Patron Suggested Stories for July Ready to Download! | Wesley Bracken on Patreon

I want to take a short break from “Pigtown Prison” to announce that the monthly Patreon suggestions have been written and are ready for download! Anyone who contributes at least one dollar a month can both contribute suggestions each month, and read the results! I hope you all enjoy them. To give you all a sense of what these little snippets look like, here’s one from last month I enjoyed a lot, a sequel of sorts to “Asslickers Inc.” from last year.

The Attention Whore

“There aren’t that many left–which one should we use on him?”

“This one?”

“No way–Robbie used one that looked a bit like that…and you know how Robbie is now.”

The group of young, bearish men all nodded and agreed at that. Beside them, bent over the table and tied down was Officer Clyde Bucksworth, who had responded to a noise complaint at the house an hour earlier. He’d assumed it was just a frat party getting a bit out of control, like usual–not a big problem. Hell, he’d pledged this frat back when he was in college, so he was on a first name basis with almost all of the guys in the house. However, as soon as he’d pulled up…something had seemed off about the whole thing, and when the door had opened letting him see what was happening inside…he’d freaked out. All of the straight laced, jockish young men he’d known well were gone–or if not gone, they were twisted somehow. He could recognize a few, but most were entirely different people now–hairier, beefier, older in a lot of cases, and without exception, they’d all become faggots. He’d pulled his tazer, and stepped inside, but someone had knocked him out before he could do much of anything, and now he was here, naked, tied over the edge of a table, surrounded by men he didn’t recognize, watching them play with a selection of six or seven dildos laid out on the table in front of him.

“What the fuck happened to you guys? This–you aren’t faggots!” Clyde said.

The men all laughed.

“That’s what we thought too!”

“Don’t worry–you’ll understand soon enough, just like we all did.”

They settled on their choice in due time–and Clyde struggled harder when he saw the tool. It was at least ten inches long and covered with what looked like metal studs and rings, including one that looked like a PA in the head. It was called “The Attention Whore,” and it promised to make the man who used it into the sort of freak people would gawk at, day or night.

Clyde begged and screamed, but they lubed the toy up and started pushing it against the officer’s virgin hole–to his surprise, it slid in easily, and it actually felt…kind of pleasant. The men took turns fucking him with it, and soon he was moaning a bit, trying to avoid thinking about how hard his cock had gotten all of a sudden.

“That;s it, don’t fight–it’s going to be great. You’ll see.”

He could feel the metal bits rubbing against the inside of his colon, making him shudder–but then they started to loosen as the asslicker dissolved, and he could feel the balls and rings inside him…pushing their way through him. It hurt–but not as much as when they started pushing their way out of his body after a couple of minutes. Most of them had found their way to his cock and balls, and he cried out in pain as they pushed through his skin, though it healed up immediately afterwards. His balls looked like a pincushion, and the PA from the dildo was far too large for the head of his leaking cock. His nipples received doorknockers of similar size, and the ring in his septum was even larger, hanging down to his mouth. Eyebrows, ears, lips, tongue–none had been spared.

The men could see the next layer emerging below the outer metal–a swirl of black ink against a field of deep red shaft, almost the color of raw steak. In fact, he could taste it–sweet blood on his tongue, and his body began to ache as his muscles spasmed, and grew. Clyde had always kept his body is good shape, but prefered to be lean, rather than bulky–now, however, he was rapidly gaining the physique of a powerlifter. The hair on his head was falling out, even as a short beard filled in around his face–the hair on his body grew a bit thicker, but not thick enough to obscure the black tribal tattoos which were swirling to the surface of his skin.

“Oh fuck, I feel really…fucking big,” he slurred, voice thick and twisted by the metal in his mouth. It was deeper, and sounded…stupid. He had to figure out some way out of this–but he couldn’t. His mind felt sluggish, and everyone was…staring at him. He liked having people stare at him–it felt good. He felt sexiest when everyone’s eyes were on him, and nowhere else. The men, noticing that he’d lost the will to resist, undid one of his hands–and rather than try and escape, he reached under and stroked his metal studded cock, the men fucking him harder now–but the dildo was feeling…strange in their hands. It behaved like a water balloon, or an inflated condom. They pushed it in deep, and Clyde felt it pop inside of him, and whatever liquid was inside of it flooded his ass–but didn’t flow back out. No, he could feel it surge through him to his cock and balls, the silicone running into his scrotum and into the flesh of his shaft. He could feel it growing in his hands, losing some sensation as the skin stretched. His cock didn’t grow any longer, and the shaft swallowed the head entirely, with just the massive ring jutting out from the fleshlight shaped mound his cock had become. His balls, when they stopped growing, hung heavy below him, almost the size of a bowling ball, the piercings now better spaced on the huge sack.

