Patreon Suggested Stories – June 2018 | Wesley Bracken on Patreon

I have three short stories for my Patrons this month, all based on their suggestions. Here’s one I wrote for them last month, which was too early to post then, and is too late to post now, but oh well, happy Father’s Day anyway.

Happy Father’s Day From Arctos

Jace and his dad, Patrick had never really seen eye to eye on anything, especially not since Jace had become a teenager. Patrick had spent his whole life pursuing the middle class dream, and now in his mid-fifties, he’d achieved it. The big house in the suburbs, a good wife, a handsome son. Sure–his life wasn’t exactly exciting–he spent the week working as a middle manager at a technology company in the city, and the weekends were usually spent golfing and relaxing at home. He liked the simple, boring life though, and he’d hoped his son would be the kind of boy he’d wanted–playing golf with him, playing baseball or football at school. A good student with an interest in business, going to college–but Jace had wanted anything but that, and his teenage years had been one rebellion after another. Growing his hair out, getting into music and trying to start a band in the garage, refusing to take golf lessons or play sports, and Patrick was almost certain he was a stoner too–but Jace was clever, and hadn’t gotten caught, yet. His wife generally stayed out of it, and after years of fighting over it, Patrick had more or less resigned himself to accepting that his son was going to do his own thing–and probably fail at it, but he refused to listen to reason.

Jace was eager to get out and live on his own. He didn’t want to go to college–he was more interested in trying to make it as a musician than studying or anything. He hadn’t quite figured out how to break that to his father yet, though–so he decided to try and smooth things over a bit and get on his good side, before dropping the hammer over the summer that he wasn’t going to apply for school anywhere. And so, he found himself in a store, looking around for a Father’s Day card he could give his dad, along with the gift of some golf balls–it was stupid, but he knew his dad cared a little too much about stupid shit like that. He didn’t pay much attention to the card he grabbed–it came from a novelty rack sponsored by some company called Arctos. He signed it at home, and then left it on his dad’s desk in his office, where Patrick would see it when he got home from golfing in the early afternoon, before going out into the garage to practice.

He was too absorbed in his playing to hear the shout of alarm coming from the house after his dad got home, found the card, and opened it. Patrick had been touched to get anything from his son this year, since usually he pretended that Father’s Day didn’t exist, or just called it a corporate scam. But when he’d opened the card, a thick cloud of smoke had exploded out of it, engulfing him, and when it cleared, he felt…strange, and looked stranger. He stumbled to the bathroom down the hall, and saw that his gold outfit had disappeared. In it’s place, he was wearing a strange assortment of leather gear, and his body was all wrong too. He had hair all over the place, for one thing, with a thick bushy beard down to his chest. But as shocking as it was, he…looked good, and looking at himself all leathered up, he thought he’d pay his boy a visit, so they could celebrate Father’s Day properly.

Out in the garage, he yanked out the power cord to Jace’s guitar, and before he could react, he had him pinned to the wall, kissing and groping him, more smoke emerging from him and swirling around Jace–though he didn’t change as much as his father, at least not physically. He found himself helplessly obeying his father’s commands, and there was nothing he could do as the smoke around them turned his guitar and music equipment into a sling and sex dungeon right there in the garage, where his father used his boy all afternoon and evening, making sure he was properly broken in.

Things were different for them both, from that day on. Patrick’s wife had disappeared from their lives, leaving just the two of them living in the house together, as father and son, and as lovers. Jace tried a few times to talk some sense into his ‘Daddy’, as he now always called him, but while Patrick could remember their old life just fine, he much preferred this new arrangement. Jace, in a desperate effort, tried to run away, but his daddy hunted him down, and Patrick told him he would have to be punished for his disobedience. After a long night in the dungeon, and after the same smoke from the card emerged from his father and surrounded Jace, he found himself in a rather different body than before–still young, but his long hair was cut into the same style as his father now, and his thin frame was now short and pudgy, his six inch cock cut in half–which Daddy promptly locked away for the rest of the summer, as a way of encouraging his boy to be on his best behavior.

But Jace’s rebellious streak died hard, that summer. His father took over his life–what he wore (his band shirts replaced with business casual, or nothing at all when he was at home), who he hung out with (his bandmates never knew why he stopped hanging out with them, but Patrick entertained the other dads of the neighborhood regularly, and all of them had their fun with Jace’s holes), and what he did with his time (he played round after round of golf with his daddy, but was also in charge of keeping house and cooking meals, since Daddy didn’t have time for it, with work). He fought back, but every time he did, his father would drag him back out into the garage, the smoke would return, and change something else. He got older, aging up into his forties at first, and then even further, passing his father in age and ending up at sixty-two, though he would always be the boy in the relationship. He lost all the hair on his body, and most of the hair on his head, his voice shifting higher and picking up a femme touch–something that drove daddy wild, when he listened to his boy beg for him to fuck him every night like the little slutty boy he was, and by the end of the summer, he’d resigned himself to his new life as his one-time father’s subby boy, and the slut of the entire neighborhood to boot.

Patreon Suggested Stories – June 2018 | Wesley Bracken on Patreon

The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 4 (Part 2)

He was still cuffed to the pipe, but only by one hand, so he could eat and drink as necessary. He had finished the water, and used the container to hold his other business in the meantime–which I disposed of, and then I showed him the mugshot I’d gotten from the computer, the picture of his old face.

“Who’s that?” he said, and then looked a bit closer, eyes going a bit wide, “Oh…where did you dredge this old thing from? I haven’t seen that face in the mirror in…a very long time.”

“So you do remember.”

“Of course I remember–what made you think I didn’t?”

“Tell me what happened. Tell me what the bruiser did to get you from there,” I pointed at the picture, “to here,” I moved my finger to him.

