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So far the diaper stuff was one of the very few things I couldn’t get into from your blog, and seeing how often you post this kind of content, would you mind elaborating a bit about this fetish, and explaining what exactly is the main draw behind it?

Honestly, I don’t quite know why I’ve been on such a diaper kick lately–it’s a bit strange. I tend to have runs of certain kinks, usually depending on the sorts of pictures I’m finding that are interesting. 

As for diapers in general, there’s a few different fetishes it can trigger. Of course, for some people, it’s the literal or figurative age regression of diapers and being made to act or think like a kid or a baby that they find erotic. For others, it has more to do with humiliation–the implication that they have lost control of themselves, obviously, but also the act of wearing something humiliating and the fear of discovery and shame of the act. There are other triggers embedded in it too: bondage, chastity and sensory deprivation (I can’t feel my cock!) and slob and raunch (wearing a dirty diaper for a long period of time, or resoiling it over and over).

Those are some of the main draws I suppose, hope that helps. Hopefully I’ll move onto something else soon lol, but who knows.

What are your feelings on what I can only think of to all “comfort porn”? Like where some kind of potentially humiliating tf is more fulfilling and soothing(Something most present on Touchstone’s stuff on NCMC)? I mean, you’ve written it before with several stories, and even from the opposite perspective with Matt’s protective desire in the city of bears stories– but with some of your “don’t be a pussy” preambles to some of your more hardcore kind of content, I wonder if there’s some antipathy.

I have a problem with people who expect all porn to be comfortable, certainly. I write horror porn, and part of that means that my stuff should be disturbing (and also hot). I get really tired of people writing in to tell me that my stories “bothered them” or that “they can’t get past the hardcore stuff” or tactlessly implying that my time would be better spent writing “something else” (i.e. stories which cater exclusively to their own fetishes, of course). That said, I have nothing against comfort porn as an idea–and showing the “positive” side of a negative fetish is a good way to temper it, and make it more appealing and understandable to readers who might usually be turned off by it. I use it all the time, actually, now that I’ve articulated the thought. So yeah, no problem with making porn comfortable for readers as a carrot on a stick to get them into a story and into a fetish, but expecting all stories to be comfortable? Fuck that bullshit, lol.

Hey Wes, love your work – mind if I use your tumblr as an advertisement of my own? Like you, I was sick of the lack of posts on our kinds of TF, so I figure I’d try and contribute my own – with a heavy focus on weight gain/age progression. I definitely have some work to do on my writing skils, but I suppose practice makes perfect. Thanks!

Hey, I’m always happy to have more people writing, and I definitely like the few things I read on your tumblr. Consider yourself recommended.

Do you think stories need comments? I don’t miss them at NCMC, I guess authors might but as a reader …

This is referring to my post regarding my Apologia that I gave last week. Comments are useful as a reader, sure, but comments, more than anything, are a key aspect of internet community, I think. Writers, or at least me and some others I know, like interacting with our audience. We like getting feedback or our stories, ideas from fans, but it’s bigger than that, I think.

Having a website without comments means that no criticism can be directed at any work, good or bad, which can be publicly viewed. A site can survive on that model, sure, but it isn’t a healthy community. It isn’t one which can effectively grow and develop. It isn’t one where authors can have an open dialogue with their readers and with each other. In the end, it isn’t much of a community at all, and that’s the issue.

As a reader, comments matter because they allow you to ask questions, voice opinions, and have some sort of stake in writing as an active project, rather than as a vessel that I just pour stories into. And, by making them public, it helps other people understand my writing and stories, and the nature of this genre. You obviously appreciate the ability to comment or you wouldn’t have sent me this, after all. It isn’t crucial for a site to survive, but it is crucial for a community to remain healthy.

“You know, before you can grow up, you need to go all the way back. Martin here, he’s almost there. You can hear him whimpering through that gag; he’s scared. Of course he is, nothing in that life had prepared him for this. Still, he won’t remember much of any of this–who remembers their childhood in any detail, really? He’s gonna like being himself too much to think about it anyway.”

The man gets down next to Martin, where he’s tied to the chair. I can smell the full diaper from across the room, and wonder how long since its been changed. He ruffles and strokes his hair with one hand, and it’s hard to tell whether the flinch Martin gives is trying to get away, or trying to get closer to him. “You’re almost there–I know you’re tired of fighting it? The drugs just want to set you free, you don’t have to fight them. You’re so close, and that final step is hard, I know, but do it for me–do it for daddy.”

