some medical tubes and a mask connected to an air tank. When he tried to ask what all of this was for, Master just smiled wide. “You’ll see very soon. Now relax. I wouldn’t anything bad to happen to your body during your trip.”

Cameron tried to ask what he meant, but Master told him to be quiet. He put the IV into Cameron’s arm, slid a catheter into his cock, and then secured the mask over his face, before zipping the rubber sack up the rest of the way, and locking it. Cameron started to hyperventilate immediately, but Master told him to sleep, and he immediately passed out. He could never tell how much time passed when Master put him in sleep mode–it always seemed like an instant later. Master woke him up, and he was still in the sack, but he felt very out of sorts–it was obvious some time had passed, but how much? Were they somewhere new? He couldn’t ask anything through the mask, but Master unlocked the padlock, and cracked the zipper on the suit.

“Count backwards from 100 slowly, Slave,” he said, “and then you may force your way out. Take a look at yourself, and then come find me at the computer.”

Faggot Therapy (Part 2)

After that session, Lonnie found himself unable to cope with his new knowledge and memories, and within a day, he’d suffered a complete, emotional breakdown. The doctor had ordered him be committed, but suggested it would be better for Lonnie if he stayed and lived with his therapist, until he was back to his usual self. Lonnie didn’t resist–he couldn’t resist. The doctor had done so much for him, after all. He packed a small bag, and moved in with him that evening, staying in a small room up in the attic.

The therapy didn’t cease, however. Lonnie would have moments of clarity, where he would deny what had happened, deny that he was even sick at all. The shock collar was medically necessary, to control his patient. To remind him, at any moment, that he wasn’t really a man, as he was trying to insist. No, Lonnie was just a pathetic faggot. He would be put into a trance for hours, reliving horrible, violent, humiliating memories, the therapist slowly rewriting his patient’s entire life. Now, every man he’d known had used him–his father and uncles, his two brothers, his friends and bullies. Everyone knew he was a faggot, other than him. When he’d gone off to college, Lonnie had put all that away, he’d been pretending for decades that he was a real man–this is what had caused his anxiety, he learned–only by returning to his proper nature, could he feel at peace once more.

His therapist would make him relive his memories, particularly in the shower. It would trigger violent flashbacks, and Lonnie would helplessly get down in front of his therapist and service him in any way the man demanded, like he had all those boys in his school, and much to his surprise…the feelings of terror and anxiety began to fade away. The therapist encouraged his progress and good behavior. Helped him feel more at home in his new identity. Still, the road to recovery was long. It was two years later, when Lonnie was finally released from his therapist’s care–no longer a man, but just a humble faggot.

He made amends the only way a proper faggot could–my servicing as many men as he possibly could. He would cruise bars and bathhouses every night, worshiping cock, begging for it, and the crueler the top, the happier he found himself. Of course, finding work was difficult for him. He’d quit his previous job after his breakdown, but every time he sat down for an interview, especially with another man, he found himself compelled to explain to them exactly what he was, and why. Occasionally, the man interviewing him would use him, but after three months he was still unemployed. It was Dr. Halvers who found a solution for him.

The only job suitable for a faggot as lowly as Lonnie, was as a complete slave. It turned out, the therapist knew of a…rather unconventional auction, held a couple times a year–and he was happy to sponsor him, of course. Lonnie fetched a fair price, and Dr. Halvers collected the fees himself–Lonnie’s treatment hadn’t been cheap after all. Last he’d heard, Lonnie–or Scum, as he’d been renamed, had never been happier. Four hundred pounds, completely hairless, castrated, kept in a cage for twenty hours a day, brought out only for service. The only future a faggot could ever desire.

What would you give up in exchange for the body you’d always wanted? That’s what I tell my clients, during their first physical training session with me. “What would you give up?” Their answers are almost always the same uninteresting bullshit–junk food, watching TV, playing video games–but it’s always best to plant the seed early. That if they just give up the right thing, they could finally have the body they think will make them happy.

Now, I’m a good trainer. My clients meet their goals, and usually they don’t have to give me much, but sometimes I get a stubborn one. I happen to like the stubborn ones. They show up for training three times a week, but it’s clear they haven’t spent any time exercising on their own. They usually blame me for their lack of progress. I tease them–they lose five pounds for a week, and then gain ten. Some of them, will do anything just to lose some of that flab–and so, on occasion, I’ll offer them a deal.

