A collection of gay erotic fiction with mind control and various transformation themes. Photo captions are updated four days a week, Monday through Thursday, with a vignette or long story posted each Friday.
“Please wait while neural interface is established…”
The screen of his computer froze while the small box plugged into the USB port flashed. Lucas sat at his desk, cock hanging out of the fly of his slacks, massaging himself half hard, eager for the session to begin.
“Participant: Nathan Oberlik, has been uploaded, transferred.”
Nathan was one of Lucas’ coworkers—or rather, one of his subordinates. When Lucas had discovered that Nathan was gay, he’d invited him to have a shared session with him through The Network, and Nathan had been his playmate ever since. It helped that Nathan was naturally submissive—he was perfectly happy to allow Lucas to select the bodies they would inhabit for a few hours of sex. There was a buzzing in his ears growing louder, and suddenly his vision faded to static. A moment later, he was sitting on some ratty couch in what looked like a single wide, wearing a ballcap, wifebeater, and some shorts that he shucked off immediately.
Lucas was staring, inhabiting the body of some bearded roughneck, licking his lips. The additional request seemed to have been honored—The Network could, in the process of a download, alter the thoughts and fantasies of the people it was processing. Nathan had requested that Lucas be implanted with an insatiable desire for cum, and the perverse desire lick clean filthy, sweaty bodies—like the one Lucas was now residing within.
“Don’t just stand there, pig,” Lucas said, rubbing his new body’s cock to full mast, “Get sucking.”
“F—Fuck…” Nathan said, and got down, “I…I must have been hornier than I thought, cause…” but he never finished his thought, focusing on swallowing Lucas’ cock to the hilt. While he sucked, Lucas took a survey of his borrowed body, running his hands through his furry chest, feeling the young muscles flex. It was a pity that it was only temporary. He shoved Lucas off his cock and back onto his ass.
“What gives man? I’m fuckin’ thirsty!”
“Beg for it.”
“Go on pig, beg for my cock.”
Lucas’ face turned a bit red. “Please…please can I have your cock?”
“Network, pause Lucas.”
Lucas froze suddenly, his pupils flickering with static.
“Please give Lucas’ voice a southern inflection. Also, make him turned on by verbal humiliation.”
Sparks shot out of Lucas’ body for a moment, and then he unfroze. “Please, can Ah suck yer cock, man? Fuckin’ hungry fer some cum…”
“Tell me your a horny pig for my cum.”
“I’m…I’m a horny pig fer yer cum man…fuckin’…please…”
Lucas stood up and began skullfucking Nathan, calling him a cocksucking faggot pig, listening to his coworker grunt and jack off his own cock while Lucas humiliated him. They both shot their loads, and they spent the rest of the session in a pleasant afterglow, Nathan happily cleaning off Lucas’ sweaty body with his tongue, and he made sure he spent extra time on his body’s asscrack.
Their two hour session was coming to a close, however, and they began to prepare for departure, watching the clock, a bit eager to get back into their own bodies. However, two hours passed and nothing happened. Then, two hours and five minutes. “Network,” Lucas asked, “End session.” No reply. “End session!” he shouted, and then added, “This wasn’t part of the fucking deal, and you know it!”
“Deal?” Nathan asked, “What fuckin’ deal, man?”
Lucas was silent, but Nathan just stared at him.
“What the fuck did ya do?”
“I…I didn’t have the money to pay them, alright? They were going to come after me, and I threatened to out them to the Justice Department.”
Nathan just gawked, “Wha the fuckin’ hell man! ‘N ya thought we could jus’ continue on as fuckin’ normal?”
They offered a free session on the house!”
“Yer a fuckin’ idiot, I oughta—”
Before Nathan could finish speaking, he froze in place, his pupils full of static. His mouth opened, and a voice which was not his own came from his mouth. “I know this wasn’t part of the deal, Mr. Henderson, but Chuck and Trent are so happy in your bodies, and they were more than happy to agree to a payment plan to cover your debt. I’m afraid this session will not be ending anytime soon, for either of you.”
“No, you can’t fucking do this! I’m the vice president of a huge company! They’ll know it’s not me.”
“Yes, which is why I will be needing to download your memories, like I have for Nathan here. It’s a pity you had to drag him into this. Still, I think he’s going to enjoy his new life with you, once I finish these personality alterations. Oh! And we have a new process which is currently in testing, but you two will make such good subjects. Did you know that we have discovered how to alter the bodies of our clients now too? The central nervous system is so full of wonders. It takes several hours for the changes to fully manifest however. Now, I’m almost done.”
“Please, I’ll do anything, please don’t do this to me, don’t take my mind.”
“Oh, Lucas,” the voice said, “While I am deleting Nathan’s mind, I have a feeling yours…well, you’ll just have to wait and see. But how about this? Let’s play a game. When I’m finished with Nathan here, he’s going to be very, very horny, and I have a feeling he’s going to want to fuck your ass very badly. If you can keep your hole virginal for, say, ten minutes, I’ll give you your freedom.”
“Just fucking let me go.”
“Oh, but then who will Nathan—I mean, Chuck here, his name is Chuck now—fuck? Alright? Ready, set—go!”
Lucas watched Nathan stumble on his feet, before he caught himself, blinking, trying to figure out what had just happened. “Fuck—fuckin’ horny, man…” he looked up and saw Lucas standing there, and smirked, “Oh…hey Pigg, when did ya get here? Eh, who fuckin’ cares—turn the fuck around, I wanna plow that greasy hole a yers.”
“Nathan,” Lucas said, backing up a few paces, “Nathan, you have to listen to me, it’s the Network, they fucked with your head. You just have to trust me, I can get us out of here.”
“Nathan? Who the fuck’s Nathan? My name’s Chuck, but you can just call me sir, Pigg.”
Chuck advanced on him, and Lucas looked around, spying a baseball bat leaning against the wall. He grabbed it and swung it right into the side of Chuck’s head—he crumpled to the ground, eyes blank, blood leaking from an ear.
Lucas panted and dropped the bat to the ground—at least his hole was safe. It was too bad about Nathan. Still, he could figure something out.
“Oh Lucas,” a voice said. He looked down, and saw that The Network had taken over the body once more, “You’re so violent! So vicious. Murdering your friend here. Well, don’t worry, I can fix that. Still, I don’t think Chuck is going to be too happy about that, right Chuck? Heh, Chuck can’t say anything right now, but he agrees. Now, how about we try that again? You still have…nine minutes and fifteen seconds.”
Chuck groaned and started picking himself up off the floor. Lucas went to grab the bat, but Chuck beat him to it, wrestling it from his grip. “Bat…” Chuck muttered, his mind still knitting itself back together, “Bat…P-Pigg, yer gonna get a fuckin’ beating, I fuckin’ swear.”
Lucas turned and ran the length of the single wide, but realized the door out was the other direction—past Chuck. With nowhere else to go, he locked himself in the bathroom, and in moments, Chuck was hammering on the cheap wooden door with the bat. “Open up Trent! I’m comin’ in there to get your hole!”
The door cracked apart, splinters flying into Lucas’ face. Chuck ripped open the door, grabbed him by the neck and dragged him out, Lucas fighting for breath. He tried to fight Chuck off, but his friend landed one solid punch to his eye, sending him reeling back and crashing to the floor, and then he was on top of him, Chuck’s hard cock pressed against the small of his back, one hand with a vice grip on the back of his neck, pinning him to the floor until he could find his hole and start working his dry cock into it. Lucas let out a weak scream, unable to catch his breath. Tried to claw himself away, but Chuck was inside him, he’d lost, and he felt his body freeze in place, his vision static, but a voice, he could hear a voice in his head.
“Oh Lucas, that really was a good try. Well, I shouldn’t call you Lucas anymore—you’re new name is Pigg—with two G’s—it really was smart of your parents to give you a name like that, eh? It’s almost like they knew from the time you were little, that the only thing you’d want is to serve a nasty roughneck like Chuck here as his filthy pig slave. So here’s what I’m doing. I’m going to hardwire you with all sorts of new, wonderful instincts. The instinct to serve men, the instinct to sniff out and eat cum, the instinct to drink and bathe in piss. And as for that whole bat incident earlier, well, let’s just say you’re going to have a very different relationship with pain from now on, Pigg.
“Oh, and this body of yours? Well, I don’t think it’s very pig like, do you? I’ve already slowed down your metabolism—so in a few hours, well, I think you’ll find yourself quite a bit more curvy. As for Lucas—well, how about this? I’ve already copied your memories off for Trent back in your old body, but I’ll go ahead and leave these with you, to think about. And I mean that you should think about them. I went ahead and rewired your brain here, so that your long term memory is more like a sieve than a bowl. Why, if you don’t pay attention, you might just go ahead and forget everything! You might end up an empty headed pig slave, operating on instinct alone, no thought, no memory, just an empty shell. I know that must scare you. Goodbye Pigg—it’s a pleasure to know we’ll never meet again.”
The voice and the static was gone—he was alone, Master Chuck ramming his huge cock into his piggy hole, and Pigg pushed back, hungrily, unable to stop. The motion was simply bypassing his head—he had no control over himself. Instead of thinking about the pleasure coursing through him every time his master smacked his ass, he tried to hold onto his memories, these memories that weren’t his, but he had to keep them. His name Lucas, his job, his old life, but things were slipping away faster than he could hold onto them. It didn’t help when Chuck, after blowing his load, took the bat Pigg had assaulted him with and worked the head deep into Pigg’s asshole. It hurt so good that Pigg forgot to keep thinking for a moment, all he could do was grunt and snort and squeal and feel his shrinking cock shoot load after load of cum onto the bathroom floor.
Later, after slurping his own cum mindlessly off the floor, the bat lodged deep in his ass still, as he licked and cleaned his master’s feet, feeling his gut growing as he knelt there, rubbing it with his hands, toying with his sensitive nipples, he tried to sort through what remained of himself. The hazy face of some old man. A flickering, frozen computer screen connected to something called The Network, but that probably wasn’t important. A name, “Lucas”. That’s not his name though, his name was Pigg. He decided to just let them all fall through. Thinking was too hard. Better to just serve, and fuck, and eat like a good piggy slave for master Chuck.
Rick took another drag off his cigarette in the alley behind the club. Tuesday, and a slow night even for a Tuesday, and another three hours before his shift was over. Hopefully someone in there would get drunk and rowdy, give him something to do. As boring as bouncing could be, when it was fun—well, it was fun. He thought about his little pet project back at home that he’d been working on for a couple of weeks now, and massaged his half hard cock through the denim of his jeans, when he heard some voices coming down the alley towards him.
“Dude, this is a gay bar though!”
“I fucking know that, but this is where he’s been going.”
“So wait, Max—big butch defensive line Max has been a closet fag this whole fuckin’ time?”
“Look, let’s just try and find him, alright?”
Rick watched the two kids from the local college some down the alley towards him. They were well built. Probably athletes, and at this time of year, most likely football. They were probably looking for his project. “Something I can help you boys with?” he said, “The alley’s off limits.”
The two football players were big—but neither of them were a match for Rick as he stood up from the steps, all six foot five and two hundred and seventy five pounds of muscle staring down at them both.
“Oh…fuck. Sorry man, it’s just…we got a bit turned around, and—hey…uh…do you work here? In the bar?”
“I’m a bouncer—why?”
“Well…a teammate of ours. His name’s Max. He was coming here off and on, and well, we haven’t seen him for a couple of weeks. Coach said he dropped out of college, but…well, he won’t even answer his phone, and his parents think he’s still at school. We’re worried something happened to him.”
The bouncer slipped a hand into his pocket where his phone was. “Huh…well, what’s the guy look like?”
“Well, he’s on the defensive line, so he’s kind of chubby. Redhead. Bushy beard.”
“He’s really loud, and he can get pretty rowdy when he gets drunk.”
Rick thought for a moment, and then shook his head, “Nope, can’t say I’ve seen anyone like that…hey, hold on, I’m getting a phone call.”
Rick pulled his phone out of his pocket, and the speaker was emitting a high pitched whine. The two students winced at the sound, but within thirty seconds, their eyes had gone blank, and both of them were swaying where they stood. “Now boys—what’s your names?”
“Alright Alex and Trevor. Here’s what I want you to do. I want you to forget all about Max—he did drop out. In fact, you both talked to him last week, and remember him telling you that, don’t you?”
Alex and Trevor nodded.
“Good. Now, I’d like both of you to give me your phone numbers please, so I can call you if I need anything.”
