Who Needs Sleep?

By Wesley Bracken published February 9, 2019
wesley.bracken@gmail.com
Summary

Jordan invents a new serum to improve his efficiency, but unleashes something inside of himself he wasn’t expecting.

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Who knows? Maybe tonight he’d be able to get to sleep. Jordan stumbled suddenly on the sidewalk, dragging his feet and catching them on a crack. The sidewalk seemed to pulse up and down as he struggled to figure out whether he was going to fall or not. Four days since he’d tested the serum on himself. Four days he hadn’t slept a wink. That part was working just fine, apparently, but he hadn’t quite anticipated feeling this exhausted.

Jordan was a medical researcher, a young hot shot in his field, fresh off his PhD researching the nature of sleep. He’d always found it funny that, even though no one knew why people needed to sleep, everyone did it anyway. Imagine the amount of productivity lost, just because people were doing something they might not even need! This serum would change humanity, if he could get it to work. It was so simple, or so he’d thought. With the right mix of stimulants and other neurochemicals, as well as a little genetic muddling, people wouldn’t have to sleep ever again. Sure, he shouldn’t have tested it on himself, but he hadn’t gotten to where he was in life by not taking risks. Jordan had always been consumed with his studies. He’d pretty much lived a celibate life (he’d always felt gay, but being raised in a conservative baptist family had led him to shove those feelings as deep within him as he could) and with his small frame he’d never been cut out for much beyond books. He’d just…never had enough time in the day to do everything in his head, to try everything he imagined, and he’d hit a wall in his research. Injecting himself had been a gamble–if it worked, he’d be able to redouble his focus, and maybe get new insight into the therapy. Unfortunately, things weren’t turning out quite like he’d planned.

Four days. He’d been good for two of them, but yesterday he’d started crashing. He’d never been this tired before in his life. He couldn’t focus, he couldn’t work. He’d just been staring at papers in his lab, trying to decipher things he’d written last week, but everything suddenly looked like gibberish. It was Friday, he just needed to relax and hope the serum would wear off so he could sleep, finally. That, and he needed to get home without killing himself.

It was only a few more blocks to his apartment, but as he passed a small smoke shop he’d walked by hundreds of times, his feet stopped, and he sniffed the air. Ever since yesterday, he’d had this…craving. He hadn’t been able to articulate it, but it was like his body was screaming at him for something he didn’t even know he needed. On the air outside the shop he caught whiffs of tobacco and smoke and…and without knowing why he was doing it, he went inside, picked a brand of cigar at random, bought half a dozen with a book of matches, and left. What was he doing? He wasn’t a smoker! Sure, for a couple of years towards the tail end of his undergraduate study he’d gotten into the habit, but he’d kicked it for years. The smell…reminded him of something, one of his uncles had had always smoked cigars, but he’d died when he was just a kid. Is this what he’d been craving this whole time? But why now, out of the blue?

The exhaustion had reached a new level now–no longer did Jordan feel like he was inhabiting his body, it was more like he was outside of himself. Not even really aware of what he was doing as his fingers unwrapped the first cigar, stuck it in his mouth, and lit it. The smoke in his lungs was like a jolt to his system–part of the reason he’d loved smoking so much before was because it helped him stay awake while he worked on term papers and grant proposals. The nicotine hit him, and it was like a shock to his entire body–he didn’t feel more awake though, if anything it pushed him further away from himself. He…sensed he was in pain, but it was more of a dull throbbing ache, his body grunting and growling. He saw himself stumble into an alley, teeth clamped hard around the cigar, sucking in more and more smoke. Someone else was screaming though–was it even him? It…it didn’t sound like him. The voice was so deep and rough and…and he was floating. He could see everything, hear everything, but it wasn’t him anymore, he could…sense that. Better…better if he took a break, he thought to himself, and fell back.


With a roar, he woke up, heaving for breath, heaving for smoke, staring around at where he was with panic in his eyes, looking down at himself. Where was he? Who…was he? He ran his hands down over his body–he was…huge, holy fuck. Big gut, covered with fur. He had on a shirt much, much too small for him–the buttons had already shot off, and he tore the remnants away, running two big hands over his hairy pecs and down over his gut, down to his massive bulge, letting off a low growl around the cigar he had stuck in his maw.

