Date: Tue, 9 May 2006 03:01:27 -0700 (PDT) From: Alistair Bentley Subject: Headshop-Neighbors-Chapter 7-New Tenant Headshop: Neighbors Chapter 7: New Tenant By Xformguy@yahoo.com Cameron tilted and swayed at the mirror. Everything in his body was telling him to sit down, but he couldn't drag himself from the reflection. He poured over every feature of the face that wasn't really his . . . yet somehow he'd been made to occupy. Blank disbelief gave way grudgingly to half-acceptance. It wasn't possible. But in the last several days, he'd been turned half-way into a cum-sucking pig, made to fuck his best friend who'd himself been turned into a half-donkey fuck boy, and been both emasculated and restored by the very body he was staring at. Brandon's body registered to his senses as "wrong." The weight of it, the center of gravity, the headache that was building in his sinuses, and the fact that he was getting a half-erection out of nowhere. All of it added up to his brain as fundamentally incorrect. He wasn't the 38-year-old lawyer anymore, the guy who worked out frequently. He was the 20-something pot-smoking freak down the hall. Cameron did eventually let go of the reflection and stumble back to the bed. His headache was breaking over him now with frightening intensity. A pounding throb thudded behind each of his eyes and he shut them, curling up and pulling the pillow over his head. His body coughed several times, so hard he thought his ribs would break with the effort, but still he lay in the bed. He honestly didn't now what to do and for the moment, he didn't care. Along with the headache came a powerful apathy. He was beaten. In this struggle with Brandon, he had lost. He realized the importance of all the comments that Brandon had been making about his REAL body last night. Brandon had been admiring his work. Cameron's body had been systematically changed to suit Brandon's needs, like a home that had been renovated for a new tenant. Then, Brandon had moved in, leaving Cameron in this younger, smooth, pink body. It had been the double bong, the weed . . . Cameron knew it with a level of certainty he couldn't understand . . . that had been the mechanism. Even with the headache, Cameron felt Brandon's cock get hard. It was an erection that came up slowly, but in the end was insistent against his belly. Sexual thoughts started to creep into his mind and he realized he his body wanted to get off. He imagined himself - - as his old body - - and his mind skittered across the planes of his muscle and hair. He saw himself from the outside - - which was disorienting - - and were of Brandon's body fucking his round, hairy ass - - but from Brandon's point of view. The fact that he would be having sex with himself made it somehow more hot. Cameron shook himself, pulled the pillow off his head, and sat up. His cock was hard. A huge, unfamiliar pink thing that jutted so that the head bobbed against his abs, well above his navel. He looked down his utterly smooth chest, and he rubbed his palm against it, still not believing he was getting sensations from this body. He couldn't be IN this body! His mind struggled against it. His hand reached his pubes, thinly furred like those of an adolescent and then touched the base of his cock. He felt suddenly weird for feeling Brandon's cock. He still had a rampaging headache, so he willed himself to let go. He rolled over on his side into a half fetal position, covered his head with the pillow and tried to sleep it off. He didn't feel tired exactly, but his head was hitting migraine levels and he needed to be unconscious. Sleep didn't come. Cameron kept imagining his own body, standing in front of him and of himself in Brandon's body touching it, feeling it up, licking his old nipples until they jutted outward. Cameron pushed the images away, but they returned, creeping in as he tried to concentrate on blankness, on sleep. His cock was hard and the frenum was rubbing against the sheets. He imagined his own body, masculine and hairy, turning around, bending over. He imagined his back muscles clenching - - as he had never quite seen them from this angle, it was pure imagination - - and of his glutes, toned and flexing. He imagined his powerful legs planted wide enough. Cameron knew what was coming - - Jesus! how could he be this obscene to himself? - - his huge masculine hands reached behind, fingers finding his ass-crack, pulling the glutes aside. Cameron imagined something he'd never seen - - his own pucker, pink and surrounded by his dark brown hair. It was a strange level of erotic. He was at one time, overcome with a desire to touch it, and repulsed. Cameron's conscious mind rejected the concept of being aroused by his asshole, but this body - - Brandon's body - - was getting off on it. Sexual desire flooded his groin and he groaned - - through the pounding headache - - he groaned and drove his cock against the mattress. All Cameron could think when this happened was that he was a fag now - - Brandon's body was biologically a faggot - - and now he's mind was trapped in the body of a faggot - - having faggot sexual thoughts about himself. Jesus! The circular weirdness of it had him at a loss and he spiraled into the desire without control. He imagined himself licking Brandon's long, slender finger and