CONTENT WARNING: This story includes themes of transformation and body control with a suggestive approach. If this type of narrative is not to your liking or you do not meet the recommended age, we suggest you do not continue. All images used (if any) belong to their respective owners. I claim no authorship over them and they are only used for illustrative purposes. If you decide to go ahead, welcome to Possessed Desires, where mind and body are never completely under your control.
Jason had had the worst experience in high school. He always felt an indescribable rage when other people talked about how "amazing" that stage of life was – the friends, the popularity, the parties, or how "alive" it had made them feel, that if they could, they would relive it all again to be just as happy. But for him, high school was nothing but hell, along with the small town of Watersburg in southern Wisconsin.
And all because of one damn person: Michael Roberts. He was the high school quarterback, the typical golden boy, with a radiant smile, perfect hair, varsity jackets, always with a football in his hand, and with that attitude that made girls melt for him like butter in the summer sun.
He was an asshole, never missing a single opportunity to put "fatty" Jason in his place, in his own words. Mocking his glasses, the pimples on his face, how tight his clothes were, or how clumsy he sometimes was, the two extra years of "maturity" he was supposed to have were useless. It was always the same cycle of torture, day after day: mocking him, taking his lunch money, giving him wedgies, or humiliating him in front of everyone in the cafeteria. Once, he even shoved his face in the toilet and urinated on him from head to toe. Poor Jason had no choice but to transfer to another high school in the same town while the teachers and the principal turned a blind eye because Michael was a sports prodigy, the pride of the school. How could they allow themselves to lose him? If they had to… "sacrifice" one of their “piglets”, so be it.
High school ended for Michael, who left his small hometown to reach for the stars at universities like Alabama and Georgia, both vying for him – the big leagues. He showed no remorse for ruining the life of a poor guy who… Wouldn't leave that foolish town that had made his life a living hell. The hostility from others, always because of his appearance, his extra weight, or even his sexual orientation, was a constant companion. Unfortunately for him, Jason's family had to take a "small" amount from his college fund for some minor household expenses that gradually increased like a leaky roof during the rainy season. What began as a three-figure loan kept growing until there was nothing left, not even enough for community college. With nothing else to do, Jason had no choice but to take a job at a fast-food restaurant, enduring the same derogatory comments, the same disdainful attitudes, wearing a uniform that clung to his body, making him look like some poorly wrapped deli meat, his fat spilling out, his pecs sagging, his belly spilling out, and damn, it didn't help that now his hands, his hair, his entire body, always smelled of oil and french fries.
He hated his life. But more than anything, he hated Michael with all his heart, like a dark vortex that infected everything it touched: high school, the town, his life. The pay wasn't much either; he earned minimum wage, still living at his parents' house. What did he have that was worth staying in that world? He had no friends, much less a boyfriend. Why not just end this pathetic charade? The night he was ready to cut it all off, a strange message appeared on his laptop screen.
« Tired of the life you have? Fed up with never getting what you deserve or making those who deserve it pay? Why not try a little... Black Magic? »
Fifteen years had passed since then Michael's life, unlike Jason's, had skyrocketed, explosively, always upward, heading for success and the stars. And although he hadn't ended up with a great career in sports, as was his original goal, he had ended up leading an excellent corporation that made his wallet even fatter than his tool!
He was an arrogant jerk who thought the world owed him something for every single breath of precious air he took. His physique had improved dramatically; his jet-black hair and those striking, toned Asian features made him look like a marble statue, the world at his feet at a mere thirty-three years old. Although all that time seemed to have gone down the drain in terms of respect and empathy for others, for him, other people were simply filler characters in his grand life.
Women were nothing more than walking objects, perfect for him to worship with her mouths or for him to use for hours.
Men weaker, shorter, or uglier than him were the target of his constant mockery, and let's just say… the atmosphere at his workplace wasn't the best. He was always making cruel and hurtful comments about other people's bodies, giving his opinion on "second-hand clothes", commenting on weight, complexion. Michael was like a magnifying glass, detecting other people's flaws, everything they were insecure about, everything that hurt them about themselves, he exploited it mercilessly.
