Pigtown Daddies (Part 3)

“I’m…I’m not gonna say it. You can’t make me say it.”

Evan was coated in sweat, the marks on his back turning dark as the welts grew across. He’d lost track of the hours at this point, it had simple melded together into a blur of pain and pleasure–Barrett lashing him, Mick taunting him and fucking him with his dildo, promising him a real cock if he’d just admit it–admit that what Evan wanted, what he reall wanted, the reason he’d come back, was to be their boy, for real. But Evan wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction, if he could help it.

Barrett was panting a bit, and snapping the whip he was currently bringing down on the boy’s back. He cracked his neck and grunted, while Mick leaned in a bit closer to Evan, bringing his face close. “Boy–you don’t get it, do you? I don’t need you to ask for it, anymore. I just need you to admit it.”

“Fuck you.”

“Boy, now you’re just being obstinate.”

“I’m not your fucking boy, you fucker! Now let me the fuck out of here, you can’t fucking keep me in here, you’re asses are going to be in jail for the rest of your fucking life.”

“You gotta stop pretending boy, because now this is just silly. It was funny, at first, but now your daddies are starting to get…tired of your fatherfuckin’ shit.”

“You can’t do anything else to me, you dumbfuck, this is all you got. And you made me fucking like it! What the fuck did you expect?”

Mick just glared back.

“Jus’ fuckin’ show the boy, Mick,” Barrett said, frustrated, “I know ya like the reveal of it ‘n all, but he ain’t gonna git it ‘til he sees it.”

“Shut up Barrett.”

“Mick, yer just as fuckin’ bullheaded as the damn boy!”

“Not fucking in front of him!” Mick said, whirling on Barrett.

The argued for a bit, giving Evan a chance to catch his breath and try and regroup. It was…true, in a sense. He enjoyed this. He’d cum…fuck, he didn’t know how many times, but he didn’t want this to stop, he wanted his daddies to keep abusing him all fucking night long–

No–No, not daddies, why had he thought that?

“Fine, fucking fine, whatever–you’re fucking right, alright?” Mick said, and walked back to where Evan was bound to the cross, and he undid the chains holding him to the wooden cross. “Barrett says we could all use a little break, boy, so why don’t we all go have a drink? Then we can have some more fun.”

The bar–if they took him back to the bar, maybe he could escape out the door, if he was quick. He feigned exhaustion…but he didn’t have to fake much. His legs were rubbery, his back was screaming, and he still couldn’t really stand up straight because of the chain running from septum to glans. Still, the dim light of the bar was still a revelation to him, after so long in the red. Barrett went to the bar to get a round, while Mick directed Evan over to a table and sat him down, where Evan found he had a clear view of himself in a mirror stretching along the wall…and when he saw the image of himself there at the table with Mick, his jaw dropped, and he hauled his way out of the chair and over to the glass.

“The..what the fuck did you do to me?”

“I told you boy–I don’t need you to say it anymore,” Mick said, “We’re just waiting for you to admit it, finally.”

It wasn’t him, in the mirror. Not the person he’d been, at least. He was six inches shorter, or so, and quite a bit fatter. Arms and belly soft, the chain running tight against the curve of his gut to the smaller cock underneath the overhang. “I’m not…I’m not their boy, though…” he muttered to himself.

“Boy, git o’er here, ‘n sit down. Ya gotta take a break.”

“O…Ok daddy,” Evan muttered, and turned to where his daddies were sitting at the table, Barrett with three beers for them all, Mick looking like someone had spoiled his whole fun, and Barrett smiling warmly at him. He walked over, trying to sort out all of the thoughts and narratives in his head, but before he could get to his seat, Barrett grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him into his lap, wrapping his arms around his boy, Evan gritting his teeth in pleasure at the sting of his daddy’s sweat against his flayed back.

“Feel good, boy?”

“Y-Yeah daddy…”

“That’s a good boy. Ya doin’ a’ight? Daddy wasn’t too rough, was he?”

“Daddy…ya…ya know ya can’t be too rough with me…right?”

Mick scowled a bit at them both, “My way is more fun, you know.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” Barrett said, “but I think the boy’s been through enough, for a bit.”