The men untied him and he went straight to the mirror–eager to look at himself, to see what everyone else could see. He was a freak–a muscle freak with an impossible cock, and Clyde couldn’t be happier. The silicone seemed to have affected other parts of his as well–his lips fuller, his pecs inflated too large to be completely natural. The men were all gaping, and soon, one was on his knees, worshiping Clyde’s strange meat, while another bent him over and started fucking the attention whore’s still loose hole, memories of his old life fading quickly.

Within the hour, he was running around the house with the rest of them, massive package barely constrained by a thong he’d found in one of the boxes Arctos had delivered with the asslickers–dancing for the men, enticing them, until they gave in and fucked his ass or worshiped his freakish junk, nothing more than a musclebear attention whore for the rest of his days.

Patron Suggested Stories for July Ready to Download! | Wesley Bracken on Patreon

Pigtown Prison (Part 3)

Keith, in his mind, was desperately trying to make his body stop, but he couldn’t. He’d never topped another person in his life, but all his body wanted to do now was fuck–and fuck rough. The pig under him had gotten used to the assault and was starting to enjoy himself, so he redoubled his force, plowing him harder until the pig squealed in pain…and hearing that, he felt so fucking good, it nearly made him shoot. “What…the fuck did you fucking do to me!” he shouted at Rod, his voice deep and gruff, completely alien to the one he’d known his whole life.

“Don’t be mad at me, fucker–it was Oliver, who did this to you.” Rod got down and stared Keith right in the eyes, “You wanna be mad at anyone, then be mad at him.”

Something…changed in him. The rage he was feeling flared higher, and Keith felt all of it focused on Oliver. He tried to fight it and push back–he loved Oliver! Sure, their sexual chemistry was a bit of a struggle, given that they both preferred to bottom, but he’d thought they’d been working through it, right?

Rod just chuckled, “Oh no, Keith, no, no, no. Oliver never really wanted you. That’s why you’re here. He wants a top, a brutal top, a mean fucker who only wants to plow him into next week. He doesn’t care about who you are–he just wants the fuck. All this? All this pain? He doesn’t care as long as he gets what he wants. Well guess what Keith? You don’t have to care either. In fact, I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”

There was a flicker in Rod’s eyes, and a moment later, Keith screamed again. His mind–it felt like it was on fire–or at least parts of it were. All of his memories of Oliver, all of the times they’d shared together, all of them were aflame–but it wasn’t just memories–it was his compassion and his love. He could feel it shrinking and withering to ash, and the pain was horrific but soon he didn’t even care. He enjoyed it, he reveled in it–he gripped the pig by one hip, hard enough to bruise, and drove in deeper still, his other hand planted on the back of the pig’s head shoving his face into the filthy, pissdamp floor of the bathroom. “How’s that feel, you fucking piece of shit?” he screamed, and his cock exploded, filling the pig’s ass to the brim, but he kept fucking until he went soft, and only then did he pull out–body shaking with some caustic mix of pain, exhaustion and exhilaration.

Who…was he now? He remembered so little, but he did know one thing, and remember one person. Oliver–he remembered him, and he hated him. Hated him, because it was his fault that he’d just been put through all of that pain and suffering…and Keith knew he was going to have to pay for what he did.

“That’s a good boy,” Rod said, giving Keith a pat on the shoulder, “Now, why don’t we get you deputized?”