He tweaks one of Martin’s nipples and the whimpering gets louder. “Can’t wait to see you grow up, you know. It’s gonna take a while, but it’ll be easier the second time around, and you’ll have a much better dad this time around. A tough one, one who’ll turn you into a proper fucker. Furry chest, muscular–you won’t take shit from anyone. Angry and self-centered, smoking cigars too big for your face, daring someone to say something, cupping that cock of yours through your ripped, filthy jock…”

He continues in a low voice, and Martin starts seizing against his bonds. It isn’t clear what’s happening exactly, and I realize he must be cumming, but more than that. There was pleasure, but also a look of death–with every violent shake, I wonder if his neck might break. I had assumed that he was bound up because he was being held back from escaping, but was he bound up to protect him? To ease the worst of it?

He strokes Martin’s hair, calming him down, and something is different. Martin’s posture is no longer tense, but utterly relaxed, sagging against the leather straps holding him in place. He was gone, gone where I hoped to be, soon. “He’s back where he belongs now,” the man says and turns to me, “So, boy, what do you want to be when you grow up again?”

The FAT Retreat (Part 2)

by Wesley Bracken

Commissioned by / Gift for Gaynerpig

– Day Two –

The lights in the room turned on suddenly, and Max snorted himself awake in the lower bunk, and looked around, momentarily confused about where he was. A voice came on from the PA in the room:

Good morning FAT members. Breakfast is scheduled in half an hour. Please be dressed and ready at the door in that time, clothing has been provided for you in your rooms.

Max hefted himself up off the bed and took a moment to rub his gut. He was getting so big now, he loved it. He could only vaguely remember his life before his first FAT meeting, how he’d always felt so guilty about his size, but no longer–now he just wanted to get bigger, and the videos he’d seen of himself on the web were so hot he couldn’t wait to star in a few more. He secretly hoped, though, that he wasn’t going to be staring in any with Leon–the slim guy just wasn’t his type at all. Thinking about Leon, he got up off the bed and looked in the top bunk, but it was empty–and he looked around his room, and there was no sign of his bunkmate anywhere. That was certainly strange, but he didn’t think too much of it–there was probably some sort of rational reason for his disappearance. Still, the young man had been pretty delusional–no one was here under duress after all–so he hoped he hadn’t run off or something.

Max looked around, and saw that a loose fitting shirt and some sweats had been hung on a bar by the door, and Max looked around, puzzled about where the clothes he’d been wearing the day before had gone. He gave a shrug, took a moment to use the toilet, and then pulled on his clothing. The clothes were very big on him, even at his size, and the shirt had a number printed in a large typeface on both sides, “367” but he didn’t know what that meant. He sat down on his bunk for a few minutes and smoked one of several cigars he found in his sweats pocket, until the door slid open, and he got up again and looked out into the hallway, as the voice spoke again:

FAT members, please follow the yellow lights lining the top of the walls to the mess hall. After breakfast, you will be directed to your first personalized session of the retreat.

The hallway was already packed with men, all of them around Max’s size, trudging down the hallway, and Max pushed his way into the throng and followed the current, seeing the yellow lights guiding their path up where the walls met the ceiling, and after a short walk, the hallway emptied out into a massive room which reminded Max of an airplane hanger with a horribly low ceiling. Still, the smells! He was starving, and pushing forward he could see that the tables were heaped with food of all kinds–it seemed like each was set differently, and while he wanted to look at them all and see what each offered, he saw that the mass of men was already crowding around the tables, not even using the chairs and benches, and he got the sudden sense that if he did not choose now, he would eat nothing, like a massive game of musical chairs, the runt who didn’t get to the bitch’s nipple in time. The fear of not eating raced through him, and he shoved his way up to the nearest table and simply ate–it didn’t matter what he was eating, all that mattered was that he didn’t go hungry. The competition of the feed consumed him for the next three hours, as the men ate each and every table in the room down to scraps, demolishing one before moving onto the next which was relatively unoccupied, and by the end of breakfast time they milled about, none of them hungry, and yet all of them desperate to eat, plucking scraps off the empty tables, biding time, and the men turned their attention to each other, eyeing each other guts appreciatively, and a few brasher men began kissing, licking the leftover food from each other’s faces, and perhaps smearing a glob of butter on another’s penis, feeling their fat shiver as they jacked them quickly.

