Month: November 2014

How about a guy gets kidnapped and trapped in a abandoned warehouse a la Saw. To get out of each room, he loses a bit of himself, his big cock, his muscles, his cleanliness, his heterosexuality, his intelligence. In the last room he almost gets away, but ends up becoming a dog for his captor.

I did actually start a Saw inspired story, where a bunch of guys are all challenged to complete challenges that turn them all into various gay pervs, but I never finished it. I’ll keep your idea in mind, however.

So glad you answered me about the chats changes and I am so impatient to read more. So justly, to be sure I didi not missed one, I was wonderind how many chats changes stories you written? And where I can find them?

Well, I actually have another one coming up here soon, but I haven’t written very many. Here’s links to them all:

http://wesleybracken.tumblr.com/post/54328453482/he-just-said-that-he-wanted-to-play-a-little-game

http://wesleybracken.tumblr.com/post/51458353642/daddysboy43-but-i-thought-you-said-you-wanted-to

http://wesleybracken.tumblr.com/post/52366051171/roleplay

Trevor heard the sound of a truck on the quiet street outside, and he went to the door of his father’s doublewide to look and see if it was his brother Gary, finally arriving for the funeral the next day. Sure enough, some beat up truck Trevor didn’t recognize pulled up in front of the house, but he had to wave away the pipe smoke blocking his view when the passenger stepped out. That couldn’t be Gary, could it? He’d seen him just the year before, while he was working on a construction job–he had a vivid memory of Gary sitting on the tailgate of a truck, shooting the shit with him, but this guy? He kind of looked like Gary, but what in the world was Gary doing shirtless, in sweats? And was that a chain around his neck?

The passenger thanked the driver and then walked up over the lawn, and meekly waved at Gary in the doorway. “H–Hey bro. Sorry I’m late. M–I had to hitchhike.”

Hitchhike? Why? You have a truck still don’t you?”

“I had to sell it…”

Trevor just looked at him, trying to piece all of this together. “What’s up with you, bro? I mean…something’s…changed. Are you working out?”

“Yeah…it’s a pretty intense program Master has me on.”

“Master?”

Gary turned even more red, and despite his muscular body, he tried to shrink down to nothing in the middle of the lawn. Trevor had no idea what that could even mean, so he decided it would be best to just ignore it entirely.

“Look, why don’t you come on in, and we’ll have a smoke in honor of dad. You still smoke, right?”

“Cigars, yeah.”

Gary looked like he was desperate to say something else, but Trevor just turned and walked inside. He followed his brother in, shut the door, and immediately stepped out of his shoes and dropped his pants to the floor, leaving on only the chain and the jockstrap he was wearing underneath. The underwear was so tattered and that when Trevor turned around and saw his nearly naked brother, his cock was clearly visible through several holes. “What the fuck man, are you some faggot now? Put your pants back on.”

“I–I can’t.”

“What?”

“Master says I can’t wear anything other than my jock and my collar inside.”

“Who the fuck is master? What the fuck are you even talking about?”

“He’s the man who enslaved me. He owns me. I…I am a faggot, Trevor. I just didn’t know it, but Master showed me what I really am, and I’ve never been happier, alright? I know it doesn’t make sense, I know–”

“Get the fuck out of here. Get the fuck out!”

Gary had just enough time to grab his sweats before Trevor opened the door and pushed him out of the house, he picked up the tattered shoes and hucked them at Gary on the lawn, one sole smacking him in the face, then he slammed the door, unable to deal with what he’d just heard. First dad, and now this? And he had to come like this to the fucking funeral? He went and grabbed the bottle of whisky he’d bought for them to share, and drank a few shots, and then checked out the window. Gary was dressed, and sitting on the sidewalk curb in front of the house, head in his hands. Trevor had seen that look, he’d seen it on him the day their mom died when he was fifteen, and Gary was twelve. He’d seen…

He stepped away from the window and went and drank more whisky, smoked another bowl of tobacco, and then checked the window again. It was now close to midnight, and Gary was still sitting on the curb. Trevor went to the door, ready to kick his ass down the street, stormed out onto the lawn, and then stopped, turned around, and went back inside. He needed a few deep breaths, he needed…something. He was the older brother, he was supposed to know what to do, he was supposed to have the answers now, but everything he’d planned was for rot now, and he didn’t want to go there alone tomorrow, he didn’t want to face that casket by himself.

