I have a lot to say on this subject of repetition, but I need some time to gather my thoughts on it–look for a longer post on this in the next couple of weeks. As for a police pup TF, I’ve written a couple of them, I think? I’d suggest searching for police on my blog.
Category: Uncategorized
Do you ever feel bad about stealing photos to illustrate your writing? Especially now that you sell stories for profit?
Short answer:
Yeah, with some caveats.
Long answer:
Let’s take care of your strawman arguments first. Number one, I have never sold a story for profit. I ask for support in the form of monthly donations, and in return I post stories for free, and a small number of stories for limited readers through Patreon. None of that is “selling stories” in any sort of conventional sense–its more like a paywall than anything else. Furthermore, the stories on Patreon (i.e. the only stories that require payment to view) don’t contain pictures at all, and won’t contain pictures in the future. So I’ve never profited off the pictures here, in any real direct sense. Indirectly? You could make a flimsy argument I suppose, but the fact is, every image story can be accessed for free, so how can I be profiting off the photos themselves?
Number two–that word “stealing.” Its true that I don’t own the copyrights to the photos I post, however, I believe than my use of these photos falls within fair use doctrine, and therefore isn’t stealing. I don’t claim to own the copyrights to any of these pictures–in the past, if people have requested it, I’ve removed the photo in question, and will continue to do so. We can have a more complex discussion about whether or not what I do constitutes fair use or not, but it certainly isn’t flat out theft–i.e. me claiming to own the copyrights to photos I don’t own the copyright for would be “stealing,” which I’m not doing.
But do I feel bad? Yeah. I wish I had the time and resources to effectively source and give credit for photos, but the way reblogging on tumblr is structured makes it difficult to do so easily, while still providing the form of content I want to put out. For example, it’s impossible to reblog two photos from different posts in one single post, and it’s impossible to reblog a photo and insert it into a text post. Further, reblogging itself is often sketchy–I have no way of knowing whether the original poster in the reblog chain owns the copyright to the photo they posted–often they don’t.
Personally, I’d really like to use fewer pictures in posts. If you look through my archive, you can see that the number of photos I use has dropped pretty substantially. I’d much rather have someone like or reblog my story because they like what I wrote, and not because of the picture I attached to it, and so that’s probably where we’re headed in the nearish future.
In conclusion, the premises of your accusation up there are pretty flimsy at best, but yeah, I would very much like to better source the photos I’ve used to supplement my stories on tumblr. But I don’t have the resources to do so, and tumblr’s limited toolset for crediting sources is extremely limited and deeply flawed anyway. At the end of the day, content we post to the internet is content we’ve lost control and ownership over. If you don’t want people using and sharing it, then keep it off there in the first place. If your property is so important to you, then why risk it so casually?
Baby Bear – Part 3
Such a sweet baby bear. A fighter to the end. But now those big eyes of his are empty, ready to be filled with whatever I want–still, that can wait until morning. He’s very tired after all of that, and so am I for that matter. I get him changed into a fresh diaper and then put him to bed–he’s sleeping in the nursery now, of course, not the guest room. He’s so cute in his crib, binky in his mouth, clutching a blanket.
The next morning, I wake him up, and after a morning blow job, I see what remains after the battle the night before. He is quite stupid, I must say. A pity too–I was hoping he’d be smart. I’d been wanting to raise a businessman, but it looks like I’ll have to change my plans. His vocabulary is very simple, his math and reasoning skills are stunted. Still, he has a good sense of humor, and goodness is he eager to please! That’s such a good sign–that means he’ll be all grown up again in no time at all.
Of course, the first few months were spent getting baby to a place where we could start his education proper. Helping him remember how to walk, for instance. He may have been a baby, but I certainly couldn’t carry him everywhere, especially with his developing appetite. This was going to be a chubby bear, I’d already decided–he’d arrived husky, and I wanted to see what he looked like with some more meat on his bones. And of course, I reinforced his oral fixation–he just wasn’t happy without something in his mouth. That helped inspire his new name, too–Orel. A good name for a fatass, dumb baby bear who loves to suck on anything he can get his mouth around.
After those first few months, he was finally walking again, and had recovered some of his vocabulary, but not very much at all. I realized I was going to have to lower my expectations for Orel rather substantially. That’s not to say I don’t love him! I love all my boys, but some rise higher than others. Once I felt like I could trust him to not drop it, I got him smoking. All my boys smoke, of course, just like their daddy. We started with cigarettes, and once the addiction had him smoking two packs a day, I switched him to cigars, which he enjoyed much more, because, as he said with his characteristic enthusiasm, “they’re shaped like cocks!” That had him so excited, he giggled about it all day, but watching him suck on those tobacco shafts sure did get me hornier for his throat more than anything else.
