Author: wesleybracken8258

I guess what I am trying to figure out is how close you associate with your stories. Not necessarily with the characters or positions they get into. You write about so many varying topics and stories that range from mild to extreme. What is the most you want out of them for yourself?

(This got buried in my inbox, sorry for the late reply)

I don’t know if I have a satisfying answer for this question. Part of my hesitance in answering is that I’m not quite sure what you mean by ‘associate’ in this context. However, I can answer a simpler question that I think is related to your overall query, which is simply, why do I write this stuff? Not just why do I write porn, but why do I write so many different styles, fetishes, and genres. I don’t think this is quite what you wanted to know, but maybe it’ll cast a light.

As I have mentioned before, I’m a philosopher by education. This is part of where I get my inspiration, and part of why I write these things. Central to my stories are two questions:

1) what does it mean to be human? At what point do our sexual drives overwhelm our basic humanity, autonomy, and conscience?

2) What does it mean to be the same person over time? Can someone change so radically that they retain the same body, and yet are someone else mentally? How do people react to this sort of ‘death’?

There’s more than two questions there, I know, shut up. They all rephrase the same two ideas though, one about human nature, and one about personal identity. Both of these topics fascinated me before I started writing this stuff, and are part of what attracts me to the MC/TF genre. 

So, what do I want out of them? I want answers to those questions. I just also get to write about sexy-times while I do it, because that’s fun too. I find sex to be very close to both of those questions, because I think a crucial aspect of out humanity and personality is sexual, something which I think a lot of people might disagree with, but that’s my own take on things. I write about such a range, because to me they are all, in the end, variations on the same theme. Also, I like lots of fetishes, so there’s that too.

I hope that answered some of what you had in mind, if not, feel free to ask again.

(A ghost story a bit too late for Halloween. Shut up, I know.)

They said that the woods were cursed, but Jules didn’t believe that one bit, and he’d gotten the five acres in the countryside at a steal. However, as the first summer wore on, even he had to admit that some strange things were happening, and that prompted him to at least look into the rumors that some of the long time residents liked to tell. Apparently, there had been a father and son who’d lived on the property years earlier, and the father had abandoned him. The son, unable to bear the thought of living without his father, had run off into the woods, and everyone assumed he’d died somewhere nearby, and haunted the property to this day, looking for his father.

Jules wasn’t sure what to make of that, but whenever he was outside, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched, and sometimes there would be a clear knock at the door, and he’d hear a young man’s voice calling for his Papa, but whenever he answered the door, there was no one there. Still, it was enough that Jules started to have some doubts, and was wondering if he was going a bit crazy. He decided that a vacation would probably do him some good, and so he made plans to spend a few weeks away from home.

However, as he started packing his things up, he started noticing that bags would spontaneously unpack themselves when he left rooms, and the knocking and voice was growing more insistent. A few times, outside, he’d catch a glimpse of a young, chubby man in overalls in the woods, but by the time he got there to investigate, he’d be gone. Still, Jules was leaving for a while–nothing was going to stop him.

The tickets were purchased, the taxi service was scheduled to arrive the next morning, and everything was finally packed, ghost or not, and the knocking wouldn’t stop. Jules was awake in the living room, scared out of his mind, and finally he went to the door and flung it open, and shouted at the woods, “I’m leaving, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me!”

“No Big Papa, you’re not leaving this time. You’re going to stay with me forever,” the voice said behind him, and he spun around, and there the young man was, feet away from him, and Jules let out a scream, and then all was still.

The taxi drove up the next morning, but there was apparently some sort of mix up. The man living there said he’d never planned on leaving for the airport–who would take care of his son? He couldn’t leave his son, not ever. In his mind, Jules tried to speak, tried to tell the cab driver that the ghost was keeping him captive, but it was too late. He was trapped–doomed to be the young ghost’s big papa for the rest of his life, and most likely in death too.

Everyone on the block called him Nasty Nick, and he was damn nasty–that’s the truth. He never kept up his lawn or his house–it was just a sty. His house was back to back with mine, so I could see into his overgrown yard from all of my back windows, and I can’t tell you how many times I saw him back there wearing nothing other than a filthy jockstrap, beard wild and unkempt, smoking those big cigars of his, just one big filthy mess of a fuckup.

Now, I’m gay, not that I’d ever told Nick–he was as homophobic as they came, but one regret I’d always harbored was that I’d never had any kids. It didn’t help that, even though I was a big bear of guy, kind of like Nick, but chubbier and much cleaner, I was kind of into twinks, and the idea of having a son in his late teens who I could fuck around with–well, it was just a fantasy right? No real problem having a fantasy, until the fantasy generator appeared on my doorstep. I didn’t know what it was to be honest, but I soon discovered that it could make any dream of mine come true, and so the next time I saw Nick in the backyard, I decided to make a son of my own.

I compelled him to climb over the fence into my yard, and I met him back there, before changing him bit by bit. First, making him disgusted by the taste of his own cigars, watching him spit out the one he was smoking, staring at it on the ground like it had bit him. Then, I took away his beard. Oh man, he was so angry at me, but he couldn’t do anything to me as I removed all of tattoos, cleaned up his jockstrap, and aged him back to eighteen. I gave him a smallish cock too, and the most amazing ass–it felt so amazing him fucking him out back, listening to his new high tenor moan in pleasure, begging me, his daddy, to fuck him harder and rougher. So now the house is vacant, but I have everything I’d ever really wanted–a son with benefits.

