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Long time listener, first time caller here. Being a music head myself, I particularly enjoyed when you posted what music you were currently digging ages ago as there was a nice crossover with stuff I liked too. So my question is: what sort of things are you grooving to at the moment?

Oh goodness, here we go again. It’s been a while since I posted this, and there’s been a lot of good music over the last year or so. I suppose we might as well start with 2015–I don’t believe in numerical lists, but here’s an incomplete list of the various albums I really loved from last year. To keep this list on the shorter side, I won’t go into detail on anything, but if you have follow up questions, feel free.

  • “Sound & Color” by The Alabama Shakes
  • “Urban Flora EP” by Alina Baraz
  • “Mutant” by Arca
  • “But You Caint Use My Phone (Mixtape)” by Erykah Badu
  • “Vulnicura” by Bjork
  • “Goodbye” by Bottoms
  • “Sometimes I Sit and Think and Sometimes I Just Sit” by Courtney Barnett
  • “Blackheart” by Dawn Richard
  • “Fading Frontier” by Deerhunter
  • “Poison Season” by Destroyer
  • “Surf” by Donnie Trumpet and the Social Experiment
  • “Kahraba” by EEK
  • “M3L155X” by FKA Twigs
  • “Art Angels” by Grimes
  • “In Colour” by Jamie XX
  • “Dark Energy” by Jlin
  • “Platform” by Holly Herndon
  • “Hallucinogen EP” by Kelela
  • “Wildheart” by Miguel
  • “Music Complete” by New Order
  • The Nymph Cycle EPs by Nicholas Jaar
  • “To Pimp a Butterfly” by Kendrick Lamar
  • “Levon Vincent” by Levon Vincent
  • “Heterocetera” by Lotic
  • “Wildheart” by Miguel
  • “Garden of Delete” by Oneohetrix Point Never
  • “Frozen Niagara Falls” by Prurient
  • “Ugly Cherries” by PWR BTTMS
  • “Pandemic” by Rabit
  • “Currents” by Tame Impala
  • “The Beyond / Where the Giants Are” by Thundercat
  • “Sprinter” by Torres
  • “Ratchet” by Shamir
  • “The Gate” by Swans
  • “Summertime ‘06” by Vince Staples 

And now, a shorter list of the albums I’ve really enjoyed this year:

  • “Malibu” by Anderson .Paak
  • “Blackstar” by David Bowie
  • “Emily’s D+Evolution” by Esperanza Spalding
  • “Man Made Object” by Go Go Penguin
  • “untitled unmastered.” by Kendrick Lamar
  • “Varmints” by Anna Meredith
  • “Animals” by Not Waving
  • “Third Law” by Roly Porter
  • “Adore Life” by Savages
  • “SVIIB” by School of Seven Bells
  • “Zelalem” by Mikael Seifu
  • “Seth Bogart” by Seth Bogart

So there–all the stuff I’ve been grooving to. If you have anything more specific to ask, feel free!

Ruining Mr. Fisher (Part 8)

At first, it was just like all of the other times Ned had changed him. He could feel the medallion twisting back into his past, tugging at strings, unravelling what had always been such a promising, well ordered life that he’d made. But then, he felt the medallion tugging at something different, at strings and cords within him that had a higher tension, a deeper resonance. It hurt, feeling them unfurling, breaking apart and latching themselves out in new directions–and when the snapped, everything else came with them. Before, it was like Ned had been slowly cutting away at the individual strands of a thick, twined rope. However, at that moment, the rope had finally lost, and had come apart. He wasn’t even sure what, exactly had changed, way back in the past, but it was ruining everything. Nothing was the same, and he found himself whipping forward through a new timeline–one where he didn’t have money or resources, and he had no drive to seek them out. When he flunked out of school and never even bothered going to college. The few parts that he could cling to were those things Ned had already given him–his multitude of addictions, his filthy body, his masochistic desires. He rocketed forward, time flowing too fast for him to follow, space warping it’s way around him now. He was nowhere suddenly, and then he was somewhere new, the light dying back, leaving him crumpled on a filthy floor, heaving for breath in a fetal position, trying to understand what he’d just witnessed.

“Well, come on bitch–you can’t just lay there all fuckin’ day,” Ned said, “Come on boy, help me git yer worthless father up.”

