leatherpunk16

I've told this story before, but it's good to repeat it. I've pushed a guy to take my arm up to the shoulder. I met him on Recon in 2017 when I was in Chicago for a leather contest. Total depth pig. He came by my hotel room, and maybe 30 minutes later, I was buried up to the fucking shoulder. It was quite a sensation, and thrilling, and so damn hot. He said it took him 15 years to get to that point, and he was ALL depth. No rosebud, no prolapse. Just a fist tunnel. I had him back the next night. That's how good it was. I played with him again before the next spring, and that was the last time I saw him. Now bear in mind that this was in 2017. It's now 2026. Imagine how much deeper he might be if he kept on course. I fantasize that I could fit my arm so far up there I could tickle his uvula. (Of course, I know logically that's not possible, but fantasies are fun.)

Oh, yes, it's very different. Engineered to be something new.

"Very other"? 🤔 What do you mean?

Chapter 29: Exit Strategy Backrooms at InfraRed. 31-Oct-20XX. 22:38 MST. REDACTED location. As the nightclub began filling up with people and the floor began to hum under the vibration of the bass, Spencer continued breeding the punk. His strokes easily fell in sync as the percussion of the EDM matched his thrusts. And every time he drove his infected meat stick home, he felt a simultaneous stab in his heart. Spencer quickly came to understand that the feelings weren’t his own. He slowed his thrusts, and raised his head to lock eyes with someone across the darkroom. It’s coming from him, Spencer thought. This is eating him alive. It was a weird mixture of guilt and regret and envy, and when he connected with the man who converted him, he knew. He saw Bryce watching with a pained expression, and the tall guy looked to be consoling him. Spencer turned his head back down to look at the punk. For a guy who’s done porn, his hole sure is tight. Clearly he doesn’t do this very often. The punk winced as Spencer resumed fucking him, his hole taking quite a beating in ways it had never done before. Spencer was obviously better endowed than anyone he had ever worked with, and the gasps and grunts and cries proved that the corrupted bodybuilder was pushing his limits. What was this guy’s name? Spencer wondered to himself. Fuck, I’m so bad with names. I’ll call him Spike. That haircut is insane. “Spike” had carelessly turned on his back to take more of Spencer’s cock, and in so doing, flattened his carefully sculpted mohawk. But he hadn’t got used to taking the intrusion. Spencer heard a voice in his head. Spit on him. It will go so much easier for both of you. He slowed his thrusts again, and positioned himself above Spike’s face. Opening his mouth, he let a long, thin sheet of saliva escape and land on Spike’s face. It had the desired sedating effect, and within seconds, Spike had calmed. Relaxed. Spencer resumed fucking him, and with renewed intensity. Now he could finish the breeding without Spike’s complaints or thrashing. And the pangs of guilt resumed as well. Spencer came to realize he was doing this to hurt Stag. The man who gave him this incredible gift pushed him away when the tall guy showed up, and didn’t even bother to introduce him, and then disrespected him. Good, the voice in his head whispered. Make him see what he has lost. You are mine, not his. Something in Spencer snapped at that moment. I’m… not doing this because I want to? Spencer suddenly stopped mid-thrust. The whole world seemed to stop for him. His balls protested slightly, frustrated by the withheld release. The voice didn’t answer. Spencer looked up at Stag again, and it looked like he was weeping. The guilty feeling settled in full force. Spike looked up at Spencer, dazed, but curious why he wasn’t finishing the breeding. Spencer inhaled quietly, hit with the realization that he was being controlled just now, and intentionally hurting someone he used to care for. He hated how he ended things with Bryce, and wanted to ask for a second chance, but didn’t know if that's what Bryce wanted. Or if it was just revenge sex. He was the only one who didn't drool over me, and just let me be the beast I am. And now he's pushed me further than — “Keep going, big guy,” Spike cooed. Spencer looked back at Spike. Something snapped, and quick as a rocket, he pushed Spike’s legs upwards, pointing his heels at the ceiling. Something animalistic took over Spencer as he began jackhammering Spike’s ass. This was no longer a task commanded by an unseen commander. Now it was about finishing the job, and getting on with the night. Spencer pushed down his feelings with one thought: breed this punk, and then we can talk to Bryce. If he’ll hear me. Spencer finally came, shooting his first toxic load, and planted it deep inside Spike. He let out a roar as he climaxed, and Spike started leaking piss. The pain in Spike’s rectum matched the pain in Spencer’s heart, and in that moment, Spencer was sure he had ruined his chances with Stag forever. Spencer lowered Spike’s feet as his breathing slowed and returned to normal levels. Spike whispered, “Thank you, sir” before he was completely lowered, and within a minute, Spike was already drifting towards an unnatural sleep. The metamorphosis was about to begin, and his body went into a near-hibernation state. Spencer sat on the hard stone floor of the nightclub’s darkroom, suddenly winded and feeling the touch of golden sleep. The voice returned. Put him somewhere safe and away from others. He must not be disturbed. Spencer yawned hugely, feeling his own processes begin to shut down. He pushed himself to standing with a mighty effort, his limbs protesting slightly. His muscles felt fatigued, as if his breeding of Spike took everything out of him. Spencer gently picked up Spike in both arms, and carried him out of the darkroom to the dressing room. —-- “We were together for about three months and a week,” Stag blubbered. “He was so much more open-minded back then. I tried to change for him, and be the man he needed.” Lockjaw placed one hand on Stag’s shoulder empathetically, saying nothing. “But I was into some wild stuff that he really wasn’t,” Stag continued. “He wanted to get big, and I was third in his life. His muscle came first, then his career, and then me. I let him tie me up once. We did hot wax play. We did knife play, and watched fisting videos, and … other stuff I probably shouldn’t tell anyone…” Stag’s voice trailed off feebly. “I won’t tell, you have my word.” Stag hiccuped once as he struggled to not cry. “It was… just not his thing. I tried so hard to find something we both liked, and… and… now I’ve infected him, and it was all … for him, and now I can give him nothing…” That was when his eyes felt hot and wet, and the first tears finally broke through. Lockjaw at once felt sympathy for him. Mingled with compassion. After a loud inhalation, Stag continued. “And I was so jealous of what you and Sticks have, and I went back in the closet and repressed my feelings.” Stag wiped his face. “Tried to live a straight life, but I was never really into it.” “Back that up,” Lockjaw interrupted. “You're jealous of Eric and me?” Lockjaw let out a small snicker. “Believe me, we have our problems. We're not perfect.” “What kind of problems?” “None that are any of your business.” “I told you mine!” Lockjaw simply shook his head. “You volunteered that without my asking. I'm fine to listen, but your relationship with Spencer is your business.” Stag said nothing. He felt the moment when Spencer climaxed. He felt his guilt. And he sensed the man was coming over to talk to him. Stag's heart did a backflip in hopeful expectation. His hopes were dashed when he saw Spencer carrying Spike back into the dressing room where they had their first mating. Stag's heart sank again, and this time, the tears flowed easily. “I love him,” Stag admitted just above a whisper. “And I can't stand to see him go off with somebody else. I wanted it to be just the two of us.” Lockjaw hesitated before he spoke again. “I see. So you got this infection - same as Sticks and me - and gave it to him to… what, try to hang on to him? And how the hell did you reach that conclusion?” “You didn’t see it, but I did,” Stag continued. “When Patch and Pixel were changed, I saw an opportunity. Tex and I saw them get fucked, and on a hunch, I chased down the infection. I was thinking I could get it, and give it to Spencer so he’d blow up into the beast he is now, and maybe he’d take me back in gratitude.” Lockjaw felt like he had just been slapped across the face. “And you made him one of us. That's pretty fucked up.” Beat. “But I get it. I did some crazy shit for love in my lifetime. Now, what are you going to do about it? How would you fix this with him?” Lockjaw surprised himself when he heard this. It was the most clarity he had in a full day. He pensed for the Alpha, but no response came. “I've got to tell him everything. That I need him. That I miss him. That I want to work on this with him. And that I'm worthy of him.” “A monumental task! He seems to have moved on of his own accord.” Snag sniffled. “I know. But I've got to try. He said some pretty terrible things to me when we parted, but my feelings for him never changed.” The hive network hummed between them again, and Lockjaw looked back and forth between Stag and Spencer, as if reading passing data waves. Both men were fucked up, but Lockjaw could sense that they were probably a match after all. Who better to fix a toxic piece of shit than another toxic piece of shit? These two deserve each other. “Shit, bro,” he muttered with a smile underneath. “You really ARE in love with him. I'm reading him right now, and he feels it, too.” Lockjaw placed his hands on Stag's shoulders, taking care not to scratch him with his claws. “He does?” Stag asked hopefully. “Listen to me. Fucking. Go. Get. Him. He's hurting, Bryce. And I bet it's got more to do with