Coach’s Summer Training – Part 1

You can just call me coach, if you’d like. I work during the school year working as a PE teacher and coach for a few local high schools and community colleges–but my real fun doesn’t come until the summer. You see, I run a highly successful summer mentoring program for student athletes. I mean, it’s highly successful for me, of course, but let me explain. When I hit puberty, I discovered that I had a rather strange power–I could turn people into my clothing. The effect only lasted until I took them off again, but this wasn’t a real problem for me–see, I was a bit of a slob, and I enjoyed wearing my dirty clothes for days on end. Of course, the first time I did this, when I turned my big brother into a pair of boxers, I was terrified someone would find out, however, I soon realized that everyone had forgotten all about him–as far as my parents and the world was concerned, he didn’t exist. I remembered of course–I could even talk to him while I was wearing him. He wasn’t very happy, as you can imagine, but he’d never been very nice to me. So I started jacking off into him, day in and day out. Eventually I got sick of listening to him beg me to turn him back, so I took him off, but reality never quite picked up where it left off for him. Our parents still didn’t remember him, so he had to leave home, but luckily, reality made space for him elsewhere–as a whore for a pimp downtown. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily depending on your perspective, soaking in my cum all those weeks had left him craving cum. I still talk to him on occasion–he works as a hustler downtown, and he always gives me a discount. He’s not happy about it of course, but he doesn’t exactly have much choice now, does he? Unless he wants me to wear him some more.

Over time, my powers have grown as well. If I focus hard enough, I can keep someone in their inanimate form even when they weren’t on my body for short periods of time. I discovered that I can even change aspects of the clothing, allowing me to better tailor their final forms to my darkest fantasies. I naturally gravitated to an occupation where I could do exactly what I want to do–turn men into clothes and fuck up their lives, but I never could devote my full attention to my clothes during the school year. Instead, I’d become close to a few young men each season, and encourage them to sign up for a week of “personal mentoring” during the summer. Their parents were always thrilled–after all, their children were born to be special, and receive special treatment, right? It didn’t matter that I couldn’t name a single successful athlete who’d graduated from my program–no one seemed to be interested in sports after I got through wearing them. Still, I’d managed to, once again, find three of young men eager to be mentored. Shall we get started?

Shawn Alexander, a high school quarterback with enough skill to go pro if he gets into a decent college team, signed up so I could help hone his leadership skills. Instead, I pull him into my office, and he goes floppy in my arms. I don’t change him right away–I fuck his mouth first. I want to be the last person that senior has sex with in that body, and as I cum, I feel his arms reach around me, his body shrivelling up into mesh, and within moments, he’s a brand new jockstrap soaked in my cum.

He’s screaming, of course. I never really blame them for screaming. Still, I go to work on him quick enough, wearing away at the edges of his cloth mind, forcing him to suck down my cum. You see, even though he’s a jockstrap, he’s still capable of absorbing anything on him or soaked into him, if he puts his mind to it. It takes a couple of hours to eat the seven loads I pump into him that afternoon, but he finally dries crispy, just how I like it. Of course, he thinks that as a reward for eating my cum, I’ll change him back–instead I laugh, and jack off again, and again, and again. Over and over, forcing him to suck my cum dry each time.

He finally broke after six days. Did he really like the taste of my cum? Or was he just being coerced? I told him it didn’t matter, and he started sucking it down all on his own. Sure, he still cried about it for a while, but with a bit of coaching and positive encouragement, by the end of two weeks he was begging me for cum. I frequent quite a few clubs of course, and by this point Shawn had grown accustomed to eating cum other than my own, and I could tell that I was almost ready to return him to humanity.

