You wanna know the fetish that people seem to love which I simply do not really understand?
Pup play.
“But Wes! You write pup stories fairly regularly! You seem to get it just fine!”
Intellectually, I understand why people are into it, and I understand the triggers which turn people on to the fetish, but I personally have no real interest or attraction to the fetish itself.
I feel, before continuing, that I should make a disclaimer, regarding what I’m *not* talking about. There is, in my mind, a distinction between people who want to be literally turned into a dog (the animal) and people who enjoy pup/handler RP in a BDSM sense. Or at least, in my head, they are different sorts of things. The animal TF itself isn’t particularly confusing for me, but the BDSM stuff loses me a bit. I should also add that just because it isn’t my thing, doesn’t mean I think it’s bad that other people do it. Obviously there’s something there that people enjoy! It’s just something about my understanding and experience with BDSM that makes it seem…strange to me.
Part of the reason for this, I think, is that BDSM–especially in the role of a sub–is very much about stripping things away. It’s about being present in the moment, and the sensation of a dom stripping away off the extraneous shit until all that remains is a blissful state of service. Or at least, that’s how I *experience* it, and I’m certain not all experiences are equal. But when I look at pup play, with the masks and the tails and performance of it, it honestly feels like the exact opposite of that sensation to me. It looks like, rather than revealing myself, I’m just burying myself within a costume and a role instead. I would be creating more distance between myself and the dom I’m playing with. That’s…just not what I’m looking for, I suppose, in those sorts of scenes. I also feel that part of being a sub involves an aspect of responsibility and service, but the pup role seems to be missing those aspects to me. Rather, it seems to be about abandoning responsibility and humanity–which could very well be the point!–but which seems to miss some of the core values that I personally appreciate in BDSM.
In any case, I’m sure other people fell differently! It could be that my view from the outside of it is very different from what it would be like for an experienced pup and handler. It’s still something on my list to try, mostly because I would like to see if my understanding of it really is wrong, or if it just isn’t something for me, personally.
tl;dr: don’t hate me, plz
Haven’t emptied my ask box in a while! I’ll be answering questions all day, if you have anything you’re desperate to know. Put them in the box!
You have until Wednesday afternoon (PST) to vote. The next chapter likely won’t be posted until Friday or Saturday this week, due to the delays this weekend.
Brett heard his big brother disappear into the garage, and wondered why he was heading there, when Daddy had told them both to go to their rooms. Still, something told him he didn’t really need to worry much about that–Nate could take care of himself, after all. He hefted himself upstairs, surprised by how hard it was with the extra weight of his new gut. He paused about three quarters of the way up, and wondered how in the hell Daddy was going to get up these stairs to go to bed, and thought about it, about daddy’s massive apron, covered in hair, wondering what it would be like to have one himself. His cock got hard, but he resisted touching it. Something…still just didn’t seem right to him, about all of this, even if he couldn’t quite figure out what it was exactly.
At the top of the stairs there was a hall with several rooms splitting off. A second bathroom–also equipped with a urinal, like the one downstairs, and a few bedrooms. He went to the next door, opened it, and as soon as he did, he gagged. Whatever was in this room…it reeked. He stepped back a bit, shaking his head. That couldn’t be his room. It just…it couldn’t be. But the stench, now that he smelled it…it did seem familiar somehow. Comfortable, even. He tried to leave, fully intending to get out of the house and never come back, but instead he walked into the room, eyes watering, and shut the door behind him.
Once shut it, he felt better. The air was muggy and humid–and almost immediately Brett felt himself start to sweat. He wiped his brow and looked around, disgusted by the room around him. It was filthy. Empty food wrappers and containers were scattered everywhere, mixed in with the dirty laundry that made up most of the clutter. There was a closet lying open, but there was nothing inside but even more clothing, also dirty–why in the world was there so much of it?
He felt dizzy in the heat of the room, and he went over to the bed and sat down on it…and when he did, he felt it…squish beneath him. The surface was wet, and a thick plume of filthy air billowed up around him, and when he inhaled it this time, he just felt more of his mind shut off, his jaw dropped open, one hand went to his cock and started stroking it slowly. Yeah–this was better. Much better. He was back where he belonged now, he could tell. He’d been wrong before, when he thought about leaving this–and he laid back on the damp, stinking mattress and jacked off a bit faster.
