Stink Bomb - Part 1 (Patreon)

Mefitik, Dread Baron of the Chaotic Void, trotted through the air vent on his fluffy little paws. The radioactive green glow of his body lit the way for him. His button nose twitched, scenting his prey. He was close now. Placing his furry rump against the metal wall, he blasted it with his scent glands. His chubby little legs flailed adorably as he tumbled through the hole his toxic secretions had created. Now the only barrier keeping him from his destination was the old home’s plaster ceiling. Another hole later he was looking down at a tall, husky human male with a tousled mane of ash-blond hair, a bushy chinstrap beard, a prominent belly and colorful tat sleeves. The specimen was young… early twenties, probably. The man lay naked in a swirl of black sheets, flat on his back and snoring. His mouth yawned wide, gasping for air.

Another hole.

Rafa Kovacs awoke the next morning with a raging hard-on. Despite a ravenous appetite he didn’t get up right away. Remnants of a strange dream tormented him, and he wanted to recall as much as he could. There had been all the typical things his Death Metal-obsessed brain conjured in his sleep… musclebound zombies, curvaceous witches, haunted cities, apocalyptic skies. And demons, of course.

The sole devil this time had been gargantuan, practically a kaiju, and dressed like a Magyar shepherd. The embroidered cloak, the black tricorn hat with a feather in the band, the staff, the boots… he had seen men costumed like this at festivals when he was a kid back in Hungary. The towering demon was built like a Simon Bisley painting of Glenn Danzig, all veiny muscle and smoldering malevolence, ram’s horns and oozing sores, burning eyes and a poisonous green smoke for breath. He sensed it was Ördög, the shapeshifting ultimate evil from his grandpa’s folk tales. The infernal monster’s hateful glare quickly zeroed in on him, the only idiot in that cursed place not to flee in terror. Instead, he did what he always did in these dreams. He kneeled before the imaginary Satan and offered to become its vessel.

As he struggled to focus his mind, he toyed with his cock, half hoping it would go soft and half glad that it refused to. A nasty taste coated his mouth. It was worse than he’d had from any hangover and yet he hadn’t been drinking. And although the ceiling fan was spinning away at top speed, he was drenched in sweat. He wondered if he was sick.

He lay there pondering this while he stroked himself. He had always been a genius at multitasking. The zaftig form of his standard fantasy girl bubbled up from his subconscious. She was modeled on Lily Munster but lately she also incorporated a healthy dose of Anna Biller in “The Love Witch.” This morning he had trouble maintaining her image. As she tore open her dress, offering her ample breasts to him, her tits flattened out and sprouted hair. Tattoos bloomed on her suddenly beefy arms and her features became puffy and coarse and half-hidden beneath a gnarly dreadlocked beard. Her gorgeous hair slipped off her bare scalp like a cheap wig. And then he found himself jacking it to, essentially, the bassist from Five Finger Death Punch.

He had never fantasized about a guy before. It didn’t faze him; he knew a fair number of gay dudes and he didn’t judge. But if he was going to rub one out thinking about a man, he sure as shit was going to stay in charge of the situation. He envisioned himself wrestling this intimidating character to the ground before violating his ass with his fingers and eventually his entire fist.

Somehow, that brought him to climax. He shot a surprisingly hefty load into his palm, but his member remained hard and firm. He let loose with a deep, husky sigh and immediately snorted as his ungodly breath wafted back down onto his face. It was vile but there was something intriguing about the smell.

He peered up at the ceiling. There was a hole in it, right over his pillow. Not big — maybe the size of a coffee mug. Sickly green stains ringed the opening. That gave him a start. If there had been a leak (of what?) then it may have dripped down into his mouth. No wonder there was a terrible taste on his tongue. No wonder he wasn’t feeling like himself. He would have to call the landlord, Mr. Dzuban. And maybe see a doctor. But breakfast first, boner be damned.

