Flash Commission: A Twin of His Own

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“And you’re sure it’ll work?”

“Well, no. I’ve never done anything like this before. Hypothetically, yeah. You’ll have to talk him through it though, push him in the right direction.”

Sheriff Clark Easton had his eyes closed, listening to the men talk. The last thing he could recall well was packing up in his office late at night, getting ready to go home, but he hadn’t made it to his car. Someone had snuck up behind him, shoved a rag over his nose and mouth, and now he was here. Though where ‘here’ was, he didn’t know. Just two men talking in the room with him–they were more likely to spill something while they thought he was still out. The first voice was rather gruff, the second a little younger and softer, but he couldn’t say more than that.

“So what, like…my past?”

“Yeah, the more you feed him, the more likely you’ll get the result you want from it. Just like the pig–the gun and ink does some of the work, but the more you talk him into accepting it, the stronger the result will be.”

There was a grunt from the gruffer voice, the sound of some boots coming closer to the sheriff, and then a hand slapped him across the face–harder than necessary if all he’d wanted was to wake him up. Clark gave a little shout, looked up, and saw he was staring at Timothy ‘Bruiser’ McGee. Bruiser was the leader of a particularly nasty biker gang that had been moving in on the county for the last few months. Running drugs, extortion, rape–nothing was below them, and the sheriff had been struggling to pin down their hideout and get them arrested. Now, it appeared that they may have overplayed their hand. “How exactly do you think this is going to end for you, Timothy?” the sheriff asked.

The older biker sneered at him. Bruiser was easily six and a half feet tall, and heavily muscled, with a sizable gut. The only thing the sheriff had ever seen him wear on the top half of his body was a filthy leather vest, showing off the riot of tattoos the biker had all over, even running up his neck and face. “I imagine, bud, we’re gonna walk out of here together and have a good laugh about it all,” he said, grinning and showing off his crooked teeth, a few replaced with gold caps.

The other fellow was smaller and younger, setting up what looked like a little workstation beside the chair where Clark was tied down. He looked over the equipment, and recognized the tattoo gun–what the hell were they going to do with that? “I’m ready to go,” he said. He took the gun, brought it to Clark’s arm, and while he tried to flinch away–as soon as the needle slid into him, something else happened. There was just a cascade of sensations–sights, sounds, smells. None of them were familiar to him, and yet as soon as he experienced them, he knew, somehow, they were his. Nostalgic, and yet alien. Before he could try and make any sense of them, there was another wave, another bunch of sensation, all of it baffling him, swarming his mind. He didn’t quite know how long it had lasted, but it finally ebbed away, leaving him panting and sweating in the chair. It felt like it had lasted a few moments, but the artist had managed to cover both of his arms with full sleeves, and from the one window in the room, he could tell that a significant amount of time had passed.

“Alright, that should be a good start–talk to him for a bit, I want to see if it’s taking like I thought it would,” the young man said.

“What should I talk about?” Bruiser said.

“Yourself. Usually the older stuff comes in first. Ask him about your parents.”

Brusier laughed, “Fuck, my old man, you mean. My mom dumped me on him when I was a just a fucking kid–I don’t blame her, I tried to set the house on fire when she wouldn’t let me keep watching TV one night.”

“Fuck, I…I remember that…” Clark muttered. It wasn’t his memory. He’d been a good kid, always listened to his parents, they’d been married his whole life. But he could recall, somehow, piling up a bunch of sticks under the curtains in a dingy living room, setting them off with a lighter he’d stolen from his mom’s purse, cackling while she panicked, getting a pot of water to put it out. “Why do I remember that?”

“Fuck, it’s working!” Bruiser said. “Bet you remember dad too then, don’t ya?”

“Mean fucker, beat the shit out of me,” Clark muttered. “I mean, that’s…not my dad. I…I ran away. He had some friends who were bikers, they…I ran off with them when I was a teenager, but…”

“Yeah, fuck, real sexy fuckers too, right?”

“No! I went to school, I…I went to fucking college! What the fuck are you doing to me?”

Bruiser grinned at the young man, who nodded back. “You’ll see, Mr. Sheriff. Is he ready for some more now?”

“I think so,” the young man said, brought the needle to his chest, and again, Clark was overwhelmed with the sensation. He realized, now, what he must be feeling, and he realized where he’d recognized the tattoos on his arms from. They were perfect copies of Bruiser’s own ink. The young man was copying the biker’s tattoos onto him, and in doing so, he was somehow transferring over his memories–no, more than memories, his whole personality, his history, his identity. He could feel it. Before, the onslaught had felt chaotic, but now, it felt like a force, a corruption spreading through his mind. Everywhere it went, his old self was being overtaken, erased, and replaced by this new self.

The sensation retreated again, and when Clark’s vision could focus again on the room around him, he looked down at himself and let out a whimper. The uniform he’d been wearing had been cut off entirely, leaving him naked. He’d always figured that Bruiser had more of his body tattooed under those ratty jeans he wore, but he hadn’t imagined that he’d gone this far–his whole cock and balls were tattooed now, and halfway down his thighs. More than that though–his cock was…bigger. Much bigger. The sheriff had never been well endowed, but his newly tattooed cock was close to eight inches–soft. The rest of his body was shifting as well, growing more muscular–but shouldn’t it be? He’d been working out all the time since he dropped out of school and fell in with the gang, beating and fucking his way to the top…right? He shook his head–those weren’t his memories! He had to hold on…hold on to…to what? He struggled, but couldn’t find everything he’d lost, just bits and pieces.

“Fuck, that’s real fucking hot,” Bruiser said, stepping around the chair, while the young man prepped his gun again.

“Bruiser, get me the fuck out of this god damn chair, ya piece a shit!” Clark said, and only after the words were out, did he realize that his voice had changed, his accent–he sounded so much like Bruiser…but he was, Bruiser, right? “Fuck, what the fuck is wrong with me?”

“Hold on bud, you’re just confused is all,” Bruiser said, “Like that time we wrecked out on the interstate, had a concussion for days.”

“Fuck, I still get headaches from that,” Clark said, “But I…I thought…there’s someone else in my head, man, what’s going on?”

“We’re fixing you up, don’t worry about it.”

“I’m scared, I…I don’t know if I can trust you, he’s…scared.”

“Here, this’ll help. You know how we get when we don’t get a smoke in a while,” Bruiser said, and pushed the cigar he had lit into the sheriff’s mouth. He took a draw on it, and while Clark had never been a smoker, he instinctively sucked the thick smoke right down into his lungs, held it for a second, then pushed it out of his nose in a couple of thick jets. “Fuck, that’s better.”

“See, we know what we need, don’t we?” Bruiser said, and groped the sheriff’s new cock, and he moaned around the cigar, feeling it stiffen in Bruiser’s hand. “We’ll sort you right out–we just have to do the back of you–you’ll feel better soon.”

