To be honest, part of what I’m trying to do at the moment is move my storytelling style away from archetypes in general. It’s surprisingly limiting, actually, because as soon as I say “biker” or “trucker” the reader already comes with a whole collection of biases and preconceptions that I have to unpack. That’s not always a bad thing–it can save me a lot of descriptive work in the long run, and helps keep short vignettes short. But for my longer stuff, I’d rather try to make actual characters rather than rely on archetypes like I have. That said, I suppose stories that I know will perk my interest is anything having to do with “slobs”, which isn’t really an archetype itself, but more of a modifier (i.e. slobby redneck, slobby biker, etc.).
Category: Uncategorized
What’s your favorite part about the diaper fetish if you don’t like the age regression? I really personally enjoy the humiliation aspect and loss of control. Also, do you partake in diaper wearing or is it just something you find interesting.
Well, I’m not a fan of physical age regression, but I am a fan of mental age regression, and diaper play can fit well in either of those categories. Beyond that, I’d say my interest in them trends not towards humiliation but more towards general slobiness, which I suppose would be along the same lines as loss of control. I my self have never worn a diaper, nor am I particularly inclined to ever do so. None of my fetishes escape fantasy for the most part, which is fine with me.
Answering my backlog tonight, as well as anything you might want to know about the update I posted earlier, or anything else in general.
Update on Haitus and “City of Bears”
Alright, so here’s the deal with the blog for the time being. First, the blog is going to remain on a limited content hiatus for a while longer. I’m enjoying these little sketches off and on, but I don’t really want to go back to the every day thing just yet, mostly because of the second piece of news.
I’m getting back to writing City of Bears, or whatever it is now. However, I’m not going to be continuing where I left off–for all intents and purposes, that first version is on permanent hiatus for many, many reasons. But how can I be writing it if it’s on hiatus? Because I’m starting over from “The Beginning” (kind of). It’s complicated.
I’m working on a new version. Same basic premise (entire college campus and city turned into bears by [MacGuffin]) but executed entirely differently. new characters, new TFs, new style. Some of the plot points will remain the same, and I *might* keep a couple of characters that I really liked, but I want to take the story in such a different direction I really had no choice but to scrap it and start over.
In addition, I’m going to be putting up the story in pieces for sale online–it won’t be available for free. Probably 3-5 dollars a section, as I finish them. I have no eta for when the first one will be released, but here’s hoping for fall/winter 2014. If you have any questions about any of this, feel free to drop me an ask, and I’ll try to respond in a timely manner, or find me online, or send me an email, or whatever you want.
Sketch #4 – Cop Slave
He turns on the red and blue, and hauls his way onto the freeway from the turnaround he’d parked in. He hadn’t needed the radar gun for this one, the smooth black sedan had been going eighty at least. The car pulls over elegantly–it knows it’s been caught, it’s willing to pay a price to speed. He’s not going to be lenient with this one.
He gets out of the patrol car and walks around to the passenger side window–the back window rolls down instead. “How can I be of assistance, officer?”
The man in the back is in business casual. Sweaty in the late afternoon. The car’s AC isn’t helping him much. “I need to speak with the driver.”
“The driver can’t speak. I can assist you. Would you like his license and registration?”
The driver in the front seat hands the documents back. The suited man hands them to the officer. “What do you mean he can’t speak?” he asks, looking over the paper and card.
“He has no tongue.”
The driver opens his mouth, demonstrating. The officer wishes he hadn’t.
“Well, I’m going to have to give you a ticket. You were going eighty in a sixty zone.”
“I’m very sorry officer–I will discipline the driver later, at my home. He knows I hate recklessness slightly more than tardiness.”
“I’m sorry, but…is there…” he starts, but doesn’t finish. He doesn’t really want to know. Scribbling out the ticket, he hands it to the businessman, and receives a small metal card in return.
“Do pay me a visit sometime, I have a feeling you might enjoy my offerings.”
“I can’t accept this, it’s against–” the window was already rolling up, and the driver rolled off, leaving the officer in the gravel. He kept the card.
