Archive: Matchmaker

Originally published July, 2012

Figured I might as well get back into cleaning up and reposting some old stories of mine! This was an old one with quite a few pics to go with it. This is the original version without much doctoring. For those interested, I added a few notes on to the end.

Synopsis: A young construction worker finds himself the heir to an unlikely legacy, and uses his new powers to help the men in his family find some unlikely romantic matches.

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Continue reading “Archive: Matchmaker”

Orwell’s Demon (Part 4)

WARNING: Extreme violence, gore.


It had been a week and a half since Ray Diamond’s disappearance. From one afternoon, after school, to the next morning, he was simply gone. He never arrived home that day, his car was still at the school, but there was no sign of a struggle, and so clue about where he could have possibly gone. The police were stumped, but the best the detective on the case, Officer Ed Hurlbane could guess, was that he must have simply run. It didn’t sit particularly well with him–in particular, people who ran tended to leave clues, at the very least–empty bank accounts, notes of apology–but there was simply nothing. Still, what else could it be? There was no body, there was no sign of a struggle. The coach had been one of the largest people on staff–if someone was going to take him down, it wouldn’t have been easy. But no one seemed to have a reason to hate him, either–according to the rest of the staff, he’d been a perfect colleague. So Hurlbane set it aside–unless something else came up, there was nothing to be done about it, and there were more serious cases that needed his attention.

Orwell, on the other hand, couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t stop…feeling Ray’s massive, yard long cock skewering him from ass to mouth. It was in his dreams, it was in his fantasies–it was all he could think about, and the voice in the amulet, the demon, was more than happy to keep inflaming those desires, telling Orwell that all he had to do was pick someone else, and he could feel that again, and so much more. He’d tried taking it off, but his hands refused to obey him. He hated it. He hated himself. He could barely even look himself in the mirror, at his fat, sagging frame…but the voice was right.

You want more, Orwell. If you didn’t want more, you could be done with me, but I know what’s in your heart. I know what you want. Let me give it to you, let me make you happy again.

Still, he carried on, pretended that everything was normal. But one afternoon, after school, he slipped. The teachers dealt with detention on a rotation–every teacher took a turn staying after school to observe the detention hall and the students there. It was generally boring, but provided a good chance to get some work done, but one student in particular had rankled Orwell that day–a student he’d sent to detention himself.

Stewart Riverdell was one of the star jocks at the school, and Orwell had caught him passing notes in class–notes which had been making fun of Orwell’s now fat, ugly body, calling him a pig and a fat ass. He was furious. He was furious because he hated himself too. He was furious because…because Stewart was right.

Of course he’s right. You are a pig. A pig hungry for cock. Hungry for cum. Hungry for abuse. It’s what you want Orwell, just admit it.

The voice spoke the entire hour of detention, and Orwell found his will breaking down. He couldn’t stop…staring at Stewart, barely able to glance away to the clock to see how much of the hour was left before he could be free. At last, the hour was up, and he raced to get his things together and be gone, but when he stood up, a hand shoved him back down into the chair, and there, standing in front of him, was Stewart, his eyes burning like coal, just as Ray’s had.

“Where do you think you’re going, Piggy?” Stewart said, “Aren’t you here for your punishment? Haven’t you been a very, naughty piggy? Trying to tell yourself that you’re something else, someone better than a cock hungry pigwhore?”

Stewart, and the demon inside him, began tearing at Orwell’s clothes, but he fought back, got up and rushed for the door, only for something to slip its way around his neck and pull tight, choking the air from his lungs. He gasped for air as Stewart walked up to him, holding the leash tight connected to the choke collar around Orwell’s neck, watching his fat face turn blue as he grasped for the door, watching it turn solid, becoming concrete, the entire room becoming a concrete cell with no way out.

“That’s a very bad piggy. I think we need to teach you a lesson, show you just what kind of pig you are. A pain pig, a pig who wants nothing more than to be punished at my hand–how does that sound? This young man–such vitality. I think we can keep you in here for days–isn’t that exciting?”

