The Carnival (Part 8) [Interactive]

“I don’t really feel like going down with strangers,” one of the frat brothers, Dylan, said, “That sounds really awkward.”

“Yeah, the whole point was to go together anyway,” Garth added.

They all agreed, then, to try their luck and go as one big group together, but it wasn’t until they were in line a bit further on that all three of them got a little self-conscious. All around them were heterosexual couples, most of them younger, but a few older married couples from town too, and then there was the three of them together. None of them were the least bit gay, but the looks they were getting from others were making them second guess their idea. The line wasn’t long though, and they got to the ride entrance before any of them lost their nerve. The inside was all decorated in garish pinks and reds, and the air smelt of flowers. It was cloying, and all three of them were already rolling their eyes at the kitchy setup, as they stepped up to the next boat, and the carny minding the ride, gave them a look.

“All three of us want to go together,” Finn said, the other two suppressing a chuckle. To their surprise, however, the man just shrugged, and told them that he’d unhook one of the three’s company boats they kept for special requests. Where the other, two seater boats were all bench like, the larger boat was designed in a circle, with a small table in the middle and high sides giving a bit more privacy than they were really comfortable with. Still, they all climbed in, the carny secured the door, and sent them off floating into the pink light, the dock disappearing as they rounded the first corner.

There was no sound–no music, and not even the sound of other people ahead or behind them, even though they couldn’t have been that distant from them. It was a little unnerving, and the surroundings were rather uninteresting. Some flowering plants on the rock walls, the occasional small waterfall giving off a bit of sound, and just the sound of them all breathing, wondering what they should say. They knew they should be making fun of it, but now it seemed heavy and serious, none of them able to look one another in the eye as a mist began to rise from the water around them, and spill over the sides of the boat. It had the same scent as earlier, but much more pungent–strong enough that all three of them began to feel lightheaded. Garth looked out, trying to see the walls and the way forward, but he couldn’t see anything at all through the fog. He sat back down, only to find Finn had leaned over, and was kissing Dylan–gently, but it was growing more passionate, Dylan leaning into it, hungry for it, and all Garth felt was an immediate, desperate horniness.

Those two…how had he never seen them like this before? In the locker room, out on the field, in the bathroom showers…He scooched around and started feeling Dylan’s body, and he turned away from Finn to kiss him instead, while Finn reached over, toying with their cocks and nipples gently, and then leaning over and stealing Garth’s mouth from Dylan. Time seemed to slow down as their desires intensified, the water still, the whole space quiet aside from their gentle moans and soft sighs into one another’s mouths. However, the boat kept moving on, deeper into the tunnel, the light growing dimmer and dimmer as they reached the heart, all three of them feeling new memories, desires, and most of all, love, filing their minds and their souls until they thought they might burst–until they did burst, in fact, all three of them cumming together, and then arriving at the other end of the tunnel. In the light, they could see that more had changed than just their desires…but this was normal now. The three of them would be together for as long as they live–though what kind of relationship do they have now?

So, what does the boys’ new relationship look like?

Two daddy bears with a diapered boy
An incestuous redneck family
A leather master and two slaves

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The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 2 (Part 3)

Eventually, what I had first assumed to be the man’s mindless obsession shifted into…something more self-aware. Jules, the only one of us who could get close to him, and honestly, the only one of us large enough to really compare to him, kept trying to get him to stop, and at one point, tried to block his way when he went to move to a different machine. The huge fucker just stood chest to chest with Jules, his jaw as slack and eyes as distant as they had been since we entered, sounding confused…and then he pissed all over him. In the halflight, as Jules sprang back, cursing, uniform soaked, I swore I saw the man sneer nostrils flared, his cock half hard as he pushed past Jules and worked through the next set in his routine. Jules went home to clean himself up, and the rest of who remained discussed whether we were going to have to drag him out of there by force. As we reached the decision to get some gas masks if necessary and drag him out, he dropped the barbell he’d been lifting with a clatter, announced that he was finished, and that he could leave with us.

We suggested he go to the hospital to get checked out and cleaned up, and he refused. He didn’t want to go to a hospital, he insisted that he felt perfectly fine, and he didn’t see any reason at all why he needed to get clean. I told him that there was no way he would be riding back with us anywhere smelling like that, and he just shrugged. “I don’t even know why you’re here. I was just doin’ my workout, when you barged in here.” His voice was gruff, with a practiced stupidity I didn’t quite believe was authentic. I told him that someone had called 911 and reported a rape victim, and since he was the only person in the area, we assumed the call had meant him. He looked down at himself, clenching and unclenching his fists a few times. “I…I mean, at first…” he muttered, then shook his head. “No, I’m fine, but…but I…I’m sorry for, uh, pissin, earlier, I don’t always have the best control or focus when I’m workin’ out. Is he…around? The guy I soaked? I’d like to apologize.”

“He’s back at the station,” I lied, “Why don’t you ride back with me, answer a few questions I have, and you can get a chance to apologize then.”

“Am I under arrest? I didn’t do nothin’,” he said.

“You’re welcome to do whatever you want…though I would like to know why you were trespassing on private property here. If you were here of your own volition, then I’ll have to charge you with squatting.”

He got real quiet. I didn’t understand what he was playing at, at the time. Why not just come out with it, and admit it? Then again, if he’d been in here more than a few days, he would have had no idea about the other case that had just come to light. Right then, he thought he was alone. “There’s others, you know. You aren’t the first one to deal with this. I know it seems impossible, looking at yourself, but I’m willing to believe just about anything you tell me about him at this point, after what I’ve seen already.”

