Persistence’s Rewards – Part 2

Ugh, why was he even still doing this to himself? Shane was panting at the sixth floor, already winded beyond belief, sweat pouring down his face. He unbuttoned his shirt and fanned himself, trying to cool off, but there was no ventilation in the staircase, and the summer heat was baked into the concrete even though evening was underway. It had been a terrible day anyway–he’d woken up late for work, his head pounding from all the beer he’d drank the night before. He never got blasted like that anymore–not since college. He couldn’t remember a thing, but fuck he’d been horny. Even though he was late, he’d worked a load out of his cock, and he’d shot two more in the bathroom at work during the day. His cock just hadn’t been able to get enough. It hadn’t helped that he’d forgotten to shower, and he reeked. It fact, his BO seemed even worse than usual, and more than a few co-workers, including his boss, had ribbed him lightly. Needless to say, he’d be taking a shower tonight, and shaving off this damn beard too. He…couldn’t quite remember growing it, and everyone at work had thought it was strange, but he’d had one for a while, hadn’t he? He sighed. Should he just give up? He was exhausted, but he struggled on, hauling his body up. He felt heavier today, and his clothes hadn’t fit well either. It was discouraging–he’d been trying so hard to lose weight, and he was only getting bigger. It just made him want to…to stop fucking caring entirely. To just…just park his fat pig ass down, and…

Hard again. What the fuck was it with his cock today? Still, he wasn’t about to whip it out in the stairway like some perv–he could at least wait until he got to his apartment. He crested the ninth floor, took a short break before mounting the final flight, and slogged down the hallway, shirt and pants soaked, but his neighbor’s door was open. He’d introduced himself yesterday–Gary? Greg? Some ‘G’ name. “Hey Shane, how was the day?”

“Fuckin’ exhausted,” he said, and saw his neighbor had a beer in his hand. Just…seeing it made his mouth water. Still, something told him not…not to take it. Not to drink it. Greg pushed it into his hand, and without really being able to stop himself, he but the bottle to his lips and chugged the whole thing down. It tasted familiar…like…like something he’d tasted the day before, and he sighed, a silly, stupid grin on his face as he groped his hard cock in the hallway, trying to remember where he’d tasted that before.

“Why don’t you come inside before someone sees you, Shane. I’d hate to have to explain to any of our neighbors why you’re groping yourself like a fat, sweaty, perverted pig in the hallway.”

Shane couldn’t quite process what he’d just said, but he let Greg pull him into his apartment, even as he tugged the zipper of his pants down, fished out his nine inch cock and started stroking it. “Feel…fuckin’…strange….” he muttered, “Kinda good, though…”

“You know, I was pretty angry at you yesterday Shane, for wasting some of my brew. I go to a lot of trouble to make that, you know. I was just gonna make you a musky, hairy man for some fun, but you know? I think you need to be taught a more severe lesson than that. I don’t share my beer with everyone, you know–you should be thankful.”

Shane was still standing there by the door, shirt open and soaked, gut hanging out the bottom of his shirt, growing and swelling a bit bigger with each heaving breath. Greg helped him out of his clothes, running his hands through Shane’s lengthening beard, watching his already thick chest and belly hair grow in thicker still, as it filled in over his back and ass as well. “Did this yesterday. You…”

Greg shushed him. “Now, I have any number of different styles I brew, you know. One I don’t pull out very often, except for the most difficult pigs like you. I’m not about to let you waste any though, and you’re going to have to drink a lot, so get down on your knees, and we’ll get you all set up.” He pushed Shane down, and then shoved the hose from yesterday into his mouth, and then took duct tape and started taping it in, pinning his beard to his face as he wrapped it securely, making sure there was no way he could spit it out. Then, he brought out a pitcher from the kitchen, held the funnel up, and started to pour. It took Shane a few minutes to find a good rhythm–and Greg poured carefully, making sure he was swallowing and not sputtering, but as the new beer settled in his gut, Shane’s eyes glazed over, and he began swallowing with an odd sort of urgency. This beer was even more bitter than the previous style, but he began to appreciate it more and more as he swallowed it, feeling his gut swell larger and larger, bloating out and remaining firm, like a beach ball inflated in his stomach. His head was swimming, and he was close to passing out again, when Greg finally finished, and started carefully peeling the tape away from his face, managing to avoid ripping away any of his thick, wiry beard.

During his binge drinking, Shane had blown several loads across the carpet. He could smell his own cum, his sweat, but now also something else. He started crawling forward, sniffing the air, something bitter and rank on the air, his vision tunnelling, and then he was at the door to the bathroom, sniffing. The toilet, in the toilet, and he crawled over, and yellow, so yellow, all the yellow, wet, and then he was submerged in darkness once more.

Persistence’s Rewards – Part 1

It had been a long day, and today Shane knew he should have just taken the elevator. It was summer, it seemed like all he did was sweat, and it’s not like his climbing made much of a difference anyway. Certainly his physique was nothing to marvel at–he was still chubby, still hovering a little under 240 pounds, still not back to where he was when he was playing football in college. He paused to heave a few breaths on the eighth floor of his apartment building. Two more floors to go, and he’d already loosened his tie, his white buttoned shirt damp with sweat. If he could just get that damn promotion at work, he could afford to get a damn mortgage on a house in the suburbs, but for now he was stuck in this damn low rent building with no air conditioning, making never ending payments on his student loans, and he couldn’t even afford a gym membership, so he was climbing stairs. It seemed hopeless, like all of it seemed hopeless, but if anything had ever gotten him anywhere, it was persistence. He kept climbing and finally shoved his way through the door, panting, and started down the hall to his apartment, only to have the door next to his open as he passed by, revealing a short, squat man, close to his age if not a bit younger, who nearly walked right into him. “Oh fuck, sorry ‘bout that!” he said, “Just moved in–the name’s Greg.”

