I’m getting Patrons’ opinions on what sort of interactive they’d like to see next! Everyone supporting me at one dollar or more a month can see the ideas and vote in the poll over the next few days. If you aren’t, you’ll just have to wait until the next story starts sometime next week!
Help Choose the Next Interactive! | Wesley Bracken on Patreon
Here’s this weeks short story that’s available to Patrons only! If you want access to these flash fictions, and the ability to suggest your own ideas, all it takes is one dollar a month! This week, the government has mandated that all men in the country must have a BMI of at least 40. There has been…resistance, of course, but one of the resistance leaders, Jeff Woods, has been captured, and the government has planned a special rehab program just for him, with the help of his father.
But Pete wasn’t really interested in one woman–he wanted all of them. He wasn’t much of a looker though, and so he usually had to settle for women a bit older, with the sort of reputation you didn’t want your son associating with. Harry and Patricia tried their best to get him to find a nice, younger girl, but Pete seemed determined to be a bachelor. Before Harry had really been able to tell that any time had passed at all, his son was eighteen, two inches taller than he was, broad of shoulder and big of fist, working alongside him and Wilbur at the factory. He couldn’t have been prouder of him, in all honesty, he had turned into the exact kind of rough, manly sort of son he could have wanted. They still wrestled even, but now his son had a height and a weight advantage, and Harry noticed something else–that his son seemed to get an erection every time he pinned him to the ground, grinding his cock against his ass until his father was crying uncle. Then, one day, when he’d expected to walk in on Wilbur and Patricia fucking in the afternoon, he discovered, instead, Wilbur and his son wrestling in the bedroom, naked, his son pinning Wilbur to the ground and fucking him rough–Harry had never seen anyone fuck Wilbur. Wilbur had only ever fucked him, and seeing his son top him…he didn’t know what he felt, exactly. Jealousy, envy. He grew a bit distant from Wilbur after that, and then the accident, and all those nights stuck in the hospital, spent wondering who Wilbur was fucking with that night. His wife? His son? Both of them? He could just slide into his place and take over…and why not? Wilbur was a better man than him. Hell, Pete was a better man than him, especially after the accident, when Harry could barely walk. When Harry couldn’t even get hard anymore.
He couldn’t fight it. He knew it wasn’t right, he knew he was letting this man, this thing, whatever Mr. Elroy was, ruin his life, and the life of his son, but he couldn’t stop him. He was weak. He’d been weak ever since that day, ever since fate had pushed him in front of that machine, ever since his entire future had been ripped away from him. But Pete–Pete could have been something too. He was a good boxer, when he fought fair and followed the rules, but the visions followed him. Followed him into a little single wide trailer, where he smoked, drank, and masturbated himself to sleep every night–jacking off to porn–men, women–it didn’t matter as long as he imagined himself on top. The factory closed, and he had to struggle for work, and while he was a good worker–he had issues with authority. He had his ass booted from one job after another. He just couldn’t work well with anyone else, and Harry could see his son’s potential withering down and dying on the vine, until now, here he was, working as a truck driver–sometimes–still living in that same trailer, still drinking and smoking and masturbating, no longer even caring about being anything more than that. It was horrible, but what else could he have possibly been? There should have been more. Harry knew there had been more, but the spell was closing, the life was sealed, and he was back in his recliner, wishing his tears weren’t dried up now, and staring at his new, familiar son sitting to his side.
He was…massive. He hadn’t been taking up that much of the sofa before, but Harry couldn’t quite tell it was simply a question of his son’s size, or just his demeanor. The years…well they hadn’t really been kind to either of them, he supposed, but the last really clear memory he had of his boy was back in his early twenties, strapping, heavily muscled, the smell of heavy gym musk and cigar smoke trailing behind him, always giving Harry a bit of a stiffy whenever he was nearby. But now–another thirty years beyond that…well, time had taken it’s toll on him, or rather, Mr. Elroy had.
