It was supposed to be a gag gift, I know that. I was retiring, and my son bought me a leather jacket for my “retirement motorcycle” which we had always joked about. I put it on at the party, and I quickly realized it was used–he’d probably bought it at the goodwill or something–he wasn’t doing the best financially, and it’s the thought that counts, right?

Well, I mean, I put it on, and wore it the whole night–it was just really comfortable, and to be honest…well…I didn’t really want to take it off. I mean, I did, at first, but before long, well…I was just kind of wearing it all the time. But it didn’t really look good with any of my clothing, so I just started cruising around second hand stores, and it was like…like the jacket knew what I should buy to wear with it, and everything I bought, fuck, I just wore it constantly. I mean, it almost hurt, physically, to take it off.

And now…fuck, now I mean…now I’ve actually got the motorcycle–a beat up Harley off Craigslist. And I’m cutting my hair and beard different–it just looks better with the jacket, you know? And sure, the cigars aren’t healthy, but they just complete the look. And…and I know, I know that I would look best at…at one of the gay leather bars downtown, I know that, I really do, it’s just…I mean, maybe I could just go and have a drink? I mean, sure, it would look great if I picked up some leather cub, and we drove off into the backcountry and fucked on the back of my bike–I bet my jacket would look real good if I was doing that…but…

Oh fuck it…I’d better just go get my helmet.

I suppose I should feel sorry for him, he is my son after all, but he’s the one who couldn’t bother to be an honest man when he grew up–no, he went the way of all those thugs at his school, dropping out, smoking cigars, getting tattoos, theft, drugs–such a disappointment. But I gave him a chance–I let him stay the night, but was sure to point out the new gold statue I’d picked up on my last business trip to China.

Sure enough, the next morning, he was gone, and so was the statue. Of course, the statue wasn’t just any statue–I’d saved a wealthy client of mine from a business scam, and as thanks, he’d given me one of his family’s treasures–a way to swap ages with someone. I mean, my Chinese is a bit poor, I’ll admit, and I had him repeat it several times to make sure, but that’s what he said. Well, I’m getting on in years, and I can make better use of his years than he will.

***

Fuck–what the fuck happened? I was this fuckin’ rich ass businessman and now I’m some fat fucking truck driver? That’s not the way that fucking statue was supposed to work! It was supposed to switch our ages, not our fucking lives. Fuck, I need a cigar–oh fuck, that’s better, mellowin’ me out. I gotta find my son, I gotta set this right. I’m gonna get that fucking statue back if I have to steal it myself.

My New Suspenders Part 2

I don’t know what happened, I just don’t know. One second, I was closing and locking the door, and then the next…the next I was back inside, but I knew time had passed, the light was different through the windows, but where had I gone?

I looked down and saw I was holding a shopping bag, but it didn’t have any food in it–apparently I’d never made it to the store. Looking inside, I saw a small wooden box, and a few pouches of some black dried plant. I thought it was tea at first, but when I smelled it I knew–it was tobacco, and in the box, a pipe.I just stared at it, and my mouth felt funny for some reason, and then I was fumbling it out of the box and hastily tamping the tobacco into the bowl, and I have just enough time to wonder what the hell I’m doing before I light it and take a deep draw of smoke…

***

Fuck! I’m shooting, and the room, the room is so smoky, and I’m at the computer, and I’m chatting with him again. I blacked out again I realize, and stand up, and see that I’m still dressed in what I was wearing, the cum soaking into my shirt, and try to pull the pipe from my mouth, but it won’t budge…and I feel something new–hair. I rush to the bathroom, and I see that I’m changing again–a thick beard has already filled in all over my face, but I still have most of my hair, thankfully.

My pants are tight at my waist, and I loosen my suspenders. My gut is growing yet again, and I know it won’t stop until I grow out of these clothes too. Panicking, I rush back to the computer, puffing a trail of smoke behind me, and see the last message is an address. I don’t want to go, but what choice do I have, really? He has me, and he knows it. I grab my coat and leave, hoping this whole situation doesn’t get much worse.

***

I find my way there, and it’s a house–nothing strange about it aside from the fact that it’s a big damn house, and I stand in the yard for a few minutes, watching it, looking for any sign of life. My clothes are tight on my body now, and the suspenders are almost at their loosest. It takes me a few minutes to realize my hand is in the pocket of my jacket, gripping a key. The house looks empty, I haven’t seen anyone in the windows, and so with a deep breath of pipe smoke (fuck I love smoking now, and it’s starting to turn me on more and more–I don’t think I can stop, even if I wanted to) and head for the door, test the key, find that it works, and step inside.

The house is indeed empty–but completely furnished. I wander through the first floor, and find a standard living room and kitchen, a dining room and den–where on one wall is a spacious rack of pipes. I go upstairs, and find a master’s bedroom with the closets full of men’s clothing. I try to adjust the suspenders again, but they’re at the very end, and I find I can at last remove all my clothes. I look at myself in a mirror on the wall–I’m fat, and hairy–so god damn hairy. I look at least forty now, and the clothes in the closet, well, they seem even older. I try to leave the bedroom, but find the door has shut behind me, and locked. I pound on it, but it doesn’t open, and I look at the closet. I know what I’m supposed to do, but I don’t want to–unfortunately, I don’t have much choice soon. My pipe is going out, and as soon as it does, I know I’m going to have to find something to smoke, and fast. What choice do I have? I start pawing though the closet, looking for something to wear.

***

To be continued: Part 3 incoming in a bit.

