VIP Package (Part 4)

The next morning, Jeremy woke up, and wasn’t quite sure what to make of what had happened the night before. Most of the details had been lost in the drunken blur, but he was certain it had been Samuel waiting for him in the room, and yet…it hadn’t seemed like Samuel. He certainly hadn’t behaved like Samuel, or even looked much like him. For a bit, he tried to convince himself that it hadn’t actually been him at all, but then how could he explain the birthmark, or how he’d gotten into the room, or how he’d even known who Jeremy was? Still, he’d seemed…out of his mind, first trying to jump his bone, and then he’d just up and left. Where in the world had he even gone? After his hangover subsided, he searched the ship, high and low, but quickly discovered just how much of the ship was, in fact, off limits to him.

The boundaries were as invisible as they were strict; he would be heading down an unmarked corridor, when a member of the staff would appear–seemingly out of nowhere–and escort him back to the main concourse, with a gentle, pleasant reminder not to be too much of an explorer. He found himself growing a bit obsessed with the ship’s VIP passengers, but as hard as he sought them out, he was unable to even find one to talk to. They all seemed to be cloistered within their own section of ship, none of them bothering to mingle with the rest of them. They had a separate dining room, separate floors, separate rooms, separate casinos…he again accosted the help desk, and was rebuffed even faster than before. Samuel was safe, and when the cruise ended, he would be returned–they spoke of him with the same care they would discuss a piece of lost luggage.

Samuel ended up back in the room that evening, hoping that Samuel would come back–but he didn’t. This was, somehow, even worse. Could things have been different if he hadn’t gotten so drunk the night before, and maybe managed to fuck his husband? Would things be different if he hadn’t fucked everything else up already? Why was he even blaming himself? This was fucking Samuel’s fault, running off with some fucking rich fuck behind his back! But in the room…he hadn’t seemed happy. He’d seemed terrified and desperate. Jeremy didn’t know how to process any of this; he’d never been good with relationships and feelings. Around midnight, he went out and got drunk again, and then continued his bender early the next morning after work, not planning on stopping until the cruise was over, or Samuel showed up with an explanation.

The staff cut him off around three in the afternoon, after he got into a one sided screaming match with another guest he’d stumbled into by the pool bar, and the staff insisted that he get something to eat. Two men escorted him to a dining room, Jeremy protesting and raving. They were entering the dining room–a massive, three story tiered room, and he looked up, and there, on the third floor overhead, next to the railing, he saw him. It was Samuel, sitting at a small table across from some old fat fuck, laughing his fucking head off, and all Jeremy felt was rage. He threw off the two hulks helping him walk, and staggered over to the nearest stairway, ignoring the “VIPs and Guests Only” sign, and got up a floor. The staff above was already waiting to intercept him, but he just started screaming out Samuel’s name, but his husband didn’t even notice…until he tried the name ‘Sammy’. At that, his husband’s head turned in curiosity, saw him, his eyes rolled, and he turned back to the old man across from him, who had been watching Jeremy’s entrance with a smirk. Cursing and punching, the staff dragged Jeremy back downstairs, where he supposedly belonged, and deposited him at a table–but if he hadn’t felt like eating before, now the thought of food did nothing for him at all.

The waiters brought him platters, he asked for booze, and was turned down. He tried to steal a bottle of wine from a table near him, and was intercepted before he could even stand up, like the fucks knew what he was thinking. He felt trapped in a massive room, convinced that he could hear his husband’s unusually high laughter drifting down from above, and he was certain it was over. His marriage was over, his life was over–and then a member of the staff approached him, and said that a VIP guest had requested that Jeremy be added to his package.

He listened, numbly, as the man gave him the same limited explanation that had been given to Samuel at the pool, and he had only one question for the man, when he’d finished the offer. “If I agree to this, I can go upstairs?”

“Guests who have been added to VIP packages are granted access to VIP exclusive areas and events provided their VIP has given them permission to be there. This is covered in more detail in our terms of service, which again, I am required to strongly suggest you read before providing your affirmative consent.”

“I don’t want to read it, I agree.”

The staff member smiled, and presented a small screen to Jeremy–he pressed his thumb to it, but barely felt the shock race through him, as drunk as he was. It froze him in place all the same, and the man inserted his VIP control chip at the top of his spine. “Thank you for helping us provide our VIP members with exceptional fantasy experiences. Please follow me, and I will take you to your VIP, where he will assume control of you for as long as you remain a part of his VIP package.”

Jeremy had a difficult time understanding what the man was talking about, and he’d already stood up and followed him for several paces before he even realized he was walking. He wasn’t stumbling like he had been, either–as drunk as he was, his pace was perfectly even–nearly robotic, in some way. The anger in his gut began to melt into fear–is this what Samuel had gotten himself into? At the top of the stairs, the waiter let him directly to the table where his husband was sitting with the older man, or rather…on the old man. Samuel was straddling him, naked, the man’s massive cock buried in his hole with Samuel moaning in pleasure, gripping his daddy’s rolls of fat tight.