As a single man, and one who had never been very interested in home economics, most of what Pete ate was junk–fast food, snacks, microwave dinners. He hadn’t been back to the gym in almost twenty years, but he still ate like he was lifting weights every day–the result was that he’d blown up to 350 pounds, or hell, maybe even more, a thick, soft gut hanging down between his wide thighs. He was wearing a pair of ragged shorts, marred with quite a few cum stains–the same with the t-shirt he had on, which had grease spots, cum shots, and sweat stains under the armpits and moobs. His beard and hair had grown long and tangled, both of them pulled into quick ponytails, and when he shifted the cigar in his mouth, Harry saw he was missing a number of teeth–some from ancient bar fights, and others had just started rotting out of his mouth lately. “Damn Pa, ain’t a bad place, gotta say–sure beats the ol’ trailer I got! Maybe I oughta move in wit’ ya.”
“Maybe one day, Pete,” Mr. Elroy said as he gave him a light tap on his shoulder, and Pete’s head slumped forward into a deep sleep. He caught the cigar as it fell and twirled it in his fingers, and stood back up, looking at Harry, who couldn’t peel his eyes away from his son. “What do you think? He’s just the kind of stupid, worthless, disgusting brute a failure like you would raise, don’t you agree Harry?”
He drank more. He smoked more. He cussed more, and had a reputation around town for having a short temper and a mean right hook. He never used it on her though–he didn’t think he’d be able to forgive himself if he had–and never with Pete either, aside from the occasional stern spanking when the boy had talked back. He looked like a filthy lout, but as horrified as he knew he should be at these memories, as hard as part of him clawed back and tried to hold onto something from his other self, from either of his other selves, there just…wasn’t anything there. Just this brutish fuck, and nothing more.
They slipped away, back into his mind, slotting right into place, exactly where Mr. Elroy wanted them, and he looked down at Harry, at his dull eyes spinning their dull wheels, trying to sort out what had just happened, but Harry had never been much of a thinker, had he? “Ya…ya fucker,” he said, his voice picking up a heavy drawl, “Ya piece a shit, I ain’t supposed tha…this is all a crock a shit.”
“It’s true as far as you’re concerned, Harry–this is what you get. If you can’t be trusted with a mind, then this is what you get to be from now on, just a simple minded, illiterate dumbfucking brute.”
‘Ill–Illita-what?”
“Illiterate,” Mr. Elroy said, slower, enunciating clearly, “It means, Harry, that you never learned to read.”
“I can read shit!”
“Well, I suppose you can read a bit. Some numbers, simple sentences, but tell me Harry, what’s the last book you read in school?”
“I…I dropped the fuck outta school! Learnin’ ain’t something a man should care about. A man don’t gotta think tah work, after all.” He paused, running what he’d just said back to himself. “Wait..no, that ain’t right, is it?”
“On the contrary, Harry, I couldn’t have said it better myself. Well, I could have, because I have an above average vocabulary and a mastery of grammar, but you can’t have everything, right?” He took his hand from Harry’s shoulder. “Now, do we have an understanding again, Harry? Because I was just beginning to enjoy tasting your son here, and I would very much like to enjoy him some more–and I’m sure you would too, right Harry? Or are you going to give me more trouble than you’re worth?”
“No sir, I won’t…” he muttered.
“Good. Now, we’re going to have to start all the way back in the beginning, now that you went and messed up my flow. Still, I think this will be much more fun this time around, for both of us–and for your son too.”
Mr. Elroy went back over to the sofa and sat back down beside Pete, who gave a sudden start and woke up from his sudden slumber, and gave a hacking cough, not quite as severe as Harry’s had become, but still concerning. “Fuck, did I fall asleep?” he muttered, “I feel like I got hit by a fuckin’ semi.”
Mr. Elroy laughed, “You haven’t felt anything yet, Pete–now, we were strolling down memory lane, right?”
Just like that, they were back in the past, back in their memories, back in the house he remembered…or at least, the house Harry thought he remembered. It didn’t seem quite right to him, actually. Everything was a bit…dirtier, and grungier, and when Patricia flitted through the room in a flicker, she wasn’t the prim and dainty 50’s housewife he thought he’d recalled. She seemed…harder, and fatter, smoking her slim cigarettes in the kitchen and listening to the radio, the dishes undone in the sink. There was a thick layer of smoke everywhere, he sensed–he’d been a heavy smoker before, but now he could barely recall a time when he didn’t have a cigar in his mouth, from the moment he woke to the moment he crawled into his lonely twin bed to masturbate, thinking about Wilbur.
