Commission: The Secrets of Fitzroy Abbey (Part 1)

Commissioned by Anonymous

It was late in the evening, the midsummer sun still setting through the west side windows of the abbey, and Mr. Rudolph Windsor was downstairs in the servant’s mess, finally getting a chance to eat dinner. The abbey’s guests had already eaten, their needs attended to, giving him a moment to sit quietly, and try to remember his old name. Today he believed that it had begun with the letter “H”. Perhaps Hal? Or had that been a character on a TV show? The abbey had no television, and even then, Rudolph’s mind had been made to forget much of what the outside world contained, beyond the abbey grounds. But a name–it seemed so simple, and yet it was gone. Perhaps Henry, or Harry. Those were both nice names, at least.

Another servant came in, an older gentleman named Mr. Livingston. Rudolph had no idea how long he had been a servant of the house, only that he had been working here long enough to forget the truth of things entirely, or to at least pretend forgetfulness. “Good evening Mr. Windsor,” the older gentleman said, beaming at the sourer face of his fellow servant, “The master certainly has found a nice crop of guests for the summer, eh chap?”

Mr. Windsor didn’t reply. He hated speaking, and did it as rarely as he could. His voice–it wasn’t his anymore.

Mr. Livingston was unfazzed–he’d seen many men come into service at the house in his years here–it wouldn’t be long before Windsor was a cheery old chap like the rest of them. “Is that all you’re eating?” he said, looking at the small salad in front of Mr. Windsor, “Do be careful, or you might start wasting away.”

“Wasting away is the goal,” Mr. Windsor said, “I’d very much like to try and rid myself of some of this belly–I don’t particularly enjoy being this rotund, to be honest.” His sentence faded away as he spoke–nothing came out of his mouth right anymore; he was always so polite now. What he’d wanted to say was something more like:

“Shut the fuck up, you fucking bastard! I may be trapped in some old fat body, but fuck you if you think I’m not going to try to lose some of this fucking disgusting gut and be slightly less disgusting to look at in the mirror!”

“Oh goodness, I don’t think Master Fitzroy would be very keen on the idea of any of us losing weight. You know he’s very particular on how us servants present ourselves.” Mr. Livingston loomed over him, his own gut, restrained by his livery, mere inches from Mr. Windsor’s face. “I won’t make any mention of it, for your own sake. You are still relatively new here after all, but do keep yourself fed. I won’t have anyone starving themselves around here for no good reason.”

“No good reason?” Mr. Windsor said, “I do believe, sir, that there are numerous good reasons for why we should do whatever we can against Master Fitzroy. I don’t particularly care whether I make him upset or not. What could he possibly do to me which is worse than what he has already done to me? To all of us?”

Mr. Livingston didn’t move, and said nothing. The disapproval was palpable. “I should go tell him what you’ve said, Mr. Windsor. You would be sent to edification immediately.”

“So then go tell him, after…after who he brought here, as a guest…” Mr. Windsor stuttered–his proper tongue unable to twist what he wanted to say into anything dignified, and so remained twisted tight. A bell rang on the wall, signalling that one of the guest rooms had requested service.

Mr. Livingston, checked the bell. “It would appear that a guest on the third floor would like service. One of your guests, I do believe, Mr. Windsor. Room number 307?”

Room 307. Of course, it would be that one. “Yes, that is indeed my room. I’ll go attend to him.”

“Well, do try to find some positivity along the way–then again, that dour face of yours is only making your nose glow brighter, and it isn’t even Christmas season. So at least that can cheer everyone else up.” Mr. Windsor scowled. The bulbous ruddy nose was another one of the master’s jokes at his expense–and it didn’t help that whenever he drank it would burn a deep red. The fact that this body shook if it didn’t get enough alcohol didn’t much help matters–he alleviated the worst of it by carrying a flask in his vest, but that insured his rose was red almost all the time. When he’d give his full name to a guest, they generally replied with a snicker.

He hefted himself up out of his chair, straightened his vest and coat, but before mounting the back stairs to the third floor, he took a moment to examine himself in the mirror, making sure he was well groomed. He had some crumbs in his thick bushy mustache–he pulled a comb from his pocket and ran it through the hairs, and then examined the rest of his face, and sighed. Jowls. His fat red nose. Wrinkles. The ridiculous glasses he had to wear, now that he could barely see anything without them. The uniform grey hair, which he was compelled to groom into a comb-over. It did nothing to hide his baldness, and in fact accentuated it. He scanned his eyes down the front of his servant’s livery, mentally checking that everything was still in place. He’d never worn so much as a suit before all of this happened, but now he felt absolutely naked in anything less than his starched uniform. He heaved a sigh, watching his jowls shake and his mustache flutter, and then started up the stairs of the abbey to the third floor.

Room 307 was the summer home of the last person Mr. Windsor had ever expected to see here, and the last person he had ever wanted to see him like this. Tanner Marcus–the young man who had broken up with him the year before, back when he’d had that other name (Huck? Harvey?) and that other body, and that other life he could barely remember. And now Tanner was here, in room 307, just another young man for the master to toy with all summer long, and all Mr. Windsor could do was watch–and wait on him hand and foot. He knocked on the door, and after a moment, a deep voice shouted for him to enter. It wasn’t Tanner’s voice, however–it was Master Fitzroy.

Mr. Windsor opened the door and stepped inside, finding Tanner bent over the side of the bed, Master Fitzroy behind him, his hairy gut hefted up onto the small of the younger man’s back, his cock buried deep in his hole. “Good evening Mr. Windsor,” Master Fitzroy said, he huffed and puffed a moment, “I am sorry, I had hoped to be finished by the time you came in–please give us a moment. Mr. Marcus and I became rather close over dinner, and he invited me to his room, isn’t that right Tanner?”

“Oh yes, Master Fitzroy, I…I invited you here to plow my hole good, sir.”

“Would…would you like me to wait in the hall, sir?” Mr. Windsor asked.

“Oh, no need–I’d rather you watched this. Closely.”

“Y–Yes sir…” Mr. Windsor said.

Contrary to what Master Fitzroy had said, he was nowhere near finished–he continued fucking for a good fifteen minutes, encouraging Tanner to moan louder and louder, and narrate what it felt like to be fucked by a real gentleman. Unable to look away, Mr. Windsor stared at the scene. It was not the first time he had walked in on Master Fitzroy having his way with one of his guests, but that did not make this any easier to digest. Worse was the fact that, despite all that had happened, he was still very attracted to Tanner–and yet, this old, worthless body given to him by the master couldn’t even get hard, not that it would have mattered. His two inch button cock wouldn’t even be able to get into an ass if he were allowed to try. Master Fitzroy preferred his servants celibate–he didn’t want any of them spoiling his guests after all.

Tanner was moaning louder, the older man behind him thrusting faster, and with a loud groan, the master finally came deep inside Tanner’s ass with several violent shudders. When he was certain that he was finished, he removed himself and stepped back from Tanner’s behind. “Mr. Marcus, while Mr. Windsor helps me dress, would you be so kind as to jack off for me? I’d like to see you cum before I leave. Mr. Windsor, if you would please.”

He began gathering up Master Fitzroy’s clothes, which had been scattered about the room, and helping him put his suit back on. Several pieces were rather wrinkled, and Mr. Windsor did his best to smooth them out as he did. Tanner was on his back on the bed, his hand wrapped around his cock, jacking wildly–he was so close, but he had to wait until permission had been granted. Once he was fully dressed, Fitzroy allowed him to cum, and Tanner shot his load up onto his smooth body and face, back arched. Mr. Windsor had never seen him so…thrilled. Was he angry? Sad? Did it even matter? There was nothing he could do, so what did it even matter how he felt?

“That was quite a pleasure, Mr. Tanner–I’m thrilled you’ll be staying here for a few weeks, I’d love to spend some more time with you.”

“Oh thank you, Master,” Tanner said, “I’m…I’d love that…that too…”

“Mr. Windsor, perhaps would you kindly help Mr. Marcus clean himself up, and get into bed for the night? I seem to have fucked his brains out for the moment,” Master Fitzroy said, and excused himself from the suite.

