The Game of Perfection (Patreon)

(Commission story)

By Pappy Wolf

Johnny:

Johnny Paul Clay stared at the green and white swirls in his matcha latte and counted to twenty. Twenty should be enough, he thought. His roommate Leo was still talking about his recent vacation in Brazil. He had finished his story about how many hot guys he had nailed on the beach at Porto de Galinhas and had moved on to a story about fucking a German tourist he’d met on the cable car ride to Sugarloaf.

Count slower, Johnny told himself. Make it look natural. Maybe it was pointless, though. Leo must know he had a crush on him. He could barely look at his stunning roommate without feeling giddy. The guy was perfect. Six-foot-one, absolutely sick build, curly black hair, amber eyes, square jaw. He was a prize.

Not like me, Johnny thought. I’m a participation trophy.

He tried to improve himself, but he never could manage the willpower to make any significant changes. He worked out now and then. He ate salads and bought diet meal kits and protein bars. But he was a hard gainer, and it discouraged him. In the last year, his inactivity had spawned a small but obvious paunch. Even if he’d been able to talk himself into adopting a regular gym routine, he would still be left with his plain face. His eyes were small and a bit too close together, his nose was long and beaky, his lips were so thin they may as well have been invisible, and he had acne scars. His hair was a noncommittal shade of blonde and he kept it buzzed in a weak attempt at masculinity. His beard was patchy, so he limited the growth to a goatee – although the mustache and chin sections didn’t come close to connecting. A head like his on a ripped body would be like topping off an ice cream sundae with a cat turd.

Not that Leo was perfect. Johnny had discovered that just a few days ago. While Leo was away, Johnny had dared to investigate his bedroom. The bed taunted him. He usually only saw it in glimpses, and it usually was occupied by Leo and another mouth-watering gym queen. Now, it was empty, the sheets and duvet askew in its owner’s adorably messy way. He kneeled before it and rested the side of his head on the soft satin sheets. They smelled of luxury colognes and sex. He had found himself crawling onto the bed from that position, like a serpent. For a long while, he just lay there, his insufficient cock as hard as it could get, while he indulged himself with dreams of Leo ravishing him. Then, slowly at first, he had rolled around in the disheveled bedding, desperately hoping his pockmarked flesh would absorb some of Leo’s musk. He writhed faster, flipping himself over so that he could frot. But his self-conscious nature always made it difficult to stay in a fantasy for long. Like usual, he was ejected from his own reverie before he could manage a feeble nutting.

After that, he moved on to the attached bathroom. Opening the medicine cabinet, he found some surprising items. There were boxes of amber-hued prescription contact lenses, pills for combatting male pattern baldness, and extra-strength topical medications for adult acne. He stroked the boxes, bottles, and tubes tenderly. He loved the man so much that he couldn’t be angry at the deception. “My dear, sweet Leo,” he had breathed. “You’re human after all.” The physical failings gave him a touching vulnerability.

Nineteen… twenty. Johnny looked up at the object of his affection and smiled sweetly. His roommate was so desperate to maintain his image as a sexually savvy, globetrotting stud. He wondered now if all his stories were true. They had to be, he decided, or at least most of them. Enhancements aside, Leo was still confident, charismatic and gorgeous. What guy wouldn’t fall for him?

He watched Leo lean back in his café chair and clasp his broad hands behind his head, the sleeves of his polo shirt falling to reveal his sculpted biceps. “And what about you,” he began. “Did you party down in our bachelor pad while I was out of the country?”

Blushing, Johnny looked down at his tea again. “I think you know I didn’t,” he murmured.

“You should have.” His smile was fading. “Did you do anything at all with a guy? A lunch date, a post-bar hookup, a hand job under a bridge…? You’re not bad looking. Especially with those outfits I bought for you. You could catch some dick.”

Unbidden, Johnny’s hand went to the sleeve of his Ralph Lauren oxford button-up. He’d been both flattered and embarrassed to accept his crush’s offer of a new wardrobe. In the back of his mind, he could pretend he was being showered with gifts, like an ingenue in an old movie. But he knew that Leo was trying to buy off his affection. He surely had some sense that Johnny had fallen for him, even if he couldn’t imagine how deeply. That meant he wanted to foist him off on someone else. Leo was starting to feel guilty about taking the offer, since he had no intention of loving anyone else.

“Jesus,” Leo said, shaking his head. He inhaled and fixed Johnny with an uneasy look. “Listen… Johnny, I do like you, okay? I mean, our families go way back.”

Sure, they do, Johnny thought. My dad worked for your dad.

“And I think we have a good thing going, sharing an apartment. We don’t get in each other’s way and with our schedules, there’s usually somebody home. So, we don’t have to worry about break-ins or whatever. I want to keep this going. But something’s got to change.” He looked about at the secluded street and the otherwise unoccupied sidewalk patio. Lowering his voice, he added, “I have a lot of connections. My family, too. You know that. When we need to get something done, we have, ah… channels… open to us that most people don’t. I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this, but I’d like to propose something to you. It sounds crazy, but trust me, I can make it happen. Just hear me out, like, all the way, before you say no.”

Leo:

Leonard M. Van Ness leaned against the kitchen island as he dictated a terse voice text to the superintendent of his rental properties. His fingers tightened on his can of hard seltzer. The superintendent’s constant complaints about budgetary restrictions had his nerves on edge. What was the point of a passive income if you had to micromanage the people working for you? Meanwhile, his lovelorn roommate Johnny was restlessly pacing the living room, distracting Leo further.

“I feel funny,” Johnny sulked. “Has it started yet? Do I look any different?”

He glanced at Johnny for a moment before shaking his head. “Not that I can tell. I’m sure it takes a while. Just be patient.”

“But I feel funny. That must mean something.” He sounded like a hysterical old woman. Which was typical.

Leo slipped his phone into his pocket and finished off his seltzer before crumpling the can. He left the can on the island. Johnny would throw it away for him. Years ago, he’d noticed how uptight Johnny was about messes. Leaving things lying around gave the kid something to do and it meant less work for himself, so it was a win-win. Today, though, Johnny’s nervous energy was rubbing off on him. It had started that morning when Leo was collecting their individual blood samples, using a ceremonial dagger to prick their index fingers and then squeezing the precious liquid into small glass vials with strange symbols etched into them.

After delivering the samples to the warlock his family kept on retainer, he had wondered if he was doing the right thing. He’d be altering Johnny’s body and maybe even his thoughts, perhaps permanently. There was no way to tell what would happen. The spell would pry into his own subconscious and remake Johnny accordingly. But Johnny had agreed to the plan. Maybe Johnny didn’t really believe it could be done, but he was open to the idea of it.

Well, of course he was. Johnny was just a hick from the upper Midwest, a Grade A Nerd, much more comfortable with his extensive collection of bishonen anime and manga than going to a bar and finding a flesh-and-blood “pretty boy.” More than once, Johnny had left his sketchbooks in the living room where Leo could find them. They were filled with crude manga-style illustrations of them both. The ink-smeared renderings of saucer-eyed romance had inspired nothing in him except loathing.

The kid loved him that damned much – so much that he was willing to let go of everything he was, just for the chance for a little affection. That’s what had kept Leo from abandoning the scheme. He decided that if Johnny was that pathetic, then he deserved whatever he got. And he remembered what his own father had told him: “The Van Ness line has always demanded the best in this life. And we have always seized it, by any means necessary. Do not submit to lesser personalities, son. You need to force them to live up to your standards – not the other way around.” That’s all this was, really. It was like sending back an undercooked steak. He wanted any dish on his table to be perfect. Even if he had no intention of eating it.

He opened the balcony door and padded outside to get some air. He had to admit that he felt odd, like Johnny did. He reminded himself that the sky was burdened with billowing thunderheads and that the barometric pressure was probably doing something unusual. Of course! It was the weather, not anything to do with the strange forces his family had historically traded with.

“I ache,” Johnny said, softly. “All over.” Leo looked over his shoulder to see his roommate furiously rubbing his spindly arms. “I’m going to go check myself out again in the bathroom mirror. Don’t go anywhere.”

“Sure, sure.” He knew he sounded bored, but at this point, he didn’t care. He had plans for that evening, and he was determined to go out no matter what. Yes, the prospect of what Johnny could become was intriguing, but he had no interest in observing the process.