Sensing the restlessness of the room, at least ten doors on both the long sides of the mess hall slid open, and the voice came on again:

FAT members, on your shirt is your subject number for the duration of the retreat. Please make your way to the gate your number falls within, and you will be directed to your first FAT session.

Max looked down at his shirt, and saw it was covered with food, but wiping some of it away he could make out his number, and pushed his way through the crowd to the gate marked “350-400” and queued up, where they were slowly filed through, and Max was collected by a robust man in a white lab coat and escorted down several hallways until they came to a small laboratory labeled “Metabolics Lab #3”. There was one other subject there already, slightly smaller than Max, in one of the chairs of the room, and a young, cubbish lab assistant was strapping him to the chair. The man who’d escorted him sat Max in the next seat, and when the assistant finished with the first man, he began securing Max to the seat, and he got a little scared. He’d participated in one light bondage flick with FAT, but this seemed a bit strange. Two more men were eventually escorted into the lab and similarly secured, before the door slid closed and the doctor came over.

“Welcome gentlemen,” he said, “We will be starting you off with a metabolic manipulation this morning. This will require several subcutaneous and intravenous injections, and then we will monitor your progress over the next three hours, to insure there are no unwanted effects.”

“Wait, injections?” one of the men in the room said, “I hate needles.”

The doctor simply ignored him, and he and the assistant progressed down the line, giving each man a number of injections in many parts of their bodies, and the first man, the one with the fear of needles, gave the greatest struggle, but otherwise the process was rather smooth, and after the shots had been given, the assistant and the doctor retreated back behind a row of computers to observe, though it wasn’t long before the doctor had his hands down the chubby cub’s pants and his tongue down the younger man’s throat.

The four men in the room, meanwhile, were watching the scene, all of them turned on, and Max noticed that he was starting to sweat. The temperature in the lab wasn’t too great, and yet in a matter of minutes, his shirt was nearly soaked through, and his hair and beard were sopping wet. Looking at the other men, he saw that they were all in a similar condition, their food stained shirts matted to their bodies, and then they started to smell. It started as a fairly normal scent of body odor, but as the hours passed, it grew worse and worse, until each of the men had started to feel a bit sick to their stomachs.

“Oh god, what the…is this normal?” one of the men said, as another retched a bit from the fuck rolling off his body.

“Yes… oh fuck yes…” the doctor said from the floor behind the computers where he was fucking the cub’s ass, but none of the men knew whether he was talking about them or not. Finally, the doctor and the cub finished up, and they started walking from man to man, examining them in turn, giving them each a pill to help with the nausea, and took samples of their sweat on cotton swabs from various areas of their bodies, especially their armpits, crotch and ass crack, and set them aside.

Max kept hoping the sweating would stop, but it seemed to only grow worse, and he was actually getting thirsty. Sensing their need, the doctor and assistant helped keep them hydrated, and by the end of the first session, all of the men were reeking like they hadn’t showered in weeks. The doctor checked the time, and started unbuckling the straps on each of the men, “Alright, everything looks normal–go have lunch, your first session is over.”

“Wait, what?” one of the men said, “You’re just…I mean, when will I stop sweating like this?”

“Yeah, I mean, this is kind of gross…” Max said.

“Don’t worry gentlemen, everything will be taken care of. Go enjoy lunch, I’m sure you’re all hungry.”

They were all hungry, but that was nothing new. Still, the four of them left the room and followed the yellow lights back to the mess hall, where they all devoured another meal, trying not to be alarmed by their new scent. The men in the room all seemed disconcerted for various reasons, but Max was too busy feeling embarrassed by his stink to think about what everyone else must have been going through, and he tried to find tables which were lightly packed, because every time he pushed up next to someone, they would retch or give him the worst scowl, and it made him feel awful.

