This is the first half of a caption story for $5 patrons and higher suggested by a supporter! You can find the whole story over on my discord server. If you want more details, you can head over to my patreon page, and sign up!
When he’d signed up, this wasn’t quite what he’d expected. It was one of those monthly gift box services, but the gimmick for this one was that each month, the company would send you a gift box centered around a different fetish each month. It seemed like a weird gimmick, but Allen had always had a little bit of a wild side when it came to sex–but nothing too wild, he supposed. He had some leather gear, he’d had a few BDSM sessions with a local dom, things like that. The minimum order for the company was three months, and the price wasn’t terrible. He’d signed up, and figured he’d get a laugh out of it if nothing else.
It was a week later when the box arrived. He’d found it waiting in his apartment mailbox, and while not small, he had no trouble hauling it upstairs to where he lived. He opened it up, and inside, all he found was a note, a bottle of pills, and a set of goggles–like swim goggles, but with the lenses blacked out somehow.
He looked at the note, but the thing looked like gibberish to him–just swirly patterns all over the paper. The only text he could make out told him to put on the goggles, and then he’d be able to read the rest of the note. He did as the note said, pulled the goggles on–and that was the last thing he remembered clearly, beyond a sudden flash of swirling colored light.
When he could finally manage to pull the goggles off, he looked at the clock, and saw it was close to ten at night–he’d been staring at…at whatever that was for the entire afternoon and evening. The message on the paper was readable now, somehow–and he saw that the first fetish he’d received was…gaining.
It couldn’t be serious, right? But the hypnosis in the goggles would make it impossible for him to go long without eating, and the feeling of a full gut would be profoundly erotic. The pills, taken over the next month, would permanently alter his metabolism, and make sure he never could be thin again. Allen wasn’t it great shape, but he certainly wasn’t fat–he’d never wanted to be fat a day in his life! But then his stomach growled, and he found himself drawn into the kitchen, where he stuffed himself silly for the next several hours. Lying on the couch, surrounded by wrappers, groping his swollen belly and stroking his cock off, he was horrified, and yet more aroused than he could ever recall being in his life. He fought it, but he took a pill, downed it with another soda, and then shot another load, wondering just how large he might be at the end of the month.
Martin found himself, eventually, falling into a routine. Before, when he’d try to lose weight, he’d always end up running into a wall of some sort, something coming up that was just more important to him than exercise was, and so he would skip the gym, and before long, abandon his resolution entirely. Now, however, there wasn’t anything else–there was just him, the Sergeant, the woods, and his punishing exercise. There was no work, other than the general upkeep of the house where they lived. There was no TV, there was no internet. On a calm night, the Sergeant would, at most, relax with a cigar, some bourbon, and a book of history, while Martin finished his chores–or more likely, sat at the Sergeant’s feet, polishing his boots, or servicing his cock.
The thing that he hated most, however, was that it was working. The weight fell right off him, and after three months, he barely recognized himself when he looked in the mirror, fifty pounds lighter, without a hair anywhere on his body, with a bit of muscle starting to show under his skin. The sun was out in the Spring, and he was already starting to tan a bit. Satisfied that his charge was progressing well, the pace of the exercise slowed somewhat–that, or Martin was simply getting used to the punishing pace. Instead, Martin found himself spending more and more time with the Sergeant down in the dungeon, working on various other exercises.
The first time he went down with his Sergeant, he wasn’t sure what to expect. The basement was rather bare, with just a cement floor, the walls painted black, the lighting dim. The Sergeant collared him, then cuffed him, then put a blindfold over his eyes. After a few minutes, he was hauled up by a leash, pulled over to a cross on the wall and shackled there–and then the Sergeant pulled off the blindfold. He had swapped out his fatigues for a full leather military uniform, with a flogger in his hand–and he proceeded to whip Martin until he was begging for mercy. Only then did the Sergeant fuck his ass, still shackled there on the cross, Martin feeling the precum dribbling from his caged cock onto the floor under him.
