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Fragments.ws is devoted to adult-themed transformation stories.
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October 12, 2004
Ever wonder what a quality control expert does at a toilet paper factory? Some days I think about those things. Can't you just imagine the swelling pride of a father coming home from the toilet paper factory and bragging to his children how he makes his living?
"Daddy, Daddy what do you do for a living?" the kids ask, breathless and eager.
"Well kids, Daddy makes sure that the number of sheets is constant in each roll of toilet paper. And I assure that the softness is just soft enough to touch those tender tissues and clean that nasty fecal matter. Each day, I check the perforations so that the sheets tear away properly. And some days - just like today - I had them recycle an entire production run of the very best, thousand-sheet rolls because it was off-spec and of poor quality."
"Oh, Daddy, Daddy you're so wonderful, so brave," kids' reply adoring their dear, old dad.
WOW! What an achievement in life to brag about.
Wouldn't that thought just make your hardon go limp, limp, limp, LIMP, DAMNIT! Limp! Fuck it! NOT YET!
Sometimes that works, other times...
"Uh! Uh! Uh! I'm going to cum, Get Ready! I'm going to cum."
I grab the john's ears and pump his head. I want to prolong it more. I think of those marketing assholes who write the jingles. It doesn't work. I stiffen. I yank the john's face against my abs and blow a load of thick white cum into his mouth. It drools out past his lips. It drips down his chin. My knees buckle. My cock throbs and spurts wildly. I hold him tight. He struggles for air. I just stay stiff and let my cock relax in his hot mouth. Only then do I release him. Spent and exhausted, I slide down next to him on the tile floor. We're in his walk-in shower in a big bathroom in a big house. He wipes my cum from his mouth and licks it off his fingers. He talks about my favorite subject - me.
"You're the best," the john said rubbing his jaw. "Big cock… nice creamy load… all those muscles… you're just so perfect."
"Yeah, that's what they tell me." I squeeze his saliva and the last drops of my spunk from my cock. I let the john lick it off my hand. He laps it up like a dog, like a real bitch in heat. He fishes the money out of his clothes with the other hand and hands it too me. He's still sucking on my filthy, spunky hand. Now that disturbs me real bad.
"Get a little self-respect, asshole. Get dressed and get out of my sight or I'll smash your ugly little face into the floor," I yank my hand away. It's like they become dirty and disgusting after they pay me. I stand up and pull on my shorts and t-shirt. All I want is a good strong piss, a shower to wash the stink off my body, and a six-pack of beer to blot out my mind. The john is still naked. He looks up at me with puppy dog eyes. He can see my cock hanging in my shorts. He licks his lips and I want to kick his teeth down his throat. I shuffle. He looks at my feet. If he sucks my toes without asking, I'll fucking kill him.
"I have a friend who'll pay big money if you," he hesitates. "…do him and treat him rough. He wants to be beaten by a hustler like you," he says. The nerve of the begging, little bitch. I reach down and grab his cock and balls. I can see the pain in his face as I drag him to his feet. I squeeze his balls real tight. His eyes bulge.
"You want me that bad that you're making up stories? You want me to beat you for free, right now?" With my free hand I smack his head against the ceramic-tiled wall. This guy ain't that bad looking. He's got a thin, tight, swimmers build. His balls are big but he has a cheesy, little, uncut dick.
"Ten times what I just gave you and more if you do it right. I can call my friend right now," he says. I put a death grip on his balls and squeeze really hard. He gasps and sucks in a breath. It's a contest between my hand and his balls now. I can see the muscles of his body contract and expand as it tries to ignore the pain from his nuts. If I twist just right, I can rip his balls right off his body, but the money is too good to pass up. I let go of his unit.
"Call him. I need a shower and a six pack and a few hours rest but I'll do him," I tell the john. He turns the taps and water pours out six shower heads. He finishes fast, but I take my time. The water is hot and it washes his sweat and jism off my body. I piss on the pretty tile floor just to be bad. The water is calming and endless. I leave the shower a steamy, lobster red.
There's a thick towel and bathrobe waiting for me when get done. I wrap my body in the bathrobe. The bedroom is big and has a sitting area overlooking the back yard. The john is waiting in the bedroom with a six pack of beer on ice and a tray of fancy finger food. I sit in a big reclining chair near the window. I open a beer and munch the food. It's a clear, warm day and the breeze is pleasant and restful.
I make the world go away for a few hours. When I wake up, the john is sitting there watching me. These fucking pathetic queers will even suck the breath out of you just to be near another man.
"He'll be here in a little while. He asked me to dress you as an ancient Greek boxer," he says. He set a gym bag down near the chair.
"What's that mean?" I ask. The food is good. I eat. I drink. I relax.
"Lace up sandals, hard leather gloves, a leather waistband, and leather armbands - nothing fancy," the john says. I wave him off and lay back again.