“Hey, I’m Shane,” he managed between huffs.

“You work out?”

“Just…take the stairs.”

“Damn man, to the tenth floor?”

He nodded.

“That takes some effort! And some perspiration it looks like,” he added with a wink, Shane feeling horribly self-conscious all of a sudden. “How about a beer as a reward, and a chance to get to know your new neighbor?”

He shrugged. Why not? He was trying to cut down on the beer, but he’d earned it today, right? Besides, it was fucking hot out, and he didn’t have anything cold in his fridge. “Only if it’s cold.”

Greg laughed, clapped a hand around his back and led him into his apartment. It was laid out the same as Shane’s, and it was obvious the guy was still in the middle of unpacking. The furniture was in place, but surrounded by boxes in various stages of unpacking. “Go ahead and have a seat on the couch, I’ll get you a brew,” Greg said, and returned with an open bottle of beer, cold, but without a label. “Sorry it’s missing a label–I got it cheap at the store because it was. Some IPA or something.”

“No worries, Shane said, and took a sip. It was bitter, but refreshing after his hike upstairs earlier, he took a few long slugs, emptying half the bottle as Greg sat down, and asked him what he did. Shane told him about his office job, sparing him some of the gory details, but he kept feeling distracted. The heat was terrible for one, and even with the cold beer, he was sweating heavily. He unbuttoned his shirt all the way, Greg watching him as he did, and then pulled it off, before also stripping off his undershirt, pants and boxers without a second thought. He was starting to feel a bit loopy from the beer, and he couldn’t quite keep his thoughts in order, lapsing into “hmms” and “ummms”, and Greg made small talk at him, one hand toying with his cock openly in front of his new neighbor.

“So, how do you feel, being a nasty pig?” Greg asked during one such lull.

“W-wha?” Shane asked, letting off a belch.

“Yeah, a nasty, sweaty, dirty pig?”

“F-Fuck…” Shane groaned, his cock now fully hard, bottle of beer empty on the table next to him, stroking himself slowly, just staring himself stroking, mouth open.

Greg got up, shucking off his own sweaty clothes as he went back to the kitchen, and returned with a second beer, now naked as well, and pressed it into Shane’s hand. “Here you go, have another drink, on the house.”

Shane felt like the entire world had collapsed in on him. He knew this was wrong, that something in the beer had drugged him, and he resisted, but all he could do was let the bottle drop from his hand, spilling it on the couch next to him, Greg cursing. “Fuckin’ bitch,” he muttered, “I’ll fix you…”

Shane tried to peel his hand from his cock, but couldn’t. He did manage to push himself up off the couch to a teetering stand by the time Greg returned, carrying several bottles of his brew, as well as a plastic hose and funnel. He shoved Shane back onto the couch, and pushed the hose into his mouth and down his throat, making him gag. Before he could spit it out, he had a beer in his hand and was pouring it in, and Shane had to either swallow or choke, making it through most of a second bottle before he got the hose out, covering his chest and gut with bitter beer. “What…why you doing this?” He moaned, the sensation of his cock suddenly heightened, “Fuck…” He could feel it, feel his cock getting bigger, his balls heavier. Felt so good to just sit and stroke, and he relaxed back into the couch, pumping his now nine inch cock a bit faster.

“That’s better, you fuckin’ pig. From the second I saw you, I knew you were gonna be my first, sweaty and soaked and musky in the hallway,” Greg said, leaned in, lifted one of Shane’s arms, licking at the sweat there, watching his neighbor’s already thick bush of underarm hair grow in even thicker. “That’s right, you’re mine, and we’re going to have so much fun together, neighbor–not that you’ll remember much of it. Have another beer–we’re gonna get you blackout drunk tonight, but don’t worry–tomorrow’s a brand new day. A brand new stinkin’ day for all of us.”

Make Up – Part 2

“…Seven…Eight…You’re closer to the surface now, you’re coming back to yourself, Chase, rising back up…”

He was, but slowly, so slowly. He felt like he’d been asleep for days. He felt strange too, so strange, but he was coming back, he was almost there.

“…Nine…you’re in your body again, you’re back to being Chase, and…Ten. Wakey, wakey.”

Chase groaned, “Fuck…Phillip, that must have been a long ass day of filming, I’m fucking wiped.”

“Phillip? Oh goodness, you really don’t remember much, do you?”

That wasn’t Phillip’s voice. He opened his eyes and found himself staring at Rudy. What in the hell was Rudy doing here? He hadn’t seen him in months. He looked around at the room and saw he also wasn’t in his trailer, but some rundown apartment. He tried to sit up but something pushed back against him. He looked down and saw a fat gut pushing out of his belly, sticking out from under some filthy wifebeater. What movie was this? Why couldn’t he remember anything? No…No, he did remember something. He could remember Rudy putting some…‘old man’ makeup on him, but it was just a dim memory. “What…movie is this? What’s going on?”

Rudy just cocked his head to one side and smirked. Chase shook his head. He didn’t really care what was going on with Rudy, he just wanted out of this makeup, whatever it was. He heaved himself up and walked to the apartment bathroom. He wasn’t quite sure how he *knew* where the bathroom was, but he did. And whatever this fat suit was made of, it was the most realistic thing he’d felt before–and it was fucking heavy. He pulled off the wifebeater as he stepped in front of the mirror, and gasped. Whatever character he was playing, he was an ugly fucker. Mostly bald with hair growing long in the back, thick mutton chops, and even a set of false teeth, all crooked with a few missing. It was fantastic–the makeup that is. Hell, the body suit even had fake hair all over it, and…and he couldn’t see any straps. In fact, it looked like flesh. He ran his hands over it and…and he could feel his hands on the fat…because…because it wasn’t a suit at all.