He stayed with me for a few years. Pretty soon, he was tipping the scales at 400 pounds, and it was getting hard to find diapers large enough for him to wear. Potty training was proving difficult. In fact, it seemed that he liked soiling himself. Of course, all my boys like it to some extent–it reminds them of their second childhood more than anything else–but for Orel, he eventually confessed that he just liked how it felt to have a heavy diaper on, that it made him feel like a bad boy who needed to be punished by his daddy with a fuck or a spanking. He liked feeling like a bad boy, he added, and then he giggled like a fool. I suppose I shouldn’t have been all that surprised–someone who’d put up as much of a fight as he did was bound to have a rebellious streak in him, so I decided to just go along with it and encourage him. If he wanted to be stuck in diapers for the rest of his life, then so be it–I certainly wasn’t going to complain about it–but forcing him to take responsibility for it…well, that proved to be a bit harder.
Sometimes, I’m sure he just forgot to change himself, but other times, I knew he’d just keep his filthy diaper on because he liked it. He liked being dirty, and he liked being a slob. Part of that was my fault, I suppose. I’d conditioned him to enjoy humiliation, especially being belittled for how stupid he was, and so it isn’t surprising that he enjoyed the fact that he was a sat around in his own filth as well, but It was a bit of a complication in my plans. By this time, he was pretty much all grown up again–just another one of my bears–and that meant it was time for him to move out and move on with his new life. But to do that, well, he needed a job, but that was going to be a challenge. He was too stupid to do anything with a computer from home, which would have let him be as much of a slob as he’d like, and he couldn’t do anything social with his poor hygiene and lackluster social skills. Thankfully, one of my other boys, Barry, came through for me. He had a fuckbuddy who ran a delivery company, and he was willing to let Orel drive one of his trucks. He’d be working nights, so he wouldn’t have to talk to many people, and as long as he could drive well enough, and provide his boss with a throat to fuck on occasion, it would work out fine. Now all I had to do was teach him to drive–a challenge, but not an insurmountable one, and giving him something that he could succeed at made Orel happy. “I might be dumb as a rock, ‘n I might be a nasty poopypants, and I’s a fat slut for sure, but at least I can drive a damn truck, right Daddy?” he told me one day with that big grin of his, sitting in the driver seat of the truck we were using for driver’s education and I could tell everything would work out alright for my baby bear in the end. Now I just had to get to work on finding one to replace him.
Hi Wesley, can I post your hot Cum Pig story from April 13 on the NCMC? Thanks for writing such a hot story!
Please don’t.
Trust me, if I wanted my stories on the NCMC, I am more than capable of putting them up myself, as I had for years prior to the last story I put up there, but I have a number of issues with that site, both its audience and its moderation, and no longer want to provide it with content. It’s a rift which began with the deletion of my story “Daddy’s Little Man” from the NCMC two years ago. I had plenty of issues then, many of which I highlighted allegorically at the time, and have watched as absolutely no changes were made to the submission guidelines, or how stories were moderated in the time since. Goodness, it was just in the last month that the moderator finally made their stance against infantilization a matter of public record, but naturally they still have yet to remove any of the stories featuring copyrighted characters and celebrities from the site, which has always been explicitly forbidden, but completely unenforced (apropos that yet another Superman story was posted yesterday and today–wonder how long until it gets deleted?…I probably shouldn’t hold my breath.)
The submission guidelines are subject more to whim rather than any sort of even-handed enforcement, and authors have no real ability to appeal or even contest a story which is deleted.
This isn’t me pouting because one of my stories was deleted–it’s me not wanting to waste my time and energy providing content to a website and a community that can’t be clear about what it wants, especially when I may cross yet another unknown taboo, and have yet another story deleted for reasons which are unclear and incontestable.
Furthermore, I just don’t think the NCMC community really wants to see my stories on that site. My aesthetic and my focal points just don’t play well there. And that’s fine! I see no reason to rub their faces in my stuff, but I’m also not going to only post the few stories that I write that would “please the NCMC crowd” over there, because as far as I’m concerned, these stories of mine are all or nothing as a collection. You don’t *get* to avoid the ones you don’t want to see because they offend you, or because they contain a fetish that disturbs you. This shit should be disturbing. I like writing in this genre because it’s disturbing. But if there’s one thing the readers over at the NCMC hate it’s being disturbed from their comfortable pretty boy superhero rape fantasies. It’s a story site which is rather conservative it its curation and its preferences, and I am not at all a conservative artist. Why would I want my stories over there, on a site which doesn’t dare cross arbitrary taboos with an audience which hates to be challenged?