missing you than anything you might have said or done back then. Or failed to do, as the case may be.” Spencer waddled up to them, looking somewhat repentant and ashamed, but also very drained. His limbs seemed to drag, and though he tried to hide it, his facade was slowly crumbling as his body slowly succumbed to exhaustion. “Bryce.” Stag turned to Spencer, and looked at him intently with glassy eyes. “Thanks. Finally busted that plateau. I can't wait to try it out at the gym.” Stag decided on a smartassed deflecting remark instead of sincerity and kindness. “Are you sure you can keep your pants on long enough to finish a set?” “Fuck you, asshole.” “Fuck me yourself, you coward.” Stag bared his teeth, expecting to fight his lover. Spencer was too tired to retort, so he exhaled and said, “You're a joke.” “And you're the awkward silence that follows.” Lockjaw bit his knuckle to keep from laughing at the snappy comeback. Wow, they already fight like an old married couple. “I mean that, Spence. Let's go and you can fuck me til daylight,” Stag said in a playful voice. Spencer only stared at him, feeling the connection between them growing. That was the wrong thing to say. But… I want nothing else. “We can,” Spencer said in a tired voice. “I’m just really exhausted right now. I’ve got to sit down, catch a few winks.” Stag and Lockjaw exchanged concerned glances. “That’s not sleep,” Lockjaw said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Stag, after you converted him, did he go into chrysalis?” Stag searched his memory. “Shit. No. Right after we finished, you showed up, and…” Spencer’s expression turned to guilt and shame when he saw Stag’s eyes drift toward the place where Spike would be resting. “He’s shutting down and needs to complete the transformation,” Lockjaw said. “Not here, this isn’t the place to do it. We need to leave. Now.” Spencer felt a small spark that kept him from sleeping standing up. “Spike is still sleeping.” Stag snickered. “That’s a stupid name. Spike? Really?” Spencer took an attitude of defensiveness that he didn’t really feel. “Shut up. Stag.” Lockjaw gave a sardonic laugh as he realized how bizarre their codenames must truly appear to civilians. “I need to take you to meet the Alpha. Oh, and I'm Adrian, but you can call me Lockjaw.” Spencer looked at the tall man, and took in his features for the first time. Then he looked down at the man's dick. Hung like a horse. Good for him. Spencer knew what responsibility came with such a weapon. “Another military guy?” “I'm a Major. He's one of my lieutenants. Where's your friend?” Spencer pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Dressing room.” Lockjaw understood. “Don’t worry, it’s just a cocooning process. I went through it myself. You’ll need to do it, too. It’s just sleep where your system resets and you wake up fully transformed. I don’t know what will happen if you force your way around it. We can’t wait until Spike comes out of it. Grab him, and let’s get both of you out of here.” With impeccable timing, a new command rippled out across the mental network. Return. All of you. Return to the lair. Immediately. Stag and Lockjaw turned their eyes toward each other, knowing the boss was calling them off the mission. A single, silent nod of the head, understanding that they truly must go. “Let’s boogie. We can’t go out the front or the alley,” Lockjaw ordered. “I had to come in through the roof. I’ll go get Spike, you two wait for us at the stairs.” “Get my bag,” Spencer quickly said. “I’ve got… (sharp exhalation) protein bars, and a phone. Water bottle.” “Will do.” Leave them alone, Lockjaw thought to himself as he went toward the dressing room. Let them find their way back together. God, please let them find their way back together. He hoped his prayer would be enough to get the ball rolling. The door of the dressing room was closed. Lockjaw remembered seeing the body of another man passed out in this room, and he might have come around since arriving. He gingerly opened the door so as not to startle the man, but the room hadn’t changed since he last saw it. The owner of InfraRed still lay in a crumpled heap amid the scattered boxes. Lockjaw checked the man for breathing and obvious injuries, and was relieved to find none. He’s out cold. Breed him, Lockjaw. Lockjaw stood quickly. “No, Alpha,” he whispered. “The order to withdraw takes priority.” He turned, and saw Spike lying on the floor, still wearing his leather, his spiky mohawk pushed down to one side. Rapidly transforming, and sweating through the conversion fever. All seemed to be normal. Lockjaw spotted a small black vinyl bag with drawstrings near the mirror. He opened it, and found it contained a smartphone, three high-end protein bars, jerky, a wallet, condoms, a hot pink thong, a small bottle of lube, and at the very bottom, a bottle of water. Everything indicated this was Spencer’s. Lockjaw slung it over his shoulder, then turned to Spike. Gently taking Spike in both arms, Lockjaw raised him from the floor as if lifting a sleeping child. A flicker of memory - he did this once for his nephew after his fifth birthday party, and remembered the peaceful slumber of a child. This was no different. A few steps and they were back on the dance floor. Lockjaw quickly carried him to the roof stairs, hoping they wouldn’t be noticed. Stag and Spencer had already gone up. Lockjaw walked up on them mid-conversation. “Yeah, we can try again,” he heard Spencer say, sounding more tired than before. Stag held his hand, and stared lovingly into his eyes. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Just stay awake til we get there.” “I’m so wiped,” Spencer said quietly. They saw Lockjaw approaching with the comatose Spike in his arms, and the energy shifted. “What’s the plan? We gonna go across the rooftops?” Lockjaw nodded once. “Yep. There were too many emergency vehicles down below when I came in. Seems Zero caused a scene earlier, and the paramedics were called. Police, too. It was fucking chaos down there. So I scaled the building next door, and came down the other side.” “Clever.” Stag turned to Spencer. “Whaddya say? Got enough left in reserves to do it?” Spencer nodded twice, but gave no verbal response. Stag reached out to touch him, and before making contact with his skin, he could already feel the heat coming off the absurdly muscular body. Shit, he’s burning up. Gotta move fast. The men climbed the stairs. Lockjaw took point, and Spencer followed groggily. Stag picked up the rear, making sure Spencer didn’t fall backwards to the bottom. No one spoke. Reaching the roof, Lockjaw paced backwards a little to give himself distance for running. Suddenly, he charged forward and made an impressive leap across the gap between structures, all the while holding on to Spike. His landing was a little rough, and Lockjaw’s ankles absorbed most of the impact. Lockjaw turned back to look. “All right, Tiny. You’re next.” Spencer frowned. Stag only chuckled. “That’s your codename now, Tiny.” “Fuck you,” Spencer snapped with feigned anger. “Go on, Tiny, I’ll be right behind you,” Stag said encouragingly. With muscle memory kicking in, Spencer went to one side of the roof, his baby blue shoes noisily crunching on gravel all the way. He turned, and faced the distance. Pumping his arms as he ran, the crunching became louder and rapid. Spencer didn’t expect to move as quickly as he did, and the jump came prematurely. My kingdom for a goddamn Red Bull right now, Spencer thought as he leapt across. His landing, too, was not gentle, and Lockjaw felt him impact the floor as the large man touched down. And seconds later, Stag was across as well, his muscles primed after such an exertion. He suddenly felt a craving. Spencer felt no more awake after the crossing. “Where to?” Lockjaw tilted his head slightly. “I’ll lead the way. Try to stick to shadows, and move as fast as you can. ERVs are out tonight, and we can’t get caught.” Stag lit a cigarette, exhaling gratefully as they walked across the other rooftop toward the fire escape ladder. Mission accomplished, he thought to himself. Spencer is mine, and the night is done. His train of self-congratulatory thought was interrupted when a hand appeared in front of his face, and grabbed his smoke from his lips. Now it was in Spencer’s hand and the two of them came to a stop. Stag expected a lecture or some biting comment. What he did not expect was what happened next. Spencer put the butt to his lips and inhaled the smoke deeply. Even Lockjaw had to stop and look to see why they weren’t moving. “Dude, what the fuck,” Stag said incredulously. Spencer exhaled, letting the nicotine enter his system. “It’ll keep me awake. I need the free testosterone boost.” Lockjaw turned away, not fully understanding, but also not caring. Stag smirked slightly, both amused and shocked. I’ll bet he and Gravestone get to be cigar buddies. Then a pang of imagined jealousy hit him. If he fucks my man, I’ll kill him with my bare hands, commander or no. Stag lit another one, and they went down the fire escape stairs. Lockjaw was grateful that the escape wasn’t a ladder, or else carrying Spike while navigating the rungs of climbing would have proved near impossible. No one spoke as they quietly descended. They saw the last police vehicle drive away from the area as they neared the bottom, and the city fell silent as the men touched terra firma once again. “You doing okay, Spence?” Stag asked. Spencer threw the cigarette butt on the ground, and spit out the tar on his tongue. “Ugh, why do you smoke these things?” Stag grabbed his crotch with one hand. “I’ve got something else you can smoke,” he said with his own cigarette between his teeth, and a playful grin. Spencer looked at him, smiling himself. Stag winked at him, and caught a glimpse of Spencer’s newly formed teeth. He exhaled a sharp cloud of smoke in silent approval. The sight enticed him, and made him horny for the