Aftereffects 4

Disclaimer: This is a work of erotic fiction. If you are under the legal age to read this, or are offended by the idea of male-male sex or mind control, DO NOT read further.

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Today was the day I was moving into Coach Loman's—I mean MY—house, to take my rightful place as "master of the manor". Coach had been to my family's house for dinner the previous night. After the meal, I left them alone with Coach for about an hour, when I came back in the room I found my folks all enthusiastic about my moving out of the family house, and in with Coach, for my personal "development". It didn't seem to occur to any of them that this might be somewhat weird.

This afternoon there was no practice, so Coach had left early for home to prepare for my arrival. I had no car, but no problem—I had Will, or rather "little willy" as he now thought of himself, drive me over there. Just to reinforce his Rodwell-induced feeling of inferiority, I made it a point to subtly rub my sizable cock so its outline would be clear in my pants. I was a bit worried about this tactic when Will seemed forced to divide his attention between the road and my cock. Fortunately, we arrived safely at the house.

I rang the doorbell, without thinking. After all, if it was now MY house, why would I need to ring the bell? The door opened, and there stood—not Coach, but a black teen maybe a year or two older than me but much taller, short-cropped hair, and with an insanely muscled upper body uncovered by a shirt. In fact, he was wearing nothing but a posing pouch that did little to conceal a large, unhappily constrained cock. In fact, his look was more obscene WITH the pouch than it would have been if he were completely naked. I couldn't even estimate the size of shoe that might have fit on his wide bare feet: 16? 17? Without a word, he gestured me in.

I followed him, admiring the muscles of his back as he preceded me down the hall. For someone that big and built, he moved with a catlike grace. I wondered: was he some kind of houseboy for Coach? If so, why would Coach want little old me to take over his place? We soon arrived at the kitchen, which was big and had expensive-looking appliances.

Leaning against the kitchen wall was another tall teen, about the same age as the first but of a very different physical type. He was blond, long and lithe, with an unlit cigarette in his mouth, wearing an open leather jacket but no shirt, displaying a tight-muscled surfer's build, with his pecs pushing apart the sides of the jacket. He wore jeans a size or two too small, and no underwear, his long flaccid dick clearly outlined along one of the pants legs. And like the first teen, he wore no shoes, his long, lean pale hairless feet contrasting with the other teen's large, broad dark feet. My Disney-prince-lookalike slave Cal would be in heaven if he were here on the floor servicing these two guys' feet, I thought.

Nobody said a word; the two teens just stared at me up and down, as if assessing me for some purpose I didn't know yet. Then Coach walked in. The black teen turned and gave him a look, and Coach immediately dropped to his knees as he approached me.

"Welcome to your house, master. I see you've already met Blackie and Blondie, the house slaveboys."

I said, "You've got slaves? You didn't tell me you had slaves at home."

"They're not my slaves; they're the HOUSE slaves. They're owned by whoever controls the house. Which now means YOU, of course."

"They don't seem to talk much. So what are their real names?"

"I don't know. I don't think they remember them, either. A few years ago, Rodwell picked them up from a section of town with teen runaway hustlers, and over the years he erased their pasts and remade them as personal toys. He did Blackie up as some kind of Mandingo slave fantasy, and Blondie he remade into a kind of supercool James Dean type. They both spend a lot of time working on their bodies and maintaining their look. Every so often a tranced professional shows up at the door to cut their hair, do a manicure or pedicure, or check their health. Those professionals don't seem to remember doing those things afterwards. But it means that Blackie and Blondie don't have to leave the house and grounds often.

"Oh, and they don't talk much, if at all. Not with me, anyway. But they have... power over me. When Rodwell first made me his personal property, he enjoyed teasing and torturing me, and he used my big cock as a weapon against me, to be given pain or pleasure at his whim, having it betray me by getting erect at all the wrong times. But after awhile, he got more involved in building his empire outside the house, so he turned the job of torturing me over to Blackie and Blondie. He soon had them trained and eager for the job, and he trained me to understand their commands with just a look or a gesture. So I—"

At that moment, Blondie snapped his fingers. Immediately, Coach's eyes glazed over, and he barely managed to choke out the words, "Must... chain... self... up... in... dungeon..." and he crawled out of the room still on his knees.