Johnny, complaining of slight pains in his extremities, retired to his bedroom an hour later. The screaming started an hour after that. Leo stifled the cries with one of his ball gags. He checked on the kid a few times. Johnny had stripped off his clothes at some point and now he writhed atop his sweat-soaked sheets. His arms and legs looked longer and more muscular, with his hands and feet even larger in comparison, weirdly out of proportion with the rest of him. His hair had gotten longer, darker, and had taken on a wavy texture. His plain brown eyes were speckled with pale gray. And they were wild, bulging, crazed with pain. As Leo observed this, his lips curled back in revulsion, the kid seized his left hand and would not let go. He whimpered something around the ball gag.

“Hang in there, um, champ,” Leo said as he tried to pull himself free. He finally had to pry the fingers from his hand. “You’re doing great, really. SO much handsomer…!” The whimpering increased as he fled the room and shut the door behind him. A few minutes later, Leo’s ears were tormented by the wet, ragged noises of violent retching. He eased the door open and peered inside. Johnny was sitting up, his expanding chest streaked with blood and bile. He’d removed the ball gag and glared at him, proffering something in one of his huge hands. Teeth. All his teeth, so many that they spilled between his fingers. Despite his upbringing, Leo felt compelled to apologize, and he cursed himself for it. “I’ll get something to clean this up,” he burbled. In the kitchen, he frantically pulled half the paper towels from their roll in the dispenser and stumbled back to Johnny’s bedroom. Thrusting the towels into Johnny’s hands, he mumbled encouragement and retreated to his own bathroom to empty his guts into the toilet. Then he took the time he needed to thoroughly brush his teeth, floss and gargle. He stood up straight and appraised his reflection. He was better than this kind of behavior. He had to think about himself and not get caught up in someone else’s drama. Johnny would be fine. Ignoring the moans and wails of his lamentable roommate, he treated himself to a fresh shave and a few more spritzes of cologne and headed out to his favorite bar.

His phone vibrated incessantly. Leo wished he confiscated Johnny’s phone so he wouldn’t be tempted to pester him. Okay, sure, the kid had lost some teeth and probably had some muscle cramps or something. A real man would have sucked it up. He hoped Johnny wasn’t going to try to use his discomfort as a bargaining tool in the future – nagging him about “what he went through” to guilt him into fucking him. He wouldn’t put up with that shit. It didn’t matter how handsome Johnny became – he’d kick the kid’s needy ass to the goddamn curb.

After a few hours, the calls and texts stopped. Either Johnny was feeling better, or his phone had died from overuse. Or maybe Johnny himself had died, he thought. He hadn’t considered that possibility. Well, if he did, his family would help him get rid of the evidence. After thinking about it, he decided that he hoped Johnny didn’t die. He did like the pesky fucker, the way a person liked a wet kitten that followed them home.

A solid 8.5 was giving him head in the disabled stall when his phone vibrated again. He ignored it. The call could have been from any number of people, after all. But he couldn’t shove the image of Johnny sucking him off out of his imagination. He could feel his shaft softening at the idea. The gorgeous boy sucking him redoubled his efforts. With a heroic amount of willpower, Leo soldiered through and forced himself to cum. The quantity was far below his standard, but at least he didn’t completely fail. But there was something in the gorgeous boy’s eyes afterwards that he wasn’t used to seeing. It was disappointment.

The night was ruined. He ordered a caipirinha for solace and checked his phone. There were no new voice mails. The missed call was from someone listed in his contacts simply as “Joao Paulo.” A Brazilian name! Or at the very least, Portuguese, which was still pretty good. When had he added this stranger to his contacts? On his vacation, probably, although he had no memory of it. He wondered if he should call back. But no, that would show weakness. If this Joao Paulo person was truly into him, he’d call again.

Joao:

The former Johnny Clay checked his phone. Still nothing from Leo. No matter. He’d see what awaited him soon enough.

Two sets of memories jostled for supremacy within his head. There was the one he knew to be real, the richly detailed history belonging to the benighted John Paul Clay, and then there was the vague backstory of Rio de Janeiro native Joao Paulo Barros, featuring a romantically destitute upbringing in a crowded favela under the watchful eyes of Christ the Redeemer. It was a condescending foreigner’s notion of Brazil, and it irked his new personality, but what could he do? This was how the man he adored wanted things.

The change had been agony, but he had borne it for the sake of his fickle amado, Leo.

“Amado …!” That was another thing. Random Portuguese terms were sprinkled into his mostly English thoughts. It was a lazy shortcut to exoticism. But then, Leo was probably thinking more about his dream man’s looks than his brain. Was it annoying? Hell, yes. He was a proud Brazilian man – well, partly, anyway – and now he would have to teach himself Portuguese with an app or something, just to feel complete. But that was Leo for you. Devil-may-care! Or maybe just careless.

He wished Leo had stuck around during the excruciating hours when his flesh felt like it was on fire and his bones seemed to be splintering into a thousand jagged shards. His beautiful roommate could have held his hand or at least just been in the room with him, so he didn’t have to face the nightmare alone. He didn’t even answer his phone. Ah, well. Despite his flaws, he still loved the man. Maybe Leo wasn’t perfect, but he was perfect enough for him.

Those fateful hours had almost destroyed him. More than once, he had been tempted to crawl into the kitchen, grab a butcher knife, and slit his own throat, just to make the pain stop. Only the thought of Leo had kept him from going through with it. He was sacrificing himself on the altar of romance. It was noble. He forced himself to stay where he was and endure it all – even the delirious torment of feeling his own brain writhing within his skull like a nest of snakes as the folds and synapses reordered themselves. He had screamed around that ball gag until his throat was raw and he was coughing up blood and bile. He had watched his skin stretch and split open and heal itself again as the pasty pink gradually darkened to a rich tan.

When he was out of screams, when it felt like he had changed enough, he had calmly removed the ball gag and just laid there in a pool of his own vomit and gore, his flawless form exhausted but somehow also exalted in the aftermath. It put him in mind of the floating sensation he had after a good fap session. Reaching again for his phone, he smiled seductively at the lens and took a selfie.

No good. With all the blood on his face, he looked like a particularly handsome serial killer. He deleted it and headed to the bathroom to bathe. As the shower warmed up, he observed himself in the mirror. He was very tall – about 6’3” or 6’4” – with a gym-perfect body and a forest of curling hair on his torso, with a lighter coating on his calves and forearms. It was too much hair, really, but he could use his beard trimmer to tame the length after he washed the blood out of it.

The thought surprised him. Maybe Leo liked him to have a more natural look, but that wasn’t what he wanted. Second-guessing his crush’s decisions gave him pause. He had assumed that he’d be happy with however Leo made him look. But then, maybe Leo wanted him to have some independence. Some spunk. He was a fiery Latin, after all. And however he styled himself, he was ravishing. He could see that through the layers of crusted blood on his flesh. His ebony-hued hair was glossy and artfully shaggy, falling nearly to his shoulder in lush waves. His lips were full, even sensual, and framed by dense stubble. His jaw was strong, his nose aquiline, his cheekbones chiseled, his eyes an intriguingly soft gray framed by lashes so dark and plentiful, he seemed to be wearing eyeliner. Imposing black brows, mischievously arched, completed the alluring visage. Like his chest hair, the brows could use a bit of trimming, but that was an easy task. Impulsively, he blew himself a kiss and blushed at his own affection. Instinct told him he might improve further, but at a far slower pace. That was fine. He could wait.

The best change of all was below the waist. He had a bubble butt to die for: rounded mounds the size of melons with the perfect combination of firmness and give – touchable but not flabby. And then there was his junk. From a three-inch circumcised nub, he had gone to a thick, eleven-inch baton with copious foreskin, tinted several shades darker than the rest of his complexion. His balls were furry oranges hanging nearly halfway down his thighs. There was no doubt in his mind. He was a stud.

He employed a soapy hand towel to clean his face and chest, and then he trimmed the eyebrow hairs to an even length. With the trimmer, he reduced the prodigiously long chest hair to a half inch. In the shower, he lavished his stunning body with moisturizing lather and rinsed off with cold water that made his nipples hard, repeating the process several times just to have an excuse to touch himself again. He ducked out of the shower halfway through so he could take some selfies while he was wet. As he suspected, he looked irresistible even with his hair slicked back and soap suds on his cheek. Elated, he allowed himself to imagine all the ways that Leo and he would fuck that night.

