Descent

Note: This is one of my darkest stories yet. I’ll totally understand if you find this story repugnant. Some of you, though, will enjoy it because some of you have been urging me to write a story like this for some time.

Many thanks to Jock Morphr for “feeding” the ideas for this story to me as well as helping me to augment it in the days since I first posted it!

***

Wright McDaniels was called into the boss’ office as he was getting ready to leave the gym. He sighed, knowing all too well what was about to occur: He was going to be fired. He grabbed his bag and straightened his shoulders, intent on hiding his humiliation from Melysse, the stylish personal trainer who had delivered the news. It was probably his imagination but he thought she was smirking at him behind his back as he climbed the stairs.

Dougherty’s office was at the back of the huge former meatpacking plant that had been remodeled as a crossfit and personal training mecca. It had been a stroke of genius that the man purchased it at the height of the recession. Everyone in town had been selling, convinced the tech boom was dead, but Dougherty’s investment had been prescient and now you couldn’t find loft space in this part of the city for under a thousand dollars a square foot. In a few short years, the old meatpacking district had become a hipster paradise.

Pack, the personal fitness center that Dougherty had opened in the old factory, was the place to be seen these days. The trainers were not hired unless they already had a substantial social media following and, once hired, they were expected to both turn an ever-greater number of their followers into loyal Pack members. Every new trainer was given a sales goal that increased every month and, if they failed to meet their goal, they were let go. Because Pack was such a lucrative place to work, there was always a line of trainers and crossfit pros who were waiting to get in and take the place of those who failed to bring in the customers and money.

Constantly increase your business. It was as simple and as difficult as that.

Dougherty’s tough business model worked because Pack paid their trainers more than twice as much as other gyms and offered them incredible benefits. More importantly, it meant that only the cream of crop worked at Pack and the physical prowess and beauty of the trainers was legendary in the city. Everyone wanted to train there! The downside was that it created an atmosphere of cutthroat competition as trainers strived to outdo their peers in order to land in the vaunted top position. 

Wright arrived with an insatiable desire to succeed and had relished the pressure as a way to show the world that he was a natural top dog. For over a year, he had thrived there, easily vaulting to the top and staying there. His clients loved him both because he was tough and because he was hot. He possessed an ethereal sort of male beauty that others could only hope to emulate. His physique was ripped, he was lean, he was handsome, and he 

Wright had seen the numbers. They were posted in the breakroom and displayed every time he logged into the Pack website to check his schedule. He was low. He’d actually lost Twitter followers and his Facebook and Instagram growth was anemic at best. He knew it was overly simplistic but he felt like his numbers really took a hit after Renz Bekker, the new South African trainer, had started working at Pack. Everyone wanted Renz to train them and Wright had had more than a few of his clients dump him for the handsome foreigner. Renz’ numbers were climbing and he led the group of trainers in followers and clients for the third month in a row.

Dougherty was surrounded by a cloud of smoke and an army of assistants when he entered the darkened office. The big man was perhaps sixty years old and quite overweight. He was a huge gangster film buff and everything about his presence was designed to emulate a crime boss persona. It was a silly conceit but the staff at Pack humored him. Standing before the big man, Wright realized that, while the crime boss thing might be for show, it still felt pretty real when you were there to plead for your job. He sensed that he was hunching his shoulders and had to force himself to square them again. A visit to Dougherty’s office was never a good thing.

“McDaniel,” Dougherty was saying in his gravelly ‘Godfather’ voice. “I’m here to make you a deal you can’t refuse.”

Oh, god, Wright thought, Can this get any more cliche? He forced himself to smile as the big man exhaled a plume of cigar smoke. It billowed across the desk and Wright had to wave his hand in front of his face to stop from gagging. He couldn’t believe the owner of a fitness empire smoked.

“What deal is that, Boss?” Wright asked politely. He knew the protocol: You never called Dougherty anything but ‘Boss’.

“I’m going to help you increase your business which,” he paused meaningfully, “will help increase my business.”

Wright nodded, relaxing. So, the Boss wasn’t going to fire him yet. That was…unexpected. Dougherty had to know he could replace Wright with a host of other young, lean, ripped trainers, some of whom probably had more impressive social media followings. Yet he’d decided not to. Wright couldn’t believe his good fortune.

“But the deal is that you gotta take my advice. Whatever I tell you to do, you do. No questions. Got it?”

Wright nodded again, excited. He didn’t care what Dougherty told him to do. He’d do anything to keep his place in the Pack.

“Good.” Dougherty stubbed out his cigar and lit another. “Wanna smoke?” he asked, holding up a pack of cigarettes.

“Naw, I’m good.”

Dougherty nodded, already moving on. “Lift up your shirt for me, kid. I wanna see your body.”

Wright blinked at him but nonetheless pulled his tank top over his head. His business was his body after all. It was his product, his calling card, his reputation. Whenever people asked to check him out, he reminded himself that personal trainers were only as good as they looked.

The boss was eying him speculatively. The silence dragged on as Wright realized that all of Dougherty’s assistants were young men. Very attractive young men. Was the boss gay? He shivered inadvertently. He hoped that whatever Dougherty had in mind didn’t involve anything gay. He’d worked hard to keep his homo following down to a minimum and was proud that over three quarters of his clients were women.

“Marketing,” Dougherty said finally, startling Wright out of his reverie. “You need to change your marketing strategy.”

“What do you mean?”

