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Kevin McGrath, a modern day bandit, has somehow managed to escape arrest over thirty times, and even worse, no one is entirely sure how he manages to do it. He makes things easy enough–robbing banks without even a mask, getting away with the cash on the same motorcycle each time, but the officers who pursue him…well, when they inevitably catch up to him at the seedy motel he holes up in, well, strange things start to happen.

He never resists arrest, but as soon as the men approach him, the find themselves impossibly attracted to the outlaw, and the longer they remain near him, the more thy change. Those who get away after a few minutes tend to quit the force, becoming rough leather cop masters at local gay bars, but on the few occasions that they end up spending the night with McGrath…

Well, it’s a bit different each time. One officer was found in the hotel room, wearing only a leather harness, bound up, his asshole so loose he couldn’t close it, begging the men who found him to fist him like the pig he was. In another case, the officer was found stuffing himself with food, after gaining three hundred pounds over night. McGrath hasn’t struck a bank in the last few months, so he’s probably planning his next heist, and who knows what might happen to the men who pursue him this time.

Source: lc600

“Well, I suppose the problem is that no one in the office listens to me. I might be the boss, but I just don’t have any authority,” Clyde said, the pudgy office manager said to the older salesman.

“Ah, well, the right suit can do wonders for a man’s self-esteem and authority. Come on, I have just the design for you, I think.”

***

Clyde strutted into the office on Monday, feeling better than he had in years. Of course, losing close to 100 pounds had done wonders, and while the cigar smoking, bald head and new beard were still a bit strange to him, he was growing more and more used to his new reflection. For now though, he had some business to take care of.

“Finn. My office, now.” he said, and the biggest slacker in the office, the perpetual thorn in his side, found himself compelled to march after Clyde into his office. His screams, first of pain, and them of pleasure, as his boss raped his ass, set the entire office into high gear, and no one challenged Clyde’s authority ever again.

My suffering question mainly referred to the fact that in some of your stories it’s not just a temporary state the characters go through during their transformations, but rather perpetual they stay in, completely aware of their new grotesque images, not ever growing to accept them.

(Here is the second addenda to my metawriting entry on suffering.)

So, the original anonymous has a follow up. So, the question, originally stated, asked why it is so important that my characters suffer? Now, we can amend that question to be, “Why is it so important that my characters suffer perpetually?”

I can answer this question, but we have to take a bit of a detour through some Classical Literature first. People have been asking me about my various inspirations, and it occurred to me as I was writing that last metawriting journal that there is one big influence I have forgotten to mention, and that is Dante Alighieri, the author of The Divine Comedy, of which the first book, Inferno, is the most widely read. I don’t know how many were curious enough to click through the link when I mentioned contrapasso, but it is a term which came out of Inferno, and means, essentially, the situation whereby someone who has committed a wrong suffers some form of punishment which fits the original crime. In each of the nine circles of hell, the damned are punished in a variety of ways, such that their sins, in life, are reflected in their eternal punishments. This had…a profound impact on me, and my writing, I think, especially upon those stories which use the revenge justification, though I’m certainly not the first person to include it in an MC/TF story–contrapasso is a pretty prevalent theme.

So, why do my characters suffer perpetually? Well, focusing on the revenge stories first, it is a way of sending characters to hell. Their original identities die, by means of radically altering their personas and bodies, and they are then subjugated to some form of contrapasso. The crudest rendering of this, by me, was in “Sinful Revenge,” where the sins of various college students come back to haunt them in various altered realities.

Now, here’s the funny thing about Dante–he was a firm believer in forgiveness and repentance. The people in Hell aren’t the only sinners around–in Purgatory, there are plenty of other sinners, but the difference is that, in Purgatory the sinners are repentant, and in  Hell the sinners are unrepentant. I generally try to give my characters an equal chance. Most of the time, they have a way out, i.e. they could not be horrible people, but because they are generally unrepentant, they doom themselves to perpetual torment. 

Of course, that’s just for revenge stories. I can’t say how many of my stories, which use the other two forms of justification (Sadism and Masochism), also contain perpetual suffering. I would say Masochism stories, by definition, don’t, because the main character usually wants the suffering to be inflicted upon them, even if it is only at the subconscious level. That said, I’m sure that in some Sadistic stories, the person has been inflicted with permanent suffering that they didn’t deserve, but that’s just how the cookie crumbles sometimes. Sucks to be them, I suppose.

My opinion: if a story has no suffering of some kind, the result will look suspiciously like any of the budget bills currently before Congress- or this sentence.