As he laid there, he could start to pick out some of the specific odors around him. Piss–there was lots of that. His stomach turned for a moment, as he finally realized why, exactly, the mattress felt so soggy…but then it just didn’t bother him at all. In fact, knowing the thing was leaden with his own stale piss somehow made everything so much…hotter. There was sweat, too–his own sweat rolling off him. He lifted an arm and took a whiff of himself, still unwashed after days of looking after daddy, and it smelled amazing. It wasn’t enough though–it still just wasn’t quite right. He’d missed something, but what?
It clicked in his head, and he smacked his forehead. He could be such a stupid, stinking boy sometimes. He wasn’t dressed, of course! He rolled over, intending to sit up on the bed, but it was hard work, for some reason, liks his body wanted to move as little as possible. He managed, however, to make it back to the edge, and he fished around in the piles around him, looking for something that smelled…right, tossing things back that dissatisfied him, and pulling on the things he found that interested him. A nasty wifebeater, some ratty briefs, some socks–and then a couple more socks on top of those–he liked it when his feet got nice and rank. Satisfied with his choices, he laid back down with a contented sigh, and continued masturbating, face snorting from his pits now, hand shoved down the front of the briefs, working on his cock, which had started leaking precum profusely into the fabric.
His balls were growing–swelling in the stank briefs, and as they grew, he could sense his own mind growing dimmer. He tried to cling to his thoughts of escape, but they slipped away from him, and soon he didn’t even feel like he was missing anything. He was just a nasty slob in his stinking room, jacking off like he always did, when Daddy or his brother didn’t need him, not that he was good for much. He was…fucking worthless, actually. He could cook, he supposed, but that was about it. He knew that should bother him, the fact that he was just wasting his life up here, but he loved it. He wanted to be worthless. He wanted to waste himself on porn and masturbation, living in his stinking man cave. The first orgasm came, but it only got him hornier. Brett could chain ten or twelve loads a day, his underwear eventually completely saturated with his fluids, and he’d still usually have a wet dream or two in the night, humping his nasty mattress until he came.
He needed to piss, and he knew he should use the urinal, but when he tried to get up from the bed this time, inertia won. Fuck–he was so fucking lazy, he wasn’t even going to make it to the bathroom. Not this time, at least. The piss started to flow, and there was so much of it, flooding through his briefs and soaking into the bed below him, and he came again, and again, and again, until he couldn’t think of anything else he’d rather do than waste his life as a worthless slob.
The next few days were quiet. Daddy and his two boys adjusted to their roles rather quickly, and it wasn’t long before they had forgotten about their old lives entirely, their gear thrown out into the backyard by Nate, who only saw the four duffel bags as junk. They ate–with Daddy always pitting his two boys against one another to see who would be the big brother for the day. Nate usually won, but Brett could pack away his groceries on occasion, and when he did, he loved bossing his brother around, ordering him to suck on his huge, nasty feet while he jacked off onto him. Nate, on the other hand, would use his brother as a biker pig out in the garage, when he won–at least, when daddy wasn’t using them both for his own pleasure.
It was about a week later, halfway through their alleged vacation, that a new car pulled up into the driveway. The mastermind had been watching the events unfolding, and was very, very pleased by the four young men’s progress–but now it was time for stage two, whatever that might be. So, who is our perverse Mastermind, anyway?
It really is Rich’s mysterious uncle, who brought along Rich’s father for extra fun.
A group of nerds they bullied looking for revenge.
The football coach, who is possessed by a demon of sloth, lust and gluttony.
A mad scientist, happy some guinea pigs wandered into his trap.
Brett and Nate left the kitchen, and while Brett peeled off and headed upstairs, Nate continued on the ground floor, which seemed…odd to him. Usually bedrooms were upstairs, right? But something was telling him that his room–the right room–was down on the ground floor. He found a small mudroom with two doors. One had a small window that led out into the backyard, and Nate took the other one, which entered the garage.
For a cabin in the mountains, it sure was a spacious garage. It had three doors, and much to Nate’s surprise, there were already vehicles parked inside–an old pickup, and then four motorcycles in the other two spaces. But why four? There was only him, his little bro, and their daddy in the house, so didn’t they only need three? He spent a moment trying to sort out who, exactly, would need the fourth bike, but the dull buzzing in the air made it hard to keep the thoughts and numbers straight in his head. Instead, he saw another door on the other end of the garage–and that, he somehow knew, was his room.
