Remembrances – Episode 1 (Part 8)

Strange, how in all of their talk that evening, not once had either of them brought up his son. In fact…it was hard to even remember him clearly, for some reason. It made him feel uncomfortable, and he poured himself another glass to settle his nerves. Mr. Elroy noticed, “What’s wrong Harry? You’re not letting those bad thoughts in again, are you?”

Harry shook his head, “No…No…sir…I was just…I know my, uh, son is visiting tomorrow, but I…well, I don’t really remember what he looks like, is all. Isn’t that…odd?”

“Don’t worry, Harry. You’ve had a severe episode, but you’re already doing much better. I’m sure you’ll remember him tomorrow, just fine.” Mr. Elroy stood up, exhaling a thick plume of smoke as he did, and when he stepped out of it–it was…Wilbur standing there, a few feet from him, and Harry’s breath caught in his throat. “Anything else you need tonight, buddy?”

“Wilbur, I…I miss you so much…” Harry said.

“Now, now–I can help you with that, bud. Come on–let’s get you to bed for the night.” Wilbur helped him up, and being this close to him, he even…smelled right, that musk of his that had always gotten Harry so hard on the factory floor, that aftershave he’d always wear. When he fucked him that night, it was so…good. One of their best, and when he was finished, he helped Harry under the sheets, kissed him good night, and he fell asleep almost immediately, his dreams full of the past.

Harry woke up in a good mood, and Mr. Elroy helped him get dressed after his shower, but all he was really wanting was his first cigar of the day–that, and a shot of bourbon to help the lingering headache from his indulgence the night before. The smoke helped clear his mind, and he felt sharper than he had yesterday. Everything from two days ago just felt like a horrific dream–all of the terror and confusion…he didn’t want to feel that way again. Thankfully he had Mr. Elroy to help him along, and get him back to himself. He was…safe here. Happy here.

“Are you excited to see your son today, Harry?” Mr. Elroy asked from the bedroom, while he made the bed.

His son…he still didn’t remember much about his son. That should worry him right? Shouldn’t all of this worry him? He took another inhale from his cigar, and that helped settle him back down. “Yes. Of course I am,” he said, “Why the hell wouldn’t I be?”

Mr. Elroy didn’t respond–not that Harry needed a reply. Still, it was bothering him, all the same, and so he decided to just…imagine what his son might be like. What he hoped he’d be like. Mostly, he hoped he was a man. A proper man, like Harry was. Smoking, drinking, working with his hands. Not afraid of a fight. That’s the sort of boy Harry would have wanted to raise–that would be a good legacy, in his mind. He finished his cigar and went down to breakfast–after that, Mr. Elroy put the finishing touches on the apartment, making sure everything was in place for Harry’s son, when he arrived. Harry, however, was feeling more and more nervous, and doing his very best to make sure Mr. Elroy didn’t notice. He…didn’t want his nurse to know that he was starting to think that something about all of this was wrong.

His memories–they just weren’t lining up at all. Yes, he was suffering from…dementia, allegedly, but even that didn’t seem to account for everything. He could remember so much about himself, and yet, about other things, there was just…nothing at all. Nothing about his son, nothing about how he’d gotten here, and while he could recall Patricia and Wilbur, all of his memories of them were…ancient. Weren’t those the ones that usually went first? And why did he keep having this feeling that all of this was wrong? That it was fake? He could remember other things, it was true. Things about going to school, about being a teenager–not back in the fifties, but a teenager today. They…they seemed more real to him, in some ways. Brighter, if that made any sense. But they couldn’t be real. If those were real, then that meant everything else–Patricia, Wilbur, Mr. Elroy–that meant it was all…all a lie. That meant that what he could remember of the night before last, of becoming…old in a moment. That meant it might be true, but he…he didn’t want that to be true. He wanted to be past that.

They went down to breakfast, Harry hobbling along with his cane, and then back up in his room, there was nothing for him to do except sit in his chair, watch TV, drink coffee and chain smoke cigars, his eyes checking the clock every few minutes, eager for lunch time to come. Mr. Elroy busied himself around the apartment, unpacking more and more of Harry’s things. “Everything alright Harry?” he said, when he took a break, “You seem…tense. You aren’t feeling the dementia coming on again, are you?”

