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The Prisons of Obsession

It took me a year to track him down. After he'd flopped at the box office for the fourth time, his career had pretty much headed the way of Eddie Murphy. Still, it wasn't easy or cheap finding him, surfing the 'Net, trying to figure out his pseudonyms so that I could direct several of my hacker friends in the right direction, along with the right amount of green for incentive.

What a shocking, and horrifyingly pleasant surprise to eventually find out he had moved to Atlanta only a couple of months ago. I supposed that he had needed the change. That eternal parade of slim and beautiful youths passing before his eyes on the streets of North Hollywood would have been torture every time he remembered his own brief time in the movies.

To be honest, I had never really thought of him as much more than an abstract. His previously trim-and-toned body had done little to excite my imagination, and his acting left much to be desired. But when rumors online started about his physical deterioration, I found myself becoming oddly aroused at the thought of this symbol of all that was shallow and superficial in "the business" being humbled by his own weakness. When his disappearances from the public eye became more and more frequent, my curiousity was stoked. When he vanished from sight after the film that was intended to resurrect his career sent it crashing into flames, I made my decision.

Now, here I stood, at the door of this small house in Grant Park, Atlanta, Georgia, expecting to see the man who had raised banality of emotion to new heights during his tenure before the camera. Someone whose career I had nothing but contempt for, someone who had profited off of good looks and a nadir of intelligence while I had struggled through the shitstorm called my life.

I knocked.

I heard that now-not-so-famous voice, the familiar California-surfer drawl infused through his words with a vengeance that dispelled any notions of dialectic training in the past.

"Who is it?"

If I allowed myself to answer, who knew when he would open the door? I could get stuck out here for hours trying to convince him I wasn't the bill collector, the police, the DEA, or the county sheriff. He would be expecting trouble at an unexpected visitor, and thanks to my subversive allies on the Super Information Highway, I knew just how much was 'trouble'.

I had to lure him out. The authorities would announce themselves when about to make a bust, and other, far less savory types would have kicked the door down by now.

I knocked again, ignoring his queries. Finally he opened the door.

"Hello, Mr. Reeves," I said.

"Yeah, whaddya want?" he answered sullenly as my nose wrinkled at the odor drifting out from behind him.

I studied him. He was filthy, but buried underneath the grime and the smell, was Keanu Reeves, wearing a dirty Gap T-shirt that was obviously too small for him and an old pair of faded Guess jeans slung around his waist. It would be inaccurate to say that his ample belly "peeked" from between the hem of the shirt and the collar of his jeans; rather, it glared, the deepened navel fixed outward like a dark eye in the middle of all that tanned fat. Yes, his color was rather good for someone who lived in the dark as much as he did; his Polynesian blood would always give him that bronzed look; at least when he was clean. His hair was greasy and hung in strings around his shoulders, and he smelled as if he hadn't taken a bath in days. His complexion was no longer clear, although the magic of his slightly epicanthic eyes still lent a rudimentary sensuality to his features. Whatever grace his genes had given him was gone in the wake of his dissipation, judging by the way he shifted back and forth on his shoeless feet uneasily. His cheeks had fattened along with the rest of him, making him look even more like a barefoot petulant child. He had shaved fairly recently, but the stubble along his jawline told me that it wouldn't be long before the beard grew in. I had an unpleasant flashback to his appearance in Much Ado About Nothing as "the oh-so-clever" villain of that piece, and I felt the urge to strike him.

But the moment our eyes met, his almond-shaped pupils shifted away, and we both knew who was on top of this situation. I relented.

"Mr. Reeves…do you mind if we conduct our business inside? As much as I don't want to impose, I would feel a little strange discussing the matter at hand standing outside on your front lawn." I tried to conceal the instinctive desire to wrinkle my nose more visibly at the thought of entering that hovel.

Perhaps it was the use of the honorific that pleased him; he probably hadn't been called "Mr. Reeves" since he'd hit the skids. There was also the fact that I was still in corporate drag from the workday; thank God it was a Friday. Performing his own suspicious scrutiny, he took in the suit I wore, then granted me a knowing smirk as he opened the door wider and allowed me to walk in.

