Male Bonding (Part 1)

Jared hadn’t been the best father–he knew that, but it wasn’t like Trevor had made it very easy for him, but he’d tried. He really had. But how in the hell are you supposed to act when your son comes out, at fifteen? Maybe he’d been a little harsh, he could admit that, but their relationship…he just hadn’t really been able to feel close to his son ever since that day. He knew, in his heart, that it wasn’t fair, that his son hadn’t done anything to feel that way, that he hadn’t chosen to be gay (after all, who would choose to be gay? It was just…just so unnatural!) but that didn’t change the fact that every time he touched his son, his stomach just…churned. It made him feel guilty, and he could tell Trevor knew how he felt, and so they just avoided each other, or fought. They’d been screaming at each other for years and somehow still calling it a relationship.

Things had been better when he’d gone to college, but when the school had pulled his financial aid, Trevor had been forced to move in with his now single father, living in the basement. He was at least able to find a job working retail at the mall, but he showed no real drive to move out and be out on his own…and he kept bringing home…men. Men! Men Jared’s age! It was…was…so disgusting! That had been their last argument, and Jared had threatened to simply throw him out, and Jared had stormed out, not returning home for several days…but when he finally came home again they finally…just, talked. They talked about it, about everything, for the first time, and Jared could at least understand where he was coming from, but he still didn’t want men coming to his house. Or, at least, he assumed that’s what they talked about. He…he couldn’t really remember the details of the conversation with any detail–his son had bought this…this ring. And the way it caught the light, it had been so…enthralling. Still, they had talked, and they finally came to a compromise–Trevor agreed that he wouldn’t host anymore, though he refused to stop having sex altogether. In return, he asked his father to dedicate time each week to bonding with him and rebuilding their relationship. He said that he just didn’t feel like he really had a father–he didn’t feel like he’d had a father for years. Jared agreed–it seemed like something he should be able to do, after all. Until he found out what his son had in mind, for their first bonding session.

“No. No! Absolutely not.”

“But you promised you would give it a try.”

“This is not at all what I thought I was agreeing to. This is disgusting! You’re disgusting!”

What Trevor had in mind to help them bond, he had discovered, was watching porn together–gay porn–and jacking each other off.

Trevor moved his ring in the light, sending a glint into his father’s face, watching his eyes lose some of their focus, “This…this really means a lot to me dad, and I just don’t think you’re trying very hard. I just don’t think you’re really committed to trying to make our relationship really work. And that…that hurts dad, it really hurts, you know? You don’t want to hurt me, do you?”

“N-No, of course not…but…but I’m not…gay.”

“You don’t have to be gay to watch porn and jack off, dad.”

“Yeah…but…” Jared knew–he knew there were other reasons, but he just…couldn’t find them.

“Take off your pants, Dad. Come sit down, and pull out your cock. At least give it a try for me.”

That…that didn’t seem too unreasonable. He dropped his jeans to the floor, and walked slowly to the couch and sat down, letting his cock slip out of his boxers. Trevor sat down next to him, wrapped his ringed hand around his father’s cock, and started stroking it. “That feels good, doesn’t it, Dad? Aren’t you enjoying this time together?”

“Y-Yeah…yeah…”

“Here dad, feel mine. Feel how hard it is? Yours is really hard too. Focus on it, focus on how good it feels, how much you enjoy having me stroke your cock, and focus on the ring, focus on the light, feel it fill your head so full that it pushes away all those other thoughts, all those doubts, and just listen to me, listen to your son, and think about how happy you are, to have this chance to rebuild our relationship, how you don’t want to damage it again, how you were such a bad daddy before, and you want to make it up to me, right?”

“…Yes…”

“That’s good. Now look at the screen. Isn’t that kind of sexy? Those two guys touching each other? Sucking each other? Fucking each other? Have you ever thought about that, Dad? Be honest now.”

“Y-Yes…”

“It’s ok, it’s ok to think that way.”

“No–I’m…not gay…”

“Push those thoughts away dad, and just enjoy yourself. Focus on those happy thoughts, those thoughts about men, focus on them. They make you feel good, they make you feel complete. You don’t like thinking about women nearly as much as men. In fact, you’re going to find it harder and harder to see women as attractive, from now on. Now stroke me faster, stroke me harder. You want to make me happy, you want me to feel good. You want to make me feel good more than anything else, you want to bond with me more than anything else. Make…Make your son cum with your own fucking hand!”

Jared stroked harder, but it all felt like a dream, like someone else’s hand was feeling his son’s cock spurt cum all over it, someone else’s mouth licking it up and relishing the flavor of his son’s cum. Some other body bending over to suck the cum from his son’s shirt. Some other person’s cock exploding at the taste of cum, that taste he’d always fantasized about, that taste he’d always wanted, just like his son had said. He was so lucky to have a son like Trevor, so happy to have a chance to bond with him like a good daddy, yes, he’d be a good daddy from now on, the best daddy, the best daddy in the whole world…

Infection (Sketch)

It wasn’t like there were a whole lot of options, out in the sticks, so Drew stuck to rest areas and park bathrooms–nowhere near where he lived, of course, he didn’t want to risk being discovered and outed as a faggot, but it worked out alright enough for him. Still, he knew he shouldn’t have sucked that cock. He hadn’t even seen who it was attached to, it had just slid its way through the hole in the side of the stall–something about it had just seemed…off. That greasy, sweaty sheen on it, the cheese around the foreskin, and yet…and yet something about the way it smelled. And fuck, it was huge–he’d always been a bit of a size queen, he had to admit, so he cast his worries to the wind, got down on his knees and started sucking.