Harry shook his head, a bit of ash falling in his lap, which Mr. Elroy scooped away quickly, “No sir, I’m…I know who I am..” he paused, “I just…I don’t remember nothin’ ‘bout my boy.”

“Oh, is that all that’s bothering you?” Mr. Elroy said, “Don’t worry about that now–I’m sure that once you see him, and get to chatting about the past, you’ll remember him just fine in time. You’re just going to have to relax, and do everything I tell you to do, and remember everything I tell you to remember. You can do that, right Harry?”

He nodded, “Yes sir, Mr. Elroy.”

“That’s a good boy,” Mr. Elroy said, stroking the side of his face just like Wilbur used to, when they were alone. “I think we’ll have lunch here, in your room today. How does that sound to you?”

“I’d…I’d love to…Wilbur,” Harry said, already lost in his memories, as Mr. Elroy allowed him to undo the front of his pants, Harry alternating between sucking on his cock and smoking his cigar–and occasionally blowing smoke all over his cock. Wilbur liked that, the heat of his breath, and he pulled Harry out of the chair, got him on his hands and knees, right in the living room, pulled down his bracers and pants, and fucked him like a dog. “Wilbur…not…what if Patricia sees us?” he muttered.

“Don’t worry about it, Harry–everything is gonna be just fine. You let me take care of everything.”

“I…lo–I…” But he couldn’t say it. Love wasn’t something two men like them could have, in Harry’s mind. “Thanks for being with me, Wilbur, I…I missed you so much…”

“I know buddy–now open up. You want this dick in you bad, don’t you?”

“Fuck Wilbur, you know how I like it.”

“Rough and raw–I know what you need buddy,” Mr. Elroy said, and slipped in Harry’s hole, watching him chuff on the cigar and bore down with a grunt. Mr. Elroy, on the other hand, couldn’t wait for Harry’s new son to arrive. He had a feeling it was going to be quite the reunion.

End of Episode 1 – More to come soon.

Remembrances – Episode 1 (Part 7)

The fear he felt, when Mr. Elroy said that, was different. It was existential. Harry had, to that point, known that the nurse held power over him, but it wasn’t until that moment that he understood exactly how much. If he could make him live through something like that, see something like that…remember something like that, then Mr. Elroy–he could do anything to him. And worse…he could make Harry want it. Make him beg for it.

“Things could be good for you Harry. You could be happy here. All you have to do, is give me what I want, and help me out along the way, with a couple of…other projects.”

“Other…there’s other people here, like me?”

“At the moment? No. I prefer to just keep one of you around–but you’ll understand, in time. So–what do you say, Harry? You going to be cooperative? Or maybe we could start showing you some other memories? Maybe turn you into a nice, faggot cuck–watching Wilbur, that best friend of yours, fuck your wife right in front of you. That sound like a memory you want to relive, Harry?”

He shook his head. He…he knew Wilbur would have never treated Patricia like that, but Mr. Elroy…well, he could make Wilbur treat them however he wanted.

“Good–now, why don’t we go get some lunch? We still have time.”

Harry thought that was a good idea, mostly because he didn’t want to be alone with this man anymore–not if he could help it. He got up from the bed and tottered to the hall, passing his cane as he went, but Mr. Elroy cleared his throat, and pointed to it. “You’re going to have to accept some things, Harry, even if they are hard to swallow. Get your cane.”

Harry stared at it, and remembered how much of a trial it had been to get to the dining hall that morning, but he didn’t want to use it. He didn’t want to admit that Mr. Elroy had won. “Please…I’ll do whatever you want, just fix my leg.”

Mr. Elroy shook his head, “I can’t fix things, Harry. I only break them. There’s no going back–I told you this. Now get your cane like a good little faggot.”

He hobbled over, and took it in his hand, hating how comfortable it felt against his palm, and how much easier it was to move with it supporting him.