“You need to distinguish yourself from the rest of the pack.” Dougherty smiled at his pun and puffed smoke through his nose. “Your social media numbers took a dive when Renz started. Suddenly, you weren’t the hot young star anymore and the women were flocking to the buff guy with the sexy accent.”

Wright nodded. It’s not exactly how he would have put it but it was basically true.

“Now, you need to adapt. No longer the young rising star, you need a new niche. One that is unique. One that no one else at Pack is exploiting.”

He nodded again, eager to hear what Dougherty was suggesting.

“I want you to grow out your body hair, Wright. All of it. The more the better.” Dougherty held up his hand before Wright could protest. “Trust me on this one, kid. Trust me.”

What difference would growing out his body hair make? He didn’t get it. Personal trainers were supposed to be smooth and defined. If he grew out his hair, no one would be able to see his amazing muscles! He’d spent years building those muscles and now he was supposed to cover them up with hair? It was just wrong. Dougherty didn’t understand anything about marketing.

The boss was watching his face with amusement. “How ‘bout this? I’ll sweeten the deal and increase your social media following at the same time, kid. Tomorrow, I want you to go to this address. My photographer friend will take a bunch of pics of you smooth and hairless.” He paused as he fished a business card out of his desk and handed it to Wright. “And, next month, when you’re good and hairy, I’ll send you back again so he can document your new look. Post those pics on social and your clients will be streaming into Pack to work with you. Trust me.”

***

Wright posed in front of his bathroom mirror that night, admiring his beautiful muscles that would soon be covered by a pelt of body hair. He shivered. He was Italian on his mom’s side and knew how hairy he would get. Shit, his brother never shaved anything and looked like a fucking gorilla. What was he doing? He sure hoped that Dougherty was right.

He sighed, giving himself a sly wink. “Well, I suppose I can just shave it off again if it doesn’t work.”

Still, he wasn’t looking forward to the itching as his hair grew in. He reached up and scratched an armpit, convinced he could already feel the prickly hair pushing through the surface of his immaculately smooth skin.

Flexing, he savored his lean torso and beefy arms. His skin was naturally dark and his hair was golden brown. He lifted the corner of his mouth as he playfully batted his eyes at his reflection. Yeah, the girls loved his soft brown eyes, defined torso, pert butt, and killer legs alright. The guys all envied his big guns and…his big package. He wasn’t a fag but he saw the looks in the locker room and he knew he was bigger than average. He had the bod and the cock of a god and it made him feel proud and happy.

Shit, he had been proud and happy until Renz Bekker showed up and stole his clients. Fucking arrogant dude from South Africa! What the fuck did he have that Wright didn’t? Well, he would show Renz. He would show him who the real man was. Yeah, he would do whatever it took to stay on top.

***

He groaned inwardly when he saw the photographer. The little dude was as effeminate as a guy could get and all but devoured Wright with his hungry gaze when he showed up wearing his sweats and t-shirt, gym bag slung over his shoulder.

“Oh, you’re perfect. PERFECT!” the guy purred and Wright rolled his eyes. He was used to being fawned over but this was over the top.

“Leave your bag over there, big guy,” the femmy dude was saying, “and come here. I need you to sign some paperwork before we get started.”

Wright sat down at a desk to the side of the studio and was startled to see a stack of marijuana joints sitting in full view on a tray. The photographer, Denny, caught him staring and winked.

“Wanna toke first? It will relax you.” He reached out and lit a joint, passing it over to Wright.

He was going to refuse but then realized that he was pretty nervous. He took the proffered joint and inhaled deeply. Shit, it was good stuff!

The session went really well. Really fucking great in fact. It couldn’t have been any fucking better, Wright realized lazily as he was reclining on a leather couch in the middle of the studio, wearing only a little white Speedo. Denny was snapping photos like crazy over him. The little dude wanted him to do the funniest poses: Bending over, stretching out, spreading his legs, doing handstands and cartwheels. It was the funniest shit ever. He’d started out with his clothes on but had gradually been coaxed to remove more and more, trying on progressively more revealing outfits and underwear until he had drawn the line with the Speedo.

Wright didn’t care that he was being photographed wearing next to nothing by a gay guy. No, he didn’t fucking care about anything as long as it helped get him ahead of Renz. He even gave Denny the passwords to all of his social media accounts. Denny needed them, he said, because he was going to manage Wright’s posts. He would post a few pics every day online over the next month and then do the same thing when Wright returned for his next session when his hair was fully grown out. It made sense. Yeah, it fucking made sense. It was easier this way. Shit, Wright was so fucking tired of managing all of those fucking accounts. Let the fag do it. It was better that way.

***

He sauntered into the breakroom the next day and saw that his Twitter followers had gone up by two hundred overnight. Even better, his schedule was now booked through the end of the week. Almost all of the new signups were guys, but, hey, who cared? They were clients. His schedule was almost as packed as Renz’ now. And all because of a few stupid photos! He couldn’t stop himself, he whooped out loud.

***

The next month was miserable for poor Wright in spite of his increased business. His growing body hair itched like crazy and he felt like a fucking animal showing up at the gym with a coat of black hair that only grew denser as the days wore one. Dougherty was making him grow a beard, too, and soon even his face was itching as the thick stubble lengthened and grew dense.

