Yeah, I know I’m not like most burglars. For one, I only break into houses when they’re occupied. Well, I should be more specific–I only break into houses that are occupied my men, preferably by big, beefy daddies like this guy here–ain’t he something?

Yeah, he thought he could defend himself–they always do. He pointed the gun at me and looked in my eyes…and well, he wasn’t ready for my psychic blast, I don’t think, and his mind was blank and under my complete control seconds later. Before too long, he was on the bed, groaning, gun by his side, cock hard, playing with his nipples–helpless, basically–while I cased the joint and took what I wanted. Now don’t worry, I didn’t leave him unsatisfied. In fact, he thanked me profusely for the best orgasm of his life and for for robbing him of his worthless goods before sucking my cock off.

So I suppose I’ve never really robbed anyone, since they’re always happy to give me anything they want, isn’t that right? You do want to give me everything I want, right?

Source: intriguingmales-blog

Growing older sucked. Now forty, Roy was fighting his body every day, from the balding to the body hair, to the paunch that resisted every diet and workout. There was no denying it–he was a bear, and he wasn’t happy about it. Well, he did like the way he looked, the real problem was that none of the guys he wanted were all that into his mature look.
Yeah, Roy loved twinks–he almost hated admitting it out loud, but something about their boyish looks and smooth, slim bodies drove him absolutely wild. Unfortunately, none of them ever gave him the time of day–until now. He still couldn’t believe the shirt had worked. He’d bought it online for the hefty price of 500 dollars, and he thought he’d been scammed when he couldn’t see anything odd about it–it just looked like a yellow shirt to him. But the first time he’d worn it to the club? The twinks had swarmed him. He’d gone home with three different boys, who’d kept him up all damn night.
So maybe growing older wasn’t so bad, so long as one always had the sense to be fashion forward.

Source: irishcubby

Your eyes flicked to the clock on your computer screen–its been 45 minutes? How…how could you have been staring at this photo for 45 minutes? Especially considering how the faceless pic is most definitely not your type, with the huge belly hanging distended over the waistband of the huge pair of jeans barely held up by a set of braces. It was part of an ad on Craigslist–you’d never actually called anyone–you mostly went on there for laughs, right? I mean, you weren’t actually…thinking about calling him, were you?

You read the advertisement again. You’ve read the short message written in all caps so many times now you’ve memorized it, but you read it anyway: “OBESE MASTER SEEKS SLAVE. MUST BE WEAK WILLED. CALL 555-253-6535 IF YOU CAN’T HEP YOURSELF.” Fifteen minutes later, you’re calling the number, begging and pleading him to let you come worship his massive frame. He gives you an address, and you leave, forgetting your phone and keys–you aren’t planning on coming back.

You never did notice notice that the picture was a GIF, did you?

Source: fatfiend

love the infantilist part of the matchmaker. do you intend to write any humiliation stories in that direction again?

Short answer: Yes. Slightly longer answer: Yes, but my stuff tends to cover a lot of bases and fetishes. It all sort of depends on the images I find, and what sort of stories I feel like writing. If there’s a particular story/fetish you want me to make happen, I’m always open for requests and commissions. You can find details here: http://wesleybracken.tumblr.com/post/27772012667/announcing-photo-caption-week

Never Heckle a Hypnotist

What’s the story with who? Oh, Robbie? The guy guzzling piss down at the end of the bar?

Ha, funny story there–let me just tell you this–never heckle a hypnotist.

What, you want the whole story? Alright, but look, I confess that it might have been a bit of a stunt, but you have to understand what it’s been like for us gay bars here in this economy, right? Guys just aren’t coming out as much, and if they need to hook up, they just use one of those fancy apps of theirs–and look, we didn’t have anything like that back in my red sock days, so you’ll understand that I was feeling a little desperate. I mean, how desperate do you have to be to hire a fucking sex hypnotist for a show? Even I felt a little silly talking to the guy when we were setting it up. Besides, the guy didn’t sound all that impressive over the phone, but he offered me a deal, and I was willing to try anything.