Another inscrutable look, but one which I was certain contained some anger. That surprised me more than just about anything else had, that day. It was enough to convince him to come along with us back to the station to take a statement, at least–he rode back with me, giving me plenty of time to get…accustomed to his musk. It was heady, but it also wasn’t…old, if that makes sense. Rather, it smelled fresh in a way I couldn’t quite describe, and as I adjusted to it and found myself able to breathe a bit more normal, I felt a stirring in my crotch, and my cock started to harden inexplicably. I distracted myself with some basic questions–getting his name (Ray Campbell), whether he had anyone he wanted us to contact (no one that he was willing to name), and where he lived, so we could get him a change of clothes (an apartment downtown, though at the mention of clothing, he gave a dismissive grunt). I radioed someone to head to his apartment, with his permission to enter, and then we arrived at the station. I got him a blanket, but the only clothing I had for him was a jail jumpsuit. He took it, begrudgingly, and we went into an interview room to discuss the actual subject at hand.

He stonewalled me, right from the beginning. If Bernard had been confused and befuddled by what had happened to him, Ray seemed to fully understand what had happened, but hid it, poorly, behind a feigned ignorance, stupidity and dullness. He didn’t know how long he’d been in the shipping container. He didn’t know anything about who had put him in there, what they’d looked like, or why they had forced him to workout. Instead, he kept trying to flip it around, poking and prodding about the other people I had mentioned this happening to…and so, since he was going to see it at some point anyway, I got the tape of the interview Bernard had done on the nightly news, and let him watch it while I got us some food. It was then that the men I’d sent to his apartment returned, empty handed. The landlord had told them that Ray had disappeared four months earlier, leaving all of his shit behind, and when no one came by to pay the rent, he’d claimed everything in the place, pawned the valuables and junked the rest, and was already renting the apartment out to someone else.

Four months. Bernard had been in that basement for a week (or so he’d said), and Ray had been missing for at least four months. I checked for a missing person report, or anything, but there was nothing–perhaps the one thing Ray had been honest about was that he didn’t have anyone he wanted to contact. Armed with some information, at least, I went back into the interview room, and found the tape finished, and Ray was agitated, pacing the small room, back and forth, muttering to himself something I couldn’t make out under his breath. When I arrived, he did his best to protect the air of idiocy he’d been attempting with me, but he was off balance. I thought, maybe, I’d be able to get something out of him now.

The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 2 (Part 2)

So we talked about Marcus’ encounter, but I quickly realized that while he was trying to appear helpful, he was fishing for something else–information about Bernard’s case. He allegedly didn’t recall much of anything from the night he’d been assaulted, but he’d drop a hint, and then ask if something similar had happened to Bernard as well. When I’d try and get him back on the subject of his own case, he’d twist it back around, quizzing me about Bernard, and the evidence from the case, and whether I had found anything else about the Bruiser during the investigation–and if I had any leads on where Bernard had disappeared to. I didn’t have any leads of course, and I wasn’t about to tell this stranger any details from the case. When it became clear that we were stonewalling each other, he got agitated, and then angry, grabbed the photos he’d brought, accused me of not being interested in justice, and stormed out of the precinct, leaving me more confused than anything.

All I knew now, was that this…this case was big. The biggest thing I’d ever dealt with, by far, and Marcus was right about one thing–Bernard knew more than he was letting on. In fact, it was now quite likely he knew the man who had kept him down there all week, given his extracurricular activities. But if it was a scene gone wrong, why not say so? And how on earth did this even begin to explain how he had…changed? In any case, I had a lead, and so I started hunting down some of Bernard’s associates in the BDSM community, to see if any of them could help me figure out who had done this to him, or where he might have gone. No one was really interested in talking to me, and I didn’t get much in the few days I had before the next 911 call came in, the same voice as before, directing us to an old, abandoned warehouse down by the docks.

The search, however, turned up nothing at first. The building wasn’t being used for anything at the moment, and was just vacant–the docks still hadn’t fully recovered from the last recession, like a lot of the city, and so that wasn’t surprising. The caller hadn’t given us any details regarding who we were looking for, or where they might be, but it turned out that there wasn’t anything inside the building at all. Instead, we got a radio call that one of the cops, an older veteran by the name of Jules, had been searching the perimeter of the building, when he heard an odd sound coming from several supposedly empty shipping containers in the yard beside the building. It was metal on metal, a rhythmic clanking of some sort, and it wasn’t long before we’d identified the container, broken the lock on it, and when we flung open the doors…it was the smell that I remember the most.

You know how a locker room can smell, when it doesn’t get cleaned often enough? It was like that, and yet, somehow a hundred times stronger. The only light in the shipping container was a bare light bulb suspended from the ceiling, and inside the cramped space was one man working out with a collection of weight machines and free weights. Even when we opened the door, he didn’t stop–from where he was, he just seemed like this…monstrous shadow in the darkness, moving back and forth, eyes zoned out in the middle distance, completely uninterested in us.

I want to say that it was the cramped space that smelled the worst, but it was actually him. We tried to get close to him, tried to tell him that he could stop, but none of us could handle the sheer…force of it, and we’d retreat back, eyes watering, coughing and hacking. In the end, it was Jules who managed to get close enough to touch him, and it was like he woke from a dream at the touch, and he stopped drawing the weights up, and looked around at us, confused by who we were, and what we were doing in there with him.

I started asking him questions, asking him who had locked him in here, how long he’d been in here, but he just stared back at me like nothing I was saying made any sense. I backed up a bit and just asked him his name. That one he thought about for a couple of moments, trying to get something to come up from the depths of his mind, but he just shook his head, a thick mane of hair spraying all of the officers around him with little beads of sweat. “I don’ know, I don’ know! I just…Master said to keep working out, so I…I have to keep going…”

There it was again: Master. Something stirred in me, when I heard him say it, the same thing that had stirred in me when I’d listened to how Bernard had talked about his rapist, both during the interviews, and during that broadcast. It was a zealotry. It wasn’t a name, or a title–the way they said it, it was like they were naming a god. I don’t know if it was the smell finally getting to me, or if it was the horror of it–I left the shipping container, went around the corner, and vomited.