He needed a few other changes though. For the few weeks I wore him, I consciously made the jockstrap age and wear much faster than usual. By the end of his mentoring session, Shawn looked like he was years old, not weeks, with a threadbare pouch dotted with rips and holes, and straps with fraying elastic that didn’t pull as tight as it used to. I stripped him off, three weeks gone by already, and watched the new Shawn Alexander appear in front of me. He looked like he’d aged close to forty years–in fact, checking his new driver’s license–so I could eventually drop him off at his new home–he was sixty one years old, flabby, hairy, nearly bald with a patchy beard that always felt like dried cum was stuck in it–usually because there was. I never did find out what he did for a living, but I still see him all over town climbing into gloryholes, desperate for as much cum as he can get.

It’s not that Alex was a prude–hell, he masturbated plenty. There wasn’t any reason why Harry couldn’t jack off too. The problem was the damn smell of it! Ever since the day he’d moved into the house with him, the whole house stank of it. Sure, he hadn’t known what the smell was at first, only that it had come largely from Harry’s room and the bathroom. It wasn’t until Alex had caught him at it (well, “caught him” was one way of phrasing it–really, he’d been crouching outside the slightly open door, watching his housemate tug on his cock while he was on the bed, well positioned to give him a view) and as soon as he’d shot, the smell had smacked him in the face like a ton of bricks.

Of course, the real problem wasn’t that he could smell it–the problem was how it smelled. It smelled amazing. It smelled like cum, sure–rank and a bit cheesy–but for some reason, it made his mouth water. It made him want to jack off too. He couldn’t let Harry know, of course–Harry would probably think he’s a fag, if he knew how much he wanted his cum. If he knew that he’d snuck into his room while he wasn’t home, and stolen his still wet cumrag, and sucked on it for a few hours, milking his own cock for all it was worth. That was something a fag would totally do, right? But he wasn’t a fag. He couldn’t help it if Larry’s cum just smelled really good to him. He was hoping that if he could just taste it enough, he could stop thinking about it, but if fact, getting a taste only made it worse. It was starting to become the only thing he could think about. He started watching Larry more often through the cracked door, still pretending to himself that his roommate had no idea he was watching, even though he spent most of his time watching Alex. Finally, one night, Larry came, but instead of shooting into the rag like usual, he shot it into his hand, and held it out to the door, “Well come on pig, if you want it so badly, get in here and eat it all up.”

Alex tried to resist, but the scent was overwhelming. He crawled into the room and licked all the fresh cum from his roommate’s hand, jacking off his own cock as he did, and the taste of it fresh–his head couldn’t take it. He just kept licking Larry’s fingers clean, his entire mind focusing in on that single act. Off in the distance, he could sense that Larry was talking to him, telling him things, but he couldn’t think about anything beyond licking those fingers. And when he finally stopped licking, he crawled back to his room (for some reason, he wasn’t quite able to stand up and walk, an odder still, he didn’t find that fact the least bit strange) sat on the floor and started jacking off, over and over again, eating every load of cum that he produced, until it hurt to even touch his cock anymore. Then and only then was he able to heft himself up into bed and collapse from exhaustion, his arms burning, though when Larry came in and skull fucked him, he didn’t object. Why would he object to another opportunity to taste his delicious cum?

From that day on, it became harder and harder for Alex to deny that he was anything but a faggot at heart. He would beg Larry for his cum, he would do anything for another taste of it. He took over the household chores, he cooked dinner, he gave him massages and foot rubs, all so he might have the privilege of sucking a load of cum from Larry’s cock. Still, he told himself that it couldn’t get worse than this, right? At least, until it did. Suddenly, it wasn’t just Larry’s cum he smelled, but everyone’s cum. And they all smelled different, and they all smelled delicious. It was getting harder and harder for him to think about anything other than cum, and Larry only made it worse by dressing him up in his leather gear, driving them to the fetish clubs in the city, and making him beg for cum all night long. The words CUM PIG scrawled across his forehead (Larry had told him that once he’d earned enough money as a cum dump, he’d get it tattooed on there properly) and who knew what else drawn on him, all the men would laugh, and he’d drink cum from any cock, because he wasn’t just a cum pig–he was Cum Pig–or at least that’s what Larry called him. And before too long, it was the only name he could remember, as he crawled around the house, oinking and grunting, sniffing around for his next load of cum.

