Author: wesleybracken8258

Lee and CJ were two roommates in a small apartment complex. They’d met during college on the football team, and both of them had ended up taking jobs with the same local firm after graduation, so they’d made things simple and moved in together, remaining workout buddies as well. Lee had just gotten home from a trip to the store, when he saw a small wrapped package on the doorstep, which he picked up and brought inside.

“Lee, did you see this?” CJ said, “Someone left us a fucking present.”

“Who?”

CJ checked the tag, “Bill–that fatass in the apartment next to us.”

“Oh, the cook?”

“Yeah,” CJ ripped the wrapping paper off and revealed two bottles with a small note.

Trying out a new recipe–made you two a homemade protein shake. Make sure you drink it right away, while it’s fresh. Let me know if you like it, I got plenty more.

“Some homemade protein drink–weird…” CJ said. He opened a bottle and took a sniff. It didn’t smell too bad, and he took a taste, and his eyes lit up. “Dang man, this shit’s kinda good!”

Lee came out and tried it as well, and then the two muscle men chugged them back, downing them as fast as they could, and then even tried to lick out the bottles. Lee looked at CJ, and unable to help himself, grabbed his roommate’s cock through his gym shorts–it was as hard as his was. CJ gasped, as Lee stroked him off, and then he did the same, both of them coming to their senses afterward, embarrassed and unsure of what had come over them. Still, while they tried to put the incident behind them, they couldn’t stop thinking about their neighbor’s drink, and that same evening they knocked on his door, planning to ask for more.

“More?” Bill said, grinning, “Sure, I got more. Come on in boys, I just made some.”

In his kitchen, he handed them two cups of the milk. They guzzled it down, and overcome with lust, they started kissing, grinding their cocks against each other. Bill stripped down, massaging his fat body, watching the two jocks’ guts bulge out and expand with fat as they jacked off, and came all over one another.

Panting and exhausted, Lee turned to Bill, “What the fuck is that shit?”

“Why, it’s my milk, of course,” Bill said, tweaking his nipples, and the two jocks could smell it, see the milk coating his fingertips, and then they were glued to his nipples, sucking the milk down from the source, Bill massaging their growing bellies, their full moobs. When they were full, both of them now over 300 pounds, Lee threw CJ onto the bed and started plowing his ass, Bill watching for a few minutes, before climbing up on the bed and shoving his cock down CJ’s mouth, Bill leaning over to keep sucking at Bill’s teat. His cum was just as fattening as his milk, and both boys swelled even larger, grunting and snorting, just a couple of fat pigs for Bill to play with–and feed, of course.

I’m thinking of writing a mundane transformation story, but I’m not sure how to write about someone turning into a fat redneck without magic, hypnosis, mind control, etc. Do you think it’s possible?

It sure is. As a starting reference, you might want to read my metawriting article on MacGuffins, because that’s where all of your work is going to rest. However, for a mundane (or conventional TF, as I call them) it takes a lot more work and a lot more creativity to get the TF to occur. There are two examples I can recommend, too, a story called Redneck Garbage Men, over on nifty.org and King Coal, by Rik (an excellent author I keep forgetting to mention, and a fellow tumblr user over at bearpipe).

On top of that, I can at least point you towards a few tropes you might want to use to help jump start your ideas. First, a lot of your mental TF, if you want mental TF, is going to have to be drug induced, usually smoking/nicotine and definitely drinking. That’s the most mundane way to get people to act dumber, slower, etc. For your physical TF’s, weight gain is easy to pull off through feeding. The hard part is going to be the cultural TF–getting the person to feel like they ought to be, and eventually that they are, a redneck.

The easiest way to do this, conventionally, is through peer pressure, or authority figures. The main character feels pressured to behave like others in order to fit in, fitting in makes them feel good, they start acting like a redneck all the time, and then it becomes natural. The bulk of the story, really, is going to be this, and deciding what sort of peer group you want to use is going to go a long way to shaping your story. Is it a guy starting a new, redneckish job, trying to fit in with his co-workers or his boss? Is a young man moving in with his estranged father out in the country? (incest bonus!) Start with this set up, and then you can incorporate everything else as you go along, and it should work out well for you.

Adam didn’t know why he kept his membership here–this gym was a freakshow. Filled with faggots for one thing, most of them so roided up they could barely think straight. They, in turn, attracted the lechers, the fat old men who would pretend to work out on machines, and just ogle the muscle men throughout the room–it was disgusting. He was always careful to wear his cross–that seemed to discourage most of them from looking at him, at least. He’d gotten his fit body from the army, and liked to maintain it after he retired, but this was getting ridiculous.

It was late one night, after his workout, that Adam chanced a shower, since the room was empty. When he stepped out, however, he discovered that he wasn’t quite as alone as he’d thought. A towering man was waiting for him next to his locker, wearing just a jockstrap, muscled beyond belief–but he didn’t look like the other muscleheads in the gym. His eyes were intelligent–cruel even, and Adam clutched his cross, though he wasn’t entirely sure why.

Ah, Adam–I’ve been meaning to have a chat with you, but that silly bauble of yours has been such a bother–it’s been keeping you from seeing me for weeks now. Patrick was nice enough to defile it for me, at least.”