Bruiser and the young man undid the rope holding Clark to the chair, and while a small voice told him to run…that wasn’t his voice. He laid down on the table they’d set up, the young man got his gun ready, and started on his back, and Clark struggled for a moment, before the sensation overwhelmed him again, and he rode the sensations. This time was different. He felt himself siding with the corruption, the strength flooding into him, rooting out and destroying all of that weakness in him. The good, the lawful, the obedient. Fuck that! He knew what he wanted, he knew what he was. The memories were coming clearer now, more and more recent. The sensation fell away again, and he blinked, pushed himself up from the table, and gave a little flex.

“How’s it feel?” Bruiser asked, as his twin sat up on the table. He was now the spitting image of himself, right down to the long hair, the thick ratted beard. Stepping close, they even smelled the same. The only difference was, the Bruiser sitting on the table had the number two on his neck, where Bruiser had the number one. They needed to keep track of pecking order one way or another.

“Fuck–I…did we get the sheriff? I can’t really remember, my head’s all fucking fuzzy.” Number two asked.

“Fuck yeah we got him–you were him!”

“Wait, what? Seriously? Fucking hell, so it all fucking worked?”

Bruiser stepped up and gave his twin a smoky kiss, which number two happily returned. He helped his twin up from the table and over to the mirror so he could see them both together, and the sight of it got them both so fucking hard, they reached down and started stroking each other off.

“Hold on, got us a celebration planned first,” number one said.

“You don’t have to tell me, I remember,” number two replied.

Downstairs was the gang’s new pig, a college student travelling through the county that the gang had kidnapped a week before, who the sheriff had been trying to track down. He’d been a test for the young man’s tattooing abilities, and the magic tattoo gun they’d gotten their hands on. The young man had been covered with raunchy images and words, his whole identity replaced with a cum and cock hungry filth pig, who at the sight of not only one, but two of his bosses, crawled over, grunting and squealing, before turning around and presenting it’s hole for them both. One took the mouth, Two took the ass, and they fucked the pig from both ends, sharing smokey kisses over his back–thinking about all the trouble they’ll be causing now that there’s two of them, and that troublesome sheriff was out of the picture for good.

Digital Manipulation (Part 7) [Interactive]

PJ knew it was a dream, though how he knew that exactly, was difficult for him to explain. It didn’t feel any different to him than real life, but it had felt like he’d been in a dream for ages, now. So long, he was beginning to doubt that he would even be able to wake up–so long, he didn’t even know what he could wake up as, anymore. So how did he know this was a dream? Because he wasn’t anywhere. It was just dark. He was standing, but he wasn’t standing on anything. He was breathing, but there was nothing to breathe. He could see, but there was no light that he could tell.

“Oi! There ya are mate.”

He spun around at the voice, and discovered that while he wasn’t anywhere in particular, he was no longer alone. There, standing in the nothing space with him, was someone else–and while it took him a few moments to catch on, he realized he was looking at himself. At a version of himself. At another version of himself…right? The similarities were obvious–both of them were huge–roided out with muscle, with prominent guts, their cocks and balls grown to obscene proportion, as where their chests and asses, which had been given implants as well. The differences though–they were so very different.

His doppelganger–his head and face were completely shaved–as was the rest of his body. It the place of the hair he had, tattoos and piercings covered his body–but it was the piercings which horrified PJ the most. They were everywhere–not just in the usual places like ears and nipples and noses. No, he had loops of metal dotting his flesh, running down his arms and legs, barbells were implanted in his gut in a spiral out from his belly button. The hoops were threaded in some places with twine and chain, in other places they were left unadorned. He took a step towards PJ, and he could hear the metal shake like some musical instrument of torture. “No–no, that’s…I’m not going to let you.”

He tried to run, but as he turned, he felt some awful yank on the head of his cock. He looked down, and saw that the massive, doorknocker sized ring running through the head of his double’s siliconed cock had somehow pierced his own as well, hooking them together. “Don’t worry Mate, it ain’t gonna hurt too much, trust me–you’ll love it anyway, soon ‘nough.”

He stepped closer, and the Jacob’s ladder running down the underside of his cock drew his own closer, and he felt every pin slide into his own flesh, until their cocks were completely connected from root to tip, jutting up between them. “Please, please, not this, I’m not you.”

“Not yet, ya ain’t,” his skinhead double said, “But come a little closer now, and let’s see about that.”

PJ raised a hand to strike him, to try and push him away, but the skinhead’s arm raised at the same time, and the tattoos running down his arm lashed out, wrapping their way around PJ’s arm and binding them together. He couldn’t help but be tugged in, and their gut’s touched, and every barbell spiralling around his gut joined to his, fusing them together, the tattoos sliding onto his body, the ink caressing him, and he shuddered, feeling the flesh of their cocks beginning to fuse together, phasing into one another until they were joined at the groin, one singular, and massive, cock jutting to one side, as their guts began to fuse as well.

“Gettin’ closer. Feels good, don’t it, mate?”

“Fuckin’ get off a me!” PJ shouted, but the skinhead lunged at him, spearing his tongue on the thick barbell through his own, tugging his face into his own, and PJ cried out as the rings, studs and bars in his doppelganger’s face all stuck to his own as well. He tried to move his arm…but he couldn’t feel his arm. Looking to the side, there was just one arm now–the skins, though it seemed…bigger and meatier after absorbing his.

“Yeah, we’re gonna be huge together, ain’t it gonna be great, mate?”

It took PJ a moment to realize that he shouldn’t have been able to hear the man’s voice, since their mouths were stuck together–no, he was hearing his voice in his mind, and it was getting louder, even as his own was getting quieter and quieter. The skin wrapped his spiked arm around PJ’s back and pulled him closer, pulled him into his body, and PJ lost sense of himself. There weren’t…really two of them, were there? Had there ever been two of them? All he felt was a sense of vertigo for a moment, and then he awoke with a jolt, looking around him, trying to figure out where he was…but he was right where he was supposed to be.

He was lying on a few sheets beside his master’s bed, where he slept every night. He wanted to get up, he wanted to see, but he couldn’t risk it. If master knew he was awake, he’d be punished…not that he minded being punished, of course, but Master could be…rough in the morning, before his coffee. It wouldn’t be the first time PJ had been confined to bed, his arms laced to the eye hooks running up the sides of his body, the barbells on the insides of his legs laced together as well, bound up in himself. Still…that dream. There was something he needed to remember, or someone he needed to remember, perhaps. It was all foggy now, and almost gone from his memory. He laid back down, and soon he was sleeping again until morning, when his master roused him with a boot to the ribs, and told PJ it was time to get the day started.

