Category: Uncategorized

You still have a few hours to vote for the next chunk of the interactive I’m doing. Follow the link, give it a read, and tell me what you’d like to see next!

What does academic probation mean, exactly? Easy–that means that when jocks like you get out of line at school, when they thing they’re too good to follow the rules, that their athletic prowess makes them untouchable by any authority, the principal decides they need a few weeks to relearn their place in the world. 

I own you for the next two weeks–smirk all you want, but you have to do everything I say. Yes me–old fat Mr. Gannigan–but trust me, you like daddies, don’t you? Nothing tuns you on like an old fat fucker with a big old cock. Don’t try to deny it–after all, you can’t. Yeah, confused? I see that terror in your eyes. Looking at me a bit differently now, aren’t you? Eyes can’t quite seem to tear themselves away from my crotch, it seems. I know you want it–and you’ll get it, trust me. 

Yeah, it’s a bit smelly–I don’t shower all that much, but go on, taste it–I guarantee you’ll hate the taste, but you won’t be able to stop eating all that cheese out from under my foreskin. I was gonna have my weekly shower tonight, but I wasn’t expecting to have a new jock to play with! No showers for me then–just a few, nice long tongue baths. 

But you want to know the best part? When your two weeks are up, you’ll be back to normal, mostly–but not completely. Maybe you’ll still find yourself craving the smell of my sweaty ass crack. Maybe you’ll enjoy your own musk a bit more, since you’re going to skip all the showers for the next two weeks as well. Hell, Aaron? That quarterback of yours? Mr. Lewis fucked him so much that boy keeps a plug in his hole 24/7 now. 

Now–here’s your orders. Go get dressed in the nastiest, smelliest football gear you can find in the locker room, and then come meet me in the parking lot. Detention’s at my apartment tonight, and we’re going to break you in right away–trust me, you’ll love it.

Source: justaguync74

Special Detention (Patreon Sample)

I have the first part of a new story up for everyone who is supporting me at the $5 level or higher, over on Patreon! You can find the story and download it here, and here’s the first chunk of the story, for those of you who might be curious what to expect.

Principal Cogswell thumbed through the report in his hand, the room quiet aside from the creak of the chair where young Martin Peters Jr. was tipping back on the chairs back two legs, looking everywhere but at the old, chubby, hairy man across from him behind the desk. If Peters had been more self-aware, he likely would have been able to trace the train of thoughts which had planted him here. First and foremost, a hatred of his father and all men like him, all men like this one across from him. To his young mind, the principal was just like his father, every older man in a position of authority was just like his father, and he never wanted to be like his father. This whole stupid school, this whole stupid life. He hadn’t asked for any of this, but that hadn’t stopped him from taking it for granted.

The principal had already read the report of course–he was more interested in the boy’s general demeanor. He had only been principal at this elite academy for a year and change, but he’d already heard more about the Peters than any of the other wealthy families who sent their lineage here. The Peters gave more money than anyone, had higher expectations for this one boy than any other, as the sole remaining man to continue the Peter’s line. He was obviously cracking, not that the boy would acknowledge that summation of his situation. Peters tipped a bit too far back, flailed for a moment, and crashed forward onto all four feet, trying to look like he’d made the loud clunk on purpose. Cogswell ignored him for long enough to make it ambiguous that he’d cared, and then cleared his throat. “I must say, the events described in this report are rather troublesome, Mr. Peters,” he paused a moment, “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

He’d been found out back earlier that day, smoking and drinking with two other classmates, skipping class. A search had revealed on his person a switchblade, in violation of the school’s zero tolerance policy on weapons. O f course, the zero tolerance was hardly ever meant for men like the young Mr. Peters, still this, along with a thick file of other poor behavior, is what had brought Peters before him today.

“Well, as things stand here, I’m afraid I have no choice of action except expulsion.”

That got a reaction, at least. A laugh. “You can’t expel me,” Peters said, “Just wait until my father hears about this–you’ll be the one gone, not me!”

Cogswell had expected this sort of bluff, but he’d long ago stopped worrying about things such as this. “Well, I have already called your father here today, and he should be arriving soon. He told me he looks forward to discussing the matter with you in the car.”

