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“Oh goodness, that does sound serious,” Mr. Habberton said, looking at Mr. and Mrs. Gremmory over the top of his spectacles, “And how long has this behavior been going on?”

“Years now. It started small, you know, just being obstinante! All teenagers are like that a little bit. We assumed it would just be a phase, but it’s only gotten worse! And now they want to throw him in jail!” Mrs. Grammory said, and then burst into tears and her husband held her while she sobbed.

“Please Mr. Habberton, if there’s anything you can do–we’re desperate,” he said, looking down at his wife.

“Well, selling drugs and stealing cars is a pretty difficult case, but I’ll take it. Bring him to this address tomorrow morning,” Mr. Habberton said, and handed them his card, “I’ll get the boy sorted out, trust me.”

The parents thanked him profusely, and Mr. Habberton went back to his large mansion, where one his many boys helped him undress and provided him with his evening blowjob, and he looked over young Dennis “Den Man” Grammony’s file, looking at the rough, unkempt man in the photos, smoking a cigarette, scowling towards the lens. All he really needed, like the rest of his boys needed, was some proper discipline–still, young Dennis would probably require a month in sensory deprivation before he’d be pliable enough to conform to the house rules. Even then, he’d probably have to be leashed to Mr. Habberton and tightly caged, to ensure proper compliance. Still, his methods were extreme, but he did have a one hundred percent success rate. And all of his boys were plenty satisfied living in his spacious mansion, or at least until they got too old. Then he’d sell them off for a handsome profit. Still, he was going to enjoy breaking this one–but then again, he did always enjoy breaking in the violent ones.

I’ve been reading the Damien’s spellbook recently, and I’m honestly shocked by the incredible amounts of edgy misanthropic emo mary sue bullshit in that story, at first it was bareable because the transformations were hot, but after the thing with Mark it got really bad. Does it get any better later on?

I don’t mind it so much, but it never loses the emo sensibility. I find the plots have gotten stale myself. The entire structure is too episodic and sitcomish, but it’s still one of the best stories out there.

The Professor’s Club Part 4

Commissioned by Anonymous

Peter knocked on the front door of the massive mansion again, and then checked his invitation to make sure he’d gotten the address right. He adjusted his tie nervously and waited for someone to come let him in, but no one came. He’s been standing out here for several minutes now–could no one hear him? He looked around the front yard and then behind him, and when he turned around again, he discovered that the front door was now open wide, but he didn’t see anyone who could have opened it. “Hello?” he said, stepping inside, “Professor Sullivan, I’m…I’m here for the club meeting…”

He shut the door behind him with a bit of uncertainty, and then paused to check himself in the mirror. The shirt–his best–which he’s carefully ironed before leaving was already showing some sign of sweat stains, and he blushed. He’d dressed too heavy for the weather again–it was cool out, but the summer sun was still out and warm. He wiped his brow with a handkerchief and hoped no one would notice, not that anyone had noticed him yet–which was annoying him more than anything.

Peter was a business student, and a bit of a nerd. Still, he was smart, and far more pragmatic than a visionary like Luis. He knew that getting a personal invitation from a professor could open up all sorts of opportunities, but he hadn’t wanted to seem like he’d been desperate for attention by showing up early. He’d opted for the “fashionably late” option, but apparently twenty minutes was a bit too late. Still, he had a good idea where everyone probably was–he could smell something delicious cooking nearby. Food, really, was Peter’s one weakness, and he was quite a bit overweight. He worked out semi-regularly, which helped keep it under control, but he was still large. He followed his nose and his growling stomach anyway, and ventured deeper into the house.

Down a few hallways and past several rooms, Peter stumbled his way into a massive dining room with a long table decked out with an enormous amount of food–enough for fifteen people or more, but with only a single chair at the head of it. Given the amount of food, which should have required the hands of dozens of people to make, Peter was amazed to find the room absolutely silent, and resisting the urge to dig in, he made his way around the room to the kitchen, which he found perfectly clean–as though no one had cooked a thing. In fact, if he hadn’t know it to be impossible, he would have assumed that the food had appeared there on the table fully formed–no cooking involved.