Mr. Bishop turned to Jeremy and smiled. “Hello there, Jeremy. I wasn’t planning on inviting you to join us for another day or two, but since you’ve proven to be rather…nosy, I figured, why not move on? My boy was getting a bit boring, all by himself, anyway. Do have a seat. We’ve already eaten, but I’m sure the waiters can find something for you.”

VIP Package (Part 3)

“I still don’t understand what the fuck that fucking means!” Jeremy screamed at the buff young man behind the desk, who simply maintained the same plastic smile all of the fucking men on staff had, and nodded along.

“Yes sir, you’ve said that several times. I can assure you that your husband is safe, and will be returned at the end of the cruise, or earlier, if our VIP guest chooses to remove him from his package prior to arrival back in Florida.”

“Who the hell is he fucking that’s so fucking important he can’t spend his vacation with me?”

“I can’t disclose any information about our VIPs, sir.”

So what, he just fucking disappears on a fucking a boat, with some fucking stranger?”

“He’s providing a vital service for the cruise line, and will be handsomely compensated at the end of the voyage.”

“Oh, and now you’re telling me he’s a whore, too?”

The man behind the desk thought a moment, grinned, and then nodded, “Perhaps, in a sense, if that helps you understand. But that’s still not quite precise enough. However, I cannot clarify further, because I cannot disclose the nature of our VIP packages to visitors in the midst of their fantasy voyage.”

“Some fucking fantasy.”

“Would fucking a member of our staff help, sir? I can offer you someone on the house, if you’d like.”

“I’m going to call the fucking cops when I get off this fucking boat, that’s what I’m going to do.”

“Our company has filed and been granted a special waiver, and at sea, our vessels are classified as sovereign nations. Even if you told the police, they would have no jurisdiction. That said, further threats against our ship can be considered an act of war, so I would encourage you to leave, and not press the issue further.”

The man’s eyes, had turned stony, and the grin, while pleasant, was…also menacing. If it was a bluff, it was crazy enough to sound possible. Samuel was the lawyer–all Jeremy knew how to do was ride the markets for hedge funds. Still, it was clear that this muscle fuck wasn’t going to give him any answers, so he did leave the cruise ship complaint office, frustrated, but also terrified and confused. The last he’d seen Samuel, he’d been napping at the pool, while he’d gone off for a quick fuck with a cute guy next to them. Well…quick had turned into a couple of hours, but Jeremy hadn’t figured Samuel would mind. They…hadn’t exactly been getting along well, and this cruise probably wasn’t helping much. Samuel was just…so easy going about all of this shit, and all Jeremy wanted was for him to fight for him, to show him that he was wanted. He didn’t want to keep pulling away, but the more distant he got, the less Samuel seemed to even care. Here’s where it had gotten him: alone on a massive ship, his husband keeping some rich fuck company as…as something similar to a whore, and he had no fucking clue about any of it. So he did what he’d always done when things went south–he got shitfaced at the nearest bar.

He was, at first, only going to do a shot or two to steady his nerves. Then, he just needed a couple more before that bear a stool or two over looked a little more handsome. Then, after slurring and flubbing his pickup line and getting firmly rejected, he decided to call it a night. He stumbled back to his room, managed to get the key in the door, and he hoped against everything that Samuel would be in there, ready to clean up another mess, and he’d just…demand they talk about this, about everything. He’d apologize for everything, ask for everything to be right again, to make this work. But there wasn’t going to be anyone in there–he was gone, probably for good, now. He managed to get the key in the door, and nearly fell through it when it opened, and when he looked up, sitting on the edge of the bed…it was Samuel, or at least, he thought it was. It was hard to tell, when the world didn’t seem to want to stop twirling.

“Jeremy? Jeremy! Oh god, oh fuck, I didn’t think I’d see you again, but I begged daddy, and…and I had to do such dirty things, but he said I could see you baby, he said I could be with you.”

“S-Samuel? Is that you?”

The man looked a bit taken aback. “You fucking–that’s not my name! My name is Sammy! What the fuck is wrong with you?” He shook his head, “I’m…I’m sorry, he’s still in my fucking head, but it’s ok. Just…don’t call me that, I don’t want to be called that anymore.”

Jeremy focused, trying to clear his head, leaning against the wall beside the door. When he opened his eyes, the swirling had eased up, and he could see…Sammy there, on the bed. It…was his husband, he could see that, but he wasn’t quite the man he remembered. No, Samuel had been buff, and greying, and…a fucking hot top, when he was in the right mood, but the man in front of him…no, it couldn’t be him. For one thing, he was fucking fat–probably 350 pounds at least, with no real definition, just flab, and all of it perfectly smooth. His face was smooth, and looked so young, the rest of his skin without a fucking blemish at all…aside from a prominent birthmark on his right shoulder, which Jeremy knew intimately. He couldn’t process this, what in the world was even happening. “I…I must be hallucinating, you look like a fat fucking…boy, or something.”