A seed of doubt. Apparently, such an obvious bluff would have been enough to bend the last principal to his young will. That said, Cogswell hadn’t informed the young man’s father yet, but he certainly planned on doing so, if the young man didn’t show signs of remorse, which he could see starting to form. It was always the same with these sorts of boys.

“Look, it was Adam’s knife! I was just holding it for him.”

“Mr. Ogden insists you were the one who brought the blade, as does Mr. Shipsdale.”

“They’re fucking liars! I…Look, please, don’t expel me. If I get kicked out, my father will–”

Cogswell put up a hand. He didn’t need the specificity of the threat to be sure the young man was serious. “Mr. Peters, I am willing to give you a final chance, if your remorse is true. It will require you turning around your rather sorry performance in your classes, a spotless record of behavior from now until the end of the term, and lastly, a mandatory special detention with me, three days a week, until I believe you no longer require it. Those are my terms, and you’d best decide before your father arrives.”

It probably seemed like a golden opportunity to Peters, and he accepted the terms without question, probably not even giving a second thought to the what the nature of a special detention with the principal might mean. Cogswell excused the boy once he was satisfied the boy was displaying some moderate sincerity, told him his first detention would be the following afternoon after school, and when he had exited the office, he called Martin Peters Sr. to inform him of his son’s delinquency, and the punishment he’d accepted, adding that he was excused for the day, and his father should come speak to him at his earliest convenience. Peters Sr. replied he would arrive soon, and have a chat with his son. Satisfied, Cogswell unlocked a drawer in his desk, and pulled it open, finding a tattered notebook inside with a single pen. He stroked the cover a moment, thinking, and then shut the drawer again, locking it. Tomorrow. He’d promised himself he’d only use it for…special cases here, but the truth was this Peters boy hardly merited the use of this particular tool. Still, it had started whispering to him lately, and maybe turning this young man around would quiet it again for a while longer.

Peters arrived late, but at least he did arrive, allowing himself into the principal’s office without bothering to knock first. He had obviously recovered his brash, rebellious manner, and was even overcompensating for his moment of weakness the day before. Inside the office, in front of the principal’s desk, he found a single desk, and on it was a very old looking notebook and a pen.

“Welcome, Mr. Peters. You can set your bag over there–you won’t be needing it.”

Peters set his bag down, a bit confused. “Don’t…shouldn’t I be working on my school work?”

“Like I said yesterday, Peters, this is a special detention, and I have my own assignment for you. Now have a seat if you would. The sooner you begin, the sooner you can be done.”

Peters sat down in the chair, and flipped through the notebook. The early pages were incredibly old, and every page was full of lines, in countless different handwriting styles. “What…is this thing?”

“Oh, it’s just a tool of mine,” Cogswell said, “I happened upon it a few years after I started teaching, and it’s been invaluable in helping me discipline students over the years. Remarkably effective, actually. Go ahead and turn to the back, there’s some empty pages there for your work today.”

Not very many empty pages. Still, he did find one, and picked up the pen, which seemed a bit too cold for the room he was seated in. “What do you want me to write?”

“Today, I think we should start with those nasty habits of yours. A young man should know better than to be smoking at this age, don’t you think? Now don’t get me wrong, I enjoy a good pipe rather often–I think I’ll have one now, in fact–” he walked over to a rack of pipes behind his chair, selected one, and began the process of filling and tamping and lighting while he kept speaking, “So today, I would like you to write, ‘Smoking is for gentlemen, not boys.’ How does that sound to you, fair?”

Interactive: Dale’s Story (Part 2)

Thanks all who voted! Here’s the second chunk of the interactive. For those curious about the vote breakdown, here are the results:

  1. Dale becomes dominant – 30 votes
  2. Dale becomes submissive – 12 votes
  3. Dale gets muscle – 15 votes
  4. Dale becomes a slob – 15 votes
  5. Dale becomes older – 20 votes

So the 1′s have it with second place going to 5! There are still plenty of changes to come, so don’t be too disappointed if your first choice lost.

The patio was rather small, placed on the back of the bar, facing out onto pasture, like most of the small town where Dale lived. He’d finished high school a few years ago, hoping to go to college, but even though he’d gotten accepted, he hadn’t gone. The money, the distance, all of his other insecurities–he was still here, working a retail job at the Walmart in town that had drained the rest of the economy dry as a bone. Living with his older brother and his dad, sick of them both, sick of everything about his whole life. God, he’d get rid of the entire thing if he could.