The boss had apparently been right to suggest that he grow out his hair and pose for the photo shoot, though. His clients seemed to like the new look and every day his schedule was fuller. He kind of disliked the way they stared at him, though. Yeah, they stared at him like they were privy to a joke or something. Like they knew something he didn’t. It bothered him but he pushed it away, determined to do his job. Shit, with as much money as he was making, he didn’t care how his clients acted. He was fucking rich!

***

Denny was speechless when he arrived the next month for his follow up shoot.

“Oh, my! Oh, my!” was all the little faggot could say as he walked around Wright and admired his hairy body. Wright inhaled deeply on the joint that Denny gave him and pulled down his sweats, exposing his jock-encased package and beefy, bare ass. He’d worn the jock to give the homo a surprise. It worked alright. Yeah, the little dude practically creamed his pants when he saw what Wright was packing.

The session was a blast. Wright really got into the fruity poses that Denny asked him to do and eventually even let the homo talk him into removing the jock and posing completely naked. He knew that straight guys didn’t show their buttholes to the world, especially not on social media, but what the fuck difference did it make if it got him more followers and clients? He couldn’t wait to see the stats when he logged in. He was going to blow past Renz’ numbers for sure. He squatted down deeper, thrusting his butt out provocatively as Denny snapped away. God, this was fucking great!

**

His followers increased but not as much as he hoped when the pics of him with body hair went up. His client schedule was pretty full, though, second only to Renz’ so he couldn’t complain much. Still, as the month wore on, his numbers began slipping and it wasn’t long before he got called back into Dougherty’s office.

“It’s your clothes, kid,” the boss pronounced solemnly, the assistant behind him nodding in agreement.

Wright must have looked indignant because Dougherty laughed, holding up his meaty palm, and saying, “Listen to me. After those photos of you went up, people were expecting you to wear something more revealing when you work out with them.” He pointed to a stack of packages on a nearby table. “Wear these things and you’ll be a fucking star. I promise.”

Wright’s hands were shaking and he didn’t resist when one of the boss’ assistants handed him a cigarette. He took a deep drag and exhaled, feeling much better.

“I don’t see…” he started to say but the boss silenced him with a stern look.

“Just do it, kid. No questions, remember? That was our deal.”

***

He felt ridiculous parading around the gym clad in the little Spandex outfits that Dougherty had picked out for him and kept sneaking out back for a cigarette break to calm him nerves. He knew that smoking was bad for him but, shit, he needed something to help him get through the day! He leaned back against the brick wall and watched as Renz exited his new Porsche and strutted across the parking lot. Shit, that guy just thinks he’s so fucking amazing, Wright thought, stubbing out his cigarette before Renz saw him. Well, he’s not. He’s not so fucking amazing now that I’ve got more followers than he does.

It was true. Wright had more Twitter followers than anyone else at Pack. His Facebook and Insta numbers were strong, too, though not quite as huge as Twitter. He didn’t know why he was doing so well on Twitter and hadn’t so much as looked at his page since Denny had taken over managing his social media presence. Maybe it had something to do with Twitter’s more liberal posting policies? He smiled to himself. Yeah, that must be it.

And the clients! Shit, he had more clients than he knew what to do with! His schedule was full for the next three weeks. Even Renz’ didn’t have that many clients! The fuckers paid well, too. He’d increased his fees on Dougherty’s urging and it had really paid off. He was charging more than anyone else now and people were paying. Yeah, they were fucking paying through the nose, man! The money almost made it worth all the pinching and grabbing he had to endure on a daily basis. Almost, but not quite. Hands shaking, he looked around to be sure no one could see and lit another cigarette. One more wouldn’t hurt…

***

“I don’t know what to do.”

He was standing in Dougherty’s office again wearing a tiny pair of nearly transparent shorts and a muscle-hugging top. Despite his whimsical appearance, his head was down and he felt like shit. After riding high for three months, his numbers had started to plummet and now he was back in the familiar position of being in last place. He was such a loser!

One of Dougherty’s boys handed him a glass of whiskey and he downed it in a big gulp, savoring the fire in his throat as he lit another cigarette. The boss’ office was the only place he didn’t feel self-conscious about smoking.

Dougherty was leaning back in his big leather chair, arms crossed over his enormous belly. His thick lips lifted in the semblance of a smile as he murmured. “Oh, kid, it’s not that bad. We can fix this. I have an idea…”

Wright nodded, his head lolling slightly to the side. Shit, that whiskey was potent!

“I’m listening.” His voice was deeper now due to his smoking habit. He liked it. It sounded really manly.

The boss nodded. “Good boy, good boy. I like you, you know, Wright? I really like you. That’s why I want to help you succeed. I want you to be the best in the business.”

Wright smiled brightly. The boss liked him! He was the boss’ favorite!

“Ya gotta take your game to the next level, kid.”

Wright nodded. Yeah, the next level. That sounded good. “What’s the next level, Boss? What do I need to do?”

Dougherty held a plump finger to his lips and leaned forward over his desk. “Can you keep a secret, kid?”

“Yeah, sure!”

“Great! I’m gonna send you to a guy who will give you edge over every other fucking trainer here.”

Wright was so excited that he could barely contain himself. He loved being the boss’ favorite and gaining access to confidential information! He was so fucking lucky!

“Stick with me on this one and you’ll leave them all in the dust,” Dougherty stated confidently.

Unable to keep the eagerness out of his voice, Wright asked, “What will this guy do for me?”

“It’s not what he’ll do for you,” the boss replied, winking. “It’s what he’ll do to you. To your package, specifically.”

