Author: wesleybracken8258

The Morning After – Owen Part 3

His reflection was simply watching him and standing there, as Owen kept masturbating in front of the mirror. His young body completely forgotten, and the mirror was smiling broadly, teeth bared. It came forward to the counter in the mirror and climbed up onto it. Owen doubted he’d have been able to get up there as heavy as he was, but his reflection seemed to manage the climb perfectly well…and then if crawled forward, right through the glass, like the hand had done with the rearview mirror earlier. The recollection was enough to shock him from his masturbation, and he backed up against the tub behind him, nearly falling in, as his reflection climbed back down onto his side of the counter.

“So much easier to fit through this time–such a large mirror too! That means we can have so much fun together, Owen,” the reflection said, licking it’s lips as it walked up to him in the bathroom.

“What…what are you?”

The reflection laughed. “Oh Owen, you don’t need to worry about a silly little thing like that, do you?” It grinned wide, it’s shard teeth shining in the dim bathroom light like hundreds of gleaming crystals. They’d never been so bright before in the mirror, but now that he was this close to them, he was amazed at how they caught the light. In fact, he couldn’t look away from them. It was like the the teeth had wiped away the rest of the world, sharp and cutting right into his mind. It took him a few moments to realize that the reflection was speaking to him, the teeth opening and gnashing and rattling. Behind them was some dark void, impossible to penetrate. He couldn’t quite follow what was being said, but he could…see pictures and scenes in the teeth, hundreds of them. Memories, desires, fantasies. All of them his, reflected back at him, piercing into his mind.

At first, the images didn’t make sense together. There was nothing to hold them all in place. There were hotel rooms, and he was in them. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands. There was a home, but most of his life was spent away from it, travelling. What was he doing? The images showed nothing specific. It didn’t seem important. He was a businessman–his suitcases were full of wrinkled suits, most of which were a bit too small on him. What he felt, more than anything else, looking at these hundreds of scenes, was loneliness. He was always alone. Alone eating room service. Alone watching movies on HBO. Alone masturbating. Alone staring at himself in the mirror. Alone getting dressed for another sales convention like all of the other sales conventions. It felt like it was going to crush him at any moment, like he’d simply cease to exist without anyone else noticing him for so long.

“You don’t want to be alone.”

He didn’t. He didn’t want to be alone anymore.

“You don’t have to be alone, Owen. We can be together, can’t we? And I’m sure we can find others to help keep you company here.”

The reflection stepped back from him, and Owen heard a knock at the hotel door. He turned, still naked, and walked to the door. In the hallway, through the peephole, he could see a distorted young man on the otherside. Had…had he been expecting someone? It felt like he had. He opened the door, and the man stepped inside. He looked too young to drink. He was taller than Owen, not necessarily muscular, but lithe.

“Hey Daddy,” he said, “I see someone’s ready for me already.”

Owen took a step back, and stumbled into his reflection, which had followed him out into the short hallway. “You’re ready, aren’t you Owen? You’ve been waiting for him, thinking about him, about his profile, about that dirty chat you were doing earlier?”

The young man pulled off his tight shirt slowly as the reflection spoke, and Owen’s eyes traced his smooth abs and chest with as much attention as he’d given the shards. But something…something seemed off. How if he moved quickly around the young man, he’d turn out to be flat. How there were a few too many sharp angles at his elbows and shoulders. How when he smiled at Owen, there was that same empty void behind those shiny white, jagged teeth. “Right Owen? Aren’t you excited to see me?”

The Morning After – Owen Part 2

As he walked across town, he felt increasingly silly, and before too long, he would have returned to the car if the walk back hadn’t become longer than the distance to the hotel. Luckily Owen had stayed in good shape since college–unlike any number of other reunion attendees, including some of his close friends. Still, if there was one thing to know about Owen, it was that appearance was more important to him than substance. He’d made his living off his looks–he’d learned at a young age that if you were cute enough, and confident enough, then you could get anywhere, and he’d spent the last few years proving it, rising high in the PR department of a major technology firm. Better than Billy, who was stuck working for his father at the family business back home–no room to grow there, but he’d always been too much of a coward to go out on his own. It was hard to believe they’d been friends this long–even before college. Still, they’d grown further apart now than ever before, and both Carl and Tim were largely after thoughts. It was enough for him to know that he looked better than them, even if they might be a bit more successful. A few times he thought about checking his reflection in a window along the street, but always decided against it. Dream or not, that episode earlier had freaked the shit out of him. He did love mirrors too much to stay away for long, but he could primp once he’d gotten back and had a proper shower.

The reunion attendees were staying at a hotel a few blocks away from campus, the Nettywood Suites. It was a small but decent independently owned hotel. His room was on the first floor–he’d bought one entire room for himself, because he hated sharing space with other people. He let himself in, planning on taking a shower, having a nap, and then reporting the car stolen with the rental company, before going and joining the reunion festivities. He stripped out of the clothes he’d worn for the pub crawl and then went in the bathroom, but before he started the water in the shower, he stopped in front of the mirror to preen, without much thought, and stared at the reflection in shock.

That wasn’t him.

That couldn’t be him.

