I live in the Seattle area of Washington State. If you want to buy me a drink, and can’t do it in person, you can always throw money at my Patreon too–I guarantee at least some of my budget goes to beverages of various varieties. That said, I’m not opposed to meeting fans irl, but you’d have to come off anon and send me a message for that to happen.
Category: Uncategorized
How about ruining someone’s life unreversibly by muscle growth?(Something like Onix’s BMOC maybe) And I want to ask you why you always making muscle growth by magic, since you said you don’t like wish-come-true tf stories. Couldn’t they do anything like workout?
You can ruin someone’s life through muscle growth, of course–but frankly I don’t find muscle at all attractive, and so, I just don’t have much interest in writing it. The reason for that, is that for me, ruination is all about forcing someone to give in to sloth and excess and gluttony, but maintaining that sort of muscle mass is all about regimentation, effort, and incredibly hard work. I can see the appeal in that too, of course, but personally it does little for me.
As far as change-by-magic and wish fulfillment go, your question is based on a misunderstanding. Wish fulfillment, as a type of story, doesn’t have anything to do with the type of MacGuffin being employed. For example, a character who wants to be a powerlifter, and is conventionally trained by a benevolent character to become a powerlifter, is still a wish fulfillment story–the character, in the end, got what they wanted with minimal conflict.
In fact, the vast majority of my stories are magical in one way or another (or at the very least, not realistic–in the sense that a chance-by-science is just as impossible in real life as a change-by-magic would be) regardless of whether they contain weight gain or muscle growth, or whatever transformation is going on. I prefer magic because it allows stories to develop quicker, and for scenes to involve more contrast without requiring massive leaps in time. That’s a personal preference of mine, but of course you could have a story developed only through conventional means too.
When I write I always spend a bunch of time writing details I believe to be important to the story, but then I’ll go back and it seems so boring to read through. Would you try to make boring exposition more interesting somehow, or would you just cut it out for the sake of a smoother story? Also, I have a bunch of ideas for stories that I want to write, but I can’t really come up with more than that. How do you deal with writers block or coming up with new things to write about?
I wrote a short metawriting essay on the first question a few years back, actually, which you can find here. In the end, it really comes down to your particular style. I myself err on the side of leaving details out, because I trust the reader to be able to fill in the blanks with their own imagination. In particular, I get very tired of reading stories where the first 1000 words are meticulous descriptions of the characters involved, listing everything from height and weight to eye color etc. It just isn’t relevant, but a lot of new authors feel compelled to include this sort of exposition, because they don’t trust the reader enough. The only way to make exposition interesting, is to make the exposition relevant. If it has no actual bearing on the story, then cut it.
As for developing ideas…it’s a skill you have to learn, I suppose. I personally have a lot of different systems that I use to brainstorm new ideas, and most of them basically involve randomly grouping porn pictures together until they inspire an idea in me that I want to write about. That said, it sounds like you aren’t lacking in ideas, but rather struggling to develop those ideas into full fledged stories. That’s a bit of a tricky question, and not one with an easy, one-size-fits-all answer, but I would offer a few questions you might ask yourself when you run into writer’s block.
- Is there enough conflict? That is, can is there a way for the characters in the story, both protagonists and antagonists, to act against one another? This sounds like a no-brainer, but more often than not, when I’m struggling to develop an idea, the main problem is that one side of the story lacks any real power or agency in the narrative. The best stories provide opportunities for characters to try and affect the outcome of the story in their own ways–that’s where the best development comes from in my opinion.
- What do these characters want? This is a question you have to ask–and it’s amazing how often I forget to do this when I’m coming up with ideas. A story can only progress through character action, but those characters won’t act if they have no motivation. You need a ‘why’, before you can ever get to a ‘how’. You have to remember that both protagonists and antagonists need motivation as well. Rethinking about why your characters are involved in this story at all, and what they are trying to get out of it, can help show you the way forward through a plot muddle.
