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This isn’t my body. I have to remember that; this isn’t my body, this is fucking Lenny’s body, that fat fucking freak down the hall. I always saw him looking at me, that fucking envious glare of his, but I’d always assumed he was just a pervert. I’d never imagined that he’d do something like this. I don’t even know what this is–one night I go to sleep, the next I wake up in this filthy bed, in this disgusting body, but fuck, I’m so horny! So horny, I can’t keep my hands off my cock, off this…this flabby gut, these nipples. His cock’s puny, but every touch is like electricty–fuck, I’m cumming, I’m fucking cumming!

[[Orgasm energy conversion complete. Mental shift towards target levels 30%. Permanence level, 15%]]

What the fucking hell was that? Some voice inside my head? At least that raging need to jack off is passed, I swear, feeling this fat of mine gets me so amped up sometimes–

No, what? I don’t…I mean…I gotta get up, but I’m fucking tired as hell. It would feel better just…to lie back down and jack off again, but I gotta get to my old apartment. Is…that a note there, on the table?

Morning Lenny,

Feeling good yet? If not, just keep jacking off. Fuck, I hated being that old, fatass, but the best thing about these nanites I stole? They can fucking rewrite anyone’s brain if you give them enough energy. So you’re going to love being me, I guarantee it. You wouldn’t want to change back even if we could–not that you’ll remember much before too long. If everything goes according to plan, you won’t even be able to read this letter soon enough! Thanks for the young muscular body–you’ll never see it again, I can promise you that. Have fun and enjoy yourself!

Garrett

That fucker, what the fuck does any of this even mean? I feel like my head’s trying to move through mud all of a sudden, and damn I’m horny again–that was fucking fast. Might…as well jack off again I guess, felt so damn good the first time.

Yeah, fuck, feels so good, this fat jiggling around me. I never imagined it could feel this fucking nice. These meaty tits, fuck, here I go again!

[[Orgasm energy conversion complete. Mental shift towards target levels 55%.]]

Cum tastes damn good. Gonna have to eat more cum. Wonder where I can get some? Suck some cocks maybe, but first think I’ll jack off again. Feel like a lazy day today, I think, yeah, just fat pig like me lolling in bed, jackin’ off, sounds fuckin’ amazing. Feels so damn good, so sensitive, this puny fuckin’ dick. Never usually this horny, you know…was…was I different before? I kind of remember but its so foggy. Maybe if I cum again I’ll remember better, yeah, just gotta bust another nut–fuck!

[[Orgasm energy conversion complete. Mental shift towards target levels 85%.]]

Nah Never fuckin different. This is me, fat fuck pig, horny motherfucker. Damn could use a cock in me, wonder who I can find? Yeah, some stud buryin’ his dick in my hole, my flab flyin’ back ‘n forth, or givin my tits a fuck, damn yeah, gonna fuckin’ blow again!

[[Orgasm energy conversion complete. Mental shift towards target levels 100%. Program complete—Entering standby mode]]

Whatever. Lenny horny fucker. Gonna find a cock and get fuckin’ bred like the old pig I is, gonna be fuckin’ awesome!

I am curious. When I see most redneck TF porn, it is always linked to sweat, raunch, and often piss or scat. Is it possible to have one without the other, and is it worth the effort? I know I have enjoyed all your redneck stories, even though piss and scat normally are turnoffs. So I am wondering if “clean” redneck can be good, and if you know any examples.

This is a good question, but it requires a bit of effort and explanation to answer effectively, so bear with me for a bit.

I have said before, in a previous metawriting post, that the eroticism of these stories is derived from what I call “triggers”. Without rehashing the original content of that post too much, the basic idea is that certain phrases, sentences, bits of dialogue, etc. are crafted in order to elicit an erotic response related to one or more fetishes the reader might have. The phrase can be quite general, in the hopes of hitting a broad swath of people–for example, a simple passage about a man masturbating would hit a broad swath of men and women who are “attracted to men”–or a trigger can be quite narrow and tailored, and hit a smaller number of people, often for greater impact, at the risk of alientating a larger number of people who might not respond to those particular fetishes–say, for example, the rather generic guy masturbating is now overweight, slobby, covered with piss, etc.–that appeals to a smaller section of people and pleases them more, at the cost of alienating everyone else. 