(I got two asks relating to my last metawriting entry on suffering, so I’m going to go ahead and count the as addenda to that entry. Here’s the first addenda.)

Well, I’m inclined to agree with the comment, but in fact, there are plenty of stories out there with little to no suffering. I would say that the greatest example would be the old Superman comics. See, Superman is an odd duck–effectively immortal and invulnerable by his very nature, to make him suffer causes a catch-22. The only way to inflict suffering on him is to rid him of his powers first (via Kryptonite or Red Sun or <insert MacGuffin here>) and then inflict suffering upon him, but by ridding him of his power, he is no longer Superman, and so the object of our suffering has changed and disappeared.

In the gold and silver age of comics, no one cared about this, of course. No challenge was too great for Superman, who could solve anything with his various superpowers (generalized as super-“X” where X is any English verb). Hell, the dude can even turn back time in the first movie. Now, are these stories dull? Perhaps. Still, they were popular enough to render Superman into the massive icon he is today. (No, I haven’t seen the new movie, before you ask, so if it has him suffering beyond the catch-22, good for them.)

So stories do exist without suffering. They generally aren’t good or compelling stories, though there’s nothing to say they couldn’t be so. Really, what these stories lack is character change. Superman (and most superheros) don’t need to change. In fact, change, to them, is generally the antithesis of their nature. They are meant to be bulwarks–the world is supposed to try and change them, and they resist. That can be compelling, and render certain kinds of suffering (see Batman in The Dark Knight). But in my stories, the characters are forced to undergo changes, and those changes beget suffering, and that suffering makes them interesting as horror.

There are porn stories which possess change and which have no suffering. They fall under the category of wish-fulfillment. Some character finds some MacGuffin which allows them to change themselves into their ideal with no repercussions. These are the MC/TF porn equivalent of Superman–empty, uninteresting, and yet annoyingly popular–at least in my opinion.

Mirror, Mirror

Commissioned by Anonymous

As soon as he heard the car pull out of the garage, the door lowering behind Howard as he drove off, Drew hurried upstairs. He’d been planning this for about a week now, but hadn’t had the perfect opportunity, but now Howard was out all afternoon, giving Drew plenty of time to work. He’d just graduated from college and was living at home with his parents, his job prospects grim. Drew had been hard pressed to find a job even for just the summer, when Howard, a neighbor, had offered him some cash if he helped him out around the house. Drew hadn’t been very happy about it–Howard had always kind of creeped him out, this old, fat, pipe smoking man who seemed to never take his eyes off him, but he paid him fourteen bucks an hour under the table, and so Drew had taken the job–and then he’d learned about the safe.

Howard, it seemed, was a bit paranoid when it came to his money. He didn’t trust it to a bank–instead, he had a massive safe in his study, which Drew saw every Friday when the older man pulled out a massive wad of twenties and gave him his wages. Inside, he saw piles and piles of bills–more money than Howard would probably ever be able to spend, and if Drew could slip away with just a bit of it, he’d be out of debt and living comfortably states away before Howard even knew it was missing. But there was a problem–the safe could only be opened with Howard’s voice and thumbprint, and Drew had no idea how to get around that little problem.

He might have never noticed it, if Howard hadn’t spilled the coffee on his shirt that day–the older man had been so embarrassed, he’d urged Drew to give him his shirt so he could wash it quickly before the stain set in the fabric, and gave him a different one to wear for the time being, before asking Drew to carry some junk up to the attic for him. He’d noticed the elaborately framed mirror leaning against the wall, but as soon as he walked past, something strange happened–the new shirt, which had been rather loose on him, suddenly felt tighter, and in the mirror, Drew gasped. He’d gotten fat, somehow. He’d grown a gut and two small moobs, big enough to fill out the shirt he was wearing, and worse, when he pulled the shirt off, his body didn’t change back.

Sure, he’d panicked at first, but he reasoned that it must have something to do with who had previously owned the shirt, since he’d grown to fit it so perfectly, and he’d snuck downstairs, gotten his own shirt from the washer, and back in front of the mirror in the attic, his own shirt thankfully restored his old body, good as new. Still, that little surreal experience had set the wheels in his head turning, and now he knew just what to do to get his hands on Howard’s piles of cash.

He threw Howard’s suit up into the attic and followed up after it, picking up the various pieces. He probably didn’t need to wear all of it, but he wasn’t sure if a few pieces would change him enough to get into the safe. It would be better to just wear it all, it order to get as complete a transformation as possible, even if the thought of becoming Howard was disgusting. Still, there was no other feasible solution, so he pulled on the massive pants and button down shirt, put on the jacket, swimming in the piles of fabric, slipped into some shoes and lastly pulled on the gloves and glasses he’d taken from among Howard’s spares, before stepping in front of the mirror.