Orwell had no idea how long the demon kept him in that dungeon he’d created. He lost track of time rather quickly, as Stewart flayed his back apart, stripping the flesh from his back and thighs with whips and chains. He was certain he was going to die, certain that this, at least would be the end of him.

“Oh no, piggy. This isn’t the end. But we have to get rid of the old to bring in the new, don’t we?”

The demon flayed him, removing every patch of skin from his body. The pain was excruciating and indescribable. And then, when he was nothing more than a bloody mass of flesh, the demon began pressing something else onto him, a hide, the skin of another, pieced together. It was rough, and hairy, and stank, but this new skin–it was nothing like his own. Every lash across it brought a sigh of pleasure, every needle piercing into his flesh brought a massive gout of cum from his cock, dribbling from the heavy, overhanging foreskin he’d been given. Stewart saved Orwell’s new face for last, peeling his visage away, pinning it to the wall as a trophy, before giving him a few face, a face for a pig, a face that would insure that Orwell would never again question his place in the order of the world–and that no one else would either.

The next thing Orwell knew, he was on the floor of the classroom, soaked in sweat, heaving and trembling in pain and pleasure. The same ash floated down around him, the last remaining chunks of Stewart drifting about in the air and dissolving away to dust. Orwell flung on his tattered clothes and fled the room, racing home, and only there did he stop and see what the demon had wrought upon him.

Symbiotic Justice (Part 4)

CW: Rape, Violence

It had been four days since anyone at school had seen either Lief or Erik. Their parents had called in, telling the school both boys had come down with the flu, and not to expect them for a while longer, but Erik’s friends on the wrestling team, Nate, Ryan and Hyde, sensed that something strange was going on. They’d gone over the day before to check on Erik after school, but when his mother had answered the door, she’d flat out refused to allow them in. Worse…something about her had seemed…wrong. In her eyes, and in her speech. She wasn’t the nice mother they’d known before–she was too cold. They chucked rocks at Erik’s window, but got nothing back–they didn’t even see a face peek out from behind the curtains. Still, none of them had an answer, but the brothers sudden absence wasn’t the only strange occurrence.

Tommy Matthews, the star football player, and another friend of Erik’s who had bullied Lief regularly, disappeared one afternoon. He’d been walking home from school, passed through the field, and never emerged. The police investigated, and found signs of a struggle off the path, along with a strange crater of some kind, but nothing more than that. The next day, another jock disappeared–Mason Clark. People were talking about the possibility of a serial killer, but no one had found their bodies, or any evidence that they hadn’t simply vanished or been kidnapped.

The three wrestlers were on high alert, and agreed that all three of them should stick together, until they unravelled whatever mystery was going on around their school. Hyde thought he’d seen…something watching his window the night before, out on the street, but before he could get a good look, it had disappeared into the shadows. Still, all three of them assumed they were safe while they were in school. When their coach asked them to come by his office in the locker room after school, none of them thought twice about it. They headed down to the gyms, laughing and joking like they always did, but when they got into the room, they realized something was wrong–something in the locker room…it didn’t…smell right.

Not that the locker room ever smelled good, of course, but this–it wasn’t a smell any of them recognized, and it filled all of them with a deep sense of unease. “I…smelled this the other night, when I had my window open,” Hyde said.

“We…we should leave,” Nate added, but all three of them instead walked deeper, the smell growing stronger, all of them feeling it cloud their minds, making everything run slower than it should. Around the corner, they had a clear look at the coach’s office, and he was there–but he wasn’t alone. Crammed inside with him, in the tiny space–none of them knew what it was, to be honest, but it wasn’t human. Or, at least, not entirely human. It’s body was coated with thick hair, some of brown, but much of it, especially growing on his chest and forearms, faded into deep shades of blue and green, the hair seeming almost…alive, or moving on it’s own. The beast had the coach pulled close, face pressed to the side of the older man’s head, mouth open and enveloping his ear, drool dribbling down the side of his face in copious amounts.Seeing the three young men enter the room, the beast let out a strange garbled growl, released the coach, and they watched him slump to the floor, the thing’s tongue sliding free of his ear as it did.