“Good boy,” Mr. Elroy said, and opened the door, “Now, let’s go eat.”

The evening was easier, at least. The cane helped more than Harry wanted to admit, and Mr. Elroy seemed to be in a better mood, now that he sensed that Harry was beginning to give in. It was easy, almost, to accept that what he remembered as that rather strange childhood was what Mr. Elroy told him it was–just the ravings of an occasionally demented mind. But he was feeling better now, more certain about himself. Mr. Elroy chatted with Harry about his past–about Patricia and Wilbur in particular, and Harry found himself able to answer the most…personal of questions about them both. That shouldn’t be possible, if they hadn’t been real, right? But if he’d just been a kid the day before, how could he know any of this? How could he remember Patricia on their wedding night, how could he remember how Wilbur had cried next to him in the hospital room, after the accident? That…that was the only time Wilbur had ever cried in front of him, and it was enough to make his weep too. But men weren’t supposed to be weak like that. Harry…he didn’t understand men these days, wearing makeup, and flouncing about. Everything seemed so…out of sorts. It was better to stay here, and just trust Mr. Elroy. Trust his memories–his real memories–and push that dementia as far away as he could, because if he let it get too close, Mr. Elroy told him it would just…eat him away, until he was nothing at all. Just a husk lying in bed, drooling, diapered, just…trapped in this old thing until someone merciful allowed him to die–but Mr. Elroy told him that could be a long time, because this place had very strict policies against euthanasia.

Mr. Elroy was so pleased with his behavior that day, that he allowed Harry to go to bridge that evening. It was a treat, and Harry enjoyed it–he and Patricia had loved hosting bridge nights with other couples in the neighborhood, and while the first few hands were a bit rough (Harry, for some reason, struggled to recall some of the rules) by the end of the night, he was back to his old tricks–and more than a few women, widows mostly, were eyeing him handsomely, but he allowed Mr. Elroy to escort him back to his room. After all, it was time for his evening smoke, and drink, right?

He settled down in his recliner, in front of the television, watching a sports network, smoking a cigar and drinking his bourbon, talking with Mr. Elroy about how much he loved smoking, how he thought it was important for a proper man to smoke, that they seemed so much more…attractive. Mr. Elroy chuckled, and lit one for himself, “What do you think, Harry? Do you think I’m more attractive now?”

Harry didn’t answer–that…that wasn’t something one man should say to another, but it was difficult to deny it. He was…rather attractive with a cigar in his mouth, it only made him look even more like Wilbur. He drank back the rest of his glass of whiskey, not noticing the spidery veins spreading across his nose and cheeks, as he did, and took a deep draw off the cigar, only to give a deep, raspy cough. Still, that’s what you got, when you smoked four or five cigars a day, like he did–he…needed them, as much as he hated admitting it. In him a voice was screaming at him, trying to convince him this was all wrong, that he needed to stop, but he pushed it away. That…that was just the senility talking. He needed to be clear eyed, for when his son visited tomorrow.

Remembrances – Episode 1 (Part 6)

“No!” Harry said, and crossed his arms, “I’m…I’m not hungry.” He was, in fact, a bit peckish, but as far as he was concerned, this was one hill he was willing to die on.

“Not hungry, eh? Something else you’d rather do on our lunch break, then, buddy?”

That hadn’t been Mr. Elroy’s voice. It had been Wilbur’s, but it had come out of Mr. Elroy’s mouth. Just…hearing him again, filled him with such longing, but Harry pushed back, as best he could. Wilbur wasn’t real. None of this was real. “You’re…not him. You can’t be him…” Harry said, shaking his head, hand shaking and dropping the ash of his cigar onto the floor beside him, where Mr. Elroy stamped it out, before plucking the half smoked cigar from Harry’s hand.

“Careful now–if you can’t be careful, I won’t let you smoke in here anymore–you’ll have to do it outside.”

“I don’t…I’ve never smoked before in my life…” Harry said, staring at the cigar, trying to remember where it had even come from.

