FAG
The Epic Short Story Volume 2.
⚡⚡⚡Warning! Triggering for your pleasure! ⚡⚡⚡
Prologue
In Heaven, no crimes occur because no unfulfilled need demands stealing. Much time passes in endless gloryhole pleasure, and if gloryholes are not to your liking, hooking up with angels provides a good alternative. I enjoy fornicating with angels because they flap their wings and sing while I pound them in the dirt hole, and that excites me. At any rate, in exchange for eternal bliss, God picks someone, from time to time to do his bidding, often me, because He does not like me. Sure, he lets me stay in Heaven and provides for me, but this does not mean he cares, and our relationship forms that of the hot trophy wife’s stepchild you dislike but came with the marriage. In my case, there’s no trophy wife, so really, I’m the stepchild leftover when the trophy wife divorces you, who sort of hangs in limbo because divorcing a kid is crass, even if you don’t like him. For these reasons, God finds no issue interrupting my gloryholing and celestial fornication to perform chores.
Chapter 1. Back to the Future
I screamed from behind the archangel bent over a bench, “Flap ‘em, buddy!” In the next instance, I stood in God’s throne room with him frowning downward. “I am sending you back to the earth to carry out my will, Vince.”
“It’s Vicente, and what do-”
In an eye's blink, the streets of New York materialized around me, which brought much joy for knowing New York possessed world-famous bungholery. Extremely attractive passersby captured my attention, with muscle-bound, movie-star-looking men showing huge, coiled penises pressing outward the fabric of their pants. They talked on smartphones with long tongues shooting in and out of their mouths, appearing designed for oral pleasing.
Awe did not end with the men as women possessed massive breasts that stretched the limits of blouses with curvaceous buttocks, ready to burst through pants and skirts, invited bungholery. Their long tongues also flapped in the air while talking on cell phones, making my mouth water.
“Thank you, God!” I reached for my manhood to pleasure myself.
Strangers stopped and stared, bringing awareness of inhabiting my physical body rather than my ghostly form. “Dammit, God.”
A crowd amassed, aiming smartphones to take pictures and record video while yelling, “Pervert! Freak! Dirty old man!”
Men fell to the ground crying like babies as women live-streamed, “He looked at my breasts and ass! He touched himself right in front of me!”
The police arrived, and the growing mob shifted attention to them. “Oppressors! Police brutality!” As the crowd chanted, I slowly backed away, but the cops circled. “Sir, lay down on the ground.”
Lowering to knees, I felt electricity’s jolt from the cop’s stun guns, causing me to flop about the ground. Consciousness faded as the hysterical crowd photographed my incoherent mumbling, “Here we go again.”
Opening eyes revealed my nude body strapped to a metal table as a doctor and nurse stared curiously. The doctor’s perfectly chiseled features, muscular body, and penis bulging the front of his pants formed manhood's perfection. The voluptuous nurse also looked molded for sexuality, possessing a doll-like face and perfect breasts beckoning to be touched. “It’s gross, doctor! What’s wrong with him? He's getting another erection.”
The doctor pointed to my uncontrolled hardness. “Nurse, it’s not his fault. This man has obviously been through some form of trauma or neglect. Look, he never had any physical improvements or augmentations, and his testicles are severely underdeveloped. Can you hear me, sir? Can you tell me what happened?”
Trying to comprehend the situation made lying seem wise. “Woe is me! An evil man locked me in a basement my whole life, fed me gruel, and forced me to be his sex slave. Forced to blow him endlessly and many other forms of bungholery, I never saw a woman until today. Woe is me.”
The doctor shook his head, visibly disturbed by the story, while the nurse took selfies with me in the background, texting, “Basement Boy won’t stop staring at my ass! #pervertID”
The doctor’s face formed in lines of empathy, “Don’t worry, sir, we are going to take care of you.”
Chapter 2. FAG
The nurse unstrapped me from the table, allowing me to stand naked before them. “Wow!” said the doctor. “I’ve seen this in books but never imagined seeing an adult human in raw form. Look, nurse, he has no muscle tone or movie star-like features.”
“I know.” The nurse shook her head in disgust. “His penis is so tiny, and where are his tattoos?”
Confused, I wondered if God sent me to some alternate universe. “What year is it?”
The nurse looked up from her phone. “It’s 2048. You were living in a basement.” She turned and took selfies with me in the background, posting, “Basement Boy just found out what year it is; maybe he should learn it’s time to stop staring at my tits. #littlepenisbigeyes”
The doctor wrote notes on a computer pad. “I am sorry for your suffering. Let’s get started with the FAG so we can make corrections to your body.”
“What?” I exclaimed in confusion.
The doctor set the pad on the table. “We are going to use the Function Alternating Genotron, or FAG, to help you.”
The nurse wheeled the FAG into the room, which looked like an animatronic head on an adjustable pole with one blue light and one red light where the eyes should be. An opening with a conical, leathery, spotted tongue hung from what resembled a mouth. The doctor said, “Please turn around so we can insert the FAG.”
“You betcha!” I said excitedly, throwing my body over the table as the doctor adjusted the FAG’s height and began anal insertion. The conical, leathery, spotted tongue moved inwards, exploring my ass as the lights blinked on-off until both lights sustained a constant glow after the FAG filled the rectum. The doctor said, “Perfect. Now we’re ready.”
Uncontrollably, I jerked off, which made the nurse scream and take pictures as she frantically ran to the room’s corner and stood behind ropes under a sign that read, “Safe Zone.”
I yelled, “Get back over here, girl! You don’t want to miss this!”
The doctor whipped his head to me. “Quiet, sir! She is in the safe zone.”
“What?” I stopped masturbating, having lost the moment.
