Author: wesleybracken8258

Think Big To Be Big (1 of 2)

It’s evening down on the beach, and I’m taking my leisurely stroll down the sidewalk–the same walk I usually take each evening. It’s a bit of exercise I suppose, but not nearly enough to make my doctor happy. “You’re nearly sixty,” he told me at my last visit, “you need to cut that waist of yours down, or you’ll be dropping dead sooner than you’d like.” A flair for the dramatic, that one. I suppose he is right–275 is a bit heavy, especially on my shorter frame, but I’ve never particularly minded my size. I’d much rather have my hair back, than a slimmer waist, I can tell you that.

The weather is nice, but the place is quieter than usual at this time. Maybe it’s just the first chill of fall in the air, driving everyone indoors early. I enjoy the relative calm, and the cool breeze. There is one person out, up ahead. Some young musclehead standing by a small folding table, with pamphlets weighted down by rocks against the wind. He’s got on one of those stupid looking tanktops–far too oversized, so it drapes low from his shoulders–obviously trying to advertise his body. In fact, it turned out he was advertising a new gym a few blocks over from the beach–the tank was branded with the gym’s motto–”Think big to be big.” It made me chuckle–the guy didn’t look like he did a lot of thinking at all. I expected him to ignore me–after all, I was hardly within his target market, but he turns to me, and waves, walking over with a pamphlet.

“Hey bro,” he says–I bristle–“Gots a brand new gym opened up over at the corner of Third and Grove. First month’s free! All are welcome, if ya wanna get big!”

When he says that, he flexes both arms up–I can see the bush of hair in each pit, and my nose curls up in disgust–and then…and then I catch a whiff of him, on the sea air, and…and I don’t know what comes over me. I step closer. He raises one arm a bit higher. I try to look around, wondering if anyone might see this, what I’m about to too, but my eyes can’t tear themselves away–I start eating out his pit. He moans, rubbing his cock through his gym pants, moving my hand down to feel him…to see how…big he is.

A moment later, he pushes me away, leaving me with salty sweat around my lips, and a raging hard on in my shorts. He winks at me, says, “Think big, bro,” and hands me a pamphlet. The next day…I signed up for a lifetime membership at Think Big Gym.

12 Days of Christmas Recap

It’s that time of year again–and it’s coming a bit earlier this year that usual! I have another entry in the “12 Days Saga” for all of you, which will be starting next Monday, though this one’s…a bit different in format, than the previous entries. The reasons for that are several. First, I want the next chunk to be the final entry in the saga. This story and these characters feel fairly well exhausted, and keeping a narrative going though this next chunk was going to be a struggle, so I decided to focus this last part on wrapping up the many loose ends remaining from the previous three entries. Second, while I enjoy the episodic style of stories on occasion, each part has been veering more and more towards a plot heavy narrative. As such, breaking with tradition, the bulk of this entry is going to be focusing on what happens (or I suppose, what happened) at the North Pole between last Christmas, and this Christmas coming up. So, I’m excited to present “12 Months ‘til Christmas” to you all next week, and I hope you enjoy the final chapter in this weird story that started from three weird Christmas porn comics I’d always liked, way back when. So, now would be a good time to catch up, if you don’t remember anything from last year. You can find all the entries here, in reverse order. Or, here’s a briefer recap, if you don’t have time to go read all of that.

PART 1 – “The 12 Days of Christmas”: The elves have had enough of taking orders from Santa. In particular, one elf, named Marty, has decided that it’s time for Santa, and Christmas itself, to become a bit more…naughty than it ever has been before. After consolidating the elves under his control, he…disposes of Mrs. Claus, and then begins manipulating Old Saint Nick. Over a year, while the elves prepare for their new Christmas, Santa is…reprogrammed. Addicted to the elves’ magic cum, he does whatever Marty demands, and soon, a new, leather daddy Santa rides off into the night, delivering naughty toys to the men of the world. But when Santa returns, he has a new Mr. Claus on his arm–a man named Claude–and he exacts some revenge on Marty, turning him into a rubber dildo, and taking control of Christmas back from the elves.