Wright’s confusion must have been eloquent because even the assistants joined the boss in laughing. He stood there, nervously pulling on his cigarette until the room grew quiet. He hated being the butt of a joke but also had to admit he was quite lost.

“I don’t get it. What’s so funny about my package?”

“Nothin’, kid! Nothin’!” Dougherty chortled. “If you’re Ok with losin’ clients.”

Wright frowned, still not sure what losing clients had to do with his package.

“If you’re gonna wear a getup like that,” Dougherty explained patiently, motioning to Wright’s skimpy attire and speaking as if he were addressing a small child, “ya gotta have a package to go with it, kid!”

Brow wrinkling, Wright looked down at himself. Shit, his package already looked pretty impressive pushing luridly out of his tiny shorts, didn’t it? He looked up and blanched. Everyone in the room was staring at his crotch. He lowered his hands around himself protectively, feeling his cheeks color. Well, Ok, maybe his package did need some work. Was the boss’ friend going to help him figure out how to stuff it or something?

“What do I need to do?” he asked, voice wavering and feeling suddenly embarrassed by his inadequate bulge.

“Just go see my friend,” the boss said, sighing. “He’ll make it all better.”

***

“The Oxy will help with the pain,” the sleazy guy was saying, a cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth. “It ain’t bad but most guys want a hit of something before they have the procedure.”

Wright held out his palm and examined the little pills critically. Oxycontin was supposed to be pretty strong. He rolled them around in his hand, feeling lost and more than a little uncertain. What was he doing here anyway and what was the guy going to do with the syringe and tubes of viscous liquid?

“You can drop your shorts whenever you’re ready, darlin’.”

The man took the cigarette out of his mouth and stubbed it out before giving Wright a toothy grin. Wright shivered, one hand full of the pills and the other on the waistband of his cargos.

“We’ll start with 100cc today and go up from there after you heal and your sac stretches.”

Wright swallowed, eying the syringe and feeling anxious. “What are you going to do with that?”

The man patted him on the arm. “Don’t you worry ‘bout a thing, darlin’. Just pop them pills and lean back. I’ll take care of the rest…”

***

Wright walked out of the seedy backstreet dive with both his nut sac and cheeks burning. He had no idea that they could inject silicone into a guy’s sac to make it bigger! What the fuck? Still riding a high from the Oxy, he lit up a cigarette and puffed deeply, trying to figure out how he felt about the humiliating procedure he’d just been through.

It had worked, though, he thought as he pushed his crotch forward. His bulge was noticeably bigger in his shorts. And that was after just a 100cc. Imagine what it would look like after another injection! Tossing his cigarette aside, he straightened his shoulders and exited the alley. He couldn’t help strutting a little as he walked down the sidewalk. Yeah, it had been humiliating but it was worth it. So fucking worth it!

***

It wasn’t until he had injected 400cc and posed for another round of photos with Denny that Wright saw his client base jump way up. He now had more than twice as many Twitter followers as anyone else at Pack and the reservations were pouring in online and over the phone. Dougherty rewarded him with a designated parking space when he brought in more than a hundred new clients in a week. He swaggered around the gym like he owned it, mindful of the obscene bulge tenting out his shorts. It was the first thing people noticed about him and sometimes the only thing. A few of his clients didn’t seem to want to work out at all, being content just to watch him demonstrate all the poses. One guy even offered him a huge tip to get naked in front of him in the locker room. It was fucking crazy!

His popularity began to wane after a few months, though, and he was forced to get more injections, eventually topping out with over 600cc in his sac and 150cc in his shaft. This only helped increase his standing marginally, though, and came with some distinct disadvantages. He could no longer find underwear that fit him and had to resort to ordering online from a fetish website that specialized in gear for silicone jocks.

He was forced to stop running as well. No matter how supportive the jockstrap, it did little to stop the painful bouncing and flopping he experienced when he jogged. Worse than the pain were the clips on YouTube; he got sick and tired of guys secretly recording him during his runs and posting the embarrassing videos afterward. He tried diligently to get them removed but they just kept cropping up again. With a heavy heart, he hung up his running shoes for good, no longer so sure he’d made the right decision with the silicone.

***

“The silicone was the best thing you’ve ever done, kid!”

Wright gave him a hangdog grin and hung his head, causing the boss to do the unthinkable: He got up from behind his desk and hobbled over to give him a slap him on the back. Lighting a cigar, he held it out but when Wright shook his head, Dougherty took a puff and waved it in the air.

“It’s all part of the plan! All part of the plan!”

Wright cleared his throat, still feeling miserable. He didn’t understand the plan and said so.

“Think about it, kid! You’re building momentum!”

“How, exactly?”

Wright had a pounding headache and the billowing clouds of cigar smoke didn’t help. He rubbed his head, prompting one of the boss’ assistants to hand him a pill and a glass of water. He didn’t think to ask what it was until after he’d swallowed.

The next thing he knew, he had collapsed in a cushy chair and was watching with bemusement as the boss gesticulated wildly, punctuating his speech with thrusts of his cigar. The ashes were falling down and it was fun to watch the assistants dart around, trying desperately to catch them before they landed on the carpet. The room was dark but there were the most interesting colored lights spinning around in the corners that disappeared when he tried to focus on them. Wright felt like he was watching a psychedelic circus with Dougherty acting the role of demented ringleader. He grinned, head lolling, and watched the show unfold.