The doctor pointed to the corner. “I’m sorry. I forget you lived in a basement your whole life. The safe zone is a space protected by law where no one can engage anyone with emotionally disturbing thoughts or any form of critical thinking. All public buildings must have safe zones installed in them to provide a quiet, nurturing space where people can cry, play with toys, eat cookies, and drink lemonade.”
The Nurse stood in the Safe Zone, taking pictures of her ass and posting them online as I shook my head and pointed my thumb over my shoulder to the FAG. “So, what does this thing do?”
The doctor launched into a long, complicated explanation to which I answered, “Are you telling me that this thing can make my dick bigger and my tongue longer?”
The doctor smiled in agreement. “Not only that, but you can be more muscular, change your eye color, or become a different race. The FAG can make you anything you want to be. It can even change your sexuality preference quotient.”
“What the hell is that?”
The doctor pointed to the FAG. “The sexuality preference quotient is the measure of your sexual preference. Thanks to the FAG we have discovered there is no such thing as sexual diversity. There are just varying levels of sexual desire. So, imagine on a scale of zero to one hundred, a one is an uptight heterosexual male uncomfortable seeing a man’s penis in the locker room, and a fifty is a flaming ass punk used by ten men in a nightclub bathroom.
“What’s a hundred?” My eyes widened.
The doctor laughed, “That number is for the brave! Imagine a sexual appetite of endless hunger. At one hundred, sex with a donkey while eating out your best friend’s gay sister while a bear and twink pound your ass like an oil drill — would seem like a walk in the park.
“I’ll be damned.”
“So, what would you like to be?” asked the doctor.
I said excitedly, “I want to be a half-black, half-Chinese transsexual, with bodacious tits and an ass that can accommodate ten men. Oh, and a dick as long as my forearm and as thick as a beer can.”
“Wow, that’s very specific. Luckily, we have STUPID, and we can see what’s available,” returned the doctor.
“What the fuck is that?” I asked in confusion.
“Sorry, STUPID is the Sexual Template Universal Persona Indexing Database. In STUPID, we have thousands of genetic templates stored, so each time a person wants to change, we don’t have to start from scratch. It’s kind of like a sexual package deal. Think of a meal deal, but instead of fries and a burger, you get a movie star ass combined with a porn star mouth.”
The doctor stood behind the FAG and typed on the keypad on the rear of the FAG. “Ah, they do have it. What you want is a West Hollywood Kardashian Ten.”
“Fucking amazing!”
The doctor smiled and typed. “Okay, so that’s one West Hollywood Kardashian Ten, and of course, you’re going to want the maximum penis length — who wouldn’t? Oh, definitely want to max your tongue size." He looked up and shook his head." You don’t want to miss out on that experience, and let’s combine this template with the Brad Pitt Fight Club on Roids template. Now we’re talking! So, all that’s left is your sexual preference quotient; what number would you like?”
I looked over my shoulder. “Doc, dial that shit up. All the way.”
“No problem. Just sign the Dolezal Disclaimer, and we will turn on the FAG and get you ready to reenter the world.” The doctor handed me a sheet of paper and a pen.
“What’s the Dolezal Disclaimer?” I stared at the paper.
“Sorry, I keep forgetting. Legally, whenever someone changes race to African American or any skin tone that could cause the assumption of being partially African American, they must sign the Dolezal Disclaimer. By signing, you agree not to impersonate or claim you are a genuine African American since you have not endured hundreds of years of racism. If asked to disclose your race, you must refer to yourself as quasi-black, so there is no confusion.”
I shrugged. “Okay, that seems simple enough.” I signed the paper.
“Ready?” The doctor smiled.
“Fire it up, doc.”
The FAG thumped and blinked, exciting breast and ass growth as my manhood swelled and extended. Skin tone and features changed, making me smile. “This is a dream come true!”
Chapter 3. No Anchovies, Dammit!
Once transformed, the doctor released me with an aftercare plan to obtain tattoos covered by the government's SHIT program, Supplemental Health Insurance Tattoo, which paid for underprivileged people’s tattoos. SHIT allowed everyone to feel special and positive about themselves because, without a tattoo, you could never be unique or entertaining.
Leaving the hospital, I contemplated places in New York to test my new body with bungholery. Hunger overcame me while walking the streets as the smell of pizza wafted through the air. I entered a small pizzeria and ordered a large pizza with everything but anchovies, then waited for the order while imagining hot sex with strangers in bathrooms. Gratitude filled me for God gifting me a new body as the cashier called my order number, causing my enthusiastic grab of the pizza and exit from the store. My happiness turned to dismay when I opened the box to discover the pie covered with anchovies. “Dammit!” I grunted and turned to open the door, but time froze around me, turning everyone to statues as the clouds parted in the thunder of God’s voice, “Your task is complete.”
Kicking wildly, rising into Heaven, I lost the pizza that floated away to God eagerly smiling. “Just the way I like it, with anchovies.”
I pleaded, “Dammit, God! Please send me back! I beg of thee!” My body rapidly transformed into my former self while rising into the clouds. “Please, Lord, it’s such a great time in history. People can be anything they want, do anything they want, and partake in any form of bungholery they desire. Please, don’t take me away!”
God took a bite of pizza. “You don’t want to go back there. In a few years, an international reality TV series causes a large-scale selfie accident that destroys them. During filming, a lapse of political correctness offends everyone causing global suicide. Bunch of idiots, but they did make one hell of a pizza.”
And so I was, God’s whore, again.
Epilogue
Standing at the golden gloryhole pleasured by Angels, I contemplate my journey and realize — being yourself really isn’t all that great.
The End.
God bless you for reading! My name is Vicente, and I am the author of the Epic Short Stories, not to be confused with that other guy
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