“No way daddy! You can whip me some more, can’t you?”

“Heh–of course boy,” Barrett said, pulling his chubby pain pig closer. “I bet daddy Mick o’er there will lighten up once he gits his thick arm buried up that boy cunt, right boy?”

Evan looked at the door to the bar–he’d…he needed to leave, didn’t he? He’d planned on running, but why? He could remember…something, a vague something, but it had dissolved in the mirror behind him. He looked back at the mirror, and he thought, for a moment, he caught a glimpse of a man in the mirror, pounding at the other side, screaming, but a smack on the thigh from Barrett brought him back to what mattered, back to his daddies. “Yeah! Yeah, daddy Mick, you wanna fist me? I wanna feel that big fist in my hole way more than my dildo!”

Mick’s glower softened a bit, and he nodded. “Sure boy, I’ll fist you for sure. Fist you so fucking hard you spurt a load of boycum right out without even touching that cock of yours.”

Evan grinned, and bounced a bit on Barrett’s knee, rocking on the dildo as they drink, and when they finished, they went back into the red, and by morning, even the mirror had forgotten Evan had existed.

Pigtown Daddies (Part 2)

Evan tried to back away from them, but found his feet stuck to the floor–in fact, all of his body had frozen stiff, and he was aware that every eye in the red room had shifted to him, as Mick and Barrett circled him, predators eyeing a kill.

“What do you think Barrett? Didn’t expect him to come back for more–most don’t once they get a taste for it.”

“Well he didn’t exactly hang ‘round fer long–better make sure the boy can’t git away so easy this time!”

“Was pretty funny watching him get away though,” Mick said, “But point taken.”

Evan gasped sharply, as Mick reached out and pinched his nose–but it hurt much, much more than a pinch, he blinked rapidly, tears budding in his eyes, pulled his face away as best he could, but he couldn’t–something was connected from Mick’s hand to his nose. It took him a moment, in the light, to piece together what had happened–he had a ring in his nose, which had been the pinch, but also a thin chain was running through the ring, and the two ends of the chain were gripped in Mick’s fist a few inches from his face. Mick passed one end to his other fist, and with a laugh ran the chain back and forth through the new ring in Evan’s nose, the sensation of the chain rattling through making his shudder.

“Not gonna be going anywhere soon now, are you?”

“Please–please, I’m sorry, I–” Mick gave the chain a sharp tug with both hands, snapping his face down, and the sharp bite of pain made Evan’s cock throb.

“Shut up boy, and take it. Barrett–remove the boy’s shirt, please.”

Behind him, Barrett grabbed hold of Evan’s shirt, and tore it off him, and Mick took his hands down, the chains somehow growing as his hands moved, to Evan’s nipples, where with two pinches, he created two new rings and threaded the chain through them. Evan looked down, confused, and then up at Mick, who gave him a grin before tugging the ends of the chain up. Evan’s face snapped down towards his chest, but it could only go so far before the chain hauled his nipples up, and he panted, grunted and groaned in pain, eyes still watering. He tried to force his arms to do something, but they just hung limply at his sides–the one thing which was reacting was his cock–pain had never been something he’d enjoyed before, ever, but suddenly it was making him…incredibly horny.

“How’s the boy doing?” Mick asked Barrett, tugging the chains up another inch.

Barrett reached around and down the front of his jeans, groping his hard cock, “Boy’s gittin’ on real good, Mick–right boy?” He popped open the front of Evan’s pants and let them drop, and with only giving the chain a bit of slack, Mick brought the chain down to the head of Evan’s erect cock and with a final pinch, a thick gauge PA appeared in the head, the chain running through it, his cock tugged up painfully against his chest. Evan found the length was much too short to give him any chance at rest–he either had to bow his head down to release some of the pressure on his nipples and cock, or if he wanted to look up, he had to bear with the chain tugging roughly on his cock.

“Don’t cry boy, take your punishment like a man, since that’s what you want to be.”

Evan could move again, at least, and with his hands he ran his hands over the chain, but he couldn’t find any link in the chain where he could unattach it–it was a solid string of metal. “How…how the fuck do I get this off?”

Mick laughed, “Boy–that’s your punishment. Who said you could take it off?”