And yet, the reflection was in the same position as he was, about two feet from the counter, staring straight at him. The man was older, probably about ten or fifteen years older than Owen was, with a short beard covering his round face, and extending quite a ways down his neck. It looked unkempt, but helped hide the double chin underneath the flabby face, in the same way that it helped his jowls look like cheeks. The nose was too broad, the mouth small and thin lipped, the ears too big and sticking out too far, the eyes close together like marbles on the wide head. His hair was either too long or too short. He was balding, but the hair had been brushed over into a combover that only emphasized his hair loss. It was silver at the temples, and salt and pepper throughout. The reflection was smiling, and the teeth…the teeth were like shards of glass, and unable to help himself, Owen discovered he was smiling with him.

“Much better,” the reflection said. Owen felt his mouth form the words, though no sound came out. “Much, much bigger, much more fun to be had here, I think, don’t you, Owen?”

He saw the reflection’s hands run down the older man’s body, starting at his chest before descending down over his massive gut, grabbing hold of the flab and giving it a shake. Unable to break his eyes away, Owen could only feel his stomach twist as his hands did the same, running over soft, hairy moobs, then meeting the gut, soft. He grabbed hold and it shook. It shook like it was real. The man in the mirror was one of the hairiest men Owen had ever seen, a thick coating all over his gut, thickest in the center, so thick he could just barely make out pale skin beneath, running up onto his shoulders and (he assumed) all over his back as well. He had to be close to 400 pounds, and judging from where his perspective, he had to be quite a bit shorter than Owen’s previous six foot one.

“Yes, so much fun, I think,” the reflection continued, “What do you think? It feels good, doesn’t it? Feeling your fat jiggle like that? Watching your fat body shake in the mirror? Let’s see if you like it or not…eh?”

One hand drifted lower, under the gut, digging beneath, finding the short cock there amidst the mass of fat, gunt, and hair. It was hard, but a weak kind of hard. Flimsy, and yet pleasure shot through him all the same.

“Goodness, someone does like what they see, don’t they?”

His other hand had moved up and was tweaking a nipple. His fingers, unable to grip his shaft, instead ran their way over and around the head of his cock, feeling it turn slick with precum. He was breathing hard, beneath all this fat, and yet it felt good, it felt really good.

“You like looking at yourself don’t you? I know this isn’t the first time you’ve jacked off while looking at yourself in the mirror, Owen.”

“Fuck…” Owen said, the first word he’d been able to manage. It was true–he considered it something between a vice and a bad habit…but he did like jacking off in front of the mirror. But he hadn’t looked like this…had he? Hadn’t he looked different? Younger? Thinner? The exact appearance was fading before he could grab hold of it, but his hand never stopped working his stubby cock, his eyes never drifted from his bouncing gut, his free hand kept running its way through his hairy chest and belly…and he realized his reflection was no longer copying him. Or was it that he’d been copying his reflection?

“You like how you look, don’t you?”

““Fuck…yeah. Such a fat, hairy daddy bear…” his voice was strange to his ears. Deeper and older, but also attractive in its own way. Part of him still knew he should stop. That something was wrong, that he’d been changed. But looking at himself there, how could…how could he not want to jack off? He just looked so…damn sexy.

The Morning After – Owen Part 1

Can’t stop looking, can you?

He couldn’t, he couldn’t stop, but what was he looking at? Where was he? He could see the room, but it was like he was just gone, gone from the reflection entirely.

I’ll keep it safe, don’t worry. Still, we can’t have you reflecting nothing, right?

There was something there now, something black and dark in the mirror, and it was smiling at him, it was smiling wide, and every tooth was a shard, and every shard had his face, and every face was screaming, and–

Owen flung himself back with a scream, and he looked around in a panic. He was in a car, in the driver’s seat. What had he just dreamed? He took a moment to try and calm himself down, to keep his breathing even. He was in his rental car, and his rental car was parked on some quiet side street, where he’d left it when they’d all started their pub crawl from the night before. He could remember the start of it, but…but then it all just faded away after the first few bars. He hadn’t gotten that drunk, had he? Sure, he couldn’t quite handle his liquor like when he’d been in college, but still, he hadn’t blacked out like this…ever. He sat up, and saw the clock read a little after nine in the morning. Had he just been sleeping here that long? Everyone else was probably back on campus for more reunion festivities, but the last thing he wanted to do right now was rub shoulders with a bunch of old classmates, most of whom he couldn’t stand anyway. Besides, he ached, and had a terrible headache. He might as well head to the hotel, get changed, have a shower and then maybe join up with the reunion in the afternoon. He should probably find Billy, Tim or Carl too, and see what exactly happened last night.

He sat up, found the keys in his pocket, and then noticed something–the rearview mirror was missing. It looked like it had been ripped off entirely. He looked around for it, and as he did, he noticed that the side view mirrors were also broken out entirely. “Fuck,” he said. How much was that going to cost? At least he had insurance on the rental car, hopefully it covered vandalism. Still, seeing those empty holes where the mirrors had been…he shivered, and remembered his dream again, and he realized something. If it had been vandalism…then why was the rearview mirror missing?

He looked around. All the doors were closed, and even locked. Had he left the car unlocked last night? Then why had they just destroyed the mirrors?

“Look at me.”

He froze. Had he just heard that? It sounded muffled, from behind him in the backseat. He whirled around, half expecting to find some stranger in the backseat, watching him, but the seat was empty. His heart was pounding again. That voice sounded so familiar, but whose voice was it?

“Look at me.”

He hadn’t imagined it. There was someone in the car with him, talking to him. He scrambled for the door handle and got out of the car, backing away into the street.

“Look at me, you fucker!”