The guy wasn’t a quiet one–grunting and snorting. Within a minute, he was cumming in Drew’s mouth, and he couldn’t help but swallow it. It didn’t taste quite right either–it was too thick with an especially bitter taste, but…but he liked it, and when the guy growled at him to “keep sucking, fucker,” he did as he was told, and swallowed down two more loads before the guy finally went soft, pulled his ten inch cock free, and fled the restroom.

The next couple of days, he assumed it was a flu–he called out of work on the second day, his stomach hurt so badly. He didn’t want to eat and he didn’t want to drink, but fuck, was he hungry, he just didn’t know what for. By the third day, it had gotten so bad he was having cramps, and dry heaving. He couldn’t keep anything down, he’d just puke it right back up. The only thing he seemed to be able to stomach was cum. He was fucking horny, the entire time, which was a problem all on it’s own. His cock wouldn’t go soft, and he’d actually succeeded in rubbing himself raw–but every load he shot, he couldn’t stop himself from eating it up–licking it off the his hands, off the floor, anything. Even though he wasn’t feeling better, he went back to his rest areas and sucked cock all night long, as many loads as he could get, and that was the first day that he felt at all better, but only a few hours after he got home, the hunger was back, forcing him back out again, searching for more cock.

He ended up not going back to work. A week after his first encounter, he found a second cock like the first in a park, belonging to an equally desperate cockhound he’d been competing with for loads all night long. As soon as they smelled each other…their lust exploded, and neither of them could stop themselves, sucking down each other’s cum, cleaning their bodies, eating out their holes, the men who found them kept their distance, like they would an animal in the dark, and the two of them paid the other’s no mind. Without saying anything, the two of them knew that it would hurt too much to separate, and so they took off together, splitting off to find cock each night, and keeping each other fed during the day, as they traveled from town to town. It wasn’t much longer before they found a third man like them, who also joined up, and they settled into a rhythm.

In times of clarity, which were few, Drew would occasionally stand in front of some grungy motel or restroom mirror and stare at himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten something other than cum, or drank anything other than piss. He reeked, but showering didn’t interest him in the least. besides, a shower wouldn’t help this smell, this musk rolling off of him. By now, he could have any cock he wanted–no man who smelled him could resist feeding him a load or two. His body had wasted slightly, but it was mostly fat he’d lost. If anything, he seemed…bigger than before, by an inch or two, his muscled more developed than before, his cock longer, his fat balls producing a near constant stream of cum soaking the front of whatever filthy pair of jeans he was wearing at any given moment. The others he lived with were changing similarly, all of them feeling like they were…waiting for something to happen, or waiting for someone to…find them.

Then, one day, while the three of them were in the midst of their mini-orgy, waiting for the sun to go down so they could resume their hunt for cum, they all, at once, smelled something on the other side of the door–something massive, something…someone important. They fell over each other trying to get to the door and flung it open, and found a massive man in the doorway, or something man-like, with a cock hanging to his knees, reeking of their same musk, but…but different. Better. Superior. The man, the thing, whatever he was, it seeded them all, each in turn, multiple times, filling them to the brim with his cum and then left as soon as he’d arrived.

None of them moved for days. It hurt, it ached, whatever was inside him now. Drew was finding it harder and harder to think about anything beyond his swollen cock and balls, but he was so weak, he could barely manage to jack off. It wasn’t human. He wasn’t human. What was he becoming? Why…why did it feel like something was…inside him?

The Trophy (Part 3)

***WARNING*** Extreme abuse, rape, body modification, mutilation, and snuff ahead. Read at your own risk.

Once a man is broken, you’ve won. They don’t always realize it right away, and so, it’s best to start them off small. I forced him to shave his head every day from then on, and then, after he did that without complaint, he graduated to shaving his face and body as well. At this point, I also faced a decision of my own–now that he’d been broken down, what should I do with him? I had enjoyed taking his fingers, to be honest–I hadn’t done anything like that in ages–so why not go a bit further?

I began by getting him adjusted to bondage, immobility and darkness. I would keep him bound, first for hours, then days and then eventually for a week at a time. In his bondage, I would have men arrive and abuse him as they saw fit, or I would simply have them use him as a dump or urinal. At this point, I had treated him with products designed to remove his hair permanently–no more shaving would be required, ever. And then, I began the modifications. with the help of a dentist friend, I removed his teeth and tongue, and then together dropped his jaw, opening his mouth impossibly wide, and we crafted a new mouth with latex putty–soft, tight and inviting–a mouth pussy, as I called it. It got rave reviews from all the men who used it, and so I began crafting various attachments that could be inserted, in order to give different sensations and textures, different degrees of tightness.

Since he was no longer able to eat like a man, I fed him by tube–and soon he realized that he was becoming fat, his lithe body from before slowly expanding with mass, first a small gut and moobs, but as the drug cocktail broke down his metabolic rate, he expanded faster and faster–in six months, he had ballooned up to four hundred and fifty pounds, with no sign of stopping. The only thing clothing he wore now were full body rubber suits designed to deprive him of his senses. His eyes and ears were covered nearly all the time–he was only really aware of himself by feel and heft, rather than by sight or sound. When I took his eyes and ears, I don’t think he even noticed a thing aside from the pain–not that he could have registered disapproval with his mouth pussy anyway.