I have…I have to go to work, I can’t, fucking live like this!”

“Says the fuckin’ boy wit’ a ten inch dildo plugged in his hole–seems ya got along good wit’ that all day, didn’t ya boy?” Barrett said, pulling Evan close to him, grinding his crotch into his ass, thrusting against the base of the dildo, making Evan groan and leak.

“You can’t…you can’t just leave me like this, you fuckers!”

“Oh, we aren’t done with you yet boy–trust me,” Mick said, and shoved Evan over to the wall, watching him stumble and try to avoid tugging too hard on his cock as he struggled out of his pants. Together, they forced him up against one of several St. Andrew’s crosses along the wall, face to the wood, and with a few manacles and chains summoned from his gloves, Mick had Evan well secured to the posts.

“Don’t worry boy, you want this–you really do. That’s the worst part, isn’t it? That you’re enjoying this?”

Evan tried to look back and see what was happening, but all he could do was catch glimpses of Barrett wielding a leather flogger, swinging it around in his hands, red light glinting off the brute’s teeth. He flung the flogger, lashing across Evan’s back, and he cried out and arched back in pain, tugging on his cock and nipples at the same time, pain flooding through his body…but Mick was right. He…he did want this. Barrett lashed out again, and this time he did want it. It only took six of them before he felt his cock spasm, cum spewing out around his new PA, some of his splattering against the wooden cross in front of him, but much of it running back down the front and sides of his cock and dripping from his balls, Barrett taking a break so Mick could come up and toy with the dildo in his hole, giving it a few brisk thrusts, enough to make his ass spasm slightly as he shook.

“Best part about punishing boys, you know, is how much they like it. You do like it, don’t you boy?”

Sobbing, Evan nodded.

“We could stop, you know, if you want. Do you want it to stop?”

Evan didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what he wanted.

“Say it boy, say what you want.”

“I…I want…” Evan swallowed, “I want it to stop, please…”

“Only one way to make it stop, boy,” Mick said, “But you seem smart, if a bit bullheaded–maybe you’ll figure it out in a couple of hours.”

Pigtown Daddies (Part 1)

What choice did he have, really? He had to get this…thing out of him. Well, that wasn’t really the issue, Evan supposed, the issue was that he couldn’t get himself to leave it out of him. He’d been at the bar last night–the usual bar–but on the way home, he’d ended up…somewhere else. He didn’t remember much through the hangover and blackout, but he did remember the name–Pigtown. What had happened there…he only had a vague collection of memories, but what he did know was that when he’d woken up in his bed this morning, he’d had the thing in him.

The dildo.

The massive fucking dildo.

It had to be at least nine inches long, and thicker than a beer can–he’d felt the pressure in his ass when he’d woken up, along with the raging hard on, and when he’d tried to pull the thing out in disgust, he’d gotten it most of the way–but then his hand had plunged it back in, and he’d groaned, stroking himself off and fucking himself until he came in his bed. Horrified by what he’d done, he managed to get the dildo out long enough to take a shit, but after that, his hole had started to itch, and before he could even think too hard about it, he’d grabbed the dildo and slid it back inside him with a gasp–and that alone had started another round of fucking himself until he came.

The whole day had gone on like that–Evan trying to pull the dildo out, and when he rarely succeeded, trying to keep it out, and his hands working against him to get it back inside him and jack off almost constantly when it was. He didn’t understand it, but somehow he knew that Pigtown had been the start of it, and it might be where he can get the thing out.

The bar wasn’t particularly crowded, with plenty of seats, but Evan didn’t take one–he was afraid any pressure might get him started again, and looking around at the clientele, this…wasn’t the place a straight guy wanted to get caught with a dildo in his hole. Still, he didn’t recognize anyone, but he made his way to the bar to ask the hefty bartender if he knew anything. It turned out that he didn’t even have to ask, “Back so soon boy? You seemed pretty eager to get out of here last night. Ready to take Mick and Barrett up on the offer?”

“I–look, I don’t know who they are, but I…I have…did they do something to me? Last night?”

“Can’t get it out, eh?” the bartender said with a wink, and Evan flushed a deep red. “Don’t be embarrassed–the whole bar saw it.”

That didn’t help Evan feel much better.

