In the Den of the Beast

James also has the grace to give me some necessities: pills to help me maintain this physical form, and a prescription I could choose to use for unlimited refills should they run out. When he hands me my collar, he, too, has started tearing up. He looks completely different from anything I've ever seen.

"If you ever want to try this again," he says. "Put that on for anyone from this place and they'll help you find me. Do you. .?"

"Maybe someday," I said shrugging. "I don't know. Right now, I just . . . can't, at least for a while."

"I understand," he says. "It would probably only be worse if we just kept going like nothing has changed."

He forces himself to smile and spreads his arms.

"Look how much you've grown, though! Look at how amazing you are! When I see you, part of me still wants to bend you over that couch and fuck you until you pass out."

He gives me a powerful bear hug, on the same field as equals.

"But that's because I can see the handsome boy you were when I first saw you just as clearly as I can see the handsome boy that you see in the mirror now."

His words ring in my head as I walk slowly back to campus. Technically, I'm still listed as living in one of the residence halls since I'm supposedly still staying here for my "internship." I'm still kind of surprised when my key card lets me in, and I stand in the entryway for a minute like an idiot, trying to remember the floor and number of a room I haven't been in for weeks.

I don't see anyone else as I stumble out of my clothes and into the suite-style bathroom. I don't lock the door behind me because I weirdly kind of want someone to walk in and see me sitting on the toilet completely naked, wearing a dog collar and crying while I stroke and enormous erection that doesn't look like it belongs on my body. I play with myself because I don't know what else to do - I might have been there for ten minutes, maybe for an hour. Eventually I just let my cock go soft and stay that way, never having reached orgasm. I leave my clothes in a pile on the floor and lurch out into the empty hallway before stumbling into my room.

"Who the fuck are you?" shouts a roommate I've only met once (and admittedly, then fully clothed.)

Uncaring, I pass out face down on my mattress and asleep instantly. I do not dream.

END PART ONE

*

In the Den of the Beast, Part Two

1: A Story for a Roommate

"Hey, are you high or something?"

The voice sounds faint, far away, as if I'm hearing it from the bottom of a well or something.

"Dude . . . are you dead?"

I open my eyes slowly, trying to remember where I am. This is not my bed. This is not a familiar place, and that's not a familiar voice. Did James take me somewhere weird last night? Shit, was the voice right? Was I high or . . . dead?

I roll over onto my back and stretch out, taking up the full length of the bed. I was sleeping buck-naked and now have the unpleasant stiffness of morning wood, so at least that much is normal.

"Whoa!" says the voice from the opposite side of the room. "Dude, can you at least put on a towel or something?"

A thin white one is thrown to me by the voice, and I reluctantly tuck it over my lap as I sit up and take stock of my surroundings.

Oh fuck, that's right. I was in a dorm room - my dorm room, now that I thought about it, or my shared dorm room at least. Obviously. I was supposed to be living here when I was really spending all of my time in James's apartment complex. I had physically been here only once before, maybe a few months ago for some kind of orientation. I had actually met this voice then, the guy who was supposed to be my roommate.

He looked like what I remembered, a face and body I had filed away as "generic jock." Brown hair and eyes, really All-American kind of type, clean-shaven and pretty muscular. Probably an athlete staying over the summer for training. His clothes seem consistent with that possibility: a baseball cap for a team I don't recognize, a white tank top, and a big pair of grey athletic shorts with Adidas socks and trainers. Right now, he's sitting at a desk with a laptop open in front of him, facing the wall. I wonder idly what type of porn he watches on that laptop, all alone here in a double room.

I try to remember his name. Dave or Drew . . . no, Dan. I'm eighty - or at least seventy - percent sure he's called Dan.

I shift uncomfortably on the bare mattress. I never even bothered to put a sheet on it or anything. Most of my stuff never got unpacked.

"Sorry, man," I say quickly. "I've been wrapped up in some weird shit lately."

The fact that I'm speaking coherently and I've covered up my massive hard-on have calmed Dan down significantly.