Getting him to come with us was the next challenge. He refused to leave the container–Master had told him to keep exercising, and so, he was going to keep at it, for as long as he could, until Master came back and told him what to do next. We tried to remove him by force, but the scent of him was so strong, no one could get close enough to lay a hand on him–without even dealing with the fact that he was…huge. Seven feet tall was my guess, and packed with more muscle than I could really ever remember seeing on a man before. His hair and beard were grown long–years long, though I knew there was no way he could have been inside here for years (I had to believe there was no way he could have been in there for years, at least) and and his cock…even on his tall frame, the thing was monstrous, and nearly always half erect.

The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 2 (Part 1)

I suppose cold case is a bit misleading, but when I went back to look at the file later, after out conversation, it was a confusing mess of a situation. The victim, who came to visit me that day, was a young man named Marcus, though he’d been younger when the case had first come through the department, before I’d been added to the sex crimes unit here in the city. He was, according to the officers who had taken his statement, an extremely volatile and unreliable witness to his own assault, whatever it might have been. Over the course of several interviews, the story Marcus was telling kept shifting–at times it was a kidnapping, at other times a physical assault or mugging, or at others, a rape. The officers decided that there was nothing to pursue, because Marcus couldn’t actually be counted on to be clear about what, exactly, had happened that night, but Marcus had been persistent. For months, he’d kept coming back, harassing the officers, demanding the find him, that they had to find him, that he had to know who it was who had done this to him. Eventually, the officers had threatened to charge him with filing a false report, and he’d stop coming in. Now, I had the distinct pleasure of dealing with him.

As for what had happened to Marcus exactly, the basic details of the event were at least consistent. He had been out with some friends at a gay bar one Saturday night, late, and all of them had been drinking heavily. There was…an altercation of some sort, with someone, though the details of the figure were inconsistent. At times, Marcus would describe him as a rather unassuming man: short, thin, glasses, scruffy and quiet. At others, he was a hulk–taller than him, heavily muscled, pure black eyes, strong enough to pin him to the wall with one hand. As for what had happened exactly…well, Marcus claimed this man drugged his drink, and then followed him and his friends when they’d left the bar, not feeling well. The man had ambushed them in an alley, either mugging, assaulting, or raping Marcus, depending on which version he was telling, and then, when Marcus hit him in the head with a brick, he’d fled–or so he claimed. The place where he alleged the struggle had occurred had no signs of a struggle, and no bloody brick. His friends hadn’t been any help either, or at least the ones they could find. An odd case for sure. Something had happened to him, because there were pictures of him with wounds that didn’t seem self-inflicted, unless he was particularly masochistic, but whatever the real story was, Marcus either didn’t want the police to know it, or didn’t know what had happened himself, really.

In any case, I was deep in shit already, dealing with that insane interview and Bernard’s sudden disappearance, that this guy’s appearance at my desk, claiming to have a tip about the Bruiser, wasn’t really something I wanted to deal with at the moment, and so I was terse and impatient. It wasn’t until he shoved the pictures in front of me that he’d found on the internet, that I began to actually pay attention to what he was saying, especially when he threatened to take them to the news media instead.

Apparently, Bernard had possessed a side that few in the city knew much about, and one that none of us had uncovered during the investigation. In all honesty, most of our energy had been invested in trying to unravel the mystery of his shifting identity and volatile behavior, to do much digging into him and his past. Marcus, on the other hand, had, and the pictures only served to make everything more complicated. Bernard, it seemed, had been a rather common sight around the BDSM circles of the city, always as a sub, often involving himself in some scenarios that appeared…rather extreme in their execution. One photo stood out to me in particular, of Bernard–the old Bernard, from the photos and the identification, in the middle of a grungy basement, perhaps even the basement we had found him in, kneeling on the filthy floor, naked aside from a leather harness, a chastity cage, and a thick metal collar around his neck–not as large as the one he’d had on, but the parallels between the photo and the condition we had found him in were impossible to deny.

Was it some sex scene gone awry? Given the secure nature of Bernard’s work at a defense contractor, I doubted that he had much interest in this sort of compromising information getting out into the open, which would explain why he would avoid telling me about it when I interviewed him. But then why, if he was worried about secrecy, would he then go on TV, proclaim his love and devotion to his unnamed and unknown master and captor, and then disappear into the night? Somehow, the entire thing made even less sense than before, and when I pressed Marcus for details about where he had found this, and what he’d been doing looking for it, he refused to give me any background to them at all. Instead, he wanted to talk about his own case from years ago–because he was certain that the man who had done this to Bernard, was the same man who had assaulted him in that alley, raped him, and tried to kidnap him off to who knew where.

Was it plausible? Sure. Was I ready to accept that this rapist had been active in the city for years, doing who knew what to men this entire time, and somehow no one had even been aware that it was happening? I was definitely not. After all, I had assumed, up to this point, that the man who had placed the 911 call leading us to Bernard was the rapist, though I wasn’t entirely sure why he would do so. But if he’d been secretly active for years…it meant that not only was he much more skilled at this than I was ready to admit, but that there also had to be some reason he was making his crime public. Now, he wanted us to know about him–and that meant either that the guilt was finally breaking him (which, in my experience was unlikely) or things were about to get much, much worse.

Carnival (Part 7) [Interactive]

The Daniel on the ground started to laugh, and then let off a loud belch, rolling over and giving his ass a scratch as he did. “Fuck, feels so fuckin’ good being outta there,” he stood up, tottering slightly, and then faced one of the mirrors in the room, looking at himself and taking it all in.

