Date: Sun, 23 Jul 2006 04:13:16 -0700 (PDT) From: Alistair Bentley Subject: Headshop-Neighbors-Chapter 10-Rent's Due Headshop: Neighbors Chapter 10: Rent's Due By Xformguy@yahoo.com "I don't know what the fuck you're doing with my cock, motherfucker," Guillarmo said, storming inside the apartment, "But you're gonna stop it right --" The stocky Latino man stopped short, spying Jacob, thrusting Guillarmo's disembodied cock deep into a pussy that shouldn't be between the black man's legs. Guillarmo steadied himself - - and Cameron knew that he was feeling the sensations of the cock inside the cunt. The disembodied cock that Jacob was working into himself was Guillarmo's. Cameron slammed the door, flush with anger that welled up inside him. Guillarmo was the building's superintendent; Cameron had interacted with him dozens of times when he'd been himself. But where did this asshole get off coming in here and threatening him? Cameron had his cock. Cameron could turn him into - - well, something! He'd better show some respect! Just like with Jacob, Cameron had the desire to fuck with Guillarmo somehow, to make him submit. Cameron moved over to Guillarmo and shoved him against the wall, sparking even more anger in the superintendent's face. Glaring at Guillarmo, Cameron realized he was just a twink punk against this stocky adult - - Guillarmo could kick the shit out of him. But he knew that wouldn't happen, because Guillarmo wanted his cock back. "Give it back, motherfucker," Guillarmo ordered. "When I'm ready, asshole," Cameron said. He moved to Jacob, batted Jacob's hands away from the disembodied cock and pulled it out of Jacob's new pussy. Jacob screamed in frustration and his hands moved back to his slit, as he inexpertly tried to get himself off with his fingers. Cameron returned to Guillarmo and slapped the man on the chest with his own pussy-slick cock. "If you want it back," Cameron said, "You'll do what I say." Guillarmo was cowed at this and looked at his cock in Cameron's hands with longing. "What do you want me to do now?" "Get your clothes off!" Cameron yelled at him. His blood was boiling now, as his body was in the throes of some anger fit. His heart was pounding and his face was flushed. He pushed Guillarmo against the wall again, then stalked off to the bedroom to get another baggy of pot. He had chosen "Robin" this time and expertly rolled a joint out of it. Cameron was determined to figure out what all this shit did, even if it was through trial and error. He wanted to get back into his own body and he wanted to help Duane before he became a retard. When he got back to the living room, Guillarmo had shed his clothing and stood there, embarrassed, naked, and hairy. Jacob was on the couch, quieter now, but obviously frustrated. He was still fingering his new cunt, but less frantically. Cameron went to Guillarmo and put the joint to his mouth. "Smoke this, fuckwad," he ordered. Guillarmo took the joint in his fingers, but pulled it away from his mouth, suspicion on his face. "What's this going to fucking do to me?" he asked quietly. "I'll put your cock back on the minute you toke up," Cameron told him. Guillarmo weighed this, shaking his head and sneering at Cameron. Cameron understood the deliberation. Here was a virile man looking at the guy who had emasculated him - - there wasn't much trust there to be found. Guillarmo was living a nightmare where his body had been violated. There was no telling what the joint might do next, but, was it worth it? He'd have his cock back at least. Guillarmo reluctantly took the lighter Cameron offered and toked up. He took a deep breath, held it with his eyes closed, then let the smoke out. Cameron dropped to his knees between Guillarmo's big thighs and positioned the man's cock and balls in the right place, adjusting them so that they hung right. The cock itself was rock hard and pulsing reflexively at the manipulation. Guillarmo took another deep toke and was watching Cameron manipulate him. "Is this the same shit that gave that guy a cunt?" Guillarmo asked, suddenly nervous "No," Cameron told him, "We'll see what it does to you." The cock and balls stuck to the blank flesh of Guillarmo's crotch like a post-it note. Cameron's fingers pressed the right buttons on the metal ring that kept Guillarmo's genitals in control and unhooked it, fusing his pieces back together. Guillarmo trembled and let out a long "fuuuuuuck" when it happened. His hands went to his cock immediately and probed round it, assuring him it was indeed back on. Cameron separated from Guillarmo and hit the easy chair to watch what happened next. Guillarmo stood there, finished the joint, and was jacking off compulsively. "This shit makes you horny," he said thickly, "I can't stop." "Fuck Jacob," Cameron ordered. "Yeah!" Jacob said, spreading his legs, showing his slit, "I'm very close. Please!" Guillarmo considered this for a moment, finished the joint, then sauntered over to Jacob. He lined himself up and lowered his hard cock into Jacob and started fucking hard with out any preamble, thrusting for all he was worth into the black man. Cameron watched and found his body responding