He sighed. “I don’t really feel like talking–isn’t there something you’d rather do to me, sir?” he grinned, “I can smell the cum on you–you didn’t shoot while you were gone did you? I only want that cum of yours going one place.” I told him he was vile, but he just laughed. “The only way you’re going to get me tell you anything, is if you give me what I want.”

I had no patience for this–I walked over and got rough with him, feeling the need to dominate well up inside me, the voices getting louder now, and the smell of him…I lost myself, that night, for the first time. Lost myself to some strange mixture of our own sick desires–my aching need for control, his desperation for filth, both of us meeting somewhere in the middle. I could feel my balls swelling with every load I shot on him, and everytime I came, I only seemed to get hornier, until we both collapsed in exhaustion, and in the early morning hours, my head on his chest, still stroking myself and unable to stop, he relented and told me his story.

His life before his fateful encounter with the bruiser was, as far as he was concerned, a waste. He’d grown up in the sticks, in a little trailer park. Never amounted to much, never done well in school, picked up a few jobs here and there, but nothing had ever really stuck with him…because there was really only one thing he liked to do–and that was sucking cock. He’d sucked off his older brothers, and even his dad once, when he was drunk as hell, but soon discovered that the best place he could find fresh dick was at the rest area about ten miles down the highway, where a few other enterprising faggots had taken to drilling gloryholes faster than the maintenance crews could put new walls in the stalls.

From the way he talked about himself…it was like he was talking about a different person. He only talked about in it the third person–Steven was, Steven did, Steven thought. He’d clearly disassociated himself from the person he’d been entirely–and it was clear that he hated him. He’d been weak, too scared of himself to really commit to what he wanted, torn between what was acceptable and respectable, and what he really was. It was also the most emotional he’d been–it was clear that he hadn’t talked about this in a long time, if ever. I doubted that he’d ever had the opportunity to tell the story to someone who would believe him, much less be able to understand what he was even talking about–although at the time, I didn’t really understand much.

Even after everything that had happened to me, after everything that I had done, I couldn’t really believe that this was something…beyond rationality. Beyond the real, the physical, the mundane. There had to be some other explanation–a drug, most likely. Something in the…smell of them, that was doing this to me, was what I thought. I did listen though. I listened, and for the moment, I let that doubt go. This, I could tell, was his truth–what he firmly believed. Whether it was real or not is something I couldn’t know, but sometimes a lie can be more helpful than the truth. There is power in stories. Anyone who has seen a rape victim take the stand against their rapist can attest to that to the power of one’s story, and of witnessing. So I listened, and I was a witness for him, and he told me what happened that night, at the rest area years ago, the night the bruiser came in to the restroom, stepped into the stall beside the one where the young Steven was crouched down, mouth to the hole, waiting for another cock to service, working his own cock slowly. He thought he heard the man…sniffing at the air, and then, after a moment or two, a cock slipped through, and Steven got to work.

At first, it was nothing particularly interesting. Average to small cock, uncut, uninteresting flavor–but that was no reason for him to not enjoy himself on it. Then, as he worked on it, he began to notice that something about it was changing–that it was growing. At first, he’d thought it was just the process of the man’s cock getting fully hard, but it wasn’t just gaining girth–but length as well, sliding deeper down his throat with each thrust, deep enough that he gagged on it, and had to pull away for a moment to recover. The man on the other side of the wall growled when he did, and the cock pulled back through–and Steven saw it really was larger, so large it scraped the sides of the small gloryhole as it withdrew. The man stepped out of the stall, and hammered on the door of the stall where Steven was kneeling, and the weak lock gave way after a moment, the door swinging in and hitting him in the face, and the man who came in…there was something wrong with him.

The Brusier Rapes – Episode 4 (Part 1)

All else considered in the nightmare this case was becoming, I had to remind myself that (all things being equal) if you ignored the fact I was imprisoning a man in my basement and fucking him, this was, still, a substantial break in the case. It wasn’t until the next morning that I thought to dig through the biker’s cut up clothing, find his wallet, and check his ID. He did, in fact, have a license, and a name–Steven Perkins. He laughed when he saw I had found it, and just told me that his friends called him Cumster. I ignored him, as much as I knew he still deserved to be…punished, and left the basement, making sure he had food and water, and then remembered to shower–finally.

How many days had it been at that point? It was such a relief, feeling the water wash over me, taking away some of the thoughts and compulsions–or maybe I was just imagining it, but even the illusion was enough to give me some confidence I still had some power here. I was, after all, literally the one holding the keys to his freedom–as I should be. The righteousness was distressing, still is distressing, to some extent, but I’ve had to learn to embrace it. To accept that what I feel is, necessarily, right. It is mine, the core of it at least. Whatever might happen to me, I know, in the end, I will win–because order has to win. I will not allow these agents of chaos to have their way…and that’s why I have to do this, why I am writing this. For myself, hopefully. If not, for someone else who can carry on in my stead.

I wonder if you’re hearing the voice too, now. If it can reach even through writing. I pity you, if you are, but know that I will bring order to you as well, one day.

I hadn’t checked in at the precinct in over a day now, and I was certain the brass was going nuts, wondering if I’d gone the way of Jules, and fucked this case over even more. I got in the car and went in. I spent the first hour getting raked over the coals for not getting this case under control, because someone had gone and leaked details of the second rape to the media. I knew immediately who it had been–Marcus. Probably, he was angry at me for not giving him a chance to speak to Ray in the interrogation room, but I couldn’t see how this would help him…although, it did put everyone on high alert. I wondered, again, if he could be the rapist behind all of this, pretending to play a victim in order to get closer to the case and track our progress. He also, I supposed, could have been a friend of the rapist, much like Cumster, working with him to confuse us and keep him off the trail…but that didn’t seem right either. He really was desperate to find him, and given Bernard’s behavior, it seemed consistent with someone the rapist hadn’t had a chance to…finish. Or had purposefully decided to leave unfinished.