Still with me? Basically, fetishes and be mixed and matched at will by authors in order to specifically target an audience either broadly or narrowly, depending on what they want to do–that means, with just this in mind, of course we should be able to have a clean redneck story–but here’s the strange thing. I honestly have never seen one that I can recall. There are certainly redneck themed stories that de-emphasize raunch/slob themes, but in the fast majority of them it plays at least a small part. This seems to run counter to the expectation, and the reason is a bit strange.

Some fetishes are what I might call atomic fetishes, while others I might call compound fetishes. The distinction here is going to be a bit vague, but for our purposes, let’s think of atomic fetishes as those which are capable of standing alone, without requiring other fetishes to make sense. So, “homosexuality” would be an atomic fetish. “Muscle growth”, “weight gain”, “Masculinization” would also probably fall into this category. On the other hand, a compound fetish is understood as a collection of fetishes working together to produce a whole greater than the sum of the fetish-parts. “Pup Play” would be a compound fetish–containing elements of “bondage”, “power exchange”, “mind drain,” and “humiliation” which all work together to generate that compound fetish. You might be able to write a pup story without one of those–in fact, I can think of a few examples I might use–but the compound fetish itself tends to include those ideas more often than not.

So, is “Redneck” compound or atomic? It pretty obviously is compound, and that’s where our problem lies. I think a big part of the “Redneck” fetish is that it is cobbled together from a whole bunch of other fetishes, of which the atomic fetish, “Raunch” is most certainly one. Can you write a story without including that atomic fetish? Sure, in the same way you could have a story with a “Smart” redneck–but for most of the audience, this is going to run counter to their expectations. 

so, tl;dr:

1. Yes, it is possible, in theory, to construct a redneck story without slob/raunch elements.

2. Is it worth the effort? That’s a bit subjective. Depends on how much you want to see a story like that, I suppose.

3. Can “clean redneck” stories be good? I’m sure they can be, but I’m not sure they would satisfy someone with a general fetish for Rednecks. What I mean is, could it be good? Sure. Would it necessarily be satisfying to me/my audience? …Hmmm…jury’s out on that one still.

4. And no, I don’t have any examples really, though I’m sure they’re out there. This is the internet, after all, and Rule 34 always applies.

Hi. Just wanted to know if you could do a story either where a lab assistant uses a “failed” serum on his competition for top position to make the competition total dumb pigs or one where a high school football player uses hypnosis and magic to make his main competition for a scholarship slowly become a devoted, idiotic, 400lb pig slave. That’s all. Thanks.

I can certainly add those to my lists for sure, thanks for the ideas!

Coach Ray Gets Framed (Part 1)

Ray gave a start, and shook his head; he was falling asleep at his computer again, so it must be time to head home. He looked up at the clock in his office, in the high school locker room, and was surprised that it was already seven. He must have really dozed off there, for a while. Ray Montaigne was the head coach at River Hills High School, and he was one of the student bodies favorite teachers. He wasn’t quite in peak physical shape anymore, unfortunately–he was in his late forties, had a bit of a gut, but he could still run a nine minute mile, and bench press 200, so he wasn’t doing too badly.

Still, it was finally summer, if nothing else. He’d been nearly finished entering grades when he’d fallen asleep, and so he finished the last few, uploaded them to be processed, and then started packing up his things, happy to see this year in particular behind him at last. What a nightmare. No one had really recovered from what had been happening with Julian Porter, one of the computer science teachers, who had been systematically abusing the school’s athletes for years now. Ray was still furious with himself for never even noticing anything, but none of his previous students even remembered anything. If it hadn’t been for Noah approaching him in confidence, that afternoon, begging him to help–no one would have been the wiser at all. And now look at where they were–after Ray brought the abuse to the attention of the principal, he’d ordered Mr. Porter fired, but no one had seen Porter in days. He’d skipped town or run somewhere, and they were still searching for him, now months later. That hadn’t been the most disturbing part however–because not a few days later, Noah disappeared as well. It was assumed he had run away, though Ray and a few others suspected Mr. Porter had something to do with the boy’s disappearance. Still, no one knew anything for certain–Noah’s parents were an absolute mess, and Ray was too, though he couldn’t show it around his students. Other athletes had come forward, admitting that Mr. Porter had been abusing them as well, and Ray still couldn’t understand how no one had noticed anything in all of that time.