It was real.

He shook it, watching it shake and jiggle in the mirror. He grabbed hold of the mutton chops and yanked on them, but they too, were real. His hair, but not his usual beard, it must have been dyed grey, and felt brittle and stiff to the touch. He ran his hand over the scalp, and sure enough, it wasn’t a bald cap. What the hell had happened to him? His memory was coming back now, he could remember Rudy putting the makeup on him and talking about his dead uncle. How he’d been…kidnapped. How Rudy had put him under like Phillip always did, how–

“What do you think, Chase? It took over two years of hard work, but you’re finally my Uncle Ned, from head to toe.” Chase turned to him, angry and terrified, but before he could so much as try and rush him, Rudy said “Safety measures, Chase,” and try as he might, he couldn’t even try and hit him. Instead, Chase pushed past him, running for the door, but he couldn’t seem to grab hold of the doorknob. He was panicking now, breathing heavy, and he hurried over to the side table, grabbed a cigar from the humidor there and lit it, taking a few deep long inhales before realizing what he was doing. He’d never smoked before in his life, and he’d just grabbed a cigar on instinct?

“Heh, looks like your character wore off a bit on you, Chase,” Rudy said, coming around the corner, “Then again, you’re used to smoking them almost constantly, so I’m not surprised your body would want one after a shock like this.”

“What the fuck did you do to me?”

“Oh, I assure you, you did most of it to yourself. All that binge eating, the shaving, the electrolysis. I helped out, of course, bleaching out your hair, aging that young movie star skin of yours, the hair growth all over your body. Just a few special formulas I’ve been developing. Oh, and I did have to date that oral surgeon for a while before he agreed to fuck up that pretty mouth of yours, but I never could imagine an Uncle Ned with perfect teeth. Phillip helped too–he’s the one who found you that janitorial work with the studio, provided he gets to use your mouth and ass whenever he wants, just like I do. Yeah, you love your nephew’s cock, don’t you uncle?” Rudy added, grabbing his crotch. “Still, this is just the prologue, you know? We’ve only just established your desires and motives! I have all sorts of plot twists in mind for you, all kinds of character development I want to see. Would you like a taste, Uncle?”

Rudy picked up the remote to the TV and turned it on, a video starting up. It looked like an amateur porno, and as the camera panned around, he could see some big brute fucking some other man in a sling. Some fat fucker dressed in leather, hair all over his body. “What the fuck is that supposed to be?” he asked around the cigar–he’d already forgotten he was smoking–it felt so natural. His hand had also drifted to his crotch, and was rubbing his cock–Rudy noticed, and smirked.

“That, in the sling, is you, ‘Ned’. From last night at the club. Your first night at the club, I should say. You do love the camera, though, no matter what angle or role you’re playing. Hell, it already has 300 views on xtube, and I just uploaded in this morning. Yes, my perverse Uncle Ned, just beginning to explore his kinky side. What kind of sexual freak might be be in a year? In five years? Why, I simply can’t wait to find out. Isn’t this exciting, Chase? After all, you’re the star of the show, just like you always wanted to be, and I’ll be there to support you the whole way, I promise. We’ll be together forever, one way or another.”

“No, No–you can’t, please–”

“Sleep tight, Chase,” Rudy said, and watched the actor’s eyes flicker shut, “Just wait until the next time you come up for air–you’re going to be a whole new man, all over again.”

The Morning After – Billy Part 4

They spent the rest of their shift fondling each other’s cocks, Billy shooting once in his briefs from Derek’s attentions. He already was in better spirits, laughing and joking and flirting like normal, until they got back to the dump around eleven, and clocked out at noon.

He followed Derek into the locker room, where any number of other guys were laughing and changing back into their casual clothes. His feet walked him over to a locker he never remembered seeing before in his life. He pulled a set of keys from his pocket–all of which were unfamiliar, even though he could say what most of them opened, and used a small one on the lock. Inside, however, there weren’t any clothes at all, just a few scattered papers, a cellphone, some half eaten snacks from the vending machine, and a bottle of painkillers. There should be clothes in there, right? He looked around at the rest of the men, some leaving the locker room looking perfectly normal, none of them wearing their coveralls from work…so why didn’t he have any other clothes like they did?

Something was wrong. Something was wrong, and he didn’t know what it was. Something was following him, something was inside him, something else was here, and he couldn’t see it, but it was wrong, and it was wrong with him. He was starting to panic, he couldn’t catch his breath, he had to be going insane.

Calm down.

He looked to the side, and caught a look at himself in the mirror. He looked like a mess–his hair too long, something between stubble and a short beard smeared across his face, a gut bulging out, coveralls filthy.

This is what you like to wear. Calm down.

It was a stranger. He didn’t know what he should look like, he didn’t but he was certain that it was a stranger in the mirror.

Calm.

He blinked a few times. What had he been thinking about? He turned back to his locker, grabbed his cell phone and slid it into the pocket of his coveralls, and started for the door. Derek was already changed and waiting for him, wearing the same grimy looking jeans and sleeveless shirt he’d had on for the last month already. “You ready to go yet? Finished staring at yourself in the mirror?”

“Shut the fuck up, ya fuckin’ bitch,” Billy said, and smacked Derek on the back. He laughed.