Tanner was lolling and groaning on the bed; Mr. Windsor went into the adjoining bathroom to start filling the tub, and then returned to help him up. He had indeed been fucked out of his mind–Tanner could barely stand unassisted, meaning Mr. Windsor had to carry-drag him into the bathroom and heave him into the tub. By the end of it, he was nearly as wet, and had smears of the master’s cum across the front and side of his suitcoat and vest. He helped Tanner wash himself, neither of them saying anything, and slowly the guest returned to a quasi-awareness. He couldn’t quite remember what had just happened, but was equally certain that it was nothing to worry about, and Mr. Windsor assured him that was certainly the case. And then, Mr. Windsor leaned over to get the bar of soap which had dropped to the floor, and Tanner saw the end of a dark birthmark snaking it’s way up past the collar of Mr. Windsor’s neck, to the base of his ear–the exact same birthmark he’d seen on the side of Teddy’s face countless times, Teddy who he’d broken up with the year before, Teddy who had gone on a winter vacation for Christmas and disappeared without a trace.

Mr. Windsor got the bar of soap and went to return it to Tanner’s hands, only to be greeted by a face of shock. “Is…is something the matter? Mr. Marcus?”

“T–Ted? Is…is that you?”

His name? Is that what it was? How had Tanner even recognized him?

“Your…your birthmark, I know that birthmark, you’re Ted, what the fuck happened to you? What’s going on here?”

He stammered. He couldn’t tell him the truth–the Master’s programming had made certain of that. How could he tell him what had happened? What kind of danger he was in? “N–No, I’m afraid…I think you must have mistaken me for…for a younger lover,” he said, managing to slip in a sign that he knew what was happening, and he saw that Tanner had understood him loud and clear. But why was he standing up? Why was he leaving the room? Master Fitzroy, he was going to see Master Fitzroy, he was going to have to tell him what just happened, he’d broken the rules, he’d broken the rules, and he had to be punished.

Tanner was trying to get out of the bath, but his body still wasn’t fully cooperating. “God damn it, Ted? Where are you going? Don’t go! Let me help you!”

“I’m sorry to excuse myself sir, but I must go report my indiscretion to the master of the house. I’d…I’d suggest you forget about what I said as soon as you are able, for your own sake,” Mr. Windsor managed to say as he left the suite, and he hoped Tanner would take his advice. His legs took him back to the servant stairs, continuing up to the top floor of the abbey, where the master’s apartment took up the entire top floor. He found Fitzroy speaking with Mr. Livingston in his study–they grew quiet as he entered.

“I apologize for interrupting, sir, but I had to come immediately in order to report a personal indiscretion. Mr. Marcus recognized me while I was bathing him, and rather than lie, I confirmed his suspicion that I am in fact…am…I…” Mr. Windsor stammered. His name, he’d just heard it? Tanner had said it, it had been…been…how could he have forgotten it so quickly?

“Please excuse us, Mr. Livingston. I believe I need to have a delicate discussion with Mr. Windsor.”

Mr. Livingston bowed, and excused himself. He wouldn’t look Mr. Windsor in the eye as he passed, and he realized his fellow servant must have been reporting to the master on his scant eating habits and earlier outbursts. Master Fitzroy sighed, and crossed his hands over one knee, staring at Mr. Windsor through his spectacles. “What am I going to do with you, Mr. Windsor? You certainly aren’t the most stubborn servant I’ve taken on, but you do seem bound and determined to become the most irritating.”

“My apologies, sir.”

“It does put quite the kink in my plans as well. You, me, and Mr. Marcus were going to have such fun over the next several weeks. I was confident that by the time he left, you would have given up this silly resistance of yours. Now, I suppose, we will have to try something else.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “No matter, I have an idea. Report to the dungeon for edification every night until further notice. You’re excused.”

Mr. Windsor bowed out of the room, a knot in his gut. Edification–a kind word for the extreme brainwashing and hypnosis programs the master of the house employed to keep his guests and servants under control. He’d hoped to toe the line, manipulate his situation as best he could to avoid further hypnosis, but now what? He’d overplayed his hand. Who knew what Master Fitzroy would instill in his mind now? His hands were shaking, he paused at the top of the stairs to guzzle down as much whiskey as he could swallow, and then took the stairs all the way to the basement dungeon–the only space in the abbey which had kept pace with the modern world, it seemed. A riot of wires and screens, he saw a number of guests and servants were already reclining in chairs, helmets over their ears and eyes, zoned out for the night. The servants on staff were expecting him–with few words, they directed him to a chaise of his own, and put the helmet over his head. A flash of light from the helmet burned into his retinas, and everything was gone.

To Be Continued

It was just one of those chat services–one of those fads that was a flash in the pan a few years ago–but Derek had always found them a bit fascinating. Sure, most of the time it was just dudes jacking off, but if you just kept at it, sometimes you stumbled on someone interesting. He’d made a number of good friends this way, all over the world–it was a good way of getting out of this small college town he lived in. Aside from the college, it was just a blue collar place full of grubby workers employed at the various factories outside of town, and he couldn’t wait to graduate and get the hell out for good.

It had been a mistake to stay here for the summer, because once the college cleared out, he was all alone, and so his internet contacts had proved more important than usual. But he’d found an apartment he’d liked, and without a subletter, his choice was to either find something in the fall when class started, or stick it out. At least his job bar-backing at a local pup paid the bills, but it was his night off and with nothing to do, he was jumping through various cock jackers online, until the “Next” button suddenly stopped functioning.

He was trapped looking at some nasty fucker, shaved head, wearing some grubby coveralls, groping his cock and smoking a cigar, nose billowing out smoke. Without seeing him type anything on the keyboard behind him, a cryptic message appeared in the chat box, followed by two more.

>> Do’t fthen hems fr y

>> Y’reon kn it,prmis

>> Ben pigste bs

And then, the screen went blank, and the feed moved onto the next cock, but Derek was so weirded out he closed the window and just tried his best to forget about what he’d seen, and go to bed. Out his bedroom window, however, he thought he saw someone across the street, just outside the street lamp light, but when he got a better look, all he saw was a dissipating haze of smoke.

***

For the next few days, Derek was certain he was being followed. He hadn’t gone on the chat site since, but every time he walked to and from work, especially coming home in the early hours of the night, he would walk as fast as he could, sometimes breaking into a jog, just to avoid his imagination.

The bar he worked at disregarded the state’s no smoking policy–and so it was a common hang out for various roughnecks, many of whom smoked cigars there. They had all largely ignored him, but now he kept noticing them staring at him, often unabashedly. Some even looked at him…like they wanted to fuck him. He’d had a suspicion that the bar catered to the small gay population of the town, but that was the first time he’d felt uncomfortable. Even the bartender–a smoker himself–was treating him different, but when Derek confronted him, he gave a series of excuses and hurried off to do something else.

Before long, he was certain that someone was tailing him everywhere he went. In the bar, he would see glimpses of a man in the shadows, smoking a cigar, face invisible through the haze, but by the time Derek had noticed, the space was suddenly empty. The man appeared in alleys as he walked home, follow him down the streets during the day. He called the police, but not only did they refuse to do anything about it, as soon as he’d told them what was happening, they simply ignored him when he called about the man. He became paranoid, quit his job, and locked himself in his apartment, and his attention turned to conspiracy.

In the chatlog of the site, he’d managed to retrieve the three strange messages the figure had sent him at the beginning of all of this insanity, and he began running them through every translation filter he could find. He asked paranormal experts, he posted on forums big and small, but no one could help him, get any traction of what was happening to him. And then, after a week of isolation, he smelled the smoke coming from his bedroom closet.

The man stepped out before Derek could bar him inside. He said nothing, grabbed Derek by the face and exhaled a huge amount of smoke directly into his lungs. Derek stumbled back, but his body suddenly was numb, and wouldn’t work properly. Paralyzed, he tumbled to the ground on his back, frozen, struggling for breath.

The man came over, holding his cigar in one hand, and he slipped it between Derek’s lips. Suddenly, he could breathe again, but it was the smoke he needed, not air. He needed the smoke in him, craved it, lived on it. His body was still frozen, but the man got down on his knees by his head, and they shared a long series of smoky kisses, passing it back and forth between them for hours, Derek’s terror slowly replaced by lust, and then even hints of love.

The man stayed with him for several weeks, and neither of them left the apartment. They had work to do, work to do with smoke, work to do on Derek. Pig work. Learning how to suck cock and take dick up his ass. Learning how good piss tasted. Learning to be a slob, ruining his body, giving him a heavy gut and aging him into his fifties, where he should be, who he wanted to be. There was a hole in Derek’s life when the man left, almost like he’d never even been there. The college’s new semester started up, but Derek was now a machinist at a factory outside of town, hanging out at the bar, sucking dick in the dim corners of the back rooms, occasionally certain he’d seen his master, the man he loved, the man the whole town loved, in the darkness, but all he ever found was wisps of sweet smoke he’d drink in hungrily.