He entered their numbers into his phone, and then turned off the noise his phone was making. Both of the students shook their heads like they were waking up, Rick finished a fake phone call and hung up the phone. “Now, you boys wanted to know something?”
Alex and Trevor looked at each other, neither of them sure what they were doing in this alley with the huge bouncer, shook their heads and retreated, trying to figure out what had just happened. Rick chuckled—the meatheads were always so easy to fuck around with. His break was over, so he stamped out his cigarette and headed back into the club to finish his shift. It was as boring as he’d hoped it wouldn’t be. Finally, the club closed for the night, Rick climbed into his truck, stopped by the local pizza shop (it stayed open late just for him) picked up his five pizza standing order, and headed home.
He let himself in, setting down the pizzas by the door, and walked over to where Max was tied to a chair, eyes blank, earbuds stuffed in each ear, playing a loop of Rick’s homemade hypnosis tracks and subliminals, but he took a moment to admire his handy work, especially after seeing Alex and Trevor earlier. One of his first tasks had been to get rid of all the fucking hair on Max’s body—and now, after some special treatments, his body would be completely smooth for the rest of his life. Tonight was going to be special though—the mix he’d put on for Max to listen to had a new track he was excited to test out—finally, he pulled out the earbuds, and after a couple of minutes, Max shook his head in a daze, and looked up at Rick. The look was dread. Week one had been anger. Week two had been fear. But now, Max was learning to dread. Rick always liked that look—but he really liked what would happen in a few more weeks, when Max would start to enjoy it. When he’d look up at him eagerly, excited to find out how Rick had chosen to twist and warp his mind that day.
“How are you doing, slave? Hungry?” Rick asked.
“Still fighting that one, eh?”
“N—No sir, sorry sir…I’m not fighting anything sir.” Max had learned that resisting the hypnosis would only lead Rick to entrance him further, usually with some extra suggestion as punishment. Max had fought calling him Sir and Master at first—and so, as extra incentive, Rick had hypnotized him to feel someone squeeze down on his balls everytime he forgot. He’d figured it out pretty quickly after that.
“Well, I have dinner for you, pig, but first, I want to see how today’s files worked out. See, I thought of something special to do to you today, and I’m curious to see how it worked. So, shall we?” Rick reached down and grabbed a hold of Max’s limp cock, and Max got an odd look on his face, and then just stared at Rick.
“Well? How does it feel, pig?”
“I can’t…I don’t…what did you do to me sir? I can’t…it’s just…numb.”
“So, if I start stroking it, you mean you can’t feel any of this?” Rick said, as he toyed and stroked Max’s cock, but it stayed perfectly limp the entire time. “That’s good—very good. Just what I wanted.”
Max sniffled, holding back tears, unable to believe it. He couldn’t feel his cock at all—as far as he could tell, it’s like he didn’t even have one.
“Don’t worry pig, it’s not that I don’t want you to feel anything—I just want your attention focused somewhere else, is all,” Rick said, then reached up and ran his finger over Max’s nipple. It immediately hardened, and Max let out a sigh of pleasure. “See? A nipple pig—well, nipples and something else too.” Rick wormed a hand between the chair and Max’s ass, a finger sliding against his hole, and again Max gasped in pleasure. “Very nice, very nice indeed. I’m very happy.”
“Please…please sir, just let me go, I’m sorry…”
“Oh piggy,” Rick said, and set his hand on Max’ shaved head. Max shivered and groaned, feeling immediately submissive, his thoughts suddenly overwhelmed by a desire to serve his master. Rick unzipped his fly with his other hand, letting out his hard cock, and allowed Max to suck it. “Oh piggy, I will let you go, eventually. You’ll be your own man, although very different from the man you were. But that old, closeted Max will be gone, and instead you’ll be a horny, kinky pig bitch, begging for cock, happily tugging on your nipples all the time. But I have some news to share, pig. It’s my day off tomorrow, you know, so guess what? We’re going out on the town—you’re gonna be getting your first tattoos. Isn’t that exciting?”
Max wasn’t really listening. He was too focused on sucking his master’s cock, on serving him. The sensation of a hand on his shaved scalp—something about it made him so docile. He couldn’t help but obey whoever was palming his skull.
“But here’s what I’m really excited for. See, I’m so happy that file worked as well as it did, because I have plans for that cock of yours, pig. I’ve already made an appointment with the plastic surgeon even—we’re gonna cut this cock of yours down to size—by the time we’re done, it’s gonna be a one inch nub, permanently soft and numb. Not even a clit—cause you aren’t going to be feeling anything down there.”
Max could sense Master was getting close. His own cock was soft though—still, that didn’t matter. His cock was worthless after all. Why, he didn’t even need a cock, really. What good was a cock that couldn’t feel anything?
“And when we get to the office, if you ask me real nicely, I might ask the surgeon to go ahead and throw in a castration, turn you into a proper hog. Maybe put some steel balls in there instead to weigh down that sack of yours, keep you weak and docile for the rest of your life. Oh fuck yeah—you’re gonna fuckin’ beg me to take your balls—that’s gonna be so fuckin’ hot!”
Master was cumming, and Max sucked it all down. He was starving—he hadn’t eaten all day. Between his master’s hypnosis and his nightly binging, he was already packing on the pounds. Rick removed his hand, and Max felt some semblance of freedom return to him, but it was too late to spit out Master’s cum—not that he wanted to anyway…right? He…liked how cum tasted.
Rick stripped down to his underwear, and then pulled a chair over beside Max, and fed him all five pizzas, slice by slice, and as he did, he told Max about Alex and Trevor, and how they’d been looking for him in the alley. He wasn’t sure which one he’d start with once he was finished with Max—in fact, he might do them both together. He hadn’t made many tops lately—he kind of liked the idea of turning them into identical muscle twins. But before that, he’d be sure to invite them both over a few times so they can fuck Max at both ends for fun. Max didn’t want to think that was hot, but he did anyway.
Finally, the pizzas were gone, and Rick yawned. “Alright pig, it’s time for me to go to bed, and for you to listen some more. I have another new track for you tonight—I hope you’ll like it. I’m very excited to see how it works in the morning.”
Max begged him to not do it, but both of the earbuds were back in his ears, and in less then a minute, the pig was zoned out, listening to his master’s voice. Rick went over to his computer and adjusted the playlist, and then went to bed. He was going to have a nice day tomorrow, at least—he always liked giving these pigs their first tattoos. And with Max suddenly feeling pain as pleasure—he had a feeling Max would enjoy it quite a bit too.
Mr. Jackson wasn’t quite sure how he felt about his new tenant—in fact, he couldn’t quite remember why he’d even agreed to let him stay here in his house in the first place. To keep the bills paid, he liked to rent out his son’s old room now that he had moved out, but he generally tried to rent to someone more respectable than Randy. In fact, he wasn’t even sure he had a job, and he can’t remember ever doing an employment or a background check on him. Still, it probably wasn’t worth worrying about, right? He did need this month’s rent payment though—it was already two days late. He hadn’t really wanted to say anything about it, mostly because he wanted to interact with Randy as little possible. He heard the front door open and Randy tromped in, looking like trash, and smelling a bit like it too.
“Oh, hey Randy. Do you have this month’s rent? You’re two days late, but if you just forgot—”
“Oh, I didn’t forget, I was just waiting for you to come collect. I’ve been waiting every night, faggot. Did you forget about our deal?” Mr. Jackson looked up from his checkbook, a bit taken aback. Randy walked up to him at the kitchen table and tweaked one of his nipples. “I do like the view though, teasing me, walking around shirtless all day, showing off that old hairy gut. Pig. You’re the one who’s late though—so how about we head up to my bedroom and settle up?”
“I don’t…I think I might have missed something…” Mr. Jackson noticed that Randy was still speaking, but he couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. Still, how stupid was he? Of course they’d made a deal. Randy was unemployed at the moment, but Mr. Jackson agreed to accept his nasty cum in lieu of rent. And if Randy had been storing it up for two days now, fuck, he must have quite the payment to collect!
“I’m….sorry Randy. Let’s go settle up right…right away.” The world was lurching, and everything felt like it was moving too slowly.
“You’re already at the table though—why don’t I just feed you here?”
That…that made sense. Mr. Jackson licked his lips, watching Randy drop his muddy jeans to the kitchen floor. The briefs he had on underneath were crusty, but his uncut, seven inch cock slipped right out a whole in the front, and Mr. Jackson swallowed it down. He’d never sucked cock before, and he gagged. Randy took control, grabbing his hair and ramming the stinking shaft down Mr. Jackson’s throat. He looked up, and saw that Randy was still talking, but Mr. Jackson couldn’t understand any of it. It didn’t matter, he was just a stupid pig anyway. Yeah, just a stupid worthless piggy, and when Randy fed him his first month’s rent, Mr. Jackson begged him to pay him last months too. And since it came at the end, it only made sense to pump it deep in his piggy asshole, right?
There on his hands and knees on the kitchen floor, Randy drilling his dick into him, Mr. Jackson found himself able to hear again, hear himself snorting and grunting like a pig, rutting with his tenant. Fuck, the first time he’d seen Randy, he’d had to have him. He loved renting to nasty fucks like him. Real men who knew how to treat piggies like Mr. Jackson. His cock was leaking on the tile—Randy behind him calling him all sorts of filthy names. So many hot, filthy, piggy names.
He came, his old cock pumping out a load of pig cum onto the tile. When Randy was finished making payments, he pulled up his pants and headed up to his room, while Mr. Jackson crawled back and lapped up his own cum off the floor. Might as well pay himself too, right? He got up and sat down at the table again, sweaty and panting, but he couldn’t seem to get his head back to where it used to be. He couldn’t stop thinking about Randy, about his hot nasty tenant, and finally he got up, panting, rock hard, and went to Randy’s room, and knocked.
“Sir…I was wondering if we could maybe renegotiate the terms of your rent?”
Randy opened the door. He had on his sleeveless shirt still, but was missing his pants and underwear entirely. “And what might you have in mind pig?”
“I don’t…well, I think I’m going to have to raise the rent. Perhaps you could make a payment every…every week?”
Randy smiled. “Oh Mr. Jackson, you’re underselling yourself here. You’re too generous. I’d be happy to pay a pig like you much more than that.”
“Oh yes…” Randy said, “How about this. I’ll give you two payments every day, one at each end. And as a bonus, I’ll save all my piss for you in jugs, and you can do whatever you’d like with it. Bathe in it. Drink it. Just think of it as a tip for being such a good piggy landlord. But…well, if I’m going to be paying you so handsomely, I might need a few…well, perks myself.”
“That sounds amazing, sir…but…but what kind of perks?”
“Well, you see….I like my pigs to look a certain way, you see? And I have some ideas for you that might make you an even better piggy than you already are,” Randy stepped to the side, “But why don’t you come on in here and we can negotiate?”
It was a couple hours later, when Mr. Jackson emerged, smiling, Randy’s cum splattered across his face, knowing he had definitely gotten the best deal through some hard negotiation. He was up to three payments a day, all of Randy’s piss (which he’d had the pleasure of sampling to test it’s quality) as well as all of his filthy cum and piss stained underwear, and he would even get to give Randy a tongue bath once a week! All Mr. Jackson had to do was agree to wear leather gear at all times in the house, stop trimming his beard and hair, and go get some nasty looking tattoos.
Still, he had better get going, he had some leather gear to buy. Randy had told him about a friend of his looking to sell some spare gear, and even better, he liked getting paid in blowjobs too! It would probably require a long payment plan, but Mr. Jackson didn’t think he’d mind. He belched, tasting cum on his breath, and hurried out, already eager for tomorrow’s rent.
I can hear him in his room, jacking off again. I don’t really want to get involved—I mean, what father wants to talk to his son about masturbation? But it seems like it’s all he’s been doing lately, and I think he’s stopped showering too. It’s so strange. I mean, he’s going through a rebellious phase, sure. There’s that tattoo he got with his friends a few months ago, but he’s just a senior eager to get out from under his parents. I was the same way, after all. Still, how can I not worry about him? Besides, he’s so loud, I’m worried the neighbors might hear, especially the freak next door. In fact, Ben’s room shares a wall with him, doesn’t it?
Ben had his hand down in his filthy jockstrap that he hadn’t changed for a week, and through the wall, he could hear his perverse neighbor whispering through the small hole he’d drilled through the wall, the one Ben had covered up with his dresser to make sure his dad didn’t find it.
“You smell good jock pig, fuck yeah. You like how you reek, don’t you?”