“You finally got over your fuckin’ blues then?”

He nodded. He did feel better. Calmer.

“Come on, let’s get going. I wanna get home so I can plug that fat ass of yours.”

They walked out into the parking lot, and Billy followed Derek to his truck. He…knew what was going to happen. They’d drive to the little rundown one bedroom apartment they shared together. Once there, they’d fuck, still dirty and grimy from work, usually without even taking off their clothes. Then, maybe, they’d change, eat, watch TV, drink, and go to bed. Like usual. Like…they always did. He tried to tell himself that, but he didn’t quite believe it. Should he get in the truck? Should he try and convince Derek that something strange was happening? That he wasn’t feeling so well after all? He stood at the passenger door of the truck, hand on the handle, trying to get his mouth to form the words, when the phone in his pocket started shaking and ringing. He looked at the ID–it was coming from someone named Owen. Should he answer it? He didn’t know any one named Owen, did he? He answered it.

“Hello?”

“Billy! Fuck man, you have to help me, this is all fucked.”

“Who–Look, I don’t–”

“Look, just come over to my room, I need your help. Something happened last night man, something weird. I can’t look in the mirror man, I can’t!”

Last night. Where had he been last night? Billy remembered the dream that had already faded away from him, of waking up naked in that alley, but that couldn’t have happened. He’d been with Derek since their shift started at four in the morning…right? Or was this a dream, really? Nothing felt real to him, but maybe…

“Billy? Come on Billy, fuckin’ talk to me man.”

“Alright, I’ll…I’ll come over. Where are you?”

“Back at the hotel–where else would I be? Wait…where are you?”

Billy bit his lip. Should he be somewhere else? “I’m…I’m out.”

“Did you not get back last night? I know…I know we all got separated in there.”

“Look, just tell me where you are.”

“I’m at the hotel, I made it back here.”

“Look…I…someone else is driving me at the moment, I have to give him the name of the hotel. I…I forgot it.”

Owen was quiet for a moment, “I…I am talking to Billy, right? You sound weird man.”

“Look, it’s been a…crazy morning, just fuckin’ tell me what hotel.”

“Alright, alright. The Nettywood Suites, by the college. Hurry–I think I’m losing my mind.”

Billy got in the truck. “Bro, ya think we could make a stop real quick on the way?”

The Morning After – Billy Part 3

“What the fuck is wrong with you today, man? Get a god damn move on.”

He tried to push it from his mind, and he climbed up into the truck, but for the rest of the shift, he stayed silent. Derek gave up after a few minutes, and resigned himself to a day of silence, wondering what in the world had gotten into Billy all of a sudden. Billy found himself checking his reflection in the side mirrors of the truck. Whenever he focused on it, he could recognize himself, but when he caught it at a glimpse, he’d whirl over like he’d just seen a stranger. Still, the more he worked with Derek, the more he got his hands dirty, he started to feel like the dream was fading somewhat, though the most unnerving fact–that he still didn’t have much memory of what was going on–remained constant. At nine, they parked the truck for a bit and went to a little cafe for coffee and a bite to eat. Derek ordered for them both, and came over to the table with a heavily sugared red eye for Billy, along with four pastries, and looking at it, he suddenly had a deja vu. He’d done this before, hadn’t he? Not this, exactly, but he’d eaten here before, lots to times, with Derek on their route…right?

“Alright, now what the hell’s the matter with you man? Ever since you blanked out earlier, you’ve been like a god damn stone.”

“Yeah…I don’t…I’m sorry, maybe I just had too much to drink last night.”

“Man, you have too much to drink every night. You were passed out drunk on the couch like usual.”

Billy looked at him. Had he been? He didn’t remember, but how would Derek even know that, anyway?”

“I’m just…a little out of sorts is all.”

He looked down, and saw that without realizing it, he’d already eaten one of the pastries Derek had bought for him, and had started on a second. He’d been talking with his mouthful the entire time. Either unwilling or unable to stop, he kept going, the two of them making small talk, though it was a bit difficult for Billy, because most of the time he had no idea what Derek was talking about. They got up from the table, and Billy adjusted his coveralls to better fit around his small paunch, and followed Derek back to the truck. “Look bro, I know you better than anyone. I can tell something’s up. What aren’t you telling me?”

Billy was quiet for a moment, and then tried to put the words together. What was wrong, even? Everything? Nothing? “Do you…look, maybe I should ask you…did we have sex in…in an alley, earlier today?”

“I think I would remember that,” Derek said with a laugh, “Is that your problem? You’re fuckin’ horny? Bro, you know we can take care of that back in the cab.” Derek came closer to him, pushing Billy up against the side of the truck. “You know big bro is always ready for his little bro, any time.”

Billy’s gut was pushing into Derek’s, not uncomfortably, but rather, like it was something he’d never felt before. In his dream, he’d been in decent shape–certainly not peak condition, but now, he could tell he was fatter. Then again, hadn’t he always been fat? “I-I mean…” fuck he was hard again. Derek leaned in before he could say anything else and started kissing him, and Billy was more than happy to return the affection.

“I think we can spare an extra few minutes for lunch, don’t you? I bet you want some dessert, right?”

Billy licked his lips, and got down on his knees. He realized, suddenly, that he’d done this before. Derek unzipped his coveralls and let his cock out of his briefs. He’d done this before, in the alley, he had, he knew he had, and he wanted it, he wanted to taste it again. He took the cock in his mouth, and he realized something else–he’d done this lots of times. He sucked his brother off all the time, right? He knew just where to nibble, just how hard to suck. Derek reached around and grabbed his hair, just like he had in the alley, just like he always did, and started shoving his cock down his throat. He’d gagged before (or had he not gagged in ages?) and just let his brother fuck him rough.