“Focus Harry,” a voice said, Mr, Elroy’s voice said, but it was Wilbur speaking, in the memory. And there was Pete, his boy, looking up at him…but not quite as handsome as he was. Then again, mix a brute like Harry with a comely woman like Patricia, and you weren’t going to get movie star looks. “Focus on your boy–on what he needs to know to be a man, a real man like you.”
Suddenly, they were wrestling, him and his son, in the middle of the living room. He’d always loved wrestling and brawling, and he wanted his son to love it to–dominating other men, beating them down. That was how you showed them you were important, that was how you showed them what a man you were. There were other flashes, his notes coming home from teachers and administrators, accusing his boy of being a bully–but he was just being a boy, in Harry’s opinion. In fact, he encouraged it in him, told him it was good to push other guys around, that it was just a sign of how strong he was. That is, until he broke that kid’s arm one day, pushing him into a gully. That had been enough for the school, and they’d expelled him from the eighth grade. Still, that was plenty of school for a boy, in Harry’s opinion. He was old enough to start working, and so he helped him find some jobs around town, sweeping the mechanic’s garage, mowing the lawns at the church–good things for a big boy like Pete to do. Still, he needed an outlet, and Wilbur had the best suggestion–Pete ought to be a boxer.
Wilbur knew just the gym to take him to as well, and Pete took to it like a fish to water. But like before, there were a lot of complaints coming from guys at the gym, as Pete got older, that he tended to fight dirty, and once he was an older teenager, and picked up a taste for alcohol, he took to picking fights and starting brawls in the bars around town. Still, Harry just waved it off, when he wasn’t outright enabling him. Wilbur didn’t see anything wrong with it either–it was just youthful abandon. They’d been the same way when they were young after all, before they’d settled down. Once Pete found a woman, they said, he’d mellow out a bit.
Evan pushed the temptation away. He didn’t…want this life, did he? He just wanted to be normal. He wanted to go back to the way things were before, he wanted to just…be himself. Alone in the locker room, he sat down on the bench and just thought about himself, about all the selves he’d been, trying to piece something together about who he’d been, but everything was such a jumble now, that nothing seemed…right. Everything he could recall about who he’d been seemed right when looked at from one angle, and wrong from another. He just…wanted to be happy, didn’t he? When had he last been happy?
I know what makes you happy, Evan.
Robbie popped into his mind then, and his stomach turned. It wasn’t true. What he’d done with him was sick, every time he and Robbie got together, no matter who he was…it was awful. Back in that trailer, when he’d turned him into a pig, in that apartment when he’d worshiped his young, dirty, athletic body, in the apartment earlier, thinking about…about all the filthy fun they got into when they were alone…
I know what makes you happy, Evan, because it makes me happy too, watching you give in. You don’t want to want it, but you can’t help yourself, can you? Well, don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re together again, since that’s what we both want, right?
[random check, dirty sheriff or mall cop…dirty redneck sheriff it is!]
He…smelled himself then. The musk wafting up around him, growing stronger, and he pushed back. He wasn’t some dirty construction worker, he wasn’t! He…he was an officer of the law, he was in control, he had power, he was important!
Yes, you are, aren’t you? A very important man in these parts…
On the bench, he felt himself shifting, growing taller, feet expanding, his hefty gut pushing out, covered in grey hair, the smell of himself shifting. It was more than sweat now–it was…whiskey, and dirt, and…and cigar smoke. Plenty of smoke, after all, he was never without a cigar in his mouth, usually. He shook his head, trying to focus, trying to push back, but the world around him was already here–he wasn’t in a locker room, he was in his…office. The county sheriff’s office, that is. He wasn’t naked anymore either, he was in his tan uniform, sweat marks under his arms in the summer heat, a full ashtray on his desk, cowboy boots on his feet, his beard trimmed back into a set of friendly mutton chops, just like his pappy had, when he’d been sheriff. He groped himself, feeling his anxiety and fear dropping as he settled into his new life, and leaned back in his chair. “Harry?” he hollared around his cigar, “Got one last thing fer ya, deputy.”
