Master of Men (Part 1)

No one had told him that taking it easy would be so difficult. In the military, there had been order and regimen, every day had had a purpose and a script that he could follow. Now that Paul was out–no, he had to be honest with himself–now that he was discharged, he was finding it difficult to adjust to the easy-going life he’d been trying to protect. The wife he’d had while he was overseas couldn’t handle him this close, and she’d left him. Thankfully they hadn’t succeeded in getting pregnant yet–he suspected that she’d been taking birth control, even though they’d been “trying” for months. It was like she was terrified of being tied to him. So what if he could be a bit aggressive? That’s what he’d been trained to be. No one could understand how different this all was. Thankfully his brother Jason was willing to let him stay with him while he figured out how to adjust.

They had been so similar when they were younger, but in their years apart, they had diverged. The Jason he remembered had been loud and brash, muscular, eager to follow in his older brother’s athletic footsteps, but a knee injury his senior year of high school had grounded him back at home. It was obvious from his limp that the injury had never healed right, and the weight he’d put on probably didn’t help matters, turning into a rather fat young man. He also always seemed to be a bit…distant from Paul, although Paul was so distant from everyone, he wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t just him imagining things. He’d also come out of the closet while Paul was on tour, and he seemed…happier for sure. Paul wasn’t thrilled about living with a fag of course, but Jason assured him that he wasn’t particularly active. Besides, where else was he going to go? He hadn’t managed to hold down a job–everything he did seemed to end with him screaming at someone, or punching a hole in the wall–and Jason assured him he had more than enough money to support them while his brother found his footing again.

Jason seemed pleased to have some company. He lived alone in a small house in the quiet suburban neighborhood. Paul found it relaxing, and spent most of his days working out with his set of weights at home and taking walks around the neighborhood, where he started to meet the people who lived around them. They were all nice older men capable of good, safe conversation, each thanked Paul for his service and were interested in what he was doing now that he was home. None of them probed into the trauma they could all sense. It took Paul some time to realize that he’d never once seen a wife, or a child, on the street in front of their house–in fact, the entire neighborhood seemed to be home to men. He asked Jason about this, and his brother just shrugged, saying he’d never noticed it, and assured him more than a few of the men were married, and left it at that. He began to notice other strange events occurring around the neighborhood, however. His brother would often receive calls on the phone, and immediately leave the house, only to return hours later, and refuse to give Paul any information regarding where he’d been. The men seemed…overly familiar with each other. Not in a physical way, but like they had some secret passed between them when he wasn’t looking.

One man down the street seemed to catch Paul more often than the others, an accountant by the name of Craig Wheetly. He was short and rotund, with a horseshoe of hair where he was balding and a thick black mustache, but he had a big laugh that always got Paul laughing with him somehow. It was the thick of summer when Craig asked Paul if he’d help him out with reorganizing his garage–he wanted to install some new shelving, and he figured with a big guy like Paul helping him, it’d be done in no time. Paul was reluctant–he didn’t work very well with others–but he came around when he promised to pay him a hundred dollars a day. His brother was generous, but didn’t provide him with much of an allowance.

It was the late morning and still cool when they got started. It was a spacious three car garage, but it was sweltering after only a few hours. Paul suggested that they at least open the garage doors, but Craig kept diverting the conversation and they stayed closed, the room growing hotter and hotter. Craig pulled his shirt off, revealing a flabby gut soaked and glistening with sweat, and he convinced Paul to pull his off as well. As he was working close to Craig, he began to notice how musky the older man was. He’d smelled plenty of pit stink in the army, but nothing…nothing like this. And he was thirsty, all of a sudden. He asked for water, and Craig just kept talking over him. He had…had to drink something, he was gonna…

Paul got down and started lapping the sweat up from Craig’s gut, drinking it down, moaning and groaning all the while. Craig told him he was being very good, as he ran his hands through Paul’s sweat soaked buzzcut, walked over to a chair, stripping his shorts off as he walked, and let his muscular bull of a neighbor continue licking him from his soft chins to the bottoms of his feet. Paul didn’t understand what was going on. The heat was addling his brain, but something else was wrong too. He was…enjoying this. He was enjoying the taste of this old man’s sweat, and when Craig told him it was ok for him to take his pants off and jerk off, that he knew it would be hard for him to contain himself, he did just that, and exploded over and over again, leaving massive puddles of his cum splattered across the cement floor of the garage. Sucking Craig’s long, thick cock only seemed like the natural thing to do. The older man leaked precum like he sweat, and Paul swallowed it all down, feeling his thirst abate bit by bit, but not enough, never enough. The harder he sucked, the more liquid poured forth, but Craig seemed pleased but unaffected, and never once came.

Craig eventually stood up, and Paul chased his cock, barely noticing as the older man secured a leather collar around his neck, and attached a lead to it. “Come on then, you’re as ready as you’ll ever be. The ceremony is about to start, and we wouldn’t want you to be late.”