“Nonsense–you smoke like a chimney, Harry. Now–you said you didn’t want lunch–but don’t you at least want a snack?” Mr. Elroy unzipped the fly of his pants, stuck the cigar in his mouth, and pulled out his cock. It was erect, and inches from Harry’s face in the recliner. “Go on then, you old faggot.”

“I’m not a faggot!” Harry said, bristling at the word. No–he wasn’t a faggot. He was…straight. What he’d had with Wilbur, that was something else. He’d never really known how to explain it, and he’d never dared tried to talk to Patricia about it…though he suspected she’d known something was going on between them. No–but not one of those limp-wristed faggots. But Harry pushed those thoughts aside too. He’d never been married–hell, he’d never even had sex before! He…honestly didn’t know if he’d been gay or straight, not anymore. Everything just felt so muddled in his head, and just impossible to untangle. “I’m…not a faggot…” he said again, less certain this time.

“No?” Mr. Elroy said, and then…something happened. It wasn’t Mr. Elroy standing in front of him–it was Wilbur again, and he wasn’t in that apartment, he was in his old living room. Was it…a memory? Was it something else? “What about for me, Harry–think you could be a faggot for me?” Wilbur said, and stroked his bearded cheek. He looked…so young, like when they’d first met, and when Harry looked down at himself, he saw that he was young too, his leg uninjured, his body strong and vital, and he was so…happy, and so hungry, he leapt on his lover’s cock and started sucking on it. “Yeah, that’s it–I never could keep you off this thing, even if I wanted to try.”

Harry didn’t care–he was happy. He was happy here, in the past, where he…where he felt like he belonged. “Fuck Wilbur, I’ve…I’ve fucking missed you so much,” he said, licking around the head of his cock.

“Yeah, I know how you get without a good fucking, buddy–now come on,” Wilbur said, and hauled Harry into the bedroom, getting his suspenders off his shoulders and his pants down, pushing him over the bed. “This is what you want, right you fucking faggot?”

That…that didn’t seem right to him. Wilbur would have never called him that, but fuck, he did want it. He was so fucking horny for his cock, it felt like ages since he’d been fucked properly. “Y-Yeah, give it to me Wilbur.”

“You old fucking pig–I’ll give you what you fucking need.”

It was rough, and it hurt. He tried to pull away, tried to get Wilbur to slow down, but he just grabbed hold of Harry’s hair and tugged him back onto his cock, told him to take it like the man he claimed he was. It hurt, hearing that…but he was so hard, all the same. He just let it happen, let Wilbur have his way with him, the room filling with his cigar smoke, and when he came, deep inside him, the bedroom scene around him evaporated, and he was back in the apartment bedroom, his leg aching, Mr. Elroy’s cock throbbing inside his ass, laughing. “Yeah, that’s a good old fuckpig–faggot is right. No man would moan like that with a cock deep in his ass, right?”

Harry tried to crawl away, and Mr. Elroy let him, Harry trying to sort out what was real, and what wasn’t. Wilbur…Wilbur had never treated him like that. No, that wasn’t really a memory, was it? It was so hard to tell, like he didn’t even know his own life–but of course he didn’t, because none of it was real! He had to remember that, Wilbur wasn’t real, none of this was real. “You…That wasn’t real. I know this isn’t real.”

Mr. Elroy shrugged, “I suppose. But what’s real, Harry, really? What do you know is real?”

“I’m…I’m not supposed to be old. I’m a fucking kid, goddamnit!”

“Oh? And where’s the evidence? Real things should have evidence, right? But your dad doesn’t even remember you, Harry–or your son, I should say. That’s just a fabrication of a feeble, senile mind. But don’t worry, we can make you better, Harry, if you want to get better. We can help you remember everything. And what you remember–well, that will be more real than anything else, soon enough. So tell me, Harry, what’s real? Is it this?”

Mr. Elroy reached out and touched him, and a fantasy came back. Wilbur was there, they were in bed, a rare moment alone, just…being close, just loving each other in the small, cramped, secret spaces of their lives. It was tender, and it was so…tender. It felt like it would crumble at the slightest touch, if he wasn’t careful. Then, before he could really appreciate it, it was gone, and Wilbur was on top of him, ramming his cock in deep, demeaning him, threatening him, humiliating him–he hated it, and craved it, all at the same time. Then, he was back, and Mr. Elroy pulled his hand away.