At about eight hundred pounds, when he was no longer able to move much at all, I decided it was time for permanent installation in my dungeon–we removed his cock and balls, his arms and legs, anchored him on a concrete block, and kept him growing, kept him alive, so he could feel what we were doing to him, carving out chunks of his fat, and installing latex holes for men to fuck, turning him into a jiggly fuckcushion for men to pin. I wonder what it felt like, to him, to have men fucking him in every direction, caught in the middle of their orgy. The rubber holes all over his body all drained out, along with his bodily fluids, into the sewer below the concrete slab–I would rinse him out once a week or so, to keep the pincushion from stinking up the room too much.

Alas, a little after one thousand pounds, he finally expired. I didn’t get rid of him, of course–he was mostly rubber at this point anyway. With the help of a taxidermist I knew from previous catches, we got rid of the flesh and stuffed what remained with rubber filling, preserving it’s squishy, fleshy feel, and it lives on in my dungeon, though I often rent it out to parties and local clubs as a fucktoy statement piece. I often have people ask me how, exactly, I made the thing, what had inspired me to create something like that, but I usually just remain silent. “I like my projects,” I say sometimes, happy with the double meaning.

You probably think I’m mad, don’t you? But how different is it, really, from a hunter keeping their trophies in the living room? That massive bear looming over them in the armchair, stuffed with fluff? I caught him–this is my token, my own personal trophy for my kill. Still, I’m getting the hankering for another project here soon–maybe not something quite so massive. Maybe I’ll make a pup for myself, or for a friend–I haven’t done one of those in ages. In fact, I’ve heard some rumours of an illegal dog fighting ring around town, and I bet I could extract an invite from one of my contacts–hell, maybe I’ll just run a kennel for a while? Pups are fairly easy, after all, I can make a few. After all, the only cruelty towards an animal I can condone is against a fellow human, you know?

The Trophy (Part 2)

***WARNING*** Abuse, rape, and physical mutilation ahead.

You have to start off by destroying their pride, you see.

You have to figure out what, more than anything else in the world, they treasure–that thing about them they love more than anything else, that thing where they store their idea of themselves. If you aren’t very experienced, you might need to rely on trial and error, though for most guys, it’s pretty obvious, I suppose. Got yourself a muscle man? Chain him up immobile for a few months with a catheter, feed him some gainer shakes until he’s good and plump, along with his own piss–ruin his body, and you can ruin his spirit faster than anything else. He’ll do anything you want so long as you don’t make him eat anymore. But for some guys, it can be as simple as a good, cleanly shaved head.

This one, it was so fucking obvious. His hair was the cleanest thing about him, primped and curled and flowing down past his shoulders. Sure, it looked nice, and there’s nothing wrong with a guy who wants to look pretty–everyone wants people to think they’re pretty, at the end of the day. But you want to break someone like this? Make them ugly. Of course, you can’t *just* shave their head. I coddled him for a few days, got him feeling better, gave him a bit of hope as his wounds were healing. He thought, just like a good beta, if he could perform submission well enough, I might just let him go. Then, when I couldn’t stand his false simpering anymore, I drugged him, hauled him out of the cell in my basement where he’d been staying, and bound him up naked–leaving just one arm free. I laid out the tools of his torture, while he slept–scissors and an electric razor, both within his reach, and then I waited for him to wake up, so I could explain the rules to him.

The game was simple enough–he had a choice to make. Either he could cut his own hair and shave himself bald, or he could take his punishment, whatever that might be. I remained vague, on that last part, of course. In his mind, he knew what I might be capable of, but a man’s vanity can be much stronger than good reason. He laughed, he thought this was ridiculous. Didn’t I know how long it takes to grow out hair like this? In truth, this was a test to see if I had guessed right. Any normal pragmatist would, perhaps, balk at shaving their head, but they would all do it, in the end. But him? No, his hair was the one thing about him which, in his mind, redeemed the rest of his failed life. Without his locks, what even was he anymore? I told him he had half an hour to complete the task–he didn’t even pick up the scissors once. So I bound his arm back down, and set up his punishment.

I hooked his cock up to a milker, put electrodes on his sack shoved a plug in his ass designed to vibrate against his prostrate, turned them both on, and sat back, to watch. He shivered at first, until the first load exploded out of him, and into the milker, which pulled out and dribbled into a quart mason jar, which I had set in his vision. He turned to me, and asked me how long this would take, and I informed him he could return to the cell when he had filled the jar. This, he thought, was ludicrous–a fucking quart of cum? I, however, was completely serious, and knew how long it would likely take–I kept him in that chair for six days straight, feeding him, giving him only two breaks a day, to shit and piss in a bucket under the chair, before hooking him back up. By the end, his cock was red and inflamed, he couldn’t even speak, having lost his voice after all the screaming, and I returned him to the cell to think about it for several days, before I dragged him back out, tied him down, and gave him the same choice: cut your hair, or take your punishment.

He actually picked up the scissors, that time, hands trembling, but he couldn’t do it. Still, progress. I knocked him out again, and hooked him up to a fucking machine–pounding his hole relentlessly until he could take my arm to the shoulder. As a relative virgin, his was…fairly tight–it took two days of work before he finally did it, and I locked him back up. At this point, I was sure he was imagining that this abuse was the worst I could do, the furthest I could go. I could wreck him, certainly, but I couldn’t destroy him. As expected, he again refused to cut his hair, certain he could take anything I might throw at him–but I had anticipated this, and so I took the thumb and index fingers from his left hand. He screamed for days, unable to believe what had just happened to him, what I had just done. This time, I let him stay in the cell with his ruined hand for close to a month, allowed him to heal slowly, without any relief from the pain. Then, I put him back in the chair.