After a moment, Harry came to the door…looking rather similar to the short, chubby cub he’d been in the locker room earlier, but with a few…redneck twists, including his own cigar shoved in his young mouth. Evan couldn’t stand the idea of a boy like that not smoking like him, after all, so he’d been working hard on getting the young cubby deputy well addicted to them over the last few months. “Y-Yes sir?”
“Come on boy, get yer mouth o’er here–fergot tah piss.”
Harry gulped, but got down in front of his sheriff, drank down his piss and ate his ash, before being excused for the evening. He’d have the deputy spend a weekend with him and Robbie soon enough–then he’d have a full service toilet for himself both at home, and at the office. This was good enough for now–he’d chosen well, after all, finding this willing young pig desperate to serve him on the force. Once he’d left, Harry closed up his files and hit the road, climbing into his patrol car, which he had smelling nice and smoky, lit up another cigar, and drove home.
He and Robbie were together, and most everyone in the county knew about the arrangement, but most everyone was scared enough of Evan that they knew better than to say anything. Besides, crime was down (not that it had ever really been up) and he had his Pappy’s name, so Evan wasn’t too worried about having anyone contest him in an election. If someone did…well, he’d be able to put them in place quick enough, he figured. He could afford to live in town somewhere, of course, but he liked…his distance. Fewer questions, and Robbie wasn’t usually fit for polite company, anyway. No use scaring anyone with his filthy pig of a boyfriend, after all.
He did stop on his way out of town and picked up five pizzas–his usual order, and then headed home. He parked on the gravel outside the trailer, and undressed there–wouldn’t do to get his uniform dirtier than it had to be, after all. Naked, he got his pizzas out and headed for the door, cock already hardening from the smell of their grungy life together. Inside, Robbie was where he always was, on the filthy couch in his piss and shit stained clothes, watching old porn on VHS–the classics. Evan stuffed his fat face, and then made the pig beg for the load of shit he’d been carrying around for him all day. He never got tired of listening to the pig beg, after all.
Later, as they fell asleep on the bed, and Evan came back to himself…somewhat. He couldn’t escape this–the spirit wouldn’t let him escape it. It wanted to see him suffer like this, wanted to see him succumb to this…corruption. Worse…he really did enjoy it. He was happy here, as sick as that was…and maybe, the curse would finally let him rest.
***
I’m gonna call it good here on this one! I’ll run a poll here in a bit (probably for Patrons only) on some possible ideas for another interactive that I’ll start next week sometime.
Harry didn’t say anything–he knew that whatever this demon was thinking, nothing that Harry did would sway him one way or another.
Mr. Elroy just turned back to him, with that same dreadful smile he had on, when he was contemplating something horrible. “I like you Harry–You’re a man–you’re a whole set of possibilities that’s meant to be savored, but I just don’t know if I can trust you. You’re just a bit too…strong willed, I think. That, and I’ve been a bit too kind to you. I’ve let you imagine that you can make a difference here. Tell me, how did it feel, when you found out your best friend was screwing your wife, Harry?”
The memory slammed into him like a freight train. He’d been gone on a trip, a few years before the accident, but arrived home early, when he was bumped up to an earlier flight. He’d come home and found Wilbur’s car in the driveway, and inside, he’d snuck to the bedroom and watched them fuck. It wasn’t like how he fucked Patricia. She never made those sorts of noises when he was on top of her, and Wilbur…he had the same virile energy coursing around him that Harry felt when they were in bed together. He hadn’t been able to help himself–he’d pulled out his cock–his much…shorter cock–and jacked off in the hallway, watching them. He was so ashamed of himself–he’d fled the house, gone to a bar for a few too many drinks, and then arrived home at the correct time. He’d never said anything about it to either of them–he loved them too much, even though he knew now that neither of them really loved him in the same way. He…wanted them to be happy. He would vacate the house at convenient times, and then sneak back in to watch, just to try and capture some of their energy, just to feel close to them, even if they didn’t know he was there.
He found himself back in his apartment, and he couldn’t stop himself–he started sobbing. Mr. Elroy laid a hand on his shoulder. “Now, now, Harry, men shouldn’t cry, you know that.”