“You should be careful what you think you want, you know,” the stranger said. Dale had been staring out into the dark pasture, but he’d replied like he could hear what Dale was thinking.

“This…this is stupid,” Dale muttered to himself, and set the pitcher down on the table, “I’m gonna go–have the beer yourself.”

“Sit down Dale, and pour yourself a drink while I get my pipe going,” he said…and Dale did what he said. A couple of glasses had just appeared on the table, from nothing–he poured one full of beer and then took a sip, grimacing, and set it down.

“How in the hell did you do that?”

The stranger didn’t answer right away–he was focused on tamping his pipe and lighting it up, smoke billowing from his mouth and out into the night air. “Do you want to know out of curiosity,” he said, then looked Dale in the eye, “Or because you want to know how to do it yourself?”

“Because I want to know how,” Dale answered without a second thought, then slapped a hand over his mouth in surprise. He hadn’t meant to say that! Or at least not say it so bluntly.

The man laughed. “Most people find it pretty hard to lie to me, Dale, don’t let it worry you.”

“This is crazy.”

“More like magic, really.” Dale just stared at him. The patio was empty, and he could barely hear the crowd inside the bar. The man let off another plume of smoke, and smiled. “I like you Dale. I like you, but you’re…well, you don’t quite belong here, I don’t think. That’s why this is so hard for you. You don’t belong here, but you also can’t escape, stuck here like you’re invisible. I don’t like people who don’t fit, Dale–so here’s the deal. You can have that power you want…but in exchange, well, let’s just say you’ll be finding yourself a bit more at home here, in my town.”

Dale just stared at him, “I don’t understand…”

“Yes, but you want it, don’t you? Nobody telling you what to do anymore–a master of your own destiny. I can help you Dale–just say yes.”

He couldn’t pull his eyes away from the stranger’s. He hadn’t noticed how…black they were, before. He was trying to say no–he was trying very hard…but he couldn’t lie. He couldn’t lie, and his voice squeaked out a small, impossibly quiet “yes” that still rang loud in his ears.

“Excellent–to celebrate, why don’t we get started?” the man took a deep breath from his pipe, and then blew it into Dale’s face. He coughed, his eyes and lungs burning, trying to wave the smoke away, but it seemed to cling to him. It did eventually dissipate, but not into the air–he absorbed it into him–he looked down at himself, and found much of his view was obstructed by a large, grey beard reaching his chest, his hands lined with wrinkles.

“What the–” he said, his voice deeper, raspy, with a now inescapable drawl he’d spent his life trying to minimize, “How the hell’d ya do that? What the hell’d ya even do tah me?”

“Need a better look?” the man pulled a mirror into being in front of Dale, and he stared at himself–he looked to be about fifty, balding heavily, eyes slightly sunken, brow wrinkled. His fat had lost some of its firmness, and settled about him more comfortably. “I just made you a bit more mature. Settled in. After all, we can’t give you a proper history here if we don’t have time to fill, right, old timer?”

Dale couldn’t quite remember how to breathe–he was interrupted by the door to the patio opening, the mirror disappearing, and both he and the stranger looked over at who’d just joined them outside.

Choice time! Here are some options for who might have just shown up on the patio. None of them are Bishop, but don’t worry! We’ll see what happens to him later. The following choices are a bit vague, but you all have read my stuff enough to guess what might happen in each of these cases:

  1. George, the bartender, checking to see if Dale’s alright.

  2. A group of bikers, who have become rough and violent.

  3. A slobby pig farmer, very drunk and reeking of manure.

  4. A couple of younger greasy mechanics, coming out for a smoke.

Also, to clarify voting “rules” I should have made a bit more explicit last time, the way I tally these up, is everyone gets two votes that can either be split between two choices (i.e. “I pick 3 & 4″) or both can be given to one choice (i.e. “I pick 2″). So you can give a nudge to two choices you like, or a bigger nudge to one choice in particular! It’s confusing and kind of arbitrary! So, now, the big question, who should come out onto the patio and interrupt their little chat?

