Forest

Champagne Taste

The most egregious misstep you can make in the Foundation for Transformation it not being specific enough. However, it simultaneously the most entertaining opportunity that you could bestow upon me.

It was a slow day yesterday which is why I allowed my customer to take over an hour perusing through the offered services in the catalog. He was regrettably indecisive, and though I should’ve long since become frustrated with the man, I could understand his reasons for delay. He possessed astonishingly handsome features, a rugged sort of appeal that consisted of a square jaw, stubbly shadow, and soulfully blue eyes. He was immaculately fit, not the body-builder sort, but he obviously attended the gym with studious frequency. Not a single part of him was without a decently-toned bulge, including the gentleman’s crotch. Though it was none of my business, I’d long since approximated that he possessed no less than an eight-inch pole in his pants by the time he returned to my counter.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized in his deep, alluring voice as he brandished the tablet I’d given him, “but how many services are listed in your catalog?”

“Oh,” I responded with a chuckle, “last I checked there were over two-thousand listed services available.”

“Two-thousand?” he gasped.

“Listed,” I corrected. “There are countless one-time offers, prototypes, and other such opportunities that are quite available yet unlisted.”

“Why?” the customer asked, handsome mouth vaguely agape in astonishment.

“It’s a matter of technicality,” I answered with an understanding smirk. “It’d be false advertising from a legal understanding, the posting of some cases in the catalog serving as evidence that we’re implying it’s a finished product. In other situations it has to do with optics. It doesn’t look good when you refuse a customer by telling them they’re not what we’re looking for as a ‘test subject’.”

“How do I tell what to go for then?”

“That’s what I’m here for, sir,” I offered, taking the tablet with a smile. “Think of me as your bartender, and I know every drink you’ve ever heard of and thousands more you don’t. What would you like?”

The man paused for a moment. At first he looked as if I’d asked him what color his underwear were (something I’d love to find out regardless), but he was obviously off-put, almost offended, by the inquiry. He was clearly unused to people who wished to serve his desires being so direct. He moved beyond the surprise though and lapsed into a desperate sort of pensive state, warring thoughts of fair depths struggling to make up the man’s mind. He stood motionless for a moment, like an android considering a paradox, before relinquishing a frustrated groan.

“Honestly, I have no idea,” he admitted in abject defeat. “I came here because I made a resolution to. I’m never crazy or impulsive enough to come to fun places like this. Hell, I have trouble deciding what to get on a regular night out to the bar.”

The handsome man looked into my eyes with an earnest, solemn expression.

“I just want to have fun, you know? Feel good for once?”

With a gentle smile, I answered with a simple nod, and like any good bartender, I knew exactly what he needed.

“Good times on the rocks it is,” I grinned, gesturing for the man to follow me.

I took a sort of pleasure in leading the customer through one of the more scenic routes of the Foundation, showing him all that we had to offer. I did this partially to titillate the man, cause him to second-guess letting a perfect stranger decide what he truly wanted, but it was also great fun to see the flames of desire begin to smolder in his tired eyes. We passed a sparse number of Foundation denizens, from twinks to hunks to hairy bears, all who gave knowing smiles as they eyed the fresh meat and made the guest more hesitant about his relinquishment of choice. Though he asked for the particulars of what I had planned, I would only disclose that we were headed to meet a specialist in “fun”. This didn’t seem to dissuade him from his nervous tendencies, but he did stop asking question until we reached or destination.

Through the door of which I opened for my guest was an ornately furnished room, lavish in its interior. Paintings reminiscent of those found in a museum tastefully lined the walls, yet instead of the usual portrayals of battles or scenes from legend, the art pieces all depicted the same nude figure with throngs of men writhing in worshipful pleasure around him. Depicted like Venus rising from the sea, the man who was the clear focus of these paintings was stunningly handsome, yet the surrounding characters’ expressions of reckless adoration gave the art an unsettling air.

Across from us, on the far side of the room, was a luxurious throne, a lounge chair adorned with a back that stretched taller than either I or my guest were standing. Facing the crackling fireplace on the far wall, the chair’s occupant completely concealed from view, save for the edge of his elbow. His arm appeared to be flailing wildly, fiddling with something in his lap, but what so wholly the man’s interest was also hidden behind the chair’s silhouette.

I cleared my throat.

“Peter?” I called across the room. “You have a guest.”

The seated man slowed his arm’s fervent movement but did not stop. With his opposite hand he reached down beside the chair. Surrounding the seat were at least a dozen wine glasses. Each was filled to a varying degree with some sort of white liquid, but if it was wine, as the glass implied, the liquid was a fair bit more viscous than an average champagne. Peter seized one of these glasses before dragging it into hiding with the rest of him. After a wet slurp and a pointed sigh of enjoyment, he spoke.

“Well, he’s welcome by my fireplace,” came the velveteen baritone response. “Any friend of the receptionist is a friend of mine. Just be sure he grabs a glass for himself. The vintage is very good today.”

The customer warily regarded the chair and then turned to me. With a smile and a nod, I gestured for him to join his impromptu host. The customer proceeded forward, nervously creeping forward like a muscular predator cautiously approaching the unknown. He stooped low behind the chair, collecting a wine glass for himself. Holding it eye-level in the firelight, he pondered on the cloudy appearance of the beverage, clearly skeptical, but then I saw a change. That same earnest look from before came to his eyes, the abysmal glimmer of a man just looking to have fun for once, before he scoffed and rose the cup to his lips, downing the entire glass.