Some of them think I’m kidding. Most of them think it’s a strange motivational technique. None of them really think I’m being serious, until they first time they give up their will–and I force them through the most rigorous workout of their life, and then fuck their fat, sweaty asses afterwards.

Now, none of them want to keep going after that, but what choice do they have? I make the choices for them now. What they eat, where they work, where they live, who they fuck–and most of them get fucked by me a lot. Of course, I do always follow through on my promises–I give them the bodies they said they wanted. Number 19 here–he wanted the body of a body builder–it took a while to get here from 350 pounds, but he’s not complaining. No, 19 doesn’t have a thought in it’s head anymore–I do all the thinking for it. But if it could think, it would know I followed through, it just might have given up a bit more than it expected to get it.

Coach Ray Gets Framed (Part 6)

Ray tried to pull away at that point. He really did, but the cruelty programmed into him, knowing his prey was without escape, couldn’t resist the opportunity presented. He forced the pig back onto hands and knees and ravaged it’s hole for the second time that evening, longer than the first, relishing it this time, enjoying himself. After all, this pig wouldn’t be going anywhere for the foreseeable future. It was his now. His, and no one else’s, to do with as he choose. He whispered things into the pig’s unhearing ear, describing what it could do to it, but Noah didn’t care. Noah was just a pig at this point, consumed by its senses, unable to muster any kind of consciousness beyond pleasure and filth. Ray came, at long last, long after the pig had cum, slumping down against the concrete in the throes of its long orgasm. Again, as soon as Ray’s cock slipped free, his old mind reverted, and he backed away as quickly as he could, furious at himself for losing control, but still shaking from the pleasure and excitement he’d felt, dominating the pig.

No, not the pig. It wasn’t a pig, it was Noah! He focused, pushing away the invasive thoughts as best he could, but they felt so natural to him, it is difficult to believe that they weren’t actually his. He was so focused on himself, he hadn’t noticed Noah returning to his own senses, and trying to stand, but the chain was only long enough to allow him to squat. He struggled with the collar, beginning to panic, yanking at the chain, but it was heavy steel, and well rooted in the floor. He fell back to his hands and knees, looking at his coach. “Please, Coach, you can’t do this to me, you can’t. I just want to go home.”

What could Ray say? He had reasons, but he knew Noah would never believe him. This…this was for the best, he tried to convince himself, but he fled back upstairs as quickly as he could, slamming the door behind him, but it wasn’t until he was in his own master bathroom that he could no longer hear Noah’s screams and sobs from below him. A shower. A shower would make him feel better. He turned on the water, and as it was heating he got down on the tile next to the tub, put his feet high on the wall, arced his cock and released a stream of piss that flew and soaked his chest and face. So refreshing he told himself, drinking in some of his shower–it wasn’t until he got back up and turned off the water that he realized what he’d done, and that Julian was there beside him, sneering, but he was gone again before Ray could try and throttle him.

What had he just done? What in the world was he doing? Did he have any control over any of this, anymore? Julian was toying with him, he knew that, but he had no idea what kind of game he was playing with them both here. Was he actually managing to oppose him, or had he simply done everything Julian had hoped he’d do. He was crying, and he didn’t quite know when he’d started, but he snorted back his dripping nose and got control of himself. He could figure this out. He’d gotten Julian fired, he was only trying this because he was desperate. If he could stay calm, maybe he could get out of this before they get any deeper.

“You should probably be the one to hang on to this, you know,” a voice said behind him. Ray spun back, and found Julian on his bed, naked, with a single key on a ring hanging from his finger. “I tend to lose things rather easily, and this is the only key to Noah’s collar. If you have a change of heart, and decide to release your sex pig sometime soon, you should have it.”

“He’s not my pig.”

“You seem to call him that quite often, so I don’t know that I believe you.”

“You fucker, you’re doing this, you’re forcing us to do this shit.”

“Oh coach, I’m not forcing you to make these choices–you’re just behaving in a perfectly rational, self-interested manner. Still, the key–I’ll just leave it here,” Julian said, setting it on the bedside table. “Now, coach, are you thirsty? Need a drink?”