“Fat…Fat fuckin’ pig. Fuck,” Derek groaned, “Fuckin’ eat it!”

The cock in Billy’s mouth exploded, and he swallowed it all down, before hefting himself back up with a hand from his brother.

“Thanks bro, I’ve been horny all morning.”

“Even after our fuck earlier?”

Derek just looked at him, “What fuck earlier?”

“When…when you fucked me in the alley.”

“We never fucked in an alley today.”

Billy was certain he remembered Derek fucking him, but from the look in his brother’s eyes, he knew he wouldn’t believe him. He just shrugged and climbed back up into the cab.

The Morning After – Billy Part 2

What was he doing?

He was on his knees in the alley. Derek had his coveralls zipped down, revealing a grungy wifebeater and a pair of briefs no cleaner than the coveralls they both were wearing. Didn’t get to the laundromat very often, he’d said–it looked more like he just didn’t care about wearing clean clothes at all. He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties–about the same age as Billy. There was a thick bush of hair poking out from the hole in the briefs with his cock, and he could see a thick matt of hair sticking out at the top of his chest too. Hiss head and face were shaved, but both had a few weeks, or maybe even just days, of stubble on them. His eyes were still looking at nothing in particular.

“Suck…it,” he said. Billy inched forward on his knees, took the cock in his mouth, and did as he was told. Derek stood there passively for a moment, before saying, “Not enough…fuck…” wrapped both hands around the back of Billy’s head and started thrusting deep down his throat.

Billy wrapped his hands around the Derek’s ass clutching him by the cheeks, hanging on and trying to breathe. Derek had him by the hair, and pulled him in deep, working his cock as far down as it would go. He couldn’t breathe, he was starting to gag, but he didn’t seem to care.

“Fuck…fuck yeah, man, fuck…”

He let Billy pull away, feeling him choke around his cock. It was by no means that big, but it was salty with sweat, with a grimy foreskin peeling away from the head, and Billy had never sucked a cock before. At least, he couldn’t remember ever sucking a cock before. Why was he doing this? Why couldn’t he stop? He looked up, Derek still had that strange, vacant look in his eyes. He wasn’t looking down at Billy, in fact, it seemed like he wasn’t looking anywhere at all. Did he even know what he was doing?

He started thrusting again, and Billy allowed him to fuck his face, trying to snag a breath here and there when he could. He’d been going for a few minutes now, and from the way he was huffing, it sounded like he was getting close, until suddenly, he stopped, and Billy pulled away, coughing. “No good…no–you’re a bad cocksucker.”

Billy coughed a moment more. He wanted to run, but he couldn’t move from where he was on his knees.

“Hand…and knees. Gonna fuck your hole instead.”

He couldn’t be serious. Billy tried to form the words to say no–instead his body shrugged off the coveralls, dropped them around his knees, and lowered himself further. Derek walked around behind him, got down, and without bothering to lube his hole, started pushing his cock inside. Billy groaned and shouted in pain; could nobody hear him? He looked towards the street in both directions, but there was no one to be seen. In fact, aside from the two of them, it seemed like the whole world was simply empty. Empty like…like he was. A moment in time, ripped free from everything surrounding it. No one else. No people. No animals. He imagined, that if he could break away and walk, he would find the shell of a city, everything staged for a play happening some other day, perhaps. A shell like him. No history except for what one could imagine, no place in it aside from what other people might allow for him, no one. No one.

Derek fucked him rhythmically. His ass had loosened somewhat. It still hurt, but he could bear it would yelling. Why didn’t he just cum? What was taking him so damn long?

“Talk…talk to…me. Talk dirty…” Derek grunted.

“Fuck me, of fuck yeah,” Billy said, “You dirty, ugly son of a bitch, fill me up with that nasty cum. Fill me up like an ugly whore. Fill me up, show me you’re a real man!”

He was going faster, getting closer.

“Yeah, that’s it. You like it dirty. You like smelling the trash around you, you like fucking like trash in an alley, fuckin’ turns you on, doesn’t it?”

“F-Fuck…”

“You’re gonna fuckin’ cum in me. You’re gonna seed my hole with as much filthy cum as you can pump into me, aren’t you?”

“F-uck…”

“Aren’t you? Come on man, fuckin’ give it to me!”

“Gonna…fuckin’…”

He felt it. It was hot, almost burning inside him. No. No, it was burning in him. It was like he was on fire, like something inside him was waking up and grinding back to life, like he was back, like he was alive–

“Hey. Hey!” Fingers snapped in his face. “You in there Billy?”

He shook his head. What…what had just happened to him?

“Come on man, let’s get a move on. We’re behind schedule,” Derek said, “Help me with these dumpsters.”

“S-Sorry,” he said. He looked around, and saw Derek getting the truck ready to lift the dumpsters in the alley…the alley he could have sworn he’d woken up naked in this morning. Or…or had that been a dream? What had he just seen?

“Come on, quit spacing out, we have a job to do, remember?”

Billy shook his head, and helped out. Somehow, he knew what he was doing, his hands moving to the right places before his mind knew why they were moving there. Nothing felt quite right, though. They got the dumpsters emptied, and they climbed back in the truck, Billy heading around to the passenger seat, but before he climbed in, he looked down at himself. He had on the coveralls he remembered Derek giving him, but now, instead of his co-worker’s name on the tag, it said Billy. He was wearing more than just the coveralls too–he had on a pair of heavy duty work boots and thick socks. He could feel a wifebeater under his coveralls, along with a pair of briefs. The image of Derek standing in front of him stood out to him then, and he felt his cock start hardening in his coveralls.

