In retrospect, perhaps harassing the disheveled faggot frantically cramming in the university library, days before finals week began, hadn’t been the best of ideas. But Clay "Straight as an Arrow" Tanner was hardly the type to think actions through before carrying them out.

As things stood, nothing bad had come of the last couple dozen times he’d tormented the fag. And there was nothing to indicate that this occasion was particularly unique. Simply put, there was no reason, nor any precedent, for Clay to stop, think, and reconsider.

In his experience, people didn’t really care what you did to faggots as long as you were popular, well-liked, and good at sports. Teachers, he’d learned, were more likely to jump to the defense of bullies rather than the bullied. Especially when the bullied fought back. People were simply invested in the status quo. No one liked change. Even in the face of injustice.

That those were the main lessons Clay had taken away from high school was a staggering indictment of the American Education system, particularly along the Bible Belt.

Had he known that the "faggot" was, in fact, a powerful if immature warlock that was coming into the fullness of his gifts but had merely endured Clay’s torments by the power of being a broke college kid with no time for Clay’s shit, the jock might have thought twice about bothering the poor fellow.

But then again, Clay wasn’t known for thinking even once before doing anything. Him thinking twice was almost inconceivable. So perhaps he would have gone through with his petty bullying anyway, since that was so typical of the mind of the bully, to think that they were immune to the repercussions of their actions.

It was a moot point, in any case. The deed was done. The warlock, angered. And Clay, precious Clay "just suck my cock, bitch, but if that finger comes anywhere near my asshole, I’m going to break it" Tanner, was none the wiser for it.

And so, he was as unprepared as was possible for a mortal mind to be unprepared when the thing came to him in the heart of the night. It manifested in his dreams, an ancient and eldritch presence. It was vast, fathomless, and without form. It seemed a blur of concept rather than anything tangible. It was the thought of Wide milky white eyes. Black pointed teeth. Tendrils writhing in the darkness. Sharp angles and smooth curves all at once.

The thing stroked Clay’s mortal mind with delicate, probing tendrils of alien thought that he could no sooner understand than an infant would a treatise on theoretical physics. It subsumed his identity, slipped into the cracks of his mind like water suffusing sand. Tendrils wormed their way between patterns of thought, threading through memories and aspects of personality. The thing wrapped itself around everything that comprised his being, his sense of self, his thoughts, his instincts, like the darkness that enveloped the innumerable stars of Heaven.

The thing crushed any alarm, and even the slightest hint of defiance as it enveloped him. He could only perceive, with detached interest, as he was bound by the ineluctable threads of enslavement. Bondage to the master that had set this thing on him. This thing that he would have once called horrid and monstrous but had, in the space of a dream’s eternity that was truly no more than the moments between one heartbeat and the next, become nothing more than a mere fact of life.

And then the thing began its work. Clay could feel it plucking at the threads of his essence, the silvery strands the formed the crux of his identity. He could feel the thing shifting his priorities, a subtle pressure building in his mind like the energy stored in a coiled spring.

Every move was planned out, every change precise. Every motion was a shift, never a push. He watched with idle fascination as every facet of his being was slowly reworked, no part of him left untouched.

With every oil-slick tar-like caress of the thing’s tendrils in his mind, he could feel his personality, his essence, his immortal soul becoming more and more pliable to its will. Little shifts built one over the other, sequenced in perfected chaos, changing him in ways that he could not fathom, but never applying so much pressure on his self as to break him.

As sudden as the thing had first appeared in the shadowy corners of his dreams, so too did Clay find himself adrift in the darkness of his own mind. He was floating freely before the nexus of his being, granted a body in this liminal space between the conscious and unconscious.

He gazed upon his self, a glowing, pulsing sphere of light in the distance. Around that sphere he saw, like a smear of perception, the dark tendrils of the thing wrapped around him.

As soon as he discovered the joys of playing with himself, Clay had had a singular obsession with pleasure from his genitals. Almost to the exclusion of everything else. Never had it mattered if his sexual partner enjoyed the act, or even consented to it for that matter. He did not care if his women were able to find release, only that he was able to.

The thing stroked that part of his mind, driving his desire to feel pleasure with his cock to new heights. He felt himself grow half-hard. Fully hard. Harder than he had ever been. But with another stroke of his mind, his cock began to deflate, shrinking between his legs, its importance diminishing in his mind.

Simultaneously, another thread shifted his perception away from his cock. With every passing moment he thought of it less and less as the locus of his sexual pleasure. That point traveled down his shaft, past his taint, and finally up into his asshole. Another shift solidified the concept of his asshole as his new and only sex organ.

Afloat in the darkness, he could feel his insides pulsing and spasming as all the obsessive desire for pleasure shifted from his cock to his ass. His hole twitched and he moaned, desperate to be filled. There was an itch inside him that he could not reach, threatening to consume him with the fire of arousal.

Meanwhile, his once-proud cock remained limp. It would never again be as potent or virile as it had been in the past.

His skin prickled with heat as sensitivity all over his body was gradually dialed up to its maximum. Even the ghost of air on his flesh in the windless cavern of his mind sent shivers of rapture up his spine. The sensation of his fingers grazing his nipples felt like nothing short of nirvana.

As he swallowed audibly, he felt his memories, his knowledge, the core aspects of his person being shifted aside for what was to become the new driving force of his personality. Arousal. Lust. Sex. It pulsed like a greasy red heart in the midst of the blue light of his old self, placed there by the thing to supplant him.

His mouth and throat felt dry, despite the fact that he was wide-eyed and drooling, watching the changes being wrought on his person. He salivated, desperately, indescribably, and helplessly aroused by the thought of being warped beyond his own recognition.

Gradually, the itch in his ass became reflected in his throat and he gulped, audibly, craving something to cram into his mouth. He didn’t have to wait for long as the tendrils of that ancient, eldritch thing solidified into something more corporeal.

They reached across the gulf between his mind and his own mental manifestation. The writhing tentacles, slick with an oily substance that defied his description wrapped around his midriff, his wrists, and his ankles.

A hot, thick tentacle wrapped around his throat as he was forced into a certain position. There was no ground here, in this liminal space between the conscious and the unconscious, but if there had been, his knees would have been on it. The tentacles arched his back and pushed his ass out. Smaller ones swarmed him, caressing every inch of his body, sending him into agonizing spasms of ecstasy.

Tendrils tickled his lips. He opened his mouth willingly. One slipped into his mouth, bitter-sweet, slippery, firm, and warm. He moaned at the taste and at the sensation as it forced its way past his jaw, thickening and throbbing like a cock as it slid down his throat.

At the same time he felt the end of another tendril prodding at his asshole. He spread his legs like a bitch in heat, moaning like the cheap whore and desperate slut that he had allowed the thing to turn him into. He gurgled a whimper into the tentacle that was lodged in his throat as his entrance was breached.

Then the fucking started. He didn’t know how long he was there, or how deep those tentacles went. It was beyond his knowing. the thing and its master were in control of him. Wholly and irrevocably.

When at last it was deemed that he deserved an orgasm, it was so painfully powerful and overwhelming that it shattered his old sense of self and cast it into oblivion.