He still loved his chat sites, but now he was just another masturbating pervert. He loved seeing people disgusted at him, at his body, at his thick, ugly cigars. He loved chatting with other filthy fuckers, bringing them to orgasm, talking about their favorite hook ups. He built a whole new circle of friends, sex addicts like him, until one day his computer froze, and a man appeared on the screen like a dim, fuzzy memory. He started typing:

>> Don’t fight, when he comes for you

>> You’re gonna fuckin love it, promise

>> Being a pigs the best

Commission: Hey, Daddy

Commissioned by @hughmichelsen

Jerry’s phone started ringing in his pocket. He pulled it out, saw it was Simon, and sighed. On a Tuesday? Seriously? They both had work in the morning, and he wasn’t really in the mood for a hook up. And Simon…well, he was into some crazy stuff. He always wanted Jerry wearing his leather gear, but he’d never had much interest in the whole BDSM scene. The few pieces he had were from a halloween party a few years earlier, and he’d worn them only when Simon begged. Pain and humiliation always ended up turning his stomach more than turning him on, but they got Simon off big time. It was fun on occasion, he supposed, but he couldn’t handle it tonight. He let it go to voicemail, and went back to watching TV. Simon didn’t leave a message, but a moment later, he heard the chime of a text message. Curious, he opened it up.

>>Hey Daddy, call me I know yr horny

Jerry felt his cock start to get hard, but seriously? Daddy? He was twenty-three–a year younger than Simon–and far closer to a twink than a daddy. But damn, if he wasn’t horny all of a sudden. He reached down his sweats and started stroking his cock, reading the message again and again, unable to help himself. After a moment, another message arrived.

>>I know you’re reading these Daddy
>>Tell me about that hot cock of yours I want it in me so bad

His thumbs were frozen over the phone keyboard. He wasn’t actually thinking about replying…was he? He was hard though. Fuck, why the hell not? He slipped his cock out of his sweats–he must be horny because it seemed bigger than usual–snapped a pic and sent it Simon’s way, and added a text.

>>Hell yeah daddy’s hot

After he sent it, he blushed, realizing he’d actually called himself “Daddy.” Why was he even encouraging him in the first place?

>>I love that big dick of yrs
>>You should put it here

A pic arrived–Simon’s puckered asshole. Jerry’s earlier hesitation was forgotten–he was horny, and he could use a fuck, even if it was Simon. He redialed Simon, and after a couple of rings his friend picked up.

“Hey, Daddy,” he answered.

“Fuck…why are you calling me that?” Jerry asked, his heart pounding in his ears, “Look, whatever. You wanna come over?”

“I don’t know, daddy. What are you doing right now?”

“Don’t tease me, boy.” Jerry winced. Boy? Simon wasn’t a boy. What was he even saying?

“Heh, I can imagine you right now, lounging on the couch, smoking one of those thick big cigars of yours, drinking that whiskey you love. I can almost smell it on you over the phone.”

Now this was getting weird. Jerry wasn’t really into role play, and so he paused before he replied, taking a drag off his cigar. He was kind of drunk though–how much had he had? The fifth he’d bought earlier was about half empty–when the fuck had he drank all that? “Heh, you know what daddy likes, I’ll give you that, boy.”

“I bet you’re wearing that leather gear of yours too. Not that you wear anything that isn’t leather, right daddy?”

“Hell yeah boy, got my harness on, vest and chaps, and those big boots you like.” The words were rolling off his tongue, bypassing his head entirely, but what it the hell was he saying? He was telling the truth though, he had his boots up on the coffee table, one gloved hand wrapped around the shaft of his big cock, thinking about the boy’s ass. “Now, you comin’ over or not?”

“I bet those boots could use a shine. You want me to shine them for you, with my tongue, daddy?”

“Aww, fuck boy–you can suck on these until your tongue’s black as long as I can fuck that hole of yours.”

“I bet that harness looks good on you, cinched tight against those thick muscle of yours. I’ve never seen a daddy as built as you, especially one in his fifties. Makes you look so hot, that grey hair cropped short, your thick beard, and of course the hair all over your body. It shows off those tattoos of yours too, daddy.”

What was he talking about? Jerry was the same age as him–certainly not in his fifties. And yet, when he looked down at himself, everything Simon had described as plain as day. He ran a rough hand up his ridged abs to his slab pecs, tweaking one of his thick nipples. Inside his head, he was screaming. This was wrong, all of this was wrong. He didn’t know what was happening, but all he could do was give a low growl over the phone, “I’m tired of talkin’ boy, get your ass over here.”

Behind him, there was a knock on the door.

“I’m already here daddy, come and let me in.”

Jerry set down his phone, wondering what kind of game Simon was playing here. He took his booted feet off the table and stood up, but lost his balance, nearly falling over as tottered to one side. He couldn’t have drunk that much, could he? The world was spinning, but something else was wrong too–this body didn’t feel like his, it didn’t feel right at all. Nauseous and worried that he might throw up, he stumbled into the bathroom, but paused when he saw himself in the mirror, Muir cap on his head, his face coated with grey beard, his muscular chest heaving. If felt like two minds were trying to fit into his head at the same time. One of them, Daddy, was wondering what the hell they were doing in here, when there was some hot boypussy right outside for him to fuck, but the other, the real him (was it the real him? What was even real right now?) was trying to figure out what had happened. This wasn’t right, this wasn’t what he was supposed to look like, and yet, he looked exactly like Simon had described.

Simon. There was another, more insistent knock on the door. Simon had done something to him, but what? This was crazy, people couldn’t just…change like this! But what else could it be? That freak. He was gonna get it. Yeah, he was gonna pummel that boy good, and then plow that hole deep with his cock, fuck yeah. That’s what you get for messing with Daddy.

Growling, he stalked to the front door and flung it open. Simon stood there on the porch, shivering in the cold evening air, dressed in tight leather pants and a harness. “Fuck, what took you so long!” Simon said, “ I was waiting forever.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jerry said, grabbed Simon by the neck (fuck, did one of his hands actually reach around this boy’s whole neck?) and hauled him inside, before shoving him up against the wall, blowing a cloud of thick smoke into his face. “What the fuck did you do to me, boy?”

“Simon just stared at him, agape, “Holy fuck, it worked…it worked even better than I thought it would.”

“What worked, fucker?”

Simon smiled, “Oh come on Daddy, you don’t really wanna talk, do you? Let’s just fuck and have some fun.” He reached down and grabbed hold of Jerry’s cock. He glared at Simon, but when he plucked the cigar from his mouth and started kissing him, Jerry didn’t stop him. The boy’s mouth felt so soft and tasted sweet–he couldn’t wait to see how it felt around his cock. But this didn’t answer anything, Simon was just trying to distract him.

He pushed away from the boy and the wall, trying to get a hold of his thoughts. “No…no, first you tell me what you did. Tell me how to fix this.”

“Oh Jerry, you’re such a bore, did you know that?” Simon asked, and walked up to him, “A boring vanilla twink like all the rest, but this is such an improvement.”

“You did do something to me!”

“I wanted a daddy, and I just happened to have a hair of yours at my place for the spell. No hard feelings, Jerry, but I have a feeling you won’t mind much soon enough. In fact, once you cum in this hole of mine, the old you will be gone forever, and you’ll be my hot, rough, abusive daddy for the rest of your life.”

Jerry just stared at him, “No–no fucking way. This is insane.”

“Don’t mess with a witch, Jerry,” Simon said, turned around and bent over, “Now get over here and plow me, I need your seed.”

“You can’t just fuckin’ erase me! I have a job! People will notice I’m gone.”

“Oh the spell is much too complex to be tricked by that,” Simon said, “Once you shoot, reality will warp around you–no one will think anything’s amiss at all. Now, get over here, I’m done talking–it’s time to fuck.”

Jerry backed away, and Simon followed him across the room, laughing as he tried to get away. Finally, Jerry stumbled against the coffee table and tumbled onto the couch, and Simon leapt onto him, pinning him there, grabbing each of Jerry’s thick nipples and giving them a twist, grinding his ass against Jerry’s rigid shaft.

“You know what your problem is Daddy? You think too much. Good thing you’re just a dumb brute. Yeah, a violent, rough brute–you don’t need to think when you can solve your problems with those fists of yours.”

“No…no, fuckin’ shut up, boy!” Jerry shouted, but he could already feel the edges of his mind dulling, and in their place came a deep well of anger he’d never felt before.

“Yeah, just a stupid, muscle bound, aggressive daddy. That’s all you are now!”

“I said shut the fuck up!” Jerry screamed, grabbed Simon around the waist, sat up and threw him over his lap. He ripped open the back of Simon’s leather pants and started slamming his palm against his ass cheeks, “Don’t call me stupid! I ain’t smart, but I can still throw ya round the room if I gotta, boy! Now fuckin’ count ‘em out, bitch.”