Truth or Dare

Alex was used to the sensation by now, the odd tugging in his mind, not exactly moving him limbs for him, but making it impossible for him to move them in any direction other than where “Dad” had told him to go. He parked his car on the street and got out, still a bit self-conscious in his leather harness and chaps, even though he’d been wearing them out of the house more and more often these days, whenever he was told to during their numerous games of “Simon Says.” How fucking twisted was that? A fucking kids game, and here he was, cigar glowing in the fading evening light, dressed up like a fucking leather fag, about to go into some dingy bar where he was going to meet his tormentor face to face for the first time.

Months–it was hard to remember when exactly it had started. It had just been a game at first, something silly to do over chat. He can’t remember exactly when he discovered that Dad’s suggestions were really compulsions–probably the first time he’d been forced to go buy a cigar and light up, mimicking Dad’s actions as closely as possible the entire time. He pushed the memory away, it was too terrifying to think about right now. He had no idea what to expect now–he’d gotten on for their usual afternoon chat, and immediately noticed that something was strange–Dad was in a different room than usual–it looked like a motel room, and he’d chatted just long enough to order Alex to get dressed in his leathers and come to this bar, smoking the whole time of course–but Alex was well addicted at this point–he smoked whether Dad told him to or not.

The bar was lightly packed on a weeknight, it was easy enough to spot Dad over at the bar, a double whisky in front of him, smoking away. Unable to help himself, Alex ordered the same thing and took the stool next to him, matching Dad’s movements perfectly, without even really needing to try. “Simon Says cut it out–” the older man said to Alex, “It’s creepy when you do it in the same room as me.”

He should run. He should hit him. He should do any number of things, he knew that, and yet he just sat there–why? Because he wanted to know–why him? Why torture him for months online and then show up here and now? He wanted him life back, more than anything, but if he ran now, he knew he’d just hunt him down, or blackmail him, or anything else he wanted to do. No, he needed to be smart about this. He needed to know why, more than anything.

“Cat got your tongue?” the man asked, “figured you’d have at least started shouting at me by now.”

“Can you just tell me why? Why do this? What the fuck does any of this do for you?”

In response, the man smiled, “I just love games, I guess–but what fun are games when there’s no real risk involved?”

“Why not just go gamble your fucking life away then like other people?”

“Because the house always wins when you gamble–and I hate losing.”

“What, so you just play games that people can’t win at? Where you’re always going to walk away the fucking winner? That just sounds like cowardice to me. You fuck up my life, make me humiliate myself, all so you can win some fucking game? What the fuck is wrong with you?” Alex said, his voice loud in the mostly quiet bar.

“Sounds like someone forgot how Simon Says works,” the man said, chickling, “You weren’t competing against me–you were competing against all the other boys I was chatting with too. That is how Simon Says works, after all. You’re the winner–congratulations. Are you sure you don’t want to know what your prize is? After all, you got off a whole lot luckier than the rest of them–trust me.”

Alex just sat there–how many other guys had he been playing with? And what had happened to them if having his life ruined and getting summoned to a leather bar was lucky? “How many–How many were there?”

“Twenty–to start with.”

“Fuck.”

“Hey, you did good, my boy–you won! Now, how about we play something else? Just you and me, father and son.”

“Don’t fucking say that, I’m not your fucking son.”

“If you say so,” the man said, taking a sip of whisky, “But you have to admit, that the resemblance at this point is rather…uncanny.”

Alex took a drink too, before replying. “So what is it now? Candyland? Monopoly? Hide and Seek?”

“Nah, how about a nice game of ‘Truth or Dare’?”

Alex shook his head, “I was close though–why all the fucking childhood games?”

“What else should a father play with his son?” the man said, smirking.

Alex sighed, “Do I have much of a choice?”

“I suppose I can’t make you play–you could and refuse,” the man said, pulling a small idol out of his pocket that was shining oddly bright in the dim bar, “But as far as this guy goes, he thinks the game is already going, and he doesn’t like letting players off the hook. I suppose you could skip all of your turns, but I still get to take all of mine. So, four rounds–eight questions in all. When we finish the game, and you can do whatever you want.”

Alex finished his drink quickly, and said, “Fine, but first, I have a question. What’s your name–your real name, none of this Dad and Daddy shit, I want to know your first name, at least.”

“It’s Harvey, but I think you’ll prefer Daddy by the time we’re done here. So, do you need me to go over the rules?”

“I think I know how to play Truth or Dare.”

Alright then–how about I go first? Truth or Dare, Boy?”

The idol on the bar glowed bright for a moment before settling back down, and Alex tried to ask if the idol was responsible for all of this, but he couldn’t get a word out at all. He realized then that the game had started–the only words he would be able to get out would be ‘Truth’ or ‘Dare’, and he didn’t really want to know what Dad would dare him to do here, so he said, “Truth.”

The idol glowed slowly, and the man smiled. “Truth, eh? Just so you know, this game is a little different–I get to say whatever I want about you, and that becomes true.”

“Wait, what?” Alex said, “That’s not how the game is played!”

“That’s how I play it,” Harvey said, “Guess you should have asked about the rules when you had the chance.”

“That’s fucked up.”

Harvey didn’t pay him any mind, and he finally replied, “Alright, here’s your truth. It’s true that you love having me control you–you love having a strong older man dominate you, bend you to his will, and have his way with you.–it’s the height of sexual excitement for you.”

