Regarding fetishising occupations in your stories: Overall, you tend to excel in upending the common cliches and stereotypes that infest the vast majority of erotic fiction. You introduce backstory, there’s forethought in your work, the reader can tell you’re not just writing to get off. Your work is never boring, never conventional. That’s the draw for me. And this comes from a stereotypical, white collar, 1%-ish type, who deep down abhorrs so many of the conventions he embodies.

I appreciate the sentiment, but I know I could still to better. 

Acceleration (Part 2)

The worst part of it was, Russell knew Finn was sorry. He made a mistake–a big mistake–and it was probably tearing him up that there wasn’t anything he could do to fix it. But Russell just couldn’t find the space to forgive him, not yet. It had been so important, such a momentous thing for him, and it had been reduced to pillow talk by his best friend. That was what hurt the most–that Finn would never suffer anything for the mistake he made. The only thing Russell could do was never speak to him again, but how would that help either of them, really? But if he did try to reconcile, how could he possibly trust him with anything important again?

The rest of the day went by without further incident, and Russell ducked out of school as quickly as he could, before Jack could track him down and demand that blowjob from him. He didn’t know what he’d do about the bully tomorrow, but that was a concern for later–he just wanted to get home and put as much of this behind him as he could. Both of his parents were still at work, as was usual. They’d be gone until eight or so at their jobs, leaving Russell to fend for himself. He had a snack, and then went up to his room to play some computer games–but as he loaded up the game, he heard the doorbell. He didn’t usually answer the door when his parents were gone, but a few minutes later, the bell rang again–and then again. He went downstairs, planning on asking whoever it was to leave, but when he opened the door, all he found was an empty stoop, with a small cardboard box on the welcome mat.

Was it from Jack? He didn’t know where he lived, though–Russell had been careful to guard that knowledge from him, and the bully hadn’t seemed interested in pursuing him beyond school grounds. He picked it up and took it inside, opened it up, and inside he found a strange, watch-like contraption, and a folded up note. He read the paper, but it didn’t have any information regarding who had left the package outside, but it did make it clear that the odd device was intended for him. There were also instructions–put it on his wrist, and then, when the thing had finished “calibrating” (whatever that meant) he should press the button on the side–once.

He took the thing from the box and examined it, turning it over in his hands. It really did resemble a digital watch of some sort, but the face was blank–if it was supposed to be telling the time, it was clearly broken–hell, if it was supposed to be displaying anything at all, it was broken. Maybe it needed batteries? He flipped it over, but the case was seamless–there didn’t seem to be any way to get into it to change anything at all. Still, if it was broken, there wasn’t any harm in putting it on, right? He had to toy with the odd clasp for a moment, but he got it secured around his wrist–and then, without him doing anything, the band tightened around it–not uncomfortably so, but tight enough he couldn’t quite comfortably wedge a finger between band and skin. He looked at the screen, and sure enough, it had sprung to life as the band tightened, the word “calibrating…” flashing in the middle of the screen, as a thin black line slowly wound around the face. The circle completed in a moment, and the screen showed a series of screens:

Re-Calibration complete!

Admin not detected

Restricted use mode #013

Ready…

The word ready remained, and a small button popped out on the side of watch–and Russell had no intention of pressing it. This thing was all too strange, and he still had no clue what it might even do to him, when he pressed it. He tugged at the strap, but it refused to loosen, and he couldn’t get the clasp to unhook, as tight as it was around him. He tried pulling and tugging for several minutes, and in his increasingly frantic struggles, his thumb slipped, hit the button on the side, and it slid back into the watch. At the same time, he felt a sharp sting on his wrist, directly beneath the face of the watch, like a series of small needles had slid into him and back into the watch nearly instantaneously. He shook his hand for a moment, and again tried to pry the watch from his body, but it refused to budge–and it was clear that whatever the thing had injected into him, it was having an effect–but what it was doing exactly was a mystery.