Meanwhile, Blackie and Blondie's attention was now entirely on me. They approached me from each side, and when they reached me Blondie began unbottoning my shirt while Blackie undid my belt and pulled down my pants and boxers. I was startled and thought to run, but the two bigger teens held me in place while they did this. They both then began sniffing me everywhere, under my arms, in my butt crack, my hair, my crotch. It was like being explored by two very big, eager, friendly dogs. When they both knelt in front and converged on my crotch, it also caused my cock to inflate, and their long tongues went to town on it from either side. They knew just how and where to lick to cause me maximum excitement in the minimum time. They were clearly very skilled and experienced at this, and in no time at all I was ready to shoot.

As I began firing my cum, they scooted in front of me to receive my seed. They somehow managed to move quickly enough back and forth so that each in turn received alternate cumshots without losing a drop. When I was spent, each cleaned off his side of my sensitive cock with his tongue. Then suddenly, their eyes glazed over, their heads dropped to the floor, and they slowly licked the top of my shoes, gazing up at me like puppies looking for approval. And as I beheld their reverent looks, I suddenly understood that it was at THIS moment that I officially became the master of the house.

Later, Blackie and Blondie had finished their torture session with Coach in the dungeon, and were working out on the gym equipment. Each worked on different machines, since they had different body goals: Blackie for bulk and strength, Blondie for the cut and toned look. They would be at it for hours.

I was now with Coach in his home office. On the wall was an 80-inch 4K screen connected to his computer.

I was impressed. "Wow. That screen must have been expensive. How could you afford it?"

"I traded a sweaty cum and piss-crusted old jockstrap of mine for it, even up. The store owner somehow became obsessed with my cock, and thought he was getting a real bargain in the trade. OK, maybe I planted the obsession in him. But he gets more sexual pleasure out of that jockstrap than he ever got out of his wife, or any woman for that matter. Also, we exchanged 'lifetime warranties': he's agreed to repair or replace the screen as necessary, and I've agreed to cum and piss again into the jockstrap, or a new one if necessary, with him allowed to watch me doing it."

"Sounds fair to me. So what do you do with that huge thing mostly? The screen, I mean," I added, smiling.

Coach hit a few keys on his computer. Immediately, up on the screen in beautiful detail popped a living room scene, three guys, wearing just gym shorts, stretched out on recliners facing a large screen showing a football game. I recognized one of my Rodwell-era classmates, Buzz Burwell, a short, muscular, hairy jock, wrestler. Next to him was an older version of him, clearly his dad, who I remembered owned a gym in town. On the other side lay a younger version of Buzz, presumably his brother Kent. Even though Kent must have been only 15 if that, he was also hairy from top to bottom, even including the perpetual five o'clock shadow Buzz's face had always sported in class. (4K provides incredible detail, I thought.)

Then I noticed that something was different about Kent. His shorts were pulled down below his knees, and between his legs lay another of my classmates, Malcolm Petty, totally naked and face down on the recliner footrest, bobbing up and down on Kent's fat six-inch jock cock. Malcolm was staring up at Kent longingly, but Kent was paying no attention to Malcolm; he was watching the football game and cheering, while Malcolm worked on him.

Malcolm was clearly the smartest guy in our class, and I know he had a girlfriend for years. He was short and thin, but as far as I could see he was completely hairless below his head except for a tiny sprinkling in his armpit. Although he was older than the studly young jock he was servicing, he sure didn't look it.

Coach explained, "Each of your classmates has a number of webcams placed around the house. Usually the bedroom and living room have a number of them, while a kitchen or bathroom might just have one. None of them knows about this. And it was only recently that I had their cameras upgraded to 4K resolution. Malcolm there helped with the upgrade installation and technical details. Although naturally he doesn't remember it now."

I pondered the scene before us. "This looks a bit strange to me."


"Well, you told me that Rodwell paired opposites, but he always made the bigger or stronger or greater one serve the smaller or weaker one. Yet here you have little Malcolm—I mean he can't weigh 100 pounds—servicing the Burwells, where even the youngest must weigh close to 200. Why isn't it the other way around?"

"Malcolm is smart, too smart. One day he mouthed off to Rodwell, and the next day he was compelled to report for duty as the Burwells' cumdump and toilet, where he's been ever since. Does that bother you?"

"Hell, no, it excites the hell out of me. Remember what Rodwell made me into. I just think it's unfair."

