The Frat’s Dirty Laundry (Caption Sketch)

I’m posting captions and taking requests for captions over on my discord server for patrons supporting me with at least $5 a month! Here’s a couple from a five part series I wrote for them over there–if you’d like to get access to the rest, and to all the other captions I post there, you can sign up on my Patreon here and get access!

Alpha Beta Sigma was a dirty frat on campus–drugs, rape, drinking and partying–but because all of the young men who belonged to the frat were legacy students, or similarly important to the schools reputation and bottom line, no real punishment ever really came down upon it. Well, one group of students is fed up with it, and has decided to cast a spell over the young men of ABS–from now on, all of their laundry will be as dirty as they are, and they won’t have a choice but to air it out for all to see.

The first young man to fall victim to the curse was Lyle Everston. He was a legacy, the son of a senator from a southern state, and Lyle’s conservative politics were apparent, but well hidden. Still, there had been a rash of hate crimes across campus, and while no one could pin them on Lyle…well, the washer and dryer in the basement of the house knew the truth.

Most of Lyle’s clothes were dry clean only, of course, but he did have some things that he could wash onsite. He went down into the basement, went to pull his clothes out of the dryer…but they weren’t his clothes, and they most certainly were not clean. Instead of his underwear and lounge clothes, he found a pair of filthy beige work pants, some rubber boots caked with mud,a tattered john deere hat and a sleeveless shirt with the rebel flag across the front. They smelled rank, and yet somehow familiar. In a daze, he found himself stepping out of his clothes in the basement, and pulling on the ones from the dryer instead, his physique packing on some muscle, stubble spreading across his face. Part of him fought–but it no longer had control of his body–Lyle was trapped inside himself, watching and feeling his body change, feeling his body start to tug on his cock, a grungy, cheesy foreskin growing up over the head, and he drooled some dark spit onto it to lube it–dark from the tobacco leaf that had appeared in his mouth.

“Hey boy,” a voice growled behind him, “If’n yer gonna tug on that thing, might as well do it o’er here, wit’ yer Pa.”

Lyle spun around, but as he did, the room blurred–he found himself not in the basement, but in a filthy, rundown trailer, and there, on a small couch, lounged…his daddy, his pa. Not the pa he’d had, no, this one was a lazy, fat, nasty piece of redneck trash…just like Lyle was now. Drooling a bit more spit on his cock, he went and sat down next to his Pa, the older man’s thick musk making the boy moan, and it wasn’t long before they were swapping tobacco spit, hands on each others’ cocks, and inside his mind, all Lyle could do was scream.

Slowly, the house began to feel a bit…empty. None of the remaining young men inside could quite understand why it felt empty, why the rooms that had been doubles were now singles, why the common rooms were a little less filled, but laundry–well, laundry always had to get done.

The next young man to try his luck with the washer and dryer was Henry, one of the school’s star football players. He was an egotistical narcissist, assumed he was the paragon of masculinity, meant to be worshiped by everyone–well, by women of course. Men, especially fat men, were there to be ridiculed and humiliated–and so that’s what he spent his time doing, bullying other fellows on campus. However, when he went to pull some of his practice gear out of the dryer…well, it was a jersey that he pulled out, it just wasn’t his.

It also wasn’t the least bit clean–instead, the front of it had all manner of stains on it–food and drink stains as far as he could tell, and the fabric was stretched out, faded, and, well, reeked. Reeked like it had never been washed in ages…but the smell was familiar. It was…his. His smell, of course. Because it was his jersey. He could remember it better now, but he knew he’d have a better memory if he put it on, so he pulled off the undershirt he had on, and pulled on the jersey, and the memories can flooding back to him–as did the horror of what he’d just done to himself, but it was too late.

The jersey was his, of course. But he was no longer a star running back. No, he’d been a linebacker in high school and college, before he’d dropped out, and not a particularly good one, but man, he’d always loved wearing his jersey. It…made him feel young again. He tugged it down, knowing it had fit better than this at one point, but he wasn’t in college anymore. He’d just turned fifty five, in fact, lived in a shabby single wide all by himself, and spent his days working menial labor, and his afternoons and evenings glued to the TV–usually watching sports.

Football was his favorite. He loved watching his crushes on TV, cheering them on, fucking himself when they scored, imagining they were fucking him in celebration. When football season was over, he usually found solace in wrestling instead–but that was for later. The game was almost on, after all. He pulled on his tight, cum crusted sweats, chugged down most of his beer, and headed to the living room to get settled with the rest of the twelve pack and his favorite dildo (one he’d had custom cast to match the hard cock of his greatest football crush), hoping this game would be a damn good one.

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