The tabloids weren't exaggerating. It was a ten-year-old's dream, and a sanitation worker's nightmare. I couldn't begin to describe the utter and complete disaster the interior of this house represented. If someone had randomly selected several neighborhoods, picked up about ten bags of garbage and emptied it into this den of refuse, it would still be cleaner than what I saw that afternoon. Fighting the urge to say my farewells and leave, I simply took a deep breath to acclimate myself to the stench and tried to recover from the shock.

"Sorry about the house…it's a little messy," Keanu mumbled, and I gasped, choking down the hysterical laughter that suddenly welled up at the ludicrousness of the situation.

"We probably want to go into the bedroom," he continued, in an insipid attempt to be casual as we picked our way across the mounds of pizza boxes, McDonald's bags, and Taco Bell wrappers. It occurred to me that Keanu had already picked up the subtext of this visit of mine, but the idiot wouldn't know what hit him once the ball started rolling. I knew he'd deliberately stayed away from crack and the other expensive drugs, but once in a while he had a heroin fix from a friend. I also knew from his neighbors that almost all of Keanu's visitors were male, either losers like him, or suits like me. I was two hits ahead of the game, and Keanu wasn't even playing yet.

Thankfully, his bedroom turned out to be much cleaner than the rest of the house, a case of the junkyard dog not shitting where he ate if ever I saw it. Of course, Keanu had to keep the bed clean for his tricks. No return visits from his johns if they caught the crabs.

With an insolence sadly out of proportion to his actual circumstances, Keanu sprawled across the mattress, splaying his long legs to either side of him as he leaned against the wall, his belly jutting out even further as he stroked his cock through his jeans with one hand.

"So…like, let's talk price," he said in a low voice, trying to vamp me with his eyes. Lord knows I had seen so many confused men try to play the harlot when they weren't sure of their own sexuality yet knew they wanted to get laid. -Keanu, I thought, -after this encounter you won't be confused anymore.

The impulse to preserve mastery of the situation made my voice snap like a whip. "Price? Price? You want to haggle with me? You pathetic sack of shit."He blinked at the harshness, stunned into silence.

"I'm not some aging businessman who wants one last fling on the carousel by bedding a loser who at least still looks somewhat like young trade. And I'm not some strung-out groupie still imagining you're a somebody. And I certainly am not one of your slick fixit pushers, either." My cock stirred with the adrenalin pumping through my veins as my tirade mounted. He was at such a complete loss that he just lay there, his pot belly almost fully exposed now, several shades of confusion flying across his open-mouthed face.

Feeling almost godlike in my irrational anger, I reached down, grabbed him by the shirt and shoved him toward what I thought would be the bathroom. "Go look at yourself in the mirror!" I commanded. "Look at yourself!" I got behind him and with one firm yank ripped his T-shirt off of his back. The aforementioned mirror, miraculously, was clean.

"You're a fat slob!" I jeered. "The great Keanu Reeves, a porker!" I reached around him from behind and grabbed his paunch with one hand, squeezing his soft, flabby chest with the other. "Look at this! You've got tits!" I observed, punctuating each word with a pinch to his nipples. To keep him off-balance physically and mentally, I shoved my cock into the crack of his ass; his pants had snapped open and fallen down in all the excitement, and I discovered then that he wore a bikini brief, another sad testament to his better days, a momento from Johnny Mnemonic.

With a deftness I had not thought possible, I unbuckled my pants, slipped my eight-inch rock-hard manhood out of my boxers, and began looking for an entrance into him.

I was playing a very dangerous game here. All my research over the last year had led me to the conclusion that Keanu had very little willpower left to resist a stronger mind. I could be wrong, though; who was I to judge the strength of another's integrity, however tarnished and battered it may be? But what else could explain the sudden decline of a career he hadn't needed to exert himself to keep? The pressure of a meteoric career had finally tipped him over the abyss of his own low self-esteem. He didn't want the responsibility of living up to the icon his own press had built of him.

Deep down, Keanu was comfortable being fat. He wanted to be a slob. That truth was so undeniable about him that the few girlfriends he'd had were never supermodels or beauteous actresses, but rather ordinary grunge girls.

But that low self-esteem was sourcing from even a deeper part of his psyche. I had read many references to Keanu's looks as being "sultry," "sensual", and "hot"…but in such a way that emphasized his femininity. After some more digging into his past, a lot of stories concerning his lifestyle before stardom had led me to enlightenment.