to the sight of Guillarmo's broad back and muscular thick ass pumping. He had no interest in Jacob's cunt, but the thick Latino man was turning him on. He reached into the waistband of his jeans and stroked his hard-on as it lay against his hip. He didn't want to shoot - - if he did, he'd regress - - he was eyeing Guillarmo's ass. It was then that Jacob shrieked, his body going rigid and his breathing coming in great gasps. Guillarmo stopped his thrusting, but kept himself buried within Jacob. Cameron remembered this from all the orgasms he'd watched women have - - back when he'd been a straight guy. They were indistinct in his memory; he couldn't remember who they'd been, but he remembered the signs. Jacob became quiet and Guillarmo started to fuck him again slowly, but then something changed and Guillarmo's face screwed up in concern. He pulled out and stepped away. Cameron looked close and saw what concerned him. Jacob's clit was growing, fleshing out back into a cock shape, lengthening and swelling. Jacob grunted hard and doubled over as a flap of skin pushed out of his slit, forming a scrotum. Well, at least it wasn't permanent. Guillarmo, on the other hand, looked flushed to the point his skin was red. He was watching his, sweat on his brow and chest, and it was clear he wasn't feeling right. He was jacking his cock, which was still rock hard and pulsing, the pink head and frenum sticking out of the brown foreskin. His nuts were as thick and heavyset as the rest of his body and they were full, like a water balloon that had been blown up. Jacob squirmed and twisted his hips on the couch as his testicles fell back into his restored scrotum and as the labia lips disappeared. He touched himself tentatively, fingertips probing his manhood to make certain it was restored. He sat there panting in disbelief. When Cameron looked back at Guillarmo, he started. The Latino man was looking down at his cock, his hands barely containing it. "It's getting bigger," he exclaimed, "Fuck, that's hot." But it wasn't true. Every other part of Guillarmo was getting smaller. Already he had lost maybe a foot of height and Cameron could see him still shrinking. It wasn't proportional though, as only his torso and limbs where getting smaller, not his cock and balls. Guillarmo looked around the room and was obviously sizing himself against the coffee table, the couch and chairs, Cameron and Jacob. "No!" he yelled, "FUCK No!" He was terrified now and he moved left and right, looking for someplace to escape, but he knew there was no place to go and nothing to be done. Guillarmo's body became smaller and smaller while his cock stayed the same size, until it was massive on his body. Guillarmo spread his legs to hold the weight of it, but ultimately, he couldn't. Jacob watched for only a moment before he freaked out. He scooped up his clothing and scrambled out the door before Cameron could object, leaving the apartment naked rather than stay and see what happened. Cameron watched him impassively, turning his attention back to the super. He saw something else stranger happening. Guillarmo sat down heavily, now no more than about 3 feet tall, and splayed out his legs. His legs had begun to shrink faster. Guillarmo saw this too and cried out, his face a mask of disbelief and horror. Even as his torso, head and arms kept shrinking at steady rate, his legs all but disappeared underneath the now proportionally huge testicles. "What's happening!!" Guillarmo's tiny voice cried. But Cameron didn't know any more than he did. All he knew was the "Victor" and now "Robin" brands of pot wouldn't help either him or Duane get back to normal. He realized how impossible this was. He wasn't sure he could bring himself to do this to more guys just to experiment. When Guillarmo reached about 6 inches in height, the shrinking seemed to stop. He lay back on the carpet panting and freaking out, his cock, now the same length as his torso, lay on top of him still rigid and horny. His legs were gone, replaced by - - his testicles? His lower torso just ended at his scrotum with his broad glutes forming part of the nut sack. He'd become some kind of living dildo. Cameron's erection was still going strong, but he forced himself to stop stroking, lest he spill some seed and get younger. He briefly thought about fucking Duane, but jeez, what an ordeal that would spark. Duane might "ape out" again and the memory of getting plowed by Duane's gigantic cock didn't sit well with him. He was trapped in this fucking nightmare. Cameron stood up and padded over to Guillarmo. He picked the screaming guy up in his hands, holding him gently, even massaging his thick cock as he lifted him off the carpet. "It's temporary," Cameron consoled, "Maybe even as soon as you can cum." Guillarmo took this in without comfort and started to jack himself off, but his hands were too small to really get a grip and he ended up abandoning the attempt as Cameron watched. Guillarmo was saying something to him, but his voice was now too soft to really hear well. Cameron could've leaned in, but he was crashing. He was coming down off the pot already. "What the fuck?" Duane asked, standing