Method Roleplay (Part 3)

Evan didn’t need to be told twice–he dropped to his knees on the tile of the bathroom floor, and scooted up to his daddy’s cock, still unable to believe that his young roommate from moments before had actually…become this fucking daddy of his dreams. He could smell the powerful musk rolling off him, and it was making his hard cock start to leak–he shoved his face into his daddy’s crotch and took a few deep snorts of the smell, enjoying it.

“Yeah, you like that smell don’t you boy? You want daddy’s scent all over you.”

“Fuck daddy, you know I do.”

“Pretty fuckin’ lucky that a slobby daddy like me found a nasty boy like you, ready to worship my fucking filthy body.”

“Oh…fuck daddy…”

“Perverted fuck–you want daddy to soak you down in his smelly piss? I bet a filthy boy like you would fucking love that.”

In fact, watersports had never really been much of an interest for Evan, but for this man? He…he’d probably do anything he asked him to do, without any doubts. He nodded, and after a could of moments, Brett started pissing, aiming his stream all over Evan’s face and chest–and he nearly came just from that alone. Why had he thought he wouldn’t enjoy this? Of course he fucking enjoyed this! He…he bathed in his daddy’s piss every…every chance he got, didn’t he?

He opened his mouth wide, and Brett directed the stream there, watching his boy gulp it down, stroking his cock, and grinned. “Gonna fill up that gut of yours boy. You want a big gut like daddy, don’t ya?”

Evan nodded without much thought, and kept drinking.

“Yeah, you wanna be just like your daddy, don’t you boy?” Brett said, grabbing Evan by the back of head and pulling him closer to his cock, pushing the head into his mouth as the piss slowed, “Fat, stupid, hairy, lazy, horny all day and night. Just like your daddy.”

Part of Evan was trying to push back–after all, for him, part of the pleasure of older men was the difference between them. Him–old, fat, grungy, and perverse–and him–young, slender, clean, and corruptible. But…had there been more? He had always liked the idea of an older man corrupting him, ruining him, hadn’t he? It seemed like he had, but everything was a bit fuzzy.

“Course, ya ain’t gonna be like your old man in every way, right son? Not with that little boy prick, and that hungry ass of yours. Still, I’ll keep ya plenty satisfied.”

Evan could swear something strange was happening to his cock, while he started sucking on daddy’s cock. It wasn’t growing soft, but it was getting smaller. And his hand kept brushing up against something else–his belly–but he’d been toned, hadn’t he? No–he shouldn’t be worrying about these things, he needed to focus on his daddy, and making him happy, getting him good and horny so he can fuck his boyhole, and make him scream–fuck, that’s what he needed. He’d feel better after a nice ride on daddy’s cock.

“Fuck boy–talkin’ bout it makes me fuckin’ want it. Git up and bend over the counter.”

Evan didn’t need to be told twice–he knew what happened if he ever disobeyed his daddy after all–and it wasn’t like this was an order he’d ever disobey anyway. He hauled himself up–which seemed a bit more difficult that it should have been, and daddy had to give him a hand, but he made it, turned to the counter and leaned over, facing the mirror, and he froze. That–that wasn’t him. That wasn’t his face, with the scraggly beard, overgrown hair and zitty skin. That most certainly wasn’t his body either, behind him, with that big gut hanging off him, his ass much, much wider than he remembered…or…or did he? Something didn’t seem right, but before he could sort it out, Brett, behind him, had slicked up his index and third finger with slobber and shoved them into Evan’s ass, making his boy shudder and groan, pushing back onto his daddy’s fingers.

“Oh fuck, thank you daddy…”

“You’re welcome, son. You know it’s always a pleasure for me, and you want to make me happy, don’t you?”

“Oh…Oh fuck daddy, more…more than anything!”

“Yeah, because you’re a good boy aren’t so? A total slut for your nasty father? My fucking pigboy? That what you wanna be son?”

“Oh fuck daddy, that sounds…fucking hot…”

“Fatten you up even more, open up this hole of yours, cleaning my body and drinking my fucking piss all day long?”

“Dad, get your big fuckin’ dick in my piggy hole, I can’t fuckin’ take it. Ya know I hate it when you tease me!” Evan said, grunting and snorting and shoving back on Brett’s hand, trying to get as much inside him as possible.

Brett was stroking his own cock with his free hand, and didn’t notice was it was growing again, to nearly eleven inches, so thick he couldn’t meet thumb and finger around the shaft–even with his big hands. He let a gob of drool roll off his tongue and land in his palm, which he used to coat the head of his cock–he liked it a bit dry in his boy’s hole–and then started pushing it inside. Evan suppressed a cry of pain, but he’d take it for his dad–he’d do anything for him, after all.

Method Roleplay (Part 2)

“Did it work?”

Brett didn’t want to say that it had, but he certainly had fallen asleep, hadn’t he? And he felt…kind of strange, almost like he wasn’t all here at the moment, or like some little hole had opened up in his head, and something was…coming in, or going out. “I don’t know…do you feel…kind of strange?”

“I feel pretty good, actually,” Evan said, standing up, “Even if there was nothing to it, at least I got a good nap. So, come on–you ready to give it another shot, daddy?”

“You know, I don’t…actually feel that horny right now–how about later tonight?”

“That doesn’t sound like my daddy–my daddy is always fucking horny,” Evan said, got close and started groping Brett’s crotch through the shorts he had on, and to Brett’s surprise, his cock had gone from flaccid to hard in less than a second…or had…hadn’t be been hard the entire time? It was hard to remember, exactly. “Please don’t…call me that Evan. I’m serious, I feel really weird–don’t you?”

“I always feel weird when I’ve been too long without my daddy’s cock in my holes. And why don’t you want me to call you daddy? Whenever your boy calls you daddy, it turns you on, doesn’t it? I can feel your cock throbbing daddy, don’t lie to me.”