What do you think about the exchange of bodies? that’s what attracts this issue? to me personally what I love and what I love about their stories is seeing someone fall from such a height that his fall is so humiliating. see a label on his blog on the swap body is charming. (Sorry for the spelling, I follow the truth from mexico)

To be honest, body swapping is not a huge turn on for me. Well, that’s not exactly true–the idea of forcing someone into a body that they despise, that works for me. However, body swapping–where two people become one another–isn’t as much of a turn on. This is mostly because body swaps require reciprocal transformation–whatever happens to one character–the opposite is going to have to happen to the other. But that means one transformation is usually much less interesting/appealing to me than the other. A businessman and a garbage man switch lives? Great! I’m more than happy to write about the businessman’s fall from grace, but if I have to write the other half, I just…well, don’t care. I’d much rather there just be two garbage men at the end of the story.

So, I very much enjoy the humiliating aspects of a body swap, but avoid them in general because it often requires me to write an opposite change that I have much less interest in.

That’s actually even worse man, you’re stroking and reading up on something that starts out really hot like the story you’ve mentioned or the one with the actor getting hypnotized, thinking to yourself ‘damn, wesley really outdid himself, that’s some really hot stuff’ but then BAM! shit gets super dark out of the sudden and there’s no more fapping that day because you’re just left feeling bad.

I mean, *I* keep fapping, so I don’t know what’s wrong with you…

I’m not really complaining that they are bad, on the opposite. Some of the stories were so well written that despite having next to no characterization actually managed to make me feel bad for quite some time. And I appreciate them on this level alone, but it’s just like, an equivalent of scrolling through some porn and jerking off when you suddenly stumble upon a beheading video and lose your boner for the rest of the day.

Am I a bad person for feeling like that’s the best compliment I’ve gotten in a long while?

I do check tags and usually skip the ones tagged as ‘castration’ because they usually entail what I had in mind as ‘extreme’, but not always. Back in the day you posted one called ‘into the night of god’ or something along these lines and included a bunch of warnings about it being messed up. As far as your recent stuff goes, maybe you aren’t there quite yet, but people being mindfucked to the point where they turn into borderline vegetables is pretty close.

Point taken. Perhaps I’m a bit desensitized to my own horror. The other issue here is that in my head I tend to have this idea of what I want a story to do. “Into the Night of God” wasn’t intended for anyone to jack off to (although I *may* have done so once or twice…) because it was really more a horror story than a horror/porn story, if that makes sense. Part of the reason I included those warnings was to assure people that this story was out of the ordinary–a warning that “If you’re reading this and have your cock out you will likely be disappointed.” This is part of a category of my stories I tend to call anti-porn–I can see how the ending of something like “Persistance’s Rewards” falls into the same grey area–the reason it didn’t occur to me to bump up the warnings on it is because I honestly intended that to be jack off material. Certainly not for everyone, of course.

So that’s a bit fucked up, of course. But that is as close to a “reason” as I can approach. I’m not trying to excuse it–I should have beefed up the warnings on that, especially since I already had a great big scat warning to begin with–but this is as close as I can get to explaining *why* I didn’t add that warning.

I really enjoy your stories but could you consider developing a special tag for ones that deal with more extreme forms of abuse? You have huge warnings for scat, but some of the other stuff you’ve dishing out recently is infinitely more disturbing to be honest.

I do try to tag my stories accurately through tumblr’s tagging system–unfortunately, the platform lists them at the bottom of the post and not at the top. My suggestion would be to check down there first, before reading. If I tried to put up a warning for every extreme form of abuse in my stories, pretty much every story would have a warning on it, and I’m not sure it would mean much in the long run, especially since each individual’s idea of “extreme” is less a natural category and more of a “know it when I see it” sort of thing. I also know that (for myself at least) part of what turns me on in a story is the surprise of what happens–these sorts of obvious tags tend to diminish that in my opinion. I put up the scat warnings only because I get *so* many complaints if I don’t. This isn’t to try and minimize your experience here–I’m sorry you ran across something that upset you. But I also embrace the fact that my stories are horror stories. They’re designed and meant to be disturbing and upsetting, so I can’t help but take this as a bit of a compliment. I hope providing the tags I do is at least somewhat a compromise solution.

which one of the stories you wrote have you found the hottest one?

Oh goodness.

That’s a bit like asking parents to pick between children or something. I mean, the stories I turn to when I need something to jack off to (i.e. “the hottest ones”) usually depend on the mood I’m in more than anything else, and so they tend to rotate more often than not. That said, if I had to choose, I’d probably have to go with “Letters From Prison”.

Blank Skin

Everyone wanted to know about the shaved head, and his missing beard. Wasn’t the cue ball look a bit too radical, for someone like him? A wealthy, older man like him in his fifties, who dressed in fancy suits tailored to his large gut? He told them he’d wanted a change, and they all just passed it off as a mid life crisis. He couldn’t tell any of them the truth, he wasn’t allowed to, and it was frustrating, so frustrating. He acted a bit strange all day long, in his meetings. It seemed to his co-worker’s like it was hard for him to get comfortable–he kept fidgeting in his seat, and glancing to the clock, like he had somewhere else that he needed to be. A man who was known for short, practical lunches rescheduled meetings and was gone for an hour and a half so he go to some all you can eat buffet nearby. However, other than those relatively minor oddities, he played his role, as usual, leading the team, directing their focus, but when five o’clock struck, a man who rarely left earlier than seven or eight instead grabbed his briefcase and rushed out of the office as quickly as he could. He knew something none of them knew, he knew a secret he couldn’t tell anyone. The secret was, that Mitchell Pratten wasn’t a person anymore–Mitchell Pratten was just a hog in a fancy suit.

