Author: wesleybracken8258

A lot of the guys in the frat have been acting really strange lately, and I had no real clue what was going on with all of them. It all started when Johnny brought home that funky meteorite from the field that he found, and he’s been obsessing over it lately. Like, in a really unhealthy sort of way–carrying it around with him, not letting anyone else touch it. But more than that…well, the guys who hang out with him have all started acting really…strange. Faggy strange. Louis is wearing these really tight, hot pink clothes, and I saw him carrying around this massive dildo the other day. Noel started wearing all of this leather gear and I swear he and Louis have been fucking around in their rooms. Carter can’t seem to stop eating and masturbating–and he’s watching gay porn too. I don’t get it.

I head to my room today though, and now it all makes sense. See, Johnny was waiting there, and he explained everything to me. See, he’d always been a total pervert–and a gay one at that, and now, the alien living in his head, the one slowly eating his brain, it’s letting him push all of his twisted fantasies onto his frat mates in exchange for devouring it. Of course, that means the alien will be planting it’s larva in our minds too, but those won’t grow to maturity for close to twenty of our years. Sure, I fought hard, but as soon as I felt his tongue burrow into my ear, the slimy worm pushing its way down my ear canal and burrowing into my brain, I knew exactly what to do.

I’m a pig now, you see? It makes so much sense! I wear these filthy clothes all the time now, and I stink of sex and piss, and it makes me so hot, I can’t even tell you. Nothing is too extreme for me. I clean out Louis’ sloppy hole after Noel finishes fisting him. I beg Noel to take me into his dungeon and make me scream in pain. I suck the piss out of Carter’s filthy boxers, since he’s too fat and lazy to even get up off the couch anymore–I love it. Too bad Johnny can’t do anything about it–he just sits and drools in his room now, brain gone, but hey, he’s living the dream! I can’t wait to be like that in twenty years too–it’s gonna be so sweet.

(Partial sequel to this caption)

Of course, these mirror spirits weren’t always interested in justice or anything high minded like that–they simply enjoyed the opportunity to twist and manipulate the lives of the beings who dictated their every movement on the other side of the glass. They were envious of our free will, and as soon as they discovered that they could wreak a little havoc in return, they simply couldn’t stop.

Derek was proud of the fact that after six months of job hunting, he’d finally managed to land a decent job at a tech firm downtown. He was dressed to impress, and very excited for his first day on the job, and feeling happy with himself, decided that he might as well document the occasion with a quick selfie in the mirror. However, the image that popped up on the camera a second later couldn’t be right…he was wearing a harley davidson tank top which could barely contain his gut, a old faded tattoos running up his arms, and his hair and beard looked like they’d been grown out unattended for years.

However, when Derek looked up from the camera in into the mirror in front of him, he watched that same man’s jaw drop–it was him! But that’s not possible. He looked down, feeling his grimy body, and realized he couldn’t go to work like this–he couldn’t even leave the house looking like this…but something else was wrong. In the mirror, he saw the room around him start twisting and contorting until he was looking at the reflection of a rundown, filthy trailer, not the inside of his apartment. “No!” he shouted, clawing at the mirror, “Change it back! Change it back!” but all he could hear was the echoed titter of something on the other side of the polished glass, laughing at him. The spirits knew that he would try to fight it, but that before too long, Derek would be just like his reflection, an alcoholic, unemployed piece of trailer trash–just what he’d never wanted to be.

The Loser Part Three

Wilton froze, trying to remain hidden and quiet in the stall, hoping the janitor would leave for a moment so he could slip away unobserved. However, in a moment, his phone chimed loudly–another email.

“Hello? Is someone in here?” the janitor asked, and Wilton hurried to check the phone, and found a new task.

Lightning round! It’s your final task!

Beg the janitor to let you suck his cock. If he refuses, you lose. If you can’t get him to cum in five minutes, you lose. If you don’t cum in your new diaper before he cums down your throat, you lose.

“Fuck!” Wilton said, and then covered his mouth.

“Sorry, are you busy? I can come back in a few minutes…” the janitor said.

“No! No, hold on,” Wilton said, bumbling out of the door, realizing a moment too late that all he was wearing was a sopping wet diaper. The janitor was a young guy, probably in his early twenties, and Wilton gulped as the guy looked at him in shock. “Hey…uh…hey, can I suck your cock?”

“What the fuck kind of faggot shit is this!” the janitor said, and backed away.

“No! Please, you don’t understand, I need to suck your cock!” he said, and tried to grab the janitor before he could leave, but the kid turned and punched him in the face, and then booked it out of the bathroom, and he heard another chime on his phone, and dreading what it could be this time, he looked at the new email.

God, you’re such a loser. This game is over–but here’s your final change.

Congrats–you’re now 78 years old. In addition, since you failed so badly, you’re also going to become a complete faggot pervert, one who particularly likes paying young men to  humiliate and abuse you over webcam or at your house while you worship their young, muscular bodies.

Enjoy your new life, loser!

It was too late. When he looked up from his phone, Wilton was back in his home, now retired, the diaper he was wearing soiled beyond belief, but at the thought, he found his cock starting to harden in the front of it. He sat down at the computer, grinding the shit up his crack as he did, and turned on his cam. Maybe he could find a hot stud to ridicule him tonight–he was such a loser, he definitely deserved it.