Rod’s hand settled on his shoulder, and underneath his palm, something like a shadow spread out and down Keith’s body, down his chest and back. He braced himself for more pain, but this didn’t hurt–it was warm and supple–he first thought it was some kind of rubber, but he touched it with a finger, and discovered that he somehow being coated in leather. It covered his entire body, aside from his neck and head, in less than a minute, a smooth, body hugging layer–and once it had coated him, he felt the entire body suit shift and morph around him. It split at the waist, becoming a shirt and pants, and then split again at his knees, the leather around his feet shaping into a pair of perfectly shined leather motorcycle boots. The pants were tight against his muscles, with a red stripe down the side, his huge cock bulging in the crotch and running down one leg. The leather…adjusted to it, and it felt so comfortable, like his cock always laid there, in a stretched out pocket of his pants. The shirt took a bit longer to form, but the details were more intricate–lapels and pockets, the sleeves shortening, exposing his massive biceps and forearms, hands encased by the tightest fitting gloves he’d ever felt, like they were painted on his hands.

Rod gave a flourish with his hand, and a cap appeared in his hand–and a silver steel badge. He placed the police cap on Keith’s head, and pinned the badge to his chest, and then gave him a smoky kiss. “Beautiful–now, you have a suspect to interrogate, right officer?”

“Y-Yes sir,” Keith said.

“Good fucker–work him over nice and proper. Figure out what sort of shit he pulled here yesterday. But whatever he did, don’t bring it back here! Just…deal with it as best you can. Probably some knick knack or something–it surprised me, but wasn’t that strong.”

Keith nodded, and a few minutes later he was out on the sidewalk, cool in his leathers despite the hot night. He found his motorcycle and rode off into the dark, heading for Oliver’s place, and more than eager give the man who’d done this to him a bit of payback.

Other than a determined nihilism, do you see politics in your stories?

Short answer: Yes.

Long answer: I have, like, a treatise in my head that I want to write about the intersection of TF fiction, heteronormativity and queer revolutionary politics, but I doubt it will ever see the light of day. Maybe it’ll be Wes’s crowning achievement at some point in my old age, when all of this shit finally makes sense to me.

If anything, however, I would say that the politics of most of the queer fiction I see is suuuuper disappointing. Oh man, I bought “Dream Daddy, a Dad Dating Simulator” and I can’t help but feel super fucking irritated at the implicit heteronormative shit embedded all the way through that thing. I mean, it goes beyond the fact that you are literally a “dad” dating other “dads” (It makes the game safer, I think, to a mass audience, to know that whatever happens in it can’t possibly be too revolutionary–after all, they all have families to worry about, right?) to the entire structure of the dates themselves.

***FUCKING SPOILERS***

Like, can we fucking talk about Robert here? The storyline that seems like it could actually be sex positive shuts down the entire possibility of the story arc if you hook up with him during the intro. Fucking punishment for sex on the first date, fuck you Game Grumps. I’ll fuck if I fucking want to, and that doesn’t mean I’m treating Robert as a fucking object, you piece of shit narrative. In fact, the entire Robert-Mary-Joseph-You love/hate quad is so fucking dysfunctional and anti-queer I can’t even handle it. 

*Calms down somewhat*

Brian’s hot, sure, whatever. The point is, TF fiction, especially TF fiction which assumes an entire shift in world (and I definitely count “Dream Daddy” in this category–the notion of a world where a bunch of dads openly date one another is still a fucking radical change compared to real life, even if the game butchers it) can appear so radical on the surface, but that only serves to make the internal hetero logic of these stories stand out even brighter on the surface.

Without being too cruel, this was my primary issue with @anothermeekone‘s story a few months back, called “Queer Happenings”. You have this radical cult, a god demanding a complete shift in the nature of reproduction, love, self-determination, physical form and agency…and then the story ends with two of the characters wanting to get married.

*Rips hair out*

Meek, you put in so much effort here! Can we expand our imaginations beyond marriage please! 

Most of this criticism can be leveled back at me, of course. I struggled with these concerns, or proto-questions to these concerns, a lot when I was writing City of Bears, and these remain the chief reason why that story has remained on the back burner for so long now. What does a queer world even look like? If we break the monotony of hetero-monogamy then what can society even look like? Without women, what does reproduction even look like? Is a queer society necessarily a society dying, and is that a good thing?

I don’t have the answers to any of these questions, but it’s frustrating to me that a lot of other writers haven’t even bothered to notice these questions exist. Dream Daddy is only ever going to be a completely safe simulation. Imagining it *actually* occurring is terrifying. As a simulation, a queer world can always be just a joke. Instead, most of my friends are probably going to end up losing their health insurance this week, and I’m going to be left crying myself to sleep.