“There you all are,” the beast said. The voice–it was barely understandable as speech, really, but the boys got a sense of what it was saying well enough. “So…little left of me, I have to do you all at once, before I fade. Come closer…”

The beast stepped over the coach and ducked under the doorway into the office, looming over them at nearly eight feet tall. “What…what the fuck are you?” Ryan asked.

“You all know me–I’m Lief. I was Lief. I’m…better now. More now. So hungry, been saving room for you all today.” The three men tried to force themselves to run, but all they could do was come closer, watching as the beast’s huge cock swiveled in the air, examining them with it’s flat, blade like head. With a screech, the head cracked apart in two places, and the tears widened, the beast roaring and screeching as it did, in obvious pain, but after a few moments it had healed, and three smaller rope like cocks waved in the air in front of them. “One for each of you.”

The beast tore at their clothes, ripping into them with claws and teeth until they were all naked, and then drove one of it’s cocks into each boy, pinning them to the floor, drawing in their strength and their power. Mason and Tommy–after Lief had drained his brother, he’d needed more, and each time, he’d…changed. Growing larger, gaining this strange hair and powerful stench that no man could resist. He’d lost more and more of himself as well, giving into the new instincts driving his cock, and his new body. That was what Lief hated the most–that he couldn’t even fight any of this…because he wanted the power, and the parasite–it knew it even better than he did, what he wanted, because it was absorbing the last remaining bits of the young man’s psyche into it’s new, bestial and alien brain.

A Home of Mirrors (Part 6)

***WARNING: Violence and abuse.***

The scene Eli found, upon opening the door to his son’s chosen room, would have likely turned his stomach before. There was a surprising amount of blood on the carpet, and several parts of his son’s body didn’t seem to be arranged properly. In particular, his right arm was hanging limp at his side, as the massive brute behind him rammed his cock into his son’s ass like a piston. This all should have affected him emotionally–Eli realized this, as he took a long, steady drag from his cigar–but all he saw was a mess. An appealing one, perhaps, but so…inefficient.

“Dad? Dad! Is…what happened to you?”

Eli looked at the body of his son being fucked, but realized that wasn’t who had spoken in his voice–instead, it was the brute. He saw now, what his reflection had meant, about his son resisting.

“Shut up and fuck me, you pussy?” the young man on the floor screamed, blood flying from his mouth. “You wanna be this fuckin’ sack a shit for the rest of your life? You’re weak! Weak! Rape my fucking hole!”

“Dad, if that’s you, you have to help me, please dad, I don’t understand what’s happening–I can’t stop!” the brute looked down at his body, at his massive hands gripping his hips hard enough to leave bruises under his fingers. “This isn’t me. This isn’t me! I don’t want to be this thing!”

“You were fucking right about him–you were always right,” the other said, grinning up at Eli, “He’s such a disappointment…”

“Shut up!” Jean shouted, and fucked a bit harder, not noticing his change in pace.

“Fucking let me handle this,” Eli said, walked forward, and slid his cock into the bloody mouth, focusing on Jean, trapped in the brute’s body, matching his rhythm, slamming into his old body at the same time, feeling the body cracking and breaking a bit between them. “Jean–Boy,” Eli said, locking eyes with him, “We’re going to break you.”

“No…dad, please,” Jean said. He felt like crying, but this body, this face, didn’t seem capable of doing so.

“You want to disappoint me again? Look at this thing you were. Look at how fucking pitiful it is. That’s what you want to be, when you could be this?” Eli reached out with a gloved hand, stroking his son’s stubbly cheek, seeing him shudder.

“Fuck–Fuck you, fuck you, I fucking hate you!” Jean shouted at him, “You never fucking loved me, you never even wanted me. Nothing I wanted was ever enough for you.”

