Curse of the Homophobe (Part 8)

Well, it was close, but the frat won out by a few votes thanks to the Patreon poll.

Evan thought about changing back. He even started to, for a moment, but something else welled up in him, something he could only describe as a great exhaustion. So he’d turn back, and then what? He’d be back to his old self, more or less, with a third whore obsessed with him, and sure, he might be straight acting enough that he could get away without another slur, but the curse would always drag him back, somehow. He could feel it. And then he’d be back in some new nightmare–but what if he didn’t go back? What if he just said screw it, and…and just gave in?

He couldn’t believe he was actually contemplating it. Giving up. Living…like this. The spirit lingered around him, a fog on his mind, coaxing him along, seeing if he would do it. He didn’t want to be this though. He didn’t want to be this person. He could tell, somehow, that he would only inflict more pain on others like this, other guys on the team, other guys at the college. How was this better? How was he solving anything by simply taking Jerry’s place as the asshole in charge? There had to be something he could do. He couldn’t let this thing win.

He didn’t know where the idea came from, if it was his, or if the spirit whispered it into his mind. It was a terrible idea. A nightmarish idea…but he couldn’t ignore the simple brutality of it–but would it even work? No, there was no way it would work. Hand shaking, he poured himself more scotch, but his mind wouldn’t let the idea go. It was the only way–the only way he could make sure he didn’t hurt anyone else ever again–that this curse would end here for good. He drank more scotch, enough to dull himself, trying to bury himself back under the coach, mack under the homophobe, but he was terrified, all the same. Unable to contemplate it anymore, he decided he simply had to do it–he threw on a coat, and slipped out into the night, making his way towards the campus.

It was a Friday night, and the parties were still going strong. Evan made his way to Delta Kappa Alpha, widely considered the jock frat, and the most homophobic one on campus–one which had, on a few occasions, sent kids to the hospital, not that any of the jocks had ever faced punishment for it. It made him angry, which was good. He was going to need lots and lots of anger for what was coming next. He went inside, and began insulting every member of the frat he could find.

He started simple–turning them into faggots, the women in the house all disappearing one by one as the young men lost interest in them, and became far more interested in each other–and in Evan. But he didn’t make them weak. He didn’t fuck them. They needed to be strong. They needed to be brutes. He made them thugs and skinheads. Brutal biker tops and leather queens. All of them addicted to sex, the rougher and meaner the better. Sadists, rapists, abusers–he hurled out everything he could think of, until one of them had had enough, slammed Evan into the wall, and started fucking his hole raw. He demanded more. He wanted them to make it hurt. He wanted them to show him what they did to homophobic assholes like him.

Part of him was horrified and disgusted by what was happening to him, but another part of him was enjoying it. That new part urged them on, told them to use him as their urinal and cum dump, told them that they didn’t see him as a person at all, but as a gimp, a pig, a slave, an object, a whore. He said it over and over again, he said it so much he found himself believing it, as the gang dragged him down into the basement of the now condemned building they used as their hangout, where they brought the homophobes they bashed on the street to be reeducated and repurposed.

They beat him. They fisted him. They shaved him bald, and then stripped the rest of his hair off too. Pissed on him, made him clean out their holes, made him beg for their cocks, and he tried to squeeze that last little homophobic part of him out, but it remained, burning at the core of him, horrified at what he was doing, but it was too late to turn back now. He was marked. Tattooed all over his body, pierced everywhere as well. He’d lived down here for months, if not a year, brutalized by these men–and he’d grown to enjoy it. Relish it. Beg for it–because he deserved it. He deserved it for all the times he’d been cruel, and bashed queers with his friends. He deserved all of it, and would deserve it for the rest of his life too.

Dawn came, and the gang grew tired, slipping away to their homes, another enjoyable night spent working over one of their favorite straight slaves. They locked him back in his cage, and Evan shivered, exhausted–there was a kernel of himself still, deep inside, but it was so small…he was scared now. Terrified of what he’d done to himself. He grasped for it, tried to rekindle it. He didn’t want to stay here–even if he had started to believe he might deserve it. (Success Check–success! The story goes on for the moment!)

It took most of the day, down in that basement, to remember himself. To crawl back out of this, to remember who he’d been–or at least pieces of it. Everything was so…jumbled up. High school, college, middle age. Had he been a jock? A coach? Working in construction or on a farm? He didn’t know how to piece it back together, but he had to. He had to be something else, if he was going to get out of here in one piece.