It smelled delicious though–ghost food or not–and he was starving. He hadn’t eaten much all day–he was trying to diet at the moment, but it wasn’t very effective. Circling back around the table, he made his way to the lone chair at the table, wondering why there weren’t more. He hadn’t been the only one invited tonight, had he? Even then, shouldn’t there be two chairs–one for him and one for the professor? Maybe he had come on the wrong day, but if so, the professor was a big guy, but not big enough to eat this much food…right? No one person could eat all of this.

He wiped one sleeve across his mouth, looked down and saw it was soaking wet–he’d been drooling this whole time, and hadn’t even noticed it dribbling down onto his shirt. He knew he should get cleaned up, but he couldn’t leave without a taste. Sure, it would be polite to wait, but there was so much food, would anyone really notice if he started a bit early? He grabbed the plate in front of the chair and circled the table once like a buffet, taking a bit of everything that caught his eye, and surprised himself when he sat down, and he realized how much he’d piled on. It was more than he could eat, surely, and if he managed, his diet would be out the window. Still, he could just call it a cheat day right? And so he dug in, clearing his plate in a matter of minutes, before letting out a belch, standing up, and circling for another pass, heaping his plate again and digging in once more.

After three passes, Peter lost patience and he just dug in, standing next to the table and shoving as much food into his mouth as he could at a time, working his way around as soon as a dish lost his interest–or completely disappeared. At first he used his fork and knife, but they were becoming harder to operate for some reason. He switched to serving utensils, but he could only hold those clumsily too. Stopping for a moment, and realizing that something might be wrong, took a moment to stop eating, looked down at his hands, and let out a scream which was closer to a squeal than anything else.

His hands weren’t…hands. Or at least, not the hands he’d had before. His fingers had fused together in pairs, leaving him with two thick, hard black trotters and a third large thumb. He could kind of grip things, but they were far too hard to operate easily. Looking down, he saw that his dress shirt was stretched tight against his fattening body, large gaps forming between the buttons, and when he stepped back from the table, his deformed, partially trottered feet stepped out of his burst dress shoes, he lost his balance and fell back, buttons flying from the sudden pressure.

It took him a couple of minutes to stand up again, but it already felt more natural, and he looked down at his feet, getting a better look as his mostly human feet, but with three large trotters where his nails had been. He was still growing, but not as quickly, but his pants burst open as he got back up, and he just tore the rest of his clothes off clumsily before they could constrict him further. He was obese, fat falling off of him is huge rolls, but he was still so…hungry. Now that he’d stopped eating, his gut was churning and groaning with need, slobber dripping from his mouth, which had started pushing out into a snout, and his nose–he could smell all of it, it was so strong he couldn’t resist for long. Snorting and grunting now, he stumbled into the table, first using his trotters to shovel food into his mouth, but then just shoving his face into the platters and bowls, ripping the flesh off the two roast turkeys with the thick tusks that shoved their way out of his lower jaw.

As he ate, he kept growing at a massive rate, topping 500 pounds by the time he stopped growing–at about the same time he ran out of food. Peter, now mostly pig, his body almost entirely smooth aside from some coarse hair along his back and belly, flopped down on his back, the table giving a groan as he did. He must have climbed up onto it at some point, he realized, trying to sort out what had just happened, but there was something more important pressing up into his gut at the moment. He fumbled around under his heavy gut until he found his cock, but his hands were a bit too awkward to jack himself off. He ended up just bucking his stubby pig cock into his fat for a few minutes until with a final crack the table gave way underneath him, sending him crashing to the floor, where he gave a grunt of pain, and crawled out of the wreckage, before heaving himself upright with the help of a wall.

What had happened to him? He was some sort of massive pigman, completely naked in some deserted mansion, and all he could think about was how horny he was, and how…hungry he was too. He could eat another meal just as big as that one, he realized, he just wanted to eat and fuck and eat and fuck…

The sun was starting to set in the garden as Luis and Kevin, now human again, came back into the house, and Luis said, “Thanks–again, I’m sorry I sprayed you like that, I was just so horny…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Kevin said, “I’m just glad it wore off after I came. I still kind of stink though–we’re gonna have to stock up on some tomato juice or something.”

