Thanks everyone for following and enjoying my stories and captions–here’s hoping there are many more to come!
Author: wesleybracken8258
I can’t believe that homeless bum was right–it’s great living in the back of my truck. Sure, I didn’t believe him when he told me, why would I? Nobody listens to bums. In fact, I hated bums, and would yell at anyone stupid enough to try and panhandle me. I don’t know why this bum was different, but he’d said that, for some cash, he’d give me some advice on my life. Turns out it was the best advice I’d ever gotten.
Living in the back of my truck, wearing the same nasty clothes day after day, never washing myself or cutting my hair or beard–I feel fantastic. Still, every piece of advice came at a steeper cost, not that it hasn’t been worth it. I handed him over the deed to my house yesterday, and he’s been nice enough to let me keep the truck to sleep in.
Fuck I’m horny–guess I’d better pay the camp under the overpass another visit. Sucking other bums dicks is the only way I can get off these days–just another great piece of advice. He says he has one final gem for me tonight–I can’t wait to hear it.
Continued from here:
Trent tried to fight them–the thoughts in his head that told him that this was normal, but he wasn’t supposed to look like this, no matter how much he loved looking at himself in the mirror. The overly tanned body, inflated pecs, the disgusting porn star mustache ..he was supposed to be some rough and tough marine, not this disgustingly hot and sexy faggot. He flexed and tugged on his cock, his worries suddenly distant, the moment of clarity over.
“Ready for your big debut?” a voice said behind him–Master, his owner, his love. Every doubt suddenly evaporated, Master coming up and yanking on Trent’s teats, making the muscle man groan in a high pitched voice. “I think the men are gonna love you tonight, especially your dance with Rudy.”
“Ooo, yeth Thir,” Trent purred, “I love danthing.”
“I know you do bitch. Now get out there and make me proud.”
Trent took one last look in the mirror, trying to remember what he’d been thinking about, but it was gone. Dancing mattered more anyway, he thought as he pulled on his green jock, and walked out to his waiting fans.
“Go on, tell the world how hot it is to have your brother’s big cock shoved up your ass.”
“Oh gawd, it feelths so good,” Benny sighed, the lisp prominent and inside his own mind he tried to roar with rage and anger, but all he could do was keep speaking like a complete fag, “I’m only happy with a big fat cock up my sloppy hole.”
Sal zoomed in for a closeup, loving how the two trailer trash sons of his old high school bully fucked wildly for the whole internet to see. They were gained quite a bit of popularity–Benny with his effeminate lisp and hungry hole paired with Doug’s gruff dominance. Sal had already received offers from several porn companies to produce movies. In a few weeks they were going to move out to LA with him–once Sal had the pleasure of hosting a private screening for his old enemy. He’d planned this revenge for so long–he couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when he realized his sons would be fags forever.
“Please, no more, change me back.”
“Why? You sure seem to love the taste of that pit of yours. Fuck you’re ripe–I can smell you across the room. I love that in a roommate.”
“I just–I’m only fucking looking for a place! I’m not your roommate.”
“Details–before I’m done with you, ain’t no one gonna want to be your roommate other than me. Face it, your apartment hunting’s over. Now, how about some tatts? I love a man with tatts.”
“But I work in an office! They’ll fire me if I have tattoos.”
“An office? What kind of sissy are you? You’re gonna be workin’ construction with me, anyway–don’t worry.”
“No fuckin’ way is I…I ain’t gonna work somethin’ like…like that. Ya…Ya did somethin’ tah me, wha’ the fuck’d ya do!”
“Sorry, I hate having roommates smarter than me. I only got an IQ of 95, so yours is 70 now. Don’t worry–with those big muscles and big cock, you’ll be too busy workin’ out and fuckin’ to think.”
“Ha–ha ha, yeah…yeah that sounds fuckin’ hot, roomie. Could…could I suck ya now? I’s pretty horny.”
“Sure. What are roommates for?”
Gary was an inventor–one who was obsessed with creating a real, working time machine. He was convinced that, theoretically, it was possible, but always a solution eluded him. His last failure was certainly his greatest–he thought he’d created a device which could create a time suspension field–allowing everything within fifty feet to cease aging while everything outside sped along at normal speed.
Ready to venture to the future, Gary had triggered the device, only to find out he’d reversed the polarities. He, and everything else aged incredibly fast, and before he could stop it, he was a chubby old geezer with a massive white beard.
There was no way to reverse it. The device was fried by the field, and everything in his home caught in it had aged into older versions of themselves. His now circa 1990 computer couldn’t begin to make sense of his complex files on time theory, and his aged brain couldn’t formulate possible solutions to his dilemma. He lived the rest of his life as a recluse, a testament to the dangers of overzealous experimentation with the forces of time.
