Alright, I got a few answers to my earlier question, so I’m going to expand three of those photo captions from last week. On Friday, we’ll be seeing more of Robbie and the Hypnotist, because damn, you all reblogged and liked the hell out of that one (thanks for all of that by the way, it’s much appreciated). Next Tuesday, I’m going to expand Andy and the Roadhouse, because a few asked for it, and because I’m partial to it myself. Next Friday, I’ll expand the Movie Theater Intermission, because I got a few requests and quite a few likes for that as well (plus I never write in the second person, so it’s good practice).
Also! It seemed like you all enjoyed the photo captions, so I’m just going to start doing those regularly from now on. I’m going to try and do sets of two on three days each week (Monday, Thursday and Sunday). Regular vignettes will still appear every Tuesday and Friday, so hooray five days of content! Let’s hope for no burnout!
That is all, we now resume your regularly scheduled stream of porn.
The corded phone rang, and Robert picked it up on the first ring.
“He–Hello?”
“Where’s my fuckin’ cash, faggot?”
Robert cringed at the sound of the Gabe’s deep southern twang on the other end of the line,
but knew better than to try and hang up the phone at this point–he wouldn’t be able to. “I don’t…I mailed it out last week, I hoped it would have gotten there on time, like always,” Robert said. None of what he’d said was a lie, of course, he couldn’t lie to Gabe on the phone. It had gone out last week, but later than usual, because it had taken him an extra day to scrounge up the funds.
“Bullshit, what aren’t ya tellin’ me faggot?”
“I…I didn’t have the money, Gabe. I got it out a day late. Please, you’ve already emptied my savings, I don’t have anything! I had to pawn my watch, and sell some of my electronics on Craigslist–”
“Faggots don’t need tah tell time, ‘n ya could use a little less time on those disgustin’ porn sites a yers. Well then again, maybe ya do need a watch, since ya can’t figure out when tah pay me.”
“Ye…Yes…I’m sorry, I just didn’t have the money, please–I’m sorry,” Robert said, with a gulp. He was in trouble, not that he hadn’t already been in trouble for months now. Robert lived in the deep south, and worked for an ultra-conservative baptist church as a bookkeeper–and he was gay. Sure, he was conflicted about it, but he’d really just fallen into the position there before having his personal, sexual epiphany, and in his small community, he was cornered. The internet was too risky, so he’d turned to highway rest stops, writing his barely used home phone number on the wall, asking for hook ups. It had worked well, until Gabe had called one day.
They’d hooked up–or rather, Gabe had come over one night, shoved Robert down on the wood floor at the front door and had his way with him, calling him a worthless faggot and worse the whole time, before getting up and leaving without a word, and Robert had been glad to see the backside of him–but the redneck was smarter than that. When he’d fucked Robert–he’d done something to him–he could control him using his voice, even through the telephone, and after one more conversation, he’d learned all of Robert’s secrets–and had then threatened to force Robert to out himself at work if he didn’t send Gabe five hundred dollars cash in the mail every week. He didn’t make much at the church, but he’d been able to rely on his savings for a while, but now even that was dry–and he had no idea what Gabe was going to do now that Robert couldn’t make his payments.
“Well since ya can’t be a good little faggot and pay me on time, Ah guess yer gonna have tah be punished. Strip faggot.”
Robert couldn’t resist the order, and he put down the phone, pulling off all of his clothes before sitting back down, “Please, you don’t have to do this, I can get you the money on time from now on,” he pleaded.
“Do ya got a butt plug or a dildo, faggot? I bet ya do, all ya faggots gotta have those nasty things.”
“Yes, but please–”
“Shut yer god damn trap, ‘r we’re gonna have a real fuckin’ problem, faggot!” Gabe shouted through the receiver, making Robert whimper, “Ya got it?”
“Yes…yes, sir.”
“Better. Go get it, ‘n put it up yer hole. Tell me when it’s there.”
Robert again put down the phone, went into his room, and retrieved his six inch long, flesh colored dildo, the only one he owned. He’d bought it while on vacation up north, but didn’t use it very often, so working it in was hard, especially since he couldn’t find his lube. Still, he had to obey Gabe and get it up there, and soon the plastic balls were against his hole between his legs, and he walked oddly back to the phone. “It’s in.”