He weaved through the motorcycles, all of them sizable Harleys, and went into the room–into his room, his head corrected him. It was completely disconnected from the house–the only way to get there was through the garage. That was…strange, right? But then again, it seemed…logical. Didn’t…he spent most of his time in the garage anyway? He wasn’t sure where that thought came from, exactly, but it didn’t seem right to question it either. The room itself was small, with a double bed in a corner with flannel sheets, a closet and a dresser, a stereo and a TV set. The one nice luxury was an attached bathroom–but it didn’t have a shower, just a toilet and a sink. The air smelled like grease, and it was cold–he should put some clothes on, shouldn’t he? His clothes were back by the front door of the house, though…it would be better to just see what was in the closet.
He went to the closet, unsure of what to expect, exactly, but when he opened the doors, he was mostly surprised by how…little there was inside. A pair of jeans, some flannel shirts, some pairs of boots, grubby pairs of overalls and coveralls–and leather. Lots of leather gear he might imagine a biker wearing, and all of it was well worn, and…smelled. The same odd smell of the room, but he grabbed a pair of stained briefs, an undershirt, and one of the pairs of overalls, and started to get dressed. They seemed…massive, and yet fit him snugly. He wasn’t entirely sure if it was because he hadn’t quite yet gotten used to how fat he had become, or if it was because the clothes had seemed to…shrink to fit. In any case, the clothes seemed as greasy as the air around him, rubbing off on his skin somehow. It wasn’t…unpleasant, and yet it didn’t feel quite right either. He settled on the pair of cowboy boots, pulling them on with some thick woolen socks, and when he stood up and saw himself in the mirror in the bathroom, he was a bit taken aback.
This wasn’t right. This wasn’t what he should be wearing. He shouldn’t be this fat, or this dirty, or feel this gross. He was about to take the things off, when he felt something hard in the back pocket of the overalls, reached back, and pulled out a small tin of chewing tobacco. The sight of it gave him a great sense of relief–he’d feel much better with a proper lipper. He packed the chaw into his mouth, feeling the slight tingle as it went to work, and his eyes glazed over slightly. This was right. He just…needed some time to adjust. Maybe he should give the hogs a little tune up? The family wasn’t exactly riding much in the summer, and Nate always wanted to keep everything in the garage in peak working condition. He turned on the stereo, let it blast country music out into the garage, and got to work, humming along easily with the songs he didn’t quite recognize, and soon enough he was singing along, his voice slowly picking up the same drawl as the singers–and then becoming even more extreme.
As he worked, his body was changing too, slightly. He kept drooling spit down onto his chin without meaning to, and where ever the black tar went, hair grew in, leaving him with a thick mustache and a goatee after an hour. The grease and funk of the clothes was wearing off onto him as well–along with something else. Colors were beginning to appear on his skin–patchy at first, but then coalescing into patterns and images–tattoos all over his arms and chest. The hat on his head was doing wonders for his hair, as well. When he took it off to wipe his brow, a thick mullet had appeared running down the back of his head, and as he spit out some tar, he didn’t even notice a couple of teeth come loose and end up on the floor of the garage with the rest of the grease stains.
In his mind, he found that knowledge about engine repair was pushing out everything else. It was…easy to think about mechanical parts, and fixing things, but everything else just seemed so…difficult to him. He knew he wasn’t the smartest fella, but he could fix just about anything you handed him, and he was pretty handy around the house too, if something was broken. Pleased with his work, he took a break to lounge about in his bedroom, packed himself another lip of tobacco, and jacked off to some porn on his little TV, thinking about daddy and his little brother, what those two might be getting up to at the moment.
No poll today! Tomorrow we’ll catch up with Brett, and see what his slobby room had in store for him.
Due to various circumstances, I have to delay the next couple of parts of Winter Vacation to Sunday and Monday this week.
It was a small change in his life, but it was a good one, he supposed. Doug hadn’t exactly lived the most active of lifestyles, rather, he quite enjoyed being sedentary. But it wasn’t doing anything for his health, or for his waistline, and so at his doctor’s, and his wife’s, urging, he’d started walking. Three or four times a week, he’d take off from his house and go down to the sizable park a mile away, do a circuit, and then walk back. It had been a couple months since he’d started, and while he hadn’t lost any weight, he did feel better. It was one late spring day, warm enough to wear shorts and regret it later, that he got to the park, and decided to take a quick breather on one of the benches beside a large field.