Why would I want to waste my time on that?
If people want my stories, they can find them here. All* of them. And for the moment, that’s how I like it, and how it’s going to be.
~~~
* Except for those Patreon stories, but those of you awesome enough to help me pay the bills deserve extra punishment, right?
Baby Bear – Part 2
How could I have forgotten? I’d sucked his cock nearly every night, and most nights he’d fucked my ass as well. I’d licked his body clean from neck to toes. He’d fed me pipe smoke right into my eager mouth. And I had somehow forgotten all of it, gone off to school each day like nothing strange was going on at all. I realized I had done none of my studying that I’d needed to do, and I was failing all of my classes. The semester was nearly over, and I had no idea how I was going to turn any of it around. Perhaps it was silly to worry about school when you discover some old man has been manipulating you and forcing you into diapers, but it was something I could think about. I didn’t want to think about his old cock in my mouth–I didn’t want to think about how much I wanted his cock in my mouth, really. Because I did. And I wanted him to fuck me. And so I ran.
He probably expected me to try and run; he didn’t even try and stop me. I didn’t even care that all I was wearing was a diaper soiled with my own cum, I just wanted out of that house. I flung open the front door and ran out across the lawn, but as soon as I was outside, this monstrous fear rose up inside me. I was outside. More than outside, I was lost. I didn’t know where I was. The world was gigantic, and I had no idea where Daddy was, and I might never get home, and who was going to take care of me? I made it to the curb, tears rolling down my face, no longer able to focus on getting away, not even really understanding what I was feeling, and then he was beside me, pulling me close–Daddy. I was so happy to see him. I gave him a huge hug, and he led me back up the driveway and into the house, where the fear immediately disappeared, and my mind tried to get a grip.
“I wouldn’t try to run away again, baby bear. You all try it once, but if you keep trying, then I’m going to have to punish you,” he said. Daddy said. I struggled with his name, trying to find it in my mind, but his name was just that–”Daddy”. I remembered that was the same thing all those strange men who visited called him, and before I could ask, he explained what he had done to me, and to the rest of them over the last several decades.
It was true–he was lonely. He had been a very skilled hypnotist when he was younger, and he decided to make himself what he called “Baby Bears”–young men he’d keep in diapers, and raise to be better men than what they might have otherwise been. Better from his perspective, of course–I was horrified at the thought, but he assured me that there would be no escaping my new fate. He told me that I had already accepted the first round of conditioning, and now it was time for us to decide what kind of bear I was going to grow up to be, and how much work it was going to take for me to grow up.
You see, he would only be able to make me into a “proper bear” after he’d destroyed and erased most of who I was now. This could be, he told me, a rather violent process, and leave a person’s mind quite damaged, unless they went along with him, and willingly allowed him to destroy their old selves so they could be reborn again. I, of course, was freaking out. He assured me that the more I fought, the worse it would be for me. I was convinced that if I tried hard enough, if I proved indestructible, he would have to let me go. He smiled. It was almost like he liked the idea of me fighting back. And then he said something, some phrase I can’t remember, and things grew slippery. I could feel him ripping out chunks of my personality, and I was fighting him, trying to hold onto them, but he would just tear harder, and it would hurt, like a massive migraine, but I couldn’t let him win, I couldn’t.
I don’t know how much time passed before I came back to myself again, shaking on the floor in a fetal position, Daddy sitting in an armchair beside me. I was still me. I still had lost some, but I still remembered who I’d been. He told me to quit fighting him, that if I kept fighting him, he was going to have to make things worse for me. I laughed, and told him to give it his best shot. He looked disappointed, repeated that mysterious phrase, and this time, I had no real understanding of what was happening. When I resurfaced, however, something had changed in my mind. I was moving slower. I tried to ask him what had happened, but all that came out was baby talk. I also realized, to my horror, that I had pissed my diaper again–and that I had also taken a massive shit as well. I tried to get up, I tried to stand, but my body wasn’t working quite right. All I could do was crawl. Daddy got down at eye level with me, and told me that I was being a very dumb baby bear. That I was going to grow up and become a very dumb baby bear, and if I didn’t let him win, I was going to be the stupidest bear he’d ever raised, that I’d never even be able to go potty like a big boy again. I didn’t want to be that stupid, I really didn’t. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life wearing diapers. One day, I wanted to be a big boy, I wanted to grow up again. I was crying, and he asked me if I was done fighting him. I wanted to say no, but I was exhausted, and I knew he would win. When I went under that final time, I let him remove every bit of me that he could find. This is the last of me, this is the last little bit, the last chunk, and I’m holding on, but he’s coming, he’s coming and–
Baby Bear – Part 1
I was a junior, and I was sick and tired of living in the dorms on campus. The creaking heaters that refused to turn off, the mold, the toilets that couldn’t flush shit–all of the buildings should have been razed twenty years ago, but school instead had built a bunch of other dorms they could charge more for, that I couldn’t afford, naturally. So I figured, “Fuck it,” and I managed to find a room to rent a few blocks from campus from a nice older gentleman named Willard. He’d lived in the neighborhood for years, but he told me when I came to see the room that he didn’t really need the rent money–he just hated being all alone in the house more than anything else, and so he usually rented it out to students at the local college for some company, and to help the house feel “lived in.” It was a little pitiful, but the rent was so cheap, I figured I could give him some company on occasion.