- Is there something I can do to complicate the story? Sometimes, what a story is missing is a new element which shakes up the conflict and reorients the power of the characters in the story. It could be the introduction of a new MacGuffin, a new character, a new turn of fortune or an inversion of power. If you’ve hit a wall and don’t know where to go next, the introduction of a new element can help push things through. That said, if you add in too much, the entire story begins to bloat–so use this advice with caution. Throwing more shit in won’t make a bad story automatically better, but it might give you a new direction for a decent story to take off and shine.
Lastly, it’s important to remember that not every idea is a good idea. Be willing to discard story ideas that feel boring or overdone, or which don’t excite you, or thing of new ways to liven them up. If an idea feels boring to you, then there’s no reason to think a reader will be anymore excited to read it when it’s done.
love to see more of your bear storiesevolving a football team into a bunch of hairy exmuscle pipe smoke bears
As always, I don’t take requests through my askbox. If you’d like to see a story like that, then there’s a few things you can do.
- You can sign up for my Patreon at the one dollar level or higher. This lets you submit ideas at the beginning of each month, which I use as inspiration for a small collection of flash fiction stories I produce for Patreon supporters.
- You can try your hand at writing it yourself! If you give me the start of a story that you don’t feel like, or don’t know how to finish, and I’m intrigued by it, I have been known to fix things up and extend partial stories for my own amusement.
There’s always other authors to ask as well! You try @gravick, @mcbaer, @chaoticdjinn, or @vikingzombieboyfriend for starters.
It’s Tuesday again! That means it’s time for more questions and more answers, so if you have something on your mind that you’d like to know more about, go ahead and put it in the box, and I’ll answer it. No question too strange! No anon too personal! No gushing praise or scathing indictment too overwhelming to fit inside.
Cause it’s the internet–it fits a lot, as long as you stick to the character limit.
Cleaning House (Part 7)
CW: Scat
It’s…hard to talk about, honestly.
I mean, I don’t remember it that well, either. I showed up in Daddy’s clothes, reeking, almost 200 pounds heavier than she remembered me…
I drank a lot, that night, and smoked a lot too. Still, I tried to help, after I cleaned myself up and took a shower. Being clean…I felt so naked, and so worthless. Amy didn’t…want me there, and there was nothing I could really do to make anything better. I was just…something else to manage. She did everything without me, and I just sat there in a stupor, drunk, and she cared so much. The only…
The only family I could care about anymore was Daddy. I missed him so much, more than I missed my mom. I needed him to know what to do, I couldn’t…I don’t know how to be alone anymore, I don’t know how to live for myself, if I ever really did.
Amy, I still feel awful. She even ordered me a suit, knowing I wouldn’t even think to buy one. It chafed, I was so hot and sweaty in that tiny church, listening to everyone drone on about my mother. I jacked off, I was so bored, I jacked off into my filthy underwear at my mom’s funeral, got drunk after, jacked off some more and hit on a few older guys who reminded my of Daddy–none of them took me up on the offer.I didn’t even stick around to the next day–I junked the suit, got back in my real clothes, and drove off.
I got back to Daddy and I sobbed. I was so sorry for leaving him, I was so upset, and he was there for me, he…he understands me, and he knows me like no one else I’ve ever known. He knows what I need better than I do. He held me for an hour in bed, telling me that I was safe, that I would never have to leave again, that he’d never make me leave, that he’d never let me leave. That I belonged with him, that there was nowhere else that I could ever belong anymore, other than here. He fed me a big dinner, I drank a huge load of piss he’d been saving for me all day, I cleaned his nasty crack…and by the next morning, I could almost pretend that none of it had ever happened. But it had, and I don’t…it changed me.
I saw how worthless I am. How stupid I am. I couldn’t understand what Daddy saw in me, I couldn’t understand why he loved me, unless it was pity. I thought about leaving, I couldn’t bear the thought of subjecting someone to me, but I was too scared. I acted out, I pushed back, I made him spank me, and I liked it, and he liked it, and he got rougher, and meaner, and I begged him for more. I didn’t deserve to be his boy, I said. I’m too much of a fuck up, I’m a waste.