It was shouting. But where in the hell was it coming from? He waited for something to happen, but nothing did. He crept closer to the car again, and this time looked in the backseat again, this time through the window. The only thing he could see out of place, was the rearview mirror on the floor, mirror side down.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t. He opened the back door of the car, reached down for the mirror. He grabbed it by the back and picked it up, turning it over so the mirror faced him. He held it up, and he could see himself, and then without him moving the mirror, his reflection shifted showing his mouth, a mouth like the one from his dream, a black hole filled with jagged teeth, “That’s better,” it said, “and then moved its eyes back into frame, “Now I can see you properly.”

He wanted to scream. He wanted to smash the mirror to the ground, but he was frozen in place.

The face disappeared, and there were hands now at the frame, clutching at the frame, reaching out from inside the glass, and he felt them run over his hand where he was holding the mirror.  “Hmmph, too small, much too small. This is no good at all, I can’t get out here.” His frozen body returned to his control, and he dropped the mirror back onto the car seat, slammed the door, and backed away. He could hear it laughing muffled against the floor of the car, and Owen turned and sprinted off down the street as fast as he could, the sound chasing him until he turned a corner, panting and exhausted.

What the fuck was that? He had no idea what he’d just seen. It couldn’t have been real, could it? He peeked back around the corner, to the car with the busted mirrors, the driver door still wide open. They’d driven over here to begin with so they could end up back by the hotel after the crawl and avoid driving–it would take him close to an hour to walk back to the hotel on his own. Still, he wasn’t going anywhere near that car again, not if he could help it. He had his phone, wallet and keys at least, so there wasn’t anything to go back for. As far as he was concerned, he’d just call the police and report the car stolen–let the rental company deal with it–he just wanted to get back to the hotel and go to sleep, and hope all of this was just some strange hallucination.

The Morning After – Billy Part 4

They spent the rest of their shift fondling each other’s cocks, Billy shooting once in his briefs from Derek’s attentions. He already was in better spirits, laughing and joking and flirting like normal, until they got back to the dump around eleven, and clocked out at noon.

He followed Derek into the locker room, where any number of other guys were laughing and changing back into their casual clothes. His feet walked him over to a locker he never remembered seeing before in his life. He pulled a set of keys from his pocket–all of which were unfamiliar, even though he could say what most of them opened, and used a small one on the lock. Inside, however, there weren’t any clothes at all, just a few scattered papers, a cellphone, some half eaten snacks from the vending machine, and a bottle of painkillers. There should be clothes in there, right? He looked around at the rest of the men, some leaving the locker room looking perfectly normal, none of them wearing their coveralls from work…so why didn’t he have any other clothes like they did?

Something was wrong. Something was wrong, and he didn’t know what it was. Something was following him, something was inside him, something else was here, and he couldn’t see it, but it was wrong, and it was wrong with him. He was starting to panic, he couldn’t catch his breath, he had to be going insane.

Calm down.

He looked to the side, and caught a look at himself in the mirror. He looked like a mess–his hair too long, something between stubble and a short beard smeared across his face, a gut bulging out, coveralls filthy.

This is what you like to wear. Calm down.

It was a stranger. He didn’t know what he should look like, he didn’t but he was certain that it was a stranger in the mirror.

Calm.

He blinked a few times. What had he been thinking about? He turned back to his locker, grabbed his cell phone and slid it into the pocket of his coveralls, and started for the door. Derek was already changed and waiting for him, wearing the same grimy looking jeans and sleeveless shirt he’d had on for the last month already. “You ready to go yet? Finished staring at yourself in the mirror?”

“Shut the fuck up, ya fuckin’ bitch,” Billy said, and smacked Derek on the back. He laughed.

“You finally got over your fuckin’ blues then?”

He nodded. He did feel better. Calmer.

“Come on, let’s get going. I wanna get home so I can plug that fat ass of yours.”

They walked out into the parking lot, and Billy followed Derek to his truck. He…knew what was going to happen. They’d drive to the little rundown one bedroom apartment they shared together. Once there, they’d fuck, still dirty and grimy from work, usually without even taking off their clothes. Then, maybe, they’d change, eat, watch TV, drink, and go to bed. Like usual. Like…they always did. He tried to tell himself that, but he didn’t quite believe it. Should he get in the truck? Should he try and convince Derek that something strange was happening? That he wasn’t feeling so well after all? He stood at the passenger door of the truck, hand on the handle, trying to get his mouth to form the words, when the phone in his pocket started shaking and ringing. He looked at the ID–it was coming from someone named Owen. Should he answer it? He didn’t know any one named Owen, did he? He answered it.

“Hello?”

“Billy! Fuck man, you have to help me, this is all fucked.”

“Who–Look, I don’t–”

“Look, just come over to my room, I need your help. Something happened last night man, something weird. I can’t look in the mirror man, I can’t!”

Last night. Where had he been last night? Billy remembered the dream that had already faded away from him, of waking up naked in that alley, but that couldn’t have happened. He’d been with Derek since their shift started at four in the morning…right? Or was this a dream, really? Nothing felt real to him, but maybe…

“Billy? Come on Billy, fuckin’ talk to me man.”

“Alright, I’ll…I’ll come over. Where are you?”

“Back at the hotel–where else would I be? Wait…where are you?”

Billy bit his lip. Should he be somewhere else? “I’m…I’m out.”

“Did you not get back last night? I know…I know we all got separated in there.”

“Look, just tell me where you are.”

“I’m at the hotel, I made it back here.”

“Look…I…someone else is driving me at the moment, I have to give him the name of the hotel. I…I forgot it.”