Jules still hadn’t shown up anywhere. No one had seen Bernard or Ray. The case was out of control, and they were looking to me–had I found something? Anything? A lead? Something to feed the press hounding them all about what they were doing about this strange serial rapist? I couldn’t tell them about the man locked up in my basement, but I told them I may have found someone else with a history with the rapist–we had talked, but then he’d gotten spooked and disappeared, but not before I’d gotten his name. So I ran Steven Perkins through the system–and I found plenty. Multiple arrests for public indecency. He’d been in jail until just recently, in fact…and it looked like he’d left before the end of his sentence, but the file didn’t explain why. He was just released one day–without any clear reason.

That was concerning, but what I was really looking for was anything further back, anything about his past that I could use on him, something that could get him to talk. But again, just like Ray–there was nothing past a certain point, about seven years before that, aside from two other arrests for public indecency–and these mugshots were markedly different from the man down in my basement. Young, small, and utterly terrified, caught sucking cock in two different rest area bathrooms, but nothing had come of the charges in either case.

I had my confirmation then. Whoever this rapist was, they had been active for years at this point, and was only choosing to go public with his acts now because…well, I had no clue. But at the bar, Steven had said that something about him had changed–about the rapist that is. That something was different now than it had been before. I took a copy of his picture and slipped out again, not wanting anyone to yell at me for disappearing–they could do that later. I had an interrogation to do.

It wasn’t until I was back in my car, that I realized I had been half hard for most of the day, thinking about Cumster back in the basement, thinking about all the things I wanted to do to him, leaking cum into my underwear. By the time I got home, it had leaked through to the front of my pants, and thankfully, no one at the precinct had noticed the growing spot. Inside, I immediately went upstairs and changed, back into my formal uniform, though after the night before it wasn’t quite as clean and well pressed as it had been. Still, washing it would have felt wrong, somehow. It was good that it smelled a bit rank, that it smelled like me. I pulled on the leather gloves last, relieved to have them on again, and then went back down into the basement, feeling more like myself than I had in days. Feeling confident that, with a little effort, I could sort this whole case out and have everything back under control, under my law, in due time–and the first person I was going to work on was Steven, or Cumster, rather. The name really did suit him, after all.

Curse of the Homophobe (Part 9)

What did he remember? Everything was so hazy now, it seemed impossible to remember a world beyond this basement, beyond the torture and rape he was subjected to daily, which he’d grown to crave…but there had been something else. He thought about the sun. He could remember it, the sensation of it on his skin, and he clung to that, trying to piece together when he’d last felt it. Sound came next, the sound of hammer and machinery. The smell of pouring concrete and sawdust. It wasn’t much, but it was something, and he clung to it, reached for it, even as the spirit in his mind tried to tempt him away from it, tried to tell him he didn’t really want that, that what he really craved was down here, in the dark. Evan was tenacious, and the spirit was…not angry, but perturbed that he refused to give into its darkness, and so it opened up a bit further, the memory, and more came to him in a flurry.

The smell of cigars. He remembered that for sure. They were cheap ones–he didn’t make enough for anything fancy after all, and at the rate he smoked them, he cared more about quantity than quality. Other smells too–mostly his own. His unwashed pits, dirty socks and underwear, his farts and belches, and just thinking about them was getting him horny–but then, he loved the smell of a dirty man more than pretty much anything else. But something else too–or maybe…someone else. They were a bit blurry, but getting clearer, the more he thought about them, the more he could smell them, and see them, and–

***BRRAAAP***

Evan gave a start, and flung an arm up as he woke up from a nightmare he’d been having in his grungy armchair, with Robbie inches from his face, mouth still open from the belch he’d launched right into Evan’s face. He could smell it–and he could smell Robbie too, and he felt his cock shudder underneath his heavy gut, hanging over his crotch in the recliner. “Fuckin’ hell Robbie, I was sleepin’!”

“Ya were snorin’ so dang loud I couldn’t hear the damn TV is what ya were doin’!” Robbie said, and then leaned in closer and kissed him, his mouth tasting of beer, salty snacks…and something else that Evan recognized, but couldn’t quite name for some reason. He was more than happy to kiss him back of course–he loved his little sleazebag of a roommate, or boyfriend, or whatever they were.

They’d met on a construction job a few years prior, and hit it off as friends until one drunken night, they’d come onto one another. It had only been a matter of time before they moved in together, and while they were on the down low, everyone could guess what the two of them were up to. No one gave them too much shit for it, though neither of them had been a very good influence on the other. Robbie now smoked cigars like a chimney, just like Evan, and Robbie had introduced Evan to other, filthier delights. Food, for one thing. He was a hundred pounds heavier now, than when he’d met Robbie, and he hadn’t been small before. Now he was 375 pounds, and while it made work hard, having Robbie clean out all of his filthy rolls every night in bed more than made up for it.

Then, Evan felt a flash in his mind. This wasn’t right, this wasn’t right at all. He hadn’t been this person, had he? Robbie pulled away, and Evan hauled himself out of the recliner, trying to piece together his memories, but it was a struggle. “Ya alright man?”

“Yeah, just…just gimmie a minute,” Evan said, “Just…gonna get a snack.”

“I can get one for ya.”

“I’d rather stretch my legs a sec.”