He looked ridiculous–the clothes were hanging off his much smaller frame, and if it wasn’t for the suspenders attached to the pants, he didn’t think he would have been able to even hold them up effectively. Hell, he couldn’t even get a good look at himself through the glasses he was wearing–Howard must not be able to see anything without them, but suddenly, he felt his head ache for a moment, and he could see perfectly clearly through the lenses–though as soon as it happened, he wished that he couldn’t. Like it or not, his plan was definitely working. He could feel his body beginning to shift and grow outward, his lithe, muscular body growing older, pounds and pounds of fat packing their way under his skin. In a matter of seconds, he could stop holding onto the clothes to keep them in place, because his body was fitting them better and better. His young face started taking on the craggy wrinkles which covered Howard’s face, his eyes turned hazel, hair sucking its way back into his head leaving him with his boss’s nearly white horseshoe, and then he felt the changes halt, and he was staring right into Howard’s face.

“Well, that certainly worked perfectly,” Drew said, then covered his mouth with one gloved hand, “Oh my goodness, I sound just like him.”

He did sound just like him–but not just his voice–’Oh my goodness?’ Who even said that anymore? Well, he’d heard Howard say it a couple of times when Drew probably would have cussed, but he just passed it off on Howard being an old fogey. He ran his hands along Howard’s full, bloated stomach, eyes locked on his own in the mirror, and found himself missing his youth all the more–his flat stomach, his pert ass–oh yes, damn if he hadn’t had the nicest ass on the block, he could just imagine what it might be like to fuck, provided he could get hard enough to pop the young boy’s cherry, though he’d be more than willing to simply have the chance to suck the boy’s big cock dry.

Drew shook his head, realizing that he’d just been lost in thought, lusting over himself, and he realized that apparently the mirror was changing more than just his physical appearance, but also his mind–and he stepped away before he could lose more of himself. Thinking, he was happy to find that none of his memories had disappeared–just that he was acting more…Howard like, which was disgusting. His old hands were shaking now, and he felt a strange knot of anxiety in his chest that simply wouldn’t go away. He patted the pockets of his suit, trying to figure out what was missing, when he realized he didn’t have a pipe! God, did he need a smoke. As disgusting as that was, the habit was just too strong to resist, not to mention his new body’s overwhelming tobacco addiction. He’d just pop down to the humidor where Howard kept his tobacco, and take a bowl to smoke, before emptying the safe, changing back, and getting out of here. Careful to avoid looking in the mirror, he stashed his clothing and carefully climbed back down the ladder into the house proper.

He had another fight with himself over smoking the pipe, which he eventually lost. It was the one thing he’d always found the most disgusting about Howard, the stink of tobacco which clung to the entire house, and he rarely seen the old man without a smokestack clamped between his teeth. Still, this body craved it, and before long, he was letting Howard’s hands guide him, as he tamped and lit a moderately sized pipe and took a deep breath into his lungs, and he hated how good it felt to smoke. Still, with a pipe in his mouth, he could finally focus on what actually mattered here–the money. He crept through the house, which was silly, since he knew Howard had left, but in the study, the nerves in his belly nearly made him sick, but it was flawless, the safe happily accepting his elderly thumb and gravelly voice as Howard’s own. However, it was after that when everything went wrong.

He swung open the safe and saw it was empty–the stacks of cash were gone–all of them. Had Howard found out about his plan? How could he have–there was no way…and then he realized he’d been played. How had he discovered the mirror? Howard. Who had given him the perfect opportunity to use it? Howard. “Oh fudge!” he shouted, and hurried as fast as Howard’s body could waddle, making his way back up to the attic but it was too late. His old body–his hot, slender body–was right there, dressed in his clothes, gazing into the mirror, grinning away.

“No! Give me back my clothes!” Drew wheezed, and gave a hacking cough. He’d lost the pipe somewhere along the way, but the old body he was stuck in just couldn’t keep up.

“Oh? So you checked the safe already? I assume you didn’t find what you were looking for? Well, don’t worry, ‘Howard’, I already stashed it away, and it’ll certainly go towards paying off that college debt of yours, and quite the nice life afterwards, I’m sure.”