Evan is starting to lose track of his identity, and of his sanity. What sort of gay reality is he going to revert to in the aftermath of this?

  1. Fat, slobby, cigar smoking construction worker.
  2. Closeted, burly, college football coach.
  3. Young, grungy, muscled redneck farm boy.
  4. A muscled abusive leatherman who belongs to the gay gang here.

Here’s the twitter poll

Here’s the Patreon poll

Voting ends on Sunday!

My Town (Part 6)

My other hand grabbed him by the jaw, three leather fingers finding their way into his mouth, forcing it open, running over his teeth, sloppy with his spit. They…wanted him. They wanted him bad, at least as badly as I did, as I always had. Without even noticing it, one glove had opened the fly of my jeans, hauled out my now larger cock, and was giving it a few strokes–and I felt it growing even larger now, nearly eight inches. “What do you think bro? Think your little brother is man enough for you?”

I didn’t give him a chance to answer, and plunged my cock into his mouth, forcing it down his throat, listening to his gag and moan, my gloves tugging at his clothes, ripping at them, hungry for the skin underneath. They knew what I wanted him to be–they knew what he deserved. My brother thought that strength was everything–that if he was bigger than everyone else, that meant that he got to be in charge. Well I was going to show him that size isn’t everything–that just because you’re the most massive, most brutish looking fucker in a room, doesn’t mean shit when I can get my gloves on you.

Both of my hands sweep across his back, and I watch it explode with muscle, his shoulders, neck and delts all swelling in size. He barely notices–his focus is entirely on my cock–right where it should be. From there, my gloves grope his chest, feeling his pecs grow thick and meaty, the nipples like bolts jutting from them. Hands on his arms, and his biceps, triceps–even his forearms swell, his hands doubling in size, easily large, and strong enough, to palm a watermelon. The hair comes next, a thick pelt forming all over his body, but most heavily on his shoulders, arms, back and chest, like a proper brute should have, in my opinion. I shove him over so he falls onto his back, straddle his wide chest, and kiss him, shoving smoke into his mouth, feeding it to him, and push my cigar in there once I’m done–he starts chuffing away at it, like a good little pig. “Alright big boy, bend over. Let me see how that ass is.”

Without even thinking to question it, he struts over to the bed–which is quite a sight, really, given how top heavy he’s become in the last few minutes. He manages to keep himself upright, however, and bends over, my gloves diving right for his ass, swelling both cheeks into thick globes, then down onto his thighs and calves, swelling them larger, the bones thickening and growing longer, pushing him up to a new height of nearly seven feet tall. Then, his feet–rubbing them both until they’re well over size twenty…and then I can’t resist it anymore. I dive in, licking at his ass for a minute, listening to him groan and open up slightly, and then slam my cock in, nice and rough.

While I fuck him, the gloves turn their attention to me–swelling me up in the same fashion as my brother, though not nearly as large. I can see myself aging again as well–a bit more white a grey sprinkled in my chest hair and beard…but I don’t care, and I light myself a second cigar, since my brother is well occupied with my first one. I’m a smoking hot daddy bear at this point, and this muscle pig of a brother is moaning and begging for me to fuck him harder, and harder…but I have one more thing before I cum. I roll him over, throw his legs up in the air, and keep fucking him–but I can see his cock now as well. It was always quite large–one of his best qualities, really. But now, at his new size, it actually looks quite small–but not nearly small enough. I grip it in one gloved hand–both cock and balls, and I squeeze, feeling them contract and shrink as I apply more and more pressure, until there’s barely any left of either–just an inch long micro cock, buried in the massive forest of my brother’s pubic bush, and a tiny, tight sack with two balls smaller than grapes. Looking at him, at this massive fucker with a miniscule cock, moaning for me to fuck him harder, and deeper around my thick cigar–it’s too much. I explode, deep inside him with a shout, but keep fucking until I fall out soft. It’s done, mostly. The physical side, at least. His head is mostly still there–I want him to see what I made him, before I turn him into the man he’s going to be from now on.

He keeps sucking down smoke, and finally sits up, staring down at himself, his hairy body, and his missing cock–he stares at me blankly until he finally puts everything together, and his eyes go wide in terror. “You…Bro, what the fuck…what the fuckin’ hell did you fuckin’ do to me?”