But anyway, this is really about Robbie, not about me and my bar–regardless, I just want you to know that I didn’t mean for it to happen–it was his fault really for not keeping his mouth shut, let me tell you. Robbie…Robbie is, well, was a troublemaker, a rabble rouser, whatever you want to call it. He mucked up shit is what I’m saying. If he could say something to get a rise out of you, he would, and let’s just say he wasn’t really well liked at the bar, and never went home with anyone who really got to know him, but he was a staple, right? You got used to the inane bullshit which generally spewed out of his mouth after a while, still, I probably should have warned the hypnotist that there would be heckler in the audience.

And I might as well point out Jimmy too–he’s Robbie’s, well, I guess you could say boyfriend, although I think Robbie only calls him “daddy” in public now. Trust me, he wasn’t always the cocky leather bear you see over there.

Back before the show, he was a just a meek little clean shaven cub. Cute, but really, really quiet. He and Robbie, well, Robbie took advantage of him I think, made friends, they had sex a couple of times, but Robbie, well, I don’t know the details. Suffice it to say, Jimmy got burned–bad. But that’s what Robbie does I guess–well not anymore, that’s one good thing. He’s too busy drinking piss to throw shit around now.

So the night of the show rolled around, and we had a decent crowd in here–maybe thirty or forty, and Robbie was present of course and already drunk by the time the performance rolled around. Now we tend to cater to an older, bearish crowd, so everyone was pretty lackluster when the small, slight hypnotist took the stage. I too, was a bit disappointed, because I was hoping he would at least be some decent eye candy, but eh, whatever. He did his little introduction, and then asked for volunteers from the audience. He got a few good looking guys to go up there–he could at least read the tastes of the room.

One person he did manage to get up on stage was Jimmy. I don’t know why he worked so hard at getting him up there, but the shy cub gave in eventually. I don’t really remember the rest of the volunteers, it was mostly the regulars who were open enough with everyone to not mind being made a fool for the rest of our amusement. Anyway, the hypnotist got the inductions going, and I kept looking over at Robbie, knowing he was going to say something stupid and that I’d have to haul his ass out to the curb, but he stayed quiet for the meantime.

Once they were all under, he did some pretty generic stuff, making them strip down to their underwear as fast as they could, then making the loser get down and lick the feet of the winner. Making them all get uncontrollably hard and horny, but unable to get their underwear down or touch their dicks. It was pretty funny, actually, but then Robbie started his shit. Heckling the guy, telling him how stupid his act was. I let it go on for a minute, and then started over, ready to kick him out, but a stern look from the hypnotist stopped me, and I realized I might have misjudged the young guy.

He put the other volunteers to sleep, and then addressed Robbie, inviting him up onto the stage. Robbie, of course, insisted that he couldn’t be hypnotized, but everyone else had had enough of his shit too, so eventually he was forced up onto the stage, where he stumbled about, drunk off his ass. Needless to say, little miss I-can’t-be-hypnotized was out like a light in about thirty seconds flat, and then the fun really began.

He stood Robbie up and laid into his ass in front of the audience, belittling and insulting him, but always telling him how he was a naughty little boy who probably couldn’t even hold in his piss, and sure enough, less than a minute later, the front of Robbie’s jeans darkened with a tell-tale stain.

He’d actually gone and pissed himself, and the whole room started roaring with laughter. Robbie hadn’t even noticed yet, and as soon as the look of horror crossed his face, the hypnotist said “Freeze,” and Robbie couldn’t move a muscle while the rest of us hooted and hollered with glee. But the hypnotist wasn’t done, not by a long shot. With Robbie immobilized and humiliated, he stood He stood Jimmy up and started working on him.