Out of the shower, he tried calling his errant roommate. Leo didn’t answer. Joao thought about leaving a voicemail, but how could he begin to explain how he felt? He let the matter lie.

Turning his attention to his wet hair, he combed it into a side part that dangled over his left eye. With irritation, he realized he had no hair care products that would style it properly. But Leo would. While he was borrowing his roommate’s styling paste, he could help himself to his Kilian Black Phantom cologne as well. Leo wouldn’t dare mind. After all, he was doing all this for his benefit.

Despite his intentions, he used the cologne sparingly. His flesh produced its own intriguing musk with notes of pepper, vanilla and cedar, more powerful than any manmade fragrance. He took an experimental whiff from his armpit and almost fainted. Shaking his finger at the mirror, he purred, “You, queridao, are an unlicensed weapon!”

His gray eyes lingered on the medicine cabinet. Opening it again, he stared at the colored contact lenses, the acne creams and the hair restorative. His enthusiasm at the idea of sex with Leo dimmed, just a little. He was perfection. He deserved perfection. Leo wasn’t that. But Leo was what he had wanted for years, and he didn’t intend to throw that dream in the trash. Eagerly, he returned to romancing his mirror image.

Leo:

Everything was blurry. Leo stumbled out of the Uber and blinked his eyes, trying to bring the misty night into focus. The weather was the problem, he told himself. He wasn’t drunk. He just felt good. When he moved, he swayed, like when he was wading in the water at Lopes Mendes Beach. Looking up at the windows of his apartment, he blinked again. The light inside was pink and purple. He sure as hell hadn’t left it that way. Muffled Brazilian club music filtered teased his ears. With a tipsy smile, he headed inside.

The apartment door rattled in time to the bass as he spent a minute trying to get his key into the lock. Tumbling into the living room, he found it empty. A dull red light emanated from the direction of Johnny’s bedroom. As he squinted at the bedroom door, two overlapping naked Latino hunks emerged, dancing sensually to the pulsing rhythms, their faces pointed upward, and their eyes half-closed in an expression of almost religious ecstasy. Sometimes, they would merge and become one solid stud, but they had a slippery quality that made it difficult for him to hold onto that image. The hunk undulated like a serpent, thrusting his hips and stroking his chest and arms. His huge cock flopped playfully as he glided across the floor. Nearing Leo, his gorgeous gray eyes opened wide. A shy smile appeared on his stunning features but quickly became a knowing smirk. In a deep, rich baritone, he purred, “E ai?”

“’What’s up’ indeed,” Leo slurred. “You’re Johnny, I presume?”

The hunk took a step back and began to dance again, slowly. Locking eyes with Leo, he said, “I was. I am Joao, now. Joao Paulo Barros. Come, dance with me, my embriagado friend.” He extended a hand.

“I’m in no shape for that at the moment,” Leo laughed. “I’ll just watch you.”

Joao shrugged. “Your loss.”

“I’m loving this music, by the way. What is it?”

“’Aphrodiasiaco’ by Bungalove,” the hunk smiled. He danced a few steps back and separated into two overlapping men again. “I’m not surprised to hear you have never heard of it. I tried to think of Brazilian music when I first… was like this. All I could recall was some 90’s trash by Vengaboys. And they are Dutch! My exterior is flawless, amigo, but my mind…! You do not know as much about Brazil as you believe, I think. Do not worry. I will fill in what you missed.”

Leo could only stare at the impossibly gorgeous overlapping men undulating before him. He hadn’t been sure the spell would work in the first place, but it had done the job with flying colors. The homely, annoying Johnny was gone. In his place was a friendly but sassy stud straight out of his horniest fantasies. His hand wandered to his crotch and began to stroke it, gently.

“I will teach myself Portuguese,” Joao continued. “Full sentences, of course, not just random words like you are having me do. I will be perfect for you. You will see.”

Leo waved his hands in the air, like he was trying to push the sound of Joao’s voice away. “Enough talk, handsome. You’re killing my wood. Just dance, okay?”

“Sem problemas,” the stud smiled. His spectacular body, now doubled, now singular, worshipped itself to the beat of electronic samba music. Taut muscles layered in shimmering coffee-hued flesh coiled and strained, while dots of perspiration clung to his lush, dark body hair like dew on a spiderweb. The man sparkled.

As Leo pleasured himself through his trousers, he proudly observed Joao’s perfect face and body. A blend of cologne and a potent musk hung in the air, tantalizing him, making him want the hunk even more. “I made you,” Leo growled, softly. “I made this happen.” Saying it aloud made his shaft tingle and his balls ache.

Joao’s gray eyes landed on his bulge. Shimmying closer, he began to thrust his ass and his own semi-hard member in Leo’s direction. After teasing Leo’s limp arms and legs with his fingers, he spun around and swung his firm rump onto Leo’s lap. Lightly humping it, he glanced over his broad shoulders with an alluring gaze and wet, slightly open lips. The phantom waves that had lapped at Leo’s arms since he left the Uber grew warmer and stronger. The tide began to rise, bringing the water to his belly and then his chest. Through a deepening mauve haze, he felt Joao unbuckle his belt and begin to attend to his infuriatingly mushy junk. The warm waves pushed against his skull, making his head wobble. Soon, the water would pull him under, and he would sleep. As his eyes closed, he saw the Brazilian hunk abruptly stand and stare down at him, his perfect mouth grimacing for a moment before he said again, “Sem problemas.” He sounded very sad. As Leo’s perfect man slumped down onto the couch next to him and limply held his hand, the drowsy princeling surrendered to the tide and began to snore.

Joao:

Joao hooked his arm around Leo’s as they sauntered into the clothing store. “A shopping spree, just for me,” he gushed. “I always fantasized about something like this. You are too, too dear, amado.” Impulsively, he kissed him on the cheek.

To his shock, Leo shrank back from his affection. But then Leo relented and bestowed a quick, dry peck of his own on Joao’s sensuous lips. “I’m sorry,” he began. “I’m still getting used to this. Lord knows, it’s not your fault. It’s me, I guess. You’re just so good-looking…! It’s like staring into the sun.” With strained laughter, he slipped his arm free, making a show of directing Joao to the casual wear.

Joao hesitated to follow him for a moment. His eye was drawn to the back of Leo’s head as he contemplated how much scalp would be showing if the man wasn’t on hair loss meds. But that was a cruel thought, he told himself, and it was beneath him. He was supposed to be perfect for Leo. Certainly, Leo wouldn’t have a dream man who thought he was superior to him. And Leo had been so nice to him, so far. After Leo had recovered from his hangover, he allowed him to select anything he wanted from his closet. Leo’s wardrobe was full of luxury brands and even a few bespoke designer pieces. It was overwhelming to think of himself wearing any of these things. Although Leo had bought him some nice clothes in the past, these were far more expensive. Right now, he wore a pair of form-fitting chinos in coral pink and a tight white club shirt, unbuttoned to his navel.

Leo, still acting distracted, spent nearly ten grand on him and arranged for the store to tailor everything to show off his banging new body. The salesman was gorgeous young man with a faded pompadour and a burly beard, plus striking jade eyes. The clerk seemed to be very taken with him and lingered around his thighs when taking his measurements. Joao smiled winningly down at him, searching the young man’s eyes for the telltale sign of contact lenses. He couldn’t see any. He wondered about the true color of Leo’s eyes. They were probably something common, like brown. As Leo was paying for everything, Joao made sure to tell the salesman that he had done a wonderful job. The kid was giddy from the attention and let slip some compliments of his own. Joao caught Leo giving him a side-eye.

In the car, Leo hissed, “What the hell was that, back there?”

Caught off-guard by the intensity of Leo’s resentment, Joao protested that he didn’t know what he meant.

“The flirting,” Leo grumbled. “You made me look like a real asshole. Spending all this money on you while you try to get in the salesman’s pants…!”

Joao crossed his arms and turned his head to look out the window. “Sue me. I thought it was nice to get some attention from someone who doesn’t look terrified of me fucking him.” The cattiness of the remark surprised him. He wasn’t used to speaking his mind in front of Leo. He’d always been frightened of doing or saying the wrong thing and spoiling his chances of hooking up. Looking the way he did now, it felt like a burden had been lifted. He loved his roommate, true. But if push came to shove, he could find someone else who would love him more.