“Look, you should go talk to them. If you ask real nice, they might help you out. They headed deeper not too long ago. You’ll find them, I’m sure.”

Deeper. He hadn’t noticed, but what he had assumed was the back wall of the bar wasn’t a wall at all–it was just dark. Walking stiff, he headed into the dark, feeling his way around a couple of bends, before emerging in a red-lighted chamber, where there were considerably more people, and considerably more sex going on that Evan was comfortable with. Mick and Barrett–who the fuck were they? He didn’t recognize anyone, even as his eyes adjusted to the light, but then came the whistle. He looked over, and two hulking muscle men, not too much older than him, were standing against the wall, waving him over. “Back so soon boy?” One of them called, “I thought you weren’t even gonna step foot in here again, from the tone ya had last night.”

The other one chuckled, “Nah, I told ya he was just bluffin’, Mick–he wanted it, he’s just playin’ hard tah get.”

Evan walked over, still a bit stiff, and the two men chuckled. “What the fuck did you do last night? Why the fuck can’t I get this…this thing out of my ass!”

“Easy boy,” Mick said, “We just gave you a choice is all–be our boy, or…well, you know what the other option is, don’t you?”

“Ya sure seemed tah like it last night, when we was poundin’ yer hole with it fer an hour, while everyone else was watchin’!”

“Well I don’t want to…to be your whatever, and I sure as hell don’t want this thing inside me, so let me fucking take it out already!”

“That ain’t the way the deal works, boy,” Mick said, and before Evan could do anything about it, one of his meaty hands slapped his ass, right on the butt of the dildo, forcing it in a bit further, and Evan moaned, his cock pulsing.

“But since ya came back,” Barrett said, “We gets tah make another deal with ya–how’s that sound? Two choices, either ya become our boy, or ya take yer punishment again, and like it, of course.”

“I’m not gonna be your fucking boy, you fucking creeps!” Evan said, “Now get this thing out of me, you fuckers, or I’ll make you fucking faggots take it out.”

“Ya hear that, Mick?”

“‘Sure do Barrett.”

“Boy still don’ wanna be our boy.”

“Guess that means he’s gonna have to take his punishment again–such a naughty boy.”

69 Votes! Nice.

You all still have a few more days to vote in my sketch poll! You can find it here. You don’t have to be contributing to my patreon to vote, but you do have to make a free profile. You have until Halloween or so to vote.

Also, it has come to my attention that I already did an extension of Coach Ray Gets Trained earlier, but I left it unfinished! You can find the six part story here. I do have some ideas on how to continue it, so if you’d like to see more of that, you can vote for more!

Wesley Bracken is creating Queer MC/TF Erotica | Patreon

Just a reminder for everyone that you only have a couple of days left to respond to my poll! All it takes to answer is making a free profile on Patreon–no donation required. I’m going to be taking the top two or three results and turning them into longer stories of their own–not simply extensions of the sketch itself. If you can’t choose just one, you can pick more than one story in the poll as well! Feel free to leave any suggestions for them as a comment under the poll, or you can always message me here, reply to this post, or drop an ask in my box.

Wesley Bracken is creating Queer MC/TF Erotica | Patreon

Choose Your Favorite Sketch! | Wesley Bracken on Patreon

Hey all! I’ve opened up the poll for you to choose your favorite sketches from the last week!

THE POLL IS OPEN TO EVERYONE!!!

That means that even if you aren’t supporting me, you can still vote in the poll. Further, you can vote for multiple stories if you so choose, if it’s too hard for you to pick a favorite. The poll will close at midnight (PST) on Halloween, so you have a few days to make your decisions!

Choose Your Favorite Sketch! | Wesley Bracken on Patreon

Job Revenge (Sketch)

wesleybracken:

This shit shouldn’t be legal in the goddamn 21st century, Jordan thought to himself, unable to believe he could be so stupid. Sure, some of the country thought it was a good idea to make sure people couldn’t be fired for being gay, but not here in the fucking Carolinas. Nope, here it was perfectly legal, and after his boss, Rodney, had overheard him the other day telling one of his coworkers, who wasn’t a social troglodyte, that he had a date with a hot guy that evening, he’d had a fucking grin on his face he hadn’t wiped off for a few days. It was no secret that Rodney hated Jordan–in part because everyone knew Jordan could do Rodney’s job better than him, but mostly because he was a little femme, and had always suspected Jordan might be “one of those disgusting faggots,” as he called them. And so, at the end of the day, Rodney had confronted him, and told him that Jordan had two weeks to wrap up his projects and get out.