Coach’s Summer Training – Part 1

You can just call me coach, if you’d like. I work during the school year working as a PE teacher and coach for a few local high schools and community colleges–but my real fun doesn’t come until the summer. You see, I run a highly successful summer mentoring program for student athletes. I mean, it’s highly successful for me, of course, but let me explain. When I hit puberty, I discovered that I had a rather strange power–I could turn people into my clothing. The effect only lasted until I took them off again, but this wasn’t a real problem for me–see, I was a bit of a slob, and I enjoyed wearing my dirty clothes for days on end. Of course, the first time I did this, when I turned my big brother into a pair of boxers, I was terrified someone would find out, however, I soon realized that everyone had forgotten all about him–as far as my parents and the world was concerned, he didn’t exist. I remembered of course–I could even talk to him while I was wearing him. He wasn’t very happy, as you can imagine, but he’d never been very nice to me. So I started jacking off into him, day in and day out. Eventually I got sick of listening to him beg me to turn him back, so I took him off, but reality never quite picked up where it left off for him. Our parents still didn’t remember him, so he had to leave home, but luckily, reality made space for him elsewhere–as a whore for a pimp downtown. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily depending on your perspective, soaking in my cum all those weeks had left him craving cum. I still talk to him on occasion–he works as a hustler downtown, and he always gives me a discount. He’s not happy about it of course, but he doesn’t exactly have much choice now, does he? Unless he wants me to wear him some more.

Over time, my powers have grown as well. If I focus hard enough, I can keep someone in their inanimate form even when they weren’t on my body for short periods of time. I discovered that I can even change aspects of the clothing, allowing me to better tailor their final forms to my darkest fantasies. I naturally gravitated to an occupation where I could do exactly what I want to do–turn men into clothes and fuck up their lives, but I never could devote my full attention to my clothes during the school year. Instead, I’d become close to a few young men each season, and encourage them to sign up for a week of “personal mentoring” during the summer. Their parents were always thrilled–after all, their children were born to be special, and receive special treatment, right? It didn’t matter that I couldn’t name a single successful athlete who’d graduated from my program–no one seemed to be interested in sports after I got through wearing them. Still, I’d managed to, once again, find three of young men eager to be mentored. Shall we get started?

Shawn Alexander, a high school quarterback with enough skill to go pro if he gets into a decent college team, signed up so I could help hone his leadership skills. Instead, I pull him into my office, and he goes floppy in my arms. I don’t change him right away–I fuck his mouth first. I want to be the last person that senior has sex with in that body, and as I cum, I feel his arms reach around me, his body shrivelling up into mesh, and within moments, he’s a brand new jockstrap soaked in my cum.

He’s screaming, of course. I never really blame them for screaming. Still, I go to work on him quick enough, wearing away at the edges of his cloth mind, forcing him to suck down my cum. You see, even though he’s a jockstrap, he’s still capable of absorbing anything on him or soaked into him, if he puts his mind to it. It takes a couple of hours to eat the seven loads I pump into him that afternoon, but he finally dries crispy, just how I like it. Of course, he thinks that as a reward for eating my cum, I’ll change him back–instead I laugh, and jack off again, and again, and again. Over and over, forcing him to suck my cum dry each time.

He finally broke after six days. Did he really like the taste of my cum? Or was he just being coerced? I told him it didn’t matter, and he started sucking it down all on his own. Sure, he still cried about it for a while, but with a bit of coaching and positive encouragement, by the end of two weeks he was begging me for cum. I frequent quite a few clubs of course, and by this point Shawn had grown accustomed to eating cum other than my own, and I could tell that I was almost ready to return him to humanity.

He needed a few other changes though. For the few weeks I wore him, I consciously made the jockstrap age and wear much faster than usual. By the end of his mentoring session, Shawn looked like he was years old, not weeks, with a threadbare pouch dotted with rips and holes, and straps with fraying elastic that didn’t pull as tight as it used to. I stripped him off, three weeks gone by already, and watched the new Shawn Alexander appear in front of me. He looked like he’d aged close to forty years–in fact, checking his new driver’s license–so I could eventually drop him off at his new home–he was sixty one years old, flabby, hairy, nearly bald with a patchy beard that always felt like dried cum was stuck in it–usually because there was. I never did find out what he did for a living, but I still see him all over town climbing into gloryholes, desperate for as much cum as he can get.

Bart loved hitchhikers, though not for the reasons one might usually expect. Of course, not many people were very willing to ride with him–he stank like smoke and booze–it also didn’t help that he wouldn’t shower for months at a time, but there was usually someone desperate enough to climb up into his cab for a ride, but he’d only let men up. For a few hours he’d probe them for information, and ply them with a drink, and when the drug had them passed out and slumped against the seat belt in the passenger seat, he would drag them into the back of the cab, undress them, and tie them securely in the sleeper.

Those were his favorite moments, when they were well secured, but still asleep for a few more hours. He would explore their bodies with his tongue, get to know their flavors, inside and out. Suck their cocks and taste their cum. With enough prodding on their prostate, they’d eventually piss, and he’d drink that down too, just to sample it, see what kind of person he’d be travelling with for the next several months. It was always so very informative–somehow, he would be able to get a sense of them–how they worked, what kind of person he could shape them into.