Trax, in his VR set, had taken on the roll of PJ’s skinhead master, and spent the next few days putting his heavily modded and warped ex-boyfriend through his paces, making sure everything was nice and cemented in this new version of him. All in all, he was very pleased with the result…but at the same time, he was a bit disappointed. As much fun as it was playing with a copy of his ex, what he really wanted was the real thing–but with this copy of his…well, there were a few ways he could have some fun with him in the real world, if he got close enough.

This next entry will be the finale. Below are a few options Trax could use to bring this copy of Perrion out into the real world. Choose the one you’d be interested in seeing.

Trax downloads the copy into an artificial body, and has the copy rape the real Perrion.
Trax kidnaps Perrion and replaces him with the copy. Together, they enjoy warping Perrion’s body into a twisted version of itself.
Trax implants the copy into Perrion’s subconscious, and let’s his ex’s new subconscious desires slowly ruin his life.

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Digital Manipulation (Part 5) [Interactive]

Yeah, Trax liked the idea of giving Perrion some muscle a lot. Now that Perrion had been taken down a few pegs, and he wouldn’t be working an office job again in his…virtual life, it was time for him to update his physical appearance a bit. Thankfully, he wasn’t going to be limited by his current body, because Perrion wasn’t much to look at, honestly. Short, rail thin–took care of himself, and was always so focused on his presentation, looking down on anyone who ever looked a little messy–like Trax always had. In fact, he thought part of the reason Perrion had been with him was because Trax made him look better by comparison (and humble, for being willing to date someone so obviously his lesser). Well, Trax would make Perrion exactly the kind of man he hated–big, muscular, stupid, ugly–nothing more than a dumb brute laborer. He found the scenario and loaded it up, triggering it to start up when Perrion’s mind woke from processing the last scenario and encoding it into his memory. It would take about as long as a night’s sleep, so in the morning, Trax would be up, and excited to watch what happens next.

Perrion awoke with a start, unsure of where he was, or what was happening to him. He…could remember something, something about work, and a bar, and…and he didn’t know what else. It was in his head, he could feel it in there, but there was something blocking him from accessing it, like his mind kept telling him it wasn’t important. But that also meant there wasn’t much…there. He needed to get up and…go to work, tight? Or do something? But his mind was just blank, laying there, until someone rolled over in bed next to him. “Well, how about we get started?”

Perrion gave a shout and nearly fell out of the bed. Next to him…he was a stranger, and yet also so…familiar. “Who…who are you?” he stammered.

“Me? I’m Perry–you know me,” the man said, and got out of the bed. He was larger than Perrion, and a bit taller, thickly muscled with a thick coat of hair–but not much cock at all, he noticed. His hair was short, and he had a short beard…but then Perrion realized why he looked so familiar–it was because…because they were nearly twins. It was like he was looking at an alternate version of himself, from some other world, but as soon as he realized that, the thought was gone, locked away behind the same barrier as everything else, and he was just looking at Perry–his…boyfriend. His…alpha. “Now get up–we need to get going with the day.”

Perrion did as he was told–in fact, he did everything Perry told him to do. They had a hearty breakfast, more than Perrion ever would have eaten normally, and then they went to the gym. Perry forced him through a grueling workout, one he barely managed to keep up with, but Perry demanded it, and so he did it, he did everything. It seemed like it lasted for hours, and then they went and home again, and they ate another massive meal, before lazing away the rest of the afternoon on the couch, watching TV, with Perrion spending a lot of time and energy keeping Perry happy–bringing him more snacks, toying with his small dick, tasting and smelling him–then they went to bed, and the next morning they woke up, and they did the same thing all over again–huge meals, a massive workout even harder than the last, and another afternoon and evening spent in front of the TV.

He lost track of the days, and he lost track of himself. Everything blurred together, and the only thing that seemed to hold focus was Perry. Perrion noticed that he was…changing, somehow, in the mirrors of the gym. He would look at himself, and see Perry where he should be for a moment, before separating them apart again in his mind. Perry became…clingy. On the couch, he would always have his arm around Perrion, pulling him in, drawing him closer in bed, waking up in a tight bear hug, like Perry was trying to absorb him. Or perhaps, it was the other way around.

He could almost hear Perry’s words in his mind, even before he spoke them. Perrion knew what he wanted, what he needed to do, even before Perry had to say it. The workouts became easier, and he began to enjoy them. He ate more and more, feeling his frame filling out to match his boyfriend, and the TV which had seemed so idiotic to him before was now…engrossing. He would fiddle with Perry’s small cock, and feel his own respond in kind, both of them orgasming in tandem. He didn’t know when he realized that Perrion had disappeared entirely, but at some point, he did. He was just Perry now, a muscle bound, unwashed pig of a man, satisfied with his own base gratification, and unable to remember a time when he’d been anyone else. Just like Trax had wanted.

But Trax wanted more. That was just the introductory persona, after all–Perry was going to have a new boyfriend in his bed soon enough, once these new habits were sufficiently ingrained after another few repetitions. He’d have a whole new set of habits ready to program into him then, he just needed to decide on what.

So, what sort of spin is Trax going to put on Perry’s now muscular lifestyle?

Steroids, silicone and body mods–make him an exhibitonist freak
Cum, sweat and piss–make him a cumdump urinal
Cigars, booze and masturbation–make him an addicted loser

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A Home of Mirrors (Part 5)

***WARNING: Still substantial violence and abuse.

“Was that thing really me?” Eli asked.

“It’s still you–never forget that. We’ve brought you to heel, given you our power, but this is still you. You belong to us now.”

Eli was still looking down at the pitiful slave beside his reflection, on hands and knees. It glanced up at him, met his eyes, and for a flash, Eli could see himself looking down in contempt, could feel the burns and aches all over it’s body, how…how hard it’s cock was, how hungry it was now, for cum, for pain, for punishment. He broke his eyes away, terrified that he might be trapped there, and delivered a swift kick to the slave’s chin, hard enough to flip it over onto it’s back. The anger and rage didn’t surprise him, but the fear behind it did. Fear wasn’t something he had felt, in the last week. Fear was something he wasn’t supposed to feel, not anymore. He walked over and pressed his boot to the slave’s neck, pressing hard, “Never meet my eyes again, do you fucking understand? I never even want to know that you fucking have eyes, you fucking worthless piece of shit!” His measured words had grown into an unhinged shout, the boot pressing harder, and he could see the slave’s face turning red. It wasn’t fighting him, it wanted him to do it, wanted him to kill it, wanted him to set it free, but a hand grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him back, the slave choking, gasping for air.

“You can’t kill it, no matter how much you want to. We won’t allow it. Hurt it as much as you like, but it must live.”

Eli looked at the thing, at himself–at that old self. It had curled up into a ball on the floor and rolled away from him, hiding it’s face.

“Displease us, and you know where you’ll find yourself.”

“Eli looked back at his reflection, at the stern, hard stare. “I apologize, I…I was weak.”

“You are weak. The last time we met, we couldn’t free much of you. Much remains to be done.”