"Dude, I didn't even know you lived here anymore," he said. "Brad and I got rid of your stuff a couple of weeks ago. Some of it might still be around, but like your clothes and shit are boxed up at campus security. We thought you weren't coming back."

Shit. I should've come back here more frequently. I was so good at that during the school year - keeping up two lives, going to the apartment overnight or for three-day weekends, just enough that it seemed like I was just always busy. In the summer, I had gotten careless and overindulged.

"Um, no worries," I say. "I don't even know how long I'm staying. I just had a bad breakup and needed a place to crash."

"No kidding," he replies. "You must have really been into some weird shit."

I think about my options. I can tell him some kind of lie and try to make things go back to something that looks normal. I've got my phone - I could call my parents and tell them something happened with the internship and they need to come pick me up. They could be here in about four hours if I said it was urgent. Would that be enough to get my clothes back? Shave? Make myself look like the awkward virgin they dropped off at college at not whatever it was I had become?

I decided to tell Dan the truth. I couldn't imagine completely leaving my new life behind forever just like I couldn't imagine myself living here in this generic box with some jock named Dan. But he seemed like a pretty cool guy and could be a helpful ally in terms of helping me get some of my stuff back. Rubbing my stomach, I thought desperately that he could even take pity on me and help me get food and money and stuff. I was completely broke since most of my money from the library went directly toward paying tuition. I was also now used to being fed prime cuts of meat, fresh grains, and vegetables three times a day and not used to having to think about things like buying toiletries, clothes, or shoes.

"Listen," I say slowly. "If I tell you what I've been doing for the last few months, can you keep it kind of secret? Like, you don't have to lie to anyone, just kind of . . . not talk about it?"

He nods slowly, obviously really curious, because he closes the laptop and rolls his chair over so he's closer to me.

"Bro, don't worry about it. You can tell me whatever you need to. Are you okay?"

His voice gets quieter, conspiratorial, like someone might be listening.

"Is this about those condos over on Forest Street? The Grove? Is that where you've been? Did they take you?"

This was going to be easier than I thought. He had already heard of the community, so he might be more inclined to believe some of what I was going to tell him.

"Yeah, that's where I've been but it's not exactly like that. How much about all of that do you know?"

"Dude, I've just heard rumors and shit. Some guys in nice clothes were there when I was out partying with the team last semester and asked some of us if we wanted to go over there for some kind of 'event.' I was kinda drunk so I was up for it, but one of the guys on the team said it was some kind of . . ."

Here he lowered his voice again to whisper the words "gay sex cult," which now that I thought about it wasn't wildly far from the truth although it made the whole thing sound illegal and kind of predatory, which as far as I knew wasn't exactly the case, or at least the norm.

"That's actual kinda right," I said to his amazement, "but it's all super consensual and as far as I saw pretty safe. I might call it like a selective club or a secret society. A lot of us - them - use the word 'community.' And there is a lot of sex stuff. Like, all the time. Most of it is pretty gay, I guess, but there are a lot hetero people too. Really it's more like a lot of BDSM and shit."

Dan is really interested now, his eyes widening.

"Holy shit, really?"

And now I can't avoid telling the whole story, starting with James approaching me in the library and the decision to go over to his apartment. Dan's a really good listener, staying quiet and not asking too many questions, though his jaw drops when I describe James fucking me on the sofa and he shakes his head when I describe James's cock's more monstrous properties. He looks like he wants to say something then.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"Yeah, man, yeah, keep talking," he says back. "I just might have some, uh, questions at the end."

I decide to leave out some of the details, although I do describe the experience of waking up and finding the rules and my collar, which I take off to show him, trying to provide physical evidence of the story's truth. I notice that when I describe Claudia's appearance and talk about all of the rules and her taking me outside to pee and shit in the grass the front of Dan's shorts starts to tent up, causing him to shift in his seat and try to hide it. At that point, my instincts take over and I try to focus on details from my time as a puppy-boy that I think are going to make this pretty straight boy squirm.