PART 2 – “The 12 Days of Christmas: The Elves Strike Back”: It’s a new year, and Santa departs on his trip around the world, leaving Claude, his husbear, alone at the North Pole with the elves. What Santa doesn’t realize, however, is that the elves, led by the new head elf Timmy–Marty’s old second in command–have surprises planned for both of them, during that night. Claude is dominated by the elves, and forced to free Marty from his dildo prison–furious, and jealous of Claude for winning Santa’s heart, Marty exacts his own, demented revenge on Claude, turning his limbs into rubber gear, and infecting him with a rubber parasite of his own design, which melds to Claude’s body, turning him into a living, rubberized urinal, mounted on the wall of Marty’s workshop. Meanwhile, as Santa does his work, the elf cum he’d been given is revealed to be tainted, making his grow fatter, slobbier, and eventually turning him into a filthy pigman. But Timmy has always loved Marty, and is rebuffed–his unrequited love unreturned. Marty, meanwhile, has plans for Santa, when he returns. He has a love gun prototype, which he uses on Santa in his sleigh as he approaches, unaware that the Santa who is returning is rather…different from the one who he remembers. The now piggish Santa is deeply in love with the elf, and in a cruel twist, Marty finds himself enchanted by the Santapig’s magic, becoming a small, big cocked boar. Marty, desperate to reverse this, locks him and Santapig in his workshop, and doesn’t emerge. Timmy, equally distraught, takes the pieces of Marty’s love gun, and holes himself up in his own office. Meanwhile, the elves–without leadership or a Santa, keep working. Christmas has to go on somehow, right?

PART 3 – “The 12 Days of Christmas: A Whole New Stanta Claus”: It’s Early December, Christmas is weeks away, and Timmy, Marty, Santapig have yet to emerge from their lairs. At last, Timmy emerges, bearing the completed love gun, planning on forcing Marty to love him. He breaks into Marty’s workshop, and discovers the magic was too strong for Marty–both him and Santapig have lost their wits and reason, and are now little more than animals. He’s distraught, but realizes he’s neglected his duties. Thankfully the elves have been working on gifts this whole time, but without a Santa, there can be no Christmas, and without Christmas, the elves will all disappear. Thankfully, there are contingencies in place. With the help of a magical light, Timmy takes off in the sleigh to find a new Santa. The light leads him to a man named Stan–a stodgy, prudish, and rather conservative fellow, who Timmy eventually persuades to become the new Santa Claus…though he doesn’t reveal the changes the elves have made to the usual arrangements. Instead, they plan of making Stan see things their way, eventually. Stan flies off, unaware that he’s delivering leather, and sex toys to the men he visits…but the elves have indicated men who deserve…extra punishment, which Stan himself will be doling out. He is horrified to discover that the kinds of punishments he’d giving all seem to involve filthy, faggot sex…and that the more he does it, the more he’s enjoying it. Stan eventually gives in, and becomes Stanta–a massive, hulking, heavily pierced ad tattooed bear, hungry to punish the men of the world in whatever way he sees fit. His final stop is his old house, where he doles out punishments to his wife and three sons. Two of the boys end up living together as bearish men, but his youngest son, John–Stanta feels compelled to bring him home with him, to the North Pole. John, more than anything, wanted to earn his father’s love, and now it seems he has his chance.

Are you confused? Probably. It’s a long muddled thing. Still, I hope you all enjoy the fourth and final installment. It probably should have been three times as long, and might feel a bit rushed, but I think it’s a fitting end to the whole saga. See you on Monday, and Happy Holidays!

The Power of Society (Part 7)

“Come on Brodie–just come lift with us! Classes aren’t for fucking jocks,” his two frat brothers guffawed and laughed–that was about as close anyone in the house got to a joke these days. After all, Jocks weren’t really known for their subtlety. Well, except for Brodie, and a few others. Against the orders of the study, Brodie still showered himself down at nights, when no one else was awake, and that helped him keep his mind clear enough that he could still go to a couple of classes on campus, even if he was nearly failing both of them. The professors were patronizing–they knew he didn’t really belong there as much as Brodie did, but they also found his attempt charming, and tolerated it. Brodie ignored his bros, and left the frat house, heading for campus–it wasn’t until after a few blocks that he felt warmth in the pouch of his constantly wet uniform, and realized he was pissing himself in the middle of the sidewalk–but the piss streaming out wasn’t what unnerved him–it was that he had completely forgotten to put anything else on over his uniform.