The collar never came off after that–the Sergeant padlocked it in place. Martin begged him, pleaded with him to never to that to him again–the Sergeant just laughed at him, and that night, he found his cot was replaced with a mummy sack. After he was locked securely inside, the Sergeant placed headphones over his ears, and Martin spent the night listening to hypnosis, conditioning him for…well, who knew what. But the pain…he found himself enjoying it, more and more. The act of submission, the punishing workouts, seeing the smile on the Sergeant’s face after he’d served him well–outside, in bed, in the dungeon, it didn’t matter where. He…found himself wondering if he might actually be falling in love with his captor.
That, he decided, could not happen. Martin did his best to balance the knife’s edge, pretending to be the perfect slave, while keeping his own thoughts of resistance alive. Eventually, the opportunity presented itself–and he found a stash of chloroform while cleaning out the dungeon. That evening, while the Sergeant was reading his book, Martin got up to refill his bourbon, and returned with a cloth soaked in the drug, which he forced over the Sergeant’s face. The man struggled mightily. Thankfully, Martin was no longer the weakling he’d been when he arrived, or he would have lost easily–but soon the Sergeant was passed out in his arms, and Martin found himself with an aching cock inside his cage. Had…this turned him on? Really? He couldn’t quite process that–all he could focus on was getting the Sergeant downstairs, where he hauled him into a bondage chair and secured him in place.
But now what, exactly?
He was angry. Furious, really. He found the key to his collar, and he took it off–he felt naked, so naked without it, but free too, so fucking free! It took some searching, but he found the key to his cock cage as well, and freed himself. By then, the Sergeant had woken up from his nap, and was struggling against the chair, shouting and screaming at Martin to free him, or else he would be in for a nasty fucking surprise.
Use the poll below to select the final chapter in this story! After this next chunk, I’ll be taking a little time off from interactives to work on some commissions–the next one will start up sometime in March! Patrons have their bonus poll over here as well.
Raury and his father had never really seen eye to eye–and that had only gotten worse once Raury had come out of the closet a few weeks earlier, before he’d gone off to college. His father had exploded, which had caught Raury off guard, but apparently, his father’s tolerance stopped at his own son being gay. But Raury, as brilliant as he was, didn’t let little problems like this stop him, when his father had threatened to cut off funding for Raury in college–he’d decided his dad would be the perfect little guinea pig for the nanochip he’d been working on in secret for a few years in the basement.
It was mostly for mental health research, but Raury had found it excellent for a few other issues as well. After implanting it in his father’s sleep, he’d tested it the next day, and found his father perfectly open to Raury’s suggestion that he not only pay for his son’s tuition in full, but also provide him with a weekly stipend to help him with living expenses. The best part was that Raury could see the confusion in his father’s eyes as the chip overrode his own judgement, the words falling out of his mouth faster than he could even understand what he was saying.
And now, his father was visiting him for a long weekend, and Raury was going to be throwing a party–an orgy really–with an open invitation across any gay hookup app he could sign up on–and his father was going to be one of the main attractions.
“Alright Dad, do you have your uniform on for the party?” Raury asked.
His dad came out of the room, beaming a smile–but his eyes looked panicked all the same. He was completely naked aside from a black bowtie around his neck. “Yes son, I’m ready.”
“Now, for the entire party, you won’t be calling me son, will you? You’ll be calling me Master.”
“Yes…Master…” Raury could see his father fighting him–but there was no way he’d beat the chip. The struggle made it all the hotter, really.
“Now, once people arrive, you’re going to be making sure all of their needs are met, isn’t that right? Like a host.”
“You mean…serving drinks, Master?”
“That, but also, if anyone wants to use your holes–your mouth or your ass–you’re going to be more than happy to allow them to fuck you.”
The look in his father’s eyes was one of horror, but all he could say was, “Yes Master,” through half gritted teeth.