“Good. Now, here’s what yer gonna do, faggot. From now on, yer gonna wear that dildo in yer ass to work, all day, everyday. Yer gonna fuck yerself on it when yer alone, ‘n at least once a day, ya gotta go intah the bathroom ‘n jack off while ya fuck yerself, ‘n eat yer cum, got it?”
“No, please–”
“What the hell did Ah say ‘bout talkin’ back, bitch?”
“But–but what if someone catches me?”
“Then ya better beg them tah keep quiet–ya can even offer tah suck their dick off in exchange fer not tellin’. Yer a faggot, men love a hole tah fuck, if ya seem desperate ‘n worthless enough.”
Robert was speechless. Even worse, he knew he wasn’t going to be able to resist the order. Tomorrow, he’d march into work with a six inch dildo up his ass, and there would be nothing he could do to stop it.
“Ya there faggot? Ya got all that?”
“Yes, yes I got it.”
“Good. Now, we’re gonna have tah figure out a way fer ya tah get some more money tah pay me with, ‘cause this job ain’t gonna cut it alone. So how about this. How about ya start rentin’ out those faggot holes a yers, tah any roughneck lookin’ fer a hole? How’s that sound?”
“No…No, I’m not going to–please don’t make me do that!”
“No? Then how come yer cock’s all hard from thinkin’ ‘bout it, faggot?”
Shit, he was hard. “I’m not going to do it.”
“Go on, jack off yer cock faggot, it’s alright. Think about how much ya’d love tah be used ‘n abused by big roughnecks like me fer hours ‘n hours. How ya’d beg ‘em tah plant their seed deep in yer hole, how ya’d finish the night wit’ a ass ‘n face plastered wit’ cum. Jack off too, ya faggot, Ah know ya can’t resist.”
Oh Jesus, it really was turning him on, wasn’t it? Robert felt his hand wrap it’s way around his cock and start jacking it, while his mind pictured him bent over the bed or the couch, while a long line of bikers, truckers and trailer trash lined up behind him to use his holes.
“Ah can hear ya faggot, gettin’ all excited over there. Hear ya pantin’ like a bitch ‘n heat. Go on, ya can admit it. It’s yer ultimate fantasy. It’s got ya so excited yer gonna cum, ain’t ya. Ya can’t hold it back bitch, I know ya can’t–”
“Fuck! Fuck oh god damn it!” Robert hollered as he came all over his belly, cum shooting all the way up to the phone cord.
“Nasty fuckin’ faggot,” Gabe said, “Since ya want it so much, maybe Ah shouldn’t let ya do it. Maybe Ah should make it so ya can’t even cum!”
“No! Please, I’ll do it, I’ll do it, please,” Robert said, unable to stop himself. The fantasy–it had been so hot. He did want it, he really did, even though he knew deep down that he shouldn’t. That he’d fallen into one of Gabe’s many traps once more.
“Oh, like Ah’m gonna do what a faggot asks me tah do. Forget it.”
“No, look, I’ll…I’ll send you all the money I make–and pictures! Or video, whatever you want!”
“You disgusting piece of trash!” Gabe shouted, “You think I’m a gay boy like you? Fuck no, I don’t want any pictures of you taking another man’s cock up your hole, it’s disgusting!”
“I’m sorry, but please…please let me do it sir, please.”
“Alright, fine. Since yer bein’ such a whiny bitch. But Ah got a few conditions. One, Ah’m in charge a yer schedule, ‘n yer appointments. Ah set them up, set the prices ‘n the men pay me directly, since ya can’t be trusted tah send me mah payment on time. Two, ya do anythin’ a man asks ya tah do on the clock–no refusals. They can fuck ya raw if they want. They can piss on ya if they want. They can make ya dress up like a bitch before they fuck ya if they want. Lastly, ya don’t cum, ever, when yer servin’ a man. Yer job is tah please their cock, not yers. Got it?”
“Yes…Yes I–I understand. I’ll do it.”
“Good. Now, ya better get ready. Ah have six guys scheduled fer half hour blocks startin’ in fifteen minutes. Now yer gonna go unlock the front door, greet every client naked ‘n on yer knees and kiss their boots when they come in, then do anythin’ they want.”
“Wait…six? Six? I can’t, I don’t have time–”
“Hey faggot, yer only pullin’ in twenty bucks a session. It’s gonna take at least, what, twenty five sessions a week tah make yer payment? In fact, might as well up yer payment tah me, since yer gonna be enjoyin’ it so much–so get ready, yer gonna be workin’ those holes a whole lot from now on. Now have a good afternoon faggot.” Gabe said, and hung up before Robert could say another word.
