Author: wesleybracken8258

Are you familiar with the table-top role-playing-game Shadowrun?– Or the fantasy-invades-scifi world made around it?– Because that has an orc-transformation thing built right into it! Goblinization day! 30 April 2021: Randomly, about 15% of the world’s population transform into orcs and trolls. I imagine folks dealing with something like that could make for a good story– transformation-porn or not.

Ha, I was never much of a table top player–but that sounds interesting too.

Though I like Tolkien myself, I really like to see you write stories about the “nerds” like me suffering in the “real” fantasy land. Where we could be raped by barbaric “heroes”, transformed into orcs and trolls by dirty bearded wizards, and dragged into underground to be enslaved by dwarves. By the way, In the Lord of the Rings, it is said that the wizard “interbreeded” Orcs and Men to create new kind of Orcs. And I always think that “interbreed” could be “Men raped by Orcs to be reborn as…”.

Well all of you just have this all thought out, don’t you? Still, all of that does sound really hot.

Poker nights can be dangerous; Travis found this out the hard way. He was just another guy–overweight, well obese, sure. More or less happily married, aside from the occasional scream-out that could be heard throughout the trailer park. Poker night, for Travis, was more than just a way to get out of the house for a night, smoke a cigar or six, and drink a bit too much Fireball–it was a chance to be around a bunch of guys just being guys, and away from women. Mick, the host of poker night this week, just so happened to agree with him about being away from women–but his idea of quality men’s time was something else entirely.

See, Mick had a funny little figurine he’d picked up at a flea market the week before, and the little spirit within it loved games–and high stakes bets. It also happened, that this week, Mick decided to play with the deck stacked against everyone else, and once the rednecks around the table were a bit too drunk to second guess themselves, they were happily playing along with him, and it was only a few rounds later that they realized they’d been played, but by then it was too late.

Travis struggled awake, disentangling himself from the sleeping bodies of his friends, sore and hung over, his asshole raw, dick tender, and he tried to figure out where it had all gone wrong. Mick was going to win the pot, but he’d bet his sexuality? What the fuck did that even mean? Looking back over his shoulder at the pile of men, he figured that he wasn’t the only guy who’d been taken. And when he saw Mick’s ass propped up, he licked his lips and felt his cock rise a bit, figuring it was time to pay back the house what he’d lost.

Your fantasy novel vitriol has me curious– what do you see wrong with so much of it? — I’m not desiring to make a particular defence for it myself– but the tone of that last reply made me wonder the exact details. (and furthermore, what about sci-fi? haha)

Sigh…me and a friend talk about this a lot.

Well, let’s just start with Tolkien. I have four broad complaints with pretty much all of his stuff, although “The Hobbit” gets off less scathed for the most part. Here they are.

4. Holy cow, Tolkien was a fucking racist. Starting with, and assuming, segregated races; mixed race and/or corrupted elves as antagonists; alleged inspiration for orcs as African slaves working in coal and diamond mines he witnessed in South Africa; the dwarfs as a blatent, and anti-semitic, interpretation of Jews flawed by avarice; white men and elves as the eventual rulers of the world with no other skin tones even being possible apparently; etc. You can go ahead and claim that it was a product of his time and culture, which might mitigate it slightly, if every single fantasy writer who ever followed in Tolkien’s footsteps didn’t include the exact same features without much variation, completely ignorant of their original symbolism. Fuckers.

3. Sexism, oh god, so much sexism. There are close to a hundred named characters in LotR and it’s pretty hard to get the number of named females over ten, and that requires counting a gigantic, hideous spider queen which he constantly reminds his readers is a woman. Classy. Beyond the sheer disproportionate numbers, none of the women take an active role in the plot as a woman, at best they work their way onto the battlefield by pretending to be a man, and exuding masculine features. Most of the rest stand by passively as the men in their lives rush off to battle, and most of them are portrayed as being excessively sneaky and mysterious to boot. Basically, Tolkien had a pretty strong fear of women it seems to me, and again, it’s infected the entire genre he spawned, such that George R.R. Martin gets acclaimed as a near feminist god while still doing a shitty job overall.