“Each time someone fucks you tonight, or feeds you a load of cum, or makes you drink their piss, you’re going to find yourself thinking less and less about women, and more and more about men. This is going to humiliate you, but soon, you’ll be hard as a rock, and unable to do anything about it. However, if anyone offers to suck you off, or to let you fuck them, you will refuse, and demand that you service them instead.”
His father was speechless. Raury just smiled, and said, “Let’s practice. Slave, get on your knees and suck me off.”
His father’s face turned bright red, but he did as he was commanded, and started sucking on his son’s cock. Raury sighed, knowing this would be a great party–and that by the end of the weekend, he’d have reduced his father to a meek, submissive cocksucking pig–one who would be begging his son for his cock forever more.
Martin gulped, and heard a notification on his phone. He checked it, and saw that someone had sent him directions…somewhere, and he knew he had to go there. This was a nightmare–this thing couldn’t be serious, right? But he found himself going into the bedroom, packing up a bag of gym clothes and almost nothing else. He got in his car and drove off, simply abandoning his keys on the counter–somehow, he knew he wouldn’t be coming back here, if New You Resolutions had anything to say about it.
The directions led him out of town on the interstate, and after a good fifty miles into the rural part of the state, he took an exit onto a smaller highway, and drove through the night, deeper and deeper, away from the city he’d known almost all of his life. All he could do while he was driving was think about how much his body ached from his exercise that day, and wonder who in the world he was going to be meeting on the other end of this journey. The sun rose, and he was close. Exhausted and nearly asleep at the wheel, he finally reached his destination.
It was a rather secluded piece of property in the foothills of the mountains. There was a bit of winter snow on the ground from a few days ago that hadn’t melted off yet. Martin got out of the car, and trudged his way up the wood steps of the house and knocked on the door. There were a few moments of silence, and then he heard the sound of heavy shoes on the other side of the door, and it opened, revealing, he assumed, his new trainer, and landlord.
He was…massive. Easily six foot six, and probably close to 300 pounds. He was older, most likely in his late fifties, his chest covered in grey hair, face shaven but with a layer of stubble, hair cut into a close flattop. He was wearing nothing other than a set of fatigue pants and combat boots. He stared down at Martin with a sense of disdain, and then stepped aside without a word, allowing Martin inside, sizing him up as he squeezed past the massive fellow.
“So this is who they’re sending me this year? Fucking hell. You projects are usually rough around the edges, but I haven’t had to shape up a doughball like you in a long time,” the man said.
“Please, there’s been some mistake, I…I just want to go home, please–”
Before Martin could get anything else out, the man’s hand was around his neck–tight enough to constrict his air a bit, but more an expression of power. “In this house, you will address me as Sir, do you understand? You are here because you want to get in shape, and god damn it, I will do so. I was a drill instructor for twenty years, and I have become very good at taking weak little pieces of shit like you and turning them into something resembling actual men–but the plus side of doing it for private clients is that I get to do everything the army never had the balls to let me do.”
He released Martin’s neck, and he stumbled backwards a bit, falling against the wall behind him.
“Now, drop and give me twenty.”
“I said, you fucking worm, drop and give me twenty pushups! This isn’t fucking rocket science, and if I don’t hear a Sir after your next sentence I will beat your ass red and raw to make sure you remember.”
Martin gulped, and got down in the hallway of the house, arms shaking from their massive workout the day before, and he could barely keep himself up in a plank position.
“Come on, let’s see what you have in you.”
He lowered himself down, but not far enough to the sergeant’s liking, and one boot came down on his back, and pushed him to the floor.
“All the way down, come on. Kiss my boot each time, let’s see if that gives you a little more incentive.”
Martin pushed himself back up, and the sergeant slid his boot right under his face. Martin tried to will himself upright, tried to walk out the door, but couldn’t–he lowered himself down, kissed the sergeant’s boot, and then tried to push himself back up–and failed. He collapsed against the top of the man’s boot, shuddering, and the man laughed.
