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I find the gainer kink hot but I’d never do it in real life cause I place a lot of value on health. How can I resolve this?(although your stories do help)

Stop caring about your health.

For real though.

First things first, being fat doesn’t mean you’re necessarily unhealthy. Fat people can be healthy too.

Second, if you have to choose between health and happiness, I would say you should choose happiness every time, or at least weight it a lot more heavily in your moral calculus. A long life lived miserably is just a life wasted. If adding 50, 100, or 200 pounds would make you happier, why the fuck not do it? Chances are the earth is going to be a fucking nightmarescape in fifty to a hundred years anyway, so get your jollies in now while we still have late-stage capitalism to depend on!

You’ve said that you would like to corrupt a person in real life. Ideally, how would that process go?

It would start pretty simply. Beginning with wherever you might be now, we start adding some quotas to your life. How many times you have to jack off a day (minimum three, but bonus points for more), how many beers you have to consume daily. To me, it’s about establishing habits, about slowly forcing you to expend more and more of your time, money and energy on hedonistic vices than on anything else.

The control ramps up slowly. We pare down your wardrobe. You’re allowed three pairs of underwear–a jockstrap and two pairs of briefs, and you can’t wash them unless explicitly allowed. The rest of your closest is paired down as well, and you might be allowed to wash your clothes, without soap, once a week. I start telling you where your cumshots have to land–either into your underwear, or onto your pillowcase and sheets, which you’ll stop changing as well. 

I want to take up so much of your time pleasuring yourself that you stop caring about work, and you either get fired or you quit to find something less taxing. I want you to lose interest in your family and friends, aside for, perhaps, a few approved fuckbuddies you can play with and sloth around with, who appreciate the same self-destructive hedonism I’m nurturing in you. I want all of this to become second nature. I want you to forget that you were ever any different. I want to encourage you to fuck up your body, get tattoos and piercings, fill your cock and balls with silicone, stuff yourself at buffets every day. I want you to lose yourself in simple, piggy pleasure for the rest of your life, so deeply that you couldn’t find your way back out if you tried.

A random note, I feel a little sorry for the character Mark in the Titpig story. I can’t help feel that losing your mind and body is a punishment he didn’t deserve somehow. Not a criticism, it was an arousing story, it just bummed me out a bit. Keep up the great work.

Trust me, Mark is very happy with his new body, as is the commissioner who requested it. I like the revenge stuff myself, but it also doesn’t work for everyone–some people just like the idea of being forced into a new body/role, myself included. It isn’t so much about deserving it, or about wanting it to happen to you from the start, but about the resistance and the giving in over time that appeals to me about the story. Of course, it’s a bit too short to flesh that out, which is the issue, so don’t feel too bad! There’s a sequel on the way too…and that one might appeal to your sensibilities better.

In Stinkers: Finders, Keepers (Part 1) did his shose ture into boots with out him noticing or did he were boots from the start?

It honestly didn’t matter to me, and I didn’t edit the story very well. Shoes or boots! Your choice! It could be either.

I really like this story, but as I was writing it, I realized it needs to be much, much longer–more of a novella than what it is at the moment. So the editings a bit rushed, the pacing is a bit strange, and the ending is underdeveloped. I’d like to revamp and collect all the stinkers stories I’ve written so far and release them as an anthology, but…

[looks at to-do list]

one day, to-do list. One day I will conquer you for good.

Stinkers: Finders, Keepers (Part 2)

I tried to take them off. I really did. I woke up to my alarm that morning, horrified that I was still wearing the disgusting things, soaked with my own cum now as much as everything else, and while I could pull down the front of them to piss, at the very least, for whatever reason…I just couldn’t bring myself to take them off.

I knew I had to. I knew I couldn’t go to work with these things on, I knew that as soon as anyone caught a whiff of them, I’d probably get reprimanded or fired on the spot, but I spent twenty minutes in front of the mirror, trying to get my hands to cooperate, but every time I brought them close to the briefs, with the intent of pulling them down, they’d move right to my cock instead, groping myself through the filthy fabric, one hand sliding inside and I’d be helplessly jacking off again, unable to do anything until I’d shot yet another load into the front of them. And so, at a loss…I just put on some slacks, threw on a work shirt, and went off to work, trying to convince myself that it would be fine, and no one would notice the stink wafting off of me…and to my own surprise…it went fine.