When I describe my trip to the vet, I take the towel off of my lap and display my now semi-erect penis to him, explaining in detail all of the surgical changes that have been made to it and what it can now do. He doesn't freak out at my nakedness this time and stares straight at my exposed cock and giant, pendulous balls, fascinated in spite of himself. He does get up to lock the door, and when he sits back down his erection is almost painfully obvious.

"It's no big deal," I say helpfully, "if you want to get out of your shorts and have me do something about that." I nod meaningfully at his crotch.

"What?" he says, embarrassed. "No, I'm not like that. I mean, dude, just keep talking."

But when I describe waking up after surgery and getting put in the cock cage to go the gym, he can't help but mutter "fuck" with a small grunt. He seems to be at full mast when I describe in great detail what Olivia looked like in her latex bodysuit and how she whipped and paddled me before forcing me to watch James fuck Rich on the tilted table.

At this point, I get up and help Dan stand up, then pull his athletic shorts down so they're in a puddle around his socks and shoes. I step back, satisfied. As expected, he's wearing baggy blue boxers with a massive swelling near the waistband and a giant stain of wet pre-cum that is spreading gradually as I look at it.

"Dude," I ask gently. "Are you sure you don't want me to do something about that?"

He turns away from me suddenly, and I take a moment to center my thoughts. That wasn't a reasonable choice. This isn't normal for him in the way that it's become normal for me in less than a year. I remember how one of the first things James emphasized was my ability to leave when I wanted.

"Sorry," I say quickly. "I didn't mean it like that, like I didn't mean that you were . . . or I was going to . . . I'm still kind of figuring out what's normal and okay."

He turned back around and faced me with a cautious grin on his face.

"Naw, man, it's good. What you're saying is really hot. Just, I don't want to get into all that gay shit, right? Like, not that your life's shit, but like - I'm not in a position where I would want to get into a sex cult or, you know, a community."

I didn't see how letting another guy jerk you off in the privacy of a dorm room was the same as living as a puppy-boy and having weeks-long binges of near-anonymous bondage and sex, but I could see how in Dan's mind the two might be parts of the same slippery slope.

He did take a deep breath and shook his head as he tucked his fingers into the waistband of his boxers and pulled them down to the floor, leaving them with the shorts bunched up around his shoes, and sitting back down in the desk chair. He has gotten rock-hard from listening. I examine his cock with the air of a connoisseur; he's cut and longer than average for a normal guy, but weirdly on the skinny side. The comparison doesn't hold up perfectly, but if James had an eggplant, this guy's got a carrot. He's clearly tried to manage his own pubic hair without a clear idea of what he's doing, because it's kind of been pushed into the "landing strip" I myself prefer, but he's probably done it himself with a safety razor in the shower since it's not even really close to symmetrical or even.

He leans back in the chair and gives himself a few slow tugs, as if marveling at the fact that he's still so fully erect.

"You can just . . . stay over there, okay?" he says. "And please . . . don't stop talking."

So I keep going, trying to tell my story, but I've only intensified my desire to choose to focus on details that are going to make this guy explode. When I get to describing the first time I met Princess, I play out the whole thing in as vivid of detail as I can possibly conjure. He speeds up and starts to make very small grunts of mm, mm, yeah when I describe the cock ring and Princess riding me cowgirl-style, obviously putting himself in my situation and imagining a girl doing the same thing to him. I start throwing in some female pronouns, calling Princess a "she," and Dan doesn't even stop to ask or clarify.

He's only working the shaft, maybe because he gets chafing or pain when he rubs the head dry. I don't really know, since for all of my experience with masturbating I've either had foreskin or medically-enhanced spit that's just a really good and durable lube. I think about suggesting that at least one of us should spit on his head or that he should alter his technique, but it's kind of nice to just watch him do his thing while I tell my story. He's now doing that thing I've never really understood where guys form a ring with thumb and forefinger and just work that up and down the shaft. I tend to enjoy the greater pressure and speed that comes from using the full fist, but maybe he's trying to mentally replicate the sensation of the buzzing ring, or what he imagines Princess's asshole to feel like. He does ask for those parts to be repeated again, and I comply, slowing down and even throwing in some extra bits that didn't really happen that I think would be hot.

