Stinkers: Finders Keepers (Part 7)

It was a few days later that I caught a whiff, again, of the man from the gym.

Just a whiff as I was heading into my building that afternoon, but it was gone before I could trace it and run him down–still, I recalled how he had captured my interest, much the same way Jack’s feet had before…and I told Adam I would be taking the rest of the week off from work. He didn’t object–he just kept eating, not that Jack was going to give him much of a break. I’d told Adam that when he’d gained fifty pounds, he’d have the privilege of cleaning one of my feet again, and that was more than enough to inspire him to greatness–that, and Jack was proving to be quite an excellent taskmaster.

Thankfully I remembered the name of the gym from when I’d stalked him before–Planet Workout. I had no way of knowing if that was the gym where he actually attended, or if he just had one of their old gymbags, but it was the only lead I had, apart from scouring the city for him up and down. So that day, I walked over to the gym, housed in a rather rundown looking warehouse, and stepped inside…and holy fuck, the smell of the place.

The city smells. As my nose had become more sensitive, I had found that I everything had become more intense–especially the smell of men–but there was so much out on the streets I just…tuned it all out, because it was simply too much to process. But stepping into that gym…it was the first place I’d entered where the scent of man was just…so concentrated. It was everywhere, and it hit me like a brick, my cock spewing a load right there in the entryway–it was all I could do to keep myself contained and not start jacking off right then and there. Even better, I could smell him on the air–not strong enough to tell me he was there right now, but plenty to confirm for me that this was most certainly where he got his workouts.

The woman at the desk looked like her stomach was going to turn as I approached, and she left before I could ask about membership. I had to hunt down a guy on the floor, and he was more than happy to sign me up for the gym, even if it meant cutting the session short with the member he was working with. With my membership card in hand, I went back to my apartment, threw on some reasonably appropriate clothes to work out in, and went back to the gym. I had never worked out in my life, but I haunted that gym for hours, filling the place with my musk as I sweated and stank all over the place, and by that evening, all of the women had left, leaving a smaller collection of men wondering why there were all so horny all of a sudden. As tempting as some of them were, I was waiting for him, my muscle man. The rest…I’d sample them later.

I arrived early the next morning as well, determined to wait. From the smell of him he was here often–there were only a few smells of men there more prevalent than his, and sure enough, around two in the afternoon, he walked through the door, and I whirled toward him…and scowled. He wasn’t wearing it. He wasn’t fucking wearing it! He was there, his smell was there, but the beautiful musk of that fucking tanktop he’d been wearing was nowhere to be found. I went over to see what he had on instead, and my heart dropped–in fact…he was wearing it. I realized then, that since I’d seen him, he must have fucking washed it.

I can’t tell you how fucking angry I was, when I realized that. I had already taken ownership of that shirt in my mind, it had been mine ever since I’d first caught wind of it. The idea that he’d taken that perfect musk and washed it out…it was the closest I’d ever felt to true grief. I could barely function–I just sat around the gym, staring at him, wondering what I could do to him, but nothing seemed to match the travesty he’d committed, no punishment would suffice. Still, as he worked out, as he sweated into the shirt, I…I could smell it a bit better. Faint, but it was there all the same. Different too…but given enough time, and the right sort of encouragement, I had no doubt that he’d be able to produce something equally pleasing, even if it wasn’t quite the same. In fact, I bet that I could make something even better.

He finished up his workout, or at least he thought he did. He was heading for the door, when I intercepted him, struck up a bit of a conversation with him, and directed him into the locker room instead, and directly into the sauna with me. Let me tell you–I stink, but put me in a hundred degree room with a ton of humidity, and there’s nothing fucking like it. I did bother to learn his name, finally–Bruce–and after an hour of him worshiping my body, of keeping his rock hard cock right at the edge of orgasm, he was willing to do just about anything to get a taste of my grungy crotch, but I kept him back. When I was certain he was well in control, we went back out onto the floor of the gym, and he went back to working out–and he didn’t stop. I was nice enough to run out and get him some dinner, which he devoured, arms shaking, barely able to lift anything–so I had to feed him the entire pizza I’d bought–but then I ordered him back onto the machines. All the while, I could smell him, the shirt, intensifying–soon, it would be ready. Soon, it would be mine.