He was standing on the sidewalk in broad daylight, wearing nothing but his yellow and brown, cum and piss stained uniform, cock bulging in the pouch, his muscular, dirty, hairy ass hanging out for everyone to see…but that was normal, wasn’t it? He entertained the thought of heading back to campus and putting on some other clothes–or at least a pair of shoes–but that was ridiculous–the house didn’t have any other clothes. Jocks didn’t get to wear clothes–what did he think he was…a normal person? He felt frozen there, on the sidewalk, not really certain how to take what was happening. He’d worn clothes yesterday, hadn’t he? When he’d gone to class? Or had he? It was hard to focus, with the stench of his piss wafting up from the pavement, and he kept walking before he gave in and started lapping at the puddle. It would be delicious, of course, but if he got distracted he’d never make it to class on time.

He kept going, crossing the road onto campus proper and headed for his campus building. He saw, up ahead, a crowd gathering around a bench–some Nerd was making a scene on the bench. He took a different path, wanting to avoid it. Nerds could be…distracting, for a Jock like him, and that one looked…especially dirty.

“What the fuck is up with that Jock?” he heard someone say, as he walked, “They don’t usually walk like that do they?”

“Yeah, it’s kind of weird–almost looks like a human or something, when it does that.”

God, what was he doing, Brodie asked himself. He knew better than that. He hunched forward and crouched down a bit, so his hands were on the ground and kept walking. He was aware that this position should be…very uncomfortable, if not impossible…but something odd had happened to his body. It was like his legs were shorter–squat and thick–and his arms had lengthened. He seemed almost simian, as he walked, and the copious amount of hair coating his body didn’t help. Still, he felt less naked, with his pelt on. He always felt sorry for swimmers, and the shaving and waxing they had to put up with. So much easier just being a dumb football jock like he was.

He was almost to the building where the class was being taught, when something flying through the air caught his eye. He dropped his books to the ground in a heap and launched after it, tongue hanging out of his mouth, every concern in him pushed aside. A thing was in the air! A ball? No–no, a frisbee! Brodie fucking loved frisbee! He launched himself into the air–a sense of vertigo washing over him when he saw how…high his squat legs could propel him–and intercepted the disk in the air, grabbing it with a sound something between a howl and cheer, and landed on the ground with a roll. Some focus returned to him, and looking around, he realized he’d interrupted a game of catch being played by three normal guys on the quad, and he felt a bit embarrassed.

“God, fucking Jocks,” one of them said.

“Hey, be nice! It’s not like they can help it.”

He loped over, holding the frisbee in his mouth, and handed it to one of the men, who tousled his hair like a kid, or a dog…and Brodie felt a surge of pride.

“Throw!” he said, his voice gutteral, almost a growl. “Throw again! Brodie catch! Brodie good catcher. Brodie play football.”

The guy rolled his eyes, “Hey guys, the jock wants to play.”

“Of course he fucking does.”

“Throw!” Brodie said, jumping up and down, an odd glee and exuberance filling his chest. “Throw for Brodie!”

“He’s not going to stop, is he?”

“How about keep away?” one of them suggested, and the other’s agreed. So the three of them began throwing the frisbee between them with Brodie in the middle, chasing after the disk like a pup, intercepting it often…and sometimes letting it go, because he liked seeing the people happy. Jocks, after all, wanted to make men happy, right?”

They stopped after an hour. Brodie hadn’t thought about his class once, and to thank the men for letting him play with them, he blew them all in sequence, and drank down their piss on the quad. No one really batted an eye at that–after all, Jocks could be a bit…forceful if the didn’t get their way. In the end, Brodie heard the four o’clock chime ring from the bell tower, said a hasty goodbye, and took off in the direction of the fieldhouse. Practice started at four fifteen, after all, and Brodie didn’t want to be late. Brodie wanted to play football! Maybe tomorrow, those guys would be playing frisbee again. He liked frisbee too, and their cum had been delicious as well. Maybe, if he was extra good tomorrow, they’d fuck his dirty ass too.