He stripped off his boxer briefs, wiped his hands on them and tossed the garment into the hamper. Eyeing a pair of sweatpants nestled among the other dirty laundry, he fished them out. He wondered if they smelled okay. He brought the cotton crotch to his nose and sniffed. To his relief they smelled fantastic. There were aromas of sweat and precum and chili farts. A delicious melange of odors. He pressed his nose into the fabric and inhaled, not sure why he was doing it except it felt good. His dick perked up even more. Feeling giddy, he pulled the sweats on and was about to walk away when he suddenly paused. He opened the hamper lid again. The stench was intoxicating. Sinking down to the floor, he tipped the hamper over and grabbed more dirty underwear and t-shirts. Covering his head in them like an astronaut’s helmet, he leaned back against the wall and pulled his meat again through the sweatpants, hyperventilating on his own musk. His rigid cock felt like it was still getting bigger. His balls, too. Of course, he was only imagining it. But it was still a major turn-on. After shooting his second load, he just left it there, imagining how hot it would be to have mounds of dried cum stuck to his cock and his bush.

He grabbed his phone and scrolled through his messages as he shambled sleepily towards the kitchen. A few of the girls he partied with had sent him some spicy texts. Mindlessly, he clicked on their names and selected “BLOCK SENDER.”

He rubbed his beard, his fogged brain at a loss to explain his own behavior. He was clean, he knew that. An actual neat freak, to the point it annoyed his roommates. Despite his metalhead style, he was far and away the most fastidious guy in the house. He always showered as soon as he got up in the mornings and he never wore soiled clothes. He despised bad smells.

That was yesterday, a voice in his head purred. When you were young and foolish.

And so, he stopped worrying about it. And then he forgot that he had worried at all. He wondered if his cats had returned. Probably not. It had been a tough week. First, he had been obliged to kick out their roommate Lee. Then the demented bastard had come back and tried to worm his way into the house once more. And then his two cats had run off and now there was a goddamned hole in the ceiling.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. It felt like he hadn’t washed it in a week, even though he’d thoroughly shampooed and conditioned it a day ago. He found his roommate Tanner by the sink, stirring his morning creatine supplement. His security guard uniform shirt was unbuttoned, showing off his smooth chest and washboard abs. Glancing at Rafa’s crotch, he yelped, dropping the spoon on the floor. “What the fuck, bro? Nobody wants to see that!”

“I can think of some people,” Rafa smirked. “Anyway, it doesn’t want to settle down.”

“Sorry if my raw sexuality is giving you a stiffy,” Tanner shot back, his lips curled in utter disgust. Retrieving the spoon, he tossed it in the sink and gulped down his protein drink, using his free hand to shield his eyes. “You look like ass, by the way. Like, worse than the time you bought that snakeskin cowboy hat.”

“Whatever. I don’t suppose my cats have shown back up yet.”

“Not that I know of.” He turned away and started rummaging through the refrigerator. “They’ll be back. Give it time.”

“I just wish I knew why, is all. Cats are weird, okay, but they don’t just do shit for no reason. I dunno… maybe what was left of Lee’s smell drove them away.”

“Lee? No way. We scrubbed his room to the point you could perform surgery in there.”

“I swear I can still smell him sometimes. Don’t tell me you can’t.”

From the laundry room, their other roommate Quincy volunteered, “I can’t.”

Tanner gestured toward Quincy as if that was some sort of proof. “Yeah, you’re nuts. I can’t smell anything. Except your fat, horny ass. And the stank of that fish soup you made last night.

“Don’t shit on halaszle,” Rafa said, his sharp tone bringing his accent into crisp relief. “And I swear, I have been smelling that creepy fucker around the house since… well, I guess since he tried to weasel his way back in. I dunno, maybe he managed to sneak in here, after all. I remember all those weird chemicals he had. Maybe he set off a stink bomb or something to get back at us.”

Boyish, stocky little Quincy squeezed past them with a laundry basket full of silk delicates, his suit coat carefully draped over the top. “A little room, guys?”

Tanner shook his head. “Again? Jesus, bro…!”

Quincy didn’t stop moving until he got to the front door. “Corinne’s washer is still broken,” he said to them over his shoulder. “I’m just being a good boyfriend!”

Rafa couldn’t help chiming in. “You’re being a good butler, dumbass.”

But Quincy was already gone. By now, Tanner had found a bottled coffee and was loudly chugging it. And although he had turned away from Rafa, the Hungarian saw that he kept stealing glances at his tremendous bulge.