Just thinking about it was giving him a sick stomach. He put together his things, shut off his computer, double checked the lights, and left, happy to not have to see the place for a few months. Hopefully next year things would be better, for everyone. Especially Noah–Ray was really worried about him. He’d been so…strange when he’d told Ray what had been happening, almost like his tongue was fighting itself in his mouth, trying to keep the words from pouring out. Noah had told him Mr. Porter had him under some kind of control, but no one had believed him about that, no one other than Ray. It explained how Julian would have managed to get to Noah as well–if he had some kind of control over him that would explain a lot, but he hadn’t been able to find any sort of hard evidence. All he could hope was that they would find Noah and Julian soon, before he could do any more damage to anyone else.

He left the school and drove home. He’d gone through a messy divorce a few years back, but he’d at least managed to keep the house, even if he had to pay fucking alimony out the ass. He didn’t have any kids at least–he’s turned out to be sterile and not even that interested in kids, but she’d always wanted some. That was part of why she’d left, after she’d frozen some of her eggs years ago, and finally found a daddy for them she approved of. Already had pumped out two of them, last he heard. The house had always been too large for them, and he hated how big it was now–half the rooms were just storage at this point–but if he sold it, he’d have to give her a hefty chunk of the sale, so he might as well just sit on it, since it was almost paid off anyway.

However, when he got home that night, he immediately had the sense that something was off. It wasn’t that anything in particular was amiss–though there were small details. A light off he’d thought he’d left on that morning was off. A door ajar which was usually closed. The house seemed quiet not because there was no one there, but because someone was trying to be quiet. He tried to shrug it off, and went into the kitchen to make himself some dinner. He put one of his stockpiled frozen dinners in the microwave, turned it on, went over to find the remote, only to see a figure silhouetted in the doorway to the hallway leading towards the front of the house. He froze–the man, whoever he was, was far enough back that his face was still in shadow. Neither said anything, but Ray could hear the stranger breathing through his nose, long snorting breaths. He stepped forward, into the light of the kitchen, and Ray found himself looking at Noah.

That said, Noah wasn’t looking much like Noah at the moment. He had on a tattered and well worn football uniform, but it seemed at least two sizes too small for him. As a receiver, Noah had always been slender and quick, but his physique had shifted–his muscles had bulked up, he had a gut peeking out between the pants and jersey he had on. He was still snorting, nostrils flaring, eyeblack across his cheeks, though his entire face looked like it was smudged with dirt. Part of that was the short beard he had across his face, his hair shaggy and damp. “He…he said you’d smell good coach…” Noah muttered between snorts, “But fuck man, fuck!”

A Plea For Help (Sketch)

I don’t know what the fuck’s the matter with him. Nothing I do seems to fucking help! Ok, look, let me start at the beginning. Look, you know Jasper, you’ve known him for years, since he was a kid, hell, you’re his fucking uncle for Christ’s sake! Good all american kid, played every sport that ever existed, and was fucking killer at all of them, ever since he was five. Always working out, cared about his body, just like I raised him. I wasn’t about to have some lardass for a son, you know how I feel about fat, worthless fucks like that. No, I was gonna raise my son right.

But then, a few weeks ago, I come home from work a bit later than usual, and I come in and I find Jasper in the kitchen, standing at the fridge, stuffing his face. He was so fucking focused on eating that he didn’t even hear me come in, and he looks up with his eyes wide, something chocolate smeared around his face, and he knows I’ve caught him red handed. I tear into his ass, reminding him that his wrestling coach has ordered him to shave off two pounds so he can slip down into a lower bracket by the next Saturday, and the kid is crying–fucking sobbing really, trying to tell me that he can’t help it, and I can see his eyes flicking to the fridge, again and again, and I know he’s fucking lying to me, and it’s fucking disgusting, what I just witnessed, and I tell him I’m putting him on a strict diet from now on, that no food’s coming into my house without me knowing about it.