Something…odd’s been going on with my roommate, Titus, lately. We were getting along pretty well–he was an athlete but not too much of an asshole about it, and I was a pretty run-of-the-mill college student. Both of us were looking for girls, and he decided to rush a frat…but I wasn’t really that interested to be honest. The frat challenged him and a few other pledges to a panty raid on a sorority. I don’t know what happened, but the next morning I woke up and found him passed out, face down on his bed, in just a pair of the strangest looking underwear–a bit like a jock, made out of mesh. I saw the pouch when he rolled over–or I suppose, the lack of one. I could make out every vein on his cock–I blushed and covered him up, but ever since…

I think he might be gay, for one thing. I don’t have anything against fags, but it’s just…a surprise. He seemed so obsessed with women before, but I’ve caught him jacking off in our room to gay porn a few times now. His body is changing too–away from his stocky build to something a bit trimmer, his ass fuller, his body hair going away as well. He shaved off his goatee and trimmed his hair down, picked up a lisp–you see what I mean, right? It all started with that sorority, so…so I think I’m going to go over there, and find out what happened to my roommate.

Fuck, I have to stop this, I have to. I don’t remember what happened at that place–I just woke up in my room the next morning, wearing the nastiest pair of boxer briefs I’d ever seen. The crotch was stained and crusty with cum, they reeked of piss and musk…and I haven’t been able to take them off for days now–I can barely manage to get them down to piss and shit, and I have to cum in them…and I’ve been cumming a lot, thinking about…about Titus’s ass…

It’s right there–he’s not really asleep, he’s just…pretending. Needs…daddy to breed him good. 

No! No no no, I’m not some fucking daddy! I might look like I’m in my 40′s, and I have so much damn body hair now it’s not even funny, but I’m not a daddy, fuck those bitches…but I…I am so damn horny, and the boy’s ass is right there…

The boxers slip down, and my seven inch, uncut cock springs out, dribbling cum already. Maybe…just one fuck. Feel the boy’s hole one time, and we can both stop this damn charade. He don’t need no damn school, not when he can strip for a livin’, payin’ his daddy’s bills…fuck! He’s so damn tight! Yeah boy, moan for daddy–think I’ll be renting this hole out to a few of my friends tonight!

Derelicted (Part 3)

Caden recovered slowly. He missed the last half of his senior year–he had developed a crushing phobia of walking the streets of the city he’d called home for his entire life, or rather, a crushing fear that in some dark alley, he might encounter that thing, and whatever might be left of Wyatt. It was a year before he was able to walk the sidewalks again, but the color always made him think of those eyes, and the mouths of alleys seemed so much blacker than they had before. He tried to only go out during the day at least, and while he kept telling himself he’d finish his degree or get his GED, somehow he never managed it. Before, he’d been a good student–not at the top of his class or anything, but he’d been accepted to several colleges. Now though, the basic act of reading or writing was excruciatingly difficult. Nothing came out right, and nothing stuck. His mind was a sieve, leeching out knowledge and memories–but never the memories he wanted to forget. After a few years living at home with his mom, doing nothing with himself beyond eating and packing on two hundred more pounds, a sympathetic uncle in the construction industry managed to get him a job on a crew as a favor.

It was hard–harder than it should have been for him. He knew that, and at the same time, he felt himself slowing down even further. People spoke to him differently–slower with as few large words as possible, and even though he knew what they were saying, he’d still manage to fuck shit up on a regular basis. People called him a fuck up long enough that even he started to believe it. He turned thirty, and could barely believe what he’d become–450 pounds, hairy, a thick briown beard flecked with white like dirty snow beard balding, stinking, alone, masturbating every night, lying to himself that he wasn’t thinking about that night, that he wasn’t thinking about that thing each and every time.

He managed for a time. He turned forty. He buried his mom, and then his uncle. Cracks had begun to form, but he didn’t notice them. His hygiene slipped, until he rarely even thought of showering, or brushing his teeth. A pack a day habit became two, and then he switched to cigars. Masturbation wasn’t enough, reliving it wasn’t enough, so he sought out the filthiest men he could find, and begged them to abuse him however they saw fit. It was in those moments that happiness found him–digging toejam from between a derelict’s feet, his first taste of shit, the powerful memory jogged whenever his mouth was flooded with piss. Winter’s were the best. He never felt cold, somehow, in the snowy streets. He stayed out one night, amazed that no one would even see him, like he blurred together with the grey and brown and filth around him. Feeling himself slipping, he drank to forget, but it only made things worse. His uncle’s replacement wasn’t as forgiving as he had been, and Caden wore out his goodwill in a matter of months, until he was fired, after getting caught masturbating to the stench of the porta-potty for the hundredth time.

