Y’know, I’ve wondered. Do you start off with an idea of what you want to write for a caption and then go look for a pic to fit it, or start with the pic and build a story around it?

Usually it’s pictures first, and I combine them together randomly until an idea I like pops into my head, but it’s a bit more complex of a process that that, to be honest. The pictures might start it, but more often than not as I’m writing, the pictures no longer fit my idea, and so I have to go hunting for something that fits better. I’ve actually replaced every picture that I started out with as I’m writing before. Sometimes, I’ll have a specific idea in mind for a picture, and I have to hunt around for others that fit in with it. It’s really just one biog creative mess at the end of the day.

It would be great if you could extend the recent one with a guy turned into a redneck after walking in on his boss jacking off, him changing somebody on the way or finding the entire office changed would be so hot, the caption with a redneck turning trailer was hot too, I would love to see what happened to him inside it.

I have an extension of the redneck office coming up here soon–it’s already written and will get posted in a week or so.

Hey bud, glad to see that you’re writing again. It brightens my day (and hardens my cock) seeing a new post of yours. The Huck and Justin story is great. Getting addicted to pleasure leading to the person’s downfall is so fucking hot to me. That was the hottest thing about Jock and a lot of your other stories. Keep up the good work!!

It feels good to be writing again, lol.

As for the Huck and Justin story, I actually am planning on expanding it into something larger down the road, hopefully by the end of the year, so keep an eye out for it.

Gonna dump my backlog today, so if you have any burning questions, now’s the time to ask.

The NCMC’s Greatest Stories Tournament

So this is happening, apparently. Taking a look at the brackets, it looks like (at least) eleven of my stories ended up in the running. The brackets are huge by the way, so it’s going to take a while to get through it all. That said, for all of you who’ve asked me where to find good stories, this is going to be a solid resource for you. I wouldn’t worry about the actual rankings and competition, but this is some of the best stuff the genre has to offer. There’s something to learn and enjoy from every story, so take a look.

The NCMC’s Greatest Stories Tournament

The Smoker Tapes (Part 3)

[Pictured: Max, in the process of being changed by the Smoker, and his final form.]

Eric: When is your friend supposed to come back?

The Smoker: Don’t know. Kind of depends.

Eric: And you were drawn to him already? But he hasn’t given you consent yet?

The Smoker: No. We’ve talked a bit about it, but he doesn’t quite know what I could offer him yet.

Eric: Do you, well, do you have any problems with the ethics of your work? After all, smoking kills many people every year, and here you are, turning men into heavy smokers. Does that ever bother you?

The Smoker: No, it doesn’t. In fact, I don’t see it as unethical at all.

Eric: Really?

The Smoker: People do dangerous things with and to their bodies every day. Smoking is just a risk, and it isn’t like the men I change don’t choose to partake.

Eric: True, but you’re vastly shortening their lifespan.

The Smoker: <Chuckling.> You’ve smoked before, I assume? Most everyone has at some point.

Eric: A few times.

The Smoker: And you knew the risks.

Eric: Of course, but smoking a cigar or some cigarettes is different from completely changing someone body and mind.

The Smoker: So, your concern isn’t really about the smoking, is it? It’s about the change itself.

Eric: I’m concerned about all of it. I don’t think this is a concern that can just be waved away with an appeal to ‘consent’.

The Smoker: Maybe not. It’s true that not everyone I help has a full knowledge of what they’re losing. But often they don’t really want to know–they just want help. And if they’re happier people when I’m finished with them, if I can make them happier…isn’t ten years of being happy better than fifty years of mild misery, boredom and frustration?

Eric: I don’t think that’s fair.

The Smoker: Back in the eighties, when I was still fairly new at this–still figuring out techniques, still sorting out what these men wanted from me…well, I made some mistakes, I suppose. I misjudged what people wanted. That’s where some of the rumors started. I remember one in particular, let’s call him Max, he was another tough case, but what he wanted was pretty simple. A big man, cigar smoker, a tough guy. Masculine and a cowboy. The Marlboro men were still around then, still seen, especially in gay circles, as these…paragons of masculinity.
Max consented. I was still new at this, and it took me longer, back then, to get things right. I kept him down in my basement, bound up, gasmask on, and I fed him smoke for days on end. It was like I was inflating him, watching the fat and muscle bulk up on his frame–fuck, it was sexy as all get out. But something I didn’t know about was happening too–he was getting older. In fact, he started out in his mid-twenties, and when I was finished, he was a six foot three, three hundred pound, middle aged cowboy, deep raspy smoker’s voice. He wasn’t happy to have lost thirty years of his life, but he settled into it, eventually. He grew to like it, the maturity.