in the doorway, a muscular hunk with gigantic feet. Duane and Cameron looked at one another for a long, silent moment. "You did that to him?" Cameron nodded. Duane touched his palm to his head and shook it slowly. He walked over to his clothes and pulled on his chinos, working his huge feet down the legs with some difficulty. He buttoned them, zipped them, then donned his coffee colored shirt. Half the buttons had popped off, so he wore it loose. "I was trying to help," Cameron said. Duane stopped his effort and looked him in the eye, then bent to retrieve his shoes, now unwearable on his grossly enlarged feet. He padded heavily past Cameron without looking at him. "I can't do this," Duane said, "it's wrong. And you're becoming him if you think otherwise." Duane left the apartment and something inside Cameron snapped. Duane was right. He glanced down at Guillarmo and shook with a level of self-disgust. He had given him the pot knowing that something strange would happen and now the super was a mutated, living cock and balls. Cameron set Guillarmo down on the coffee table, surrounded by the remaining disembodied cocks and felt himself start to disassociate. He had the sensation of drifting out of this body and, at the same time, anchored in it. His erection subsided completely and he started to pull on his own clothing. Cameron didn't want to be Brandon, but it was happening. Part of him had thought that it would be limited to just Brandon's physical body, but it was clear something was happening to his mind. Was he just becoming more immature? Was his moral center just degrading, leaving him a confused adolescent version of himself? Or was he really becoming Brandon completely? He couldn't tell, and this second he couldn't concentrate on it. Cameron went through the apartment in a flurry, grabbing shoes and socks, a t-shirt. He found Brandon's wallet and keys, fighting hyperventilation while he gathered them. Cameron kept passing Guillarmo on the coffee table, helplessly squirming under the weight of his own proportionally massive cock, but he just kept passing by without looking. He couldn't deal with it. Cameron left the apartment, locking it, and hit the streets. He wandered without knowing where he was walking, his mind struggling to think again after the pot washed out of his system and the shit he'd been dealing with receded. Rational thought didn't come easily, but in tattered shreds. Somewhere along the way it started to rain, but Cameron actually didn't notice until he was soaked to the skin. He took it as punishment, and let it happen even after he did notice. He didn't care. Finally, hunger came upon him and he drifted to an ATM machine. He pulled out Brandon's ATM card on autopilot and slid it into the slot. He punched in Brandon's PIN without realizing it and then stared at his hand in dismay. How had he known that? It wasn't possible that Cameron could know something random like that. It was one thing to feel like an adolescent again - - his brain was physically growing more immature - - but to literally know something only Brandon could know. . . it only added to the disassociation he felt. He was becoming Brandon. Duane had been right. Cameron punched the numbers on the ATM with a savagery he felt only distantly. His anger was manifesting in his body as he breathed in stabs of rage. But most of his mind watched it happen from a distance; he was watching himself within Brandon's body as if he were watching the video tape from the ATM's security camera. He pulled out $100 and angrily ripped the receipt from the slot. He glanced at it and stood in the pouring rain staring at it until the droplets soaked the paper and smudged the ink to a blue blur. Brandon had $357,000 in the bank! How? How could this fucking stoner boy have this kind of money? Gravity seemed to latch onto Cameron's thoughts and slam him back into the twink boy's body as his bout of rage twisted into fear. Drug money? Shit. . . no . . .Cameron KNEW it was extortion. Who wouldn't pay out the ass to have his cock back? Brandon was not just a sick, perverted fuck--he was a criminal mastermind, too? And now. . . so was Cameron. Cameron wadded the receipt and pitched it into the gutter, then ambled on, his stomach doing another lurch. He couldn't tell if it was from emotion or literal hunger. It had grown dark and the rain hadn't slackened. He hit a diner and shuffled into a booth. He ordered food from the waitress who stood cautiously away from him when he rebuffed her banter about how wet he was. He hung his head over the table, propping it with a hand, and dripped rainwater onto the linoleum. The waitress brought coffee and Cameron drank some of it. A few minutes later, a meatloaf plate was pressed on him. Cameron picked at it, then started to eat with more fervor as his body - - once again - - betrayed his intent. The food was good and he had been starving. Only when the meatloaf was gone and he dipped his roll into the mashed potatoes did he miss Duane. The image of his friend - - fuck, the guy he now loved - - leeched into his thoughts. Everything that he and Duane had endured in the past several days had bonded