That night, he saw them again. Depressed, he’d gone to his usual bar and drank himself under the table, the bartender chucking him out at two in the morning. He’d meant to head home, but a whiff of something on the air caught his attention, and he turned in the other direction instead, heading downtown. The city had changed over the decades, neighborhoods falling in and out of style, in and out of wealth. The smell grew stronger, but he didn’t recognize it until he saw them, deep in an alley, the glint of two pins in the dark, two flat steel disks, and a third hanging from twine. He screamed–the police arrested him, when he’d accosted a woman looking for help, but a few days in jail did nothing to help him. He got out, and knew the only thing he could do was try and turn himself around.

He did have a few friends, sexual and otherwise. A master found him work as a janitor, which lasted a few months until he pissed himself in the middle of an office building without even noticing. A few other gigs came and went, until he managed to land a job out of town. He was so hopeful–maybe getting away from the city would break this curse of a life, but as he left town in his truck, his hands began to shake, his gut churning. He vomited, and had to pull over. He couldn’t drive, so he staggered back several miles until he was back across the city limits, shirt crusted with vomit, the seat of his pants filled with shit. He wandered the city for a few days, unable to remember where his apartment was, derelicts whispering to each other as he passed, and fleeing away from him, terrified of being caught in the thing’s path. They knew it well–it would swallow them all eventually, but not that day, if they could help it.

They found him, shivering behind a dumpster. He’d smelled them coming for hours, but had decided not to run–it had been easier to jack off, the smell giving him the first taste of sexual energy he’d felt in ages. The thing loomed. In a voice better described as a sigh, it turned to the thing that had been Wyatt, and asked, “Ripe?” the word drawn out into a muggy breeze.

Wyatt dropped to his knees beside the shivering Caden, and with a black tongue, cold as ice, licked the side of his face from second chin to forehead. “Overripe,” it rasped.

“Then…sweeter,” it said. It bent at the waist at an excruciating angle, pressed its face to Caden’s, and he felt it’s tongue push its way into his mouth, stretching his jaw wide, stopping his breath, wriggling deep into him. It found his soul and gave it a lick, and then everything turned brown, like filthy snow.

Interactive: Dale’s Story

For those of you who don’t follow my secondary, miscellaneous blog (or who don’t know that I have a secondary blog at all) I decided to start up another interactive story like I’ve done a few times in the past, if you’ve been reading my stuff for that long. If you want to participate, follow the link above, read the first chunk of the story and you can vote beneath it on what you’d like to see in the next chunk! Also, make sure you follow @brackenousjunk so you catch the next chunks of the story, which I’m planning on posting Wednesdays and Sundays.

Interactive: Dale’s Story

Derelicted (Part 2)

That was all he was able to notice before Wyatt got up from the couch, cock still leaking piss, and he rushed to the bathroom and locked the door behind him. “What the fuck!” was all Caden heard–and not knowing what else to do, he got up, went into the kitchen and opened another beer for himself–that piss had been rancid.

He heard the first pounding on the door, but ignored it, and went to the bathroom, but Wyatt refused to open the door.

“Come on man, just let me see!”

“Fuck no! Fuck this fucking shit!”

His voice sounded different–deeper and raspier than before.

There was another pound on the door.

“Dude, you need to call the hospital or something,” Wyatt said.

“The hospital? Why? Because you pissed yourself?”

“No, you don’t get it man, you don’t fucking get it! Just call 911!”

The pound came again, but this time it kept coming, a relentless beat.

“Dude, what the fuck would I even tell them?”

“Just fucking call them! Get a fucking ambulance!”

Caden backed up from the bathroom door, trying to focus. Call 911? What the hell for? What was going on in there? He tried to calm down and think a moment, but the pounding on the door was growing more urgent and he…he needed to get the door. Yeah, he could at least tell them to leave, and then he might be able to focus on what the hell had happened. He went to the apartment door, and flung it open, more than ready to tell whoever it was to fuck off, but the words froze in his throat when he saw, and smelled, the man from the alley, well awake and grinning a mouth of rotten teeth at him, eyes black aside from a glimmer so deep Caden could barely see it without falling into them.