“Please, I…I know,” Eli said, one gloved hand running down his reflection’s shirt. “I can’t…tell you, how difficult this was, being away from you. I’ve felt so…broken. I know I can be so much…better.”

The reflection smiled, though it wasn’t clear what it found worthy of the smirk. “Better, yes. But now, we can…improve you, can’t we?”

Eli groaned, and fell to his knees in front of himself, pressing his head to the floor a moment, shuddering, trying to suppress a sigh of relief, “I’m yours. Remake me in your image, so I might better serve you.”

“Debase yourself, faggot. Then you can look at me.”

The voice sent a shiver through him. It was his voice, and yet…not. The only emotions he could imagine it communicating were contempt and loathing. The voice of someone utterly superior in every way. He inched forward and began licking at the boots before him, and noticed they were different than his own. Since buying the house, Eli had found wearing anything other than leather to be…uncomfortable. He wore the gloves night and day–he wasn’t ever certain he could take them off, but he’d broken down, and purchased a pair of boots. The ones he was licking, however, were not those. These were shined bright, nearly bright enough to see a reflection in the spit wet surface. They ran up the calf–that was as far as Eli dare look without a direct order from above. He cleaned each boot, top and bottom, thanking his reflection for the privilege of serving him, and only after, was he allowed to rest up on his knees, and look up.

He was beautiful. Standing tall in his leather uniform, every detail immaculate, the lush grey beard flowing from around his mouth, with the thick cigar burning bright. Between the leather and the hair, the only skin Eli could see of himself was the space around his eyes, aged and weathered, but far from weak. He looked lower, down the barrel chest and firm gut held in check by the leather dress shirt, to the crotch, bulging with flesh. “Please, sir, may I?” Eli asked, looking back to meet his reflection’s hard eyes.

“No hands. Earn your fucking reward, you hungry faggot.”

Thankfully, the pants had a double zipper, giving him an easier task. First one, and then the other, and then after the flap fell down, he got his first sight of his cock, his first smell of it–musk and sweat and smoke. He licked, careful with his teeth, taking it slow, knowing one false step would mean his prize taken away. He coaxed the cock to it’s full, eight inch length, and then swallowed it to the hilt, shuddering at the ghostly sensation around his own head and shaft, in his pants. His better half allowed him a moment to enjoy himself, and then wrapped both, gloved hands around the back of his head, and began skull fucking Eli’s throat mercilessly.

He couldn’t breathe, but he could also taste the sweet cigar smoke he kept sucking into his lungs. He could feel his hands both wrapped around his head, and around both of his thick thighs. For one glorious moment, he was fully together, and then the next, he came, slammed the thing’s head to his crotch, and felt it crumple and flatten with the force, his thick cock bursting out of the back of the husk’s head, cum spraying all over the carpet. In his gloved hands, he crumpled up the husk until it no longer even had a head, and then pulled his cock free, brushing off the dust from his shaft and pants. “Clean it up,” he snarled at his slave, and the meek thing scurried over and began sucking the cum from the carpet as best it could.

The husk crumbled away after a few more moments, and the dust disappeared into the air. He turned back to the mirror, and saw himself there, beside the slave. “I’ll mind him–you should go tend to your son. He’s having trouble…accepting us.”

Eli gave a growl of agreement, and didn’t bother putting his cock away, as he strode down the hall, following the cries of pain which filled his newer heart with an odd, delirious joy.

A Home of Mirrors (Part 4)

***WARNING: Things get fairly violent/abusive from here on out.***

Jean stepped into the room and shut the door behind him, surprised by just how large is was–until he realized it was only half the size. The mirror taking up an entire wall, opposite the window, had fooled him into thinking the space as massive. He shook his head, and rubbed his eyes, feeling almost drowzy. He’d seen something downstairs in that other mirror, but what? It had been him, but…but not quite. Something about this house was wrong, something about the way his dad was acting was wrong. He stepped into the room, avoiding his own gaze from the mirror, suddenly…afraid of himself.

Fear wasn’t something he felt often, but he’d been afraid, this last week, with his father. His drinking, the screaming, how he kept catching his father staring at him, and even after being caught, he just…kept staring him down. Once, he’d woken up in his room, and the door to his room was open. He could smell that foul smoke off his dad’s cigar, from the dark hallway, and hear…huffing, and puffing…and why was he even thinking about this? It didn’t matter–he was almost out of here. Just one more year of school, and then he can get to college, and he won’t have to be the family disappointment anymore.

Who would have thought? An all american jock athlete, a disappointment to a family?

“It’s not your athleticism he hates, you know. Is the fact that you could do so much, and yet you do so very little.”

He spun towards the voice–towards the mirror, and found himself facing his reflection–or a reflection, anyway. He was a good distance from the mirror, but the version of himself that…that had spoken, was inches from the glass, barely on the other side. “Did…How did…”

“I see I got your attention, finally,” his double said, and stepped through the mirror without so much as a ripple. Jean could tell it was him, and yet they were so different. Jean was no small figure, at six foot three and two hundred and fifteen pounds of muscle, but his reflection was about an inch taller, and much thicker. Rather than a sleek build made for running, like his, this other him–it was clear he was a fighter, or boxer, really. Brawler would have been more accurate. Not only from the burly muscles and firm stance, but the scars, the puffy eyes, the missing tooth, when he grinned at him. “See, I don’t think it’s how little you do, but how little you do with it, which is such a shame. All you do is run. Run to catch the ball, run after the ball, back and forth in your little world on the field, chasing nothing,” he spit, and a wad of something black landed on the carpet between them. “Think you can run from me, little boy? Think you can outrun yourself?”

He tried. He dashed for the door, as his double finished speaking, but he headed Jean off and drove him into the wall hard enough to crack the drywall, stepped back, and let Jean fall to the floor. He cracked his knuckles, hauled out his cock, and started pissing all over Jean, where he was struggling to find his feet after taking that hit. “You’re mine boy,” the thing sung at him, and laughed, “You’re mine now, so better take it like a man.” Jean stumbled up, aiming for the door, but his double clocked him in the face, and sent him back to the floor. “You’re daddy’s gonna be so proud of you soon, though–wonder who’s gonna take our cocks better, you or him?”

Dazed from the punch, Jean couldn’t do much as his double started tearing at his clothes, ripping them to shred as he growled and gnashed at him, hammering him with a fist if he tried to get up. He shoved Jean’s face down, forced his ass high, lined up and forced it’s way in–quick, enjoying the scream as Jean lost his virgin hole to himself. “Fuck man, yer gonna love being me! This hole’s so fuckin’ sweet, fuck, gotta hand it to the fuck, this catch is real nice…”

Jean tried to ignore the stench of the piss soaking his skin, tried to pretend it wasn’t happening. With some embarrassment, he discovered his own cock was hard, and it almost felt like he, too, was inside someone. A greasy hole, that felt real…tight. He was pushing back without noticing, enjoying the phantom sensation of fucking himself, and then, clear as day…he could see himself, through the other’s eyes.