He asked Jimmy how his father had treated him–hell, we all could tell he’d probably had a rough childhood, like most of us–and he described a rough, demanding man with a definite affinity for corporal punishment, especially spankings. Well the hypnotist started winding him up, tell him that it was time for Jimmy to step into his daddy’s shoes, and show the little boy on stage what happens to him when he’s naughty. When he unfroze them both, Jimmy stormed over, grabbed Robbie by the forearm and hauled him over his knee, pounding his ass and hollering at him in a strange, deep voice about how it’s time to take his punishment, for being a naughty little pants-pisser.

Robbie obviously wasn’t used to the treatment and started to cry, but the hypnotist kept them both quiet and told them what to say, narrating a scene where a little boy who loves pissing himself finally admits to his daddy that what he wants, more than anything else in the world, is to be a urinal. I swear, I know it sounds nuts, but that’s how it ended up, with Robbie bent over Jimmy’s knee shouting for the whole room to hear how he wanted to be a urinal, “Please daddy, make me a urinal!” and the hypnotist turns to us, and asks whether we should help this naughty little boys dream come true, and of course we hoot and holler yes like a pack of wolves.

Well, the hypnotist starts telling Robbie about everything it takes to be a good urinal for a men’s room, gets him naked aside from his underwear, then sets him down on his knees, on the stage, and tells all the guys up there that Robbie needs to practice a bit before taking his “daddy’s” piss. So they all piss in his mouth and down the front of him, and Robbie just can’t get fucking enough of it. I mean, I knew then, that this was going to far, that we had taken a left turn at crazy, but I couldn’t stop it–I was laughing too hard.

So he drank all their piss, and he’s fucking soaked, when it’s finally Jimmy’s turn, but the hypnotist has a challenge for them. He wants them to stand as far away from each other, and see if Jimmy can still get his son doused in his piss, and by golly, that piss arced a good six feet, I’m not lying. Sure, the hypnotist worked a little magic on Jimmy’s bladder, but hey, it was still hot as hell, and I’m not even into that shit.

It was quite the finale, and we all gave the hypnotist quite the ovation, and he had a little chat with all of his volunteers before letting them off for the night, although they were all left with a few tweaks that were only supposed to last a night. Jimmy, well, he kept his big daddy persona with the deep voice and confidence to boot–and Robbie, fuck, he had no fucking clue. The hypnotist told him that for the rest of the evening, he would think that his clothes were perfectly dry, and that he would be unable to use the bathroom, pissing his pants instead, and he would be forced to announce it to the room every time it happened. Lastly, and perhaps worst of all, he was going to keep drinking all night, but instead of going to the bar, he’d ask around for piss to fill his glass with from men in the room, thinking it was beer the entire time.

Fuck, watching him walk around thinking he didn’t have a ton of men’s piss soaked into his clothes, including Jimmy’s, who he’d treated so poorly, it was priceless. Hell, when he wasn’t looking, guys kept pissing on him, at least when they weren’t providing him with bottomless refills in his glass. He left that night with a stomach so bloated, I figured he would piss gallons when it all finally worked its way out of him. Still, the bar was such a fucking mess, I was here for hours mopping up piss after closing time.

Well, a few days passed, and Robbie was suspiciously absent from the bar. When he finally did show up, it was with a foggy memory, and no one really wanted to razz him too hard, to be honest. But Jimmy, man, had he become a cocky asshole, though still nicer than Robbie had been. That little personality adjustment had really gone to his head, and he was getting laid right and left–and topping all of them, or so I’d heard. He’d also gone out and bought some new leather gear, and started smoking cigars so he would look older. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if he went and dyed his beard grey, he’s so wrapped up in looking like a good leather daddy now. Anyway, when he saw Robbie, he just wouldn’t let up, and to my surprise, Robbie was the submissive one this time around. By the end of the night, Jimmy had Robbie down at the end of the bar, right where he is now, drinking down piss once again like it was his favorite thing, and the two have been inseparable ever since, believe it or not.