Nihilism? Yeah, I got fucking nihilism. I got more nihilism than anything else. You know what? Despite all my reservations though, I’m still glad things like “Dream Daddy” exist. I loved reading Meek’s story, even if I howled in rage at the ending. I miss the guy I was, writing City of Bears. I really, really miss having hope, because that’s what all of those stories require–they need hope to exist. I don’t really know where my hope went–maybe it’ll come back someday. But until then I’m stuck wrestling with this shit all the same.

Wouldn’t a clueless character tie into a reality shift piece?

This is in reply to a couple of asks I got last week. You can find them here and here.

Kind of. There are characters in reality shift stories who “behave” like clueless characters, but because of the nature of the story (that is, because reality has supposedly shifted around them) there is a very good reason for them to suddenly be clueless about the way the world functions. The sort of cluelessness I’m complaining about involves characters who have no reason to be clueless, beyond serving a convenient function for an author who should learn how to write better. 

When you write, how do you make sure there is enough chartered development in a story but not too much to overpower the actual fetish part of the story?

Short answer: Practice and experience.

Longer answer: No really, there’s no shortcut here. 

Every story requires a balance between action and development (what Jim Butcher calls “Scenes and Sequels” (I’d recommend his whole series of writing advice actually, you can find it on his old livejournal here–start at the bottom and read your way up.) In fact, he says it more artfully than I will, so go read that. It helped me out a lot when I was getting started writing, and it’s advice I still use on occasion now.

I saw the answer about your fursona and that got me thinking. What kind of ‘person’ for lack of a better term… IS Wes honestly and what is he into?

I’ve gotten this question a few times over the years I’ve been writing, and it’s one I’ve always struggled to answer effectively. It’s also a question whose answer changes over time–my relationship as an author to Wes has changed quite a lot over the years since I first started posting these stories, and I’m no longer certain this question makes a whole lot of sense to ask, or to try and answer. I’ll try to explain.

I started writing these stories when I was eighteen, a freshman in college, and had just began having sex with guys. I had been reading stories like these ones for ages, of course, but I only started writing one on a whim, because I was sick of waiting for people to write the sort of stories I wanted to read. Of course, when it came time to post the story, I also needed to have a pseudonym of some sort. I knew I wanted it to be a first and last name, as opposed to a username, so I used my own middle name and then did a random page search on Wikipedia until I stumbled across a last name I liked. Hence, Wesley Bracken.

To begin with, it was just a title–I didn’t consider Wes to be a character separate from myself. But as I kept writing and I grew a bit of a reputation, there was an odd feedback loop that started. People felt strongly about Wes, in the way people care strongly about things on the internet, and it peaked with a shitstorm that got kicked up on the old NCMC around a story I posted that bent against the site rules and got deleted. I wrote a screed (you can read it here, and stay for the comments below!) and that, I think, was the first time I understood Wes to have become someone beyond myself. A separate character I could act beyond my own capacities. But Wes only existed because he existed for other people. He was never created by me, but rather by readers–who is this person writing these strange fucking stories? I’ve gotten a lot of imaginative answers to that question over the years, and it never fails to surprise me, who people think Wes is.

For a while, I used that distance, and played Wes as a character, but it’s a rather exhausting charade to keep up, in part because Wes is a lot of the exhausting aspects of myself ramped up to 11–the aggression, the obstinacy, the sarcasm, nihilism and pessimism.

But in the end, Wes and I really are the same person. I feel like the distance between us has been flattening again. I’m just a weird guy in the Seattle area who spends a lot of time writing disturbing stories, because he hates the world as it is and wants to imagine something different. Sexy different. Part of this is also the fact that I’ve become more comfortable being open about my writing with people in real life–not the content, per se, but the act. 

Wes started out as an aspiration. He became a character that other people believed in, and who I was happy to pretend to be, off and on. Now, he’s just a part of me, another name that I go by. 

As for what Wes and I are in to…I think you already know the answer to that question, don’t you?