jutting it inside the moist pucker, feeling the heat, wiggling, causing his old body to moan like a bitch. He imagined pumping that finger over and over until his old body got the rhythm and clenched in time with it. He imagined sidling up to his old body's legs, feeling Brandon's hips against his ass, lining Brandon's long cock with the pucker and then . . . the wonderful, the blissful sensation of insertion. Cameron came. The first blast splashed against the mattress and his belly. He rolled over with a groan and the second blast caught him in the eye. The third hit the pit of his collarbone. The fourth, fifth, and sixth traced a line down his chest. He grabbed the base of his - - No! Brandon's - - cock and squeezed it hard out of instinct. The pleasure rocketing through him was beautiful. The seventh, eighth and ninth shots sprayed across his belly. Then the normal clenching of his body became a little painful in intensity, as his body seemed to be wringing every last drop of cum from him. Tenth and eleventh shots were dribbles, but no less clenched. The twelfth felt like he was going to crack his pelvis and crush his nuts, but it finally spurt a little and stopped. He gave a half-hearted thirteenth, but it was a blank. No sooner had he dug the cum out of his eye with his fingertip than a new sensation blossomed in his body. It fell upon him like a sluice of warm water on his skin, moving across his surfaces and then soaking into them. It wasn't pleasure and it wasn't pain, but was powerful and driving. Cameron's heart raced and his breathing came in sharp gasps of intensity as it played out. He felt himself change - - and fear burst into his chest when he associated this sensation to what happened when he'd become the pig - - but it wasn't awkward or wrong, it was pleasant. The wave passed, leaving him with a profound euphoria. He felt energized and refreshed, rather than mutated. Nonetheless, Cameron quickly sat up and touched himself everywhere, examining every surface of Brandon's body for some horrible transformation. He found none. He found only the same twink body with it's lolling cock and hairlessness. His hands and feet were human shaped, his ears and face were normal to the touch, and he had no tail growing from his backside. He sighed in relief, but stumbled out of bed for the mirror again. He looked like he had a few minutes ago. It was Brandon's face and torso in the mirror; nothing overt had changed, but still, there was something different, something "fresher" about how he looked. His skin, while still pale, glowed with a vigor it hadn't had before. The dark circles under his eyes had vanished. He realized his headache had gone and that he was getting horny again spontaneously. Fuck! Touching his chest, Cameron's attention diverted to the fact that he was still covered in cum - - Brandon's cum - - Brandon's chest and body! He turned his nose up at it and looked around the room for a towel. There were piles of dirty clothing everywhere, the bed covers had fallen to the floor, but there were no towels. He spied the open closet, where almost nothing was hung, but which had a mountain of jeans, t-shirts, underwear and socks piled on the floor of it. He saw another door and concluded it was the master bath, so he headed for it. Cameron swung open the door and zeroed in on white envelope taped to the mirror. It was labeled "Brandon." He tore it off the mirror and oponed it. "The body you're in has a curse. Listen close. The curse is activated whenever you shoot your load. The only way to avoid the curse is to unload within someone's throat or within their ass (no condoms). They have to swallow it all, completely. If any liquid gets outside of their body, the curse will happen. If it happens, you'll grow approximately 1 year younger than you were before. You will cum every 12 hours spontaneously, so it's better to do it with someone to avoid the curse. Unload within someone often . . . and use the pot to cut the horniness, it helps. You might think it's interesting to get younger. Just think about how young you could get. I don't know what would happen if you get below puberty. You might still have the curse, and who's going to fuck a kid? You'd get younger and younger until you're a toddler or an infant. Just think about it. Oh . . . there's no way to get older; you have to grow up again. When I left you, you were about 21 by my best calculations." It was signed "Cameron." It was his old handwriting. Cameron just balled up paper and tossed it onto the bathroom counter. He leaned forward, shoving bottle after bottle of deodorant, cologne and body spray aside. He hung his head down, absorbing this knowledge. Of course, this was the motive behind Brandon's switch with him. He had to fuck someone every 12 hours?! How was he going to do that? The spontaneous orgasm had just happened . . . he'd gotten horny and BLAM! . . . without even touching himself. And the weird feeling after it? Cameron's vision shot up to the mirror and he reexamined himself. He was still unfamiliar with Brandon's body's features to really tell what might be different, but he certainly had the healthy, fresh glow of a teenager. He put himself at maybe 19 or 20 . . . right in line with Brandon's note. Cameron shook his head, feeling a mounting wave