I will say though, that having a bar urinal has been great for business. I’ve never really made inroads with the whole kink community, but hey, Robbie has been great for that. Besides, the two of them seem happy…god, that’s kind of sick, isn’t it? Well, I’m actually scheduling another performance with the hypnotist for next month–you should come watch it. I think it’s going to be a packed house, but like I said earlier, stay quiet, and never heckle a hypnotist. You never know where you might end up when he’s through with you.

The house was haunted, or at least, that’s what everyone said. No one in the neighborhood had ever seen the ghost themselves–but everyone knew the stories. The children made up their own tales to terrorize, gleaned from small, true details overheard from hushed whispers–the rattling of chains, the screams of pain coming from the basement. 

It never stayed vacant for long–a young couple would move in, convinced that with some hard work they could have the dilapidated old building looking good as new–and the price was always such a steal. They would move in, and the neighborhood would watch. The wife would leave within a month, driven away by the specter and their suddenly intolerable husband. They always became demanding–abusive, with a new desire for doggy style and the wife’s back door, yelling at empty spaces, spending days in the basement all by themselves.

No one knew where the husbands went. One day, they were just not there anymore, a new “for sale” sign up within a week, luring in another victim, another master to sate house slave’s endless desires.

Source: fagthing

Lost? No, you weren’t lost anymore. Sure, a few days ago, when you’d found yourself stranded in the bayou after you were separated from the tour group, tromping and crashing through the muddy water trying to find your way back to civilization, yeah, you’d been lost then. But now? No, you weren’t lost, you were home.

The Bayou had taken you in, it had chosen you, spared you death so that you could be reborn. It did it in dreams–every night, after emerging from a deep, horrific, and fitful sleep filled with fires and dank mud, you woke changed. Your clothes had gone missing the first morning–the tattoos, the marks of the bayou–they had come the second. Your body shifting and changing as the days passed, your mind growing accustomed to life here, filling with knowledge as your old life washed away out to the ocean. 

And now, you were close to your birth. Clothes had begun to drift towards you–a hat, a pair of boots–but more would come. The bayou would provide after all–the bayou will provide.

Poll Results and Updated Schedule

Alright, I got a few answers to my earlier question, so I’m going to expand three of those photo captions from last week. On Friday, we’ll be seeing more of Robbie and the Hypnotist, because damn, you all reblogged and liked the hell out of that one (thanks for all of that by the way, it’s much appreciated). Next Tuesday, I’m going to expand Andy and the Roadhouse, because a few asked for it, and because I’m partial to it myself. Next Friday, I’ll expand the Movie Theater Intermission, because I got a few requests and quite a few likes for that as well (plus I never write in the second person, so it’s good practice). 

Also! It seemed like you all enjoyed the photo captions, so I’m just going to start doing those regularly from now on. I’m going to try and do sets of two on three days each week (Monday, Thursday and Sunday). Regular vignettes will still appear every Tuesday and Friday, so hooray five days of content! Let’s hope for no burnout!

That is all, we now resume your regularly scheduled stream of porn.

Southern Blackmail

The corded phone rang, and Robert picked it up on the first ring.

“He–Hello?”

“Where’s my fuckin’ cash, faggot?”

Robert cringed at the sound of the Gabe’s deep southern twang on the other end of the line,

but knew better than to try and hang up the phone at this point–he wouldn’t be able to. “I don’t…I mailed it out last week, I hoped it would have gotten there on time, like always,” Robert said. None of what he’d said was a lie, of course, he couldn’t lie to Gabe on the phone. It had gone out last week, but later than usual, because it had taken him an extra day to scrounge up the funds.

“Bullshit, what aren’t ya tellin’ me faggot?”

“I…I didn’t have the money, Gabe. I got it out a day late. Please, you’ve already emptied my savings, I don’t have anything! I had to pawn my watch, and sell some of my electronics on Craigslist–”

“Faggots don’t need tah tell time, ‘n ya could use a little less time on those disgustin’ porn sites a yers. Well then again, maybe ya do need a watch, since ya can’t figure out when tah pay me.”