He stepped out again, and stood on the step. Gary looked over his shoulder at him. “Come on, don’t freeze out here like that,” Trevor said, was quiet for a moment, and then added, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, it’s ok,” Gary said, got up and walked up to the house, “I understand.”

Trevor tried not to look at his brother as he undressed, instead he poured them both a shot, and then took an extra one for himself. After that, things got a bit easier. They avoided the topic of what had happened to Gary, and instead spoke about their father and their memories. Gary got drunk, but Trevor was drunker, and when their conversation lapsed, and Trevor lolled back on the couch, close to passing out, Gary excused himself, got up, and went to his bedroom to sleep.

Trevor found him there an hour later, sleeping on the floor under a single sheet. His cock was out and half hard, as he fondled himself in the doorway, trying to keep his balance, and then stumbled over and yanked the sheet off his brother. Gary woke up and saw what stood over him, and rolled over, pushing his ass into the air as he’d been taught. Trevor stared at it, licked his lips, thought better of himself, and then got down on his knees and tried to fuck his brother’s ass. He was too drunk and too soft to manage that, so Gary turned around, pushed his brother down, and sucked him off instead, swallowing Trevor’s seed. “Thank you, sir,” Gary said, but Trevor pretended not to hear him as he slunk back to his own room in the house.

***

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We met through a cigar group. I was new–he was a founding member. My relationship with cigars, at that point, was little more than curiosity backed by fascination–the sexuality of it too, I guess. I had smoked them a few times, always jacking off while I did, but I knew next to nothing about them, or what to smoke. A few guys I chatted with online recommended the group to me, and I figured I might as well go to one. I was hardly someone to be as nervous as I was then–muscled, young, gay but passing–I could have anyone I wanted, and usually that translated into cockiness, but plunged into a group of cigar smokers while knowing next to nothing, I was a bit intimidated. If Nate hadn’t been so welcoming and jovial, I probably wouldn’t have gone back for a second outing.

I usually hated chubby guys. I mean, they’re just slobs at heart, they don’t care about themselves, about their bodies, about their health. So I tolerated Nate, I guess, since he was in charge. Actually it was hard to get a word in–he dominated the conversations like he dominated the space with his huge frame. It was a turn off, to say the least…and yet…maybe even then, I was just deluding myself about that, like I was about everything else. He was certainly interested in me, and made no attempt to hide it. In fact, I became a sexual joke for him–he would go into these strange scenarios with the two of us, ask me to take our shirts off so we could compare, apron to abs. He was more articulate than I was, smarter too, more knowledgable. Anything I could talk about, he could too, but better, with more humor, with more interest. And so I listened instead, trying to figure out why this huge, obese man fascinated me as much as the cigars we smoked together, when every other fat man I’d ever met was so easily dismissible before this one.

He showered me with favors, bought me expensive cigars at group outings to cigar shops. The tobacco was fabulous, and after the fourth or fifth meeting, he invited me back to his home for a tour of his humidor, with plenty of innuendo. I…I was curious. I was curious about my own budding attraction to him. I thought that, maybe, if we could just have sex, or if I could just see his (hopefully disgusting) body without clothes, I could maybe shed this growing desire. His humidor was massive–a small climate controlled room in his massive house. Wealthy, rich as fuck. The money he has, I had no idea what I’d do with it. It’s no wonder he succumbs to food–as rich as he is, he can afford to become obsessed. He was overly generous. The cigars he offered gave me a high closer to strong pot than tobacco. I was out of it; he stripped off my shirt and felt my body. I kept trying to take off his clothes, trying to take back some kind of control, but he remained stubbornly clothed. Soon, I was naked, he was not. He touched me everywhere, and I let him. I expected him to suck me off–I expected him to want to consume me, like a cigar, but instead he pushed me to my knees, and fucked my face, came, made me jack off while he watched, and then we shared a glass of bourbon. He kept me naked the whole time, I let him stare at me, and then went home, somewhat disgusted, but more aroused than anything I had experienced.