“What?” Adam said, stepping back, “Who–who are you?”

“I’m the owner of this club–and a demon. Tell me Adam, looking at me, what do you see?”

Adam wasn’t sure what to say, “You’re…you’re huge, I mean, more muscular than anyone else here.”

“Muscular? Really?” the demon laughed, “I wasn’t expecting that from you–looks like you’re more of a looker than a poser.”

“What?”

The demon started posing, his cock tenting and stretching his jockstrap tight, “What you see, is who you are, Adam. Am I a lecherous old voyeur? Then you’re an exhibitionist muscle god–but if I’m the muscle god, then that must mean you’re the lecher. So go on Adam, have a good long look–enjoy yourself.”

Adam tried to look away–but he couldn’t. His own cock was rock hard now, and he started stroking it as he watched the demon dance for him, tease him, flex for him. Everything that Adam could want in a man–everything that he wasn’t soon enough. His hair receding back and turning white, fat burying his muscles as the hours wore on, his cock red hot and erect the entire time, the demon ripping the cross off Adam’s neck as he came, the cross one of his muscle pigs had cum on in the locker room the day before.

Adam was there at the gym every day afterwards, ogling the muscle men, begging them to let him suck their cocks or fuck his loose asshole.

Orville rolled over in bed, waking up to a hangover, and wondered why in the world he’d drank so much last night. He knew better, especially now that he was older. Sure, retirement meant he didn’t need to get up for anything, but he just couldn’t handle his liquor like he’d used to. He reached up to touch his forehead and heard the jangle of chain, and with the sound came a crush of thoughts.

Just a worthless faggot slave…nasty old pig…pervert…serve to exist, serve your betters…young men…just a worthless old fuck…

They were overwhelming, but I fought against them pushed back, and when I regained my bearings, I discovered I wasn’t in my bed anymore–I was in the bathroom. I had a razor in my hand, and I looked at my reflection in the mirror, and my beard–it was gone. Not just my beard, most of my hair was gone too–I’d just shaved it all off. I dropped the razor in the sink in fear and stepped back, and the chains attached to the shackles still binding me rattled again, and the sound dragged me back under.

Waste of space…Good for nothing faggot bitch…whore, just a fucking whore for cock…

“No!” I shouted, but it was too late–I’d finished off my head, and done the rest of my body too–was still doing the rest of my body, in fact. I couldn’t stop myself, as my shackled hands shaved the rest of my pubes off around my short, worthless cock.

I don’t even deserve to have a cock, do I?

I shook my head, trying to beat the thoughts back, but my hands wouldn’t stop. They picked up the strange cage from the sink and worked it over my limp cock, securing it away so my betters wouldn’t have to have their vision spoiled by a disgusting erection on my faggot body. But I would need more–more to make me worthy of their service. I could see myself now, tattooed all over, and I pulled on my socks and shoes, still fighting, but only halfheartedly now. It wasn’t long before I would look like a worthless faggot slave, and I knew I would be thinking like one not soon after.

“Just keep in mind that everything is bigger in Texas.” A boot story illustrated with a pic of my buddy Jeff wearing the boots of my friend Dave…Damn, that is HOT! It’s as though YOU knew they weren’t HIS boots, and wrote the story with that knowledge! Keep up the good work, Wesley! — Booted Hoss

Ha, oh god, I’m always terrified that people will know the people in my pictures, because I have no idea who most of them are, lol, and I assume this is probably not how they’d imagine their pics being used. Still, thanks, and I’m glad you enjoyed it.

My new roommate, Rick, he seemed like an alright guy, but he’s just a bit dirty, and I swear he doesn’t take showers, but he says he does. Me, well, I like being a clean guy, and it kind of bugs me that he always stinks. And then the unimaginable happened–it was the middle of summer, the hottest part of the year, and the shower broke. Even worse, the landlord was on vacation, so we were going to be without it for at least a week.

After three days, Rick and I were both sweaty and stinking, him even worse than usual, and I told him how much I wanted a shower, and he said, “Well, I can always give you one of my special showers,” he said, and gave me a smirk.

I was sitting on the couch, both of us in my underwear, and I didn’t know what he was talking about. Still, before I could respond, he was standing in front of me, whipped out his cock, and started pissing on me right there in the living room.

For a moment, I was just shocked, feeling his piss splattering against my chest, but before I could get up and tell him off, the aroma hit my nose, and my whole head just went fuzzy, my body limp, and all I could do was smell Rick’s piss on me. Distantly, I could hear him talking to me, and I know I was agreeing with him a lot, and when I finally came back to myself, I was alone on the couch.

I knew I should clean myself up, but instead I just sucked the drying piss from my shirt and jacked off, moaning the whole time, and then went into the bathroom, laid down in the tub, and pissed all over myself, before jacking off again. Needless to say, Master Rick has given me a whole lot of special showers since then, and even though I always blank out afterwards, I don’t mind it anymore. We never did get the shower fixed either, but why would we? A boy should smell like his Master’s piss anyway–I am his property after all, and I do love giving Master Rick a long tongue bath–in fact, he’s due for one now, I think.