The idol glowed so bright for a moment that it hurt Alex’s eyes, and he felt…different. Everything that had already happened to him had still happened, but he felt…so different about it. Now, all of the humiliation, all the sexual abuse he’d been forced to do, it had all been…thrilling. He’d wanted to come here, he’d begged him to come find him, to…control him in person, hadn’t he? His head hurt so much, but being this close to Harvey, to Dad, fuck, he was so turned on right now, even though he shouldn’t be, should he? He was trying to catch the old memories, but everything that didn’t conform to the new truth was draining down through his fingers, and by the time the figure returned to normal, it was all gone, just…lust, and excitement, and he wanted to play this game, he wanted Harvey to dominate him, he wanted to be controlled, it was going to be so hot…

“Your turn,” Harvey said, “Go on, ask me.”

Alex didn’t know what he was talking about at first, but then he remembered the game. “Are…Are you sure I can’t just skip my turn? I think I’d really rather have you dare me for a little bit,” Alex said, the flirting natural and so wrong at the the same time.

“Humor me, and play along at least,” Harvey said.

“Oh alright–Truth or Dare?”

“Dare,” Harvey said.

Alex pouted, “I don’t know what to do, I’m not really a top, but you know that already…” he said, smirking.

“Oh, be a little adventurous,” Harvey said, leaning in close, “Tell me something you’ve always wanted me to do to you, I want to hear one of my boy’s sick, twisted fantasies.”

Alex’s first thought was that he didn’t have any sick, twisted fantasies…but he did. He really did. Being bound up and fisted, licking his dad head to toe, begging for his cock, being his pup, so many things he couldn’t keep track of them all. “How in the hell do I choose,” he said.

It occurred to Alex then that he could dare him anything. He could make him leave. He could make him promise to undo all of the shit he’d done to Alex these past few months, but he no longer wanted that. They weren’t even through round one, and Harvey had already beaten him, but he knew what he wanted. “Kiss me, but don’t just kiss me, I want you to rape my mouth with your tongue, I want you to force your smoke into me, fucking dominate me with your fucking mouth,” he said, and even before he’d finished speaking, Harvey had lip locked him, one hand wrapped around the back of his head, breathing a big lungful of smoke down his throat which Alex inhaled relishing it as their tongues fought. He was too strong though, and Alex wanted him to win too badly, he could feel the older man wrestle him down, make his mouth his, he could do whatever he wanted with Alex, and he wouldn’t have cared one bit, no, he would have thanked him and asked him for more. They parted for air, Alex harder than he’d ever been in his life, and he said, “I love you,” without even thinking, and Harvey smiled.

In reply, all he said was “Truth or Dare?”

“Dare.” Alex said, not hesitating for a second. “Whatever you fucking want, I’ll do it.”

“Then get down and suck me off, right here, while I have another drink. And I want to hear you enjoy it.”

He pulled out his cock, and Alex didn’t need the idol pushing him to his knees–he was more than happy to comply. Harvey had his cock out, but before Alex swallowed it to the hilt, he asked, “Truth or Dare, Dad?”

Harvey looked surprised, but smiled and said, “Truth.”

“It’s true that you have a foot long cock, as big around as a beer can and three times as sensitive as normal, you can get hard and cum at will, and I can take it all the way to the hilt, no problem.”

“Oh what a naughty boy I’ve got here,” Harvey said, watching his cock grow under the bar. Alex swallowed it down before it finished growing, and he felt it push down his throat, but like he’d said, he had no problem swallowing the entire shaft, Harvey jerking and spasming as he sucked on him, not used to how much pleasure a simple blow job would give him from now on. It took him five minutes to relax enough and adjust so he could sip his drink at all, and he let it last, listening to Alex moan and groan in pleasure under the bar, stopping only the take a breath, draw on his cigar, exhale the smoke over Harvey’s massive cock and then keep going. The display was drawing quite a bit of attention in the small, sparsely packed bar, and quite a few men were watching the display, jacking their cocks, and wondering what they’d have to do to get some of that boy’s throat to themselves.

“Alright, I’m done, you can come up now, Son,” Harvey said.

“Do I have to?” Alex asked, kissing the head.

“Yes, get up here–we still have a game to finish after all. Now, Truth or Dare?”

“Dare,” Alex said, “And something hard this time.”

“I think my cock is plenty hard boy.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Fine, if that’s what you want,” Harvey said, and thought for a moment, before reaching into an inside pocket of his leather jacket and pulling out a leather collar and a padlock. “I dare you to take this collar, put it around your neck, padlock it closed, and then throw the key away, accepting the fact that you’re going to be my slave for the rest of your life. I usually save that one for last, but why wait? It leaves one round for us to enjoy ourselves.”

Alex shakily took the collar from Harvey, and looked at it, a bit teary eyed–but not from fear…he was…happy. “You…you mean it? You want to keep me?”

“I do,” Harvey said, “I want to keep you forever, son.”

“Dad…” Alex said, but he didn’t have the words. He just took the collar, buckled it around his neck without a word, padlocked it closed, and handed the key to a passing bartender, “Could you throw this away please? I won’t be needing it.”

The man just looked at the two of them for a moment, wondering if he should try to intervene, but figured he’d rather get a big tip than get yelled at by some dom. He took the key, but didn’t throw it away–keeping it by the register, in case the lovestruck sub changed his mind, like they usually did.

“So, Truth or Dare, sir?” Alex asked.

“Dare.”

“Alright. I dare you to leash me up, and take me around the whole bar on my hands and knees. I want you to introduce me as your son who you’ve enslaved, and offer all of the men here an opportunity to use me however they’d like.”

“You’re such a fucking slut.”

“You’re the one who made me that way–enjoy it, sir.”