And gay men? Pfft, those were the ones he dislakes the most. If he found out that someone in his office was a fucking ass-kisser, he'd fire him in a snap of his fingers without giving too many details.
Many were the lives that Michael had ruined, one after another, just like Jason's, without a shred of conscience or even any concern. If others were pathetic losers, that was their business. He was practically a god, and that was all that mattered.
Right now, he was back in his luxury car, driving down a highway toward his hometown of Watersburg for his class reunion, the fifteenth anniversary of graduating high school. The faculty had invited him to give a motivational talk to the new generation of students, those about to graduate who needed a beacon of light in the darkness.
Did Michael care? Of course not, ha. Why would he care about a bunch of poor, pathetic high school guys who weren't even in his league? But what he did care about, and what he loved like ambrosia, was the admiration; he wanted all those fools fawning over him, asking him how to "be like him". That was what he truly wanted: to have them wrapped around his little finger.
And incidentally, he wanted to know what had happened to the rest of his graduating class so he could mock them even more. He knew some had ended up in low-paying jobs, others with bad investment decisions that had left them bankrupt, and still others had started families, at the cost of losing their good physiques. He couldn't wait to see his former rival on the playing field! Rumors said he'd had an accident on the court and that, as a result, he'd gained weight like a damn walrus, haha!
Although before all that, Michael was feeling quite "thirsty". An advertisement for a bar three kilometers away made him step on the gas at the thought of a good cold beer and some busty girl to hang out with.
He parked his convertible next to some scooters, got out, locked the door, and went inside. It looked like any other dive bar: the counter, neon lights, a few leather-clad bikers gathered around a single table. He was about to leave when he saw her: sitting at the bar, curly blonde hair, bright red lips, perfectly made up but not so much that she looked ridiculous. It was something more… subtle, elegant. She wore a low-cut dress and the bottom of the dress was short enough to reveal her gorgeous legs. Her feet were adorned with stilettos. She looked stunning, sipping a cosmopolitan, lost in what seemed to be her own thoughts.
Without a doubt, it was his lucky night. No one could resist him. He could have any woman he wanted at his feet with just a smile. He exuded charisma and confidence; it was no wonder he was a beast in business too. It would be like a weekend afternoon stroll.
— Hey, hi – he whispered, sitting down next to her and ordering a martini – Did your boyfriend leave you to go to the bathroom or something?
— Oh, no – She let out a soft laugh, smoothing her hair. To Michael, that was the most angelic voice the earth had ever heard. She smoothed her hair, taking another sip of her drink – I don't have a boyfriend, I'm single.
— Then all the better for me. My name is Michael, it's nice to meet you – He took her hand lightly and kissed her torso. She just smiled.
— My name is Jasonna, Jasonna Carpenter.
— Carpenter? That last name sounds familiar... Are you from around here? Did you go to this high school?
— I'm afraid not. I'm relatively new to town. I only arrived about five years ago, but maybe it's a pretty common last name, don't you think?
The man tried to think more about why that name seemed familiar, but ended up dismissing the idea, much to the relief of his foolish, arrogant brain.
— Do you mind if I buy you a drink?
Michael and Jasonna spent the night together, round after round of drinks, a silent witness as they got to know each other, and Michael couldn't be more charmed by the woman in front of him. Her laughter seemed melodious, her voice calm, exuding femininity. He had never thought about settling down, but with a woman like that, things changed… At some point during the night, some of Michael's acquaintances arrived at the bar. I wouldn't exactly call them "friends", because no one was on his level to be considered an equal, but… perhaps "lapdogs" would be a better word to describe them.
They talked for a while, and Michael even tried to introduce them to Jasonna, but she preferred to stay at the bar.
— Relax, tiger. It's your night, have fun, I'll be waiting here and maybe… We can have some fun, don't you think? – the seductive tone between her lips escaped like midnight smoke, her hand with perfectly manicured nails slipped down to the outline of his pants and began to caress it. The man's gaze was fixed on those velvety lips that begged to be kissed, all while his “acquaintances” looked on with a touch of puzzlement.