But fuck, if the next day I don’t come home and find him right there again, face in the fridge, stuffing himself. And I look in there, and in the freezer, and at the cans and bowls and containers littering the floor, and it’s all this shit I’d never allow in my house–ice cream, cookies, heavy cream–I don’t know where the hell he gets off, buying this shit, but I’m fucking disgusted, and I berate him again, and he apologizes, swears it won’t happen again, but fuck, every day now, he’s there, stuffing his fat face.

He sure as hell didn’t drop the pounds for that wrestling match, and I was so embarrassed to show my face there, that I didn’t even let him go–I grounded him in his room, telling him to think about what he’s done, what he’s doing to his body. I was relaxing down in the den, having a beer, when I hear something in the kitchen, and fuck if my boy’s not in the fucking fridge again, and it’s full! I threw out all the shit he’d bought, and I know he didn’t leave the house. Needless to say, I’m not fucking happy–and so I decide that if he wants to eat it, then fine, he should fucking eat it–all of it.

He keeps eating, pleading with me to help him stop. He keeps trying, and so I start, just, shoving food in the pig’s mouth as fast as I can, and fuck, if when I’m pressed up against that fat fuck, if I don’t feel his rock hard cock pressing up against my thigh, like a fucking faggot! Yeah, you can imagine how I felt about that, right? So I send him to his room again, and later, I go up to have a talk with him, and I hear him in there, fucking jacking off, fucking calling himself a disgusting, nasty pig while he’s at it…and this…I’m not proud of this. I jacked off too, listening to him. Something about listening to him humiliate himself, fuck if it didn’t turn me on something fierce, way hotter than anything that mom of his had ever done, and I can’t stop thinking about it, about that growing gut of his, about those meaty thighs, wondering how they’d look if they were…even bigger.

Look bro, I need help here. I can’t keep doing this by myself. I’ve been stuffing the pig night and day at this point, but he’s still not fucking big enough to be a proper fuck. Hey now, don’t give me that look, you don’t–no, come here! Come here and look at the fat fuck, bro! Look at your fucking pig of a nephew! Yeah, ain’t that a fuckin’ sight? Fuckin’ disgiusting. Go one, you can call him a pig, call him whatever the fuck you want, it’s just a fucking disgusting animal, a fucking toy, right? Right. See? I knew you’d understand once you saw it.

But we gotta get it bigger, don’t you think? But…fuck, it’s holes are so fuckin’ nice, bro. I can’t fucking feed it and fuck it at the same time, and it’s getting too big to feed itself at this point. So look, here’s what I propose–let’s take turns. You feed, I’ll fuck. Then you fuck, and I feed. Perfect fucking system, am I right? No, hey, calm down, I know you’re not a faggot! I’m not a fag either, but fucking a pig doesn’t make you a fag, you know that. Besides, I can see that tent there in those short of yours, you want to at least feel what it’s holes are like, right? Now come on–I’ll feed, and let you get a taste. Trust me, once you fuck this pig of mine, ain’t nothing gonna feel as good again, and with your help, we can get this nasty fuck over 700 pounds by the end of the week! What do you say? Thanks bro, I knew I could count on you–now make that piggy squeal for me, I love it when that fat faggot squeals.

Family Portrait (Part 4)

WARNING: INCONTINENCE PLAY

In the end, the game was on, but none of the three of them were paying much attention to it. Marty was too busy making sure his new big brother Bob was well under the portrait’s influence—and making sure his brothers started getting along. Much of the first quarter was spent in what Marty thought of as the “kiss and make up” stage–he parked Keith and Bob on the couch next together, and pretty soon Bob’s tongue was happily buried down his little brother’s throat, and then, by the second quarter, he had his cock buried down it too, Keith happily sucking his big brother off like he’d been doing it his whole life, and it a way, he had. Marty had been working on him too, little by little, getting him adjusted to his new, adult, needs. Smoking cigars, guzzling beer, growing out his hair and beard good and long and filthy. By halftime, his brother Bob was looking like a fine new addition to the family–a big, bulging beer gut, beard down to his belly button, hair down to the middle of his back, stringy and unwashed, his whole body coated with hair. But this wasn’t enough for Marty–hell now, Bobby had given him too much of a hassle for this to be all he got, no, he deserved so much more. Now that Bob was well on his way to becoming a proper member of the family, it was time to push him fully into his new role.