Alex got down on his hands and knees, and Harvey pulled out a leash he hadn’t brought with him, hooked it to the collar and started parading him around the bar, introducing Alex as he’d been dared to, and nearly every man took him up on the offer. Usually they just wanted blow jobs, but a few men fucked Alex’s ass, and he loved it. Loved being a slave, loved being owned by his Dad, loved serving men, being controlled, the sensation of the leash tugging at his neck, of the rough leather collar he knew he would never take off. It took over two hours for them to go around to everyone, and Alex loved every minute of it, and looking up at his Dad, he could see that the older man approved as well.

They made their way back to the bar, and as they did, Harvey asked, “So son, I suppose this is the last round–Truth or Dare?”

“Truth,” Alex said, “As hot as that was, I don’t think I can handle another round of that.”

“Ha, oh really? Well, it’s true that you have a massive libido which can never be satisfied, that you’re a total sexually obsessed pig covered with explicit, degrading tattoos that you show off to the whole world at every chance you get, and that you can’t say no to anyone, so long as they’ll give you the rough, abusive treatment you crave more than anything else in the world, especially from me.”

It hurt, the tattoos as they spread across his body like fire, but it was over in a second, or at least, most of the burning. His ass, his cock–he needed sex, he needed it so bad. “Fuck dad, you know I didn’t mean that right?” he said, nearly panting with lust, “Let’s go again, I didn’t get fucked nearly enough, fucking make them plow me Dad, I need my hole so loose that it won’t close, come on, please, sir? Please?” he begged.

Harvey looked down at his boy, tattoos of cocks and foul language covering most of his body, the lust filling up his nearly empty eyes, and it was everything he’d ever wanted in a boy. “Sure thing son, but you still have one last question. Ask me, and then we’ll get you what you need.”

Alex looked visibly frustrated, but asked the question, “Truth or Dare, sir?”

“Truth.”

Alex grinned crudely, “Truth eh? Alright. It’s true that you’re my real dad, from your own loins, a hyper-masculine beast of a man, a true alpha, who devotes his whole life to working out, fucking his son whom he’s trained as his sex slave since he was a teenager, a man rough and aggressive, who loves inflicting pain and abuse on anyone inferior to him, who refuses to take no for an answer and will do anything to get his way.”

Harvey had just enough time to widen his eyes in surprise before the idol gave a final flash, and then he noticed that the floor was a bit further away than it had been a second earlier…and that he definitely wasn’t the same man he’d been. He was close to seven feet tall, and must have weighed close to 300 pounds of mostly muscle. He was covered with fur, and had a two inch beard on his face which had grown in the span of a single day, like always. He had nearly as many tattoos as his son–yes, his son. He loved his son, he loved fucking the pig, working out with him–he was shorter than his dad, but had almost as much muscle, a thick bull pig looking up at him with all the love and adoration he deserved, and before he really knew what he was doing, he had his cock out and was fucking him right there in the middle of the bar, roaring out abuse, Alex begging him to be rougher and harder, the rest of the bar silently watching the spectacle unfolding before them.

The one person who moved was the bartender, who took the key he’d been given and threw it in the trash. The boy was right–he wouldn’t be needing that ever again, and then he saw the idol, now dull and boring, sitting on the bar. He pocketed it, and left before anyone could see him. He’d been hoping for a good tip–and if he was right about what he could almost remember happening, this little thing was the best tip he could get.

Mirror, Mirror

Commissioned by Anonymous

As soon as he heard the car pull out of the garage, the door lowering behind Howard as he drove off, Drew hurried upstairs. He’d been planning this for about a week now, but hadn’t had the perfect opportunity, but now Howard was out all afternoon, giving Drew plenty of time to work. He’d just graduated from college and was living at home with his parents, his job prospects grim. Drew had been hard pressed to find a job even for just the summer, when Howard, a neighbor, had offered him some cash if he helped him out around the house. Drew hadn’t been very happy about it–Howard had always kind of creeped him out, this old, fat, pipe smoking man who seemed to never take his eyes off him, but he paid him fourteen bucks an hour under the table, and so Drew had taken the job–and then he’d learned about the safe.

Howard, it seemed, was a bit paranoid when it came to his money. He didn’t trust it to a bank–instead, he had a massive safe in his study, which Drew saw every Friday when the older man pulled out a massive wad of twenties and gave him his wages. Inside, he saw piles and piles of bills–more money than Howard would probably ever be able to spend, and if Drew could slip away with just a bit of it, he’d be out of debt and living comfortably states away before Howard even knew it was missing. But there was a problem–the safe could only be opened with Howard’s voice and thumbprint, and Drew had no idea how to get around that little problem.

He might have never noticed it, if Howard hadn’t spilled the coffee on his shirt that day–the older man had been so embarrassed, he’d urged Drew to give him his shirt so he could wash it quickly before the stain set in the fabric, and gave him a different one to wear for the time being, before asking Drew to carry some junk up to the attic for him. He’d noticed the elaborately framed mirror leaning against the wall, but as soon as he walked past, something strange happened–the new shirt, which had been rather loose on him, suddenly felt tighter, and in the mirror, Drew gasped. He’d gotten fat, somehow. He’d grown a gut and two small moobs, big enough to fill out the shirt he was wearing, and worse, when he pulled the shirt off, his body didn’t change back.

Sure, he’d panicked at first, but he reasoned that it must have something to do with who had previously owned the shirt, since he’d grown to fit it so perfectly, and he’d snuck downstairs, gotten his own shirt from the washer, and back in front of the mirror in the attic, his own shirt thankfully restored his old body, good as new. Still, that little surreal experience had set the wheels in his head turning, and now he knew just what to do to get his hands on Howard’s piles of cash.