He made me eat his ash one day, right out of the tray. I licked it up–it was so…dry, but some of his piss helped wash it down. He fed me his cigar butts, and some of his trash. I…I begged him for his shit. I wanted to be his toilet. I wanted to prove to him, and to myself, that it wasn’t a lie, that I was as low as that, that I was a toilet. He refused, and so I filled the back of my briefs with a load of my own, dropped them to the ground, got down and started eating my own shit, right there in the kitchen. I’d…practiced already. I knew I liked it, and when I saw how hard he was in his briefs, I wondered why he’d refused. He fucked my shitty hole, made me clean off his cock, and then I was under his rim chair, eating his shit straight from the source, and it only…I only got hungrier, after that.
It was summer again, already. Most of my days were spent outside doing work around the cabin, naked aside from a pair of Daddy’s old boots, my shit, piss and cum stained briefs or jockstraps, and a pair of work gloves. I lost a bit of fat and bulked up again, but when you crest 400, there’s only so much that muscle can do to make you not look like a tub of lard. In the mirror I barely recognized myself anymore. I looked so much like him now, it disturbed me. Still, he’s happy–that’s what matters, right? That’s why I came here, that’s why I agreed to be his cleaner. It seems so far away now, but it’s only been a year and a few months. I feel like I’ve known him for years, and that he’s known me my whole life. I have no secrets from him, I can’t lie to him, I can’t lie at all, really. My sister called, worried about me, and I told her everything, or as much as I could before she hung up, and she hasn’t called again since.
Fall is here again, and everything is dying. I feel like I’m dying too, day my day, curling up into myself, into this cabin, into Daddy. I’ve…been pissing the bed, most nights, and Daddy started forcing me to wear diapers at night, for protection. I feel so small in them, and he looms over me, grinning down, humping the front of my diapers with his cock until I cum, gasping, and then he shoves his cock down my throat, and when he cums, I keep sucking, hungry for more–more food, more piss, more cock, more ass. I want him to fill me up, because all I ever feel, when I’m alone, is empty. I shouldn’t be here. I should run, but I won’t. I can’t. Even…going to town now, fills me with such anxiety, I can’t go without him anymore. We’re supposed to have the first snow tonight, and everything will be white again. Maybe it can cover me up, until I disappear too.
Cleaning House (Part 6)
This became my new normal over the next several months. A fuck in the morning, a massive breakfast, a few hours cleaning Daddy’s body and eating his ass under the rimchair, lunch, chores, a massive dinner, and then a relaxing evening before bed. I…I loved it. All of it. I felt like I had find my proper place in life, and I thanked him every day for giving me the opportunity to serve him as his boy.
As I adjusted to my new role, and my new life, Daddy slowly began to impose more rules on me to follow, controlling more and more of me until I couldn’t so much as go to the bathroom without his permission, and often, his supervision. He forbade me from shaving, and my beard filled in, thicker and faster than I remember before, when I’d tried growing it out. I, too, had to stop showering, and certain things began disappearing from my shopping list–most notably, toilet paper. Still, from how dirty Daddy’s ass is, I don’t think he ever used it much, and he loved seeing the streaks growing in the seats of my whities…and to be honest, it turns me on too, especially when he gags me with my own crusty, cum soaked underwear while he rims and fucks my own dirty hole.
I was still growing steadily, and with winter here and no tasks outside the cabin, I had no physical activity to bulk with…and so my waistline kept expanding. By New Year’s I’d hit 300, and none of the clothes I’d bought fit me–instead of allowing me to buy anything new, Daddy insisted I just wear his old cast offs, including his old underwear. I…fuck, the first time I pulled on one of his massive pairs of briefs, and I felt how crusty and filthy they were, I couldn’t stop myself, and I jacked off right there in front of him while he watched, grinning, listening to me belch and snort and grunt like a fucking pig. My masturbation habits–it’s gotten really bad now. Even at the store in town (Daddy doesn’t see much reason for me to go to the laundromat anymore), I have to consciously remind myself to get my hand out of my pants…and more than once, waiting in line…I have eeked out a quiet load, and knowing that people are right there…fuck. What the fuck is wrong with me.