I went over to his house more often after that. I found myself unable, or unwilling, to turn down any invitation. It was months before I saw him naked, but by that point any possibility that he could disgust me enough to abandon sex was out of the question. I was attracted to him. When he fucked, it was like nothing else–I was strong, and yet he could (and often did) crush the breath out of me. He made me feed him. He made me clean every sweaty fold of his flabby body. I was the one devouring him. I was the one with the addiction. I soon stopped smoking cigars, and stopped attending group meetings. He was the new object of my fetish–the smoke he fed me in our kisses was far more powerful than anything else I’d ever tasted.

He grew more demanding, and I accommodated him. I shaved my body smooth, from head to toe. I started practicing with dildos at home, so I could take his cock without resistance. I learned how to cook, and the weekends I spent at his home would often be consumed with feeding his hunger more than fucking my holes. He sent me a particularly exhausting exercise routine, and I followed it religiously. he introduced me to his dungeon soon after that. I had noticed the stairs down into the basement before, but when he led me down into the space filled with all manner of bondage and pain equipment…I was eager. I asked him to show me everything, to use it on me. He was more than happy to do so, and then he showed me to small room off to the side–a windowless cubby barely large enough to fit a cot and a small chest. He told me I would move in with him–that I could bring only enough that might fit in the chest, and everything else would be sold off. I told him no, that I couldn’t–so he beat me until I came twice over and asked again. I agreed.

My new life revolved around him. The demands of my body became more extreme. Every week, a new tattoo or piercing. Soon, I could barely even recognize myself. I worked out more than ever, I cooked all of his meals, he paid me in fucks, pain, bondage, and smoke. For two years, I haven’t left this mansion. It is my home, my prison and my sanctuary. In my chest, I have a small collection of photos I printed out to keep, and I compare my selves. Who was I? This freak with the tattooed face and head, with padlocks hanging from my nipples, with my balls weighted down six inches? I have never been happier, but…