Owen was quiet for a moment, “I…I am talking to Billy, right? You sound weird man.”

“Look, it’s been a…crazy morning, just fuckin’ tell me what hotel.”

“Alright, alright. The Nettywood Suites, by the college. Hurry–I think I’m losing my mind.”

Billy got in the truck. “Bro, ya think we could make a stop real quick on the way?”

The Morning After – Billy Part 3

“What the fuck is wrong with you today, man? Get a god damn move on.”

He tried to push it from his mind, and he climbed up into the truck, but for the rest of the shift, he stayed silent. Derek gave up after a few minutes, and resigned himself to a day of silence, wondering what in the world had gotten into Billy all of a sudden. Billy found himself checking his reflection in the side mirrors of the truck. Whenever he focused on it, he could recognize himself, but when he caught it at a glimpse, he’d whirl over like he’d just seen a stranger. Still, the more he worked with Derek, the more he got his hands dirty, he started to feel like the dream was fading somewhat, though the most unnerving fact–that he still didn’t have much memory of what was going on–remained constant. At nine, they parked the truck for a bit and went to a little cafe for coffee and a bite to eat. Derek ordered for them both, and came over to the table with a heavily sugared red eye for Billy, along with four pastries, and looking at it, he suddenly had a deja vu. He’d done this before, hadn’t he? Not this, exactly, but he’d eaten here before, lots to times, with Derek on their route…right?

“Alright, now what the hell’s the matter with you man? Ever since you blanked out earlier, you’ve been like a god damn stone.”

“Yeah…I don’t…I’m sorry, maybe I just had too much to drink last night.”

“Man, you have too much to drink every night. You were passed out drunk on the couch like usual.”

Billy looked at him. Had he been? He didn’t remember, but how would Derek even know that, anyway?”

“I’m just…a little out of sorts is all.”

He looked down, and saw that without realizing it, he’d already eaten one of the pastries Derek had bought for him, and had started on a second. He’d been talking with his mouthful the entire time. Either unwilling or unable to stop, he kept going, the two of them making small talk, though it was a bit difficult for Billy, because most of the time he had no idea what Derek was talking about. They got up from the table, and Billy adjusted his coveralls to better fit around his small paunch, and followed Derek back to the truck. “Look bro, I know you better than anyone. I can tell something’s up. What aren’t you telling me?”

Billy was quiet for a moment, and then tried to put the words together. What was wrong, even? Everything? Nothing? “Do you…look, maybe I should ask you…did we have sex in…in an alley, earlier today?”

“I think I would remember that,” Derek said with a laugh, “Is that your problem? You’re fuckin’ horny? Bro, you know we can take care of that back in the cab.” Derek came closer to him, pushing Billy up against the side of the truck. “You know big bro is always ready for his little bro, any time.”

Billy’s gut was pushing into Derek’s, not uncomfortably, but rather, like it was something he’d never felt before. In his dream, he’d been in decent shape–certainly not peak condition, but now, he could tell he was fatter. Then again, hadn’t he always been fat? “I-I mean…” fuck he was hard again. Derek leaned in before he could say anything else and started kissing him, and Billy was more than happy to return the affection.

“I think we can spare an extra few minutes for lunch, don’t you? I bet you want some dessert, right?”

Billy licked his lips, and got down on his knees. He realized, suddenly, that he’d done this before. Derek unzipped his coveralls and let his cock out of his briefs. He’d done this before, in the alley, he had, he knew he had, and he wanted it, he wanted to taste it again. He took the cock in his mouth, and he realized something else–he’d done this lots of times. He sucked his brother off all the time, right? He knew just where to nibble, just how hard to suck. Derek reached around and grabbed his hair, just like he had in the alley, just like he always did, and started shoving his cock down his throat. He’d gagged before (or had he not gagged in ages?) and just let his brother fuck him rough.

“Fat…Fat fuckin’ pig. Fuck,” Derek groaned, “Fuckin’ eat it!”

The cock in Billy’s mouth exploded, and he swallowed it all down, before hefting himself back up with a hand from his brother.

“Thanks bro, I’ve been horny all morning.”

“Even after our fuck earlier?”

Derek just looked at him, “What fuck earlier?”

“When…when you fucked me in the alley.”

“We never fucked in an alley today.”

Billy was certain he remembered Derek fucking him, but from the look in his brother’s eyes, he knew he wouldn’t believe him. He just shrugged and climbed back up into the cab.

The Morning After – Billy Part 2

What was he doing?

He was on his knees in the alley. Derek had his coveralls zipped down, revealing a grungy wifebeater and a pair of briefs no cleaner than the coveralls they both were wearing. Didn’t get to the laundromat very often, he’d said–it looked more like he just didn’t care about wearing clean clothes at all. He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties–about the same age as Billy. There was a thick bush of hair poking out from the hole in the briefs with his cock, and he could see a thick matt of hair sticking out at the top of his chest too. Hiss head and face were shaved, but both had a few weeks, or maybe even just days, of stubble on them. His eyes were still looking at nothing in particular.

“Suck…it,” he said. Billy inched forward on his knees, took the cock in his mouth, and did as he was told. Derek stood there passively for a moment, before saying, “Not enough…fuck…” wrapped both hands around the back of Billy’s head and started thrusting deep down his throat.