He was terrified, but I told him that, this time, if he still refused, he could take his punishment and I would release him. However, I told him what that punishment would be. I would place a rubberband around his balls every ten minutes he failed to have his head completely shaven, and at an hour, I would take his nuts. He picked up the scissors before I even started the timer, and was hacking away at his locks. I got three bands on him, the pain and terror of his balls dying making his hand shake so much he had trouble finishing the job, but he made it, sobbing, and when I cut the bands, he shot a load from the sensation alone. I told him I was proud of him, and threw him back in his cell.

The Trophy (Part 1)

You know how it is: sometimes all you really want is a project. A big project, something you can really sink your teeth into, something that takes work, something big enough to give you that special kind of frustration, a puzzle to crack, a man to break. You can’t find someone like that in a leather bar–hell, you can’t find someone like that at any kind of gay bar. No, that’s too easy, when I get in one of those moods, when I start feeling restless, when every guy I bring home and keep around for a few days, perverting them further, just doesn’t do shit for me, not really. This is one of those times–so I figure, why not go on a hunt?

I can’t very well go out in my usual gear of course–the rubber tanks and leather chaps tend to scare off the prey, if they think they can smell a faggot. Still, getting dressed up for a hunt means considering what kind of prey I’m looking for, and also what’s in season. If it was summer, a bar by the beach would be ripe with muscle alphas ripe for the picking, but with the clouds rolling in and fall turning to winter, that wouldn’t be easy–or honestly, very desirable. No, I was feeling like something…something a bit rougher. Someone who might try and bite back. Flannel, I think. Yeah, but not a vest–don’t want my gut hanging out, as fun as that is. Flannel shirt, a bit worn and grungy, my biker vest over it. Jeans–not the best pair. They don’t fit quite right, and they’re still muddy from that night in the park a few days back with Rick. Still, if I’m straight acting they’re perfect. Finish the look with some boots, roll up the sleeves and show off my burly, hairy forearms, a ballcap, cigars of course, and I’m out the door into the early, already darkening evening. I’ll take the truck–play the part, and go for a drive.

I head out of town, through the suburbs and out onto the highway, skip a few exits and hop off when I spot a dive bar that seems busy. It’s a friday, the guys are all off work and celebrating–I slip in among the rowdy crowd like I know them, pick up a beer from the overwhelmed barkeep, and take a spot at the bar, where I can survey most of the room, and see how things develop. I nurse my first draft for a couple of hours, and start narrowing down the possibilities. It’s good, fertile. Any number of these guys would be great, but what I want is a challenge. Not necessarily the leader–if the leader disappears, people will ask questions after all. But the betas, the ones fighting for rank–those are who I watched, waiting for one of them to speak to me more than the others…and finally, it happened during the second fight of the night.

Two betas. One of them muscled, but short. He was intriguing, but just didn’t seem to give me much inspiration. The other, however, he was lovely. Tall, probably six foot two–not quite as tall as me, but close. Not muscled exactly, but more…toned. Not a gym toned–a work toned, a lower middle class hunger toned. He had this…lovely hair–long and curly, a dark blonde, which fell past his shoulders. I could see tattoos running up his arms, and the white tee he was wearing looked none to clean–the same with his jeans. He was also staggering drunk, which is really the only reason the short bearish one ended up winning, I think–yanked the guy down by the hair, got him off balance and with a sharp punch sent him tumbling into a table, overturning it. The crowd threw him out, but it was the tantrum he threw that sealed the deal for me–the rage, the anger, the pride. Just what I was looking for. I excused myself–no one even noticed that I’d been there, and followed him out into the parking lot, lighting a cigar as I did.

He was by one of the beat up trucks, trying to fit the key into the lock; I walked over and suggested that he not drive, as drunk as he was. That didn’t make him particularly happy, and he wheeled around, only to find himself facing me–he wasn’t too eager to lose a second fight, and he could tell he’d lose against me. Instead of throwing a punch he tried to insult me–I grabbed him by the long flowing hair and dragged him off, back away from the building, where a small stand of trees would give me some cover. He fought–but it was obvious he was proud of his hair–he didn’t dare risk ripping it out of his scalp enough to really fight me–at least until I threw him to the ground, got on top of him, and yanked down the back of his jeans.

Fuck, I needed this, so fucking bad. He fought, so I beat him to submission, breaking his nose and giving him a fat lip and two black eyes–then he gave in…kind of. He’d obviously never had someone in his back door. As soon as I forced my way in, he started hollering all over again–I had to ball up his shirt and shove it in his bloody mouth. I fucked him till I came, and then I slipped the popper bottle full of chloroform under his nose, and he was out like a light. The bar noticed nothing, as I backed my truck up to the trees, bound up my kill, threw him in the back, and headed home, ready to get to work.