Luis blushed. He liked how he smelled now, actually–he’d always been musky, but now, even human, his musk just barely tolerable. His frame was still relatively slender, but his body had a heavy dusting of oily, black hairs that he ran his hands through as he walked into the house, and he snuck another glance at Kevin, admiring him from the side. “Heh, well, I wouldn’t mind…you know…playing some more sometime, if you want.”

Kevin blushed too, “I…kind of liked it actually, to be honest.”

“Heh, I could tell.”

“Yeah, I bet you–” Kevin stopped speaking as they turned into the dining room, and saw that the table was destroyed, a massively obese pig standing at the wall, supporting himself with one hand and humping his fat, oblivious to them.

“Professor!” Kevin called out, “I think Peter arrived while we were…occupied.”

Luis, meanwhile, was staring the pig down and licking his lips–he loved dirty guys, and he kind of wanted to know what the food covered pig tasted like. He could probably give him something better to eat.

“What?” a distant voice called out, “Hold on, Derrick and I are on our way down!”

A few moments later the professor, human, walked into the room followed by Derrick, who had tried his best to squeeze his way back into his clothes, but they looked almost comical on him. Of all the three, he’d packed on the most hair, but also several inches of height and quite a bit of muscle. He saw Kevin and Luis and blushed, not sure what to say.

The professor walked over to the pig and got his attention. “Peter, glad to see that you made it and…have made yourself at home. Did you enjoy the meal?”

Peter just stared at them all, a bit terrified, unsure of what was going on. He wanted to apologize for eating all of the food, and for breaking the table, but he didn’t know what to say–he didn’t even know how to describe what had happened to him. Still, the professor reassured him, and talked him down, and he too returned to his human form–although there was no chance he’d ever fit back into his clothes. He had packed on close to a hundred pounds, and his nose remained pushed up and piggish even when he was human. “S…sorry professor. I…” he said, and then realized he was naked, and covered himself up.

“Don’t worry about it Peter–Kevin broke a coffee table earlier, trying to fly.”

“Wait, you can fly?” Luis asked, “That’s not fair!”

Kevin blushed, not sure what to say, but his stomach let out a growl and he realized he was starving. “So…is there no dinner then?”

“I’m sure the house can fix something up for us,” the professor said, “and I’m sure we can find someway to occupy ourselves in the meantime.” He tweaked Peter’s nipple, and leaned in and kissed him, both of them starting to shift, but Luis walked over and injected himself. “Sorry professor, but I really want to see how dirty this piggy can get–do you mind?” he said. Peter gagged a bit from the stench of Luis, but it was also making him a bit horny, and chuckling, the professor backed off.

“Sure thing Luis, just…maybe go into the kitchen where it’s tiled? It’ll be easier to clean up, I think.”

Luis chuckled, and already shifting into his skunk form, pulled Peter after him through the doorway into the large kitchen, and Peter tried to protest, until Luis sprayed him, and then Peter was perfectly amenable to whatever the skunk wanted to do him. Kevin, smiling, went over and introduced himself to Derrick, and before too long the two of them were locked in a rough embrace as well, and the Professor looked over his new, strange pack, and gave a sigh. He wasn’t alone anymore at least, which was good, and he had a feeling that his new club was off to a grand old start.

This is an odd question, but it’s been bugging me. I really like the idea of redneck transformation, but I’ve been wondering, are they necessarily white Americans or could other ethnicities or nationalities become rednecks?

There’s no reason why other nationalities couldn’t become rednecks, aside from the fact that the class “redneck” is pretty much as racist as the class “gangsta” is. I’m sure that, in real life, there are plenty of people of other nationalities in poor, rural areas, but in America (especially at the moment, thanks to the redneck comedy tour and the ensuing injection into pop culture) the idea is that a redneck can only be an ignorant, lower class white guy with tattoos, poor health, and bad hygiene.

It’s about as accurate as the idea that all inner city areas are populated by “young black thugs.” It’s total bunk. Even in places where there is gang activity, depending on the region of the country you’re in, or even which part of a large metropolitan area you’re in, you might see gang members of any number of nationalities, or no gangs at all.