Billy wrapped his hands around the Derek’s ass clutching him by the cheeks, hanging on and trying to breathe. Derek had him by the hair, and pulled him in deep, working his cock as far down as it would go. He couldn’t breathe, he was starting to gag, but he didn’t seem to care.

“Fuck…fuck yeah, man, fuck…”

He let Billy pull away, feeling him choke around his cock. It was by no means that big, but it was salty with sweat, with a grimy foreskin peeling away from the head, and Billy had never sucked a cock before. At least, he couldn’t remember ever sucking a cock before. Why was he doing this? Why couldn’t he stop? He looked up, Derek still had that strange, vacant look in his eyes. He wasn’t looking down at Billy, in fact, it seemed like he wasn’t looking anywhere at all. Did he even know what he was doing?

He started thrusting again, and Billy allowed him to fuck his face, trying to snag a breath here and there when he could. He’d been going for a few minutes now, and from the way he was huffing, it sounded like he was getting close, until suddenly, he stopped, and Billy pulled away, coughing. “No good…no–you’re a bad cocksucker.”

Billy coughed a moment more. He wanted to run, but he couldn’t move from where he was on his knees.

“Hand…and knees. Gonna fuck your hole instead.”

He couldn’t be serious. Billy tried to form the words to say no–instead his body shrugged off the coveralls, dropped them around his knees, and lowered himself further. Derek walked around behind him, got down, and without bothering to lube his hole, started pushing his cock inside. Billy groaned and shouted in pain; could nobody hear him? He looked towards the street in both directions, but there was no one to be seen. In fact, aside from the two of them, it seemed like the whole world was simply empty. Empty like…like he was. A moment in time, ripped free from everything surrounding it. No one else. No people. No animals. He imagined, that if he could break away and walk, he would find the shell of a city, everything staged for a play happening some other day, perhaps. A shell like him. No history except for what one could imagine, no place in it aside from what other people might allow for him, no one. No one.

Derek fucked him rhythmically. His ass had loosened somewhat. It still hurt, but he could bear it would yelling. Why didn’t he just cum? What was taking him so damn long?

“Talk…talk to…me. Talk dirty…” Derek grunted.

“Fuck me, of fuck yeah,” Billy said, “You dirty, ugly son of a bitch, fill me up with that nasty cum. Fill me up like an ugly whore. Fill me up, show me you’re a real man!”

He was going faster, getting closer.

“Yeah, that’s it. You like it dirty. You like smelling the trash around you, you like fucking like trash in an alley, fuckin’ turns you on, doesn’t it?”

“F-Fuck…”

“You’re gonna fuckin’ cum in me. You’re gonna seed my hole with as much filthy cum as you can pump into me, aren’t you?”

“F-uck…”

“Aren’t you? Come on man, fuckin’ give it to me!”

“Gonna…fuckin’…”

He felt it. It was hot, almost burning inside him. No. No, it was burning in him. It was like he was on fire, like something inside him was waking up and grinding back to life, like he was back, like he was alive–

“Hey. Hey!” Fingers snapped in his face. “You in there Billy?”

He shook his head. What…what had just happened to him?

“Come on man, let’s get a move on. We’re behind schedule,” Derek said, “Help me with these dumpsters.”

“S-Sorry,” he said. He looked around, and saw Derek getting the truck ready to lift the dumpsters in the alley…the alley he could have sworn he’d woken up naked in this morning. Or…or had that been a dream? What had he just seen?

“Come on, quit spacing out, we have a job to do, remember?”

Billy shook his head, and helped out. Somehow, he knew what he was doing, his hands moving to the right places before his mind knew why they were moving there. Nothing felt quite right, though. They got the dumpsters emptied, and they climbed back in the truck, Billy heading around to the passenger seat, but before he climbed in, he looked down at himself. He had on the coveralls he remembered Derek giving him, but now, instead of his co-worker’s name on the tag, it said Billy. He was wearing more than just the coveralls too–he had on a pair of heavy duty work boots and thick socks. He could feel a wifebeater under his coveralls, along with a pair of briefs. The image of Derek standing in front of him stood out to him then, and he felt his cock start hardening in his coveralls.

The Morning After – Billy Part 1

Always trying to fit into daddy’s shoes, daddy’s clothes, daddy’s life. Who even are you, Billy?

Billy tried to push himself awake from the dream, but it pushed back. Who was that, in the dark? Who was talking to him?

Who are you?

“I don’t know.”

Who do you want to be?

“I don’t know!”

He sat up suddenly, gasping for air. His head ached like he was in the middle of the worst hangover of his life. He sat up on the asphalt–the really god-damn cold asphalt. Where was he even? He looked around–it seemed like an alley somewhere downtown. He was hidden from view in sidewalk between two dumpsters…and he was naked. Completely naked. He looked around for clothing, and clothing, but there was nothing to be found around him; he peeked out around the dumpsters, but the alley was similarly devoid of anything that might be his. He stood up, being careful where he put his bare feet, and looked around. There was an unmarked door behind him–had he come out of there? He knocked, and then pounded, and when no one answered, he was almost thankful. What would they do, if they found some random guy in the back alley, naked, pounding on their door, asking for his clothes back? They’d call the police for sure. What in the hell was he going to do anyway? He couldn’t exactly just stay here all day–he was bound to be discovered at some point. But if he left, then what? He’d get arrested for sure. He was stuck.

It was just a bit past dawn. If he hurried, maybe he could get to somewhere that might have something he could wear. He should at least look around the alley a bit more, in case his stuff was somewhere nearby. What had he been wearing, anyway?