“Fuck, I gotta…gotta fuck…” he muttered to himself. These shoes were too tight though, and he yanked them off, wiggling the fat toes at the end of his size seventeen feet with a sigh. He was in an alley or something, and he walked out of it–it was early evening, and the sidewalk wasn’t very crowded, but there was enough light that he could still see his reflection in the window of a smoke shop on one side of the alley…and hell, he was one sexy mother fucker for sure. He started groping his cock harder in the pants stretched tight over his hips and thighs, seeing a wet spot form from the precum leaking out the head. Through his reflection, he saw the older proprietor’s jaw drop at the sight of him–and he sneered a bit, all sorts of strange ideas pushing through his head suddenly, and he went inside.

As soon as he crossed the threshold of the shop, he could…tell that the man wanted him. He was probably in his fifties or so, with a decent gut and a full beard. He seemed familiar somehow, but it was hard for him to remember anything at all. In fact, it felt like he’d just popped into existence just a moment earlier, or like he’d just been assembled out of…chunks of something left and forgotten. All of this felt so new to him, this body, and yet at the same time he…knew so much, even though it was hard to think about much beyond fucking.

The man behind the counter, a man by the name of Oliver, gulped, just stared at the huge man walking into his shop. He had to be a few inches over six feet, broad shouldered, body bulging with muscle and a firm layer of fat, every inch of his skin coated with hair. He had some pants on–sort of–but no shirt or shoes, and…and Oliver hadn’t seen a man that sexy in a long time. He hadn’t seen a man that sexy look at him that…hungry ever. “Are…are you alright? Do you need some help?” Oliver asked, adjusting his growing cock. He could…smell him, and fuck he smelled so damn good. He’d never smelled anyone like that before, his eyes going a bit cross, cock hard and leaking in his slacks.

“Need a fuck,” the stranger said, and walked up to the man. The closer he got, the lower the man’s jaw dropped, and when he leaned down and locked lips with Oliver, shoving his smoke into the older man’s hungry mouth, Oliver felt his cock pulse and spasm a huge load right in the front of his pants.

Oliver didn’t have a very good memory of what happened next. He dimly recalled hauling himself up onto the counter, tongue pressed to the man’s sweaty body, licking across his chest and over to his musky pits, moaning and humping the air, unable to control himself, while the man tore at his clothes, ripping them away from the man’s body as quickly as he could. Neither of them spoke–the shop was just filled with moans, the air growing thick with the smoke from the man’s cigar.

“Turn ‘round,” he said, both his massive hands grabbing hold of Oliver and forcing him to face away from him. The counter turned out to be a surprisingly good height, once he forced Oliver hips lower, and he ripped away the crotch of his pants, and ground his massive cock up and down the older man’s crack.

“Not…here, anyone can see us…” Oliver moaned, but he couldn’t do anything to stop himself either from pushing back, the massive bear’s cock slipping into his hole, making him groan. The thing was huge–he’d never taken anything in his ass before, and the stranger didn’t have any patience, just grunting and humping himself in deeper, ignoring Oliver’s protesting and begging for him to go slower and take his time. But Oliver’s body wasn’t even obeying him at this point–as much as it hurt, all he could do was push his way back harder onto the huge cock, not caring how much it hurt, only needing as much of it inside him as was possible. He came again, without even really noticing–what mattered more was…was satisfying him. Was making this huge beast happy, was submitting to him, and begging him for his seed. The beast managed to slide his cock in up to the hilt, but didn’t last much longer than that, his cum spewing forth, filling Oliver’s ass and cascading out around his shaft, both of them grunting and moaning with need. Sated, he pulled his cock free, Oliver whimpering slightly and feeling…so empty all of a sudden, but the musk was fading now, and he felt more in control than before–all that remained was a powerful euphoria–people were walking by and could clearly see his leaking hole, and…and he didn’t really care.

Finally, he managed to climb down and get his clothes put back together as best he could, looked over and saw the man rummaging through his humidor, grabbing a huge handful of cigars and shoving them in his pocket.

“You…you can’t just take those. You have to…to pay…”

The man looked at him, and walked over to him, “I’ll pay you back, don’t worry. I’m gonna need that hole again later. Does that sound like a deal? You keep me supplied, and I fill that aching hole of yours over and over again.”