In fact, as the first semester wore on, I discovered that Willard was one of the best landlords a college student could ask for. He had dinner for me every evening if I was home–all I had to do was give him some extra money for the grocery bill. He was a bit of an insomniac, and since I often stayed up late studying, he let me use his office to work in, and he would sit in there with me, usually smoking a pipe, and we would chat. It never really struck me as odd, however, that I never seemed able to remember the things we’d talked about, or even remember doing any work for my classes. He started sitting in the study wearing less and less clothing, usually opting for an open robe, his cock hanging out, and I was, for some reason, completely unfazed as we chatted, his pipe billowing smoke, while we both had some of his whiskey.
Those first few weeks, I also noticed that, for a lonely old man, he sure did seem to have quite a few visitors who came around regularly. Some were only a bit older than me, while a few others were approaching middle aged, but they all seemed very familiar with him. They shared some other similarities too–they all were smokers, and all of them were big, hairy, burly guys. One other thing, is that they all gave me this…look. Like they were trying to suppress a laugh, or were in on some joke I had no idea about yet. I suppose I should have seen something coming, but I was just oblivious.
Then, during midterms, I wet the bed for the first time. I was mortified–I couldn’t remember the last time I’d done something like that. I managed to get the sheets through the washer and dryer without Willard noticing, but the next night it happened again. I knew I couldn’t tell him, I was too embarrassed, and yet, in his study that night, it all came tumbling out, how ashamed I was of it, how I couldn’t believe I’d lost control like that, how I was afraid I’d do it for a third night in a row. He was very understanding, holding me close on his lap until I’d stopped sobbing, and then he suggested that I start wearing diapers every night “as a precaution”.
I should have thought he was crazy. I should have left right then and never come back. But for whatever reason, his suggestion just made perfect sense to me. Diapers–of course I should just wear diapers. I never asked why he already had a supply ready for me–he just helped me strip, got me powdered and diapered, and put me to bed with a kiss on the cheek like all of this was perfectly normal. I woke up with a heavy, cold, wet diaper, but Willard was there, ready to get me changed out of it. I never bothered asking why he was so intent on helping me–I just let him, and then I went off to school like everything was normal, until a few weeks later, when I wet myself during a lecture.
I couldn’t stop it. I noticed after a few seconds, feeling my crotch turn warm, but I couldn’t do anything. I panicked. I heard it dribbling off the seat and onto the tile floor. I could smell it. I grabbed my things as quickly as I could, and fled the room, piss still running down my leg and into my shoe, and I didn’t stop running until I got home. Sobbing, I was barely able to get the words out to Willard to tell him what happened to me. He seemed…perfectly fine with it, as he hugged me tight, and when he told me that I would just have to start wearing diapers all the time from now on, it seemed like a perfectly reasonable suggestion. He helped me out of my wet jeans and underwear, got a diaper for me and helped me into it. But this time…this time, something else happened. I got hard. I got hard in the diaper–just the feeling of it was turning me on, and I started…doing things. Humping the air, grinding my crotch into Willard’s side, and my landlord shoved his hand down into the front of the diaper, finding my hard cock, and started jacking me off, his other hand pulling my face to his, and he kissed me deeply, shoving his tongue into my mouth, the taste of his pipe overpowering everything else.
I ended up on my knees, his old, hard cock working its way into my throat. I couldn’t put my hand in my diaper for some reason, and so I was forced to rub my cock through it, humping it, getting myself closer to cumming, but he came first, filling my mouth with cum. Even though I knew I had never sucked him off before, the taste was so familiar and comforting, and I came soon after that, filling my diaper with a load of cum. I pulled away from his cock and licked my lips. He said, “Time to remember everything, Baby Bear–we should have a talk,” and suddenly I could remember everything.
And never have I felt so used in my entire life.