He couldn’t remember.

He couldn’t remember anything about the night before.

No…No, it was worse than that. He couldn’t remember anything about himself, either. Just a name. Billy…no, people just called him Billy, his name was William Jr., named after his father…right? At least, that made sense. But why would he remember that, and nothing else? He couldn’t remember his father either in any real detail. He couldn’t keep thinking about this, he couldn’t. He had to focus on finding something to wear, and then he could worry about…whatever was wrong with him.

He took one last glance down the alley in both directions, and then scampered around, looking in various nook and crannies nearby, but there wasn’t anything at all wearable, whether it was his or not. He was rummaging about when he heard the grumble around the corner, looked up like a rat, and saw the bright headlights of a trash truck bearing down on him.

“Fuck.”

There was nowhere to go, and nowhere to hide. He could see the man in the cab of the truck blinking at him, obviously confused, and Billy blushed red. The truck stopped, the door opened, and the man leaned out the window. “Rough night, eh man?”

What should he say? What should he do? “Y-Yeah, I suppose so.”

It would be so much easier to know if he was lying or not, if he could just remember what he’d been doing in the first place.

The garbage man opened the door and climbed down. “Believe it or not, this isn’t the first time I’ve found someone naked in the alleys around here. Lots of guys get too drunk and their friends abandon them around here as a prank.”

That did make sense…sort of. Assuming he’d been out with friends, of course. “Look…I’m just trying to find my clothes, but I haven’t found anything.”

“No worries man, I can help you look.”

Together, the two of them prowled the alley for about ten minutes, but neither of them found anything. The guy asked him what he’d been wearing the night before, and Billy bluffed. He had no idea what he’d been wearing, so he just said it had been jeans and a t-shirt. It didn’t really matter, because there wasn’t anything in the alley to wear at all.

“Well dang man,” the garbage man said, taking off his hat and scratching his messy, shoulder length hair. “Maybe they’re planning on coming back to find you?”

“I don’t know…maybe…”

“Well, I have something at least, though it’s kind of gross. I always keep an extra set of coveralls with me in the truck, and I just wear whichever one is cleaner. Problem is, I haven’t washed either of ‘em lately, so they’re both pretty nasty. Still, its better than nothing, right?”

Billy looked him up and down. The coveralls the guy had on already looked filthy, with a name tag peeling off that read, “Derek”–he wasn’t sure he wanted to see what the other pair looked like. Still, what choice did he have, really? “I mean, I guess that’ll have to do, right?”

Derek climbed back up into the cab, rummaged around for a moment, and returned with a crumpled ball of fabric, which he shook out into a pair of coveralls. It was a bit of a toss up to say which one was grimier–both were obviously supposed to green, but were more of a mottled brown. This one, had a name tag on it too. “Damn, when’s the last time you washed them?”

He shrugged, “I don’t get to the laundromat often. If you don’t want ‘em, you can be naked for all I care. You’ve already made me late, so do you want them or not? It’s better than being buck naked like you are now, right?”

That was a good point. He took the coveralls from them, tried to ignore how crispy they were in his hand, pulled them on and zipped up, careful of his cock, but as soon as the zipper hit his neck, it was like some strange shock ran through him, and he looked at Derek, who looked at him back. His eyes were vacant, like he wasn’t quite aware of what was going on around him, one hand pawing at his crotch.

“Get…on your knees.”

My Current Status

Hey all,

Due to a confluence of events and stress both within and out of my control, I’ve fallen woefully behind on content here at the moment. It’s nothing I can’t get back on top of, but for the moment, the schedule will be a bit looser than usual, (though I will still do my very best to fulfill the four post a week promise, and will make up any posts I do miss with extra on the following weeks) and also that the posts I do make will probably be a little “rougher” than usual. Stories will probably be a bit more like drafts, some storylines might end suddenly and I might start something new instead.

Part of the issue lately has been a light case of writer’s block, which is entirely self-inflicted on my part. I have, at the moment, a number of longer stories I’ve been wanting to write, but prioritizing them has been difficult, because I hate delivering an unfinished product, but at the same time, the schedule is such that I simply don’t have time to get the stories up to par in time to post, if that makes sense. Blah, blah, boo, hoo, whatever. On top of that, the day job has been especially stressful, not to mention a variety of other issues (dog’s undergoing surgery, money woes, whatever else life feels like hurling at me at the moment) that have simply cut into my writing time.

This isn’t a cry for sympathy, but merely an attempt to level with everyone about what’s up. Hopefully by the end of the month things will have eased up a bit all around, and I’ll be back on my feet. There’s no post today, but I will have something tomorrow.

Metawriting – Question Response

I got a couple of interesting questions over the last week, which I wanted to take some time to respond to in detail: 

anonymous asked:

How can an online community give the kind of constructive criticism that writers give writers? It’s too late after the story has been posted.