Oliver nodded, without even really thinking about it, and the man stepped back, and headed for the door. His head clearer, Oliver realized why the man seemed a bit familiar–those pants, and that smoke! That tired looking guy who’d bought those cigars just before that beast had come in here… “W-Wait!” Oliver said, “Are…are you…ok? I mean…”

“I’m fine, just need another fuck is all.”

“But…you came in here, and you were different…”

He turned around and looked at the man, who walked over to the cash register, and found the last receipt. “J-Jordan, right?”

Jordan…was a familiar name. The stranger felt something his head…struggling, when he thought of that name, but it wasn’t his name. “That’s not me.”

“R-Really? Then…then who are you?”

He stopped and thought for a moment–did he have a name? Something told him he…should have one, but he didn’t, not in his short run of memories. “Just…call me Harry.”

“Well Harry, do…I mean…I guess I’ll be here, for…for when you want to pay for those, then…” the older bear said, his hole already aching to be filled again. He’d always had a secret suspicion that he might like being with a man, even though he’d thought he was happily married. Still, after that, he might have to rethink some things. Harry laughed, and then walked out the door and back onto the sidewalk, smoke trailing behind him. Jordan, huh? That strange thing happened in his brain again, and he growled a bit. Whatever, more important, he needed another hole. He sniffed the air, lit another cigar for himself, and headed off, following his nose, eager to be on the prowl.


Jordan woke up slowly, like he swimming back to the surface of the ocean from some dark depth, but the water was molasses, trying to push him back down. His body ached, but he could move at least–he opened his eyes and found himself in bed–he must have slept then, so that was a relief. He certainly felt more rested than he’d been in ages, but damn, those had been some crazy dreams while he was out. He couldn’t remember them in much detail–he’d been…huge, and fucking guys, and he hadn’t had dreams like that in years, not since he was a teenager. He remembered how he’d found those websites about bears, until his bearish Baptist father found him jacking off one day, and sent him to that camp…

He suppressed a shiver. He wasn’t religious anymore, but he also hadn’t thought of that in years–what had brought this on? The room was dark, but he could see dawn cracking outside–shouldn’t the window be on the other wall though? He found his lamp and switched it on–only to discover that this wasn’t his room, and someone was in the bed next to him. Some big, hairy, naked man, who rolled over, disturbed by the light, and looked over at thin, hairless Jordan–and did a double take.

“Fuck, what? That’s not…fuckin’ beer goggles…” He grumbled, “Go on, get out if you’re leavin’, or turn out the light,” he rolled back over, and Jordan heard him grumble a bit more, “Can’t believe I let that fuck me…seemed bigger at the bar.”

Jordan got up and looked for the clothes he’d been wearing the day before, but all he saw was a pile of leather and denim. He picked up a leather jacket, and some strange shimmer of pleasure shot through him, making him shudder again, some voice deep in him telling him these were his clothes–even though there was no possible way they could fit him. He put them on anyway, cinching the belt to keep the jeans up, and left the stranger’s apartment and headed for his own place in the dawn light, trying to piece together what, exactly, had happened to him.

The last thing he remembered clearly, he’d left the lab–utterly exhausted and desperate for sleep, but still in the grip of insomnia. He’d been stumbling home when…when his memory just sort of faded into that strange dream he’d had. At some point walking home, he’d bought some…cigars? Then he’d been different all of a sudden. Bigger, hairy, desperate for sex. Everything kind of blurred together then, images of walking through the streets. He’d…taken some clothes from a biker? He looked down at the leathers he was wearing, and realized the clothes from the dream were the one’s he had on now. And that guy, back in the bed…he could remember him too, in some bar or club or something. They’d been kissing, and the guy had been obsessed with him. So was it a dream? Which parts of it had actually happened?

It was getting hard to think–some voice in his head was pestering and nagging him, interrupting him, but it wasn’t really a voice so much as…this urge, telling him to do something. His hand was going for the inside pocket of his jacket before he realized it, and pulled out a cigar–and then a match–and he was smoking, the same shimmer of pleasure from before working it’s way through him like ripples, making his cock hard, and that tugging again. He ducked into an alley, whipped out his cock and started jacking it, sucking down even more smoke, huffing and grunting. He wasn’t in control, he didn’t want to be doing this, and yet here he was, stroking fast, his hand trying to stretch his cock uncomfortably, almost like it thought it should be bigger. He shot his load over the side of the dumpster he’d crouched behind, and the desires faded a bit–but not so much he could bring himself to put out the cigar.