Eric: What?

The Smoker: You know, some people actually like the idea of being older. It isn’t something to be terrified of after all. It happens to everyone at some point, and they can be the best years of your life. Why begrudge someone if that’s what they want? Max ended up wanting it–he just didn’t know that he wanted it. I could sense that he wanted it, and I gave it to him without knowing that’s what I was really doing. It all works out for the best in the end.
That said, the reason I was laughing is that Max’s story is that the first one that turned you on, judging by the hardon in those khakis you’re trying to pretend isn’t there.

Eric: It didn’t turn me on!

The Smoker: It’s ok to admit it. I already know.

Eric: I’m not, I mean…fuck, it’s so fucking hazy in here, could you put out that cigar for a bit?

The Smoker: I’d rather not, and I don’t think you actually want me to, either. Come on, you seem like the kind of guy who’s willing to light one up, probably around the poker table with a bunch of other guys from work, all of you trying to look more manly than you really are.

Eric: I mean, yeah, but that’s different, that’s–

The Smoker: Not that different. You’ve always smoked to seem older. Out behind the convenience store, with your brother’s friends, just twelve but wanting to be so much older, looking at them, turned on my their smoke before you even knew what being turned on was.

Eric:…How…How do you know about that?

<Silence.>

Eric: How in the fuck do you know about that!

The Smoker: How do you think I know about that, Eric?

Eric: I don’t–I mean…

The Smoker: Do you mind if I ask you something though? Tell me, why have you never tried smoking a pipe? That’s what always catches your eyes and nose right? That sweet pipe smoke, you love it, but you’ve never tried it. Every time you pick up cigars for those poker nights–you always bring them, after all, as an excuse to smoke yourself–and you’ve looked at the pipes countless times. Why haven’t you ever bought one? Or even tried one?

Eric: I’m not going to talk to you about this.

The Smoker: Come on, I’m just curious.

Eric: How do you even know all of this about me?

Eric: Please, I just…I don’t understand…

The Smoker: I’ll tell you, but first answer my question. Why never a pipe?

Eric: ….Because….they just always seemed like something, someone older than me would smoke, but I don’t understand what that has to do with anything. But how do you know any of this? Did you investigate me or something?

The Smoker: Why were you looking for me, Eric?

Eric: That’s just another question, you said you’d answer.

The Smoker: Why my story though? Why this urban legend? Why are you looking for me?

Eric: I’m–I’m done with this, I’m getting out of here.

The Smoker: They always do this, this mock outrage. Storm off, pretend this isn’t what they want, but like Eric here? He just left all of his stuff. See, when they do that, it means that they only want to seem scared. They only want to seem uninterested in what I can offer them. It’s a show and a performance. After all, no one is supposed to want what I offer. Not really. Maybe as a fantasy, maybe as something thought of in the dead of night, as nightmare.
Just between you and me though, whoever might be listening to this down the line, I don’t have any regrets about this, about any of this. I mean, sure, I made a deal with the devil, I know that. I’ve ruined people’s lives–I mean, they wanted me to ruin them, but that’s no excuse, not in the long run. I can’t excuse that, I suppose.
But what about you, in there, on the other side, all those years later? What do you want? Are you looking for me? I’m not planning on quitting any time soon, just so you know. All those stories you’re hearing? All those rumors, old and new? Chances are they’re all true. Come and find me, if that’s what you want. I’m right here. I’ll be here for years to come.
Think it over. I have to get some things ready for when Eric comes back up here in a few minutes, once he’s done pouting, and pretending he didn’t make up his mind an hour ago.

The Smoker: Welcome back, Eric.

The Smoker Tapes (Part 2)

Pictured: The Smoker’s victim (1) at Pride, (2)in his dungeon, and finally (3)living his new life.

***

The Smoker: Feeling better?

