The house always wins

by Meddler Incs

 The things you find in a circus…

Added: Aug 2021 2,073 words 2,322 views No votes yet

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“Step right up, we got your card games, your roulette, your keno. Just step through here and enjoy. Step right up…”

The guy was dressed in a brightly striped carny suit, the clothing fitting tightly over his over-developed frame. A straw flat boater of matching color perched itself on a mat of dark red hair and shaded his eyes. In one hand, he held a thick cigar. The other waved a reed cane towards the tent’s entrance.

“No entry to come in, all are free to enter, step right up, come right in…” He paused in his nonstop babble and looked at Max, his laser gaze pinning his tall, boney self in place. “Are you going in, or not?”

He pointed to himself, and the barker nodded. “Yeah, you.”

A quick glance around the area showed Max that no one was paying much attention to them. Laughing crowds of families and couples passed around him like salmon in a river.

The carny laughed a great guffaw. “What d’ya’have to lose?” He gestured toward the drawn-back tent flaps with his cane. “Everything’s legal, mister, no harm no foul.” He motioned the guy to come closer, and he leaned in. “If we paid in money, they’d shut the carnival down,” he said confidentially, his breath redolent with smokey cigar. Max nodded in agreement as he waved the smoke away.

“But that is neither here nor there,” the carny said as he leaned back. He motioned with the cane. “Get right in, and enjoy yourself!”

“All right all right, I’m heading inside,” Max said. “Sheesh.” He was going to say more but the interior took him by surprise. It was in a classic casino motif, with bright LED lights swooping across the ceiling and equally bright surfaces everywhere. The red and black tables were filled with players, the croupiers were done up the same as the carny outside.

At this moment he realized two things: One was that all of the staff was just as big as the guy outside, and the other was almost all of them were smoking cigars. “Hey, dude, welcome!” a gruff voice said.

He turned to find a carny in front of a Wheel of Fortune that towered over the guy. It was divided in bright wedges, the lettering unable to be read at the distance. The carny was heavily bearded, and his heavy potbelly gut powdered with cigar ash. “Come over and let’s get you introduced!” When Max came over, he nodded.

“Name?”

“Erm, Max,” he said.

The carny nodded and brought a microphone in front of his mouth. “Hello and welcome to our hourly raffle!” The crowd turned into an audience as they cheered loudly. “We have Max here, who just arrived.” More applause, and he turned to Max. “You know how this works?”

Max shook his head.

“All right, I am to guess your weight, height, and your age, and for each correct answer I will spin on the wheel. Where ever it lands on that is the prize you will win.” He grinned toothily. “Do you agree to the terms?” He pointed the mic at Max.

He felt the eager gaze of the audience as he said into the mic, “Er…yeah why not.” The words echoed through the tent like some eldritch command.

“All right!” the barker said. He took a few steps back and took a good look at Max. “I would hazard you are at five foot?”

Max laughed. “Nah, I’m actually six…” He was going to add to the denial when he felt time slow to molasses denseness. His body shifted in the oddest fashion: the arms and legs cramped up, and then spread to the rest of his body. He looked on in horror as his lanky limbs shrunk. He would have screamed if the air would leave his lungs. He would have punched someone if the cramping would stop. He would have run out of the tent if his body would stop collapsing in on itself.

“I would have to say you are currently weighing in at two eighty pounds? Maybe three hundred?”

“What? No—!” He looked down to his shirt and saw his chest swell thickly, like speed-videos of bread rising but it wasn’t bread, it was muscle. The shirt stretched out sideways, trying to contain growing shoulders and lats, the sleeves almost tearing against bulging biceps and triceps. His shorts were becoming skin-tight as they hugged thickening legs and a swelling ass. Even his equipment joined in, forming a obscene bulge that threatened to burst out the zipper.

The barker didn’t even pause. “And probably you’re maybe thirty?”

“I’m eighteen you—!” He couldn’t say the rest. His body jerked as if caught in high current. His mind exploded with memories of a life he never knew, a life filled with the gym and with lifting, of partying with his fellow frat bros, of his times on the bodybuilding stage, and many more.

“All right,” the carny said. Time snapped back out its sluggishness as if nothing happened, apart from the now-transformed Max. “Let us see if my guesses are right!” He gestured to a fellow carny, who pushed forward an antique carnival scale, done up in whites and blues, that was fastened on a wheeled platform. A large white dial was in the middle, with numbers emblazoned around it in some script. “Step right up, and we’ll see what you win.”

Max looked down at himself, his newly-formed muscles competing for space. “But this isn’t—”

The barker gently pushed him to the scale. “I understand that you’re shy, but you’ll be fine.” He grinned. “It happens all the time.”

“What happens all the time?” Max said, but the creaking of the platform caught his attention. He turned to find the pointer swirling around the dial, settling in at ‘300#’.