The serum–had it actually worked? This wasn’t what it should have done though–the point wasn’t for him to just black out and turn into some monster–what part of him had he awakened exactly? The cigars, the sex, that massive body, it was everything he’d ever wanted, everything that had always felt so good, that he’d always denied himself, everything he’d repressed for so long–it was like all of it had combined into some ravenous beast that was finally let loose from the cage of his mind to do whatever it wanted. No–no, it was doing everything he’d always wanted to do, everything he’d always been too terrified to try. Still, he was in control again, mostly, and he didn’t have any time to waste. He had to get to his lab, and try and figure out what had gone wrong, so he could reverse it.

At that thought, nausea and vertigo ripped it’s way through him, nearly toppling him over in the alley. Something in him wasn’t happy about that idea, apparently. It took all the will he could manage, but he got himself upright again, and staggered off towards his apartment, so he could get out of these clothes, get something to eat, and then get to work. He kept hoping the thing in him, that other self, would calm down, but all it did was get angrier, sending him to the bathroom to hurl more than once, his vision so blurry he couldn’t read. But touching leather helped. Smoking helped too. Jacking off helped the most, even though it was also somewhat unsatisfying. Better to have his cock in someone, in a hole, fucking and slamming and raping–

He snapped out of it sitting on his toilet that afternoon, looking down at his changing body, and forced the beast back down, and focused back himself–his true self. That had been a close one. He’d kept these desires in check for so long–how could he have known they were this powerful? If he didn’t figure out a solution quick, he might not have another chance. He lit up another cigar, threw on his new leather jacket, and headed for his lab, hoping he’d be able to find an answer before he changed again.


“Not again,” he thought, as he rolled over on the floor. He must have passed out again–apparently, those four days without sleep were still catching up with him. Still, he could see from the tiled floor that he was still in the lab, if nothing else, so he couldn’t have been out for too long. He picked himself up, every muscle in his body protesting, feeling like his frail body had just tried to run a marathon. Once he was standing, however, he noticed two things in succession. First, his lab was a disaster area. All of his carefully organized samples and notes were scattered about, beakers and vials broken everywhere. His work–he hurried about, looking for things, but his personal computer was smashed to bits on the floor, anything paper had been ripped apart or burned, even textbooks. It looked like whoever had done this hadn’t quite known what to destroy–and so they’d just tried to destroy everything. It had been enough. This would set him back weeks, if not months. The most important information was all in his head, but without equipment, what it the world was he going to do? It was then, also, that he noticed the time. He’d arrived at the lab in the early afternoon, but it was just slightly passed dawn. He went over and checked the time, but it was the date that shocked him–he’d just lost three days.

That accounted for why he suddenly felt so well rested. He was interrupted by a light in the hallway–he didn’t know who it was, but someone was coming, and he was standing right in the middle of a lab he was pretty certain he had just destroyed. He quickly drew the blinds, hoping no one would notice and decide to check in on him, and once the footsteps had faded, he slipped out the door and out of the building. The damage would be discovered at some point, of course. No one would believe the truth of the matter–hell, he wasn’t even sure he believed it, and it was happening to him. Could he blame a rival researcher? A corporate hit job? Nothing credible leapt to mind. He’d kept such a tight lid on his work, even his advisor hadn’t quite known what he was working on exactly. No, best to just get home. Get home, get out of this stinking leather, figure out how to get his hands to stop shaking…

…Smoke…

Was that his thought, or something else? Either way, he knew that would help–calm him down, take the edge off his panic. He found a fresh supply of cigars in the inside pocket of the leather jacket he had on. The clothes he had on were different than the ones he could remember wearing before–leather pants and a black tank. He reeked of smoke and sex, and just smelling it–

…Horny…

Disgusted him, but at the same time, made his dick twitch. He took his first inhale of smoke, and his cock was at full mast, tenting out the front of the leather pants, as he tightened the belt a bit to keep the waistband from falling down, trying to not think about how much he could use a hole to fuck.