“He’s a good boy, isn’t he, Bob?” Marty asked. He was behind the couch, looking over them both, Keith still eagerly sucking on Bob’s cock, “Makes you proud, doesn’t it?”

“Best…fucking cocksucker I know,” Bob said, taking a deep drag off his cigar.

“Well of course he is, you taught him everything you know, didn’t you?”

“I…I did?”

“Of course–you taught both your boys so well. Best fucking teacher we could’ve had,” Marty said, and then leaned in close, focusing hard, watching the portrait hanging over them all, “We couldn’t have asked for a better dad than you, you know.”

“But I’m not–”

“And you couldn’t have asked for better, sexier boys. You did everything you could to make sure we grew up just like you. Fat, stinking slobs. Cocksucking, buttfucking faggots. Lazy good-for-nothing, trailer trash. Yeah, you couldn’t be more proud of your family.”

Bob was still trying to fight it, but Marty could see him losing. His long hair receding slowly, exposing the crown of his head and then shifting back even farther, until all that remained as a horseshoe of thin, ragged grey hair, his beard making a similar color shift, followed by the rest of his hair all over his body. His face grew lined with wrinkles, his fat gut no longer firm but sagging down. He heaved a smoky sigh and settled in, the portrait coming into better focus, his blurry form now centered, standing behind his two sons in the middle.

“It was a hard life, I know, working in the factory, but now you’ve hit seventy, and you’ve retired, got that hefty pension and social security, so you can just relax all day long, living with your boys, keeping us happy. You do like seeing your boys happy, right? It’s what you’ve always lived for.”

“Y-Yeah, I got the best fuckin’ boys in the world.”

“You sure do, you love us more than anything–you live for your family.”

“Sure do, son.”

“Why don’t you show Keith how much you love him? How happy you want him to be? You live to make your boys happy, to serve them.”

Keith stood up, and his dad licked his lips before leaning forward, hefting up his low hanging apron and digging through his stinking gunt for his puny cock to suck.

“Too bad you’re past your prime at this point, body breaking down, aches and pains. Had to pull out all those teeth of yours last year, get you a set of dentures. Can’t get hard anymore, but you leak cum like a faucet. Can’t hold your piss in anymore either, haven’t been able to for a while. Your hole’s been fucked so loose you shit yourself too, so you gotta wear those diapers from now on. Still, it turns you on, doesn’t it? Lounging around the house in your own, stinking filth? It just makes you leak even more, and you wear the same diaper for days at a time, until it sags off your body, and you have to wear another one.”

Was it too much? Bob was fighting it, hard, but the portraits hold on him was too great now, Marty could sense it. He’d do anything he wanted. A set of dentures appeared on the coffee table–he knew his boys preferred his gummy mouth more anyway. A thick diaper appeared around Bob’s waist, and immediately the room was filled with the stench of piss and shit from it, but neither Marty nor Keith cared–they’d lived with their father’s filth long enough to barely even notice it anymore. Marty came around the couch, slipped a hand between his younger brother’s ass cheeks and started probing his hole, making him groan and finally orgasm down his father’s throat–Bob drank all of his son’s spunk down, licked his lips, and started on his older boy, Marty. He didn’t last long, and he felt the magic seal itself as he came, his new father’s image cemented in the portrait with their own, and his brand new, filthy father sat back on the couch, his own filth squelching around him in his diaper, and grinned toothlessly at his boys, the best boys in the world, and he couldn’t have been more happy.

TO BE CONTINUED?

Family Portrait (Part 3)

When reality snapped back to order, the effects were seen far beyond the trailer park where Keith now lived with his older brother–his now ex-wife and sons were forced into new realities as well. The two older sons, David and Terrance, were living out on their own, working and renting an apartment together while they attended the local community college, trying to make the leap to a four year college when they could afford it, and both of them avoided their father like the plague. His youngest son, Bobby, split his time between his mother’s house and his father’s house, but only because he was still seventeen for a few more months. In all honesty, he hated every second he had to spend with his filthy uncle and father–he was ashamed to even be related to them. His mother understood, but there was nothing she could do, until he reached eighteen and could legally decide for himself. And so, Marty decided that the next easiest target would be Bobby, when he arrived to stay with his dad and uncle the next week.