The End for now…

If I may say something, I think the reason why a lot of people (including myself) would like to see you do fan fiction is because no one else does in this genre. Stories of men being turned into fat pigs are already rare, but fanfics of that are practically non-existent.

brackenousjunk:

Well, yes. Part of the issue, I think, is that most of the sites which support this genre have, over time, tightened their restrictions on copyrighted characters, especially over on Choose Your Own Change, where there actually was quite a lot of fan fiction, including some of the slobbier variety. That said, that site has removed all of that content at this point, and the gay spiral stories seems to have a a tighter grip on the copyrighted stuff than the NCMC ever did. Without an environment to nurture these kinds of stories, it’s hardly surprising that they’re rare.

But I’m only one person, there’s only so much that I can write, and the only reason I’m as prolific as I am is because I focus on writing stories that I enjoy. Would I be willing to do fan fiction for a commission? Probably. Do I understand that there is a massive, untapped demand here, and do I wish I had the time, energy, and willpower to supply that demand? I sure do, but I can’t clone myself. That said, there are other very good writers on the tumblr-verse and on other sites who might have the time and energy to invest in it, so I’d suggest asking around to some other writers, and seeing if there’s any other interest in this sort of thing.

Because honestly? I’d like to read these stories too–but i don’t necessarily want to be the one to write them.

Thank you @mcbaer, for the reminder! The place to go for at least a few fan fic stories with a bear/slob vibe is @gravick‘s tumblr. He’s done some nice twists with the Avengers and also Once Upon a Time, if that interests anyone, and he might be persuaded to try out something video game inspired…

Police Auction

“Wakey, Wakey, Officer Prescott–I wouldn’t want you to miss this.”

The gloved hand slapped his face, hard, palm and then backhand, making the man groan. He could smell smoke, and piss, and dank. He could remember being out on patrol, but after that–things got fuzzy. He opened his eyes. The room was dark, aside from red lighting overhead, and some man in a leather uniform he didn’t recognize was smiling at him a few inches from his face–close enough that he could feel the heat from the man’s cigar on his cheek. “Wha–where the fuck am I?” he said, struggling a bit, testing the strength of the ropes binding him to the metal bars behind him.

“Where you are isn’t important, officer. This is only going to be your home for a few days, while I get you sorted out. You’ve made quite a few enemies on the force, these last ten years–I haven’t had someone rack up the bidding like this in a long time.” The leather stranger stepped to the side, and Prescott saw, behind him, a laptop with some program running. Every few seconds, another line would pop up on the bottom. Squinting…he saw they were numbers–dollar amounts. “Let’s see here,” the man said, and looked closer at the screen. “Looks like we’re down to a bidding war between the Aryan Nationals, and the Lobos.”

Prescott had been working in the gang unit for quite a while, and he’d been instrumental in arresting several higher ups in both groups. Ironically, both groups were engaged in an on and off again turf war in a few neighborhoods. Still…had he said, bidding war?

“Yeah–looks like I’ll be getting over 10,000 for your ass.”

“You’re what, you’re fucking auctioning me off? For what, who gets my head?”

“Oh, nothing so easy as killing you, no,” the man said, taking a drag off your cigar. “No, I specialize in more…complex manners of revenge. If the Aryans win, they’ll probably want another pig, like a made a few years back–think the guy’s name was…Anderson?” Prescott recognized him, but his name had been Anderstone. He’d gone missing from the unit a few years back, but a body had never turned up. “You’ll be much more interested in scoring drugs, eating boots, and taking their fists than much else. The Lobos–you’re a bit old for what they usually ask for, which is young guys to whore out on the block. That said, I’ve heard a rumor that one of their new leaders, he likes white guys–but big ones. Fatties. Pretty crazy guy too–likes beating them pretty rough. Still, if you beg for me, I’ll let you…enjoy that part.”

“That’s fucking…that can’t fucking happen!”

“Oh?” the man said, and Prescott felt something…in his head. A presence, wiping things clean, removing memories, putting in new ones. He realized, after a few minutes, he was losing every memory of every woman he’d ever been with, including his wife, and each was being replaced with some dirty, brutal encounter with rough men off the street. When the man left, Prescott was shaking, and vomited a bit on his uniform, and looked back at the screen. Only a minute left on the auction, and then he’d learn what his new position on the block was going to be from here on out.

Source: greyhankie

If I may say something, I think the reason why a lot of people (including myself) would like to see you do fan fiction is because no one else does in this genre. Stories of men being turned into fat pigs are already rare, but fanfics of that are practically non-existent.

