Author: wesleybracken8258

I don’t know how you do it, but I sure am glad that you do. You just keep whipping these out and they’re all so freakin’ good. It’s amazing to me how much content you write in so little time. And as I’m here, I might as well ask for heavy cigarette addiction as well, young to old. I realize it’s not enticing for you and I don’t care if you never do it as everything you write is just fine as it is, but why not ask, right? Seriously, visiting here is NEVER disappointing. Many thanks!!!!

Asking is the only way to get it, right? Cigarettes always feel like a bit of a copout to me, so I rarely write them. Giving a guy a cigar just feels so much more satisfying.

I have to say that I have missed your more “muscular” stories (and the pup ones) and I was over the moon to have read “Cory Finds His Coach” I don’t think I’ve precum that much in ages. GREAT story, you have a way with words/descriptions that is somewhat rare in MG erotic fiction that I really appreciate. I know it was a commission just wanted to say Kudos and that I appreciate your work!

Well, you’re in luck, because someone also commissioned a pup story, and that’ll be up in the next week or two. To be honest, I kind of avoid the muscle growth stuff because I get burnt out on seeing it everywhere else. Why provide something that you can get from fifty other authors everywhere else? That aside, it is fun to write–and that rare style to my muscle growth stuff probably comes from the fact that I avoid the same common style most writers in the sub genre rely on. Regardless, thanks for reading, and for enjoying it.

“Get in there, fucking get in there, pig.”

The door is open, but before I can step in, he gives me a hard shove into the unknown. Still wearing the hood someone forced onto me at the bar, I stumble forward, trip over something, and manage to break my fall on the hard floor, badly, with my wrists.

“Dumb fucker, fuck.”

He clomps over as I roll onto my stomach, but before I can push myself up, he lands on top of me. He’s heavy, a huge gut pressing into the small of my back. He fumbles with his fly and let’s his cock out, so he can grind it against my ass. I grind back. He reaches under me, undoes the fly of my jeans and yanks down my pants, runs his cock up and down my crack between the straps of my jock. One hand on the back of my head, shoving my hooded face against the floor, he works the head of his cock into my ass.

I wonder if I should say anything. Would I turn him off, if I speak? I have no idea who this man is or where we are. Should I be scared? He doesn’t speak as he fucks me, and I stay silent. He cums relatively fast inside me, and I wonder if he’s finished, but when I reach up to take the hood off, he yanks my hands back down.

“Not yet…Not finished yet,” he pants, stands up, and yanks me up. I fumble with my pants for a moment, but end up just stepping out of them and my shoes, and he drags me along, through a doorway, and pushes me against a low ledge. I stumble over it, and hear the hollow thud of a bathtub. He shoves me to my knees, and then he starts spraying me with piss. I open my mouth, he lets me drink, I let it run down through my goatee. “Yellow pig, yeah. Fuckin’ hot,” he mutters. The flow stops after a couple of final pulses, and I hear nothing else. I wait for him to heft me up, or face fuck me, or anything, I’m ready for all of it, and yet nothing comes. Tentatively, waiting for him to lash out, I reach up and remove the hood, and find myself in my own bathtub, soaked with a strangers piss, and he is nowhere to be found.

Disoriented, I get up. Did I tell him where I lived? Did…was it someone I knew? I’d never told anyone at Pigtown where I live, and I’d never invited anyone over to my place before who’d want to do all of that to me. I leave the bathroom, cum running down the inside of my thigh. The apartment door is still open to the hallway, and I hurry over to shut it before anyone walks past and sees me. The clock says it’s nearly six in the morning, and dawn is just creeping through my east facing window. Somehow I’d been out all night, but it had only felt like a few hours.