Shawn and Ned got down, each took one of Gerard’s doughy arms and together managed to haul his fat ass up again, shivering and shaking and looking around him. He’d been in his house, hadn’t he? But he’d never owned a house before. He’d always lived in…trailers. Trailers like this one, where he was standing. He groped his way to a table, lit a cigar and smoked it, fighting how normal this felt, trying to keep away the memories blocking him in, making that old him, that successful him nothing but a tired fantasy. “Where…What did…” He never finished the questions, and Ned didn’t answer them because Gerard–or Gerry, rather–knew the answers.

He was in his trailer. Ned had made it so he’d never been a banker at all, but more than that. Ned had ruined his entire life, and now…now, here he was. Living in a disgusting, rundown single wide trailer. He worked as a septic tank and sewer repairman. Worse yet…he loved it. In fact, he realized that Ned had given him a slight reprieve from his previous inability to feel anything with his cock–now the only thing that could get him hard was the pungent odor of a septic system, a backed up toilet, or an especially rank fart pushed out while his tongue was buried in deep. He sat down on the edge of his bed, sheets rank with cum shots from him and his son, and let out a massive, wet fart, felt his tiny cock squirm to life, and started snorting up his own stink, feeling his constant, raging horniness begin pushing every other thought from his mind.

“Don’t worry Gerry, I made sure you live right next door to me. It’s a bit lonely right now, just the two of us, but I’ve been keeping an eye on a few of your old coworkers, you know. The three of us will have plenty of company around here soon enough.”

“Ya fuckin’ bastard,” Gerry muttered, barely even noticing his new accent, “Ya ain’t fuckin’ won, ya know. I still gots me in here.”

“Oh trust me Gerry, I know,” Ned said, and walked up to him, and pressed his medallion back against Gerry’s breast, “I can take care of that too.”

It didn’t hurt, and that was worse–it was just warm, and comforting, and…and easy. He felt the scar which he’d had on his chest ever since Ned had first touched the Medallion there beginning to stitch back together, fading away–and along with the mark, his old mind and memories were fading too. “No…nuh-uh, please…” he slurred, a bit sleepy, “Don’…I didn’t mean it…”

Ned stroked one hand through Gerry’s greasy, filthy locks of hair, leaned in and whispered to him, “I know, but I was gonna do it anyway.”

When Ned pulled the medallion away, Gerry’s skin was perfect, without a mark to be seen. His nasty, shit loving neighbor looked around dimly, like he was trying to remember something but couldn’t, then let loose a long loud fart and gave a big belly laugh. “Fuck, that was a good’un!” he said, “Rank fucker gittin me horned up. Ya’ll gonna plow my nasty pig holes or what? Come on son, ya ain’t fucked pa yet tahday, ‘n I need that big ass fuckstick plowin’ me deep,” Gerry said, rolled over and presented his hole to Shawn, who smiled, stroked his cock a few times and slammed it in, Gerry squealing in pleasure.

Ned watched the father and son fuck for a moment, and then got up on the bed, in front of Gerry, and dropped his pants, his ass towards his neighbor’s face. “What do ya say pig? Ya hungry?”

“Fuck yeah, Ned, ‘specially if ya ain’t wiped up–then again, Ah ain’t never seen a roll a toilet paper within ten miles a here.”

“Why spend money on that crap when I got the best fuckin’ asseater right next door?” Ned said, shoved his crack into Gerry’s face and let loose a ripe fart. The pig spasmed, feeling cum spew from his nipple like cock, oozing down from his gunt and dribbling into his bed sheets, but Gerry just focused on eating out the nasty hole in front of him, grinding his filthy beard into it, tongue burrowing deep. This was the life, he thought. The perfect life for a pig like him–everything he’d ever wanted, and he’d never want for more ever again.

Ruining Mr. Fisher (Part 7)

It didn’t feel good. It hurt. But that…that was oddly satisfying. He deserved this, and…and he wanted this. He’d wanted his son for years, and the first time Shawn had raped him, years ago now, he’d fought weakly, secretly happy his son wanted to abuse him. He…loved being abused. It reminded him of where he belonged. Ned shoved a filthy foot in his face and Gerard licked at it, smearing it with blood, but he needed to serve, it was who he was, what he was made to do. Some small piece of him fought, told him this was wrong, this is what Ned wanted, but the sheer force of years of torment and abuse at the hands of them both had made it impossible to think beyond the next beating and rape.