That gave him plenty of time to get adjusted to life with his new stupid, lazy younger brother, and he loved every second of it. While he couldn’t make any massive changes to him, now that the picture had become static again, just like his wizard friend had said, he could continue making small changes and suggestions for another few days, all of which Keith was more than happy to obey, and by the end of the week, he reeked of cum and sweat, he hadn’t had a shower in months, and he spent all day and night drunk, passing out on the couch with the TV on every night, when he wasn’t busy in his brother’s bed, servicing his every sexual desire. Still, they both knew that as soon as Bobby arrived for his week of custody they would have to control themselves…for a little while. Marty didn’t think Bobby would be returning to his mother’s house anytime soon, that was for sure. All he’d have to do is get the young man relaxed and focused on the portrait, and everything would be perfect.

However, from the day Bobby arrived, it became clear it wasn’t going to be nearly as easy as Marty had thought. The boy had some…problems with authority, especially parental authority. He spent almost all of his time in his room, giving his uncle no real chances to exert much influence on him in any way. Marty thought he had him the second night, when he managed to successfully enchant Booby with the portrait, causing a third blurry figure to appear beside the images of his father and uncle, but when he tried to influence the boy, and turn him into a chubby, submissive cub for them both to use, nothing seemed to work–Bobby fought his suggestions, and after an hour, the image of him had faded from the picture entirely.

Angry and frustrated, Marty called his wizard friend, demanding to know what was wrong–the wizard was a bit flummoxed, but said that the reason for Bobby’s resistance probably had to do with his perceived relationship to his family–that is, he didn’t want to perceive himself as Keith’s son, but he didn’t have an easy solution for him. Marty’s mood stayed sour for a few days, until he overheard a fight between Bobby and his father one night. Bobby told him that Keith had never been his father, that Bobby was the only person in the room who could act like an adult–and that gave Marty an idea: if Marty thought he was the adult in the room…well, why not make him one?

The fight ended, Bobby stormed off to his room. Marty waited for half an hour, and then knocked on the door, letting himself in–the portrait had appeared on the wall of Bobby’s room, looming over him. “Bobby, I know you aren’t a fan of us, but you need to accept the fact that we’re you’re family, and there isn’t anything that can change that,” he said, and pointed at the picture, “Look at us up there, wasn’t that a good day?” Bobby looked at the swirling paint, his eyes drawn in immediately, a fleshy blob appearing in the picture, but Marty could see him fight, see him resist his placement between them, where a son belonged. So Marty tried something different, “But you’re a man now, you know? And you know, we don’t treat you like that enough. You aren’t a boy anymore, Bobby–no, not Bobby–Bob. You’ve grown into a fine young man, haven’t you?”

Bobby resisted for a moment more, but then visibly relaxed where he was sitting on the side of the bed. Marty could see his body changing, hair growing up his forearms, thick like theirs, his body bulking, as he grew older, into his mid 20’s. Finally, finally he had him, and Marty knew exactly what this young prick needed–if he wanted to be an adult, then fine, let him.

“You know Bob, I’ve always admired you. I’ve never seen you as a nephew, not really. I’ve always thought of you as a real brother to me. And I know Keith get’s on your nerves, but he’s, well, he’s younger than us, right? He’s always going to be a bit immature.”

Bob kept growing older, his face growing a bit more lined, hair receding back past the crown of his head, becoming flecked with gray, and he chuckled, “More like a fuckin’ baby–we should just put him in diapers, right?” he laughed harder, but something about the way he’d said it…it just made Marty angry. Still, Bob was under his thumb now, right where he needed to be.

“Look, come on back out, the game’s almost on. I know you wouldn’t want to miss a good football game over a stupid fight with your little brother.”

“Yeah…yeah, you’re right Marty–you always have a way of…of making so much sense, you know?”

“Yeah, I know, now come on, I have a feeling it’ll be a game to remember, big bro.”

I find that not a lot of authors combine mind control and scat. I love your balance when you write a dirtier story. I have trouble finding them out there though. Any recommendations for really filthy mind control stories? and any other fetishes you think I should start to dabble it?

I provided a fairly good list before, which would be a good place to start. You can find that one here. 

As for other fetishes, I’m not sure I really have anything to recommend in particular. Just go chase what you like, and be willing to give things a try that seem crazy, I suppose.