“Oh…Oh fuck…” Sammy groaned, “Oh fuck, say…say it again.”

“What?”

“Come on Jeremy, you know, call me what I fucking am.”

“What, a…fat fucking boy?”

“Fuck…fuck me daddy, fuck!” Sammy got up from the bed, grabbed Jeremy, and shoved him towards the bed, where he landed, and Sammy climbed on him, tearing his clothes off, finding his cock. “It…seems so small…but I don’t care. Daddy said you wouldn’t be enough for me, but I don’t care! I don’t…I mean…” Jeremy was trying to protest, trying to get a handle on what was happening, as Sammy stroked his cock, but he was both too turned off–and too drunk–to get hard. “Fuck…Fuck you! You fucking…you’re fucking worthless, he was fucking right! You…you can’t give me what a boy like me needs, fuck, I…I need a, I need my daddy!” Sammy shouted, and fled the room, leaving Jeremy befuddled on the bed, and he passed out not long after that.

The King’s Ring (1 of 2) – Reminder: after this weekend, all of my original content will be moving over to my main blog, @wesleybracken. Make sure you’re following me there if you don’t want to miss any posts!

There’s something…wrong, with my boyfriend. We were a pretty normal couple, just a couple of twinks, really. We worked, went to the gym together, went clubbing and dancing on the weekend. Sure, we did drugs on occasion, but we’re young, right? But one day, he comes home with this…ring on his finger. I ask him about it, and he tells me he got it at some strange store he happened across on his way home from work, but he didn’t seem to walk to talk about it. I mean, we both wear jewelry a bit, sure, but it just seemed…old, and not at all his style. At the time, I didn’t think much of it, but that…it seems like that when things started to get a bit strange.

Slowly, he stopped going to the gym. He tried to keep up for a few weeks, but he kept telling me he was just too tired, and didn’t feel like it, and he started begging off. I kept going, of course, but I’d come home, and find him on the couch…stuffing his face, and as soon as I’d arrive he’d fucking want sex! I tried to say no, but he’d always get me on my knees, sucking him off while he just…kept eating, and watching TV, like…like I didn’t even matter, and he’d never fucking reciprocate anymore. It was confusing–I was usually the top, but now, all I was doing was sucking him off, or he might, on occasion, fuck me. I…didn’t even really want to have sex with him, and he disgusted me, really, but I…couldn’t say no to him. It just didn’t feel right.

Within three months…he didn’t even look like the same person anymore. He’d packed on…I don’t know, two hundred pounds? He had a huge gut, a thick beard across his face, and hair all over his body too, which I thought was so fucking gross. I…hated him, really. I despised him, and I wanted to leave–just ditch him there, but I…couldn’t. As much as I hated it, I kept going back there, I kept sucking him off, and…and licking him clean. He wouldn’t shower anymore–he was telling me that was my job, to give him nice tongue baths every day, everywhere from between his grungy toes, to his ass crack, his pits and the deepening folds of his neck. He was enjoying humiliating me, making me worship him. I cook for him constantly, whenever I’m home–hell, he’s forbidden me from going to the gym now, because he needs more and more food! But tonight…tonight, something in me just fucking snapped.

He’d…pissed himself on the sofa, and was just lying in it. I was so utterly disgusted by it, that I just started screaming at him, shouting, calling him every cruel name I could think of, and tell him I was done, that I was done with him, that if he wanted to be some slob, he could do it alone. Finally I stopped, and tried to move my feet, tried to leave…but I couldn’t. And he’s just…laughing at me. It doesn’t even sound like him, he’s almost some different person entirely. Then…then I saw the ring, how it was catching the light, drawing my attention to it.

“Now, now. We can’t have you leaving now, can we? Who will take such good care of us?” he said, “No–but you do need to be punished, don’t you? Yes…a good punishment for a bad, bad slave. Now come over here, and kiss the ring of your king, like a good little bitch.”

Source: jbearv

Stinkers – Coach’s Senior Gifts (Part 3)

Out in the locker room, Erik and Paul had both spent the last ten minutes becoming acquainted with their gifts. Even though they were only a few feet away from one another, they had nearly forgotten about the other’s existence, and the locker room entirely. The jocks…the scent imbedded within them (or the scents they were made out of–it was difficult to know, exactly, what this gear was) was incredibly powerful and overwhelming, but not by force–it was the nuance and the detail which had absorbed the attention of the two jocks so intently.