There were three young men in the field, throwing around a frisbee, none of them wearing shirts despite how chilly it was, and as Doug sat there, he found himself watching them play. It was difficult to pin down how old they were exactly–they all seemed a bit too old for college, but he certainly got a fraternity sort of vibe from them. Still, there wasn’t a college anywhere nearby, so he had no idea why they were playing here, in this park. Several times he intended to get back up and continue his walk, but each time something would distract him–a bead of sweat rolling down a chiseled chest, the thick thigh and calf as one of them jumped to make a catch, the glinting teeth of a smile. Doug’s cock was hard, tenting out the front of his short, but he barely even noticed, and just kept watching and staring, even if he couldn’t quite figure out why, exactly, he was still doing so.
The young men finished their game, all of them covered in sweat, and to Doug’s surprise, they walked over to where he was sitting. Had they all noticed what he was doing? He went to stand up quickly and move away to avoid anything embarrassing, but one of the men blocked his way with a laugh. “What’s up man? Saw you watchin’ us. You wanna play?”
Doug laughed, assuming it was a joke, but none of the three men laughed with him. “I mean, I haven’t played anything it years,” Doug stammered, “But, uh, thank you for the offer.”
“Oh, it’s no problem! We can help, you know. Come on–we’ll show you.”
Doug wasn’t about to take the three young jocks up on their strange offer, but his feet turned and followed them anyway, walking behind them as they left the park, walked a short distance and arrived at a house, where he assumed the three of them lived together. Once inside, all three of them immediately stripped out of their shorts, leaving them wearing nothing other than their hats, their jockstraps, and their sneakers.
Doug realized, then, how hard his cock was, and didn’t know what to do. Why were these young men turning him on so much, suddenly? He’d never felt a gay bone in his body, but he…wanted these men, in a way he couldn’t quite fathom. “I…you know, maybe I should leave.”
“Hold on now, I thought you wanted to join us?” The one in the yellow jock said, and he tossed Doug a black jockstrap, “Go on–see if it fits man.”
The other two nodded along, and he noticed each of them was wearing a necklace. From a distance, they had seemed innocuous, but up close they were chains padlocked into place. He looked at the jock in confusion…but then he started undoing his shoes while the three men watched, took off his shirt, shorts and underwear, and when he was completely naked, he pulled on the jockstrap.
“Ooo…no, that doesn’t fit at all, does it boys?” the leader said, and the other shook their heads.
“Sure doesn’t, Alpha–look at how tight that big gut a his is stretchin’ that strap!”
“Yeah, ‘n that puny old cock ain’t even fillin’ the pouch none,” the other said, with a guffaw.
The words stung–and at the same time, turned Doug on. He shoved his hand in the pouch and started working his cock, but it seemed…wrong. His cock was smaller, and completely soft–and also harder to reach. His gut seemed larger than it had been…and was it hairier too.
“Come on, you dirty fucking pervert–get out of that thing before you stretch it out.”
Doug did as he was told, and when Alpha shoved Doug down onto his knees, he stuck his nose right into his yellow jock, snorting and huffing, still working his soft cock over, but as horny as he was, it refused to harden at all.
“Looks like the pervert’s having some trouble–Red, help him out, would you?”
Red hefted Doug’s ass up, and slipped his thick fingers into Doug’s ass–and then his entire fist. As he worked over Doug’s prostate, an orgasm finally came, and he spurted a few globs of cum from the head of his puny cock.
“Alright pervert–you’d better get on home now, where you belong.”
“N-No, wait Alpha, can’t I stay a little longer? I…fuck sir, you and the boys are so hot…”
“Well, you’ll just have to watch us through the windows with the rest of the perverts–now get the hell out of here.”
Still naked, and barely understanding what he was doing, or why, Doug left out the front door, still completely naked, and went next door–which was in significantly worse repair. Inside were all the other perverts. Old, disgusting lechers just like him, crowding around the windows, aching to see Alpha or the boys playing, always jacking their worthless cocks, only able to cum when Alpha summoned them for some humiliating chores or to be a sex toy for the evening for his boys. Doug…clung to himself for a little while, but soon he was just another nameless pervert, like the rest, aching only to serve his Alpha and the boys, and perfectly content to watch, until his next chance came.
Rudy shut the door of his truck, and heaved a sigh. Another day at the site, and he was exhausted. He kicked his boots off on the steps next to the garage and walked inside the house. “Garth? You home?” he shouted for his son.