“I’m not Howard! Give me back my clothes, you–” Drew said, and lurched towards his old body, who shoved him back onto the floor, and then he picked up a hammer and lifted it up, ready to smash the mirror to bits. “No!” Drew shouted, “No, please–don’t, I can’t stay like this, I can’t, please!”

Howard smirked, “Well, then how about this? I won’t smash your precious mirror, if you wrap those fat, faggot lips around my cock and suck me off, eh Howard? I know how often you used to fantasize about me, my hot body,” Howard said, lifting up Drew’s shirt, and listening to the soft groan the old man let off uncontrollably, “Of course, I’m straight now, but I wouldn’t mind seeing you suck me off, you disgusting fat fuck. Better hurry though, I don’t know how much longer I can resist swinging this hammer…”

Drew lurched up onto his knees and crawled over, yanking down his old shorts and taking his cock into his mouth, finding this body well practiced at giving blowjobs, much to his own disgust. Just like smoking the pipe, he was even more disturbed to discover that he liked it–the taste and feel of a young, rock hard cock slamming down his throat was just thrilling. Drew realized then that he was still in front of the mirror, ingraining Howard’s habits and proclivities deeper into his own psyche, and he started sucking harder, before he was forced to act entirely like Howard from now on, trapped in this old body forever.

Howard only lasted a minute, before shooting his load into Drew’s old mouth, who quickly backed off to the side, away from the mirror, and Howard dropped the hammer to the ground and dashed off laughing, driving off with Howard’s piles of cash, and leaving Drew alone in the attic. Still, he had the mirror–it was intact. All he had to do was get some of his clothes from his house, and he could change back. Of course, he had no idea how he would be able to get them–hell, Howard was probably over there already, his perfect copy–no, he had to figure out something else.

He sat up in the attic for close to half an hour, wishing he had a pipe, but refusing to give into the desire, trying to figure out a plan. However, his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone pounding on the front door, and a shouting, thickly accented voice, “Howard, we know you’re in there! Give us the money Howard, or you aren’t going to like what happens next, or where your body is going to turn up! Fear gripped his gut–who in the hell was that? The pounding resumed, and a moment after, he heard a boot slam into the door, breaking the lock, as a group of men charged into the house, and he hid in the only place he could think–behind the mirror.

It took them close to an hour before they reached the attic, and they hauled him out from behind the mirror. The men were mostly middle aged, and from the look of their faces–Russian. “Look, I’m not Howard, please, you have to believe me!” Drew said, terrified when he saw that several of them were wielding bats, the ringleader leveling a gun at his head.

“Where the fuck is the money, you fat old faggot? The safe’s empty–what did you fucking do with our money?”

“He took it! Howard took my body, and he took your money! It was the mirror, this fucking mirror!” Drew said, and he started sobbing on the ground, the mafia looking from the broken old man to the large ornate mirror in front of them, quizzically.

No one is entirely sure what happened to Howard after that–when he’d been found missing the next day, and the house ransacked, the police assumed it was a home burglary turned murderous, though his body never turned up. Oddly enough, other than the empty safe, nothing was taken, aside from something in the attic, something large and wide, which had been propped up against the wall, something like a very large mirror.

“A New Coaching Position” Part 5 of 5

I do still see my son, once a year. He lives on one of the organization’s “resorts”. They call it The Fuck Farm–it’s out in the country, very secluded. Rich fags pay exorbitant amounts of money to stay there, and have the pick of the slaves for the week or the weekend. I get one week of vacation there every year, but the only slave I ever reserve is my son.

I don’t even recognize him anymore, but I think he still knows me. Or at least, I like to think that he still knows who I am. Man, every time, I try. I hold out as long as I can. I try to get him to come back to me, to say something–anything. Just a word, something other than his grunts and snorts and groans, begging me wordlessly to fist his hole…and who am I to deny him what he wants? Yeah, I give in, I always do. And before I know it, we’re out in the barn, me in some of my favorite rubber gear, my fist buried deep in his hungry hole…fuck, he’s such a hot pig, I’ll be back there in a few weeks–I need to make sure they reserve him for me. Still, the bosses usually know who I want, I probably don’t need to worry.

Anyway, that’s the story, boy. That’s the story I tell everyone their first night with me. Don’t try to fight it, they can destroy your mind at the drop of a hat if they feel like it. Besides, doesn’t it feel good, being stretched out, spread eagle in my dungeon, unable to move? The tight leather biting into your flesh–how about I get my whip boy? How about I whip you until you bleed? I want to taste you–I bet your blood is fucking sweet as hell. Yeah, I saw that shiver–I felt it–you’re afraid, I understand that. But just trust me, trust your new pipe master, let me show you where pain and pleasure meet in ecstasy. Trust me, and in a couple of months, there’s nothing else you’ll want more than to bleed for me.