That was yesterday, and news that he was being fired, and why he was being fired, had spread through the office like wildfire. Still, Jordan wasn’t about to give up without a fight, because what Rodney didn’t know, was that Jordan was descended from a line of witches. He’d never really dabbled much in it, not after seeing some of the crazy shit that had happened to his mother when he was younger, but for this…well, he needed this damn job! The job market wasn’t exactly getting better, after all, and he’d been hoping he could at least crawl his way up to management here before looking for better work with a bit of experience. So, he pulled out his grandmother’s grimoire, and started studying.

It wasn’t easy–it took him a week just to find a spell he thought would do the trick, gather all the ingredients for the curse, and then to make it. The whole time, Rodney had been insufferable. Gloating at every chance, calling him names, turning his coworkers against him–so yeah, he was angry. When he finally wrangled the spell together into a potion Rodney would need to drink, he finally had something to channel his anger into…and the potion didn’t turn out quite right. It was supposed to be a clear blue, but his was kind of a muddy purple. Still, he didn’t have time to do it over, right? If it didn’t work, then it didn’t work, but he had to at least try.

The easiest part was getting Rodney to drink it. He always brought lunch and kept it in the fridge, along with a thermos of coffee which he always forgot around the office all day long. He’d waste hours hunting it down when he was supposed to be doing something more pressing. Jordan waited for it to be abandoned, added the potion, and then had someone return it to him–so he wouldn’t suspect Jordan had done anything to it…but he kind of had. How could he resist, really? He’d slipped into the bathroom, and jacked off into the thermos as well. All it took was a sip, after all–so even if he could taste it, he’d have a bit more revenge.

The spell was supposed to have a suggestive effect on someone, where they would find themselves unable to resist the orders of the witch for a time after drinking the spell. How long of a time was unclear–apparently in varied based on the caster’s skill (minimal) and the subject’s willpower (also minimal, since Rodney could barely grasp the concept of a spreadsheet.) All he’d need was a few hours to…change Rodney’s mind about Jordan’s worth, and everything would be just fine.

He waited half an hour, and then decided to go check on Rodney–when he got to his office, he even saw him take a swig from the thermos, grimace, and then set it back down–perfect. That, supposedly, was all it should take! So he went ahead and stepped inside and shut the door behind him–but Rodney just glared at him. “Faggot, get the fuck out of here, unless you want to be packing up your shit today.”

“No Rodney, I think the two of us need to have a little chat. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To talk to me?”

He saw Rodney start to retort, but an odd purple wave washed through his eyes, he shook his head, and said, “Uh…I mean, what…would you like to talk about?”

Jordan had planned this–planned what he was going to say, but he felt…something odd inside him. He felt so…angry all of a sudden. Angry and…horny as hell. This…wasn’t right, was it? The spell wasn’t supposed to affect him. But this…rush! “I think you…should apologize to me. For all the shit you’ve called me.”

The same wave of purple, the same wave through him of anger and horniness. “I’m…sorry,” Rodney said, gritting his teeth, trying to fight it.

“Sorry for what?”

“For…calling you a fag, and…queer and shit.” Rodney said, but something seemed strange about him. He looked…happy, like he’d just had a burst of pleasure. “What the hell is wrong with me?” He said, a bit quiet, “I…why did that feel so good?”

“Maybe because you like submitting to me. I think you do, Rodney, I think the idea of doing whatever I say turns you on.” The words were just tumbling out now, unbidden. Sure, he’d always kind of…fantasized about this, but what in the world was he doing?

“Oh fuck, it…kind of does, doesn’t it?”

“Get over here, and lick my shoes clean.”

He didn’t expect him to do it, but Rodney got up, a throbbing erection obvious in the front of his pants, and he walked over, got down, and started licking, and Jordan felt an uncharacteristic sneer turn up the corner of his mouth. He could have some fun with this, actually, and Rodney would as well, at least if he told him so.