He took his usual route home, and, along the way he passed the same smoke shop he’d entered several days prior, but this time, from a block away, he could see the police car parked out front. Nervous, for reasons he couldn’t quite figure out, he crossed to the other side of the street, and as he passed the shop opposite, he could see a couple of cops in the early morning searching the premises. An older woman was with them, a wad of tissues against her eyes. His dick twitched again, but this time he got an odd sense of anticipation with it, and he took a deeper breath of smoke, pushing it out his nose, picked up his pace towards his apartment, and arrived ten minutes later. He used his key in the door, opened it, and found himself facing an older, nearly naked man there, on his knees, head bowed. He looked up at Jordan’s confused face, letting him glimpse a moment a disappointment there, and then he dropped his head again. “Slave Jordan, please come in, you’re late.”

Jordan stepped inside the door, checking the hallway to make sure no one had seen anything, and once the door was shut and locked, he said, “Who the fuck are you? How did you get in my apartment?”

The older man didn’t move, and now that he got a better look at him…he recognized him, his stomach dropping out from under him. The owner of the pipe shop. He’d been so tired when they’d met, for that short moment, but even now, he could recognize him. “You…the cops are looking for you! They’re going to think I took you or something!”

“You didn’t take me, Slave Jordan, Master did. And I came willingly, and I would tell them that. Master didn’t see any need for me to have any more communication with that old life.”

Jordan walked past him, and the older man stood and followed him into the apartment–before, his chest had been in shadow, but now, lit by the morning sun, Jordan saw a fresh, day old tattoo on stretching across from shoulder to shoulder–”Property of Master Harry.”

“I’m…sorry. I’m sorry I did this to you,” Jordan said.

“You didn’t do this to me,” Oliver said simply, “Master did. He marked you too.”

“What?”

Oliver walked up to him and pulled off the coat, and then hauled the tank off of him and walked him in front of a mirror. He could read it perfectly even though it was reflected backward–the same tattoo that Oliver had across his own chest. “He owns both of us–he wanted me to be very clear about that. Please…please just…for my sake, do what he says…He has a schedule for you to follow, certain quotas for you to meet, and a strict sleep schedule of course. I’m to assist you in any way possible.”

“No–No, this is insane, I’m not doing this.”

Oliver nodded, looking like he’d expected this response, “Master said I shouldn’t go easy on you, even the first time. I’m sorry.”

The world began swimming, that same nausea from before welling up. Jordan tried to keep control of himself, but the suddenness of it had him on the floor before he could do anything, but the world didn’t face away like before. Instead, it felt like he was dreaming, or sleepwalking through his apartment, into what had been his study, where there now was a sling, some strange cross, chains hanging from the ceiling. And then he was awake again, his hands caught in those very chains, Oliver standing behind him with a long whip. “What…how?” he tried to say, but was caught off guard by the first lash, and he screamed in pain.

“You have to count them. If you scream like that again, I’ll have to gag you. Each time you miss a quota or fail to adhere to the schedule, you’ll receive thirty lashings, or more, depending on Master’s mood. That was one–” Oliver waited a moment. “Like I said, slave, you have to count them.”

“Please, you don’t have to do this, if you just help me–”

The second lashing was a bit lighter, or else his back had numbed slightly from the first one. He still screamed.

“That was one, again. Please count–I don’t want to do this all day, but I will. Master’s orders.” What could he say? He didn’t know, so he just counted out, “One.”

“Thanks,” Oliver said, and struck him again. And again, and again.

When the lashing was over, Oliver released him from the chains holding him up, and had him lay down on the bed, so he could tend to the welts and shallow cuts the lash had cut into his back. . “I don’t…” Jordan started, and then seethed a moment, as another cotton ball soaked in alcohol landed on his back, “I don’t understand why you’re doing this. Why are you helping him?”

Oliver was quiet a moment, and then sighed, “I suppose you’re the only person who’ll never have a chance to experience…what it’s like, to have him inside you.”

“I know exactly what it’s like to have that thing inside me. That thing is me!”

Oliver didn’t take kindly to his tone, and poured the alcohol directly on his wounded back, making Jordan holler. “Show your master some fucking respect!”

“He’s fucking ruined my fucking life! And fuck you too for helping him.”