Dougherty talked nonsense for a long time but finally Wright sensed that the boss was saying something important. He perked up when he heard something about seeing clients outside of the gym.

“Huh?”

Dougherty gave him a shrewd look, clearly pleased with himself. “It’s time you gave the boys what they really want, kid!”

“But,” he protested weakly, “I am giving them what they want, boss.”

His own voice sounded distant, like it was coming from across the room. But how could that be? He was sitting right there, wasn’t he? Nothing made sense.

“Kid, I like you but sometimes you can be real dense, ya know?” Dougherty paced over to him, putting his great hands on his wide hips. “Let me spell it out to you in words you’ll understand: It’s time to take the next step. First, you got ‘em excited with the photos of you in your underwear, right?”

It took him a while to remember the white Speedo and his first session with Denny. But those photos weren’t to get people excited, they were promoting him as a personal trainer…or were they? He couldn’t remember.

He realized that the boss was waiting for him to respond and stammered, “I…I guess.”

Dougherty leered down at him. “Right. And then you worked ‘em up with the nudey pics a month later.”

Wright nodded absently, his headache was back and he was having a hard time thinking. He vaguely remembered taking his clothes off for Denny but he was sure it wasn’t for the reasons that Dougherty was talking about.

“The clients came pouring in to see you and, to keep ‘em happy, you started wearing the right outfits.”

The boss motioned toward Wright’s skin-tight shorts and miniscule halter top. Wright sat up in his chair, feeling uncomfortable with where this was going.

“And then you gave ‘em a package to die for, kid, and the crowd went wild.”

Wright dropped his hands self-consciously to his lap, trying in vain to cover his greatly enhanced bulge.

“But now, the natives are gettin’ restless, kid. They’re restless because you won’t give them what they really want. No one likes a prick tease, kid. No one. That’s why you’re losing ‘em.”

Dougherty’s voice was drumming in his head and he hated it. He scrunched up his face, trying to drown it out but he couldn’t. He couldn’t stop listening to that voice. What he was saying couldn’t be true. He wasn’t teasing anyone and he definitely wasn’t a prick tease. Why was Dougherty saying these hurtful things?

“But we’re gonna change that, ain’t we? Yeah, we’re gonna give ‘em what they’re screaming for and that’s you!”

He slapped Wright on the knee, causing him to jump. He stared up at the big man, rubbing his leg. It burned where the boss had hit him. Dougherty didn’t seem to notice his injured look; he was too excited, too worked up by his brilliance. He was building to the climax, to the centerpiece of his golden-tongued speech and what he said next made Wright go cold.

“I’ve signed you up to be an escort! It’s fucking perfect!”

Wright launched himself out of the chair and would have fled the room if he had been able to stand without falling over. He crumbled to the floor, fighting weakly when the boss’ assistants tried to help him back into the chair.

“I am not a fucking homo!” he yelled, outraged that Dougherty would take the liberty of signing him up to be an escort without his permission. Did he think he owned Wright?

Dougherty seemed completely unphased by Wright’s outburst. “Course you’re not, kid. I never said you were. It’s called ‘gay for pay’ for a reason, ya know.”

Wright wouldn’t look at him. He was trying in vain to stand up but his legs wouldn’t work. All he could do is grovel on the floor at the feet of the big man.

“All you have to spend a little time with ‘em, let ‘em buy you dinner, take you out on the town, and then, you know, give ‘em a little private show. It’s all good clean fun, kid. And more importantly, you’ll build your reputation. You’ll make a fucking killing!”

Wright held his hands over his ears. His head was spinning and he felt sick. He wouldn’t do this! No, he wouldn’t do this!

When he continued to show no inclination to go along with the plan, Dougherty shook his head and motioned to one of his assistants. The boy came forward with a waiting syringe and plunged it into Wright’s arm. Within five minutes, he had signed the contract that made him an official escort for the city’s premier gay cruising app.

***

Being an escort wasn’t so bad. His phone would buzz when a client reserved his services through the app and he would take the little pills that Dougherty sent home with him, dress up in the leather harness that made him look like a real badass, and meet up with the guy. Most of the time, his clients just wanted him to gyrate and do a little striptease for them, maybe ending with a lap dance. His inflated package was always a huge hit and they practically came on the spot when he finally let it spill out of the pouch of his custom-made, studded jockstrap.

Sometimes they would pay extra for him to go further. In these cases, he would pop a Viagra and let them go down on him. He drew the line at making out with them or fucking them, though. He wasn’t a faggot and sucking off a guy, fucking a guy, or–gag!–getting fucked by a guy was what made you gay. Getting a blowjob didn’t count. No, it didn’t fucking count and anybody who said otherwise was going to get their ass kicked.

The trouble with escorting was that it tired him out for his appointments at the gym and gradually he was forced to cut back in order to keep up with his escort clients. This didn’t go over well and soon he was in danger of falling back into last place. To add to the bad news, after an initial surge when he announced his escort service, he started losing followers on Twitter. His Instagram and Facebook numbers were terrible, too. He grew desperate.

As much as he hated to do it, he knew he had to go back to Dougherty for advice.

***

“We’ll start a GoFundMe campaign.”

“Huh?”

“You heard me, kid,” Dougherty said, puffing on a thick cigar. “You need a campaign. Something to get everyone’s attention–and money. Something really big, really hot!”

“But why GoFundMe? What am I going to sell?”

The boss’ grin stretched across his wide face and his eyes twinkled.  “Tattoos and piercings, kid. Tattoos and piercings!”