“What’s real, Harry? It’s up to you–depending on how much you want to…cooperate.”

My Town (Part 12)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Town (Part 3)

“Calm down dad–no one is going to notice a thing, as long as you don’t moan as loudly as you did when I fucked back at home,” Todd whispered in his ear, one gloved hand massaging the crotch of his slacks.

The two of them had spent the afternoon and early evening getting acquainted. Todd had finished his cigar while his father sucked him off nice and slow, and then he’d fucked him on his bed and made sure Edwin was nice and loud with the window’s open–enough that the neighbors outside might have possibly heard the commotion. So far, Todd had done his best to keep the gloves from altering his father too much, but the exciting afternoon had left a few effects. The most notable one, by far, was the beard Edwin was sporting across his face and neck–thick and bushy, and a bit greyer than the hair on his head. Still, a little weight there, a little hair there–he’d beared up nicely. By the time Todd was finished, he almost looked like someone he wanted to fuck.

Still, Todd wasn’t planning on keeping his dad as a personal slut. Sure, that had been his fantasy for years, but with his new gloves…well, he’d decided that he could set my sights a bit higher than that now. Still, his dad, and the rest of this fucking town, needed to be taught a lesson–a hard one. Well–really Todd was just going to make them live by their own rule–that appearance and presentation are everything. If Todd was going to hurt his father like he deserved to be hurt…well, he was going to have to suffer a few changes right?

But for now, they were relaxing for a moment, just a couple of guys in a booth at the trucker bar on the outskirts of town, the one his dad had always warned him about. It wasn’t quite a rowdy as it had been twenty years back, but it still carried a reputation. “Drink your beer, dad–look like you’re enjoying yourself a bit.”

Edwin picked up the mug and drank about half of it, and then set it back down. “Look, Todd, I’m sorry, alright? But enough is enough. I am your father, and I demand you get your hand off of my crotch.”

Todd just smiled, “Dad, I still don’t think you quite realize the level of shit you’re in–why don’t we go ahead and head into the bathroom for a bit?”

“Please, not here.”

“Calm down–we’ll do it wherever I fucking want, but this is going to be…different.”

The glove pointed to the bathroom, and his dad was compelled to go. Todd waited a beat, and then followed him. The bar was lively, and no one was paying them much mind. Inside the bathroom, he told his dad to go into the handicap stall, and then the glove ordered the other two guys present out of the room. They obeyed…but weren’t quite sure why they did. Then, Todd slipped into the stall with him.

He took a moment to look his dad over. Aside from the beard, and a bit of weight on his midsection, he was still the upstanding elder of the community he’d always believed he was. Todd had even made him dress in the same outfit he’d come home in, the waist of the khakis a bit uncomfortable, but otherwise untouched. “Now dad, you were always so ashamed of me, and my lisp, and my size. You had me marked as a faggot from the age of then–the fact that I like cock was always incidental. If I’d been more of a man, I could have at least hidden it, right?”

Edwin’s silence at the accusation was all the confirmation he needed.

“Well dad–since you think appearances matter so much, I think it’s time you tried on a new look.”

With both hands, he reached out and took hold of the suit coat his father had on, gave it a tug, and they both felt it squirm in his hands. A moment later, it wasn’t a coat anymore, but a ragged looking leather vest.

“How…how did you do that?”

“It’s easy, if you know the trick,” Todd said, ran a hand over the shirt, and the buttons disappeared, the front coming together seamlessly until it was just a grubby looking t-shirt, emblazoned with the logo of some forgotten truck stop, and the pants were next, turning into a pair of old jeans, the belt unlatching, and slinging over his shoulders into a set of suspenders. Lastly, he bent down and tugged at his shoelaces, watching as they grew up his ankles into a set of grubby work boots, caked with mud. “See? A brand new wardrobe in ten seconds flat,” Todd said, “but it’s what’s underneath that counts too, right?”