of rejection in his mind. He knew all of this was impossible . . . the specific events of his transformations, but also this intolerable situation . . . but he was living them. Eventually, these two thoughts locked up and left him brain dead. But he took a deep breath, and remembered some tricks from his corporate days. He had been a lawyer, been trained in project management, unexpected things had happened to cases and caused instant stress. He'd gotten himself down into logical catch-22's before, trying to figure out some quirk of the law. He remembered the trick . . . just take a breath, do what's right in front of you, sort out the big picture later. Right now, he was in a strange body, covered in cum and sweat, hungry, and, while his headache had momentarily vanished, it was returning. He felt jittery and weird and thus, willed himself off the counter and to the shower. Pulling back the shower curtain, he realized that Brandon must never have cleaned it. It was coated in soap scum and the grout between the tiles had grown black with trails of mildew. It didn't matter right this second, so Cameron stepped in, turned on the water, and took himself a long, hot shower. It was weird again, soaping up his frame. He was struck again by how different Brandon's twink body felt to how he remembered his adult body feeling. He had been taller, stronger, thicker than Brandon. It still felt wrong to touch Brandon's body in all the places he washed - - a violation of Brandon's privacy somehow - - but what else could he do? He pushed away the concept of Brandon doing the same to his body. Leaving the shower, he wrapped a smelly towel around himself and went to the closet mound. He pulled shirt after shirt up, but they all smelled rank. This must be the dirty clothes pile. Cameron went to the dresser and opened a drawer, finding a wad of unfolded bikini briefs that didn't smell wrong. Wearing one, however, DID feel wrong because he was accustomed to boxers or boxer briefs . . . never these low cut, barely there bits of cloth. Brandon's cock looked huge and obscene trapped tight against his hip. Just seeing it there fired his imagination . . . something in the back of his mind was getting charged again. He shook it away and concentrated on the moment. He found socks easy enough and pulled them on. He found a blue "Superman" t-shirt and pulled that on, although his lean frame hardly puffed out the chest like a "Superman." But he had to remember that he was "Super-boi" now. Casting around in the dresser, there were no jeans or shorts. But he found something much more interesting. In one of the top drawers was a mass of . . . stuff. There were a dozen small, brown glass bottles with dropper-tops on them. They were all labeled cryptic shit: "stiffy," "wood-boy," "dick pig," "Ba-Donk," and similar hap-hazard names. Yet, Cameron knew instantly what this was: the chemicals that had transformed him and Duane. There were more: "small boy," "cockzilla," "udder cum," and more. There were also small zip-lock bags of pot, each labeled with a magic marker: "special blend," "Victor," "Dawg Lover," "Robin," and more. There was also a small wooden chest, about the width of his palm, that had an index card taped to it that read : "Safe." The word was in Brandon's handwriting. Inside was a bag of pot without any other label. This must be the pot that Brandon had told him to smoke. Cameron felt his cock - - er, Brandon's cock, - - twitch at the thought. In fact, standing there, smelling the aroma of the pot, it started to thicken in his tiny briefs. Before he realized it, he was reaching for the bag, opening it, and fingering out a portion of the weed to roll in the papers that littered the bottom of the drawer. Then he caught himself doing it. Whatever wave of horniness Brandon had predicted, was happening. Out of nowhere, his cock wasn't just twitching and chubbing, it was moving toward full-on erection. Sexual images unfolded and danced across his mind - - most notably, about Duane and that Latino kid, Eddie fucking - - Jesus! Cameron remembered he was supposed to be straight, and remembered that Brandon's body was gay, and had a momentary huge frission in his head as these thoughts collided and fought. The image of Duane - - FUCK! Duane was hot - - pumping his cock into the Latino kid! That got his cock boiling. The thought of the reverse, was just as hot. Cameron remembered Duane's bubble ass, pulled apart by his meaty hands to reveal a tight, pink pucker. He'd seen it. He'd been forced to actually fuck it. God it had been tight! When he opened his eyes, Cameron realized he was on the edge of the bed, with his briefs pulled down, stroking Brandon's 10-inch pink boner. He was in the early stages . . . when the stroke itself was just a promise of the orgasm to come. He willed his hand off the cock - - shit! If he jacked off, came again, then he'd get younger immediately. Shit! Shit! He stood up, pulled up his briefs, and grabbed the nearest jeans on the floor - - those that Brandon had been wearing the day before. He pulled them on and buttoned them, ignoring the discomfort from his trapped erection. He moved to the dresser drawer, pulled out some safe weed, and expertly rolled a joint. He didn't remember ever rolling one in his life, but his fingers must