He looked up, and Wilbur was looking down at him, or was it Mr. Elroy now? He didn’t know for certain anymore–he didn’t know anything, beyond the fact that he’d never felt so humiliated in his whole life. Humiliated, and yet, he missed them both so damn much…he had his son though–at least he had that. His son loved him, right?
“Look at you, Harry. You’re fucking weak.”
Harry tried to yell at him, but it just came out as gibberish without his teeth in. Mr. Elroy was kind enough to hand them back to him, and Harry shuddered as he put them in. “S-Shut up, this is all a damn pack of lies.”
“Lies? These are your memories, Harry. This is all you know. Can you tell the difference? I know you can’t. This is your truth now, Harry. Your best friend fucked your wife for years, and you never did anything about it, not once. It only got worse after the accident–especially since you couldn’t get hard anymore.” Mr. Elroy slid a hand up Harry’s thigh, and he felt his cock shrivel back, the pain from his knee running up into his hip now, “You’re lucky they could save at least one of your balls, though–the other one popped like a grape.”
Pain. So much pain in that memory, his leg and groin crushed under the machine, it must have weighed two tons, and he couldn’t do anything he couldn’t move, he just saw the blood running out on the ground under him, and Wilbur was there, and he just hoped he would…kiss him one last time, and take care of his family.
He flung himself back out of the memory and into the apartment. He hadn’t remembered the accident, not like that. He never wanted to feel that again.
“I could leave you there, you know,” Mr. Elroy said, “You could be pinned there, in your mind, for the rest of your days. Out here, you’ll look like a vegetable, and in there, just that horrific, wracking, neverending pain.” he knelt down, “Do you see how kind I have been to you Harry? Do you see how you’ve taken my kindness and flung it back at me, like a spoiled child?”
All he could do was sob, but he felt that same energy from Mr. Elroy’s hand on his shoulder, the same chill, and his eyes just dried up. The hurt, the anger, the grief and sadness was all still there, but calcified. He couldn’t let it out, he couldn’t show it; all he could do was live with it, remain stoic and unaffected by any emotion. That’s who he was–that’s what a real man was.
“You know why she loved being with Wilbur, Harry?” Mr. Elroy asked him, “It was because, with him, she found someone who could show some emotion. You were a real man, Harry, a real tough one, like a stone. But not very exciting in bed–just a couple of minutes on top of her until you came, and then you’d just fall right asleep. You could never give her satisfaction, and you knew it. You’re not a lover, Harry–you’re just a brute. Well, not anymore, I suppose. Now you’re just a weakling, but before…well, you remember, don’t you Harry?”
He was flung back into the past, back into himself, but while so much of it was the same…so much of it was…completely different. He saw himself in the mirror, his younger self, the unkempt hair and beard he always let grow out too long, until Patricia nagged him into cutting it off. Face caked with oil and sweat, because he rarely bothered showering–especially after Patricia insisted they start sleeping in separate beds, because he kept ruining the sheets with his dirt. He could see himself there, alone in that twin bed, sheets plain, smelling of grease and smoke and his own sweat…but he liked it. It felt comfortable, and he liked being comfortable, and if she wasn’t comfortable with him being a man–a real man–then why in the hell had she married him?
“You, boy, need to go to sleep while your father and I have a conversation,” he said, touched Pete’s temple, and he slumped over on the sofa, Mr. Elroy plucking the cigar from his hand before it could fall and setting it down in the ashtray. “As for you, Harry, I thought we had an understanding. What you were trying to pull back there…that’s a problem Harry, trying to give your son his life back. You know full well that his life isn’t his anymore, it’s mine. Mine! Just like yours is. He gets to be whatever I allow him to be, you see, and you can either help, or I can send you off to hospice to die, Harry. Is that what you want? A slow, withering death, lost in your own mind, not even knowing your own name?”
He rested a hand gently on Harry’s knee, but as gentle as it appeared, he might as well have brought a sledge hammer down on his body, soul, and spirit. It was happening again, just like the other night, he could feel his entire body weakening, curling in on itself as he sat there, almost like he was drying out under the heat of an impossibly hot sun. Mr. Elroy stood back up and looked at Harry, who was no longer a middle aged man in his late forties–he had gained at least another two decades in the span of the short touch. His already balding head had progressed all the way past his crown, and turned a dingy, dishwater grey. The same had happened to his beard, which was also thicker and longer, hanging down a couple of inches past his chin, looking tangled, matted, and uncared for.
