Author: wesleybracken8258

brackenousjunk:

Requested by @andyreworld. 

WARNING: SCAT AHEAD

Kyle liked going to the gym in the mid-morning–everyone who got a workout in before work had left, and everyone who came around lunchtime wasn’t there yet–it gave him a good hour and half with most of the weights to himself, to focus on lifting. He’d sure been working out long enough to learn patterns like this, he’d been a gym rat for years, and maintained a near flawless physique–low body fat and ripped with muscle. Still, he wasn’t a far of people–especially fags–staring at his body, unless he wanted them staring, so he preferred off-hours. Usually he had peace, but, today, some fat fuck was crowding his space.

He’d seen him around the gym before, but Kyle didn’t usually care about what other people were doing, and if he wanted to work out, good for him. But it seemed like every time he turned around, the guy was within five feet of him, lifting something, or on the next machine over–and then the first one came, loud enough that Kyle could hear it over his music, a massive, horrific fart that lasted at least five seconds.

He looked over at the pig, disgusted, but the guy just leered back at him–and then Kyle smelt it–it was horrific, one of the worst things he’d ever smelt in his life. It was so strong that it was almost like his mind and body blew a fuse–he couldn’t move, he couldn’t think–his eyes went glassy, his jaw gaping as the pig got up, pulled the headphones from his head, leaned in and whispered in his ear, “Finally got you. Come on, you’re gonna spot me today.”

Kyle did as he was told, even though he fought the compulsion as best he could, but his body wasn’t his anymore. The smell lingered in his nose, and just as he’d start shaking the pig’s control off, the fat fuck would nearly shit his pants again, and he’d…lose it all over again. The pig kept talking to him while he lifted, telling Kyle how much he loved the smell of him, how much he loved his farts, how much he loved submitting. Soon, as much as he hated himself for it, he started craving it, the smell, the filthy thoughts his master whispered in his ear. Finally, he couldn’t resist it anymore–his master was doing squats, and let a huge fart loose, and something in Kyle broke. Snorting and grunting, he got down behind him, shoved his head to the man’s ass and started crewing at his shorts, cum spewing in his jockstrap.

“That’s a good pig–I think you’re ready for your post-workout meal, don’t you?”

Kyle didn’t know what he meant, but he crawled after his master, who went into the locker room, commandeered the large stall, and sat backwards, his hole right in Kyle’s face. He fought as hard as he could, hesitating, but a wet fart pulled him in, lips locked to his master’s hole, tongue burrowing in, ready and eager for his first feeding.

Here’s an expansion requested a few times, and also incorporating this request.

Also, still really messy!

This close to the source, Kyle felt like his brain was literally melting away inside his skull, the wretched stench of his master’s farts stripping the paint from his soul. He sucked down as much of the filth as he could, and didn’t even realize when the shit started pouring out with the gas, his mouth devouring it, grunting and moaning, his master laughing and berating him as he fed him. It never seemed to end, his gut felt full and distended, his mouth coated in filth, but at last his master did finish, ordered Kyle to lick his crack clean, and then got up and left without another word, just the sound of laughter. 

Kyle just rolled over and slumped next to the toilet, trying to get his bearings on what had just happened to him, trying to grapple with what he’d just done. He looked down at himself, at his shit stained shirt bulging with a sudden gut full of shit–he belched, and the taste of it was disgusting, but also made his cock even harder. He couldn’t just stay here, though–but he also couldn’t leave. If people saw him like this, what would they even think of him? He had fresh street clothes in his locker though, maybe he could get out of this, somehow. He wiped his face and neck clean with water from the toilet bowl and toilet paper, took off his shirt, threw it in the trash, and then went to his locker–only to discover someone else had gotten there first. His normal clothes were gone, and in their place were the filthiest, most disgusting garments he’d ever seen. A white shirt crusted with stains he didn’t want think about, some briefs equally disgusting–crusty and crispy. Some jean shorts that felt so…disgusting in his hands, and the stench of his master on them, his master! He buried his face in the filthy fabric, snorting and grunting in front of everyone around him–he stripped off the rest of his gym clothes, pulled on the briefs, and immediately exploded–all the cum he’d build up in the last few hours pouring out of him in a sopping deluge. Then the shirt, then the cutoffs. A couple of tennis shoes without socks. He didn’t even notice the clothes should have been too big for his old, muscular body, but now they barely fit him, a sliver of hairy gut poking out under the shirt, cutoffs bursting around his thighs. 

He came back to his mind a bit, enough to know he needed to get out of there. However, he didn’t notice that he left a trail of piss as he left, oblivious to the stream running down his leg and into his shoe, leaking out onto the floor. He had to get home, he had to get away from here. He fled, got in his car and drove home as quickly as he could, belching up the stench of his master’s shit, gut bulging larger, and he kept ripping off the most horrid farts–in the enclosed car, the stench only made him horny, and by the time he got home he was pushing out longer and louder. In his parking spot, huffing and panting with need, he bore down, filling the back of his underwear and cutoffs with a huge load of shit, feeling it squelch out the legs and coat the car seat under him, while he rubbed his sopping wet crotch until he came with a squeal.

He recovered slowly, his mind exhausted–and looked around. This wasn’t his house–it wasn’t even close to where he lived. But he needed to be here, he knew that–this is where his master was. This is where he belonged.