Todd grabbed hold of his father’s crotch with one hand, kneading his cock again, and this time Edwin felt a shift as his six inch cock began to retract, halving in size as his balls pulled up tight. His son’s other hand stroked his stomach, and it began to round out, becoming a hefty beach ball of a gut, stretching the t-shirt to the limit, the words of the logo a bit warped by the size, his father forced to lean back a bit to counter it. Todd came close, pressing his own stomach to his dad’s new belly, reached around, and palmed his ass, feeling it grow out as well, filling out the seat of his new jeans. Lastly, he mussed up his father’s hair, watching it grow out a bit and turn lanky, his beard tangled, and with a snap of his fingers a trucker cap appeared in one hand, and he rested it on his father’s head.

“Go on dad, have a look–but I think you’ll like what you see,” Todd said, stroking his father’s cheek with one hand.”

My Town (Part 2)

Edwin took good care of himself, and was in fine shape for a man nearing sixty, but he was someone who had always considered a proper, masculine, appearance to be the most important quality a man could possess. He was dressed in his usual Saturday attire–a bit dressed down from his usual suit and tie for the weekdays. Clean shaven, hair maneuvered into position over his receding hairline, sweating slightly from the hot day outside. He loosened his tie and shut the door, walked into the house and noticed the furniture had shifted, and that a relative stranger was sitting in his chair, facing him, smoking a cigar.

“Who the fricken–” he said, and then looked a bit closer. It had been a long time, but the resemblance was there. “Todd?”

“Hey dad. How have things been?”

It didn’t…quite sound like Todd, though. In particular, that lisp was gone. Edwin had always hated the sound of his youngest boy’s voice, it had always given away the little faggot’s weakness, and it had implied weakness in Edwin as well. He’d never really cared who the boy wanted to fuck, but his sissy ways had undermined the family, in Edwin’s mind. He’d been happy to see the boy leave, and was pleased that the time away had apparently helped him man up somewhat. In fact, Todd looked…good. Healthy, clothes on his back, didn’t seem to be drugged out. “Son, I…wish you’d called, and told me you were coming.”

“And spoil the surprise?” Todd grinned around his cigar, and with one gloved hand, beckoned his father over to him. “Come on daddy, let your boy get a good look at you.”

Something in his son’s tone set Edwin’s hair on edge, but he walked over anyway, eyes locked on the gloved finger drawing him in. He could almost hear the slight squeak of the leather as he drew closer. He intended to stop a few feet away, but his feet kept walking him right up in front of his son in the chair, until the finger stopped moving. Before he could move away, his son’s other hand reached out and stroked the side of his thigh, and Edwin…shivered. It had felt wrong, being touched by that glove, but why? The hand took his own, and the feel of the leather against his fingers, it was so supple. He barely heard his son’s voice speaking to him.

“Go on daddy, drop those pants, and take off that shirt.”

Edwin did has Todd told asked, and when the leather glove brushed it’s way down his bare thigh, he realized why it had felt so wrong. It was because he’d had clothes on, of course. The leather…it felt so good on his bare skin, better than anything he’d ever felt. Todd kept stroking his father’s thighs and small gut, listening to him mutter and sigh as he undressed, until he was naked in front of him. “Looking as good as ever, Daddy–but looking good is all that ever really mattered to you, right? That, and always making sure you kept proper company.”

Edwin knew this wasn’t right, that he shouldn’t be naked like this in front of his son–especially not his faggot son–but everytime one of those gloved hands ran down his thigh or stomach, he lost a little more will to care–he just wanted to be touched. Todd tugged down on his father’s hand, and watched him wobble, and then sink to his knees in front of him. Lightly, he caressed his face with both gloved hands, watching his jaw go slack. “That’s good, daddy, that’s very good. Now, I’ve been waiting for this for a long time, and I want to see your real face around my cock first. Then we’re going out tonight, and we’ll see what sort of company you keep from now on, daddy.”

