Category: Uncategorized

will you make more stories about derelict transformations ? a Collage rich kid for example claiming he cares for them but just to look good to become one crave derelict stink and cum? a a gym rat become a filth loving derelict ?

Well, there’s a bit of that in the newest Stinker’s story, and beyond that, I can assure you that there will be more derelicts in my stories to come in the future, though I don’t have any planned right this moment.

The Terror of Submission (An Ask from Messenger)

anon: Deep down i wish to be used and submit to a rough dom but i have a hard time giving up ANY kind of control. How would you fix that.
wes: I mean, in healthy BDSM, you shouldn’t really ever give up control as the sub in the first place, or are we talking more in terms of fantasy?
anon: Terms of fantasy. Sorry about not being clear
wes: so is it a sense of being afraid of your own fantasies then? wanting to submit, but feeling a sense of terror/shame at wanting that?
anon: Total sense of shame/terror at wanting that.
wes: First, I can only really speak to my own personal experience, as someone who has come to grips with similar issues. I don’t think there’s a one size fits all solution to this sort of feeling at all, but I hope some of my own experience helps you a bit.
wes: I think a lot of the anxiety around the act of submission comes from external forces which we have internalized–or at least, that’s how I came to understand my own fear of submission. Modern society wants all of us to understand ourselves primarily as independent agents–all of us are fundamentally free, and we are all responsible for our own actions and decisions. By this model, a good person is someone exerting their will and force upon the world, acting on it, changing it. The act of submitting to someone else is seen as demeaning, humiliating, and the inverse of human drive and potential.
But that model is fundamentally capitalistic, and doesn’t come close to reflecting the actual milieu of human experience and desire. It’s taken me a long time to come to terms with the fact that humans (1) aren’t really meant to be independent at all, but are fundamentally social creatures who thrive best in community and (2) that human desires and drives are far, far more diverse that we can really understand, and that the notion that there even exists a common human nature is probably fundamentally untrue. This realization has been both freeing and terrifying to me. On one hand, it gives me permission to feel many of the things that you yourself are feeling, and has provided a window of empathy into the experiences, drives, and desires of others.
wes: But on the other hand, it creates an even larger burden of self-responsibility, because without a greater standard of human nature to adhere to, we are left in existential crisis–the only person who can effectively judge the quality of our lives is our self, but that self-judging is plagued with subjectivity and doubt.
But the root of that terror is a further mistaken understanding, that we can even really be understood as an object at all. That we have any real nature, that there is something about us which is true and fundamental to our existence. There isn’t. We aren’t things, we are a process. An unfolding, a development, a smear across time, a collection of impressions and experiences.
If we can accept that, then the question of who we are becomes non-nonsensical, there is only the question of what we do, and what we feel, and those two questions are things which possess some social and collective objectivity.
So, to loop back to the original topic, is it the act of submission which terrifies you, or is it possibility that doing so, and enjoying it, somehow carries ontological weight? That the act of submitting and enjoying that submission makes you, therefore a submissive? But submissives don’t exist. There is just the act, and the enjoyment of that act, and the human connection that allows it. The closer I have gotten to that understanding of my own experience and life, the better able I have been to come to terms with my own desires, feelings, and compulsions.

Stinkers: Finders Keepers (Part 6)

As it turned out, I needed him pretty much every morning before I left for work, and every night after I got home. Usually we would fuck in the alley–I liked smelling the trash around us, melding with our own musk as he served me, but on occasion, when I was particularly horny, I would have him come up to my apartment with me, where he’d have the privilege of sharing my bed, provided I could fuck him all night long. He never seemed to mind, of course.

I…I knew my life was unravelling, and yet, at the same time, everything seemed to be going so…so well. I was just so happy, all the time. Enjoying myself. Even as everything around me slipped–my hygiene in particular–no one at work seemed to notice, or if they did notice, no one wanted to say anything…I couldn’t really tell which it was. I mean, I looked…fucking awful. I hadn’t done laundry in weeks, I was wearing the same two or three suits for days in a row and I fucking loved it. I loved how they smelled on me. I’d stopped shaving and cutting my hair, I was still wearing my massive boots everywhere around the office. I did almost no work on any given day, and spent most of it just masturbating, usually openly in my cubicle. My co-workers would come by, though they were obviously trying to avoid me, and I was even caught a couple of times. The look in their eyes at the sight of me stroking off into these filthy briefs–I could see their disgust, but with quite a few of them, I could see a…hunger too.