Leo didn’t say anything else for the rest of the drive.

Leo:

Leo stood quietly in front of the apartment door for a minute before exhaling and turning the key. He had thought changing Johnny into something he could stand to be around would make their relationship better, not worse. But here he was, reluctant to even look at a guy who could make his dick hard in an instant. Whatever tension had been between them had grown and twisted into something unrecognizable. Like Johnny himself, he mused. Maybe Johnny was too handsome now. Maybe it made him self-conscious, like he was afraid to disappoint him with subpar sex. But that couldn’t be the problem; he’d pulled plenty of hunks who were hotter than him. That was where his fortune came into play. No, maybe the issue was with how he’d made Johnny over into his personal ideal man. That made their connection deeply psychological. Just being around “Joao” triggered all sorts of feelings in his subconscious. He couldn’t be sure what the feelings were. Only that they disturbed him.

He walked into the living room and found Joao carrying a load of flattened boxes toward his bedroom. He called out to the stud, saying, “You’re not moving out, I hope.” (Did he hope that? As nervous as Joao made him feel, he didn’t want to lose the man.)

“Querido bobo,” Joao laughed. “I would never! I am simply clearing out junk from my bedroom.”

Leo followed him into the room and saw that Johnny’s shelves of “pretty boy” manga and anime had been emptied and organized into piles on the floor. “They do not appeal to me anymore,” Joao shrugged. “I am much handsomer than they, after all, and I do not need to fantasize about fucking a pretty boy now that I am, myself, a very pretty boy.” He sighed. “It makes me sad, in a small way. It is another nail in Johnny Clay’s coffin. Soon, there will be nothing left of him. I am not sure whose fault this is.” He plopped down on the bed and began assembling the boxes using a roll of packing tape. Leo pretended to get a phone call and fled to the balcony. He could feel Joao’s eyes drilling into the back of his neck as he left. And then the stud’s intoxicating musk was wafting over his neck and seeping into his nostrils. Leo spun around to find Joao smiling expectantly at him.

Leo stammered something about not realizing Joao had more to talk about.

The Brazilian stallion waved his worries away, saying, “It is a small thing. I just didn’t know if you knew that I no longer have a job.”

With theatrical shock, Leo cried, “Damn…! So, you quit? Or did they… fire you?”

Joao’s guileless gray eyes sparkled. “Nothing so dramatic, vidinha! Merely, Johnny was a computer programmer. I am not. The knowledge has fled my brain! I suppose you do not find computer programmers sexy.”

A rudimentary form of guilt penetrated Leo’s spoiled conscience. He had to look away from the stud’s big, innocent eyes before he could say a word. Finally, he muttered, “Aw, shit… I’m sorry. What, uh, what are you going to do?”

The eyes were looking at him with a merry intensity. He could sense that even as he studiously observed the floor. “I would not dream of you supporting me,” the dream man chirped. “I am not worried! With this body, any number of opportunities should come my way.”

“I’m sure,” Leo nodded. A wave of searing acid shot up from his stomach and into his throat.

Joao:

It’s like soaking in a warm bath, Joao thought. The longing gazes of so many men, washing over his perfect body as he strolled the city sidewalks. His stride was athletic, but with enough swivel in the hips to showboat his luscious bubble butt. It was a warm day, so he had dressed in his shortest shorts and a black ribbed undershirt, accessorizing with a colorful pair of canvas boat shoes and a porkpie hat. Chunky silver bracelets studded with onyx and tigers eye jangled on his wrists.

He had planned on window shopping, compiling a list of things for Leo to buy him. Of course, it would be better if he could purchase the things himself. He would still let Leo spend money on him, but he had grown a bit irritated at the idea. It made him feel like Leo owned him and there was nothing romantic about that. It was bad enough that he kept catching Leo staring at him. There were a few times when he had awakened from a wet dream and sensed Leo in his doorway, although he had never dared to open his eyes and verify his suspicions. He never recalled these sexual dreams; he only ever regained consciousness with a half-hard shaft and cum-soaked underwear. It made him wonder if Leo was pleasuring him in his sleep. Maybe that was the only kind of sex with him that Leo could stand.

His phone buzzed. He half-hoped it was Leo, so he could broach the idea about buying new clothes. Instead, it was a push notification from his language app. He was learning Portuguese at a respectable pace. Still, it annoyed him that he had to learn it to begin with. Leo’s clumsy refashioning of him had given him the accent and speech patterns of a cartoon character. It was up to him to fix things, he supposed.

He wandered into an art gallery. One room featured photographs of wild animals who had wandered into urban areas. He recognized a favela in one of the images. The crowded and windowless structures towered over a maned wolf, looking as though they might collapse onto the unfortunate beast at any second.

From behind him, a gurgling baritone said something in Portuguese. Cursing Leo under his breath, Joao turned around and explained to the intruder that he knew very little of the language.

The speaker was a short, stocky man with severe male pattern baldness, pitted scars on his cheeks, and a bushy, graying beard. Despite all this, he was a handsome gentleman, with dark, shining eyes that reflected Joao’s gorgeous image back to himself. Joao had to remind himself to focus on the newcomer and not their reflections. “I generously apologize,” the man said in English. “You look Brazilian and I merely assumed…!”

“My parents are Brazilian,” Joao said. He let his attractiveness beam down on his stumpy companion like a blessing from God. He’d become much better at lying since he’d become handsome, he knew. People seemed much more receptive to blatant falsehoods when they had a pretty face to look at. “They did not teach me Portuguese, so I am obliged to teach myself.” He let an adorably helpless look settle on his beautiful face.

“That is a pity. I am from Fortaleza. I spoke to you not just because I assumed you were a native, but because I am the photographer of this image. I love to explore the contrasts of the natural and manmade, of the beautiful and the ugly. As you can see, the desolation of the wolf’s surroundings serves to make the beast even more beautiful. I believe we all must search for beauty in this unnatural world. Perhaps you would permit me to photography you. Ah, I am speaking like a foolish old man—! This recklessness is quite alien to my character, I assure you, but you must understand, you are the most beautiful man I have ever met…!” The back of his hairy hand brushed against Joao’s.

A few minutes later, they were in a locked restroom mauling each other, grunting and moaning like untamed creatures. As the taller of the pair, Joao found it easy to take charge of their lovemaking, roughly directing the photographer’s head and hands to wherever he wished. The photographer huffed and wheezed little compliments as he chewed on Joao’s nipples and caressed his balls. Joao obligingly called him a sexy little daddy and stroked his bald head, which was more agreeable than he had guessed it would be. As their flesh warmed, Joao detected a spicy musk wafting from the photographer’s pores. It was unwashed flesh married to pipe smoke. It wasn’t completely unpleasant, and Joao appreciated how it contrasted with his own studiously clean sweat and his pungent cologne. By the time the photographer had started to slobber on his dick, Joao’s eyes were glued to the mirror, watching his long, sinuous form undulate, his hard muscles shifting about beneath his dark, hairy skin. The photographer was like a dwarf from a fantasy film, pipe smell and all. And somehow, the imperfect older man’s presence only made his own body more attractive. The bricks of a scheme began to fall into order. Joao couldn’t see where it would end, but he had a good idea of how to start.

Leo:

Joao had suggested they dine at a Michelin-starred Japanese restaurant, and he couldn’t think of an excuse, so there they were. He didn’t have an appetite. Instead, he downed cup after cup of green tea while he poked his spoon into his soup bowl and watched Joao delicately devour grilled eel. The sexual distance between them was verging on excruciating. He had only dared to touch the Latin hunk a few times, and it had never been when Joao was awake. The man was perfect for him, he knew, but he hated the way he felt when he looked at Joao. He felt exposed. Joao was literally his deepest desires made real. Anyone would be uncomfortable if a dream had been plucked from their minds and allowed to walk around in public for the world to see. He couldn’t imagine how he would feel if he allowed Joao to fuck him. It would be too much. And what would happen afterward? Would he lose his attraction to the stud? Poor, sweet Johnny, who had given up everything about himself, would have to live out the rest of his life as a tarnished ideal, loveless and alone. No, he reasoned, things were better this way. It was safer to regard Joao as a prized possession. Like a statue or an exotic pet. He could admire him, perhaps even run his hands over him, but it could never be reciprocated. If only he knew how to explain this to Joao! He didn’t want to break his heart.