Ray nodded, and without much thought, he walked over to where Julian was, wrapped his mouth around his fellow teacher’s cock, and waited. After a moment, he started pissing, and Ray gulped it all down. When the flow ebbed, he started sucking, and after a few minutes was rewarded with a load of cum as well. He stood back up, wiping his beard, amazed at how much better he felt. “Thanks, I guess I was thirsty.”

“Well, you had a busy evening. Now, why don’t you go play some Solitaire before bed? I know that always helps you relax. You won’t worry about Noah until the morning.”

Ray nodded, and then turned and left the bedroom, not noticing that Julian had disappeared from his bed. He could hear Noah in the basement still, his voice hoarse, but he didn’t need to worry about that until the morning–he’d figure out what to do about Julian’s tricks then. First, Solitaire. He went into his office and sat down at his computer. In his mind, he opened up his favorite game, which always helped him calm down when he was stressed, and played a few rounds. In reality, he started a slideshow of porn, sat back, and started jacking off over and over, making sure to catch as much cum as he could on his filthy shirt and in his soaked jockstrap, the screen flickering on occasion, and if you looked close, a second face was reflected behind the Coach in the screen, even though no one else was in the office with him. It was a few hours before Ray finally started to feel tired, and then he went to bed, certain, somehow, that come morning, he’d know just what to do to foil Julian’s plan and get his freedom back.

Father’s Rules (Part 6)

***Warning*** Really dark. Physical and emotional abuse, extreme aging, amputation.

His father rarely brought home the same man more than once, and once he had Blake willing to do anything he wanted, he rarely brought home anyone at all. There were a few that came over regularly, but it was always focused on sex. But as soon as they stepped in the door, Blake could immediately sense something different between them. They came home, and his dad wasn’t drunk off his ass, and they were…laughing. He introduced Anthony to his filthy brother, but instead of using him…Saul told Blake that he should go spend a few hours at the gym–give them some privacy. A small part of Blake was relieved, but his new self was…hurt. Hurt that his brother didn’t want to use him, hurt when he saw the look of contempt and loathing in Anthony’s eyes. He worked out, but during his multiple breaks for a cigar outside, he fumed. What did that guy have that Blake didn’t? Sure, he was young, he was clean. He wasn’t obese, just chubby and soft in all the right places. But could he take two dicks in his ass at once? Could he drink a gallon of piss in one sitting? Did he have teeth you can take out, like Blake’s proper mouthhole? No! So why send him away? Why do all of this to him, if you didn’t want to use him?

Blake returned that night. Anthony was still there, sleeping with Saul in the bed, and Blake started a fight. He wanted to know why Saul had sent him away, why he couldn’t play with him. Anthony was disgusted, and told him so. Saul suggested he leave–that he needed to have some words with his brother. Saul finally confessed everything to him. He’d been dating Anthony for a few months now, behind Blake’s back. Blake wanted to know why, and Saul told him it was because he wanted someone in his life who wasn’t a pig. Who had some self-control, and some basic hygiene and who wasn’t in their sixties. Blake exploded. Saul stopped responding, marched over to the list, and scrawled a new rule:

My son has to move out out of the apartment.

Blake begged and pleaded. Where was he even supposed to go? Saul was uncaring, and shoved him out of the apartment and locked the door behind him; he searched his key ring for the key to the apartment but it had somehow disappeared, so he started banging and pounding on the door, screaming threats until the police arrived, cuffed him, and dragged him off.

Saul posted his bail, but said that was the last he wanted to see of him. He’d already talked to their boss and gotten him fired, and told him he’d have to find something else to do with his “retirement”. That if he ever came near him or Anthony again, there’d be hell to pay. With nothing else to do, he emptied his wallet at the bar, and decided he might as well use the only skill he had left, and started turning tricks with anyone desperate enough to fuck him, usually only asking for a bed or a couch and a meal for payment, instead of money. He knew enough perverts from his years living with his father that he was able to survive, at least–although now that he was at their disposal and rather helpless, he found himself at the mercy of each man’s own extreme natures. One man offered him a home in his basement, but only if he slept in a cage, and he suffered as the man’s old helpless pig for two month, until he too grew tired of him and kicked him out again. He met several men who would pay him to be in amateur porn flicks, and he found his sexual limits pushed in all sorts of strange–often painful–directions. Throughout, he would still see Saul and Anthony on occasion at various bars. The meetings were always coincidental–the list wouldn’t allow him to seek them out–and he would always leave as soon as he noticed them, but not without incurring another year or two of aging each time. Before too much longer, he was nearly eighty–his hair pure white, contrasting with his riot of tattoos. It was around then that he went home with someone too rough–someone who beat him senseless, shattering his arms and legs in multiple places, before dumping him at the hospital.