Ben shot his load up onto his stomach and rubbed it in there, groaning loudly. He hoped that his dad hadn’t heard him, but he couldn’t stop from making these humiliating groans any longer, licking the rest of his tacky cum off his fingers.
“Got something for you piggy, come on piggy, I know you want it.”
Ben got up and shoved the dresser to one side, and the pervert’s crusty, uncut cock popped through the hole. Ben was on his knees with it down his throat as fast as he could move. Piss came first, faster than he could swallow, and it ran down the front of him, where he rubbed it into his skin, grunting, his cock hard again already, the old man’s cock growing hard, and he sucked until he got a reward of sour old cum, and then he pushed the dresser back and tried to keep from smelling his filthy pits and getting started all over again.
I’m getting really worried now—it’s only getting worse, and now he’s gone most of the day too. I’ve been getting calls that he’s missing school, but he doesn’t listen to me anymore. In fact, it seems like he doesn’t listen to anything I have to say, like he’s a zombie when he’s here. In his room, he jacks off and snorts and grunts, and then he leaves and doesn’t come back for hours. I don’t want to invade his privacy, but I have to find out what’s going on—just a quick investigation while he’s gone won’t hurt, right?
I don’t find anything, but what the hell is that pervy neighbor doing next door? It sounds like he’s fucking someone, but who in the hell would have sex with someone as nasty as him? I don’t feel real good all of a sudden though…there’s this…smell in here, but what…what is it?
Dirty laundry everywhere…it smells…fuck. So fucking sweaty, damn…and kind of like cum. A bit stiff…too, makes me want to gag, but it smells kind of good. What the fuck am I even thinking, and why am I hard? This is ridiculous. Can’t stop though, smells so fucking good…fuck yeah, oh fuck just one quick jack, that’s all.
“Who’s my nasty jock pig?”
“Me sir,” Ben moaned, his filthy neighbor’s cock buried deep in his filthy ass.
“Who’s my piss drinking, ass licking piggy?”
“Oh fuck, me sir!”
“That’s fuckin’ right!” he spanked Ben’s ass, the jock groaning and unloading a fifth load from his balls into the grungy carpet beneath him. The pig had no control anymore—one sniff of his filthy master’s pits was enough to have him cumming sometimes.
The perv was speeding up now, getting close himself. He unloaded into his pig’s loose hole, and then pulled out, watching his cum dribble down Ben’s crusty ass crack. “Fuckin’ sexy pig.”
“Thank you sir.”
“Now get going—I’m done for now.”
Ben stood up and left his master’s apartment, slipping back into his father’s apartment next door, returning to his room, one hand wiping his master’s cum out of his crack and licking it up, when he saw his father naked on his bed, surrounded by his filthy laundry, his cum rag shirt pressed against his nose as he jacked off, body sweaty.
Ben went to the hole in the wall, “Master, my father’s pigging out sir, what should I do?”
“Oh really? How about you feed him my cum from your nasty hole, pig?”
“Oh fuck sir, I’d love to do that…” Ben got up on the bed and squatted over his father’s face, and unable to stop himself, his father ate the pervert’s filthy cum from his son’s hole. Unable to fathom what was happening, but unable to stop for the life of him.
Oh fuck, look at them go! My pig son’s so fuckin’ hot, especially now that he’s working out almost constantly. Fuckin’ ripped, and master just reams his ass with that fist of his. Wish it wasn’t so hard to jack my cock, but I’m just a fat pig, gotta keep eating, so fuckin’ hungry. Master wants me at least 400 pounds here soon, and I’m gettin’ so close. So fuckin’ nasty, fuck.
Gotta piss, yeah, pissin’ my son’s nasty jockstrap. Smells so good, I’ll suck it out of the carpet later, I don’t wanna miss this. Love watching master fist my pig son, almost as much as I love feeling his fist up my fat ass, maybe Ben will fist me when he comes home, fuck that’d be hot.
Master says he’s gonna start training me to be a proper toilet pig soon, gonna have me eating my son’s filthy shit before too long. Can’t fucking wait to be honest, I already love having my tongue buried up filthy shit chutes, tastes so fucking good. I’m gonna be such a good toilet for master and my pig son, fuck yeah. Where’s my fuckin’ dildo? Wanna cum, gettin’ fuckin’ close, gotta get fucked to cum though, such a fuckin’ pig. Yeah, that’s it, nine inches stuffed up in me, fuck! Fuck I’m fuckin’ cumming, such a nasty fuckin’ pig, fuck, fuckin’ love being a pig, love my master, I love my fuckin’ pig son so fuckin’ much, fuck yeah…
CJ pulled the truck into the driveway, being careful to back it in like Bud had instructed him to do, and he saw the dings in the garage door behind him where he’d backed into it a few times before, but he wasn’t going to do that today—he’d had a good day at work, he hadn’t fucked up at all—not even once, and he wasn’t going to fuck up this either. He took his time, probably a bit more than he needed to take, and remembered to double check that he’d put the stick in park before letting his foot up off the brake, which was how he always seemed to mess up, and then turned off the engine and climbed out, taking a moment of satisfaction at his parking job, before he slapped his forehead, climbed back in and set the parking break too.
So many things to do! It left CJ a bit exasperated, but he would get it, he would. He’d promised Bud he would do his very best, and he would. He’d done really good at work today, Ellis, the foreman at the construction site had told him so personally, while CJ was between his legs sucking on his balls after the rest of the construction site had cleared out, “You did a good job today pig, I was watching. I was real worried when I took you on that the only thing you’d be good for was sucking my cock, but you did real good. Now tongue my hole, pig, yeah, that’s it…”
He licked his lips, remembering the sweaty taste of his foreman’s cock and crack, and then hiked up his jeans and headed up the front steps and into his brother’s house. As soon as the door was shut behind him he took a deep smell of home and gave a sigh. Cigar smoke, beer, pizza, junk food, sweat, musk, it was wonderful. He took off his hi-viz vest and discarded it by the door on the floor, then pulled off his sweaty, dusty shirt and dropped his pants and grimy boxers which he’d been wearing everyday to work for the past three weeks, ever since Bud had told him he’d had to get a job to help pay the bills. He’d been nervous the first week, mostly because he’d never had a job like that before—hell, he’d never really had a job like that ever, and he’d fucked up a lot. He knew a lot of guys on the crew didn’t trust him or particularly like him, but he tried his hardest to fit in and it was getting better. Not to mention he got to suck Ellis’ cock every day after everyone else had left. Maybe things were finally getting better, he thought, maybe he was finally becoming a little less of a fuck up. Maybe he could even be more of a real man, like his brother—like his master.
CJ was forbidden to wear clothes in the house by Bud, but now that he had stripped and stepped out of his boots and socks, he walked through the piles of dirty laundry and trash littering the room to where Bud was on the couch, his feet up on the coffee table, and without having to be told, got down next to him, kneeling on the ground, head bowed, while he waited for his first orders of the afternoon. Bud let him stay there for a few minutes, watching his fat brother fidget a bit nervously. He could tell he wanted to say something, but he was curious to see if CJ was finally learning some discipline. If CJ couldn’t even behave as his slave, how in the world would he ever stop being such a fuck-up?
“Clean off my balls, slave,” he said finally, and CJ moved between his legs and started licking and sucking at his brother’s balls, occasionally looking up at him lovingly, and when Bud grabbed the back of his head and slid his hard cock down his throat, CJ let him control the speed of the fuck, taking breaths when he got the chance, but he knew that when Bud wanted his throat, he didn’t want a face—he wanted a hole, and that was ok with CJ. He loved being a hole for his master.
Bud yanked CJ’s face off his cock by the bit of grungy, shoulder length grey hair he still had on his head and then shot his load across his fat face, thick globs spattering across CJ’s open mouth and coating his thick, horseshoe mustache, his nose, his eyelids. When Bud released him he just stayed on his knees and didn’t touch it, knowing better than to start eating the cum until he’d received the order from Bud. He fidgeted again, and Bud smiled and nodded, and CJ licked the cum from his mustache, wiped it from his eye and then ate that from his hand, before kissing the head of his master’s soft cock in thanks.
“Now, I can tell there’s something you want to tell me pig, you have permission to speak.”
“Thank you sir,” CJ said, “I did a really good job today sir, I did! Even Ellis said so, while I was servicing him after work today, I did really good, and I didn’t fuck up at all. I was even extra careful parking, so I didn’t fuck that up either.”
Bud laughed, and then leaned forward and gave his brother a deep kiss, “That’s good to hear—maybe you aren’t hopeless after all.”
“I love you sir, thank you…thank you…Bud…for everything.” CJ said, knowing it was against the rules to use his brother’s name, but he wanted him to know how much it meant to him, and then nuzzled his brother’s belly with his face, and Bud thought about punishing him but decided to let it slide just this once, because CJ had had a good day, and he needed good days like these sometimes. “I think I’m going to order pizza tonight, how does that sound, pig?”
“Sound’s good sir.”
“You ready? I want you two eat four all by yourself, you fucking glutton. If you eat four, then I’ll give you permission to cum, got it? So don’t fuck this up either.”
“I won’t sir, I swear—thank you sir.”
Bud got up off the couch and walked to the kitchen where the phone was, and added over his shoulder, “Oh, and put in a dildo, slave. The nine inch I think. Fuck yourself on it until I get back.”
CJ nodded, “Yes sir,” and then started scrounging through the trash by the couch until he found a set of scummy dildos, and finding the one Bud had asked for, CJ set it on the floor and squatted over it, moaning a bit as it slipped into his hole. He’d gotten really good at opening up now, and Bud could fuck him raw without CJ making so much of a complaint, but he loved seeing CJ take things bigger than his cock too, and lately Bud had been hinting that he wanted CJ to learn to to take his fist and forearm, and while that scared him a bit, it also got him really horny, but he didn’t touch his hardening cock—he knew better. If he came again without permission, than his brother would lock his cock up and he really didn’t want that. He loved jacking off—he just needed to learn some self-control is all. He just needed to be less of a fuck up.
With the dildo in his ass, he laid on the couch and started fucking himself with the dildo, listening to his brother ordering pizza, and he heard him request Garrett as their delivery driver and he smiled. He loved having Garrett deliver his pizzas—the guy had a huge cock, and he much preferred using CJ’s mouth as a cumdump to getting a standard cash tip. Bud hung up the phone and came into the living room where CJ was fucking himself and took over the dildo, ramming it hard and fast, in and out of CJ’s hole, listening to his slave brother moan in pleasure, watching his cock harden and begin to drip, and CJ fell back into the joy of the moment.
This, he realized, this is what he wanted. This was the life he’d always wanted—why had he ever let that strange fantasy overwhelm him at all? Why had he ever thought all of those things, and fought Bud so much? His brother knew what was best for him after all; he should have just trusted him from the beginning. The fantasies had become a bit of a game to him now, and he would try and see how much he could remember from them, but as he delved into his memory, his brother pounding his hole, he realized that he couldn’t recall anything of substance. A few brief images—a computer screen, a clean living room, a muscular body, but that couldn’t have been his. How stupid could he have been, thinking that any of that had been ever been real? And what in the hell had he called himself? Chris? No, that wasn’t right. He couldn’t even remember his stupid name—good riddance. He shoved the thoughts away, willing the rest of them to disappear—they didn’t matter anymore.
This is what mattered, his brother fucking his fat, disgusting hole with a huge dildo. Getting ready to serve Garrett when he arrived with dinner. Eating everything his brother told him to eat, because Bud knew best. Bud handed him a thick, lit cigar to suck, and CJ took it gratefully, taking a huge drag off of it and letting the smoke float out over his fat, jiggling belly and past his hard cock. Look at me, he thought, look at me go, and laughed. He looked up at his brother—his keeper and smiled dumbly, and Bud looked down at him, and smiled back.
The clouds hovering in the high afternoon were so dark as to almost belong to the night. Carl, feeling restless, was in the living room looking out the window at the thunderstorm building overhead, annoyed that the cloud cover wasn’t actually cooling down the house at all, and the humidity was making everything feel even stickier than usual. He reached behind him and gave his damp asscrack a deep scratch and belched a bit, before taking another drag off his cigar which he had resting in an ashtray on the windowsill.
Around the fourth, the summer monsoons had started just in time to dampen all of the firework displays in the area, and the refreshing rain after two months dry was quickly displaced by fears of flash floods and lightning strikes. This summer, it seems, was not one for anything done halfway. Carl gave his cock a rub, reaching under his gut to reach it, but he wasn’t even horny. He felt…he felt like he had forgotten something, misplaced it, but he’d misplaced it so long ago now that he couldn’t even remember what it was, only that it was important. When Bud was around, he never really had a chance to do much about the feeling, because Bud usually kept him occupied with food, booze or sex, not that he minded, but when he was alone for these brief moments, when Bud ran to the store or out for take out, Carl would feel uneasy on the couch, and end up wandering the living room or the rest of the house, unsure of what he was doing.
