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The Tribal Amulet 8-9

by Anonymous

VIII: The brotherhood

You never looked back after your conversion into a golden-haired, cyan-eyed muscle freak. You now willingly serve your foot-tall, hyper-masculine island sprite captors who magically implanted miniature black fuck-studs all around your body, and control your mind by the leaf-shaped amulet which you had foolishly swiped that one day from the souvenir shop. Sometimes they enjoy leading you by a leash attached to the golden chains that wrap around your balls. You enjoy it too.

Day after day, they milk you, making you shoot into ditches dug into the tropical soil. Your streams always last for minutes on end, and quickly fill up the deep holes. They milk you at least a dozen times a day, often more. Your orgasms come over you like a great tide, always blasting away anything even resembling a complex thought. Your days quickly go by in a blissful haze.

The bulk of your energy and your muscle is sustained by liquid from the feeding flowers. Six times a day, you and the other freakishly muscled fountain-idols gather around the four cattail-like plants. These four flowers are long, pale, and tube-shaped, and when you kneel down and gently squeeze one, it shudders and yields a thick, grainy goo full of protein and all the other nutrients you need. The nutritional liquid looks like cloudy honey, and trapped pollen sparkles inside. Its sweetness reminds you of your fellow fountain-idols' cum. It's not nearly as salty, though, being instead richly skunky and reminding you of cigars, tar, and fresh-cut grass all at once. These flowers need two hours to fully recharge though, and by the fifth serving that they yield within an hour, the output is diminished by half.

By the time that there were too many of you cumheads for the food to go un-rationed (around 25, though no one was good at math), mealtime devolved into fisticuffs and wrestling/fucking matches. This made Kappa (who was a soldier in his old, intelligent self but now just the biggest fucking guy here) decide to institute some military discipline and organize chow-time so that everyone gets their turn.

You all agreed to his plan that, at meal time, you'll form four lines, one for each flower. At the moment, there are now exactly forty of you, with you, Kappa, Jesse and Dale having pumped pearly semen into all who came after you. It's been ten months and 60 pounds since the woman-chasing, resentful persona of Jason was ripped away from you and replaced with Kurg. However, it might as well have been only a week, as you could hardly keep numbers in your head now, and only know that when the sun comes up, it just means more milking, fucking, eating, and growing.

Anyways, the lines for the feeding flowers go from the most dominant boys to the least dominant. Though each fountain-idol serves their own Lilliputian tribe, the forty of you have come to form your own tribe, this brotherhood of golden Adonises, this fraternity of perpetual fuck-seekers. Left to his own devices, even a cumhead gets bored of masturbation. At mealtime and multi-tribal gatherings (when the rituals are done), you join the others in orgies and wrestling matches, pose-offs and dick-comparisons, strength/acrobatic displays and contests of coming capacity. Kappa has the record at a cum which seemed to last forever (about 14 minutes) and filled so many clay jugs that no one even bothered counting them all (about 52). You never participated in the cum contest, as it customarily involves a painfully long no-cum period (between the noon-time milking and the late afternoon Fourth Meal).

You customarily stand first in line at your line's feeding flower, having proved yourself the fourth alpha out of your 39 golden brothers in the wrestling, muscle, and dick-length contests. You were definitely lucky to have been turned so early on. When you eat, you'd gulp greedily at the precious liquid, making sure not to let any of it even dribble down your lip. Then you'd stand up from your kneeling position, and stretch contentedly, letting the balmy breeze catch your blond hair and your golden crotch chain. And then number two in your line, Adrian, now named Yogo would step up to the flower and have his full. Sometimes, when a brother was particularly hungry, he'd count down from ten (which is actually a manageable number) so that the drinking brother would finish quickly. Oftentimes, this was accompanied by reaching around and stroking the drinker's dick and abs. When a brother was angry at his fellow fountain-idol, he'd get a few brothers to bark out the count and harass the victim with all sorts of fondling and shaking, often getting him to spill some food.

Today started out uneventfully. You had just finished Second Meal, and it's two hours before noon. You're playing wrestle-and-fuck with seven others, and it's now down to four. The runts, 10th in their lines, are now eating. Size generally correlates with seniority, and these late-comers still look like mere high school athletes, powerful and compact, but hardly muscleheads. It doesn't help that they get barely more than half of what you get out of the feeding flowers, but it doesn't concern you too much, as you know that if a newbie really wanted to grow, he'd take to the feeding flowers at night, when they're fully charged and no rivals can diminish his portions.