There wasn't even time to say goodbye; they barely managed to pay the bill before heading to Jasonna's house, which was just a few blocks away. The more time passed, the more Michael loved this woman: confident, beautiful, strong, and powerful like a tornado rising up, letting her hands fly in the wind above the hood of the car. They didn't take long to arrive. It was a lovely house, with white trim, pastel blue wood paneling, and a beautiful front garden. Jasonna was the first to get out, making sure to sway her hips the whole way from the patio to the entrance as she slid the key in.
— So… are you coming in, or what?
Michael's memories from that moment on were blurry. He remembered the room, warm, clean, softly lit, and with a soft, perfect bed where he quickly began to undress, his abs and pecs, which he was so proud of, now exposed. The beauty he had just found, lying on the bed, with that soft smile, her dress practically begging him to show her what it meant to be a real man, pulled her down onto the bed, slipping his hand between her legs
The best “action” of his life, the warmth of her body and her insides, the gasps begging for more, the pleas for his immense penis not to leave her. Hours and hours had intoxicated him more and more until he lost consciousness.
The next thing Michael remembered was waking up in what seemed to be a park, inside his car, his clothes half-undone but still on, a mess from the whirlwind that had engulfed him the night before. He leaned back in the seat with a satisfied smile, patting his “champion”.
His stomach began to rumble; it seemed like someone wanted to eat after a wild night, right? He just smiled to himself, remembering everything he had done, every gasp, every moan. In normal times, his tool would already be swollen, practically oozing rivers, but at that moment, it was limp. Completely dark, as if the power had been cut.
He tried not to make a big deal of it; maybe someone needed to rest after filling that bitch with his milk! Hahaha. He started the car, and as soon as the engine roared beneath him, a strange gasp escaped his lips from the vibration against his ass. He cleared his throat, puzzled, trying to ignore what had just happened; it was… a hangover.
He started driving through the streets of his old town. Everything seemed the same as before, although things were very different now, with him far away, a business tycoon. He noticed a coffee shop in the distance, so he parked, soon finding his ass pressed against the counter. It looked somewhat… empty.
To his surprise, the usual pretty waitresses were off duty; perhaps instead, there were some male waiters, some slim, and as strange as it seemed, Michael's gaze kept wandering over their legs and butts. He tried to think it was just because of the "similarity" between their bodies; if there weren't any waitresses with nice hips, he could enjoy these guys and their slender bodies for a while, right? Wait, what the hell had he just said?
— What are you going to order? – A completely different-looking guy stood next to him, practically throwing the menu at him and growling. He seemed imposing, with a huge belly and a grumpy face. On any other day, Michael would have already responded, asked to speak to his manager, or pointed out his flaws, but now, he was blank, as if his tongue had been eaten.
— I... Um… – He tried to think of something, but his thoughts kept tumbling over each other. He felt smaller than ever before, incredibly insignificant. The other man just looked at him with increasing exasperation as he listened to him babble.
— Come on, man, I don't have time for this crap. Are you going to order something or not?
— I'll tell you what you want: fried eggs with bacon. That way you'll stop wasting my time – Michael wanted to refuse the order. He hated eggs, the taste of bacon made him nauseous, too dry and greasy, but he only mumbled a "thank you" before lowering his head and hiding his hands between his legs as if he'd been scolded.
The worst came when his dish was finally delivered.
— Eat it – the gorilla seemed to snarl, and instead of refusing it or at least just paying and leaving, he found himself picking up his silverware, trembling as he broke off pieces of food and brought the spoon to his mouth, bite after bite until it was all gone, feeling the nausea rise in his throat.
What the hell was happening to him today? Was he... high? That had to be it. What other fucking explanation was there for him acting so strange?
— Are you going to leave a tip or not? – Again, that hostile treatment. He felt furious inside. How dare some damn waiter talk to him like that? Who did he think he was? – It would be stingy of you not to leave at least three times your meal.