He pulls a Kleenex out of the box on the desk when I describe ramming Princess against the wall and then throwing her to the bed, catching the sticky white juice when he ejaculates exactly during my attempt to explain what the swelling of my knot felt like. I make a mental note to recommend a few brands of heavy-duty paper towel and some wet wipes to him since I feel like Kleenex are terrible for this task, but I also can't fault him for just using what he has at hand. I definitely found myself trying to store away the memory of watching this straight guy jack off to my personal history; even though I'd been in a fair number of more "hardcore" situations, this would provide great material for me to masturbate to in the future.

I give him a few moments as he wipes up and slows down his breathing, but in almost no time he tells me that I should keep going, listening with interest as I fast forward through the weeks following that encounter and my breakup with James. He's an odd sight when I end the story with my jerking off in the bathroom while crying and then stumbling in here: leaning back in his chair but focused on me intently; now-soft cock prominently displayed and his tank top pulled halfway up his chest, but still wearing his baseball cap and his boxers and shorts down around his socks and shoes. Still, he seems to realize this at about the same time I do, because he kicks off the shoes and steps out of the shorts and underwear as if they're suddenly tainted, balling them up and flinging them toward a hamper by the closet. It's not until he grabs a fresh pair of boxers out of a drawer and steps into them that he returns to the chair and asks me his questions.

"Do you think it's over-over with this guy? Like, you're done forever and not going back."

It's a much bigger question than I was prepared to deal with, one that I don't think I myself had had enough time to really think about.

"Honestly, I don't really know." I replied with a shrug. "One of the things I gotta do now is just figure out what to do next."

He nodded, as if this made sense to him. It took him awhile to figure out how to say his second question and then pluck up the courage to actually say it.

"Don't take this the way, but can I see what your knot looks like? Like, could you show me?"

"Sorry," I said. "I would if I could, but I've only been able to make it, you know, expand like that when I'm inside another guy who's had the right surgeries. If you look . . ."

I gave my semi a few dexterous tugs; Dan watched intently with an almost scientific interest as my cock stiffened and restored itself to its full glory.

"If you look here and here on the sides, right here toward the base, I've got these bumps of raised skin - you can feel them if you want, I'm obviously not shy - but these bumps that are kind of redder, this is the part that also fills up with blood, but only sometimes. Like, right now if you were to like, lean in and start sucking me off and I got into it, I would probably just cum in your mouth before the knot swelled up. James almost always has his expand and get hard before he cums, but he's also fucked a lot more guys with the surgery and probably gotten better at controlling it, or gotten more numb. I don't know. Like, I think it was explained to me before I got the surgery, but not in detail and I was kind of distracted."

He nods, as if this makes sense, but declines my invitation to feel where the knot grew.

"You don't have a bone in there, right?" he clarifies.

"No, I don't think so."

"I say that because it seems like the whole thing, right, the whole culture is based on replicating dogs and pretending like you're dogs. And I obviously don't know a lot about it, but isn't it true that dogs go in soft because they've got a bone in there, but they get hard while they're actually inside the other dog? The whole locking in thing sounds the same, but medically speaking your whole description of feeling 'harder than harder' is the coolest part of all this weirdness because it sounds like you're popping two erections at once. Like, the human part of your dick is hard and the dog part of your dick is hard."

He shakes his head.

"That's fucking crazy, man. Like, if they can do this to you and have you be up and ready to fuck the next morning, why aren't like rich old guys getting this done instead of popping Viagra."

"I dunno," I said. "Maybe they'd just have to pop twice as much Viagra? And it really only works if you've got someone who can take it, otherwise you'd really . . ."

I let that one trail off, because I'd seen knots go wrong and didn't like to think about it.

"Of course, like, you could make machines and stuff to jack you off," he was saying, almost as if he hadn't even heard me. Maybe he's now constructing a fantasy to wank to later. "Especially if you're rich. Shit, they've got all kinds of fuck-robots now, they could make one for people with dog dicks."