bodybuilder once again. “Fuck, you’re so hot. I'll get you something better when you've rested.” “Let’s get moving, guys,” Lockjaw interrupted. “We can’t keep the Alpha waiting.” Across the city they ran with Lockjaw leading the charge. Carrying Spike in his arms proved surprisingly easy, and the punk never stirred once during the transport. Stag made sure to remain at Spencer’s side in case he dropped from exhaustion, and their travel was unremarkable. Finally, before the old medical tower, they came to a halt. Spencer looked up at the old structure, and quickly recognized it. “Dumpf Tower? Why are we here?” Lockjaw turned to face him. “This is our base of operations.” “This drafty old ruin? My grandmother had chemo therapy here,” Spencer answered wearily. Then he pointed far to his left. “Her room in hospice was… right over there.” “The man knows his way around the place, it seems,” Stag rejoined cheerfully. It was the most positive Lockjaw had ever seen him, and a read of Stag’s emotional state indicated that he was in a really good place. Already the responsibility of caring for Spencer was having an effect. Stag held the door open for Lockjaw and Spike, and gave a needlessly deep bow when Spencer went through the door. Spencer only smiled weakly at the gesture. Stag came in last, and closed the door behind him. Lockjaw could already sense the Alpha’s presence, and without needing to direct the others, they followed the corridors to the basement. Spike finally opened his eyes. “Whooooo arrre you?” he asked groggily. Lockjaw lowered him to the floor so he could stand. “I’m Lockjaw. I’ve been overseeing your transformation. At ease, boy. You’re among friends, and you’ll be okay.” They paused for a moment, letting Spike wake up and get used to the new sensations. His breathing felt heavier, and his heart pounded like it might burst through his chest. For a moment, no one spoke, but took in the sight of Spike completing his change. Spencer held himself up by putting a hand on one wall, his strength almost gone. Stag stood close by, waiting for him to collapse. Spencer looked like he might retch. Lockjaw again broke the silence. “I’ll fill you in later, but right now, there’s someone you guys need to meet. Let’s get moving.” The duty of caring for his convert was beyond Spencer’s power right now, and Lockjaw felt some pride in being a father figure for Spike to make sure he came out of it okay. I wonder how Eric would feel about us adopting a kid someday. Approaching the basement doors, the sounds and scents of mansex became evident. “Looks like we missed the fun,” Stag quipped. “I think we party enough, don’t you?” Lockjaw replied with a smirk. The door opened, and the quartet stepped into the main room. It went silent as they marched in file: Lockjaw led with Spike and Spencer behind, and Stag at the rear again. Spencer used the last of his strength to come forward into a spot where the light would hit him perfectly. The showman's instinct led him to stand under the lights to highlight his shapes, and every creature in the room could see his immensity and density. Had I the energy, I’d put on such a show for these guys. That big one there with the horns must be their leader. Am I meeting the devil? Fuck, I’m hungry. And so tired. And a unified thought echoed in his head and around the room. Fresh meat. Suddenly the room felt dizzy. Spencer half-turned to Stag with a vacant, unfocused stare. “Shit… catch me, babe.” Stag hadn’t time to react. Fatigue finally won out as Spencer collapsed in a loud thud on the hard floor of the chamber. Stag was kneeling at his side immediately. “Spencer! Open your eyes!”, he cried desperately. Lockjaw took control and spoke for his comrades. “He didn’t go through the change after. Not fully. He just needs to enter chrysalis.” Other smilers, including Patch, approached to help lift Spencer from the ground. Stag violently waved them away, thinking they might try to sample the monster that just came into their lair, even if he wasn’t conscious. “No! Don’t you fucking touch him,” Stag snarled. “He’s mine, you understand? Mine.” The Alpha’s lips twisted in anger, but he did not react in his usual way. Only assessing. “You need to share him, Stag,” the Alpha growled, keeping his anger under. “He belongs to the hive, not just you alone. I order you to let us have him.” “I said no.” Recognizing he might be out of line again, he bowed his head with reverence and respect he didn’t really mean. “Alpha.” The Alpha stared at him. Neither would budge, but the Alpha, psychically spent from the night’s multiple activities, spoke first. “Bryce, we will need to have a chat about your liberal interpretation of hierarchy.” The Alpha stormed off, leaving behind a sexually satisfied but anxious army. Stag was filled with concern over Spencer, and knew that he had to do something to protect him from the Alpha. He knew this wasn’t over, and a new war was just beginning. — Clearview University Medical - Dumpf Tower, basement. 23:12 MST. 31-Oct-20XX. REDACTED location. Lockjaw had never been the philosophical type. Before the infection—before all of this—he’d been the quiet one on the team. The observer. The guy who didn’t need to fill space with words because he was too busy watching what everyone else was doing. In Black Sigma, that had made him useful. People underestimated the quiet ones. That habit hadn’t gone away after the Alpha took them. If anything, the network made it easier to see patterns, able to sift through the massive amount of information being barraged at him. And lately, the patterns were wrong. The hive still worked. Commands moved through it like current through a wire, impulses rippling outward from the Alpha and settling into the rest of them. Most of the time the system behaved exactly the way it was supposed to. But the longer Lockjaw paid attention, the more he started noticing the gaps. Blind spots. Little holes in the signal. Sometimes someone’s presence faded for a moment before snapping back into clarity. Sometimes thoughts arrived late, like echoes bouncing through a long corridor before reaching him. And sometimes—more unsettling than anything—someone just felt different. Gravestone was the clearest example. Before the infection, Briggs had been the one who kept the team together. When tempers flared to the breaking point, he stepped in. When someone pushed too far, he pulled them back. He wasn’t usually loud about it—he didn’t need to be—but there had always been a steady gravity to him, the kind that made the others fall into line without realizing they were doing it. He had been the mediator. The closest thing the unit had to a father figure. Now that steadiness was gone. Gravestone’s presence in the network felt sharp and jagged, full of irritation and dominance where patience used to be. Instead of diffusing conflict, he seemed to enjoy it—leaning into arguments, pushing people harder than necessary, watching the friction with a kind of detached amusement. Even stranger was what wasn’t there. Every once in a while, Lockjaw could reach out and brush against fragments of old memories—homes, families, people left behind. Most of them reacted to those echoes in some way. Gravestone didn’t. Not even a flicker. No guilt about the wife he’d left behind. No worry about the son who was growing up too fast. Not even curiosity about the life he used to return to between deployments. It was like that entire part of him had simply… evaporated. And that wasn’t the only shift. Patch had always been the nervous one. Even in the old days he’d been cautious, the guy who double-checked doorways and asked the questions everyone else was too cocky to bother with. The one who hung back when things started getting reckless. Now Patch moved the opposite way—throwing himself into danger with reckless enthusiasm, diving into situations headfirst without the hesitation that had once defined him. The infection hadn’t made him braver. It had removed the brakes entirely. But truly the strangest change of all had been Stag. Bryce had always been a prick. That wasn’t even an insult—it was just the reality of working with him. He’d been sarcastic, guarded, always ready with some cutting remark that kept people at arm’s length. Opening up wasn’t part of Bryce’s vocabulary. Except now it was. The first time Stag’s thoughts had spilled into Lockjaw’s head like that, it had caught him completely off guard. Not the usual sharp comments or defensive sarcasm, but a flood of half-formed worries and angry confusion, spilling out faster than Lockjaw could even process. Questions. Doubts. Old memories. It had felt almost like a frenzy. Bryce talking about Spencer—about the breakup, about not being enough, about trying to change himself just to make someone stay. The thoughts had come so fast and raw that Lockjaw had almost pulled back from the connection entirely. Bryce had never let anyone see that side of him before. Now it leaked out constantly. Without him noticing. And the more Lockjaw watched the others, the more he started to understand what he was seeing. The infection wasn’t smoothing people out the way the Alpha thought it was. It was exaggerating them. Turning traits into extremes. The mediator into a tyrant. The cautious one into a reckless thrill seeker. The closed-off bully into someone whose emotions spilled out uncontrollably. Lockjaw leaned back against the wall of the chamber, arms folded as he watched the others move through the space. The Alpha’s presence still pulsed through the network—strong, commanding, undeniable. But the signal wasn’t clean anymore. Too many minds now. Too many personalities layered on top of each other. And with every new smiler added to the hive, the noise grew louder. Lockjaw’s eyes narrowed slightly as the realization settled into place. The Alpha wasn’t strengthening the network. He was stretching it. And the more people he added… The less control he actually had.