The both of them teamed up and abused him all night long, and by the end of it, the pleasure was back, the pain was so good again, it was the only joy he felt, now that his cock was dead. He…craved it, begged for it, begged for his beastly son to pummel him over and over. He called out of work, and they let him rest, finally, for a few hours, until he was well enough to drive him and his son back to his house, where his son had been living for years now, his father’s abusive master. Gerard did everything his son demanded, both out of fear, and a certainty that his son was his superior–or at least that’s what Shawn and Ned told him. Shawn was generally skilled in his abuse, only leaving bruises where they could be covered by Gerard’s suits at work, returning home after being visited by Ned each night, so he could satisfy his son’s insatiable, sadistic appetites. It was exhausting, his work suffered, but he clung to it, like a waterlogged piece of wood in a storm. Without this office, what did he even have anymore?

Ned, however, kept making it harder, and after that night in his trailer, he was determined that Gerard should be the master of his own fate. His first choice, about a month later, was between becoming addicted to drinking piss, needing it as much as he desired cum, smoke, and alcohol; or becoming his son’s and Ned’s personal toilet paper, desperate to clean out their filthy ass cracks. The piss seemed insane, and he’d already been forced to lick out Ned’s hole once or twice, so he chose an addiction to crack. From that day on, he found it impossible to get by without shoving his face in his son’s sweaty crack after every shit, and he begged Ned for the pleasure of his own crack each day. He found himself more interested in crack than cum too, and would often troll through the bathhouse, waiting for a top to fill a bottom with his load, before swooping in and eating it back out.

The second choice was easier–filthy pits which Gerard would never be able to hide? Or Horrendously loud, disgusting farts? He went with the farts of course–he’d already become rather keen on them, after having his face shoved in cracks on a daily basis–but what Gerard hadn’t counted on was what his own gas would do to him. Everytime he caught a whiff of his own stench, he would find himself compelled to snort up as much of it has he could, making a scene of himself every time, making sure everyone around him in the office knew just how much he enjoyed the smell of his own filthy farts. It wasn’t too much longer after that, that his manager called him into his office, fired him, and had security escort him out of the building, kicking and screaming and raving and sobbing.

He’d lost it. He’d finally lost his job. He’d known it was coming, of course, he’d known that Ned would never let him keep it. But…But he’d destroyed his son for this job. He’d…fought so hard against Ned, to try and cling to it, and it had still slipped from his hands, all the same. Why had he even cared so much about it? Everyone had hated him, had been cruel, even back when he was just fat, calling him Tubby and Fatass to his face. He’d hated it, and yet…it was the last piece of himself, and now, on the sidewalk outside, wearing a filthy suit, he let loose a huge fart, snorted it up, and broke down into sobs, struggling to light a cigar to help him calm down.

he went home, and found his son working out, like always. He’d only gotten larger, his arms so packed with muscle he couldn’t even drop them to his sides. He told him what had happened, and his son beat him to a pump, screaming at him, calling him a disgusting failure of a human, and then fucked his hole. Gerard didn’t fight back; after all, Shawn was right. It was late when Ned arrived–he’d figured out what must have happened when he was cleaning the office and didn’t see Gerard there, his desk cleared out and empty.

“Well Ned? It’s finally come to this,” he said, swinging the medallion in a circle, watching the chair wrap around his finger in one direction, and then the other, “I don’t blame them, really. Hell, I thought for sure they would fire you sooner, to be honest.”

“Please, what else do you want from me? I don’t have anything else, please, just leave me alone,” Gerard said.

“Oh, but Gerard! I can’t just have you be unemployed! You’re far too diligent for that. No, you’re going to have to do something with your life. Still, it might be hard finding a job that would take someone like you, some fat, filthy, cigar and drink addicted fart sniffer cum swiller. I mean, you’d have to be willing to take, well, just about any kind of work, don’t you think? Still, I found the perfect new career for you, and I guarantee you’ll love it. Now hold on, this one’s going to hurt like a bitch,” he said, and shoved the medallion to Gerard’s breast one more time.

Finally, some one who knows about this Chaos Theory business. If a butterfly flaps its wings, does a young, reasonably fit man sudden turn into a 300 pound daddy bear? If enough butterflies then flap their wings after that, could, like, maybe it reverse itself? I’m, uh, asking for a friend. P.S. Make that 350 pound daddy bear. Fucking butterflies.

*Goes and finds butterflies, chases them and makes them flap more.*

Am I helping?

What if you wrote a story about an author of erotica refusing to write about a particular kink then gets cursed based on that kink?