“If you’re going to stay down there, at least give it a good cleaning, faggot,” the sergeant said. Again, Martin pushed his tongue out against his will, and started licking at the man’s boot, tasting the fresh boot black on the surface and trying not to gag. He pushed himself back up and down a few more times, licking the boot in between–and he finally noticed that he was hard as a rock. Each time the sergeant insulted him, each time he had to lick that damn boot, he was leaking in the front of him gym shorts from the day before.
He wasn’t gay, he wasn’t into any of this shit–what the hell was happening to him? He made it to ten pushups before he shuddered, and his cock came while on the sergeant’s boot, letting out a little groan of pleasure as he did so.
“You fuckin’–roll the fuck over.”
Martin did as he was ordered, and the front of his shorts was soaked with his cum.
“Just couldn’t fucking contain yourself, eh? Well, we can put a stop to that. Clearly you aren’t in shape enough to workout today, so we might as well get you cleaned up.
Cleaned up meant a cold shower, having all of the hair on his body shaved off, his hair buzzed down to almost nothing, and finally, a chastity cage secured around his now hairless cock and balls. He was left in the bathroom, shivering and staring at a stranger in the mirror, until the Sergeant brought him his new uniform–nothing more than a pair of too tight fatigue pants, and a pair of combat boots like his. Then, it was time to eat, and the Sergeant allowed him to rest, finally, on a small cot next to the Sergeant’s own, much larger bed.
He was awoken by the feeling of the Sergeant’s body pressing down on him, and before Martin could do anything, the man’s massive cock was inside his virgin ass, one hand around Martin’s mouth to muffle his screams. He fucked him quick, and Martin was horrified to find himself enjoying it–enjoying the pain, the tightness of his chastity cage, all of it–and then it was over, and Martin discovered he’d slept until the next day. It was time to train.
The days fell into a rhythm. Breakfast. The Sergeant would put him through a rigorous workout, after a long morning jog. Lunch. Martin would complete his chores around the house and the property. Dinner. A couple hours of time to relax. Then bed. The sergeant would fuck him, and then they would sleep hard until the next day.
Winter thawed. Spring came and Summer was blossoming. Martin’s training was progressing–until a new development came along that changed everything again.
Hey everyone! Now that work is settling down a bit after the holidays, I’m going to be opening up for commissions for the next couple of months. For this round, I will be opening up for sketch commissions, and short story commissions. Here are all the details!
— What kinds of commissions am I offering?
I will be offering two kinds of commissions while I am open.
Sketch Story commissions – A sketch story is around 1000 words long, and generally isn’t a fully fleshed out story. Think of it as a writer’s version of an artist’s sketch. The cost for a sketch commission is a flat $25 fee. Other ideas that can be turned into sketches rather easily would include:
A TF scene you would like me to write, which doesn’t necessarily warrant a full story.
A caption for a photo or two that you would like to see.
A branch you would like to see continued over on CYOC with a new chapter.
An alternate branch on an interactive story I have written, if you’d wanted to see a different sort of outcome.
A short fanfic story, though if I have to research a show or video game I don’t know, it will cost an extra $10 dollars.
Short story commissions – I define a short story as anything shorter than 5000 words. The rate for a short story is 3 cents a word, or 30 dollars per 1000 words written. A short story comes with more restrictions on content.
No fan fiction.
Stories involving your fursona or OC characters may require further consultation. This isn’t to say that furry stories aren’t allowed–but some ideas may be better suited to the sketch category above, than a full fledged story.
— How does my commission process work?
I do not work with a queue system–I’ve found it tends to make it harder for me to get through more pieces if I have to finish them in a particular order. Instead, I use what I call the pot system. It works like this:
You ask me for a commission, and we chat about your idea. If it sounds like something I can write for you, then I will send you a rough synopsis of the story, as I plan on writing it. Once you agree to that outline, I will put your commission ‘into the pot’.