Good Things – Part 2 (Patreon Commission)

Eddie found that his days at work were increasingly interrupted by a constant need to excuse himself to the bathroom in order to jack off. He knew, in his head, that he should try to moderate, that these changes were eventually going to cascade out of control, but it was so much easier to lock himself in a stall, whip out his cock, and blow a load, or two…or three. The changes tended to come in spurts–sometimes nothing would change at all. It was a few days since he’d bought the curse, and things had settled into something like a new normal–he loved his muscular physique. Every cum seemed to make him bigger, manlier, and hairier, and he relished it. He relished it so much in fact, sitting here on the toilet, that he might cum four times in a row this time.

He heard the door open, and he stifled his groans. Through the crack in the stall door, he saw that the person who’d come in was none other than Mr. Greely himself. He’d softened up to Eddie since the changes had begun, and was no longer threatening to fire him over his sales numbers, but Eddie still hated him. Hated him so much, he could just…just suck his cock. Fuck yeah, he could suck his fucking cock so fucking hard. With a shudder, he shot another load, this one splattering against the door, where his eye was pressed to the crack. Something had changed in the air, he could sense it.

“I can hear you in there, Eddie. If you want my cock, faggot, come on out, and you can get it.”

Was…was this really happening? Eddie tried to stop himself, but he flew out of the stall, his dress pants still around his ankles, and licked his lips. Mr. Greely shoved his cock down his throat, and came in less than a minute, Eddie somehow managing to shoot on the floor twice in the meantime. Mr. Greely tsked him, “You’re such a slob, Eddie. At least clean up after yourself.”

Eddie’s first thought was to just get down and lick it up, but he fought that desire off and grabbed some paper towels instead, while Mr. Greely left the room. In the mirror, he noticed that his hairline had started receding a bit…and was his body looking a bit softer? Fatter? He shook his head–it still wasn’t too much of a good thing.

By next week, Eddie had taken to eating his lunches in his truck. He didn’t remember when his car had turned into a truck, but he appreciated the fact that it offered a bit more room for him to spread out in. He’d tried eating at his desk, like usual, but lately he’d just spent his entire lunch hour in the bathroom gloryhole he’d drilled a few days earlier, sucking cock, that eating out here in the parking lot was easier. Besides, he was fucking hungry today–hell, he’d been fucking hungry all week.

He let out a belch, unwrapped another hamburger from the sack in the passenger seat, and went back to stroking his cock with this other hand, not noticing he’d smeared the shaft with grease and a bit of ketchup. It was a bit harder to jack off, with this new gut of his, but he kind of liked it. It made him look older, more mature and refined. Being a muscle bear had been nice, but now he really did look like a true man. The receding hairline had bothered him at first too, but once it had pushed back past the crown, it actually looked kind of good. The same thing with the beard, which had grown long enough to brush his fat chest, and was streaked with a bit of grey. It all just looked…good to him. Almost as good as the mechanics he was watching from his parking spot.

He fucking loved them–he could always tell when he was sucking a mechanic off in the bathroom, because they stank of sweat and grease. He’d usually blow a few loads by the time they came, which he’d lick up off the floor and stall wall, as he waited for the next person to come in for a blow job. He downed the hamburger in three huge bites, belched again, chased it with the rest of the cheap beer he’d bought, and then reached for another burger, but found the bag empty. He was still hungry, but that would keep him satisfied for a bit. He took a moment to light one of his fat cigars–he didn’t miss the cigarettes at all–and then rubbed his gut, smearing his grubby dress shirt with grease, enjoying the taut sphere jutting out in front of him, and saw Big Red slide out from under a car.

He came once just at the sight, and then kept stroking, getting ready to shoot again. No one called him Big Red but him–in fact, he was the shortest mechanic at the dealership–but his cock, fuck, it was fucking huge, and thick, with a tangled red bush. He shot again, and saw Big Red turn and stare right at him, lick his lips, and then grab the bulge in his coveralls. Nearly tripping over himself, Eddie got out of his truck, nearly forgetting to hike up his pants and zip himself up. Sure, he was a mess, but he had a date with a big red cock in the bathroom–he could never have too much of a good thing like that.