Simon enjoyed the paddling a whole lot more than Jerry would have liked, but he’d have plenty of time to teach him some real discipline later. He finished up after twenty smacks, and he couldn’t resist anymore. He slid one thick finger into Simon’s ass, and then another one. “Oh Daddy, go on, taste that boy hole, I know you love the taste of boy butt.”

Simon crawled forward on the couch, and Jerry got down behind him, running his beard against the boy’s soft crack, probing deep with his tongue, getting the hole good and slick. When it was loose, he got up, lined the head of his cock up with the hole, and drove it in deep with one thrust. Simon groaned loudly, but Jerry’s simple mind could only focus on one thing–fucking. “Yeah, you’re gonna get it boy, this what you get for messin’ with Daddy!”

“Fuck yeah Daddy, pump me full of your seed!”

Through the fog of his mind, Jerry realized too late that Simon had tricked him into giving him exactly what he wanted. He tried to stop, but his body refused to obey him, no matter how hard he fought. His load was building and he exploded deep in Simon’s ass, and as he shot, he felt the final shreds of his old mind rip apart and scatter like ash on the wind…but that wasn’t the only thing coming apart. Looking around him, the world was bending and warping, even Simon beneath him. The spell was warping everything, and he pulled his cock free and stumbled through the mess of reality until everything finally came to rest.

Looking around, his apartment was gone. He didn’t live in an apartment anymore–he lived in a house–and he was in his basement. No, his dungeon. Yeah, his dungeon, where he trained his boys and pigs…yeah, that’s right. What had he been thinking about? He was certain there was something else he should be remembering, but he couldn’t think of what, and the sensation faded away quickly. He licked his bearded lips–a cigar, where was his cigar? He lit himself a new one from a humidor against the wall, and sighed a thick cloud of smoke.

“Oh…oh no, what the…what the fuck happened? This isn’t right…”

Jerry looked over his shoulder and saw his pig Simon standing in front of the full length mirrors that lined one side of the dungeon. He’d picked him up a few years ago–Simon had wanted to be one of his boys, but the fucker had a huge attitude problem. Jerry had decided to make him a pig instead–a hot, nasty muscle pig, and the work was showing nicely. At five foot seven, the two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle and fat made him look like a thug–and the tattoos and piercings that covered his entire body helped too. The one thing he had liked about the pig was his masochism–he’d never met someone who liked pain as much as Simon. It showed on his body, which was covered with scars from heavy floggings, his nose bulbous from multiple breakings, his eyes puffy and black. His cock was locked up tight, in a cage lined with spikes. The ultimate torture for the pig–he loved pain so much, once he started getting hard he couldn’t stop himself–he’d broken the skin plenty of times, and Jerry had to take the cage off regularly to make sure he didn’t get an infection. But now, the pig was looking at himself in horror.

“Pig, what the fuck are ya doin’ standin’ up? You forget yer fuckin’ place?” He picked up a billy club as he passed a table and smacked it across Simon’s shoulder blades hard enough to knock him to his knees.

Simon looked up at him, terrified. “Jerry! Jerry, it;s me! Something went wrong, the spell was too strong!”

The club slammed into his mouth this time, hard enough to knock a tooth loose, but the pig ought to know better than to use any name other than master. He loos good with a few teeth missing anyway–Jerry planned on getting them all replaced with gold caps before selling the pig off to a new home. Still, they’d just had a pretty long session–maybe the pig just needed a rest. Of course, he couldn’t let this dumbshit go unpunished–he grabbed the pig by the chain collar and dragged him, gagging, across the dungeon floor to the isolation cell. “I think someone needs a few days in isolation, for all this crap.”

Simon protested, but Jerry tossed him inside and locked him in. Perfect darkness and perfect silence–give him a few days of that and he’ll remember his place. Daddy Jerry admired himself in the mirror for a moment–and went upstairs. As much fun as this Pig was, he was starting to get bored–almost time to sell him off. He had a few guys looking to be trained by Daddy–maybe he’d invite a few of them over and see what they had in them. With a chuckle, he turned off the dungeon lights–he couldn’t hear Simon screaming in the darkness, and wouldn’t have cared if he could have.

I am currently offering Emergency Commission slots! 2000-2500 word stories for $30 dollars. There are two spots left at the time of this writing, so send me an ask if an email at wesley_bracken@yahoo.com if you’re interested.

All the slots are filled! Thanks to everyone who bought one.

***

“I just think you’ll be happier, that’s all. Such an unhappy little boy,” the man ran his rubber gloved hand up Paul’s chest, past his neck, and grabbed his jaw. Paul shook and whimpered, the rubber making his cock hard, the tattoos shifting and spreading across his chest a bit further, before he regained control of himself. The rubber on his skin, it was so inviting. He wondered, in a brief fit, whether the master might have a suit of rubber he could wear. Except maybe his cock could be out, his nasty piggy cock, and he could grunt and snort and sweat…

His hands were unsecured, and he reached down to touch himself, running a hand along his own shaft, shivering uncontrollably, eyes rolling back in pleasure. The tattoos spread across his pecs, swirls of jagged barbs, and halted there. The master leaned in, ran his tongue up the side of Paul’s face, his huge, heavily waxed mustache coase on his skin.

“You’ll be such a good pig. A good, old, nasty pig just like the rest of us.”

Paul couldn’t stop himself. He was so horny. Maybe if he jacked off, maybe if he came, maybe the voice would stop. The voice was getting louder, shouting at him in his head, drowning out everything else. His free hand pulled on his nipple, feeling the piercing there. So sensitive, he was leaking. He snorted through his nose, shook his head, and yanked his hands away, trying to pull back from the master, but the old man pulled the chain connected to his head harness tight, keeping him in place.

“You are a fighter though, I’ll give you that. I like fight in a pig. Gives ‘em will. Keeps everyone in line, once you realize what’s inside you. What is inside you, boy? Do you know? Have you ever explored yourself?”

Holding the chain tight, his jaw yanked up towards the ceiling, the master reached down and began probing Paul’s asshole with a thick, gloved hand. He whimpered, one hand creeping back around the shaft of his cock. Horny, so horny still. Such…such a horny pig…yeah…

The master licked his finger wet, and slid it in. It wasn’t wet enough, and it hurt, but there was…something in there. Something deep in there, something nice. Paul let out a groan of pleasure, eyes crossed and dulling, his cock growing in his hand. Such a big piggy cock, eight fuckin’ inches, yeah. But still, his hole, his fuckin’ piggy hole, two fingers, now three, but it was still deeper, the master had to go deeper, but how could he tell him? He rocked back on his heels, trying to push against the master’s hand, tell him what he wanted. The scruffy beard he had was pulling in, as a grey handlebar sprouted around his mouth, growing long. His hair turning grey, a mohawk pushing up against the strap securing his head. Gauges in his ears. Such a good pig.

It took master’s whole hand in his ass to find it, his pleasure, his joy, his pigness. Paul grunted and snorted as the master fisted his hole, jacking his cock, cumming over and over again, spraying his cum across the floor. It smelled delicious, and when the master pulled out his fist and saw Paul’s dim piggy eyes looking back at him hungrily, he knew he was ready. He yanked against the straps as the master freed him, but only so he could get to the cum on the floor. He licked it up, and then began licking the master’s boots. His pigcock was hard again already, always hard, always ready.

The master introduced him to the rest of the hogs. One was in the sling, getting pounded by another, whose fat tit was being suckled. Paul stepped up behind the fucker and drove his hard cock right in his ass, the master making him lick the slime of his own hole off his gloved hands. “Such good pigs you all are. Now play nice, Paul. I’m off to the bar. I wonder if that friend of yours we left behind is still there. What was his name, Jerry? Do you think Jerry has a pig in him, Paul?

Paul nodded, but he hadn’t actually understood what the master said. It was best to be agreeable.

“I think so too. Now, I’ll be back you old pigs. Keep on fucking, and we can all play when I get back.”

“Look, this is ridiculous, even if…I mean.”

“All it costs is one blowjob, and I’ve seen you staring at my crotch all night. Boys like you, only one reason they come here. The rest of it…well, I can tell just by looking at you. I’ve seen you two around town, seen how you look at him. This could help.” The older man turned the cigar over in his hands, “but, if you just want to follow him around, be the best man at his wedding to some fat skank, suck him off once, and only when he’s drunk as hell, then that’s your choice.”