When he’d entered the maze, Daniel had been in the best shape of his life–swimming and playing soccer, watching his diet, keeping himself at a lean 160 pounds or so. He was stunning on campus, but had been with his girlfriend for a couple of years now, and was planning on proposing to her after graduation. But that Daniel wasn’t here anymore–and the Daniel looking at himself in the mirror, was, in almost every way, his physical opposite.

Where Daniel had been tall, a couple inches over six feet, he was now about five and a half feet tall. His lean body had been replaced by rolls and rolls of fat, his smooth body coated in hair, his cleanliness replaced by filthy unwashed clothes and grimy skin–the embodiment of his worst drives and impulses, his greed, lust and sloth made manifest my the twisted mirrors of the maze–and these needs were powerful, and starving. Still, the reflection didn’t leave without grabbing a shard of the broken mirror and sliding it into his pocket–after all, he had lots of other friends in here eager to escape the maze into the lives of the people who wandered into the funhouse, and he was generous.

The exit revealed itself quickly–the mirrors posed him no danger now, after all–and emerging from the curtain and into the noise of the carnival was thrilling. So many delicious smells, and so many men! Daniel stared at the dads and college students passing him, imagining them naked, imagining sucking their cocks and cleaning their bodies, and any number of lewd acts Daniel would have never imagined doing in his life, but this Daniel did all of that. This Daniel didn’t go to college–no, this Daniel worked some menial labor job to pay the bills, lived in a rundown apartment, and spent all of his free time hunting down men to fuck–but fucking could wait. Right now, all he wanted was to eat.

He found the midway, and went from food cart to food cart, loading up on everything fried and sweet that he could find, polishing off each meal as he stood in line for the next. He could feel his gut heaving and bloating, hanging heavier on him, dropping out the bottom of his shirt, and the looks of disgust from the people around him only made him hornier–and he would stare back until they looked away uneasily, just like they always did when he’d been a reflection in a mirror, unable to bear the sight of themselves, but now they had no choice. Now, he was one of them–and he kept feeling the rough shard in his pocket, thinking about it, his little cock getting hard, buried in his fat (Daniel had been quite well endowed, but his reflection had never found length necessary to have a nice time).

In the end, his horniness overwhelmed his hunger, and he retreated into the shadows between two booths dropped his grimy pants, and started jacking off, intending to let off a bit of steam before finding some action later–but was rudely interrupted by a voice shouting at him. Daniel didn’t stop jacking–why would he after all, he was enjoying himself–but looked over and saw that the voice had come from a young police officer, likely working off the clock in uniform, providing a bit of security for the carnival while it was in town.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, you fucking pervert?” the young man said, and started towards him. Daniel went down for his pants, but not to pull them up–he dug out the fragment of the mirror maze, got it in his palm, and as the young man approached, he pointed it at him, and watched the young man’s eyes be drawn to it, lock onto it, and contort into a vision of horror. Daniel didn’t know what he saw in there, but it was clear that he couldn’t look away–well, he had an idea what he might be seeing in there, but even a fragment, outside of the house, was a powerful force. The horror dulled, and when the young man looked away, he had a very different look in his eyes than before.

“How about I offer ya a little somethin’ and you just keep quiet about what you saw here, eh officer?” Daniel said.

‘Fuck–you nasty fucker, get to it.”

He got down and sucked the young man off, jacking off as he did, both of them cumming after a couple of minutes, and then they both got dressed and went off their separate ways. The young cop, found himself drawn to the food carts, stuffing himself silly for the rest of the night, filled with a hunger that he couldn’t explain–but which he had to indulge.

Meanwhile, three other frat brothers were standing in line for the Tunnel of Love, but they had just reached a surprising fork in the line. One direction was labeled for couples only, while the other was marked for single passengers. It just so happened that the three of them were single at the moment, which was part of why they’d thought it would be funny to go on the ride in the first place. One brother suggested they head down the couple line anyway, just for fun, but another one said they should go down the line for singles, hoping they might find some girls down that way for dates.

Which line did they end up in?

They go down the couple line together and ride as a threesome.
They go down the singles area and get paired up with other single passengers.

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My Town (Part 12)

Quentin looked up at Todd from where he was on his knees. He wanted to cry…but he couldn’t. All he could feel was that same hunger beginning to build in him, and he reached around, pulled the cigar butt from his ass, and stuck it in his mouth, unlit, and began to chew. “Please…Please, I’ll do anything you want. Make me whoever you want. I’ll be your sheriff, I’ll beat up whoever you want, but not this, please not this,” he muttered to Todd.

Todd stepped into the cell with him, his leather boots hard against the concrete, and crouched down with him, watching him chew the cigar while he smoked his own. Quentin saw that his eyes had changed, from the night before–something was…wrong with them. They had been blue before, and certainly cold and calculating, but now they were something else. The iris was grey, and seemed to swirl gently as they looked at one another, and the pupil was black, but almost had a sheen of leather. Todd stroked the side of his face with one of his gloves, and he flinched away, only for Todd to grab him by the neck, squeezing him gently, tilting his head so his cheek was half an inch from the burning end of his cigar.

“This is my town now, do you understand that? I don’t think you do, really. None of you do, yet. I remember you, you know, when I was a kid. You were just a deputy then, always the perfect image of professionalism on the beat. I wonder, do you remember me at all? Do you remember watching me getting beat up in the school yard from across the street, that same grin as always plastered on your face? You didn’t do shit for me then–you were useless, and spineless. Now, at least, I have a use for a piece of scum like you. Like all of you–my dad, my brother, every man in this town. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this? Do you have any idea what I’ve given up for this? You can’t possibly understand–but that’s alright. I’m not keeping you all around because of your smarts, or because of your compassion. I’m keeping you all here for my pleasure–and do you know what would please me most right now? Making you a filthy fucking ash pig for the rest of your miserable life,” Todd smiled, “And you know what else? I think that’s what would please you most too.”