2. Style, oh fuck, style. Boring, oh Jesus Christ, the books are so boring. Tolkien was a notoriously poor writer, and was far more interested in the history, language and scenery of his world than the characters or plot. Now, he did make a pretty impressive world, and he built it well, but this fucking style has since given birth to complete abominations like “The Wheel of Time.” God, how fucking dreary is that? They aren’t stories, they’re fucking travelogues. Learn to fucking tell a fucking story you fucking nitwits.

1. Theme—lets get into the basics here. Why did Tolkien write LotR? For a good romp? As a basic, boy’s adventure / power fantasy? No, he had a particular theme in mind—Tolkien was an avid anti-industrialist, and basically thought the world should go back to some sort of reactionary, idyll agrarian world which hasn’t existed in anywhere ever. Just…fuck that, right up the fucking butt. Technology rules, Tolkien can go plow himself with a vibrator for all I give a shit about his shoddy anti-industry message. But the best part is that no one even realizes that’s what it’s about! Not only did he have a shit-message, he couldn’t even write well enough to effectively convey that message to his readers. And the grandest irony is this—Tolkien would have absolutely hated his most diehard fans. The nerds most devoted and enabled by the technological and industrial aspects of society he hated are in fact his legacy’s greatest fans. It makes me cackle.

Twilight is a better saga than fucking LotR.

Look, that was all a bit hyperbolic, I admit. The issue at hand, fundamentally, is this. The fantasy genre grew from a series of books which were fundamentally racist, sexist, Christian focused, and politically reactionary. It was, by and large, a shit-fucking message, but no one grasps this, and writers these days employ the exact same series of tropes, and pump out the same shitty-valued tripe that Tolkien did, but of even worse quality, somehow. Some writers manage to play with and rise above the genre, but not many. Martin does to some extent. Gaimen somewhat as well. However, they have their own problems which are, for the most part, equally damning. 

Sci-fi is a different issue all together, and I like it better, but it too has issues. I’d have to discuss that in a different post, because I went and gave myself a headache.

Nothing but distant memories now, more like stories that happened to friends of friends. How I used to be different. Slimmer–no, not just slimmer–muscular. Yeah, I used to work out, the stories say. I chuckle as the captain’s hands reach around and pull me closer, gripping my fat, and I moan. So far away now, so far away it might as well have never happened, and as far as the captain is concerned, it never did. “How are you feeling slave? Good?” he whispers into my ear, and I shiver.

A captain, a guide, a navigator. A man who helps people who are lost in their lives. A captain. He’d claimed to be all of these things, when I’d met him. All I’d claimed to need was directions, but he’d known better, he’d brought be here, he’d redirected and rerouted my entire life to this moment, but we still weren’t at the destination. Close though–so close. “Are we there yet?” I ask anyway.

“Not yet slave, we still have a few changes to make in your route. Are you ready for one last trip?” the captain said into my ear.

I nod eagerly, but it’s already happening, he’s already guiding me through my life again. As we pass them, I can see some of the detours and intersections I had been down before. Briefly, I glimpse the moment I’d first decided to work out, when I was twelve, but I can’t go down that path anymore–instead, I fell in love with my fat, obese uncle, and decided to be as big as him when I grow up. Much of the new changes are subtle ones now–the radical changes are all behind me, the captain is only fine tuning my directions now. I’m bullied much more through school, and become a loner, engrossed with the conversations I have with older men online, about how much I want to serve them. I grow to dislike myself, I find myself worthless, and crave service as a way to make myself useful to someone. This in turn leads me into deep masochism, and by the time we reach the present time, I can already feel the changes ricocheting through me, and I pull away from his embrace–I’m not worthy of it.

Instead, I get down and clean his boots, showing the captain that I know my place–I understand where I belong in the world now. I’m not lost anymore–I’m just a boot worshiping, obese piece of scum, barely worthy of serving my betters. There is a sharp pain on my chest where the captain’s mark appears on me, naming me his slave and property, and I am honored that he has given me the privilege of serving him. I have found my place now, and I know in my heart that I will never leave this new path.