Eric: How do I even know that you are The Smoker, anyway? How do I know that you aren’t just jerking me around?

The Smoker: Like I said, when the owner of this apartment gets here, I’ll be happy to offer a demonstration, provided he’s interested.

Eric: Well, you have to admit that this is hard to believe.

The Smoker: Of course it is. But just because something is unbelievable doesn’t mean it can’t be true. Hunter existed. All of the men I’ve helped existed. I exist. Why the sudden bout of doubt? You seemed inclined to believe me when we spoke on the phone.

Eric: A journalist has to be skeptical of his sources.

The Smoker: Ah yes. The only way to maintain your integrity is to challenge mine.

Eric: You don’t have to get upset. If you can’t corroborate any of this, then you’re no better than the men spreading legend on the street. You just seem more interested in offering embellishment.

The Smoker: I would call them details. Embellishment implies that I’m lying.

Eric: As far as I’m concerned at the moment, you might as well be lying. I think you’re just trying to shock me into believing you.

The Smoker: If that’s really what you believe, then we might as well stop this interview now. If my testimony has no worth, why seek me out in the first place? You were, after all, the one looking for me. I only contacted you after I heard that someone wanted the truth of things. Like I said, I’m happy to offer you proof when my friend returns. Why not give me the benefit of the doubt until then? At worst, I’m just a fool telling tales. At best, I’m the best story you’ve ever found in your rather lackluster career as a lifestyle journalist.

Eric: It isn’t lackluster–

The Smoker: It is lackluster, and you know it. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost say that you aren’t particularly interested in your career as a journalist. But if that were true, why pursue a story as big as this one, right?

Eric: …Right.

The Smoker: So, while we wait for my friend, I assume you have a few more questions to ask.

Eric: How do you choose your…patrons? What do you look for in the men you change?

The Smoker: Well…that’s a bit complicated, actually.

Eric: Complicated how?

The Smoker: I don’t really choose my targets, exactly. I mean, that’s not precisely true. To say…maybe here’s a better way to put it. I can’t just walk down the street, smoking a cigar, changing men left and right. There’s only a small set of men who are even receptive to my assistance. And even then, not everyone in that set is interested in being helped. Not everyone in that set even has a problem that I can solve for them. So to say that I choose anyone isn’t the best way of putting it. It’s more like…there are some people who need help, and I’m the only person who can help them.

Eric: Alright then, so who can you help? What qualities do all of your patrons share?

The Smoker: Well, they’ve all smoked at some point in their life. I can’t do anything to someone who hasn’t tasted smoke before. While it isn’t a requirement that they be gay, I can’t do anything if the person isn’t at least open to the prospect of becoming gay.

Eric: So you make all of your patrons gay?

The Smoker: Considering the sexual nature of my work, it’s hard to imagine how they could turn out any other way.

Eric: Anything else?

The Smoker: Well, they all have a problem. Or rather, they all have a problem I can solve. A problem with themselves…..Again, it’s hard to explain. They have to be dissatisfied with their lives, or with their bodies, but it’s more complicated than that even. They have to be willing to sacrifice, they have to give up and not look back.

Eric: And how do you know when you’ve found someone who you can help?

The Smoker: Well, usually they find me. Or rather, I attract them. The legend attracts them, rather. But when I meet them, I…well, when I meet them, it’s not that I can read their minds exactly, but I can sense their problem and how to solve it. That’s a rather inelegant way to put it, unfortunately, but the details of the process aren’t really…it’s rather unconscious.

Eric: None of that made much sense, unfortunately.

The Smoker: Well, it isn’t something I try and articulate very often. You do something so many times, it becomes a part of you. You don’t think about it anymore. It can become rather dominating at times, and you forget that things could have been any other way. So trying to explain it, is difficult. Perhaps if I used an example.
Last year, during the summer–during pride weekend, actually–I wandered through the street fair in the afternoon. That’s usually how it starts, I end up wandering somewhere with no particular goal in mind, but I’ve come to recognize the sensation of being pulled towards someone who’s looking for me. And in the mob of people, in the street, I saw a young man, beer in hand but not comfortable with it at all. Not comfortable at all, with any of it, and looking at him, I could just tell everything about him. Just started college, but uncomfortable in his own skin. Gay, a virgin, no confidence, desperate for attention and control over his life and situation but he was too busy doubting his own ability and desire to actually attain anything. Overbearing mother, distant father, seeking approval from older men and hating himself for it. Unhappy with his body, but lacking the discipline and determination to change it. Caught at a crossroad, unable to decide where to go. He was lost, and he saw me standing there, smoking a cigar, and I saw this flourish of jealousy there. He wanted what I could give him–well, what he actually thought was, “I want what he has,” but he got the next best thing.
I don’t know if that actually clarifies anything or not. But that’s what it feels like, finding a patron.