Subway (Sketch)

Officer Hugo Mason had been with the city police department for close to ten years, and in that time, he’d always been highly respected by his fellow officers and superiors, enough so that his occasional fag bashings, both in and out of uniform, were usually overlooked and shoved under the rug by the rest of the department. After all, none of them liked faggots–although none of them disliked them nearly as much as Hugo did. Whether it was from a position deep within a closet of his own, or simply lashing out at a particular target, he was merciless either way. He was never quite certain, in the thick of what happened, whether it had been coincidence or some grand scope of cosmic revenge that it was him that ended up on the subway, alone in that car, that late at night. All he could really be certain of was that something strange had happened to him–though in the immediate aftermath, even he hadn’t been quite sure what it was.

It had been a late shift and he was on his way home–that time of night, there were never many people on the subway, but being alone in a car–that was rare enough that generally everyone notices when it happens, and the sensation is always eerie. A place which was usually so full of people–you realize just how large and small the space is at the same time. Hugo once heard a story of someone hyperventilating while alone in a car. It was probably just an urban legend, but sitting there by himself, the tunnel roaring along outside, he could understand how it could do that to a certain kind of person.

It was a decent distance to the next stop, long enough for him to notice–and the lights in the car flickered once, then again, and plunged him into momentary darkness, before coming back alive. The car had never stopped moving, but when he looked around, after the darkness, he say that he was no longer alone in the car. Down towards the other end, standing, holding onto the upper rail, was a sizable man–well, a sizable faggot, by the look of him. He was clad all in some sick, leather mockery of the uniform he wore during the day, and that alone made Hugo furious. Those faggots–was nothing sacred to them? Or was everything just some…disgusting target for their filth? Did faggots see him like that? Is that why they were always looking at him? Because they wanted something like that?

He stood up, the lights flickering again as he did, the train swaying and keeping him off balance. “Hey! Faggot! What the fuck thinks you have the right to wear something like that?” The man did nothing, didn’t even look at him, like he wasn’t even there. “Hey! Hey fucker, I’m fucking talking to you!”

He stalked towards him. The lights cut again, and when the lights came back up–there was no one there. He looked around, confused–the lights cut again, this time longer, and then came back after a few seconds–the man inches from his face–Hugo staring right into his eyes, smelling his hot breath, tinged with cigar smoke, and Hugo…he felt different. He…he was different. He was cold–his shirt and pants were gone, replaced by a harness and leather shorts…and a collar, which the man grabbed him by, pulling him into a kiss. Hugo knew he should be disgusted, but all he could think was how much he wanted him, wanted this man, wanted to be with him. The train was slowing down as they kissed, and came to a halt. The man stepped away, and asked, “Coming, boy?” He left the train without waiting for a reply.

Hugo crept to the doorway and looked out at the empty station–a station he didn’t recognize from the route. It was…somewhere else. The man walked off and disappeared up a staircase–something in him ached to follow him, but the terror was greater–the door slipped shut again, and started up, the lights flickering off, and he was left standing there again, his old self, the taste of the stranger still on his lips, which he licked. His cock achingly hard in his pants–so hard that he was able to whip it out and jack off onto the seat beside him before the train reached it’s next station–his station, so he could get off, legs shaking, trying to grapple with what he’d just experienced, what he’d just felt, the certainty that soon, very soon, he’d have to feel like that again.

Breakdown (Sketch)

“Great, just great,” Paul thought, hearing his car’s engine start grinding as he drove down the highway. He made it another half mile before smoke started pouring out, and he was forced to pull off to the side of the road…somewhere. He was on the way to a convention being held in Houston, and had decided to just drive rather than book a flight, but here he was–stranded in the middle of “Some Desert, Texas” in the middle of the night. He was already cutting it close, since the convention started the next morning, but this didn’t bode well at all. He got out and tried to pop the hood, but the metal was too hot too touch–instead he got his cell phone, but naturally he had no reception–that’s what he got for going with that stupid bargain network bullshit. He kicked the tire, cursing, and then leaned against the car door, wondering what in the hell he was going to do. He had zero mechanical know-how–if desperate, he could probably figure out how to change a tire, but this was obviously beyond that. It would seem, then, that the only option he had was to try and catch a ride to somewhere he might get some help.

That late at night, vehicles were few and far between. He kept the lights of the car on so people could at least see, but the first several trucks and semis he waved at didn’t even slow down for him. Finally, after a few hours–putting it well past midnight at this point–a pickup truck rolled down the highway, saw him, slowed down and pulled off the side of the road a some yards ahead of him.

Both door popped open. From the passenger side came a younger man, probably not quite old enough to be drinking yet. He was in better shape but still with a sizable paunch, balanced with a bit of muscle, wearing a sleeveless tee in the hot night, grimy looking jeans and cowboy boots. From the driver’s side, out climbed a…rather obese redneck, a full bushy beard, and long hair, wearing a pair of coveralls and boots which looked to be coated in grease. That was a good sign at least–if the guy was actually a mechanic–maybe his luck was turning around.

“Hey! Thanks for stopping–I was starting to think no one was even seeing me over here,” he said, extending a hand for the older guy, “The name’s Paul.”

“Bill,” he said with a grin, and spit something black onto the ground, “Ah don’ mind givin’ ya a hand, but it ain’t gonna be free, ya hear? Still, don’ look like ya got much choice, right?”

“I mean, of course. How much will it cost?”

“We’ll figure that out once Ah see what’s wrong. Might need tah go back to the show fer the tow truck, we’ll see. Let me poke ‘round a bit, see what’s wrong.” The young man came up, and Bill slapped him on the back, “Mah boy ‘ere can keep ya company fer a bit–say hi, Tim.”