For Erik, the scent wasn’t only musk, though it was plenty heady. There was also loam, and tinges of evergreen. The chill of a cave, or perhaps a den. Smelling it made him feel both…sleepy, and yet also incredibly powerful, like a boulder at the top of a spruce covered mountain, waiting for a single tap, to send it careening down the slope, flattening anything in it’s path. There was the sweetness of fresh berries, and the pungent rot of raw fish in the sun, the taste of iron and blood in the back of his throat. He was gnashing at the jock now, filling it with spit, and then sucking it down his throat, tasting everything more intensely by the moment.

Paul had begun on the bench, but at some point, had fallen off and onto the concrete floor, where he was rolling about, the jock almost draped over his face, as he snorted at it, grunting, grinding his crotch against the rough concrete. His jock smelled of food–fat and sugar and grains, fermented slightly and beginning to foam. There was mud and dust as well; the jock was incredibly dry, and seemed to be sucking the moisture from him, almost pulling at his face, in some strange way he couldn’t quite explain, even to himself. He felt lazy. He felt like he never wanted to stand upright again, if he could help it. He felt hungry, and thirsty, and as horny as could be. But in his rutting on the ground, the jock came loose from around his head, and without it, he felt a bit of clarity and focus return to him, letting him sit up and stare around him, blinking.

It was a familiar confusion. Every meeting of his with the coach left him in a similar state–exhausted, confused, mortified at what he’d just done, and certain that–if he could–he’d just climb into bed and sleep for days, and days, and days…but he should keep…smelling it, right? Coach would want him to keep smelling it. He grabbed the jock in a hand, but kept it from his face–and took a moment to look over at Erik, where he was huffing his own jock on the bench.

Where Paul was an offensive lineman–wide and thick and designed to be a wall–Erik was a running back–all muscle, lean, and ready to charge into, and run over, anything or anyone in his path. His teammate had almost the entire jock stuffed in his mouth, where he was almost…chewing on it, rolling it over in his mouth, but this gave Paul a clear view of the fact that Erik’s mouth…it wasn’t quite human any longer. The more he gnashed at the wad in his mouth, the more his mouth and nose seemed to extend, pushing out into a thick, short snout. His beard was filling in thick, turning a dark brown, while his nose flattened and widened, turning black. The changes were spreading down his throat and over the rest of his face–especially the thick pelt of brown hair, and Paul–with his free hand–gingerly touched his own face, recalling the strange sensation of pulling he’d felt earlier.

It wasn’t right. It wasn’t human. He too, had a snout–perhaps slightly longer than Erik’s now was, but not nearly as hairy. His nose was flat, dry, and he could feel wrinkles along the side, with two open nostrils, making him snort slightly with each breath…and he had tusks jutting out from his lower jaw, out of his mouth by an inch or so on each side. He looked down at the jock in his hand, feeling it, wondering what in the world coach Robinson was doing to them both. Wondering what they were becoming.

Erik gagged, and with a hack, threw up the jock he’d nearly swallowed into his hand. It was soaked with spit, and Erik’s face looked more like a grizzly bear than human. He looked over at Paul, where he was sitting on the floor–trying to understand why Paul had put on a pig mask of some sort…only to realize that it wasn’t a mask at all.

“We…we have to stop,” Paul said, “I don’t want to do this anymore, I never wanted to do this.”

“Yeah, that’s because you’re a stupid pig,” Erik said, standing up, unwringing the jock, and pulling it on, “I can’t fucking believe I wasn’t the only one. I can’t believe–fucking Anton. But fuck, I feel fucking good, and I’m going to feel better, soon enough.”

“Erik, we have to get help, we have to tell someone.”

Erik just looked at him, and laughed a bit. “If you’re so scared, then why’s the jock around that bulge of yours?”

Paul looked at Erik, and then looked down. Without even realizing it, he’d pulled the jock on, where the pouch had settled around his crotch. It felt…warm. Comfortable. He was horny, but also…kind of sleepy. Lethargic. He tried to get up, using the bench beside him, but couldn’t quite manage to get his feet under him. He was just so…heavy, all of a sudden. He could see Erik’s jock was beginning to sprout hair, like his saliva had been enough to make it germinate. His own pouch seemed to be drying out, darkening, becoming almost skin colored, though slightly darker than Paul’s own flesh. Erik got down on his hands and knees, on top of Paul, and pushed his muzzle to Paul’s snout, each smelling the other’s breath, the strange animal musk they’d begun to produce, and the world began to fade away again for them both.

“Let’s See How He Likes It” (2 of 2)

He ended up not at the bear bar, but at one of the twink bars he usually went to when he was looking for someone hot to fuck. Only now, instead of his sexy muscled body, he was an old, slobby grandpa, reeking of cigar smoke and booze, holding down the bar and ogling all of the sexy twinks in the room…but he wasn’t…here to just stare. No…no, he needed…to do something more.