He walked into the kitchen, wondering if he should just eat something. Food had become his filler over the past month—if he had nothing else to do, he could always eat, and he loved it. His gut had gone from what he’d thought of as huge at the beginning into a true apron. Two weeks ago was the last time he could remember being able to see his cock, and over the last few days in particular it was becoming a bit too much effort to jack off even, and he usually had to beg Bud to play with his cock for him when they were fucking, something Bud mocked him for ceaselessly, but he’d usually do it if he pleaded enough. Still, he wasn’t hungry, and he foraged through the fridge and pantry, grazing a few chips and some bits of candy here and there, but he wasn’t satisfied.
He walked back into the living room and as he did he passed by the staircase, and came up short. He couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d gone upstairs. He and Bud had fucked in his bedroom once or twice a while back, but…but hell, he hadn’t slept in his own bed in almost a month. In fact, it felt more like that was Bud’s room, to him now, but that wasn’t right. It was his house after all, not Bud’s, but he was having a hard time suddenly imagining what it might be like living alone. He was uncertain when exactly Bud had moved into his house, but unofficially he was Carl’s roommate—well, his boyfriend really, he might as well just admit it.. First he was just staying over on occasion, bringing in more and more of his things as he did, slowly filling up the house, and then he simply never left again one day, sleeping in Carl’s old master bedroom while Carl slept on the couch most nights, passing out after drinking buckets of cheap beer, and usually after several hours of Bud using him however he wanted.
Carl grabbed the banister and started hauling himself upstairs, but it ended up taking more effort than he’d expected. How heavy was he now, anyway? He can’t remember the last time he’d weighed himself, but at his last doctor visit, he’d been 180 pounds or so. He certainly wasn’t that small anymore, and if he had to guess, he’d put himself around 250 or so, right? The truth was that he simply didn’t know. He was just bigger. He knew there was a scale in the bathroom, under the sink, and as he rested halfway up the flight of stairs, listening to another grumble of thunder outside, he started to feel anxious, and he had to fight off a full scale panic. He had no idea what had triggered it, but he took deep inhales off his cigar for a minute to calm down, and then resumed his climb to the second floor, finally reaching the top in several minutes, when it used to take him ten seconds flat.
The hallway was littered with Bud’s clothes, and Carl took a moment to smell the stale, humid air, feeling his cock shiver at the musk. It smelled like home, it smelled like him even. He lifted his arm up and took a deep smell of himself, and realized his passing thought was true—he and Bud did smell the same, that same scent of heavy musk and stale beer which had so attracted him to him at first…hadn’t it? Or had he thought it was disgusting? It seemed so fuzzy now, and it didn’t really matter. Still, he should probably get some clothes of his own, because he’d simply been wearing all of Bud’s cast offs and none of them were in particularly good shape, and he was so fat that many didn’t even fit. He was wearing a pair of clammy, jersey boxers stretched tight over his thighs and ass, and the wifebeater he had was stained with cigar ash, food and sweat, with one hole in the breast large enough that his moob tended to hang out of it if he did nothing.
He went into the upstairs bathroom, and the place was filthy, and stank of piss and shit. The shower was still in pieces, but he found it hard to care. If he’d already gone this long without a shower, what harm was there in going even longer? he obviously didn’t need them. He paused at the sink and looked himself over in the mirror, a bit disgusted by himself. His hairline had receded back past the crown of his head, and the majority of his hair was now grey. He looked older than Bud now even, and the mustache didn’t really help. At Bud’s insistence he had started growing out a horseshoe around his mouth, and the white hairs on his lip were already staining yellow with smoke. He looked old, and he looked tired. What had gone so wrong? Shaking his head, he dug around under the sink and found the scale, turned it on and stepped on it. He couldn’t read the number past his gut, so he had to step back off it quickly before the number disappeared, and he couldn’t believe his eyes the first time, so he did it again, and then again.
“Three hundred and sixty-nine?” he said to himself. “Three hundred and sixty nine pounds?”
He managed to get the scale up off the floor, figuring it had to be calibrated wrong, or measuring kilograms, or something. That couldn’t be right, it just couldn’t be. He threw the scale back under the sink and left the bathroom, sucking on his cigar nervously, but rather than go back downstairs, he went down the hall towards Bud’s room, but as he did he passed by a room he hadn’t used in weeks. He couldn’t even remember what it was for, actually. He opened the door, and felt it coming back to him—it was his office.
About a month ago, Bud had told him he was going to paint it over a few days, and suggested Carl just take a brief vacation from work. Carl hadn’t really protested, because it had been really hard for him to get much of anything done, but he’d completely forgotten about it, and it looked like Bud had too. The furniture was all shoved into the middle of the room, arranged so he couldn’t even get to the computer, which was unplugged, and while tarp was laid out and the walls taped, nothing had been painted, aside for one wall of primer. But his work, his job, his clients—he’d been awol for almost an entire month. He’d had deadlines, consultations…what had he done? What had he been doing?
He felt like he was going to throw up, and the panic which had hammered into him suddenly on the stairs minutes before rammed into him again. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. He was fucked—just absolutely fucked. All of his credibility, all of his customer base—if it hadn’t evaporated yet, he would never be able to salvage this. A computer meltdown? An illness? He didn’t have an excuse, he couldn’t think of anything to even say, and all he wanted to do was gorge and drink himself into a stupor, and beg Bud to fuck him when he got home. That wasn’t a solution though, that was the problem. This had all started with these damn renovations, this had all started with Bud. The anger that hit next was so unexpected, that when he punched the wall and his hand disappeared into the plaster, he just stared at it for a moment, and then pulled it out of the hole he’d made, and stared at his bloody knuckles, and then punched the wall again, and then he marched into Bud’s room, and started hurling the things he’d brought with him out the window and onto the front lawn, where it had just started to rain.
“You fucker!” he shouted into the storm, “You ruined my fucking life!”
Bud drove up in his truck and parked on the sidewalk, just in time to see a heap of clothes fly from the bedroom window and fall with the rain onto the walk and the lawn, and he got out and walked up underneath the window, and shouted up, “Carl, what the fuck are you doing?”
“Fuck you!” Carl shouted down, “Fucking—fuck!” He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t even look at him, and he grabbed a glass ashtray and chucked it at Bud’s head. He dodged to the side, and the ashtray struck the lawn and stuck in the ground, like a coin on it’s side, the wet, sludgy ash clumping on the grass. “Fuck!”
Bud went up to the front door, and Carl realized he could get into the house, and he knew he had to get down there and lock the door, but this fucking body, this shitty fat fucking body couldn’t do anything. He got to the top of the stairs as Bud got to the bottom, and they started at each other for a moment, Carl huffing and red in the face. “Carl, what the fuck are you doing,” Bud asked.
“You…I don’t…” Carl said, trying to unravel the bundle of emotions and humiliation in his chest enough to force out the words he suddenly couldn’t formulate. “You…you did something. You fucked up my whole life!” Carl shouted. “What the fuck did you do to me? I weigh…I weight, three hundred and seventy pounds, Bud. I weighed one hundred and eighty when I hired you. Where in the fuck…how in the fuck did I gain three hundred pounds in two months? How in the fuck Bud?”
“A hundred eighty? Are you fucking with my Carl?” Bud said, “You’ve been a fucking fatass since the day we met! What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Carl just stared at him. He’d expected denial, he’d expected…he didn’t know what he’d expected, but not that.
Bud pressed the silence, “Get out there, and pick up my fucking clothes, you fucking nutter.”
“No,” Carl said, “I want you out. I want you out of my fucking house. I want you out of my room, I want you to leave and never fucking come back, I never want to see you again.”
“You don’t fucking mean—”
“Yes I fucking mean it! Don’t fucking try and tell me what I fucking think!” Carl shouted, spit flying down the stairs, and then he was crying, and he couldn’t stop. He’d run out of anger, and he just collapsed into the top step, and when Bud tried to pull him close, he lashed out, hitting at him, but Bud just shoved his arms down to his sides, and then his head was against Bud’s familiar chest and he was sobbing, and he didn’t even know why anymore, he couldn’t even remember.
Bud didn’t let go, he just held him close as Carl sobbed, letting it out, and waited it out, waited for him to exhaust himself, and then he asked him what had happened, and Carl told him what he’d done, and how he’d been feeling. The restlessness, the forgetful feeling that had been haunting him, the anxiety and panic. How he’s weighed himself, and the unbelievable result, his office, his work neglected, and when he finished his story, Bud just pulled him closer, and said, “God, you’re such a fuckup.”
Carl had bared his heart to Bud for a moment, and that single phrase was enough to cut him even deeper than he could immediately grasp. He couldn’t even speak.
“You’ve always been a fuckup Carl, you know that. You should have never tried to do all of this without me. Running a business, are you fucking with me? Of course it was going to turn out like this, you just aren’t capable, Carl.”
“I…I was doing fine before…before…”
“No you weren’t,” Bud said, “This house was falling apart. Hell, I’ve just barely been able to get it put back together, but you were living in a fucking sty, bro. You were a mess! You can’t even work a computer, much less run a business.”
“I did to have a business! It was…it was…” Carl said, but he couldn’t quite figure out what he had been doing, “It was design…design something.”
“Don’t lie to me Carl.”
“No, no it—”
“Carl,” Bud said, pulling away so he could look him in the eye, “You’re my brother Carl, you’re my brother, and I love you, but you gotta stop this. You have to stop living in these fucking fantasies. You have to face the fact that you’re in way over your head. You have to trust me, and you have to let me help you.”
“But…but my work…my fucking life…” Carl said.
“You don’t have a fucking life, Carl. You fucking live on my couch!”
“It’s my fucking couch! This is my fucking house, and I fucking want you out!”
Carl started beating Bud back, and frustrated, Bud grabbed Carl around the neck and pushed him down, shoving him against the hallway floor, looming over him. “Not anymore, you fucked this all up Carl, you fucked it up—you. You ruined yourself, you did all of this. You fucking need me, you fucking pig, you’re fucking worthless.”
Carl still fought him, and Bud released him, and thought for a moment, and then got up and went into the office. Carl saw where he was going, and fought himself back up to standing, and hurried after him, pushing through the doorway in time to see Bud grab the desktop monitor, and hurl out the open window and into the back yard, where he heard it smash to bits in the rain. “No!” Carl said, but while he tried to stop him, Bud shoved him back against the wall, grabbed the computer tower, and chucked that out too, and Carl just slumped to the carpet and sobbed.
“You made me do that, Carl!” Bud said, standing over him, “You made me do that, you fucking piece of shit, you made me smash my own fucking computer!”
“You’re…you’re a…” Carl started to say, but he just sobbed, not at all certain what to believe, and Carl knelt down and wiped his tears from a cheek, Carl flinching away, and when Bud kissed him he didn’t resist, and when Bud started kneading his heavy, sweaty moobs, he moaned and thrust his chest up, closer to him, his cock hard against the bottom of his fat. He let Carl fuck his face against the wall, let him ram his cock hard against him, slamming the back of his head into the wall roughly, neither of them speaking, but the horniness was overwhelming him again, and when Bud grabbed him by the hand and pushed him down the hall into the bedroom, Carl went, discarding Bud’s used boxers as he walked, bending over the side of the bed like Bud liked, spreading his legs apart, giving him his ass, and Bud took it, he took it raw, and it hurt like that first time, but Carl, for some reason, he knew he deserved it, and he heard himself say as Bud fucking him, “I’m sorry, Bud, I’m sorry…” over and over, but Bud didn’t say anything back.
He finished with a grunt and pulled out of Carl’s and then said, “Get out—fucking get out of my room, you fat piece of shit,” and Carl did. He left, suddenly certain that he had been in the wrong in all of this, but not entirely sure why he felt that way. Crying, he went downstairs, and with his hands shaking, lit a cigar and chugged a beer. Bud had done so much for him, hadn’t he? And…and he’d just…what had he done? He started out in horror at the piles of crap he’d thrown into the yard, and rushed out, picking up everything that the high wind hadn’t swept off down the street. He wanted to dry the wet clothes, but the washer and dryer had been broken for weeks now, and so he hung them up around the living room and kitchen, and the he looked out the sliding glass door at the shattered computer, and couldn’t even recall why it had been so important to him, and drank himself to sleep on the couch.