I smile at him, and light a second cigar for myself. “Trust me Kyle, it’s going to be so much better this way, for us both.”

“But I’m…I’m fuckin’ huge, bro! I…and I can’t…fuck, I…I’m so fuckin; horny bro, I’m so…” His hand doesn’t go to his cock, though–it goes to his ass, two fingers sliding inside himself while he groans, eyes wide, trying to understand why he just did that, and why he wants to keep doing it, and hell, if my cock isn’t twitching already, hungry and desperate for another round with him. “I…Fuck, I wanna get fucked again bro, ya turned me into a fuckin’ faggot!” He pulled his hand free, and I could see how much it pained him–he wanted it in there, he needed something in there. His eyes were narrowing–I could see the gears turning, as he went back to his anger, the shock and horror beginning to fade. He knew how big he was–and even if I was larger too, he knew he was still bigger than I was. And if he was bigger than me, then he could take me–or so he thought.

Every Pig in His Place (2 of 2)

My personal life started to suffer. I couldn’t get any work done, normal clothes no longer felt normal. Friends who had known me for years couldn’t even recognize me, passing them in the street. I wasn’t even sure I knew who I was anymore. Membership in our little club swelled and diminished over the weeks, and I found myself in a new role–now I was the person looking for a place there, now I was the one looking to stay, and these new men joining us, thinking they could just fly forever. Now I was the one smiling at them, knowing how fucking wrong they were too, how wrong I’d been myself.

Every night now, I went straight to the bar. It was the only place I felt alive anymore, the only place where I felt like I belonged/ I’d stopped looking at myself in mirrors months ago, whenever possible…after the tattoos had started to appear, after I couldn’t even see anything human in my eyes any longer. I started dressing in rubber, preferably with a mask. I felt more comfortable that way, without a face, without a name. In the bar, I was just an object–I’d gone from a big dicked fucker to a servicer. Drinking cum and piss, everyone helping themselves to my holes whenever they wanted me. I got to know the man I’d seen that first night, watching me–that, was Rod. The owner, the ringmaster, the warden. He never used me, but he did watch me, and every night, he’d take the pleasure of 86-ing me onto the street, personally, telling me I couldn’t stay, that I still wasn’t ready!

And I would slink back out, sucking as much cock on the way out as I could, thrown back up into the air from the pond again, but I was losing momentum fast. So one night, I found Rod first, and I begged him. I begged him to find a place for me, to let me stay, that I couldn’t live out there anymore, that I didn’t belong out there–I belonged here now, and he knew it as well as I did. So he found a place for me alright–right here, where I’ve been for…well, a good long time.

I tried to deny it, I tried to take it back. I wasn’t supposed to be here, in the bathroom, I wasn’t a toilet…was I? He had to chain me down for a while, keep me in place, until I understood, until I felt it in my bones. Until the time he let me try to leave, and the thought of leaving…terrified me. I wasn’t worthy of leaving, this is where I belong–and it’s where you belong too. Yeah, you can struggle against those chains all you want, but they aren’t what’s really keeping you here–it’s you, pig. It’s who you are. Who we both are. Don’t worry, we’ll have lots of fun together. It’s been lonely, all by myself, and Rod promised me I’d have a friend soon…and now I do! I have you.

I’d fired that stupid bitch of a secretary the week before–I’d never liker her much. Sure, nice legs and a good ass, but she refused to put out, which is the only damn reason I hired her–that’s what secretaries are fucking for. But when she started getting “ideas” about the business (and let’s be honest, no idea a woman has about business can be good, right?) I fired her on the spot. Still, turns out the bitch had been doing her work, so I had to hire a temp while I do a search for a better candidate to match the position.

I told the temp agency to send over a hottie, but what I got instead was a fucking flaming faggot! I could tell he wanted me too, because he was looking at me the same way I would have been looking at him if he was some sexy bitch. I confront him…and what I want to do is pound him into the dirt and fore his ass, but what we end up doing instead–fuck, the faggot somehow convinces me to let him suck my cock at my desk. Worse, he’s damn good at it, and he seems like he “needs” it, so instead of calling the agency I decide–what’s the harm in keeping the faggot around for a while, right? If he wants it.