Quentin…remembered something then. Something he was certain wasn’t real, something fabricated by Todd and inserted into his mind, but it felt…so real. He remembered how, for so long, he’d been keeping a secret–that while to the rest of the town he was an upstanding, respectable citizen, whenever he was alone in his garage, he’d been…consumed by a desperate, insatiable desire for smoke and ash. “No–no, it isn’t true, I…I never did any of that.”

“No? You didn’t go on cam with strangers all over the world, devour full trays of ash in front of them over cam, coat yourself with it, and beg them to send them their own fill ashtrays? You didn’t do any of that? But you remember it, don’t you? I can pull up your xtube account, I can show you everything. It’s real now–it’s all real as could be. So you see, Ashtray–all I’m doing is setting you free. Setting you free to be the man you always wanted to be–because in my town, you can be exactly who you were meant to be, all along.”

He fled. He pushed himself to his feet, shoved his way past Todd, and ran all the way out of the police station. He didn’t pay attention to the other leather clad officers laughing as he passed them by, didn’t notice the thick haze of smoke in the air, from all of their collective pipes and cigars–he didn’t stop running until he was on the sidewalk, two blocks down, and crouched in an alley between a bar and a cigar shop–and he tried to deny it. Tried to find himself, but he was still chewing the cigar, still swallowing down bits of it, taking it out, licking the still warm end, coating his tongue in ash, moaning, groping himself, thinking about how…how satisfying it was. It was true–he’d hated that side of himself, hadn’t he? No–no, not that side. He’d hated his public face. He’d hated how everyone had looked at him in uniform, hated the standard he had to abide by…but now, there were no standards for him. He was free to fall as far as he could, and as terrifying as the thought was, he was so…happy, all the same, to be free at last.

Now, he walked the streets during the day, begging the men of the town for ash, smoke, spit, piss–whatever they were willing to give him, and enduring any act of humiliation to get it, and at night, he’d sleep in the alleys or get picked up by his favorite cops, and spend the night in a cell servicing them all night long. Now–now he simply was who he was–no illusions, no disguise. The ash starved pervert he’d always wanted to be…it was real now, and as much as he tried to convince himself that it wasn’t right, that he had it backwards, the relief was so real. He stepped out of the alley, wanting everyone to see him. Wanting them to know him for exactly who he was, the cigar unraveling in his mouth, leaf stuck in his teeth, and a couple of bears were coming towards him down the sidewalk, cigars half-smoked.

“Fuck, any…anything a filthy Ashtray can do for some of that ash of yours fellas?” he said. He said it. He wanted to say it, and when the two men shoved him into the alley for a little fun behind the dumpster, he felt that old Quentin withering in his mind, and he pushed him away. This is just who he was–who he’d always been meant to be–and thank god for Todd, for his town allowing him to become the nasty pig he’d never known he really was.

This is the end of “My Town” for now–there may or may not be more in the future.

My Town (Part 11)

Quentin woke up later on a concrete floor and rolled over, expecting to find himself still in his garage, but he wasn’t. Instead, he was somewhere else he recognized–the inside of one of the city’s jail cells. He got up, still a bit unsteady, and went to the cell door, but it was locked–why in the hell was he even in here at all? The evening before was…fuzzy, but he could remember enough of what mattered–that Todd was doing something to the men of the town, something evil and vile, and he needed to be stopped. Something…else was wrong with him though. There was a need in his chest, a need in his guts, something he couldn’t explain. He knew he should…remember, but it was locked away somehow, but he felt…sick to his stomach.

He shouted for help, but no one came. He just sat on the bench, guts twisting, a headache brewing in his temples, wondering what on Earth was going on with him, until he heard voices–the familiar voices of his two most loyal deputies–coming down the hall to the cells. They would understand–he knew Todd hadn’t gotten to either of them yet. Together, maybe, they would be able to stop him.

Then he smelled it–smoke. Not fire smoke, but tobacco smoke. The need in his guts grew more intense, and he gagged, vision spinning. They rounded the corner and he could see them, Deputies Hawkes and Miles, and walking ahead of them both was Todd, smoking a cigar just like he had been the night before. His blood ran cold when he realized that both Hawkes and Miles seemed different as well. They were both smoking too–Hawkes a massive Boswell Pipe, and Miles a thick gauge cigar, and their uniforms were wrong too. The usual cotton blue was gone. Instead, they were both wearing formal black leather uniforms…just like the one he’d seen on himself in that vision the night before. And when he saw that, it finally occurred to him that he wasn’t wearing the uniform he’d had on the night before either–but he also wasn’t wearing a leather version like his fellow officers.

It fact, he wasn’t wearing much of anything at all. He had on a pair of denim shorts, hugging his ass and crotch tight, showing off his ample ass, thick leather biker boots up to his knees, and a mesh shirt, which showed off his hairy chest and shoulders. He felt different, somehow–his entire body seemed off, but he couldn’t quite nail down the details. It felt like his body, but at the same time he knew he should be different–not this muscular, not with this wide ass that seemed to shake when he took a step. He caught another whiff of smoke, stronger this time, and he couldn’t stop his mouth from opening up and saying, “Fuck boys, this ash pig is starving–you got anything for a filthy slut like me?”

His cheeks turned bright red when he heard himself speak, mostly from how desperate he sounded. The deputies laughed as they approached, and Miles said, “Sure, Ashtray, have some of mine,” and stuck the lit end of his cigar through the bars, tapping it on the metal, and dropping the ember onto the floor. He flung himself down picked up as much of the ash in his fingers as he could and shoved it in his mouth, the satisfaction flooding his body making him moan, and he groped himself in his tight shorts, before getting down and licking up the rest of it from the concrete.