The older man was hardly a looker. Probably from somewhere out in the sticks, missing teeth, big gut, stinking of cheap beer and stale smoke, grey beard to his chest. Still, he was kind of Ben’s type–though he wasn’t really a fan of sucking…This was probably how the guy always got laid though. Magic cigars? Control anyone who you smoke around? Still, for a bunch of closeted queers, lusting after their straight friends…it was tempting. Ben bargained him up, the man promising him a blow job too, and he followed him out to the man’s truck, where they blew each other in the parking lot, and then Ben left, cigar in his pocket, still feeling like he’d been a bit cheated.

Chet was his one weakness. Friends since they were babes, Ben had been lusting after his friend for so long, but he was as straight as could be, and was a big fan of bashing queers. Chet was also an alpha through and through, and as much as Ben chafed at submitting to anyone, he’d learned to let Chet get his way to keep the friendship going. But now…well, now nothing was going to change, but at least it was a nice cigar. He usually stuck to cigarettes, while Chet preferred chewing, but he’d bought a cigar now and then for fun. An opportunity to light up didn’t come for a few days, when he and Chet were hanging out at his little trailer, watching B movies. Heart beating fast, he lit up the cigar, blowing it off in Chet’s direction, watching as he inhaled the first couple whiffs. He sneezed, and rubbed his nose, eyes a bit bleary. “Dang man! That cigar’s strong as fuck. Where the fuck’d you get it?”

“Strong? Nah, this…this is pretty smooth. In fact…” did he dare? “In fact, I don’t think the smoke really bothers you at all. I think you like how it smells.”

“No way, I mean…sure, it’s not botherin’ me as much…” Chet said, fidgeting. He always fidgeted when he lied.

Had it actually worked? How in the hell could he really know? Then again, the man had said it gave him complete control, body and mind. He muttered something under his breath, quietly so Chet couldn’t hear, and a few seconds later, a thick beard sprouted across Chet’s stubbly face. He just gawked for a moment, and Chet reached up to feel it, and yanked his hand away. “What the fuck!”

“Hang on Chet! Calm down…”

Chet grabbed the side of the chair, and his breath slowed down.

“Fuck, it actually works…”

“What fucking works? What…what’s going on?”

He’d never heard Chet scared before. He liked how that sounded, actually. His cock was getting a bit hard, in fact. “Looks good on you, but you know? I just think you’re a bit too young to pull it off. Now, how about we age you up a bit? Say…fifty? Yeah, make you a sexy, submissive, chubby, daddy bear.”

Chet stood up calmly, but the changes were already starting. He watched his smooth stomach balloon outward into a gut, hair filling in across his arms and under his shirt, speckled with grey. “How in the fuck!” he wheeled towards Ben, and blinked. Fuck…fuck, his friend was one…sexy cub. He licked his lips, feeling his tongue brush through his new beard. Ben undid the fly of his pants and let out his cock. “See something you like, Chet?”

“Fuck…fuck you. Fuckin’ faggot. You did…something to me.”

“You’re right Chet…you’re right, I am a faggot. Been one as long as I can remember. And you know what? I’m fuckin’ sick of ya bashin’ us, and I’m fuckin’ sick a yer fuckin’ jokes. Now get the fuck down here and use that nasty mouth of yours for something useful, bitch!”

Chet tried to resist, but all he could do was get down, suck his faggot friend’s cock, and listen to Ben describe their new life together. Ben, the master, and Chet the useless, small cocked, bear slave. Incredibly turned on by pain and humiliation, he started leaking when Ben ground the toe of his boot into his tiny balls. The cigar burnt out, and exhausted, Ben led the collared and harnessed Chet to his cage for the night, and filled his slave bowl with his piss. Chet thanked his master and lapped it up obediently.

Sneak Peek: Justin and Tim

I’m working on an extended version of “Justin and Huck’s Long Summer.” Here’s a rough draft of a new section

***

It occurred to Justin, sometime in mid-august, that their father had been coming and going in from the house, to work and home again, somehow completely unaware of what Huck was doing to him. Somehow, he always managed to make himself scarce when Huck appeared to tempt him, and so, in an effort to shield himself, in the childish hope that his father could somehow save him from this unending humiliation at the hands of his brother, he made a point of trying to stay near him whenever he was home–something his father seemed to resist and resent.

He soon discovered that his father had his own routine–mainly getting drunk on the couch every afternoon, watching whatever sport happened to be on ESPN, growing his gut. He cringed every time Justin called him dad. In fact, he seemed completely uninterested in the role. Finally, one afternoon when he tried to engage his dad in the hopes of avoiding Huck, his father, six beers drunk, turned to him and said, “You don’t fucking remember me at all, do you? Who I was? Fuck Justin, what the fuck did he do to you?”

Justin just stared at him, unable to make any sense of what he said.

“We were fucking friends for fucking years, man! I fucking disappear, and no one does fucking anything? Fuck–shit’s fucked.”

Justin racked his brain. His last year of high school seemed so far away now, but he could remember someone…someone named Tim. He’d gone missing in March, or something, but no one…no one had done anything about it. But what did that have to do with anything?

“Dad, what are you telling him?” Huck said. He’d slipped into the living room while they were talking, “You know the rules, dad.”

Their father gulped down his beer, and let off a loud belch. “Fuck you Huck, I’m…I’m your fucking father–you fucking made me this fucking piece of shit, so the least you could do is give me a little fuckin’ respect, boy!”

Huck slipped past Justin, and watched his brother run his hand through the stubble of their father’s round chin, before sliding one finger into his mouth. “I wanted it to be a surprise for later, you know.”

It hit Justin immediately, like a his brain suddenly shifted and revealed an entire section of his memory that had been hidden away deep within him. How his best friend Tim had started acting strange in the fall, and then simply disappeared in the middle of the spring of their senior year. He could remember all of this happening, but he couldn’t remember anyone doing anything about it. It was like he’d just fallen from the earth and their minds all at once–there one day, and gobe the next.

“No one remembers you either, now–so don’t think about telling anyone, Grandpa.”

His family–he hadn’t seen his family in months! He’d just…he’d just left one day, and come here, and just…just stayed! He couldn’t remember how any of it had even happened, and he stumbled back from Huck. “What the fuck are you, you’re not fucking human, no one can do this, this is insane.”

“Well, I am human…mostly–I think?” Huck said, and then shrugged, “It started to blur together a while ago. Still, I’m enjoying myself, aren’t you, daddy?”

Huck slid into his dad’s lap and started making out with him; Justin turned and ran to his room before he could get too turned on and change himself. Rather than listen to them fuck downstairs, he hefted open his window, popped out the screen, and climbed out onto the roof. Could he kill himself? It was only one story, but if he hit head first, maybe he had a chance. Unable to commit, he sat out there for a while instead, until the door to his room opened, and his father entered his room.

“Hey, Justin? What are you doing out there?”

What was he doing out here? He’d been thinking about something…but it had slipped his mind suddenly. A bit confused, he climbed back into his room and found his dad naked in front of him…and fuck, if his son wasn’t one fucking hot middle aged bear. Justin tromped across the room, his gut filling out as he did, hair whitening, and he could smell cum–his grandson’s cubcum, splattered across Tim’s face. He licked it off, and then kissed him deeply, thrusting his tongue into his mouth, feeling the stubble on his bare cheeks.

Through the hole in the wall, Huck watched his father and grandfather fuck. Later, when Justin had cum deep in Tim’s hole, he’d go in there and suck the cum out while grandpa fucked his ass. His dad had already fucked him, but he was always up for another fuck. They would all be fucking forever if he had any say in it–and it was only his say that mattered, as far as they were all concerned.

wesleybracken:

“I just don’t see why all of this information is necessary.”

“I assure you, Mr. Kilward, that we use all of the information on those forms in the hiring process.”

“Well yeah, but isn’t it just, a little too…personal?”

“If you’d like to leave, no one is stopping you.”

Zach looked at the door, and then at the interviewer across the desk. He really needed this job, but sexual interests? Number of previous sexual partners? When do you feel the most sexy? He didn’t want to answer any of this.

“Here, I’ll tell you what,” the interviewer said, “Go ahead and leave blank any questions you don’t feel comfortable answering, alright, and we can fill them in later.”

That sounded fair to Zach, and so he hurried through the forms, generally leaving the more probing questions blank, before handing the papers back to the interviewer, who started putting the information into his computer.

“Hmm, well, it looks like you left out the number of previous sexual partners you’ve had, Mr. Kilward, I’m just going to ballpark it, and say…1700.”

“What? 1700, but—” Zach said, but his head was suddenly crushed with memories of hundreds of sexual encounters he had somehow forgotten.