He looked down at himself, at his body, at how small he was, and all he felt was contempt. He had always been so weak, a waste of space, a waste of good time and energy. Well people would notice him now. He’d make a mark on the world with his fucking fists if need be!

As soon as it had appeared, it was gone, but Jean rebelled. That wasn’t him. This thing wasn’t what he wanted to be. He planted his hands to the wall, and shoved back, catching the other off guard, throwing him out, and off of him, and in a rage, Jean whirled on him with a scream kicked the thing in the groin, and watched his foot slide through it like it was brittle, shiny paper, and dissolve to dust.

Heaving for breath, not knowing what had just happened, he grabbed up what fragments of clothes he could and pulled them back on–at least until some thick hand wrapped it’s way around his wrist, a foot planted itself in the small of his back, and with a sickening pop, his shoulder came right out of the socket with a scream. “We’re not done yet–you think that’s all the darkness in your little soul? That was just the surface scum, boy.” His voice–it was his voice, but deeper, each syllable edged with blunt violence.

Jean rolled over on the floor, and saw the massive brute looming over him, body packed with muscle, arms, chest and belly coated with tattoos, black tobacco split leaking from it’s mouth down it’s chin to land on Jean’s chest–then it crouched down, and slammed its fist into Jean’s face.

A Home of Mirrors (Part 3)

“Alright boy, here we are!” Eli said. He didn’t slow down much on the street, as he peeled into the driveway and brought the sedan to a sudden halt, hard enough to catch Jean’s seatbelt. He noticed that he’d said it again–”boy”. His father had never called him that, ever, and yet after he’d returned home from his last house hunting venture out here, where he’d bought this house, he’d started using the diminutive with him more and more. It was far from the only change he’d noticed in his father, of course. He had a temper suddenly. Well, he’d always had a temper, but where before it would simmer, now his father was throwing plates and glasses at the wall. He’d started smoking, and he always seemed to have on those leather gloves of his, which he said he’d bought out here on a whim. He wouldn’t dare voice it, but he wasn’t quite sure this even…was his father, the disconnect was so sudden and sharp, but he hadn’t been able to pin his father down to discuss it. In fact, as soon as he’d returned from buying the house, he’d announced that he was moving the timetable up on their move by six months. They had planned on waiting for Thomas to finish the spring semester so they could move together during the summer, but now, all his father could talk about was this house, and how he wanted to move in right away.

Eli was already out of the car, hands shaking, fumbling for the house keys he’d picked up from the real estate agent on the way here. Jonas unbuckled himself, leaned forward and peered up at the house in front of him. It seemed…normal. From the way his dad had been describing it, he’d been expecting a luxurious manor, but it just looked like a reflection of every other house on the block. In fact, it was a reflection of every house on the block. It was a cookie cutter development, but every house they’d passed had the garage on the left, but theirs had it on the right. Someone must have mixed up the blueprints. He saw his dad waving at him, and urging him to follow, that…vein in his head popping out like it had started doing, when he was getting frustrated and about to blow. Jean got out of the car, went around the back for the bag he’d packed in the trunk.

“Just leave it in there boy!” Eli shouted at him, “and get in here! I want this place to see you!”

“What?” Jean asked, but his dad had already slipped through the front door, leaving it open for Jean to follow. Leaving his bag, he climbed the front steps to the porch and followed him inside.

“Fuck, it feels good to be home,” Eli said, heaving a heavy sigh of cigar smoke through the foyer. The house was empty of furniture, which was hardly surprising. They had barely started packing before this, and his father had insisted they let another company handle the moving, so they could focus on getting settled. Of course, how they were supposed to get settled here without any furniture was a mystery to Jean. Little did he know, that his father had canceled the moving truck entirely–he knew the house would provide everything they might need. His son would understand too, soon enough. Eli stared at his son’s reflection, longingly, his groin aching worse than at any point in the last week.

Jean, his younger son, was seventeen and heading into his senior year in high school, not that Eli would bother enrolling him down here. They would have other work to do, soon enough. Before, he’d always been…disappointed in his younger son. He had no ambition or discipline for anything other than football in the fall and soccer in the spring. His grades were barely enough to even allow him to play, and he had all of his eggs in athletic scholarships to various colleges, but fuck, looking at him now! His lithe, muscular body, coated in hair in all of the right places, and he fucking smelled so…sweet. Eli had, when his needs became too intense, stolen a pair of his son’s cleats and his jock, smelling them , jacking off into them, pushing smoke into them, staring at the mirror in his own bedroom, longing to be home. But the house needed him, needed to see him as much as he needed to see himself.

“Why don’t you explore a bit and pick a bedroom for yourself upstairs? I need to spend some time in my room for a bit.”

“Time doing what, dad?” Jean said, “Shouldn’t we, like, go buy some beds at least?”

“Go pick a damn room, boy!” Eli screamed at him, and Jean backed up to the mirrored wall of the foyer, his reflection leaning into him, sampling him. Jean felt the whisper of breath on the back of his neck, and spun around, facing himself. “Go find yourself a room,” Eli repeated, forcefully, sucking down smoke to calm himself down. Soon, he reminded himself. So soon.

“I’ll…go pick…a room…” Jean said, and without really understanding why, or how, he’d said that, he climbed the stairs slowly, and slipped into a room halfway down the hall. Eli, meanwhile, took the stairs two at a time, heart pounding with need, and entered his own room, the master suite, and there he was–there both of him were. His reflection, and that…other him. That him from before. He can barely remember anything about being him, and seeing him now, collared on his knees, beard and hair shaved off, covered with welts and cigar burns, Eli viscerally hated the very idea that there could have ever been a connection between them. Still, it was clear that the house had been busy, now that it had energy to power it. The room, which had been empty before, was now furnished. A king sized bed made up with leather sheets, a personal humidor, racks and shelves full of equipment, a closet full of gear–his gear.

“It’s good to be home,” Eli said, walked to the mirror as his reflection stepped forward, and he kissed himself, tasting his own smoke with relief.

A Home of Mirrors (Part 2)

Eli Billings enjoyed power. He enjoyed being important. Wealth and privilege and status all mattered to him. Yet, his entire life, he’d been very careful to keep himself grounded as best he could. Perhaps it was watching his wife succumb to cancer which had planted that reluctance within him, but whatever it was, he was prone to a certain restrained stoicism. He enjoyed his life, but looked down on the hedonists he encountered among the wealthy. He saw the purpose in being a strong leader, but detested those who abused with their power. He imagined he was a good person, for resisting these temptations, for trying to instill these values in his sons.