Well, it’s been two weeks, and I can say that decision was a terrible one, but I…I can’t stop now. I swear, I spend all day at the office, fucking his holes, morning to night–and worse, I think…I think I’m changing too. I mean, some of the changes are nice, like how muscular I’ve gotten lately, and I don’t even necessarily object to all the body hair, but these nipple rings make me feel like a fucking slut, especially everytime the faggot tugs on them, and while it’s still plenty for him…I think my cock is actually getting smaller, and it’s harder and harder to get hard for him without…without tugging on my nipples, or…or playing with my ass.

And now…now I keep staring at his bulge…wondering what it would feel like, to have him in my daddy hole. God, did I really just call it that? It’s gotten so hard to think lately, about anything other than sex. It’s a good thing that faggot has a good business instinct, or I’d be fucked for sure…yeah…yeah, fucked. Maybe…just once. Just to feel what it’s like. Yeah, I only need it once, just for curiosity. It’s not like it’ll turn me into some slutty daddy, begging for his young cock all day long. Yeah, I mean, I might…fantasize about something like that, but I’m too much of a man, a real man, to ever let that happen to me.

None of them had noticed anything yet. I wasn’t sure if any of them would notice the spell at all. Still, it was working, that much was certain. All of them had been massively muscled just a few hours ago, hairy, oozing masculinity. Already they were starting to pudge up, their body hair becoming thinner, their facial hair disappearing bit by bit. It was hard to tell whether they were becoming a bit more flirty because they were a bit drunk, or because the next part of the spell was taking affect. Serves those fucking jocks right, though–this will teach them to pick on fat guys like me. They’re all going to be fat cockwhores by the end of the night.

Fuck, it sure is working, you should see the four of them! None of them is less than 300 pounds at this point, and all of them are obsessing with the guys around here, flirting with them, unable to peel their eyes away from the men’s crotches, even as their own cock’s shrivel up into nothing. This sort of shit would have gotten me pummeled into a pulp, but none of the guys here mind–the spell makes anyone the four of them take a liking to into a big, hairy brute who will give their holes a good reaming. Joey keeps looking at me, in particular, and fuck, it’s making me a bit horny. He can’t stop himself, and he knows it–I can see the terror in his eyes even as he licks his fat lips.

Yeah fucker, that’s fuckin’ right, who’s in charge now, huh! Who’s on top now? Yeah, I wanna year ya fuckin’ squeal, squeal like a pig!

Oh god oh god, wha happened tha me? I ain’t, this ain’t right! Where’d all this fuckin’ hair come from, ‘n why’s it so hard tah fuckin’ think all a sudden? The…spell? Fuck, I fucked Joey, ‘n this is what that made me? Got a damn good cock though, feels real nice. Bet…Bet it’d feel nicer in that other pig’s hole though, now that other guy’s done plowin’ him. Yeah, think I’d better give him a good fuck too, can’t fuck enough pigs after all, fuck yeah…

Case Closed (Part 5)

He tried to protest, tried to just get us to let him go, but no–I was tired of his fucking shit, and I knew what he really wanted. I dragged him across the precinct, Walker laughing the whole way, and shoved him into the drunk tank. It was still early evening on Saturday, but we had a few visitors already–it was always pretty busy in here after Friday nights, and a lot of them might not get processed until Monday morning, so the cell was only going to get more crowded. He begged us, through the bars, to let him out. That he couldn’t stay in here, to have some fucking mercy. Well fuck that–we’d be back to get him on Monday. Still, it was another cased closed. Walker suggested we go get some drinks, something which I was more than happy to do, because fucking Dick had only gotten me revved up for more.

Fuck–that was one of the best weekends we’d shared in a long while. Fuck, I actually couldn’t remember the last time we went as wild as we did, though we do it all the time, now. The two of us were already dressed to go out, of course–since our work clothes doubled as our club clothes–the immaculate leather uniforms we both wore fit right in down at the leather bar where the two of us hung out. It was funny though–the club seemed a bit busier than usual–in particular, it seemed like the entire college football team had come out that night, and all of them were poaching our usual hunting grounds, so we decided on a change of plans, and found two young freshman who shouldn’t have even been in there–and gave them a choice. Come back with us for the rest of the weekend, or kiss their fucking scholarships goodbye after they get an arrest record. Needless to say, neither one of them was very happy about it, but we cuffed them anyway, and dragged them home with us.