Robbie shrugged, and plopped back down on the sofa with a loud fart, and Evan retreated behind him, not to the kitchen, but to the bathroom to look at himself–but when he got there, he was…horrified. The shower didn’t have a shower head, and didn’t look like it had been turned on in ages. The toilet–there simply wasn’t one. He found himself sliding back, remembering how Robbie had convinced him, finally, to just…take it out. They didn’t need one, after all, they had each other.

In the mirror, he saw himself–sloppily shaved head with a thick beard hiding three chins. He was wearing a grubby, heavily stained wife beater and some no longer white briefs…and he thought he looked…hot. The spirit was pushing harder now–and Evan could sense it wasn’t just trying to get him to accept this life–but forget everything else. More than anything else, though, he was tired. Maybe he should stop. Maybe he should just…accept this, and live with it. HIs gut growled, and he thought about having a snack, and then Robbie would feed him one of his special weight gain shakes before bed, always with his favorite ingredients…

Evan slapped himself, trying to force himself out of it. The curse was still active, he could get out of this. All he had to do was find someone to insult him. After all, anything would be better than this, right? He went to the bedroom, found a pair of overalls and some boots, and threw them on as quick as he could, before Robbie noticed what he was doing. He couldn’t explain this after all–Robbie would never believe him. So he slipped out of the apartment Without an explanation, and didn’t dare stop once he hit the sidewalk, even though he was winded by the time he got to the corner.

It was late in the evening now, and the streets weren’t too busy–but beggers couldn’t be choosers. He’d have to find some way to make someone insult him quick, or he could already tell, he’d lose himself again, wander back up to that apartment, and find himself living the filthy life with Robbie for the rest of his days. However, he also knew he didn’t exactly pass for a faggot at the moment, so he was going to have to try pretty hard to get someone’s attention.

Alright, let’s see how this round goes for Evan, and if he can escape his current fate.

He remembers one of his neighbors is an elderly homophobe
He hits on a beefy cop he passes on the street.
He hits on some wealthy businessmen downtown.
He gives in and goes home to Robbie (END)

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The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 3 (Part 5)

He came out behind me, and lit a cigar. The smoke couldn’t cut through the smell of cum surrounding him though. Somehow it seemed to intensify it. I felt it at the edges of my mind again, I felt myself weakening, but no–no, I wasn’t going to let this happen. I remembered now–I knew who I was. I was a cop. I was order, and control, and force. He thought he understood me, but he didn’t know a thing about me. I shoved him into the alley around the side of the bar, and I think he thought I was going to ask to blow him–instead, I slammed him into the wall, wailing on him, and he didn’t fight back. At the time I assumed he was just caught off guard, but once I put him under arrest and shoved him into my car, I had my doubts. He was still smiling. “Well, where to, pig? You have me now. You can do whatever you want with me.”

I knew I should take him to the station and interrogate him, but I couldn’t explain my many breaches in protocol. If I went back there now–I told myself–soaked in cum, dragging along some unknown cumdump biker with a fresh black eye, telling them this idiotic story, none of them would understand. Besides, the man was right about one thing–this wasn’t about the case anymore–not really. This was about me. The one thing I knew, from what he’d said in the bar, was that this rapist wanted me. This rapist wanted me, and hell if I was going to let him get in my head. So I drove home, parked in the garage, dragged him out of the car and inside, still cuffed, and down into the basement. It wasn’t as large as Bernard’s had been, but it was large enough. I handcuffed him to some pipes down there, cleared out the space around him, but he wasn’t trying to fight…and then I realized that I’d just done exactly what he’d suggested I do. I’d brought him home. This was where he’d wanted to go the entire time…and without even realizing it, he’d manipulated me into doing it for him.

“Brings back memories,” he said, tugging at the handcuffs, testing them.

“Tell me what you know. Tell me about the bruiser. What is his plan?”

“Straight to business? Don’t you want to have some fun with your prisoner first, pig? I’m at your mercy after all–you can do whatever you want to me…”

I stepped up, and slapped him across the face. I didn’t know why I’d done it, and the sheer anger I felt at him was both a surprise, and yet as natural as anything else I’d felt that day. He was mocking me. He was mocking order, and my control. I’d put him in line. I’d show him who was in charge here. He didn’t resist, when I took some scissors from my work bench and cut his cum soaked clothes free, leaving him naked on the concrete floor. That was better, better to humiliate him, but I couldn’t do this right, looking like this. I went up to my bedroom, found my dress uniform and put it on, minding every detail, aside from the white dress gloves. Instead, I put on my leather riding gloves, and then went back down to the basement, where he’d started to shiver a bit in the cold. I demanded answers from him, and he stonewalled me. He laughed at me…and so I had to do it. I had to beat him. I had to…to fuck him. I had to cum in his beard, I had to put my scent on him, I had to mark him as mine, but it wasn’t until I’d cum a massive load on his face, after fucking his ass, that I realized what I’d been doing. I regained a bit of control of myself, and he…he was just laughing. Laughing at me.

“Fuck, he’s gonna love you, pig,” he said, “He’s gonna fuckin’ love breaking you. I hope he let’s me watch, because damn, it’s gonna be quite the fuckin’ show when it happens.”

I slammed the basement door behind myself, and leaned against it, panting. I didn’t understand what had come over me, how my mind had traced the steps from arresting him back at the bar, to imprisoning him in my basement, to putting on my most formal uniform and raping him. It had all…made sense in the moment, and it was only now, looking back on it, that the entire idea became heinous and horrific. But there was nothing I could do now. If I let him go, he could have me arrested. If I kept him here, I was compromised. Any information I got from him was tainted–hardly admissible in court, which was really the least of the problems I was facing. If I did get any information from him, and someone wanted to know the source…what was I going to say?