have known. He put it to his lips, grabbed a lighter, and toked it up. On the edge of the bed again, he sucked in and held it. Again, these were unfamiliar sensations to Cameron, but host body seemed adept at it. The pot slammed into his brain like the flat end of a shovel, and he immediately felt mellow. The images of Duane's naked ass receded politely and his erection got languid. A few more tokes and the whole situation he was trapped inside seemed okay. He was a punk, pot smoking, faggot, twenty-year-old who got off turning people into barnyard animals. Alrighty. Cameron's ability to care was definitely impaired. Brandon's note had been right: the pot did help. Cameron hadn't gotten high since his early college days when he'd experimented with weed like every other college kid. He remembered spending about three or four months getting high every weekend until it had become clear that his life was going to slide down the shithole because of it. In the end he could barely concentration on anything when he hadn't been stoned. Even so, his experience from those days didn't prepare him from the strength of this weed. Usually it took some time of him toking to pop his head, but now, it was off his shoulders and floating above him somewhere, after only a couple of tokes. This was VERY excellent weed. He stubbed out the roach when he felt himself getting sleepy. It registered to his brain in a lackadaisical way that if he fell asleep, his time limit would pass and he'd get younger automatically. It had already happened. I could happen again just as easily. So, he stubbed it out, pocketed the joint and the lighter, and ambled to the desk where he found Brandon's wallet. Inside was I.D. that match his new appearance . . . and more cash than he thought possible. There was a thousand dollars in hundreds tucked behind ticket stubs and folded up receipts. Fuck. What did Brandon do for a living? Cameron slid the wallet into the front pocket of his jeans. Whatever. He didn't care really. He just wanted some food. Cameron grabbed some sneakers and pushed his feet into them, then padded out into the apartment. There was another bedroom across the hall from his and, peering inside, he figured it belonged to that Latino kid, Eddie. He wasn't there at moment, and his room looked torn apart, as if Eddie had packed and left hastily. Maybe he had. Cameron ambled into the main room, and checked the kitchen. It was an unsanitary mess, just like the bedroom and the bathroom. Jeez. Brandon must never have cleaned it. Whatever. In his buzz, Cameron didn't care. Inside the frig, he found container after container of leftovers. He sifted through them until he found some chicken and cheese thing that didn't look too old, then popped it in the microwave. Cameron knew it was the pot, but it tasted better than anything he'd ever eaten. Cameron moved to the living room and plopped down the beige fabric couch. He propped his feet on the coffee table as he ate from the Styrofoam. He looked at the massive pile of audio visual equipment and glanced at the ten remotes and gamepads, wondering vaguely if he felt like watching something. Then he noticed the shoebox. Cameron carefully slid it over to him and popped off the lid. Inside were disembodied cocks and balls, capped by the silver ring. Shit. Cameron had never paid attention to cocks before . . . at least not side-by-side where he could compare them. Of course, they all had the same design: nut sack, shaft, mushroom head, but some had foreskin and some didn't. Yes, they were all distinctive. He reached down and touched the black guy's cock, touching the velvety skin. He'd never touched a black guy's cock . . . never really seen one longer than a glance in the locker room. It seemed strange, black shaft, black glans - - so unlike his bright pink one. But, it was just like any cock. Give it some attention, and it starts to harden up and lengthen. Cameron's hand closed around the base of it, his fingers brushing the nuts, and he lifted it out, even as the erection grew from his grasp into a long, 9-inch pole. Somewhere, across town, a black guy was feeling this. He wondered where. He wondered who. But the phone in Brandon's pants chirped and sent Cameron fishing it out of the pocket. He flipped open the phone and the image of an upright, black professional man appeared. Cameron answered the phone and said, "Hello?" "Sir?" the voice came, thick and rich, but also expressing a deep need. Cameron didn't know what to say. He squeezed the disembodied cock in his grip, and watched it react with fascination. He'd only been this close to a cock before, that was when he'd blown Brandon - - jeez! The very cock that was trapped in his pants right now! He knew that before now, he'd never even been interested in other mens' cocks, always thought of them as a neutral fact of life to be briefly encountered in locker rooms. He'd paid attention to his own, of course, but it was very different to hold one near his face. "Please let me cum," the voice on the phone begged, "I'll do anything." "How long has it been?" Cameron asked him, his voice a mixture of Brandon's intonations and his own word choice. "Four months, Sir," the voice came. "So, you want it bad," Cameron asked him, feeling cruelty well up in him. He was still reeling