Harry tried to speak, but all that came up was a rasping, hacking cough, deep in his lungs, his entire body shaking with the force of his coughing, until he felt something dislodge from his mouth and fall into his lap. He looked down…but was having a difficult time seeing anything clearly. “Oh, you might be needing these, Harry,” Mr. Elroy said, “The things you adjust to with age, right?” He slipped a pair of glasses on his face, and everything came into clarity, and Harry moaned at the sight of the dentures he had accidentally coughed out. “Those just do not want to stay put, do they, Harry? It’s almost like you want to be able to remove them on occasion,” the nurse unzipped his fly, his cock freeing itself from his slacks. “I think we need to remember who is in charge here, Harry. Tell me, is it you, you old, feeble piece of shit?”
Harry shook his head.
“I want to hear you say it.”
“No, Thir,” Harry said, as best he could without his teeth, “You ahhre.”
He fucked Harry’s mouth for a few minutes, and Harry did his best not to cry. He just felt so…empty, like everything had been drained out of him. Why had he fought? He knew better, he knew this could only get worse, and yet he’d done it anyway. He looked over at his dad, at his son, at his kin, at whoever he was now. At Pete. He was still fast asleep, but it was clear that the things Mr. Elroy had made them remember had affected him. He was…thicker. Stockier and beefier, with a sizable gut he didn’t remember him having a moment ago. He had a full beard as well, and the same high and tight cut he’d kept as a kid–the same one Harry still had as well. He was still in his suit though–that hadn’t changed. He’d made a difference. Maybe…maybe he could still fight this, if he was smart.
No–No, that was idiotic. Look at him. All it had taken was the slightest touch, and Mr. Elroy had taken another twenty years from him. As he sucked his nurse’s cock, he explored the rest of his body, his much larger gut and thin arms, the ache in his knee which had only grown more extreme, throbbing dully even through the pain medications he knew he was on. It was hopeless, and he needed to learn that now, before he just made things even worse, but he couldn’t just give up either. This wasn’t right–none of this was right. He didn’t know who, or what, this nurse was, or how he was doing this to them both, or even why, but that didn’t change the fact that it was wrong, and that he needed to do everything he could to resist him. It had been different, when it had just been him, but this was bigger now–this was about his son–his…father…he didn’t really know for certain, but it wasn’t right.
Still, there was nothing he could do now, he supposed. Maybe, maybe there was something his son could do. After all, he doubted that Mr. Elroy was planning on keeping him here too. Once he got out, he would be able to get help–hopefully, if Harry could keep some piece of his old self safe from Mr. Elroy’s magic, somehow. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had left, he supposed. He kept sucking–it was…much easier, and somehow more pleasurable for him, without his teeth–until Mr. Elroy finally pulled his cock free with a pop.
“Do we have an understanding, Harry?” he said, looking down at him, “You’re so delicious, I would hate to have to eat you all at once–and your son as well. After all, your fates are tied, right?”
Harry looked up at him, a bit confused.
Mr. Elroy just walked over to where Pete was slouched over asleep, and rested a hand on his shoulder. Harry saw his sleeping son flinch, let out a groan, and he aged nearly ten years in a moment. Watching it happen from the outside was no less difficult that feeling it from the inside, seeing him be hollowed out, his gut sagging further over the waistline of his pants, beard filling in with more white, his hairline receding further. “He’s still rather handsome, don’t you think?” Mr. Elroy said, “Maybe he would be more cooperative than you–he could take your place rather easily, you know. Or maybe I should keep you both in here, as brothers. That’s a nice thought too.”
“Everything alright, Harry?”
Mr. Elroy was over on the couch now, sitting with his son, arm around his shoulder, and his boy had that far off look in his eye again, like he had before. “Looked like you were remembering something. Your boy coming back to you finally?”
Harry nodded, “Yeah, some of it, I suppose.”