He woke up with a hangover more severe than usual, but he wasn’t sure if that was because he could still clearly recall the argument from the night before in all of its detail, but when he thought about it now, he couldn’t believe what he’d done. What in the world had possessed him to behave like that in front of Bud? He sat up on the couch, and spotted an unopened beer on the coffee table, and chugged it back, trying to chase the feeling of horror away, and it was only after he’d chucked the empty can away across the room that he noticed the tattoos, and he just stared down at his arms and gawked for a moment.
They were both covered in full sleeves, and getting a closer look at them, he saw that his left arm was done in a smoke motif, littered with cigars and ashtrays, and his right arm looked more like some sort of liquid pouring down all the way to the top of his wrist, and he saw that on his shoulder he had a huge beer can pouring it down his entire arm, and he didn’t even know how to feel about it. On one level, shouldn’t he feel ashamed? But why? He did love cigars, and he did love beer, right? On his gut he saw something else written in thick, black letters, and he got up and went to the mirror, and saw written in bold lettering, “FAT, DUMB, LAZY and PROUD.”
He laughed, looking at it, but it was true—he was proud of it, wasn’t he? He rubbed his gut, feeling how big it was, and he really did love it. Why had he been so freaked out by the weight last night? There was nothing wrong with being this big, why should he fucking worry about what other people might think, so long as he liked it? Well, he did care what Bud thought—he cared what Bud thought about him a lot, he realized, and the shame of how he’d acted threatened to overwhelm him again. He had to do something to make up for how he’d acted, he had to…he didn’t know.
He lit his first cigar of the day and thought about getting something to eat, but he really wasn’t hungry. Instead he went around the room and checked on Bud’s stuff that he’d recovered the night before, seeing how it was coming along. The clothes were still pretty wet, but nothing had been broken or destroyed at least. He finished his inspection, and then tried to figure out what to do next, when he realized what he should do—he should make Bud breakfast. That would show him that he was sorry, and that he’d been wrong the night before, and that he just wanted everything to go back to normal.
He dug around in the pantry and found some pancake mix, and then in the fridge, finding some eggs, but then had to spend five or ten minutes trying to figure out the directions on the back of the package. He couldn’t really seem to focus, and it was like as soon as he read a sentence, he would forget what he’d read in the last one, and reading was hard. The words swam in front of him, and he couldn’t quite piece some of the words together, trying to sound some of them out, but he was flummoxed. He ended up just pouring some of the mix in a mostly clean bowl with some eggs, milk and oil, but the result seemed way too runny to be right. Still, he pressed on, and found a frying pan, but he kept forgetting to check the pancakes, and before long he just had a stack of burnt, thin cakes piling up on a dirty plate, and he heard footsteps upstairs, and Bud call down, “Is something burning? Fuck CJ, what the fuck have you done this time?”
Carl didn’t know what to do, and so he just stepped back from the stove and when Bud came into the kitchen, he stammered, “Bud I…I jus’ wanted tah make ya breakfast, bro. Look, I’m sorry ‘bout last night, man, I don’ know what I was doin’ it was jus’ a mess man.”
Carl listened to himself, and he sounded like a bumbling idiot, slurring some of the words, his voice deep and raspy from the smoke, and he just felt this huge wave of shame well up over him, and he tried not to start crying in front of Bud, who just looked from Carl to the stove, at the lumpy, runny pancake mix, and the black stack next to the stove, and he sighed. “CJ…”
“God, I know, I’m a fuck up, alright?” Carl said, “I know, I can’ even make ya a fuckin’ batch a pancakes right. I’m just a fuckin’ piece a shit.”
Bud walked over and pulled him into a tight hug, and Carl let him, “Look, I’m here for you CJ, I’m your brother—I’ll always be here for you, but you just gotta…you gotta stop trying so hard. You just aren’t what you thought you were, you know? You’re just a fat loser, living on his brother’s couch, no job, an alcoholic, and when you accept that, when you realize that, it’ll be better, alright?” and then he chuckled, “and maybe leave the cooking to me? You know, someone who can read a recipe?”
“I can read a recipe!” Carl insisted, “That one was just confusing.”
“CJ, you dropped out of school in the eighth grade, you can’t even read a fucking book.”
“I didn’t, I mean, I went to college, I was…I…” Carl said, but while he thought he was telling the truth, he couldn’t actually scrounge up any facts to back up what he was claiming. He couldn’t remember the name of the college, hell, he couldn’t even remember the name of his high school. “Well, you didn’t do much better, you dropped out at sixteen,” he added defensively, not entirely sure how he knew that about Bud, but he knew it was the truth.
“Ha, well, you have me there. Still, why don’t we start over with pancakes, eh? I don’t really want those.”
Carl nodded, and helped Bud clean up, and then sat down at the table, watching his brother make these perfect pancakes, just a bit amazed at him. He was the big brother after all, he should be the one in charge, but he was just hopeless most of the time. Even that didn’t seem right to him—Bud wasn’t his brother. But he could remember them growing up together, he could remember the first time he’d begged Bud to fuck him, when he was in his twenties and Bud was just seventeen. Carl stood up suddenly from the table, in the middle of one of his panic attacks, feeling like he’d suddenly realized he was in a cage a bit too small for him, and Bud hurried over, shouting the name CJ at him a few times before slapping him across the face, bringing Carl around to him.
“Why the fuck are you calling me CJ?” Carl shouted, “My name is Carl, man, why…”
“What the fuck are you talking about? You’ve always gone by CJ.”
“But…but my last name doesn’t even start with ‘J’…”
“We have the same last name, bro, Johnson. We’re brothers.”
“No…no, I…that’s not.”
“CJ!” Bud shouted at him, and slapped him again, “Fucking stop it! Quit it with this fucking fantasy you fucking insist on trying to live! You don’t own this house, you don’t have a fucking job, you don’t have a fucking life! Fucking shut the fuck up, and quit playing these fucking games!” He shoved CJ back into the chair, and went over to the stove, cussing, “You made me fucking burn one, you piece of shit…”
“Sorry…sorry…” Carl muttered, and just stayed silent, looking down at his arms and gut, at his tattoos that he’d had for years, even though he couldn’t remember having them last night. Looking over at his brother cooking breakfast for him that he’d completely forgotten about, and wondered what was wrong with him. What had he been doing? It felt like he’d been in the most beautiful dream—he’d been thin, successful, ambitious, everything he should have been, and he was slowly waking up into a reality which was none of those things, and somehow the dream felt more real to him than his actual life, and he wanted to fall back asleep, he just wanted to go back to the dream, but now that he knew it wasn’t real, now that he knew it was a lie, he couldn’t even get there.
The two of them ate breakfast, mostly in silence, Carl trying to think about what was happening, and about what was real, and he couldn’t even imagine what Bud was thinking about. After breakfast, Bud said he was going out for a bit, and Carl settled onto the couch, watching TV and masturbating, discovering he had a PA like his brother’s through his cock now. It was disturbing finding it, because again, he couldn’t remember getting it, but it felt like it had been there forever, and it was…it was hot, having it, and he came two or three times, fantasizing about his brother, like he always had, all of his life, and as another storm developed in the afternoon, he started to wonder where Bud had gone, and part of him even started to worry that he might have been abandoned. He was so relieved when Bud’s truck pulled up, that a knot of worry he hadn’t even noticed building up in him immediately released, and he didn’t know what he would do without him. What would he do? He was just a hopeless loser.
Bud came in the house with a small bag, and he told Carl that they needed to have a talk, and so Carl plopped down on the couch, and Bud thought for a moment, before he spoke. “CJ…I need to know that what happened last night will never happen again.”
“It won’t,” Carl said immediately, “It won’t I promise it won’t, I swear.”
“I can’t trust you CJ, I can’t trust you if you won’t listen to me. If you keep insisting on these fantasies, if you keep trying to lie to me.”
“I’m not…I’m not lying…”
“That’s what I mean, I can’t have you here, CJ, I can’t have you say things like that, and still keep you here.”
“Are you kicking me out?” Carl said, “Are…are you throwing me out? Please, please Bud, I’m sorry, I’ll do my best, I will. I can’t…I can’t live without you, I need you, I’m fuckin’ hopeless on my own, I can’t even get a job, I have nowhere tah go…”
“But I can’t have you fucking up my life, and fucking up my stuff.”
“I don’t know what came over me Bud, I don’t. But it won’t happen again, I promise.”
“How can I believe you CJ? How can I believe you, when you try to tell me we aren’t brothers? When you can’t even remember that you haven’t ever, not once in your life, ever asked to be called Carl. I mean, I feel like I don’t even know who you are sometimes, like you’re a completely different person.”
“I…I feel like that too…sometimes.”
“That’s a problem CJ. That’s a really big problem. Look, I know you aren’t always happy with who you are, but where’s the brother I remember man? Where’s the brother who loved life, and loved drinking and smoking? He was so fun man, what the fuck happened to him?”
“I don’ know! I don’ even remember, I don’ know…”
Bud just sighed, and then pulled something out of the bag, a two inch wide strip of leather which Carl saw was a collar, and he was confused. “I need you to trust me Bud. I need you to trust me more than you trust yourself. I need you to believe what I say, more than what your own head says. I need you to do that. I need you to do that, or I can’t let you stay here.”
“I need you to remember all of it CJ, I need to remember what you promised me. I need you to trust me like you used to, before all of this bullshit happened, before you went fucking crazy.”
“I’m not crazy.”
Bud just stared at him, and Carl looked away from him, sheepishly. He had been pretty crazy last night, even he could admit that. Still, he’d had a good reason, right? Even if he couldn’t quite remember what it was…
“Bud…I’m sorry, I don’t know, I’m just so confused.”
“Do you remember that first time, when you came into my room? Dad was passed out on the couch, and you were living with us, do you remember what you asked me to do?”
“I asked you to fuck me.”
“No, you asked me for more than a fuck, I didn’t even know how to react. You asked me…you asked me to own you, CJ. You told me you wanted to be my slave, that you wanted me to collar you, and fuck you, and you were so drunk man. I fucked you, and it was awesome, I know, but I wasn’t…I didn’t know about all the rest, and you never mentioned it again. You were back on the road, or Dad kicked you out, and I didn’t see you again for a while.”
“I don’t…I don’t remember that, but I was…pretty drunk that night,” he said, blushing.
“Do you still want it?”
Carl just stared at his brother, not sure how to answer. He hadn’t…he hadn’t thought about it, he didn’t know what to say, but…but looking at that collar hanging in Bud’s hand, he gulped and felt his cock start to harden. “I don’t know.”
“You’d be my slave, CJ. I would fucking own you. You’d do what I say, when I say it. You’d believe what I tell you, even if you think otherwise. If I say something is wrong, you trust me first, and your own head second. I’ll keep you safe, CJ. I will, I swear, but sometimes you scare me, when you get lost in these fantasies. I feel like I should have just said yes all those years ago, but I didn’t but here I am, I’ll be your master CJ, do you still want it?”
“If I say no, do I have to leave?”
“So it’s…it’s not really a choice is it? I mean…I mean, where else would I go, Bud?”
“I don’t know, but this is my offer. You wanted this, this was your idea CJ. I’m just trying to give you what you want, I’m trying to be the best brother I can be, but do you trust me? Do you really want to be with me?”
“Yes! Yes, I do, but…but I…”
“Don’t do this to me CJ, don’t make me throw you out.”
“You’d be homeless, you’d probably just end up sucking cock in some alley behind a gay bar, is that what you want?”
Carl was crying now. He didn’t know what to say, and his cock was completely hard now, and he couldn’t look away from the collar, imagining what it might feel like around his fat neck, “Can…can I try it on?” he said, “Just…just try it, see what it feels like.”
“No. If it goes on, it stays on,” Bud said, and pulled out a small padlock, “It stays on, and only I can decide if it ever comes off.”
Carl felt the panic in him start rising up like bile. He wanted to scream, he wanted to throw something, he wanted to beg, he wanted to get fucked harder than Bud had ever fucked him before, he wanted his dream back, his fantasy, his old life, but it would never come back, this was what he had to deal with, this was his life, and he couldn’t be on his own, he couldn’t be alone again, and the word fell out of his mouth, “Yes, yes, please Bud, be my master, please. I trust you, I do, more than I trust myself. I can’t…I can’t take this, please, just do it.”