“Ye…Yes…I’m sorry, I just didn’t have the money, please–I’m sorry,” Robert said, with a gulp. He was in trouble, not that he hadn’t already been in trouble for months now. Robert lived in the deep south, and worked for an ultra-conservative baptist church as a bookkeeper–and he was gay. Sure, he was conflicted about it, but he’d really just fallen into the position there before having his personal, sexual epiphany, and in his small community, he was cornered. The internet was too risky, so he’d turned to highway rest stops, writing his barely used home phone number on the wall, asking for hook ups. It had worked well, until Gabe had called one day.

They’d hooked up–or rather, Gabe had come over one night, shoved Robert down on the wood floor at the front door and had his way with him, calling him a worthless faggot and worse the whole time, before getting up and leaving without a word, and Robert had been glad to see the backside of him–but the redneck was smarter than that. When he’d fucked Robert–he’d done something to him–he could control him using his voice, even through the telephone, and after one more conversation, he’d learned all of Robert’s secrets–and had then threatened to force Robert to out himself at work if he didn’t send Gabe five hundred dollars cash in the mail every week. He didn’t make much at the church, but he’d been able to rely on his savings for a while, but now even that was dry–and he had no idea what Gabe was going to do now that Robert couldn’t make his payments.

“Well since ya can’t be a good little faggot and pay me on time, Ah guess yer gonna have tah be punished. Strip faggot.”

Robert couldn’t resist the order, and he put down the phone, pulling off all of his clothes before sitting back down, “Please, you don’t have to do this, I can get you the money on time from now on,” he pleaded.

“Do ya got a butt plug or a dildo, faggot? I bet ya do, all ya faggots gotta have those nasty things.”

“Yes, but please–”

“Shut yer god damn trap, ‘r we’re gonna have a real fuckin’ problem, faggot!” Gabe shouted through the receiver, making Robert whimper, “Ya got it?”

“Yes…yes, sir.”

“Better. Go get it, ‘n put it up yer hole. Tell me when it’s there.”

Robert again put down the phone, went into his room, and retrieved his six inch long, flesh colored dildo, the only one he owned. He’d bought it while on vacation up north, but didn’t use it very often, so working it in was hard, especially since he couldn’t find his lube. Still, he had to obey Gabe and get it up there, and soon the plastic balls were against his hole between his legs, and he walked oddly back to the phone. “It’s in.”

“Good. Now, here’s what yer gonna do, faggot. From now on, yer gonna wear that dildo in yer ass to work, all day, everyday. Yer gonna fuck yerself on it when yer alone, ‘n at least once a day, ya gotta go intah the bathroom ‘n jack off while ya fuck yerself, ‘n eat yer cum, got it?”

“No, please–”

“What the hell did Ah say ‘bout talkin’ back, bitch?”

“But–but what if someone catches me?”

“Then ya better beg them tah keep quiet–ya can even offer tah suck their dick off in exchange fer not tellin’. Yer a faggot, men love a hole tah fuck, if ya seem desperate ‘n worthless enough.”

Robert was speechless. Even worse, he knew he wasn’t going to be able to resist the order. Tomorrow, he’d march into work with a six inch dildo up his ass, and there would be nothing he could do to stop it.

“Ya there faggot? Ya got all that?”

“Yes, yes I got it.”

“Good. Now, we’re gonna have tah figure out a way fer ya tah get some more money tah pay me with, ‘cause this job ain’t gonna cut it alone. So how about this. How about ya start rentin’ out those faggot holes a yers, tah any roughneck lookin’ fer a hole? How’s that sound?”

“No…No, I’m not going to–please don’t make me do that!”

“No? Then how come yer cock’s all hard from thinkin’ ‘bout it, faggot?”

Shit, he was hard. “I’m not going to do it.”