He threw Howard’s suit up into the attic and followed up after it, picking up the various pieces. He probably didn’t need to wear all of it, but he wasn’t sure if a few pieces would change him enough to get into the safe. It would be better to just wear it all, it order to get as complete a transformation as possible, even if the thought of becoming Howard was disgusting. Still, there was no other feasible solution, so he pulled on the massive pants and button down shirt, put on the jacket, swimming in the piles of fabric, slipped into some shoes and lastly pulled on the gloves and glasses he’d taken from among Howard’s spares, before stepping in front of the mirror.

He looked ridiculous–the clothes were hanging off his much smaller frame, and if it wasn’t for the suspenders attached to the pants, he didn’t think he would have been able to even hold them up effectively. Hell, he couldn’t even get a good look at himself through the glasses he was wearing–Howard must not be able to see anything without them, but suddenly, he felt his head ache for a moment, and he could see perfectly clearly through the lenses–though as soon as it happened, he wished that he couldn’t. Like it or not, his plan was definitely working. He could feel his body beginning to shift and grow outward, his lithe, muscular body growing older, pounds and pounds of fat packing their way under his skin. In a matter of seconds, he could stop holding onto the clothes to keep them in place, because his body was fitting them better and better. His young face started taking on the craggy wrinkles which covered Howard’s face, his eyes turned hazel, hair sucking its way back into his head leaving him with his boss’s nearly white horseshoe, and then he felt the changes halt, and he was staring right into Howard’s face.

“Well, that certainly worked perfectly,” Drew said, then covered his mouth with one gloved hand, “Oh my goodness, I sound just like him.”

He did sound just like him–but not just his voice–’Oh my goodness?’ Who even said that anymore? Well, he’d heard Howard say it a couple of times when Drew probably would have cussed, but he just passed it off on Howard being an old fogey. He ran his hands along Howard’s full, bloated stomach, eyes locked on his own in the mirror, and found himself missing his youth all the more–his flat stomach, his pert ass–oh yes, damn if he hadn’t had the nicest ass on the block, he could just imagine what it might be like to fuck, provided he could get hard enough to pop the young boy’s cherry, though he’d be more than willing to simply have the chance to suck the boy’s big cock dry.

Drew shook his head, realizing that he’d just been lost in thought, lusting over himself, and he realized that apparently the mirror was changing more than just his physical appearance, but also his mind–and he stepped away before he could lose more of himself. Thinking, he was happy to find that none of his memories had disappeared–just that he was acting more…Howard like, which was disgusting. His old hands were shaking now, and he felt a strange knot of anxiety in his chest that simply wouldn’t go away. He patted the pockets of his suit, trying to figure out what was missing, when he realized he didn’t have a pipe! God, did he need a smoke. As disgusting as that was, the habit was just too strong to resist, not to mention his new body’s overwhelming tobacco addiction. He’d just pop down to the humidor where Howard kept his tobacco, and take a bowl to smoke, before emptying the safe, changing back, and getting out of here. Careful to avoid looking in the mirror, he stashed his clothing and carefully climbed back down the ladder into the house proper.

He had another fight with himself over smoking the pipe, which he eventually lost. It was the one thing he’d always found the most disgusting about Howard, the stink of tobacco which clung to the entire house, and he rarely seen the old man without a smokestack clamped between his teeth. Still, this body craved it, and before long, he was letting Howard’s hands guide him, as he tamped and lit a moderately sized pipe and took a deep breath into his lungs, and he hated how good it felt to smoke. Still, with a pipe in his mouth, he could finally focus on what actually mattered here–the money. He crept through the house, which was silly, since he knew Howard had left, but in the study, the nerves in his belly nearly made him sick, but it was flawless, the safe happily accepting his elderly thumb and gravelly voice as Howard’s own. However, it was after that when everything went wrong.

He swung open the safe and saw it was empty–the stacks of cash were gone–all of them. Had Howard found out about his plan? How could he have–there was no way…and then he realized he’d been played. How had he discovered the mirror? Howard. Who had given him the perfect opportunity to use it? Howard. “Oh fudge!” he shouted, and hurried as fast as Howard’s body could waddle, making his way back up to the attic but it was too late. His old body–his hot, slender body–was right there, dressed in his clothes, gazing into the mirror, grinning away.

“No! Give me back my clothes!” Drew wheezed, and gave a hacking cough. He’d lost the pipe somewhere along the way, but the old body he was stuck in just couldn’t keep up.

“Oh? So you checked the safe already? I assume you didn’t find what you were looking for? Well, don’t worry, ‘Howard’, I already stashed it away, and it’ll certainly go towards paying off that college debt of yours, and quite the nice life afterwards, I’m sure.”

“I’m not Howard! Give me back my clothes, you–” Drew said, and lurched towards his old body, who shoved him back onto the floor, and then he picked up a hammer and lifted it up, ready to smash the mirror to bits. “No!” Drew shouted, “No, please–don’t, I can’t stay like this, I can’t, please!”

Howard smirked, “Well, then how about this? I won’t smash your precious mirror, if you wrap those fat, faggot lips around my cock and suck me off, eh Howard? I know how often you used to fantasize about me, my hot body,” Howard said, lifting up Drew’s shirt, and listening to the soft groan the old man let off uncontrollably, “Of course, I’m straight now, but I wouldn’t mind seeing you suck me off, you disgusting fat fuck. Better hurry though, I don’t know how much longer I can resist swinging this hammer…”

Drew lurched up onto his knees and crawled over, yanking down his old shorts and taking his cock into his mouth, finding this body well practiced at giving blowjobs, much to his own disgust. Just like smoking the pipe, he was even more disturbed to discover that he liked it–the taste and feel of a young, rock hard cock slamming down his throat was just thrilling. Drew realized then that he was still in front of the mirror, ingraining Howard’s habits and proclivities deeper into his own psyche, and he started sucking harder, before he was forced to act entirely like Howard from now on, trapped in this old body forever.