“Well, why don’t the three of us take a trip down memory lane together? After all, I think your son here could use a refresher as much as you could.”
They were all back in the old house again, and Wilbur was there, sitting with his son. He was older now, probably around ten or twelve, and Wilbur was talking about working in the factory, about tools, about mechanics and all the cool stuff they did at work all day, and his son was enthralled. He turned to Harry, who was just watching, and asked him if, when he was all grown up, he could go work there too, just like them, and Harry told him that nothing in the world would make him happier than having his son follow in his footsteps, and be a union laborer just like him.
The scene shifted, and now he was in the bleachers of the local high school, watching the two cross town rival teams duking it out on the field. Harry found himself following one member of the defensive line closely, and it wasn’t for a few minutes that he realized it was his son, Pete. But of course it was Pete! He was the biggest fucker out on the field after all–thanks to his mom’s big meals, and going to the gym with Uncle Wilbur. He sacked the quarterback, the stands erupted in a cheer, and he pulled his helmet off and waved to his dad in the stands. Harry waved back, along with Wilbur, and he had a hard time imagining that he could be more proud of his son than he was in that moment.
Time slipped again, but seemed…more fluid this time, like he was existing in more times than just one. He could see his son, eight or so, struggling with his homework, and Harry suggested he just skip it, and they go play football instead. Later, there was something similar, an argument he was having with Patricia while Pete was listening in, talking about his grades–or rather, about how bad his grades were. Harry didn’t think it was a big deal. You didn’t need to be smart to work in a factory, after all, but Patricia was concerned. It dawned on Harry that the reason Pete was so large as a Freshman on the football field in high school was because he’d been held back twice…or was it three times? He could also see Pete talking to him, older now, smoking a cigar with his dad in the garage while they worked on the car, telling him he wanted to drop out of school and just go work in the factory with him. Harry felt the entire time collapse there, somehow…and he knew what he was supposed to say–what Mr. Elroy wanted him to say…but he also knew it wasn’t right.
His son wasn’t stupid. He was clever, and intelligent, and just because school was a struggle didn’t mean he should quit…right? But more than that, Harry knew that what he was seeing…it wasn’t what had really happened. This wasn’t really his son, and he wasn’t really Harry at all! He…he was ruining his father’s life, the one he’d worked so hard to build, and for what?
He looked at him in the memory, grease covering his clothes and face, a thick beard already growing around his cheeks, haircut the same flat top his dad liked, ever since his days back in the army. He looked at him there, wanting an answer, and he could…see how if he gave him permission, there wasn’t going to be anything left for him. The factory would close down in a few years, after the accident, and everyone’s pensions would evaporate. His son needed an education if he was going to be someone–someone who mattered to the world–and not just some washed up redneck living in a dying small town, like Harry had become. So he said it.
He sat down with his young son, and even though Harry himself wasn’t very bright, they worked out the problems together, before going out and playing football in the yard as a reward. He agreed with his wife, and they did his best to work with Pete’s teachers to get his grades back where they needed to be, so he wouldn’t have to be held back. He talked him out of dropping out when things got rough, and told him that he wanted his son to have the sorts of opportunities he never got to have. That there was more to life than just working in a factory, that he could be so much. The potential in him was limitless! Why cut himself off at the knees? He could feel it–feel it having an impact and making a difference. He could almost see him walking across that stage to get his diploma, but before it fully materialized, he found himself flung back out, and he was back in the present, his son looking around, bleary and confused, and Mr. Elroy…did not look pleased.
Today’s post is for Patron’s only! I have a new short story based off a couple of suggestions. I’ll be doing one of these a week for the foreseeable future–for one buck a month, you can get access to them all, and have the ability to suggest stories yourself!
This, week, we have a therapist helping a young gay couple resolve some of the problems in their relationship, with weight gain, slob, hypnosis, and some other fetishes involved. Enjoy!
Suggested Story – Couples Therapy | Wesley Bracken on Patreon
As soon as Evan thought about giving into this persona, however, the spirit welled up inside him–warning him. Telling him that it would get its satisfaction one way or another, whether he helped it along or not–and so, it would be best for him if he simply cooperated. He looked over at Harry, who was now naked, and felt that familiar squeamishness rise up in his throat at the sight of him, like looking at naked men always seemed to do to him, like he was some fucking queer–and he hated it. He hated Harry, most of all, in that moment, and he thought of all the vile things he could do to him…but he held back and restrained himself. He couldn’t lose himself again, like before. Stay in control of himself, and maybe he could keep his wits about him.