Are you employed in the sciences, academia, or both? Your vocabulary reminds me of people I know in those categories (and myself, actually). Please take that as a compliment!

I have a BA in Philosophy, considered grad work, but never found a place that would be a decent match for my interests, and trying to find employment in academia is…an increasing nightmare, so even now, I wouldn’t plan on pursuing that further. I currently work in a grocery store for my day job, managing the produce section. Still, thanks for the compliment, I can sling around big words with some accuracy on occasion.

You do a great job of pacing in your stories. You have a knack for leaving a good cliffhanger for weekends. Do you divvy them up based on knowing what you want posted and when or do you write one whole story and slice and dice it where appropriate?

I do my best to keep the rhythm of the week in mind, as best I can. As far as dividing stories up, it really depends on the story. Some I do write in 1000 word chunks, designed to be posted on tumblr in that fashion, but others come out more as one giant blob, and I usually have to go in and do some editing to divide it up into understandable chunks, or else I save those pieces to post as bonus stories on Patreon.

will you make more stories about derelict transformations ? a Collage rich kid for example claiming he cares for them but just to look good to become one crave derelict stink and cum? a a gym rat become a filth loving derelict ?

Well, there’s a bit of that in the newest Stinker’s story, and beyond that, I can assure you that there will be more derelicts in my stories to come in the future, though I don’t have any planned right this moment.

The Terror of Submission (An Ask from Messenger)

anon: Deep down i wish to be used and submit to a rough dom but i have a hard time giving up ANY kind of control. How would you fix that.
wes: I mean, in healthy BDSM, you shouldn’t really ever give up control as the sub in the first place, or are we talking more in terms of fantasy?
anon: Terms of fantasy. Sorry about not being clear
wes: so is it a sense of being afraid of your own fantasies then? wanting to submit, but feeling a sense of terror/shame at wanting that?
anon: Total sense of shame/terror at wanting that.
wes: First, I can only really speak to my own personal experience, as someone who has come to grips with similar issues. I don’t think there’s a one size fits all solution to this sort of feeling at all, but I hope some of my own experience helps you a bit.
wes: I think a lot of the anxiety around the act of submission comes from external forces which we have internalized–or at least, that’s how I came to understand my own fear of submission. Modern society wants all of us to understand ourselves primarily as independent agents–all of us are fundamentally free, and we are all responsible for our own actions and decisions. By this model, a good person is someone exerting their will and force upon the world, acting on it, changing it. The act of submitting to someone else is seen as demeaning, humiliating, and the inverse of human drive and potential.
But that model is fundamentally capitalistic, and doesn’t come close to reflecting the actual milieu of human experience and desire. It’s taken me a long time to come to terms with the fact that humans (1) aren’t really meant to be independent at all, but are fundamentally social creatures who thrive best in community and (2) that human desires and drives are far, far more diverse that we can really understand, and that the notion that there even exists a common human nature is probably fundamentally untrue. This realization has been both freeing and terrifying to me. On one hand, it gives me permission to feel many of the things that you yourself are feeling, and has provided a window of empathy into the experiences, drives, and desires of others.
wes: But on the other hand, it creates an even larger burden of self-responsibility, because without a greater standard of human nature to adhere to, we are left in existential crisis–the only person who can effectively judge the quality of our lives is our self, but that self-judging is plagued with subjectivity and doubt.
But the root of that terror is a further mistaken understanding, that we can even really be understood as an object at all. That we have any real nature, that there is something about us which is true and fundamental to our existence. There isn’t. We aren’t things, we are a process. An unfolding, a development, a smear across time, a collection of impressions and experiences.
If we can accept that, then the question of who we are becomes non-nonsensical, there is only the question of what we do, and what we feel, and those two questions are things which possess some social and collective objectivity.
So, to loop back to the original topic, is it the act of submission which terrifies you, or is it possibility that doing so, and enjoying it, somehow carries ontological weight? That the act of submitting and enjoying that submission makes you, therefore a submissive? But submissives don’t exist. There is just the act, and the enjoyment of that act, and the human connection that allows it. The closer I have gotten to that understanding of my own experience and life, the better able I have been to come to terms with my own desires, feelings, and compulsions.