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As the self-proclaimed cool guy of the group, Marcus was always trying to stand out. He did his best to impress the ladies with his tattoos and long goatee, and always made a point of mentioning how amazing it was to work as a skydiving instructor, usually inviting girls up in the plane for a free lesson–he’d be holding onto them tight the whole way down of course. Well, while his friends liked the fact that Marcus wanted to be the cool guy, his endless preening did have a way of getting on their nerves, especially when he did it every night they went out for drinks.

It was just supposed to be an April Fool’s joke. They’d bought the six pack from some curio stand on the street corner, promising the perfect pranks for anyone, and really, how could they resist something called “Boring Beer” which promised to make even the biggest partier into the lamest wallflower? It was perfect. They surprised him with the six pack before they went to hit the bars, and insisted he drink one so they could get a photo of it, and then went out. However, Marcus just wasn’t that into it for some reason, and ditched them at ten, claiming he was tired and wanted to get to bed early.

From that day on, the group didn’t see much of Marcus. They discovered that he’d put his two weeks notice in at the sky diving tours, and it was a month later when one of them finally caught him leaving his apartment, looking very different from the Marcus they’d known and loved. He’d cut his beard off and was growing his hair back in, but he was balding severely, looking more like he was in his mid 40’s than his late 20’s, and had packed on quite the gut. Even stranger, all of his tattoos and piercings had simply vanished, and when pressed, Marcus denied ever having tattoos, saying he’d always been too chicken to even consider it. He had become a total bore, and flummoxed, his friends left and didn’t see him again.

In fact, there was only one aspect in his life where Marcus wasn’t a total bore–he’d turned into quite the pervy faggot. He spent all of his free time jacking off it seemed like, and the only thing that could get him off was humiliating himself in front of some cool young guy, who’d chat with him, taunting him, tell him he was too much of a bore to ever go to bed with someone cool like them.

Leon wanted to be big. Ever since he was young, he’d wanted to work out, and when he was a teenager, all he asked for for Christmas and birthdays was weight–lots and lots of weight. He converted the shed into a workout room, and would spend hours out there, doing all he could to become as big as he had always wanted to be, but he just couldn’t get to where he wanted. And so, after graduating from high school, he decided to turn to the internet.

He found his way through forums, looking at the various drug cocktails guys promised would do the trick, but the honest truth was that he didn’t want to get big that way–he wanted to get big by himself. However, he befriended someone on a forum who recommended a research group working on a way to build mass. He’d participated in one of the last studies, and promised Leon that it was everything he’d been looking for–he’d be more massive than he’d thought possible.

At the laboratory, he didn’t understand why they needed to restrain him. And when they’d put the mask over his nose and mouth, he fought them for the few seconds of consciousness he had before he blacked out entirely. The next thing he knew, he was back in the hotel room he’d been staying in while the research study was going on–and when he saw himself in the mirror, he let out a squeal of joy. He was big! He was so damn big, just like he’d always wanted to be!

He jiggled his massive apron and admired his triple chin. He cupped his moobs and tweaked his nipples and let out a soft moan. He admired his huge, wide ass, and shivered as his cock hardened up through his gunt. Gunt–he had gunt. He’d always wanted gunt, for as long as he could remember. The rest of the night he spent jacking off on the bed, reveling in his flabby body, becoming familiar with it in every way, and then he got the call from the clinic. He’d been so receptive to the treatment, they wanted to know if he’d be willing to sign up for another dose. He said yes–after all, he was big. But what if he could get even bigger?

Are you familiar with the table-top role-playing-game Shadowrun?– Or the fantasy-invades-scifi world made around it?– Because that has an orc-transformation thing built right into it! Goblinization day! 30 April 2021: Randomly, about 15% of the world’s population transform into orcs and trolls. I imagine folks dealing with something like that could make for a good story– transformation-porn or not.

Ha, I was never much of a table top player–but that sounds interesting too.