He couldn’t breathe. The smell had locked up his lungs, and he stumbled back and collapsed to his hands and knees, fighting, trying to get his lungs to function again, and managed a weak, rasping breath. The man gave him a short look, sniffed the air noisily, and then pushed open the door, stepping into the apartment and walking right to the bathroom door, where he pounded once again on that door.

“Caden, did you fucking call them? Why are you pounding on the damn door?”

He tried to speak, but all he could do was cough and wheeze for air. His phone, where the hell had his phone gone? He saw it–it was on the table, he reached for it, but before he could grab it his entire body froze, midbreath, his eyes snapping toward the bathroom where the dark-eyed derelict was staring at him, and pounded once more on the door, louder.

“Fuck off Caden, and leave me the fuck alone until the ambulance fucking gets here!”

This must be what turning blue felt like. The derelict pounded again, and then again, and then a third time, louder and louder. Someone else would hear, someone else would have to come see, right? He managed to twist his eyes to the apartment door, but it flung closed in a snap. Did it read his mind? Was he going to die here?

“Fucking what?” Wyatt opened the door, and Caden came to life again, heaving for breath, the thing’s attention away from him and focused entirely on Wyatt, or at least the man Wyatt had become. He was shorter now, with a sagging gut heaving out, arms and legs withered sticks. He was old now, at least in his fifties–his eyes lined with wrinkles, beard and hair the grey sidewalks. His eyes were wide, lungs frozen, the thing leaning in and locking lips with him, filthy fingers running through Wyatt’s tangled locks, down his body to his cock. It looked like he was trying to scream, but something was caught in his throat, and eventually he collapsed to his knees. Caden’s first thought was that he was dead–but he could hear the slick smack of mouth on cock, and Wyatt was swallowing the thing’s cock to the hilt. Satisfied, it’s neck twisted a few degrees too far to look back at Caden behind him, those black holes freezing him in place. The medallion was once again back around it’s neck, a black tongue hanging down past it’s chin. Caden didn’t want to look, but couldn’t peel his eyes away.

Eventually, it was satisfied, and broke the gaze itself, leaving Caden a whimpering, sobbing heap on the floor. Wyatt stood up, lickiing cum from his lips, his eyes now a solid steel grey, and followed it out of the apartment. Caden was found that morning by Wyatt’s father, still curled up naked in a puddle of his own piss, cum and sweat. He claimed to remember nothing, when the police questioned him–he knew no one would believe him. They suspected him in Wyatt’s disappearance, but without any evidence of anything beyond Caden’s severe trauma, the case went cold.

Inspirations

Meant to include both of these and embed them in the the first chunk of the interactive, but I forgot. So here, if you’re curious, are the two pics that inspired this little sketch before hand. First, we have Dale:

And here, we have the stranger:

Again, just jumping off points really, but hey, gives you something else to think about maybe. 

I’m still taking votes on the interactive! You can read the first chunk here. You can vote at the end of that chunk, or feel free to send me a message or an ask instead, if that suits you better!

Interactive: Dale’s Story

I feel like doing something a bit different for a while, that just captions on Wednesday, and I’d like to start up another interactive story like I’ve done in the past. I’ve you’ve been a reader for a while you probably remember these: I write a chunk, ask you all for input on what you’d like to see in the next chunk, and I follow your direction until the story reaches some sort of conclusion. I’m going to shoot for two entries a week, probably on Wednesdays and Sundays. I’ll try to have a couple captions during the week, but that largely depends on time/inspiration/how much other shit I have going on at any given moment. 

Regardless! Here’s the first chunk! I wrote this a while back, but could never quite decide how to continue it, so I’ll leave it up to you all! 

“Bro, why don’t you go get us another round of drinks, eh?” Bishop said, turning to Dale beside him at the table, slapping him on the back as he did.

Dale could feel Bishop’s friends looking at him, see those smirks–his cheeks flushed red, “Uh…sure. What…should I get?”

“A pitcher. George knows what we like.”

“O-Ok.”