***
The offer worried on him. Not because he wanted any services from the man, but because something didn’t sit right in the whole exchange. None of the other police would look into it–a strange business card wasn’t a crime. He finally gave into curiosity and paid the place a visit, out of uniform and off the clock.
The man answered the door, dressed in a leather uniform. He escorted the officer around the building, answering all of his questions. Yes, they were all sex slaves. Yes, some had been brought here against their will. Yes, he knew that was a crime. No, he wouldn’t be letting the officer go.
They were in front of a man being trained and programmed, his cock and balls erect and milking. The master pulled the plug from the slave’s ass, and the stink of it, the officer needed it, needed to fuck it, he was balls deep before he could stop himself, fucking the ass over and over the master cutting away his clothing, asking him questions. The officer couldn’t lie, and he couldn’t leave, and he couldn’t stop.
***
Years later, he is fully trained and sold off. Head empty, cock a foot and a half long, permanently erect. He is a punishment for his new master’s other slaves. He fucks. He has no other purpose, no other thought. Occasionally he kills–he cannot help himself from puncturing their guts on occasion. The master does not mind, that is what he is for. Fear keeps the slaves in line. He becomes the master’s favorite tool in time. It is a fine life.
Sketch #3: On the Road (Something a bit different)
It was a long way in both directions from any gas station, and Max been in the guy’s position, his bike out of fuel, waving down at anyone who might stop and help. He needed to meet his buddies for their annual hunting trip, but they weren’t doing anything until the evening–plenty of time to pull over, give the biker a ride back to town for a five gallon tank, and get back on the road. He hauled the his truck and trailer off to the side of the road and started up his warning lights. The biker, relieved that someone had finally stopped, came around the passenger side where Max rolled down the window.
“You out of gas?”
“Yes sir,” the biker said, “Should’a stopped back there when I had the chance.” He took a puff off his cigar. Max had always liked pipes better, but something about he cigar looked right on the man’s face.
“You want a ride back to town?”
“I could just siphon some off, that would be faster.”
“Too much effort–just climb in.”
The biker looked back at his bike on the side of the road, “I really don’t want to just leave my hog out here where someone could jack it.”
“Without any gas?”
“State Patrol could tow it.”
“We’ll be back here in an hour.”
“I only need a couple of gallons–just let me syphon some. I’ll even suck, if you’re afraid of tasting some gas.”
Max rolled his eyes, but parked the truck, popped open the gas tank and climbed out to help him rig something up. They found some hose in the trailer and managed to wedge it down into the tank. Then, one second the biker was sucking on the hose, pulling out some gas, and the next, without Max really recalling how it had happened, the biker had his fly unzipped and he was sucking his cock.
Then, the biker had him slammed up against the truck, a cigar in his mouth, Max’s pants around his ankles, the biker working to find his tight hole with his spit lubed head.
“What’s…what’s your name?” Max asked.
“Why do you care?” The biker kept searching. His head caught for a sec then slipped out. He grunted in annoyance.
“I like to know a guy’s name before he fucks my hole.”
“Lars.”
“That your real name?”
“No.”
The biker got it and slid it in, Max pushing down to open up, having a harder time than usual.
“No one ever wants to give their real name.”
***
They were in the trailer. The syphon hadn’t worked, the biker was balls deep in Max’s ass again. It was dark out. His cell was off, he’d gotten tired of his friends calling to ask where he was.
“Done yet?”
“Almost.”
The biker gave a few more thrusts and shot his third load into Max’s ass. He slid out quick, and then rolled Max over on to his back and wrapped his hand around his cock.
“Don’t.”
“You haven’t cum once.”
“Don’t want to.”
“You sure?”
Max pushed the biker’s hand away and sat up on the bed, and pulled his pants on. It was hard–how had he managed to get them off over his shoes in the first place?
“Let’s drive to down and get you some gas. I have places to be.”