Though I like Tolkien myself, I really like to see you write stories about the “nerds” like me suffering in the “real” fantasy land. Where we could be raped by barbaric “heroes”, transformed into orcs and trolls by dirty bearded wizards, and dragged into underground to be enslaved by dwarves. By the way, In the Lord of the Rings, it is said that the wizard “interbreeded” Orcs and Men to create new kind of Orcs. And I always think that “interbreed” could be “Men raped by Orcs to be reborn as…”.

Well all of you just have this all thought out, don’t you? Still, all of that does sound really hot.

Poker nights can be dangerous; Travis found this out the hard way. He was just another guy–overweight, well obese, sure. More or less happily married, aside from the occasional scream-out that could be heard throughout the trailer park. Poker night, for Travis, was more than just a way to get out of the house for a night, smoke a cigar or six, and drink a bit too much Fireball–it was a chance to be around a bunch of guys just being guys, and away from women. Mick, the host of poker night this week, just so happened to agree with him about being away from women–but his idea of quality men’s time was something else entirely.

See, Mick had a funny little figurine he’d picked up at a flea market the week before, and the little spirit within it loved games–and high stakes bets. It also happened, that this week, Mick decided to play with the deck stacked against everyone else, and once the rednecks around the table were a bit too drunk to second guess themselves, they were happily playing along with him, and it was only a few rounds later that they realized they’d been played, but by then it was too late.

Travis struggled awake, disentangling himself from the sleeping bodies of his friends, sore and hung over, his asshole raw, dick tender, and he tried to figure out where it had all gone wrong. Mick was going to win the pot, but he’d bet his sexuality? What the fuck did that even mean? Looking back over his shoulder at the pile of men, he figured that he wasn’t the only guy who’d been taken. And when he saw Mick’s ass propped up, he licked his lips and felt his cock rise a bit, figuring it was time to pay back the house what he’d lost.

Your fantasy novel vitriol has me curious– what do you see wrong with so much of it? — I’m not desiring to make a particular defence for it myself– but the tone of that last reply made me wonder the exact details. (and furthermore, what about sci-fi? haha)

Sigh…me and a friend talk about this a lot.

Well, let’s just start with Tolkien. I have four broad complaints with pretty much all of his stuff, although “The Hobbit” gets off less scathed for the most part. Here they are.

4. Holy cow, Tolkien was a fucking racist. Starting with, and assuming, segregated races; mixed race and/or corrupted elves as antagonists; alleged inspiration for orcs as African slaves working in coal and diamond mines he witnessed in South Africa; the dwarfs as a blatent, and anti-semitic, interpretation of Jews flawed by avarice; white men and elves as the eventual rulers of the world with no other skin tones even being possible apparently; etc. You can go ahead and claim that it was a product of his time and culture, which might mitigate it slightly, if every single fantasy writer who ever followed in Tolkien’s footsteps didn’t include the exact same features without much variation, completely ignorant of their original symbolism. Fuckers.

3. Sexism, oh god, so much sexism. There are close to a hundred named characters in LotR and it’s pretty hard to get the number of named females over ten, and that requires counting a gigantic, hideous spider queen which he constantly reminds his readers is a woman. Classy. Beyond the sheer disproportionate numbers, none of the women take an active role in the plot as a woman, at best they work their way onto the battlefield by pretending to be a man, and exuding masculine features. Most of the rest stand by passively as the men in their lives rush off to battle, and most of them are portrayed as being excessively sneaky and mysterious to boot. Basically, Tolkien had a pretty strong fear of women it seems to me, and again, it’s infected the entire genre he spawned, such that George R.R. Martin gets acclaimed as a near feminist god while still doing a shitty job overall.