This topic may not last long. I got infraction points for it once, and I think we're not allowed to discuss it. But until then, here's my input. I did it in the summer of 2014. Needed money because I couldn't get work, and I was trying to start in porn. Most of us porn guys will do this, and I had a free trial code for a popular listing site that no longer exists. Had several clients but no repeats. Did it all summer and into September. Then I got a job at a church - and there's a funny story connected with it. I was advised by the pastor to keep a low profile on my sex life because it might damage their reputation. Plus I needed to not promote a sexually promiscuous lifestyle. (While he said this over the phone to me, I was in the middle of updating my advt on the website! 😂) I kept the advt active into November in case the church didn't work out, but I had zero calls. Gave it up. Plus the guy I was seeing was getting serious, so it had to go. And I'm glad it's over. Unreliable and inconsistent, plus it wasn't fulfilling. Just a paycheque.

Long chapter here, but stick with it. Take it in small doses if you have to. --------------- Chapter 27: Monsters Inside Us Dressing room at InfraRed. 31-Oct-20XX. 22:08 MST. REDACTED location. The dressing room behind the InfraRed stage still pulsed faintly with the club’s rhythm, bass traveling through concrete and shelving in dull, physical waves. Colored light seeped under the door in smeared streaks of red and ultraviolet, painting the stacked liquor crates and tangled cables in uneasy shadow. The air carried heat, sweat, and disinfectant—but beneath it now lingered something else, metallic and sharp, like ozone after a lightning strike. That and the unmistakable smell of sex. Spencer leaned back against a tower of supply boxes, breathing hard. He had never been small. Even before tonight, Spencer’s body had been the kind built to command attention under strobes and mirrors—thick, stage-trained muscle layered across chest and shoulders, arms heavy with size, thighs carved dense from years of performance and conditioning. He’d always moved with the heavy grace of someone aware of how much space he occupied. Now that body was changing. Stag watched the shift with fixed, unwilling focus. It began as swelling—subtle only in comparison to how large Spencer already was. The muscle across his chest thickened further, pecs lifting and rounding until the skin stretched tight and gleaming. His shoulders broadened visibly, deltoids pushing outward into exaggerated domes of mass that seemed almost too large for his frame. Veins surfaced along his arms and across his torso, darkening beneath skin that was losing its warmth and sliding toward an unnatural grey. Spencer’s abdomen flexed as he drew in a breath. Even the deeply-cut definition there deepened, each segment of muscle pressing forward more prominently, as though something inside him demanded expansion. His biceps swelled when he shifted his hands against the concrete, bulging larger than they had any right to be—thick cords stacked atop one another, veins crawling over them in blackened tracery. The transformation didn’t make him misshapen. It made him excessive. Grotesquely, overwhelmingly muscular—like a bodybuilder pushed past biological limits and then hardened further into something denser and more powerful than flesh alone should allow. What had been a gift from God before was now a twisted, corrupted thing straight from hell. His fingers curled slightly where they rested. The nails had changed. Longer. Sharper. Edges no longer smooth but faintly hooked, catching the leaking club light in thin, dangerous glints. When Spencer inhaled again, his chest expanded wider than before, ribcage stretching to accommodate the new mass. His throat moved as he swallowed, and when his lips parted, Stag saw the shift in his teeth—canines lengthened, points clean and predatory against the darkening tone of his mouth. Spencer’s eyes opened slowly. They were darker already, the color draining toward black, depthless and reflective. Awareness settled into them with frightening speed—not confusion, not fear, but a clear recalibration, as though he were assessing a new body and finding it entirely acceptable. They landed on Stag. And stayed. The connection ignited a heartbeat later. Stag felt it move through him—the thread snapping taut between them, the newly shared awareness brushing along his mind. Spencer’s perception bled faintly into his own: sound sharpened, heat signatures of moving bodies beyond the door, the living press of the club outside the walls. Spencer pushed himself upright. The motion was smoother than it had any right to be for someone whose mass had just increased so drastically. His center of gravity had shifted, but he compensated instantly, spine straightening, shoulders rolling back to test the new range. The muscles along his back bunched and slid under greying skin, thicker than before, layered like armor plates. He looked bigger standing than he had lying down. Not merely tall or broad—but heavy with power, density packed into every line of him until he seemed carved rather than grown. Stag felt the instinctive claim rise in him before he could stop it. Mine. He crushed the thought down immediately, jaw tightening. Spencer took a step toward the door, gaze already drifting outward toward the living movement beyond the room—the dance floor, the bodies, the pulse of potential hosts. Stag moved in front of him without thinking. The gesture wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t overtly controlling. But it blocked the exit all the same, his body placed between Spencer and the club beyond. Spencer paused. His head tilted slightly as he studied Stag with those deepening black eyes. There was no fear in him, no lingering confusion from the infection. Only recognition—and the faintest edge of detachment. The new network hummed between them. Spencer’s awareness touched Stag’s thoughts lightly, almost curiously, and Stag felt the subtle pushback beneath it: not rejection, not anger—simply independence reasserting itself inside the bond. Stag felt something colder than victory settle into his chest. Spencer’s gaze moved past him again, toward the door. Toward the world. And Stag, watching the man he had just remade grow larger, stronger, and already slipping beyond his reach, understood with sudden clarity that infection had not made Spencer his. It had only made Spencer more himself. The storage room door burst open hard enough to rattle the metal shelving. The music from the main floor flooded in for a second—sweat, lights, bodies—before the door slammed back against the stopper. The club owner stood in the doorway, face flushed and furious, shirt half-unbuttoned and tie hanging loose around his neck. “What the hell is going on back here?” he snapped, eyes jumping from the overturned crate to Spencer—then lingering there. “Spencer, get your ass back on stage. You’re up in three minutes. I don’t pay you to hide in the back with—” His gaze shifted to Stag, dismissive and irritated. “—whatever the hell this is.” Spencer didn’t move. He stood in the flickering light, newly broadened shoulders rising and falling slowly, breathing steady now. The stage-trained grace was still there—but it had been sharpened, weaponized. His muscles looked even more obscene under the harsh fluorescent light, chest thick and striated, arms swollen beyond their already impressive size. The grey tone of his skin was more noticeable now, veins crawling dark beneath it like fault lines. The owner either didn’t notice—or refused to. “Spencer,” he barked again, stepping into the room. “You don’t get to pull this diva crap tonight. Halloween’s our biggest revenue draw. If you don’t get back out there, I’ll have security drag you—” Stag moved before the sentence finished. One second he was standing still. The next, his hand had closed around the owner’s collar, fingers digging in hard enough to wrinkle fabric and flesh beneath it. He lifted him clean off the floor and slammed him back against the metal door with a crack that echoed through the room. The owner’s feet left the ground. His mouth snapped shut mid-threat. “Back off,” Stag growled, voice low and resonant, something monstrous rumbling beneath it. The owner struggled, kicking uselessly, eyes wide now—not with anger but with dawning realization that this wasn’t a drunken customer dispute. “You—put me down—security—” Stag tightened his grip. The door behind the owner bowed under the force, hinges whining. For a split second, Stag considered crushing his windpipe entirely—silencing him permanently. A flicker of approval moved faintly through the network. Spencer watched. Not afraid. Not shocked. Interested. That look—the way Spencer’s darkened eyes tracked Stag’s strength, the way his head tilted slightly as though assessing—sent a surge of pride through Stag that he immediately masked as rage. “This doesn’t concern you,” Stag said, voice dangerously calm. “You don’t touch him.” The owner opened his mouth to respond, but Stag released him only to throw him. The man hit the far wall hard enough to knock over a stack of empty crates, collapsing in a heap amid splintered wood and scattered plastic. Silence followed. The bass from the dance floor thudded on, oblivious. The owner groaned once, tried to push himself up—and failed. His head lolled to the side, consciousness slipping away. Spencer stepped forward slightly. His expression had shifted. Not softened—refined. There was something in his eyes now that Stag recognized immediately: admiration layered with something colder. Approval of dominance. Evaluation of power. And beneath that—distance. Stag felt it like a knife pressing just under his ribs. He told himself the reaction surging through him was satisfaction. That he’d protected Spencer. That he’d handled it. But the truth pressed closer: He hadn’t acted because Spencer needed protecting. He’d acted because he couldn’t tolerate someone else exerting authority over him. The connection between them pulsed again. Spencer’s awareness brushed his—cool, expansive, outward-facing. The club owner lay unconscious at their feet. And for the first time, Stag felt the faint, creeping sense that he had not just created something powerful— He had unleashed it. The approval Stag had expected never fully came. Instead, something colder slid through the network. A pressure. Subtle at first—like a hand settling at the back of his skull. Then firmer. Heavier. Commanding attention. Why are you alone? The Alpha’s presence did not need volume. It did not need to shout. The voice threaded through Stag’s mind with smooth, suffocating clarity. Stag stiffened, jaw tightening. Spencer felt it too—he straightened slightly, eyes unfocusing as the connection widened. You were sent to spread the gift. The temperature in the room seemed to drop to Stag. And yet you hide. Infecting one. Causing spectacle. Stag’s lips peeled back slightly, not quite a snarl. “Handled it,” he muttered under his breath, though the words were half-thought, half-spoken. “He was interfering.” The Alpha’s attention sharpened. You were not tasked with protecting. You were tasked with multiplying. Spencer shifted his weight, head tilting as if listening to someone just out of sight. The glow in his darkened eyes deepened. For the first time, Stag realized with a flare of irritation that Spencer could hear this—could feel the reprimand flowing through him. The Alpha pressed harder. Why only one? A pulse of suspicion edged the mental voice. Why this one? Explain yourself… Bryce. Stag’s jaw clenched. “Does it matter?” he shot back, reflexive and sharp. The response was immediate. Pain lanced through his skull. Not physical—worse. It felt like something squeezing inward from all sides, compressing thought itself. His vision blurred at the edges as the Alpha tightened its grip, punishing the back talk with cold precision. Stag staggered a half-step, a broken sound tearing out of him before he could stop it. Spencer’s head snapped toward him. The Alpha’s tone dropped lower. You forget yourself. The pressure increased just enough to force Stag to one knee. Do not confuse attachment with loyalty. The word ‘attachment’ hit harder than the pain. Spencer watched him now—not with sympathy. With assessment. And that burned worse than the psychic vise. The Alpha shifted focus. You, newly awakened, it said to Spencer. Spencer inhaled slowly. His chest expanded, grotesquely full and powerful. You will go forth. Spread the love. A directive. Clean. Absolute. Spencer nodded once. Stag’s head jerked up. “No.” It slipped out before he could stop it. The Alpha’s presence flared. You do not command him. I do. Remember that. Stag forced himself upright despite the lingering ache in his skull. “He’s not ready,” he said through gritted teeth. Spencer’s gaze flicked to him—confusion there, faint and fleeting. The Alpha’s reply was almost amused. He is more than ready. Another presence joined the mental space—heavy, blunt, observant. Lockjaw. You will not operate alone, the Alpha continued. Lockjaw will supervise. Since you clearly can’t be trusted to follow my orders. The implication hung in the air: You are being watched. Stag swallowed the urge to say something reckless. Spencer took a step toward the door. His movements