The surfer had always heard tales of the dunes around that beach, nervous stories by young, muscular men who, he thought, had no reason to be so terrified of a bunch of old faggots, fucking in the sand. They insisted, however, that any surfer who’d gone there had never returned, or if they had, they were always…different. No one would give him more details than that, and the surfer wasn’t about to pass up the amazing waves he’d glimpsed rolling up on that shore. If anything, the strange stories would keep people away–he wouldn’t have to worry about other people getting in his way. Besides, why not give the old faggots something nice to look at for a change?

He got to the beach, and sure enough, it was everything he’d expected. Clothing optional, a bunch of fat, old, overweight fags tanning and eyeing one another, slipping away into the dunes. What the surfer hadn’t expected was that no one was giving him a single look. They all seemed utterly uninterested in him and his muscular body., He wasn’t someone who was used to being ignored, and as much as he might hate fags, he also wasn’t someone who objected to their lust for him.

Instead, what he found, was that he was the one staring at them…admiring them. He gave up surfing early, and spent the day watching the old men masturbate, following them up into the dunes so he could watch them fuck, stroking his cock, wondering why none of them were interested in him at all.

Once he was back in town, he was appalled with what he’d been doing all day. Guys asked him how the surfing had been, if he’d seen anything, and he refused to talk about it, and told himself he wouldn’t be going back…but the next day he found himself needing to go, needing to watch them. All day he was there, and the next day too. Slowly, he noticed men started to take notice of him–just glances at first, but more and more, they were accepting him.

And why not accept him? He was a hot fucker in his 70′s, a bit of a gut sure, but he could get fatter, once he lost more of this muscle. His beard though, grayed and yellowed from the cigars he’d started smoking, his hair balding severely, but not far enough that he felt comfortable showing his crown off without a cap on. His cock had started shriveling, his balls too. He hoped they’d be puny, he…he didn’t need them anymore. His teeth were getting loose; soon he wouldn’t have to worry about grazing them against a cock, when a guy fucked his throat, and they all wanted to fuck his throat now, and he wanted as much cum as they would feed him. Soon, he was just another name in the tales whispered around the tables of surfers, and he’d forgotten all about his past–why else did he need, if he had the beach, and all the cum he’d ever wanted?

Requested by @growthpup 

It’s always the little things with you’re ex’s, you know? There’s always so many big, massive reasons to hate them–the abuse, the belittlement, the destruction of your self-worth–but it’s the little things that always stick with you, that always make you the angriest. How they always used to shit with the door open, just because. How they never let you have a dog, because who could bear all that responsibility, tending to the needs of another living thing? I mean, he thought he could handle a mature relationship, but owning a dog is too fucking much, in what fucking universe does that make sense, right Rover?

ARF!

Yeah, you were a stupid asshole back when you were a human, weren;t you? Yeah, look at that tail wag. You don’t even know what I’m saying anymore, not after all that mental conditioning turned your brain to mush. Do you know how much fun it’s been the last few months, watching that old you slowly wink out of existence? Watching you forget words, take to crawling around the apartment like it’s completely normal? Sure, it was annoying when you forgot how to use the toilet, but at least you’re using the puppy pads, and that day you got fired? Ha–supposed to do a big presentation, got so stressed out you got down on your hands and knees, started howling you face off, and wet yourself right there in front of everyone? I had to come pick you up, they all think you had some psychotic break, they all think you’re gone forever, and they couldn’t be more right, huh boy?

ARF ARF!

Ok Ok, if you really need dessert after dinner, I suppose that’s alright. No teeth though–yeah, look at you slobbering all over that fucking shaft. You dogs sure do love your bones. If you’re real good after obedience lessons tonight, I might even fuck you, and maybe in a few months I’ll start training you to on how to be human again–properly this time. You’ll be the greatest boyfriend out in public, and a loyal dog at home–what more could a guy ask for, right Rover?

ARF!

Source: martinclmaster

you’re stories have opened up a whole new world for me. Can you recommend any more stories?, I’m really into the filthy ones. What are your favourite dirty/scat related stories?

Well, here’s a list to get you going:

I really like the idea of a guy going to his school reunion and meeting up with his former bully. Finds he still an asshole, a bully and a gross dude, but makes friends with him in order to get revenge. He tries to turn the bully into a wimpy school kid but it backfires and he ends up the wimpy kid and becomes the bully’s new disappointing son. Now the guy has to obey his new asshole father and spend the rest of his new life with him.

I’m really not super interested in AR stories like this, it just isn’t something I find sexually arousing, and there’s so much of it everywhere that it just kind of bores me? I also really like having sex in my stories, but as soon as various age of consent lines start getting crossed, that sucks that whole element out of it. That said, the guy trying to turn the bully into a wimpy adult and having it backfire, so he ends up as the slob’s wimpy slave, that’s something I could get behind.

What body types are you attracted to?

Body types? Anything from husky to superchub, generally. I like guys with meat on them. Muscle guys kind of…bore me? Big fan of short chubs–fireplugs are a big fave of mine. Definitely like fur, but being smooth isn’t necessarily a turn off. Some sort of facial hair is preferable, and mutton chops (friendly or not) are a definite pleasure. That said, personality tends to count more than anything else–shitty politics and rude/abusive behavior can make anyone a Monet.