I mean, it wasn’t an easy day, by any measure. It was clear that everyone in the office could smell…something, and yet none of them seemed to point the finger at me, or blame me for any of it. Watching them, it was like…like some unconscious thing. I tried to have a conversation with Judy, a really good girlfriend of mine a couple cubicles over, but about a minute into the conversation she just…fled off down the hall, coughing, eyes watering, and she…avoided me for the rest of the day. But she didn’t report me. It was the same with all of the women, actually–they did their very best to avoid interacting me as best they could, but at the same time, I don’t think any of them could figure out, what, exactly, was making them do it. The guys on the other hand…they didn’t seem to be bothered much by it at all, or at the very least, they weren’t saying anything. Even my boss–one of the cleanest, and most organized fellows I know…I could see that he smelled it on me, but he said nothing, and I swear…I swear, when he walked away, he was hard. And he wasn’t the only one, trust me.

I must have slipped off to the bathroom…eight? Nine? I don’t know, it had to have been once an hour at least. I was so hyper-aware of my filthy underwear that I kept getting hard, my hand finding it’s way down the front of my pants, and as soon as I started jacking off, I just–there was nothing I could do to stop it. By the end of the day, the underwear was saturated with my cum, and it had started to seep through, staining the front of my pants–thankfully they were black today. Back home, I immediately stripped them off and threw them in the washer, disgusted with myself, and the more disgusted I felt, th hornier I got, until I was jacking off again, filling the front of the briefs over and over, smearing the cum seeping through the fabric all around and over my ass…and I knew I had to do…something.

I couldn’t just keep sitting here, masturbating. If I did, I was going to hate myself, and my cock was so raw I didn’t think I’d be able to handle a few more days of this. I needed…something to try and occupy myself, and so I threw on some clothes, and I went for a walk, certain that being in public would at least tamp down the urge somewhat. Besides, I was hungry, and there were some good food trucks a few blocks over that would sate that issue as well. I go down there, it’s busy, and I’m…terrified that someone there is going to smell me while I’m standing in line–hell, I know they can smell me, because I have a two foot buffer around me, and I saw two young women glance my direction and split after a couple of minutes. But before I can get to the front…it’s me who smells something.

Sharp, astringent. My mouth goes dry. I whirl, and somehow I can pinpoint who it is–a hefty looking guy with a gym bag slung over his shoulder, sweat marks all over the tanktop he’s wearing. I’m not…hungry anymore, not for food, and I start following him. I don’t know, why, I follow him. I don’t know what I want to do, or what I’m thinking even. I can tell he’s straight, he just doesn’t have the look about him, but I want…I wanted…not him exactly, even. I follow him for a few blocks, before I realize I’m openly groping myself through my sweats, cock leaking, and he slips into an apartment building with no way in after him.

Frustrated, confused, hungry…there’s only one detail that sticks out to me. The name on the gym bag–Planet Workout. I look it up on my phone–there’s four in the city, but only one close enough that it would make sense for him to walk. I slip into a nearby fast food joint, one with a bathroom, get some food and use the facilities, thinking about him, still…smelling him in my mind. I’m terrified, really, and by the time I get back to my apartment, I wonder if I should ever even leave the apartment again.

Stinkers: Finders, Keepers (Part 1)

It was the stink that caught my attention. Out back behind the bar, where most of us just slip out the back for the smoke before heading back into dance or flirt or whatever we all go there to do anymore, in a world where Grindr exists. Hell knows, it seems like no one shows up anymore–the place used to feel so alive back in my twenties, after I’d moved here, but here I am, twenties years later in my forties, chasing versions of my younger self. The alley never smells good, mind you, but that night, there was something…extra rank on the air. There was no one out there with me at the moment, and I don’t know if it was pure curiosity, or…well, considering what came next, I have no doubt someone would have gone hunting for them. Mostly I just remember being extra horny that evening, and wondering what in the world could smell like that–I’d just…never smelled anything like that, even in this city, and yet I also…knew the smell all the same.

I should stop trying to explain it, really. Just…just stick to what happened, as best I can. I go digging around the trash in the alley, sniffing around. I finish my cigarette and toss the butt, and I…want to go back inside, because it’s really fucking cold, but I can’t stop. I need to know what the smell is at this point, and I can tell I’m close. The funny part? I’m standing right over the thing, but it’s not…what I’m expecting, you know? Something that smells like that–you’re expecting a body, or some rotting food, or something, not the grungy pair of briefs lying on the pavement under your foot.

And so I’m walking up and down, back and forth, seeing the thing on the ground but not really paying it any mind. I mean, underwear out back behind a gay club is hardly a new thing, you know? People ditch shit back here all the time, and don’t always come back for it. But every time I pass by the smell is stronger, and at last, I stoop down, give a sniff, and sure enough, it’s the fucking underwear, and now that I was closer, I could see why. Sodium light doesn’t really do…yellow much justice, but thee things aren’t just crispy, they’re some of the grungiest fucking things I’ve ever laid eyes on, and you’re talking to a guy who hung out in the bathhouses back before they cleaned up.