It’s a vacation week! Each day, this week, I’ll be reblogging old sketches of mine I’m thinking about turning into complete stories, and this coming weekend, I’ll put up a poll where you all can tell which ones you’d like to see extended! New content resumes next week.

Orwell’s Demon (Sketch)

wesleybracken:

“Look, I’m going to be honest with you Orwell. This is the fourth disappearance this year–and all four of them were connected to you in some fashion or other. This is the second case where we know, for a fact, that you were the last man to speak to him,” Sheriff Hurlbane crossed his arms where he was sitting on Terry’s couch, “Now, you’ve been very cooperative, and I appreciate that. And I also know that all of this is circumstantial. But you understand how bad this looks, don’t you?”

Across from him, in an armchair, was Orwell Beckert. In his late forties, he seemed so…normal. A little overweight, clean shaven, easy going. He was a teacher at the local high school, and every student the sheriff had spoken to had had the same opinion–a good teacher, but boring as hell. But over the last few months…men had started disappearing around town–first a fellow teacher at the school, then a trucker from a local truck stop passing through. One of the students in Beckert’s homeroom, and now Beckert’s neighbor down the street. The men only had one thing in common, and that’s the normal, boring man sitting across from him, twiddling his thumbs, staring down at the carpet, looking like he was desperate to say something he couldn’t let himself say. The sheriff hadn’t wanted to believe this man could have done this–not that they had any idea what had happened to them. Their bodies hadn’t shown up anywhere, there was no evidence of them anywhere–just…gone. One day there, the next there was no sign of them anywhere. This normal man…maybe he wasn’t responsible. But he was involved–Sheriff Hurlbane knew a look of guilt when he saw one, and this was textbook–the guy was too boring to even be creative with it.

I have to tell him. I have to go to jail for this, I can’t, not anymore. I can’t let you do this anymore.

You don’t have to go to jail, Orwell. We can have fun with this one too.

No! No, please don’t, he’s a good man, he has a family!

I know what you’re thinking, Orwell, don’t forget. I know what you want. Everytime he comes over to ask you questions, that little pecker of yours gets hard. You have such a wonderful imagination, but you’re so…scared. Still, every time he’s alone with us, you think about it, about what we could do to him, just like all the rest. Come on, we can start small, can’t we? Just a little?

The sheriff leaned back into the couch, settling in. Orwell had muttered something under his breath. “What was that?”

“Nothing, please–please, just leave. You need to get out of here, sir.”

“No…No, not this time Orwell. You have something you want to tell me, something about these missing men, and I’m not leaving until you tell me,” Sheriff Hurlbane took a drag off the cigar that had appeared in his hand a moment earlier, and exhaled the smoke in Orwell’s direction, some of the smoke twining through the mustache growing from his lips, and the beard sprouting around his smooth face.

Please…don’t. Not him, please…

But doesn’t he look good like that? So much sexier, turning into a nice cigar daddy for you, I know how much you like those, Orwell.

“Okay! Okay, it was me. It was me! I…I found this necklace, alright? But it’s fucking possessed!” he said, hauling a medallion out from under his shirt, “I…I didn’t know what it would do, and I can’t take it off. Please, Sheriff, get out of here before it takes you too.”

Sheriff Hurlbane laughed around his cigar, groping his cock through his uniform pants, a wet spot of precum already soaking into the fabric. “No…No, I don’t think so Orwell, I don’t think I’m going anywhere.” He felt so…strong all of a sudden. He flexed, and heard the fabric of his uniform start to rip. With a growl, he grabbed at the shirt, clawed at it, tearing it away from himself, revealing underneath a skintight rubber tank, which he ran his gloved hand over, feeling his full gut and meaty pecs, blowing smoke through the fur sprouting all over him.

Oh…oh fuck, he’s so…fucking sexy…why, why him? He didn’t…didn’t deserve this.

He didn’t deserve it, but this is what you wanted Orwell, I know this is what you want.