“You’re such a fuckin’ pig, Ashtray,” Hawkes said. He unlocked the cell door and stepped inside, moving behind Quentin and grinding his fat cock against Quentin’s fat ass. “Sometimes I think you cause trouble just because you like getting fucked in a cell. That turn you on pig? Being at the mercy of the two meanest cops in town?”

“Officer, ya can fuck me anywhere, anytime as long as you pay me for it, you know that,” Quentin said, and slipped his shorts down, Hawkes slipping his own sizable cock into Quentin’s ass. “Fuck, nothing like the first fuck and the first mouthful of ash in the mornin.”

“Get that tongue out, Ashtray,” Miles grabbed him by the hair through the bars and yanked him up, and Quentin stuck his tongue out, screaming in delight when Miles rolled the cigar over his tongue, leaving it coated in ash. Then, before he could swallow, he shoved his cock through the bars, and rammed it down Quentin’s throat, making him gag on the length, and the hot ash he hadn’t managed to swallow.

The two cops played with Quentin for a couple of hours, and in his mind, he was reeling. He had no control over himself–he’d do literally anything for a taste of ash, or a taste of smoke from their lips. He would look over at Todd on occasion, begging him with his eyes for release, but Todd was just smiling around his cigar, his gloved hands exploring his body, and as he watched, Todd changed more–his beard now more white than ash grey, his body powerfully muscled aside from a thick gut, cock now over twelve inches long, so long he stroked it with two hands while he watched, encouraged, and directed the humiliating scene unfolding in front of him.

The two cops came first, both in Quentin’s now very loose hole. Then Hawkes dumped the ash from his massive pipe on the floor while Miles held him back, pissed on the pile, turning it into a slurry, and they let him loose, watching him grind his bearded face into the ashy muck, Miles shoving the end of his cigar into Quentin’s hole, and told him to keep it there, so he could eat it later. Unable to stop himself, Quentin felt his cock explode in his shorts as he licked up the filth, and the two cops laughed as they left the cell, telling Ashtray that he was free to go–unless he felt like hanging around for round two in a couple of hours. That, or they could always pick him up off the street a bit later, instead.

They laughed, and walked off, leaving Quentin overwhelmed and humiliated, looking up at Todd, who was still across from the cell, smiling at him. “Well Ashtray? You gonna get going or not?”

My Town (Part 10)

Quentin chucked the files at Todd, the papers and photos falling around him in the chair. “You–you’re a fucking whore. I don’t know what you did to yourself to make you look like some old man either, and I don’t want to know, but this is the fucking truth, and no one here is going to vote for some prostitute. Get the fuck out of my town, or I’ll run you out myself!”

Todd picked up a photo–a mugshot, and looked at the face in it. He was so young then. So weak. “You’re more clever than I expected, I gotta say, Sheriff, but it’s too late–I don’t blame you for not realizing it, but the sooner you see that I own this whole fucking town–and all the men in it–the happier you’re going to be.”

“Fuck you.”

Todd heaved a sigh, “You know, I came here to make a peace offering, Quentin. I like you–you have a strong spirit, and I’d hate for you to lose that. Here’s my offer–drop out of the race, and I’ll let you stay on as Sheriff. Trust me–a rough fucker like you, you’d enjoy keeping law and order in my town. All you’d have to do is do whatever I say, when I fucking say it–and beyond that, enjoy yourself! It’s going to be a paradise, trust me.”

Todd got up from the chair he was sitting in, walked to where Quentin was standing, and brushed his cheek lightly with the back of his gloved hand. Quentin felt it, the brutal pleasure in that leather. He understood it, somehow–or it understood him. Todd took the cigar from his mouth, leaned in and kissed him, breathing smoke into his mouth, and he groaned against his own desires, memories of his wife and daughter fading, even as that rage–that horrible, violent rage–started storming inside him. “Who–What are you?” he said quietly when Todd pulled away.

“Come on, there’s someone I want you to see.”

Todd lead the way into the garage, and there, against the wall, was Todd’s father. He was bound to some cross of some sort, chained to it, and when they entered, he looked over at then and moaned in excitement. “What–What the fuck is this!” Quentin said, the shock lifting the daze from his mind.

“That, is my father. He’s been a very bad man, you see, and he needs lots, and lots, of punishment. That’s what sheriffs do, after all, they punish, and they beat, and they discipline. That’s what you’ll be doing for me from now on, at least. That is, if you take me up on my offer. I can assure you I won’t make it twice.”

The glove brushed him once again, and he felt that rage intensify once again. There, on the table, were any number of instruments of torture–whips and canes, an electric shock kit, dildos and clamps and…and he could see himself using them all, a version of himself using them, dressed in a leather uniform, a cruel smile on his face, beating the shit out of this prisoner…is this what had been happening to the whole town? Was Todd behind this entire strange summer? He couldn’t let him win. He couldn’t give in like this. This was his town, and goddamn it, he was going to put it back together, the way it was supposed to be.

He rushed to grab the nearest thing–a cane–tried to turn and swing at Todd’s face–but the gloves were faster, somehow, and caught it in mid air, and going for his throat with the other, tight enough for him to get immediately lightheaded from the pressure on his arteries. “Too bad. Still, I can’t say I’m too surprised. Some men, you can’t give them what they want, and expect them to take it happily. We can figure something else out, though–what was it you said? A town would never vote for a prostitute?”

The glove tightened, and his vision blurred slightly. Everything around him seemed to be warping and twisting, and he couldn’t quite keep anything straight. Todd released him, shoving him back and making him teeter off balance. “You know, I never offered you a smoke. That was rude of me, wasn’t it?” Todd said, “You’d like to smoke something, wouldn’t you Quentin?”