He was already ashamed of himself, of his appearance, but when one hot, muscled guy caught his eye (someone he’d fucked around with before, in his old body), he hopped off the barstool, waddled over and started hitting on him, asking that muscle god to plow his old hole into next week. He got turned down of course, and duly humiliated for even trying at all, but much to his surprise, Vince’s now much smaller cock started leaking cum, and he felt…good. Yeah, humiliating himself like that felt amazing. Unable to stop himself, he spied some other muscle fuck and begged him as well. He knew he never had a chance, but that wasn’t what he was after–not really. No, he wanted these hot men to shame him, to humiliate him and berate him. Nothing…nothing got him harder than that now, he was starting to realize.

After a few hours, he’d bugged enough guys that the bouncers tossed him out. Fine–he had…other places to go too. Now his feet were heading somewhere else, in the late night…heading back towards one of the bear bars he always used to fuck with, but now, everyone there seemed to be expecting him. They parked him in the corner on his knees, and he was the night’s cumdump and urinal. Happily so, in fact. Every load of cum and piss just got him hornier, but his cock refused to get hard–it would just…leak, soaking the crotch of his jeans in precum, but his desire only intensified.

Finally, the bar closed, and he waddled home, gut heaving with cum and piss. Home was different now–a filthy studio apartment–but while he recalled his old life clearly…he knew he’d never be going back. He got naked and logged onto the computer, ready to start messaging some of the muscle men he paid regularly–paid them to…humiliate him over video chat. Sometimes, they even shamed him enough that he was able to cum, but that usually only happened a few times a month. This was his life now–spend all day paying young men to humiliate him, cruise the hot bars for more punishment each night, drink cum and piss at the sleazy bars and bathhouses around town until the early hours of the morning, and then get up and repeat. Soon enough, his old life seemed like a dream–but he wouldn’t trade his new one for anything.

“Let’s See How He Likes it” (1 of 2)

You could tell that Vince enjoyed it, that he went to bars like this on purpose. He was a twink, or maybe he just seemed like a twink in the midst of all the bears–he was more of a gymrat, really, on his own. But he seemed younger, and smaller, in those rooms, flaunting his body for all those “old faggots” as he called them, dancing alone, making them all want him–and when someone had the audacity to even approach him, he’d ridicule and humiliated them, berate loud enough for the whole room to hear–what kind of loser would think someone like him could ever be interested in a hairy old fag like that, after all? It was only a matter of time, really, before someone got sick of him, and did something about it.

It was a Friday night, and Vince was planning another raid, as he called them. He’d swing in, get those bears all hot and bothered, and then skip out to a better bar, where he’d actually find some tail worth fucking. Still, seeing how much all of those fuckers wanted him–it was a rush, really. He was everything that they wanted, and they were never going to get him–not in a million years. He was getting dressed for the evening–nice tight fitting band shirt, sexy jeans, smoking a cigarette, when he checked himself in the mirror…and gawked.

He had a beard. Not just a beard, either–it was…jet fucking white. He took off his hat, and saw a bunch of hair fall out as he did–his hairline was receding, rapidly, and the hair that wasn’t falling out was growing longer. He had to shave it, he had to do…something. He hurried to the bathroom, but by the time he got there, the beard was several inches long, and he saw that his body was changing as well, a gut pushing up his shirt, his pecs growing larger and flabby. He started clawing at the shirt, where his neck was tight against the neck, and the thing changed into a stained, grubby looking wife beater, his jeans growing to accommodate his wide ass as well, and suspenders appearing, looping over his massive gut and holding his pants up, now that no belt would really reach around his girth.

He just stared at his new, old body–easily 400 pounds, and at his new height of five foot six, he only looked wider. He couldn’t go out like this, he had to get to a hospital or something…but…but he had to go…somewhere, right? There was a nagging feeling in his head, something he needed to do tonight. He went out and lit one of his cheap, foul tasting cigars, got on his old, ragged boots, and headed downstairs, trying to stop himself, dying from shame at the looks he was getting from people he passed on the street…but little did he know, his night was just getting started.

Source: lukasgardiner

Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 5)

~~April 26th~~

He’d fucked up–he knew that. But the simple fact was, John hadn’t been able to take it anymore. He…wasn’t even sure who he was anymore. It was the middle of March, when his father had picked up a renewed interest in John, after close of a month of paying him almost no attention at all–and from that first day, when he’d taken on a new form…John had known something was different with Stanta. He had never been particularly jolly, of course, but when he’d laid eyes on John that next time, he’d become an old painpig–obese, coated in metal, hair and tattoos, begging for pain and abuse. But inside–unlike the last times–John had still been inside there, and Stanta had known it, had taunted him with the knowledge that he knew John was in there and he didn’t care. That he wanted him to suffer.