Enough lights were on that Rudy assumed he was, but with his son, he never really knew. Things had…spiraled a bit out of control, over the last couple of years, since Garth’s mom had passed. Rudy was having a difficult time with it himself, and before he’d even really realized it, his son had started having issues. They would have screaming fights, he would skip school, some nights he wouldn’t even come home, spending it who knew where. Rudy did his best to talk to him about it, but Garth wouldn’t open up to him about anything. He got no reply from his son, so he was either sulking in his room or gone–in either case, Rudy was too tired to cook anything, and so he headed into the kitchen to phone for some pizza, stripping off his shirt and pants as he did–but as he entered the den, he stopped short.
Someone was sitting there, on the couch, reading a book. Similar in age to Rudy, but quite chubby, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt. He looked up and smiled. “Ah! Rudy, I presume. Garth told me to expect you home around now.”
“I’m sorry…who are you?” Rudy said, “And what are you doing in my house?”
“Oh goodness, I suppose Garth probably hasn’t mentioned me. I’m Mr. Emory, the school psychologist. Garth was exhibiting some…rather distressing behavior at school, and he was referred to me for counseling, after his mother’s sudden passing. He’d been showing such good progress…but I’m afraid I just can’t allow him to attend school, not in his current emotional state.”
“Are…are you telling me my son got expelled?”
“Oh no–I’ve merely recommended him for a homeschooling program. I will be your liason, and provide all the lesson plans and things of that sort, but I think he will respond best to an…authority figure he’s familiar with.”
“I…I can’t homeschool him,” Rudy said. “I don’t have time. I work six days a week as it is, and my mortgage–”
“Hush now. Everything will be taken care of. This program comes with a sizable grant attached, which will provide you plenty of income for the duration of the program. Now come on over here and have a seat, Rudy. We should…chat about some of the things Garth has told me about you.”
Rudy didn’t know what to do, but he was feeling…rather strange, and lightheaded. He stepped forward and sat down on the couch beside Mr. Emory, who slid over closer, and wrapped an arm around Rudy’s shoulders, pulling him closer, watching the older man’s eyes do a bit distant. Mr. Emory had that effect on people, you see, and they began their conversation.
Rudy had never really opened up with anyone about his wife’s death to anyone, not even his close friends at work–certainly never to a therapist, but to his own surprise, he started…pouring everything out to Mr. Emory. How he felt like he’d lost control of his life. How…angry he was, at himself, at the world, for letting it happen.
“Yes, that’s good, Rudy, you should be angry,” Mr. Emory said.
“I…don’t wanna be angry…tho…” he muttered.
“Yes, but you are angry. You can’t help it. You have more anger in you than you know, but it won’t go away until we…channel it. Until we show you how you can direct it where it belongs,” he leaned in closer, lips almost pressed to Rudy’s ear, “Garth, your boy, he…craves control. He feels so adrift, now, and you–you’ve been abandoning him, Rudy.”
“What?”
“Your boy needs a firm hand, someone to control him, someone to shape him, help him channel his grief. You’ve been so focused on your anger, on yourself–but he can help you Rudy. Your boy is upstairs, right now, and he wants to help his daddy deal with his anger.”
Mr. Emory stood up, and Rudy stood as well, and followed him upstairs, like a zombie. In his son’s room, they found Garth, wearing an assless rubber singlet, on his elbows and knees on his bed, eyes vacant, mouth drooling…just waiting. “Time for your first lesson, Rudy. Your boy’s hole is very tight, but he needs to loosen up and learn to relax,” he said, as he pulled down Rudy’s underwear, and slid a rubber glove over his hand, “You can help, can’t you? Think about how good it’ll feel, taking out your anger on your boy’s hole. Think how good he’ll feel, under your control. It’s what you both need, Rudy–now let’s get started.”
Rudy knew this was wrong, and he fought…but Mr. Emory was right. He was trying to think too hard, but he wasn’t really someone who should be doing much thinking, was he? No–he was just a stupid, high school dropout–what did he even know about anything? Mr. Emory knew lots of things–it was important that Rudy listen to him, and obey him without question. After a couple of hours, he understood what Mr. Emory meant–how good it felt to have his whole fist buried in his son’s hole, listening to him moan, his own cock drooling, thinking about when he gets to fuck his boy for the first time, Mr. Emory naked now too, sitting in his seat, and edging his own cock while he directs the action, recording everything for review, later.
The next day, Rudy called in and told his foreman he would be quitting, effective immediately, His son, you see, was having disciplinary issues–very bad ones–and Rudy was going to be homeschooling him for the foreseeable future. Mr. Emory praised him, when he hung up, and rewarded Rudy by allowing him to suck his cock like the dumb brute he was, Garth riding a thick toy for the camera, watching it all with his dazed look, so happy to be learning so much, from his daddy, and his master.