It’s funny…I didn’t remember Walker and I living together, but…I mean, I guess it makes sense, right? Two top cops? Two burly, leathered up fuckers like us? Why the fuck wouldn’t we live together? I won’t go into details, but let’s just say that those two football frat fuckers were singing a different tune by Sunday evening, begging us for our cocks, our fists, our piss. We did let them go, of course–but put them on chastity probation–locking them both up, and requiring them both to come over for regular check ins and training. Heh, Justin–that’s one of them, this big old linebacker–he’s graduated at this point, and became a full time slave for a friend of mine, this old biker–fucking rough man, but I’ve never met a guy who loves getting beaten up like Justin does. The other, Harry, he’s a fancy businessman now, but I still have his key–he hasn’t had his cock out in over a year, but he doesn’t fucking care–he gets more pleasure out of drinking down some stranger’s cum in a bathhouse than he ever did shooting himself. Still, I suppose I’ve gotten a bit off topic, now haven’t I? I’m still talking at all, of course, because the strangest thing about the case, about Dick, I should say, only happened after that weekend, when the two of us, still reeking of sex, still in our leathers, showed back up at the precinct, nursing a couple of light hangovers, and found ourselves with quite a mess in the drunk tank where we’d abandoned Dick on Saturday night.

Now, this is easily the busiest precinct for drunks in the city, since it’s so close to the nightlife district, but it wasn’t the number of people in there that was surprising–it was what they were doing, or rather, who they were doing. In the middle of the, at this point, rather sleepy throng was Dick–which shouldn’t have been surprising, I suppose, considering how eager that guy was for a load of cum. No, what was strange was Dick himself. When we’d left, he’d been a middle aged slob, sure, but not..this. He’d packed on close to two hundred more pounds, his bare belly scraping the concrete floor of the cell, his several chins disguised by a massive, grey beard I couldn’t recall him having before. He was no longer middle aged, but seemed closer to seventy–his teeth all missing aside from a few barely hanging by the root, his body coated in filth, clothes unwashed, as he begged another man for a load of cum. But maybe I was just remembering things wrong. It seemed like I’d been remembering a lot wrong, lately. Still, we figured we should give the guys in the cell a break, and we took a final turn with the disgusting pig in the interrogation room, feeding him our loads of cum and piss before kicking him back out onto the street. We didn’t mind giving Dick a place to stay on occasion, but he couldn’t very well live here, right?

But the oddest thing? The two of us got to work processing the guys in the drunk tank after we finished with Dick…but none of the fuckers’ intake information matched anything close to who we were looking at in front of us. Like, some of the paperwork told us to expect a couple of young hicks who’d gotten pulled in on a drunk driving charge, but who we found looking at us were a couple of middle aged, pot bellied bikers, covered with tattoos and reeking of piss and cigars. A couple of businessmen charged with harassing a woman in a bar, were now a couple of young skinheads, dressed in camo and rubber, and much more interested in making out with each other than answering any of our questions. Just one fucking screw up after another, and we had no clue what to make of it. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder about Dick, in all of this for some reason. He still comes by, on occasion, ends up in the tank for a night, and everytime the same fucking thing happens. It’s a fucking mystery, you know? But hey, not every case wraps up nice and neat, but that’s the job–now if you’ll excuse me, it looks like Walker’s collared someone over by the dance floor, and he might need some backup.  

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?

The Power of Belief – Part 2 (Patreon Commission)

I believe I am a smoker…I believe I smoke pipes and cigars…I believe I collect pipes…I believe I prefer pipes…I believe I smoke whenever I can…I believe I drink bourbon when I smoke…I believe real men are smokers…I believe I am gay…I believe I am attracted to my graduate student, Carter…I believe Carter is attracted to me…I believe I am dominant…I believe I have a nine inch cock…I believe I have large, low hanging, sensitive balls…I believe I like to talk dirty…I believe I am a real man…I believe being gay is good…I believe…

Professor Larson had quite a few more talks discussing his project with Carter, and he found himself enjoying the young man’s company more and more. At first they would talk about his student’s work, but as time passed, their conversations became more casual though more often than not, the professor’s office phone would ring and cut into the conversation. During the chats, he would often be smoking one of his many pipes and drinking bourbon–Carter would often drink with him but rarely smoked. Carter got a bit too drunk one evening, and finally confessed that he was very attracted to his professor, and Harry was all too happy to mention that the feeling was mutual. Carter ended up on his knees, under his teacher’s apron, digging out his massive cock, which Harry was all too happy to slam down his throat, calling his student a dirty slut until he came. From that moment on, there was considerably less talking, and considerably more fucking going on at their meetings.