I was too deep. I was beyond deep, I was drowning, but I only had one way forward now. I had to get to the bottom of this. I’d face whatever repercussions were necessary, after the rapist was caught, and whatever he was plotting was averted. Then, I’d worry about facing my own justice for what I was doing. I threw him some water and food–he didn’t object, or try to resist or escape. He seemed to be exactly where he wanted to be, and that only worried me more. I took a shower, and that helped me feel a bit better at least, and then got some sleep, or slept as best I could. I needed to figure this out soon, or else someone would discover what I’d done, or worse, I’d be too late to stop whatever the Bruiser was planning. That, or he’d come for me next, and I knew, if he did, I wouldn’t have the will to stop him.

The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 3 (Part 4)

I realized how vulnerable I was, then. I hadn’t told anyone on the force where I was going. I hadn’t brought along a partner. I had no one waiting for me at my home. My resistance was beginning to fade, and when the big brute started groping me through the front of my pants, I humped up into his palm, unable to stop myself. I did it on purpose, I realized. I’d wanted this to happen. I’d missed my opportunity twice, but not this time, not now. Now, I was going to get what I wanted–what I needed so desperately. Answers, yes, but more than that, I needed…these men. To taste them, and fuck them, and be fucked my them, drink their cum and their piss…anything. Anything they wanted, I would do it.

“Someone’s had a busy day–nice and crusty. How’d you know what I like, pig?”

Words failed me, and I doubt he expected an answer. He leaned in and kissed me instead, and everything just…faded away. I could smell the cum in his beard, taste it on his breath. He forced his hand down the front of my pants, got it wet with my own cum, and fed it to me, right there in the booth. I was so…eager, and I didn’t even know how to describe what I feeling in the moment. “How–How are you doing this?” I muttered.

“I wondered the same thing, for a long time. How he did it. In the moment, I didn’t even realize it was happening. If you want to know more though–you’re going to have to do something for me in exchange–after all, I don’t know if I can trust you with sensitive information like this sort of thing. Master would get pretty upset, knowing I spilled the beans to the detective who’s supposed to be finding him. Then again, that’s why he sent me to meet you. He’s…so close now. Closer than he’s ever been–I had no idea that he…I mean…” he was shaking, thinking about something. He’d been with the rapist recently, more recently than his first encounter with him, that he’d talked about, and he knew about Jules. If I could get him to talk, without losing my own head in the process, this was the opportunity I had to blow this whole thing wide open and put a stop to it before he got to anyone else, before anything got even more out of control than it already was.

At least, that’s what I told myself. Part of me believed it, but part of me…wanted something else entirely, the same part of me that had taken me to the two crime scenes. The part of me that was less interested in solving the case, and that I think was more interested in experiencing it. “I…I don’t know what kind of hold he has on you–on all of you, but you don’t have to do what he says. We can help you. Tell me where he is, and we can put a stop to it.”

He laughed then, louder than before, “Cop–you still don’t get it, do you? I’m not helping him because he’s telling me to, because he’s controlling me. I’m here, fucking with you, because I want to–because I know what he can do, and what he wants to do, and I can’t fucking wait to see it–and until you understand, I’m going to keep you…occupied.”

“But he…he raped you.”

“He raped someone that night, but it wasn’t me. You’ll understand, when he’s ready for you.”

“What does that even mean?”

“You want to know more? I’ll tell you things. Things you think you want to hear. But not here–you want to know more? Let’s go back to your place, get a little more intimate…”

He tried to kiss me again, but this time, I managed to push him away, and he let me slide out of the booth this time and stand up, panting, sweating, fresh cum in my sticky underwear. “No–come with me to the station. If you have something to say, say it there. Help me understand this, I want to understand what…what this is…”

“I know you do, pig, but I can’t do that. This isn’t about a crime. This isn’t about laws, or justice. Not anymore, not for you, is it? Why were you back at the house today? At that warehouse? You weren’t investigating shit–you were there because you wanted to be there. This is about you now–and I’m happy to tell you more, but only you. That, or you can find out with everyone else, soon–but I don’t think you’ll last that long, because part of you already knows, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know anything, I don’t understand how any of this is possible.”

“There’s…a voice you keep hearing, isn’t there? A voice, but it isn’t words. It’s feelings. If you ignore it, it gets louder, and if you listen to it, it gets bigger. It’s always been there, hasn’t it? Even before all of this?”

“No, there’s nothing.”

The biker looked at me then, and then shrugged, “Well, there’s something there now, isn’t there? You obviously know what the hell I’m talking about, or you wouldn’t be shaking like that.”

I turned and left then. I needed air, but outside, it didn’t help. Had I heard the voice before? Had I felt this before? Maybe. I lived alone, and had for years at this point, as everyone else from the academy I’d known had settled down, gotten married, and was having kids. I’d gone on dates, sure, and I’d always considered myself straight, but was that really true? Did I like having sex with women? I honestly didn’t enjoy their company, and usually prefered getting a drink with another guy or three from the department, but nothing had ever gone further than that. I jacked off, sure, but…but was there more? Should there be more? Was there something there I’d been forgetting all of this time? There were…times. Times I’d slipped on my leather gloves, jacked off with them on, jacked off in uniform. I’d wanted to be a cop for so long–that was the voice I’d felt, I realized. Was it quiet now, just because I’d made it happen?

The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 3 (Part 3)

It wasn’t until I was closer to my home that the thought occurred to me that the man tailing me could very well be The Bruiser himself. Whoever he was, it was likely he didn’t mean me well. I got my gun ready, in any case, as I pulled into the driveway of my home, and watched as the biker drove on by, head turned to look at me as he passed, turned the corner, and drove off again. A threat? Maybe. Maybe just reconnaissance. Was this rapist working with a group? It didn’t seem to fit what Bernard had described to me, but the level of planning taken in Ray’s case suggested the rapist could have outside help. In any case, all I could do was wait.