There are two pots. There is the priority pot, reserved for patrons, and a general pot, for non-patrons. The pots will be publicly posted so you will know how many people are waiting. Sketch and story commissions share the same pots.
I will select stories from the pot to commit to writing, and then ask for the down payment before I begin the story. A sketch story requires the entire $25 payment before I begin, and a short story requires a $30 down payment. I will select commissions from the priority pot first, and then, once the priority pot is empty, I will begin taking general commissions from the pot, and working on those in turn.
Once I finish a story, I will send you a link to the first draft, and discuss any edits you would like to make. Small detail edits are free–if I have to substantially rework the story, that will incur an additional fee. The balance on a short story commission is due before edits will be done, and the story polished.
I will do my best to work through all of the commissions in both pots as quickly as I can. However, I can’t guarantee that I will finish every commission I put in the pot–this is why I take the down payment before I begin writing, not immediately after the consultation.
— How do I accept payments?
I prefer accepting payments over cash app or paypal.
— How long will I remain open for commissions?
I plan on remaining open through the end of March. When I reach a point that I feel like I cannot reasonably accept more commissions and finish them all in the time I have given myself, I will close the pots–but continue finishing the stories in them. I generally plan to finish all of the stories in both pots–however, life happens. I will only guarantee a story will be written once I have accepted a down payment from you.
—What sort of content will I be posting during this time?
I will be finishing off New You Resolutions over the next couple of weeks, and then will be taking a few weeks off from running an interactive. I will continue posting two or three captions or sketches a week, and will post commissions as I finish them.
–Can you get more than one short story commission? Can you commission sequels?
You sure can! However, I only work on one commission from each individual at a time, so you can’t commission 10,000 words all at once. If you would like another commission from me, you’re more than welcome to do so, however, all repeat customers go to the back of the queue automatically, to make sure a few people aren’t hogging my time.
— How do I contact you?
You can use the following ways to contact me regarding a commission. If you send me a message in some other fashion (say, over on tumblr) I can’t guarantee I’ll receive it. Patrons should message me either through discord, or send me a message through Patreon.
Email – email@example.com
Telegram – username @brackenous
Twitter – Send me a DM, my profile is @wesleybracken
Discord: username Wesley Bracken#4835
Thanks for your support as always! Get in touch if you’re interested in a commission!
Martin groaned as the alarm went off, and he fumbled with his phone for a few minutes, until he managed to get it swiped away, and his bedroom went quiet again. January first–time to try again.
It was a tradition at this point. For the last five years or so, Martin had made the same resolutions to himself in the New Year–to lose weight, and get in shape, and start going to the gym. When Martin had been younger, in high school, he had actually been a decent athlete–playing football in the Fall, and wrestling in the Winter. He hadn’t been particularly good at either of them, but he’d enjoyed being fit, and he’d liked the camaraderie of the sports. In college, however, he’d fallen out of practice, and when he had, the weight started piling on. He hated it, the flab around his waist that seemed to expand a bit more each time he weighed himself, but no matter how hard he tried, he’d never managed to get back into the habit of going to the gym.
Sure, some years were better than others. Two years ago, he managed to keep it up for a couple of months, and lost ten pounds. Then, a business trip had unraveled his habit, and in three months he’d gained everything back, and then even more. It was discouraging, and this year, he wasn’t feeling it at all. Maybe…it was time to give it up for good, and just accept that his athletic years were behind him for good. He grumbled, refusing to give in that easily, and got out of bed.
He made a protein shake, and it was terrible. He couldn’t find his gym shoes. His shorts didn’t really fit anymore. He looked like a fool. There was no way he could do this–maybe tomorrow. He could buy some new gear today, he could…he could just forget it entirely. He heaved a sigh, took off the tight clothes, and went back to bed–where a strange, golden envelope was waiting for him on his pillow. He picked it up and tore it open, and read the note inside.