The biker shrugged, but they got into the cab, turned around on the highway and headed back down the road, the bike hidden down in a ditch, covered by some ripped up tall grass.
***
They met again years later.
San Francisco. Max had come out and divorced his wife, disowned his children, followed his slutty heart, leathered up and working a booth at pride.
The biker recognized him through the tattoos–he had the same pipe in his mouth, an old relic.
They fucked again in an alley. Max let himself cum this time. It was a work in progress.
Sketch #2 – What I want, What They Want
Everyday, for so long now, it had become a ritual for all of them. They would walk down the street, he would stand on his driveway. They would smoke their cigarettes, he would stand in his work shirt, sweating in the late afternoon heat, just home from his air conditioned office. One or both would wave, shout a howdy. He would wave back, sometimes. Other times he would just smile, sweat, adjust his crotch and then hurry inside. Today, he waved. He liked the days where he waved, he felt like less of a coward for the rest of the day.
Terry loved them. Not them as people, he knew nothing about them. He loved them as this thing, this thing he wanted–no, that wasn’t quite right–he didn’t want to possess, he wanted oppression. He wanted them to strut over, burn holes in his dress shirt, rip it off, rape him on the sidewalk where everyone could see what a bitch he was, how his money meant nothing, how he was just a faggot, a lowly faggot, a pig a whore a cunt–
He took a breath. His short, four inch cock leaked a bit into his briefs. He realized that, instead of continuing onward, like they usually did, the two men had stopped across the way, and were looking at him, then whispering to each other, and then looking at him some more.
“S–Something I can…uh, help you with?” Terry said, a bit too quiet for the slight breeze on the block.
“What?” one of them shouted–the shorter, stockier one. The one he imagined with a huge cock, and a thing for fisting.
“Oh…uh…” Terry said, not quite able to rearticulate.
“You wanna get a drink with us?” the other, taller one asked. He was the leader, the real master. The one who would leash him up, keep him in the backyard in a doghouse. Drive the humanity out of him for good, make him a real bitch in the end.
“Excuse me?”
“Do you want to get a drink, with us?” the man asked again, and then stepped out into the street. “You know, you wave at us everyday, and we don’t know anything about you. What’s…what’s your name?”
“T–Terry. Terry Blankenheim.”
“Nice…nice to meet you Terry. Say, uh, Buck and I, we were heading to the bar for a drink. Would…would you like to come along? I mean, you don’t have to, it’s…kind of silly now that I’m saying it.”
Was he nervous? He sounded nervous. Why would he be nervous? He wasn’t fat, he wasn’t worthless. “Oh, uh…I mean, I don’t usually–”
“Oh, yeah…I mean, if you don’t, then…” the man said, and stepped back, almost glad for the excuse.
It was slipping away, it was almost gone, his chance, “No, I mean, I’d be happy to. Let–let me change though, I mean–”
“No, it was odd of me to ask, I mean–” the taller worker said, “I don’t want you to, uh, feel pressured.”
“No, I’d enjoy it, really. Just let me change.”
“Oh…uh…would you…not?” the taller man asked, “You look…good how you are.”
Terry blushed, but stepped off the curb, and shook the man’s hand. “I didn’t get your name though.”
“Oh, sorry…” the man’s hand was as sweaty as his was. “It’s Dylan.”
“Nice to finally meet you Dylan. So, where are we going?”
***
It was midnight. Dylan was five drinks drunk, Buck was eight and reeling a bit, Terry at three split up by waters. He’d just heard the opposite of what he’d wanted to hear.
***
Hungover–very hungover. His bed? Someone elses? The news he’d gotten came roaring back from the night before.
“You’re gay…right?”
“I…”
“It’s ok, we are too.”
“Oh…sure, I mean, I guess it was kind of obvious, huh?”
“Will you be our master?”
Their master. No, he wasn’t worthy of being their master, that was ridiculous. What a disaster.