“Three hundred pounds, just as I thought!” The barker cried into the mic. The crowd cheered as he went to the wheel. “Let us see what you win first.”

Max stared as the guy reached up with a gloved hand and brought it down with a horrible rattle as the wheel spun around. For a moment, he felt as if he was encased in a whirlwind of possibilities with no way to break free, and his curiosity grew as the wheel slowed, then stopped on a clear blue wedge clearly labeled, “Musclehead.”

“Fuck, man,” Max said, his voice suddenly richer, more gravely. His memories now included more gym and training sessions, with him and his fellow gym buddies egging each other to lift more. Of his power lifting coach introducing him to steroids. Of his need to keep on being a huge, beefy brute. To show off how huge and beefy he was any chance he got.

He turned to face the glassy reflective surface of the scale dial and saw a reformed face, a face full of thick planes with a buzzed down head. He felt his cock twitch, and he openly pawed at it with a heavy grip.

The carny went up to Max, and Max fleetingly thought of flexing his heavy arm and showing off the thickness there. Instead, the man reached up to the side of the scale, showing off a wide strip of metal—a measuring tape. He placed it against Max’s head, who read the fine scripting thereon. “Five feet,” he said, his voice amplified by the microphone.

“Right again!” the carny yelled into the microphone. The wheel spun again, and Max turned to find the winds surrounding him again, stronger this time, as it stopped upon “Musky”.

A shudder passed through Max and he took a deep breath. His nose picked up his sweat, the scent of a real man doing real work. He raised an arm, leaned into the furry pit, and inhaled a rich aroma of maleness. The scent reminded him of his first time in the high school gym, of how the decades-old scent of metal and athletes combined into something more addicting than any drug.

Another memory bloomed into his mind of how he was caught sniffing his coach’s jock, jerking off to the masculine scent, and how the coach punished him, if that could be called that, by making Max huff every part of his thick, hirsute body. He discovered just how much of a musclepig he was during that weekend.

“Last thing,” the carny said, snapping Max out of his thoughts, “and we’ll see if you win the last prize.” The carny went up to Max, and he asked, “You are thirty years old, right?”

Everything went quiet, and Max could feel himself balanced on that one instant. His mind screamed to deny it, to stop whatever is going on. He opened his mouth and said, “Thirty one, man. Born in 1990.” The instant wobbled, and Max felt as if he was free to leave.

The carny smirked. “I was close! Off by a year!” As the audience booed, he raised a hand. “And since I was so close, let us give him the prize anyway, what do you guys say?” The smirk grew into a shark grin, so full of chaotic malevolence that Max realized this entire thing was planned from the start.

“Dude, wait,” was all Max was able to say before the wheel spun for the last time. The whirlwinds felt strong enough to tear him apart. His vision focused upon the spinning wheel, the rattling blending with the gales as the wheel slowed, then stopped between a blindingly yellow wedge, the word clearly saying, “Power Bottom,” and an equally bright pink one, labeled, “Power Top”.

“Well, look at that,” the carny said through the roaring winds. “You got a double prize!”

“No!” Max would say more, but his mouth was suddenly watering at the idea of sucking on thick cock. His mind flooded with memories of how his coach took his virginity during after his first district match, teaching him how to fuck like a man, of worshipping cock and ass. More memories of his frat discovering how much of a slut he was and how they used his body every chance they got, of how he fucked the football team, and many more conquests both in bed and the gym that cemented his nick name, “Maximus”—the biggest, horniest stud the city had.

“So ends the raffle,” the carny said, still grinning. He raised a hand in farewell. “Thanks for playing.”

He and the scenery collapsed like elderly buildings in the gales, shifting into rough lines that faded into pencil scribbles, and then vanished. The winds slowed down into a gentle breeze. Max looked around, seeing that he was back out of the tent, but there was no tent. Instead, there was an empty lot.

“Yo, babe!”

Max turned to find Albert, first his coach and now husband, walking towards him. “Where the fuck were you? I was looking all over!”

“I…” Something caught his eye, and he turned back to the lot. He bent down and picked up a metal tin laying there. When opened, it was filled with cigars. “I got these for you.” Something tickled his memory—a barker in front of a tent, cigar in hand.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise,” Albert said, reaching over to pluck one from the case. “I can’t wait to smoke these as I fuck your tight ass.”

Max’s dick jumped at that. He grinned and pressed himself against his husband’s chest. He loved how he was shoulder-height, for it was easier to worship those furry pits. “As long as I get to fuck yours, babe.”

His husband chuckled as he walked off. Max took one last look at the lot, trying to remember.

“Hey!” Albert called out. “Ya coming or not?”

Max let the elusive clue slip through his fingers, and instead, followed his husband into a new life.

Update posts:
Weekly Update: 14 August 2021

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