I sit for a few moments, and then go shower myself off, and get dressed for work. I leave the piss soaked jock on under my slacks–I enjoy the memory, and it will be dry by the time I reach the office. I grab my backpack, and let myself out, locking the door behind me. The elevator is out, I take the stairs, but on the second flight, I stop and stare at the man coming up towards me from the flight below. The cigar in the corner of his mouth like a flare of light, he streams smoke from his nose that curls through his huge red beard. He has on a leather vest, and nothing else, his thick cock hanging soft above a hefty sack covered with red hairs. Is that him? Is that the man? Will he fuck me again? Piss on me again? I hope so, come and get me, I’m your pig–

“I’m your pig,” I gasp out loud, and my neighbor, Charlie stares at me from two steps down.

“Excuse me?”

I look down at him, the older irish man who lives two doors down from me. Divorced, angry, smokes cigarettes. Always has a fine coating of red stubble across his round face. I’d suggested he’d grow a beard before, but he’d never seemed interested. And now this? What had I even seen?

“S–Sorry, I was talking to myself.”

“About pigs?”

I blushed, but couldn’t get past him on the stairway easily to escape.

“You look terrible. Were you up all night or something?”

“Yeah, I didn’t sleep well.”

He looked back down, sniffing. “I think some homeless are pissing in the stairwell–it stinks in here.”

“Yeah, it’s probably that.”

He’s quiet, and stares at me for a few moments, until I clear my throat, tell him I’m late and need to catch my bus. Charlie makes me push my way past him to get down the stairs, and I can feel him watching me as I leave.

I run the conversation through my mind all day at work, wondering what it could have possibly meant. If it could have possibly meant more than was said. He was straight, wasn’t he? Then again, who was really straight? I’d thought I was straight, after all, but Pigtown had shown me the truth. The day went poorly, I returned home. I had to pass his apartment on the way to mine, and I smelled smoke, cigar smoke, inside, even though I had never seen him so much as touch a cigar.

It took me a couple of days to work up the nerve to ask him. I would walk over and knock on his door when I knew he wasn’t home, just to practice. Finally, I knocked when he was; he answered.

“Hey, would you…like to get a drink with me this weekend sometime?”

He cocked an eyebrow at me, cigarette hanging from his lips. A cinder of ash tumbled to the floor, I thought about getting down and eating it, but stopped myself. “I don’t go out much,” he said.

I wasn’t sure what else to add. I scratched the back of my head, but didn’t accept his excuse. “I like to go out, you see, but I don’t have many friends, so it’s usually just me by myself. You drink, don’t you?”

“Well yeah, but–” he paused and sighed, “I guess…hell, why not, right?”

I smiled, relieved. “How about Friday night? I know a great place.”

He shrugged, and then glared, “This isn’t some faggot shit, is it? You making a pass on me?”

I assured him that I certainly wasn’t, that I was just a straight guy, as straight as him, just looking for a straight drinking buddy for some straight drinking, no homo at all. He reluctantly agreed to meet at eight, and shut the door. I had a feeling that if Pigtown could do what it had done to me in a few visits, Charlie would be a new man before too long too–just the kind of man I’d imagined.

It was just one of those chat services–one of those fads that was a flash in the pan a few years ago–but Derek had always found them a bit fascinating. Sure, most of the time it was just dudes jacking off, but if you just kept at it, sometimes you stumbled on someone interesting. He’d made a number of good friends this way, all over the world–it was a good way of getting out of this small college town he lived in. Aside from the college, it was just a blue collar place full of grubby workers employed at the various factories outside of town, and he couldn’t wait to graduate and get the hell out for good.

It had been a mistake to stay here for the summer, because once the college cleared out, he was all alone, and so his internet contacts had proved more important than usual. But he’d found an apartment he’d liked, and without a subletter, his choice was to either find something in the fall when class started, or stick it out. At least his job bar-backing at a local pup paid the bills, but it was his night off and with nothing to do, he was jumping through various cock jackers online, until the “Next” button suddenly stopped functioning.

He was trapped looking at some nasty fucker, shaved head, wearing some grubby coveralls, groping his cock and smoking a cigar, nose billowing out smoke. Without seeing him type anything on the keyboard behind him, a cryptic message appeared in the chat box, followed by two more.