He’d been played–the entire time, Gabe had been setting him up for this…and he didn’t care. He wanted to be a whore for rough, dirty men, it had become his ultimate fantasy the moment Gabe had said it. He couldn’t have been the first one he’d done this to. Gabe probably had a network of men like him on call. He got up and undid the deadbolt on his front door, before getting down on his knees, head bowed, staring down at the same floor he’d been forced down on when Gabe had stormed in and raped him, the same floor he’d licked his cum off of when Gabe saw he’d cum just from getting fucked–or had any of that happened? Was he just imagining, and justifying, his new wants and cravings? But he was a faggot, wasn’t he. Gabe was right, and this was where he really belonged.
Alright, that brings a close to photo caption week–but don’t fret, I have a few vignettes in the works for the next while. However, I was curious to know which were your favorites. Let me know your thoughts, and I might even extend a few of the popular ones into vignettes or series of their own. I know they were leaving a few of you hungering for more, so let me know!
The construction workers didn’t know where the toilet in the rotted out building had come from. It wasn’t hooked up to any plumbing, it didn’t flush, and yet it always stayed reasonably clean–and for some reason, they all felt compelled to use it when they were on the job. However, the toilet isn’t really a toilet–it’s you.
You aren’t really a toilet, but that’s how you’ve the witch cursed you to be seen, all those years ago, back in college. You remained in your frat house for a while, but since then you’ve spent years being moved from place to place, servicing filthier and filthier men. By now, you’ve stopped trying to get them to hear you or see you for what you are. You wouldn’t want them to–your skin caked with filth–your body obese and bloated with thousands of pounds of shit and piss. They approach, you open, they do their business, they wipe their crack with your long, filthy beard, and then they leave. It’s the only life you remember now, and the only life you know you’ll ever want.
You are at the movie theater when you meet him. You brought a date, but didn’t share enough of that large soda you guzzled during the first act, and now you have to go piss. You excuse yourself, hoping your date doesn’t hate you for being “that guy who has to piss during the movie,” and rush to the bathroom, where he’s waiting for you.
Maybe not for you, maybe for any man. Maybe if you hadn’t hogged that soda, he would have found someone else. But you turn the corner and see him standing on the tile, naked aside from his boots, covered in tattoos that swirl and dance before your eyes. Your mind goes blank, aside from those beautiful colors and his deep voice, telling you to come closer, strip and come closer, little pig.
You can smell him now, smell his musk, and he tells you how much a pig like you would love to smell the pits of a man like him. He tells you what a fat little pig you are, what a dirty, dumb, obese, nasty hog. Are you really growing shorter, plumping up and putting on a huge gut as he speaks to you, or is it just a fantasy, a fantasy you suddenly long for?
He puts a boot up on a urinal, showing off his hairy, dirty crack, and with a grunt you dig your face in deep, licking and chewing all the filth you can find. Unable to control yourself, your cock releases your full bladder, and with both hands you are rubbing it on yourself. He pushes you down onto all fours, wets his cock with some spit and forces it into your ass. You snort and squeal, cum shooting from your cock and mixing with the piss on the floor, and when he finishes, you crawl after your master on all fours, gut dragging on the floor, head empty aside from the filthiest fantasies your mind had never dreamed of.
You never return to the theater, you never finish the movie. All your date finds of you is a puddle of piss on the men’s room floor, a wad of cum shot in the middle of it, and a pile of clothes from a past life.
The hypnotist’s show a few weeks ago was great, though there had been a few changes to some of the bar’s regulars. The one who changed the most though, was Robbie. He was a loud, obnoxious drunkn–but the other regulars ignored him, and if he got too riled up, the bouncers knew to just kick him to the curb.
Well, the night the hypnotist came, Robbie refused to shut up. He spent the whole evening shouting that hypnosis was fake and calling the hypnotist a crock. When he suggested Robbie come up, he insisted that he couldn’t be hypnotized–but before long, Robbie was clucking around like a chicken…but then the show took a strange turn.
He told Robbie to pretend as hard as he could that he was a urinal, and told the other participants they needed to piss. One by one, Robbie drank it all down, and while he claims he doesn’t remember it, every night now, he sits at the end of the bar, guzzling piss like its his favorite thing in the world. Still the bar is a lot quieter now–so maybe things worked out for the best.