John couldn’t think of anything he’d done to deserve such treatment, and in fact, he hadn’t been guilty of anything at all–but punishing him had been convenient. After his discussions with Santapig, Stanta had been furious. Furious with Timmy. Furious with that little pig who had been Marty. So furious in fact that, with Santapig watching gleefully, he’d destroyed every remnant of Marty’s old self still residing in that pig body, as Santapig had requested. After all, Timmy didn’t have to know what he’d done to use the pig as leverage, if he needed it, and having any chunk of Marty still hanging around was much too large a risk for him. So furious at himself, for being sucked into this entire mess, for bringing his son here, the son he’d always hated. It wasn’t surprising that, after a few weeks of that treatment, John had snapped.

Pushing through the persona, he’d gone for the love gun Timmy had left him, and threatened his father with it. He hadn’t pulled the trigger, however, and Stanta had, after disarming him, beaten him even harder, and made John tell him everything that had happened, leading up to him getting the gun, and he had–everything about his strange encounter with Timmy on the porch, and the gift left the next day for him. After Stanta was satisfied, he’d locked John in this room again, where he was still sitting, weeks later. He’d returned to himself at this point, close to a week ago, now, but his father hadn’t returned to check up on him. So here he was, naked on his small bed, wondering what, exactly, his daddy would do to punish him–because that was the one thing he was certain would happen.

But today was different than the other days–today, he heard the lock on the door falling away–apparently his isolation was over, and his punishment was about to commence. He braced himself for whatever he might become when Stanta laid eyes on him after opening the door–he was certain it wouldn’t be anything good. But it wasn’t Stanta who opened the door. Instead, John found himself looking at a massive pigman, standing upright on two trotter-like feet, staring at him with tiny dark, greedy eyes, and with a lurch, he felt his body shifting around him.

A pig? Who in the world was this? He remembered seeing Stanta bringing those two pigs back with him from the workshop months ago, but…what in the world had he done to them? Was he going to become a pig too, thanks to the amulet? He looked down at himself, expecting the worst, but was somewhat surprised to see that he wasn’t losing his human features. He was shrinking slightly, and growing a sizable gut coated with white hair, with a thick white beard as well. He himself looked a bit Santa-esque, but he wasn’t Santa–his name…his name was Claude?

It was similar to what had happened when Timmy had seen him on the porch–he wasn’t simply assuming a form, he was assuming an identity along with it–one which was…slightly warped, it seemed, as his cock engorged itself, growing over a foot long and as thick as a two liter bottle, the pigman (Santa, his new mind told him, but this pig couldn’t be Santa, could it?) started drooling at the sight. “I’ve…*grunt* missed you more than I even realized,” the pig said, walking into the room and embracing John, “Claude…fuck, I thought I’d lost you forever.”

“Shut up you pig–I’ve missed you too, and that hole of yours,” John heard himself say, and then shove the pig over the side of the bed, lined his huge cock up with his hole, and slid into him with a long shudder of pleasure, and…and love. Not true love, some strange, warped desire that was close enough to fill in the void, but one which felt…so dirty, to him. John fucked the pig’s filthy hole, disgusted by the sensation, but the pig was pushing back, eager to be filled to the brim. John looked over and saw Stanta in the doorway, watching the scene with a stony face, waiting for them to finish–which took about half an hour. John slid out after he’d shot a massive load of cum deep into Santapig’s bowels, and then the pig whirled around, got down and started cleaning off the massive cock, grunting and snorting while he did, and John looked to his father. “Dad, I–”

“John, you made a mistake, but not an unforgivable one. But my friend here…has been very helpful to me, over the last month or so, and he deserves a reward. That’s going to be you, for the next several months.”

“But–”

Stanta walked over, and put a finger to his son’s lips. “You’re still mine–don’t forget that. He’s merely…borrowing you, right pig?”

There was a disgruntled sound made around John’s big cock, and he felt it bob, as Santapig nodded, reluctantly.

“I have business to settle, and I can’t have you getting in the middle of it. Once it’s settled…” he paused, “I’ll try harder too. I promise. To be the father for you I never was. But for now, I need you to do this, for me, understand?”

John nodded. All in all, it wasn’t that bad, right? He got a cute piggy ass to plow whenever he wanted, right? He was less enthused, when Stanta made them move into Santapig’s room with that…creepy urinal attached to the wall, but he knew, without a doubt, it could have been much, much worse.

A Family’s Legacy (2 of 2)

That summer, the father noticed an improvement in his son’s temperament and commitment to the family legacy. He worked out less, took a greater interest in his father’s business, and that summer, accepted an unpaid internship at his father’s suggestion. Of course, he still worked out quite regularly, but he accepted some of his father’s other advice–taming that hair of his and making it a more conservative style. Pruning back the wild beard he wore, though he insisted on keeping at least a small goatee. But a week before he was set to leave for college, his father discovered something…disturbing on his son’s computer–a very large stash of porn. Gay porn.