them. The fact that Cameron had been turned gay when he'd been shoved into this body was the reason the deep fraternal feelings for Duane had turned into something he once considered disgusting. He loved Duane, just as he'd loved the many females in his past relationships. It was emotional and physical; even the memory of Duane's muscular, smooth body got him going. Cameron downed the roll and the rest of the potatoes when he realized that he had "gotten going" more than he wanted. His cock had firmed up a little when he imagined Duane in the locker room, so casually naked, but that image didn't fade and neither did his partial erection. Shit. The curves of Duane's body, the way his pecs slipped into his abs which flowed into his hips and dipped into his groin . . . a singular wave of attractive flesh that Cameron's inner eye slalomed down without control. Cameron bent over and surreptitiously adjusted his cock. It had been pointed down his leg and fuck, it was getting fully hard. He kept himself bent over and, although it was uncomfortable, it was workable. He glanced around - - no one had noticed. But the image of Duane didn't disappear with the threat of public exposure. No, the threat intensified the erotic charge. Duane was beautiful with a broad country-boy face and an easy smile. He'd watched Duane drink countless beers together, listened to Duane's voice. All of their past experiences together were being replayed over and over within the added context of Cameron's unabashed loved for him. Cameron grunted as his cock started to throb on its own, his kegel muscles started to fire off by themselves, clenching deeply and releasing over and over. Cameron breathed deeply and his heart started to beat faster. He felt himself start to sweat beneath his damp clothes. Ohfuck! Cameron checked his watch. It had to be about twelve hours since he'd last cum. The curse was activating. Unbidden, images of Duane in the back booth of their favorite pub mixed suddenly with the locker room. Naked men in towels were ambling by and Duane was naked there, drinking his beer, his big chest and pink nipples within reach. Cameron wanted to touch them. He imagined himself reaching for them. He imagined Duane letting him tweak them, with a wide grin and a lascivious wink in his eyes. Then, they were touching and Cameron was naked, his lean, pale body pressed against Duane's muscular heat. He grunted in pleasure as his cock started to practically vibrate against his thighs, his kegels clenching so hard he thought his cock would shoot off his body. Cameron's nuts seized up and he felt liquid rising in his cock. It was going to happen. It was going to happen to him right now in this diner booth. Cameron groaned and maybe someone at the bar noticed. He stuffed a roll in his mouth as if the quality of food was what prompted the noise. In his mind, Duane's face came close, showering him with approval and their lips touched with a velvet heat. Cameron's cock started to fire off in his pants and he closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and willed himself toward stoic silence as it dumped a pint of sticky liquid down his pants leg. Immediately after, the warmth flooded across his skin. He gripped the sides of the table and let it wash over him. He was getting younger still and the energy of it burned inside him. Where before, it had been a subtle change, this time Cameron knew he'd gone too far down the ladder for the changes to be unnoticeable. He was having a rapid reverse puberty, and as his body seemed to deflate slightly, he knew he was going to look like a kid. The heat stopped and he let out a breath finally. He sat and panted in the booth, casting glances around at the other patrons. They hadn't seemed to notice what had happened. His cock had already lost its iron hardness and was loosening up. He touched the inside of his thigh, his fingertips coming back sticky from the cum that had seeped through the fabric of his jeans. Luckily, he was still wet from the rain so no one would notice. Cameron slapped down a twenty and shuffled to the bathroom. He pulled down his trousers and started to mop up as much of the cum as he could with toilet paper, making a huge papery mess. Still damp from the rain, he hoped that the rest of the spot could be written off. Cameron took a breath and looked in the mirror. He was still Brandon, only now he looked more like Brandon's kid brother. The scrub goatee he had once had was gone now, leaving only half a dozen scraggily hairs on his chin. He was fresh faced, certainly cute as hell, and for the first time, Cameron recognized himself in the mirror. It looked nothing like he once looked when he'd been an adult, but some part of his brain had been rewritten: this was what he was supposed to look like. He accepted it. Even so, he turned away from it, feeling a chest full of shame rise in his gorge. He didn't want to hurl; he needed the food in his stomach to fuel his lean body. So he swallowed the emotion and left the bathroom. He stopped at the swinging doorway that led to the diner proper and saw a huge man sitting in his booth. This guy was bigger and more ripped than