I–I didn’t think it could happen, it was just…just supposed to be a fantasy…

You want the rest though, don’t you? I can feel how hard you are, how much your cock is aching in your pants. You want to see it, you want to see him. He wants you too, you know. Look at how he’s looking at you, through the smoke. Officer Hurlbane knows what you want–what you need. He wants to give it to you, he wants to help you, Orwell. He knows how much you want to be punished.

I…I do…deserve to be punished.

Yes, you do, for telling the truth like that, for trying to tell him about me.

“You were a bad boy, Orwell,” Hurlbane said, his voice suddenly deeper, with an edge like charcoal, his eyes suddenly red, and he stood up from the couch. The rubber top suddenly was lined red, and his uniform pants tightened, becoming rubber, the crotch opening, allowing a massive, foot long cock to fall free, dribbling cum onto the carpet. “Bad boy, trying to tell me the truth. But that’s ok, Officer Hurlbane will teach you a lesson, won’t I, boy?”

Orwell whimpered, tried to get up from the chair but tripped–he looked down at himself and found he was naked, aside from the necklace around his neck which had tighted around his neck like a collar. “No…God no.”

“There’s no god here, Orwell, only your real Master. Now lick my boots pig, and then I’m gonna shove these thick fists in your hole until you scream,” Hurlbane said, shoving the toe of his rubber wader in Orwell’s mouth, “Hurry up, before I burn my way through this one too.”

Locker Room Spirit (Sketch)

wesleybracken:

No one thought anything strange was going on at first. Sure, there were several awkward incidents, as the spirit settled into the walls and lockers, the floor, the sauna, the toilets and the mirrors. As it investigated the space and the men inside it. Occasionally, as they were changing a man might…lose focus for a few moments, idly rubbing his cock, only to break from the odd trance a moment later, embarrassed but thinking little of it. But the spirit began to feed in earnest soon, gripping the place tighter as it gained strength, and before too much longer, things became a bit stranger–not that the men inside noticed anything wrong. In their minds, they would walk into the room, change, and leave, just like they always had. They might not remember the details particularly well, but it was just a locker room, after all…right?

However, as soon as they entered, the spirit would grip them, and begin bending them to it’s will, urging them to strip, urging them to become horny, urging them to cum. All around the room, men were on benches, kneeling on the floor, their hands wrapped around their cocks, standing around the drains, shooting their loads down them, and into the spirit’s gullet below, feeding it, allowing it to become stronger, and each time they shot, the spirit would grip them a bit tighter. Men who only occasionally bothered to change at the gym suddenly found themselves needing to go in every time, somehow…excited to be changing. It did seem strange to them, but harmless. But spirits like this one–they want to feed, yes, but more than that. They want to spread and expand, and to do that, well, let me tell you, it isn’t pretty, watching it happen to an unsuspecting person, not after all of these years doing this work.

Hopefully, I can catch them early, around this point. Pull the spirit out by the root, before it can do any real damage, but I can’t catch everything, and sometimes…sometimes these spirits are smart. And this one, it’s the smartest one I’ve seen in awhile, as I’ve been investigating it, watching it, watching the men enter and become its victims.

Spirits like this one, they can get you in two ways. The first is, in many ways, the better fate–at least in my opinion. Or perhaps, it just seems quicker. Certainly it’s the one most spirits prefer. The longer a human spends under the sway of a spirit, the deeper a hold the spirit has on the person. It can start eating away at their soul–their thoughts, dreams and desires–replacing it with the spirit’s instead. So, in time, the men who were in the locker room the most…well, they found their minds overwhelmed with desire for sex and cum and fucking. Men would enter the room to feed the spirit, and were often fucked and abused by these avatars in the process, until, in time, they were fully taken over, their original soul corrupted beyond any sort of recognition. Several bodybuilders–they were held in there for a week by the spirit, fucking each other nonstop as the spirit absorbed them, and then sent on their way, mindless, to seek out other places where the spirit might take root. It wasn’t enjoyable, putting them to rest, but there quite simply wasn’t anything human remaining inside them.

But the other fate–that I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Should someone be able to resist the spirit’s mental hold, and be able to recognize what’s happening within its domain, the only way they can be contained is physically. The men inside will secure them, and the spirit will begin to…incorporate their body into it’s own physical form. For two weeks now, a young man has been chained to the wall by the urinals. I…doubt he remembers being human at this point. All of his body has been sucked into the wall, leaving only his head, which has begun to contort, becoming identical to the other urinals beside it with each load of piss the men feed him and the spirit he is now connected with.