You stare at your next opponent in the fight-or-fuck, Elliot, and furrow your sculpted brow in unease. Your dumb brain can't articulate your anxieties, but something's off about him. He was 32nd in joining the brotherhood, yet he's 17th most dominant. Likewise, two others who were brought into the fold at the same time as him are 18th and 19th most dominant. Their old selves were pretty bulked-up to begin with, sure, but something about them seemed too familiar, as if they were already getting assimilated long before they even stepped on the island. Little did you know that the answers to the questions of Elliot and Jim and Steve were soon to be answered by the same man who cursed you on that fateful day...

IX: The master collects his crop

Your lungs burn and your swollen arms ache as they try to resist Elliot pinning them down from above, his ass firmly sitting on your chest. He catches you at a moment where your simple mind isn't in your muscle, too distracted by an inexplicable restlessness. This restlessness is like the all-too-familiar restlessness from not cumming enough, but it's a longing somehow even deeper than your balls. It's a longing in response to a mental call, caught by your leaf-shaped talisman, and growing louder still.

Elliot has you for the count. He's about to claim your throat for his prize when he too hears the mental call. He gets up.

"Come to me" the voice says.

You and nineteen others obey, dropping everything you're doing and, inexplicably, forming two 10-man-long chains, with the brother ahead grabbing on to the crotch chains of the brother behind, staring straight ahead as you trudge through the brush. You realize you're abandoning your tribe, but a soothing voice assures you that someone will become Kurg in your place. And where you're going, you'll serve your true master; you'll serve a real man who'll make you know pleasure like you never could even guess was possible.

You and the nineteen others walk for hours on end; your calloused feet are unbothered by the stones and branches of the forest. No one speaks, and you hear the cries of various birds and the soft whistle of the wind. Something nags at you, and you try to remember something long-forgotten. It must be the fact that you haven't had a good cum for three hours now, and you haven't eaten either. Yeah, that must be it, you think as you unwittingly walk towards civilization for the first time in ten months. The group finally reaches the edge of the forest and finds itself at a hill overlooking the city and the sea.

To the right, at the other side of the hill, you see a lone house. The group stands perfectly still, even now maintaining the two chains of ten. Only now do you notice that the twenty brothers standing here are the 20 most dominant of the 40. The alphas of the alpha males. A strong, cool breeze comes over you from the ocean, and a man appears from the house. He's medium-height and powerfully built underneath his unbuttoned collar and white pants. He has no shoes on. Considering his shape, you're surprised by the fine wrinkles on his face and hints of silver in his black hair. He's now just five yards away. He looks into your eyes and undoes the mental block that kept you from recognizing him. He's the shopkeeper!

"My boys, my how you've grown to perfection," he said, admiring his freakish work.

For now, he stops the haze-inducing hormone pump from your balls, so that you can understand the implications of his every word. You're immobilized, however, and your hand's frozen on Elliot's crotch.

The shopkeeper steps up to Kappa, and runs a hand up Kappa's thigh. Kappa's member reacts accordingly, though for the first time, you see fear in the massive brute's eyes.

"Boy," he says to the 29-year old ex-soldier. "You are the prizewinner of this season. At first I wasn't sure about growing someone for two whole years instead of the max of twelve months in my plantation, but the client's advance was two million dollars, and I just... couldn't... resist... the challenge.." The shopkeeper squeezed Kappa's ass for emphasis. You see voodoo symbols tattooed on the insides of the shopkeeper's forearms.

"It's far too bad I can't see how you'd fare in the House, as I have to hand you over to your new owner today. But I guess, that to keep numbers up, I can allow one of my personal fucktoys to work in your stead. I can't wait to test out Crop Number Six on my Johns! They'll definitely go crazy over the lot of you" he said now looking over the whole group. Suddenly, you feel Elliot move and you let go of his chain. Two others move with him— Jim and Steve, the ones who came to the island already pretty buff.

"You're the supplement salesperson!" Steve cries, pointing a finger dwarfed by his massive forearm at the shopkeeper. It is only for this brief moment that the shopkeeper allows Elliot to connect the dots and realize what has happened to him.

"Indeed" the man chuckles. "I am the one who appeared at your gym in California, in all of your gyms." The man leers at the three desperate musclemen.

"The pills I provided you boys with, that I got you hooked on... I called my product ‘MAXPUMP', but I'm confident you can guess now what MAXPUMP really is..."

"Cum..." the words escape Steve's mouth in barely a whisper.

"Yes, and not just any cum, but the cum of my dear fountains, tended by the island virility spirits which I granted corporeal bodies. Sure, some of the cum is used to feed them and help them reproduce, but I myself use most of the Gufku for my spells. Ah, Gufku... It is but a simple force— Virility— distilled into liquid form. In any case, I always have a few dozen pints left over, and I love hooking muscleheads on it and luring them to the island with the promise of more. That way, I get boys who I can be sure really want the change I have to offer..."

The three musclemen collapse into hysterics, feeling betrayed by their desires to become big.

