“...what I want ya tah be is a grizzled, old biker bear who’ll rape mah holes real good with his whole perverted gang.”
“Dang boy, that’s pretty fucked up--ya sure that’s what you want? It’ll be a few years before we clean up enough to be somethin’ else, remember.”
“Fuck daddy, ya’ll ready made me crave bein’ raped ‘n abused by old, disgusting faggots--what the fuck else did ya expect me tah want?” you say, spitting some tobacco jizz on the floor.
“Well, ya do have a point there. Alright then, slather me up, ‘n lets see what you have in mind.”
You get some ointment on your hands, and take a look at Jack’s current state. He looks to be in his mid-thirties, his hair starting to bald a bit. No beard, but thick stubble. He’s wearing a pair of boxers, socks and an undershirt--none of which are clean, of course, but you’re only realizing now just how much cleaner he is than you are. “Dang daddy, when’s the last time ya slobber yerself?”
Jack frowns, “Years, at this point. Honestly, I’d been thinkin’ about givin’ up the slobby life--most the rest of my old family and friends had--but then you came around, and fuck--you remind me of all the reasons I never want to be normal again. So go on boy, it’ll be real nice being truely filthy again, so don’t hold back.”
“Don’t you fucking worry daddy--you’re gonna be even dirtier than I am,” you say, and start rubbing the ointment into his face and beard, focusing on what’s in your mind’s eye. The beard sprouts immediately, filling your hands with nasty, tangled grey hair, but you ignore that for a moment, focusing on his face, his skin growing wrinkled and worn from years in the sun on the road, one scar running through an eye that’s now white and useless--he looks like a real cruel fucker now, and your cock is already hard as can be. You get some more ointment and grow the beard down until it’s resting in his belly, before going back and coating his mouth with the ointment, rotting away almost all of his teeth. The few that remain are yellow and black, and the hair around his mouth is almost yellow from the cigars he chain smokes day and night.
“Now--how do I...change yer body,” you ask him, “Ya fed me yer cum, ‘n I got fat, but...”
“It’s not really the cum, boy” he says, but the words are difficult to understand, with his ruined mouth, “Feed me a good dollop of that stuff, and focus on how I should change.”
You nod, and he licks the ointment off your fingers, swallowing it down.
“It takes a bit--work on somethin’ else for a few minutes.”
You nod, and start rubbing the ointment into his arms, down to his hands--the skin ages, dries and cracks, and his hands--fuck, they’re huge, even larger than yours. The hair is white--but what you really wanted to see starts appearing as well--his tattoos. Perverse, disgusting images all the way down to his fingers. Thrilled, you repeat the process all over his neck, chest, belly, and back--the same changes taking place--not an inch of skin is left uninked, making sure to get his pits especially musky as well. By the end, his skin feels a bit...hot.
“Fuck, I feel it startin’--this is gonna hurt a bit...” he groans, and his body starts growing, bones thickening and lengthening as he grows taller. Jack was fairly short, but a couple of minutes later he’s close to six foot seven, his body filling in with muscle, aside from a massive, taut gut sticking out. “Damn boy, ya hulked me out! You really do want me beatin’ you to a pulp, don’t you?”
“Oh fuck Pa, ya can use me as a punchin’ bag anytime, as long as ya fuck me after.”
You get down and finish off the rest of his body--his thick, muscular legs tattooed like the rest of him, all the way down to his feet, which grow larger, and stink as much as yours. You save the best for last--slathering his cock and balls, watching then grow even longer, now a foot long, his balls fill with sour, foul smelling cum you can’t wait to sample, and an ass crack which reeks from across the room. You think about making him a pantshitter like you, but decide against it--you want your Pa to be in control of everything--especially you.
You take a step back, your heart pounding at the sight of your dream biker sadist--all aside from his still brown hair on his head. “Fuck--you ready for the final changes, boy?”
“You know it, Pa,” you say, get another wad of ointment--and together you start to rub it into his hair, focusing on the kind of roughneck you want your new daddy to be You want him to be a mean fucker. Cruel, abusive, absolutely uncaring. You want him to see you as an object, as a thing, as property. You start massaging the ointment into his hair, feeling it turn coarse and dry to the touch, growing out into a long, grey mass, even as his hairline receded, leaving just a bare, heavily tanned scalp. You can feel his will too, through his hands working with yours...and he’s pushing against you.