He noticed it in his arm first, the skin flushing, as small bumps appeared, looking almost like hives running up his slender arm. He felt his heart rate speed up, but whether it was caused by the injection, or whether it was just his own terror, he couldn’t be certain. The muscles in his forearm cramped suddenly, and then released–and when they did, they exploded–or at least, that’s what it felt like to Russell. It looked like it too–his forearm had nearly doubled in size, thick with muscle, and before he could feel it with his free hand, he felt his bicep–and then his tricep–do the same. Moments later, the arm with the watch on it looked almost comical–packed with muscle from wrist to shoulder, while his other arm was still thin, without any definition at all.

As Billy Fore once put it very eloquently, is the sexualization of people’s livelihood (workers, truckers, police officers) inherently problematic?

For those not familiar with Billy’s stuff, the original ask the question is referring to is here. And you should check out his tumblr for sure, @hypnohepcat.

This is going to be another one with a short answer and a long answer.

Short answer: Generally, yes.

Long answer: Usually, but I don’t think it’s “inherent”. Or rather, I think there’s a way to depict this sort of thing without it becoming insulting and demeaning, it’s just difficult to do. That’s not to detract from the original point, but I think we can do more to try an tease out what, exactly, the problem is with these sorts of fetishes, and whether anything can be done to try and mitigate that.

This issue, after all, isn’t a matter of who gets to have sex in stories. There can’t be something inherently wrong with a story about two construction workers having sex–that is, the act itself. But rather, there’s an issue about how these characters get portrayed in these sorts of stories, where they become flattened and reduced to cliche and archetype rather than filled out and given actual lives and development.

Because as Billy points out, a lot of the labor we tend to fetishize is, generally, rather skilled. Construction is a great example. We love our stories about dumb laborers, but there’s a tremendous amount of knowledge and skill that goes into construction, electrical work, plumpbing etc., but in our culture, we have created such a vast cultural gap between manual labor (brute force, low intellect), information labor (high intellect, cleverness), and social labor (service work, either controlling or worthy of humiliation) that it becomes very difficult to conceive of, say, a smart, clever, intellectual construction worker.

But these jobs are skilled, and people take pride in them, and they use them build lives beyond them. That’s what we tend to forget. When we fantasize about the dumb brute laborer, we don’t usually get so far as to figure out what sort of place he goes home to, if he has a union job with union wages, if he has a family, what he does for leisure, if he feels like his life possesses worth. We reduce these professions to their “sexy” elements, and everything else, everything inconvenient, disappears into the ether.

It becomes especially troublesome when the depiction becomes inherently demeaning. When the job becomes a symbol of a person lacking worth in society. I’m guilty of this part, especially, and it’s something I’m trying to do less of, especially because it is lazy, uninteresting writing. A character should be more than what they do for work, in the same sense that a character should be more than the culture they hail from (both in terms of race and class). We can still tell sexy stories with characters who are more than cliches, I think–it’s just a difficult challenge to do so.

Acceleration (Part 1)

“What do you think guys? Is Runt any taller today?”

Jack shoved Russell up against the lockers in the high school hallway, and he struggled against him, but his arms were several inches too short to get anywhere near Jack’s chest.

“Nah man, I think he’s just stopped!”

“Gonna be looking like he’s twelve forever, probably!”

Jack leaned in close, a cruel sneer on his face. “And a faggot too–not that surprising. I ain’t gay, but I do have something that might help you grow,” Jack said, and with his free hand he groped his crotch, making sure Russell could see the bulge through the mesh of the basketball shorts he had on. The other jocks clustered around their ringleader looked a bit nervous–it was clear that this part hadn’t been discussed, but Russell’s sexuality had been a hot topic at school for the last week or so–Jack was bound to find out eventually. “Eh? You and me, the bathroom after school? Nothing helps me grow like a good boost of protein, and you might as well get some practice, faggot.”

“Jack, leave him the fuck alone!”

Russell and Jack looked to the side, where Finn was standing a few yards away. As if things could get any worse–Russell would gladly have sucked Jack’s cock if it meant Finn could just fucking disappear. Still, Jack let go of Russell’s shirt, and he fell back against the lockers. It wasn’t very surprising, really–Jack liked to be the bully, but he knew when he was outmatched, and Finn was about the only person in school who could outmatch him–but then, Finn outmatched everyone, pretty much.

“I’ll be waiting, faggot. Be there, or fucking regret it,” Jack said, too low for Finn or his posse to hear him, and then he walked away, the guys laughing and joking, and Finn walked to where Russell was recovering.