I went inside, checked that the doors and windows were secure, and then went to get my clothes off so I could take a shower, when there was a pounding on the door. By the time I opened it, whoever it was had left, leaving just a note taped up. It promised information, but said they didn’t trust the police enough to go in for questioning. Instead, they wanted to talk somewhere else–a bar known for having a relatively rough reputation, but nothing I couldn’t handle. The time on the note didn’t leave me a lot of time to change or get ready, so I grabbed a quick bite to eat, got back in my car and left, heading for the rendezvous with the mysterious biker–and I still hadn’t managed to shower, and the horniness was only getting worse.

Was he another victim? It seemed likely, but if he was, how had he escaped from the rapist’s clutches? Unless it had happened a while ago–from Marcus’s account, the rapist had been active for years at this point, even if this was the first time he was operating in the open. Could I trust him? Did I have a choice? Given what the rapist could do to his victims, it could be I was walking right into a trap, but this was a risk I was willing to take at the time. I think I would have been willing to do anything for answers, at that moment.

I got to the bar, and the biker was waiting for me inside–he’d taken a booth in the corner, where we could have a reasonably private conversation. I slid in across from him, and as far as first impressions went, I had little doubt he was someone the rapist had gotten his hands on at one point or another–he was of the same type. Tall, thickly muscled, though not as much as Ray, with a thick gut. His bare arms were extremely hairy, he had a tangled beard running down to his belly button, and when I slid into the booth, the smell of him made me gag for a moment, though I couldn’t pinpoint it immediately. There was smoke–cigars, I thought, and the smell of booze and unwashed musk, but overpowering all of that was a thick, heady scent of what I eventually pegged as dried cum.

It had been difficult to see in the dim light of the bar, but the man’s denim clothes were stiff and yellow with it, and the reason his beard and hair seemed so tangled was because it was caked and flaky. I was just…stunned, sitting there, wondering how many loads, how many men it had taken for him to look like this. He grinned at me, and leaned closer. “Didn’t think ya were stupid enough to come, ya pig. Good ya did though–makes all this a whole lot easier than breakin’ intah yer house woulda been.”

The rapist…was this him? I tried to get back up, but he grabbed me by the hand and yanked me back down into the booth, this time next to him. Inches away from his body, the smell was so much more powerful, and while I was still revolted, by nose was already growing used to it, just like I had to Ray’s stench in the car. I had to get away from him. I didn’t know what caused it exactly, but I couldn’t have this biker affecting me like Ray or Bernard had before. “You piece of shit, I won’t let you get away with this again, you’re going away for a very long time,” I said, or something to that nature.

The biker gave me a surprised look, and then laughed, “You got it all wrong man, I ain’t the master–trust me. If he was here…well, you’ll understand when you meet him yourself, soon enough. He ain’t ready for you yet, but boy, I think he’s got plans fer you…should see the way he smiled when he told me about you earlier.”

My mind was racing. Who could have known about me? Someone from the station? Maybe Marcus wasn’t a victim at all, but the mastermind behind this whole thing.

“Had a nice long chat with that copper that muscle pig brought with him from the station, told Master all about you and the case, or what he knew about it. Master ‘n I–we go way back. Tah think I was just some skinny little faggot, sucking cock in the rest area. He knew what I really wanted though–he knows what every man wants, and is too afraid to take for themselves. But I learned. I…fuck, I didn’t want to at first, none of us want to, right away, but we all learn to love it. To love who we can be. To love him most of all–but fuck, this shit is off the hook now! Don’t know what happened to him since last time I saw him, but whatever he pumped me full a this time…I don’t even know how tah describe it.”

Curse of the Homophobe (Part 8)

Well, it was close, but the frat won out by a few votes thanks to the Patreon poll.

Evan thought about changing back. He even started to, for a moment, but something else welled up in him, something he could only describe as a great exhaustion. So he’d turn back, and then what? He’d be back to his old self, more or less, with a third whore obsessed with him, and sure, he might be straight acting enough that he could get away without another slur, but the curse would always drag him back, somehow. He could feel it. And then he’d be back in some new nightmare–but what if he didn’t go back? What if he just said screw it, and…and just gave in?

He couldn’t believe he was actually contemplating it. Giving up. Living…like this. The spirit lingered around him, a fog on his mind, coaxing him along, seeing if he would do it. He didn’t want to be this though. He didn’t want to be this person. He could tell, somehow, that he would only inflict more pain on others like this, other guys on the team, other guys at the college. How was this better? How was he solving anything by simply taking Jerry’s place as the asshole in charge? There had to be something he could do. He couldn’t let this thing win.

He didn’t know where the idea came from, if it was his, or if the spirit whispered it into his mind. It was a terrible idea. A nightmarish idea…but he couldn’t ignore the simple brutality of it–but would it even work? No, there was no way it would work. Hand shaking, he poured himself more scotch, but his mind wouldn’t let the idea go. It was the only way–the only way he could make sure he didn’t hurt anyone else ever again–that this curse would end here for good. He drank more scotch, enough to dull himself, trying to bury himself back under the coach, mack under the homophobe, but he was terrified, all the same. Unable to contemplate it anymore, he decided he simply had to do it–he threw on a coat, and slipped out into the night, making his way towards the campus.

It was a Friday night, and the parties were still going strong. Evan made his way to Delta Kappa Alpha, widely considered the jock frat, and the most homophobic one on campus–one which had, on a few occasions, sent kids to the hospital, not that any of the jocks had ever faced punishment for it. It made him angry, which was good. He was going to need lots and lots of anger for what was coming next. He went inside, and began insulting every member of the frat he could find.