I could smell it even, I could smell…so much, suddenly. I could smell things that ought to be impossible. I could smell weakness. I could smell what my co-workers would moan like, with their mouth around one of my filthy socks. I…I could sense, somehow, that I was meant to dominate them, they were meant to serve me. I found myself feeling particularly resentful towards Adam, my manager. He smelled so weak, so lowly, and yet he was supposed to have control and power over me? I knew guys were going to him, telling him what they were seeing, complaining about me, but he was refusing to do anything about it. He was afraid of me–he was afraid, because he wanted me, but he didn’t know how to feel about that. So, I decided I’d better go over to his office and tell him how he should feel about it.

He was resistant, but once I’d gotten my boots off, and thrown my socked feet up on his desk, a couple of feet from his face, he wasn’t able to stop himself from lurching over it and shoving his nose up against them, snorting and huffing my stink, and a few minutes later I had him on his knees between my legs, grinding my nasty underwear into his face, and making sure he properly understood who, exactly, was really in charge around here. From that day on, I made sure Adam came to visit me regularly throughout the day to pay proper tribute…but it wasn’t enough for me, honestly, to only own his ass for eight hours. I kept thinking of my derelict–of Jack, I should say, since I did, finally learn his name. I thought of how…eager he was to be with me, how he’d walked across the city to find me, how he never complained about the cold as he waited for me. But I could see in Adam’s eyes that he was only pushing through me, not toward me. He would get home, to his wife, to his children. He would pretend none of this was happening. He would pretend he didn’t want me as much as he did.

So I brought him home with me that weekend. He tried to object, he tried to tell me that he couldn’t, that if he didn’t go home, his wife would have questions. So, I made him call her. I made him call her and tell her exactly what he had been doing for me at the office. I listened to her disbelief turn into rage. He told her she could have the house, that they could handle the divorce eventually, and then, I took him home and I introduced him to Jack. You should have seen Adam’s face, when I told him to wait for a moment at the door, so I could fetch the old derelict from the alley, all of us riding up together in the elevator, and the stink of us both…Adam could barely contain himself. He thought he’d be servicing me all weekend, but no–no, I had him service Jack. Obey him. Worship him. Warping his mind until the old, grungy fucker was the only man he wanted in the world–aside from me, of course. But I felt he no longer deserved me. That he would have to prove his commitment before he’d be allowed to lick my feet clean again. On Sunday afternoon, while the two of them were occupied, Adam’s face buried in Jack’s asscrack, snorting and grunting like the pig he was going to be, I went down and had a chat with the building manager. Sure enough, he had a few vacant units in the building, and he was more than happy to let Adam sign a new, year long lease for the empty unit on my floor, and the two of them moved in together that evening–and I made sure Jack had very clear instructions for the sort of care and attention he should expect from his pig–and clear instructions for how his pig should be cared for as well.

Stinkers: Finders Keepers (Part 5)

Sunday I didn’t dare leave the house. Sunday…hell, I probably couldn’t have left the house even if I’d wanted to. I woke up that morning in bed, wearing the filthy underwear as usual, but also found I’d managed to climb in with the derelicts socks and boots still on my feet, crusted with all manner of filth, but it didn’t bother me one bit. I…I wanted to smell them some more, but I also…I also didn’t want to take them off, in the same way that I didn’t want to take off the underwear I had on as well, though with the boots, the urge was less strong. As I went about my day, however, I did notice something strange–that as I would take my occasional break from masturbating to go to the kitchen for something to eat, I would notice that the boots which had been much too large on my feet–so large simply walking home in them the night before had been a challenge…they weren’t nearly as uncomfortable as I remembered.