Todd unzipped the fly of his jeans with one hand, and pulled his cock free, shuddering as he did when the leather touched flesh. Helplessly, he watched his hand stroke his own cock, beyond his control, the shaft lengthening and thickening from a modest four inches to seven. Then, he took his father’s head in his hands, and pushed the dribbling head to his lips, Edwin happily accepting it, so long as the lovely leather remained against his skin a while longer. Todd took a long drag off his cigar, and released a thick cloud of smoke over his father’s head, making him cough. Edwin had always hated smoke, but he fought through it, eyes burning slightly, because the gloves wanted him to. Because Todd wanted him to. Todd pushed his father’s mouth off his cock, holding him in place with both hands, took another draw off the cigar and locked lips with him, pushing smoke deep into his father’s lungs, making him hold it until he coughed and gagged–then he rammed his cock back into his mouth and fucked his face roughly for a few minutes, barely giving him space to breathe.

“That’s right you fucker–your boy’s back in fucking town. Is this man enough for you, daddy? Is this man enough for you yet? Because trust me, I’m going to be more man than this little fucking town can handle soon enough, just you fucking wait and see.”

The gloves, he could feel them fighting him, and one peeled away from his father’s head and dragged his hand back towards Todd’s body, hauling up his shirt and grabbing his nipples, twisting and pulling at them. Todd groaned, feeling them grow larger and fuller the more the glove played with them, and with a sharp pain, he looked down and saw metal piercings had appeared in both of them. Apparently satisfied, the glove allowed his hand to return to Edwin, stroking his smooth cheek, feeling a thin layer of stubble grow under his fingers. There would be more of that, soon enough, Todd thought, thinking of his plans, of the plans of his gloves, and he filled his father’s mouth with a massive load, listening to him choke it down like the good whore he was going to be soon enough.

Pigtown Provides (Part 2) [pics]

The thing most people don’t realize, I think, about Pigtown, is that most of us want to be there. Or at least, I want to be there, and most of the people I know there never want to be anywhere else. It’s the only place a lot of us want to be, because it’s the only place where any of us can be ourselves. Do you know what that’s like? Probably not–not many people do, or ever get the chance, but ever since I was young, I knew that I was…different.

Not gay. Gay isn’t…anything anymore. Anyone can be gay, which is another way of saying that if you’re gay, you can be anyone–which really means no one. Which means you go to school, you get a job, you find someone equally no one to your no one, and you settle down, make more no ones, and die, eventually. But that wasn’t me, that wasn’t what I wanted. It’s what my dad wanted though, he wanted me to be nothing, just like him. Maybe it would be better to just tell him, to break him, finally, and show him who I am, but I can’t yet. Maybe, because I don’t really know who I am yet, either.

People like me, we know all about Pigtown, even if we’ve never been there. It’s everywhere on the internet, in all the places you go, if you need what Pigtown can provide. Most people never find it, because no one really knows where it is. No one even knows what it is, to be honest. All there are out there are stories of it. Anecdotes, rumors thrice removed. I thought it was just a jack off fantasy, I never imagined that it could actually exist, until I almost walked right past it.

I could barely believe it, when I stepped inside. It was like coming home. It was like meeting the family I had never known, the real family I had always wanted and fantasized about. I was changed, when I left–like everyone always is, as you know–but for me, it was everything rewired on the inside that really mattered. I was different. I was braver, and more confident. Not…confident enough to confront my dad about anything, but confident enough to at least buy cigars and smoke them. Confident enough to…go back.

I needed to be there. I needed to be the person I could be there, that I couldn’t be anywhere else. But I had to be someone else for my dad, for the entire world. Some people just…stay. They remain in the orbit, and they never have to leave Pigtown. They never have to remember that there’s anything beyond this. I don’t want that, I don’t think, but I would like…to have who I am in there match who I am out, but I’m not there yet. Maybe one day, I’ll figure out how. Until then, there’s just this. I walk up the stairs and into the bar, I hand the gimp my coat, and as soon as it’s off, I don’t have to pretend anymore. I’m just…me.