I believe I am old…I believe I am 64…I believe I have white hair…I believe I have muttonchops with a connecting mustache…I believe I wear spectacles…I believe I am balding…I believe I am proud to be bald…I believe baldness is sexy…I believe old men are sexy…I believe my old body is attractive…I believe I have wrinkles…I believe I am very hairy…I believe I have very large feet and hands…I believe I am a polar bear…I believe I am a daddy bear…I believe Carter is my lover…I believe I love Carter like a son…I believe Carter should obey me…I believe I like to be in control…I believe I am powerful…I believe sex should be rough…I believe I should be addressed as Sir…I believe I am entitled to respect…I believe I am a genius…I believe age gives one a better perspective on the world…I believe I prefer being called Harold…I believe…

It was, at times, difficult to keep up with someone less than half his age, but he had never had trouble in the bedroom, despite his weight and age, and Carter loved it. He loved being dominated by Harold, feeling his massive weight pressing down on him in the office or the bedroom, his fat cock buried in his hole, while he smoked his pipe, muttering abuse in his ear. Carter was always obliging, and when Harold demanded that he begin addressing him with more respect. He never faltered in calling him Sir, and would run to his old lover’s office at a moments notice so he could grovel in front of him, and beg him to let him worship his fat body, allow him to suck his cock, or feel it in his ass. Feeling this kind of control over someone was both new, but so incredibly comfortable for Harold that it came completely naturally, and before too long, he began to crave it. It seeped into his teaching style; where before he had relied on discussions to drive the class, he switched more and more to lectures. After all, he had a whole life of experience in the field–these young men and women ought to respect him enough to listen to it.

I believe I am wealthy…I believe I am selfish and greedy…I believe I am arrogant…I believe I am conservative…I believe I look down on people younger than me…I don’t think young people understand the world…I believe I feel lost in the modern era…I believe I refuse to use email…I believe I don’t own a computer…I believe I prefer to wear expensive suits…I believe that dressing anachronistically turns me on…I believe that wearing expensive fabrics turns me on…I believe the feel of leather arouses me…I believe I am kinky…I believe being fully clothed while someone submissive is completely naked turns me on…I believe inflicting pain arouses me…I believe I live in a mansion…I believe I have a large sex dungeon in the basement…I believe I am abusive…I believe safe words are unnecessary…I believe Carter should serve me as a sex slave…I believe I love Carter…I believe Carter loves me…I believe Carter should live with me for the rest of my life…I believe…

Their affair only lasted a semester, before Harold suggested (or really rather forced) Carter to move in with him. It wasn’t like Harold didn’t have enough room in his massive home, and he very much loved having access to Carter’s holes whenever he liked, and on his first night, he introduced him to his dungeon. Carter loved it, of course, but why wouldn’t he? It had been his idea, after all. Harold was relatively content to let his young lover have his fun for a bit longer, answering the phone when he called, believing what he told him to believe, seeing how far his fantasy went. But he also knew that Carter had been in control for far too long, and so, during a bondage session, Harold put a pair of headphones on Carter (he despised the fact that he had to rely on technology for this, but his student’s work had been rather clear on its necessity), and played the same tone which had been sending him into a trance for months, watching his young student’s eyes flicker shut, his limbs fall slack. After all, Harold had been more than a little accommodating–and he thought it was time for Carter to try out a new role that Harold had had in mind for him for quite a while now.

Jack walked up the aisle of the airplane, and finally found his seat–in the aisle like he preferred–at his height, having the extra room to stretch his legs was a necessity. The plane ended up being lightly packed–he did have someone sitting in the row with him, an older gentleman in a suit and vest, who slipped past him and sat down at the window. It was only after they’d taken off that Jack noticed the older man looking at him.

“Could you not stare at me please? You’re creeping me out.”

“Oh!” the man said, blushing a bit, “I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized…I was just wondering how long you’ve been growing your hair out–it’s quite long.”

Jack rolled his eyes. Great, a faggot, probably. “A while.”