“Sure you don’t want to come? Rides like this are always better with a buddy,” Colt said, as he washed his Harley, while Neil watched from his own driveway next door.
“I don’t even have a bike, Colt.”
“That’s not a problem. I can find you a loaner.”
Neil shook his head, a bit confused why his neighbor was even offering. Well, a bit put off, really. He was pretty sure Colt was gay…and inviting him on a two week cross country bike ride? That seemed a bit…sketchy. “Hope you have a good time, Colt,” he said, and went into his house.
Colt chuckled–he was going to get one of his sexy daddy neighbors to ride with him, whether they wanted to or not. He rinsed off his bike, and then went into his house, found his special pipe and tobacco blend, and lit it.
Then, he went back out onto the porch, sat in his chair, and let the smoke waft away through the neighborhood, waiting for anyone to take the bait.
“Gah, fuck!” Neil said, standing at his desk where he’d been doing some work with the window open, looking down at the massive wad he’d just shot all over the papers laid out in front of him.
He’d been working just fine, and then…he’d smelled that…whatever that scent was, and he’d just…he’d never thought about anything like that before, on his knees in front of Colt, wearing biker leathers, begging him for his cock. Something…something was tugging at him, telling him to go back down and outside, but he resisted, got his clothes back on and sat back down, trying to make sense of the odd event. He could still…smell that odor, whatever it was. Was it smoke? He got up and went to the window to shut it, but froze, looking down at what was happening in Colt’s driveway.
On the other side of Colt’s house, that was where Blake lived. They weren’t close–he was another corporate fellow, working at another company in town, but they were good acquaintances. There in the driveway, however…was Blake and Colt. Colt was in his full leather gear, like Neil had seen in his fantasy, and Blake was on his hands and knees next to the bike, one hand under Colt’s boot, and his tongue making long, sweeping licks across the tire of Colt’s motorcycle.
He was horrified, yes, but more than that–he was jealous. Before he could really think about why, he bolted from his office and down to the front of his house, hurrying over to where Colt and Blake were on the driveway. “Wait…wait…I…I do have some vacation time, Colt, I could go!”
Colt just smiled around his pipe. “Thanks, but Blake’s going with me, right Blake? He’s been telling me how eager he is to get a taste of life on the road.”
Blake nodded, and looking at him, Neil noticed that Blake…looked different. A thin beard on his face, his body filling out slightly, a leather vest appearing over his shoulders from one moment to the next. Was…was it really too late? No–no, he wanted to go. He wanted to taste it, just once. He hurried over, hands shaking, dropped to his knees and started fighting with the zipper on Colt’s leather pants. He would show him. He’d show him how much he wanted this–but Colt pushed him back onto his ass with one gloved hand. “Pig, what makes you think you have permission to suck my cock?”
Neil gave a snort. Pig. Was…was he a pig? He didn’t care–as long as Colt was looking at him, as long as he could smell that sweet smoke. “Please sir, please let his pig suck your cock, let me show you I’m worthy, please…”
Colt grinned, squatted down, took a long draw off his pipe, and blew the smoke into Neil’s face, watching it go slack, the front of his pants darkening as he pissed himself, snorting and grunting in sudden excitement. “I suppose you can come too–but since I already have myself a roadboy–you’re going to have to settle for the role of filthy biker pig.”
One week into their trip, and they’d reached their destination. To Squeal–it was fucking heaven. Nothing but filthy bikers as far as the eye could see. Colt and his roadboy, Flake, were off introducing themselves, Colt smoking his pipe, the bikers around them pawing at his boy, before bending him over one of the hogs nearby and plugging him at both ends. Squeal…couldn’t help but feel a bit jealous. Flake got so many good fucks, and as horny as Squeal was, he knew he was only ever going to get the leftovers–sometimes literally.
He’d been packing on weight ever since they’d left, and Colt had told him, while Squeal was eagerly eating out his crusty asshole one night, that by the time they got home, he was going to have Squeal so fat he’d be too big of a pig to ride ever again. As horrified as that made him, it also…fuck, thinking of being that big was making him horny, and hungry. He let off a long fart, and felt a little wetness in the back of his stinking, piss soaked underwear…and he knew he needed a fuck quick. A short distance away were a couple of fat, ugly pig bikers–but he bet they’d know how to treat him just right.
Bracken's Corner 