If Joao was perturbed by his reluctance to make love, his pretty face never betrayed it. Tonight, his pretty mouth made pretty little compliments about the restaurant. And then he launched into a pitch for a money-making scheme. He wanted to be an online personality, tempting other gay men with his perfect body, which would lead to sponsorship deals, travel, and more. Maybe he could even spin his hypothetical fame into a career in movies. Or even better, a streaming series. Leo had to admit, it was a solid plan.

“Naturally,” Joao added, “this will require an investment in audio visual equipment and the like. We will also need someone to film and edit the videos, as well as create and maintain my website.”

Leo snagged a passing waitress and requested a refill for his tea. “Not a problem. I have a school buddy who’s a creative director at an ad agency in Los Angeles. He can hook us up.”

Joao sampled another slice of eel, licking a stray bit of sauce from his lips with a bright red tongue. “I see no need to bring a third into our relationship, meu amor. You can do it.”

Leo blanched. “But I don’t know how to do any of that stuff. Anyway, it sounds like a full-time job. I have my properties to deal with, you know.”

The stud put his chopsticks down on his plate and straightened up in his seat, his face tightening into something sterner than a smile. “You can learn,” he said, flatly. “And you can sell your properties and use the profits to buy things I need. You are very wealthy, as you have often reminded me. You don’t need to be a landlord. You can make very many photographs and videos, arranging them all so that I am just the way you want to see me. And then, you can stare at me as much as you wish. Even if I’m asleep.” One handsome eyebrow rose as the parody of a smile flattened into a frown.

He knows, Leo thought. He tried to deflect the unspoken accusation with a smile of his own, but his lips had gone rubbery and wouldn’t stay in place.

Joao let the ensuing silence fill the space between them as he continued to stare, unblinking, at his quarry. The waitress returned with Leo’s tea. “I am very sorry to bother you,” Joao told her. “My friend would also like a Sapporo.”

Leo wanted to object, but the waitress left again before he could compose himself enough to speak. With forced joviality, he told Joao, “I don’t do beer. Too many carbs would ruin this fine physique!” He waved his hands over his chest and arms like someone presenting a prize on a game show, laughing a little and feeling like a jackass when Joao didn’t laugh as well. Clearing his throat, he added, “I mean, imagine if a stud of my caliber wound up with a beer gut…!”

“Yes,” Joao agreed, his expression melting once more into bland affability. “Imagine that.”

Joao:

“And as always, my darlings, encontre-me na praia!”

As Joao gave his signature farewell to his growing audience, he tilted his head down, flashed his “bedroom eyes,” and blew a kiss to the camera. His outfit today had been given to him as part of a sponsorship deal from a resort wear line. It consisted of tan linen drawstring pants and a calf-length silk robe in an abstract peacock feather print. Joao wore the robe open, of course, to display his famous chest and show off the braided gold necklace with the gold-plated padlock that he had earned from another sponsor. Leo gave him the signal that they had stopped recording. With feline grace, Joao stretched his arms and gave a pretty little yawn that was somehow also a smile. “Please, meu amor, tell me we are done for the day.”

Tablet in hand, Leo scrolled down a list and prodded the screen a few times. “Correct as always, handsome.” He shot Joao his usual nervous, smitten glance and smiled, just a bit.

“Querido bobo…! You are so very dear when you compliment me. I believe you deserve a present.” He removed the heavy padlock necklace and fastened the thing around Leo’s neck, letting his lips come within an inch of his roommate’s cheek as he did so. His keen ears could hear Leo’s pulse quicken. His perfect ears heard everything. He could hear Leo as he desperately, sloppily jerked himself off in his bathroom, bedroom and editing bay, knowing it was to his recorded image. Sweet, lovestruck Leo… the man would do anything for him. He was the perfect partner… in business, at least. “This is more appropriate for you rather than for me,” he teased. “Do you not agree?”

“Anything you say, babe, “Leo nodded. Scratching at an angry red pimple on his unshaven neck, he conspicuously avoided eye contact. Instead, he went on swiping through data on his tablet.

“And what is my current subscriber count?” Not waiting for his roommate’s reply, he pushed past him and returned to his favorite spot in the apartment: the three-way mirror. Shrugging the robe from his muscular form, he stroked and pinched his muscles, his eyes aglow with admiration. He wondered how much of Johnny was still left inside him. Not much, he guessed. Johnny hated exercise. That scrawny white boy lacked the discipline. Now, a third of every day was dedicated to improving his already ideal physique, and he adored every minute. As he sweated, he dreamed of how many more opportunities his body would bring him… and how much more love. Glancing over his shoulder at Leo, he said, “The subscriber count, please.”

Leo stuttered his way through some uninteresting jargon before finally answering, “You just topped thirty million.” The mounting workload was turning him into a nervous wreck. It was adorable.

“You seem distracted, amado. Are you not listening to the relaxation files I made for you? Are they not helpful? I know how much you love the sound of my voice.”

Leo pawed at a ripe blemish on the back of his neck. “I listen to them all the time! I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I keep losing track of my own things, like…”

“…Like your acne medicine. Homem lamentavel! I remember. And when you had the prescription refilled, you lost that one, too. Do not worry so! I am handsome enough for us both.”

“That’s not funny,” he pouted.

“It sounds to me like someone needs another beer! Work is over for now, my darling. Please, indulge yourself.”

With a sigh, Leo shambled off to the refrigerator, which Joao had taken care to stock with several cartons of cheap, high-carb ale. The brews’ effect was starting to show in Leo’s face, making it look puffy and dissipated, and in his stomach, softening his abs and giving him the beginnings of love handles. It was very satisfying to surprise the man in his bathroom and gaze at the two of them in the mirror, comparing their bodies. Even now, he couldn’t resist sneaking up behind him and playfully squeeze his flabby waist. The bottle Leo had tipped to his lips flew from his hand and shattered on the floor, leaving a frothy pool of emerald shards.

“That’s not funny,” Leo yelped. As he fetched the broom and started to sweep up the glass, he sniffed, “I already know I put on some weight. You don’t have to remind me. It’s not my fault if I don’t have time to go to the gym the way I used to.”

Joao allowed carefully modulated indignation to enter his deep, sexy voice. “I suppose you are blaming me, then.”

Leo paled. “Not you! It’s all this work I’m, I mean, we’re doing… which you deserve. No, it’s me, it’s just me. I suck at this. And now I’m getting fat…!” The fool couldn’t even look him in the eyes.

Joao stroked his shoulder and encountered a fresh blemish beneath his unwashed t-shirt. He took care to rub the pimple especially hard, knowing it would irritate it. “Relax, queridao! I think your little belly is very cute. You should let it grow bigger, so I have more of you to love.” To emphasize his point, he kissed his target fully and deeply on the lips. He ignored the halitosis that coated Leo’s mouth. Leo moaned in a deliciously pathetic way as Joao fondled his soft, round belly and pinched his love handles. Noting the sudden bulge in Leo’s pants, he quickly broke contact and strutted to his room to change into his gym togs. “I am giving you the night off,” he said. “Relax and enjoy yourself, my little teddy bear,” he cooed.

But Leo would not stay little for much longer, he knew. The tapes would see to that.

Leo:

Two goggling brown eyes swam behind the thick, tinted lenses of the aviator specs. Leo stared blearily at his puffy, bearded face and quickly took the things off. Squinting at the fuzzy image, he couldn’t figure out if he looked any better without them. He appealed to Joao for advice, the way he often did. “Are you sure these are the best idea for me…?”

A vision in jaguar-print silk floated near on a cloud of cologne. With pure sex dripping from every syllable of his bass-baritone voice, he intoned, “Paixao, these are just the thing. They are retro and very stylish. They make you look quite intelligent. I am the beauty, and you are the brains, my absent-minded professor. I believe we make a striking contrast.” He kissed him on his acne-ravaged mouth. “I am loving your beard, by the way. Although I am still not sold on the mustache…” He drifted away to one of his rolling clothes racks, to select his outfit for the next video.