By the time that evening rolled around, I was no longer sure if I didn’t want to take off the boots because I enjoyed wearing them, or if I didn’t want to take them off because I was afraid of what I might find within them. They were, at this point…the most comfortable shoe I’d ever had on, but I…I needed to know, really. I already knew what I was going to find, of course, but I just…I pulled off both boots, looking down at the browned, holey socks, and I could tell right away that something had changed about my feet. They were…huge. No wonder the boots fit so well, my feet had swollen up to match them! Had I caught some strange disease? Did I need to go to the hospital? I hauled off the socks, expecting some red, horrific infection, but instead saw two…normalish feet. I qualify that, because they were…well, monstrous in size, but otherwise completely normal…aside from the smell.

At first, I couldn’t tell if the stink was coming from the socks and boots, or if it really was coming from my newly changed feet–I had to cross the room, the feel of the carpet under my new feet…it felt wrong, and I wanted to get the boots back on as soon as I could, but I forced myself to get away from them for a moment, crouched down, and took a whiff of my feet alone, and moaned. It…it was both of them, of course. But my feet didn’t smell like my feet anymore–they smelled like the boots, but stronger than them too. Like my feet had somehow…somehow learned from the smell of the boots, like the smell had changed them in the same way that my now nine inch cock seemed to be learning and changing from the underwear I was still wearing. All of it was too much to try and understand, so I did what seemed easiest–I jacked off, and then put the socks and boots back on, feeling much, much more comfortable immediately. They…they were mine, after all. I’d taken them, and they were mine. No–he’d given them to me. He’d wanted my cock, and he’d given me his boots. A fair trade. Finders keepers.

It was harder to tell myself that when I left for work the next day, and as I left my apartment building, driving past an alley, I saw him lying against the side, in an alley. The derelict. The panic and guilt in my throat almost made me throw up in the car, but I tamped it down, and kept driving. Had he followed me home somehow? I hadn’t…seen him following me, and I know I had checked behind me a few times. Still, if someone had stolen my only pair of boots…I’d probably want them back too.

But I hadn’t stolen them. He’d given them to me! They were mine now, they fit, they were mine!

The sheer…force of those thoughts surprised me. The sense of ownership I had for these things I was wearing…I jacked off into both boots that day at work–because…because I had to wear them to work. It didn’t look very good–a nice suit on with two massive, grungy, well worn boot on my feet, but I hadn’t even considered wearing something else…not that any of my other shoes would have even fit me, given the new feet I had after the weekend. Still, I couldn’t focus–what in the hell was he doing there? Was he going to call the police? Accuse me of rape? I…I had to confront him. I had to get him to leave.

Passed by the same alley as I went home, and sure enough, he was still there, and…still barefoot. I did feel awful about that, I admit it. I went down later that evening to confront him, to tell him to leave, but the encounter didn’t go how I was expecting it to go. As soon as he smelled me, he turned to me, and he…fuck, I could see the hunger in his fucking eyes, and he raced over, shoving his face into my crotch, huffing at my stink.

“Fuck I…I needed more sir, I’m sorry,” he moaned, “I could smell you across the city, I…with your shoe, I’m sorry for following but I had to, I had to…I…”

He didn’t get anything else out before I dragged him away from the sidewalk, behind a dumpster halfway down the alley, and fed him my cock. The way he shuddered and groaned–it was like watching an addict get their fix, and rather than horror, what I felt was…was power. I had power over him, just because of my stink. I started to wonder what I could make him do. I ordered him to take off one of my boots, and suck the sweat from my sock–he did as ordered, and the pleasure that washed over him, and the massive load of cum he shot from his cock, was enough for me to shoot as well, blowing a load of cum into his face and beard. I stepped away, got my boot back on, and it was clear that he wanted to follow me, but I told him to stay here…where I’d be able to find him whenever I needed him.

Stinkers: Finders Keepers (Part 4)

It took half an hour of scouring several blocks before I found the source of the stink which had caught my nose, and when I did find it…I didn’t want what I’d found…to be the thing I was searching for. It hadn’t been easy–he had stuffed himself between two metal dumpsters, but whether that was for warmth in the chilly evening, or so fewer people were likely to find him, I never knew. Like most everyone else in the city, we never…observed the homeless. They were always there, always around us, always a problem with no real solution. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d really…I mean…