No–no, this would not stand. A great family required an heir, after all. He resolved to demand answers from his son, to send him for counseling if he needed it, but the time never felt…right. His son went off to college, only to return for Thanksgiving with a young woman on his arm–and assurances from both of them that his son was very much interested in her, both romantically and sexually. He thought his fears unfounded, and after he’d returned to school, he realized he’d kept the folder of porn on his own computer. He went to delete it…but instead, found himself…looking through it, curious. The photos were all of rather chubby, hairy men–ages ranging from their young twenties to early fifties. James found himself unable to comprehend how his son could have found anyone like this attractive–and found himself equally unable to explain why he, now, was masturbating to the images and videos every night.

His son excelled in college, and with each success, James seemed to suffer setbacks and distractions. The spring of his son’s freshman year, James could no longer resist his new desires–he began going out at night incognito, cruising bars and parks, sucking off men, letting them fuck him–the fatter the better. He found himself disgusting. He could barely look at himself in the mirror, he was so aghast at the state of his soul–and at the state of his body. He’d let himself go to pot, over the years, he realized. His singular focus on work and family had left him middle aged and closing in on 300 pounds. No–that he wouldn’t let happen.

So that summer, while his son toiled away at two unpaid internships, saving an hour a week to date his girlfriend, his father found himself toiling away in the gym. He’d hoped it would prove to be a distraction from his new obsession with sucking cock, but working out only seemed to make him…hornier. He began collecting pictures and videos of his own, expanding his son’s collection, finding his tastes drifting in a certain…grungier direction. Unkempt beards, musk, armpits, big cocks, dirty asses. He was down to 250, and was looking beefy. He’d decided to grow out a beard, but hadn’t kept it well trimmed. His hair had gone wild as well, but something about it–he liked it.

Then, someone caught him. The tabloids made his life hell, and the board removed him immediately. His severance was…substantial, but without work, James–or Jimmy, as he was calling himself these days, when he introduced himself to the big men he thought about constantly–found he only had two things left he wanted to do: have sex, and work out. His son came home that next summer, and announced his engagement. Jimmy was happy for him, but all he could think about was…how handsome, his son had become, in just two years. He’d packed on a good amount of weight, and he seemed so…powerful. Confident. James was all too happy to let his faggot father beg for his cock, of course. He’d have to keep his failure of a father well under control, if the family was going to survive his massive fuckups. Still, James the Third had no doubt he’d be able to rise to the challenge. The Wilheim line would ascend–just like his father had always wanted.

The Power of Society (Part 5)

And with those two visits, Professor’s Larson study was set in motion. He returned to his home a few blocks away from campus, and spent a few hours working out his sexual energy on two of his butlers down in the dungeon. warping the minds of the young men on campus always got him…riled up. He’d wanted to abuse the men then and there, but for the purposes of his research, it was best if he retained an appearance of objectivity and distance from his latest subjects. When he was feeling better, he left the two servants to tend to one another’s wounds, dressed himself in his house leathers, and ascended to his study–where he found that the campus maintenance crew had already installed the cameras in both houses. He had live feeds in every room–some from multiple angles–to make sure he wouldn’t miss anything which might be relevant to his research program.

He took off his watch and placed it on the charging system. He’d improved the power source quite a bit over the last year, but two big groups like that in one evening had nearly drained the device dry. Since inventing it, he’d used it almost exclusively on individuals–but it was time to set his sights on…bigger targets. It was clear that belief and persuasion had social elements, but what he wanted to test, was whether fostering a set of beliefs in a social group like these two frats could instigate and force changes without his explicit direction–and without the presence of the watch. In other words, was it their own belief which changed them, or was it the direct presence of the sonic waves itself, coupled with the belief? More importantly, would the effects fade over time, without further interference from him? He was testing the very limits of his power, and observing the feeds from both houses that evening, he couldn’t have been happier with the results.

It was clear that his meetings with both houses had created two camps. First, were what he called the “early adopters”–the men who had taken to his suggestions readily, and had already begun to change by the time he’d finished. The others were all “deniers”–those who, despite believing him, still tried to insist that what he’d said wasn’t true. In both houses, the early adopters were winning handily. The nerds, with their new tendency to drag one another downward, had banded together and isolated several deniers and were busy “convincing” them of the certainty of what the professor had said. Much to his surprise, the changes forced on the deniers, as they came to believe, were as rapid and substantial as those he could cause with the watch–clearly then, it was only the subject’s belief that mattered, or perhaps merely being subjected to the sound was enough to open the capacity for these changes. Either case was troubling to him–it signaled that he might not be as in control as he thought.

The jocks had no real collective drive–rather, each individual jock was battling their own internal…monster. The early adopters gave in readily, frotting, pissing and working out mindlessly all night, while the deniers cloistered themselves away, fighting–though several found the growing orgy to tempting, and gave in before the night was through. It seemed then, that internal and external pressure had similar levels of effect on behavior. So far, his hypotheses were being confirmed. He would wait a month, and see how things developed.