"Unfair to Malcolm?"

"No, unfair to Buzz and his dad. They have only one cumdump and toilet to serve the three of them. Say, doesn't Malcolm have a younger brother in Kent's class? And isn't his dad a professor over at the University?"

"I think that's right, yes."

"OK, I have an assignment for you. Using your skills..." I explained what I had in mind.

The next day, Coach visited Dr. Petty's office at the University, meeting him for lunch supposedly to discuss an important matter regarding Malcolm's health. That afternoon, Coach called Malcolm's brother Leroy into his office for an intense discussion. By evening, Coach and I were in his home office to view the results of his hypnotic "discussions".

On the screen was a view of the Burwell's living room again. Tied to chairs were the three Petty males, although from the glassy looks in their eyes the ropes seemed unnecessary. Prowling around each chair was one of the Burwells, like a predator hypnotizing its prey, which was basically what was going on. Kent was busy pouring thoughts, ideas and commands into young Leroy's helplessly open mind, while Buzz was reprogramming Malcolm, and Mr. Burwell was resculpting Dr. Petty's thoughts and desires. Each one was customizing his nerd sex toy around his own personal desires.

George Burwell the gym owner liked full-body contact and force-fucking. His son Buzz liked the idea of all his bodily fluids—piss, cum and spit—being ingested and needed by his toy. Little brother Kent was most interested in causing pain through punching, kicking, and physical torture. Once the Burwells' perverted commands were firmly planted in the Pettys' minds, the Pettys would live to serve the Burwells' desires.

Through the whole programming process, all six males remained naked and erect. The Burwells had near-identical fat six-inch jock cocks, while the Pettys, even the youngest, had thin 7.5 inch ones. As they were being programmed, the Pettys involuntarily twisted and turned the bases of their long thin hard cocks looking like hypnotized Jedi knights trying to get a grip on their light sabers. But the real "force" was in the powerful fat Burwell cocks bobbing around their heads.

It was a highly stimulating scene, and it didn't escape Coach's notice that I was painfully hard myself. I thought I saw a bit of drool escape his lips. But one thing about the scene puzzled me. "Where are the moms in all this?" I asked Coach. "Don't Mrs. Burwell and Mrs. Petty realize something, er, unusual is going on with their families?"

"In just about every one of your classmates' homes, the mother has been programmed to ignore and avoid anything to do with the kids' and dad's sex lives. They have no idea what's going on, nor do they care."

Later, we switched on the camera attached to the rearview mirror in the Pettys' car as they drove home.

Dr. Petty was saying, "Now I expect you boys to serve Kent and Buzz to the best of your abilities. I know I will be trying my best to please George. I just want to be near his powerful body all the time, and my ass feels empty without his thick cock being pounded into it."

Malcolm said, "Yeah, and I feel weak without any Buzz fluids in me. When I see those bull balls, I just wish he would empty them into me. And I feel cheated when I see him standing at a urinal. Why should all that good Buzz-piss go to waste?"

Leroy chimed in, "I wish Kent would put on his spiked shoes and walk all over me. Sometimes I wish he would have a bad day just so I could be there for him to beat up and kick to make him feel better. It would make my life meaningful."

Dr. Petty summed it up. "Well, the Burwells are masculine and powerful, while we're just shameful excuses for men, so they're way superior to us. It's our job to satisfy their manly desires any way we can. It's only right, and we owe it to them. So I want to make sure we're always doing our best to please them."

We switched off the cam. "Good job, Coach. It'll be fun recording the next Burwell-Petty family get-together. Now I want to watch some of the other cams to come up with ideas. While I'm looking at them, you should go back down to the dungeon and let Blackie and Blondie give you some quality time on the rack."

Coach's computer had a touch screen that was mirrored on the 4K wall-hanging screen. On the screen were rows of thumbnail photos with names underneath. I touched the thumbnail labeled "Ethan Deere". Ethan was from a highly religious family, in fact his father was the preacher of a very conservative local church, and Ethan carried that church's values with him into class, for awhile at least. Although he was blond and very attractive, he rarely kept a girlfriend around for long, since he was constantly proselytizing, trying to spread the acceptance of his church's conservative views, alienating many. Naturally, those views included considering homosexuality an abomination.