“Russ, are you alright?”

“Fuck off, Finn,” Russell said, and hefted up his backpack, “Haven’t you done enough shit already this week to ruin my life?”

“I told you I’m sorry, Russ–”

“And I thought I could fucking trust you!” Russ said, “I don’t–fuck you, Finn. You don’t fucking know.” It was lame, and he knew it, but he couldn’t put everything he was feeling into words. He just pushed past Finn, in the opposite direction Jack had gone, and headed for his class, just wanting to get through the rest of school without the day turning into even more of a nightmare than it already was.

Why couldn’t he have just kept his mouth shut? It wasn’t hard, after all, to just not say anything. Then again, Russell had told him, hadn’t he? Holding onto it for this long had just been…exhausting, and that night at Finn’s house, with a little alcohol from his dad’s stash, it had just…popped out. “I think I’m gay.” And Finn had been good! Really good, in fact. They’d talked through it a bit, and when Russell had left, he’d felt…good for the first time in a very long time, that his oldest friend would accept and support him no matter what, and no matter how they’d grown apart over the last couple of years.

Russell and Finn had bonded during Freshman year. At the time, they’d both been late bloomers, at the time, and together they had weathered the social trials of the first year of high school. But Finn had spent the summer away from town, visiting family on the other side of the country, and when he’d returned…well, he hadn’t been the same Finn who’d left, that was for sure. He’d grown a bit over a foot taller, packed on muscle and fat, and had somehow managed to grow a full beard. Russell had barely been able to believe it, and when they’d gone back to school, suddenly he and his friend were pulled apart. Finn was recruited to the football program, and quickly became the start of the JV team, while Russell was left in the dust–and that was when Jack entered the picture as well.

Jack was a year younger than them both, and while he couldn’t hold a candle to Finn, he immediately saw Russell was a perfect target for bullying, even if he was a year older than him. Hell, that actually made the whole thing even more fun for Jack–Russell could tell. And so, two more years had passed, Russell praying for a growth spurt and puberty which would never come–all he got was a light dusting of hair around his groin, an embarrassing cracking voice that never settled particularly low, and a case of acne that made him want to hide his face for half a year. Still, even if he’d had less time for him, Finn had done his best to remain friends with Russell, but it was inevitable that they would grow apart. Admitting to Finn that he was gay–part of why that had felt so good, was that it meant he was still his friend. But Finn had loose lips, and he’d let slip about it to Amy, the girl he was fucking at the moment, and Amy had told Emma and Trevor, and so on and so forth, and now everyone in the whole school pretty much knew, or would know by the next week.

Pervert Vision (Caption)

Drew was horny. This was nothing new for him, really, because Drew was always horny. He’d been horny for as long as he could remember. But Drew wasn’t quite like other perverts–no, Drew had always had something about him that made him…very special.

It had started with his father, when he was just a teenager. The burly man had always fascinated him, and played a regular role in Drew’s young fantasies. He’d been so innocent then, in some ways–but what he’d always wanted was for his father to…lust after him as well. It happened slowly, at first. Drew began to notice his father seemed to be…spying on him. Trying to catch him naked, trying to catch his son masturbating, stealing his son’s cumrags. Drew found it hard to believe…but the more he thought about it, the more true it became, until his father finally begged him for a load of cum–just like he’d imagined him doing the day before. That final year of living at home had been a year of…experimentation. Discovering what he could do, and who he could do–and he ended up doing most every man in the neighborhood, as well as the teachers at school. His father remained a favorite, however. Maybe it was time to pay him a visit, he hadn’t been home in quite some time, and his father always loved a chance to worship his perfect boy in person.

But no–not today. Often, Drew kept to himself. It was best that way, because he’d become so…powerful, that it was difficult to contain himself, once he got excited. Still, there was no rush quite like a hunt–and today, he felt like hunting. He threw on some cunstained clothes, headed down to the sidewalk, and decided to see what might interest him. He hadn’t been to the gym in a while, he supposed. He kept a membership, though rarely used it–he had never had much interest in working out, but it was a great opportunity to find some delightful men to play with.