Yes. Keanu Reeves was a bitch in male drag, and all of the clues I had gathered said he wanted to be treated that way. So I thought.

Now would be the acid test.

The moment the crest of my cock's crown brushed against his buttocks, he moaned, "Oh, man, oh man…", leaning his ass back into my crotch. "Do me, man, do me…" That was enough. I stripped him of the rest of his dirty clothes, and thrust him into the shower. "You wash first, baby," I told him firmly. "Wash that fat ass of yours before I stick my dick in it. You stink." He was so overwhelmed with the experience of being dominated that he stood there lathering himself in the shower, feeling his body all over as if a hundred lovers were caressing him at that moment, letting the water play over that luscious mouth of his, all in front of me while I watched.

The sense of triumph was overwhelming.

He looked like a well-fed seal, smooth and plump flesh all over…it was amazing to see where the fat had deposited itself on him. Most of it was in his belly and his hips, making him seem like a pregnant woman in her last trimester. But the fat wasn't firm and hard, but very soft and pliable, jiggling over his admittedly-sizable cock, which was fully erect and waiting for satisfaction.

Not before I got mine, though.

Finally, I ordered him out of the shower. He dried himself, then dutifully moved to the bed, lying facedown with a dumb smile on his mug the whole time. I almost had the feeling he thought he was having a drug flashback to a good time he'd once had.

"Okay, fatboy," I growled, "get ready-" I jumped on the bed, my knees sinking into the mattress. I propped his ass up before me- Then he did the unthinkable. He interrupted the flow.

"Um, could I have something to eat, first?" he asked.

I froze in shock. "What?"

He lifted his head and turned it slightly toward me as he spoke. He sounded remarkably like the Keanu who played in Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure.

"Really, I'm serious, I don't like to fuck on an empty stomach," he said, the grin evident in his voice. Oblivious to my reaction, he reached down under the bed and pulled out a box full of Twinkies, already open and a couple eaten. "I need the sugar rush, y'know?" Now I knew how he'd put on all that weight. I pinched the rolls of fat around his waist and shook him with his love handles. He moaned, but was chuckling mischievously all the while, and a small seed of doubt began to creep in as to who exactly was in charge here.

"You want to be fed?" I sneered as I grabbed the box from him. "I'll feed you, you fat pig!" With that, I took a Twinkie and unwrapped it, teasing my cock into staying awake during the brief interruption by thrusting it against his still-somewhat tight ass.

"Open wide!" I snarled.

He opened his mouth, and I shoved the Twinkie in as I drove my cock up his ass. He chewed as I thrusted, and roared through the cakey substance, "More! Feed me more!" So I did. He ate the whole box and the half of another one before I came buckets inside him. After I had finished, he timidly asked if he could come now. I gave him an evil smile.

"You have to eat all the Twinkies under your bed before you can come," I purred, and watched as Keanu Reeves, my fat boytoy, began his gradually swelling belly in order to please his master… Well, I can reassure anyone out there reading this that Keanu isn't going to be making a comeback any time soon. I wouldn't say we fell in love and lived happily ever after, but we haven't separated yet.

As a matter of fact, those of you with weak hearts for this sort of stuff better just stop right here.

Romanticists would love an ending where we discovered our love for each other amid the gross carnality of our relationship. Keanu Reeves fans would hope that maybe he would extricate himself from anonymity and my grasp and re-claim his career, in the process stomping me into the ground along the way.

But Keanu had his revenge, even if he never knew it.

You see, instead of him picking himself up and coming "up" to my level, well, I joined him at his.

I don't know how it started. I couldn't tell you what's happened since. What I can tell you that now, both of us live in that little hovel, both of us fat, both of us slobs, living off my savings and his royalties still coming in, eating and fucking amid the refuse and the garbage of our food trail, eating and fucking, and rubbing our now-mutually monstrous guts against one another as we take the occasional shower-when we remember to. I gave up my friends, my family, my career, my life, just to be with him, continually cursing and swearing and punishing him, and him loving every minute of it.

It's not exactly a success story, is it?

But, it doesn't matter what you think, does it? It matters what we think.

And every morning and every night, we think "Damn, is this hot or what?"



Source: http://web.archive.org/web/20051217160203/http://www.gainerweb.com/archives/stories/stories/prisons.shtml
Category: realistic | Added by: existimator (2012-07-18) E
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