Howard only lasted a minute, before shooting his load into Drew’s old mouth, who quickly backed off to the side, away from the mirror, and Howard dropped the hammer to the ground and dashed off laughing, driving off with Howard’s piles of cash, and leaving Drew alone in the attic. Still, he had the mirror–it was intact. All he had to do was get some of his clothes from his house, and he could change back. Of course, he had no idea how he would be able to get them–hell, Howard was probably over there already, his perfect copy–no, he had to figure out something else.

He sat up in the attic for close to half an hour, wishing he had a pipe, but refusing to give into the desire, trying to figure out a plan. However, his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone pounding on the front door, and a shouting, thickly accented voice, “Howard, we know you’re in there! Give us the money Howard, or you aren’t going to like what happens next, or where your body is going to turn up! Fear gripped his gut–who in the hell was that? The pounding resumed, and a moment after, he heard a boot slam into the door, breaking the lock, as a group of men charged into the house, and he hid in the only place he could think–behind the mirror.

It took them close to an hour before they reached the attic, and they hauled him out from behind the mirror. The men were mostly middle aged, and from the look of their faces–Russian. “Look, I’m not Howard, please, you have to believe me!” Drew said, terrified when he saw that several of them were wielding bats, the ringleader leveling a gun at his head.

“Where the fuck is the money, you fat old faggot? The safe’s empty–what did you fucking do with our money?”

“He took it! Howard took my body, and he took your money! It was the mirror, this fucking mirror!” Drew said, and he started sobbing on the ground, the mafia looking from the broken old man to the large ornate mirror in front of them, quizzically.

No one is entirely sure what happened to Howard after that–when he’d been found missing the next day, and the house ransacked, the police assumed it was a home burglary turned murderous, though his body never turned up. Oddly enough, other than the empty safe, nothing was taken, aside from something in the attic, something large and wide, which had been propped up against the wall, something like a very large mirror.

Heading downstairs to make breakfast before work, you smell smoke coming from the kitchen. Panicking, you rush in to see if something is on fire, and stop dead in your tracks–there, sitting on the counter in nothing more than a jockstrap, is a hairy man smoking a cigar, belching massive amounts of smoke into the room.

You try and ask him what he’s doing there, but the smoke is making you light headed, and you realize that his plumes are…seeking you out. Crossing the room and drilling themselves down into your lungs, and the smoke is so hot, it burns, and it’s only getting worse.

The stranger stands up and walks over to you, “Submit to the smoke dad, just give in, or it’ll kill you.”

Dad? This hairy, roughneck is your son? The heat is only getting worse, and you realize then that it’s because you’re refusing to exhale. If you keep it in, you know it’ll burn you alive, and so you breathe out, and too late realize that with the breath has gone your will, and maybe even your soul.

Eyes empty, your son places a second cigar in your mouth, and it lights up immediately. You suck in the smoke, eager for anything to fill the void you’ve exhaled, your body slowly changing as you grind your face into your son’s crotch, one more slave to the demonic humidor your son discovered at a curio shop the day before.

When I told my dad to “Man up,” during an argument we had a while back, I hadn’t expected the universe to take my insult quite so literally. Every day after that though, there was some small change to him, at first nearly imperceptible, but now…well, things are getting extreme–the smoking, the southern accent, the pickup truck.

Worse, I…I think it’s rubbing off on me. My clothes changed along with his a few weeks ago, my Hollister and A&F replaced by flannel, second hand jeans and muddy work boots. I’ve picked up his accent, and when he started smoking cigars, well, I got pulled into that habit too. I’ve tried to tell him what’s happening, but it’s like he doesn’t even notice it. Still we’ve been fighting a lot less, and we’ve become a lot closer, but that’s worrying me too.

I don’t know what changed today, but he keeps…looking at me in the strangest way. Mom disappeared a few days ago, leaving us alone, but that stare…makes my cock jump, and I…I want him, and…I want him to want me too, how fucked up is that? And I’m worried that when he gets home from the construction site tonight, and after we’ve had a few beers and cigars on the couch, he’s going to want my ass…and I don’t think I’m going to be able to say no.

“Alright, I have more cookies for you!” your friend said from the kitchen.

“What? More? But I can’t…” you say, but he’s already out in the living room and setting the tray piled high with snickerdoodles down next to you, and they smell so divine. You have one in your mouth before you can stop yourself.

“I’ll get you some more milk too, just a second,” he says, and disappears back into the kitchen. Ten cookies are gone before he comes back with a tall pitcher–you just can’t stop yourself. This has been going on for a few hours now–him baking these amazing cookies, you eating them with an apparently bottomless supply of milk. He leaves, and alone again, you notice something in the TV playing some Christmas movie–a strange reflection in the screen. You reach for the remote and turn it off–and get a better look in the black screen.

“Ho Ho Holy shit!” You exclaim. That isn’t you there on the couch, that’s some fat old man with a giant white beard.

Your friend runs back in from the kitchen, “You weren’t supposed to notice yet!”

“What in the hell did you do to me?” you shout, looking down at your clothing stretched tight across your fat frame, but your friend has already grabbed something from a side table–a pipe, ready packed with tobacco, and he shoves it in your mouth and lights it. You inhale, the cinnamon and clove laced tobacco making your face numb…and you feel…really good, all of a sudden.