He went inside, signed in, and headed right for the locker room, and found it sparse, without no one who really captured his interest. Still, he could wait. He sat on a bench in the corner of the room, behind a row of lockers, and masturbated idly for a few minutes, certain that something would come his way before too long. Sure enough, two young men entered, finished with their workout, and the scruffy one of the pair–oh, just seeing him drove Drew a bit wild.

Neither of them had been planning on taking a shower, but they made their way back there anyway. The sight of the chubby, slovenly pervert staring at them and jacking off should have disgusted them…but neither of them minded. Instead of taking a shower, however, the scruffy one got down on his knees while his workout partner stripped, and started sucking on his cock. He couldn’t break his eyes away from the pervert, however, no matter how hard he tried, and the pervert liked that.

The pervert liked it so much, his friend started spitting on him, calling him a faggot, and then shoved him up against the wall of the showers, fucking his ass, Scruff moaning and begging for more. Still–the pervert watched him, adored the confusion in his eyes. This would be a fun one–one to play with for a little while. His friend came deep, and then left. He was already forgetting about his friend, and Scruff collapsed to the tile, horrified by what had just happened to him, even as the pervert walked over to where he was. The scent rolling off his was strong–thick with cum, and it was…making him hungry, somehow.

He looked up at the pervert looming over him, a thousand questions running through his mind, but what came out of his mouth was, “Fuck, you’re a sexy looking fucker–wanna head back to my place for some fun?”

Drew liked that idea–but he was horny first, and so be made Scruff beg for another load from him before they left, and Scruff was more than happy to swallow down another load…but then again, he was a real cumpig, wasn’t he? It was hard to remember, but the straight, gruff jock he’d been when he’d walked into the locker room less than half an hour ago seemed so distant, and he felt like someone else. Someone he didn’t even know, to be honest. Drew came, Scruff swallowed, and then they left the gym, Scruff leading the way to his apartment. A…girlfriend was there, for some reason, but that wasn’t right. Scruff wasn’t dating anyone at the moment, and so he kicked her out, and once he was alone with the pervert again…well, things just seemed to…appear, as they needed them.

The poppers, first. Scruff kept huffing on them, feeling his cock throbbing harder and harder as the pervert fucked his ass, which seemed to be getting…looser, and the looser it got, the better it felt, to be honest. The pervert found the can of crisco in the dresser, lubed up a fist, and Scruff only had a moment of doubt before the hand was inside him, the pervert complimenting him on his technique, telling him he was one of the better fistpigs he’d found in the city.

Scruff kept expecting it to end. He would cum, the pervert would cum, but it only seemed to make the pervert hornier, and the look in his eyes–Scruff would be ready for another round before the pervert even suggested it. It was two days before the man finally left–Scruff looked around had his grungy one bedroom apartment, outfitted more as a sex dungeon than as a living space, before falling on the bed and at last falling asleep, still thinking about him, the perverts eyes still on him, still in him.

When he woke up, it was nearly night, and Scruff was horny as ever. He got dressed in some of his favorite gear–red and black, of course, threw his legs up, and took a pic.

He sent it to some of his favorite tops in the city–they all ran in the same circle as Drew, of course, but then, Drew seemed to know every perverse fuck in town. Before the hour was up, two men were inside him, Scruff was poppered up, and he knew it was going to be another great night to be a fistpig.

The Votes are In (Part 11)

Well, the twitter poll was perfectly divided, 50% to 50% in favor of Brett and Nate, so that left it up to the Patreon supporters, who favored Brett by a decent margin, with 55% for the slob, and 45% for the redneck. I think this is probably the final poll of this series, and I’ll wrap things up here with another one or two chunks this week.

The next interactive will start up in early March, and have a VR theme–though I’m still working out the details of it!

Pigtown Prison II – The Rookie (Part 5)

Jeff looked up at him, where Keith loomed large over everything, over his entire life. What did it really matter, if he agreed or not? He’d be Keith’s toy either way–but at least, if he agreed…maybe he would be happier with himself. So he said yes, and Keith told him to take two days, sell his things, end his lease, and return with a single bag. He’d be living with Keith from now on, as his slave. The word made Jeff balk, and when he left, he told himself he wouldn’t do it…but the desperation returned, as it always did. Two days later, he was there on the porch, one small duffel packed with only the necessities, and he stepped inside, got on his knees when ordered, and sucked his Master’s cock, showing his gratitude that Keith was willing to train him.