Well Martin–we’ve decided that this year is the year that you finally make good on your resolution, and we’re going to help! Who are we you ask? We’re a very special organization, called New You Resolutions. We make resolutions easy! We’ll handle all the planning, and make sure you have the motivation and desire to make your fitness goals a reality for good.
Now get those clothes back on! Here’s your first resolution:
— I resolve to go to the gym every single day, for at least three hours.
Have a good time! We’re rooting for you.
Martin scoffed at the note, tossed it in the trash, but instead of climbing back into bed, he grabbed the shorts off the floor and pulled them back on, and the shirt as well. Confused, and a bit freaked out, he got his shoes on, and he was out the door, and on his way to the gym before he could really comprehend what was happening.
And once he was there, he couldn’t stop. The best he could manage was a short water break when he absolutely couldn’t handle the thirst anymore. At the end of the third hour of the most intense workout of his life, all he could do was lay down on a mat and pant, legs and arms trembling, until he could finally manage to stand, and hobble his way out of the gym, and back to his car, and then to his apartment.
He didn’t understand how that had happened. He had to use the rail on the stairway to haul himself up to the second floor, because his legs refused to lift high enough on their own. At last, he was back inside, collapsing, crying from the pain–and then he saw it. Another golden envelope, just like the first. He tore it open, hoping it would provide some answers–but it didn’t. It just had more awful news:
That looked like it was a bit rough, Martin. Do you know what you need? You need a trainer! Lucky for you, we have just the fellow in mind. Pack a bag of gym clothes, because you’re moving in with them, starting today! They’ll take good care of you–and we’ll have a few more resolutions ready for you when you get there.
Did they have to have that music on all the time? It seemed like, no matter when Lance went to the gym these days, the bass from that damn place next door leaked through the walls. Even when he had his headphones in, it was like he could still feel it in his bones.
That place, was the bathhouse that had somehow managed to open up right next door. No one had expected it. It had been under construction for a few months, and no one had any idea what it was going to be, and then, when it opened, the guys at the gym were disgusted to discover that they were going to be sharing their parking lot with a bunch of fags going in to get their rocks off. They’d tried complaining, but there wasn’t anything they could do about it, so they settled into a bit of a truce. The only thing breaking that line between them was the music coming from the bathhouse.
It could be worse though, right? Lance pulled off his shirt, dropped his gym shorts, and admired himself in the mirror, pleased with his progress lately. He snapped a photo, and then put his phone back in his bag, and kept admiring himself.
The nipple piercings he’d gotten a few weeks ago were still a bit tender, but fuck, they were hot as hell. He’d never really thought about it before–if anything, he might have thought getting his tits pierced was a little…well, gay. It felt so good though, and it definitely made him look hotter in his opinion. Hell, just looking at himself, he was getting a bit hard already.
He groped his cock and balls through his grungy jock, and noticed it was wet again. He kept leaking at the gym lately, usually enough to soak his jock and stain the front of his shorts. It…was embarrassing, but also kind of hot for some reason, but it was hard to explain why. He was about to stroke off, when he realized he wasn’t alone–an older, chubby fellow was on a bench not twenty feet away, dripping dry with a towel over his shoulder. He must have been in the shower while Lance was checking himself out.
The older man leered at Lance, pulled the towel away, and revealed his own cock, rock hard, and he started stroking it while Lance stared at it.
*Thump* *Thump* *Thump* *Thump*
Ten minutes later, Lance left the door, not even aware of the load of cum plastered across his bearded face. As he headed for his truck, he saw a familiar car pull up with some guys who worked out at the gym, but instead of going in there, they all went right into the bathhouse instead. Lance was a bit…unnerved by it, and wondered how he’d never realized any of them were fags this whole time. He certainly would never be going in there, of course. No…never. Sure, he had that one dream once, and…but no. Not even if he was curious. He wouldn’t cross that line.