He tried to regroup, but that sensation of lightheadedness clung to him, his tongue clammy, his temple aching. He…did need a smoke, didn’t he? When had he smoked last? He couldn’t remember–and he nodded at Todd, who pulled a spare cigar from his pocket and rolled it in his fingers.

“You know, Quentin, these aren’t cheap–do you have any cash?”

Quentin patted his pants, but his keys, his wallet–they were gone. “I…thought I did.”

“Well that’s alright–you’ll do anything for a smoke, won’t you bitch?”

That didn’t seem right to him, did it?

“Come on over here, get on your knees, if you want some of this.”

Quentin shuffled over, unsure if he was being compelled to obey him, or if he really did want to get down on his knees in front of this faggot. He couldn’t take his eyes off the cigar, in any case…though his eyes were more drawn to the lit one in Todd’s mouth. He got down in front of him, face up, trying to piece together what was happening to him.

“Open up, Quentin–first taste is free.”

He expected Todd to let him have a taste of his smoke, but instead, Todd rolled the ash off his cigar onto his tongue, making him wince from the heat, but he took the ash gratefully, soaking it in his spit, and swallowing it, unable to believe how hard his cock had gotten from that simple act.

“Taste good?”

“Yes sir….thank you.”

“You want more?”

Quentin nodded.

“Get over there, and clean off my dad’s disgusting body–I think the whole biker gang used him as their urinal last night.”

Quentin crawled over, horrified…but he wanted more, and when Todd knocked the ash onto his dad’s body and let Quentin lick it off, or fed him some of his second hand smoke, more and more of Quentin retreated into the darkness his soul was becoming. After allowing Todd to fuck his ass and fill him up with his cum–and then after sucking off his dad–Todd locked lips with him and they shared the same lungful of smoke for…well, Quentin didn’t know how long he lasted, until he grew lightheaded, the garage blurring, and he passed out onto the concrete floor.

My Town (Part 9)

The town felt something was amiss as April became May, and the summer heat descended on the town. It began with Edwin Moss resigning his seat on the city council at the Memorial Day celebrations. No one had seen much of him for the last month, and even fewer could even recall how such a figure had ended up on their council to begin with. He stood up at the podium, wearing some grungy biker leathers, fresh tattoos running up both arms, head shaven and only just beginning to pick up a tan from riding under the hot sun, announced his decision, and then left almost immediately. Some in town seemed like he should have been…different. Clean cut and respectable. “Hadn’t he been planning to run for mayor in the fall?” various people whispered to each other, but no one could really remember hearing that before, or imagine what might possess such a man to think he had a chance of winning.

Thus, it seemed that Quentin Furman, the town’s current sheriff, was the front runner. Traditionally, the candidates for mayor announced at the Memorial Day celebration, and he was the only one who planned on even giving a speech–and he did. He praised the town’s traditions, and emphasized a platform of safety and security, to make sure every family felt they were protected in their little town. Protected from immigrants. Protected from gangs. Protected from anything new. It assuaged them, and by the end of the speech, everyone had largely forgotten about Edwin’s odd appearance–at least until a surprise speaker climbed up as the Sheriff descended–it was a man no one recognized, immediately, but one a few had seen around town in the last month. He introduced himself as Todd Moss–Edwin’s younger son–and announced his intention to run for Mayor.

His speech was largely forgotten, amidst the flurries of gossip running from one end of the crowd to the other.

“He can’t be Todd–he looks much too old to be him!”

“I know he’s living in the Moss’ house though–he showed up about a month ago, out of the blue.”

“Wasn’t he a faggot?”

“He doesn’t have a woman, what does that tell you?”

“Doesn’t look like a faggot to me–ain’t his older brother the faggot anyway?”

“That whole family is a mess if you ask me.”

“Why is he wearing leather? It’s so hot today.”

Still, as the day progressed, and Todd had the opportunity to gladhand the townsfolk before, during, and after the parade, most found themselves impressed. The men all noticed how…firm of a grip he had, with those supple leather gloves he wore. He was distinguished, his voice full of confidence and authority. The cigar smoke around him lent a further air of credibility, especially among the older men, who say them as call back to a earlier, stronger era. He seemed to have an answer for every question–especially about his odd family. “There are bad seeds in every family, you know,” he said to one man, “but that doesn’t mean we should hate them. No–everyone should have a place in our town, don’t you think?”

Still, Sheriff Furman wasn’t concerned. Todd was a stranger. He had a reputation. His family was a laughingstock or considered a public menace, depending on who you asked. If anything, he was the perfect opponent, or so he tried to convince himself. The months wore on, and heat increased, and the sheriff discovered he may have dismissed him too handily. Todd was everywhere, and speaking with everyone–and his tongue was silver. He could say anything to anyone, and they would agree with him, it seemed like. But something else was unsettling to the sheriff, and to the town. The divorce rate was spiking. Women were abandoning the town in droves, both young and old. No one could speak about it, especially not the men who were suffering most, because it seemed to happen with no real explanation. But Todd was always there, consoling the men left behind, seeing if they needed anything from him, anything at all–or from his father or brother, if that interested them more.

By August, Quentin was certain that Todd was behind it, somehow. The men of town were all behaving so…strangely. It had somehow become normal to go through the streets shirtless. There was carousing, touching, holding hands. More rumors than he could count of men, family men, suddenly turning into faggots overnight with their best friends, or with relative strangers. He tried to talk to Edwin, when he rolled through town, about his son, but the biker…couldn’t speak to him. The same with his older brother, not that he seemed bright enough to know what was going on half the time. So he decided to go on a short trip to the city, where Todd had rolled in from a few months before–and there he found breadcrumbs, but enough to sink his opponents campaign, he supposed. A few arrests for prostitution ought to do it, right? With the files in hand, he drove back home, but when he got to his house…the lights were on, but his wife’s car was gone. He went inside, and there, sitting in his chair, was Todd, smoking one of his thick cigars, clad in less leather than usual–but much more provocative choices. A thick banded harness, a vest, leather chaps with a jock holding his cock and balls, thick boots, and always those gloves.