In the same vein, there are plenty of rural communities where Latino Americans (in the Southwest), Native Americans (fucking everywhere), and African American (deep south) communities have bottomed out and would resemble the redneck stereotypes we jack off to. If anything, the pop culture redneck serves to make those communities particularly invisible–after all, if all rednecks are white, and all rednecks like being rednecks, why should we care? By casting being lower class as a “choice” and as something humorous, it makes the entire problem of poverty into something personal, rather than systemic. It’s something I wrestle with a lot, because my writing buys into that stereotype. I do my best to mitigate it by rendering it as something hopeless and systemic and dreary, but at the end of the day, I still have to make it erotic and appealing. It’s a very strange tightrope to walk.

So, could there be rednecks of other nationalities. There are, in fact, rednecks of other nationalities that we turn a blind eye to every day because popular culture has white washed poverty for the sake of humor. 

Sorry, that got a bit more political and melodramatic than I intended, but it’s the truth.

Look, I did my best to be a good kid, but even good kids can get up to some mischief now and then. My uncle, I’d always thought, was a really cool guy. Hell, I picked up playing rugby after going with him to see a few club games, although to be honest, he always seemed more interested in the players than the game–though that particular observation wasn’t clear as a kid–I just knew I really loved my uncle. He was warm, unlike my father, and his gluttony, heavy drinking and cigar smoking always seemed to me like he was mocking my healthy, straight laced father. He could never understand why I always wanted to stay over with my uncle, but he allowed me to do so regardless. Sometimes I wished he’d have kept me at home.

One thing my uncle was strict about was that I was to never drink or smoke his cigars. It always made me a bit angry, because I felt like he was depriving me of something he enjoyed, and had a lot of fun doing. Still, I respected my uncle enough until I was seventeen. It was the summer before my senior year, and I was feeling adventurous, so while my uncle was out on an errand that would take him several hours, I popped open a bottle of beer, and lit up one of his cigars–just to try it out.

I didn’t notice the changes until I was onto the second cigar, and maybe the sixth or seventh beer. I just couldn’t stop, once I started, and when I got up, I noticed that my clothes had disappeared, aside from my briefs, and that I’d put on close to a hundred pounds of fat, and looked to be about ten years older. Even worse, I just couldn’t stop drinking and smoking, and when my uncle finally returned, instead of me there, he found a fat, naked pig in the living room, drunk and high, but it was almost like he’d expected it, and he grinned, walked over and started making out with me.

He fucked me hard, and I couldn’t resist oinking and grunting like a pig, and when he’d finished, he got me all dressed up in some leather gear, with a collar and leash, and strutted me around a gay bar, letting all of his friends fuck his fat, horny pig. The next morning I was back to normal, but my uncle started tempting me with the cigars and beer again, and by the end of the day, I’d given in. Back as his pig, I begged him to fuck and fist me again, and he happily complied, telling me he’d waited years for me to finally give in and try a few of his vices. Well, I managed to get through my senior year, but never went off to college. I’m my uncle’s permanent pig now, chain smoking cigars and drinking beer from dawn to dusk–a lifestyle of addiction I know I’ll never manage to break.

The Professor’s Club Part 3

Commissioned by Anonymous

Meanwhile, Derrick had wandered quite deeply into the upper floors, finding the rather maze-like hallways more than a little disorienting, but he was enjoying his exploration, and the house seemed to constantly reveal something new to him at every twist. The rooms, however, conformed to a logic which he was slowly unraveling–while he’d first thought that they were rather messily organized, he found instead that the rooms appeared to be grouped into suites and collections. One of the first set he’d discovered was a large bedroom, beautifully lit, with nearly every wall lined with bookcases chock full of dusty tomes and pulp paperback alike. Every door led to more rooms of books, some disheveled, some shelved, but they were simply everywhere. Another suite which he found next, followed a more mythical theme, with marble statues of bizarre creatures, high, vaulted ceilings, and every room in the suite, for some reason, had a rather large balcony jutting off of it, overlooking the gardens behind the house.

Looking out from one of the balconies in the fading light, Derrick saw someone he hadn’t met wandering out of the house and into the garden–some other attendee of the professor’s club, apparently. Derrick sighed–he didn’t know what he was doing here. If Luis was here–that guy was brilliant. Derrick had heard some stuff about him from one of his nerdier friends-with-benefits, one of the guys he fucked on the downlow on campus, since he couldn’t risk being out if he was still thinking about going career after school. Derrick wasn’t dumb by any means, but school bullshit wasn’t his strong suit. If this was some sort of academic group, he was going to be a fish out of water.