I’m absent-minded, alright, Leo thought. Since going to work for Joao, he’d begun to lose track of his personal items. His acne medications, his contact lenses and even his hair tonics. He would try to replace them, only to lose them again a few days later. Finally, he’d given up. His only consolations these days were Joao (of course), and the rare moments he was able to reward his hard work – usually, with drinking or overeating. He got through the day on a constant buzz, and the local pizza places had gotten very familiar with his name. He’d grown a small but solid gut, and his neck had thickened to the point he was in danger of getting jowls. With no time for a haircut, his thinning locks had grown past the bottom of his neck, and they were greasy from going days without shampoo. His beard was bushy, making his face look even rounder than before. Strangely, his mustache was scraggly in contrast. He knew what it should look like; he’d rocked the stubble look plenty of times. Its comparative thinness now was a mystery. Once, he’d mentioned this to Joao. The hunk had joked, “That is because I am plucking the hairs with tweezers whenever you are passed out.”

Thank goodness for the relaxation tapes. Joao was an angel to think of him that way. They’d begun to sell similar tapes on Joao’s website, but these tapes were special, one-of-a-kind. Just for him. The man was too dear.

Turning back to his reflection, he donned the glasses again and took another long look at himself. He did look kind of academic, he supposed. He brushed his oily hair back from his face and winced at the wispy peninsula his hairline had been reduced to. If he cleaned up the lines of his beard and got a decent haircut and some clothes that fit properly, he might pass for an intelligent man. But there was no time for that. Joao’s career came first. He ordered himself to focus on his devastatingly perfect roommate.

To calm down, he slipped his hand in his pocket and found the bulldog pipe he’d started carrying with him. He wasn’t sure where his interest in pipes had come from. One morning, he’d found bookmarks for several pipe fetish websites on his phone. He must have added them while he was blackout drunk. Exploring them, he’d gotten stiff right away. Stroking the hard, curving bowl, he felt a tingle of pleasure in his crotch. The pipe would look boss, clenched in his mouth and resting on his bearded chin. He hadn’t dared to try smoking the thing yet, but he sometimes held it in his lips and got a thrill just from looking at himself.

“Leo,” Joao called out. He stood there expectantly, holding two different ensembles. It was time to get back to work. Leo waddled over as quickly as he could.

Joao:

Leo was holed up in his editing bay like usual, his blobfish body half-hidden by a haze of pipe smoke. His dedication to the role was impressive. The equipment sprawled over half of his bedroom, pushing his bed into the corner. At Joao’s suggestion, the old California King mattress had been switched out for a twin. It just made sense. After all, Leo hadn’t fucked anyone in over half a year. In that time, he’d gained nearly one hundred pounds. Joao got a kick out of seeing his devoted assistant curled up on the tiny mattress, noisily snoring. Like an overfed chihuahua.

For now, Leo was surrounded by monitors showing videos and stills of his hunky boss, gyrating to club music, showing off his gains in skimpy outfits, casting smoldering looks at the camera during modeling gigs, jumping rope while only wearing a jockstrap, and charmingly dispensing relationship advice to his fans. Leo’s plump hands were nowhere near the keyboard. But Joao didn’t need perfect senses to figure out what was happening. He could see the bottle of hand lotion on the desk and hear the wet, slapping noises emanating from the man’s rapidly vanishing lap. As Leo fapped, he chuffed hot clouds of smoke into the air, like an old-time locomotive climbing a hill.

“Xodozinho,” Joao said softly, touching the fan man’s bare, pimpled shoulder.

Leo startled in an endearingly comical fashion, shrieking and spinning around in his office chair so quickly that he almost tumbled out of it. “Oh God,” he panted, the pipe dropping from his lips. “Oh, Jesus Christ Almighty.”

“It is okay, my darling,” Joao said, taking care to breathe through his mouth, to avoid Leo’s body odor. “I want to speak with you about our arrangements in this apartment. You know that I spend quite a lot of time at the gym while you stay here and work. Well, obviously you don’t go to the gym,” he teased, squeezing one of Leo’s man-boobs. It was too tempting, since it was hanging halfway out of his too-small tank top. Leo laughed – a honking, nasal laugh installed by the hypnosis tapes. And then he caught on to the insult, and the light fled his eyes.

“I know,” he muttered. “I’m a fat pig. Goddamn it, I suck so hard…!”

“We were talking about me,” Joao reminded him. “I was going to suggest that I purchase the gym equipment I need and work out at home, instead. It will provide wonderful content for my fans, and without having to involve other people. How would that be?”

Without bothering to clean his hands, Leo grabbed a fresh bag of marshmallows, tore it open, and began stuffing them in his maw, staring hopefully at Joao the entire time. “You… you mean it? You’d be home more often, and I could watch you exercise?”

“We really should spend more time together,” Joao purred.

“That’s awesome! Only, I don’t know where we’d put the equipment. I guess we could always get a bigger apartment…”

Scowling, Joao took a step back. “Absolutely not. This is our home, queridao. So many important things have happened here. I was born here; in case you have forgotten. It was a painful birth, I might add. I may never forget it.”

“Yeah, I know,” Leo replied sheepishly.

“I have been thinking, if we move the editing bay to the dining area, I can turn my bedroom into my home gym.”

“But… but where will you sleep? Will it be with…?”

“Silly honey…! I will move into your bedroom. You may sleep there as well.” Joao watched Leo’s face radiate pure delight before adding, “Not on my bed, of course. But there is a fine stuffed chair and ottoman in the corner which will serve that purpose.”

Frozen, Leo’s mouth dropped open. Then his expression went dead again, and he nodded. Joao continued to talk about which machines he needed Leo to purchase for him. Leo, his face slack, entered the data on his tablet while also filling and lighting a fresh pipe. He was a true gem, Joao thought. So good at multitasking!

Leo:

“Are you drunk—?!”

Leo wasn’t, and that was the problem. He had stopped drinking the day before meeting his father here for brunch, thinking it would soften the old man’s remarks. He knew that he still looked awful. In the last year, he’d descended into full alcoholism while putting on over two hundred pounds and letting his hair and beard grow to mountain man proportions. But this was one of his better days, he thought. He’d showered and washed his hair and beard. The whiskers were wiry and tangled, but he’d combed them out, fluffing them into a leonine mass. He used, or maybe overused, one of Joao’s pomades on his thinning locks, slicking them down and somehow making them look greasier than before. At a discount clothing store, he’d found some plus-size khaki pants and a polo shirt that didn’t ride up on his beer gut too much. He had tried his best to impress his dad. Meekly, he asserted that he was sober.

“Oh, bullshit, Leo,” his father sneered. “I can smell it on you. It’s practically exploding from your pores. You know what…? I hope you ARE drunk. It’s the only explanation for how you’ve been acting lately.”

“I’m making money,” Leo protested. He could feel his dad’s naturally amber eyes bearing down on him, but he couldn’t meet his gaze. His father was very fit for someone in his mid-fifties, and his lush head of hair was a beautiful silver. It was like seeing his own future self – one from a reality where he wasn’t a fuckup.

“No, Leo, you’re making money for someone else.” The old man pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “Let me see if I can explain this to you, you sap, You sold off all your rental properties – which are perfect sources of passive income – and invested the profits in a boytoy who is going to bleed your fat ass dry. Good God, son…! Just look in a mirror! You’re so far gone that you’re not even taking care of yourself! Your health and your appearance should always come before anyone else’s needs. I thought I had taught you that.”

Leo mumbled an apology. He stuck a fork into his French toast but didn’t have the nerve to eat while his father was looking at him. Withdrawing his hand, he watched the fork tilt downward and sink into a puddle of maple syrup.

The old man continued to interrogate him. “What is the nature of your relationship with this ‘influencer’ or whatever he’s called? Do you have a contract with this foreigner? Anything legally binding?”

His throat dry, Leo ran his hands nervously over his beard for comfort. He tried to think of an answer that would satisfy his father. None came to mind.

The old man snorted, “That’s what I thought.” He stood up and dashed his silverware onto his plate. “We’re done. Don’t come begging to me when this so-called investment finishes making a chump out of you. From now on, you are on your own. Fix this situation yourself, because I am done bailing you out. And obviously, you are disinvited from all future holiday dinners and family vacations. I cannot afford to be embarrassed by being seen with a fat, drunk loser. Goodbye, Leo.”