Bud walked around the coffee table, and Carl was shaking where he sat, but he lifted up his chin, allowing Bud to wrap the leather around his neck, and he shivered as Bud pulled it tight—a bit too tight for him to ever forget he was wearing it, and then padlocked it on, and with that click, it felt both like he had been trapped and freed from a prison at the same time, and he leaned into Bud’s gut while his brother rubbed his head. He’d made the right choice, he knew he had, but it still scared him to death.
Bud grabbed his collar in both hands and pulled Carl’s face down, where he found his brother’s hard, dribbling cock, and he opened wide for it, letting his brother face fuck him on the couch, listening as Bud talked about what he was going to do to him, and how happy he was.
“You don’t have to worry anymore, CJ. I’ll take care of you. You won’t have to worry about fucking up your life anymore.”
“Gonna have to get you some leather gear, eh? Dress you up like some tough biker and then parade you around on a leash. Gotta get you some dildos too, keep that hole of yours filled all the time.”
“I know you’re scared, but it’s gonna be like second nature to a loser like you. Just let me do all the thinking, make all decisions. You’ll be your happy-go-lucky self again before you know it.”
He was going to be happy wasn’t he? Carl felt the panic start to slowly unknot itself, and this time he actively willed it away. It wasn’t important, what had all of that panic and anger gotten him? He’d almost lost Bud, he’d almost ruined his life even more than he had already. Why couldn’t he just he happy? Why couldn’t he just be thankful for what he had? He looked up at Bud from where he was, watching the smoke curl away from the end of his brother’s cigar, the little brother who had always been better at living than he was, and he realized that all he wanted was to be like him. As carefree as him, as happy as him. He couldn’t be as smart as he was, but maybe that was ok. Bud was smart enough to think for both of them now—all Carl needed to worry about was making sure his brother was happy, and obeying his every command. Not just because it was the right thing to do, but because it would make them both happy.
Bud, apparently tired of his mouth, pulled his cock out, and yanked Carl up by the collar, spun him around, and then shoved him forward so he bent over, his ass ready for Bud’s cock, and Carl whimpered as the shaft ran up and down his sweaty ass crack, and he heard a low rumble of thunder from outside. “Do you want me to fuck your hole, slave?”
“Ye—Yes…” Bud said, but let out a sharp cry as Bud smacked his ass cheek hard.
“That is not how you address me pig, try again.”
“Yes sir, please…please fuck me sir.”
“You want me to fuck you?”
“Then repeat after me. ‘I am a giant fuck up.’”
Carl gulped, his mouth dry, and he replied, “I am a giant fuckup,” and whimpered as the head of his brother’s cock slipped into his ass and stayed there. He tried to push back, but Bud retreated, keeping just the head in.
“I am a giant fuck up, and I owe my brother everything for being kind enough to rule me and control my life.”
Carl felt a tear roll down, but he said the phrase back to Bud, “I am a giant…a giant fuck up, and I owe my brother everything—everything for being kind enough to rule me and control my life.” He was rewarded with another inch of his cock into his ass.
“I am an illiterate, filthy dumbass—an obese, cigar smoking, alcoholic slob, and I love it. It’s the only way I want to live.”
Bud drove his cock in a little deeper, and reached around to fondle Carl’s balls. “I am an ill—illiterate, filthy dumbass—an obese, cigar smokin’, alcoholic slob, and I love it, sir. I love it, it’s the only way I wanna live.”
“My name is CJ Johnson. My brother Bud is my keeper and my owner. I’m his slave, his whore, and his pig.”
Bud’s cock was all the way in now, “My name is CJ…My name…” he said, but couldn’t get the rest of it out, and Bud reached around him, grabbed his nipples and gave them a sharp twist, making Carl cry out.
“Say it you fucker, say it, or I take my cock out and you leave right now, naked.”
“My name…My name is CJ Johnson. My…My brother Bud is my keeper. I’m his slave,” Bud started thrusting his cock, “his whore,” too late, Carl felt what was coming, he could feel his ball churning. He tried to hold it off, “his…his…fuck!” He was cumming, his cock was pumping cum all over the couch, “I’m sorry Bud, I’m sorry sir, I—”
“You fucking—god damn it, you’re fucking hopeless, you fucking piece of shit!” Bud said, smacking Carl’s ass as he started fucking him harder, “Don’t think you won’t pay for that, don’t think you won’t fucking regret that.”
“I’m sorry sir, I’m sorry…” Carl said, but Bud shoved his head down, muffling him in the couch cushions and fucked him fast, pounding it in with a few final jerks as he came, and then he pulled out his still leaking cock and started pounding Carl’s ass with his hand, making him cry out in pain with each spank. Bud made him count them out, and when he started crying from the pain, Bud told him he was adding twenty more for being a pussy.
“Man the fuck up and take it pig!”
“I can’t fucking hear you. Fucking count! You can count right, or are you so stupid you didn’t learn that either?”
“You did this! You fucking made me do this, you son of a bitch, so quit your blubbering and take it.”
When he finished, he let Carl stand up, and then pulled him into a hug, Carl not sure what to feel anymore, but what finally came through, in his chest where that knot of anger and fear and panic had been, was love. This overwhelming love for his brother, and he hated that he’d disappointed him yet again. “I’m sorry sir, I’m sorry—it won’t happen again, I swear, I promise bro—sir. I promise.”
“I can’t do this for you CJ, I can’t fix you up if you don’t let me help you, if you don’t do what I say.”
“I will, I promise, I will.”
Bud kissed him, and Carl kissed him back, and then Bud grabbed his hand and pulled him upstairs, where they fucked again on his bed, and when Carl woke up, he was still there, his brother’s cock still in his ass, and he stayed still, not wanting to wake him up, and not wanting the moment to end. However, Bud was awake behind him, and smiling, looking at his brother’s back, where a new tattoo had appeared overnight:
~My Brother is My Keeper~
CJ gave a whimper and pushed closer to Bud, and he pulled his brother tighter to him, as tightly as he could, and didn’t let go for a long while.
The heatwave never broke—it only intensified as summer settled over the house in a miasma. It was too hot to do much of anything, it was too hot to think, it was too hot to worry about these sorts of things. Carl stood in front of the mirror in his bedroom, looking intently at his face, looking at the sweat bead on it and run down, but mostly he was looking at two things. First, he was looking at his hairline, and second, he was looking at a single white hair which had appeared overnight next to his left ear.
He was looking at his hairline, because he had noticed, over the last two weeks, since Bud had finally finished painting the outside of the house and had moved onto the rooms inside, that his hairline had begun receding. Each day, he would wake up, and scattered on his pillows in bed, or more likely, on the cushions of the couch where he was sleeping more and more often, would be a smattering of hairs, and he would look at himself in the mirror, and from day to day he could almost watch it retreat up his head, thinning out as he did. Already, the two divots on either side of his head had connected, leaving him with a thinning tuft in the center of his forehead, and with his hand, he reached back and felt the small patch of bare skin where his whirl had been days before.
Was it the heat? Was it the stress? Was it the sex? He didn’t know what it was, but he didn’t like it. His father still had a full head of hair. His grandfathers all had had full heads of hair when they died. And here he was, twenty-nine and losing everything all at once, and now grey hair even, on top of that. Right there, staring him right in the face. He grabbed at it with his fingers and tried to pull it out, but it was too slick with sweat for him to get a grip on it, and he sighed, turned around and stared for a few minutes at the ruins of his shower behind him.
The past month, Bud’s work had been slipping steadily. Ever since that night when Carl had blown him for the first time, the contractor had seemed more interest in having sex, drinking beer, and smoking cigars than getting any work done. Still, every time Carl tried to have a conversation with him about, he would either be busy and attest that Carl was just imagining things, or he would be relaxing, and simply tell Carl that it was too hot to work, and—
“Why don’t ya get those sweet lips of yours over here and suck me dry, man?”
Carl spun around, and found Bud behind him, naked in the doorway, one hand stroking his cock, and a beer in the other, leering.
Carl ignored him. “How much longer are you going to be working on the shower, Bud?” he asked, “It’s been three days, and I want to cool off—not to mention the fact that I reek.”
“I like the way you reek though,” Bud said, coming close, pulling Carl close to him and licking the sweat up from the side of Carl’s neck.
“Bud, come on, not right now, I’m too damn hot.”
“I’m hot too, but not in the way you’re thinking. Come on man, quit being such a buzzkill. You know what we need to do? We need to get you good and drunk—I bet you’d be such a good lay if you were fucking smashed.”
Carl managed to push him away and slip past him to the door, “Why don’t you fix the shower Bud, and then we fuck? How about getting some goddamn work done for a change?” He walked off down the hallway and to his office, Bud chuckling behind him and heading downstairs to get his tools, Carl hoped.
In his office, he shut the door behind him, sat down at his computer and tried to immerse himself in the websites he needed to design for his clients, but it was so hot, and his focus kept slipping, because that short stint with Bud had him hard and nothing was helping calm him down. He bit his lip, and then slid open a drawer and pulled out a cigar, lighter and ashtray and lit up, taking a long inhale of smoke before exhaling a plume towards the window and sighed.
He couldn’t believe that he’d actually managed to pick up this disgusting habit. He’d promised himself that it would only be an occasional thing. Something he’d do around Bud, they’d smoke a cigar or two, and fuck—it did make their fucks amazing—but lately it seemed like he needed to smoke to do much of anything. With the smoke easing his nerves a bit, he managed to get some work done, but the smoke kept him hard, and he kept leaning back in his chair, massaging his cock in his damp khakis and boxers.
He should be the one walking around naked, he thought, not Bud. This was his house after all, but he felt like his clothing was a shield almost, something he could use against Bud to keep him off of him if he didn’t feel like fucking. If he was naked, well, then what would he have? Hell, even being dressed didn’t help all the time—Bud was almost constantly horny, but then again, Carl was horny all the time too. Figuring it wouldn’t hurt, he pulled up some porn and started jacking, but as had become usual, he didn’t even pay attention to the video, he was thinking about Bud. Thinking about how hot it was to have his thick cock down his throat, that big ring resting hard down there, thinking about his musk, about how Carl could spend an hour sometimes just smelling Bud’s pits, licking the sweat from them, thinking about his big gut, and how hot it was, feeling it pushing back against his face as he tried to swallow as much of the shaft as he could, wondering what it might feel like to have it up his ass…
He shot his load at that thought, before his mind could wander too far down that path. Carl still hadn’t let Bud fuck him, but he could sense that Bud wanted it. He wanted it too, but the previous times that he’d tried to take something up his ass, it had simply hurt too much to even consider it as a kind of sex for him. And yet, even though Bud’s cock was bigger than any of his previous boyfriends’, even though he was certain it would hurt more than anything he’d ever tried, he still wanted it. Hell, Bud had managed to rid him of his gag reflex in about a week, he was sure Bud could work miracles on his hole as well, and yet something still seemed to hold him back. It felt like…like if things went that far, then what little bit of control Carl still had over this entire situation would vanish, and he’d never be able to reclaim it.
He cleaned himself up, and took a few minutes at the window to finish the cigar, watching the late evening sun advance across the southern sky, baking everything underneath it. What a summer so far. There was a drought, and water shortages, and everyone’s lawns were brown and dying. He snubbed out the cigar and sat back down at the computer, feeling a bit better. He managed to sink into the zone for a little bit, getting more work done than he’d managed over the previous days, and the sun finally sank low enough behind a hill on the horizon, bringing a welcome relief from the heat. It wasn’t too long after that, when there was a knock on the door of his office, he got up and answered, and found Bud fully clothed for a change.
“Hey, I was wondering if you wanted some pizza? I’m kind of hungry, and this shower is giving me some problems. I was gonna keep working on it tonight, if you don’t mind, after we eat.”
“Oh, uh…sure,” Carl said, “Feel free.”
Carl assumed that that would settle the discussion, but Bud hung around at the door, for a few moments, almost like he was expecting something, and he finally added, “I’m working for you—I’m not buying.”
Carl rolled his eyes, pulled out his wallet and gave Bud a twenty.
“Twenty? Come on, who do you think we’re feeding here? And I wanted to get some beer and cigars too, you know, in case we wanted them for later.”
“How much do you want?”
“Sixty should do it.”
“Sixty?” Carl said, “Seriously?”
Bud just waited for him, saying nothing, and so he pulled out his wallet and gave him two more twenties and left it at that, Bud giving him a grin and a peck on the cheek, before running down to his truck and driving off. Carl took a moment to take a look at the bathroom again, and it looked like the shower was in even worse condition than earlier in the day, and he sighed, and returned to his office. At least he worked at home, where the only other person who had to smell him was Bud, and the contractor seemed to enjoy that a bit more than Carl thought was healthy. He tried to get back into the zone of work, but Bud had successfully shaken him out of it, and he tried to jack off again, but couldn’t quite finish before he heard the front door open and Bud come back in, calling “Dinner!” from down in the living room.