It’s not that Alex was a prude–hell, he masturbated plenty. There wasn’t any reason why Harry couldn’t jack off too. The problem was the damn smell of it! Ever since the day he’d moved into the house with him, the whole house stank of it. Sure, he hadn’t known what the smell was at first, only that it had come largely from Harry’s room and the bathroom. It wasn’t until Alex had caught him at it (well, “caught him” was one way of phrasing it–really, he’d been crouching outside the slightly open door, watching his housemate tug on his cock while he was on the bed, well positioned to give him a view) and as soon as he’d shot, the smell had smacked him in the face like a ton of bricks.
Of course, the real problem wasn’t that he could smell it–the problem was how it smelled. It smelled amazing. It smelled like cum, sure–rank and a bit cheesy–but for some reason, it made his mouth water. It made him want to jack off too. He couldn’t let Harry know, of course–Harry would probably think he’s a fag, if he knew how much he wanted his cum. If he knew that he’d snuck into his room while he wasn’t home, and stolen his still wet cumrag, and sucked on it for a few hours, milking his own cock for all it was worth. That was something a fag would totally do, right? But he wasn’t a fag. He couldn’t help it if Larry’s cum just smelled really good to him. He was hoping that if he could just taste it enough, he could stop thinking about it, but if fact, getting a taste only made it worse. It was starting to become the only thing he could think about. He started watching Larry more often through the cracked door, still pretending to himself that his roommate had no idea he was watching, even though he spent most of his time watching Alex. Finally, one night, Larry came, but instead of shooting into the rag like usual, he shot it into his hand, and held it out to the door, “Well come on pig, if you want it so badly, get in here and eat it all up.”
Alex tried to resist, but the scent was overwhelming. He crawled into the room and licked all the fresh cum from his roommate’s hand, jacking off his own cock as he did, and the taste of it fresh–his head couldn’t take it. He just kept licking Larry’s fingers clean, his entire mind focusing in on that single act. Off in the distance, he could sense that Larry was talking to him, telling him things, but he couldn’t think about anything beyond licking those fingers. And when he finally stopped licking, he crawled back to his room (for some reason, he wasn’t quite able to stand up and walk, an odder still, he didn’t find that fact the least bit strange) sat on the floor and started jacking off, over and over again, eating every load of cum that he produced, until it hurt to even touch his cock anymore. Then and only then was he able to heft himself up into bed and collapse from exhaustion, his arms burning, though when Larry came in and skull fucked him, he didn’t object. Why would he object to another opportunity to taste his delicious cum?
From that day on, it became harder and harder for Alex to deny that he was anything but a faggot at heart. He would beg Larry for his cum, he would do anything for another taste of it. He took over the household chores, he cooked dinner, he gave him massages and foot rubs, all so he might have the privilege of sucking a load of cum from Larry’s cock. Still, he told himself that it couldn’t get worse than this, right? At least, until it did. Suddenly, it wasn’t just Larry’s cum he smelled, but everyone’s cum. And they all smelled different, and they all smelled delicious. It was getting harder and harder for him to think about anything other than cum, and Larry only made it worse by dressing him up in his leather gear, driving them to the fetish clubs in the city, and making him beg for cum all night long. The words CUM PIG scrawled across his forehead (Larry had told him that once he’d earned enough money as a cum dump, he’d get it tattooed on there properly) and who knew what else drawn on him, all the men would laugh, and he’d drink cum from any cock, because he wasn’t just a cum pig–he was Cum Pig–or at least that’s what Larry called him. And before too long, it was the only name he could remember, as he crawled around the house, oinking and grunting, sniffing around for his next load of cum.
I knew his type. They only come on Friday nights. Wealthy, but not wealthy enough for true luxury. Closeted out of the fear that coming out would jeapordize their climb up the corporate ladder. They only fuck men who they would never see in the city. They also want to fuck us out of a twisted desire they barely understand. They want to be cruel, they spend a career climbing up the backs of hard working men like us, and fucking us is just that last humiliating victory they need to feel justified. They don’t want our names, only give out aliases of their own, and they can’t look us in the eye. This one gave the name Dave–and I made him keep it.
He arrived too early in the day, fresh off work. Like many, he was still in a suit, smoking a pipe. I came later, and he was still looking. You see, some of us just can’t resist that aura–the fantasy. They just haven’t been burned enough. They see that suit, they see that money, that mid-shelf whiskey double in the glass, and they think, “Maybe he wants me, the real me.” But they don’t, and that hope, fuck, they feed on it, they fucking suck it out of us, but I’ve had enough of it, I’ve had enough of them, and I sat down at the bar next to him, and he smelled me, and he smirked. I was the one, he thought, I was the one he wanted, even though he didn’t really know why.