“B-Boy, you’re…fuck…” Brett leaned back, just enjoying the sensation of Evan’s hand kneading his cock and balls.

“Yeah daddy, let your boy take good care of you–you just lay back and play with that big furry gut of yours, and those meaty tits while you’re boy gets a taste of thick daddy cock.”

Yeah, fuck, that did sound hot all of a sudden. He leaned back in the computer chair while Evan started hauling open the fly of his shorts, and as he did, he felt his shirt ride up–he pulled it up the rest of the way, rubbing his big gut, coated with hair…but…it felt bigger than usual. He just had a bit of a paunch, but this gut…it was big and round, like a beach ball, and it obscured his vision of his boy sucking him off more than it should. There was more hair than before too, and when he pulled his shirt up, and off, he saw that his nipples were both the size of pencils, jutting out from his fat chest, and he started to breathe a bit quick. “Evan…Evan, this isn’t right, I’m not…I don’t actually look like this!”

Evan pulled away and stood up, blinking at Brett’s bigger gut and tits–and realized the nine inch cock he’s been sucking on was only supposed to be five and a half. He reached out, and rubbed Brett’s furry gut, unable to believe it was really there, but more turned on than he could really imagine. “I…I mean, I guess it worked then, didn’t it?”

“This…I don’t think I can do this, Evan. Change me back!”

“Calm down, it’s just an illusion caused by the hypnosis. It’ll go away. Just calm down.”

“Then how in the hell are we both seeing the same fucking thing! I’m 26, I can’t look like this.”

Evan didn’t have an easy answer for that one, but he didn’t really want to answer it–he was too fucking turned on looking at his boyfriend there, becoming more of the man he’d always wanted him to be–could it go even further? “Daddy…you’re just confused is all. You’re just remembering things wrong. You aren’t 26, you’re turning 50 next month.”

“Shut up boy, I’m fucking serious.”

“You had a bad dream–this is who you are. A big bellied, extremely hairy, big dicked daddy bear. You get confused sometimes–after all, you aren’t that smart. Pretty much all you think about is all the dirty, kinky sex you want to do to your boy, day in, and day out, isn’t that right?”

“Boy, you need tah listen to your fuckin’ daddy.”

“No daddy, listen to me. Go on, look at that big flabby gut covered with silver hair, give this huge cock of yours a nice stroke, feel that thick beard of yours and how much you’re balding. You aren’t 26. You aren’t that young kid you think you remember–you’re my big, dirty, perverted daddy, aren’t you?”

“Boy, ya need tah fuckin’s shut yer fuckin’ mouth!” Brett growled as he hauled his ass out of his chair, shoved past Evan and made his way to the bathroom in his apartment. It couldn’t be true. He was so…so fucking sure, but when he got in there and turned on the light, and say himself in the mirror…there he was. His huge gut hanging out, covered with a thick layer of hair, his half erect and leaking daddy cock hanging out the front of his grungy boxers, thick beard across his face, a month or two overgrown, crawling up his cheeks. Hair a mess and balding badly, more silver than the brown of his youth. What…what in the hell had he been thinking? His boy was right–he wasn’t some young kid! God, he can be fucking thick sometimes…and yet, something was still nagging at him all the same–still, it probably wasn’t important, right?

“Fuck, I can’t…believe it,” Evan said beside him. He’d gotten to the doorway behind Brett, and he still could barely believe his words had really done that to his boyfriend. It didn’t seem real–in fact, the changes he’d just seen were seeming less real by the moment. Words…they couldn’t do this. No, this was just his daddy, of course–the same he’d always been.

“Fuck boy, sorry, daddy was outta his fuckin’ mind, but I’m feelin’ a whole lot better now,” Brett said, leering at Evan–at his boy–stroking his fat cock nice and slow while he did, “Yer horny daddy’s ready tah play–now git the fuck down here ‘n help daddy out.”

The Alpha’s Pet (Part 1)

To both of them, at the time, the idea had seemed amazing. Ditch the fucking awful dorms, and their equally awful roommates–who were constantly on their fucking case about needing to pick up their clothes and cumrags off the floor, or figuring out what’s stinking in their gym bags–and live with each other instead, in an apartment not too far from campus. Daryn and Jasper decided to put their plan into action, and by the time spring semester rolled around, they had said goodbye to their shitty college living situations, and hello to living with their best friend–two football jocks, beer buddies and lazy slobs–it seemed like the perfect solution to their problem. That is, until new problems started to arise within a few weeks of the two of them living together.

What those problems were was difficult for either one of them to explain–it wasn’t that either one of them was used to competition, and in their own ways, each was at the height of the jock pecking order, and they knew it, but being forced into this close of quarters, the two of them felt somehow threatened in a way neither of them could really explain. It was subtle at first–Daryn getting pissed off that Jasper was taking up the entire dinner table with some project, even though Daryn didn’t want or need the space–the sheer fact that Jasper had claimed it unnerved him all the same, and he felt some desperate need to claim it for his own. This same sort of territorial squabbling expanded until it encompassed every common area of the apartment, and the two jocks eventually forbid one another from entering the other’s room–under what penalty neither could say, but they would do…something, right?

It was easier at school, and in the locker room and on the field it was like nothing was even wrong–and neither one of them knew how to discuss what was happening with their teammates or their coaches–or with one another. In fact, especially at home, the two of them couldn’t even really have a conversation any longer–every time it seemed to devolve into one argument or another. It was so frustrating that Daryn decided he might as well just move out–but their nice landlord, Mr. Wadsworth, sat him down and had a nice chat with him. He couldn’t just leave, could he? Abandon his entire territory to his rival? No–that most certainly wasn’t an option at all, and so he marched right back into the apartment, grabbed every bit of crap of Jasper’s he could find and threw it into his room.