were smooth. Confident. Eager. He didn’t look back at Stag. Lockjaw appeared in the doorway moments later, broad frame filling the space, black eyes unreadable, horns threatening to breach the black skin. He glanced from the unconscious club owner to Stag, then to Spencer. “New one?” Lockjaw asked aloud, voice flat. God, he’s huge. Fuck. Stag forced his expression into something indifferent. “Spencer,” he said curtly. “Just some random slut I … needed to teach a lesson to. Gave him what he deserved. He had it coming.” Spencer turned and gave Stag a silent glare, then turned away with distaste. The dance floor lights flickered against his sharpened features as he stepped into the corridor, already scanning for his next target. Lockjaw’s gaze lingered on Stag for a moment longer. “You look tense,” he observed. Stag scoffed. “Mind your business, asshole. Shouldn’t you be worried about your ever-missing boyfriend? He run off again or something?” Lockjaw quietly looked over at him before rolling his eyes and looking back at Spencer. But through the network, he could feel Spencer’s thoughts beginning to branch outward—curious, calculating, predatory. And for the first time since infecting him, Stag felt something dangerously close to regret. Not for what he had done. But for what he might have lost. The nightclub swallowed Spencer almost immediately. InfraRed pulsed with Halloween chaos—strobes cutting through fog, bodies pressed together on the dance floor, glitter and sweat and cheap latex costumes blurring under red light. The music was loud enough to rattle bone. To anyone watching, Spencer looked like he had simply rejoined the crowd. Only Stag could feel the difference. Through the network, Spencer’s thoughts flickered—quick, curious, newly sharpened. The infection had stripped hesitation from him. What remained was appetite. Who first? Ready to use a willing hole. The thought drifted across the link like a lazy ripple. Stag tried not to react. Lockjaw stood beside him near the hallway entrance, arms folded, silent and observant. Not interfering. Just watching. Spencer moved with predatory ease now, his grotesquely expanded frame parting dancers without effort. His skin had deepened to that slate-gray sheen, veins faintly pronounced under the lights. His teeth flashed too white when he smiled. Stag felt the moment Spencer’s attention locked onto someone. Oh. That one. The thought carried a flicker of amusement. Across the room, leaning against the bar, was a punk rocker with a bright red mohawk and nose ring, tunnels in his ears, tattoos and a leather jacket and chaps completed the look. The guy looked familiar in that vague way club regulars often did. Spencer’s thoughts sharpened again. I heard about him. Used to do adult films. Says he can take anything. Even hit me up a few times at the gym wanting to worship me. Now he can have his chance. The implication curled darkly beneath the surface. Stag could literally see the images flooding in from Spencer. The red-haired man with the mohawk bent over, moaning in ecstasy and agony. Spencer smacking his ass and pounding his new, massive dick as hard as he could until he roared aloud with each shot of blackened, tainted cum flooding his ass. The punk shivering and begging for yet another load as the virus quickly began to take hold in his battered and abused ass. Stag’s jaw tightened. He didn’t want to feel this. He didn’t want to see this. He didn’t want to care. But through the network, he could feel Spencer’s interest spike—curiosity sliding toward intent. Lockjaw noticed. “Your… boy seems enthusiastic, and just as twisted as someone else I know,” he remarked casually. Stag’s head snapped toward him. “He’s not my—” Lockjaw cut him off with a look. “Right.” The word wasn’t cruel. Just factual. Spencer approached the mohawked man, smile widening slightly. The punk laughed at something Spencer said, leaning closer, clearly interested. Stag felt the pull of it through the link. The ease. The connection. It made something twist in his chest. Lockjaw shifted his weight, watching Spencer’s body language with quiet assessment. Then, almost lazily, he said, “Funny how fast people move on. You must bring that out in people, Stag.” Stag didn’t respond. But the words hit. Because he remembered. He remembered standing in the doorway of their apartment, the gym bag still slung over his shoulder. The smell of cologne in the air that wasn’t his. The cardboard box half-packed on the bed. Spencer not looking at him. “I’m sor… actually, no. I’m not sorry. I just… I want something different, Bryce. And you clearly can’t give that to me.” Not angry. But cold, almost cruel. Just done. Stag had laughed then, too sharp and too loud, like it was a joke. He’d told Spencer he was being dramatic. That he’d been trying—hadn’t he? He’d quit smoking. Started lifting heavier. Tried to be less of an asshole. Tried to soften the sharp edges. Be more attentive. Hell, he’d even let Spencer top him whenever he asked. And it hadn’t mattered. He’d watched Spencer zip the suitcase. Load up the last few things into the box. Watched him leave. Now, across the dance floor, Spencer leaned in toward someone new, smiling like he’d never left anything behind. Lockjaw glanced sideways at Stag. “Seems happier on the longer leash,” he added mildly. That one landed harder than intended. Stag’s hands curled into fists. Through the network, Spencer’s excitement flared brighter. The infection hummed with it. He’s a horny little shit, Spencer thought. He’ll come with me. Almost seems to want it. Stag swallowed. He hadn’t expected the Alpha’s punishment to feel like this. Because it wasn’t pain. It was watching. Watching the man he’d infected—claimed—move through the world without him. And realizing that even now, Spencer didn’t need him to feel powerful. He didn’t actually need him at all. The Alpha did not need to step onto the dance floor to make himself known. His presence pressed into Stag’s mind like a hand on the back of his neck—firm, deliberate, undeniable. The music in the club dimmed beneath it, not physically but perceptually, as though the network itself shifted its attention. You disobeyed. The words were not shouted. They were simply placed inside Stag’s thoughts with surgical precision. Stag kept his posture rigid, refusing to bow his head even as the pressure increased. Across the room, Spencer’s laughter rang out, bright and easy as he leaned closer to the red-mohawked punk. The connection between them flared again—curiosity tipping toward intent. The Alpha let Stag feel it. Every flicker of Spencer’s rising hunger. Every pulse of anticipation. Every thread of desire building. Your punishment, the Alpha continued smoothly, is observation. Don’t think I can’t read your mind and know every little thought that went through your sick head, Bryce. I know exactly why you were so intent on infecting this one. A sharp spike of pain lanced through Stag’s skull when he tried to block the connection. Not enough to incapacitate—just enough to remind him who held control. You will watch him choose someone else. You will watch him take them. You will watch him enjoy it. Someone other than you. Lockjaw shifted beside him, sensing the tension spike but saying nothing. On the dance floor, Spencer placed a hand on the punk’s waist. The other man grinned, clearly interested, clearly flattered by the attention of someone built like Spencer had become—massive, sculpted, intoxicatingly confident. Stag’s throat tightened. The Alpha’s tone shifted, almost amused. Spread my strain. Increase our numbers. Do what I sent you out for. The command rippled outward through the network. Stag felt Lockjaw receive it. Felt the rest of their kind adjust, scatter, seek. Lockjaw gave Stag a sidelong look. “Well… looks like we got our orders.” Stag nodded once, jaw clenched. He would not give the Alpha the satisfaction of another outburst. Lockjaw peeled away toward the front entrance, eyes settling almost immediately on the club’s bouncer—a thick-necked man who had been watching the dance floor with detached boredom. Lockjaw’s stride was smooth, confident, and purposeful. Stag turned in the opposite direction. He found his target near the edge of the floor: a slim blond dressed as Glinda the Good Witch, glitter catching in his hair under the strobes, pink dress short enough to blur the line between costume and invitation. The same twink Stag had dismissed earlier with a sneer. The twink caught his eye and smiled shyly. Stag told himself this would be simple. Mechanical. Necessary. He didn’t look back at Spencer. But through the network, he could still feel him. Still hear the faint hum of anticipation building as Spencer guided the red-mohawked man toward a darker hallway. The Alpha’s presence lingered, heavy and observant. Watch him, it reminded him softly. And learn your place, Bryce. And Stag hated that he obeyed. The hallway near the storage rooms was quieter, the bass from the main floor reduced to a dull vibration in the walls. The Glinda-costumed twink followed Stag eagerly, heels clicking against concrete, glitter catching in the dim light. Up close, the kid smelled like cheap cologne and vodka. “You gonna just glare at me,” the twink teased lightly, brushing a hand against Stag’s chest, “or are we actually doing something?” Stag forced himself to focus. This was easy. It should be easy. He’d done this before—long before the infection. Cold detachment came naturally to him. He knew how to compartmentalize. How to separate physical action from emotional involvement. He reached out, gripping the twink’s waist, guiding him roughly back toward the wall. Through the network, Spencer’s presence pulsed brighter. The punk moaned as Spencer murmured in his ear, pulling his pants down and taking his ass in one quick movement. Spencer’s mental voice flickered across the network—curious, hungry, excited. Considering. Selecting his next victim. Stag’s jaw tightened. He leaned in closer to the twink, but his movements were mechanical now, delayed. There was no predatory thrill behind them. No hunger. The twink noticed. “You… um okay?” he asked, frowning faintly. “You look… distracted. Are we actually gonna do something?” “I’m fine,” Stag muttered. But he wasn’t. Because through the network he could feel Spencer stepping deeper into a side corridor. Feel as Spencer began to shoot his load. Feel Spencer’s excitement spike as the Alpha’s approval brushed against him. It was too much. The twink shifted under Stag’s grip, irritation replacing playfulness. “You’re kind of boring, you know that?” he said flatly. “The asshole act might be intense, but you’re not actually doing anything.” Stag blinked. “What?” “I said,” the twink snapped, shoving lightly at his chest, “you’re boring. If you’re not gonna make a move, I’ll go find someone who will.” The words hit harder than they should have. Boring. For a split second, the hallway vanished. He was back in his apartment. Back in the living room. Watching Spencer shove clothes into a duffel bag while refusing to meet his eyes. I need someone who actually makes me feel something, Bryce. You’re boring. And you’re not enough. This isn’t what I need, and you never will be. The twink rolled his eyes and pushed past him. “Jesus. I’ll find someone better.” The words overlapped perfectly with the memory. Stag didn’t move. Through the network, Spencer’s pleasure flared brighter—focused elsewhere now, locked on the red-mohawked man, already intent on pumping another tainted load into the man. The Alpha hummed approval at the progress. A hot spike of panic shot through Stag’s chest. What if Spencer didn’t need him anymore? What if this—this infection, this grotesque new power—was the only reason Spencer had ever looked back at him at all? What if even now he was just a stepping stone? Stag’s breathing grew uneven. His thoughts began to spiral. He tried to blink back the flood of tears threatening to come out of his eyes. Maybe I really am boring. Maybe I was never enough. Maybe this is the only way anyone would ever want me. The Alpha’s presence lingered at the edge of his mind, observant but silent. This was all for him. To give him what he wanted. Yeah, it gave me the infection, too, but – I needed a way to tie him to me. Permanently. And for what? He doesn’t even care now that he has what he wants. What do I do now? Lockjaw appeared at the end of the hall a moment later, posture loose but eyes sharp. There was a faint smear of dark residue on his jawline—evidence that he had already completed his assigned task. He slowed when he saw Stag standing there alone. “You're… done already?” Lockjaw asked, tone suspicious. Stag straightened too fast, blinking fast and planting a cocky grin on his face, letting out a carefree laugh as he spoke. “Yeah. Obviously.” Lockjaw didn’t look convinced. His gaze flicked past Stag toward the dance floor—toward Spencer—then back. “You’re staring at him still,” Lockjaw said quietly. Stag forced a scoff. “Fuck off… And mind your own business.” But Lockjaw didn’t move away. Instead, he gently stepped closer and lowered his voice. “You both dated, didn’t you? How long have you two been broken up?” The question landed heavier than the Alpha’s psychic pressure ever had. And for the first time since this all began— Stag didn’t have a ready answer.