Do You Shrink as You Get Older? – Part 1 (Patreon Commission)

Howie woke up in the double bed, disentangled himself from Don’s firm sleep grasp without waking him, and sat on the side of the bed, wondering if he was getting sick. It was probably just all those drinks last night–they both had to get drunk to fuck at first, it helped cut through some of the shame. Well, it helped him, at least, not think about Marga. He remembered the last time he’d gotten sick on vacation, when he and Marga had taken Tommy to Disneyland and he’d spend three days of the week vomiting–better to not think about any of that, actually.

He got up, rummaged around in the unfamiliar bathroom, found a bottle of slightly expired aspirin, and took them for the headache, along with three glasses of water to quench the thirst that was parching his throat. In the cabin’s small kitchenette he got the coffee maker working, and while it brewed, he went out on the front porch to take a look at the surroundings. Don had talked about his cabin often, but in all the years they’d known each other as friends, and then fuckbuddies, and then something approaching lovers, he’d never once taken Don’s invitation to come join him on his summer fishing trips. Too intimate–surely the wives would suspect, right? Really, it was just his own insecurity and self-loathing. An occasional fuck or suck in the cab of a truck after too many beers felt like an accident. This felt like a truer affair.

The parched feeling was still there, and he cleared his throat, managed a couple of coughs. He didn’t feel feverish, and nothing hurt other than his usual middle-age, overweight, morning-after-hangover, guilt aches. His phone said it was ten in the morning, but this deep in the river valley it still felt misty and cold. It was peaceful though. No one for miles, Don had said. He watched his breath curl out of his mouth in clouds, and suddenly wished he’d brought something to smoke.

The coffee pot was full, he poured some, sat at the table feeling cold and lonely with his hands wrapping the warm mug for a few minutes. With a sigh, he decided he’d rather be back in bed with Don, abandoned the table and coffee and went back to the bedroom, but Don had woken up, pushed off the covers, and was fondling his cock. Howie looked him over in the morning light. He would have preferred someone younger, slimmer, less obsessive and bigger cocked, but any port in a closet. Don stared at Howie with that look that said, “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted,” that could kill Howie’s arousal faster than almost anything. Why couldn’t Don just let it be easy? Why did he always want so damn much from him?

“I think I’m getting sick,” Howie said, cutting the silence.

Don was working his cock a bit harder now. It was one of those cocks that seemed like it just wasn’t trying all that hard. He liked fucking, but couldn’t usually get enough stiffness to work it in. Howie didn’t like letting Don touch his cock, so usually they just jacked off, or Howie sucked him off. The sick comment obviously hadn’t deterred him, and Howie realized this was going to be a longer weekend than he might have imagined.

“Come on, I’m horny, lover.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Don smirked, “You should loosen up, no one knows anything.”

Howie fake-coughed.

“Can’t you just enjoy this for once? Why is it that as soon as we’re alone you just suck the joy from the room?”

Don got up from the bed, one hand on his cock to keep it hardish, and came over to where Howie was standing by the door. They’d met on the job ten years earlier, when they were both a bit firmer and had more hair on their heads. Howie had been excited by the newness. He’d never been with a man before, but now, it felt like a whole second marriage he’d never asked for. Don’s adoration for him only seemed to grow more intense as they got older. Don ran a hand through Howie’s furred chest, down to the top of his soft gut, and then swept down the side and under to his cock. One hand tried to block his, but he gripped the shaft anyway, and saw Howie stiffen and let out a quiet moan. “I really just don’t feel that…that good,” Howie said.

“I’ve heard good sex is a cure-all.”