“Yes, and I think you made a mistake here, under sexual orientation. You marked ‘straight,’ but you seem 100 percent gay to me.”

Men, all of them men. How many men had he been with? What was happening?

“Hmm…preferred position? I think, ‘bottom.’ Oh and I love this one—‘When do I feel the most sexy?’ Hmm… that’s a hard one, but if I hazarded a guess, I’d have to say, ‘When I’m humiliating myself, acting like a fat pig and begging men to use my like the fat slutty cumdump I am.’”

“No, no what are you doing? Please, please stop!” Zach said, but let out a loud snort of pleasure when the interviewer reached over the desk, pinched his nipples through the shirt and gave them a twist.

“Tell me what you want little piggy, don’t be shy.”

“Oh fuck, can…can I suck your cock *grunt* please sir, I haven’t had a drop of cum in hours and I’m so hungry…”

“Then get under my desk and suck me off bitch, but take it slow—you left so many blanks, it’s going to take me hours to fill it out for you.”

Zach tried to resist for a moment, but who was he fooling? He got down on his hands and knees and squeezed his way into the small space underneath the desk, his bulk not fitting very comfortably, but he didn’t care much at all when he saw the interviewer let his cock out of his fly, and he started licking at the head, hornier than he could remember being ever in his life.

“So Zach? What should we fill out first, do you think? Let’s see, there’s this whole section on medical history here, maybe we should look here. Now, weight and height…just keep sucking piggy, I’ve got some work to do here.”

Zach sucked happily, distantly aware that as he did his body was shifting in ways that he couldn’t explain, but which felt completely natural. After half an hour of sucking, the interviewer stopped writing, reached under the desk and wrapped his hands around the back of Zach’s head, ramming his cock deep into his throat. He expected to gag on it, but it slid down his throat so easily. He reached under his gut to try and touch his cock, but for some reason he couldn’t. He could feel his cock there somewhere, but he was so big. Cum erupted down his throat and he swallowed it down hungrily, grunting and snorting as he did, and the interviewer rolled his chair back, allowing Zach to crawl out.

The Zach that emerged was very different from the one who crawled under. Now in his fifties, his head had balded entirely, but his body was covered with massive amounts of hair, along with a thick beard reaching to his huge moobs. He’d lost over a foot in height, standing just over five feet, but was even larger, the fat rolling off of him, making him pant and sweat as he stood there, hornier than ever, yanking at his too tight collar, trying to pull his polo down over his huge gut.

“Let’s get those off of you, I have a new uniform for you to wear anyway,” the interviewer said, and stripped Zach down. Then he pulled out the leather and chains, boots and fist mitts first before shackling his Zach’s feet and hands together, a leather hood, and then the interviewer circled around him and started slipping a finger into Zach’s ass.

“Shall we continue the interview, you fucking pig? I have a special chair for you here,” the interviewer said, and showed Zach a simple stool with a thick, ten inch dildo stuck on it. “Your ass is hungry, right? That enlarged prostate and sloppy bladder of yours desperate to be fucked?”

Zach couldn’t stop himself, and he started working the dildo into his old ass. As soon as the tip hit his prostate, he felt his cock spurt into his fat pad. He didn’t know what it was–cum or piss–but it had felt wonderful, and he kept fucking himself, only barely listening to what the interviewer was saying now.

“I made a few alterations to your work and education history. After all, a sex pig like you doesn’t need a college degree, or even a high school diploma.”

“Trashman? Nah…hmm….I think janitor. Yeah, a janitor at a gay bath house, that filthy one downtown.”

“Must have been hard, finding work with all those tattoos on your face, but hey, you have to let the slut shine, right piggy?”

“Zach, what a dumb name. Your name’s Crud now, bitch. And no fucking last name for you–you don’t need a fucking family being embarrassed by you.”

Piss, he was dribbling piss–he could smell it. Hell it leaking down his huge legs and onto the floor, his nostrils flaring at the scent. Crud wanted to get down, lick it up, but he had to fuck himself first, he was such a fucking whore.

“Still, we’re going to find you some steady work, just trust me. How would you like some slave work? It doesn’t pay well, but you can have all the cum and piss you’ve ever wanted. A rough, filthy biker gang is looking for a pig like you–how’d you feel about meeting them, and seeing if it’s a good fit?”

“Oh fuck, I’d love that sir, thank you!” Crud said, and he felt the tingle of his tiny cock which had been building finally release, and a piddle of cum spurted out along with the piss leaking from his worthless cock.

“Oh yes, I think you’ll be perfect for the job. First though, let’s see if that worthless hole can take both of my fists, and then you’re going to have to suck the piss from this carpet. I have another interview in three hours, and if I can smell one whiff of piss, I’ll take your balls.

Crud pulled himself up off the stool and immediately got down and started sucking at the damp carpet, while the interviewer started working one gloved fist into his slutty ass. He’d get it perfectly clean–he was a great pig. He was so happy the agency had found him a slave job! It’s just what he’d always wanted.

Source: paintchipsforpyromancers

The Smoker Tapes (Part 4)

[Pictured: Above, Eric and his favorite jockstrap. Below, the man who lives in the apartment.]

***

Eric: I’m just here for my things.

Eric: What is that?

The Smoker: That’s a pipe. What did you think it would be?

Eric: No, no this isn’t fucking happening, this isn’t–fuck!

The Smoker: Why don’t you have a seat, Eric?

Eric: No, I’m not staying here. I’m not going to sit here, and listen to this, I’m…I’m just going to grab my things and leave.

The Smoker: Here, take a seat here for a couple of minutes, and just calm down.

The Smoker: There, isn’t that better Eric?

Eric: Wait…How…how do you know my name? I never gave you my name. I gave you a fake name, even.

The Smoker: You don’t have any secrets from me Eric, not right now. Why, I even know about that yellow jockstrap you keep in the back of your dresser. The one you only pull out when you’re really horny? The one you try to throw out once a month or so, but you never manage to make it happen?

Eric: How–I don’t….

The Smoker: How’d you get that jockstrap again? You bought it online, right? A private sale? Well use by the previous owner, his handle was PissCumPiggy I think, said he’d worn it for six months, he’d jacked off into it three times a day, pissed through it the entire time too. Quite a steal, at thirty bucks. That’s what? A dime a cum shot?

Eric: I’ve never told anyone about that, there’s no way you can possibly know about that!

Eric: That’s…how…

The Smoker: I knew you wouldn’t bring it along, so I slipped in yesterday while you were at work and grabbed it.

Eric: But…

The Smoker: Goodness, it is rank. And damp too…have you been adding to it? Oh why am I asking, of course you have. Like you could resist.

Eric: I’m getting out of here, I’m done with this. This is crazy.

The Smoker: You’ve left your things behind again.

Eric: I don’t fucking care! I’m done with these fucking games, I’m fucking done!

The Smoker: This will all go much smoother if you just admit to yourself why you’re here, Eric. You aren’t here for a story. You aren’t here out of some journalistic curiosity. You aren’t here because you’re interested in the truth. You’re here because you want what I can offer you. You’re here because I have this pipe here on the table, and I know you want it to be yours. It can make you the man you’ve always wanted to be, right here and right now.

Eric: This is a fucking joke, it’s just a fucking prank, isn’t it?

<Silence.>

Eric: It’s…it’s not a joke, is it. It’s…all of it…

The Smoker: I told you I would offer you a demonstration, Eric.

Eric: Yeah, on the fucker who lives here!

The Smoker: Here’s the copy of lease, if you’d like to see it. Or, what the lease could look like. It just needs a signature.

Eric: But…but my names on all of these!

The Smoker: I hope you don’t mind the decoration–I was just trying to think of what kind of place a nasty, raunchy pig like you’re going to be soon would want to live. Run down, greasy, dirty laundry all over the place, ashtrays brimming. I even put a pipe rack in the bedroom for you, since you’re going to have your own pipe collection soon enough. A sling too, so all the guys you bring home can have easy access to that slutty ass of yours.

Eric: Please–please this is just a mistake. I’m sorry, I–we can just destroy the tape, alright? No one has to know.

The Smoker: Goodness, look how hard you are. Are you leaking even? You are…look at that stain growing there. I guess I got a few things right at least.

Eric: Please, I don’t want this, I don’t.

The Smoker: You do want this, don’t lie to me, Don’t think I can’t tell you’re lying.

Eric: I don’t want to want this.