So I found it–end of story, right? But here I am, staring down at these things, and before I can really think about why I’m doing it, I reach down and pick the brief’s up by the waistband, bring them to my nose, and I give them a close sniff, and then a deeper snort, and then they’re pressed to my mouth, my cock is out and I’m on my knees in the alley, jacking off, to this rank fucking shit–and I do know the smell now, and why it was so familiar. The difference, I suppose, was just…how concentrated it is–cum, piss, sweat, shit marks up the ass. I know all those smells, but I’d never smelled them like this before in my life. I switch hands, wrap the briefs around my shaft and keep stroking, the coarse texture of the soiled fabric rubbing against my cock, and I shoot, adding a load of my own to the thing–and that’s when I get the thought.

That’s when my brain says, of all things, “Put them on.”

See? That’s why I can’t try and explain any of this shit, it has no explanation. I haven’t felt like I’ve had a reason for anything in months, there’s no reason, there’s just a series of wants and urges and instinct. I know all of the reasons why I shouldn’t do it, why I should just drop that shit, go inside, and wash my hands and face as well as I can, but instead I take a quick look behind me at the door to the bar, propped open but empty of anyone else, and haul off my shoes, pants and boxers. I’m telling myself this is crazy, I’m cursing myself out for being some fucking freak, but my cock is already hard again as I slide the underwear up my legs to my waist. I can feel the wet spot from my cum on the left ass cheek and my stomach churns a bit, but I pull my jeans back on and my boots. I have nowhere to put my boxers though, and so I stuff them back behind a dumpster, figuring I can always come get them later.

I step back into the bar, and it’s a little busier at this point, but I keep my distance from everyone in there. I…I can still smell the thing through my clothes, and I’m horrified by what I just did. I want to go back out there and change again, but by the time I do, there’s other guys smoking, and I can’t…reveal what I did. Rumours spread quick, you know. I see one guy’s nose twitch, and he turns and stares at me, and in the dark strobe, I can’t tell if it’s excitement or disgust–so I ditch. I push my way back out of the bar to the street, and I’m take off at a quick pace back to my apartment a few blocks away.

“Hey!”

It’s the guy who smelled me, he yelled at me a few times from the doorway of the bar. I didn’t turn around, I didn’t look. I turned the corner, and I assume he went back inside. All I wanted, was to get home, get out of these briefs, burn them, and never think of this again. Instead, I get home, and I’m so horny from the rough sensation of the cumdry fabric against my cock that I grope it through my pants as soon as I’m through the door, and it takes less than a minute for me to shoot again, fully clothed–and after I got the jeans off, I stroked off again, and again, until I lost count, and I finally fell asleep, exhausted.

Winston’s Stable: Titpig (Part 5)

Winston decided, when Titpig woke up after the fifth and final dose of serum, he wanted him to be alone. Well, not completely alone, of course. Titpig was lying on the bed in one of Winston’s guest rooms–the same one where they’d played a week and a half earlier. Much to Winston’s dismay, the milk and cum had stained the carpet rather badly–he was going to have to rip it up entirely, along with much of the carpet throughout the rest of his home, if he was going to have Titpig roaming anywhere beyond the basement dungeon below. He could see both Titpig, and the stained carpet, on the various cameras he’d set up around the room earlier, so he could watch his finished freak fully discover his new body on his own, before his master joined him. “Alright Titpig, it’s time to wake up.”

Through the speakers, he heard a deep groan, and a second later he saw the figure on the bed begin to roll about. For the moment, he had suppressed most of the mental shifts he’d been drilling into the slave’s mind for the last week or so–for the moment Mark was in the driver’s seat, though the serums had done some damage to his mental faculties. It wouldn’t be too big of a deal–after all, he didn’t need to be a genius to see what’s right in front of his face.

In the room, Mark was having a hard time getting up from the bed for some reason–every time he tried to sit up, his upper body would drag him back down, almost like he was pinned down by something on his chest. In the end, he was forced to roll to the side and then onto the floor–he tried to get his feet under him to balance, but he had to throw his upper body back to try and stay upright, nearly toppling over. Instead, he flung himself forward, hunching over, his hands far closer to the floor than they should be, right?