The End

The Loser Part Two

Wilton was sweating a bit as he waited for the email to come in. The game was still going on–and it was the end of the day, finally, and he’d done his best, but so far he’d lost every round. He hadn’t managed to eat enough during lunch, and ended up trading 25 pounds of muscle for 50 pounds of fat, giving him quite the paunch suddenly–though at least his clothes still fit. Another masturbating challenge came next, and he almost passed that one, but he’d had to go to a meeting before he could finish shooting the second load in thirty minutes, and squirmed in his seat as his cock shrank two inches and went from cut to uncut. But the current task had been strange, simply telling him to wait in his office and keep working until everyone else had left.

His last coworker walked to the elevator and stepped inside, and almost immediately a new email arrived. He opened it with a bit of dread, and read:

Well done! You actually managed to win a round. No changes for you this time.

Your new task: Go into the restroom and strip naked. Then, lick every toilet seat clean. You have fifteen minutes.

It can’t be serious. He sent an email back with that written down, and all he got back was:

We’re serious. Thirteen minutes.

He went into the bathroom and stripped out of his suit, went into the first stall and looked at the seat, but felt himself gag almost immediately at the thought. Still, he powered through for a few minutes, before throwing up into the bowl and flushing it down, and he just gave up, waiting for the last few minutes to run down, before a new email came into his phone.

You lose! Guess you’re afraid of toilets. Good thing you’ll be diapered and incontinent from now on, you big baby. Still, we think you’ll like the feeling of a full, dripping, stinking diaper. In fact, forget about changing your diapers regularly. Dirty diapers are the hottest fetish for you now, so you wear them for at least a week before putting on a fresh one.

“Wait…what? No!” Wilton said, but it was too late. Looking down, he saw the diaper had already appeared around his waist, and a second later, helpless, he felt piss flood into the front of it, warm and…and kind of nice. In fact, it was really nice, and he felt his soft cock start to harden in the front of the diaper, and he whimpered a little bit. He tried to take it off once he’d finished pissing, but for some reason it wouldn’t come undone, and as he struggled with it, he got fully hard and switched to rubbing his cock through the diaper lustfully, or at least until he heard the door open as someone entered the bathroom–the janitor.

To Be Concluded…

So when somebody tells you he masturbated to your story do you take it as a legitimate compliment or are you a bit weirded out by this?

Umm…lol, I don’t write these for my own personal amusement, lol. Of course it’s a compliment. However, I especially like getting the notes which usually are like:

“Man, I’m not into scat or anything but <insert story where I used scat> was so hot!”

I like the possibility that I have a corrupting influence on all of you.

*Cackles evily*

Thanks! I do understand your dillemma, but it is sad that I cannot expect many racial transformation stories from you. As an Asian guy myself, I sometimes try to write racial tf stories, (since I am not so good at English, only in my own language) and yes, it is so hard not to be “racist” while I’m playing with those stereotype images. And it’s even more complicated when I think about being transformed into a Caucasian lower class. (p.s. This discussion reminded me “Mark’s mistake” from NCMC.)

Ha, yes “Mark’s Mistake”…

As much as everyone on the NCMC hated that story (but there aren’t many stories the NCMC community likes at the end of the day) there was something honest about it, I think. That story, at least took the question of what it means to be “turned black” and dealt with it realistically. The fact that the dominator had also transformed himself into the stereotypical southern white supremacist makes it even more complicated. “Mark’s Mistake,” to me, was less about racial TF’s, and more about the dangers of obsession. Still, it was pretty fucking racist, lol, but informatively so.

I love your works and have been pleasuring myself to them for a time now. I enjoy the more filthy aspects myself, more pig like, And the humiliation factors as well. I don’t know that I have seen the question asked this way, but have you ever wanted to live out the fantasy of a TF? Not physically, due to reality limits, but having someone acting out the changes to them in a RP?

I RP with some people on occasion, but it isn’t really my favorite thing? To be honest, my preferred place in the story, my erotic position, isn’t as the submissive or as the dominant characters being changed, but as author. I actually get off as the person designing and engineering the transformations, not as the person being subjected to them. It’s a bit voyeuristic, actually. 

So, would I want to live out the fantasy of a TF? Not really, but knowing people do to my stories is a pretty big turn on, lol.

How would you say your personal works as an MC/TF writer correspond with the art of transgression?

Alright, that is more specific, but no less broad and complex.

To begin with, I can see where the connection would lie. However, there is an important distinction, which makes me feel that MC/TF are not truly transgressive, and that is the fact that they lie outside the scope of “the possible.”

Camus, de Sade and others sought to use art to challenge and disrupt the social morality of action, by portraying acts which were usually regarded as severe, mortal sins, as simple actions devoid of morality. They were transgressive because they sought to break through the morality of the time in their literature, and force society to grapple with their own codes, and why they were there, and whether they were truly moral.

Now, here’s the rub–MC/TF is fantasy. It can’t happen. Perhaps some hypnotism and brainwashing could result in someone’s mind being twisted towards erotic ends, but that’s only one half of the genre, and neglects all of the magical and supernatural results the genre usually drives towards. My work transgresses nothing, at the end of the day, because the actions which occur cannot possibly occur in reality, and without occurrence, they have no moral weight.

It could be, perhaps, that my stuff exists in a side genre, say something called speculative transgression–an exploration of how humanity might transgress were the world different–but that, I feel, has far less impact than true transgressive art.