“Hello sir,” the younger man said, his voice much less accented then his father’s, “I just hope we can help you out. I got some coffee in our cab, you fancy a drink?”

“That…that would be nice,” Paul said, and followed Tim over to the truck, while Bill popped the hood, cusing at the heat, and started looking around. It was lifted well off the ground, and Tim had to climb up into the cab–as he did, he let out a long, slightly wet fart inches from Paul’s face, behind him. The smell was gastly, burning his nose and bringing tears to his eyes, as he tried to cough it back.

“Aw shit, sorry about that. I can let real stinker’s go sometimes.”

Paul was still coughing and sneezing, but it felt like…like the smell was forcing it’s way through his nose and eyes, right into his skull. he could almost feel it in there, wrapping….wrapping itself around his brain, choking it…cutting…cutting off…

Paul didn’t bother bringing down the thermos of coffee–he just flipped over, legs hanging off the seat, watching the businessman’s eyes glaze over as he stopped coughing. He was a handsome one–looked like he worked out, probably in mid thirties or so. Dressed in a suit, hair styled nice, looking like a good cityfolk ought to look. He unbuckled his belt and dropped his jeans and jock down around his boots, rolled over and dropped to the step up into the truck, bare ass towards Paul’s face, and let loose another fart towards him, Paul sniffing the air and stumbling forward, pushing his face between the young man’s cheeks and sorting in as much of the funk as he could, his tongue licking out the filthy crack, burrowing into Tim’s hole. It was…sweaty, or greasy–something was getting on his face in any case, but for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to care. Deep inside, some part of him was screaming, the the stench in his mind had cut it off, rendered it quiet and powerless.

He had no clear idea of how long he stood there, eating out Tim’s ripe hole, as the young man pumped fart after fart in his face, forcing him to inhale all of it, but eventually Bill came around the side of the truck, apparently unsurprised by what he was seeing.

“What’s the damage, daddy?” Tim asked.

“Engine’s shredded tha bits. We’re gonna have tah tow it outta ‘ere at some point. Looks like he’s enjoyin’ himself. Fuck, still remember the first time Ah caught a whiff a yer farts son, fuckin’ changed mah life.”

“Can I bring him home, Daddy? This one’s…hungry. I think we can have some fun.”

“Oh alright. Ain’t like he’s got anywhere else tah go, right? He can stay wit us ‘till Ah git his car fixed up.”

“Ya hear that Paul? You get to stay with me for a few days! isn’t that exciting?”

Paul wasn’t listening–Bill finally grabbed the man by the hair and pulled him free from his boy’s crack. His eyes were empty and unblinking, and his previously smooth face was coated with a half inch long beard all over, which he’d sprouted over the course of his ass eating. Together they got Paul into the cab with them, squished between them on the cab’s hump, and got back on the highway, heading home, Tim giddy with excitement that his new friend would be staying with him for a good long while.

Paid Vacation (Part 4)

***WARNING: Still very filthy. ***

In his mind, Ian–or what few scraps of his old mind remained, knew they had lost. This new self–it knew what it was doing, and that was perhaps the worst part. It wasn’t that he had to behave like a child–it was that he wanted to. He wanted to shit and piss himself. He wanted to be fucked by his brother. He wanted to play with his shit, when it gushed out the sides of his diaper, smearing it all over his body, for Rick to lick clean later. He…wanted it, all of it. That made it so much worse, and so much more difficult to fight. It was no longer a compulsion, it was a desire, and it was a desire which was pushing out everything else that had been in his mind. He could barely remember anything about himself, his old self, anymore–and he didn’t really want to. That old him–he’d been a bad boy. But Ian wanted to be a good, disgusting baby boy more than anything, and so he fought that old him, beat it back into a tiny corner of his mind, until in the middle of the last week in daddy’s mansion, he…discovered it was gone. He’d won, finally–he was going to be a good boy for the rest of his life, and there was nothing that old him could do to stop it.

That final week, Rick was no longer taking care of him, but it was his own daddy–finally! The first time he came through the door, Ian was so excited, he fell off the bed and landed right on his diapered ass, shit spraying every direction. Still, since his brother wasn’t there to clean it up, Daddy said, that meant baby would have to take care of his own messes. That made sense to Ian, and so he licked the tile floor clean of his own shit–no longer disgusted by the taste, and a part of him had even begun craving it. His final programming sessions were much shorter these days, merely making sure it had fully eradicated every last bit of Ian’s old self, and his days were instead full of playing with his Daddy. He preferred having his baby play undiapered, and Ian was surprised at how fun it was, crawling around naked, feeling his massive belly drag across the tile, shit and piss suddenly spurting out of him, which he always cleaned up promptly, unless he risk upsetting his Daddy.

Not that his daddy didn’t enjoy getting messy–one afternoon, he hooked Ian up to his feeding machine with Ian on his hands and knees, and his Daddy fucked him for hours, until shit started falling from the baby’s ass. “Look at you, you fucking piece of shit–I looked in your file, you know. Ivy league college, top of your class, and now fucking look at you! Just a stupid, disgusting baby, can’t even keep your shit in! Well don’t fucking worry–you’re not going to have a smart thought in your head ever again, fuck no–the rest of your life, is gonna be spent in a fucking diaper, giggling and cumming as you shit and piss yourself!” he slammed his ten inch cock deep and came, stayed in and unloaded a bladder full of piss, muck spewing out after he removed himself, and rubbed Ian’s face in it, telling him eat it all up, like a good piglet, and Ian had never been happier in his life.