He introduced himself. I remained aloof. This confused him, and he pressed harder for conversation. I berated him, and as insulted as he was, he wanted me more and more. He bought me a drink and tried to drug it; I left it untouched. He bought four more doubles for himself, and got plastered. We ended up in the back of my truck, his tongue all over my body before I skull fucked him. He couldn’t get enough of me, and the whole time, I could see his confusion. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. He was supposed to string me along. He was supposed to have the reins, he was supposed to be on top, this was supposed to be about him, about his manhood, about his pride, about his need to be in control. When I ordered him to cum, with his mouth buried in my asscrack, and he stroked his cock off, he didn’t want that to happen, he hadn’t wanted any of this, and yet he’d never said no. I dropped him off at his sedan without a word.
He was back on Saturday night. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about me. He’d spent the whole day at home, mouth dry, hands shaking, horny as hell but unable to cum. He wasn’t in a suit this time, just a shirt and jeans, still smoking a pipe. I made him plead and beg in the bar, in front of everyone. I ridiculed him some more, because I enjoyed watching him want me more after every barbed insult. I got him drunker than the night before and brought him all the way home this time, to my single wide trailer, to my floor littered with beer cans, to my bed covered with sheets I haven’t changed in a year, the whole place stinking of me. As much as it disgusted him, as much as he loathed everything the place stood for, he fell into it. The sweatier and hotter we got the more of himself he lost until he was at my feet, whimpering, sucking my toes, words lost, desire at the center of his mind.
I kept him for five days. I pimped him out to my bar buddies. I made him ditch his pipe, and forced him to smoke the cheapest cigars I could buy at the reservation smoke shop. And after five days, when he reached that limit of both saturation and exhaustion, I dumped him at his car with a note. Well, really it was a to do list. Everything he had to do, if he ever wanted to see me again, if he ever wanted to taste me, if he ever wanted to smell me, if he ever wanted my cock balls deep in his hole again.
I’m sure he tried to go back. He was charismatic enough to pass off four days of missed work as a mistake, or poor judgement. But I’m also sure he dreamed about me. I’m sure he tried to jack off, over and over, but never managed to work out a load. I know he didn’t wash the clothes he’d had on, because I could still smell my musk on them when he arrived back at the bar, two months later, with nothing but a suitcase. I made him go through the list. Some of the tasks I could tell on my own–the horseshoe mustache, the fresh tattoos, the smell of him after a week without a shower. I made him tell me about quitting his job, how it had felt to flush his career down the toilet so he could taste my pits one more time. How it had felt, giving away all of his shit, just so he could live in a trailer park for the rest of his life. It was funny–he’d actually thought he’d be moving in with me, but I straightened him out on that shit real quick. No, he was moving in with Big B–he wasn’t too happy about that, Big B hadn’t been very nice to him when I loaned him out to him for a half a day–and he stormed out, and I just laughed. He came back, of course–where was he gonna go? He felt better after he sucked my cock out behind the bar, and I let him spend the night with me, on the condition he give my unwashed and unwiped asscrack a proper cleaning.
He’s settled in pretty well now, here at Louisiana Acres. Doesn’t even really remember his old name, and spending so much time with me and my filth had eroded the edges of his brain. Big B still doesn’t treat him very well–I’ll see him with a black eye on occasion, but he takes it because he knows he deserves it, and because deep down, he likes the abuse. Besides, he knows he can’t complain, or heaven forbid, leave us! If he left, he knows he’ll never get to smell me again. He knows I’ll never holler at him across the yard again, I’ll never make him crawl across the overgrown grass, and up the steps into my trailer. I’ll never let him suck on my feet or eat out my pits. He’ll never cum again, because smelling me is the only way he’ll shoot a load for the rest of his sorry life. He spends his days managing one of the smoke shops down on the road through the reservation, and his nights are spent at the bar with the rest of us. He sees the men like him come in on Friday nights, and he wants them more than anyone else. He hooks up with them often, willing to do anything they want, with the hope that some his old life might rub off on him, but they always leave him behind, laughing at him like he’d used to laugh at us, but who’s laughing now, fucker? Who’s laughing now?
Mr. Drake’s Games – Part 3
“Here’s what we’re gonna do, boy,” Mr. Drake said, “Or rather, what you’re gonna do. I want to see you jack off, lard ass. I wanna see you pump a load of cum out into those massive rolls of fat you have now. And what I’m gonna do, is every minute you spend trying to cum, I’m gonna change something about you. Alright? See that clock on the wall? In fifteen seconds, that second hand is gonna hit the twelve, and then you can start–heh, well why don’t I give you a head start? You might need it.”