“Go on, jack off yer cock faggot, it’s alright. Think about how much ya’d love tah be used ‘n abused by big roughnecks like me fer hours ‘n hours. How ya’d beg ‘em tah plant their seed deep in yer hole, how ya’d finish the night wit’ a ass ‘n face plastered wit’ cum. Jack off too, ya faggot, Ah know ya can’t resist.”

Oh Jesus, it really was turning him on, wasn’t it? Robert felt his hand wrap it’s way around his cock and start jacking it, while his mind pictured him bent over the bed or the couch, while a long line of bikers, truckers and trailer trash lined up behind him to use his holes.

“Ah can hear ya faggot, gettin’ all excited over there. Hear ya pantin’ like a bitch ‘n heat. Go on, ya can admit it. It’s yer ultimate fantasy. It’s got ya so excited yer gonna cum, ain’t ya. Ya can’t hold it back bitch, I know ya can’t–”

“Fuck! Fuck oh god damn it!” Robert hollered as he came all over his belly, cum shooting all the way up to the phone cord.

“Nasty fuckin’ faggot,” Gabe said, “Since ya want it so much, maybe Ah shouldn’t let ya do it. Maybe Ah should make it so ya can’t even cum!”

“No! Please, I’ll do it, I’ll do it, please,” Robert said, unable to stop himself. The fantasy–it had been so hot. He did want it, he really did, even though he knew deep down that he shouldn’t. That he’d fallen into one of Gabe’s many traps once more.

“Oh, like Ah’m gonna do what a faggot asks me tah do. Forget it.”

“No, look, I’ll…I’ll send you all the money I make–and pictures! Or video, whatever you want!”

“You disgusting piece of trash!” Gabe shouted, “You think I’m a gay boy like you? Fuck no, I don’t want any pictures of you taking another man’s cock up your hole, it’s disgusting!”

“I’m sorry, but please…please let me do it sir, please.”

“Alright, fine. Since yer bein’ such a whiny bitch. But Ah got a few conditions. One, Ah’m in charge a yer schedule, ‘n yer appointments. Ah set them up, set the prices ‘n the men pay me directly, since ya can’t be trusted tah send me mah payment on time. Two, ya do anythin’ a man asks ya tah do on the clock–no refusals. They can fuck ya raw if they want. They can piss on ya if they want. They can make ya dress up like a bitch before they fuck ya if they want. Lastly, ya don’t cum, ever, when yer servin’ a man. Yer job is tah please their cock, not yers. Got it?”

“Yes…Yes I–I understand. I’ll do it.”

“Good. Now, ya better get ready. Ah have six guys scheduled fer half hour blocks startin’ in fifteen minutes. Now yer gonna go unlock the front door, greet every client naked ‘n on yer knees and kiss their boots when they come in, then do anythin’ they want.”

“Wait…six? Six? I can’t, I don’t have time–”

“Hey faggot, yer only pullin’ in twenty bucks a session. It’s gonna take at least, what, twenty five sessions a week tah make yer payment? In fact, might as well up yer payment tah me, since yer gonna be enjoyin’ it so much–so get ready, yer gonna be workin’ those holes a whole lot from now on. Now have a good afternoon faggot.” Gabe said, and hung up before Robert could say another word.

He’d been played–the entire time, Gabe had been setting him up for this…and he didn’t care. He wanted to be a whore for rough, dirty men, it had become his ultimate fantasy the moment Gabe had said it. He couldn’t have been the first one he’d done this to. Gabe probably had a network of men like him on call. He got up and undid the deadbolt on his front door, before getting down on his knees, head bowed, staring down at the same floor he’d been forced down on when Gabe had stormed in and raped him, the same floor he’d licked his cum off of when Gabe saw he’d cum just from getting fucked–or had any of that happened? Was he just imagining, and justifying, his new wants and cravings? But he was a faggot, wasn’t he. Gabe was right, and this was where he really belonged.