“You want your dad to love you, boy? Then quit fighting.”

Jean didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what he could do. That body, it hurt all over, everywhere. Broken ribs, missing teeth, dislocated shoulder–but this body felt so broken too. Broken in spirit, broken in mind. All he could feel was anger and rage, every other emotion seemed to have ceased existing for him, and looking at his father, looking at the man he’d resented for so fucking long, the anger was winning. He could…embrace it. He could use it. “I hate you so fucking much.”

“I know boy–I want you to hate me. I want you to hate the fucking world, and everyone in it.”

Jean tried to speak, but all that came out was a snarl, black slobber flinging from his tobacco packed lips and splattering across his father’s immaculate uniform, and he started fucking in earnest now, feeling that pain still but accepting it. Life was fucking pain, after all, and he could revel in it, couldn’t he? Eli fucked harder too, and his son came deep within his own ass, and in a flash, the thing between them hollowed out. The two thrusted forward, feeling the shell crack and crumple between them–they crushed it as they drove towards one another on their knees. Jean landed the first blow, a fist across his father’s jaw, Eli sneering up at him from the floor. “Fuck boy, that’s fucking it! Fucking bring it, you fucking pig!”

Eli got a few blows in, but even he knew there was no way he could stand against the wrath he’d just unleashed. His punches only seemed to drive Jean to new heights of rage, and when he threw Eli to the floor and jumped on a femur, snapping it with just his weight, all Eli did was laugh. The pain was nothing. What was pain but a sensation? It didn’t mean anything. Nothing seemed to mean anything to him, any longer. There was him, a consciousness. There was the other, the house itself. He served the house, and his son would too. Jean tore down his father’s pants and raped his hole, Eli urging him on, demanding he fuck him harder, be as brutal he could be, that he make his hole bleed. Jean was only too happy to comply, and as he fucked, the rage lost…focus. The anger he felt towards his father seemed to expand into a general fury at everything. He came again, struggled to standing, giddy with excitement, cock and hands rusty with blood, and saw that he meek thing he’d been had appeared there, on the other side of the glass.

He wanted to kill it. He wanted it to die, more than anything. He stomped over towards it, ready to choke it’s breath and snap it’s little neck, when his own, newly formed reflection barrelled into him, and pushed him up against the wall. “You belong to us now–you want to hurt someone? Hurt me.”

Eli watched his son and his double wrestle on the ground, biting and kissing and punching and sucking and fucking. He couldn’t move, not with his leg busted, or he’d have joined in. A figure stepped in his view, however–he looked up at himself–a new version. His uniform was no longer immaculately pressed, but looked well worn. His leather pants were now chaps, his coat a thick biker jacket, grey beard wild with a lank ponytail hanging past his neck. “Gonna have tah be a bit rough, tah match that fuck,” it said, looming over him. “Pity, I liked ya.”

The reflection planted a boot on Eli’s neck, and he bent over, stroking him off. He couldn’t breathe (or could he) but right before he passed out, he felt his cock explode, and his his boot collapsed through the neck it had been pressing down on. “Hey, you fuckin’ pigs! Daddy wants tah play too,” he said, and joined the merry brawl.

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.

The Facility (Part 6)

WARNING: Strange TF 

Holden’s body seemed to be…quivering and shaking all over, and expanding. It was all fat, that Quinn could see, and it was happening so quickly that his skin could barely keep up–even tearing the flesh at parts, though it healed over within moments, leaving him covered with scars and stretchmarks. He tried to speak, but something was wrong with his mouth–his whole face really. There was blood running from his nose and mouth down his chin as it pushed out, his jaw and skull reforming into some strange new shape. Quinn couldn’t look anymore–he got up and shook the doors again, but there was no opening them. He had to fight. He had to, there was no option. Beside the door, he saw a fire extinguisher in a glass case. He smashed it and hauled it free, charging at the monster with it raised over he hurled it at the things head, dealing it a glancing blow–the thing roaring in surprise and pain, before hauling itself out of Holden’s ass and charging at Quinn.