Pigtown Prison (Part 2)

The pain was spreading to the rest of his body now, radiating from his guts but manifesting in entirely different ways. There was…a burning ache deep inside him–everywhere inside of him–and it was only becoming worse. He heard, and felt, the first unsettling crack in his knee, and his leg gave out under him, sending him crashing to the floor…and he felt the bones in his left leg grow and extend…but the muscle and tendons attached didn’t. He screamed then, clutching at his thigh, watching his ankle extend from the leg of his jeans, and with another couple of cracks, his right leg did the same. He didn’t remember much of the next few minutes, as the rest of his skeleton followed suit–it was just a constant sensation of burning in his bones, and the feeling of his meat and skin stretching to try and accommodate his growing body. Over him, he could see the filthy ceiling, Rod leaning against the wall smoking a cigar, and certain he must be dying. But as his bones finished, his muscles followed–each beginning with a horrific, gut churning cramp, and then releasing an explosion of searing heat as they grew, matching the new length of bone, but also doubling or tripling in size and strength.

At some point, he realized he had either grown accustomed to the pain, or it had actually eased slightly; he rolled over onto his knees, jeans and shirt growing tighter across his frame, and forced his feet back under him. He felt off balance and stumbled–nearly falling over again before he found a wall to steady himself with. The entire room seemed to have shifted around him, the scale smaller–but it wasn’t the room that had shrunk–he had grown taller.

He heaved himself towards the sinks again, and in the mirror, he saw his body changing right in front of his eyes. His limbs…they seemed so long, many of his muscles still stretched taut, but everywhere he’d felt his muscles explode in size, he looked like some…brute. His chest constricted suddenly, and he gripped the sink in front of him, trying to not scream in agony. A moment later, two huge pecs burst forth on his chest, huge slabs popping open the front of his button down shirt and stretching the t-shirt underneath to the breaking point. He could barely move, and with his hands he clawed at the fabric, eventually tearing it off his body, giving him a view of his body below, the muscle speeding up and growing faster now. His pants didn’t last long–when his glutes grew, the seam down the ass tore, letting him rip them away as well, and his underwear came off in shreds soon after. He barely recognized himself in the mirror–his pretty young face resting on top of the body of some steroid ridden bodybuilder–at least until he felt the bones of his face beginning to crunch and shift against one another. He clutched at it, screaming, his chin growing angular, nose breaking and rehealing a few times, brow growing fuller and extending over his eyes which sank back into his skull.

He sobbed, looking at his new face–and then came the hairs. He could feel them, millions of hairs erupting through his skin, every single one of them like an impossibly thin needle. He scratched at his body, watching a thick, black pelt erupt across his chest and down his thick roid gut, over his shoulders and across his entire back, down his ass, arms and legs. He was distracted by an invisible hand gripping his cock and balls and tugging at them, hard, making him retch again. His sack dropped as the hand tugged, balls doubling in size, cock growing to nearly ten inches before the hand finally released him, and the pain subsided, only to be followed by a knee shaking puncture in the head of his cock. He watched a thick ring push its way out of his flesh under the head of his cock, circle up and shove its way into his piss slit where it joined with itself, becoming a thick gauge PA. Exhausted, he tried to stay upright, but his shaking legs collapsed under him and he fell to the floor, adding a small dribble of blood from his cock as the piercing healed up behind it. He barely felt the three other rings follow suit–two bursting out of his nipples and one forcing its way out of his septum. His eyes were tearing up, and he choked back a sob. The pain slid away, and what remained was exhaustion–he just wanted to collapse, wanted to sleep, wanted all of this to be some mad dream.

The door to the bathroom swung open, and Keith heard two or three sets of boots clomp into the room. “Fuck Rod, someone dying in here?”

“Nah, just a fucking pussy is all.”

“Hot piece of ass in my opinion–he been broken in yet?”

“Heh, you sure you want this one? Might be a lot to handle.”

“He sounds like he’ll moan real fucking nice ‘round my cock, is what I think!”