Hold on, slow this down a bit, you’ve got a whole bunch of assumptions rolled up in this question that I don’t necessarily agree with, that I want to parse out before we go any further. Here are the big ones:

1. I assume that when you use the term “online communities” here, you’re talking about story collections like the NCMC, CYOC, and the like, but here’s the thing–I’m not necessarily convinced that these sorts of communities are the best place for writers to receive “““““Constructive Criticism””””” (see number two) at all. These sorts of collections ought to be designed to deliver stories to readers first and foremost. This isn’t to say that writers don’t need a place to get feedback; merely that sites which are focused primarily on readers’ needs are never going to be able to prioritize writer feedback in the first place.
2. Ugh…. “““““Constructive Criticism””””” is a pair of words I’ve given up using. I too, in the past was an avid defender of constructive feedback, but the last writing group I was a member of demonstrated to me that what we tend to think of as constructive is actually some of the least helpful criticism writers can receive. But first, what is constructive criticism, for those who aren’t familiar with the term? In general, it means that critics in a writing group ought to focus on ways the story could have been better, and minimize feedback about what the story does badly. This sounds nice, sure, but the reasons we want to focus on “““““constructive””””” comments are not because they are inherently better feedback, but because so called negative or destructive feedback tends to “hurt peoples’ feelings.” It’s true that no writer wants to be told that their story is a piece of shit. But the fact is, sometimes you write stories that are pieces of shit (fuck knows I have entire folders of them). Part of becoming a better writer is about taste. Its about knowing when the core of a story works and when it doesn’t. If one has to treat every story as though it is inherently redeemable, then suddenly nothing a writer produces can actually be bad by necessity. What good does that serve? If I write something bad, the most important feedback I could receive from someone would be telling me to scrap it and start over. This, however, isn’t at all  “““““constructive””””” and I know many, many critics who would go through all sorts of contortions to avoid saying anything like that to a writer, and that’s just a shame.
3. Leapfrogging off of that, writer’s don’t give very good criticism for the reasons above. Critics give good criticism (or rather, good critics give good criticism). I am not someone who thinks that, in order to critique something, you have to be versed in that particular art–that is, I hate hearing someone say, “What do you even know? Have you even written a story before?” Criticism is an art in and of itself. You don’t have to be a writer in order to know what a good story is–think about it, if that were true, then literally *every* story would be critically successful, because they would all be crafted by writers, who necessarily know what good stories are by virtue of being writers. It’s nothing but a circular defense of ego. The best criticism I’ve gotten has come from readers who have never written anything. Often, the most useless feedback comes from writers hoping I will turn around and compliment their work in return. Of course, this isn’t to say someone can’t be both a good writer *and also* a good critic, simply that such a creature is relatively rare, and even then, their skill as a critic has little to do with their skill as a writer.
4. Is it really too late after a story is posted? When is a story ever finished, anyway? I’ve written the same story numerous times, all in different forms, whether it be City of Bears or Pigtown, and I doubt I will ever actually be finished, and the criticism I received after each attempt generally fueled the direction for future versions. It is true that criticism can only ever be received and given after a work is “posted”, “published” or “finished”, but if the assumption above is correct, that would mean that all criticism necessarily arrives too late to be of any use, which wouldn’t make much sense unless you think of criticism as some sort of intervention–as the attempt to guide a writer’s fingers as they are in the process of writing, as some kind of divine guidance. If that’s your conception of criticism, I’d suggest you turn to religion. Criticism is hindsight, “should have done,” and “will do in the future.” It isn’t something that, if applied like a balm, will make a story magically better if applied at the right time. But even then, stories are never finished–though writers at some point have to be finished with the stories they write. We give up on them–they never force us to stop.

So, with those four assumptions interrogated, why should I bother answering this question? Because, at the heart of it, it is a really, really good question. Dispensing with the problems above, we’re essentially left with, “How can we form an online community which is designed to encourage and nurture writing?” I don’t really have an answer to this question, as good as it is, but I can point to some things it would have to have. For one thing, it would have to have a system for giving feedback, though not necessarily ratings (which are only really useful for an audience) and also not necessarily open ended comment fields (which are prime feeding for trolls). It would have to allow for stories to be edited, extended, rewritten, erased, and co-authored. It would have to attract people who are less interested in passive consuption of content, and more interested in giving criticism. Perhaps most important, it would have to have a place for people to post pieces of criticism (i.e. reviews, commentary, etc.) and give that sort of content prominence along with stories themselves. In fact, the sort of site which might be most helpful for writers might not be designed for writers themselves–it will actually be designed for critics. That, of course, is only a broad sketch, but does demonstrate the problems involved, and the amount of work and thought that would have to go into such a design. It also should show that no existing website (that I know of) is up to the task.

anonymous asked:

If cyoc, ncmc and mcstories added ratings for a) quality of writing and b) quality of story wouldn’t that be adding more restrictions to the type of stories posted?

A few points of clarification. First, when I offered up the suggestion of those two categories, that was referring only to the NCMC, not to those other two sites. Second, I was advocating for a replacement of categories, rather than an addition. That is, instead of all eight or something dominant categories (those across the top of the page) which are in some cases vague and overlapping (what, exactly, is the difference between ‘hypnosis’ and ‘mind control’?) or under used (when’s the last time there was a ‘statue/robot’ story written anyway?) it would make more sense to streamline the number and type of categories. I suggested those two you mentioned because those are, I think, what a lot of the audience at the NCMC cares about, that is, “is the story well constructed?” and “is it written well enough that the story can be enjoyed without grammar/spelling getting in the way?” This is not to say that these are things I myself necessarily care about, of course, but given the audience of the NCMC, I think it would be appreciated.