They didn’t speak beyond that, and after their exchange, Oliver was pitiless with the alcohol. After a bit of bandaging, Oliver let Jordan up from the bed, and showed him the schedule and quotas for the day, while Jordan lit a cigar for himself, realizing only after his first drag what he’d just done without so much as a thought. He went to put it out, but Oliver stopped his hand. “Better you get started now–Master wants you to smoke five cigars by the time you fall asleep tonight at nine.”

“Five of these things? You’re shitting me.”

“Next week, it’ll be seven a day. Anyway, we’ll have to switch over to a slightly abbreviated schedule, so we’d better get you fed, and then start on your workout.”

“No, fuck this. You can’t make me do this shit.”

Oliver just stared at him, waiting to see what would happen, Jordan meant to cross his arms over his chest, but a wave of sleepiness washed over him, he took the cigar from his mouth and stubbed the lit end against the back of his hand–the pain was enough to jolt him awake, but his hand held it there for a long second, before allowing reflex to take over. “Fucking shit!”

“Master knows we don’t have time for another lashing. Give me your hand, burns fester fast.”

Jordan just stared dumbly, as Oliver cleaned the wound quickly, and then bandaged his hand. “This…This isn’t going to end, is it?”

“No, it isn’t. Come on, you’ll feel better after you eat something.”

Oliver fed him a quick breakfast, packed with protein and minimal carbs, then they returned to the living room, where some of the furniture had been replaced with a set of free weights and a bench. Oliver didn’t have much experience with exercise, but with the help of a program on Jordan’s phone, which he’d been given by master, they worked Jordan hard for several hours, and then it was time for him to eat again. Throughout all of this, Jordan had been smoking cigars at a near constant rate, his lungs were exhausted, his head swimming, body aching in ways he hadn’t thought possible before. He cleaned his plate of his required meal, and leaned back, cigar in his mouth, almost a butt. This was number four, and he imagined if he smoked another he might vomit.

“Alright, you’re good for today,” Oliver said, “Go out and smoke that last cigar of yours, watch some TV, and we’ll wait for your tranqs to kick in.”

“Tranqs? What?”

“Your sleeping pills. Gotta make sure you’re asleep by nine, right?”

“You fucking drugged me?” Jordan shouted, and stood up, but he couldn’t tell whether he was woozy from the revealed drugs, or from the smoke which seemed to be choking out his entire body.

“Calm down–trust me, it’ll all be fine, as long as we both do exactly what Master says,” Oliver said, and Jordan saw him massage his crotch a moment. “Nine can’t get here soon enough, sir…” Oliver said under his breath, Jordan retreating into the living room, where he turned on the TV, lit his last cigar of the night, and lounged back on the couch. Oliver appeared a moment later, cock indeed hard, staring at Jordan sitting there, and he walked over, got down in front of him, and tried to get his mouth around Jordan’s cock, who shoved him away. “You fucking pervert, don’t even fucking think about it.”

Oliver glowered at him, but didn’t try again. It wasn’t too much longer before Jordan started to feel relaxed, and a bit…floaty, drifting in and out, slipping closer and closer to sleep, but he fought anyway. One moment, he was alone, after the next long blink, Oliver was there, sucking his cock, one hand on the older man’s head. The hand looked…too big. Another time his eyes slipped shut, and Jordan wasn’t aware of anything else until morning.


Jordan fought, as best he could, for the first few weeks. Direct disobedience was an utter fool’s errand, he quickly realized–the beast had plenty of control over him in his waking state, and seemed much less concerned with his body’s appearance than Jordan was. Oliver too, seemed to enjoy it–running his hands over the scars crisscrossing Jordan’s back, shivering and getting a bit hard. Was he thinking about the scars that also marked his own back, that the beast was giving him in the night? Certainly, Oliver appeared exhausted, and when Jordan pressed him on it, he revealed he was only receiving two, maybe three hours of sleep a night, but that for Master, he’d suffer anything.

Oliver remained a puzzle Jordan soon realized he’d never be able to disentangle. Half the time, Oliver never even seemed to be addressing him, when he spoke, and all of Jordan’s pleas to him–both rational and physical–would run headlong into the massive brick wall that was Oliver’s utter devotion to the thing which had taken up residence in Jordan’s brain and body. However, Oliver’s exhaustion soon grew so extreme that he woke one morning to the appearance of a second slave in his apartment (or a third, rather, but be refused to count himself, even though Oliver was constantly reminding him of his alleged status). The newcomer slept all day long, and it was several days before Jordan even learned his name–Paul–because his role was different from Oliver’s. He was only there for the nights, to sate the Master’s desires from dusk to dawn.