He left the balcony, and smelled food down below, and wondered whether it was time for dinner yet. He should still probably try and work his way back downstairs somehow, but try as he might, he couldn’t quite figure out how to retrace his steps. He ended up in a suite he hadn’t passed through yet, one which was far more athletic in flavor, with antique sports uniforms and equipment hanging from the wall. The room he found himself in was all wood and leather, and something about it just smelled so…inviting and comfortable. He kind of wanted to get a little too drunk to drive tonight, so he might have a chance to sleep here.

He wandered deeper and found himself in the suite’s study, and he saw something very strange hanging next to the desk. It was one of those mascot costumes you saw people wear at times, but decidedly older and mustier than any he’d seen. He was decent friends with the mascot for the college, a big guy named Bruce. He hung out with the team as an honorary player from time to time, though they kept his identity secret for him, and the guy always complained about how hot it got in the suit, and how much it stank. Still, it was one of the highest paying student jobs on campus, so he didn’t complain too vocally. Still, Derrick had always sort of wondered about them–and then here one was, almost like it was waiting for him.

He walked over to it, and found it hanging on some sort of rack, and he picked up the heavy mask. At first sight, he thought it was a bear of some kind, but when he picked it up, he saw that it had horns, and that it’s snout was more bull-like than anything else. The body though, with it’s big padded gut, and the hands, which had claws, were definitely more ferocious than a bull. The costume had on a jersey, and when he got a good look at it, he saw that the team was “The Ursavines” which was one of the most ridiculous team names he’d ever heard of. Still, the costume was effective, even if the name was not.

He pulled off his shoes and socks, and then stopped himself. He wasn’t actually going to put this thing on, was he? Why not? It wasn’t like anyone would ever find out if he did. Without really thinking about it, and without intending to, he ended up taking off all of his clothes before he started putting on the costume. Sure, Bruce always wore something underneath the costume at school, but for some reason Derrick knew he needed to be…naked. How else would he get a good feel for it? It just didn’t seem right to wear it with clothing on. He pulled on the bottom half of the costume first, pulling the suspenders up over his shoulders which held them in place, his feet sliding into the hoof like shoes which were attached at the bottom, and then he pulled the top half on, his hands sliding down the sleeves and into the gloves at the end. The paws were a little awkward–the hands only had four holes, and the fingers were a bit clumsy, especially with the bear claws sprouting from the tips. Lastly, he picked up the mask and plopped it on, surprised to find that it fit him quite well, and that it wasn’t too hard to see out of. Still, the costume was awkwardly shaped, and he couldn’t really get a good look at himself–instead, he thumped his way back a room, remembering that there was a mirror in the bedroom he’d passed through first.

The short walk was enough for him to start sweating in the suit–it really was hot. It didn’t help that the whole get up was made out of leather and actual fur–most of the new ones were lighter and fully synthetic, but he kind of liked the feel of it. It was heavy, but not too heavy, and it smelled, well, musky and even a little smoky inside, with a definite whiff of grass in there too. He tromped in front of the mirror, feeling a little silly for even putting it on, but it actually looked…really good on him. Well, the costume just looked good period. Most of the ones wandering the sidelines these days just looked silly, more than anything, more like cartoons, but this one, it was actually a little terrifying. The real fur and leather gave it a sense of reality that fake fur can’t convey, and the padding was very well done. He actually looked like a massive, muscular beast, and the feet of the costume were actually on platforms, adding several inches to his height. It was scary and even a little…hot?

Mostly just hot. The costume was heating up really fast now, and he was sweating buckets inside of it. Still, he didn’t want to take it off. The sweat was making the smells he’d gotten whiffs of earlier even stronger, and the was actually getting kind of horny. Still, the heat was getting to him, and he stumbled back, suddenly off balance. He reached out to steady himself but the only thing close was the bed, and he collapsed down on it, hot and horny and worried he was going out of his mind. In the costume, he rolled over and started bucking into the bed, thrusting against it, breathing heavy and snorting, and he gripped the sheets in his clawed hands, ripping into them with his grip. Something was coming out of him, something was pushing out, and as he humped the mattress, he felt it pushing out of his groin, and he snorted and grunted until a cock pushed its way out of the furry crotch of the suit, followed by a heavy, furred ball sack filled with two massive low-hanging balls.