anyone Cameron had ever seen. Even from the back, the guy looked threatening. It wasn't just the black t-shirt, the leather pants, and the huge shit-kickers, it was something in the way he was waiting, with one arm stretched across the back of the booth and one of his long legs pivoted into the aisle. With his other hand, he slicked his black hair against his skull, wringing out the excess rain from it. Cameron wanted to believe that his booth had just been co-opted . . . after all, he'd paid and left . . . but something tweaked in his brain. He knew the guy - - or Brandon did. He felt threatened, but he tried to dismiss it and walk out. He took several tentative steps forward and tried to step around the guy's size 20 foot, but the guy grabbed Cameron's upper arm and guided him firmly into the booth across from him. Half sitting, half falling, Cameron said, "What the fuck?" "Sarge is looking for you, Brandon," the big guy rumbled in a dark voice. Regaining his balance, Cameron got a look at the guy's face. Having just seen his adolescent visage in the bathroom mirror, Cameron couldn't help comparing what he looked like now to this guy. If there were a greater example of "man" and "boy," Cameron didn't know what it could be. This guy's face was carved out of planes of bone and supple muscle that showcased his bright, intelligent eyes and his expressive mouth, nestled amid a neatly trimmed black goatee. The guy sported broad-banded tattoos on his shoulders and biceps and his voice was deep and held more than a touch of menace. The guy seemed about to explain more when the waitress showed up and set a cup of coffee in front of both him and Cameron, collected the money and the former tab, and vanished. The guy took the cup in his paw and downed the hot coffee in a gulp. "I'm not Brandon," Cameron said quietly. The guy set the cup down and looked at him appraisingly. "Sarge wants is money. He sent me here to collect it." "I'm a guy who lives in Brandon's building," Cameron tried to explain . . . but even he was not quite believing the words he was saying, despite knowing it was true. As he spoke, his voice cracked and went higher for a couple of words. "He made me get high in some double-ended bong. . .I woke up in his body. My name is Cameron." "You don't have it, do you?" the guy asked, "Is that why you've let yourself get so young?" "I'm not him," Cameron insisted, his voice raising both in pitch and volume. The guy looked around at the patrons, obviously not wanting a scene. He reached over the table and took Cameron by the neck of his t-shirt - - fuck this guy was big - - and gently hauled Cameron toward his face. He leaned in and Cameron could smell the beer and coffee on his breath. There was something suddenly familiar about him, some spark of memory that wafted like a scent from the guy's skin into his mind. He recognized this guy - - knew his name. "You're James..." Cameron asked, "right?" The guy looked at Cameron critically, searching his eyes for deception and Cameron again felt the manliness of the guy radiate from his face. He took a deep breath, partially afraid and partially turned on by being man-handled. The guy released him with a push and Cameron sat back hard in the booth. "I'll tell Sarge your claim, `Cameron,'" he said, fishing a five dollar bill from his pants pocket and setting it under the cup. "I'd expect a visit from him," the guy warned, "If you're really another guy from Brandon's building, find a way to reverse it quick. If you're not, I'd suggest you come up with the money." The big guy pulled himself out of the booth and rose to his full, commanding height. Cameron had never seen a man as tall or muscular as this guy . . . he had to be nearly seven feet tall. The guy said nothing else to Cameron, but clomped his way out of the diner. Cameron felt compelled to follow, his mind filling with questions. Who was Sarge? What money? Reverse it? How? Outside, the rain poured down in a harsh hiss and the guy strode through it without a second thought, moving toward a Harley parked on the curb. What stopped Cameron was the guy sitting on the back of cycle, out here in the pouring rain. He was a slight, black haired young man whose skin held the strangest green tinge. He was just sitting out here in the rain, soaked to the skin. As Cameron watched, the skin on his neck and chin suddenly inflated into an enormous waddle. As it deflated, he emitted a roaring croak that took Cameron aback. By this time, the tall guy had reached the cycle and mounted it, pivoting his huge legs over the seat. The guy on the back grabbed his waist with exaggerated fingers that ended in small, round suckers. Cameron saw his bare feet and toes were similarly long and were suctioned onto the cycle's foot rests. The guy kicked the ignition, maneuvered the cycle toward the road, and sped off, leaving Cameron alone with his questions and the veiled threat of "Sarge." Cameron stood on the sidewalk, letting himself get drenched again. It fit his mood. He needed answers and knew that there was really only one person to ask for them. Reluctantly, he started walking toward his building and his old apartment.