You can see some of what you’re wanting stick--how he’s a mean ass drunk always getting into bar fights (which is how he got all of his scars), how he enjoys inflicting pain on others, how he loves manipulating and enslaving young boys like you into filthy biker pigs, but something is still wrong with it, and it takes a bit of searching for you to figure out what, exactly, it is, but you do find it eventually.
He still cares about you. Sure, he wants to be completely cruel and vicious, but because you both like it, because you’re as much a masochist as he is a sadist. He still sees you as a couple, as a pair, a team. It’s not right--it’s not what you want, and so you push harder, working to scrub out all of those emotions that you can, trying to make him harder, meaner, a true master to abuse you right.
“Boy--Boy, stop, I think that’s plenty,” he says to you, and he’s fighting you still. Why in the hell is he fighting you? Doesn’t he want this too? “Yer goin’ too hard,” he says, “take it slower--this is my head you’re fuckin’ with.”
You can feel him getting angry at you, as you fight harder. Good--you want him to be angry. You want him to hate you. You want him to despise you, to think you’re nothing more than a piece of filth for him to manipulate however he wants. Your shift in tactics catches him off guard, the sudden inflaming of his anger weakening his defenses, and you press your advantage. You don’t want a daddy who cares. You don’t want a daddy who can love. All you want is the meanest, most sadistic, most violent biker in the world to fuck you up as much as he damn well pleases. His hands fall away, and you have control now, pushing every demented thought that crosses your mind into his, twisting him into a seething mass of anger, sadism and lust as you can manage, and then you pull away, stumbling back, exhausted but pleased beyond belief.
“Ya little, fuckin’ bitch,” he growls at you, his voice dropping an octave, nothing but malice remaining in his one good eye, “I don’ think ya really know what ya jus’ did tah yerself, but if this is what ya fuckin’ want, then this is what her gonna git.”
He doesn’t pull the punch that comes next. His fist slams into the side of your face, you can feel your nose bust, blood streaming down your chin as you stumble and fall to the floor of the bathroom. He’s on you in a second, slamming his fists into your face, laughing like a maniac. You try to shield yourself out of reflex, but it’s no use--you really are just a meaty punching bag in his eye. He forces you over and rams his cock in dry and deep, listening to you howl in pain, laughing as you try and crawl away. He grips your flabby sides hard enough to bruise and plows in deep.
“Ya happy, ya fuckin’ cunt?” he screams, spit flying everywhere, “Ya happy ya got what ya wanted? What ya fuckin’ deserved?” He hauls you up onto your hand and knees, gets a wad of ointment, and slathers your cock and balls. First, a blast of piss flies out of you, uncontrolled. Then, you feel your cock shrinking even as a massive foreskin absorbs the head in filthy wrinkles--so thick that even when hard, your tiny prick is still buried deep within the mass. Your balls inflate as well, each of them as large as a tennis ball--both so sensitive that a single slap is nearly enough to make you spurt. “Yeah pig--never did tell ya what comes next--now we both cum, ‘n the spell takes holda us both, sends off tah a new life. Yer gonna cum one last time fucker, right when I do, ‘n then ya can kiss this pecker ‘n balls goodbye fer good!”
He keeps fucking, slamming into your shitty ass as you try to get away, sobbing. This...you wanted this, but you hadn’t...really, had you? There’s too many feelings at war inside you. You’re terrified of him, but that’s good. You should be terrified. You don’t want to hurt, and yet the idea of giving yourself up to this man...thrills you in ways you can barely understand in any rational way.
“Ya know--I could slather ya up again. I gots lots a horrible ideas a what tah do tah ya--but ain’t the process part a the fun? It’ll be so much more fun fer me tah ruin ya in real time--’n yer gonna regret every fuckin’ second a it, I fuckin’ promise that. Yer gonna regret what ya made me do--never fergit, ya did this tah yerself!” he screams at you, shudders, and cums, and your own tiny cock pumps out a dribble of cum. You feel the magic coating you harden, the world around you dimming away, swirling like a reflection in a ruined pool, and you come too, face planted on a dingy carpet in the ramshackle, backwoods cabin where your new master lives--and you’re going to be living there too now, for a very long time.