“Yes, it must have been a while. And goodness, you are a big man aren’t you? Why, I suppose the reason I was staring is because you look like a real life Samson! Sorry, I know that’s a bit rude. My name is Bart, by the way.”

“Look, that’s fine, but can you just, not look at me please?”

“You see,” Bart continued, as though Jack hadn’t said anything, “I’ve been doing some research lately on the Samson myth–did you know, that in many cultures, the length of one’s hair could determine everything from caste to social rank? Simply fascinating! Why, there’s evidence from Mesopotamia that…”

It was too late–apparently the man wasn’t a faggot at all. Worse–an intellectual. Still, Jack found his voice easy enough to ignore, and he laid the seat back, closed his eyes, and soon enough he was falling asleep.


A jungle. He was searching for someone, a princess? Yeah, a princess. Some hot princess who’d been captured, and he was going to save her and fuck her brains out, yeah. And he was a prince, a warrior…no, he was more than all of those things, he was someone…someone in particular, he was…Samson. Yeah, Samson the strong, the great. He paused and looked down at his bronzed body, naked aside from a loin cloth, his nine inch cock hanging down below the front flap, letting everyone who he’d encounter know that he was meant to be in charge. To be an alpha–a leader. He could feel his braided hair, longer than he could remember, running down against his muscular back, his beard knotted and reaching down nearly to his navel, both of them testaments to his power, his virility and strength as a man. No, it was more than that, they were the source of his power. It was the hair itself that granted him authority, that made him an alpha, that made him a man.

He was moving through the jungle, climbing up now, his body sweating in the humid heat. The trees began to thin out, and he arrived at a plateau, covered with grassland–there, in the center, was where he would find the princess. She had been taken by a man…no, by a wizard. Yes, a cruel, evil, weak wizard. He would defeat the wizard, he would win the princess for himself. He pressed onward, and soon he came to a small camp. By the fire, a cage with the princess inside, and between him and the cage, the wizard.

He was much smaller than Samson–but then Samson was larger than everyone. No one could challenge Samson–he would be king. And the wizard was old and frail and feeble. Why was he confronting him? Didn’t he know to be afraid? And yet, there was something wrong, something very wrong. He was frozen–the wizard had done something to him, and he couldn’t move. He could hear the wizard saying something, hear him speaking, mumbling and Samson could feel his hands moving against his will. He drew his knife, the knife meant to kill the wizard, the knife that could cut anything, even the strongest steel, and with his other hand, Samson grasped his braid. He begged, he fought his own hand, and yet his knife, with a single slice, cut the hair from his head, the braid falling to the ground, and unable to believe what he’d just done, he cut the beard from his face.

Defeated–he had been defeated. He was no longer free–somehow the princess had disappeared, and now he was in the cage, now he was the captive. Weak, powerless, without a will of his own. Helpless to obey, a slave, a foggot–worse than a woman. Yes, a faggot now. He could feel the lust rising in his throat, the wizard approaching the bars of the cage, revealing his cock–no, not his cock–he had some how stolen Samson’s nine inch beast–feeling between his legs, he felt his own shrivelled cock, unable to get hard or even feel pleasure. And old man’s cock now, a faggot’s cock. The wizard–he had a cock that was worthy of worship. The head slipped between the bars, and Samson suckled at it, the cum slaking his faggot thirst. More men were surrounding the cage now, more men than he could service in a thousand lifetimes, but he had to serve. That was his purpose, his only desire. To serve. To serve. To serve. To serve…


He was in the bathroom of the airplane, a battery powered razor in his hand. He watched his body shave the hair from his head and face–he threw it into the trash, and returned to his seat, weak–a faggot.

“How is my Samson?” Bart asked when he returned and sat down.

“I’m no longer a Samson any more sir, I’m now a faggot, meant to serve.”

“I see. Well faggot, you’d best get busy then,” Bart said, pulling his cock out. Licking his lips, Jack leaned over and sucked down his old cock.


His plane had landed earlier that day, and he’d parted ways with Bart after one last fuck in the airport bathroom stall. Now, Jack had found the place Bart had told him of, a haven for faggots like him, who were destined to serve. He went inside–the owner was expecting him, and told him to strip down–he wouldn’t be needing his clothing anymore. All he would wear is a pair of old boots, to guard against the filthy floor, and the owner led him to his new home, a small three foot by three foot cubicle, with several holes. Cocks would be shoved through. He would serve them. The cage of his servitude, a multitude of men he’d never be able to fully satisfy. But it was no longer his fear–it was his fantasy. His true dream.