“Here, let’s get you out of those clothes–they’re too tight.”

You let your friend undress you, and you stare down in disbelief at your new body. The tobacco is going right to your head, and it feels so good to smoke your pipe and rub your hairy belly with your hands…

“Now go sit down, finish your cookies and milk, and smoke your pipe, Santa.”

“Ho Ho Hokay…” you say, and plop back down on the couch.

Your friend works in the kitchen for a bit and comes out to find the pile gone, the pitcher empty, and your pipe finished. He cleans, refills and lights it for you, then gives you a deep kiss, and you wrap your flabby arms around him and pull him into your lap.

“So tell me, have you been a good boy this year?” you say with a lecherous grin.

“Oh yes Santa, I’ve been very good all year, just for you.”

“Well in that case, Santa has a special sack for you. Why don’t you suck on it for a bit?”

Your friend gets down between your legs, and sucks on your big balls, your dick pressed against his face, smearing precum across his forehead. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good fucking tonight, you think, and ram your candy cane down his throat.

You meet some of the craziest guys at the public golf courses–You’d rather play at the private clubs, but you can’t afford the membership fees–so you’re stuck playing a round with a fucking redneck. He comes over to you, smoking a cigar, well over 300 pounds, dressed in a sleeveless shirt and khaki shorts, and all you can do is make the best of it.

He suggests upping the stakes, and letting the winner of each hole take something from the loser. You don’t really know what he means, but you accept, knowing you’ll be able to outplay this fat redneck any day of the week.

Well, you thought you could. He birdies the first hole to your double bogey, and you ask what you owe him, pulling out your wallet, but he just grins. “I don’t want your money–yet,” he said, “First things first, I want that slim figure of yours, pretty boy.”

Great, a real nutter, you think, but something is glowing–an amulet he’s wearing, and a second later, you feel different. Looking down, you’re stunned to find that you’ve somehow gained close to two hundred pounds–all of the weight the fat redneck just dropped off his body.

“Come on, fatty–we got seventeen more holes to play.”

Unaccustomed to your fat body, you lose round after round to this crazy redneck, who starts dismantling your life. By the end of the front nine, you’ve lost your expensive clothes, your house, your car, your marriage, four inches off your cock, your college education, and six inches of your height.

There’s no hope left for you, really. On the back nine he strips you of your ambition, your heterosexuality, your dominance, your full head of hair, fifty points off your IQ, your virility, and your job. With two holes left, you’re little more than a fat, dithering idiot, hacking at the ball as best you can–and that’s when he starts mocking you, barely hitting the ball further than you on purpose. To your surprise, he lets you win, but when he asks you want you want…you’re stumped. You’re so dull witted now that you can’t even remember what he took, and then he starts talking about his cigar, about how nice it is being a smoker, how he’d hate to give that up more than anything, you bite, and steal away his nicotine addiction.

Before the eighteenth hole the two of you nip off to the woods for a moment–you’re ravenous for a cock. In return, he lets you win the final hole as well. He suggests you take his skill at golf, but in that thick head of yours, a dim bulb still glows.

“Nuh-uh,” you slur, “Gimme yer amulet–that’s wha I want.”

Surprised, but not really minding, he hands it over to you and walks off without another word. Sure, you don’t know how to use it, but maybe you can figure it out, and steal someone else’s life before too long.

Andy at the Roadhouse Part 1 (Interactive Story)

Sorry, no extra pics on this one–so you’re just going to have to have to use your imaginations, lazy bums! However, in exchange, how about you all help me finish it. I have too many ideas, so read it, pick the ending you want to see, and send me a message or reply telling me your vote.

*****

Andy saw the flicker of neon up ahead, and sped up a little, eager to get off the road for the night. A cross country trip on the backroads of America had sounded like a good idea when he was plotting the course, but after getting lost countless times, running out of gas twice, and quite a few run-ins with some of the unsavory characters of the backcountry, he was beginning to think this might have been a misjudgement. The sign belonged to a roadhouse, apparently a small restaurant and bar with a tiny motel tucked in behind it–and wouldn’t you know, it actually looked pretty clean compared to some of the places he’d bunked up in recently, even if that wasn’t saying much. Still, he was starved, hadn’t slept in a bed in over a day, and his grumbling stomach was willing to tolerate pretty much anything at this point.

He pulled into the gravel parking lot, sliding his station wagon in between two hulking, rusted pickup trucks and with a nervous look around, he walked up onto the porch and into the restaurant. The place was busy enough that only a few people near the door noticed him come in–and the glares from those who did were something he’d started getting used to, although these, almost seemed more interested and curious about him than angry or suspicious, which was a relief. Looking around, the place looked like it had missed a few decades of renovations, the floor covered in sawdust with a creaking and lopsided jukebox pumping out country classics of the 60’s and 70’s. The clientele, he saw, was entirely men, which while not all that odd, was still a bit surprising–otherwise, it looked like the general crew of roughnecks, truckers and bikers places like this tended to collect. However, the cloud of smoke in the room was unusually thick–nearly everyone had a cigarette, cigar or pipe in their mouth. Andy used to smoke, but had quit a few years ago at the urging of a now ex-girlfriend. The smell of it was a sudden reminder of how good smoking had felt, but he pushed that thought away and worked his way deeper into the room.