Eric: And what happens then?

The Smoker: Well, then I offer them help. In that young man’s case, he was rather belligerent. He didn’t want to admit to anyone that he needed help. Actually, he was one of the harder cases I’ve had recently.

Eric: What was so hard about him? From the way you talk, it doesn’t seem like there’s much anyone can do to stop you.

The Smoker: Well, I do require consent, but even with consent, there has to be acceptance. There has to be a desire to leave the old behind and welcome in the new. But once consent is given, and once the process begins, there’s no going back. It just makes it all the more difficult for me. Hunter, and men like Hunter, the easy ones, they take a matter of minutes or hours. The hard cases, like that young man, they can take days. The longest I’ve ever had took close to three weeks to finish up. Anyway, when we talked in the street, he refused help, but I offered him my phone number and he took it. A few days later, when he was drunk, he called me and wanted to know more. He eventually consented at my home, but in the middle of the process, his doubts and fear stepped in and fought back. I had to go to some…extreme measures.

Eric: Like what?

The Smoker: Well, I have an extensive dungeon in my basement, something I’ve assembled for hard cases. I kept him locked in a cell–he’d already changed quite a bit at that point. His body had grown heavily muscled, but completely hairless. In fact, his body was almost there–it was his head that was fighting back. And so…I made him start masturbating his brains out. He was jacking off almost constantly, and as he came, over and over, the air saturated with smoke, he just got dumber and dumber, and eventually he just lost the will to doubt. He lost all reason to fear. I had to put something else in there of course–he grew into a very aggressive, domineering top. Skinhead, dresses all in leather, keeps a number of slaves now, chain smoking unfiltered cigarettes. He’s very happy, but it was a lot of work getting him there.

Eric: That doesn’t sound like consent, that sounds like kidnapping and torture.

The Smoker: Well, perhaps, but that’s all the consent I require.

Eric: There seem to be a lot of rules involved in your work.

Eric: What?

The Smoker: Nothing. Nothing at all. What’s your next question?

The Smoker Tapes (Part 1)

[Pictured: Hunter, before and after his meeting with The Smoker.]

Report 1927-01 of the Special Investigations Bureau

A number of cassette tapes, CD’s, and MP3 files have been discovered which have been colloquially termed The Smoker Tapes. All of them were presumably recorded between 2003 and today, and they catalogue conversations between Person of Interest “The Smoker” (see case file P001927) and a number of his victims around the country. SIB classifies these recordings as class B mental influencers, requiring security clearance level two and a psychological assessment before any agent can listen to them. The transcripts, however, are accessible by anyone with security level five or below. These recordings, it is assumed, are one of The Smoker’s primary recruitment techniques, and new copies are found daily as tapes and CD’s in adult bookstores and bathhouses, as well as online, most commonly circulated in the deep web.

This recording is generally considered to be the first attack of “The Smoker” that was recorded, between him and a reporter known only on the tape as Eric. All attempts to identify and track Eric, both before and after the attack, can be found in report 1927-54. Unlike the others, where “The Smoker” himself is recording the attack, this first was instigated by the reporter, as a means of documenting his interview with “The Smoker”. The other transcribed tapes can be found in reports 1927-02 through 1927-34.

***

Eric: Ok, it’s on–not sure where to put it…

Eric: This place is a mess. Do you live here?

The Smoker: No. It’s a friend’s place, and I figured we could use it for the interview.

Eric: One of your victims?

The Smoker: They aren’t victims.

Eric: The legend would say otherwise.

The Smoker: Legends are exaggerations. They’re just men I’ve helped out, when they needed it.

Eric: Well, have you helped your friend out yet, then?