Blake woke up in a bed, his father looming over him. He tried to speak, he tried to yell, but his dad shushed him.

“Don’t worry dad,” Saul said to him, “I’m here for you.”

“But…but where am I?” Blake replied, “Where–did you say…dad?”

“Of course–you know me. It’s Saul, your son.”

Blake couldn’t speak, tears welling up in his eyes. He hurt all over, but he managed to look around the room. It was small, and looked like a hospital–some other old man was in a bed next to him, sleeping, some monitor beeping quietly. “Is this the hospital? Why…why can’t I feel my legs…”

“I’m…the doctors said you were too obese to save your legs–they had gone necrotic. I’m afraid that they had to amputate them, dad–after, you know, your fall? They saved your arms, but they say you won’t be able to use them very much in the future. ”

Blake refused to believe it. He started screaming, and an orderly came in, helping him calm down, before showing him his missing legs–one at the hip, and the other at the knee. His arms and hands were still in casts, but he could…feel the damage enough to know they weren’t lying. He was too terrified to do anything but cry, and his dad stroked his bald head gently.

“Don’t worry, I picked out this nursing home especially for you. You’ll be quite happy here, and I’ve made sure you’ll be well taken care of now, isn’t that right Mr. Allan?”

“Of course, Mr. Emerson–I’ll follow your instructions to the letter, I promise.”

“Good,” Saul said, “My father has a very particular set of needs, after all, and I’m sure you’re just the man to help him through these last years of his life.”

Blake tried to protest, but he was too tired to speak. Saul turned and left, leaving him with Mr. Allan. He was young–probably in his thirties and very muscular. He came around the side of the bed, unzipped his pants, and pulled out his cock. “Yeah, your dad’s told me that you need all sorts of special treatment to stay happy, and it just so happens this sort of thing is my specialty.”

Blake tried to resist, as the young man reached in his mouth and pulled out his dentures, but once the cock was in his mouth, he decided to just enjoy it–and he did enjoy it. He was especially thankful when Mr. Allan shot deep down his throat, and followed the cum with a load of piss–just how Blake liked it. After, he helped him into a wheelchair and pushed him outside, lighting a cigar for him and helping the old man smoke it, before reaching one hand under the blanket covering his stumps and jacking his old, soft cock until it leaked out a load of cum–and then wheeled him back inside, and lifting him into his bed–but only after hooking up a milker to his cock and a sliding a large vibrating dildo into his hole–to help keep him happy, Mr. Allan said.

Yeah, happy. This…this wasn’t so bad, was it? He told himself, as he spasmed and let loose another load into the milker. But then again, if this wasn’t so bad, why couldn’t he seem to stop himself from sobbing?

Trevor heard the sound of a truck on the quiet street outside, and he went to the door of his father’s doublewide to look and see if it was his brother Gary, finally arriving for the funeral the next day. Sure enough, some beat up truck Trevor didn’t recognize pulled up in front of the house, but he had to wave away the pipe smoke blocking his view when the passenger stepped out. That couldn’t be Gary, could it? He’d seen him just the year before, while he was working on a construction job–he had a vivid memory of Gary sitting on the tailgate of a truck, shooting the shit with him, but this guy? He kind of looked like Gary, but what in the world was Gary doing shirtless, in sweats? And was that a chain around his neck?

The passenger thanked the driver and then walked up over the lawn, and meekly waved at Gary in the doorway. “H–Hey bro. Sorry I’m late. M–I had to hitchhike.”

Hitchhike? Why? You have a truck still don’t you?”

“I had to sell it…”

Trevor just looked at him, trying to piece all of this together. “What’s up with you, bro? I mean…something’s…changed. Are you working out?”

“Yeah…it’s a pretty intense program Master has me on.”