After his father left, the waiter reappeared and asked if Leo wanted anything else. “A Bloody Mary,” he moaned. He kept drinking them until the restaurant’s hard edges softened and the air softly glowed.

At home, he found two men loading the corner chair and ottoman from Joao’s bedroom into a van. Inside, he located Joao in front of the three-way mirror, checking out his own hairy ass in a lavender thong. When he asked the hunk where his chair was going, Joao cried, “Queridao bobo…! I needed a new armoire for all my clothes. Obviously, there is no room for it unless we get rid of that smelly old chair and footstool. You may sleep in the living room, on the sofa – well, not the sofa. I may wish to stretch out on it after a difficult day. But you may have the loveseat. Unless I have a gentleman friend over. It would kill the mood if you were there. You understand.”

He understood. Joao had been entertaining a lot of “gentleman friends” lately. They were all Brazilian studs, and while seeing two Latin hotties together used to get him off, Joao and his boyfriends had a habit of joking with one another in Portuguese and glancing at him while they laughed their gorgeous heads off. He knew they were making fun of him. But he couldn’t prove it, because Joao forbade him from learning Portuguese, saying that his “silly brain” didn’t have room for all his tech knowledge AND a second language. Leo ventured to learn it anyway, using an app. But he found it impossible to memorize any words, as though he had a mental block. And then the app vanished from his phone, although he couldn’t remember deleting it.

He waddled to the window and watched the van drive away with his chair. The polo shirt seemed to shrink down further, suffocating him. Awkwardly wriggling out of it, he retreated to his editing bay and fired up his pipe. While puffing on the implement, he stroked himself off through his khaki shorts. The mounting layers of fat had created a pillowy triangle between his gut and his genitals, covering much of his cock. Besides making the thing look smaller, it gave him less to hold onto. He watched a loop of Joao gyrating to percussive samba de coco while wearing only a mesh crop top and a jockstrap. Brooding over his father’s words and his own detestable weakness, he couldn’t concentrate enough on Joao to get hard. Finally, he gave up.

Joao:

Holding his breath to keep from breathing in the stench, Joao banged his fist on the closet door. It was only a formality, of course. There was no lock.

The door swung open. Impatiently, Joao reached inside and pulled the chain to turn the light on. Leo’s porcine eyes blinked rapidly in the sudden glare as he reached for his spectacles. Leo had busted the things by sitting on them, but they had been easily repaired by wrapping white tape around the bridge. The earpieces were askew, making Leo look even drunker than usual, but Joao had decided that they were good enough. There was no need for replacements. Leo never left the apartment. Who would he need to impress? Through fingerprint-smeared lenses, the fat man regarded the love of his life with a mix of admiration and fear.

Joao smiled down at his old crush. Leo’s obese form was crammed into his miserly surroundings. He sat on a grimy blanket atop a folded wrestling mat with a pile of sweat-stained pillows behind him, allowing him to comfortably rest his head against the walls. More sweat stains marked his too-small, ribbed undershirt and the voluminous cotton briefs that were currently covered by his sagging gut. The undershirt and briefs were all he wore now. In his current state, he was constantly sweating. There was no air vent in the closet where he slept, which compounded the problem. But the dear man understood that there was no other place for him in the the apartment. Except for his editing bay, of course.

After catching Leo attempting to pleasure himself in the bay too many times, Joao had added one more item to the fat man’s wardrobe: a chastity cage for his cock. The device worked wonders. Leo was all business now, editing his videos in record time.

Feeling his oxygen supply run low, Joao exhaled and gasped a bit of noxious air so he could speak. “Queridao bobo,” he began, “I have been thinking about you.”

“That’s nice,” Leo said, hopefully.

“Firstly, I do not think ‘Leo’ is a suitable name for you. I will begin calling you by your middle name, instead. And I would like you to begin referring to yourself that way as well.”

The fat man bit his lip. “But… my middle name is ‘Mortimer.’ It’s my great-grandfather’s name and, and I… I hate it.” He winced, as though he thought Joao was going to strike him. “Please, babe, don’t make me go by ‘Mortimer.’ It’s a dork name.”

Joao sighed. “Get up.”

With maximum effort and an assist by Joao, the fat man got on his feet and squeezed his flab through the closet door. From the abashed look on his face, Joao could tell he knew where they were going. The three-way mirror.

Standing next to the fat man, Joao couldn’t help noticing how much taller and more attractive he’d gotten in the last fifteen months. He was six-foot-nine now, and he walked with a stately sort of grace, like a gladiator entering an arena, or a king leading a procession of noblemen. His every move was perfect, subtly choreographed in his mind to rivet his audience. Beside him was a cowering, broken-down slob. Joao poked him in the belly. “Do you not see, meu denghino? If anyone here is a ‘Leo,’ it is I. The name conveys power, confidence, and an animal passion. In no way do those words describe you. I mean no disrespect, darling. Think of ‘Mortimer’ as a pet name, a term of endearment.”

After a few minutes of tiresome blubbering, Mortimer agreed to the idea.

“Do not cry, little one,” Joao said, patting his head.

Mortimer glanced up at him. “Could I… could I smell you? That always makes me feel better.”

“Of course you may,” Joao answered. Although Mortimer stank, his blind affection was oddly invigorating. As the overweight nerd snuffled the mesmerizing musk from his pits and neck and crotch, Joao moved on to the second part of this day’s agenda. “I have a surprise for you. A few surprises, really. The first is in a box on the coffee table. Let me see you open it.”

Mortimer, clearly intrigued, trailed behind Joao like a puppy as he strode magisterially to the sitting area. A box in copper foil sat on the table, adorned with a large silver bow. Mortimer tore the thing open and beheld a bottle of cheap blended whiskey. “Oh,” he said. “This is… thoughtful.”

“Forgive me, but I could not stand any more of your beer farts and belches. I am switching you to whiskey. You’ll get drunk faster, too. You should enjoy that.”

Mortimer’s bloated body seemed to deflate, and he lowered his fat ass onto the loveseat. Joao clucked his tongue, and Mortimer, wobbling, got back on his feet. “Sorry,” he cried. “I know I can’t sit there. Sweat stains.”

“And the odor,” Joao reminded him. “You have me so upset now; I can’t remember the other surprise. Ah, yes…! Some friends of mine will visit today and give you a makeover. It may take a while, so I suggest you start on that bottle of whiskey and get into a relaxed state.”

Mortimer’s piggish eyes went as wide as they could within their nests of fat. He already had the cap unscrewed.

Mortimer:

Images of Joao flashed in the darkness. Mortimer viewed them through veils of pipe smoke and alcohol. Fifty video freeze frames, one hundred, one thousand… there had to be one where Joao’s eyes were partly closed, or his mouth was halfway open, or his beautiful body was caught in an awkward in-between pose, or his long, gorgeous, glossy hair was making an unflattering silhouette. But Mortimer could find none of these things. It should have been impossible. But the stud’s perfect body looked perfectly composed and alluring in every single frame. The camera hadn’t even caught him blinking. Somehow, he had managed to blink between frames. Recording devices idolized him as much as his fans. A shiver shook Mortimer’s body, vibrating the flab hanging from his neck and arms like they were made of gelatin.

The man wasn’t human. What had he gotten himself into?

Tenderly, he touched the plastic wrap that had been taped over his new tattoos. He hadn’t been sure what to expect from his surprise makeover. The experience had taken a long time, and he was drunk as hell for the first part and completely passed out for the rest of it. Joao had later explained that he’d put something in his drinks to help him relax. As though he was doing him a favor.

Like all of Joao’s other friends, the aesthetician was Brazilian. Joao and the stranger had conversed in Portuguese. When Mortimer had asked what they were talking about, Joao had told him it was none of his concern. The visitor had begun by trimming his beefy beard, taking the length back to six inches and cleansing it with an expensive shampoo and conditioner. He had given Mortimer’s hair the same royal treatment, cutting off the split ends and leaving the length at about twelve inches. The aesthetician’s body had wavered and become indistinct. The phantom had then produced a gray, boxy item the size of a video game console. “Electrolysis, docinho,” a blurry Joao had said. His voice had seemed to be coming to him from the other end of a metal culvert. “We need to clean up the lines of your hair and beard.”