I once attended a cumdump for a friend who lived across the street. It was Christmas Day, and he didn't celebrate the holiday, so he hosted a cumdump. I gave him his first load, and made sure he was set up for the event. But I can't imagine it went well for him. His hole was COLD. Like he shoved ice up there before playtime. I dumped my spunk, and made sure the others who arrived got started on him before going back to check on my turkey. He got a decent number of guys, then spent the day at the bathhouse. Can collect loads, for sure, but his hole is not a positive memory. He just kinda knelt there and took it.

I think the first steps will involve casting your nets, and finding the fags into growth fetish. Beef attracts beef, and if one is scrawny or overweight, beef probably won't look at them as a suitable fixer-upper. That community - if it may be called such - may not exist locally. And I can't say it's advertised widely, even in big cities. I believe it will be a matter of scrounging the countryside to find a handful of guys into this. Beyond that, I'm no authority to provide actionable advice. Good luck. It's a very niche fetish (and a good one to have).

It turned you into a slut? Funny, mine must be defective. Nowadays I'm lucky if I get it at all. Member 20some years ago when kids were prescribed Ritalin and didn't really need it? That's what I feel like. Abstinence seems to be equally effective at preventing poz exposure. So remind me why I'm taking this pill?

I can't elaborate on that, but I don't think his son will get converted. He's been an apocryphal character up to this point, and we will not be seeing him.

We're here every Friday with something new. Given that you are in a different time zone than us, it may be closer to Saturday for you. Happy that you are enjoying this twisted AF story. Lots more to come.