He hadn't been preaching much lately, to everyone's relief. I remember Evan Mason, who seemed to know everything that was going on with the class, telling me that Rodwell had put Ethan under the control of Axel, the Goth kid. Axel was clearly straight and constantly horny, but as a member of the 'loser' faction of the class he could never get a girlfriend. He was constantly staring at the senior girls and lusting over several female teachers, but was too shy to say anything to anyone. What on earth would he do with preacher boy Ethan?

After touching the Evan thumbnail, I was offered a choice of cams. The only one showing any movement was labeled "Evan's bedroom," so I selected it. The full picture opened up on the 4K screen. Axel in his normal black clothes was sitting on Ethan's bed. Ethan was standing by the bed, totally naked, arms locked behind his back, with a fairly long cock hanging flaccid in front of him. He looked troubled. The audio began.

Ethan was speaking. "...almost done with the whole congregation. Only a few to go."

Axel said, "Yeah, I know. And I know you've been saving your family for last. You've stalled so far, but you know you can't protect 'em from me. They better be ready for Sunday's big event. It's a good thing Rodwell gave you to me before teaching you how to reprogram people's minds. Otherwise you'da brainwashed everyone into joining your church and picking up those fascist values. As it is, I've got a future of shame, degradation and sexual slavery waiting for those 'good people' at your church. And best part is, they'll be sure that they deserve the humiliation and servitude 'cause it's God's will!"

Ethan looked desperate. "P..p..please leave my family out of it, Axel. Everyone else will be at your command this Sunday... please, don't make me reprogram my folks, my sister..."

"How can I do that, dipshit? Your dad leads the congregation. I need him to introduce me and have him fully back me up as a messenger from heaven. It has to be absolutely certain in the congregation's mind that I'm giving them orders straight from the Almighty! And as for your hot sister and even hotter mom—I've definitely got plans for them. And you'll be there to help with all of it, knowing that your mind-control abilities made it all possible!"

Ethan was in tears now, but there was nothing he could do but obey Axel's commands to the letter. And Alex had been clear and careful in his unbreakable instructions: if Ethan on his own had any doubt about how to carry out a command, he was forced to decide what would best suit Axel's purposes. So Ethan couldn't even interpret Alex's commands in any loose way. Over the last few months, visiting one congregation family at a time, Ethan had meticulously layered in the mind programming that Alex would activate this Sunday at the church. Of course the victims were totally unaware of it, but that innocence would die this Sunday.

For this Sunday, Ethan's father, the Reverend Deere, whom Ethan admired immensely and had looked up to his whole life, would be forced to help Axel, the slim Goth "messenger from heaven", take control of his congregation, while Ethan's mom and younger sister—Ethan didn't even want to think about it.

Axel smirked, "Aaaa, stop blubbering and get to work on your family. You have only a few days to take control of them and reprogram them for me. When the congregation sees them in action, they'll all know they're doing the right thing in submitting to me, atoning for their sins, obeying the Lord!" At Axel's command, Ethan was forced to put on his clothes and head down to the living room to begin his task. On his way down, he knew he had to put on a cheery face so his family would not be suspicious and he could begin work on them.

Back in the Coach's office, I couldn't wait until Sunday to see what would happen. As I went to the master bedroom, Coach came stumbling in, a bit worn out from his rack session with Blackie and Blondie. He lay down on the floor next to the bed. I sat on the bed and kicked around his oversized cock and balls with my foot, thinking about what I had just witnessed.

Coach spoke up. "I see you're hard as a rock. If you want to get off right now, I can help you. Of course, I know I'm not allowed to get off without your explicit permission. Also, if you need to use the toilet, no need to go anywhere, I'm right down here."

That night, I had a strange dream. I was in a large, high-ceilinged room, on my hands and knees before a godlike figure, but since my face was looking down, all I could see were these huge glowing feet that I was worshipping with my tongue. The complex aroma coming from those feet had gotten an iron grip on my mind, compelling my total obedience. Behind me in the room I could sense that there were hundreds of others also on their hands and knees looking down, but I had the honor of being right at the god's feet. No one could look at the god directly, it would be too overwhelming.

I could feel that the whole class was present within the group, and that Coach was nearby, in the same prostrate position. There was no sound, but I could hear the god's thought pushed into my mind: "I am back, and you are my slave and prophet." And then I woke up, in a cold sweat.

Could the god in my dream have been... Rodwell?

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