from the weed, but it was a pleasant feeling. Holding this man's cock in his hand, he felt the awesome control of it. The guy on the phone would do anything to get his cock back; he knew from first hand experience. Whatever Cameron asked, the guy would do. The very thought of it, made Cameron's own cock start to swell again as the horniness he'd subdued with the pot reasserted itself. The voice on the phone tried to respond. Cameron could picture him on the other end, trying to come up with an answer that didn't make him the abject slave he had become. The guy was trying to hold onto whatever shred of dignity was left. Somehow, hearing that breathy struggle only inflamed Cameron's cock more. Cameron knew that he'd have to cum in the next few hours. He'd bought himself a little time from the orgasm he'd already had, but another would come and if he didn't put it into someone, he'd get younger still. And here was a guy who would do anything Cameron required of him. Cameron checked his watch, "Come over at 5:00pm, I'm going to fuck you." He hung up. He gently tossed the cock back in the box with the others and closed the lid. He sat on the couch, his hand absently rubbing his chub, coming to grips with what he had just done, what he was going to do at 5:00pm. His sexual imagination ran wild, as he put himself into a scene with the professional black man, bending him over, jabbing his pink cock into a black ass for his own pleasure. He would use the man's disembodied cock as ransom for his own pleasure - - he HAD to get off before the curse reactivated. All at once, he understood Brandon's motivations for everything he'd done to Cameron. It has been a desperate self-preservation. Could Cameron really do the same thing? Could he really violate another guy in the same fashion that he'd been violated? It sat in Cameron's mind like a roadblock to other thoughts. Luckily, the noise of yelling from the hallway outside the apartment drew his attention. The voice that was yelling . . . it was hauntingly familiar. Cameron scrambled up and opened the front door. Just as he did, he saw the door to his old apartment slam shut and Duane, wearing jeans and a coffee-colored shirt, step back in surprise. Cameron knew that Brandon, wearing his body, had just slammed the door in Duane's face. Part of him swooned a little, looking at how Duane's frame filled out the loose, button-up shirt, the way it pressed against his chest and shoulders. Duane had always had a bulky, muscular frame, but today it seemed unusually pumped and powerful. Then there was Duane's corn-fed face, honest and open, and wearing a sour expression of confusion mixed with annoyance. Cameron felt a powerful surge of his affection for Duane - - once merely a fraternal friendship - - intermix with something chemical in his blood until it became the admixture of real sexual attraction. He and Duane had been friends for a while, confidantes, and the experiences they'd just had this weekend had only cemented that connection. But watching him down the hallway, he felt love for Duane, so strong is blocked out the weirdness of the situation. Duane and Cameron looked at one another blankly, both trying to figure out what to say. "You did something to him," Duane said, "Undo it." Cameron snapped to attention. Of course, Duane thought he was Brandon. How could he convince his best friend that it was really him inside this body? He wanted to touch Duane so badly, just to feel the reassurance of his flesh, and trapped in his bikini briefs, his cock started to get hard again. "I'm Cameron," he told Duane, "Brandon did something to me last night. I'm inside his body now." From his expression, Duane clearly didn't believe this. "Think about how he's acting," Cameron gestured to the door that had just been slammed, "It's Brandon in my body saying those things, slamming the door." Duane was thinking about it hard, his face twisted up quizzically. "It might be a trick," he said, "some way to manipulate us." "I know," Cameron said. He shifted on his feet, trying to think of a way to convince Duane amid the headache that was slowly returning and the rumbling emptiness in his stomach. "But I've got all of his chemicals and shit in here. I might be able to fix us. I just . . . need help." Duane stepped forward and Cameron could see the gigantic bulge down his right pant leg. He remembered yesterday how Duane had confided that his cock kept getting larger and larger . . . it must still be the case, because he was packing a bulge that was clearly larger than normal. "Who was my last girlfriend?" Duane asked him, "and what was different about her?" It was a test, of course. Something Brandon could never know. "Stacy Kinnebrew," Cameron told him, "you bought an engagement ring and showed it to me at the gym, but she broke it off before you could ask her." Duane stopped, taken aback, and examined Cameron - - or Brandon's body, really - - more carefully. "He turned you into a kid?" Duane asked. Cameron shrugged his annoyance at the situation. "It's complicated," he said, "but yeah." "That's really fucked up." "I know," Cameron agreed, "Come inside. Let's see what we can figure out from all the shit he's got in here. Maybe we can reverse it." Duane nodded is agreement and followed Cameron back into the apartment.