He tried to roll up, his hands were tied to the bed posts. He opened his eyes, not quite able to make out the leather clad and collared Buck and Dylan on either side of him. He was dressed in the nicest suit they could find from the closet, Buck had shined some dress shoes for him. They had his cock in a pump they’d brought from their apartment–Terry’s four inches was now six, and purple hard.
“No, what are you…”
“Is it ready?”
“I think so.”
Dylan released the seal on the pump and pulled it off, Buck hopped up on the bed and immediately started fucking himself on Terry’s cock. “Oh fuck sir, oh fuck!”
“Get–Get off! Don’t!”
Dylan circled around to the foot of the bed, and started spit shining his dress shoes, moaning. He yanked, rope burning his wrists, and let out a quiet sob.
Do you think that the “girly twink” theme that’s popular in erotic stories/pictures is a homophobic stereotype?
I don’t think it’s at all homophobic, but I do think it’s a stereotype. It’s designed to be emasculating and humiliating in most cases, sure, but, if anything, it’s biased against queer gender expression, not against homosexuality.
Sketch #1: On the Porch with Uncle Mick (15 mins)
A beautiful day, all told. Crisp spring summer, not too hot, but Uncle Mick, naked in the semi shade on the bench there, the sun creeping closer to him as the hours pass, sliding a bit closer towards me each time. Doesn’t want to burn his skin, he says, between spitting black tobacco juice on the stained wood.
I say bullshit.
Not out loud, I let him think he’s playing coy. Pa’s gone, off to town for a little while. Just us two here now. Uncle Mick is always lounging around naked–it doesn’t faze me anymore. Though I gotta say, that huge nut sack of his is quite the sight, along with the rest of him. My cock’s hardening in my jeans, and the head slips out a strategic rip on the upper thigh. I pick through the foreskin, slide it back and forth a couple times, milking a strand of precum onto the denim. Uncle Mick watches me.
I’m smoking. I’m not supposed to be smoking, but ever since Pa caught me trying them out a few years ago he’ll let me have them if I’m a real good boy. I was a good boy today, so he said I could smoke as many as I’d like while he’s gone. Uncle Mick was good too–but not as good as I was. The fat fuck licks his lips, black slobber, he wants it bad. He always wants it bad though.
Getting warmer–I unbutton my shirt, let my young, taut get out. Uncle Mick, he’s all soft–no form. You could probably mold him like play dough if you stuck him in the freezer long enough to get it a bit stiffer. My cock was already hard, but it’s kept growing out the hole in my jeans. I don’t think much of it. It’s sticking three inches out now, jutting out to the side. It hurts–I let it out the fly. I lean back, letting my cock speak for me, all nine inches of it. Black spit dribbles out of the corner of Uncle Mick’s ajar mouth. Yeah, he wants it worse than usual.
“What are you staring at, Unc?” I ask.
“I think you should take it all off, nephew. Take it all off and sit on my knee.”
I do as he says, stripping out of my jeans and sliding off my shirt. I walk over and sit down on his knee, lean in and lick the spit off his double chins, giving him a soft bite as I do. He shivers. Is he hard? It’s not easy to tell, between how short he is right now and how huge his gut is. One hand rests at the small of my back, the other explores my chest and gut. He pulls and tugs at my nipples, and they grow as he works them–they end up almost an inch long, and the thickness of a sharpie. He bites them. I leak everywhere, my cum dribbles into the same puddles as his tobacco spit on the deck.
Honestly no one gives a fuck about the subjunctive mood. Unrelated, but have you ever taken any formal or informal writing classes or did you get better from writing so often?
I’ve been writing stories since I was a sophomore in high school. It didn’t cross my mind to write anything sexy until I was a freshman in college. I considered getting a degree in creative writing where I attended, but opted for a philosophy degree instead, because anything called a “creative writing major” is a fucking joke, where a bunch of shitty writers sit around giving each other handjobs and stroking egos and a whole bunch of other bullshit that I didn’t have time for. The only way to get better at writing is to write. The more you do it, the better you get. Classes are by and large a waste of time, if you want to be a writer, the only way to get there is to write.
Bracken's Corner 