The Master's Farm — Episode 2: Saturday

The alarm sounded at 6 in the morning and Miguel already had his eyes open. He hadn't slept a fuck. He spent the whole night tossing and turning in bed, between anxiety and arousal, constantly putting his fingers inside himself, looking at the Master's photos over and over again. That thick, brown cock was etched behind his eyelids like a religious image.

He got up. He went to take a shower. And that's when the ritual began.

He shaved everything. His arms, his skinny legs, his chest — which didn't have much hair to begin with —, his balls, his cock, and then came the important part: he squatted under the stream of hot water, spread his buttocks with both hands — which was difficult because they couldn't quite grasp all that flesh — and carefully shaved around his anus. Each pass of the razor gave him a shiver. He felt the skin become smooth, soft, and slippery under the water. He put a finger inside to make sure it was clean on the inside too. Then two. Then three. He knew himself well. He knew that hole opened easily, that his ass was made to swallow.

He got out of the shower and stood in front of the steamed-up bathroom mirror. He wiped the vapor with his hand and looked at himself. From the front, he seemed like a normal guy: skinny, white skin, pretty face, still somewhat youthful. But he turned around and there it was. That pair of absurdly large, enormous, round buttocks bursting from his narrow waist as if they belonged to another body. Completely smooth now. Shining with humidity. He grabbed them, one in each hand, and separated them in front of the mirror. His pink, clean, shaved anus stared back at him like a hungry little mouth.

"Today you're going to get fed," he said to himself in a low voice, and his cock got hard again.

He dried himself off. He went to the closet. The Master had said tight shorts. Miguel had some black spandex ones that he had bought months ago and hardly ever used because every time he put them on, it seemed like he was carrying two watermelons behind him. He put them on. He looked at himself from the side. His buttocks completely deformed the silhouette of the shorts, the fabric sinking into the middle seam, marking each buttock individually, and below, where the shorts ended, the flesh spilled out like dough overflowing from a mold. Every time he took a step, those buttocks bounced up and down with a heavy, hypnotic movement. He put on a simple white t-shirt that was loose on top and made the contrast with that enormous rear end even more absurd.

He didn't have breakfast. The Master had been clear.

At 8:45, his cell phone vibrated. A message from Grindr:

"I'm outside. Black truck. Come out now."

Miguel's stomach jumped. He grabbed his cell phone, his keys, and left the apartment. He went down the stairs — and with each step, his buttocks bounced inside the shorts like jelly — and pushed the building door open.

T...