I’m not sure what’s going on. But something’s not right… I think I used to have a wife… He—She left a couple of days ago, said that there was an emergency with his—her family… S-He came back yesterday o-only things haven’t been quite right since.

Like… I have this other set of memories… That I didn’t have a wife… That I had a husband… And he makes me want to do things. I’m scared. Do you know what’s happening?

Supporter Request by Anonymous
(Source: @gummigimp)

It only seems like a recent development to you. But the truth is that this has been brewing for months. You probably don’t remember because you didn’t think anything of it at the time, but I do. It was a slow day at work. You came in late. No one bothered you, of course. It was your company, after all. And you went home early since not much was happening. Some days were just like that. But your heart dropped into the pit of your stomach when you realized that you had left your laptop unlocked and open.

See, I know that you’ve been hiding a secret from your wife. Something that you think is dark and terrible and would destroy your marriage. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You had a moment of panic when you saw your laptop, didn’t you? But it had only been a moment. Your wife’s had gone to work, her car wasn’t in the driveway, and you knew that she wouldn’t be home for a while. Besides, it didn’t look like the laptop had been touched at all.

The good thing was that it was open to one of your business spreadsheets. You had been doing a little bookkeeping that morning before leaving for work. But your browser was still open. And as soon as you clicked it, it displayed your shame, your perversion, right out in the open. As per usual, it excited you. You wasted no time stripping out of your clothes, sitting down, spreading your legs like the faggot whore that you are, and started gooning out to the pages and pages of porn on your Tumblr feed.

That was the beginning of it. See, your wife had come home early. She had left her phone behind. She had seen your laptop. Had seen the filthy fantasies that dwelled in the back of your mind. She had been offended and hurt that you hadn’t told her about this. She was angry because you had kept this secret from her. And she was aroused because of course, the two of you were compatible for a reason. So she started formulating a plan. She knew she needed time to put it together, so she made it look like she hadn’t seen anything. That everything was just as it was.

You were at work when she called you to let you know that a family member had been hospitalized. You asked her if she was okay. She said she was, just shaken. Then, she informed you that she had flown out to be with her family and that she would be away for a couple of days. You had expressed disappointment that she hadn’t asked you to take her, but she said that she didn’t want to disrupt your business. So you let it be. And you didn’t think any of it odd.

Until you woke up one night with a cold sweat. You felt like there was someone in the room with you, watching you sleep. Your head felt fuzzy. Your ears were ringing. You could hear some sort of residue echoing in your head like insidious whispers that your foggy mind just couldn’t grasp. You’d sat there, terrified, for a few seconds. And then you smelled something sweet and sleep took you.

The next day your husband came back from visiting his family. You didn’t think any of it. You behaved as you always had. You had cleaned for him. Cooked for him. Hell, you’d even prepared your hole for him. And boy had he fucked the living daylights out of you. You’re sure that the entire neighborhood had heard you scream.

That night as he put you to bed he slipped headphones over your ears. You felt that this was strange. But he told you to stop being silly. That you’ve always done this. That you’ve always needed a meditation guide to sleep. You didn’t know why, but you believed him. You let him. And you went to bed, a quiet voice whispering in your ears.

It was around the third day that things started going wonky. Aspects of your life that you had just pushed aside for three days suddenly became glaringly obvious. Your house was filled of pictures with you and some lady that looked like your husband in them. You remembered with dawning horror that she was your wife.

Like a sauce breaking, the overlay of fake memories, which you convinced yourself they were no matter how real they felt, separated from your real memories which now felt so fake. It was like you had two lives in your head. It made you miserable.

You tried to figure out what was happening. Who this man was who called himself your husband. Why you had strange new memories in your head. Where your wife was. But you felt so dizzy, so light-headed, so helpless to do anything.

You do however, manage to drum up the courage to confront the man that had taken the place of your wife.

"W-Who are you?" you stammer, your voice sounding higher-pitched and just, generally, more pathetic than it usually was. "W-What the fuck have you done with my wife?" you practically squeak. All the confidence that you’d had earlier evaporating at the sight of the man’s bulging muscles and arrogant smirk.

"Don’t you recognize me, babe?" says the man, flexing for you. His body glistens with perspiration. He has just finished working out. His musk permeates the air. It is intoxicating. It makes your little dick twitch. "You know my dads work for a pretty wealthy company, right?" she says. "It’s called the Keep. I got them to pull some strings and introduce me to a new gender reassignment therapy."

"B-But…" you mumble. It’s not right. It can’t be possible. But as you look into his eyes and really look at his face, it’s true. It’s unmistakable. He doesn’t just look like your wife in the way a sibling would. He looks exactly like your wife would be had she been a man. And a super-masculine, Alpha man at that. "H-How, it’s only been a few days…"

"Really? Just a few days?" he says. He laughs, setting down the weights and shaking his head. He peels his soaked tank top off his body. Your breath hitches in your throat. You begin to salivate at the sight of his pits and his glistening abs. He pats the bench beside him and says "Come here pipsqueak."

You swallow audibly and do as he tells you. You sit there. He throws an arm around you. His musk is so thick, it makes you almost delirious. Your little clit is rock hard in your shorts. You moan like the cheap whore that you are. "There’s the programming kicking in," he says, with a laugh. "Look at this," he says, pulling a phone out of his pocket and putting it in front of your eyes.