He stank. That’s all I knew. He stank, or part of him stank…somehow I could tell the difference. That it wasn’t him, it was something…on him. He was asleep, or drunk enough to seem to be asleep, and so…and so I got down over him, trying not to touch him, and I started smelling around until I worked my way closer to his feet, nauseous about what I was doing, realizing I had one hand down the front of my sweats massaging my thick cock through my grungy underwear. He had on some old, well worn boots…and fuck, they reeked. They reeked…not like the underwear had reeked. They…they were something else entirely, but smelling those boots, and I realized, the socks he had on as well, I recalled that gymrat I’d stalked for several blocks earlier in the week. They hadn’t smelled anything alike–he had been sweat and acrid energy, these boots and socks were piss and aged exhaustion. But I wanted these boots just like I’d wanted that man–or, I realized now, the…shirt the man had been wearing. I was torn…I couldn’t…just take them right? But at the same time, I…I needed them.

I got down, as quietly as I could, and I started undoing the laces on the boots. I got them both undone…and I realized there was no way I was going to be able to do this without him waking up, so I might as well just…just try to do it as quickly as I could, and hope he was as drunk as he smelled. I tugged off one shoe, and he stirred–I was about to grab the other one, when he lashed out with a kick, connected with my chin and sent me falling back onto the pavement behind me, blood in my mouth from where I’d bit my tongue.

“What the fuck ya fuckin’ cunt!” I think he said, something like that. I…had one of his boots in my hand, and he lunged for it, trying to get it back, landing on me, clawing at my face. I just…I just reacted, grabbed his head, and shoved it down to my crotch, getting his face in a leg lock, his nose pressed to my stinking crotch, and I hear him gag immediately. He’s calling me all sorts of shit, telling me what a fucking pervert I must be, trying to bite me, but…but I can feel him start to give, slowly. Hear the gags become moans, his grip on me slackening slightly, and when I pull down my sweats, he can’t stop himself–he shoves his face right into the nasty briefs and starts…snorting like a fucking pig, and I’m so turned on by the sound I nearly fill the front of my briefs with a load right then and there. Still, I shove his face away–he tried to lunge back to keep sniffing, but I grab him by his greasy hair and haul him away.

“You’re giving me those boots and socks, fucker, and then you can have my stinking cock.”

It didn’t…sound like me, or something I would say, but none of this was something I would ever do in my entire life. He tried to protest, but he gave in–hauled off his other boot and both socks, and then I allowed him to get back to licking and snorting at my underwear, while I grabbed a boot, shoved a sock in it, pressed it to my face and started huffing the man’s footstink.

It…fuck, it was exactly what I’d wanted. It was heaven. I was so close to shooting, I hauled down the front of the briefs and shoved my cock into the derelict’s mouth just in time to fill it to bursting with a massive load–the first one in nearly a week that I hadn’t shot directly into my underwear. The guy gulped it all down, and then buried his nose back into my crotch, snorting and grunting as he he stroked his own cock off, and I let him finish in a minute or so, spilling the seed all over the front of my sweats and shirt, but I didn’t fucking care. I didn’t fucking care.

I was lying in an alley, with some strange derelict, and I didn’t fucking care. I took another whiff of the fucker’s boots, and I cared even less–the only thing I fucking cared about, was getting the things on my own feet as fast as possible. I shucked off my own shoes, pulled on the crusty, damp socks, shuddering with pleasure at the feel of them, and then tugged on the boots as well…only to discover they were massive. My feet aren’t large–a size ten, and while I couldn’t make out the tag on the old tongues, these have to be at least a size 18 or 20, and four or five E in width. I laced them as tight as I could just to keep them on, and the guy just stared at me, horrified by what he’d done, barefoot in the cold, but I didn’t feel bad at all. He picked up my old shoes, held them to his feet, but they were obviously much too small. I…I couldn’t really handle it obviously, watching his face. I knew I should feel worse than I did…but I took off and headed home to my apartment where I locked myself in, tugged off a shoe and a sock, and started jacking off to the stink, caring less and less with each load shot into the nasty underwear I was, more and more, considering to be mine.

Fair enough. I imagine the path of corruption is usually self reinforcing and there comes a point where without outside help very few would be able to reverse course. So was mainly wondering if you would reverse your course and actually help them undo the changes you’ve helped build in them if they begged hard enough. A benevolent corrupter if you will. :)

Nah, I wouldn’t. I’m not that nice. I just provide a service.