I think back, and I…I don’t remember being this perverse. I mean, I had ideas, sure. I’d fantasized about being owned by a daddy for as long as I can remember, but I…I’d never done anything, not until I’d met Joe. My ex-boyfriends were nothing like him either, usually slim guys close to my age, the same sorts of guys who do nothing for me when I look at them now around town, but one grungy looking trucker, and I have to duck into an alley to jack off in my pants, thinking about how dirty his crack is, and if he might let me lick it–whether Daddy might let me lick it, I mean. He’d…talked, a few times, about sharing me out with other men. I didn’t know if he meant it, or if he just said it because he’d found out it turns me on…at least, until that night we took a drive in January, out to a local rest area. We stayed there all night, and I had to ask every man who came in whether I could be their urinal, toilet paper and cum dump…and several said yes.
Yeah, I forgot that–when Daddy made me drink his piss. It was late one night, when we’d polished off a twenty-four pack together, and he was too drunk to stand up easily, so he started…talking to me, telling me he thought it was time I drank piss–I wanted his piss, right? I…I hadn’t really thought too hard about it, but I did–so I got down, and he pissed down my throat, and I nearly choked, that first time. I’m better now–much better. But back at the rest area, Daddy just watched, and chastised me if I fucked up in front of anyone. He told me on the way home that it had been a present for me being such a good boy, getting to serve so many men…but I didn’t really know how I felt about it, at the time, but the more he took me…the more I looked forward to it. It’s like he knows what I want even before I figure it out for myself.
In time, the snow melted, and winter turned into spring. I…barely recognized myself, by the time March rolled around, and I got the call from my sister. I weighed about 330 pounds, I had an inch long beard all over my face, and my hair was a tangled mess. My clothes were filthy, I jacked off close to eight or nine times a day, and the entire focus of my life was Daddy–keeping him clean, keeping him happy, drinking his piss, licking his ass, and being fed by him until I was blue in the face. In the winter…the world shrinks. Everything outside is white, and the world is gone, hidden. I’d forgotten about so much else, but that phone call…I missed her call, twice. Honestly, I was afraid to call her, I was afraid to talk to anyone other than Daddy, but he made me call her back.
My mom had died, suddenly. She was in tears, and needed help with the funeral, she was furious I hadn’t listened to her messages. I felt…awful. I told Daddy, and I said I had to go home for a few days…I didn’t even think about what I looked like. About what anyone might say about me. Still, Daddy agreed–I needed to go, and say goodbye, and help my sister with what I could. So I got in my car–as best I could fit in the tiny sedan–and drove over to the next state…but it wasn’t until my sister saw me, and smelled me, that I realized I was never going to belong there again, in that world.
Cleaning House (Part 5)
I was still in Joe’s bed, surrounded by his stench, and surrounded by him, as well. He must have climbed in without disturbing me, and he’d wrapped me in his arms and fallen asleep. I felt so…safe and secure, and happy, and I could feel his hard cock pressed against one cheek of my ass…and I definitely liked that too.
Fuck, what had I done yesterday? What had we done? What had he done to me? I’d wanted that–I’d always wanted that, for as long as I could recall, but…but doing it, it had felt so terrifying. Terrifying that…that I really enjoyed it as much as I had. No one should enjoy that right? Didn’t that all mean I was broken, somehow? I didn’t want to think about it, and so…and so, I didn’t. I snuggled back against Joe, focused on him snoring gently in my ear, and drifted back off, until he woke an hour or so later.
He kissed me, groped me in bed, and then pushed me onto my stomach and crawled behind me, spread my ass and ate out my hole. It felt…fuck, it still feels amazing, whenever he does that, but better when I was tight, when him shoving his tongue in my ass made me shake and groan and writhe under him, humping the mattress until I came in my briefs. He opened me up enough that he could slide his cock into me with just his spit as lube, and he fucked me, rough, for a few minutes before he came. The fuck…it wasn’t much, but the feel of his tongue. Rimming was something I’d thought of, but always been to scared to do.