Don grabbed one of Howie’s nipples in his hand and kneaded it gently. He leaned in, their mouths close, and Howie relented and closed the distance, giving Don a kiss that grew more intense as he lost interest in his shame. He actually was horny, he realized. Horny wasn’t something Howie felt very often these days, and Don’s hand milking his shaft was sending shivers through him. He pushed Don’s hand away and took over, Don pushed his gut into Howie’s and rubbed them together, and then put his hands on Howie’s shoulders, pushing him down onto his knees.

Howie didn’t know if he was gay, or bi, or just in denial, but he did know that cocks were beautiful. Don’s was short, sure, but still lovely, though Don was sensitive about it’s smallness. Howie took the head in his mouth and sucked at it, feeling Don shiver at the sensation. He also had a habit of cumming quick, and it was less than a minute before cum flooded into his mouth, and…and all of his symptoms that he’d felt all morning, the slight nausea, the thirst, the headache, they all started fading away. And the cum, it was so much tastier than usual. Howie sucked it all down, and then he just kept sucking. Don’s cock would usually go limp immediately, but this time it stayed harder, and even seemed a bit firmer than usual. Certainly Don wasn’t complaining about two blow jobs in a row, and he didn’t complain about three, either, after he shot a second time. Feeding Howie his third load, he finally pulled his cock free from his friend’s lips, looked down, and saw he had a dazed look on his face, spit and cum running down into his beard, his hand under his gut, wrapped around his own cock, stroking himself off. He helped Howie up from the floor, and gauged from the puddle there that he must have shot at least three times himself.

“Still…kinda thirsty, Don…” Howie muttered into his friend’s ear.

“Heh, well, if you want more, I got more, come on back to bed.”

Don laid down on his back. Howie climbed up and started sucking, balancing with one hand so he could reach down and keep stroking himself off, guzzling down load after load of cum. Don’s balls had become bottomless. In fact, they almost seemed to be swelling slightly as Howie continued to drain them. It was Don who finally cut him off. Howie sat back on his heels, rubbing his full belly, let off a belch, and noticed the sun was blaring in the west facing window, down valley. He checked the clock, it was after five. He’d just spent close to six hours sucking Don as dry as he could. There was a pool of his cum beneath him, and his cock felt tender and raw from all the masturbation he’d just done. It was certainly the strangest day of sex he’d ever had.

“Heh, guess you were thirsty, eh? Come on, we still have time to get to the river and catch something fresh for dinner.”

Howie wasn’t sure what to say. Those six hours felt like a blur. He did feel better though, and Don didn’t seem at all bothered by it. As he pulled on his clothes, his sack really did look larger, and seemed to be hanging a bit lower. Howie got down off the bed, and while he wasn’t feeling sick, he was feeling a bit out of sorts. Everything seemed a bit…off, suddenly. He pulled on his clothes, but they didn’t quite fit right for some reason–his sleeves too long, loose around the shoulders, the gut and thighs too tight, pant legs pooling slightly on the boots that had a little too much room in the toe.

“Did I tell you today how handsome you are?”

Howie looked over at Don, and blushed beside himself.

“I’m serious.”

“I’m just old and fat.”

“Heh, well maybe that’s what I find so handsome about you.”

Don gave him another kiss, and the horniness flared up again. Howie was back on his knees, fumbling with Don’s fly, licking his lips, already tasting cum, when Don pulled away.

“Heh, someone doesn’t seem very interested in fishing.”

“Sorry, I’m just…horny.”

“Well I’m hungry, so let’s go catch something, and then we can fuck some more.”

The river was a ten minute hike from the cabin. It wasn’t a particularly difficult trail, and yet Howie kept stumbling over rocks and roots, like he couldn’t quite gauge how high he needed to lift his feet to avoid them. It didn’t help that the same symptoms he’d been feeling that morning were flaring up again, and this time they were even worse. At the river, Howie cast a few lines, but spent most of the time on his knees, sucking down more cum, filling the front of his jeans with his own loads. Don caught a few fish, and before night fell they hiked back up to the cabin. Don offered to cook. The fish was nice, but it tasted bland to Howie. It just wasn’t what he felt like eating. But he’d already spent most of the day sucking down Don’s cum–what in the hell was wrong with him? He…he probably just hadn’t had enough cum today was all. He abandoned his dinner plate, got down under the table and started sucking at Don’s rock hard cock some more, and when Don finished, he kept sucking while his lover sat on the couch drinking, and then, once Don was drunk, and Howie felt like he couldn’t drink another drop of cum, they retired back to the bedroom.