But that’s not what he saw in the mirror, as he walked forward. That wasn’t the person which was facing him now, smoking that expensive, elegant cuban cigar. Those weren’t his eyes. His feet drew him closer to the mirror now, close enough that, looking forward, he lost the frame. It was no longer a mirror, it wasn’t even a window–as far as he could tell, the room simply doubled in size, and there was nothing separating him from his doppelganger. When the thing reached out and brushed his cheek, he flinched slightly, and it laughed. “I’ve been looking forward to this, you know. To finally bringing you to heel.”

The slap surprised him, and sent him stumbling a step or two to the side. He felt his stinging, bearded cheek, confused, and looked at his doppelganger adjust the leather gloves which had appeared on his hands, the air filled with a fine layer of smoke. “This isn’t real. This can’t be real…” he muttered, turned, and started for the door, but his reflection moved out of the mirror and tackled him, throwing them both to the ground. Leather gloves circled his throat, and he could feel the air in his throat cutting off, looking at his own face leering over him. He knew that look, from his own heart, that maniacal glee, drool running from his smiling mouth around that thick cigar.

“Oh, to just choke you out and be done with you,” he said, grip tightening a moment, watching Eli’s mouth gasp noiselessly, and then he released his hold. Eli coughed and gagged, as his double rolled him over on the carpet, grabbed the back of his suit pants and underwear and tugged them down, exposing his ass, kneading it with his gloved hands. “Still, if you go, I go–and I’m not planning on going anywhere, any time soon.” Eli tried to crawl out from under him, but he grabbed his balls and tugged, hard, making Eli cry out. “These, I can take, if you want. I’ll still have mine, no matter what happens to yours. Now take it like the man you never could be, Eli, fucking take it.”

He heard the sound of his double’s fly being opened, a bit of spit, and then he was shoving his own cock into Eli’s ass, and he was trying to crawl away again–but each time he did that hand would appear around his balls, and tug him back into position, until he stopped struggling entirely, and just went…limp, hoping it would be over quicker that way.

“Yeah, that’s it, you fucking loser–give up,” the thing fucking him said around the cigar. He could feel it’s heat, an inch from the back of his neck, and his body…he felt strange. Numb, in one way, and invigorated in another. As he lost sensation around his body, he found it was being replaced by something else. He could…feel his cock in a tight, virgin hole, feel hot smoke deep in his lungs, feel his body sweating in his luxurious suit. His consciousness was expanding, filling both of his selves. He felt the pain in his ass, but also the rush of violating it. The pleasure at being in control suffusing his entire body. He clamped his teeth into the cigar, gnawing at the leaf, tearing at his own clothes, wanting to see his own flesh, wanting to feel his own nails raking across his back, wanting to feel them close around his own neck, wanting to violate and be violated, no longer certain who, or what, he even was, as he finally came.

He was still fucking that ass, but he couldn’t feel it inside him anymore. There was a body beneath him, but as he rammed his exploding cock inside it, he felt, and heard, it breaking and snapping under his weight, like a glass husk. Eli put one of his gloved hands on the back of the things head, pressed down, sucking in smoke, and watched his own head cave in, and he laughed. Unable to contain the immense glee at being free, at last, he started tearing apart that thing he’d been, until it was just scraps and shiny dust dissolving into the air, floating through his smoke to the mirror, where he could see his reflection was back…along with a second version of him. That old, weak failure he’d been, rematerializing on the other side. It screamed, soundlessly, one hand thumping against the mirrored barrier, as his new reflection got up, grabbed the pig by the neck and dragged it into the room to be raped again, and Eli watched.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t look away, it was that he no longer wanted to. He wanted to watch this–there were few things that could get him harder than a nice, brutal rape. His cock was hard again, and he stroked off again after a few minutes, and then left the two mirror beings to their play. He found The Agent on the porch–he seemed unsurprised that Eli was smoking, nor question the sudden appearance of his gloves. “I think the place is perfect for me and my boys. Where do I sign?”

They went through the paperwork inside, and while Eli looked over the contract, The agent checked in with his real client–the house was very pleased. “I believe you owe me a down payment?” the agent said. The house bristled at the mention, but he heard a soft crack in another room. A small office–one of the mirrored walls had broken, and a shard had fallen to the floor. The hole in the mirror was already closing back up, like a wound. The Agent collected the shard in a velvet cloth, and then closed the deal with Eli.

A Home of Mirrors (Part 1)

“And it’s for sale by the bank?”

“Yes–at a wonderful price in fact. Foreclosure, still leftovers from the slump. It’s a shame too, because this neighborhood is lovely, and this poor house is just sitting here, aching for a family like yours, Mr. Billings. The agent opened the door, allowing the older, suited man to step inside the house, before following him inside, the agent feeling the house…examine them both.

The agent, after all, wasn’t quite your usual real estate salesman. He didn’t buy properties from banks, and he didn’t work for homeowners, per se. His specialty was houses which were, shall we say, off-market. No, his client was no one alive–in the colloquial sense–no, he had been hired by the house itself. He was rather indifferent for whom he worked for–he placed families with hauntings and curses, he works with a nice mythic portal in South Dakota after every solar eclipse, but this home was a new client, one he hoped to please, because it was…powerful, to say the least. The agent, after all, didn’t do this work for money, but for access to, and power from, the beings residing in these walls. This was his third walkthrough, and the house had been…displeased with the other two. The agent hoped this one would suffice. “It seems well kept up,” Mr. Billings said, as he walked through the foyer and into the kitchen and den. “Is there a reason for all of the mirrors everywhere?”

“They come with the house, actually. Most of them are fabricated right into the walls. It isn’t a house for the modest.”

“No…no, it isn’t that…” Mr. Billings said, a bit absent mindedly. He was staring at his reflection in the large mirror which stretched from end to end in the den. It seemed to be a single sheet of perfect, reflective metal–without a hint of blemish anywhere…but then why did his reflection seem…off somehow? It was disconcerting, but he couldn’t quite look away. The agent watched the subtle exchange, feeling out to the house, wondering what it might be thinking…it seemed intrigued, but not convinced.

“Do you think your two sons will like it?” The agent asked, feeling a swell of interest from the house.

Mr. Billings didn’t reply. He didn’t even seem to have heard him. He was still staring at himself in the mirror. He was in his early fifties, but the age, rather than weakening him, had given him a rugged confidence instead. The agent knew that would fade in another decade or so, but he was in his prime at the moment. His full beard, and hair flecked with a bit of grey, his muscular physique packed into his power suit. The house was getting a taste, and the more it tasted, the…better it was feeling about this one. “Could…I see…the master bedroom please…” Mr. Billings said. His voice came out softer, with little inflection, almost like he was dozing off where he stood.

