All Gary could remember is walking through the front door, and then boom: instant pain and then nothing. Now, he groggily groaned as he slowly came to. The young, wealthy investment banker felt a throbbing bump on the back of his head, but discovered quite quickly his hands were bound at the wrist, the rope tightly twisting and wrapping around his wrists like handcuffs. Trying to push through the pain, he desperately tried to scream, but the bandana gagging him prevented much of his voice from being more than just a muffled whisper. Panic started to set in, just as the spinning room began to slow and come into focus. He was slumped across the foot of his bed, struggling to sit up on his own, bare ass naked.
“Yeah, that’s a good one.” A foreign voice rang in his ears like bomb blasts in a cave. “Gotta post that shit.” Finally sitting upright on the edge of his bed, he could see the origin of the voice. Sitting on HIS vanity chair, taking selfies with HIS phone was the masked burglar himself, absolutely huge in stature in all his nude glory.
Gary cried out in a desperate, muffled plea, only for the intruder to spin around and stare at him. The deep brown eyes bore holes into his skull from behind the black ski mask, before the plump lips snickered with a nearly sadistic malice.
“Shut the FUCK up, bitch. We gon do this the easy way tonight, you hear me? You gon tell me where your money at, and where the good shit is, and you can walk outta here just fine. Got it?” Gary nodded, nervously nodding his head toward his closet door. The burglar stood up, sauntering over to the closet and began ruffling through the various designer clothes that had accumulated over the past year of Gary’s thriving career. “Heh heh heh. Got some Gucci, some Balmain, fuck bruh you got some fuckin Versace.” The man gleefully put on the pristine clothes, flexing and posing his thick, sweaty muscles in the mirror every chance he could get. Dressed in black couture from head to toe, he turned to Gary, yanking his gagged head inches from his face. The dirty scent of sweat and the streets themselves bled through the immaculate fabrics, the smell would never come out- he’d marked them. “Where the jewelry at?” Gary nodded to the bedside table, where he kept the Rolex and the 24 carat gold cuban link necklace.
The burglar was pleased with his finds, donning the watch and chain as if it were his own. Well, perhaps it was his now, Gary was in disbelief and still more than a little confused. The burglar found his wallet, nonchalantly flipping through the cards and grabbing the cash; both of which ending up in his pockets. Now looking as if he were a model right off Rodeo Drive, the lug stood in front of his captured prey. The energy was off, Gary could tell. The guy wasn’t gonna honor his word, or he was gonna kidnap him and hold him for ransom, or a well placed bullet between his eyes could end everything.
“That’s a good bitch. I look fuckin good, right?” He flexed, taunting his captive, as if he knew just how gay Gary was. His body betrayed him, as his cock stirred ever so slightly- a detail which did not escape the thief. “Oh you fuckin like it, don'tcha? Your lil dick squirmin’ like a fuckin worm.” Gary looked down, repeating in his head the lie of denial. Of course he wasn’t liking it. Of course he wasn’t into it. Of course he wasn’t… But if he wasn’t, then why couldn’t he stop looking at his bulging muscles, or his thick cock, or his massive feet, or those sweaty, wet pits… “You a fuckin’ dick pig, ain’t ya?” The burglar groped his massive bulge, inching closer and closer to Gary’s thirsty peering until the very fabric of the black Versace shorts touched the tip of his nose, that musty dick smell making droplets of drool rain from the corners of his mouth.
“You know what? You’ve been a good lil dick pig. Imma keep you around.” Pulling a switchblade from his pocket, the captor pushed Gary to the ground and let the knife slowly scrape along the back of his neck. His hairs stood on end, and let out a stifled moan. The cool feel of the blade against his skin was simply to exhilarating to ignore. He couldn’t push this one down, he liked it. “You’re gonna suck this musty dick whenever the fuck I want. You gon be my foot rest, clean my feet with your fuckin tongue. Do whatever the fuck I tell you to, and you’re gon thank me for it. You gon WANT to do it.” The new master walked over to the corner of the room, picking up something just out of sight, before throwing the small pile against his bitch’s quivering side. Looking gingerly to the left, Gary could see what it was that had been whipped at him: the stinking pile of what the burglar had worn to the break in.
“Fuckin’ put em on bitch.” Gary looked to the pile with confused glee, a cognitive dissonance of disgust and lust. As if looking for approval from a parent, he peered up at his masked assailant. “I said put the fuckin’ clothes on, bitch. I know you want those nasty fuckin’ clothes on your thirsty ass self. Your master’s fuckin’ ripe ass smell rubbin’ all over you. Fuckin’ dick pig.” The master spit onto Gary’s begging face before pushing him back down onto the ground with his massive booted foot. In front of his face was the rank, sticky boxers wafting eye watering musk from their threads.
His still bound hands grasped the silky shorts, the rope burn searing into his wrists with every movement. Desperate to please his captor, he put his feet through the holes, quivering at the feeling of the cold wet stickiness of the boxers slowly sliding up his legs. The master pulled the chair over, sitting down with the same energy of a spectator watching a stripper. The malevolent unblinking gaze behind the black mask would not break. Gary could feel the physical sensation of that gaze in his very spirit, slowly burning it away to ash. The boxers finally settled loosely on his hips like a wet bathing suit against his skin.
“You like that, pig. You like daddy’s fuckin nasty ass grime all over your dick and ass.” The burglar reached over, grasping Gary’s nether tightly in his hands, lathering it in his stinking slime. “Yeah, bitch. Feel that musty cock and ball sweat sink into your lil dicklet.” And he could.