It's afternoon when I wake up. Again, the john sits nearby watching me. We walk out on the back deck of the house. He's still naked. He hands me the sandals and other stuff. It fits OK. It's old, very old leather. I'm surprised at its age and authenticity. My reflection looks good in the windows. I look like one of those pottery drawings you see in museums - the broad shoulders, thick arms, heavy thighs, and thin waist. I wrapped a black leather thong across my forehead to complete the look.
"Where's your friend?" I ask and the john points out to a road at the far end of the property. I could make out an SUV winding its way to the house. A shipping van follows it.
"Fifteen or twenty minutes away," the john puts on a pair of leather gloves and points to two glass mugs with what looks like milk.
"Goat's milk, honey, ancient spices, an authentic drink from Greece. They call it the Auden... and that translates as "limestone"," he picks one glass with both hands and drinks it. I do the same. I prefer hard stuff, but milk never hurt me. The drink tastes chalky, sweet, and spicy. My head spins. I want to spar with the john. He wants to spar with me. Simple, ain't it. We hit each other a few times and then start working out. The heat of the sun makes us sweat. The sweat feels good. The punches feel good. My body feels hard, rock hard. It's like all the fat is draining from my body and only muscle and sinew remain.
"Hit harder. I want to feel your fists hit me like limestone hitting granite," the john says. It's his dime so I start to hit as hard as I can. He hits back surprisingly hard for a man with his build. I start to pummel. I can hear my punches hit like pile drivers. I bust his nose, blacken both eyes, bruise his face. He looks better, more like a man. One hard knuckle opens a gash on his forehead. Blood and sweat mix. A tooth flies out of his mouth. Our breathing chuffs like steam engines. He defends well, but I am beating him. My heart pounds in my chest. I can feel the blood-lust rushing through my body. I hit harder.
He puts his hands and arms up in defense but a flurry of my punches pound his body. I can hear the crack of the leather gloves on his flesh and bone. It sounds like rock hitting rock. I slow the pace of each punch. Each punch becomes a pose. My body poses with each mighty blow to the john. He takes the hits like a man, neither flinching nor running. I hit even harder - like my hands are rock hammers, like I can break bones and shatter limbs. We circle each other. I see a man walk into the room. It's the friend who wants to fight me. I make sure he sees the type of punishment he's going to get. I want to speed up the pace, but I can't seem to move fast. I seem to be in slow motion. So does the john, my sparring partner.
I've ignored that slow feeling until now. After one hard set of punches, both the john and I stop and freeze in mid-punch. My muscles bulge. Every tendon in my body strains to move. I think that drink was more than goat's milk and spices.
"I see I arrived just in time," the stranger says to my john.
"You took long enough. This guy is beating me to death. Now give me the antidote. There's only a few minutes left," the john says to his friend.
"Plenty of time. Plenty of time," the stranger says examining both of us.
"Hey, what the fuck's going on? I can't move," I found I could still talk. The stranger laughs at me. He slaps the john on his ass. He rubs both hands on my torso. If I could move, he'd be dead. But I can't move. I'm slowly turning to stone. That's why my muscles feel so solid, so massive, so buff.
"But you're such a good looking pair of boxers. I can't pass up the opportunity," the stranger smiles at both of us. He looks over the edge of the deck and motions to someone below.
"Please give me the antidote. Please! I don’t want to stay this way. Please change me back," the john is begging. That aggravates me. I beg for nothing, espedcially not my fucking, pathetic life.
"You fucking, candy-assed snot, never beg," I say to the john. Then I try to face the stranger, but I can't. I can yell yet. "You're too afraid to fucking box with me. One match, one match, my life for his freedom." The stranger just laughs. I look at my hands and they are white and shiny . They look like polished stone.
"Why should I risk losing you? No, no, no, young man, you are destined to be my next archeological discovery. Two magnificent boxers, still intact, carved of ancient limestone, a rare find made even rarer by the fact that they are intact, and found by me on the isle of Crete. Your bodies forever on display - admired and adored as a national treasure by thousands and thousands."
"You'll never get away with it," the john yells, then he goes silent. I clench my jaw and flex what muscles I still control. I can't move. I can still see and still hear but I can't move at all. Men in gray-green coveralls carefully build crates around the john's and my white limestone bodies. Their touch is hot and sexy.
"Make sure that they are secure. I wouldn't want them to break," the stranger says to the workmen. The world goes dark in the crate. When it becomes light again. We stand in the middle of a garden. The weather stays warm and pleasant all year - year after year - I quit counting the days and years long ago. I don't eat, breathe or sleep anymore. Now, I just stand there like a good statue.
1900 words more or less
FUTURES YET UNKNOWN
Ten Stories by Dave Fragments
*An Alien serial murderer and a furry detective with fleas.
*Murder on a world with altered humans.
*Disturbing apocalyptic visions *Monstrous dystopian societies.
*A man on trial for betraying the human race to robots.
*Devils, demons and ghosts.
*Survivors of a plague war.
*Cyborgs trying to be human.
*Six friends in a strange sinkhole.
*The truth about a world drowning in rain, without sun, without hope.
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