Of course, they would protest once they woke up, but they quickly discovered that Bart’s drugs had left them unable to resist obeying every order he gave them. Really, their obedience was just a precaution–he preferred keeping them tied up more than anything else. Over the next several weeks, he would introduce them to their new chores–primarily as his cumdump, urinal and toilet paper. They would all discover in due time that they enjoyed their new chores more than they knew they should–something about Bart’s filthy body would drive them mad with lust. Before too long, they would be begging him for attention, asking to clean his body and suck his cock. He would tease them, listen to them squirm against the ropes binding them in the back as he drove. They always begged so nice–it was a special kind, while they still knew they shouldn’t want him, but couldn’t quite figure out how to say no to their own changing minds.

When they were finished–when all they could think about was Bart’s filthy body, he would begin training them for work. Pimping them out to other truckers at various stops, teaching them to enjoy all sorts of filthy bodies–not just his. The time spent in his truck tied up and unmoving, with a diet of mostly junk food and Bart’s filth, usually didn’t do them any favors–they would grow large guts, their limbs withered, all of them with long, grimy beards they couldn’t see themselves without anymore. When he’s confident that they’ll survive on their own, he dumps them and tells them to get to work, and make him some fucking money.

Everyone on the road can recognize one of his whores–they all wear the same collars bearing a single tag with the words, “Owned by Bart.” They cruise the roads, catching rides with any horny trucker who will have them, serving them in any way they might desire, and collect money for their Master, depositing it in his bank account at their next stop. They all do their very best, because they know his best whore gets one whole month riding with their master in his truck, tied up in the back, the privilege of once again being their master’s sole focus in the world. And the one thing they all desire more than anything else, is one more taste of their fat master’s filthy body.

Baby Bear – Part 3

Such a sweet baby bear. A fighter to the end. But now those big eyes of his are empty, ready to be filled with whatever I want–still, that can wait until morning. He’s very tired after all of that, and so am I for that matter. I get him changed into a fresh diaper and then put him to bed–he’s sleeping in the nursery now, of course, not the guest room. He’s so cute in his crib, binky in his mouth, clutching a blanket.

The next morning, I wake him up, and after a morning blow job, I see what remains after the battle the night before. He is quite stupid, I must say. A pity too–I was hoping he’d be smart. I’d been wanting to raise a businessman, but it looks like I’ll have to change my plans. His vocabulary is very simple, his math and reasoning skills are stunted. Still, he has a good sense of humor, and goodness is he eager to please! That’s such a good sign–that means he’ll be all grown up again in no time at all.

Of course, the first few months were spent getting baby to a place where we could start his education proper. Helping him remember how to walk, for instance. He may have been a baby, but I certainly couldn’t carry him everywhere, especially with his developing appetite. This was going to be a chubby bear, I’d already decided–he’d arrived husky, and I wanted to see what he looked like with some more meat on his bones. And of course, I reinforced his oral fixation–he just wasn’t happy without something in his mouth. That helped inspire his new name, too–Orel. A good name for a fatass, dumb baby bear who loves to suck on anything he can get his mouth around.

After those first few months, he was finally walking again, and had recovered some of his vocabulary, but not very much at all. I realized I was going to have to lower my expectations for Orel rather substantially. That’s not to say I don’t love him! I love all my boys, but some rise higher than others. Once I felt like I could trust him to not drop it, I got him smoking. All my boys smoke, of course, just like their daddy. We started with cigarettes, and once the addiction had him smoking two packs a day, I switched him to cigars, which he enjoyed much more, because, as he said with his characteristic enthusiasm, “they’re shaped like cocks!” That had him so excited, he giggled about it all day, but watching him suck on those tobacco shafts sure did get me hornier for his throat more than anything else.

He stayed with me for a few years. Pretty soon, he was tipping the scales at 400 pounds, and it was getting hard to find diapers large enough for him to wear. Potty training was proving difficult. In fact, it seemed that he liked soiling himself. Of course, all my boys like it to some extent–it reminds them of their second childhood more than anything else–but for Orel, he eventually confessed that he just liked how it felt to have a heavy diaper on, that it made him feel like a bad boy who needed to be punished by his daddy with a fuck or a spanking. He liked feeling like a bad boy, he added, and then he giggled like a fool. I suppose I shouldn’t have been all that surprised–someone who’d put up as much of a fight as he did was bound to have a rebellious streak in him, so I decided to just go along with it and encourage him. If he wanted to be stuck in diapers for the rest of his life, then so be it–I certainly wasn’t going to complain about it–but forcing him to take responsibility for it…well, that proved to be a bit harder.

Sometimes, I’m sure he just forgot to change himself, but other times, I knew he’d just keep his filthy diaper on because he liked it. He liked being dirty, and he liked being a slob. Part of that was my fault, I suppose. I’d conditioned him to enjoy humiliation, especially being belittled for how stupid he was, and so it isn’t surprising that he enjoyed the fact that he was a sat around in his own filth as well, but It was a bit of a complication in my plans. By this time, he was pretty much all grown up again–just another one of my bears–and that meant it was time for him to move out and move on with his new life. But to do that, well, he needed a job, but that was going to be a challenge. He was too stupid to do anything with a computer from home, which would have let him be as much of a slob as he’d like, and he couldn’t do anything social with his poor hygiene and lackluster social skills. Thankfully, one of my other boys, Barry, came through for me. He had a fuckbuddy who ran a delivery company, and he was willing to let Orel drive one of his trucks. He’d be working nights, so he wouldn’t have to talk to many people, and as long as he could drive well enough, and provide his boss with a throat to fuck on occasion, it would work out fine. Now all I had to do was teach him to drive–a challenge, but not an insurmountable one, and giving him something that he could succeed at made Orel happy. “I might be dumb as a rock, ‘n I might be a nasty poopypants, and I’s a fat slut for sure, but at least I can drive a damn truck, right Daddy?” he told me one day with that big grin of his, sitting in the driver seat of the truck we were using for driver’s education and I could tell everything would work out alright for my baby bear in the end. Now I just had to get to work on finding one to replace him.