Louie was a total slacker on campus. Thanks to a rich grandmother who’d died and left him mountains of cash, he’d been able to put off graduating college–and growing up–for two years now, and he was about to start his seventh year at school, when the IRS caught up with him, and made that mountain into something much smaller. Faced with the fact that he might have to actually get a job, Louie opted for the easiest thing to could find which would pay wads of cash, while still letting him do whatever he wanted–being the guinea pig medical and psychological experiments done by the faculty on campus.

However, this newest study was a bit strange. One of the psychology professors was doing an experiment on the effects of isolation as a form of torture, and was being pretty secretive about it. He was even offering to pay Louie under the table, because he didn’t want the department to know about it, and made Louie sign a mountain of forms before taking him on, and together, they drove to a large warehouse, where as soon as Louie was in the building, the professor pressed a cloth soaked in chloroform over his mouth, sending the big student crashing to the ground.

When Louie woke up, he discovered that his hair had been shaven from his head, he was gagged and mitted, and chains attached to the leather mask on his face kept him on his tiptoes. After he’d struggled for a few minutes, growing increasingly agitated, a voice came on right next to his ear.

“Well Louie, how do you like your new accommodations? You’d best get used to them, because you’re going to be living here for a whole year.”

Louie struggled–he thought he’d agreed to a week, and classes would start in two weeks, and–

“Now, I may have lied about all those papers I had you sign. One of them was actually a declaration for a year long leave of absence, and another signed over the remainder of your wealth to me–I don’t think you’ll be needing it as my slave. So, shall we get started?”

The professor entered the room, now clothed in leather, and first saran wrapped Louie’s arms and legs together into a tight cocoon, and then covered his entire body, aside from his nose, in duct tape, sealing him away from the world. Then, he felt something around his groin–the professor cut the binding away from his cock, and began to stroke it, teasing him, edging him for several hours while loud, disorienting white noise blared in the headphones taped into his ears, wearing down his will until he was screaming, begging for the man to stop through the mask, but he never did–it just kept going, and going, and going, and going…

Carefree cigars, that was what the label said. Still, they weren’t too expensive, and Tony still hadn’t really settled on a brand that he especially liked, so he decided to give them a try, and as he walked down the street he found a bar with some outdoor smoking where he figured he could sneak a smoke, ordered a beer, and lit one of them up. Carefree was right–the feeling they gave him was stronger than most any other brand he’d ever had, and they just made him…happy, and not really care about what was going on around him. His beer arrived, and he drink it down a bit faster than he’d intended, and then ordered another one, and downed that too, before starting on the second cigar in the pack.

Three beers later, Tony was feeling good–well, aside from one thing–he was horny. Hornier than he could remember being, well, ever. His cock was rock hard in his shorts, and he kept rubbing it, not really able to stop himself, or even care what people might think about it. He pulled his cock out, discovering it was bigger than he remembered, and started jacking off at the table, making no effort to disguise what he was doing, and he shot a load all over his shirt, before he came to, realized everyone was staring at him, and drunkenly stumbled up and hurried home.

Still, the privacy of his house wasn’t much better, and he stripped down to his jockstrap and started jacking off, unable to contain himself, shooting load after load as he sat on the couch, smoking cigar after cigar, guzzling beer, the other thoughts and cares taking a back seat to his raging horniness. As the night progressed, he started to change little by little, picking up some grey in his hair and beard, tattoos forming across his body, all of them crude and obscene but he didn’t care. All he cared about was getting off.

By morning, it was a very different Tony who stumbled out of his apartment, covered with tattoos, wearing nothing but a leather vest, chaps and some jeans with the crotch ripped open, showing off his ten inch cock for everyone to see, and he hopped onto his motorcycle and drove off. He needed some more cigars first, and then he needed to get to the biker bar. He’d remembered seeing a piggy pipe for sale, and he figured he could probably find someone there to smoke it for him.

Huey just wanted to be cool–he’d tried to be cool for most of high school but nothing seemed to work–he was just hopeless. Hell, even his tattoos had ended up coming off as “cute” instead of cool. His gauges just looking silly rather than hip. When he lamented these concerns to his friend, he recommended that Huey go to a different parlor downtown which specialized in more holistic changes. Still, he’d always liked his friend, and though he was cool, so he took his advice, and signed up at the shop for their “The Works” package.

“So, what do you want?” the guy asked when he went in for a consult.

“I wanna be cool,” Huey said, and the guy cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Well, being cool is more about believing you’re cool than anything. Still, if that’s what you want, we can deliver.”

Huey nodded, and he went to the shop on Saturday, but the entire process was a whole lot more intensive than he’d expected. They seemed to be tattooing him all over, and they even applied some strange creams to his head and face which itched horribly, but he toughed it out. When they finished everything, after hours of work, they finally let him stand up and take a look at himself, and he was horrified. “What the fuck did you do to me?” he shouted.

They’d tattooed his entire body, from the tops of his feet to the base of his neck, down to his wrists. His hair had been dyed a disgusting blonde, and his small goatee had grown out into a thick horseshoe mustache, and the color difference made it obvious his hair was a dye job. He just gaped at himself, horrified, and then turned to the guy who’d done his consultation and said, “You said you’d make me cool! I look like a freak.”

“No, if you’ll remember, what I said is that being cool is all about believing you’re cool,” the man said, and then turned on the video monitor behind him, and Huey was sucked into the prismatic spiral in a matter of moments. When he woke up, he took another look at himself and smirked–damn, he looked cool as fuck. “Hey man, ya got a cig?” he asked the tattoo artist.

“I’ll trade you one for a blow job.”

“Sure man, that’s cool,” Hugh said, and swallowed the artist’s cock to the hilt.