"Of course, there's more to my magic and usage of Gufku than the pursuit of hidden knowledge!" the shopkeeper continues. "I have my own, more mundane needs. I need money on this damn expensive island.... And I need my carnal pleasures fulfilled. Really, this system I've got set up is quite rewarding. I've got my magic, I've got a house of muscle slut whores, and when the next crop comes in, I can sell them off and make even more cash!" You see a greedy glint flicker in his eyes.

***

He leads you and your brothers into the house, and directs you into the basement. You see ten unconscious teens strapped unto tables. The Master— as you are now to call him—has lured these 17- and 18-year olds away from their senior trip to the island. Already their bodies and ears are marked with obsidian studs, as you can see from beneath their upturned t shirts and polos. He tells you and your brothers to take off your crotch chains. Somehow, you are suddenly able to pull off the article that has held steadfast around your balls for the past ten months. Ten of you, yourself included, then install these chains upon these dudes, pulling down their boardshorts to do so. The Master then tells you to donate some seed, and you comply. The unconscious dudes flex and writhe in their sleep, as their muscles grow past any level they could have reached by themselves, even back at their sports-dominated prep school at home. The Master takes you all to another room in the basement. This time, you're all huddled together naked in a dark corner, and he instructs you to wait for your name to be called.

***

"Kurg!"

Your body walks into the brightly-lit room, though your half-returned yet discombobulated mind screams in protest. You can see your freakishly built body heaving its bare chest within the round of mirrors The Master has got set up. The Master puts his hand to his chin as he examines you.

"Hm..." he mutters. "How about..."

You want to shrink from his touch as he runs his hand through your hair. You feel some sort of powder fall upon your locks before he rubs it vigorously into your scalp. You scalp and eyebrows tingle and you gasp once you see that your golden mane has turned black again!

The Master then runs his fingers across the studs all along your body, and you feel them expand against your skin, stretching it until the pain's too much to bear. Then, suddenly, you realize that the obsidian has itself turned into skin, inked skin, and the pigments arrange themselves around your body to form tattoos. Jagged tribal patterns now hug your swollen biceps and fence in your sculpted abs. Sharp wings now adorn your wide back and two spikes extend from them to curve around your shoulders and meet between your pecs. Most prominent of all, though, is some lettering that spans your massive chest.

"JACKOFF JONNY"

Beneath that, there's the tagline, "IS PROPERTY OF" with a space to be filled in later.

The studs in your ears remain untouched. As you admire your new tattoos, you hardly notice as The Master replaces your leaf amulet with a tight-fitting leather choker, studded with obsidian squares. It has preprogrammed instructions, which immediately strangles your short-lived independent thoughts. Any thoughts of resisting you had entertained are now moot.

Take the first left you encounter getting out of this room, and take a black jockstrap and the army boots from the table. Put it on. Walk down to the city and find Roberton's Barbershop. Ignore any strangers on the way. Sit in any chair. They will know from your black jockstrap to give you a full body wax, and also give you a tight mohawk. Ask for some leather pants; they will have some of my articles in their closet. When you return, report to the third room to the right on the second floor. Your first client will be waiting. Remember, you are no one but Jack-Off Jonny, and you always have been. You're a naughty boy who always wants to skateboard where he's not supposed to. You love getting caught by cops, because they then get to handcuff you and spank you for being such a disobedient little punk. You're always smoking cigarettes, which you have to bum off your older brothers because you're not a big boy who can buy them yourself. And when you're not skating, you're jacking off, because you love showing off your cock. It's your most prized possession in the world, and you're fucking proud of lil' JonJon. When you're with Master or Master's friends, show off JonJon and strip whatever clothing you have. After all, EVERYTHING you do for yourself is really to please your master; all other joys pale in comparison.

With these suggestions ringing loudly in your head, you pick up and put on the black jockstrap and army boots. You leave for the city when you're met by Elliot, whose studs have also transformed into tattoos. The letters across his chest read "KEGGER KIRK".

"Yo, braaah" he says, his hair now chestnut brown. He too is headed for the barbershop, where his green thong designates his hair to be cleaned up into ‘Bama bangs. You notice that Elliot—no, wait—Kegger Kirk has a prominent but taut jock gut that wasn't there this morning. Wasn't there this morning... What's happening to your world? You're not a penis-happy punk, you're a 24-year old professional who once had a girlfriend and got woefully sidetracked on a vaca-

Suddenly, blissful waves of hazy contentment wash over you once more. You didn't realize how much you missed them until they reappeared. Your mind easily bends to oblige the choker's insistence that you are Jackoff Jonny, juvenile skateboard punk, with no adult cares in the world. You enjoy the cool breeze as it wafts over your face. You remember how your master has called a school friend over to the house to play. Your master's always so thoughtful like that. Your cock stirs as you think of all the fun you will have at home...

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