He started simple–turning them into faggots, the women in the house all disappearing one by one as the young men lost interest in them, and became far more interested in each other–and in Evan. But he didn’t make them weak. He didn’t fuck them. They needed to be strong. They needed to be brutes. He made them thugs and skinheads. Brutal biker tops and leather queens. All of them addicted to sex, the rougher and meaner the better. Sadists, rapists, abusers–he hurled out everything he could think of, until one of them had had enough, slammed Evan into the wall, and started fucking his hole raw. He demanded more. He wanted them to make it hurt. He wanted them to show him what they did to homophobic assholes like him.

Part of him was horrified and disgusted by what was happening to him, but another part of him was enjoying it. That new part urged them on, told them to use him as their urinal and cum dump, told them that they didn’t see him as a person at all, but as a gimp, a pig, a slave, an object, a whore. He said it over and over again, he said it so much he found himself believing it, as the gang dragged him down into the basement of the now condemned building they used as their hangout, where they brought the homophobes they bashed on the street to be reeducated and repurposed.

They beat him. They fisted him. They shaved him bald, and then stripped the rest of his hair off too. Pissed on him, made him clean out their holes, made him beg for their cocks, and he tried to squeeze that last little homophobic part of him out, but it remained, burning at the core of him, horrified at what he was doing, but it was too late to turn back now. He was marked. Tattooed all over his body, pierced everywhere as well. He’d lived down here for months, if not a year, brutalized by these men–and he’d grown to enjoy it. Relish it. Beg for it–because he deserved it. He deserved it for all the times he’d been cruel, and bashed queers with his friends. He deserved all of it, and would deserve it for the rest of his life too.

Dawn came, and the gang grew tired, slipping away to their homes, another enjoyable night spent working over one of their favorite straight slaves. They locked him back in his cage, and Evan shivered, exhausted–there was a kernel of himself still, deep inside, but it was so small…he was scared now. Terrified of what he’d done to himself. He grasped for it, tried to rekindle it. He didn’t want to stay here–even if he had started to believe he might deserve it. (Success Check–success! The story goes on for the moment!)

It took most of the day, down in that basement, to remember himself. To crawl back out of this, to remember who he’d been–or at least pieces of it. Everything was so…jumbled up. High school, college, middle age. Had he been a jock? A coach? Working in construction or on a farm? He didn’t know how to piece it back together, but he had to. He had to be something else, if he was going to get out of here in one piece.

********

Evan is starting to lose track of his identity, and of his sanity. What sort of gay reality is he going to revert to in the aftermath of this?

Fat, slobby, cigar smoking construction worker.
Closeted, burly, college football coach.
Young, grungy, muscled redneck farm boy.
A muscled abusive leatherman who belongs to the gay gang here.

Here’s the twitter poll

Here’s the Patreon poll

Voting ends on Sunday!

The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 3 (Part 2)

I found myself wondering if Ray, before meeting the rapist, had wanted this too, in a way, like Bernard had. Maybe the reason the two of them weren’t being honest with me, was because these weren’t really rapes at all…no, no, I didn’t really mean that, I suppose. These men had been violated, and twisted somehow, but it was like the rapist was channeling their own desires back at them. But then why had Ray been gone for four months, but Bernard only a week? The inconsistencies had to add up to something, but I didn’t know what, and it was getting harder and harder to think, my hand drifting to my crotch to grope my cock again as I sat there on the weight bench.

Why Jules? Had Ray pissed on him on purpose? Had he chosen him, or had it just been luck–good or bad, depending on how you were feeling about it? I wondered if I had been closer to him, if I’d pushed through his musk, and it had been me struck by that piss…would I have done what Jules had done, gotten him right out of the jail? He’d seemed interested in me, when we’d been driving, and while in the interview room, but it was Jules he’d been wanting to see. He…knew Jules was weak, somehow. I didn’t have any explanation for it, or how it could have worked, aside from magic, but I didn’t believe in magic. In this job, I had increasingly come to believe that all sex is just power. Holding power over someone, or giving power up to someone else, willingly or not. Maybe I hadn’t been good enough for him. Jules was bigger than me. Stronger than me. I was the weak one. I wasn’t…strong enough, was I?

I found myself searching for the place where Ray had pissed all over him, found a bit of it still pooling in the ridged floor of the shipping container, and just stared at it, inhaling the fumes off of it, feeling my mind slowing down even more. I…wanted to be enough. I wondered where they were, and what they were doing. No–I knew what they were doing, or I could guess well enough. After all, I knew what I would have been doing with him, if he’d taken me. I managed to keep myself from licking it up, jacked off again, shooting my cum onto the floor, and then left while my head was still somewhat clear. I was too jittery to drive, so I sat in my car, thinking about Ray, and Bernard, and wondering what all of these thoughts in my mind even were. I’d never been interested in men before this–I wasn’t a fag, and I didn’t really have anything against them, either, but this also didn’t…feel like I had somehow become gay, either. This was a specific desire. I didn’t want men, in general–I wanted these men. Either one of them, both of them, I didn’t know–but the desire was so specific, and I no longer knew, honestly, if I wanted to solve the case so I could stop this rapist, or if I just wanted to find either of them and see where these thoughts led.