Gary could palpably feel that slimy grime start to slither into every pore, every orifice. He moaned in pleasure as his dick began to soak up the sweat like a sponge, slowly inflating as his balls started to swell and sag. His ass plumped up, and his slick hole had all but become a sloppy wet man pussy, a perfect fit for his master’s needy cock. As his master pulled his hands away, Gary looked down to see his thick, dripping cockhead slowly peek out of the bottom of the now tight boxers, easily 9 inches of tan, smelly cock. The master wasted no time pelting him with the old cumstained sweatpants.
He strained yet again against his bindings, writhing on the floor to slip them on. They were heavy and hot, a thick woven material that that had all but swallowed his legs whole, not even his toes poked out the long pant legs. The master laughed at what he likened to a wriggling worm, nearly drowning in the girth of his dirty joggers.
“Get up.” Gary looked at his kingly tormentor once more, daring to meet his sharp gaze again. “Get the FUCK up lil bitch.” Every shout made him shudder with nausea, as if each second of his displeasure would poison him. He rolled himself to his knees, and with all of his might began to push upward. Gary could feel his legs straining to rise, quivering under the sheer weight of the pants until the radiating heat began to thrust into his thighs and calves. His knees buckled only for a moment before the pants began to feel lighter. He pushed and pushed, letting his engorging quads do the work, and in no time he’d made it to a crouch on the balls of his feet. Standing up felt effortless now, a sweltering heat of alien strength slowly building within him. A full two feet taller, he stood eye to eye with the master, who looked less like a king and more of a God by the moment. His magnanimous aura which had seeped into him was a gift, and like a devoted faithful zealot, he would worship the God that gave it to him.
The master sauntered over to his pet with a evil playfulness, brandishing his mirrorlike knife against Gary’s skin and slowly letting it slide down his scrawny chest to the rope. With a swipe of the blade, he commanded his servant.
“Next.”
Pointing to the table next to the mirror, the final component of the outfit sat like a temptress beckoning him with a siren’s song: his God’s dusty, thrashed, beat up Jordans. Two fetid socks were draped out of the almost steaming maw of the sneakers. He was hypnotized, being drawn to the ripest scent of all growing with every step. Picking up the socks, the cotton was damp and slick, almost waxy to the touch on the grey soles. He felt no hesitation, he felt no concern, no thoughts, only obedience and ecstasy as he slid his foot into the first sock. His heel slid into place, and he let his stinking foot back down to the ground with a wet slap against the floor. Slipping on the second, the sheer heat emanating from the socks had left steam impressions on the floor. His feet felt like liquid, sloshing in waves of pins and needles before being abruptly interrupted by his God shoving his surprised face into the sneaker.
“Better get used to this smell. Breath it in, bitch. This is gonna be your fuckin poppers, your heroin, your fix. SNIFF IT, FUCKER.” Gary did as instructed, taking in the heavy cloud of wafting stink pouring from the dark pit of the Jordan. He was drowning, coughing from the powerful stench that felt like manna filling his lungs. Dropping the second sneaker to the ground, the master guided his servant’s foot into the wet hot cave, a squelching sound bellowing from the waxy sock pressing against the sweat saturated insole. Gary gasped in awe, letting another deep breath of the stink into him, letting more of the God’s gift into him. Peeled away, the sneaker left a film of evaporated footsweat on his face, the smell lingering as it was forced onto his own sole. His feet swelled with stink and sweat, inflating and stretching to fit the size 16 Jordans. His toes reached the end of the socks, perfectly aligning with the dank, sweaty footprint that had been embedded in the shoes for years. His master pleased, he finally removed the black ski mask, blessing his pet with the honor of seeing his face.
“I own your ass.” He smirked, gripping Gary by his hair with one hand, flipping him off with the other. Letting out the last cry he would make as himself, as Gary Howard, the God hocked one final mouthful of spit into his servants open maw before clamping it shut, and slamming his sweaty black mask over his head.
The effect was instantaneous. The damp mask squeezed Gary’s skull, his bones giving no resistance to the force of the squelching wool. As it compressed and stretched, black tendrils slithered out of the mask, sprawling downward against his exploding muscles and plunging down his throat. Gary surrendered and faded into the background, his body gurgling and undulating as the invading tendrils expanded into every nook and crevice. Everywhere the black sludge touched, his muscles would bulge.
His biceps grew to the size of cantaloupes, hands large and strong enough to crush a skull. Pecs so juicy and thick they sat like slabs of marble atop his chiseled abs. After a long and arduous fight, his head slumped down in defeat. The master plopped back into his chair, pulling out his new phone, kicking his feet up onto the bed. The tendrils began to retreat back into the black mask, leaving intricate marks all across his body, enough to tell the story of a dedicated and subservient underling to a ruthless criminal God. With one final gulp of the sludge down his throat, the nameless thug opened his new eyes to gaze upon the supreme God he worshipped.
The God unzipped his pants with completely flat affect, his drone knowing full well what needed to be done. Falling to his knees, he gently pried the God’s musky dick from his pants, and sloppily started blowing him. The God sighed in satisfaction with his pigs expert mouth, blowing his flawless seed down his throat like he would do so every day since. Unmounting, he slipped his cum-dripping cock back into his pants as his drone awaited his instructions. And the plan was simple: recruit.
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