Oh God, he could torture my ass with that monster hog all night long…

It was Tanner’s voice. But his mouth wasn’t moving. Was it real? Or just his intuition? He had suspected his friend was gay for a long time. Tanner claimed to be a “player,” so he rarely had any girlfriends. He also spent a lot of time with his barista pal, Chalker, who definitely gave off an “artistic” vibe. And Tanner was certainly enamored of the male form. He was forever admiring himself in mirrors and posting thirst traps on Instagram. He groomed himself to excess, spending a good half-hour just on his beard.

Not that it mattered to Rafa if he was in the closet. Tanner was a nice guy — even if he was a real try-hard when it came to the whole rent-a-cop thing. A lot of puffing his chest out, acting like a stereotypical alpha male. But he always let Rafa decide things for the house. Like kicking out Lee.

Fucking fat daddy bear, fuck me, just smash me into your bed and get your musk all over me…

Tanner’s voice in his head again. It didn’t seem like his imagination. It felt very specific. Rafa wasn’t gay. Or at least he hadn’t thought so until this morning. Maybe he was bi or… hell, he didn’t even care, he realized. He just went wherever his cock pointed, now that he thought about it for more than a second. And he grooved on being the boss more than what his partner looked like. Sizing up Tanner now, he wondered how it would feel to dominate him physically. Mentally, too. It might be fun to knock some of the metrosexual out of him and force him into more of a rocker lifestyle.

Or a biker one. He knew Tanner had talked about getting a motorcycle one day. He’d probably dress in a fancy, colorful racing outfit with a helmet, like he was competing in a Grand Prix. That wouldn’t do at all. He’d have to step in and take control of the situation. He could picture the wannabe lawman with long hair and a true beast of a biker beard, all scruffy and greasy as hell, furry-chested and in leather pants, smoking a fat cigar…

Precum was leaking from his shaft again. Rafa hastily set his phone on the counter and fished inside a cabinet for a box of cereal. Grabbing a particularly sugary brand, he retreated to their little dinette table. If he was going to spooge all over himself, he didn’t want Tanner to see it. It occurred to him he forgot to grab anything else he needed, like milk or a bowl. And his phone was still on the counter. So, he pretended to read the back of the box and when he was bored with that — twenty seconds later — he just stared at the crack that had mysteriously appeared in the laminate top last December.

But his gaze was drawn once more to his handsome friend. Tanner had dared to look back, his expression difficult to discern. There was almost something hungry about it. And not for cereal. Coolly, Rafa remarked, “Caffein knocks some of the potency out of creatine. So maybe lay off the coffee.”

Tanner rolled his eyes. “No offense, but your major is in veterinary sciences, not sports nutrition.” He bolted the rest of the coffee down in one swallow. “That invitation to join me at the gym is still open, by the way. I could help you melt some of that fat off. I mean, you got all those black muscle shirts and no muscles.”

Rafa just shook his head. “Have you seen my family? We’re just kind of naturally round. I’m good, man. But thanks.”

“Your loss, chubs.” He walked away, buttoning his shirt. He cast one last dubious glance at Rafa and shook his head. “You and your hair—!” A half-minute later the front door slammed shut.

Rafa hopped to his feet, hauled out his pecker and hurriedly jerked himself off. His rod felt as big around as a soda can and beneath the lubricating slime of his cum it seemed to be strangely shaped, the tip far more conical than it should be. Not that he bothered looking down at it. His eyes were closed as he fantasized about ravishing Tanner atop the table, enjoying the image of a powerful male reduced to a squealing bitch. He wanted Tanner, wanted to bend him to his will, make him over not just in appearance but in personality. He imagined the changes washing over Tanner as he fucked him. Dream Tanner’s overly trimmed and moisturized beard grew bushy and wild, ballooning to mountain man proportions and acquiring a good deal of gray. A thicket of curling hair swarmed his waxed torso. As he moaned, his voice deepened and turned husky — the voice of a longtime smoker and drinker. His regulation bro-dude undercut rapidly grew out, gifting him with a greasy mane fit for a metal god. A red bandanna wrapped around his forehead to keep it in check. Numerous piercings materialized along with leather bracelets and chunky rings. As Rafa unloaded his seed into this hypothetical Tanner, he pictured his roommate’s expression altering as he became stupider and meaner. The perfect underling. For what, Rafa couldn’t even guess. He just knew he wanted one.