The Smoker: No, not yet. He might be interested, but we haven’t discussed it yet.

Eric: Do you always discuss it with them?

The Smoker: Of course. I’m not the monster most people talk about, you know. I mean, look at me. five foot three, two hundred pounds, flabby. What exactly am I going to do to them? How could I force them? They all come to me, not the other way around.

Eric: Well, on the topic of rumor and legend, I’d like to start asking you about some of the mythos surrounding you as a figure. As you know, you’re quite the boogeyman on the streets, though–

The Smoker: Actually, before we begin, do you mind if I smoke?

Eric: Do you think I’m stupid? Of course I mind. You’ll do something to me.

The Smoker: It isn’t my smoke that does anything. Besides, I never do anything to someone without their consent. For someone interested in the truth, you seem very interested in upholding fictions about things you know nothing about.

Eric: Well, you can’t blame me for being cautious–

The Smoker: But if I’m not going to get a fair shake, or an even hand, I might as well just walk out right now.

Eric: There’s no need to get…now hold on, don’t–

The Smoker: There. See? No harm done. Now, you were going to ask me about the myth?

The Smoker: Are you holding your breath?…Oh for goodness sakes, if you’re that terrified of me, why did you agree to interview me in the first place?

The Smoker: I’m not putting it out. You can either breathe in, or leave. It’s up to you.

The Smoker: There, see? You’re fine.

Eric: How do I know–

The Smoker: You’ve already come to meet me, “The Smoker” of legend, in an unknown location, alone. It seems to be that caution is the last thing on your mind.

Eric: Those were your terms. I didn’t have much of a choice.

The Smoker: And you still agreed to meet me. Now, do you have some questions, or not?

Eric: I wanted to start with some of the aspects of the urban legend, to see if any of the stories are true. As you know, I’m sure, the legend of “The Smoker”, or also “The Smoking Man”, has been a staple of the gay subculture in this city for decades. You are, according to the stories, either a demon or a madman who kidnaps men and forces them to become smokers.

Eric: I assume you take issue with the stories?

The Smoker: Well, I don’t force anyone to do anything. All of the people I help consent to my services. I also don’t kidnap anyone, though sometimes my work requires them to take an extended stay with me at my home. I’ve never had an unsatisfied patron.

Eric: Well, then how do you think these stories started?

The Smoker: Like I said, I only change people who are willing. I have, in the past, misjudged people. I thought they wanted my help, when in fact they weren’t ready to admit that they needed it. How would you react to someone who just walked up to you, offering you the life you’d always wanted but that you were too terrified to ask for? People talked. Stories spread. I’ve gotten much more careful over time, though. I haven’t had anyone turn me down in quite a few years now.

Eric: The stories have been in circulation for quite a while. How long have you been changing men?

The Smoker: My first was back in 1976.

Eric: So, did this power manifest when you were, I’d guess, around twenty?

The Smoker: Oh no, I was fifty-six.

Eric: Uh…

Eric: I’m sorry, but that would mean that you were born in…in 1920? You don’t look to be in your nineties.

The Smoker: I’ve stayed healthy.

Eric: Is that related to your powers? Do you steal youth?

The Smoker: No, nothing so vampiric.

Eric: You must understand that this is hard to believe.

The Smoker: I have my birth certificate if you’d like me to furnish it as proof.

Eric: Well, assuming you are telling the truth, you’ve been changing people for close to forty years now, correct? How many men have you changed in that time?

The Smoker: One hundred and seven.

Eric: So you keep track of them all?

The Smoker: It’s impossible to forget any of them, actually.

Eric: So you must have celebrated your centennial recently, did you do anything special for you one hundredth…customer? I know you object to the word victim, but what do you call them?

The Smoker: Patrons. And my one hundredth wasn’t particularly unique or special. An older gentleman–let’s call him Hunter–was unhappy and looking for help. I provided it.

Eric: And what was his problem?

The Smoker: He had a very, very small dick.

<Laughter.>

The Smoker: Trust me when I say Hunter wouldn’t have found the humor in it.

Eric: I’m sorry, it just seems a little ludicrous. If that was the only issue, I’m sure half the guys in the city would be looking for your help.

The Smoker: How do you know half the men in the city don’t want my help?

Eric: So, how did you assist…Hunter, you said?