That sounds way too meta for me. But if I refuse to write this story because it’s too meta, then that means I’d have to be cursed with a meta curse–does that mean I’d get turned into an author who can only get off on stories about authors getting transformed by curses? Or does that mean I’d be inflicted by a curse which would itself be meta–like an author becoming inflicted with the changes he writes for his characters, or perhaps even an author being controlled by a character from his own stories, who he is still in control of by writing him?

See? Too meta. Now look what you did.

Requested & Submitted by @inchingtowardursinity

He couldn’t believe how long they’d been taking, building the house next door to his. He’d been surprised when the person who’d bought the large house beside his had simply bulldozed everything, opting to build a new house all from scratch. he hadn’t really seen much of the new owner; he appeared to be taking a rather hands off approach to his new house, and in Charles’s opinion, it showed in the amount of work the crew was putting into it. Often, it seemed like they weren’t doing anything all, beyond being rowdy, loud and a general nuisance. 

The crew was full of older, burly men—all of them with a considerable amount of tattoos, most with beards, and every single one of them seemed to be smoking something–cigarettes, pipes, cigars. The smoke was the worst part–he couldn;t seem to escape it, and the more he smelled it, the harder it was to focus on his own work around the house. One time, he’d been trying to do yard work, when he realized he’d just been…standing there for close to half an hour in one spot, just…smelling the smoke. He was angry at himself, and didn’t even notice the fact that he was hard, suddenly.

Still, Charles warmed up to the crew over time. He befriended a few of them over the fence one afternoon. It turned out that the reason things were taking so long was that the crew was understaffed, and the owner was taking forever, on the plans and details. Not too long after that, the men started suggesting he come over and hang out with them in the afternoons and evenings. He never really recalled the meetings well, but…but he sure did enjoy himself every time. There were flickers of clarity–once when he had his cock through a hole in his fence, getting sucked off by one of the workers on the other side. He couldn’t believe what he was doing, but he also couldn’t stop, and he fell back into his smoky stupor long before he came, got down, and returned the favor.

Soon he was craving smoke, but for some reason none of the men would let him smoke anything of theirs–all he could do was suck their second hand smoke from their mouths. It was not long after that, when the owner came knocking on Charles’s door. Charles was in the middle of a terrible week–he’d…simply forgotten to go to work for a few days, and his boss had called and informed him he’d been fired. The owner had heard of his troubles, and had come by to offer him some relief. He had a perfect job for him, he said–all Charles had to do was give him the deed to his property.

Charles refused at first–he loved his home. But when the owner laid out a pipe, a cigar, and a pack of cigarettes, and offered him one of those in addition to the job…he couldn’t stop himself. He grabbed the pipe, packed it and lit it like he’d watched the crew do countless time, and sucked down the smoke, feeling his entire body heating up, from his toes to his gut to his hands…and in a matter of moments, a very, very different man was standing there, chuffing on his pipe.

“What do you think Chuck? Think we can have this house torn out in a week?”

“W-What? I…I don’t…” Chuck looked down at his body, his full gut coated in a riot of tattoos–at least what he could see around his long thick beard, “I…where am I?”

“You’re a member of my crew Chuck. We’re looking at this house I just bought. I want to tear it down and add it to my property next door.”

“O-Oh…I…I guess me ‘n the crew could do it…”

“That’s what I like to hear–now you fat pig, bend over–I wanna fuck your nasty hole.”

Chuck was all to happy to oblige, letting his owner fuck him bent over the side of the couch, and then he went back and joined the rest of his crew. He was welcomed like an old friend, and all of them wanted a taste of Chuck’s new, eight inch cock, and a chance to admire his new, beautiful body; just like the bodies the owner had all given them over the years.

Ruining Mr. Fisher (Part 6)

The light died back after about thirty seconds, but Gerard kept his face turned away. He…didn’t want to look at him. He didn’t want to see what he’d just done to his only son. It didn’t really matter though, because he knew everything about the new Shawn anyway, from his new memories that were forming in his mind, coming unbidden to him, the previous Shawn fading away to a distant memory.

Shawn–he’d always been Gerard’s pride and joy. Brilliant from a young age, with his father’s drive and ambition, he’d funneled him into the most advanced private schools and academies he could find. They hadn’t always had the best of relationships, but that was because Gerard wanted him to be great, before all of this, before Ned had first flashed that medallion in front of his eyes, Shawn had been seventeen, at the front of his class, with full ride scholarships to Harvard and Yale. He’d been talking about becoming a Senator, or President, one day, and Gerard knew he could do it, and part of him had always hated it. Always hated him for…outshining him, for taking the stepping stones he’d provided as his father and using them even better than he’d imagined he’d might, even better than Gerard could have used them. As Ned had torn him down, few things had hurt more than the contempt he’d seen in his son’s eyes, every time he looked at his faggot failure of a father. Part of him had always wanted to see him fail at something, but what he’d done now, was make it so Shawn had never even tried to do anything in his entire life.