That Friday, he’d left later than usual, and the subway had been empty, aside from a rough looking, burly skinhead, face full of piercings, arms coated with tattoos, carrying a backpack. Mitchell had been wary, but unprepared for the man to spring at him and shove a needle in his neck–but after they’d had a chat, everything had been sorted out, and he’d let the skinhead follow him home and into his apartment.

But he was almost back now, he was so eager to get out of these clothes. It was stifling him, the real him. He couldn’t be himself in it, he had to be “Mitchell Pratten” and do “Mitchell Pratten” things, like read the paper and scowl at young punks when what he really wanted to do was crawl over and beg the young men to fist his ass with their big hands. He reached his stop, and he hurried to his building, taking the elevator up to his condo, where he opened the door with shaking hands, and stepped inside, immediately ripping at the suit, tearing it away from his body, so he could be rid of this horrid fabric skin.

Master had taught him so many important things, on Friday night, in his condo. He’d taught him that he wasn’t a person at all, that once you stripped away the clothes, that once you stripped away the hair and the beard and the fur coating his body, he wasn’t anything at all–just a blank page. And blank pages needed to be written on, right? And so master had written on him, had taken the tattoo gun he’d brought along in his backpack and helped fill in all the gaps. He wasn’t blank anymore, as he stood at the door, free of “Mitchell Pratten” for the day, his entire arms and chest were covered with crudely drawn words and pictures, all of them marking him for what he was. A whore. A hog. A pervert. A masochist. A hole. A slave for his master. He rubbed his smooth skin, still sore from Master’s work, and let out a snort of pleasure, before getting down on all fours and crawling where his master was sitting, and began licking his boots. He served him for the evening, licking his body clean of any sort of filth, before Master finally allowed him to eat, setting a huge steel bowl on the floor, watching as his pig shoved his face into the slop and devoured it hungrily. He was a glutton now. He was gluttonous pig, and Master liked his pigs fat, so very fat. The fatter he was, after all, the more skin he had, and the more Master could fill him in. That was why Master had insisted on cutting off his balls this weekend–hogs grew fatter much faster than boars, after all. It had hurt, but he’d already noticed the difference. He was calmer, more focused. His pleasure didn’t matter–the only thing that mattered was pleasing his master. Master told him that once that wound had healed, he’d remove his cock as well–after all, he didn’t need it, right? Right–the hog would be more than happy for it to be gone as well.

He emptied the huge bowl four times–only then did Master help wipe his face clean with a rag, and afterwards, Master told him that it was time for him to fill in more of the hog’s body, and he grew excited. He loved having his master fill him up, he loved everything his master did to him. It hurt as he tattooed him, working on his back, and as he did, Master told him what he was writing. That this hog was not only a cumdump and a fisthole, but a urinal too. This hog craved the taste of piss, and would drink whenever he could, fresh or old, and when his Master fed his his first load, he knew it was true, that he’d spend the rest of his life drinking piss and getting pissed on by his Master and any other man. But by that time, it was very late, and they were both exhausted. Master climbed into his large bed, and Hog curled up on the floor next to him, already dreading the morning.

He would have to be Mitchell Pratten again, for the day. He’d have to be Mitchell Pratten for ten or eleven long hours. Master told him he’d have to play the role for quite a while, that a good hog would want to make lots of money for his master, and Mitch did make lots, and lots of money. But the hog wasn’t happy. The hog didn’t like meetings and suits. He didn’t want to discuss business strategies–he wanted to suck his coworker’s cocks and drink their piss. At least Master had ordered him to stuff himself silly during Mitchell’s lunches–that was the one moment when he’d felt the most free. Still, he was just a hog–he didn’t get to choose, he could only obey. Just a hog–something gussied up in a suit–but at the end of the day a hog through and through.

As always your writing is fantastic and I love the new stories. The one thing I miss from the earlier days of your blog are your captions. lou

Yeah, I can understand that. The captions are a feature that I miss at times too, but because I’d like to get away from relying on images (especially when I lack a good method of giving those images proper credit) it’s just something I won’t be able to offer much in the future. The other thing is that captions are surprisingly difficult to write–compressing a story in that short of a frame is difficult to keep up for long periods of time, because I have to consistently and constantly generate new story after new story, and pair them with an image at the same time. It’s exhausting, and one of the main contributors to my burn out a year and a half ago. This model is just more sustainable for me, though I know it loses some diversity of content at the same time.

Sigh, I’m an idiot.

I got back into the swing of my week like everything was normal, and then realized I hadn’t uploaded anything for two days. So! There will be four updates for the next four days, my apologies.

Also, since I haven’t done one of these for a while, I’ll be up lateish tonight if anyone has had a question they want answered.