Michael kept staring at him, like someone who fears an authority figure, and with trembling lips, he pulled out his wallet, took out almost six $100 bills, and slipped them onto the table, not daring to say another word. The waiter just gave a mocking smile, stuffed the money into his apron, and left, not without whispering the word "stupid" under his breath.
The former athlete stood up and left the restaurant as quickly as possible, running to the safety of his car and locking himself inside. His heart was racing, his hands felt numb, and a strange tingling sensation settled in his legs. He didn't understand anything that was happening, he didn't understand what was happening to him. He inhaled slowly and exhaled with the same calmness; even his forehead was covered in sweat.
— Relax... Everything... Everything's fine – he nodded to himself with a smile before pulling his latest-generation phone from his pocket. There was always a way to feel better about himself; it never failed him. When his football team lost due to his teammates' incompetence, he always did this: watch “movies”. Why? It was quite simple, really.
His enormous tool always sprang up almost instantly, thick, big, and veiny, huge as a beer can. He could “handwork” for hours before finally coming in a massive tsunami of thick, smelly substance that assured his (apparently fragile) masculinity. That never had let him down.
At least until that day, no matter how many times he watched it, he couldn't get hard. Flaccid, dry as the desert.
— Come on, shit, what's wrong with you today? – he grunted in frustration, maybe… He needed to clear his head, he had to find a hotel to stay in for the week that was planned with the anniversary event and the conference he was going to give at the high school.
But as the days went by, the “symptoms” worsened, and rapidly. No matter how much scenes he watched, he couldn't get a single elevation, not even the slightest hardening. Moaning didn't turn him on, nor the sound of hair being pulled, shit, not even the memories of that night with Jasonna! It was like… he had erectile dysfunction. HIM! HIM HAVING ERECTIVE DYSFUNCTION! The same man who could sleep with four different women in a single day without the slightest problem, hanging like a bull but unable to maintain a hard-on.
He had even resorted to Viagra! And that didn't work either. He was going crazy. What was he supposed to do? Maybe the worst part wasn't even taking the pill and it not working; the worst part was going to order it!
He looked like a schoolgirl embarrassed to ask for condoms or something, his cheeks flushed, sweat dripping all over his body, and hesitating over a damn pill! How was he supposed to give the presentation if he couldn't even talk to one person?! He was going to wet his pants!
But still, what would he do about the anniversary party? How was he going to brag to his former classmates that he was a fucking star if he couldn't even be confident in what he said?
Michael didn't even notice, but even his posture had changed in the last few days, becoming timid, his hands always clasped together, hunched over as if he were wearing a turtle shell, his gaze downcast, and his feet always crossed. There was no trace left of that greatness he used to boast about; he seemed nervous and scared all the time, looking around, even the roar of his engine frightened him.
And the worst part of all? It was how he was starting to notice other men and how he acted around them. A traffic officer had barely stopped him to check his papers. The heavy seatbelt clanging along with the license plate, his shoulders back, and the warm summer air after a long workday had made him even more nervous, but it wasn't fear. It was something else he didn't quite understand, but it made his heart race, made him swallow hard, and made him say stupid things.
His gaze didn't go to their eyes or their faces, not even their clothes or the flaws he was so used to being agile about. Instead, his gaze lingered on their pecs, how their biceps were defined, their legs, those fat, smelly buttocks… Ugh!
Even on one of the many nights when he wanted his "soldier" back in action, he found himself staring at the guy in the film, at how his perfect abs looked. His gaze kept returning to that enormous tool. He didn't care about the woman's mouth or whether she was giving him the best job of her career. He was more focused and preoccupied with how those defined pecs looked, those biceps of a Greek demigod, his dominant and masculine grunts, his moans and gasps – his alone. He had to turn off his phone as soon as he felt himself starting to get hard. He was getting hard over a guy?!
Something was wrong with him. He was… broken, sick. But how had this happened? Just a few days ago he'd been fine. What the hell had happened? He was trying to clear his mind while sipping a cup of coffee at a local café. Luckily, the same grumpy waiter from before was off duty, and even though beautiful waitresses were milling about, offering coffees and swaying their skirts, nothing seemed to work on him.