He was up, and he was stable, but why in the world was his upper body so…heavy? Looking down at himself, he could see why, clearly enough–the thick pecs he’d developed had easily doubled in size, forcing him to hunch over, knees bent, just to keep himself upright. His spine, however, felt…comfortable in this position, however, and he looked up and around the room, wondering if he might, still, have an opportunity for escape–but it was doubtful. Master–whatever he was doing to him, he must have been planning this for a very long time. He turned a bit so he could face a mirror, and what he saw…it couldn’t be, could it? It had to be a lie, or a trick. He waved a hand, and the figure waved back–it was him, it was really him.

His shoulders and neck had grown at pace with his chest, his shoulders in particular widening to accommodate the additional muscle and breast tissue forming across his pecs. They hung down in front of him, massive slabs of meat with two thick nipples jutting from each of them, both of them nearly three inches long, and as thick as a garden hose. The natural coating of hair which had been there before had disappeared entirely–the skin on his chest and belly was completely smooth, but it had grown in thicker elsewhere–his forearms, legs and ass in particular. His legs were slightly shorter than they were before, which accounted for how his arms were so close to the ground in his new posture, and they bowed out considerably to make room for the massive ball sack swinging between them. His scrotum was taut, and each testicle could be made out clearly–they were almost visibly churning as he watched them, and a bit of cum started to leak from the head of his puny, inch long nub of a cock, where it ran back along the short shaft and down the front of his balls.

Like his chest, his head was similarly devoid of hair–his scalp and face completely bald, aside from a thin eyebrow–but his facial features…he no longer resembled himself, as far as he could recall. In fact, he no longer looked entirely human. His brow was thicker, eyes set back a bit further in his skull, and his nose, mouth and ears all seemed a bit too large. The result was rather ugly, and quite beastly, if he was honest with himself. Still, with a body like this, he doubted that anyone would really find much reason to focus on his face…still, he wasn’t as terrified as he knew, in his mind, he should be. In fact, he was…excited.

Thrilled, in fact, with his new body. Something told him that they weren’t his thoughts, but looking at himself, at his huge chest and giant balls, his hunched posture and ugly maw…it was him. It was who he wanted to be–no, it was who he was supposed to be. But more important than even that, it was what Master wanted. The door opened, almost on queue, and he turned to see his Master in the doorway, wearing his customary uniform, his cock already hard in his gloved hand, cigar lit and clamped in his teeth. “Alright Titpig–get the fuck over here and put that ugly mug of yours to work.”

Titpig lumbered over, and as he did, he felt like his mind was…dulling away. No, he could feel it, actually. It was harder and harder to think, and before he could even try and fight it, most of his own will had disappeared. He gave his Master’s cock a long lick from root to head, a bit of drool escaping from his mouth as he grunted, balancing with one hand while the other reached around and probed inside his loose asshole. Winston saw Titpig’s eyes dull and glaze over–the mental programming had worked as he’d hoped. For now, at least, Mark was nothing more than an animal–his animal–but he would be so much more than that, soon enough. Yes, Titpig was the key, and now that the first stage had come to fruition, Winston could finally begin constructing the thing he’d wanted his entire life.

He could finally begin filling his stable, and he thought that the perfect place to start, would be with Mark’s old friend Joey. After all, he’d seemed so…vanilla, and such a bore–and proud of it. Well, Winston would make sure he wasn’t a bore any longer–no, Joey would be something just as special as Titpig–and just as much the property of Master Winston.

Winston’s Stable: Titpig (Part 4)

“No–that’s…that can’t be me, what the fuck have you done to me, Sir?”

It was two weeks since Winston had dosed Mark with the first serum, and he’d done an additional stages in five day cycles. Tomorrow, he’d dose him with the fourth serum, but he thought Mark had earned a night awake for being such a wonderful subject. Besides, too much time spent unconscious could be unhealthy for a mind–and Winston wanted to make sure that any damage done to Mark’s head was damage he’d wanted, not anything he’d done on accident. He’d kept him in a hypnotic state earlier, and moved him from the lab downstairs into one of the bedrooms upstairs, where they were standing now, and where Mark had come back to himself. In the full length mirror in front of him, he could see the extent of the changes which had swept across his body, and though they were unfinished, to someone unprepared for them, they would seem…staggering, he supposed.

Of course, the most dramatic shift was his chest. With each dose of the serum, the tissue of his chest had reentered a state of heightened development–but most of the tissue developing wasn’t muscle fiber, but rather breast tissue. The result was something rather unnatural looking–his chest still had the appearance of two muscular pecs, but the surface, rather than flat, was instead rounded and puffy. His serum made sure the breast tissue was still firm and didn’t sag, but the texture could be disturbing to some, though Winston found the appearance highly arousing. He watched Mark gently rub one of his inflamed tits, shuddering as he did, his cock spewing a sudden jet of cum across the carpet in front of him.