Don wrapped his arms around Howie, spooning him. Something about that made him feel so small. It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d been spooned, but he’d never fit quite so snugly in Don’s grip, nor had it ever felt quite so comfortable. Howie was asleep in a matter of minutes, but Don stayed awake for a bit longer, caressing him. Feeling him up, gauging how much progress they’d made today. He’d waited so long for Howie to come around, but after all these years, he could sense him pulling further and further away. Howie wanted to leave him, but Don wasn’t about to let that happen, not ever. Howie was going to be his for the rest of their lives, whether he wanted to or not.

Look, I did my best to be a good kid, but even good kids can get up to some mischief now and then. My uncle, I’d always thought, was a really cool guy. Hell, I picked up playing rugby after going with him to see a few club games, although to be honest, he always seemed more interested in the players than the game–though that particular observation wasn’t clear as a kid–I just knew I really loved my uncle. He was warm, unlike my father, and his gluttony, heavy drinking and cigar smoking always seemed to me like he was mocking my healthy, straight laced father. He could never understand why I always wanted to stay over with my uncle, but he allowed me to do so regardless. Sometimes I wished he’d have kept me at home.

One thing my uncle was strict about was that I was to never drink or smoke his cigars. It always made me a bit angry, because I felt like he was depriving me of something he enjoyed, and had a lot of fun doing. Still, I respected my uncle enough until I was seventeen. It was the summer before my senior year, and I was feeling adventurous, so while my uncle was out on an errand that would take him several hours, I popped open a bottle of beer, and lit up one of his cigars–just to try it out.

I didn’t notice the changes until I was onto the second cigar, and maybe the sixth or seventh beer. I just couldn’t stop, once I started, and when I got up, I noticed that my clothes had disappeared, aside from my briefs, and that I’d put on close to a hundred pounds of fat, and looked to be about ten years older. Even worse, I just couldn’t stop drinking and smoking, and when my uncle finally returned, instead of me there, he found a fat, naked pig in the living room, drunk and high, but it was almost like he’d expected it, and he grinned, walked over and started making out with me.

He fucked me hard, and I couldn’t resist oinking and grunting like a pig, and when he’d finished, he got me all dressed up in some leather gear, with a collar and leash, and strutted me around a gay bar, letting all of his friends fuck his fat, horny pig. The next morning I was back to normal, but my uncle started tempting me with the cigars and beer again, and by the end of the day, I’d given in. Back as his pig, I begged him to fuck and fist me again, and he happily complied, telling me he’d waited years for me to finally give in and try a few of his vices. Well, I managed to get through my senior year, but never went off to college. I’m my uncle’s permanent pig now, chain smoking cigars and drinking beer from dawn to dusk–a lifestyle of addiction I know I’ll never manage to break.

He never knew where the first one had come from. It had come in an bubble envelope in the mail, and when he’d opened it and pulled out the filthy, yellow stained jock, he’d dropped it, disgusted beyond belief. He could…smell it. He had immediately thrown it in the trash, and then gone to wash his hands, but that smell. He couldn’t not smell it, and he’d gone back, again, and again, and again.

Now, his collection was growing. Soon, one wasn’t enough–he’d needed more. At first, he had tried to make his own filthy jock straps, soaking them in his piss, sweat and cum, but it was never enough–it was never right. It needed to be someone else’s filth for him to get off. When the link arrived in his email, it was a godsend. A site devoted to young athletes auctioning off their smelly jocks to old men like him. The bidding wars were outrageous, but he had to win, no matter the cost, and all orchestrated by the jocks, getting rich old men addicted to their stink. They had to pay for booze somehow, after all.