I can’t finish the thought in any manner that rings true. I lock up my photos. It’s time to start cooking dinner anyway.

~~~

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“Yeah, you’re gonna be a good piggy from now on, aren’t you–not that you have a choice. Can’t look away, can you?”

Bruce again tried to twist his head down and away, but Ivan’s gaze kept him locked. He sank lower towards the bathroom floor, dropping onto his knees, face level with Ivan’s bulging crotch, and he felt the piss he’d been storing up all day at his desk release into the front of his pants, the fabric wet and sopping almost immediately, a puddle growing out from his knees. He whimpered, but couldn’t speak.

“What, you don’t like pissing yourself? Well too fucking bad. From now on, you piss when I want you to–and if I want you to piss yourself tomorrow in front of the entire board, during that big presentation of yours, well…I don’t think that promotion you’re angling for is going to end up working out. They’ll probably have to pick me instead. Now open your mouth, I got something for you to taste.”

That was when Fred walked in–their boss. Ex-military, Fred kept his head shaved, a full beard, and his body muscular, the suits he wore tailored a bit too tight. A notorious homophobe–if Ivan hadn’t been out, the promotion would have definitely been his, but Fred liked straight, married Bruce better. Ivan had his old family trick to tip things his direction, but he hadn’t quite anticipated Fred joining them so soon.

“W–What the fuck is going on here!” Fred shouted, staring right at Ivan, as those cold blue eyes, it was that faggots doing, he knew he was no god, he should have…should have tried harder to get…get him fired. Should have…

Fred stumbled into the wall, suddenly exhausted. Blinking fast, his eyes never left Ivan’s. “What…you doin’ to me…” he muttered, and then he collapsed to the tile floor, face first in the puddle of Bruce’s piss, and Ivan chuckled, reconnecting with Bruce’s eyes.

“Guess we’ll have to speed up the plan a bit. Good thing most everyone is gone for the day. Come on, help me carry him down stairs–you can suck me off later.”

***

Fred woke up slowly–another fuckin’ faggot dream. He wasn’t a fucking faggot, he was a man, a real man. Real men didn’t have faggot dreams, what the fuck was wrong with him? Ivan again, too–but this was was strange. Bruce had been there too, in the bathroom…everything else was fuzzy. Whatever. He wasn’t a faggot, no fucking way.

He pried open his eyes–this wasn’t his apartment. His mind told his body to get up quick and figure out where he was, but all he could manage  was to writhe a bit beneath the sheets. The scummy sheets. He couldn’t feel them–for some reason he was still dressed in the blue suit pinstripe suit he’d had on in that dream–but he could hear them. They sounded crispy, and he nearly retched. He might have even vomited, if he hadn’t felt so tired.

He was tired. He was never tired. With great effort, he rolled over and saw a small window high on one side of the room–a basement, he was in a basement. The sun was up–what time was it? Shouldn’t he be at work? That big presentation was today, he had to be there for Bruce, right? Work suddenly seemed like too much work. He lolled about instead, settling in deeper. Between the sheets, the musky quilt and his suit, he was sweating heavily, but didn’t mind the heat. His cock was too hot though, he let it out of his fly and started jacking off, and then rolled over and began grinding his erection against the mattress. He came after a few minutes, but kept thrusting, the cum coating the front of his suit, and then he collapsed again.

What in the world was he even doing? He had to get out of here. Instead, he laid in bed for the rest of the day. The duration between his overwhelming periods of horniness decreased–by the time the basement door opened and Ivan and Bruce tromped down the stairs, Fred was unable to stop, just endlessly thrusting against the mattress, the front of his suit saturated with cum.

“Well, it looks like someone has made himself at home already, eh Bruce? See, I told you.” Ivan said.

Fred managed to regain control long enough to roll over, but his hand immediately wrapped itself around his tender, chaffed cock and kept stroking, “This is just…just another dream. Just another faggoty dream…”

“Oh Fred, I assure you that this is entirely real. Everyone at the meeting was very surprised by your letter of resignation by the way, and with Bruce fired for pissing himself and then jacking off in front of the board, I suppose you two will have to live here, with me, for the time being.”

“You…you fucker…”

“Don’t worry about rent or anything like that, I know the two of you are going to be pretty well occupied. Why, Fred, I doubt you’ll ever be getting up from that bed ever again–so it’s a good thing Bruce here is going to be taking good care of you, right Bruce?”

Bruce hadn’t spoken–he was just staring at Ivan, drool leaking from his open mouth. He nodded, and then spoke, slowly with a bit of a slur, “Yes…sir. I’m gonna f…fatten up Fred, n….and piss all o’er him, ‘n fuck his holes, like you said.”

“That’s right,” Ivan said, now it looks like Fred is pretty uncomfortable in that suit–why don’t you get him dressed in those clothes me bought off that bum on the way home?”

Fred tried to fight Bruce off, but he was so tired, and all he really wanted to do was jack off, as he dressed him in the filthy pants and shirt, dyed filthy by months on the street, and as disgusted as he was with himself for thinking so, they were much, much more comfortable, and much, much hotter. Yeah, they stank, they reeked, and when Bruce pissed on him in the bed with he jacked off and came again, he smelled even better, and when Ivan ordered a stack of pizzas, and watched Bruce force them all down his throat, that was hotter still. And two years later, the now five hundred pound Fred, still confined to his bed, thought he had never been hotter in his whole life.

~~~

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Look, I’ll be the first one to admit, that I kind of fucked up the whole fatherhood thing. But hell, getting laid-off from the job you’ve had for thirty years…I never thought I’d end up working for some construction company, but that’s what happened. The marriage slipped around then too. I was just so tired of pretending, you know? Pretending to love her, pretending to want to fuck her, it just…it was impossible. Jack got kind of shoved to the side, I admit. I wasn’t always there for him. I was off being single again, I was partying and fucking, so what if I…I should have been there, I know, but how in the hell do you try and bridge that gap, you know? He fuckin’ hated me, and I never saw him until the state dumped him on me, after his mom ended up in prison for drug possession. It wasn’t what either of us wanted, believe me, but I tried my best. I got him to school every day, I tried to make sure he had dinner. I sacrificed, I didn’t fuck nearly as many men as I wanted to, I had to resort mostly to blowing and getting blown on the construction site with the rest of the guys, with the occasional quiet fuck back at home. Well, they were never that quiet, I guess, but I scream when I cum, I can’t fuckin’ help it!

When I tried to talk to him, he’d just bottle up, or we’d fight. “You’ve changed!” he’d say. Well yeah, so fucking what! It fucking happens, I’d tell him. I told him he’d change too. That one day he’d look at himself in the mirror and not recognize himself either. It’s called growing up, and being a fucking man. Did I think I’d be this slobby muscle bear chain smoking cigars back in my twenties? Freshly married, with an office job, and a kid on the way? Fuck no. You never think you’re gonna change, and then you fucking do. Because you have to. Because you want to. He was always so insistent. He had this fuckin’ image of me, from when he was kid. Like I wasn’t allowed to be who I wanted to be, if he didn’t like it. Well fuck him, I’d say, and then call a guy up and fuck his brains out against our shared wall, ramming the dude in to it, making the fuckin’ plaster shake. Heh, Jack fuckin’ hated that, good fuckin’ times. There’s no better fuck than an angry fuck, you know?