Dale hauled himself up out of the chair with a grunt, and he could hear a snicker or two, his cheeks deepening another few shades. He thought about asking Bishop to go get it instead, but he was already up–getting up was the hardest part, always had been. He shuffled off towards the bar, lumbering, feeling so self-conscious of himself. This is why he never came out, this was exactly why. At least at home, watching TV and snacking he didn’t have to have anyone else staring at him, scowling at him for even daring to exist. It wasn’t fair–Bishop had grown up in the same family, eating the same food. It wasn’t Dale’s fault he hated sports, that people had always teased him, that he’d…just wanted to eat, for as long as he could remember. But here he was, trying to will himself through a minefield of tables and chairs which had obviously been arranged by someone much thinner than he was. He kept bumping into people, stammering a sorry, but everyone just glared. He turned back and saw Bishop and his two friend’s laughing–probably at him. People were always laughing at him, especially Bishop. Why the hell had he agreed to come? Why in the hell was he such a sucker for Bishop’s fake brotherly love olive branches all the time?

Finally he got to the bar. George, the bartender and a nearby neighbor who’d known both Bishop and Dale since they were kids, walked over and asked him what he needed. “Bishop asked for a pitcher–he said you’d…know what to pour.”

George shrugged. Dale wasn’t sure at first if that meant he didn’t know, but before Dale could figure out what to say, George had walked over to a tap with a pitcher, filled it up, and then set it down in front of dale. “Ten bucks.”

Dale fished through the pockets of his overalls until he found a wad of bills, handed some to George, and then surveyed the best way back through the mess of tables in the bar to his the table where his brother was…except he wasn’t there. The table was empty, and he looked around, a bit frantic, in time to see Bishop disappear out the door of the bar with his friends, laughing. For a second he thought to chase them, to remind them that they’d forgotten him, and then he realized that ditching him had been the plan. He felt like an idiot. No, he was an idiot. A fat, stupid, idiot loser, and here he was with a fucking pitcher of beer. He didn’t even like beer! He turned around and set the pitcher back down in front of George. “I…they left. Can I get…my money back? I don’t want to drink this.”

“No refunds,” George said, “Sorry kid.”

“I don’t even drink beer though!”

George shrugged, and walked off. What Dale really wanted to do was to scream, but all that would do is draw even more attention to his fucking humiliation. He couldn’t cry either, his eyes wanted to fucking cry, but he balled them up and fought them off, pressing his fists into the bar as hard as he could, hating his body, hating how big he was when all he wanted right that moment was to be as small as possible.

“Well, no reason to let it go to waste, right buddy?”

Dale looked over, and saw an older man, long beard down to his gut smiling over at him from a bar stool. “If you can’t drink it all, I’m happy to keep you company a bit and help you out.” He patted the stool next to him, “Come on, have a sit.” Dale just stared at the tiny surface of the stool, imagining his wide ass perched on that thing for more than a few minutes, and how much his lower back already hurt at the thought. Almost like he was reading his mind, the guy shook his head and got up. “Nevermind that actually. Let’s…hmmm…you know, let’s go on the patio. I could use a smoke. Come on.”

Dale just watched the older man go–he didn’t look back. He’d…always hated that. Bishop had always walked like that, when he’d told Dale to follow him. He’d never looked back to see if Dale was actually coming, he’d always just…just assumed Dale would come, and he always had. He always had. But he, fuck, he’d spent his entire life looking back, his entire life looking for the next way everything he’d planned on was going to crumble to pieces, because no one gave two shits about him, about what he wanted. Maybe he’d always wanted to take up so much space, so people would have to notice him, but he was still…invisible. Looking around at who was looking at him, who was pretending not to see him at all. He looked over at the pitcher of beer beside him, picked it up, and walked after him. Why not, right? At least he didn’t have to be in here anymore, either way.

Now the fun part! Here’s some options that you all might like to see:

  1. The stranger helps Dale discover a more dominant side of himself.
  2. He takes control of Dale for his own pleasure and humiliates him more.

  3. Dale trades in some of his fat for muscle.

  4. Dale becomes lazier, a slob, an alcoholic, and a chronic smoker.
  5. He decides Dale should become a bit more “mature”.

Fell free to pick a couple options–I’ll probably mix the two or three most popular together. You can reply below with your answer, or send me a message/ask with your preference. I’ll need answers soonish, so I have time to write the next chunk, so it’ll be open for the next day or two. You’re welcome to submit your own alternate ideas as well! If I like it, I might use it.

So then, which of those options do you want to see in the next chunk?