“That’s a very naughty Titpig–get down there and clean up that mess you made. I take cleanliness in this house very seriously, so you will have to learn to contain your messes.”

Mark tried to resist, but he got down on all fours and licked his own cum from the carpet, but once it had started his cock refused to stop–it kept leaking, forcing him to try and keep a hand underneath the head, collecting the precum, and he slurped it up once his palm was full. Winston knew that the increased cum production was an additional effect of the serum–Mark’s balls had so far tripled in size, stretching his scrotum tight, even as his cock had shrunk. Now it was just four inches, down from it’s original six, and he hoped that after the final serum it would be closer to one or two inches at most–perhaps even outsized by his nipples, which were just as inflamed as the rest of his chest had become. Each was at least as thick as Winston’s thumb–he straddled Mark where he was still cleaning the carpet, reached under and gave them both a tweak, and Mark nearly squealed as thick milk spurt from them both onto the carpet below him.

“Please…please, just…change me back sir, please. I don’t know why you’re doing this to me.” Mark said.

“Because you’re special, Titpig. Besides, you don’t really want to go back to who you were, do you?” Winston gripped Mark under the arms and hauled him up and knelt down behind him, so they were both on their knees in front of the mirror, Winston behind him, gloved hands caressing his tits gently. “This is what you want to be, after all, you want to be a freak–you want to be my freak.”

“N-No…” Mark said, but he could feel his Master’s words sinking into his psyche. Now that he was over the shock of it…it was kind of sexy, wasn’t it? Winston groped a bit harder, and Mark moaned, his nipples leaking more milk which ran down his chest and belly in tear trails.

Winston caught some on his fingers, brought it to his lips, and gave it a taste. “It’s delicious, Titpig–you should be proud.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“What do you think slave? Are you happy with what I’m doing to you? It sure looks like you’re are–that cock of yours is still leaking all over my nice clean carpet, even though I ordered you to stop it–but I don’t think you can stop, can you?” Winston twisted Mark’s nipples, making him cry out in pain, milk spraying out and hitting the mirror in front of them, where it dribbled down. “Lick it up slave, before it hits the floor.”

Mark crawled forward and licked up the milk–Master was right, it was delicious. Winston reached out and slipped a finger into Mark’s ass, and to his surprise it slid right in, and he groaned in pleasure, and pushed back, finding his body eager to be filled.

“Tell me what you are, and I’ll fuck you.”

Mark hesitated, locking eyes with himself in the mirror. “I–I’m your…Titpig sir.”

He slid another finger in, “And what do you want to be?”

“I want to be your freak sir, I want to be your Titpig, please fuck my hole, please…”

“Yeah, that’s what I like to hear,” Winston said, and slid his cock into Mark’s hole, listening to his grunt and groan in delight, his cock leaking a steady stream of precum below him, where it puddled on the carpet. “You know you’re only halfway through, right? After we have a nice long night together, I’m going to put you back to sleep, take you back down into the lab, and shoot you up again. If you think you’re a freak now, just you fucking wait, you’ll be my proper monster soon enough.”

Mark found himself pushing back, eager to have more of his Master’s cock planted inside him. He’d been fucked before, but it had never felt like this–it had never gone in so easily, or felt like it…belonged in there.

“Yeah, do you like your new ass too? It’ll take anything now–it’s almost as hungry for cock as your mouth is going to be.”

“Harder Sir, fuck me harder!”

Winston was more than happy to do as his Titpig requested, reaching around and tugging on his tits, spewing enough milk to soak the front of his body, and when the Slave came, without even touching his cock, he spewed almost as much milk from his chest as he did from cum from his puny cock, but Winston wasn’t done yet–he wanted this fuck to last a good long while. They had all night, after all, and Winston wanted his new slave to appreciate the control his new Master had over them both before they went back to the lab and resumed their work. We he did cum, he filled his slave to the brim, and his sloppy hole leaked most of it back out, much to Mark’s embarrassment. Winston left him there, soaked in cum and milk, shaking with pleasure, unable to process most of what had he had just experienced, but desperate to feel it all again.

“Well, you’ve made quite a mess slave–I’ll have to punish you for that later. For now, though, why don’t we give you your first milking? I can always flog you once we get you hooked up, and kill two birds with one stone.”

Mark followed his Master out of the room, dripping and exhausted, and terrified of what he’d find, of what would happen…and yet, the sheer pleasure assaulting him ensured that by the end of the night, he was begging for more–and Winston assured him he’d get it, when he woke again in a few more days.