Well, yes. Part of the issue, I think, is that most of the sites which support this genre have, over time, tightened their restrictions on copyrighted characters, especially over on Choose Your Own Change, where there actually was quite a lot of fan fiction, including some of the slobbier variety. That said, that site has removed all of that content at this point, and the gay spiral stories seems to have a a tighter grip on the copyrighted stuff than the NCMC ever did. Without an environment to nurture these kinds of stories, it’s hardly surprising that they’re rare.

But I’m only one person, there’s only so much that I can write, and the only reason I’m as prolific as I am is because I focus on writing stories that I enjoy. Would I be willing to do fan fiction for a commission? Probably. Do I understand that there is a massive, untapped demand here, and do I wish I had the time, energy, and willpower to supply that demand? I sure do, but I can’t clone myself. That said, there are other very good writers on the tumblr-verse and on other sites who might have the time and energy to invest in it, so I’d suggest asking around to some other writers, and seeing if there’s any other interest in this sort of thing.

Because honestly? I’d like to read these stories too–but i don’t necessarily want to be the one to write them.

How much petitioning do we need to get a Wario story or two–or that Johnny Bravo thing from last week? Do you have something against writing characters that aren’t yours?

I am just not into fan fiction to be honest. I understand the appeal, but I have so many original ideas rolling around in my head at any given moment that using characters made by someone else always feels…uninteresting? That’s not the right word really, because I do think it is interesting, but it doesn’t feel true to my writing. I’d get a small way into it, and the characters would be going sideways, and I’d end up with something entirely different that no longer even made sense as fanfic, or I’d just get frustrated, burnt out, and end it prematurely. 

The question I always ask myself, is what does the story gain by featuring these pop culture characters? What do I get out of using Wario and Mario, as opposed to an original character? What do my readers get out of it? I mean, people must get *something* out of it more than usual, given the sheer amount of fan fic in existence. But I also feel like the real world is so fucked, that I’d rather try and write about this shit where we really live, about the things that bind us here, about the ways we’re all so broken and miserable, about other ways of existing outside and beyond these systems that I detest with so much of my being, that I can’t see the worth is spending time making pop culture characters dance a sexy jig. 

I mean, maybe none of it matters, maybe nihilism cancels out everything. But the shit I write makes me feel better about the world, in some fucked up sense. It makes me feel like I’m grappling with how much I hate it. The stuff I write feels like survival in a way that is probably impossible to explain without spilling several thousand more words, but I’ll try and cut to the chase. Fanfic feels like escapism to me. That’s not meant as a slap or an indictment; escapism is fine, that’s what a lot of people thrive on, but not me. I’d rather wallow in ruins, I suppose, and fantasize about dragging other people down with me. Wario can’t give me that. J.B. can’t give me that. I have nothing against people who want to do that, but it just isn’t my drive.

That said, I think there is some absolutely exceptional fanfic out there that does work, and works really well. The best example I have, is the Steven Universe Shattersong AU developed and illustrated by @todayilust4 (a.k.a. Blazing Cheeks). It’s sweet, and it’s beautiful, and like that show, it taps into something really marvelous in reality too. It can be done! I just don’t think I’m the person to do it.

The Power of Society (Part 6)

WARNING: INCONTINENCE, SCAT

Simon tugged his shirt down again as he walked, trying to cover his hairy gut as best he could already sweaty and winded after the one block walk towards campus proper. Fuck, why did he keep doing this? He hated walking, he hated going to class. He felt like a fucking dumbass now–and everyone at the frat hated him for even trying. Hell, he kind of hated himself for trying, even, but he did it anyway. Sure, he was just a fat, slovenly, cum-hungry nerd, but maybe he could still make something of himself. There had to be something more to life than jacking off to filthy porn and playing video games, right? Well, maybe there was, for guys who weren’t nerds like him, but something still told him that he needed to try.

“Oh fuck, is that–who the fuck let the fucking Nerd out of it’s cage?”

Simon had crossed the road over to campus proper, only for a guy passing with a friend by to shout that at him. He looked over, embarrassed a bit for even existing, but he wasn’t quite prepared for the look of sheer revulsion in the young man’s eyes, looking at him. It was like he’d never seen anything more disgusting in his life, like Simon was a smear of dog shit across the man’s carpet. He tried to stammer a reply, but he’d developed a severe stutter after discovering what a nerd he was, and so he’d never really been able to get words out of his mouth.