— Michael? – He heard a familiar voice and several footsteps behind him. He had to turn around to see some former members of his high school sports team there. His blood ran cold the moment they sat down at the table. He had no choice but to move aside to let them sit – Woah, we haven't seen you in years. How have you been?
His eager gaze wandered among them. Some had maintained their physiques, others had gained a little weight, but far from mentally criticizing them, he seemed... to be charmed. One of them had developed a beer belly; his shirt was so tight it looked like a button was about to pop off, but even so, he watched with a mixture of anticipation and nervousness how he looked, his thick thighs pressed against the equally tight jeans.
Others had a glimpse of their pecs, broad and sculpted from years of gym workouts, their abs… It seemed he'd even developed a super sense of smell or something, noticing how everyone's stench accumulated, however faint, yet still noticeable, heavy and acrid. His leg trembled; he tried to keep it still, but it was useless.
— T-thanks – he said, clutching the mug, smiling as best he could. Not even the most innocent girl he'd ever met acted like this. It was pathetic.
— Is everything… alright? Are you feeling okay?
— Yes, everything's fine – he whispered, his voice like a thread, taut and tiny. What would he do with the attention of so many men? So muscular, smelly, and… UGH!
— You look strange, man. Are you sure you're okay? – They all exchanged glances, as if they wanted to lay bare a secret they weren't sure how to handle – We… We saw you at that bar the other night.
— Bar?… – Finally, the threads connected: the bar, Jasonna, the passionate night. This was his chance to rub it in these idiots' faces that a woman that beautiful was interested in him, that he had her wrapped around his little finger – Of course, wasn't she gorgeous?
His friends remained silent, swallowing hard, unsure how to proceed.
— Um… Michael, are you gay? – The question hit him like a bucket of ice water. What had they just said? His blood began to boil. How could they ask him such a stupid question? Gay? Not in a million years. He was straight as an arrow, he loved women, he was a real man. How dare they insult him like that? But instead of responding, he just tripped over his own words, his tongue twitching – I mean, if you are, it doesn't matter, you're our friend anyway.
— We saw you with that guy, you were so… excited, you kept grabbing his buttock.
Guy? Buttocks? What the hell? – Michael tried to piece together all his memories. Was he… high? No, he remembered her silhouette perfectly when she walked into the bar, her hair, the fruity perfume scent, her dress, her crimson red lips. There was no way he could have imagined a woman. She was real, she was a woman!
Michael slid out of the bar in a panic and headed for his car. It couldn't be true. He started driving like a madman through the streets. He might have been drunk that day, but he remembered perfectly how to get there. Contacting her again wasn't in his plans; it was part of his "charm": in and out, no strings attached, a good night and then the feelings were gone. A tiger like him couldn't be caged.
He drove through the streets one after another, his heart still pounding with anticipation as the neighboring houses drew closer. The memory of the facade was fresh: white trim, pastel blue siding, and a beautiful front garden.
But when he arrived at where that house was supposed to be, something different greeted him. The pastel blue siding was worn, the garden neglected and withered, the white trim almost looked grayer from wear, the door was gnawed. What the hell was this neighborhood? He tried to move forward or backward a little, maybe he had the wrong house, maybe it was just a similar one, but even though he circled the entire block three times, he kept coming back to the same address, the same number, the same layout.
He got out of the car, nervous. He knocked on the door, his legs trembling. He waited longer, but there was no answer. He knocked again, and the door opened a crack.
— Hello? Jasonna? Is anyone home? – He waited for a response, but again, only silence. He walked in slowly, the wood creaking beneath his feet. He looked around. This wasn't the house he remembered. This was a… pigsty.
The smell of dirty laundry filled his nostrils, mixed with… fried food? Everything looked worn, old, and worn. There were even photos on the walls of a… man?
Damn, did Jasonna have a husband? Or a brother? Nothing made sense. What was this place?
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