It was just another day at the junkyard with Jack, picking out spare parts for their pet car projects, when Gareth found the ring. It didn’t seem special–but he couldn’t help putting it on. Jack was leaning on a beat up car, sipping a beer and whining about how they were missing the game, and Gareth was sick of it. “Jack, you’re nothing but a big, whiny baby, you know that?”
Jack went to take another drink, but found himself sucking from a little baby bottle–not from his beer. He barely had time to think about that before he felt an odd warmth in his pants–or what had been his pants moments before, and which were now a large, padded diaper. After pissing, he shat a massive load into the back as well, and looked over at Gareth who suddenly looked smaller. Jack was growing–not only taller but also fatter, passing seven, and then eight feet tall and more than 500 pounds, the diaper growing with him while his other clothes burst off him, and he started bawling.
Gareth looked at the ring and grinned. Oh was he going to have some fun with this.
You meet some of the craziest guys at the public golf courses–You’d rather play at the private clubs, but you can’t afford the membership fees–so you’re stuck playing a round with a fucking redneck. He comes over to you, smoking a cigar, well over 300 pounds, dressed in a sleeveless shirt and khaki shorts, and all you can do is make the best of it.
He suggests upping the stakes, and letting the winner of each hole take something from the loser. You don’t really know what he means, but you accept, knowing you’ll be able to outplay this fat redneck any day of the week.
Well, you thought you could. He birdies the first hole to your double bogey, and you ask what you owe him, pulling out your wallet, but he just grins. “I don’t want your money–yet,” he said, “First things first, I want that slim figure of yours, pretty boy.”
Great, a real nutter, you think, but something is glowing–an amulet he’s wearing, and a second later, you feel different. Looking down, you’re stunned to find that you’ve somehow gained close to two hundred pounds–all of the weight the fat redneck just dropped off his body.
“Come on, fatty–we got seventeen more holes to play.”
Unaccustomed to your fat body, you lose round after round to this crazy redneck, who starts dismantling your life. By the end of the front nine, you’ve lost your expensive clothes, your house, your car, your marriage, four inches off your cock, your college education, and six inches of your height.
There’s no hope left for you, really. On the back nine he strips you of your ambition, your heterosexuality, your dominance, your full head of hair, fifty points off your IQ, your virility, and your job. With two holes left, you’re little more than a fat, dithering idiot, hacking at the ball as best you can–and that’s when he starts mocking you, barely hitting the ball further than you on purpose. To your surprise, he lets you win, but when he asks you want you want…you’re stumped. You’re so dull witted now that you can’t even remember what he took, and then he starts talking about his cigar, about how nice it is being a smoker, how he’d hate to give that up more than anything, you bite, and steal away his nicotine addiction.
Before the eighteenth hole the two of you nip off to the woods for a moment–you’re ravenous for a cock. In return, he lets you win the final hole as well. He suggests you take his skill at golf, but in that thick head of yours, a dim bulb still glows.
“Nuh-uh,” you slur, “Gimme yer amulet–that’s wha I want.”
Surprised, but not really minding, he hands it over to you and walks off without another word. Sure, you don’t know how to use it, but maybe you can figure it out, and steal someone else’s life before too long.
It was just supposed to be a gag gift. I mean, the label had said “Power Tie!”–with the exclamation point–how was I supposed to know it was serious? I’d given it to my Uncle Benny, my dad’s only brother, who worked in some office building downtown. When he told me the Power Tie had gotten him a promotion, I’d thought he was just joking, but then I started to notice something strange.
Uncle Benny started coming around a lot more, for one, and he always wanted to see me, and he was always wearing that tie. Before I really knew what was happening, my parents were moving my things into one of the rooms at Uncle Benny’s, telling me I was going to live with him now. I couldn’t resist. Every order was impossible to disobey, and within days I discovered that not only was my uncle gay–he’d been lusting after me for years. Well, he has me now, and all because I got him that dumb Power Tie!
Winter in the Northwest is pretty terrible if you enjoy having a bronzed complexion. Tanning is really your only option, so when the “Light Palace” opened up, my interest was piqued. They were a specialty tanning salon, whose tanning booths gave off different frequencies of light, in order to produce various effects. Of course, I thought the idea was idiotic but novelty can be fun.
I don’t know what happened, to be honest. Maybe I went to the wrong booth, or they calibrated the frequencies wrong. All I remember was lying in the booth when I started to feel itchy. I couldn’t see very well in the blue light, but my fairly smooth body was packing on hair at an incredibly rapid pace. Worse, the booth was locked into a ten minute cycle–I was trapped.
Suffice to say, they gave me a refund, though it wasn’t much compensation considering I’ll never be rid of this pelt. It grows back in a day, and my face has a five o’ clock shadow an hour after shaving. I just learned to embrace it, eventually, though unfortunately, being bronzed doesn’t matter if no one can see your skin.
Bracken's Corner 