A difficult child, he’d gotten in fights even at preschool–he’d never made it far academically, and once everyone at all the other schools had gotten wind of his son’s violent tendencies, they’d all barred him admission. He couldn’t even succeed at public school, and Gerard had been forced to bail him out of trouble for bullying and violent outbursts for years. He’d been expelled two months into his freshman year of high school. Gerard had paid for tutors, but none lasted, and now Shawn didn’t have to do anything he didn’t want to do…and Gerard couldn’t make him do anything at this point. The rock in his stomach wouldn’t settle, and he finally turned around, and found Ned on top of his son, his new son, the two of them kissing and eating each other’s sweaty faces, grinding their crotches together.

Shawn had always been in decent shape, but now he was massive. After all, he spent all his free time (and he had a lot of free time) working out and practicing boxing and wrestling with men who doubled as fuck buddies most of the time. Gerard had caught him with steroids over and over, but had never been able to stop him from taking them, and that had only made him bigger and more aggressive than before. Shawn had gotten the first of his piercings when he was eleven, behind his parents’ backs, and his first tattoo in exchange for a blow job when he was fourteen. At this point he had more metal in him than Gerard could count, and at least three quarters of his body covered in shoddy, sloppy ink work.

“Fuckin’ A,” Shawn said, when Ned lifted away from his mouth, his nose broken in multiple places, eyes swelled from beatings, half his teeth missing from his mouth. “Didn’t…fuckin’ know I could feel this fuckin’ good. Fuckin’ powerful man…Fuck! I feel fuckin’ good, ya know?”

“I bet you do,” Ned said, “But here, let me give you some better equipment, eh?” Ned pressed the medallion into Shawn’s flesh, above his cock, and Gerard wanted his son’s cock and balls grow to obscene proportions–maybe not as large as his own were, confined tight in this cage, but at least eleven inches, and the size of two oranges.

“Yeah man, now that’s a fuckin’ fuckstick,” Shawn wrapped both scarred, tattooed hands around the shaft and started milking it, “Fuckin’ fantastic…”

Ned took a step back, admiring the muscular monster lying on his bed, veins bulging, huge roid gut, stupid stare on his face as he drooled and stroked his meat. “Hard tah believe a sexy fucker like that came outa yer seed, bitch, gotta say.”

“You…what the fuck, you fucking ruined him…”

“Sure fuckin’ did, but he likes it. Still, a deal’s a deal, so let’s get that cage off ya,” Ned said. Gerard hefted up his apron and let Ned get at the cage there–but instead of unlocking it, he felt a searing heat as Ned pressed the medallion in the spot over his cock, and after a moment there was a loud clank, as the cage hit the floor, and Ned stood back up. Gerard reached under for his cock, but found nothing but fat. He kept looking, and couldn’t find his balls either. Eventually his hands found a half inch nub of a cock–more of a nipple buried in his gunt, and a couple of small balls. His face went red with rage. “What the fuck did you do to me?”

“The cage is off–I didn’t say how it would happen. Don’t need it anyway–that nub is dead flesh–no nerves, and you can’t shoot anyway, not with those dry balls. Now all we gotta do is fix the two of you up, and we’ll be golden.”

“What…what are you talking about?”

“Well, yer ex ain’t gonna want tah deal with a monster like that. ‘Sides, I have a feelin’ yer gonna like yer son a lot more in a second.”

Gerard tried to move, but he was frozen in place as Ned took the medallion and pressed it to his own breast–a seemingly endless flash later, he stumbled back, unable to believe what he was remembering, as his son got up from the bed and started towards him. “No–No, Shawn, please no, I–”

The right hook caught him mid sentence, and he felt another tooth dislodge from his mouth as he fell to the floor, his son grabbing him in a raging, erotic heat, driving his massive cock deep into his father’s hole. It hurt, and worse, it didn’t…feel good. All it did was hurt. Before, when Gerard had been fucked, it had felt good, but this, he screamed, and tried to crawl away, his son biting into his flabby shoulder and drawing blood as he drove in deeper, slamming his father’s face into the floor of the trailer, stunning him so he laid there and let his son rape his hole.