Jay didn’t need any encouragement or direction beyond that. He started digging around under his fat with both hands, desperately searching for his half sized cock. He could find his balls relatively easily, and they were really very huge, but for the life of him, he couldn’t quite reach his cock. He kept trying, pushing up into his fat as hard as he could, occasionally brushing his hand across the head, but he couldn’t get a grip.
“That’s your first minute–How about he give you some more hair? Hell, how about a lot more hair? I like my fatties hairy as hell.”
“I can’t fucking reach it. I can’t fucking reach my cock!” His body was itching as hair grew in, dense across his entire body, and the thick bush accumulating at his groin didn’t make it any easier to reach his cock either.
“Well, then I guess I’m gonna be changing you a whole lot then, aren’t I?”
Jay kept trying, one hand working his nipples, keeping himself hard, but it was no use.
“Another minute down–how about a big beard to go with that hairy body of yours? I want to see that head shaved, though.”
“Please, there’s nothing I can fucking do!”
Mr. Drake wrapped his hand in the long beard pushing it’s way out of Jay’s chin, and he leaned in closer, “I just don’t think you’re being very imaginative, is all. I don’t think you really want to cum, is your problem.”
Jay did his best to calm down, and tried to think. If he couldn’t reach his cock, then he was going to have to try something else to stimulate himself. He rolled his body, and felt a shiver of pleasure, and then shoved his hips forward, feeling his cock working its way in and out of his fatpad. With a grunt, he started tugging at his nipples, feeling his arousal growing higher, bucking his cock into his fat. Closer, he was getting closer now.
“Still taking too long, boy. How about we see what happens when we make you a bit dirtier, eh? No more showers, no more baths, just a stinking pile of fat, and you fucking love it.”
The sweat building up as he tried to fuck himself suddenly reeked, and as much as Jay wanted it to disgust him, it didn’t. It only made him hornier, and he lifted one arm, taking a long snort of his hairy pit, licking up his own fat sweat. But he was getting tired, he had to find a better way to rub his cock off. Maybe if he tried a different position. He rolled over and dropped off the couch onto his knees, facing the seat, bucking his hips as hard as he could into his fatpad, but it still wasn’t enough for him.
“Poor little piggy, it seems like you’re still having some trouble there. Maybe you should go ahead and start making some sexy pig noises too?”
His face hurt, like his nose was pushing into his face, and suddenly he was snorting and grunting, unable to help himself. “Please, I can’t, *grunt* I need help…” he managed to get out between gasps.
“Do you want me to help you? I could probably do that, but you’d better ask me nicely. You’d better beg.”
“Please, please help me, I *snort* need to cum so bad, I can’t do it, I need you to help me.”
Mr. Drake helped Jay stand up and bend over the sofa, presenting his ass away towards Mr. Drake. Of course, all of this had cost another minute, and he could feel the heavy septum ring now hanging from his nose, feel the studs in his nipples, the rings in his scrotum which Mr. Drake added. Mr Drake worked his cock into his fat hole, and it was unlike anything Jay had ever felt before. He was squealing, desperately trying to get as much of the old man’s cock in him as he could, and he was cumming, he was finally cumming, and he huffed and puffed and collapsed into the couch while Mr. Drake kept pounding his fat hole, shooting his own load deep inside his ass.
“Well done, pig–too bad that still took you an extra minute. But watching that performance, I know just the thing, right pigslave? Yeah, Pigslave. Owned by your fat, nasty dad, and he lends you out to all the perverts in the neighborhood, and you fucking love it. You love it because you’re too dumb to know any better. You love it because seeing someone look at you like you’re less than human makes that little piggy cock of your hard. You love it because it gives you an excuse to belly up to your trough and get even fatter, isn’t that right, Pigslave?”
He tried to say no, but all he could do was grunt and squeal–after all, he wasn’t allowed to talk. Pigs were never supposed to talk like men. Something tight was around his neck, and he recognized it as his collar. It felt good, actually, a reminder that he was owned. That he was just an animal for men’s pleasure. Mr. Drake clipped the leash onto it, and led him out the door and across the asphalt, back towards his house. He knew he should be embarrassed, but he also wasn’t quite sure why. Why would a pig like him be embarrassed? This is just what he is. His dad–no, his Master–was happy to get him back, and made sure he’d done a good job pleasing Mr. Drake. As a reward, Jay got his dinner an hour early. He crawled over to the trough in the kitchen, and his dad poured in his slop, and he lost himself in his feast. By the time he’d finished, Jay was dead and gone, and all that remained was the neighborhood pigslave, exactly what he’d always wanted to be.
Mr. Drake’s Games – Part 2
“Double or nothing.”
Mr. Drake just stared at him, and then laughed.