Upon removing the cup he smacked his lips as his face pinched into an expression of disgust. He tasted the sour, bitter taste of the “vintage”, clearly repulsed by the salty aftertaste to boot. Many customers before him had the same reaction, allowing the benefit of recognizing the response at a glance and knowing what would come next. The handsome man gasped, his rugged mug shaping into a mask of surprise with the cartoonist emblematic “O” shape of the mouth. I could just barely make out his eyes as his pupils dilated. With a heady moan I saw the crotch of his pants begin to subtly twitch and throb before engorging into the clear outline of his member hardening.

“I hear that our guest is enjoying himself,” Peter purred from his seat.

“I believe he appreciates your product,” I returned with a chuckle.

“He should,” Peter continued. “He was an utter shut-in, nearly a virgin were it not for a few awkward dates in college.”

“I-” the customer stammered, struggling to verbalize amidst the throes of ecstasy, “I never went to college.”

“No, no, dear boy,” Peter chuckled. “You misunderstand.”

The ominous chair creaked as a pair of feet touched the marble floor. Stepping from behind his seat and into plain view, it was overly apparent of what a handsome man Peter was simply by virtue of him being entirely nude. He was well-fit, similar to the customer, though I could attest to Peter never having attended a gym since taking up residence at the Foundation. Unlike the customer, Peter preferred a boyish appearance, his youthful physique extenuated by his smooth, hairless body.

Where the guest’s eyes were fixated, however, was to the throbbing endowment between Peter’s legs. Dancing like the flame in the fireplace, the cock twitched in boastful pride, as if aware of its impressive girth. The member was easily at least twelve inches in length, maybe longer, and slick with a copious amount of sticky, white precum. Peter’s hand was clearly coated in the same syrupy fluids, of which he coyly rose to his mouth to enjoy, orally cleaning each finger individually with contented moans of pleasure.

“The ‘vintage’ was my last customer,” Peter said with a devilish grin between greedy laps of his palm. “Well, it was part of him, at least, and I suppose you could say that he still is my customer despite him taking on a very different… mode.”

Had the guest regarded the glass in Peter’s hand he would’ve noticed that the goo that was dripping from the cock looked very similar to the “vintage” he’d been enjoying, but by this time they never do put the obvious clues together. The customer, much like the many before him, instead stared at Peter’s member with rapt attention. His breath had become ragged and desperate, like a dog silently begging for a treat with his pleading pants, and as if to complete the look, a small river of drool cascaded down his chin. Seeing the man’s longing, Peter laughed.

“May I interest you in some from the tap?” he inquired, invitingly presenting his member to the guest.

There was a pause. The customer displayed a moment’s hesitation, the last of his nervous personality struggling against the strangely uninhibited nuances of the moment. It only lasted for the briefest instant, however, as he only needed to regard the cock a while longer before sinking to his knees. It was almost like magnetism, the way the guest’s face loomed towards the throbbing endowment, fixed gaze never leaving it. He eagerly opened his moaning gob, limp hands letting his own glass clatter to the floor as a final sign of aloof recklessness, before swallowing the cock up to its base. Peter’s balls bounced against his hair-shadowed chin as he coughed and gagged. Peter grimaced before a sinister smile illuminated his features.

“You’re new at this, aren’t you?” he asked our guest.

Peter wasn’t supplied with an answer, the customer being too invested in the task at hand to give a response, but Peter didn’t need hand to give a still coated in semen, he ran his fingers through the kneeling man’s hair, marking him with his juices.

“Yes, I can tell from your technique,” Peter mumbled to himself, “or the lack thereof. The teeth, the tongue, and your breathing is so clumsy…”

Peter grinned at his guest with a menacing grid of shiny, white teeth.

“You’re a virgin, aren’t you?”

Again there was no answer, but something had begun to occur to the guest. He had grown increasingly enamored with the cock in his mouth since partaking of it, and now he voraciously mouthed it with the vehemence of a man obsessed. Peter’s juices had a tendency towards being addictive, just as his member usually proved irresistible to any man who saw it, but now the guest wasn’t even stimulating the whole of its length, instead adhering to the base as if he couldn’t release himself from the magnificent manhood. A muffled cry came from the customer, half from arousal and half from shock, when he found his attempts to slide along the pole had become impeded, yet Peter only continued to keep his hand on the back of the man’s head, longingly humping against the back of his gagging throat.

All the while the limp arms at his sides had begun to shrink. His kneeling legs seemed to be diminishing, retreating into his pant legs as if his clothes were several sizes too large for him. In the flickering firelight his features seemed to grow vaguer and less defined. Where the guest stopped and Peter started was difficult to discern. The guest’s hairy chin stubble began to only seem like so much pubic hair regrowing around Peter’s nethers. The customer’s writhing body was merely a further extension of Peter’s throbbing cock, albeit utterly gigantic and draped in clothing that was far too big for it. The hand that was previously planted on the back of the customer’s head was now caressing the enormous length.

“Ugh!” Peter gasped in pleasure. “You virgins are always ripe for a good vintage. Your pleasure is so unique, so real!”

The longer Peter continued to stroke his new meaty length the more it seemed to shrink. The clothes that had previously been the guest’s now fell to the floor, bereft of an owner. He was Peter’s cock now, a part of it at least, and everything that was his was forfeit. As the impossibly euphoric waves of pleasure overtook him, the guest realized that this new dynamic of ownership included his mind as well. His memories and personality, all that he was began to coalesce in his phallic body as only so much sticky goo. It poured out of his cock-like person and into the glass of which Peter conscientiously held below, and the customer felt his consciousness grow more faint. As if drifting off to sleep, his thoughts began to quiet and the vague introspection about his current predicament became muddled. The carnal sensation of bodily pleasure, refined to its purest form and wracking the length of his new form, overlapped all of these things that made him a person, drowning them out in wave after drooling wave as they deluded into Peter’s newest vintage.

“Yes,” Peter purred, caressing what was now an eighteen inch cock, ” we’re going to have plenty of together from now on, you and I.”

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