Eventually, even sports became difficult. The two of them would constantly squabble about plays, they would fight for coach’s praise, they would be in constant competition for the fastest time, the highest jump, the most push-ups. Everyone could sense that something was wrong, but neither jock would discuss it–just give the other and angry look and head home. They rarely spoke anymore, and especially not in the apartment. The two of them would simply avoid one another as much as possible, glaring and grunting and growling if the other came too close to them. They stopped showering, their musk just another weapon in their arsenal–but it was Jasper who broke the truce. While Daryn was at class one morning, he drank as much as he could, went into his roommate’s room, and hosed down as much as he could with his piss. In the heat of the moment, it seemed like the most logical course of action–he had to claim it, right? It had to be his…but more than that–Daryn needed to be his, and this would show him that. That Jasper was the boss, the alpha, the ruler. He laid down on Daryn’s bed and started jacking off, snorting and grunting, keeping himself on the edge until his roommate arrived, smelled what had happened, and flung himself at Jasper with a scream.

Neither of them had a clear memory of what happened after that. They fought of course, and much to Jasper’s surprise, it was Daryn who had the upper hand on him, and relatively quickly. Built for defense, thick as a wall and quite tall, no matter what Jasper threw at him nothing would take him down. What Jasper did have was speed and agility–but not quite enough stamina. He began to tire, and Daryn used that opening to drag him to the floor and start beating him to a pump for defiling his room. It…should have stopped there. Daryn stood up, swaying a bit, looking down at what he’d done, shocked and horrified at how he’d lost control like that, but Mr. Wadsworth–he could hear the older man’s voice. He wasn’t done yet. No, he wasn’t quite done. There was…one last thing.

He got down and rolled the groaning Jasper over on the carpet, ripped down his shorts, and worked his cock into his friend’s ass. This. This is what he needed to do. If he didn’t do this, then Jasper could recover–he could fight back, but that couldn’t happen. No, Daryn was in charge. Daryn was the alpha here, and this is how Jasper was going to learn that. Jasper kept trying to crawl away, kept begging Daryn to stop, to come to his senses–he just grabbed him by the hair and fucked harder until at last he exploded deep within Jasper’s guts, and as he did, both of them felt some strange energy from the room surrounding them infuse them. A moment later, they had both passed out on the floor, the older man looming over them, chuckling–now that the contest had been decided, the real fun could begin.

Spitty Lives His Life (Part 7)

WARNING: SCAT, INCONTINENCE

I got back to the nasty trailer where Spitty had been hiding out about twelve hours later, and as soon as I stepped inside, I got the strong stench of piss and shit on the air, like I’d been expecting. Spitty hadn’t been able to hold anything in for that long, but he didn’t seem to distressed by what had happened–I doubt, in his current state, that it was the first time he’s messed himself like that, or even if it was, it wasn’t the first thing on his mind. As soon as I got in there, he started begging and pleading–not to let him go, but to help him cum.

I don’t know how often Spitty was cumming a day at this point, but back when he’d been under my thumb, he was blowing fifteen or so loads a day–and chances are he was shooting even more at this point. I could see, on his gut, at least a few loads he’d managed to work out just out of desperation, but it was clear he was aching, but I ignored him–after all, if I was going to make Spitty suffer, then I was going to have to deny him everything he longed for–and that meant he was going to be cumming much, much less in the future. So we got started, and I started feeding him his own shit, washing it down with my piss, and rewarding him with my spit for being such a good little shitfaced pig. For the next few days, I fed him almost non-stop. Food, mostly, but plenty of shit as well. I got him to embrace his lack of control, enjoy the sensation of pissing all over himself, of shitting right wherever he was, but above all, making him understand how worthless his cock was, how small it was, how hard it was for him to cum, how pointless and hopeless. No, he was just horny now–horny all the time, but never satisfied. The only satisfaction he could find now, was pleasing the cocks of others, and maybe–maybe–he’d manage to explode once or twice a month, but that was good enough, right?

He protested, of course. He tried to tell me that he regretted what he’d done, that he’d been fantasizing and longing for me for all these years, that he’d been trying to find me too, that he wanted to be my little whore, just like I’d planned to begin with. I didn’t believe him, of course. How could I possibly believe him, after what he’d done? No–this was better. This is what Spitty really deserved. I gave him another dose of leaf from his special tin, after a week of treatment. He hadn’t been up from the bed in all this time, he begged me to not do this to him, that he was sorry–but I took a sizable wad–a third of what remained in the tin–shoved it in his mouth, and watched him succumb to the pleasure of the leaf. I told him that he was going to be a good pig, a fat pig, that he wasn’t going to be moving much, that he hated moving. That he loved shitting and pissing himself wherever he was, that his cock was so small he couldn’t even reach it up in all his fat, and he was desperate for cock–any cock. He swallowed the leaf, and when reality centered itself again, he was still on the bed–but it wasn’t rope pinning him down now, it was his own massive body.

He woke with a snort, and immediately started begging me for a load of shit–and I knew he was mine again–but I wasn’t finished with him, not yet. No, I started inviting my new circle of friends around. Filthy truckers and bikers–and if they were too grossed out by Spitty to fuck him, a bit of spit or leaf was enough to bring them around to seeing things my way. Spitty never left the bed anymore–he was just on his belly, ass up, ready for a cock, or a fist, or anything to slide inside him, his mouth constantly calling for more shit or piss or tobacco, but pretty soon I had one guy coming around a bit more than all the others. Jack was the biker who’d tipped me off to Spitty and helped me find him, and I felt he deserved a reward. Of course, Jack wasn’t too…keen on the kind of reward I was planning on giving him, but after a dose of leaf from his own special tin…well, he was just the dirty, nasty biker bear Spitty needed. Fuck, watching the two of them go at it–Jack was a beast in bed, with a massive cock, loved getting himself covered in shit and then making his pig lick it off–and when I gave Spitty another dose of leaf from his tin–leaving just one last dose in it…well Jack was more than a regular companion–Jack was his biker master, and Spitty was his raunchy pigslave.