On the Inside – Part 3

So here I am, sitting in the airport. I just finished my accelerated MBA, and I’m about to start my new job as a hedge fund manager at a New York company. I can’t wait, to be honest–finally, I’ll be around people of my own class! Over the last two years, Master has been tweaking my voice, giving me an upper class accent that makes me sound like a total snob, just like I always wanted to have. To anyone looking at me, I look normal, just another rich business man on the outside, mundane and unthreatening, but I feel my cock wriggle in my cage, knowing the truth underneath.

Because under the suit, when this shell is stripped away, I know what I really am. I’m just a nasty, redneck pig. Just a slob, just a disgusting whore for cock. I can’t get enough of it, I was born to serve men as their sex slave, it’s what I was designed for. It started slowly, Master wanted me to feel it happen slowly, but now, whenever I’m in my leather gear, kneeling and begging for him to abuse me, I sound like my old redneck self, but even harsher and stupider than before, and it makes me so horny, hearing myself talk like that, knowing that in the morning, I’ll put on a suit, this whole persona, and walk around as a complete fraud.

This suit is so itchy today, and I long for my harness, which is safely checked in my bag. Instead, a rock gently on my buttplug and grunt softly, making sure no one can hear me, and the pain of my cock trying to get hard in my chastity cage makes me even hornier, and I can’t wait to meet my new owner. The CEO of my new employer is said to be vicious, but I can take it. I love pain, I crave humiliation. This is what I’ve been trained for. High power businessman by day, disgusting, perverse redneck pig by night–everything that I’d ever wanted to be, and I’m so excited, I cum in my pants through my cage, and leave it there, hoping someone will notice the growing stain. Hoping someone will see me for the pig I truly am, on the inside.

Do you think you could post your captions an hour or so earlier than usual? You always seem to post them just right after I pass out :(

There isn’t really a spectacular time to post them I think. I just post 4 PM local time (U.S. Pacific) because it gives me some time to work on a post during the day of I don’t have anything up, and is a time that works for most U.S. time zones. I could probably shift it an hour earlier though.

On the Inside – Part 2

I gotta say, Bellmon University wasn’t precisely where I wanted to go, but when I got there, I realized why Mr. Burroughs wanted me to go there–it was because he had a house and a practice right next to campus! I was thrilled that I’d be able to keep seeing him while I was attending school there, and he even told me that I’d be able to live with him in his house, and I was thrilled, naturally.

Still, I gotta say, college didn’t quite go how I expected. I was excited for the opportunity to meet some new people, and learn new things, but Mr. Burroughs, well he convinced me to head in a different direction. First, he gave me a bit of a makeover, and required me to wear a suit to all of my classes. They were always tailored a bit big on me too, for reasons I soon discovered–Mr Burroughs wanted me bigger. He started feeding me these huge meals every day, and before long, the freshman fifteen became the freshman forty, and then the sophomore fifty after that. Still, he loved my fat ass, and he told me how much he loved it every night as he fucked me, and then started training me to take his fists as well.

At school, I’m pretty sure everyone hated me. I was always aloof with them, acting like a bit of a jerk, because Mr. Burroughs wanted me to act that way–he told me I would go farther in life. I’d entered college ready to major in English or Psychology, but he immediately made me switch my registration of business and economics, and the only people I could get to know were people Mr. Burroughs personally approved–usually professors who would want me to come by weekly for their “special” office hours.

It was in my Junior year that Mr. Burroughs started taking me to the tattoo parlor. First it was just a bearclaw on my left moob, but before long the artists were working on sleeves down to my wrists, covering my chest, gut and back with crude words and images of nasty, hot sex. By the time I was halfway through my last year, every inch of me that my suits covered during the day was tattooed, and when I was at home, I hung up my suit and wore a collar, leather harness and butt plug while I serviced Master Burroughs, and applied for MBA programs. I was ready for the next step in my life, and my future had never looked brighter.

To be Concluded…