“Hello Sheriff–Maise asked me to give you a message. She’s taken the girls and gone–apparently, she was tired of the…beatings. You’re quite a beast, it seems, from the bruises she showed me. I can’t say I’m surprised–do you know how common domestic abuse is in the homes of law enforcement? I must say I’m disappointed in you all the same–you had such a reputation as a family man.”

My Town (Part 8)

“Well? Go on then, get out. You don’t want to be late to work, do you?”

Todd was in the driver’s seat of his brother’s truck, and they were parked on the street, a block down from the construction project where he’d spied on him the day before. His brother was in the seat beside him, crushed up into the cabin as best he could. He hadn’t really realized how large he’d grown, until he’d climbed into the cab, knees crunched up to his chest, head bent over to keep from being pressed against the ceiling. He…didn’t want to get out. He didn’t want anyone to see him, not looking like this.

Todd had not been kind to his brother during the night–he’d left marks, purposeful ones, all over his brother’s aching body. Lash marks across his ass and back onto his shoulders and neck, cigar burns on his thighs, bruises all over, including a black eye he’d given him, after feeling a brush of teeth on his cock while his brother had been giving him head. He looked battered and broken–and the clothes his brother had given him to wear this morning hid nothing–just a pair of short denim shorts, pockets hanging out the bottom like the daisy dukes Kyle had chased in his teens, and a t-shirt cropped short, showing off the welts across his lower back, where the hair didn’t cover them up. He looked over at Todd, pouting slightly with his fat lip. “Please bro…please, can we just go home? You…you can fist me, all you want, but don’t…I don’t want them to see me like this.”

“Oh Kyle, I can fist you all I want, no matter what,” he said, slapping his face lightly, but enough to make Kyle flinch slightly, “But right now, what I want, is for your whole crew–hell, for the whole damn town–to see you looking like a beaten piece of meat, dressed like a fucking whore. Now get out of the car, and lets go get you to work.”

Kyle fought, but his body obeyed all the same–his brother’s voice didn’t give him a choice. Without thinking about it, he took a cigar and lit it, which eased his nerves slightly, and he waited for his brother to get out and come around to the sidewalk with him. “They…they won’t even recognize me, will they?”

“Maybe not a first, no, but that’s why I’m coming with you,” Todd said, “To make sure they know who you are, and what you’re for,” he said, slapped Todd on the ass right in front of an older couple walking down the street, who looked away in shock and disgust. Kyle…didn’t know what to feel. He was almost thankful for his now shrunken cock, at the moment, so no one could see how hard he was, and he squeezed the dildo in his ass, thankful he was at least plugged. He thought about the older man, thought about him turning around and calling him out on his shame, calling him a whore, shoving him against the wall and beating him, making him suck his cock right here in the street, and he turned back and tried to get back in the truck–only for Todd to grab him with a gloved hand and drag him back.

“Please…please, I don’t want to be this, I don’t want to do this…”

“Do you know, Kyle, how many times I had to walk the halls of school with a black eye, or a swollen nose?” Todd said, linking his arm in his brother’s, and walking him the block to the construction site, where Kyle could see his co-workers–his friends–gathering to get started for the day. “More times than I can really count. At least you enjoy it. At least everyone seeing you as the muscle bound slut masochist turns you on more than anything. You know what I think? You’re afraid you’re going to like this. You’re afraid you’re going to like this so much you’re going to want it. And you know what, Kyle? You’re right.”

They rounded the corner, and Kyle saw the first couple guys see him, and look shocked. Then came the recognition, a moment later. “Kyle? Is…what the fuck happened to you, man?”

His face was red. He couldn’t speak. He wanted to die, he wanted them all to fuck him. He wanted to be humiliated. He wanted it all to stop.

“Just a normal night, right guys?” Todd said, as the men clustered around them, eyes going a bit cloudy from his smoke, looking at the older fellow walking with their muscle bound worker, “I mean, which one of you guys here hasn’t spent a night with your crew slut, beating him while he begs for more, fisting his hole, covering his face with spunk? I bet every single one of you has, right? You can remember, can’t you Kyle?”

He could remember. He could remember them all, and Kyle realized he was forgetting as well. Forgetting all the women he chased and battered, all of the conquests, all of the macho posturing he’d wasted his life with. No–he remembered better now, remembered all the men he’d slept with, all the cruel, vile things they’d done to him, that he’d begged them to do to him. The men around him, the eyes were turning cruel, the mouths twisting into leers, more than one of them rubbing their cocks through the front of their pants, thinking about their last nights with Kyle, and thinking about how they could use another one soon.

“Is that fucking Kyle? You fucking piece of fucking shit, you’re late again!” An older man, the foreman, pushed himself through the circle of men, and met Todd, who brushed him with his gloved hands, warping him just slightly, and Kyle fell to his knees in front of him. “Sorry…sir, I’m sorry. I just had to help my brother out, and I lost track of time. I can make it up to you right sir?”

Todd pushed the cigar into the foreman’s mouth, and stepped away. “Yeah, you can make it up to me, in the trailer, you fucking slut. Get going.”

Kyle booked it into the trailer, and for the next several hours, the men listened to the cries and screams of their crew slut, as the foreman worked him over, and when the foreman stumbled out, sweaty and exhausted, he sent each member of the crew in for a break, like usual. By the end of the night, Kyle was limping along with Carl, a particularly thickly forearmed bricklayer, already hungry for a night with his ass full of him–and whatever else he might feel like doing to him. He deserved it after all–but he needed it, more than anything.