So here we are. Jack living in the trailer now, full time. Spitty is close to 700 pounds, I think–I don’t exactly have a scale to weigh him with. He’s gotta be pushing seventy years old at this point: teeth rotting out, biker tattoos all over his filthy body, too stupid to read–all he cares about is where his next load of shit is coming from, and who’s going to fist his loose, hungry hole. Or, at least most of Spitty cares about that. See, I know there’s that old jock, still in there. That bit of them, it always hangs around in their head. There’s nothing he can do, of course, but he’s in there. Sometimes I bring him forward, and we chat a bit–or rather, he sobs and begs me to change him back, and I fuck his throat and feed him shit until his little cock squirts out a load of cum into his fatty folds. I’m thinking it’s about time for the last dose, however. Spitty is terrified–he thinks he’s going to be some fucking geezer, or just fucking dead, but not quite–no, there’s a reason I don’t usually give anyone a complete tin, you see, but for Spitty? Well, I think it’s a well deserved end–or beginning.

Spitty Lives His Life (Part 6)

Things get a bit filthier starting here. WARNING SCAT.

He was the first one who’d ever gotten away. I was so fucking angry when it happened–at him, at myself for being so stupid to imagine that anyone might actually enjoy the shit I do to them. I should have known better. My uncle told me to know better, when he taught me how to grow the shit, but…well, hope springs fucking eternal, I guess. No one on the crew even knew anything had happened–not really. There was an odd hole in reality that everyone had to get used to, but after a few days, it was like Spitty had never even been there–only I remembered him, and I still had his tin of tobacco, and if our paths ever crossed again…well, he was going to be getting one hell of a surprise from me.

Of course, I couldn’t exactly go search him out. I didn’t even really know what the fucker had done to himself. I’m sure that what he’d wanted to do was to try and get his old life back, but it takes some skill and plenty of brains to do that–and hell, the leaf don’t let anyone go backwards anyway! As fucked up as he was, I doubt things worked out how he’d planned. I did, at least, know what he looked like now–I’d gotten into the bathroom in time to see him fade out–the physical change always happens first, before reality folds them in somewhere else…and that fucker is definitely not some football playing college student, you can trust me on that one. No, the fucker I saw on my bathroom floor? Spitty looked to be about 350 pounds, most of it fat, covered in filth, his hair and beard even longer than before. Pale skin, meaning he probably almost never saw the sun, and he’d aged up to somewhere close to 50–or at least he looked 50, but he could have been a bit younger, in all honesty. Still, one thing I could know for sure was that my name had probably stuck nice and hard–names are hard to get rid of. So life went on, but I kept my ear to the ground, corrupting a few truckers and bikers passing through, telling them that if they saw any old pigs around going by the name of Spitty, they should let me know, and I’d reward them handsomely.

A couple of years went by, and I’d figured he managed to get out and escape my net. Either the spell had whisked him away further than I’d thought possible, or he was such a recluse now that he never actually went anywhere. I’d…become a bit meaner, in all honesty. Some of the guys on the crew who I hadn’t fucked with in years were brought over to my house, so I could take them down a few more notches, fantasizing that it was Spitty I was ruining, thinking about some of the nasty shit I could do to him if I ever got my grubby hands on the fucker. I…went a bit overboard with Gary, our foreman. Dude…fucking loves ass now–eating it out, sniffing farts, even eating shit on occasion. I feel a bit bad about it, but fuck, watching that fucker eat a turd, imagining it’s Spitty instead, nothing makes me nut quite as hard as that.

And then, sure enough, someone gave me a tip. They’d heard about some fat pig matching my description who occasionally cruised a rest area ten miles out of town, with a particular thirst for tobacco spit. I’d fucking found him–I couldn’t fucking believe it. Still, I couldn’t fucking scare him off, now that I’d gotten a clue, and so I started pressing other guys for details, had a biker follow the fat fuck home one night, and sure enough–the spell had sent him off into the weeds, a good thirty miles out of town, in the middle of fucking nowhere. Still, I knew where I was going now, and I decided it was time to pay my lost boy a visit.

Heh, the look on his fat, nasty face when I busted my way in though–it almost made my humiliation worth it. He’d honestly thought he’d gotten away with it, and there he was, watching some of his porn, sitting in a lazy boy surrounded by trash, bouncing up and down on some massive dildo, and he looked over, saw me, and he fucking shot his load right then and there. Yeah, he’d missed me–I could fucking tell, not that he wanted to fucking admit it. I pinned him down and fed him spit for a couple of hours–there was nothing he could do to fight me, he’d made himself so fucking weak. I got the rope I’d brought in with me, hauled him over to the bed and tied him down, spread eagle–and then took off. I had to go get some supplies for my revenge, after all. I called Gary and told him I’d need a few weeks off, and he was more than happy to accommodate me–I’d be staying with Spitty for little while, getting him ready. I haven’t used a whole tin on someone in a very long time, but this reunion calls for a celebration. Spitty isn’t going to see it that way, of course, but he’s fucking earned this–and he’ll enjoy it plenty, soon enough.

Spitty Lives His Life (Part 5)

Things didn’t quite go according to plan that night, neither for Chuck, nor for Spitty. To start with, for Chuck at least, everything seemed to be going perfect. In fact, he couldn’t quite believe his luck, with this boy. He’d hated that cocky fucker as soon as he’d started working with them on the crew, so certain that he didn’t fucking belong with nasty fucks like them–most of whom Chuck had been ‘developing’ for years now–he was the perfect target, and wearing down that jock nice and slow had been…fucking amazing. In fact, he hadn’t had that much fun ruining someone in a while–but now he knew why. Spitty, it turned out, had wanted it. He’d wanted this life the whole fucking time, but he’d only found the balls to admit it after his first taste of the real shit Chuck grew himself, using an heirloom seed grown in his family for generations. But now, Spitty was hooked–hooked on tobacco, hooked on spit, hooked on cock…and hooked on Chuck, most of all–and that had, perhaps, clouded his judgement. Chuck, after all, had given up on ever finding someone who might want to be with him, or hell, even finding someone he might want to be with, but Spitty was the closest thing he’d felt to love in a very, very long time–and that’s what gave Spitty the opportunity he’d been looking for.