The workouts remained murderous. He was forced to smoke until the desire for nicotine took over, and Jordan no longer had the will to resist his own internal desire for the cigars that Oliver kept him supplied with from the moment he woke, to the time the tranqs took hold in the evening. As months wore on, Jordan felt, more and more, like he was trapped in some strange dream of a life, without reason or logic, but which he sensed he’d never be able to escape. The beast inside him sensed the weakness, and seized it, pushing at him as he woke, with whispers and secrets–but the mirrors were the worst. Looking down at himself, he still mostly resembled his lanky form, though he had put on some muscle under Oliver’s direction. But looking in a mirror, his eyes would trick him. He would see the beast there, mimicking him, mocking him perhaps–well over six feet tall, thick, strong, hairy, confident, all of the things Jordan had always despised, and yet he found himself obsessing over this new image, as disgusted as he was by the idea. When he’d been especially good, he was allowed to fuck Oliver facing a mirror, experiencing the beasts pleasure vicariously, while Oliver merely tolerated his master’ vessel attempting to please his hole.

What did it want? Jordan found himself asking that often. Wasn’t there some way it could allow them both to exist, together? No–the beast was too desperate for control to allow such an arrangement, but this situation, Jordan trapped in his own apartment with two mindfucked slaves, he could tell this wouldn’t satisfy the beast either. He was certain he’d be able to solve it f he could just get a restful night’s sleep! But everyday, he woke up exhausted, spent, barely able to keep up with Oliver’s training, hating his body, how weak he was, taunted by that image haunting him in reflections all over the apartment. He wanted it to just…stop. He just wanted to sleep. And then, one morning, Oliver led him into what had been his bedroom.

Jordan hadn’t set foot in the room since arriving home that morning–after all, his body was essentially active all day and night, while the slaves slept in shifts on a small cot in the living room. His bedroom was no longer a bedroom–it had, somehow, been converted into a small, makeshift lab without him even knowing. His notes, which he’d assumed had been destroyed, were all there–everything he needed to continue his work on the serum, in fact, or…or an antidote. He felt a twinge of pleasure at the thought–yes, of course–this is what the thing wanted as well–an antidote to him. In the end, only one of them could survive like this, and they both knew it, and the beast was willing to bet it’s control over him was, even while he was awake, strong enough to convince Jordan to murder himself–but Jordan’s sense of self-preservation lingered on all the same.

From that day on, his days were consumed with work in the lab, the beast in his mind at all times, forcing his hand in small and large ways, the two of them battling out as he mixed and crafted what he simply called the antidote, but in all honesty, he wasn’t quite sure what the thing would do, if one of them took it. He thought–he hoped–that he had successfully pushed the serum to stabilize erratic brain activity in the patient, in order to restore a normal sleep cycle–but the serum the beast wanted…he wasn’t quite sure what it was, really. The beast didn’t operate through science or rationality, but through impulse and desire. The one thing he knew, was that it wasn’t something he wanted to take–but on the day it was finished, he didn’t have a choice–The Beast took control, prepped the needle, and injected it straight into Jordan’s arm.

Jordan was never quite clear on what happened next. There was pain–a lot of it, all across his body, but also, somehow, in his very brain, like every synapse had turned on and began firing simultaneously. For a while, he was certain he was going to die. For a shorter time, lying on the floor, he was equally certain he was dead…but he wasn’t. However, he didn’t really know who, or what, he was. The man pushed himself up from the floor, looking around at the smashed up lab equipment around him, trying to process what had happened–there were so many memories, and too many people in his mind to sort them all out. Jordan and Harry, who was he? Which was he?

In the mirror, he looked like Harry–massively muscled, rough of face, massive cock, and certainly a desperate desire to fuck, but Jordan was there too, in ways. Perhaps less of him than Harry, but enough to make a certain difference in his mind, in how he thought, in what he wanted. His slaves, Oliver and Paul, entered the lab timidly, but both were ecstatic to see him, and he them. He could figure out who, or what, he’d become in a while–but right now, his slaves needed their master inside them, and he was only too happy to do so.

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