He felt lightheaded. Suddenly it was darker, and he was standing behind himself. No, not himself. Tanner. Tanner was there in a plaid flannel shirt, jeans around his legs, screwing another man atop the table. In confusion, Rafa looked about the room, desperate for something to ground him. Through the blinds of the kitchen window, he could see it was nighttime. Snow lay on the ground. A multitude of soft pastel lights from the living room spilled through the passageway. Christmas lights.

Rafa wondered about the identity of Tanner’s conquest. He couldn’t see his face, but the man’s feet were atop Tanner’s shoulders, and he could tell he was wearing Italian leather ankle boots. Fucking Chalker. Of course. It was too funny. Tanner was fucking Fucking Chalker. With gusto!

The table rocked forward and slammed down into the linoleum. An ear-splitting noise like a whip made Tanner jump. Rafa too. Chalker rolled off the table laughing, his stupid man-bun disheveled. Tanner thumped his hand against the crack in the laminate. “Now see what you made me do,” he groaned.

Chalker threw his arms about him, a coquettish smile on his face. “You gonna punish me, Daddy?”

Sunlight poked needles into Rafa’s eyes. It was morning again and he was alone, his half-hard dick resting on the table. Except it wasn’t his dick. It couldn’t be. His dick was human. Not this eighteen-inch-long thing with a pointed tip and an actual sheath like an animal’s, the leathery covering bristling with stiff black hair. His balls were now the size of oranges and even furrier than the sheath. And his pubes were six inches long, straight and dense and silky, like the scruff on the back of a hyena. The hair was jet black, all of it, spreading outward from his crotch and creeping down his thighs and up his belly, subsuming his naturally copious ash-blond hair in a bestial pelt. The cum — so much, too much — was a minty green and emitted a faint glow. It was the same shade of green as the stain on his ceiling.

He was hallucinating, he decided. That was the only answer. And he knew who to blame. Lee. He didn’t know why they had ever let the pissy, antisocial little bitch move in with them. They didn’t need the money. None of them had even met him before. He just showed up one day and established himself in the attic. In fact, he had insisted on that specific room. He mostly stayed in there with the door locked. Just as well, really; he was an arrogant, grumpy nerd who never bathed. His mysterious activities made a stink even worse than his body odor. It was a pernicious kind of chemistry set smell, seeping through the walls, and spreading down the stairs. Two months in, Rafa had secured a key from Mr. Dzuban. Lee had been quiet for a few days and his car was gone so he assumed the attic would be unoccupied. Instead, he found Lee sitting naked in the middle of a pattern made of red powder and small animal skulls, chanting in a guttural voice. In front of him was a small pile of mangled meat and fur with a dagger plunged through the center. “I swear I didn’t kill it,” he had whined. “I just found it!”

But Rafa had already pulled him to his feet and was dragging him downstairs. Lee cried like a real pussy the whole time. His car had been repossessed, he whined, he had nowhere to go, no way to get there if there was, just whine whine whine… Tough shit.

Because Lee had just talked his way into living there without signing a lease, he had no legal right to stay. His creepy Kylo Ren-looking ass was out of there, end of story. Rafa, Tanner, and Quincy did not tell Mr. Dzuban about any of this, since they had never told him that Lee was living there in the first place. They cleaned up the mess, soaked the room in bleach and air neutralizer, and went on with their lives.

Two days later Lee returned — on foot — talking their ears off with a pitch about moving back in. Tanner and Quincy acted like they were honestly considering it, but Rafa put his foot down. The other two fell in line like they always did. Lee’s pale cheeks turned uncharacteristically rosy, and he stalked off without saying another word.

That was reason enough for Lee to strike back at him. Had Lee done something to his cats or planted something in the ceiling to drip down on him? Some mind-altering substance? Maybe he was still in the house. In the attic.

Rafa sprinted out of the kitchen and up the stairs, trying to ignore the freakish cock thumping against his black-furred stomach. His vision blurred. Ghosts were moving all around him. Phantoms of Quincy and Tanner and himself, their buddies, various girlfriends and hookups, all of them people who had set foot inside the house before. Their voices overlapped, grew cacophonous.