After three rough days with his Daddy, Rick finally came back in–his own gut taut after spending several days hooked up to the toilet pipes, and the two of them spent the next several days cleaning up the nursery and each other with their tongues. Still, the vacation was finally over, and it was time to get back to the office. In his state, Ian couldn’t drive of course–so Rick took them both back, and Ian discovered his office decor had been traded out, carpet for tile, an oversized crib, a big TV for his baby shows, and plenty of space for him to play. It turned out, he also had a lot of playmates.

Rick visited him daily of course, keeping his little brother cleaned up, but it turned out Daddy had lots of friends who liked playing around with dirty babies. Some of them wanted to hear him talk like a baby, begging them to let their little boy suck their cock–others wanted a chance to eat his shit out of his diaper, and still others were diaper daddies themselves. Ian liked those ones the best, both of them filling their diapers before playing in each other’s filth–the mess usually took all day to clean up, and Ian would let his big brother help–sometimes. It was a perfect life, and one Ian wouldn’t trade for anything in the world. Daddy would even visit sometimes, to play with him, though he didn’t see him as often as he’d like. But when Daddy told him it was time for another vacation, that he had some great ideas for his little boy, Ian was thrilled. Another whole month for his daddy to fuck with his mind? He could barely contain his enthusiasm, and shit his diaper in excitement.

Paid Vacation (Part 3)

***WARNING*** Still nasty.

For the first week, Ian was able to trick himself into believing that the programming was having no effect on him. He would fight and resist as much as he could, when he was awake, but the fact remained that there was very little he could do to prevent anything from happening to him. He focused his efforts on Rick, trying to get his coworker to see how fucked up this was, but Rick would just smile and shake his head, “I…I used to think like that too, you know. But don’t worry, you’ll understand here soon. You’re going to be so happy, just like me, just like we all are. I…I just want you to be happy, baby–here. let me make you feel good…” he said, and rubbed another load out for Ian, before leaving for the night. Rick was the only person he saw, after that first day, and after about six days, he’d started to loose hope that he’d escape. Still, he only had to hold out for a month, right? That’s how long his vacation was at least. If he could just hang on that long, if the programming didn’t work, then maybe…maybe they’d just let him go! He had a strong will, he could do this!

Then, slowly, he found himself enjoying what was happening to him. Enjoying the feedings, finding himself sucking down as much of the slop as he could, eager to fill himself up so…so he could shit more. So he fill his diaper to bursting. He tried to push the thoughts away, but they persisted, growing louder and louder in his mind. Still, he knew they were intruders, and even as they gained volume, he fought them, trying to work on Rick, trying to make him see that this was wrong. But my the middle of the week, he’d noticed something new–that whenever he tried to talk, the only thing that would come out sounded…immature and childish, using small words, or nonsense words. Even in his mind, he found himself using ‘poo-poo’, ‘pee’, and calling his penis his ‘wee-wee’. He forgot Rick’s name, and couldn’t recover it–the only thing he could think to call him was…’Daddy’.

Rick heard him say that, and chided him. “I’m not your daddy, little boy–you know that. Why don’t you just call me your big brother? Because we’re family, and families take care of each other, right?”

That didn’t sound right at all, but…but it did make him feel good, “Ok, big brother,” Ian said, smiling wide.

“You wanna take care of your brother’s wee-wee for him?”

Ian nodded–the taste of his brother’s cock had started growing on him, and he sucked him off, cumming spontaneously when Rick shot down his throat.

The next day, he woke to discover he was no longer tied to the bed. This…this was his chance! He rolled up, surprised by how…heavy he felt, and saw that his small gut had doubled in size in just a week. What in the world was he being fed, to make him do that? Still, now was his chance to get the hell out of here. He tried to stand up, but his legs couldn’t–or rather, wouldn’t support him. Instead, he started crawling across the floor towards the door, feeling his full diaper sagging down between his legs, making his wee-wee hard, just thinking about…about how nasty it was. How much his big bro would love eating his filth later. He shook his head, and reached the door, struggled to balance on his knees…but froze, in front of the doorknob, struck with terror, and…guilt. He…he didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to be a bad boy! No, no! He was a good boy, and good boys did what daddy wanted, and daddy wanted him to stay…right? Ian had lost his mental footing, and he sat back in his own shit, trying to sort out what he should do, reaching no firm conclusion before Rick came in to get his little brother cleaned up and fed, but disappointed that Baby Ian had gotten out of bed by himself. Doesn’t he know that’s dangerous? He disciplined him, smacking his ass after he’d licked it clean, Ian sobbing, promising he’d be a good boy from now on, and Rick let him suck his cock to quiet him back down, before diapering him back up, helping him back onto the bed, and giving him his daily programming.

Clarity came less and less. The few times Ian found himself considering escape filled him with fear of disappointing his family. No, he would be a good boy, good and obedient. His feedings grew longer, now that he could eat more, and his shit would regularly overflow his diaper after his meals…which filled Ian with disgust at first…but when Rick saw and praised him for being such a good, nasty baby, he felt himself well with pride–and he started eating more, shitting harder, to make Rick happy. After two weeks of his vacation, Rick finally fucked him–before licking him clean, shoving his cock into Ian’s shit coated crack, and Ian couldn’t believe how…how horny he was, playing and fucking in his own filth. Rick began fucking him regularly, and even let Ian suck his cock clean, even though Rick saved most of his mess for himself, and Ian found himself wondering what his big brother’s crack might smell like in the rubber, what…what his shit might taste like.