I tried to calm down, but at this point, the only thing that seemed to work was jacking off. I hauled my cock out again, and noticed how many cum stains I had on my shirt and slacks from the day. It seemed like so much more than it could have possibly been, and I wondered if I’d been jacking off more without even realizing it, or maybe just leaking cum right into my pants this whole time. I didn’t want to think about it, I wanted to think about Ray, about getting…bigger for him, about smelling him, and smelling like him, about my mind fading away until nothing else mattered, until it was just him, and I came again, spraying myself with another load, the skin of my cock red and a bit chaffed. I needed to get home and take a shower–I’d feel better if I got cleaned up. Clean myself up, and then call the Captain and tell him I was done–that something was wrong with me–and wrong with this case. I’d gotten too close to it, or it had gotten too close to me, and they needed someone to blame this mess on, so it might as well be me. I could take the hit to my career, if it meant I could stop feeling like this. For the first time in my life, I wondered if this career, if being a cop was too much–but I pushed that away. If there was one thing about me, some core thing that I know, that I still know, it’s that I want to be a cop, whatever that means. To me, it means order–someone who orders the chaos, who makes sense of it, who judges it and controls and moderates it. That I’d questioned it for even a moment shook me more than the smell of that piss had, and I knew I needed to get out of here.

I started the car, and in the rearview mirror I noticed something–there was a bike parked behind me with a big brute on it, not doing anything in particular. I pulled away from the crime scene, and when I did, the biker revved up his bike and followed me back onto the main roads. He was tailing me, but he wasn’t very good at it–that, or he wanted me to know he was following me. Should I go back to the precinct? That was the smart idea, the better idea, but if I spooked him and he ditched me, it would be back to square one with this case. No–I needed him to follow me. I needed a lead, badly, and this might be my only shot.

The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 3 (Part 1)

If you need a refresher, you can find the first two episodes collected here: https://www.gayspiralstories.com/newSeries/show/216537

With no leads to be found, and with my two primary victims gone, I had nothing to do but return to the scenes of the crimes, in order to find something I could use to try and find this Bruiser, or at the very least, to figure out where either Ray or Bernard had gone to, so I could get them back and get to the bottom of what had happened to them both. Things at the precinct were going south quickly. The media was hounding us, and it was clear that the brass was looking for someone to blame–and presently, I was the only one left who could be seen as having any real responsibility for the mess this case was quickly becoming. It was good to get out of there for a bit, but going back to Bernard’s home, and going back to that storage container especially, were difficult for other reasons.

Do you know how, when you’re trying not to think about something–something bad, like a traumatic memory, or some shitty thing you did to someone–that trying to not think about it always seems to make you think about it more? That forgetting something isn’t something you can really do, consciously? Down in that basement, where we’d found Bernard chained to the wall, I just kept seeing him there, thinking about him, naked, thinking about what I could have done differently, and wondering what in the world had happened to him to just make him snap like that. But mostly I thought about that evening when I’d come here, after that interview, and I’d…I’d wanted to fuck him.

More than fuck him. I’d been so furious with him, for blowing apart my case like that, especially angry now that everything else was falling apart on me, angry at him for lying about his past, angry at him for…for so much that I couldn’t even blame him for. Angry at myself for not being able to save him, angry that I hadn’t dragged him back down here and chained him back up, chained him here were he could have been…safe.

How fucked is that. I was thinking about putting him back down here, thinking about chaining him to the wall and fucking him, fucking him day and night, abusing him over and over because…because I don’t know why! It was just a thought–no, more than a thought, just a need, or a delusion that seemed to follow so logically from one thing to another, that even though I knew it was immoral, and wrong, and fucking monstrous, but I couldn’t make myself stop thinking about it, no matter how hard I tried. The harder I pushed against it, the hornier I became, and if I gave in and even started to consider it, it would worm in deeper, and I…I jacked off down there, in the basement, jacked off thinking about him, how I should have kept him down here, down where a slave like him belonged, that I shouldn’t have missed my fucking opportunity to make him mine. If I’d made him mine, he would have had to tell me everything. He’d have to be honest, but I’d…I’d let him go like an idiot. He could have been mine, but I’d been too stupid to see it.

I left, and the thoughts came with me. I couldn’t get them to quiet down–the only thing that seemed to help at all was jacking off, but they’d return after an hour or so, stronger than ever. I went for a drive, telling myself I just needed some time to think, a chance to clear my head a bit, but without even thinking about it, I ended up driving down to the docks, back to that abandoned warehouse, finding my way to the taped off shipping container. The doors had been closed and relocked, and after I opened it, it smelled nearly as strong as when we’d opened it the first time, but now, it didn’t seem to bother me. His musk hadn’t bothered me at all, really, since he’d ridden with me in my car back to the station. If anything…I found myself enjoying it. I felt calmer, the mania that had been gripping me since going to Bernard’s house began to ease off a bit, losing myself a bit in the tight space and the dark.

I walked past the workout equipment, trying to imagine what it must have felt like, being stuck in here. Ray hadn’t seemed upset by it, he’d been content to just workout…but there had been something else odd about this place. Bernard’s house had shown signs of being lived in. We found no evidence of anyone else, of course, but there had been new food in the cabinets and in the fridge, no dust on the table–little things. There had been someone there, even if we had no idea who. But no one could live here. There was barely space to turn around in, and no space to lie down and rest, no source of water, no plumbing, not even a bucket. It didn’t make sense–why collar Bernard down in a basement and supervise him, but go to the trouble of locking Ray in here, alone–possibly for months?

Unless it hadn’t been months. Unless he’d been somewhere else, and the rapist had only moved him here when he was ready to reveal him. But what was special about this place? Why risk moving him, when Ray could use that information against him when he got free? I supposed that Ray hadn’t exactly had the same sort of privacy as Bernard had had, since he’d allegedly been living in an apartment at the time of his disappearance, but then where had he gone in the meantime? I took a seat on the bench, and noted the weight still on the bar behind me–285 pounds of weight. There were only one or two guys on the force who could bench something like that.