The Smoker: Now that! That’s the truth. You don’t want to want this. But you do want it, don’t you? You’ve always resented your intellect. Your perfect track into the bland middle class, its suburban boredom. You’ve tried to sabotage yourself, I know. Coming out at work to your homophobic boss, but that didn’t get you fired like you’d hoped–you were just banished to the style section, and now here you are, chasing me. And now that we’ve found each other, maybe you should sit down here and take a look at this pipe here, that I picked out just for you.

Eric: Don’t make me do this.

The Smoker: I’ve been very precise. I can’t make you do anything without your consent, Eric. Now why don’t you at least come over here and pick it up. That can’t do you any harm.

Eric: It…it feels really…It feels so right…

The Smoker: I do know how to pick them. Would you like me to fill it for you? It doesn’t have the right heft unless it has a packed bowl.

The Smoker: There, now hold it. Feels good, doesn’t it? Put it in your mouth–yeah, fuck that looks hot on that face. Would look even better with a big, bushy, grey beard.

Eric: I’ve always…I’ve always wanted one, but it never came in right.

The Smoker: Well, you could have a huge one. Thick, all the way down to your chest. Wiry and grey, crusty with cum and spit, your mustache yellow from the decades you’ve spent with briar between your lips.

Eric: Don’t…stay away….

The Smoker: Yeah, imagine how dirty you could be. No more desk jobs, just a union laborer, thirty dollars an hour, plenty of money to waste.

Eric: Fuck…

The Smoker: You could retire in two or three years. Big fat pension Spend the rest of your life hooking up, drinking piss by the gallon, stuffing your fat gut full of food and cum and whisky, smoking like a chimney until the day you die.

Eric: Please…

<Silence.>

The Smoker: “Please” what? Please, yes? Please no? I know what you want. I know what you want to want, even. So say it. Fucking say it already.

Eric: Yes. Please. Please, fucking light it up, before I think about it, please.

Eric: Fuck, that…that shit’s fuckin’ dank…man…

The Smoker: That’s the way you like it though, raw and nasty.

Eric: Fuck yeah, feel…fuckin’ strange though.

The Smoker: Shut up pig, feed me some of that smoke.

The Smoker: Fucking look at you already. Look at that fuckin’ beard! And I love a big belly on a man. Let’s get this shit off of you. You don’t wear office shit.

Eric: Fuck….fuck no…why the fuck ‘m I wearin’ this shit anyway?

The Smoker: Don’t fucking worry about it. I got your favorite jock though.

Eric: Fuck yeah, I love this thing!

Eric: Had it for years now, fuckin’ nasty as fuck.

The Smoker: Put it on, pig.

The Smoker: Looks like it’s meant to be on you.

Eric: Course it is. Get o’er here, I’m not done with that hot mouth a yers.

Unknown Speaker: Go on, you nasty son of a bitch. Piss yourself, fuck yeah.

Unknown: Fuck, oh fuck yeah, so fuckin’ nasty…

Eric: Fuckin’ put it in me! Shove that cock up my filthy shit chute, I’m fuckin’ horny as fuck.

The Smoker: Yeah, look at you, you old fucking pig. Look at that sloppy fuckin’ hole. So fuckin’ loose, I can slip my fingers up in there, no fuckin’ problem.

Eric: Come on, gimme yer cock man, ram it up my piggy hole, make it hurt, motherfucker!

<Grunts, a loud groan.>

Eric: Oh fuck yeah, fuck me rough, fuck me hard…

The Smoker: Fuckin’ sloppy in here. I’m not the first guy who’s fucked you today, am I?

Eric: Fuck no, some guy cruised me at the construction site, he plowed me in an alley behind a dumpster on my lunch.

The Smoker: You’re such a fuckin’ whore.

Eric: Fuck yeah! Been a whore ever since I was suckin’ cock in the department store bathrooms when I was a teenager! Fuckin’ love cum, nothin’ better.

The Smoker: Fuck…fuck, getting close…

The Smoker: Who’s my new pig whore?

Eric: I am!

The Smoker: Who’s my pisss swillin’, pipe smokin’ bitch pig!

Eric: Me, fuckin’ fill me up, come on!

The Smoker: F–Fuck!, Fuck, you feel that? Breeding you piggy.

Eric: Give it to me fucker, pump me full of yer fuckin’ seed…

Eric: Fuckin’ let me clean it, I love a scummy cock, fuck…

The Smoker: Well you sure scummed this one–fuck, you don’t kid around do you, pig? Yeah, look at you take that down your throat, no trouble at all.

Eric: Tasty as fuck…

The Smoker: So, what do you think? Eric’s happy now, just a sexy fuckin’ pipe smoking pervert. How about you? Do you want me to help you be happy? Then come find me, I’m ready for you. Just keep an eye out for The Smoker.

***END TRANSCRIPT***

The Smoker Tapes (Part 3)

[Pictured: Max, in the process of being changed by the Smoker, and his final form.]

Eric: When is your friend supposed to come back?

The Smoker: Don’t know. Kind of depends.

Eric: And you were drawn to him already? But he hasn’t given you consent yet?

The Smoker: No. We’ve talked a bit about it, but he doesn’t quite know what I could offer him yet.

Eric: Do you, well, do you have any problems with the ethics of your work? After all, smoking kills many people every year, and here you are, turning men into heavy smokers. Does that ever bother you?

The Smoker: No, it doesn’t. In fact, I don’t see it as unethical at all.

Eric: Really?

The Smoker: People do dangerous things with and to their bodies every day. Smoking is just a risk, and it isn’t like the men I change don’t choose to partake.

Eric: True, but you’re vastly shortening their lifespan.

The Smoker: <Chuckling.> You’ve smoked before, I assume? Most everyone has at some point.

Eric: A few times.

The Smoker: And you knew the risks.

Eric: Of course, but smoking a cigar or some cigarettes is different from completely changing someone body and mind.

The Smoker: So, your concern isn’t really about the smoking, is it? It’s about the change itself.

Eric: I’m concerned about all of it. I don’t think this is a concern that can just be waved away with an appeal to ‘consent’.

The Smoker: Maybe not. It’s true that not everyone I help has a full knowledge of what they’re losing. But often they don’t really want to know–they just want help. And if they’re happier people when I’m finished with them, if I can make them happier…isn’t ten years of being happy better than fifty years of mild misery, boredom and frustration?

Eric: I don’t think that’s fair.

The Smoker: Back in the eighties, when I was still fairly new at this–still figuring out techniques, still sorting out what these men wanted from me…well, I made some mistakes, I suppose. I misjudged what people wanted. That’s where some of the rumors started. I remember one in particular, let’s call him Max, he was another tough case, but what he wanted was pretty simple. A big man, cigar smoker, a tough guy. Masculine and a cowboy. The Marlboro men were still around then, still seen, especially in gay circles, as these…paragons of masculinity.
Max consented. I was still new at this, and it took me longer, back then, to get things right. I kept him down in my basement, bound up, gasmask on, and I fed him smoke for days on end. It was like I was inflating him, watching the fat and muscle bulk up on his frame–fuck, it was sexy as all get out. But something I didn’t know about was happening too–he was getting older. In fact, he started out in his mid-twenties, and when I was finished, he was a six foot three, three hundred pound, middle aged cowboy, deep raspy smoker’s voice. He wasn’t happy to have lost thirty years of his life, but he settled into it, eventually. He grew to like it, the maturity.

Eric: What?

The Smoker: You know, some people actually like the idea of being older. It isn’t something to be terrified of after all. It happens to everyone at some point, and they can be the best years of your life. Why begrudge someone if that’s what they want? Max ended up wanting it–he just didn’t know that he wanted it. I could sense that he wanted it, and I gave it to him without knowing that’s what I was really doing. It all works out for the best in the end.
That said, the reason I was laughing is that Max’s story is that the first one that turned you on, judging by the hardon in those khakis you’re trying to pretend isn’t there.

Eric: It didn’t turn me on!

The Smoker: It’s ok to admit it. I already know.

Eric: I’m not, I mean…fuck, it’s so fucking hazy in here, could you put out that cigar for a bit?

The Smoker: I’d rather not, and I don’t think you actually want me to, either. Come on, you seem like the kind of guy who’s willing to light one up, probably around the poker table with a bunch of other guys from work, all of you trying to look more manly than you really are.

Eric: I mean, yeah, but that’s different, that’s–

The Smoker: Not that different. You’ve always smoked to seem older. Out behind the convenience store, with your brother’s friends, just twelve but wanting to be so much older, looking at them, turned on my their smoke before you even knew what being turned on was.

Eric:…How…How do you know about that?

<Silence.>

Eric: How in the fuck do you know about that!

The Smoker: How do you think I know about that, Eric?