The Smoker: He was, rather desperate. And when I say small, I don’t mean a simple matter of overcompensation. His dick was a little less than an inch long, something Hunter had resented his whole life. The term ‘involuntary chastity’ comes to mind.

Eric: I can’t imagine many people would be very interested in that.

The Smoker: Well, some men find pleasure in minimal endowment. Hunter was just bitter and angry. He came home with me, rather reluctantly I might add, but he was much happier the next morning, leaving with a twelve inch cock and a grapefruit sized sack, stuffed in the front of his cum stiff jockstrap, unable to stop leaking as he chuffed on a thick ring cigar.

Eric: ….I see.

The Smoker: Did that make you uncomfortable?

Eric: I suppose I wasn’t expecting something quite so graphic.

The Smoker: Well, my trade is a graphic one. You are a reporter. I hadn’t expected the details to bother you so much.

Eric: That’s not really–

The Smoker: Some men, well, all they need is a taste of smoke and a bit of a push. They can take it from there all on their own. Others need more help, like Hunter. I started on his balls, taking big breaths of smoke and breathing it down his cock, inflating his balls with each exhale. I’ve been told that the heat of the smoke in the body can be painful, but from Hunter’s moans, he didn’t seem to mind.

Eric: Really, I don’t need–

The Smoker: I admit to getting a bit carried away. He seemed to enjoy it so much I kept going. Watching the testosterone flood his system, a thick white beard coating his face, hair sprouting up and down his chest. Muscle filled in as well–he was a sexy fuckin’ beast, I tell you.

Eric: This really isn’t relevant.

The Smoker: How would you know what’s relevant and what isn’t? Isn’t this why you agreed to interview me? To hear my story?

Eric: The graphic details–

The Smoker: This is my work. I hardly think leaving out the process itself would do a service to your readers. To continue, Hunter was finally ready for his own smoke. A large ring cigar, of course–a big tool makes a big tool. He smoked that down in near record time, and I nursed his cock all the while. I had to stop sucking once my jaw got stretched to the limit, but I couldn’t resist fucking myself on that huge cock. I mean, how often do you get a chance like that? Fuck, and when he came–filled me up, I could feel it in my guts–you ever felt anything like that, when someone fucked you?

Eric: I’m not–no, I mean, how do you know…

The Smoker: Know what, that you’re gay? No straight man would be interested in this story, legend or not. And no straight man would have an erection in their slacks after I tell that story. Good to know you don’t have Hunter’s problem, by the way.

Eric: I need…I think I’m going to take a break, I’ll be outside.

The Smoker: While he’s gone, I just want to introduce myself, properly. Many people know me as “The Smoker” but I’m more interested in who you might be, listening to this tape, listening to me and Eric have this nice chat. He’s scared you know, but being scared of the unknown is natural.

<Silence. The Smoker coughs.>

The Smoker: Whoever’s listening to this–it’s alright to be scared. But at some point, you have to stop being scared, and act. Act on what you want. Act on what you need, on who you want to be. You don’t want to be who you are forever, do you?

<Silence.>

The Smoker: I would be very interested to meet you, you know. I wonder if you’d be interested to meet yourself too? I could show that to you. Eric hasn’t met himself yet, not really. But I’ll be introducing him to himself before too long here. Perhaps you’d like your own introduction? Perhaps I’ll be able to make both of your acquaintances someday. I’d like that–and I’m sure you would too.

Looking through my own archives, I’ve found a few captions that could use some sequels. Hope you enjoy them. If there are any you’d like to see extended, you can always ask or submit a link.)

wesleybracken:

Everybody in town loves the Sheriff—which is pretty rare, even he admits that. He knows everyone in town, and has a habit of dropping in on families unexpectedly, like he did with the Robinson’s just last week. It was late—after dinner, and Mr. Robinson was enjoying a bit of whiskey, when the door opened (everyone left their doors unlocked, in case the sheriff wanted to stop by) and he said hello to Mr. Robinson, and then found the Misses getting dessert ready in the kitchen.

“Betty,” he said, stroking her cheek with a gloved hand, “Be a doll and skip dessert at home tonight. Why don’t you take the kids out for ice cream? And don’t come home until I call and tell you to.”