Overheating now, he rolled over, not quite able to believe what he was feeling, he reached down with one of his gloved hands and wrapped his paw around the massive shaft. It was close to ten inches long and very thick, but he could feel it–actually feel it, like it was really his, and he started jacking it roughly, unable to help himself. So hot, so horny, he started snorting, feeling his hot breath push out his bull like nostrils. At first, he could only feel the jacking off one way–it was just a glove jacking his cock, but slowly the paw started tingling, and then he could feel the soft flesh of his cock under the rough pads of his paws. His whole body started tingling then, and running his other paw across his hard chest and firm gut, he could feel them too, the sweaty, wooly fur, the shiver his claws sent as they ran across his skin.

“Mind if I give you a hand with that thing?” a voice said, and Derrick gave a snort of surprise, looked over and saw the professor in the doorway, except he was looking less and less like his usual self with each passing second. He walked over to the bed, shedding his clothing before he could outgrow each piece, and then leaned over Derrick on the bed, shoving their snouts together. Derrick didn’t need anything more than that, and he started working his long tongue into the professor’s mouth, feeling shivers as his tongue ran across both of their sets of sharp fangs, but his hand never left his cock. How was this happening to him? Was he hallucinating? He’d never thought of fucking his professor, but he couldn’t stop, it was like his instincts had grabbed all of the reins and were driving him off a cliff.

“Mr. Sullivan what’s happening to mooeee…” Derrick said, as the professor pulled away from his new snout and started sucking on his cock. That was all he could get out–after that, the sensation of his professor’s mouth around his cock left him snorting and groaning, thrusting up to meet Mike’s throat, and then he gave a bellow, sat up and shoved Mike off his cock. “Noooo, what happened, tell me nooow.”

“Shut up, and let’s just fuck, boy! I haven’t had this much cock in ages,” Mike said, and tried to go back down on Derrick, but he kicked him back with a heavy hoof, Mr. Sullivan landing on his chubby ass in the middle of the bedroom, and then Derrick flew at him, the two of them wrestling, and while Derrick started out with the intention to pin the old man down, or werewolf rather, and get some answers, but instead he found him rolling the professor onto his belly, and he was running his massive cock up and down the professor’s crack, and then he was working it inside of him. The old wolf’s hole was surprisingly loose, but that was the last thought Derrick had before his lust overwhelmed him, and then he was snorting and roaring and pounding the professor’s hole, the wolf shouting encouragement back at him.

Derrick didn’t even notice his first orgasm, it was just a spike of intense pleasure, but his cock wasn’t done yet–his massive balls were churning, and so he kept on fucking, and Mike braced himself for what he hoped was going to be a long and intense fuck from the brand new Ursavine of the manor. Off in the distance, he thought he heard the doorbell, but ignored it–whoever it was could wait–the house would take care of it, if it needed taking care of. Besides, it didn’t seem like Derrick would be finishing anytime soon, and he didn’t care one bit.

AR doesn’t do much for me either, at least not physical AR. I like the idea of losing parts of being an adult that lead to humiliating scenes and loss of control. The idea of having to trust control of your own body to your daddy is something that I find intensely erotic. Do you have any attraction to diapers as a loss of control for yourself, or do you see that as something you would use to control and humiliate someone else?

I get variants on of this question from a lot of people actually, because the assumption is that, in these stories, I must Mary Sue myself into either the submissive or dominant position, when in fact my own interest in these stories is a bit more removed. 

I have no real interest in being a character in these stories–my enjoyment is a bit more…voyeuristic. I enjoy the authorial perspective, and power. I like the fact that I can force these characters to undergo these changes, and that’s where my erotic thrill comes from. I suppose it would lean towards the dominant side of the equation, but I never really see it that way (and when I do imagine myself in these stories, I usually end up in the submissive position, so who really knows).