“A New Coaching Position” Part 4 of 5

They gave me a choice, when they dragged me out of the theater, once the team had had their way with me. They told me that they could do one of two things. Either I could accept a position with them in the organization helping with various “acquisitions,” or they’d throw me back in the theater with the team, without the goggles, where in a matter of moments I’d have no mind like the rest of them, just a hog for fattening, eating and fucking and…and is it any surprise I took the job? No, I didn’t want it, I mean, I’ve grown to…enjoy it, sure, as you can tell, but what sort of choice did I really have?

Of course, they didn’t bother to tell me that just because I’d taken the job didn’t mean I wouldn’t require some…modifying. That’s the word they use–modifications. But that’s not my specialty–I’m a trainer; still a coach of sorts, just, in a different capacity. It was the smoking that I hated the most. I still–well, that’s a lie. I love it now, I just know that I shouldn’t, but what good does that do me? From the first day in the facility they had me trained in tobacco use–cigars, pipes, cigarettes, dip–I use them all now, all the damn time. Of course, that was just the start of it. The testosterone–fuck, it makes me so fucking…aggressive. The near endless workouts help take the edge off, but when they showed me that first pig, that first slut begging for my cock, I only held out for a minute before giving it a rough fuck, cumming in its hole…it was only later that I felt bad, but I don’t feel bad about it anymore.

I’m a leather smoke bear now, I guess. Grizzled, muscled, aggressive, one hundred percent top. Most of the time, I’m free to live the life they’ve given me, nights out at the leather bar, taking home cubs for nights of smoke sex, bondage and pain play–fuck, yeah, watching a guy bleed–nothing turns me on quite like that. A few times a year though, they deliver me a pig to train. Someone who needs the special touch, and they all leave the same–craving smoke and sexual abuse. Sure, it’s wrong, but I love it, and can’t imagine any other life, but you know all about that part, don’t you?

“A New Coaching Position” Part 3 of 5

I knocked out the van driver and his escort that night, and stole their goggles. They did more than limit my sight, I also discovered that they had earplugs attached as well. Before my movements could be detected, I snuck into the theater, not at all ready for what I would find in there. The film playing, well, it wasn’t really a film, so much as a series of images flashing too fast for anyone to make out well, and the earplugs prevented me from hearing much of anything at all, and my team, of fuck, my team–what had I done?

They were fat–just fucking enormous. All of them had grown out of their clothes, and were in the midst of an orgy–the stink of sex and sweat and food and cum and body odor in the room was nearly overwhelming, and I did my best to keep from retching, then came the voice.

“Hello Mr. Finney, I was wondering when that conscience of yours would get the better of you. Well, no matter, a coach belongs with his team, right? And with his son, of course.”

My stomach dropped, and looking over in terror, I saw my son on his hands and knees, Carl, the team captain, ramming his fist up his hole while he squealed, and I knew I had come too late.

Through the earplugs, I could just sense a change in whatever soundtrack was accompanying the movie, and all of the men turned towards me, grinning. “Now, how about it boys? Your coach is here to see you–don’t you want to welcome him? Please him? But leave his goggles on, I want him to know it’s happening.”

They pinned me down before I could get away, and dang, I think the entire team sucked my cock that night. Men came in when they saw I wasn’t cooperating, and gave me some drug that gave me a hardon that lasted for hours, before they finally dragged me away, exhausted.

“A New Coaching Position” Part 2 of 5

Look, I know I shouldn’t have done it, I was their coach, these guys trusted me, but they were threatening to turn my son into a fat fistpig, what in the hell was I supposed to do? It was easy–all they wanted me to do was organize a pizza and movie night for the team at this private theater a little ways out of town, and they were going to take care of everything else–though they suggested that I get out of there before the film started. 

Days passed, and no one heard anything from the the team, but somehow there was no uproar when the entire football team vanishes all at once, so obviously I wasn’t the only staff member being blackmailed. A couple days later, it was quietly announced by the school that the football program had lost funding and been cut–now, to top everything off, I was unemployed too.

I camped out at the theater. Outside the room, I could hear them all, still in there…doing who knew what. Vans arrived. Men in grey uniforms took mountains of food and soft drinks out of them and into the theater before leaving again. They all had on these special goggles, and I knew that if I was going to find out what happening here, if I was going to put this right, I would need to get a pair.