After around three weeks, each house settled down into what Harold considered a new status quo. In each house, everyone had been convinced of the certainty of the professor’s beliefs. None of the “nerds” in the house weighed under 300 pounds, and several of the early adopters were closer to 600. The house was a wreck, and TV’s were in every room–some dedicated to video games, others playing a near constant stream of gay porn. The nerds largely settled down and rarely moved, aside from getting up to order more food for the house and devour what was there. That said, while they all believed what Harold wanted them to…not all of them responded in the same way. While most gave into their sloth, a small minority maintained a certain drive to escape their fate. They continued going to class, would leave the house a few times a day for fresh air, and a few even tried to maintain a bit of hygiene and self-care. He would have expected these to come from the deniers, but in fact, the six or seven who strived for more were about evenly split between the two groups.

A similar situation had developed over with the jocks next door. All of them knew, for a fact, that deep inside them resided a jock with the basest of impulses–driven only by desires for filth, sexual stimulation, and physical exertion. Unlike with the nerds, however, Harold had made no effort to keep the jocks in the house. They continued their athletic activities, though most ceased going to class, and the school saw a greater success from their teams that month. Harold attributed it to the loss of ego for the jocks in the house, coupled with an innate desire to fight and compete. But like the nerds, there were those who resisted. They would sneak showers at night, violating the professor’s rules. They continued going to class, despite the fact that their reduced mental capacities made the attempt laughable. But they pushed on all the same. The question then, was what to do about these two groups of resistors.

Of course, Harold could simply force them to obey him, but that wasn’t the point of the study, now as it? He wanted to see the power of society at work. No–he’d done enough focusing on ingroups–it was time to test something else he had been developing. He’d see how well these young men could resist, after Harold turned the rest of campus against them. All over campus, he had installed speakers which could both transmit the frequency of belief, as well as directives. He’d already tested the device before, and it had worked surprisingly well–since most men of campus now preferred to go shirtless, even in winter. He began planning his next move, and a few days later, the entire campus had a few new beliefs regarding Nerds and Jocks, which he was excited to witness for himself.

Cigar Dads

“What did you say it’s called?” Gil asked, looking over Frank’s shoulder at the screen of his boyfriend’s phone.

“It’s called Chronivac or something–I got an invite to be a beta tester on my phone–this thing’s amazing! It can fucking change things, Gil. Like, reality.”

Gil just raised an eyebrow at Frank. “Sounds like a scam.”

Frank just smiled…oddly. “Oh trust me, honey, this thing works perfectly well.”

Gil just shook his head. Why in the world was he even dating Frank? He paused a moment. Why…why was he dating Frank, anyway? There didn’t seem to be an answer–they were just…dating. It was just a fact. The two of them certainly looked like they went together–a couple of twinks, but hadn’t he…

“You listening, Gil? I just told you that I can change the world, and you’re just staring off into space.”

“Sorry…I was just…confused for a sec there.”

“Look, here, I’ll show you!” Frank said, “scrolling through the app, “Let’s see–packaged changes, oh here’s a laugh–Cigar Dad! Ugh, can you imagine either of us old?” He laughed, “No, we twinks are never going to have to age again. Still, for a laugh, let’s see, right?” Frank started fiddling with the phone, “Let’s see–aware on, and the rest should be good. Target myself…and maybe…two minutes?”

Frank hit a button, and Gil’s jaw dropped, as he watched his slender, short, hairless boyfriend begin to shift and change right before his eyes. He grew older, his abs dissolving into a gut. There was hair…everywhere, even as the hair on his head balded back. After two minutes, a very different Frank was standing in front of him, chuffing on a cigar. “Fuck…did I…I left the mental on, didn’t I…” Frank muttered, and took a deep, long, inhale of smoke. “Tastes fuckin’ good. Whole thing feels fuckin’ good, actually.”

“Frank, what the fuck just happened to you?”

“Made myself a cigar dad, I guess!” Frank said, his voice a bit gravelly and rough. He crossed the room to a mirror and took stock of himself. “Fuck, I look…fuckin’ sexy as fuck…” Frank started tugging at his cock, grinning at himself in the mirror.

“Frank, what the fuck is going on?” Gil asked again, “I…I’m kind of scared.”

Frank just picked up his phone, chuckling, hit a few buttons, and then looked over at Gil, who had the…strangest sense that things were off kilter somehow. He took a drag off his own cigar, eyeing his sexy husbear Frank across the room. “Fuck, could use that mouth of yours around this cock a mine,” Gil said, stroking his own hairy cock, feeling his gut shake as he did.

“Shit, forgot that part–” Frank fiddled again, and Gil realized he’d misspoke–he only ever sucked and fucked–Frank was the total top in this cigar couple, and Gil the desperate bottom pig. He got down on hands and knees and crawled over, sucking Frank’s cock, taking a moment now and then to blow smoke over the head and shaft, and Frank grinned. It wasn’t what he’d planned, but for now, he had no real complaints.

Source: guido-maffeo