On the second floor landing, he collapsed, nauseous. The moist, ragged noise of someone retching drowned out the babble. It wasn’t him. It was coming from the hall bathroom. Homing in on the sound made the ghosts fall silent; they winked out of view right after. Rafa stood up, knees and guts wobbling. He padded over to the doorway. He saw another ghost, another secret kept from him. It made his heart hurt. But he could fix it, he knew. “Crazy,” he whispered to himself. “These thoughts are all… this isn’t me. I’m just fucked up by that… whatever it was Lee did to me.” The vomiting specter faded and bled into the air like watercolors, and then it was gone.

Rafa propped himself up in the doorway and waited for his stomach to cease its calisthenics. His thoughts were jumbled. He should go to a hospital, he decided. They could pump his stomach or give him antipsychotic meds to remedy whatever the hell Lee did to him. But what exactly did the bastard do? Not magic, surely. There was no such thing. No, Lee was just another delusional asshole who had convinced himself he was the second coming of Dr. Strange. And yet… Rafa recalled something that could poke a hole in the idea he’d merely been drugged. Something Tanner had said that morning. He steeled himself and walked inside the room so he could look in the mirror. You and your hair. A broad white streak ran right down the center of his ash blond tresses. Like a skunk. And Tanner had seen it.

“Fuck yeah, I was talking about your hair, ya weirdo,” Tanner teased him over the phone a minute later. “Let me guess: you got drunk last night and decided to experiment on it. Do yourself a favor and just shave that shit off and start over. And maybe do something about those Goth black pubes you apparently used a goddamn flatiron on and— “

Rafa ended the call. He let the phone clatter against the tile floor. A dusting of fine black hairs had appeared on his fingers and the backs of his hands. His raven-hued nail polish cracked and flaked off, revealing neon green talons, long and razor-sharp. An itching on his palms presaged the skin there growing leathery as it thickened into pads. He wondered how they would feel on his cock right then. The monster phallus lurched upward, aching with an ecstatic anticipation. It was so long, now, that he could easily suck himself off. The pink flesh ripened into a searing sour apple green, the mint-colored precum trickling from the slit taking on a similarly intense hue. And it was hot, all of it, the moist, throbbing tissue steaming in the small, cool room. As the musty aroma hit him, he could feel his nose writhe and change, becoming bulbous and pert, like something on an animal’s face. A wary glance at his reflection showed that it was indeed a beast’s pebbled gray snout — not anything that belonged on a human being’s visage. An ache in his gums alerted him to further changes. He drew his darkening lips back to see black gums baring teeth that were turning a nasty yellow and warping into fangs. His werewolf hand was on his freakish cock, digging his claws into the shaft, spiking his pleasure with jolts of pain. And the tip of his stinking green, veiny dick was so close to his mouth he could practically taste it.

Just as he was about to place his black lips on his own cock, he caught himself and drew back from it. But his free hand clamped down on the back of his head and forced his lips to touch the wet, tantalizing shaft. Feeling utterly broken, he gave in to his desires and began sucking himself off. His hand removed itself from his neck. Playfully, it patted his head and then gave his cheek a harsh slap before floating downward to spend time tickling his balls. The testes themselves had swollen to the size of cantaloupes and were hanging down to the middle of his thighs. He could feel the inhuman spunk churning within them. Slurping down his own corrupted fluids twisted the shape of his face even more, pulling the lower half of it outward into an abbreviated muzzle. His tunnel plugs dropped from his lobes as his ears shrank and became furry and round. Swiftly, they wriggled upward and took root nearer the top of his head.

The mirror cracked right down the middle. Dark spots caused by age and moisture clouded the glass. Blotches of gray mildew crept outward from the mirror, blighting the walls, assuming a pattern. Bats and withered roses and thorny vines. As the faucet tarnished into a dull black, the sink cabinet sprouted clawed feet and louvered doors, becoming a deranged mix of Rococo and Victorian. The cheap channel glass light fixture shattered, the fragments rearranging themselves into a pair of skeletal arms holding crackled globes belching green gas flames. The amenities of a vampire’s mansion. And he kept pleasuring himself, desperate to swallow his own seed. The shower curtain rotted into a lacy black shroud depicting skulls caught in spider webs.