Alright, now onto the bigger issue, the question of restrictions. I don’t think restrictions are bad things. If someone wants to make a site where the only stories allowed are those featuring father/son incest, or those involving revenge fantasies, or any other possible restrictions you might imagine, then that’s all fine and good. That said, restrictions are simply one component of a larger topic we might call “community design,” that is, the various tools the architect of a site provides to users that control what content people can create for the site and what sorts of communication is allowed between individuals. No site or community can avoid this question of what sorts of interactions it wants to enable and what sorts it wants to hinder

(and keep in mind much of what I say here applies not only to online communities by real life ones as well). For example, by hindering any sort of communication with the moderator, the NCMC effectively structures itself in a dictatorial fashion (again, not necessarily a “bad” choice, but it is what it is). Enabling the audience to give ratings and comments allows that audience to select out and discourage the kinds of stories it wants to see as well, which means that we can even have two different kinds of restrictions on content–explicit and emergent. Explicit restrictions are those built into the site by the architect, like the “ban” on copyrighted characters. Emergent restrictions are enforced through social standards–if something is downvoted, that means the audience doesn’t want to see that anymore. Neither of these restrictions can really be avoided, in the grand scheme of things, because in order to generate a particular kind of content, a community must necessarily try and exclude the kinds of content it doesn’t want to see.

All that said, my general stance is that sites like this ought to try to restrict content less, and curate content more. That is, rather than trying to keep out content the community doesn’t want, it should instead create good design which helps readers find the content they want and avoid content they don’t want to see without the site having to ban the content in question. The CYOC does a better job at this, in my opinion, especially with their new search engine and the recent upgrades to the interactive system, which allow readers to find content they want, while avoiding the content they don’t want to see. It isn’t perfect of course, but no community ever will be. You either have to over-restrict and cut away content you don’t want to see from the community entirely, or you have to under restrict and live with the fact that you’ll be seeing stuff you don’t want to see. Good curation can ease the issues of under restriction, but takes more work. I hope that clarifies things somewhat.

Coach’s Summer Training – Part 3

Jerry Hudson was my final student of the summer, and I had quite the project in mind for him, a transformation I had never attempted before. He was a rugby player at a local college, and his coach was a good friend of mine–he had a special commission and challenge for me, he said. Jerry was a bit of a loudmouth and a braggart, and I could only take it for about ten minutes before finally pushing him to the ground and shoving my foot in his mouth. Much to his surprise, and then his terror, my foot slid in effortlessly to the ankle–he tried to fight me, but for some reason his hands and arms just flopped against my leg like fabric. With my foothold secured, I took a moment to cut away his clothes, and then reached down, grabbed his hips, and twisted his lower body around. Had he still had any bones at all, his spine would have broken–instead, he just laid there, and watched me put my other foot right in his ass.

Now came the real challenge. I concentrated on him, and started making him smaller, watching the twist grow tighter and tighter at his middle. I’d certain turned someone into a sock before–but I’d never tried making one person into a pair of socks. It was obvious from the way what remained of his face was contorting that it must have hurt something terrible, but finally, with a loud rip, he came apart at the middle, and formed into two thick, black, identical calf length socks on my feet. I surveyed the damage. My right foot, which had been shoved in Jerry’s mouth, was screaming–as usual. But the sock on my left foot was saying nothing–no mind at all, aside from a dim instinctual desire to fuck. That was no good–I couldn’t have one sock brainless, so I pressed my feet together, knit the fabric again, and concentrated, forcing Jerry’s consciousness to spread out across both socks, and then, once it was more or less centered and even, I ripped them apart. Even I screamed at that, listening to the pain the two of them felt as I did that, but it did work–Two Jerrys, one on each foot, thinking independently of one another.

Now the coach who had offered this challenge, we’d met quite a few years ago at a leather club one night. I could tell he was a man like me–musky, leathery, willing to inflict pain on other people for fun. I’d thought about wearing him, but how could I make him better? Instead, I started making things for him to wear–for a hefty price, of course. What he wanted was a pair of devoted boot slaves–and so I went to work. Luckily we had similar shoe sizes, so I could wear his boots, conditioning both Jerrys to relish and appreciate the smell of their future master’s feet. I shined the boots twice a day with the socks, getting them used to appreciating the taste of boot black, and the importance of serving boots and feet. Still, with the initial challenge over, I grew a bit bored–why not have a bit more fun with both of them? I knew what their coach liked, after all–and with two slaves, that gives you some room for, shall we say, specialization.

The right one became my newest cum rag, and once he grew more used to absorbing filth, I started branching him out–submerging him in jars of my piss, forcing him to drink all of it into himself. He also worked as my toilet paper, and grew to appreciate the taste of shit along with everything else. After a week, he was crusty and filthy, but he loved it, and was begging me for more filth to eat. Meanwhile, I put the left sock through other exercises–stretching him out, forcing him to fit over my entire fist and arm up past my elbow, decorating him with rings and studs and metal spikes. By the end, the two socks looked strikingly different–and I told my friend to come over, because we would have to finish the work with him present as well.

He was ecstatic, when he saw what I had done, and couldn’t wait to put them on. He did, and I started working the slaves together, telling them that this was the moment they’d been waiting for, that this was their master, their owner, and I started shifting them back. Soon, two young men were kneeling before him, worshiping his feet hungrily–obviously identical twins, and yet they couldn’t have been more different in their appetites. The one serving his right foot was a filthy mess, caked with cum, piss and shit–the other was cleaner, but his entire body was a riot of piercings, and desperate to feel his master’s fist buried in his asshole. The mental split had left both Jerrys much, much dumber–after all, when you only started with one brain, there wasn’t much hope for intellect, but each served his master well for many years to come. But that, alas, was the end of my summer. Still, I’ll have a whole new set of men to train next year, so who knows what might happen then?