Working his best mosey, he made his way through the crowd and up to the bar, catching the attention of the bartender–a burly man with a beard several feet long wearing jeans and a leather vest, showing off his tattooed arms and chest. Still, the man was nice enough, and Andy quickly learned that Ed was the owner, bartender, cook and innkeeper of the entire establishment. He seemed very pleased to have someone from out of town, which surprised Andy a bit–he was more used to being shunned than welcomed–and Ed gave him a beer on the house while he waited for his food from the kitchen. Ed winked as he handed the young man the bottle, telling him his homebrew was famous around the parts, and Andy, doubting the man’s statement, took it to be kind. Still, what was the harm in a drink? It wasn’t like he was going to be driving any more tonight. He took a sip of the beer and found it to be strong and quite bitter, but drinkable, and took a seat along the wall where he hoped he wouldn’t be stared at too much, and now that he’d been noticed, they were all staring when they thought he wasn’t looking at them. A few of the gazes started making him feel like they were inspecting and sizing him up–it was unnerving, and he downed the beer quickly in defense.

Moments after he finished his first brew, a second one came unbidden, brought by a slender boy who couldn’t have been close to twenty one from behind the bar–and who had strange idea of fashion. His shoulder length, wavy hair was dyed a deep green, which actually looked surprisingly good on him, though Andy was certain he himself could never have pulled the look off. He was also wearing a green tank top and some green gym shorts with green sneakers, to keep the color theme going. He set down the beer with a coy grin, looked Andy over while he puffed on his cigarette, but before Andy could even thank him, he bounded off laughing, ecstatic for some reason.

Looking about the bar, Andy saw that there were a few other colorful characters scattered around the room. The first one he spotted was a short but well built man with a flattop dyed pitch black, with a perfectly trimmed short boxed beard and clad in a leather harness, shorts and boots with a thick collar cinched tight around his neck. Near him was a massively obese man wearing nothing other than some peachy latex shorts stretched around his massive thighs, with a shaved head and a strawberry blonde goatee around his mouth. He also saw a filthy looking man with a magenta colored mohawk, wearing an identically colored tank top showing off his raunchy, amazingly hairy pits for everyone to see. Like everyone else, they were all smoking cigars and cigarettes, and looking at all these freaks, he was starting to feel creeped out, but the beer was making him feel pretty mellow, and he was still really hungry. If anything, the brews were increasing his hunger–and his thoughts of smoking. He hadn’t smoked in so long, and the thick second hand smoke was intoxicating all on its own. When the same man delivered a third beer, Andy worked up the screwed up his nerve and asked, “Hey, do you…could I bum a cigarette off you? I–I quit years ago, but all this smoke…” he trailed off, feeling silly suddenly.

“Well sure, I got a smoke, but it’ll cost ya,” the green boy said with a smirk, pulling a cigarette and lighter the pocket of his shorts.

“I got cash, how much do you want?”

“Oh I don’t want cash,” he said, coming closer and invading Andy’s space a bit, “I want a kiss, before these beers of Ed’s hit you too hard. How about it? As a bit of a farewell?”

Andy started to protest, but the boy lit the cigarette, took an inhale, and before Andy could duck away, locked lips with him and exhaled the smoke deep into Andy’s lungs. What sort of place had he wandered into? As these thoughts crossed his mind, Andy realized he had started kissing the boy back, and was actually enjoying it–and the room around them had grown quiet.

“Danny Boy! Stop harassing him, god damn it!” Andy heard Ed shout, and the green boy broke off the kiss and scurried off, but not before sticking the lit cigarette between Andy’s lips.

“Sorry about that,” Ed said, coming over with a plate laden with food, “He a bit anxious tonight. Here’s your dinner buddy, on the house after that incident.”

“Look, thanks, but I think I’d better go,” Andy said and started to get up, but Ed pushed him back down onto the stool.

“Nope, yer gonna eat, and stay, and drink, and have a good time,” Ed said, the sudden force behind his words stunning Andy a bit, and he tentatively picked up the greasy burger and started chowing down. “That’s a good man, enjoy!” Ed said, and returned back behind the bar. He set the cigarette down on an ashtray, taking the occasional puff between bites, and when he finished, Ed swooped out and took the plate away, leaving Andy with a full belly, a new beer, and his cigarette, which appeared suspiciously unsmoked. Andy was starting to feel a bit bloated, and he undid his belt before starting on his fourth…or was it fifth, brew. He certainly had quite the buzz going, and it felt like as soon as he finished one beer another was in his hand before he could even think about it, and it was getting hard to focus on the room around him.

However, while Andy was losing focus, the rest of the room grew quieter and quieter as their attention shifted over to Andy. They had already noticed small changes–Andy’s burgeoning gut, the sideburns creeping down and growing thicker, the thick layer of hair being revealed as Andy’s tight, white tank was pushed up bit by bit. The cigarette in Andy’s hand grew and darkened with every inhale, soon shifting into a short, thick cigar which he seemed perfectly at ease with, not even noticing the change. However, what the room was waiting for with baited breath was the color–what would the color be?

All the full members of the roadhouse had already cast their votes soon after Andy had arrived, and they knew Ed was busy in the back tallying up the votes. He would emerge soon, and then they would know what their newest whore’s specialty would be. Some were sad to see Danny Boy go–especially the older men who were irresistible to him, but they all had to retire eventually. Besides, there would be new adventures, but what was this man’s color to be?

*****

I don’t know, how about you tell me? It’s an interactive story, celebrating 50 followers! Go ahead and send me a reply or message with the color you want to see. Here’s your three options: Red, Grey, or Yellow.

If you don’t know what these colors might mean for Andy, then maybe go here: http://user.xmission.com/~trevin/hanky.html

Give me your answer by Thursday afternoon to make sure you get counted, and thanks to you all for the follows, likes and reblogs, they’re much appreciated!