“Certainly!” the agent said, took Mr. Billings by the arm, and led him back the way they’d come. This was further than he’d gotten with the last two buyers he’d brought by, who’d taken one look at themselves in the mirrors around the house, and demanded they leave immediately, unable to even speak about what they’d seen in their own, supposed reflections. The agent hadn’t looked in any of the mirrors himself–his consultation with the house had been done blindfolded, and he carefully averted his eyes as he walked Mr. Billings through the hall, up the stairs, and towards the sizable master suite at one end of the house.

“I will need…to be alone for a while…” Mr. Billings said.

“Take all the time you need,” the agent said, and Mr. Billings went into the room, and shut the door behind him. “Don’t get greedy now,” the agent said quietly, pushing the words out in his mind as much as through his mouth, “You won’t be getting those sons until after your down payment, and you definitely won’t be getting them if you can’t control yourself.”

He felt the house lash at him, glints in the mirrors trying to catch his eye as he slipped down the stairs and out the front door, taking a moment to breathe. It was going…surprisingly well, as frustrating as his client was. These first placements were always difficult–however, once they saw what The Agent could provide them they almost always became rather appreciative.

Inside the master suite, Eli Billings shook his head, trying to process what he’d experienced down in the living room while staring at his reflection. He’d heard himself speak, but it hadn’t quite been…him doing it. Rather, he’d seen the image of himself speak, and he’d…spoken with it, but not out of his own will. It was difficult to explain, but what he did know, was that he wanted out of this place. He didn’t quite feel…like himself. He turned around to open the bedroom door and leave, when he felt a hand land on his shoulder, grab him, and spin him around–but when he’d turned to face the room, there was nothing there. Just an empty, unfurnished room, and like below, one entire wall was coated with that same, mirrored surface. It had the effect of making every room seem twice as large, and again, the surface was so pure that he could almost imagine himself stepping through, like water.

He was in the mirror, too…but not where he was supposed to be. The angle was wrong–even though he was looking at the room diagonally, his reflection was staring at him straight on, smiling. Unable to tear his eyes away, he watched himself pull a cigar from the pocket of his suit coat along with a lighter–it flared to life, and the smoke…moved from within the mirror to beyond–into the room where Eli was standing. His reflection beckoned, and he stepped forward, terrified, but unable to stop his body from doing what his reflection demanded.

The Fetish Gun (Part 6)

Back in his apartment, Wade settled down on the couch, parking Ben between his legs where he could suck down all the milky cum he wanted, and began experimenting with the gun on his new whore. Setting B, it seemed, was the easiest–it simply turned someone into whatever he wanted them to become. Setting A, as far as he could guess, would tailor the target to their current environment, but he wasn’t certain. Setting D amplified someone’s current form and fetishes to be even more extreme than before. That left two final settings which he had no clue about. One of them had to change people back, right? That was probably setting E–the last one. Out of curiousity, he turned the dial to E and fired it at Ben, figuring he could always change him back–but nothing happened. It was like the light wouldn’t even stick to him, or do anything at all. More confused than ever, he turned the dial to the letter C and fired it at Ben again. This time the light stuck, enveloping him in an aura like before–however when it dissipated Ben hadn’t changed at all. He fired it again at him, but like with setting E, the light refused to stick. Was it broken? Why in the world wasn’t it doing anything?

That was as far as he got, before a booted foot started kicking at his door. Ben pried himself away from Wade’s cock, who stood up and looked down the short hallway. After three kicks, the bolt broke through the door frame and the door swung open, revealing one of the uniformed men he escaped from the night before, his balls still massive, and he did not look happy. The man saw the gun in Wade’s hand and charged at him–Wade raised it up and shot him as he came crashing towards him, and the light engulfed him…and Ben, standing beside him, an umbilical tendril connecting them both together for a few moments, before disappearing. The gun had done nothing to stop the intruder’s momentum and he slammed into Wade, the gun flying from his hand behind the couch, and he began wrestling with the man on the carpet, eventually throwing him to the side, scrambling up to his feet, and finding Ben standing there, the gun shaking in his hand, the barrel pointed right at him.

The stranger stood up next to him, and the three of them remained still, allowing Wade to see what had just happened. It was clear that setting C was designed for two targets–both Ben and the man had been changed–and it looked like, to Wade, that the two of them had absorbed each other’s fetishes and lives, meeting somewhere in the middle. Both of them were dressed head to toe in leather, however it was no longer a police uniform, but appeared to be cast off biker leathers, all of it heavily worn, tattered and filthy. Wade could smell them both, in fact–Ben had stank of musk and piss as they’d come back to the apartment, and now they both did. It was clear that Ben’s obsession with piss had worn off in the other direction.

“What…what the fuck should we do with him?” Ben asked, looking at the man like a fellow conspirator, “He fucking…fucking fucked with me Jeff, we gotta, I don’t know…make him pay.”

“Look, Ben, just calm down, and give me the gun. It’s all going to be alright,” the man said…but how did he know Ben’s name? “Give me the gun, and the two of us will sort this whole thing out.”

“No!” Wade said, “No, don’t give it to him, he’ll just–” but that was as far as Wade got, before the light struck him in the chest. He assumed, at first, that the gun would still be on setting C–however, he started to feel a familiar warmth, and realized that the dial must have twisted when he’d thrown it, meaning things were about to get a whole lot worse. He tried to move, tried to reach out and deflect the ray, but his arms wouldn’t budge. It was getting harder to think, harder to focus on much of anything, but he tried to, he tried to keep himself together, until the light finally dimmed away.

Ben stared at Wade on the other side of the couch, unable to believe what he was seeing. If the man who’d accosted him in the alley had been a freak before…well, now he was even stranger. He’d lost even more height, bringing him under five feet tall, but he’d packed on even more muscle somehow, making him look like a short fleshy wall–especially his pecs, which ballooned out from his body before sagging down, made heavy by the milk inside them already seeping from his huge, two inch long nipples, running down the front of his body. His cock was nowhere to be found–just a nub over a sack of balls larger than anything Ben had imagined possible, larger than a basketball, resting on his thighs. Wade ran his hands over his body, trying to process what had happened, but his mind was suddenly too dull to do much thinking at all. There was…something about a gun, something important, but it was already fading as he started twisting his nipples with his fat hands, milk spurting from the onto the couch, his nub of a cock spurting as well, while he let out a loud, surprisingly authentic moo from his gaping mouth.

Ben was still staring at what he’d done, when Jeff (that was his name, but Ben had no idea how he could possibly know that…except how could he not? The two of them were inseparable, of course) walked up to him, and gently lifted the gun from his hands. “What…what did I just do? I didn’t mean, I…”

“Hey man, it’s alright, I know,” Jeff said, turning the dial on the gun, “Hold still, this will make everything better.”

Ben turned in time to see the gun fire, and everything disappeared in a blaze of light.

Sal’s Sons

[Pictured: Top left – Jack. Top Right – Sal. Bottom – Sal’s twin sons.]

“It’s odd, I didn’t even know he was moving out.”