Chapter 25: Ticking Clock City Streets. Interior of an Ambulance. 31-Oct-20XX. 21:29 MST. REDACTED location. The ambulance bucked as it took a corner too fast, suspension groaning under the weight of speed and bad decisions. Red light strobed through the back doors in a steady pulse, painting everything in alternating bands of emergency and shadow. Tex braced one boot against the bench seat and let his shoulder ride the wall, keeping himself steady as the siren wailed overhead. Gravestone lay strapped to the gurney opposite him, restraints cinched tight at wrists, ankles, chest. Sedatives had him still—for now—but Tex didn’t trust stillness anymore. He kept one eye on the rise and fall of that massive chest, counting breaths, watching for the smallest twitch. The blanket over Gravestone’s head shifted once, then settled. Tex didn’t blink. On the bench to his right, Rafi slumped against the cabinet, skin ashen, lips dry and cracked. The bite on his shoulder had been dressed, but it looked wrong even through layers of gauze—too dark, veins spidering outward like spilled ink beneath the skin. His breathing was shallow, uneven, each inhale a little too slow for Tex’s liking. “Talk to me,” Tex said finally, voice calm but sharp enough to cut through the siren. “Both of you. Start from the beginning.” Marco glanced at Kyle, then back at the road, hands tight on the wheel. Kyle swallowed and shifted in his seat, eyes flicking once toward Rafi before settling somewhere safer—anywhere else. “We were already on shift,” Marco said. “Late call. InfraRed.” Tex’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “The nightclub.” “Yeah,” Kyle added. “Packed. Halloween crowd. Costumes everywhere. Hard to tell who was drunk and who was actually hurt.” Tex nodded once. “And Rafi?” “He went hands-on,” Marco said. “Did what he always does. Too fast, too brave. There was a guy on the ground in an alleyway—bleeding, disoriented. Then something else was on him. Not a person. Not—” Marco shook his head, searching for words. “It looked like it was wearing the guy. Like it was… layered over him.” Kyle jumped in, voice tight. “Like Venom. From Spider-Man. I know how stupid that sounds.” “It really doesn’t,” Tex said flatly. “Keep going.” Kyle exhaled, relieved. “Rafi grabbed it. Tried to pull it off the victim. It turned on him and bit him. Hard. Wouldn’t let go. Then it—” He stopped, jaw clenching. “It dragged the guy away. Just picked him up and ran. Into the alley.” Silence stretched for a beat, broken only by the siren and the rattle of equipment. “We called another rig,” Marco said quietly. “There was another injured guy. Head trauma. Thrown against a dumpster. Bad concussion. We had to leave him for another crew.” Tex’s eyes flicked back to Rafi. The man stirred, a low sound rattling in his chest. “And the thing?” Tex asked. “The Venom-looking thing.” “Gone,” Kyle said. “Went running off into the night with the guy. Thankfully, we were able to mace the fuck out of him.” Tex leaned back, letting the pieces lock into place. Multiple vectors. Mobile host. Rapid onset. Too familiar. His fingers tapped once against his thigh, then stilled. Behind him, Gravestone exhaled slowly under the blanket—too slow, too controlled. Tex shifted just enough to keep the gurney in his peripheral vision. “All right,” Tex said. “That’s enough for now. You did what you could.” Marco didn’t look convinced. Neither did Kyle. Ahead, the ambulance screamed through another intersection, lights bouncing off storefront glass and empty sidewalks. Tex squared his shoulders, mind already racing several moves ahead. This wasn’t a cleanup. It was an outbreak. Tex let the silence hang for a moment. The ambulance swayed as Marco adjusted lanes, tires humming against wet asphalt. The ambulance radio crackled suddenly, sharp and intrusive. “Medical Fourteen, immediately report current location and ETA to your destination.” Tex’s eyes snapped open. The voice on the radio was calm. Controlled. Familiar in the worst possible way. His jaw set as recognition hit. “Shit. Don’t answer,” Tex said immediately, voice cutting through the cab. “Kill the mic.” Marco hesitated only a fraction of a second before reaching up and switching channels. The radio went dead. Kyle looked between them. “Who was that?” Tex leaned forward slightly, bracing his forearms on his knees. “That,” he said, “is a man who should not be asking where we are. Seems like Krell is fucking everywhere.” Marco’s expression darkened as the name clicked into place. “Jesus. General Krell. My dad said that guy should have been court marshalled.” Tex nodded once. Marco let out a humorless breath. “My dad warned me about him when I was a kid. Said if his name ever came up, it meant someone already screwed up and was looking for someone else to blame. And to never let the guy recruit me.” Tex allowed himself a thin, grim smile. “Your dad’s smart. Wish he’d have told me the same thing.” The ambulance surged forward, siren howling louder as the hospital lights came into view ahead. Tex sat back, eyes flicking between Gravestone’s restraints and Rafi’s worsening condition. Whatever had happened at InfraRed wasn’t going to be an isolated incident. It was a preview. The radio stayed quiet. Tex kept it that way. The ambulance tore down the last stretch of road toward Clearview, siren screaming, lights washing the inside of the rig in red and white. Marco drove with jaw clenched, eyes locked forward, hands steady on the wheel. Kyle didn’t look at the radio at all. It crackled again. “Medical Fourteen,” General Krell’s voice said, clipped now, stripped of its earlier calm. “You are ordered to report your location immediately. Failure to copy will result in your termination.” Tex didn’t move. The silence stretched, heavy and deliberate. The radio crackled a third time, sharper, angrier. “Medical Fourteen, you are instructed to divert and return to central. That is a direct order.” Marco exhaled through his nose. Then, without looking back, he reached up and shut the radio off completely. The cabin dropped into a sudden, almost peaceful quiet—sirens still wailing, but Krell gone. “Sorry,” Marco said, voice tight. “Already radioed our destination when we loaded up our latest guest. Standard protocol.” Tex nodded once. “It’s fine. You were only doing your job.” Kyle swallowed. “He sounded pissed.” “Default mode for the guy,” Tex replied. “This just means he’s starting to realize he’s not in control.” The ambulance swung into the bay hard, brakes hissing as it came to a stop. Before the doors were fully open, a small trauma team was already moving—several nurses and a resident, all pulling on gloves as they rushed forward. “Multiple patients?” one of them called. “Yes,” Tex said, stepping down first and taking command by presence alone. “Both restrained and sedated. One is one of the paramedics on their rig. Both infectious. The paramedic looks to be critical.” The doors swung wide. The moment the staff got a clear look inside, confusion rippled through them. “Wait…Dr. Kade?” someone said, blinking. Another nurse frowned. “No, I literally just saw him outside the call room. Like—half an hour ago.” The attending slowed, eyes moving from Gravestone’s strapped-down form to Tex’s face. “That’s… not possible.” Tex met her gaze evenly. “It is if you have twins.” A beat. Then Trevor Kade appeared at the edge of the bay, scrubs on, pager clipped at his waist. He stopped dead the moment he saw Tex. “Toby…What the hell are you doing here?” Trevor asked. The noise of the bay faded into the background as Tex caught Trevor by the arm and guided him a few steps away from the cluster of nurses and equipment. The first gurney rolled past them, Rafi passed out and strapped down. The next rolled by, Gravestone’s bulk strapped down beneath the blanket like a too-large shadow pretending to be human. “Trevor,” Tex said quietly, keeping his voice level. “Look at me.” Trevor did, eyes still wide, breath shallow. “Toby—what is going on?” Tex didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached out, hooked two fingers under the edge of the blanket, and lifted it. Just enough. Trevor’s breath hitched. Color drained from his face so fast Tex thought he might drop. Whatever Trevor saw beneath the fabric—skin too dark, features too sharp, the wrongness pressed into every angle—it stole the words right out of him. “Is that what the fuck I think it is?” Trevor whispered. Tex lowered the blanket again carefully, like tucking a lid back onto something volatile. He stepped closer, angling his body so no one else could see Trevor’s expression. “That,” Tex murmured near his ear, steady and grim, “is Elias’s and my boss, Commander Briggs.” Trevor swallowed hard. “That’s not—people don’t—” “I know,” Tex said. “That’s why we don’t have time. Elias is on his way here with another one.” Trevor dragged a hand down his face, trying to pull himself together. “What?!” “Too many people around who can overhear,” Tex replied. “I’ll tell you everything, but we need to work fast here… One of the guys responsible is on his way here, and I can’t be here when he gets here.” Trevor looked back toward the gurney, then toward the hospital doors, jaw tightening as the weight of it settled in. “You said Elias is coming, too?” “Already on the way,” Tex said. “With Zero. One of our teammates.” Trevor closed his eyes for a brief second, then nodded. “Okay. Um. Call room. Now.” Tex’s gaze flicked once more to Gravestone—still, silent, restrained. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “So, we need a solid plan. Because if we don’t make one fast…” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. The blanket shifted once, barely perceptible. And Tex knew they were already running out of time. The automatic doors at the edge of the bay slid open with a sharp hiss. Tex looked up instantly. A familiar sedan rolled in too fast and braked hard near the curb. Elias was out before the engine fully died, coat half-buttoned, phone still in his hand. His eyes went straight to Tex, then past him—to the gurney. Behind Elias, Zero stumbled. It wasn’t subtle. One second he was upright, jaw clenched like he was forcing himself through something; the next, his steps faltered. He grabbed at his head with both hands, fingers digging into his hair as if he could physically hold his thoughts in place. “No—not here, he’s too… something’s—” Zero gasped, voice breaking. “He’s—he’s pulling—” Elias spun, catching him just before he went down. “Hey. Hey. Look at me,” Elias said, shifting instantly into crisis mode. “Breathe, buddy. Stay with me. Focus on my voice.” Zero didn’t seem to hear him. His black eyes were unfocused now. A raw, involuntary sound tore out of his throat as pain wracked through him, sharp enough to buckle his knees. Tex didn’t wait. He was already moving, shrugging out of the way of startled nurses as he crossed the bay in long, fast strides. Trevor followed half a step behind, expression grim and already calculating. “Clear space,” Tex snapped. “Now.” Elias looked up, relief and alarm colliding when he saw Tex. “He was fine ten minutes ago,” Elias said. “Then it was like something reached inside his head.” Tex was already pulling a syringe from his pocket. “Get back.” Zero tried to push away weakly, mumbling something incoherent. Tex caught his shoulder, steadying him just long enough to find the mark. “Sorry, buddy,” Tex muttered. He drove the needle into Zero’s neck and depressed the plunger in one smooth motion. Zero went slack almost immediately, weight sagging fully into Elias’s arms. Elias swore under his breath and eased him down as carefully as he could. The bay had gone quiet again. Too many people watching now. Too many questions forming. Trevor glanced between the two unconscious men—both looking very inhuman—and the third man, looking sicker by the second while rolling away each in his own gurney, and then back to Tex. “We can’t keep doing this out here. You just knocked whoever that was out in front of a quarter of the ER staff.” Tex nodded. “I know. We need to get all of them in the most secure rooms you have.” Trevor stood for a moment and finally turned to the staff, looking at one of the nurses. “Hey, is the new psych holding open yet?” The nurse could only nod her head as they loaded them. Elias helped lay down Zero onto a gurney. “Perfect, move all of these patients to the new rooms. Just… trust me.” The staff all nodded, and quickly took a turn towards the newest part of the emergency room. Tex looked at Elias, meeting his eyes squarely. “Gravestone’s sedated. For now. Krell is already trying to reroute to us.” Elias’s jaw tightened. “Of course he is. Any thoughts on what we should do?” Tex straightened, voice dropping just enough to keep it contained. “None that are good. We’ve got maybe minutes before this turns into a political incident instead of a medical one.” Elias took a breath, then nodded once. “Then we move. Lock it down. No more surprises.” Behind them, somewhere under a blanket and a web of restraints, something shifted—just enough to remind Tex that the clock wasn’t just ticking. It was accelerating. — Trevor didn’t give them time to argue. The moment the gurneys, complete with armed hospital security, were moving and the bay’s attention fractured, he grabbed both Tex and Elias by the arms and hauled them through the nearest door. The call room was cramped and dim, a narrow space that smelled like burnt coffee and antiseptic. The door slammed shut behind them, cutting off the noise of the bay in one blessed, fragile slice of quiet. Trevor turned on them, voice low and furious. “Okay. What the fuck? This is NOT what you both told me this morning at the apartment.” Tex and Elias exchanged a look. For a split second, neither of them spoke. Where do you even start when the truth sounds like a delusion? Tex scrubbed a hand over his face. “There’s no clean version of this.” Elias folded his arms, jaw tight. “And no short one.” Trevor stared at them both, eyes sharp, waiting. “Try anyway. And don’t sugar coat the details this time. What in the actual fuck did you two just bring into my emergency room?” Tex glanced at the door, then back at Trevor. “Our commander isn’t our commander anymore. Or at least, not in a way that matters.” That landed hard. Trevor’s mouth opened, then shut again. “You’re talking about your commander? Briggs? THAT was Briggs?!” Tex nodded once. “Gravestone.” Trevor went very still. “Enough with the fucking code names, Tobias. It’s not funny. ” “I know,” Tex said. “That’s why I’m not laughing...” Elias stepped in, voice steady but strained. “You know how we said there was a containment breach at Helixion. The military is now covering it up. Whatever was created didn’t stay contained. I know we shut the door behind us, so it must have gotten loose some other way.” Tex nodded before adding, “Yeah, that would be our dear friend Jack. He played all of us with his drugged up fool act. Got loose and took the rest of the smilers with him.” Trevor dragged a chair back and sat, hands braced on his knees. “And the thing under the blanket—” “Is our commander,” Tex said. “Or what’s left after an ambulance hit him.” Silence pressed in on the room, thick and heavy. Finally, Trevor let out a sharp breath. “And the other one? The guy who just collapsed in the bay? After you shot who-knows-what into his neck?” Elias’s expression tightened. “Zero…. Um… Mason Hawke. He’s… compromised. Not fully. But something’s reaching for him. They both were the last two uninfected when we escaped.” Trevor closed his eyes briefly. “Jesus Christ. You’re telling me both of them turned into that in less than 24 hours?” Outside the door, voices passed. Footsteps. Life going on like the world wasn’t quietly tearing open. Tex straightened, the gears visibly shifting. “Yeah. But we’ve got another problem.” Trevor looked up. “Oh, of course we do. Never fails with you two.” “Staff’s already clocking us,” Tex said. “Two identical guys where there should be one. Krell’s trying to reroute assets as we speak, and will likely be here himself to oversee the mess. We’re about to lose control of the room. I’m thinking we need to blend in.” Elias caught on immediately, smiling. “We don’t fight it… we become gray men.” “We disappear,” Tex said, nodding. “In plain sight. Unless you have a better idea?” Trevor frowned, glaring at both of them. “Care to explain to the guy whose ER you both just took over? You know, your brother… and your husband?” Tex nodded toward him. “I have an idea on how Eli and I both get out of here without getting arrested by military police. I dress as you. Lab coat. Badge. Contact lens if you’ve got them. I become a second Dr. Kade on paper and on cameras.” Trevor blinked. “You’re insane. Both of you are.” “Yes,” Tex agreed. “But it works.” He turned to Elias. “You scrub in. Surgeon. Scrubs and cap, gloves, the whole thing. No one questions someone who looks busy and pissed off.” Elias considered it for half a second, then nodded. “I… can do that.” Trevor exhaled, rubbing his temples. “I have a spare coat in my locker. And contacts.” He looked at Tex pointedly. “Hospital-issued scrubs. They suck. I’m gonna have to wear exactly the same thing. I think I might have my old badge in there too.” Tex cracked the faintest smile. “We’ll survive, bro.” Trevor stood. “Let me be clear. This only buys you some time. And I expect you both to tell me everything. No hiding any more of the important details.” “I promise, you’ll get all the info. Time’s all we’re aiming for,” Tex said. From somewhere deeper in the hospital, an announcement crackled overhead. “Code 200 is now in effect. Repeat, Code 200 is now in effect.” Trevor reached for the door. “All right. Sounds like the hospital is going into full lockdown. Locker room. We need to move fast. You both can tell me everything else you left out on the way.” As they filed out, Tex felt the weight of it settle fully in his chest—not just the danger, but the improvisation, the lies stacked on lies. They weren’t fixing this. They were stalling. And hoping it would be enough.