I love Christmas stories, but I always feel odd writing them in the summer. I’m already planning on some holiday themed stories later this year though, so stick around until then.
Hank had been so wrong when he’d walked into the leather bar that evening, in his new, shiny pants and jacket, scanning the room. He’d imagined himself a master. He had thought that looking the part was enough to gain a slave–to gain respect. He’d been wrong–the Masters had been kind enough to show him that.
No, his place, where he belonged, was beneath them. Not next to them, on his knees like their many slaves, waiting to be called upon and served. No, he was lower than even them, only worthy of crawling along the filthy floor, licking up their spilled beers, piss and cigar butts, but most importantly, cleaning the filth from the bottom of their boots.
They stepped on him without paying him any regard, and he bore their weight like a good worm, orgasming helplessly whenever their soles crushed his worthless groin. One day, maybe, one of these leather gods would take him as a slave. Perhaps, even later, he might earn the right to become a Master himself, but for now, he finally knew his place.
“Who’s that? Oh, that isn’t anyone anymore. It’s just an art piece now. It was my last boyfriend. Sure, the relationship started well enough, but we had some problems. He didn’t really like wearing the rubber gear I wanted him in, he even tried running away. I tried talking some sense into him, but he wouldn’t listen to my reasoning, so I had to take some…extreme measures.
"Sure, I suppose I could have let him go, but he was so beautiful…not as beautiful as you, of course. He screamed at first, as I pumped the liquid latex into him, but he can’t scream now–he can’t do anything. He can just hang there, rubber sublime.
"Oh no, you can’t leave now, I have so much gear I want to see you in, so much rubber for you to wear. We can go out to the clubs, two hot rubberbois on the dance floor–it’ll be perfect. But if you really don’t want to–I do still have a lot of that liquid latex, and I think you might look even more beautiful wrapped in rubber forever.”
“If you ask me, all those stinking hippies should just go get a damn job!” one of the bankers shouted, bringing another round of clapping, laughing and snorting from the businessmen and politicians seated around the table.
A CEO picked up where that one left off, “Ha! No kidding. And their fucking glitter-bombing or whatever–fucking faggots *grunt*. Like a handful of stinking glitter is going to do anything!” Again, everyone laughed, still stuffing their faces with as much food as they could grab with their bare hands.
Daniel, however, wasn’t feeling well, and he hurried to the bathroom. He wasn’t sure if it was the large amount of wine he’d drunk, but his face…what was wrong with his face?
“Daniel? Are you in there? What’s wrong?” a voice said outside the door–it was Daniel’s brother Chuck. He stepped in, and Daniel was horrified–his brother’s head had been replaced with that of a pig, and he looked like he had gained a hundred pounds, his suit ill-fitting on his now obese frame. And the hungry look in his eyes–it was making Daniel horny, and he pulled his cock out of his suit pants, struggling around his own expanding gut.
Chuck grinned and got down on his knees, slurping down his brother’s cock, Daniel snorting and grunting as he drove his dick down Chuck’s throat, feeling his clothes ripping off his body. His mind–he knew something was wrong, but it felt as though he were being controlled by something else–some primal urge, something not human. He reached around with a trotter like hand and began probing his asshole, feeling his new corkscrew tail. The sensation of having something at his hole threw him into overdrive, and he shot a huge load down his brother’s throat, but it wasn’t enough. He bent over the sink, and in a strange rough voice no longer his own, he panted, “Fuck me, Chuck, *oink* fuck me!”
Daniel watched his potbellied brother heave himself up off the floor, his deformed cock leaking precum, and he realized that he was now more beast than man. There was none of the usual spark of intellect in his eyes–but his terror was swept away once his brother thrust his hard cock into his ass, rutting and squealing. Daniel looked in the mirror, his own mind crumbling away, and realized too late that foul smelling glitter could have an effect, if one knew the right spells.
Back in the dining room, the brothers’ guests had descended into their own orgy, clamoring out of their ripping suits and onto the table, gorging themselves in between bouts of mindless, bestial sex. In the morning, the reporters thought it was a prank–a high-profile fundraiser for a Republican SuperPac filled with pigs, but as the reports came in of the politicians, businessmen and CEO’s who had gone missing–well, one thing was certain. Politics in the USA would never be the same again.
Bracken's Corner 