I knew his type. They only come on Friday nights. Wealthy, but not wealthy enough for true luxury. Closeted out of the fear that coming out would jeapordize their climb up the corporate ladder. They only fuck men who they would never see in the city. They also want to fuck us out of a twisted desire they barely understand. They want to be cruel, they spend a career climbing up the backs of hard working men like us, and fucking us is just that last humiliating victory they need to feel justified. They don’t want our names, only give out aliases of their own, and they can’t look us in the eye. This one gave the name Dave–and I made him keep it.

He arrived too early in the day, fresh off work. Like many, he was still in a suit, smoking a pipe. I came later, and he was still looking. You see, some of us just can’t resist that aura–the fantasy. They just haven’t been burned enough. They see that suit, they see that money, that mid-shelf whiskey double in the glass, and they think, “Maybe he wants me, the real me.” But they don’t, and that hope, fuck, they feed on it, they fucking suck it out of us, but I’ve had enough of it, I’ve had enough of them, and I sat down at the bar next to him, and he smelled me, and he smirked. I was the one, he thought, I was the one he wanted, even though he didn’t really know why.

He introduced himself. I remained aloof. This confused him, and he pressed harder for conversation. I berated him, and as insulted as he was, he wanted me more and more. He bought me a drink and tried to drug it; I left it untouched. He bought four more doubles for himself, and got plastered. We ended up in the back of my truck, his tongue all over my body before I skull fucked him. He couldn’t get enough of me, and the whole time, I could see his confusion. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. He was supposed to string me along. He was supposed to have the reins, he was supposed to be on top, this was supposed to be about him, about his manhood, about his pride, about his need to be in control. When I ordered him to cum, with his mouth buried in my asscrack, and he stroked his cock off, he didn’t want that to happen, he hadn’t wanted any of this, and yet he’d never said no. I dropped him off at his sedan without a word.

He was back on Saturday night. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about me. He’d spent the whole day at home, mouth dry, hands shaking, horny as hell but unable to cum. He wasn’t in a suit this time, just a shirt and jeans, still smoking a pipe. I made him plead and beg in the bar, in front of everyone. I ridiculed him some more, because I enjoyed watching him want me more after every barbed insult. I got him drunker than the night before and brought him all the way home this time, to my single wide trailer, to my floor littered with beer cans, to my bed covered with sheets I haven’t changed in a year, the whole place stinking of me. As much as it disgusted him, as much as he loathed everything the place stood for, he fell into it. The sweatier and hotter we got the more of himself he lost until he was at my feet, whimpering, sucking my toes, words lost, desire at the center of his mind.

I kept him for five days. I pimped him out to my bar buddies. I made him ditch his pipe, and forced him to smoke the cheapest cigars I could buy at the reservation smoke shop. And after five days, when he reached that limit of both saturation and exhaustion, I dumped him at his car with a note. Well, really it was a to do list. Everything he had to do, if he ever wanted to see me again, if he ever wanted to taste me, if he ever wanted to smell me, if he ever wanted my cock balls deep in his hole again.

I’m sure he tried to go back. He was charismatic enough to pass off four days of missed work as a mistake, or poor judgement. But I’m also sure he dreamed about me. I’m sure he tried to jack off, over and over, but never managed to work out a load. I know he didn’t wash the clothes he’d had on, because I could still smell my musk on them when he arrived back at the bar, two months later, with nothing but a suitcase. I made him go through the list. Some of the tasks I could tell on my own–the horseshoe mustache, the fresh tattoos, the smell of him after a week without a shower. I made him tell me about quitting his job, how it had felt to flush his career down the toilet so he could taste my pits one more time. How it had felt, giving away all of his shit, just so he could live in a trailer park for the rest of his life. It was funny–he’d actually thought he’d be moving in with me, but I straightened him out on that shit real quick. No, he was moving in with Big B–he wasn’t too happy about that, Big B hadn’t been very nice to him when I loaned him out to him for a half a day–and he stormed out, and I just laughed. He came back, of course–where was he gonna go? He felt better after he sucked my cock out behind the bar, and I let him spend the night with me, on the condition he give my unwashed and unwiped asscrack a proper cleaning.

He’s settled in pretty well now, here at Louisiana Acres. Doesn’t even really remember his old name, and spending so much time with me and my filth had eroded the edges of his brain. Big B still doesn’t treat him very well–I’ll see him with a black eye on occasion, but he takes it because he knows he deserves it, and because deep down, he likes the abuse. Besides, he knows he can’t complain, or heaven forbid, leave us! If he left, he knows he’ll never get to smell me again. He knows I’ll never holler at him across the yard again, I’ll never make him crawl across the overgrown grass, and up the steps into my trailer. I’ll never let him suck on my feet or eat out my pits. He’ll never cum again, because smelling me is the only way he’ll shoot a load for the rest of his sorry life. He spends his days managing one of the smoke shops down on the road through the reservation, and his nights are spent at the bar with the rest of us. He sees the men like him come in on Friday nights, and he wants them more than anyone else. He hooks up with them often, willing to do anything they want, with the hope that some his old life might rub off on him, but they always leave him behind, laughing at him like he’d used to laugh at us, but who’s laughing now, fucker? Who’s laughing now?