This week's instalment will be a little late in coming today. We've had a technical issue, and it will have to wait a few hours. We didn't forget - but it's not going to be this morning.

Relatable. Just last week, I got this message from someone on A4A. He said that the purple hair doesn't do it for him, and the fact that I've been a prostitute is a real turn off. He wished me good luck. Let me give some context. This guy is not local to me, and I never showed any sort of interest to him previously. My mohawk is a blood red colour, not purple or violet (I called him a colour-blind boob for that). And I haven't been an active sex worker in over a decade. It wasn't even on my profile. Still isn't. Unless he was referring to my work in porn, which isn't what he called me. How on earth could he have known that I did that??? Strangely, he did not block me. I had to see who this was, and when I looked, it was a near-empty profile with no location given. DA FUK, MAN 😵‍💫

It's a fun accessory. I got one as my last act of my 30s, a real rollercoaster of a decade. My own experience was not as comfortable as yours appears to be. I had no anxiety going into it, but when that puncture happened - I fucking screamed! Ten seconds later, it was over. Didn't get to the car before the glove thing fell off. Suffered through the night, and ruined the mattress. I spent the next three days walking around the house naked with my D in a cup of warm salty water (not 100% of the time, mind you.) And when I was able to return to the gym, I found out VERY QUICKLY that I needed to wear a jockstrap. I thoughtlessly tried to do some jump rope. Big mistake that I really should have seen coming! LOL I'm now at a size 2, definitely ready for the 0. I love it. All my bottoms have enjoyed it, and none have asked me to remove it. Definitely a good choice. I never thought I'd be one of those fags with a PA, but here we are. LOL