“Seriously. Let me try again. If I make it, then let me go, but if I don’t then…you can change me some more, whatever. Let me try again.”
You won’t be able to make it to a hundred, not as tired as you are. You’re basically asking me to fuck with you,” Mr. Drake loomed over him, obviously calculating, “Fine. I’ll even make it easier on you. If you can make it to fifty, I’ll change you and your dad back, and get the fuck out of dodge. How does that sound? But you won’t like what happens if you lose,” he chuckled, “Well, you probably will like it, actually.”
Jay couldn’t believe his luck–he was tired, but he’d made it to fifty pretty easily last time, and he was pretty sure he could do it again. He laid back down on the floor and took some deep breaths, trying to calm himself and focus, and he started again. By ten, his muscles were already burning and shaking, but he kept pushing, huffing and panting along, but by twenty, he had slowed down substantially.
“Looks like someone could use some encouragement,” Mr. Drake said, waited until Jay was down before stepping over and straddling his big gut, and bending his knees so his cock came to where Jay’s face hit when he was sitting up, “Come on piggy, let’s see you work for your cock.”
Jay didn’t want to admit that it helped, but it did. He liked cock. He liked the smell of it, he liked how it felt when he pushed his face into it, he liked how it tasted. He his thirty sit-ups and kept going, but Mr. Drake stepped back bit by bit, making him work harder to get close to him. Jay realized he was using more energy than he needed too, just to try and get to the old man’s cock. Maybe he could have made it, but as it was, he collapsed back at number forty-six, unable to bring himself up one more time.
“Well, that was a good try, I must say, but it seems that you’ve lost again, Jay.”
He had, he’d lost. He tried to hold back his tears, and he rolled over, ready to try and get up, but as he did, he felt something happening with his body again. His gut was gurgling, and it was growing, bulging out again, becoming a full fledged apron hanging heavy from his stomach.
“You know, the thing about doubling, Jay, is that you have to be mindful of where you’re starting from, so you know where you’ll end up.”
No. He couldn’t be serious. Jay fought his way to standing, even as his body was exploding in size. Much of the weight was focused in the apron which hung down half the length of his thighs, but he could feel changes in the rest of him too–his moobs had easily doubled in size, hanging low and jiggling as he heaved for breath. He could feel them wrapping their way around his body to his back, pushing his flabby, ham sized arms away from his body. Even his hands were inflated, looking like short, chubby sausages. Just standing was hard, and after his exertion, he didn’t think he could keep it up, so he waddled over to the couch and collapsed onto it, feeling and listening to the springs protest as he did. He was encased by fat now, and he was hot and sweaty and even his briefs had finally given way, ripping apart as he’d grown, lying in tatters on the floor, except for one piece caught between a thigh and his apron.
“What do you think you weigh now, Jay? You had to have been over 300 before. Hell, you were probably closer to 350. How does it feel to weigh almost 700 pounds?”
“Fuck…it feels…amazing.”
Mr. Drake grinned, and Jay sensed a change.
“No, what did I say?”
“You said it’s amazing.”
It was amazing, wasn’t it? He ran his fat fingers over his rolls, giving his blubber a shake, and a strange erotic thrill shot through him.
“Fuck boy, that’s hot. You like shaking your blubber, don’t you?”
“You made me like it.”
“Heh, I made you like more than that. I made you want more. I made you want to be even bigger. I made you want to be so big that you can’t move.”
Jay found that image far sexier than he should have, and he tried to push back against it, but it felt so natural. It was just another thing he wanted, like Mr. Drake’s cock. There wasn’t anything he could do about it, right? This was just who he was.
“Still, that’s not all, Jay. In the spirit of doubling and halving, I went ahead and changed some other stuff too. I shrank your cock by half, but doubled the size of your balls. I even went ahead and made your nipples and ass twice as sensitive,” he stepped up, pushing his way into Jay’s overhanging gut, grabbed his fat tits and gave them a twist, “Can you tell?”
Jay gasped with pleasure, feeling his two inch cock throb with pleasure, “Oh fuck Mr. Drake, fuck…Please…I need to go, I have to get out of here, I–”
“Nonsense Jay, looking at your fat fucking body has gotten me hard all over again, and you know what else? I think I want to play one more game with you, before I send you on your way back home, since you love my games so much. Still, you’ll like this one I bet, but I can assure you it’ll be quite the challenge. And you’re going to want to try your hardest, if you want to get out of here without anything else happening to you.”
Jay tried to protest, but Mr. Drake gave his nipples another tug, making him moan with pleasure, and he realized he’d backed himself into a corner he hadn’t anticipated, and he if wanted to get out of here, he was going to have to fight for it with everything he could muster.
Bracken's Corner 