“Well, sometimes people just need a change, right?” The older man who’d introduced himself as Sal, when Jack had approached down the hall. They were standing outside the apartment across from his, while Sal’s twin sons tromped up and down the stairs, hauling boxes and furniture, dressed in identical jean shorts and white wife beaters. Neither of them had said anything, and Sal hadn’t offered him their names. Every time they passed them, Jack couldn’t help but notice that they moved at a very careful tandem. Once, he saw one twin about to drop a box, and the twin walking in front of him swooped around and helped steady him. They could be acrobats, Jack thought idly, Well, they could be acrobats if they weren’t so fucking fat.

Sal was short and plump and his glasses seemed perpetually ready to slip from his too short nose. Jack towered over him awkwardly. No fan of small talk, Sal had him conversationally cornered into details about how long he’d spent looking for an apartment with enough room for him and his sons, how he worked from home while they went to college nearby. Jack eventually managed to slip away with the excuse that he had an early morning the next day, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He could already tell he would have to do his best to avoid running into Sal if he could help it.

Over the next few weeks, however, their encounters seemed predestined. Either coming home from work or the gym, or when he was leaving with a date for the movies, he would invariably run into Sal outside the apartment or on the stairs, and the old man would forcibly engage him in conversation. It was so boring that Jack rarely remembered what the man was saying for long afterwards, but he managed to speak rapidly enough that Jack’s chances to slip away without insulting the man were few and far between. Before long, Jack would just say hi and keep walking, Sal sometimes pursuing him with his thoughts on the dinner his sons had cooked the night before, and other times just shout at him as he walked away about how he was disappointed that the apartment pool was going to be out of service until mid-summer.

Sal never seemed perturbed by this disinterest, and Jack assumed he was lonely. Three weeks later, he realized he still had no idea what the twins’ names were. He hadn’t even seen them nearly as often as Sal, and he assumed they spent much of their time at the college and away from their dad–he couldn’t blame them really, the guy was a bore even if he meant well. The worst encounter came one day when, somehow, Jack locked himself out of his apartment without his keys or his cell phone. Luckily, Sal was home to call a locksmith, but unluckily, he had to spend an hour waiting for the man to arrive in Sal’s apartment.

That something strange was going on between Sal and his son’s was dreadfully obvious, or rather, that there seemed to be something very strange going on between his sons. The twins never spoke, and Sal rarely acknowledged their existence, even as they bustled about, serving them coffee and some leftover cake. The twins moved fluidly, finishing each other’s actions, stopping and starting in perfect symmetry. Sal treated all of this as perfectly normal, and the few times Jack, attempted to engage them in the conversation, Sal interjected. “They’re very shy and don’t like speaking if they can help it, but I can answer that for you…” The locksmith finally arrived and Jack resolved to never go over there again if he could help it.

After that, jack was caught up in a wave of problems that drove any concern about Sal and his son’s to the side. Missing clothing. Items found in places where he would have never put them. He asked the landlord to change the locks on his apartment, afraid that someone had gotten his keys and copied them somehow, but without any real evidence, the lazy owners did nothing. Even if Jack was uninterested in him, Sal was omnipresent, talking at him every day in the hallways and stairwells. Laundry day was the worst, when Sal would corner him in the building’s basement for the entirely of both cycles. It was on one such day that Jack, trying to be polite, accidentally accepted an offer for an afternoon snack in Sal’s apartment. It was another awkward hour with the mysterious twins serving them coffee too sweet and creamy, and he idly wondered how Sal could speak at such a clip for so long about everything so trite. He finally escaped, returned to his apartment, and two hours later was shivering with a fever of one hundred and five, his stomach vomited empty.

Unable to sleep because of his body burning from the inside, he could only manage intermittent dreams of varying lucidity. He thought, once or twice, of calling work but the thought of first finding and then using his phone filled him with such nausea he abandoned the idea. He hallucinated that he wasn’t alone, that he was surrounded by strange beings pinning him down, ripping away his covers and examining him. Aliens? Spirits? He entered a period of weightlessness, a sensation that he was hovering through the air on a pillar of wind, a cloud, a couch. He became aware of voices in his head, or perhaps one voice and an immediate echo. The burning subsided into a perpetual, full body ache stuttered with spasms and cramps. He screamed, not as often as before. He was aware that they sounded only in his head, or perhaps he simply couldn’t hear his own voice any longer.

He woke to the sunshine on his body and it didn’t burn. He was human again, but not unchanged. He felt heavier, weaker. The voices that had been dampened by sickness hadn’t disappeared but had only gained clarity. His mind felt thick and undone. The voices told him to get up from the bed. He didn’t believe that he had the strength, and found himself caught between the echoing voices and his failure of a body. He spent hours rising, first rolling to the edge of the bed, swinging his legs over (such heavy, thick legs) and pushing himself up to sitting. It felt like there was no room in his head for any thoughts of his own. Looking up, he saw a mirrored closet door, and the sight of himself–fat, short, hairy, the spitting image of one of Sal’s sons, could not raise any reaction in him because he had no room to consider it in comparison to anything else. He was no longer certain he’d ever looked different. He was no longer sure what different might mean. He had to stand up. He had to stand up and go out into the living room.

His body was recovering, but his mind continued to dissolve. His past and history was melting down and the voices reclaimed their space. He finally stood on shaky legs, adjusting naturally to the heavy gut in front of him, and slid his his feet out of the bedroom and down the hall of Sal’s apartment, father’s apartment, his apartment, to where his two brothers sat on the couch. Having fulfilled his task, his mind went quiet, allowing Jack a moment to surge back, far weaker than he should have been, he’d lost so much of himself already.

His words, he had no words for anything any longer. Before he could even mutter, the voices commanded him to never speak or else father will punish us, and his lips sealed themselves forever. Father is out, he learned. Father wants us to train today, and tonight we must be ready. His brothers began masturbating each other on the sofa, and the pleasure surged into Jack’s mind, overwhelming him once more. His own cock was as hard as theirs, and he stroked it in rhythm for a few minutes until his brother’s stood up and approached him. In a circle, they jerked each other off, their pleasures uniting as one for the sake of their father, and Jack receded further until he merged entirely into the triplet mind.

That evening, Sal returned to find his three sons patiently waiting for his return. As one, they undressed him, and he led them into his bedroom. They served him for hours, each taking their turn nursing at their father’s small cock, abusing and degrading themselves and each other for his amusement, their biological nature able to anticipate their sire’s needs and desires before he could even voice them. The youngest of them was, by now, indistinguishable from the other two in both body and mind. After his final climax, one son’s tongue buried deep in his father’s ass, while Sal sucked another’s cock and the third sucked his father, they disentangled.

“Time for dinner boys,” Sal said, “And while you’re cooking, I’ll start looking for another genetic match. I’ve always wanted to have quadruplets.”