They showed up at Chuck’s house and went inside–this time heading right for Chuck’s bedroom upstairs. He got Spitty out of his cum crusted clothes, and gave the whore one last fuck in his current form–but made him keep his hands off his cock while he did–he needed Spitty to start building up some energy for the chaw he was going to get in a little bit. He told Spitty to take a break, that he’d be back with his special tin in a couple of minutes–he went downstairs to his locked cabinet, opened it up and pulled out the tin with Spitty’s name on it, and then headed back upstairs, his cock already leaking even though he’d just shot a huge load in the pig’s ass, and when he stepped into the room, the butt of the shotgun he kept in his closet slammed into the side of his head, sending him teetering and crashing to the floor. Spitty hit him again, and then a third time–hoping that would be enough to knock him out, grabbed the tin from the floor where it had fallen, and hurried into the bathroom, where he locked the door.

It had worked–his plan had actually worked. Spitty could barely believe it, and it was all he could do to keep himself from masturbating in relief. But this–he had to try and focus. Last time, when he’d chewed this stuff, Chuck had been with him, guiding his thoughts, directing him into his new life–but he wasn’t going to have anyone helping him this time–Spitty was going to have to try and do this on his own. Through the door, he heard a loud groan from the bedroom down the hall–in a panic, he opened up the tin, grabbed about the same amount of leaf as Chuck had given him last time–spit out the shit he was currently chewing and put the special wad in his cheek, that same amazing sensation of floating pleasure seeping into him. He…didn’t remember how he ended up on the floor, but one hand started jacking his cock, and the other found its way around to his hole and started fingering it, just…awash in pleasure.

But he also knew he had to focus–still, his stupid brain couldn’t think like before, and with the pleasure coursing through him, he was having an even harder time getting his thoughts in a row. He…tried to focus on the person he’d been before this–younger, muscular, sports–but someone was pounding on the door and screaming at him, and it was so hard to think! He didn’t want to think about anything, not really. All he really wanted was to be alone, away from Chuck, away from everyone where he could jack off and fuck himself in peace–yeah, fuck, he could…he could just fucking imagine what that would fucking be like. A place of his own, out in the sticks, not even having to work, just lounging around like a total, fat fucking pig, jacking off and fucking himself all day long, stuffing his face, maybe venturing into town for some load of cum or a real fuck on occasion, but usually just happy with his own fucking company. He…swallowed the leaf, just as Chuck managed to bust through the door and stand over him, shouting at Spitty, but they both knew it was too late to change anything. The world went all swirly like it had before, dissolving into…quiet darkness, and then Spitty woke up.

He knew, right away, that things had gone both very wrong, and also…very right. He wasn’t in his parents house anymore–he was in his own fucking trailer, out in the middle of the woods–right where he fucking wanted it to be. His cock needed attention, of course, like always–he grabbed hold of the dildo that was still lodged in his hole from when he’d fucked himself to sleep the night before and started thrusting in into him, jacking his cock, feeling his gut jiggle as he did, moaning and groaning loudly as he came over and over again onto the sticking, filthy sheets of his bed. Part of him, a deep part, was absolutely horrified, but the rest of him, most of him, couldn’t imagine anything better. He’d found a slice of accidental paradise, and he had no plans on ever leaving. At least, as long as Chuck didn’t find him–and he didn’t want that, right?

Spitty Lives His Life (Part 4)

No one other and Chuck and I knew anything had even changed. Well, some of the guys on the crew knew something had happened, like our foreman, but they didn’t know what had changed. I could…see when they looked at me, that they were a bit confused and…sad even, but no one wanted to talk about it, I don’t think. No one dared bring Chuck’s attention to them, while it was still occupied with me–and Chuck…he fucking loved this new me. Goading me, laughing at me every time he caught me with my hand down the front of my jeans, making fun of how stupid I was, and getting everyone else on the crew to laugh along with him. I was the butt of every joke, and somehow, the fact that everyone knew I was just a fucking pervert who couldn’t keep his hands off his dick for more than five minutes…it only made me hornier.

That was the worst part. It would have been easier if I’d hated it, if I’d…been able to fight back in some way, to say that things should be different. But I didn’t want things to be different. I…can’t even imagine how things might be different, beyond a few vague memories of sports, or college, none of which had ever happened in this new life of mine. I remember looking at myself in the mirror a couple days after Chuck fed me that leaf from my tin–it wasn’t the first time I’d seen myself, but it was the first time I’d actually dared take a moment and really look, and I could see all the little shit that had changed too. My tangled and greasy beard and hair falling in front of my face, my bloodshot eyes, my teeth which had already started to yellow a bit from my new chewing habit. I looked…older. I mean, I was older, actually older–about ten years or so than I had been before, but I looked even older than that. My flabby gut and tits, my arms which were still fairly strong thanks to work and…constantly jacking myself off. My little legs and flat, absent ass. And I’m standing there looking at myself, and I’m stroking off again, because I’m so fucking turned on by what I’ve become. I’m not ashamed. I’m not humiliated–I’m not…that humiliated, I mean. What matters, is that I fucking love it, I fucking love myself, and I shoot this huge load into my hand and slurp it up, swallowing it down with some of my spit, and I just feel…so fucking good.

Pretty soon, I’m laughing along with the guys, pulling on my cock in front of them, amazed at how easy it all is. Some of the guys even suck me off on occasion, but nothing really does it for me like my own fucking hand. Still, I’m all there, really. I know, mentally, that this isn’t how things should have gone, and I’m thinking about that tin in Chuck’s house, and I’m wondering what might happen if I could get my hands on it, without him knowing. Could I change myself back? Hell, even if I couldn’t do that, could I at least make myself someone a bit better than this? Maybe I could help out everyone else on the crew too, if I could find their tins as well, but for that to work, for any of this to work, than meant I was going to have to get closer to Chuck than I’d ever wanted too.