Lunch ended eventually, and he made his way back to the gate, where a different sort of man escorted him off. Instead of being dressed in a labcoat, he was simply dressed in a business suit, and appeared unfazed by Max’s new stench, which he was thankful for. The man even offered him a cigar as they walked, and they arrived in a cozy looking office labeled “Mental Conditioning Rm. 33”, with a cushy armchair facing a massive TV mounted on the wall. The man had Max sit down in the chair, and then dimmed the lights, but before Max could ask what was going on, the TV turned on and a massive prismatic spiral drew him in within seconds, and Max’s entire world collapsed, but off in the distance, he could almost make out the suited man talking to him, telling him how much he loved his filthy stink, how smelling like a sweat and cum stained rag turned him on, how he smoked nearly constantly and loved the stench of strong tobacco, and how he refused to shower, wash his hands, brush his teeth, or even change his clothes, preferring to be as dirty and grimy as possible.

He had no idea how much time had passed, but when he came back to himself, the lights were back up and the TV was off, like no time had passed at all, and he took a deep inhale of his stench, and let out a sigh of pleasure, his cock hardening beneath his belly.

“Alright subject 367, I just need to ask you a few questions if that’s alright.”

“Huh? Oh…uh…sure…” Max said, but he was more interested in his armpit for some reason, and he lifted an arm and took a deep sniff of the funk there, and then licked up his own sweat with a moan.

“Alright, on a scale of one to ten, with one being low and ten being high, please tell me how much you like your current hygiene level.”

“Fuck, can I answer eleven? I smell so fuckin’ hot…” Max said, and unable to help himself, reached into his pants and started groping at his cock. “Oh yeah, definitely a…well,, maybe a nine, but only because I bet I…I bet I can get even filthier, oh fuck…”

“Now, how many showers would you say you plan to take in the next month.”

“None, I don’t shower ever.”

“Alright, and how frequently do you wipe after defecating?”

“You mean, like, when I take a shit?”

“Yes.”

“Uh…I guess not very often. Maybe if it’s a real messy one, but not usually.”

“Sleep, subject 367,” the doctor said, and Max’s eyes went blank, “You do not wipe your ass after taking a shit. Never. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir…”

“Wake subject 367,” Max jolted up again, and without missing a beat the man repeated his question, “Subject 367, how frequently do you wipe after defecating?”

“Oh, never. My underwear takes care of that.”

“Alright. Now, how often do you change your clothes?”

“I don’t. I fuckin’ love wearin’ clothes until they’re stinkin’ rags.”

“And you’re a smoker, right?”

“I am–cigars, preferably.”

“What kind of cigars do you like to smoke, 367?”

“Oh man, the smellier the better. They’d better reek, and make me reek too, for hours after I’m done with them…speaking of which…” Max added, figiting a bit, “Do you mind if I light up? Feels like I haven’t smoked in hours.”

“Well, I suspect you haven’t. And here, try one of these, I’m sure you’ll like them, given your tastes.” The doctor handed him a large, rough cigar, and the smoke was far more acrid and thick than Max was used to, but man did it stink. It was giving him a hard on, sitting in a cloud of foul smoke and musk, and the doctor, smiling a bit, got up and shoved a hand down the front of Max’s sweat soaked pants, into his gummy fatpad and jacked him off quickly, Max happy for the attention, even if the suddenness left him feeling a bit uneasy. The doctor wiped his cum soaked hand across Max’s beard, letting him lick the last bit off his fingers, before sitting down again.

‘Alright 367, everything seems to be in order. Just one last question. How important is it for a sexual partner to approve of your hygiene?”

“Oh, very important, man, I need a man who fuckin’ loves my stinkin’ body like I do.”

“Alright, it looks like you check out. Why don’t you go to dinner?”

“Dinner?” Max asked, “But I just ate lunch, like, half an hour ago.”

“Lunch was three hours ago. Now, go on and eat, and then return to your room. You’ve had a long day.”

A bit confused, Max got up out of the chair and followed the throngs of men outside the door to the mess hall, where he devoured another massive meal, but this time, instead of avoiding people, he pushed his way into the throngs, loving how his stench could drive men away, letting him get closer than anyone else. After eating way too much, even for himself, Max waddled off back to his room and lumbered inside, where the first thing he did was take a massive shit, and then he sat on the toilet, smelling the stench and jacked off, wiping the cum on his sweaty gut and into his gunt, enjoying the sticky feeling, before getting off and flushing. Then, he stripped out of his clothes and laid down on the bunk, smoking cigar after cigar while jacking off over and over, licking up his sweat and smelling his funk for several hours before finally collapsing and falling asleep long after the lights had turned off, wondering what the next day would have in store for him.