“Look, this is ridiculous, even if…I mean.”

“All it costs is one blowjob, and I’ve seen you staring at my crotch all night. Boys like you, only one reason they come here. The rest of it…well, I can tell just by looking at you. I’ve seen you two around town, seen how you look at him. This could help.” The older man turned the cigar over in his hands, “but, if you just want to follow him around, be the best man at his wedding to some fat skank, suck him off once, and only when he’s drunk as hell, then that’s your choice.”

The older man was hardly a looker. Probably from somewhere out in the sticks, missing teeth, big gut, stinking of cheap beer and stale smoke, grey beard to his chest. Still, he was kind of Ben’s type–though he wasn’t really a fan of sucking…This was probably how the guy always got laid though. Magic cigars? Control anyone who you smoke around? Still, for a bunch of closeted queers, lusting after their straight friends…it was tempting. Ben bargained him up, the man promising him a blow job too, and he followed him out to the man’s truck, where they blew each other in the parking lot, and then Ben left, cigar in his pocket, still feeling like he’d been a bit cheated.

Chet was his one weakness. Friends since they were babes, Ben had been lusting after his friend for so long, but he was as straight as could be, and was a big fan of bashing queers. Chet was also an alpha through and through, and as much as Ben chafed at submitting to anyone, he’d learned to let Chet get his way to keep the friendship going. But now…well, now nothing was going to change, but at least it was a nice cigar. He usually stuck to cigarettes, while Chet preferred chewing, but he’d bought a cigar now and then for fun. An opportunity to light up didn’t come for a few days, when he and Chet were hanging out at his little trailer, watching B movies. Heart beating fast, he lit up the cigar, blowing it off in Chet’s direction, watching as he inhaled the first couple whiffs. He sneezed, and rubbed his nose, eyes a bit bleary. “Dang man! That cigar’s strong as fuck. Where the fuck’d you get it?”

“Strong? Nah, this…this is pretty smooth. In fact…” did he dare? “In fact, I don’t think the smoke really bothers you at all. I think you like how it smells.”

“No way, I mean…sure, it’s not botherin’ me as much…” Chet said, fidgeting. He always fidgeted when he lied.

Had it actually worked? How in the hell could he really know? Then again, the man had said it gave him complete control, body and mind. He muttered something under his breath, quietly so Chet couldn’t hear, and a few seconds later, a thick beard sprouted across Chet’s stubbly face. He just gawked for a moment, and Chet reached up to feel it, and yanked his hand away. “What the fuck!”

“Hang on Chet! Calm down…”

Chet grabbed the side of the chair, and his breath slowed down.

“Fuck, it actually works…”

“What fucking works? What…what’s going on?”

He’d never heard Chet scared before. He liked how that sounded, actually. His cock was getting a bit hard, in fact. “Looks good on you, but you know? I just think you’re a bit too young to pull it off. Now, how about we age you up a bit? Say…fifty? Yeah, make you a sexy, submissive, chubby, daddy bear.”

Chet stood up calmly, but the changes were already starting. He watched his smooth stomach balloon outward into a gut, hair filling in across his arms and under his shirt, speckled with grey. “How in the fuck!” he wheeled towards Ben, and blinked. Fuck…fuck, his friend was one…sexy cub. He licked his lips, feeling his tongue brush through his new beard. Ben undid the fly of his pants and let out his cock. “See something you like, Chet?”

“Fuck…fuck you. Fuckin’ faggot. You did…something to me.”

“You’re right Chet…you’re right, I am a faggot. Been one as long as I can remember. And you know what? I’m fuckin’ sick of ya bashin’ us, and I’m fuckin’ sick a yer fuckin’ jokes. Now get the fuck down here and use that nasty mouth of yours for something useful, bitch!”

Chet tried to resist, but all he could do was get down, suck his faggot friend’s cock, and listen to Ben describe their new life together. Ben, the master, and Chet the useless, small cocked, bear slave. Incredibly turned on by pain and humiliation, he started leaking when Ben ground the toe of his boot into his tiny balls. The cigar burnt out, and exhausted, Ben led the collared and harnessed Chet to his cage for the night, and filled his slave bowl with his piss. Chet thanked his master and lapped it up obediently.