2. Style, oh fuck, style. Boring, oh Jesus Christ, the books are so boring. Tolkien was a notoriously poor writer, and was far more interested in the history, language and scenery of his world than the characters or plot. Now, he did make a pretty impressive world, and he built it well, but this fucking style has since given birth to complete abominations like “The Wheel of Time.” God, how fucking dreary is that? They aren’t stories, they’re fucking travelogues. Learn to fucking tell a fucking story you fucking nitwits.

1. Theme—lets get into the basics here. Why did Tolkien write LotR? For a good romp? As a basic, boy’s adventure / power fantasy? No, he had a particular theme in mind—Tolkien was an avid anti-industrialist, and basically thought the world should go back to some sort of reactionary, idyll agrarian world which hasn’t existed in anywhere ever. Just…fuck that, right up the fucking butt. Technology rules, Tolkien can go plow himself with a vibrator for all I give a shit about his shoddy anti-industry message. But the best part is that no one even realizes that’s what it’s about! Not only did he have a shit-message, he couldn’t even write well enough to effectively convey that message to his readers. And the grandest irony is this—Tolkien would have absolutely hated his most diehard fans. The nerds most devoted and enabled by the technological and industrial aspects of society he hated are in fact his legacy’s greatest fans. It makes me cackle.

Twilight is a better saga than fucking LotR.

Look, that was all a bit hyperbolic, I admit. The issue at hand, fundamentally, is this. The fantasy genre grew from a series of books which were fundamentally racist, sexist, Christian focused, and politically reactionary. It was, by and large, a shit-fucking message, but no one grasps this, and writers these days employ the exact same series of tropes, and pump out the same shitty-valued tripe that Tolkien did, but of even worse quality, somehow. Some writers manage to play with and rise above the genre, but not many. Martin does to some extent. Gaimen somewhat as well. However, they have their own problems which are, for the most part, equally damning. 

Sci-fi is a different issue all together, and I like it better, but it too has issues. I’d have to discuss that in a different post, because I went and gave myself a headache.

Nothing but distant memories now, more like stories that happened to friends of friends. How I used to be different. Slimmer–no, not just slimmer–muscular. Yeah, I used to work out, the stories say. I chuckle as the captain’s hands reach around and pull me closer, gripping my fat, and I moan. So far away now, so far away it might as well have never happened, and as far as the captain is concerned, it never did. “How are you feeling slave? Good?” he whispers into my ear, and I shiver.

A captain, a guide, a navigator. A man who helps people who are lost in their lives. A captain. He’d claimed to be all of these things, when I’d met him. All I’d claimed to need was directions, but he’d known better, he’d brought be here, he’d redirected and rerouted my entire life to this moment, but we still weren’t at the destination. Close though–so close. “Are we there yet?” I ask anyway.

“Not yet slave, we still have a few changes to make in your route. Are you ready for one last trip?” the captain said into my ear.

I nod eagerly, but it’s already happening, he’s already guiding me through my life again. As we pass them, I can see some of the detours and intersections I had been down before. Briefly, I glimpse the moment I’d first decided to work out, when I was twelve, but I can’t go down that path anymore–instead, I fell in love with my fat, obese uncle, and decided to be as big as him when I grow up. Much of the new changes are subtle ones now–the radical changes are all behind me, the captain is only fine tuning my directions now. I’m bullied much more through school, and become a loner, engrossed with the conversations I have with older men online, about how much I want to serve them. I grow to dislike myself, I find myself worthless, and crave service as a way to make myself useful to someone. This in turn leads me into deep masochism, and by the time we reach the present time, I can already feel the changes ricocheting through me, and I pull away from his embrace–I’m not worthy of it.

Instead, I get down and clean his boots, showing the captain that I know my place–I understand where I belong in the world now. I’m not lost anymore–I’m just a boot worshiping, obese piece of scum, barely worthy of serving my betters. There is a sharp pain on my chest where the captain’s mark appears on me, naming me his slave and property, and I am honored that he has given me the privilege of serving him. I have found my place now, and I know in my heart that I will never leave this new path.