Wright shook his head, wondering if he’d heard correctly. “Tattoos and piercings? I don’t get it.”

Dougherty laughed loudly. “It’s fucking brilliant, actually. For every thousand dollars we raise, you’ll get a tattoo and a piercing. The more money someone pledges, the bigger the tattoo and the gauge of the piercing. People who give five grand get the privilege of locating their tattoo and piercing on your face or…private parts.” He held up his hand as he sat up his chair excitedly, “And anyone who gives ten grand will get a seat at the parlor when you have your work done!”

Wright stood there frozen. He was speechless and didn’t even register the second glass of whiskey the boss’ assistant stuck in his hand until he’d already downed it and his throat was burning.

Finally, he managed to croak, “I still don’t get it. Why?”

Dougherty beamed up at him, excitement filling his voice. “It’s your image, kid. You need a makeover. Even with that bulge and your escortin’, you’re too cleancut. Folks want a trainer with an edge. They want a bad boy, a guy not afraid to get down and dirty, ya know?”

Wright didn’t know. He stared blankly at Dougherty as he motioned to his assistant to get Wright another glass of whiskey. He tried to refuse but the guy stuck it in his hand anyway.

“And it’s even better if they have a hand in turning you bad. People really get off on that shit.”

Wright was silent. It took all of his concentration just to keeping standing upright, let alone follow what the big man was saying.

“What do you think, kid?” Dougherty prompted. “Ain’t your boss a fucking genius?”

Wright swallowed, his throat numb from the whiskey and his head pounding. He massaged his forehead as he tried desperately to formulate a response. Tattoos and piercings? Really? But he was proud of the fact that he’d never defiled his body! Unlike the other trainers, he liked skin free of blemishes or ink. Not to mention metal. Piercings? And on his face and cock no less? How could he do that? It wasn’t like he could change his mind afterward, either. Tattoo ink was permanent.

“I dunno,” he slurred. “Not sure.”

The boss waved his hand dismissively, shaking his big head. “You don’t have to do a thing. We’ll handle it all, kid. For a fee, of course. All you have to do is show up at the parlor in a month. We’re gonna make a fucking killing on this one, kid!”

***

The boss was right. The campaign was an enormous success, bringing in hundreds of pledges and more than two hundred thousand dollars. He’d been allotted ten grand of the final total and had thought about asking for more of the cut, especially since it was his body that was going to be mutilated, but it seemed petty to bother Dougherty. Yeah, the guy had been more than generous with Wright as it was, even agreeing to split the cost of the parlor fifty-fifty. And Wright was once again comfortably in the lead in social networking, even if he didn’t get quite as many clients as he’d expected. Dougherty promised him the clients would pour in after he got the body mods, though. All he had to do was wait…and get pierced and tattooed, of course.

His clients had changed noticeably over the last several months. The last woman he’d trained had stopped seeing him three months ago and now he only had gay guys. They treated him rudely and make lewd jokes about his hugely inflated package but he laughed it off. The other trainers regarded him differently, too, barely speaking to him anymore. He was almost certain that they talked about him behind his back but he chalked it up to jealousy–and envy. Yeah, they were just jealous that he was the boss’ undisputed favorite and envious of all the admiring stares he got when he sauntered through the gym. Petty bastards! He didn’t give a fuck about them as long as he was the leader of the Pack. He took a swig out of his flask and swished it around in his mouth as he lit another cigarette. For some reason, he couldn’t seem to kick his smoking habit even though it was starting to affect his training. Having a little nip from the flask helped, though. Nothing wrong with taking a break now and then to fuel up!

***

Over two hundred piercings and tattoos.

That was the final tally from the GoFundMe campaign.

Two hundred three fucking piercings and tattoos!

Wright would have balked had the boss’ assistant not shown up at his apartment and roused him from a drunken stupor on the couch. He didn’t want to go. Shit, what was he thinking when he agreed to this? Still, a deal was a deal, the assistant had explained as he’d helped Wright clean up and get dressed. He would have stumbled around for hours before he found his specially supportive boxers if the assistant hadn’t been there. The young guy pulled his arm over his shoulder and guided him out the door to the waiting limo on the street. Wright grinned. The boss had better send him in style, he thought proudly. He was a fucking star, dammit!

The parlor was crammed full of people when the limo pulled in and the crowd let out a ragged cheer as he entered wearing only a bathrobe and stupid smile on his face. The boss was there with his entourage of young guys along with the ten or so men who had pledged the requisite amount on GoFundMe. Wright walked around like a movie star, grinning at the camera man who was streaming the event live online for the funders who had pledged at least a thousand dollars but not enough to be invited in person. People were shaking his hand and slapping him on the back in encouragement when he happened to look up and saw Renz.

The big South African man smiled thinly down at him as he reached out and grasped Wright’s shaking palm.

“I pledged fifteen thousand, mate!” he said, gaze dropping slyly down to Wright’s waist. “Just wait til you find out what I’m having done to you.”

Wright sobered, a chill running down his spine. He hadn’t pegged his rival for a faggot and it spooked him that the dude had bid on him like he was an animal at auction. Somehow, it was Ok when he didn’t know the bidders. But Renz?

He was backing away from the boss came up behind him and put a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Oh, no, you don’t, kid! You’re not leaving here until you’re loaded down with metal and inked from head to toe!”