Anyway, he wanted to go to college, but I had no money to send him there, and I was still paying off my own loans nearly twenty years later. What had college gotten me anyway? Almost none of the guys I worked with had gone to college and they were all doing just fine. I was venting to Foreman about it one night, when he’d invited me to stick around and suck his cock for a while, and he was the one with the idea. Why not bring Jack to work with me for a week? Let him see what I did, and how much I liked it. It was a great idea, but then Foreman always has great ideas, so I wasn’t surprised. Jack hated the idea, but I made it conditional. He had to come work with me for a week, and if he could handle it, then I’d cosign his college loans if he still wanted to go. His eyes lit up at that–selfish fucker. Don’t blame him though, he got it from that bitch.

Heh, that first day he stuck out like a sore thumb. I introduced him to the crew, all of us hulking, hairy, filthy roughnecks stinkin’ of beer and cigar smoke, and he’s this chubby eighteen year old kid–fuck. Foreman though, he put on the charm, and put Jack right at ease with a few jokes, and led him off to his trailer to complete some paperwork. I lost track of him that first day–I was workin’ with Max on some stuff, but we got so horny we ended up fuckin’ on a pile of bricks all through lunch. That afternoon, I saw Jack working with Carlos, mixing cement, and something about my boy workin’ with his hands made me so damn proud. Goin home that night, he even admitted to enjoying his day somewhat, but he kept lookin’ at me a bit odd–or rather, at my cigar. He’d never been curious about my smoking–he’d ridiculed me for it from the day he’d started living with me, but that night he asked if he could have one. I was only too happy to help him out, and we shared a stogie and a few beers, stayed up to late, and were both a bit hungover the next day at work.

Over the rest of the week, Jack spent most of his time in the morning with Foreman, and then worked with the rest of us in the afternoons. On Wednesday, Foreman and I had a long chat while he fucked my ass over his desk, and he suggested that Jack and I leave work early, and go take him to the barber and to get some real clothes for the worksite. Another great idea–Foreman is just fuckin’ full of them. When I left to go find my son, I found him on his knees in front of Luis, sucking his cock! Fuck, I was kind of freaked out, but I hid and watched, and damn my boy could work that shaft, it was makin’ me jealous. I didn’t say anything. I waited until they were finished, before walkin’ over.

We got him a fauxhawk, some workwear and boots, and on a whim, we decided to get our nipples pierced. At home, we had cigars and beer to celebrate, and I got him plastered. He couldn’t resist, I had his mouth around my cock, fuck, he was hungry for it. He must have wanted me for so long–guess that means this gay shit’s genetic right? Turns out Jack was a raging fag just like me. By Friday, he was just one more guy on the site, like the rest of us. Bullshittin’, smokin’, drinkin’, fuckin’. He fucked me while everybody watched before we all went out for Friday night beers (and bears) at the Eagle, fuck, I was so proud of him. Needless to say, he decided college wasn’t for him–he dropped out of school and came to work with us. We still live together, ‘n we couldn’t be happier. See? Things always change, and you never know when they might change for the better.

***

I’m on Patreon! If you’d like to see more stories like this, help me out with a pledge here.

Wes, Just wanted to say congratulations on reaching your goal. I’m sure myself and many others will enjoy the increase in your productivity starting next week. I was thinking about donating myself, but I have a question first – are you contractually obligated to the rate you pledge? Or are you able to cancel at any time? Additionally, do you know how it’ll appear on credit card statements? Thanks!

Thanks, although you’re going to have to wait a couple more weeks–the first week of thrice weekly updates will be December first. As for the details of pledges, you aren’t obligated to pledge–you can cancel at anytime you’d like. Pledges are deducted at the end of the month, and the credit card statement should just have “Patreon” on it–it won’t link directly to my name in anyway, should you not want anyone to know what you’re looking at. Patreon itself uses a profile system, but that’s easy enough to lie with a pseudonym if you don’t want Patreon (or me) to know your real name.