Breakfast was next, and we followed the same pattern as the night before–I helped him cook my meal, he force fed me the entire thing, and then he cooked a meal for himself while I relaxed on the couch, digesting and jacking off–he demanded two loads from me by the time he finished cooking, and then, I crawled under the table and sucked him off while he ate, and came again at his demand. My cock–it ached, and yet I was still so horny. I felt like someone had flipped a switch in me, and now…now I couldn’t stop myself.
When he finished his meal, he told me it was time I took on a new task, and I followed him back out into the front room. “I hate showerin’, boy,” he told me, “Always have–too big tah really clean up real good. So yer gonna clean me from now on–all over, with that nice tongue a yers, every mornin’.”
I gulped, and started to speak, but he told me to start with his pits…and as soon as I got a good whiff of his musk, I didn’t want to object. I didn’t really want this to stop, did I? I had my dream man here, right in front of me…I couldn’t let this slip away. I spent the next half hour cleaning his upper body, and then moved to his feet at his order. I…fuck, his feet were huge, and I couldn’t stop myself, as I came again, licking them.
I started to work my way up, but he stopped me. “Time tah change seats,” he said.
He got up, hauled a bag out of a closet, and dumped a rimchair out onto the floor, and made me assemble it. I…I’d seen them in porn before, and fantasized about them, sure…but his ass? I thought about how it had felt when he’d rimmed me earlier…and I wanted to make him feel that good too, I realized. I got underneath, and he sat down, his cheeks spread and hole right against my lips. I licked, and he groaned. I licked harder, hand in my underwear, jerking off as I cleaned his ripe, greasy crack while he played his game, and fuck, I was loving it. I felt so used, but I wanted this man to use me. He put his ashtray on my belly, and warned me not to topple it, forcing me to keep my frame as still as I could, even as I licked and proped harder and deeper into him, tasting him and his shit for the first time, and already excited that I would be doing this daily.
The fart caught me by surprise, and with two strokes my cock exploded in my briefs yet again.
“You like that boy? You like daddy’s nasty farts?”
“Y-Yes Daddy.”
“Yeah, not surprised, the way yer chowin’ down on that filthy hole. I bet ya love daddy ass, right boy?”
“Yes Daddy, I do.”
Yeah–good boy, I like hearin’ that–guess ya can spent a bit more time under there, since ya like it so fuckin’ much.”
I serviced his ass for another hour, and then finished licking his ass and thighs clean, ending at his cock, which I sucked off. My jaw ached, and I was so hungry–when he fed me lunch next, he couldn’t stuff me fast enough. That afternoon was spent on chores, and then we ate dinner again–me first, and then him, and after a night of beers, cigars, and another fuck, we fell asleep again in his bed–or our bed, since I never ended up in the guest bed again.
Cleaning House (Part 4)
“Need something else, boy?”
My mouth was dry.
“Need daddy’s cock in that mouth a yers?”
I couldn’t say anything. He took my hand again, and tugged me forward, out of the chair, where I fell to my knees in front of him.
“What do ya need, boy.”
“I…want your cock, I do, I’m sorry.”
He gave me a slap to the face. “I asked ya what ya need–not what ya want. ‘N never apologize, ‘less ya fuck up, and that ain’t how I’m addressed, is it? Git it right.”
“I…need…your cock, d-daddy.”
“That’s a good boy,” he said, wrapped one big hand around the back of my head, and pulled my face into the front of his own briefs. They were…moist, and they reeked. I realized something, in that moment, that in all of the loads of laundry I’d done for him back in town, never had I ever seen a pair of underwear in those loads. “Daddy’s been waitin’ fer ya tah come ‘round, boy, things ‘r gonna be a lot better fer us both.”
He made me pull his briefs down with my teeth, and I saw his cock for the first time–six inches or so, thick as the can of beer still in his hand, with a hefty amount of foreskin around the head. He fucked my face for a couple of minutes, but got a bit winded, stopped and went back to the couch, naked. “Come on boy, git over here ‘n play with me while I play.”