There were hoots and hollers, and hands started grabbing at Keith and forcing him onto his hands and knees. All he could smell around him was smoke and booze on breath, musk and piss and cum and leather. He felt someone pull his ass cheeks apart and a bearded face shove its way in, tongue slathering his hole, another face grabbing his face and kissing him. He felt…something else boiling inside him, some other lingering heat from the change. This…it wasn’t right, this wasn’t right! He wasn’t going to let these men take him, no, he…he…

He shoved the man in front of him away with a snarl, turned around and saw a squat piggy looking fuck behind him in leather gear and assless chaps, stroking his cock with one hand. He lunged at him, the others watching him pin the man down and start fucking his ass in surprise, and then they edged their way back out of the bathroom–all of them except Rod, who walked over, observing Keith roughly fucking the pig. “Good instincts, nice technique–you’ll do nicely.”

Pigtown Prison (Part 1)

“Look, I know what you can do here, I know the stories,” Oliver said to the bartender, “I just…I do like him, you know? But I can’t be with a bottom–two bottoms, what the fuck are we supposed to do? And he’s fucking clueless. If he was a top, a bigger, and…well, you can do all that, can’t you?”

Rod looked the young man up and down–he had to admit, he might be small and a twink to boot, but he had balls to come into his bar, and start making requests. “I got plenty of pigs in the back room who would love a turn at your hole, boy–how about I just give you to them?”

“No thanks–I like myself plenty. This isn’t about me, it’s about him. Besides, you can’t do shit to me, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll help me out here,” Oliver smiled, “I’m trying to be nice, and polite.”

Now Rod was fuming. Who the fuck did this punk think he was, walking into Pigtown, his bar, and thinking Rod owed him a favor. “Boy, get your ass around this bar, and suck my fucking cock.”

Oliver just sat there, looking calm, and Rod resisted the urge to let his jaw drop. Pigtown was his, and by extension, everyone inside it was his too. No one should be able to resist his orders, but this fucker was just sitting there, flaunting his control, and worse…he knew it. Apparently this was a bit more…complicated than Rod had thought. “You do this for me, or else you’re going to find yourself with a much more normal bar than you’d like, Rod. Make my boyfriend my perfect top, and you’ll never see me again. He’ll be here tomorrow night–his name is Keith. Big muscles, huge cock, hairy all over–your usual sort of clientele. Don’t fuck with his head any more than you have to, though.”

Oliver got up from the bar and walked to the door, leaving Rod sputtering. “Somebody stop that fucker!” He shouted. The room was full of men–his men. Men who would do anything for him, be anyone for him…but no one moved an inch. Oliver threaded through them at a leisurely pace, feeling all of their eyes following him, and then he was gone. When the door shut behind him, Rod felt something he hadn’t felt in a very long time–he felt scared. “Jimmy, he said to one of his regulars, “Piss yourself.”

He worried for a moment that he’d lost it, that something had happened to the magic of the place, but a second later, Jimmy’s grubby jeans turned dark with piss, and the big bear blushed behind his beard. Rod breathed a sigh of relief–still, Oliver had figured something out, a way to nullify his magic–not just for him, but for everyone around him. If he thought Rod was going to respond to a threat like that and just roll over, well, Oliver was hardly the most formidable opponent Rod had bested in his years. Still, why not give the boy what he asked for? Rod would make it perfectly clear that in this case, the young trickster had bitten off much, much more than he could hope to swallow.

Keith shoved his way into the bathroom, his guts churning and vision swimming, wondering just what had been in that drink that dirty old bartender had given him–and where in the hell was Oliver? His boyfriend had told him to meet here for a date tonight, but he’d texted him to say he’d be late–telling Keith to go ahead and get a drink while he waited. Now, though, it felt like his guts were ripping themselves to shreds, and the look the bartender had given him when he’d stood up and rushed for the bathroom…it hadn’t been a very sympathetic look, by any means.

The bathroom was even grungier and filthier than the bar outside…and he swore he could hear the grunting and moaning of a couple guys fucking in the far stall. Still, he got done in front of one of the nasty toilets and tried to force himself to throw up, but even though his stomach was heaving nothing came, and the pain in his stomach was starting to spread. Had that fucking bartender poisoned him or something? He stood up and stumbled back out of the stall, hanging onto one of the sinks to stay upright while he reached for his phone to call for help, but once he’d gotten it into his shaking hand, someone grabbed it from him, dropped it to the floor, and crushed it under the heel of his boot.

The bartender, still with that cruel grin of his across his face. “Now, now–take your medicine  like a man. I gotta keep my side of the bargain after all, but you don’t get to fucking enjoy this, by any means.”