And everything was filthy. He was filth, personified, rotting from his core outwards. His clothes were in shreds, ruined just from touching his corrupting form. He shrugged off the tatters and kept moving his deadly mouth over the demonic shaft. The ghosts were back, shifting erratically in time and space. Ghosts of the past, ghosts of possible futures. This was wisdom, he understood at last. And it was power. He saw things that had happened elsewhere, decades ago, ages ago. Happening to the green demon but somehow also to him. He could hear himself playing electric guitar one week from now. No longer a bumbling amateur but a true virtuoso. A mob of beast men were in his thrall. He could see himself two months from now as a titanic being in a city made entirely of haunted houses, grappling with a beautiful golden man with a metal mask like a boar’s head. Thousands of years in the past he could see himself, the demon, on a cyclopian throne in Dis, the city from his human dream. In search of new places to rule, he traveled on roads made of music and words and movement to the Lands of Balance. The inhospitable imaginations and paltry number of dimensions outside his dominion crushed him down and distorted his mighty form, making him resemble a skunk kit. That’s why he needed human bodies. These bodies were all unwilling and difficult to control. Like unbroken steeds. Except for this new one.

Rafa Kovacs, not understanding his soul had been transported to the Chaotic Void, had offered himself freely. And Baron Mefitik had found himself unexpectedly sunk deep into the human’s essence — so deeply, in fact, that he fused with it. This was no simple possession. It was a merger.

We want/I want The same things/The best possible thing (They/he thought as their minds melted together for all time)

I just want what’s best for everyone

Lucky for them, that’s me

A skunk’s tail, enormous, glorious, rocketed from the base of his spine. At the sight of it — his badge of office, the root of his implacable, all-consuming potency — he shot his load into himself, a complete regenerating circuit. The new glands in his ass squirted their oily payload in harmony. A cloud of glowing green mist exploded into the room.

He admired himself in the mirror. He had been stocky before, but now his beefy form looked powerful, his flabby gut now a firm ball belly accented by the ridges of his abdominal muscles. He had a power lifter’s arms and legs, titanic, brutal in the sense of strength they projected. The white streak in his hair was sandwiched by adjoining stripes in a bright, foul green. His chinstrap beard was bushier than ever, with a white streak shot right down the center. A broad green patch of fur had also bloomed on his chest, right between his meaty pecs. Every other inch of skin was coated in glistening black fur. An agreeably musky stink emanated from his leathery soles. He saw that his feet had grown several sizes larger and now terminated in sharp green talons. His eyes were bloodshot. As he watched, the warm brown of his pupils ripened to hazel, then rotted into a radioactive chartreuse.

“Fuck yeah,” he moaned, feeling his shaft firm up again at the sight. Green pre leaked from his cock slit as he strategized. His flesh tingled with pleasure as more stink glands emerged on his body: in his armpits, on the soles of his feet, on his palms, in his tear ducts, his nostrils, at the base of his tongue. His nipples puffed up as thick and as large as his thumbs, turning bright green as they welcomed yet more stink glands, the areoles shifting to a green tint and swelling to the width of jar lids to better set them off. So many ways to anoint his flock with his unholy juices.

A perfect body. Which nobody else could perceive… yet. Men who hadn’t been blessed by his unholy juices would see him as his old human self… mostly. He’d still carry his lordly stink. His eyes would still look green, and he would seem substantially hairier and bulkier, his beard a little thicker, his teeth a bit sharper. Sunglasses would help to disguise his eyes. New clothes would cover the excess hair. His old clothes, always a size too small, wouldn’t fit his swollen body, though. He decided to crib Tanner’s sweatpants and hoodie. He would have to hurry, he knew. His innate corruption would rot the fabric away in less than a day.

The risk would be worth it. He had to give his two best friends a taste of the gifts he enjoyed. He would ease them into it. A seduction. And that required planning. Every other man, he would just force.

The longer he acclimated to this primitive plane of existence, the more his mastery of it would grow. He could see it all. Smirking, he sauntered out the door. His two cats were on the lawn. They hissed at him; no doubt alarmed by his stink. He hissed back, baring his fangs. As they tried to run, he moved with superhuman speed and seized them by their scruff. Spraying them with the gland in his mouth subdued them right away. They writhed for a few moments, then grew calm. He gently sat the freshly turned skunks back down on the lawn, petting their striped heads and cooing at them. They scampered away into the bushes. Whistling, he strode down the sidewalk, daydreaming of the wondrous new creatures he would create.