>> Do’t fthen hems fr y

>> Y’reon kn it,prmis

>> Ben pigste bs

And then, the screen went blank, and the feed moved onto the next cock, but Derek was so weirded out he closed the window and just tried his best to forget about what he’d seen, and go to bed. Out his bedroom window, however, he thought he saw someone across the street, just outside the street lamp light, but when he got a better look, all he saw was a dissipating haze of smoke.

***

For the next few days, Derek was certain he was being followed. He hadn’t gone on the chat site since, but every time he walked to and from work, especially coming home in the early hours of the night, he would walk as fast as he could, sometimes breaking into a jog, just to avoid his imagination.

The bar he worked at disregarded the state’s no smoking policy–and so it was a common hang out for various roughnecks, many of whom smoked cigars there. They had all largely ignored him, but now he kept noticing them staring at him, often unabashedly. Some even looked at him…like they wanted to fuck him. He’d had a suspicion that the bar catered to the small gay population of the town, but that was the first time he’d felt uncomfortable. Even the bartender–a smoker himself–was treating him different, but when Derek confronted him, he gave a series of excuses and hurried off to do something else.

Before long, he was certain that someone was tailing him everywhere he went. In the bar, he would see glimpses of a man in the shadows, smoking a cigar, face invisible through the haze, but by the time Derek had noticed, the space was suddenly empty. The man appeared in alleys as he walked home, follow him down the streets during the day. He called the police, but not only did they refuse to do anything about it, as soon as he’d told them what was happening, they simply ignored him when he called about the man. He became paranoid, quit his job, and locked himself in his apartment, and his attention turned to conspiracy.

In the chatlog of the site, he’d managed to retrieve the three strange messages the figure had sent him at the beginning of all of this insanity, and he began running them through every translation filter he could find. He asked paranormal experts, he posted on forums big and small, but no one could help him, get any traction of what was happening to him. And then, after a week of isolation, he smelled the smoke coming from his bedroom closet.

The man stepped out before Derek could bar him inside. He said nothing, grabbed Derek by the face and exhaled a huge amount of smoke directly into his lungs. Derek stumbled back, but his body suddenly was numb, and wouldn’t work properly. Paralyzed, he tumbled to the ground on his back, frozen, struggling for breath.

The man came over, holding his cigar in one hand, and he slipped it between Derek’s lips. Suddenly, he could breathe again, but it was the smoke he needed, not air. He needed the smoke in him, craved it, lived on it. His body was still frozen, but the man got down on his knees by his head, and they shared a long series of smoky kisses, passing it back and forth between them for hours, Derek’s terror slowly replaced by lust, and then even hints of love.

The man stayed with him for several weeks, and neither of them left the apartment. They had work to do, work to do with smoke, work to do on Derek. Pig work. Learning how to suck cock and take dick up his ass. Learning how good piss tasted. Learning to be a slob, ruining his body, giving him a heavy gut and aging him into his fifties, where he should be, who he wanted to be. There was a hole in Derek’s life when the man left, almost like he’d never even been there. The college’s new semester started up, but Derek was now a machinist at a factory outside of town, hanging out at the bar, sucking dick in the dim corners of the back rooms, occasionally certain he’d seen his master, the man he loved, the man the whole town loved, in the darkness, but all he ever found was wisps of sweet smoke he’d drink in hungrily.

He still loved his chat sites, but now he was just another masturbating pervert. He loved seeing people disgusted at him, at his body, at his thick, ugly cigars. He loved chatting with other filthy fuckers, bringing them to orgasm, talking about their favorite hook ups. He built a whole new circle of friends, sex addicts like him, until one day his computer froze, and a man appeared on the screen like a dim, fuzzy memory. He started typing:

>> Don’t fight, when he comes for you

>> You’re gonna fuckin love it, promise

>> Being a pigs the best