“Dude, I know it’s gross, but if you say shit like that to it, you’ll only encourage it. You know how nerds get,” the guy’s friend said, and tugged him along.

The guy followed reluctantly, “If we don’t say anything, then the fucking things will start thinking they’re allowed here.”

Simon just stared after them. He’d thought he’d built up a resistance to it–to the stares, the disgust, the avoidance, the pity–but something about that cut right through him. But rather than feeling hurt, what he found instead, was that…it had turned him on, somehow. Unable to help himself, he groped the front of his filthy cargo shorts, feeling a wad of precum squeeze from the head of his filthy cock, forming a bit of a wet spot around the fly, and then yanked his hand away. Class–he needed to get to class. He had to stop worrying about what people thought of him–just because he was a perverted, disgusting nerd, didn’t mean he couldn’t go to class…as long as he controlled himself.

Where that last thought had come from, he wasn’t certain, but it was…right, somehow. Everyone knew nerds had no real self-control. Simon kept walking, trying to avoid people as he headed for class, but along the way, he let off a massive, stinking belch–it tasted so filthy he just stood on the sidewalk a moment, groping himself helplessly, and every cruel comment from the people passing by only made him hornier. He had to stop. If he kept this up, and campus security caught wind of him, he’d really be in trouble. He spied a bench along the path, and thought that if he could just sit for a bit and collect himself, he might be alright. After a few more heaving steps, he got there and plopped down on the bench, as a massive fart escaped his ass…and a little something more than that, which he could feel, warm, in the back of his crusty, cum coated briefs.

He’d just farted so hard, he’d shit a bit in the back of the pants. Fuck, he’s such a fucking nerd–such a disgusting, ugly, fat, perverted, filthy nerd! He licked his bearded lips and started clawing at the front of his shorts, hauling up his heavy gut so he could haul his cock out of the front of his shorts and start jacking off in public, sitting in the stench of his own shit, staring down the people passing by, wanting them to insult him, wanting them to be utterly disgusted by him. After all, he couldn’t really help himself–he was just a fucking nerd. This is just what nerds do, right? He ground his fat ass against the bench, feeling the shit smearing between his cheeks, the first load exploding from his cock, arching up onto the front of his t-shirt. A guy passing by saw him–smelled him, and stumbled past, retching. Simon just laughed, and started jacking off again, but didn’t manage to finish before the campus security guards found him. The two hulking guards ran up, wearing gas masks and their standard rubber containment gear, and the first to arrive used his cattle prod right on Simon’s junk, making the nerd scream and writhe on the bench.

“Fucking nerds–you just can’t fucking help yourselves. An infraction this bad–you’re getting house arrest for two months, you fat fuck.”

The men dragged Simon’s fat ass back to the frat house–he was laughing and belching the whole way. He couldn’t believe he’d lost control like that, but fuck, it had just felt so fucking good! On the porch, the guards secured a shock collar around Simon’s neck and armed it–if he stepped more than ten feet out of the range of the house, he’d receive a debilitating shock and security would be alerted to his violation. Then they opened the door and shoved him inside, still laughing.

“Fuck Si, is that you?”

He looked up and saw a couple of his fellow nerds on the couch, staring at the screen, playing a video game together. “Got all the way to campus, you should’ve seen them. Shit myself on a fucking bench!” he laughed again, and started jacking off again, “Fuck, why the fuck did that feel so fucking good?”

“You shit yourself in fucking public! I bet you fucking jacked off after that,”

“Oh fuck man, I fucking did!”

Fuck man, you’re such a fucking nerd!”

“I know, right?”

“Fuck, I could shit myself right now, man,” one of the nerds said, and bore down, letting off a vile fart. Si crawled over, smelling the fumes as he jacked his own cock. He was stuck in here with these fucks for two months, but it was worth it, right? Some part of him told him this was wrong–the same part of him which tried to get him to leave the house that night, until the collar went off. It summoned security, who beat his fat ass on the lawn and threw him back in the house. There was no denying it–as far as the world was concerned he was just a fucking nasty nerd, and he’d never be anything else–best to just accept it.