***

They stripped him bare and shaved his entire body including the hair on his head while he held himself around the shoulders, shivering miserably. His anxiety was spiking so badly that when the tattoo artist offered him the hit of crystal meth, he didn’t think twice; he snorted it down and asked for another. There was no way he could go through with this sober. No, he had to be fucking blitzed to do this. Oh, Wright, he thought desperately before fading into the sparkly haze of the meth, what are you doing to yourself?

***

Pain.

More pain.

The world was alive with pain.

He was lying splayed out on his bed, the morning sunlight streaming down on him, but he was in too much pain to notice. Everywhere hurt. Everything hurt. He screwed his eyes shut against the sun and against the memories…

He couldn’t look at himself.

No, he didn’t want to see what they had done to him.

There was a rustling to the side of the bed and then someone dabbed a cool cloth across his face. Without opening his eyes, he knew it was the same assistant who had escorted him to the tattoo and piercing parlor the previous night. The assistant who was just like every one of Dougherty’s boys: Handsome, bland, faceless. They were all alike. Drones in the service to the queen bee…or black widow spider, he thought darkly. He groaned and felt something hard knock against his teeth. In his confused and delirious state, it took him a while to figure out what it was: A thick metal post piercing his tongue. He moaned again and then felt something land on his tongue.

It was a pill.

He swallowed thirstily when the assistant raised a glass of water to his lips. It didn’t take him long before he was riding along on the blissful cloud of an opiate rush.

**

He was a permanently changed man. The old Wright was gone forever, he realized too late, as he stood in front of his bathroom mirror and looked blankly at himself. The man staring back at him with red-rimmed eyes and a drawn face didn’t even look familiar. Shit, he didn’t even look fucking human! He turned away and popped another pill then, trying to get the shaking under control. It took more and more of the stuff to soothe his ragged nerves and he had to swallow two more before he felt his courage return. Good thing that Dougherty kept him well supplied with meth or opioids or whatever the fuck they were! There were more pills than he knew what to do with sitting next to his bed and stocked in his medicine cabinet. He smiled ruefully to himself. The pills were his lifeline to sanity now.

He turned back to the mirror.

There were piercings in his eyebrows, gauges in his ears and lobes, he had a bull ring in his nose and rings through his lips. The webbing of his fingers and the backs of his knuckles were pierced. His nipples were sagging with heavy, thick halfmoon inserts and his bellybutton was stretched by a chain that connected to a huge ring through his piss slit, holding his silicone-bloated cock up at attention.

He downed another pill and closed his eyes, waiting for the numbing effect to take over. God, the pills were awesome! He felt almost at peace when he stared down at his wrecked body the next time.

Exhaling with relief when he saw the silicone hadn’t leaked out with the myriad of piercings through his ball sac, he tried to wrap his head around the sheer quantity of silver down there. He started counting and lost track at forty piercings. The corona of his glans was circled with eight gleaming studs and a line of big rings rang along the underside of his cock shaft and down his balloon-like sac.

They didn’t stop there, though.

No, they didn’t stop there.

He had to keep his legs splayed wide to accommodate all of the jewelry weighing down his taint. He blanched as he lowered his hand to explore and felt the huge ring dangling from the pucker of his butthole.

Reaching out to steady himself against the sink, he was thankful that the drugs had dried up his emotions and he didn’t have to deal with the emotional toll of seeing himself like this. Instead, he felt only the weight of the metal hanging off of him. He didn’t know but guessed it had to be more than ten pounds. He was a jangling symphony of noise every time he took a step. How would he ever train with all of these piercings? His head hurt when he tried to figure it out so he focused his attention on the tattoos.

Three more pills and another fifteen minutes of trying to get himself to stop shaking.

That was what it took before Wright could look at the designs inked into his tender flesh. They were rude tattoos for the most part. Heavy, black tribal tattoos covered his face and scalp, swirling around in a demonic fashion. Demonic was a good word because that was how he looked when he factored in the piercings.

Mostly the tattoos were ugly, thick, crude designs but there were a few that left him puzzled. ‘Fat Boy’ was stenciled graphically over his belly and ‘Cock Slut’ was branded across his forehead. Why would they have put those designs on him? He was neither fat nor gay. Wright was as straight as they came and proud of it. It didn’t make sense.

He hung his head and then froze when he caught the side view of his butt. Nothing had been off limits. Nothing. His back, butt, legs, cock, and balls were a canvas of obscenity. The shaking returned with a vengeance then and he was forced to lurch out of the bathroom, clinking and clanging like a drunken robot.  He downed more pills, sitting on the edge of his bed and feeling like his head was going to explode.

What had he done to himself?

***

Dougherty sent him the login information to a new premium website he’d created to showcase Wright’s transformation. For an exorbitant sum, subscribers could download the full video of his session at the tattoo parlor. He felt ill when he skipped through the footage and saw the scene where they made him get down on his hands and knees and suck off Renz. In the video, the huge South African brazenly unzipped his jeans and extricated his enormous uncut shaft, slapping it across Wright’s face as he sneered down at him.

Horrified, Wright watched himself eagerly lap at the man’s leaking tool, a vapid and happy expression on his disfigured face.

He closed the lid of his laptop, overcome by a shaking fit, and had to pop another couple of pills to steady his nerves.

***

He couldn’t go out in public without being high on crystal. It was just too difficult. Yeah, the meth really helped him make it through the day. He’d stayed locked up in his apartment for two weeks while his piercings healed and then it took him another week before he was able to work up the nerve to go back to work.