Gary turned even more red, and despite his muscular body, he tried to shrink down to nothing in the middle of the lawn. Trevor had no idea what that could even mean, so he decided it would be best to just ignore it entirely.

“Look, why don’t you come on in, and we’ll have a smoke in honor of dad. You still smoke, right?”

“Cigars, yeah.”

Gary looked like he was desperate to say something else, but Trevor just turned and walked inside. He followed his brother in, shut the door, and immediately stepped out of his shoes and dropped his pants to the floor, leaving on only the chain and the jockstrap he was wearing underneath. The underwear was so tattered and that when Trevor turned around and saw his nearly naked brother, his cock was clearly visible through several holes. “What the fuck man, are you some faggot now? Put your pants back on.”

“I–I can’t.”


“Master says I can’t wear anything other than my jock and my collar inside.”

“Who the fuck is master? What the fuck are you even talking about?”

“He’s the man who enslaved me. He owns me. I…I am a faggot, Trevor. I just didn’t know it, but Master showed me what I really am, and I’ve never been happier, alright? I know it doesn’t make sense, I know–”

“Get the fuck out of here. Get the fuck out!”

Gary had just enough time to grab his sweats before Trevor opened the door and pushed him out of the house, he picked up the tattered shoes and hucked them at Gary on the lawn, one sole smacking him in the face, then he slammed the door, unable to deal with what he’d just heard. First dad, and now this? And he had to come like this to the fucking funeral? He went and grabbed the bottle of whisky he’d bought for them to share, and drank a few shots, and then checked out the window. Gary was dressed, and sitting on the sidewalk curb in front of the house, head in his hands. Trevor had seen that look, he’d seen it on him the day their mom died when he was fifteen, and Gary was twelve. He’d seen…

He stepped away from the window and went and drank more whisky, smoked another bowl of tobacco, and then checked the window again. It was now close to midnight, and Gary was still sitting on the curb. Trevor went to the door, ready to kick his ass down the street, stormed out onto the lawn, and then stopped, turned around, and went back inside. He needed a few deep breaths, he needed…something. He was the older brother, he was supposed to know what to do, he was supposed to have the answers now, but everything he’d planned was for rot now, and he didn’t want to go there alone tomorrow, he didn’t want to face that casket by himself.

He stepped out again, and stood on the step. Gary looked over his shoulder at him. “Come on, don’t freeze out here like that,” Trevor said, was quiet for a moment, and then added, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, it’s ok,” Gary said, got up and walked up to the house, “I understand.”

Trevor tried not to look at his brother as he undressed, instead he poured them both a shot, and then took an extra one for himself. After that, things got a bit easier. They avoided the topic of what had happened to Gary, and instead spoke about their father and their memories. Gary got drunk, but Trevor was drunker, and when their conversation lapsed, and Trevor lolled back on the couch, close to passing out, Gary excused himself, got up, and went to his bedroom to sleep.

Trevor found him there an hour later, sleeping on the floor under a single sheet. His cock was out and half hard, as he fondled himself in the doorway, trying to keep his balance, and then stumbled over and yanked the sheet off his brother. Gary woke up and saw what stood over him, and rolled over, pushing his ass into the air as he’d been taught. Trevor stared at it, licked his lips, thought better of himself, and then got down on his knees and tried to fuck his brother’s ass. He was too drunk and too soft to manage that, so Gary turned around, pushed his brother down, and sucked him off instead, swallowing Trevor’s seed. “Thank you, sir,” Gary said, but Trevor pretended not to hear him as he slunk back to his own room in the house.


I’m on Patreon! If you’d like to see more stories like this, help me out with a monthly pledge here, and gain instant access to a massive archive of unreleased stories.

We met through a cigar group. I was new–he was a founding member. My relationship with cigars, at that point, was little more than curiosity backed by fascination–the sexuality of it too, I guess. I had smoked them a few times, always jacking off while I did, but I knew next to nothing about them, or what to smoke. A few guys I chatted with online recommended the group to me, and I figured I might as well go to one. I was hardly someone to be as nervous as I was then–muscled, young, gay but passing–I could have anyone I wanted, and usually that translated into cockiness, but plunged into a group of cigar smokers while knowing next to nothing, I was a bit intimidated. If Nate hadn’t been so welcoming and jovial, I probably wouldn’t have gone back for a second outing.