Even that was harder than I’d thought it would be. Chuck was usually all over me all day long, feeding me spit, groping my cock, but the first couple of times I tried to grope him back, he…freaked out a little bit, and he kept backing off. So…I told him a lie. I told him that I liked this life he’d given me–and I did like it, but not…in the way I was telling the story. I told him I’d hated being that jock, and just letting loose, it felt so fucking good. I wanted…him to feel good too. He wanted to believe me, I think, but it wasn’t what he’d expected. He’d thought I should hate him–and I did hate him–but I could pretend a bit, I could jack his cock off on our rides to and from work, even suck him off on occasion, drinking down his cum too, and soon…soon he was really getting into it, more than I’d expected him to. The first time he…fucked me–god, it hurt so much. He bent me over a bench in the workshop and started slobbering all over my asshole and my crack, and I could…feel his spit working its way into me, making me shudder, and when his cock pushed into me, with just his tar as lube, it was like my ass was on fire, and tingling all over, and I shot–of course. Pretty much anything can make me cum these days, but this…pretty soon, he was spitting in and around my hole as much as he was feeding me, and that fire in there, it was starting to need attention like my cock did. He was getting me ready, I could tell, and if I was going to have a chance, this was the one I’d have to take.

It was a few more weeks before he finally told me I was coming with him to his house for another taste of the tobacco from my personal tin, while he fucked me in the foreman’s trailer during lunch. Told me that if I wanted to be such a nasty slut, then that’s what I was going to be–as hungry for cum as I was for spit, begging everyone to fuck my ass like the stupid whore I am. I…fuck, it turned me on when he said it, and that scared the shit out of me more than anything else. Still, it had worked, right? Now I just had to try and keep a level head, get the tin away from him, and see if I could fix this somehow. I’d become so compliant lately that he wasn’t even bothering controlling me a directly as he used to–if I was quick, maybe I could just get away with this. And if not? Well…being a cumdump didn’t…sound like that bad of a thing. It’s not like I wasn’t already sucking down everyone’s loads on the site, right? It all comes down to tonight–see you on the other side, I guess.

Daddy Whores (Part 3)

“Boy, boy please, I can’t…this isn’t who I’m supposed to be! This isn’t right, you can’t just do this to people,” Carson pleaded, as they walked down the row of cells. “Boy, I’m…I’m your daddy, and you should listen to what I’m telling you.” He was trying to be assertive, but no matter what, his old mouth could only sound mealy.

“No, you’re my daddy now,” the boy said, shooting him a glance with his eyes, “and that means, from now on, you’ll be doing what I say, and thinking what I want you to think, just like all of my daddies.”

The man Carson had arrested–his fellow daddy Emil, apparently–was in one of the last cells, and Carson could hear activity in there. He discovered that the door to the cell was wide open, and two of his fellow officers were inside, fucking Emil from both ends, the old pig moaning in between them. He saw his boy there, and his eyes went wide–he pushed the two officers away, and they stumbled back in a daze, and he got on his knees in front of his boy, then bowed to him, muttering and whimpering. “Please boy, please–he just resisted me, I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t come home! I’m sorry for calling you, for making you leave, I’m sorry, please, I…I made some more money for you!” he pulled a wad of cash from a pocket, “There’s so many young, strapping men in here, and they’ve all been paying me, all evening! Please…I don’t…I was doing so good…”

“It’s alright, Emil,” the boy said, allowing Emil to kiss his shoe, “I know it wasn’t your fault. We’ll be going home now–Jefferson’s waiting in the car for me, and you’ll have to drive home by yourself.”

Emil nodded, “Thank you, my boy, thank you…”

I’m sure none of you officers will have a problem letting my daddy go? You aren’t going to be pressing any charges, right?”

The two officers shook their heads no, still trying to figure out what had happened.

“Run along Emil.”

“But…but boy, they weren’t finished, and they didn’t pay me yet.”

“It’s alright–go home. You’ve had a long day.”

Emil got up and left the building, passing by Carson on the way, and when their eyes met, Emil’s seemed…haughty. “Oh…Oh I see what our boy did, such a clever boy!” he said, laughing, “I’ll see you at home!”

Carson felt his eyes drawn back to his boy, their eyes meeting once more. “You’ll be finishing these men for Emil, won’t you Carson? You do love having men abuse those old holes of yours, after all, just like all of my daddies.”

The twisting was there, but not as violent. It was…hardly much of a shift, really, but when Carson looked away and at his two fellow officers, their cocks hanging out of their pants, he started to salivate.

“And you two–do be rough with him. He’s been a very naughty daddy, and he needs a bit of rough treatment, don’t you Carson? You like it rough, don’t you?”

He should run, he needed to fight this, but before he could do anything, the two officers grabbed him, and shoved him up against the bars of the cell, handcuffing his wrists high, and tearing down his pants. One got behind him and rammed his cock into Carson’s ass, hard–making him groan–but it didn’t hurt nearly as badly as he wanted it to. No, he was…this body was already well broken in, after all, and he did like it rough and brutal. His voice was demanding the two officers rape him harder, really give it to him, beat him like the bad, naughty daddy he is. While the first fucked him, the other started biting and twisting at his nipples, calling him all sorts of filthy names, and after the first finished, they switched roles, all under the boy’s supervision and encouragement. As the second officer was getting close to finishing, however, the boy walked around, inside the cell so he was facing Carson through the bars, and their eyes met again. He could feel the world beginning to dissolve all over again, and he started to cry.

“Please…I’m sorry boy, please…”

“Don’t worry–as long as you keep me happy, you’ll be well taken care of, daddy.”