Eric: I don’t–I mean…

The Smoker: Do you mind if I ask you something though? Tell me, why have you never tried smoking a pipe? That’s what always catches your eyes and nose right? That sweet pipe smoke, you love it, but you’ve never tried it. Every time you pick up cigars for those poker nights–you always bring them, after all, as an excuse to smoke yourself–and you’ve looked at the pipes countless times. Why haven’t you ever bought one? Or even tried one?

Eric: I’m not going to talk to you about this.

The Smoker: Come on, I’m just curious.

Eric: How do you even know all of this about me?

Eric: Please, I just…I don’t understand…

The Smoker: I’ll tell you, but first answer my question. Why never a pipe?

Eric: ….Because….they just always seemed like something, someone older than me would smoke, but I don’t understand what that has to do with anything. But how do you know any of this? Did you investigate me or something?

The Smoker: Why were you looking for me, Eric?

Eric: That’s just another question, you said you’d answer.

The Smoker: Why my story though? Why this urban legend? Why are you looking for me?

Eric: I’m–I’m done with this, I’m getting out of here.

The Smoker: They always do this, this mock outrage. Storm off, pretend this isn’t what they want, but like Eric here? He just left all of his stuff. See, when they do that, it means that they only want to seem scared. They only want to seem uninterested in what I can offer them. It’s a show and a performance. After all, no one is supposed to want what I offer. Not really. Maybe as a fantasy, maybe as something thought of in the dead of night, as nightmare.
Just between you and me though, whoever might be listening to this down the line, I don’t have any regrets about this, about any of this. I mean, sure, I made a deal with the devil, I know that. I’ve ruined people’s lives–I mean, they wanted me to ruin them, but that’s no excuse, not in the long run. I can’t excuse that, I suppose.
But what about you, in there, on the other side, all those years later? What do you want? Are you looking for me? I’m not planning on quitting any time soon, just so you know. All those stories you’re hearing? All those rumors, old and new? Chances are they’re all true. Come and find me, if that’s what you want. I’m right here. I’ll be here for years to come.
Think it over. I have to get some things ready for when Eric comes back up here in a few minutes, once he’s done pouting, and pretending he didn’t make up his mind an hour ago.

The Smoker: Welcome back, Eric.

Huck and Justin’s Hot Summer

Justin was in his room, working out. It was one of the few things he could still do that would give him some peace. It was hot summer afternoon, his brother, Huck, in his room next door, doing who knew what. He didn’t want to think about Huck right, now, not since that…whatever happened. He still didn’t know how to even talk to himself about it in his head.

And so he was working out. He was working out because he couldn’t be out at bars, hooking up with slutty bitches and fucking them in the back of his truck off the highway. He was working out because it was exhausting, it wore him out enough that he wouldn’t get horny. He was working out because then, once he figured out what in the hell his brother had done to him, he’d be hotter than ever, and after a solid beating he’d tie Huck up and make that faggot watch him fuck woman after woman in his bed, but for now, he was working out, and that’s all he could do.

The phone on his desk, next to the bench, buzzed once, he set down his weights. It was from Huck–best to ignore it.

A minute later, it was obvious that Huck wasn’t going to be ignored. He heard his brother knock on his locked, bedroom door. “Becca’s at her window. Getting into her bathing suit. I think she’s wondering why you haven’t been calling.”

“Fuck off Huck, I’m not going to look.”

“Oh, you don’t have to look, bro. What’s it been? Six days? I know you like working out, but those balls of yours are only gonna get bluer. Those breasts of hers though, damn, almost as big as mine, bouncing like that. I think she’s pretty horny for you.”

Justin felt his cock pulse, but he tamped it down as best he could.

“I heard the two of you fuck once, you know. She sounded like she wanted you bad. All the girls want you bad though, they all want that big cock of yours. Too bad they can’t have it now–the only one who gets your hard cock is me, daddy. Are you my daddy yet? Why don’t you come out and play, daddy?”

No use, it was getting hard. He could feel his muscles going soft, the gut growing in. The work out clothes he had on were too tight suddenly, and he yanked them off, one wrinkled hand stroking his cock. It had always been seven inches, but now it grew to ten. All he could think of was Huck, that sexy, fat cub, of his. He licked his lips, feeling the white mustache sprout on his lip, his hair gone from his head. He hefted himself up and opened the door–there he was, fuckin’ beautiful.

Huck was down, and his whole cock was down his cub’s throat in one thrust. Justin skull fucked his brother, making him gag. He wanted him to suffer as much as possible, but Huck just loved the rough treatment even more. After less than a minute he was cumming, his old balls pumping out what felt like gallons of cum, cock softening, fat retreating back into muscle. He yanked his cock from Huck’s suckling mouth and slammed the door in his face without a word.

***

The summer only got hotter. The nights, humid and sleepless, Justin would find himself unable to control himself, waking in the middle of the night from half remembered dreams, his huge cock rock hard, feeling his soft belly rise and fall, thinking about Huck in the next room. Sometimes a few rounds of sweaty masturbation, imagining his fat brother sucking on his old balls or licking out his damp crack would be enough to cum and calm down, but increasingly he would have to go to greater lengths to sate himself.

He stole a pair of his brother’s briefs, and the stink of his brother’s sweat would help him cum. Unfortunately, it would make him so horny it would take two or three orgasms before he returned to normal. He soon discovered that Huck knew what he had stolen. One bad night, he checked for the briefs and discovered they’d been replaced by a rag, still cum damp, and he sucked out as much of it as he could, panting and yanking on his old nipples as he did. His brother started sending him messages at night to rile him up–before long they were trading pictures. It was a sleepless summer. Huck began tempting him over. Telling him how much he wanted to suck his daddy’s old dick dry all night long. Justin resisted. Huck grew impatient, and drilled a hole through the wall.

Huck’s bed was across from the wall, and Justin would crouch there, peeping for much of the night, watching Huck toss and turn, rub his sweaty body, jack off. He would talk dirty, how he knew his pervy daddy was watching him, wishing he was brave enough to come over and give his cub a good fuck. He would sit on the other side, begging Justin to stick his big, wrinkled cock through, let him suck it. He always did, eventually. He loved that slutty fucking cub of his. He liked leading him on. Now he was the one trying to get Huck horny. Now he was the one sticking his cock through the hole first, telling Huck how much he wanted his daddy’s dirty cock. And then, he was slipping into his brother’s room at night, while he hoped he was asleep, jacking off over him, cumming across his face before retreating back to his own room.

The days were hotter; he was haggard and exhausted. He felt less and less like himself. He no longer worked out, and dozed instead. He found that women no longer could excite him, even as his muscular, young stud self. He would watch Becca out his window, but no hard on would come. All he wanted was his brother now, and Huck knew it.

***

August, the heat unbearable.

“I know you want to, daddy.”

Huck was outside on the back patio, naked.

“Come on out and play with me. I have a cold beer for you…” he sang, turned around and swung his ass how Justin had come to like it. This body, his body was so fucking sweaty, under his moobs and in his gunt, and he was starting to stink, especially after he’d spent all night in bed, rolling around with his cub, fuck. He was starting to stay like this longer and longer now. This was starting to feel normal. This wasn’t supposed to happen, he was supposed to push back, keep himself together, but now here he was, seriously considering going outside, naked, where anyone could see him and Huck, and fuck if his cock wasn’t rock hard at the idea of someone seeing. Yeah, he wanted people to see, he wanted people to know what a perverted old daddy he is. He wanted people to see how much he loves his fat cub.

Huck was still shaking his ass, slow, back and forth, and Justin stepped onto the patio, pulled his boy close, running his cock up and down the cub’s crack. Huck moaned as his daddy sucked on his neck hard, leaving a dark hickey, his wrinkled hands kneading Huck’s breasts. He pulled away and turned around, sat Justin down in a chair, gave him the can of beer, and he could only watch, trembling a bit, as his boy lubed his big cock up with spit and slowly slid his the shaft into his ass. Their first public fuck. Any of their neighbors could see them if they just looked down.

Later, in his room, Justin crumbled down next to his bed, cock soft, his real body back, and sobbed. He couldn’t think about what he’d just done, about what he was doing. He couldn’t think about that, because as soon as he did his cock would get hard, and he’d fall back into his perversions, into that fat old fuck of a body, and he couldn’t let that happen anymore. If it kept happening, before too long he didn’t think he’d want to be himself for much longer. Huck’s ass was just so tight, so fucking warm. The way it slid in so easily; that boy’s ass was made for his cock. Justing dug around under his fat gut for his cock and gave it a few strokes, and then found Huck in his room, naked, and fucked him all over again.

This is the last time though, he told himself, the last fucking time, I swear.