He dodged it’s first charge, but wasn’t expecting it’s tail to move as quickly as it did, tripping him and then wrapping itself around him tightly, so tight he could only manage ragged breaths. It was strong enough that it could lift him off the ground entirely, long enough to haul him around to face the thing’s snarling mouth, before it lowered him onto it’s cock as it stood there. He kicked and struggled, but there was no fighting it–the beast impaled him on his cock, making him scream in pain, his ass loosening immediately just like Holden’s had, and then he too, felt something begin pumping its way into his bowels, some of it seeping back out and dribbling to the floor from his now wrecked hole.

It was the pleasure which surprised him the most, catching him completely off guard. He hadn’t been able to see earlier, from how Holden had been face down against the floor, but Quinn’s cock hardened immediately, he gasped, and sprayed a massive shot of cum from his cock, and then another, eyes rolling back into his head, and even the horrific pain he felt as his body swelled with fat, skin ripping and healing as he grew, couldn’t beat the pleasure, couldn’t stop him from…wanting this. The cum was still pouring out of him in a torrent, his scrotum swelling larger and larger as he spewed, his cock growing as well, even as his new fat threatened to overwhelm it. He could…smell it. He was dimly aware that he could taste blood, that something was wrong inside of him, that his face ached–especially his teeth, but he could smell so much now. Smell his cum. Smell the monster’s cum forming a pool below him, how delicious it all smelled to him, suddenly.

Apparently satisfied with the result, the beast pulled him free and dropped him to the floor, where he landed on something large and soft, before rolling off to the side. It was Holden, he realized. It had been Holden. Whatever it was, it had crawled over from where the beast had been fucking him to the puddle beneath them, and had spent the last several minutes lapping up and eating whatever cum had dribbled from them both. Both of his arms seemed…smaller, almost atrophied. It was desperately groping it’s fat and trying to reach his groin–and his own strangely deformed cock and balls, but couldn’t do so. It took a moment for Quinn to realize that he too, was desperately trying to reach himself. He could only turn his head so far, enough to see his oddly misshapen limbs flailing about helplessly, but he managed to crawl forward somehow, his own face battling with Holden’s for whatever cum it could find on the floor.

Doctor Sondew was pleased with the results of the initial seeding. Further exposure to the beast’s seed, beyond another threshold, would trigger the complete transformation of subjects two and three–their arms and legs disappearing entirely, leaving them as little more than fat worms with a single minded thirst for cum, and whatever else the dear doctor felt they deserved. Of course, their human minds were relatively untouched, though no longer in control of their bodies, which would be governed by instinct from this point forward. Still, best to leave them…recognizable for what would come next. He would leave these two in the main facility, where they would be found, where the rest of the men in the camp could find them, know what they were, so they could see what they two would become tonight when he turned his beast on them. The woods were dark and terrifying, especially after the doctor’s small EMP had plunged their camp into silence, and killed all of their communications. After that, there would only be them, the darkness, the trees, and the beast from their nightmares fucking each of them in turn, until all that would remain come morning were the monstrous worms they all deserved to be.

Doctor Sondew would be recording it all, of course, and come morning, it would be broadcast to the entire world for them to see. To see what this company was capable of, to see what they had done. He and his beast would be gone by then, of course–and if that wasn’t enough, then he’d set the beast loose in a major city, and see how the world might respond to that.

The puddle of cum was been depleted, and both might worms had inched their way to his beast, their strange mouths and tongues licking at the monster’s massive balls. They could smell what was in them, and as much as they might fear it, they also knew that they needed it to survive. The beast was obedient, however, and refused to provide it, though it looked up to it’s master and gave a whine, telling him that it would very much like to continue with subjects Eta Two and Three. But no, there was work to be done. Two robots entered, wrapping up the Quinn and Holden and dragging them out to the room, to the elevator. His revenge would come tonight, at last.