Carl went downstairs, and saw that Bud hadn’t been joking—he must have been hungry. There were five large pizzas stacked up on the coffee table, two twenty four packs of cheap beer, and a pile of cellophane wrapped cigars. “Dang man, are we having a party or something?”
“Nah, I’m just starved!” Carl said, “This heat must be getting to me. Still, we can always eat the leftovers tomorrow, right? Come on, take a seat, take a break! You work too hard.”
“Yeah, and you don’t work hard enough. What’s up with the shower? It’s a disaster in there.”
‘Not sure, I’m still trying to figure it out,” Bud said, popping open a beer, and chugging most of it down, before letting off a loud belch of approval.
Carl walked around to the couch and sat down, opening up the top pizza box and taking a slice, which he started eating. Bud found the remote and turned on the TV, flipping through the channels until he found a wrestling match, and then joined Carl on the couch, naked again, and he started undressing Carl next to him, talking as he did, like usual.
“I don’t understand how you keep wearing this shit everyday—aren’t you hot in all of this stuff?”
“Fuckin’ white collar types, never could understand you guys. Wouldn’t you rather just let it all hang out?”
“Looks like you’re putting on a paunch man—guess you’d better kiss those abs you had goodbye, eh?”
A bit surprised at the last comment, Carl looked down and noticed he had put on a bit of a belly. When in the world had that happened, and how had he not even noticed? Bud gave in a rub and then a sharp slap, making Carl jump.
“Fuck, I bet you thought you’d be thin all your life eh? Just another gym rat, toned body until you die, guess that’s not gonna happen—you’re just a lazy fuck at heart, aren’t you?”
“Fuck you Bud, I go to the gym,” Carl said, but then he realized, he hadn’t been to the gym lately. In fact, he hadn’t been to the gym in weeks. He’d had a routine, he would get up every morning and do his weights and cardio, and he’d just stopped doing it. All of it. When had he stopped? He thought back, and realized the first day had been in May, when he’d woken up still on the couch, Bud’s boxers draped over his face, and he blushed. He still had those boxers actually, he had them stashed under his mattress. Bud had never asked for them back, either.
“Have another slice,” Bud said, grabbing another piece of pizza, and holding it up to Carl’s mouth.
“I think I’m full actually.”
“Eat it, piggy.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“I said eat it.”
Carl tried to get up from the couch, but Bud suddenly straddled him, pushing him back into the couch, and Carl realized he didn’t really have a choice in the matter, and that this treatment had him hard all over again, and so he opened his mouth and let Bud feed him the slice of pizza. However, it didn’t stop after one slice, Bud just grabbed a fresh box of pizza and started feeding him the entire pie, stopping on occasion to make him guzzle an entire can of beer, or take a drag off a cigar, the entire time urging him on, and humiliating him for doing what Bud told him.
“You are a pig, aren’t you? You fucking love eating—it’s ok, just give in, just accept it.”
“Have you ever thought about being fat? I bet you have. I bet it scares you, but it makes you hard sometimes too, doesn’t it? Does the thought of weighing 300, 400 pounds scare you? Does that get you hard piggy?”
“Eat it—don’t fucking gag, we dealt with that already, just eat, it’s all your fucking good for.”
Carl finished one pie, and then another one. He wasn’t sure when exactly, but Bud had moved one of Carl’s hands down so that he was stroking his own cock as Bud fed him, and he was hard, but not because of the food, right? He just felt so full, and so drunk, and the entire room was either too dark, or too bright depending on where he was looking.
“Come on pig, come on, shoot that load with this full belly of yours.”
Carl gasped as he came, and it hurt, trying to bend forward as he shot, but his belly, now stretched into a hard gut, refused to yield, and he felt bile well up but he quelled it back somehow. He’d never felt this full in his entire life, and he felt sick, but he also felt good, and horny, and drunk.
He looked up a Bud, but couldn’t quite focus on him somehow, and heard a voice say, “Fuck me.” No, it wasn’t a voice, it was his voice. He’d said that, and he did want it. “Fuck me, Bud. No one’s fucked me before, but fuck me—please. I’m scared, but…but I think…I think I need it. I’m so horny, please…”
“What a fucking slut,” Bud said to Carl, as he ran his hand through the globs of cum on Carl’s belly, “Just a fucking little whore, eh? Never been fucked before? I’ll be the fuckin’ judge of that, that cherry better be tight, boy.” He took his cum wet fingers and slipped them between Carl’s legs, and then between his cheeks. He started probing the hole with his middle finger, and Carl groaned. “I bet you’ve fantasized about this, boy. Having a real man like me fuck you rough—because it’s gonna be rough boy. I’m gonna make you a man tonight—you want that? You want daddy to make you a man?”
Carl nodded as Bud slid his finger into his ass, and he didn’t know whether it was the beer loosening him up, or just how horny he was, but it felt entirely different from the other times he’d ever played with his ass, when it had hurt like a hard knot. Bud’s fingers though, they slipped into him like they belonged there—like the hole had been waiting for him to claim it all this time, and it felt good. It felt good having him in there. It felt right. He did his best to slide down onto his hand, but his heavy gut wouldn’t let him move far, and he gave it a rub. It was so big—it couldn’t be that big could it?
Carl’s worry was interrupted by Bud bending down and grabbing both of his ankles in his hand, and throwing his legs up in the air, lifting him up high enough that he could rub his hard, leaking cock against his hole. “No…not here,” Carl said, his words slurring themselves, “The bedroom.”
“I’m gonna fuck you wherever I want, and whenever I want, boy,” Bud said, and to punctuate his point, he drove the head into Carl’s hole, watching him gasp. The contractor’s thick cock was a different matter than his fingers, but Bud wasn’t going to take no for an answer. This was his hole now, and Carl was more than happy to give it to him, and so he nodded, and focused on taking Bud’s cock, trying not to let out how painful it was, while still trying to do what Bud told him to do.
“Raise up. I said raise up! Fuck, you’re fuckin’ hopeless. Get me that fuckin’ pillow, since you’re such a lazy fuck.”
“Push down. Push down like you’re shitting, and you’ll open up…That’s it…that’s it boy, daddy’s home, better let him all the way in.”
“Feel that? Feel that? I’m all the way in boy, you took me to the hilt you fucking slut. Feels good doesn’t it? You’re gonna be fuckin’ insatiable, you’re gonna want me in ya day ‘n night.”
Bud didn’t last too long, once he had his cock all the way in. Carl had barely adjusted to the size of his cock by the time he let out a strange cry, pumping cum into his ass, and then he collapsed down, right onto Carl’s massive gut, making Carl lurch, and then he pulled out and rolled off onto the couch next to him, and Carl could feel the cum leaking out of his hole and onto the cushion beneath him, but all he could do was massage his sore gut, and when Bud handed him a lit cigar he happily smoked it down. The rest of the evening, Bud told Carl how proud of him he was for all of that, pulling him close so Carl’s face ended up in the crook of his armpit, and Carl would always end up licking and nibbling at the musk there. He was already drunk, but Bud didn’t stop with his feeding, plying him with more beer, and they both finished the last pizza together, or at least they must have, because when Carl woke up the next morning, on his couch, the sun already high and blazing, all of the boxes were empty, and he was starving and hungover, his ass hurt and he didn’t quite know what to do with himself, so he grabbed a warm beer and chugged it down, letting off a belch, and then lit himself a cigar, and laid back on the couch, nursing his swollen gut.
“What the fuck…” Carl said, looking down at the swollen mound that had erupted from his belly overnight. It was even bigger than he could remember from the night before. He got up off the couch and nearly lost his balance. It was much heavier than he was expecting, and he walked over to where a mirror hung by the front door and got a better look at himself, and realized there was no other way to look at it. He was fat—not even overweight. He’d gone from slightly out of shape to obese in a single night. He grabbed his love handles and gave the gut a jiggle, and it felt surprisingly hot, his cock rising to half-mast from the sensation of fat rubbing against it, but that was so wrong. He had moobs too, actual flab where his pecs had been, and he groped them a few times, the first couple experimentally, and the next few because it felt so sensual he didn’t really want to stop, but then he noticed his hair.
His hairline had receded at least an inch from where he’d inspected it the day before, and the single white hair he’d found had multiplied into two large patches covering his temples. He couldn’t take this, he couldn’t fucking handle this right now. He took a deep drag off his cigar, pulling as much smoke into his lungs as he could, and then did the only thing he could think of. He plopped back down on the couch and had another beer, and when that one didn’t make him feel better, he had another, and another. He’d drank five down by the time he heard a grunt and a yawn from the stairs behind him, and he saw Bud yawning as he came down naked, looking like he’d just woken up.
Carl stood up from the couch, swaying a bit as he did. How much had he just drank? It didn’t matter, none of this mattered beyond getting some fucking answers. “What the fuck Bud, what the fuck happened to me? I’m fucking fat.”
Bud just stared at him, looking a bit confused. “Of course you’re fat, bro. Are you drunk already? Isn’t it a bit early to be drinking?”
“I’m fucking fat, Bud. I must have gained, I don’t know, a hundred pounds last night, what the fuck did you do to me? And did you sleep here last night? What the fucking hell! This is my goddamn house Bud, and you’re just my fucking contractor—you don’t get to sleep in my bed.”
“Well the couch was taken, and it was late. I didn’t think you’d throw a tantrum. Besides, I guess I kind of assumed that, well, after last night…I guess I just…”
“What, you thought I wanted to date you?” Carl asked, “Bud, what the hell is going on here, there’s…I mean…I just feel so…fucked up all of a sudden.”
Carl felt himself start crying suddenly, and he was too drunk now to try and hold it back, and when Bud came over and pulled him into a hug, he let him. He felt so safe in Bud’s arms, smelling him. It was so familiar now—and he had the sudden realization that if Bud left, if he kicked Bud out—he’d never get to smell him again. He’d never smell this, for feel his arms, or his rough hands, or any of it, and he’d miss it. He’d miss it so much.
“Look,” Bud said, “It’s all alright, eh? It was just a rough night, everything’s ok bro, I promise. Here, how about I make us some breakfast, will that make you feel better. I bet you just have low blood sugar or somethin’.”
Carl nodded, and he kept smoking cigars and drinking beers all through breakfast, and by the end of the meal, he was laughing and joking along with Bud, although all of Bud’s jokes seemed to end up with Carl being the butt of them.
“Dang bro, how in the hell did you manage to lose all of your hair already? You’re gonna look like a damn geezer. Might as well just admit defeat and shave it all off.”
“Do you have to eat like such a pig? Close your mouth for Christ’s sake, and it’s not gonna run away, maybe take your time? Though I’m happy you like my cookin’.”
“Save some beer for the rest of us, fuck. It’s not even noon yet man. Oh wait, is it? Ha! It’s two in the afternoon, and we’re eating breakfast, fuck—what a night.”
They never managed to clean up after breakfast, because before long Bud had moved over to Carl’s side of the table and started feeding his gut, Carl moaning through eggs, pancakes and beer, his cock hard again, and then right there on the kitchen floor, he got down on his hands and knees begging Bud to fuck him again, and the contactor was more than happy to do so. When they finished, they went back to the living room and watched TV, and the only moment of worry Carl had was while Bud was taking his time in the bathroom, and he got up to look himself in the mirror again, but now the gut didn’t seem strange at all. In fact, he kind of liked it, and it was suddenly hard to imagine himself without it, but just a month earlier he’d had a full head of hair, and muscles and all of it. Almost trying to prove it to himself, he found the khakis he’d stripped out of the night before, but he couldn’t even fit one of his legs into them. The same with the shirts—there was no hope for them to even button over his new belly.
“What the fuck are you trying to wear that shit for?” Bud said behind him.
“I just…these fit yesterday, I swear they did. I just…I can’t shake the feeling that something weird is happening.”
“You don’t really want to wear that stuff do you? It’s too hot for shit like that.”
“I guess, but—”
“Here, you know what? Just wear some of my stuff,” Bud said, picking up a wifebeater and pair of boxers off the floor and handing them to Carl. He hesitated for a moment, but tried them on anyway, and they were rank with sweat, but they smelled like Bud, and he started getting hard almost immediately, but the clothes did fit.