The words didn’t seem to come from the boy’s mouth, but from everywhere around him. He lost track of everything–he couldn’t even really feel much of the cock still lodged in his hole. This time, he could feel reality growing even further away from what he’d been before, more and more of himself lost to the strange void of the boy’s eyes, and when everything stopped, he just collapsed, hanging by the handcuffs, sobbing for the loss of something he couldn’t even really remember all that well–after all, Carson’s memory was shot from all the liquor he drank, right?

“Thanks officers, that’s just what my daddy needed,” the boy said. That’ll be twenty dollars from you both, of course–can’t have daddies getting fucked for free, right?”

The two officers exchanged confused glances, and then pulled out their wallets. One handed him a twenty, while the other just stared at the empty wallet. “I…I don’t have a twenty, I’m sorry.”

“Then here’s what we’ll do, officer. Go to an ATM tonight, and pull out at least forty dollars. A daddy will come by tomorrow to give you a blowjob in the restroom–and will be coming by every day from now on. You’ll be paying him forty dollars–for this fuck and tomorrow’s–and always have at least twenty dollars in cash on you from now on, understand? Now, I need to get going. Please release my daddy, if you would.”

The officers did so, and Carson slumped to the floor–confused, horny, desperate for a beer and a smoke–and his boy got down beside him. “You’ll come straight home, understand?”

“Yes boy.”

“Good. I’ll see you soon. We’ll discuss your punishment there, understand?”

“Yeah boy. I understand.”

“You won’t forget? I know you’re a stupid fucking faggot.”

“I won’ boy, I promise. I’ll hold on real good, cause ya told me to.”

“You’d fucking better.”

Daddy Whores (Part 2)

“Hello Officer Carson, I believe you arrested one of my daddies today.”

Carson looked up, and say the young man across his desk, staring at him. His eyes were chilling, somehow, and he quickly looked away, and back at the report he’d been writing. “You mean the faggot I caught blowing a guy behind a cafe? Who are you, his son?”

“Oh no–I’m his boy.”

Carson remembered the older man mentioning a boy before, when he demanded payment. “Well, whoever you are, we’re holding him at least overnight. You can bail him out tomorrow.”

“Oh no, I won’t be bailing him out, you’re going to take me to wherever he’s being held, release him, and let us go on our way.”

There was a force to the young man’s words, similar to the old man’s had had earlier. But before, when the man had spoken, he’d found his body compelled to act–this merely felt like a…strong suggestion. But whether it had something to do with him breaking free of the man’s control earlier, or simply because the boy hadn’t been as forceful as he could be, it wasn’t clear. One thing was certain–there was power there, and a latent threat, but while Carson might not understand how the boy’s power worked, he also didn’t think there was anything the boy could really do to him. “No–No, I won’t be doing that. Now why don’t you leave, and you can collect your perverted father tomorrow.”

“I never said he was my father–I said he was my daddy,” the boy said, perturbed, “and you would do well to do as I say. I can be rather…petulant, I’ve been told. There are worse things I could make you do, then get a nice blow job from one of my daddies.”

“I don’t know what sort of shit you have going on, or how any of that happened earlier,” Carson said, leaning close, “But that won’t ever be happening again. Now leave.” He met the boy’s eyes again, and this time, didn’t look away, no matter how icy they seemed. But a second later, when he couldn’t break the contact…he was no longer sure if he’d been the one to choose to meet his eyes or not, and a knot of fear started growing in his gut.

“You should have been afraid of me a minute ago, when I was willing to be a little patient. Besides, if you’re going to make me leave my home, and make one of my daddies drive me all the way into the city, just because you can’t enjoy yourself, well, then I can at least get something out of it, right?”

This wasn’t right–he wasn’t right. The eyes were no longer simply intense, they were boring into Carson’s mind. His vision was losing focus, and beginning to spin around the axis of the boy’s eyes, and soon, they were the only stable thing in a sea of color, even his body ceased to exist, and what remained of Carson, the boy…was putting a cramped little box, a partition of a mind, and the rest of him…the boy was making something else–someone else. The spinning began to slow down, and the world began to return, but it wasn’t the world Carson remembered–not quite. At last, he was able to yank his eyes away with a shuddering sob, and look down at himself–and if Carson had been able to, he would have screamed.

This wasn’t his body. These weren’t his clothes. He was still in a police uniform, but instead of being cleaned and starched, it was wrinkled and heavily stained, smelling like it hadn’t been washed in a week or more. He had a gut which stretched the shirt out enough that gaps were appearing between the buttons, displaying slivers of a filthy undershirt below, and his arms and chest had lost almost all of their definition, leaving him looking weak. He felt his age, more than his saw it–the aches, the dim, blurry vision, the difficulty hearing–but he did see the beard–the thick grey beard hanging down to his gut. He tried to figure out what had happened to him, tried to remember who he’d been, but that was when he discovered that not only was this not his body, it also wasn’t his mind.

Officer Carson was sixty years old, and would have retired had he not lost his retirement due to…poor life choices at a casino not far out of town. He was on desk duty all day long, and spent most of the day eating, and…and fantasizing about his fellow officers, thinking about pleasing them, about how good it would feel to have his ass or mouth stuffed full of their big cocks. Yeah, he was a slutty, fat, officer daddy, and…and he looked at the boy–no, he looked at his boy, and all he felt was love, and desire, and also complete and utter terror. He’d disobeyed his boy, a direct order from his boy–what in the world had he been thinking?

“Don’t get too comfortable, daddy. After all, we still need to go get Daddy Emil out of holding, right?”