The spirit, in the end, is a simple mind, governed more by instinct than any real intellect, though the more men it absorbs, the smarter it becomes. I do, at least, have the advantage of surprise, and thankfully I found it before it had grown any larger, or I would have had a sizable challenge on my hands. Still, only a fool would run into a place like that, magic blazing. No, I have to size this thing up first, and that’s why I’m waiting for it to send out another drone it’s been preparing. I won’t kill this one, but merely capture it, so I can better understand the nature of this thing, and how best to contain it before it gets further out of hand. In fact, looking through my scrying pool, I can see the drone is preparing to leave now! If I hurry, I can intercept it, bring it back here, and proceed with my analysis.

Subway (Sketch)

wesleybracken:

Officer Hugo Mason had been with the city police department for close to ten years, and in that time, he’d always been highly respected by his fellow officers and superiors, enough so that his occasional fag bashings, both in and out of uniform, were usually overlooked and shoved under the rug by the rest of the department. After all, none of them liked faggots–although none of them disliked them nearly as much as Hugo did. Whether it was from a position deep within a closet of his own, or simply lashing out at a particular target, he was merciless either way. He was never quite certain, in the thick of what happened, whether it had been coincidence or some grand scope of cosmic revenge that it was him that ended up on the subway, alone in that car, that late at night. All he could really be certain of was that something strange had happened to him–though in the immediate aftermath, even he hadn’t been quite sure what it was.

It had been a late shift and he was on his way home–that time of night, there were never many people on the subway, but being alone in a car–that was rare enough that generally everyone notices when it happens, and the sensation is always eerie. A place which was usually so full of people–you realize just how large and small the space is at the same time. Hugo once heard a story of someone hyperventilating while alone in a car. It was probably just an urban legend, but sitting there by himself, the tunnel roaring along outside, he could understand how it could do that to a certain kind of person.

It was a decent distance to the next stop, long enough for him to notice–and the lights in the car flickered once, then again, and plunged him into momentary darkness, before coming back alive. The car had never stopped moving, but when he looked around, after the darkness, he say that he was no longer alone in the car. Down towards the other end, standing, holding onto the upper rail, was a sizable man–well, a sizable faggot, by the look of him. He was clad all in some sick, leather mockery of the uniform he wore during the day, and that alone made Hugo furious. Those faggots–was nothing sacred to them? Or was everything just some…disgusting target for their filth? Did faggots see him like that? Is that why they were always looking at him? Because they wanted something like that?

He stood up, the lights flickering again as he did, the train swaying and keeping him off balance. “Hey! Faggot! What the fuck thinks you have the right to wear something like that?” The man did nothing, didn’t even look at him, like he wasn’t even there. “Hey! Hey fucker, I’m fucking talking to you!”

He stalked towards him. The lights cut again, and when the lights came back up–there was no one there. He looked around, confused–the lights cut again, this time longer, and then came back after a few seconds–the man inches from his face–Hugo staring right into his eyes, smelling his hot breath, tinged with cigar smoke, and Hugo…he felt different. He…he was different. He was cold–his shirt and pants were gone, replaced by a harness and leather shorts…and a collar, which the man grabbed him by, pulling him into a kiss. Hugo knew he should be disgusted, but all he could think was how much he wanted him, wanted this man, wanted to be with him. The train was slowing down as they kissed, and came to a halt. The man stepped away, and asked, “Coming, boy?” He left the train without waiting for a reply.

Hugo crept to the doorway and looked out at the empty station–a station he didn’t recognize from the route. It was…somewhere else. The man walked off and disappeared up a staircase–something in him ached to follow him, but the terror was greater–the door slipped shut again, and started up, the lights flickering off, and he was left standing there again, his old self, the taste of the stranger still on his lips, which he licked. His cock achingly hard in his pants–so hard that he was able to whip it out and jack off onto the seat beside him before the train reached it’s next station–his station, so he could get off, legs shaking, trying to grapple with what he’d just experienced, what he’d just felt, the certainty that soon, very soon, he’d have to feel like that again.