It takes you a moment to realize what he’s showing you. It’s so hard to read. Why is it so hard to read? But eventually you figure it out. The date. It’s impossible. It’s not right. You couldn’t have just lost—But the truth is right there in front of your eyes. It was nine months to the day after your wife left on a "family emergency."

"Not surprised you don’t remember anything," he says. There’s a devilish smirk on his handsome face. You can’t help but moan as he shoves your face into his pit. You whimper as you lap at his musk, drinking it in. "We spent so long drugging you up to make you susceptible to the brainwashing. Making you dumber. Making you more pathetic."

"Because I saw your Tumblr," he says. "And you know, at first I was angry that my husband didn’t tell me about these fantasies of his. And then I realized that I actually liked them. But probably not from the same point of view. What kind of normal person would ever want to debase themselves like that?"

Your husband, because you suppose that’s what he is now, slaps you across the cheek. It stings. But it doesn’t make you stop. The pain just makes you harder. More aroused. Stupider. This is a familiar high. The kind of mindless stupidity that came with edging for hours on end. You are perving out. Fagging out.

"But then you’re not a normal person, are you, faggot?" he says. The way that he says the word with such contempt sends a shiver down your spine. "I’d never have married you if I had known you were such a pathetic little bitch," he adds.

"Tell me, fag, on our honeymoon, were you thinking about me? Or did you have to pretend that you were choking on a straight man’s superior cock while fucking me to get that pathetic little clit of yours hard?" he says, grabbing you by the back of your head and shoving your nose right up into his arm. You just moan and grunt, totally losing yourself in the sensation of it all.

"Thought so," your husband says, laughing. He stands up and leaves you on the bench, on your hands and knees, panting. Your face is smeared with sweat and your own spit. He adds his spit to the mess as he stands over you.

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his gym shorts and pulls them down. He’s commando. His cock is massive. It flops out, hard and leaking. You open your mouth on reflex, eager to take him into you. But he puts a hand on your head and holds you at a distance. You extend your tongue as far as it can go to catch the pre-cum dripping from the tip of his cock, but he doesn’t even let you close.

"Sign the divorce papers and I’ll let you suck my cock," he says. "I’m not gonna be married to some faggot," he adds, with a sneer. "And you have to sign over everything you own to me."

The statement sends a wave of horror over you. But at the same time, it is so fucking arousing that you can’t help but shiver and moan as you cum in your pants. "That’s what you want to do, don’t you, fag? Give every penny to me? Let me take everything you’ve ever worked for? I don’t hear you complaining. That’s probably because this is what you’ve always wanted, isn’t that right?"

He laughs. His arrogant cocky laugh makes your hard, sticky clit even harder. "But I’m cruel. I won’t throw you out. I’ll keep you around as my fag slave. That’s all your good for anyway, isn’t that right?" God. This is so hot. You thought that this was all just a fantasy, but now that it’s happening to you, you can’t find the willpower to fight it.

Needless to say, when he comes back with the papers for you to sign, you do so with enthusiasm. You’re too horny. Too fucked up in the head. Too fagged out to complain. You’ve just sealed your fate and you can only helplessly salivate over the prospect of getting your ex-husband’s cock shoved down your throat.

Once your husband has blasted his load down your face cunt, he drags you along to the basement. There’s a veritable sex dungeon there. Chairs. Buckles. Leather. Everywhere. He tells you to stand in the middle and washes you down with a cold pressure hose. It stings on your skin and leaves you red and raw all over. He throws you a towel and tells you to dry yourself off, giving you until he counts down to 0 from 10.

He ends up giving you three lashes for each second over the time limit he set. Eighteen lashes in all. And while the whip marks are still burning he commands you to shove yourself in a gimp suit. Feeling the rubber on your skin makes your clit rock hard. Your husband has none of that. He shoves your hard fagclit into a bowl of ice water and locks it up in a metal cage once it’s shriveled enough.

He binds your arms behind your back. He unzips the back side of your suit to bare your ass. He sits you down on a chair and binds you there, turning on a fucking machine that pumps a thick black dildo into and out of your tight hole.

He gets tired of your moaning and slaps a dildo gag into your mouth. It lodges itself in your throat. You can’t help but gag around it, but your husband doesn’t care. The last thing that you see before he pulls the thick rubber hood over your head is the arrogant, cocky smirk on his face.

"Say bye bye to your free will, fag," he says. "This is your life from now on," he says, before he slaps a pair of noise-cancelling headphones on your head. It drowns out everything except for the feeling of the dildo lodged in your throat, the cock pumping in and out of your ass, and the painful ache in your little fag clit trapped in its cage. Then, the brainwashing loop starts.

You’re just a fag. Nothing but a hole. A worthless fucktoy for superior men. You’re just a fag. Nothing but a hole. A cheap whore eager for a real man’s cock.

That was a year ago. You’re not confused anymore. You’re not scared anymore. In fact, you don’t think for yourself anymore. You let your ex-husband and his new husband do all the thinking for you. Not that you need to do any of that anymore, anyway. A fag like you is only good for fucking and cleaning the house. Not much thinking involved in that.

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