“You know, I just don’t think you have what it takes, Harry,” he said, the power twining out and around him–but not changing him yet, just…sliding a little bit of doubt and confusion into his mind.
“What are you talking about, Evan?” Harry asked him.
“I mean, as far as recruits go–you’re a pretty sorry looking fucker, you know that? I mean, what are you, five foot five? 240 pounds? Decided to tuck into those doughnuts even before you got through the academy. Can’t fucking imagine how you managed to pass the physical tests with that sort of frame, but maybe the standards just aren’t quite what they used to be, back when I went through. They’ll let any short fat dumbfuck become a cop these days.”
Harry tried to rebut him, but the spirit was too quick, warping him as Evan spoke, until the lean, muscled, veteran of the force had almost entirely disappeared. In his place was a short, stocky young cadet, fresh out of the academy, who had been given to Evan to train. The words…stung, but while Harry knew he should try and defend himself, and his honor…he couldn’t seem to make his brain work fast enough to come up with a retort.
Evan just continued, feeling more confident, feeling his cock hardening in anticipation, “I did have a chat with Grant, though, about you. I always check in with him when I get a new cadet to train–and you know what he told me? Grant and I go way back you know–he paired me up with you for good reason, boy–he told me all about those special skills of yours you used to get through the academy. That sweet mouth and tight ass. See, we let the occasional faggot through, you know. Not many–they never make good cops, but they sure can make great bootlickers. You a good bootlicker, boy?”
Evan put his booted foot up on the bench, and watched Harry’s eye go right to it. He knew what was expected of him–and he walked over, got down on his knees, and started shining his superior officer’s boot with his tongue–first one, and then the other, paying special attention to the bottom of the soles (where Evan reminded him he’d walked through dog shit earlier that day) and then shoved the young cub up against the lockers and fucked his tight ass, showing the boy what he could expect his proper place to be in this precinct–though he knew what he was signing up for, didn’t he? He’s fantasized about being a cop’s sex slave for as long as he could remember, which is why he signed up for Grant’s special recruitment program, after all.
He came deep, pulled free, and made the cadet clean off his cock, before ordering him to get changed and out of his sight. Harry did as he was ordered, his own cock rock hard the entire time, and Evan knew he would be jacking off as soon as possible–these little faggot cadets were all the fucking same, after all. Evan went back to changing, and noticed that he had changed as well. No longer just a beat cop anymore–he was the captain in charge of this entire precinct–which is exactly why Grant had sent this pig here–he was just Evan’s type after all, and his last pig had finally broken down and quit a month ago. He wasn’t worried about they talking–they all wanted it, after all, even if the reality was always too much for them. Still, this one was…particularly eager–he might last longer than most, but Evan would grind him down eventually. That was his favorite part, after all.
He was dressed in his street clothes, admiring his broad shoulders, silver hair and mustache, thinking about how nice it would be to get home for dinner…but something was nagging him. This wasn’t quite right, after all. He knew he should be remembering something…but he was so tired, and maybe it was easier to just finally forget. (will check 60%: success! The story goes on!) He did remember though–how could he forget? This wasn’t real, but his task was, at least, finished…and maybe he’d be able to avoid the same fate as before now, if he was careful when he changed back. If he changed back, that is.
He…was important, now, after all. He had ambitions, and…needs. He could becomes someone even more important–he was attending a gala with the mayor and the commissioner in a few days, after all. But is that what he wanted? Thinking about Harry’s young hole…there were some young men in the neighborhood who could use his If he changed back now…what if he did end up back with Robbie, or maybe even something worse? But what did he want, really?
Alright, Evan can either change back into something else at this point, or he has a couple of options if you’d like to see him continue in his cop persona. If he changes back, there’s two different options below–each has two possible outcomes (two cleaner, two grungier, depending on your tastes).
Polls close on Saturday!
Bracken's Corner 