“What are ya doing here, kid?” Dougherty said as Wright stood sweating and out of breath from the long trip up the stairs. “You don’t train here no more.”

Dougherty puffed away on a fat stogie as Wright began to tremble. He stared at the boss, feeling panic rise in his chest. He had to work to pay his bills! Shit, just paying his share of the piercing and tattoo fees had sucked up all of his savings! He had barely mustered up the fortitude (and amphetamines) to endure the emotional and physical agony of waddling out of his apartment and down the street to Pack. He’d been forced to walk because it was physically impossible for him to sit comfortably behind the wheel of a car now that he was pierced beyond belief. The prospect of taking an Uber looking like a freak was even worse. The driver would have sped off before he even got in!

Annoyed by the way the thick bar lodged in his tongue clanked against his teeth when he talked, he started to protest. “But…”

The boss gave him a patronizing look before waving him away. “Boys, will you kindly show the kid to his new room?” He turned back to study the tablet his assistant was holding in front of him, not looking up as two of his boys took Wright gingerly by the elbows and pulled him across the hall to a small room.

Inside the room was a chair, a desk, and a computer with an expensive webcam mounted on it. Wright stood there befuddled as one of the boys booted up the computer and positioned the camera while the other helped Wright down into the chair.

“Gainer Cam!” splashed across the screen when the boy finally logged into the computer. “The site that lets you watch your gainer grow!”

Wright gaped as time-lapse images of ripped guys rapidly fattening to obesity flashed across the title bar. He felt himself grow weak as the purpose of the site slowly sank in. Apparently, the term ‘gainer’ referred to gaining weight and not doing acrobatic backflips on camera.

“Look!” One of the boys was saying cheerfully. “You already have three feeders who have chipped in to buy you a pizza. It will be here in ten minutes. Better get those those clothes off!”

Wright was too paralyzed by fear and confusion to resist as they stripped him down naked and propped him provocatively in front of the camera.

***

A thousand pizzas and over a hundred pounds later, Wright was unrecognizable. When he tipped the scales at over three hundred, the feeders stopped paying and his sales dried up. The boss had him wheeled into his office and shook his head sadly as he announced it was over.

“Sad to see ya go, kid!” he intoned somberly. “But it’s been fun. You’re a natural. A fucking natural!”

Wright belched and rubbed his huge stomach, clutching a half-full milkshake protectively against his meaty chest. His teeth had rotted out from all the soda and the crystal meth so he was on a strictly liquid diet now.

“Where’m I goin’?” he managed to stammer. It took too much effort to concentrate and he didn’t really care what happened to him anyway as long as he had enough food and plenty of meth.

“Away,” was all the boss said as he nodded to his assistants and they wheeled Wright out the door.

***

Wright’s new position in the back room of a fetish bar barely registered. He only needed to know that he was there to suck cock and get fucked. It wasn’t so bad, really. Yeah, it was a living. A living…

He didn’t complain unless the clients were too rough. The club owner kept him high on meth and full of milkshakes and that was all that was important. The days fused into an endless blur of cocks in his face, in his ass, in his whatever, it didn’t matter. He was a fat cockslut whore and any memories of his life before had been extinguished long ago.

His new master purchased him and had him shipped to his home before Wright even knew what was happening. He was so out of it that it took him a few hours without meth to figure out that something had changed. When he started to go through withdrawal, the true significance of his new life began to hit him and he wasn’t happy about it in the least.

“Easy, mate,” his master murmured in a lilting South African accent. “You’ve got a long way to go before you’re clean and sober.”

Wright’s mind wasn’t really working but, even in his drug-addled state, he recognized that voice and it sent chills down his spine. He had begun wailing pitifully when someone inserted a needle in his flabby buttock and the world went dark.

***

Six months passed and Wright had gone through the worst of his post-addiction recovery. He still craved meth intensely at times but had found that he could overcome the worst of it by exercising. He had dropped most of the weight he’d put on from his webcam days and had been surprised that his skin retracted back to its pre-gaining state without the need for surgery. He would always have a bit of a belly overhang and a big ass, though, no matter how much he worked out. It was Ok. Yeah, it was Ok because his master liked the way his belly draped above his silicone-filled cock and balls. And he especially loved Wright’s meaty ass.

Master Bekker had generously allowed him to remove some of the piercings, though he remained pretty studded up. And, now that the hair on his body and head had regrown, he had a thick pelt that covered the most demeaning tattoos. Wright didn’t even flinch anymore when he looked at himself in the mirror. In fact, he was proud of his body because he knew that Master liked him like this.

Master didn’t allow him to wear many clothes and kept the heat on high in the house during the winter for his comfort. He said he liked to look at his slave’s naked body. He said it amused him and made him feel superior. Wright liked that. He liked anything that made his master happy.

“I’m the one who put Dougherty up to breaking you, mate,” Master Bekker explained one day after he’d gotten done fucking Wright’s newly restored asshole. (Master had paid to have his prolapsed rectum fixed because the fisting at the fetish club had stretched him out beyond repair.)

Wright grinned toothlessly up at him, displaying the blunt titanium plugs that his master had had implanted in his jaw. 

Master smiled.

“From the first day I laid eyes on you, I knew that you were an arrogant straight boy who had to be broken down and forced into submission.” He patted Wright’s ample buttocks fondly then, adding, “And now you’re mine, bloke. All mine.”