Ian could tell his body was changing, but his mind was so addled it was difficult for him to comprehend everything that was happening to him. The fat he was putting on was the most pronounced shift–after two weeks he was already close to 350 pounds, and his muscles had begun to wither. Now, even if he could remember how to walk, his leg’s wouldn’t have been able to support his weight. All of his hair, from the top of his head to his face to the rest of his body had fallen away, leaving him perfectly smooth from head to toe. His cock and balls had changed as well, growing smaller. His balls, by the end of the third week, were more like raisins, and his cock was shrunk back to less than an inch, and was usually buried in his fat. His nipples had grown larger, however, and become incredibly sensitive–it was easier now for him to cum by playing with them, that trying to find and play with his cock. He was losing, and he knew it, and a growing part of him didn’t even mind anymore.

Paid Vacation (Part 2)

***WARNING*** Things get nasty from here on out.

He awoke the next morning in a kingsize bed, his wrists and ankles bound to the four bedposts, naked aside from a thick diaper around his waist and a pacifier stuck in his mouth, and…and his mind clear, for perhaps the first time in ages. He fought and struggled, trying to scream around the pacifier, but his mouth wouldn’t stop sucking on it–even though he knew he shouldn’t, he had no control over his body, or over his bladder, he discovered, when he felt it release into the diaper, his cheeks blushing as he struggled more, but it was no use–sweaty and tired he collapsed, heaving for breath through his nose. He was alone for around an hour, before the door finally opened, revealing Mr. Jeffries and his two butlers, now glad in their more usual leather jocks and harnesses, to greet his newest guest.

“Ah, there you are Ian, I see you have been well attended to since your arrival last night, and from the smell, it sounds like you’ve already made yourself right at home.”

He tried to curse at him, but it only came out garbled through the pacifier, and he gave up after a few attempts at speaking. What in the hell was this? had he ever been working on anything? Now that his head was clear, all he could remember doing at work for the last few months was watching television meant for babies, laughing and giggling like an idiot as he pissed himself over and over, and jacked off into his sopping wet pants. What the fuck had been wrong with him, that he hadn’t even noticed it once?

“I’m sure you have a lot of questions, now that I’ve undone the block on your initial programming. Don’t worry, you won’t remember for very long–but the second stage isn’t effective unless you are fully aware–I wish we could just skip that long preamble, but until I’ve broken down your defenses, I can never be sure you’ll respond properly to the big guns or not. But now, your mind is defenseless–an open book, and I can’t wait to start ripping out those pages. From the moment I saw you in that elevator, I knew I had to have you, sweet little thing you are. You’ll be daddy’s good little baby boy before too long–you’re going to love it. I like to administer the first round myself, but I have another project of mine who’s dying for some time alone with you, who’ll take charge of your development for the rest of the month.”

First came the IV and the drugs, relaxing his body until he could barely move a muscle–even his mouth ceased it’s spontaneous sucking. Then, came the helmet, covering his entire head. He couldn’t see or hear anything for a moment, but then it turned on, a blast of sound and color, so intense he…he didn’t really remember any of it. It was removed from his head later, and he was given a tube to suck–fed slushy food until he felt like he was going to burst. He’d resisted for so long, but he couldn’t fight it, as he messed his diaper at last, a massive load of shit filling the back of his diaper. It was night now, but no one came to change him, and exhausted from the terrors of the day, he fell into a fitful sleep.

The next day, he was awoken to the door of his room opening–he expected to see Mr. Jeffries, but it was someone else–someone he didn’t recognize, not at first. It was Rick–his coworker–although now he was dressed in a full body rubber suit, his eyes…crazed, as he stalked towards the bed, shoved his face into Ian’s diaper, smelling it and rubbing his cock through the suit he had on. Ian tried to yell at him through the pacifier in his mouth, but Rick had a singular obsession–he tore the diaper from his body and began devouring everything inside, before he turned his attention back to Ian, and licked his own body clean, before applying a generous amount of baby powder and diapering him back up. Ian couldn’t believe what he’d just witnessed, but after another massive meal fed to him by tube, the helmet descended once again, and he was once again held captive by Mr. Jeffries’ programming all day, subjected to a second feeding that night, by Rick. He pleaded with him again, but Rick just stroked his hair with a filthy hand, and cooed him gently.

“Don’t worry baby, I’ll take such good care of you. Does baby need to cum before he goes beddy bye? And maybe you need a big boy pacifier too…”

Rick pulled the plug from his mouth, undid the zipper of his suit and allowed his dick to pop free from it’s sweaty prison. Ian tried to resist, but he…he needed to suck. Even though it tasted foul and disgusting, he…he couldn’t stop. He didn’t…want to stop. Rick didn’t undo his diaper, he just rubbed Ian’s cock through the thick padding, until with a wild spasm he came, and Rick started fucking his face until he shot as well, Ian sucking down his coworkers load, no longer able to control his own body or needs.

Rick left him there, and it was only a few minutes later that, with a loud fart, Ian started filling his diaper with shit once more. There had been no warning from his bowels this time–he’d simply lost all control, and he started sobbing, whining and crying, until Rick returned to comfort him, massaging his cock again until he came once more while he sniffed at the shit in Ian’s diaper, and no longer able to cope with what was happening, Ian fell into another sleep of exhaustion.