Mortimer had slurred his assent, although he had been sure his agreement wasn’t needed. The aesthetician had worked for what had felt like far too long, spending much of his time on his upper lip, cheeks, chin, and the entire top part of his head. As the room had condensed into a small disc and winked out of existence, he had felt a pinprick above his left nipple.

He had awakened in his closet, feeling like boiled garbage. Joao had briefly appeared and handed him a plastic bowl and a room-temperature bottle of Gatorade. Mortimer had been too weak to stand, so he had asked Joao to turn on the light for him. Joao had told him that it wasn’t a good idea and had closed the door again. After he had vomited into the bowl, Mortimer had comforted himself with a sip of Gatorade. He had tasted whiskey in it. Feeling a bit better, he had run his fingers over his body to see what had changed.

A lot had. Rectangles of plastic wrap had been taped over multiple parts of his body – his arms, chest, belly, back, and even his ass. He had suspected these were tattoos and found that odd, since he’d never expressed a desire for any. But the biggest changes had been to his hair and beard. His upper lip was completely smooth, without the slightest hint of stubble. The aesthetician had taken away what had been left of his mustache. The front part of his cheeks and chin had received the same treatment, leaving him with a true “neckbeard.” It was just a furry strap that ran from his sideburns to the underside of his chin and his bullfrog neck. Worse, his male pattern baldness had been taken to an extreme, with the top of his head utterly denuded, leaving a wide band of hair that only reached an inch above his ears and dipped low in the back of his scalp. It wouldn’t have been so bad if his hair wasn’t so long, but it was, and he had immediately sensed that Joao would never allow him to cut it. When he had cried, it had emerged as a clownish, honking noise, just like his laughter.

A day later, Joao had pulled him from his seclusion to show him his reflection in the three-way mirror. He had been prepared to see the state of his hair and beard, but he hadn’t been ready for the tattoos.

Even through the plastic, he could see that they were degrading. The words “PIPE PIG” were tattooed on his left bicep, along with a cross-eyed cartoon pig puffing desperately on a huge briar. “GAINER PIG” was tattooed in a sprawling arc over the top of his tremendous apron gut, showing a cartoon pig at a trough. “GRUNGE PIG” marked his right bicep, featuring a Charles Schulz-style pig character standing in a cloud of his own filth. “COCK PIG” was inscribed on his chest, along with a drooling cartoon pig in leather slave gear. Joao spun him around and yanked his briefs down so he could see how “INSERT COCK HERE” had been tattooed on his ass. Finally, a tramp stamp of a neckbearded Porky Pig in a dirty undershirt lurked on his lower back, with a word balloon announcing, “I-I-I’M M-M-MORTIMER!”

“I-I-I d-d-don’t un-un-understand,” Mortimer had squealed. The sudden stammer had shocked him, and he hadn’t been able to get rid of it since then. Humiliated, he had resolved on the spot to speak only when he had no other choice.

“I have my own reasons,” Joao had said, his booming tones as soothing and benign as ever. “For now, I will tell you only one. You could not help but notice how I am taller and more beautiful than before. My billions of followers have noticed it, asking me for advice on supplements and exercises. I tell them what they want to hear. But the truth is, I am only becoming more like myself. I am meant to be perfect, and I am becoming more like that every day. More like my true self. With these tattoos, you look even more like the person you always were, deep inside. Together, we amplify each other. You make me look better. And I make you look…!” He hadn’t finished the sentence. Instead, he had collapsed into gales of laughter. Not cruel laughter. That would have been unattractive. The deep, resounding laugh had been maddeningly affectionate.

Images of Joao splashed onto his oil-smeared lenses, dissipating into blobs of color. Despite his roommate’s careless cruelty, Mortimer loved him. That’s why the tattoos hurt so much. More than the physical irritation, they injured his shrunken ego. They implied he was a whore. He wasn’t. He hadn’t had sex in nearly two years. He hadn’t even dared to flirt with Joao, not ever, and he couldn’t imagine being with anyone else. Still, Joao cared for him, in his own strange way. The stud was giving him what he thought he wanted, and he didn’t want to break his heart by turning him down. Not that Joao would take “no” for an answer. With his unnervingly perfect beauty, Joao was confident in a way that old Leo could only have dreamed. No, the Brazilian’s convictions were as hard and unyielding as his abs. He was a perfect specimen of manly resolve.

He could hear Joao now, fucking another one of his fans in what used to be Leo’s bedroom. The hunk was a loud top, grunting and growling and bellowing oaths and orders in Portuguese. The headboard crashed against the adjoining wall. After a long while, silence took hold of the apartment. Mortimer readied himself for what would happen next. As always, Joao appeared behind him, his face as pale as marble in the ghostly light of the monitors. “Your health shake, meu todo,” he intoned, handing him a hefty thermos. Mortimer had a good idea of what it contained. He’d seen the ice cream cartons, canisters of protein powder and cans of coconut cream in the kitchen. It was a weight-gain shake. Managing a smile, he took a sip and gave Joao a wary thumbs-up. Joao continued, “I am concerned for you, darling. You are not enjoying your pipes as often as I think you should. Do they not relax you?”

Now he had to speak.

Fuck.

“Th-th-they m-m-make m-m-my th-th-throat s-s-sore,” he said, softly. “I-i-if I-I-I sm-sm-smoke t-t-too m-m-much.”

“Porco triste! You simply need to ease into it. Are you wearing the nicotine patches like I asked? And chewing the nicotine gum?”

Mortimer nodded.

“Listen to your body. Your cravings will tell you what to do.” He kissed Mortimer atop his hairless, pimpled dome and retreated into the darkness.

Joao:

The pig’s pale complexion, untouched by the sun, somehow grew paler. “I-I-I d-d-don’t un-un-understand,” he babbled. Joao thought he looked especially pathetic, caught by surprise in his nasty undershirt and briefs on the floor of his closet.

“Queridao bobo,” Joao laughed, setting the suitcases down. “What is left to explain? I am moving back home.”

A surprising note of sarcasm tinged the pig’s husky stammer. “T-t-to M-M-Michigan…?”

“To Brazil, idiota,” Joao shot back. “I will be happier there. I have already hired a videographer in Rio who can do everything you can do. And more. And he’s not a hopeless drunk, so that’s a bonus.”

He turned and started to walk off, anticipating Mortimer’s next move. As expected, the pig placed a clammy paw on his sculpted bicep. “W-w-wait,” he rasped. “Wh-wh-what a-a-about m-m-me…?”

Calmly, Joao explained that rent on the apartment had been paid through the end of the month. Movers would arrive before then to take all of Joao’s possessions. After that, Mortimer would have to fend for himself. “You have some technical ability,” he added. “You should be able to find employment if you ever quit drinking and learn to bathe.”

In another predictable but tiresome reaction, the pig began to cry.

Joao tried to calm him down by speaking to him. When that didn’t work, he had to shock him out of his blubbering with a backhanded slap. “Mortimer,” he said, gently. “If you are unhappy with how things have ended, you can only blame yourself. Do you recall what I said, some time back, about your tattoos? I only gave you one reason for them, then. Here is the other. I adore tattoos. You may have noticed that many of my gentlemen friends have much ink on their skin. And yet, I cannot get tattooed. Did you know that? I tried. But my perfect skin rejected the ink. The needle wounds spit out the pigments and healed themselves. This means that I cannot have piercings. I cannot get a vaccine or receive a blood transfusion. I cannot have surgery. I suspect this body is immune to disease, so that is not unfortunate. But it marks me as different from everyone else in the world. I am a freak. For all I know, I may be immortal. Your selfish insistence on subjecting me to this state may well leave me as the last living thing on a dead planet.”

Between sobs, the pig wailed, “I-I-I did-did-didn’t…”

“Do not whine to me that you didn’t know. The truth is that you didn’t think of it. The truth is that you wouldn’t have cared if you had known. You are a selfish man. Your kind have made an idol of selfishness, thinking it the highest human ideal. As your idea of perfection, that sin has been passed on to me. You wanted a man who would treat others with cruel disregard. That is what I am doing. I could not disobey your programming if I wanted to. In a way, I am just your puppet. But now, I am cutting the strings. Adeus, Mortimer.”

With that, the towering dream man strode regally out the door, leaving his last connection to Johnny Clay in a wretched, wailing heap inside a dark closet.