“Thanks…hey, I gotta go piss,” Carl said, and pushed past Bud and into the downstairs bathroom. He sat down on the toilet and quickly rubbed one off, fondling his fat and smelling Bud’s dirty clothes he was now wearing, imagining the sweat wearing off onto him, imagining that if he kept wearing them, he might even start smelling like Bud. He finally came when he reached between his legs and fingered his loose hole for a moment, letting out a soft moan. Outside the door, Bud stroked his own cock, listening, and then chuckled and sat back down on the couch, waiting for his pig to join him for another cigar, another beer, another meal, and another fuck.
Carl had always intended to do the renovations himself—after all, he’d bought the small house in part because it was a bit run-down, which also meant he’d gotten it for a comparable steal in the current buyer’s market, but two summers had already gone by and work had simply been too busy for him to ever devote much time to his plans. It wasn’t like the place was falling apart or anything, he would tell himself. The roof didn’t leak, all of his appliances functioned well enough. The inside and outside could use a fresh coat of paint and some better carpet, and the kitchen and bathrooms desperately needed remodeling, but at some point practicality had overwhelmed his ambition, and so he’d settled in, happy enough, figuring he would get around to it at some point.
It wasn’t that Carl was incapable of doing the work—in fact, he’d often helped his father with home remodelling projects when he was teenager, and still trying to prove to himself that he might be straight, which was funny, now that he thought back on it. Still, in his late twenties and with a firm, gym toned body, he actually enjoyed the idea of working on something like this instead of sitting in front of the computer all day long, like he’d been doing lately. Carl worked from home as a website developer. Running his own business could be stressful at times, but he was currently riding a pretty high wave which had given him the first chance to save some money in the last few years, and he really enjoyed working with his current batch of clients. Still, even though it was only May, he could tell it was going to be a beautiful summer, and the perfect opportunity to get some work on the house done. Unfortunately, his work was so successful that it was taking up most of his time, and it was beginning to look like he wasn’t going to be able to do the renovations himself. Still, the problems which had at first seemed charming were slowly developing into more of an eyesore, and it was that which provoked Carl to relent and hire a handyman to come and do some work on the house for him this summer, since it probably wouldn’t get done otherwise.
He certainly did his research when it came to contractors—he got recommendations from friends and work associates, he trolled review sites, he called around looking for reputable, hard working, drug free employees…and so when he ended up hiring Bud Johnson to do the work, he kind of surprised himself. He’d found one solid reference to Bud’s work online, and called him for a consultation on a bit of whim, and when Bud had shown up at the door, it wasn’t the kind of guy he’d expected. He was a bit shorter than Carl, but the way he stuck out his chest and with his fat gut stretching his muscle shirt taut, he gave off a certain sense of bluster and bullying that caught Carl off guard. Chuffing on a cigar that Carl kept forgetting to ask him to extinguish and smelling of stale beer, Bud wormed his way into the house with a warm handshake and a conversation that Carl just couldn’t seem to control. Bud talked a bit too fast, and by the time Carl had his thoughts formulated on one topic enough to respond, Bud had already assumed Carl’s agreement and moved onto the next.
“What do ya think of this color outside, pretty grim, eh? Good thing ya called me—no reason tah be the saddest house on the block, eh? How ‘bout Red? I’m thinkin’ red.”
“You know what this kitchen could use? Stone floors. I put some stone floors in the last house I worked on, and the owners loved it. I bet you would to! Sounds like a plan tah me.”
“This might be more than you were thinkin’ out here, but what about an awning for the patio? It would make it a great party spot—pop open a few brews, have a smoke with the buds, eh man?”
Still, for all of his pushy conversation, and the smoking, which started off as annoying and grew infuriating as Bud ignored Carl’s attempts to get him to put it out, he seemed knowledgeable and ambitious. In addition, it was just Bud working by himself, and he owned his own business, which Carl could more than respect, since he worked alone as well. By the end of the consultation, Carl had already agreed to hire Bud—but decided to limit him to working on the exterior paint for now, and if that went well, they’d see what they could do about the rest of his ideas. Still, Carl couldn’t help but be a bit concerned, and couldn’t shake the sense that he’d been logrolled some how. Still, he shrugged his shoulders and set up a few fans to try and clear the smoke out of the air in the house, and figured that if things went bad, he could always just fire him.
Mitchell Davis had been an eccentric. Rich as the rest of the neighborhood, certainly, and yet, nothing was ever simple with him. Single, for one thing—gay for another. He could have been tolerated if only he’d fallen into the straight white patterns of the wealthy around him. Instead, he’d holed himself up in the large mansion and become a recluse, until his death. Rumors had circulated quickly, how he’d been found down in the basement, a…gas mask over his head, naked, the other end attached to a large balloon. Self-asphyxiation? suicide? That’s what the neighborhood called it, preferring the easy story.
For Howard Margus, he saw the death as an opportunity. He had, once, before Mitchell’s eccentricities had cloistered him entirely within the mansion, been inside and seen the rarities within: priceless art, antique furniture, an entire library of first editions, a life’s dividends he’d coveted for years now. When it came time for the estate sale, he wrote a check for everything within the house. The neighbors thought he was insane, but indeed, the house was a treasure trove, and he had six months to pick it clean and sell the remainder before it had to be emptied and sold on the market.
If Howard had one vice, it was for pipes. He’d always regarded them as a sign of his wealth, and when he discovered that Mitchell had collected several scores of them, he decided to sample each of them, to decide which ones he might like for himself. It was the forty-fifth piped he smoked, which had been the one found between the legs of the dead Mitchell Davis in the basement dungeon, and when Mitchell lit the pipe, he choked on the smoke. He’d put in his favorite tobacco, so why did it taste so rough? It was like the tobacco he’d smoked before he’d known better, it was like rubbing your tongue up the backside of some hairy beast of a man, before you get down and start licking and sucking at his rancid hole, getting ready to fuck, getting ready to rut.
He stumbled into the wall, his clothing so tight, so…conservative? Prudish? He shouldn’t be wearing this, he should…he should be wearing leather…leather and rubber and fucking yes fucking he should be fucking! He ripped his way into his slacks and began jacking his cock, shooting the first load into his underwear. Stripping the rest of the way, he sucked his own cum from the fabric, snorting and grunting, sucking down the smoke greedily until the bowl burned to ash, and the urges dissipated.
Unable to believe what he’d just done, and thankful he’d been alone at the time—the workers he’d hired to sort through Mitchell Davis’ collection were scattered through the mansion at the moment. But the pipe…the pipe was…could he hear it? He could hear something. He threw the pipe across the room, but he could still hear it, it was inside him, something had crawled inside of him, into his head, and it was getting louder. He shut it out for the rest of the afternoon, but after the worker’s had left for the day, he stumbled upon a massive closet filled with leather and rubber, and the voice surged back. Somehow…somehow the pipe was back in his mouth. He was naked, but the leather against his bare skin, it was so fucking—! He could no longer provide words for the sensations ripping through him at the level of pure instinct. The voice was so loud now, and he could feel something happening to him, something in his body, but it didn’t matter, what mattered was perversion. What mattered was fucking, but he had no one to fuck! He had to settle for a night of constant masturbation, the pipe remaining lit the entire night, until Howard woke the next morning, collapsed in the basement dungeon, wearing grimy, cum soaked leathers, padlocks pierced through his nipples with no key in sight, a collar and chain wrapped tightly around his neck (he could feel the bruises but why did he want more of them?) and tattoos? He’d never had tattoos!
The voice told him that of course he’d had tattoos. A filthy, perverse pig like him has to have tattoos. He ran a hand through his beard, now three inches long, coarse and wiry, and the glove against his face…his gloves against his body, tugging on his fucking nipples, stretching his sack. He’d seen a ball stretcher down here somewhere, he needed these fuckers hanging to his knees! The pipe had lit again, pouring out smoke, a sharp pain in the head of his cock, and he yanked on the PA, huffing and panting and so close to cumming.
“Mr. Margus?” a voice called. The voice of someone to fuck! Oh, he was going to fuck so hard, fuck another pig, make a pig, a pig for him! “Are you down there? The guys are here—so we’re just going to get started, alright?”
“S—Sure, *snort* Fuck!” Howard cried.
“Are you alright, sir?”
“Yeah, sir, fuck yeah, fuckin’ Sir to you, fuck…” Howard muttered, “Get…get down here, I need some help with something.”
The man started down the stairs, and caught the first whiff of smoke as he descended. His cock was hard by the time he hit the concrete floor, but then the leather hood was shoved over his head, across his face. He couldn’t breathe! He fought, and felt Howard’s hard cock thrusting against his jeans. How was the old fucker so strong? He collapsed, and Howard pulled the hood away, checking to make sure he was unconscious, but not dead. Just how he wanted him! He wanted to fuck but work to do first. Work to get the pig ready, work for pigs to do today—lots of work indeed.
I’m working on an extended version of “Justin and Huck’s Long Summer.” Here’s a rough draft of a new section
It occurred to Justin, sometime in mid-august, that their father had been coming and going in from the house, to work and home again, somehow completely unaware of what Huck was doing to him. Somehow, he always managed to make himself scarce when Huck appeared to tempt him, and so, in an effort to shield himself, in the childish hope that his father could somehow save him from this unending humiliation at the hands of his brother, he made a point of trying to stay near him whenever he was home—something his father seemed to resist and resent.
He soon discovered that his father had his own routine—mainly getting drunk on the couch every afternoon, watching whatever sport happened to be on ESPN, growing his gut. He cringed every time Justin called him dad. In fact, he seemed completely uninterested in the role. Finally, one afternoon when he tried to engage his dad in the hopes of avoiding Huck, his father, six beers drunk, turned to him and said, “You don’t fucking remember me at all, do you? Who I was? Fuck Justin, what the fuck did he do to you?”
Justin just stared at him, unable to make any sense of what he said.
“We were fucking friends for fucking years, man! I fucking disappear, and no one does fucking anything? Fuck—shit’s fucked.”
Justin racked his brain. His last year of high school seemed so far away now, but he could remember someone…someone named Tim. He’d gone missing in March, or something, but no one…no one had done anything about it. But what did that have to do with anything?
“Dad, what are you telling him?” Huck said. He’d slipped into the living room while they were talking, “You know the rules, dad.”
Their father gulped down his beer, and let off a loud belch. “Fuck you Huck, I’m…I’m your fucking father—you fucking made me this fucking piece of shit, so the least you could do is give me a little fuckin’ respect, boy!”
Huck slipped past Justin, and watched his brother run his hand through the stubble of their father’s round chin, before sliding one finger into his mouth. “I wanted it to be a surprise for later, you know.”
It hit Justin immediately, like a his brain suddenly shifted and revealed an entire section of his memory that had been hidden away deep within him. How his best friend Tim had started acting strange in the fall, and then simply disappeared in the middle of the spring of their senior year. He could remember all of this happening, but he couldn’t remember anyone doing anything about it. It was like he’d just fallen from the earth and their minds all at once—there one day, and gobe the next.
“No one remembers you either, now—so don’t think about telling anyone, Grandpa.”
His family—he hadn’t seen his family in months! He’d just…he’d just left one day, and come here, and just…just stayed! He couldn’t remember how any of it had even happened, and he stumbled back from Huck. “What the fuck are you, you’re not fucking human, no one can do this, this is insane.”
“Well, I am human…mostly—I think?” Huck said, and then shrugged, “It started to blur together a while ago. Still, I’m enjoying myself, aren’t you, daddy?”
Huck slid into his dad’s lap and started making out with him; Justin turned and ran to his room before he could get too turned on and change himself. Rather than listen to them fuck downstairs, he hefted open his window, popped out the screen, and climbed out onto the roof. Could he kill himself? It was only one story, but if he hit head first, maybe he had a chance. Unable to commit, he sat out there for a while instead, until the door to his room opened, and his father entered his room.
“Hey, Justin? What are you doing out there?”
What was he doing out here? He’d been thinking about something…but it had slipped his mind suddenly. A bit confused, he climbed back into his room and found his dad naked in front of him…and fuck, if his son wasn’t one fucking hot middle aged bear. Justin tromped across the room, his gut filling out as he did, hair whitening, and he could smell cum—his grandson’s cubcum, splattered across Tim’s face. He licked it off, and then kissed him deeply, thrusting his tongue into his mouth, feeling the stubble on his bare cheeks.
Through the hole in the wall, Huck watched his father and grandfather fuck. Later, when Justin had cum deep in Tim’s hole, he’d go in there and suck the cum out while grandpa fucked his ass. His dad had already fucked him, but he was always up for another fuck. They would all be fucking forever if he had any say in it—and it was only his say that mattered, as far as they were all concerned.