I spent the next hour on my knees between his legs, sucking his cock and licking his balls, bringing him to multiple orgasms, but surprisingly his cock never once softened–and equally surprising, neither did mine. He forced me to have one hand down the front of my pants at all times, massaging my cock, keeping myself horny, matching him load for load, until the front of my briefs were soaked with my cum, and my cock felt raw and tender to the touch. He finished up the game when both of our guts started growling, and told me it was time for dinner, and he went into the kitchen to start cooking for the both of us, leaving me in my briefs on the floor, shaking, confused, and more turned on than I’d been in my life. “Boy, git in here–ya can help,” he called out to me, and so I joined him in the kitchen.
I didn’t do much–or rather, he didn’t let me do much, but it was the first time he’d let me near the kitchen since I’d moved in with him, and I felt…special. We laughed and chatted, things felt…more normal, as if I didn’t have four loads of cum in my gut, and my briefs weren’t coated in my spunk.
“I’ve never…done anything like that before,” I said.
“But ya wanted it.”
I nodded, hesitantly.
He smiled at me, and pulled me into a short hug, out frames pushed together, him gently grinding his gut into my smaller one. “As soon as I saw ya, I knew ya were the one, I had tah have ya.”
“I…the first time I saw you, I fantasized about you for days, while I packed up my things.”
He didn’t say anything, just pulled me closer, and then we went back to cooking. I noticed that the portions seemed…a bit smaller than usual, but I didn’t say anything about it. When everything was finished, I went and sat at the table, but was confused when he didn’t join me. “Aren’t you eating too?”
“Nah boy–this here’s all fer ya. I’ll eat later.”
I looked at the spread in front of me, confused–I could never eat all of this! It was easily a meal for four on it’s own. “I…I can’t do that.”
“Ya can boy, trust me–trust yer daddy, I ain’t never gonna steer ya wrong.”
That was the first evening he fed me. My hands barely touched the food–instead, he forced me to keep one hand back in my filthy briefs, and the other on my nipples, as he drove the food into me at a steady pace, faster than I usually ate but not so much I choked. I liked it, actually, giving him control. I liked it so much, I came again, moaning through a mouthful of food, and he grunted and belched, grinding his own hard cock into the side of my belly. “Fuckin’ Pig,” he said, “Fuckin’ Pigboy.”
He kept feeding me, fucking his cock against the side of my belly, and before the end of the meal he’d cum again as well–I could feel the sticky mess spew through the front of his whities as he kept grinding against me, and then he leaned in and kissed me. His mouth was all beer and smoke, and I exploded again as his tongue invaded my hungry mouth until he pulled away, and we focused on the remains of the meal. Somehow…I ate it all. All of it. I ached, and I could barely move, but all of it was within me, and I belched–Joe leaning in close and sniffing it, grunting, groping me roughly. “Good boy, I told ya ya’d eat it.”
“Thanks, daddy.”
He helped me up from the table, and led me down the hall of the cabin. I thought we were heading to my room, but instead we went to his. It was the one room of the house he didn’t want me to clean, or even enter, and I never had. It was sizable, but as filthy as the house had been when I’d arrived, with laundry all over the floor, with sheets on the bed I knew I’d never once washed since arriving as his cleaner. They smelled so strongly of him–his cum and his sweat…I laid down on them, feeling him his musk was engulfing me. “Sleep boy–Daddy’s gotta go make his own dinner now.”
I had no idea how I would possibly sleep with my gut so angry, but all I remember is Joe turning out the light, shutting the door, and when I next woke, it was morning.
What interests you most about weight gain? Just want to add that I can’t get enough of your stories that feature it!
It factors into my fascination and fetish for ruination. For me, what really turns me on more than pretty much anything else, is ruining a character’s life, body, relationships, future, etc. So weight gain, to me, is about forcing a character to ruin their body, undermine their health and their abilities, all in the pursuit of short term satisfaction, pleasure, and hedonism.
That said, and this is a bit odd given my other interests, I’m not actually super turned on by extreme gaining or immobility, and I have a hard time articulating why, exactly. To me, the real sweet spot so somewhere between 400 and 500 pounds, where life can become a real struggle, but if that character sets their mind to it, they can still do everything they used to do, it just takes so much more work and energy that they no longer have. It’s a bit of a mind game to me, I suppose.
Bracken's Corner 