“Yes boy, I’m…I’m sorry boy, right away…” Carson said, his voice raspy and quiet. He hauled himself up out of his chair, feeling how much he ached, and led the way away from his desk, towards the holding cells. He was nervous, each time he encountered a fellow officer, but while they all regarded him with utter disdain (which he rightfully deserved, of course) they did all recognize him. His old self–that officer no longer even existed. The only knowledge and evidence of his was locked away in a small corner of his mind, which was growing more and more distant by the minute. They were alone in the elevator a moment later, heading down, when he turned to his boy, “Am…Are you going to change me back? Please–I didn’t know…”

The boy just laughed. He was still laughing when the elevator stopped, and Carson’s heart sank even lower than he’d imagined it could, as they headed for the cells.

VIP Package (Part 8)

I wanted to mention, at this point, that I’m rather heavily indebted to @vikingzombieboyfriend for this story. He has a…particular skill for writing about corrupt, abusive relationships, and it was this theme in several of his tales which helped inspire the twists of this one, as you may have been able to tell.

I also wanted to give a warning: the final three parts of this story, today’s entry and the final two coming next week, are very, very dark. It’s one of the more horrific tales I’ve ever written actually–it easily ranks in the top five. Themes include SCAT, RUINATION, HEAVY BDSM, DIAPERS/INCONTINENCE, FURRY, AND SNUFF. Read at your own risk, as always.

Of course, neither Jeremy nor Samuel was ever truly gone; they were both idle passengers in their bodies, witnessing everything, feeling everything, doing everything, unable to resist, unable to deny their compulsions and desires and humiliating drives. Over the next week and a half of their vacation, each time either one of them, trapped in their skulls, believed that things couldn’t get any worse, that surely Bishop couldn’t conjure some further humiliation or depravity for them to suffer through, one of them would find their new selves descending to some until then unknown depth.

Over the next few days, Bishop focused his attentions on Gerald, making sure his cuckold slave properly understood his purpose and place in their dysfunctional triad. He made sure Gerald’s hatred towards Sammy was only matched by the young man’s revulsion. Jeremy, inside himself, tried to resist, but he found himself hating the young man too, hating him, because…he’d always hated him, throughout these years of their marriage. Hated his passivity, hated his banal indifference, hated how little he seemed to care about what happened between them. Now all of those feelings were so intense, and channeled every time he looked at him–it was impossible for them to not overwhelm what remained of his love. He wanted it to end–all of it. He wanted to beg his Master to throw him out, dispose of him, anything so he wouldn’t have to bear this any longer, but he couldn’t. He needed Master Bishop. Without him, he was just filth–and growing filthier. By the third day, his Master decided that his slave wasn’t…disgusting enough, and so he began serving as their toilet as well, drinking their piss and eating their shit with the same fervor he dedicated to his hours long meals each day, never even bothering to wash his face, horrified at his shit crusted image, and yet…so satisfied with himself at the same time.

It was then that Bishop turned his attentions to Sammy, and began twisting him further still. Samuel had learned to cope, had learned to deny what was happening to his body, to try and dissociate himself. If he could just convince himself that this was a dream, that one day, he’d wake up and everything would be normal, if he could just not care–with perfect indifference–perhaps he wouldn’t have to feel everything so…intensely. It was with some surprise that Bishop harnessed that, and began to turn it against him. Soon, Sammy was becoming indifferent to everyone–the only thing that mattered in the world was his own satisfaction and pleasure. Everyone else–aside from his daddy–existed to make him happy, to obey him, to please him, and if it didn’t please him, then it should be hidden. Gerald’s presence offended him more and more with each passing moment, and he found himself compelled to spout the cruelest comments he could imagine, pleased with how they stung the old cuck. It wasn’t long before he enjoyed hurling the abuse, and he began abusing everyone–especially the waiters and servants aboard the ship, but always saving the harshest barbs for Gerald. Not long after, he began to believe in his, and his daddy’s, utter superiority, and it only fueled his love for Master Bishop further.

His petulance had other effects–particularly a certain laziness when it came to various duties. He demanded that Gerald feed him before the cuck could eat himself. Watching the old man salivate over the food he shoved into the young boy’s mouth could bring him enough enjoyment to overcome the disgust he felt at the old man’s shit caked hands and beard. He found himself losing interest in controlling his bowels and bladder, and it made perfect sense, when his daddy told him he would have to be diapered from then on–after all, his precious boy couldn’t be expected to control himself. He was changed twice a day by Gerald, and the cuck would retreat to his room with the soiled linens, where he would devour the contents in private–unless his Master wanted to watch. Jeremy lost control of his emotions, he would throw violent tantrums, throw things, beat Gerald with the whips and canes from Daddy’s closet, and these beatings developed into full blown BDSM sessions–Gerald tied down while Sammy, diapered, clad head to toe in leather or rubber gear selected by his daddy, would beat and lash him, hurling abuse at him, while Bishop sat off to the side, watching, filming, masturbating his massive cock, always fucking his boy’s sloppy, shitty hole afterward, and forcing Gerald to devour the filthy slurry as his reward–sometimes making him crawl behind while he was undiapered, lapping it up from the floor, wherever Sammy’s permanently gaping hole dribbled it.

But for them both, the only thing which they were sure of, was how much they loved Master Bishop, the man at the center of their lives, at the center of their entire universe. One word of praise from him directed at one of them would cause the lauded to melt, while the other would descend into fits of jealous rage. Only one of them could possibly matter. Only one of them could be the most important. Gerald believed it was him, as the vessel for all of his master’s filth and vices, allowing his god to be utterly clean and perfect. Sammy believed it to be him, for he was the hole, the son, the being who his daddy had created–the vision of the world Bishop longed to see. As the cruise drew back towards harbor in Florida, each was certain that their Master would keep one of them and cast the other aside–that they would be the chosen one.

But true to their contracts, he could choose neither, and Samuel and Jeremy awoke back in their own cabin that final morning, in their old bodies, packed to return to their old lives, with their account credited for the cost of the cruise, as well as extremely generous stipends for them both, equal to several years of work at their already high paying jobs. But when they looked at one another for the first time that morning, they each could tell, in their bones, that nothing could ever go back to the way it had been, before they’d met Master Bishop.