He stayed on at the force, but Keith had his hours cut back quite a bit, and arranged it so Jeff’s checks would be deposited automatically into his own accounts. Keith had a sizable personal gym in his house, and when Jeff wasn’t at work or completing his chores, he was there–working out and lifting weights. His meals were massive, and from the first day, Keith would inject him several times during the day, but always refused to tell Jeff what, exactly, the injections were. Still–they were working. Three months later, he was already larger–when he looked at himself in the mirror, he was beginning to see the sort of brute he longed to be…but his looks weren’t the only changes. His mind was slowing down. He had a difficult time making decisions, and relied on Keith–or Master, as he called him now, to decide everything for him–when to eat, what to eat, when to sleep, how to work out, what chores to do. It was a comfort, really, that he didn’t have to think. He knew he was being reduced to a stupid beast…but rather than be horrified, the idea actually turned him on more and more.

Keith shaved his head, pierced his nipples and cock, and began taking him to a tattoo parlour, his entire body slowly being covered by blocks and swirls of black ink, from his neck down to the tops of his feet. He loved it–especially when he was in Pigtown and caught sight of himself in a mirror, while he was balls deep inside a pig’s hole. He looked like a nasty minded thug pig, just like Keith told him he was going to be–and it was all he really wanted to be, anymore. At the bar, he would still take Rod’s drinks, but now that he was larger, the effect was even more substantial. Each time he was there, he would up even larger than before–and in turn, his daily body never felt large enough–no matter how large he got. He knew, in his mind, that he should be satisfied, but between Keith’s humiliation, and the rush of those evenings behind the curtain, even when he finally plateaued at 280 pounds of muscle and fat…he still felt puny. It didn’t help that, somehow, he was getting shorter. He lost almost six inches, from the time he moved in with Keith–and he was never able to get a straight answer why. The loss in height only made him work harder for more and more mass. He lost flexibility, his muscles restricting his movement–especially in his shoulders and neck. The pills and shots Keith were forcing on him fucked with his hormones as well, his cock and balls growing and constantly horny, hair sprouting all over his body in thick patches, and acne erupting all over his face and back, leaving his face scarred and pitted. His face–he barely recognized old photos of him anymore. He seemed so square and boxy, his head sitting right on his massive, inflamed chest, a thick beard hiding his mouth, usually stuck in a scowl.

As thick as he was, and as aggressive as he found himself behaving around the precinct–especially around guys on the force he knew he’d be fucking later in the evening, Keith kept him under his control at all times. He loved the fact that he could bend Jeff over, anywhere and anytime, and have his way with his muscle bull–with Rook, as everyone had started calling him, joking that he was built like a tower on a chess board. Keith had come up with it–as a way to shorten his usual nickname of Rookie, now that he was no longer new–and he especially loved it because Rook had grown too stupid to really understand the reference, but he knew it was a compliment, and so he grinned when he heard it all the same.

A few years later, Rook had nearly forgotten about Jeff entirely. He was Master’s enforcer, bruiser, and pet monster–whatever Master Keith wanted him to be, and whoever he wanted him to hurt, Rook obeyed him without question. The last time he felt Jeff at all, was when he was down in Master’s dungeon, punishing one of his prisoners. The leather body bag was hanging from the ceiling, squirming, as Rook went at it for another round, treating it like a literal punching bag, enjoying the feel of the flesh breaking and squishing inside so much more satisfying than the fluff of the bags he usually practiced on. Still–it had had enough. He unzipped the head of the bag, and saw the face inside–it was some old pig named Oliver, who’d been down here as long as Rook could remember, and looking at his bloody face, he felt a flicker of regret…but he stamped it out. That was weakness. He didn’t want to be weak. He grabbed Oliver by the ears, shoved his dick into his mouth and fucked him roughly, imagining he was fucking himself, that old self, breaking it up and throwing it away for good, and by the time he came, feeding the grateful Oliver a good sized load, Rook felt better. Rook felt like everything was exactly the way things were supposed to be.