I usually hated chubby guys. I mean, they’re just slobs at heart, they don’t care about themselves, about their bodies, about their health. So I tolerated Nate, I guess, since he was in charge. Actually it was hard to get a word in–he dominated the conversations like he dominated the space with his huge frame. It was a turn off, to say the least…and yet…maybe even then, I was just deluding myself about that, like I was about everything else. He was certainly interested in me, and made no attempt to hide it. In fact, I became a sexual joke for him–he would go into these strange scenarios with the two of us, ask me to take our shirts off so we could compare, apron to abs. He was more articulate than I was, smarter too, more knowledgable. Anything I could talk about, he could too, but better, with more humor, with more interest. And so I listened instead, trying to figure out why this huge, obese man fascinated me as much as the cigars we smoked together, when every other fat man I’d ever met was so easily dismissible before this one.

He showered me with favors, bought me expensive cigars at group outings to cigar shops. The tobacco was fabulous, and after the fourth or fifth meeting, he invited me back to his home for a tour of his humidor, with plenty of innuendo. I…I was curious. I was curious about my own budding attraction to him. I thought that, maybe, if we could just have sex, or if I could just see his (hopefully disgusting) body without clothes, I could maybe shed this growing desire. His humidor was massive–a small climate controlled room in his massive house. Wealthy, rich as fuck. The money he has, I had no idea what I’d do with it. It’s no wonder he succumbs to food–as rich as he is, he can afford to become obsessed. He was overly generous. The cigars he offered gave me a high closer to strong pot than tobacco. I was out of it; he stripped off my shirt and felt my body. I kept trying to take off his clothes, trying to take back some kind of control, but he remained stubbornly clothed. Soon, I was naked, he was not. He touched me everywhere, and I let him. I expected him to suck me off–I expected him to want to consume me, like a cigar, but instead he pushed me to my knees, and fucked my face, came, made me jack off while he watched, and then we shared a glass of bourbon. He kept me naked the whole time, I let him stare at me, and then went home, somewhat disgusted, but more aroused than anything I had experienced.

I went over to his house more often after that. I found myself unable, or unwilling, to turn down any invitation. It was months before I saw him naked, but by that point any possibility that he could disgust me enough to abandon sex was out of the question. I was attracted to him. When he fucked, it was like nothing else–I was strong, and yet he could (and often did) crush the breath out of me. He made me feed him. He made me clean every sweaty fold of his flabby body. I was the one devouring him. I was the one with the addiction. I soon stopped smoking cigars, and stopped attending group meetings. He was the new object of my fetish–the smoke he fed me in our kisses was far more powerful than anything else I’d ever tasted.

He grew more demanding, and I accommodated him. I shaved my body smooth, from head to toe. I started practicing with dildos at home, so I could take his cock without resistance. I learned how to cook, and the weekends I spent at his home would often be consumed with feeding his hunger more than fucking my holes. He sent me a particularly exhausting exercise routine, and I followed it religiously. he introduced me to his dungeon soon after that. I had noticed the stairs down into the basement before, but when he led me down into the space filled with all manner of bondage and pain equipment…I was eager. I asked him to show me everything, to use it on me. He was more than happy to do so, and then he showed me to small room off to the side–a windowless cubby barely large enough to fit a cot and a small chest. He told me I would move in with him–that I could bring only enough that might fit in the chest, and everything else would be sold off. I told him no, that I couldn’t–so he beat me until I came twice over and asked again. I agreed.

My new life revolved around him. The demands of my body became more extreme. Every week, a new tattoo or piercing. Soon, I could barely even recognize myself. I worked out more than ever, I cooked all of his meals, he paid me in fucks, pain, bondage, and smoke. For two years, I haven’t left this mansion. It is my home, my prison and my sanctuary. In my chest, I have a small collection of photos I printed out to keep, and I compare my selves. Who was I? This freak with the tattooed face and head, with padlocks hanging from my nipples, with my balls weighted down six inches? I have never been happier, but…

I can’t finish the thought in any manner that rings true. I lock up my photos. It’s time to start cooking dinner anyway.


I’m on Patreon! If you’d like to see more stories like this, help me out with a monthly pledge here, and gain instant access to a massive archive of unreleased stories.