“Yes sheriff, of course!” Mrs. Robinson said, and bundled up the kids and left the sheriff alone with her husband.

Mr. Robinson wasn’t the healthiest of men, but then again, all of the men in the town had started packing on weight since the sheriff came to town. The Sheriff walked into the living room and started running his gloves over Mr. Robinson’s body. “Strip down, I want to see those fat rolls of yours, Mr. Robinson—and then we’re going to eat that whole cake your wife just baked. After that, I’m going to plow that fat ass of yours all night—how does that sound?”

“Sounds fucking hot, Sheriff, I can’t fucking wait,” Mr. Robinson said, moaning as the Sheriff rubbed his hard cock, and stuck one of his gloved hands into the citizen’s drooling mouth.

The sheriff got up off the bed, Mr. Robinson groaning, his belly covered with icing, cake fragments and streaks of cum. “That was very good Mr. Robinson, I wish all of my citizens were as law abiding as you are.”

“Thank–thank you sheriff, I try my best….ugh…” He was so stuffed, but he couldn’t question the sheriff. Still, he hoped it was at least a week or two before he stopped by next–he felt like he wouldn’t eat for days. The sheriff showed himself out, and got back into the uniform he’d discarded around the living room downstairs. He pulled out his cell phone and called Betty.

“Hi Betty, why don’t you bring the kids back home now. None of you will find anything strange about your husband. But Betty, I think his appetite has increased. Be a doll and add a sixth meal for him, would you? Thanks.”

He left before Betty could return. He’d needed a chance to vent his frustrations a bit, but watching Mr. Robinson devour that cake, watching him plead when he thought he was too full to carry on, that had given him an idea that might solve his little problem. There were, unfortunately, a few men around town who had resisted the powers of his special gloves. He couldn’t dominate them entirely, and he’d been forced to repurpose the lockup as a place for them to stay out of trouble while he figured out how to help them join in his society.

But maybe he’d been tackling them from the wrong direction. He’d been trying to break down their intellect–render them unwilling to resist his mental commands. He’d been worried that they were all just too smart for their own good. However, maybe he should be getting them to want to belong. Maybe he simply hadn’t shown them how wonderful it is to be hungry.

“Mr. Hubert, good evening.”

“You fucker, get the fuck away from me!” the man shouted, yanking at the manacles that kept him chained to the wall.

“Now Mr. Hubert, if you keep lashing out like that, you’re going to be stuck in here for a very long time.” The sheriff approached and stroked one of the man’s cheeks with a gloved hand, watching him shiver, but resist the magic. “I just think you would be so much happier if you were a bit more agreeable. Now–how about we work on that a bit, eh?”

The sheriff grabbed Mr. Hubert’s head with both hands, driving his will into the man’s mind. But rather than assault his intellect, he started exploring elsewhere. Down deeper, instinct, desire, craving, emotion–here was something he could work with! Yes, here everything was very pliable, down at the foundations. And with the right structural shifts, he was confident the castle of Mr. Hubert’s mind would begin to crumble in due time.

He pulled his hands away, wiping his gloves together, satisfied.

“What did…what did you do? That was different…oh…oh fuck…”

“What is it Mr. Hubert? Is something wrong?" The man’s jaw was trembling, and the sheriff heard a great growl emerge from the man’s stomach. "Sounds like someone is getting hungry…”

Mr. Hubert whimpered. He was starving. He was hungrier than he could ever remember being in his life. The sheriff smiled and left the cell.

“Wait! You can’t just leave me here! I’ll starve!”

“You won’t starve, Mr. Hubert. Breakfast will be served in the morning, as usual. Make sure you eat it all up. You and I will talk again tomorrow.”

He heard a whimper, and then a sob. Music to the sheriff’s ears. He would break them all down, now. He would build the world he’d always wanted, right here, in this little quiet town. A sheriff and his flock of pigs.

First you write captions with one pic, then go for two, now with three, are we to expect quadruples, quintuples and so on?

I’ve already done a quadruple caption. If you want to count pictures per story, then “Reunions” was a sextuple caption. But no, I don’t plan on throwing in as many pics as possible–I use as many as fit with the story. I wish I could use less pictures actually, but the stories I post with no pictures at all get almost no notes. Tumblr prefers visual mediums I suppose.