I’m a cigar cub. I’m on my knees at the feet of every smoking bear in sight, my tongue on their leather or rubber boots, ready to be of service in whatever way they so desire. I have my favorite daddies, of course, and plenty who have taken quite a liking to me. But I haven’t…found anyone yet, who I want to be with yet. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with me, and why I can’t stay. Because I’m not here just looking to be someone…but I’m looking for someone too.

The night rolls, and we’re all rolling with it. In Pigtown, everyone is in flux. If you try to focus too hard on it, it’ll just break you apart–you just have to exist, in the moment, and trust it to take you to a level of ecstasy that you pray exists. Well, it does exist. I know, I’ve hit it before. Three skinheads forced me into rubber one night, hooded me, fed me smoke for…I don’t know, days. I lost everything. I lost so much of myself, and all that remained was pleasure. I think…I would have stayed, if they’d kept at it, but the night ended, like always, and outside, I was me again, mostly. The hair stayed–it hasn’t grown a millimeter since.

But that night, there is someone new. He’s there with some other bears I know well–they laugh when I ask about him, and they say they found him outside, just staring at the bar, and they…invited him in, as we all do on occasion. He was handsome, especially with the massive cigar in his jaw, and I was more than happy to serve him…but he had something else in mind.

Before I know what’s happening, he has three cigars wedged in my mouth, his boot planted against my chest, and I can feel my cock throbbing as smoke surges through me…and I know. I know this is something I could get used to. Someone I could get used to. We find a rhythm. He’s new to all this, but he’s enthusiastic, and I’m eager for whatever he might give me. I find it again, that supreme desire and pleasure, chained to the wall, now four cigars wedged in my mouth while he and another bear flog the shit out of me, and I have to know him. If he stays, I’ll stay. But things roll, and we separate, and the morning comes and I’ve lost him, and I cry on the tram going home, because men like that, men who get pulled in, men who aren’t looking for Pigtown at all…well, chances aren’t good, one might say.

I crawl into bed, and sleep in on Saturday. I somehow still get up before my dad, early enough to sneak a smoke in. We cross paths later…and I gotta say, he looks like shit. But I get close, and I smell…something, and see a little flicker in his eyes…but no, it couldn’t be, right?

Then again, Pigtown provides.

Orwell’s Demon (Part 8)

-Before-

Orwell could feel it building again. He’d managed to hold the demon off for a month or so, longer than his gap between Stewart and that trucker, but it was growing…impatient. Orwell, on the other hand, had been adjusting to his new life, and his new physiology. He let off a belch, something he had to do much, much more often as the filth in his guts slowly rotted away, the acrid gas triggering the first hunger pang–but he didn’t want to face that yet. He hated eating, because he had to leave the house, and when he left the house, he had to…risk the demon getting hold of someone else. He’d put in for an extended leave with the school–he couldn’t bear the thought of ruining another student, like he had with Stewart. He…couldn’t risk it. Instead, he sat around his house, fucking himself with some dildos he purchased online, and slipping out each night to stuff himself with shit before retreating back home to sleep. Still–it was working. The demon hadn’t managed to ensnare anyone else, at least until he stepped outside for a bit of fresh air, and caught a whiff of something else instead.

It was smoke–but not from a barbeque or anything. It was sweet, and sharp, and as soon as he smelled it, he wanted to know what it was. He had to peek through the fence, where he saw his neighbor, Aaron Piper, smoking a short cigar out back behind his house. Mr. Piper was a nice, if boring fellow–middle aged, a nice wife, a teenaged daughter. Aaron was on the phone, and Orwell could eavesdrop–he was planning a poker night with a few buddies from work that evening, because his wife was out of town with his daughter.

That sounds like fun–maybe we should crash it?

Hearing that voice in his head, Orwell fled back inside, and did his best to put the entire incident out of his mind. Later, the hunger was growing worse, and he was getting ready to go out and eat, when his phone rang. Orwell had no idea who it could be at this hour, but he answered it, and the voice on the other side sent a chill through him.

“I sent the boys home early, Orwell. Told them I wasn’t feelin’ too good. Really, I just wanna play with the neighborhood piggy. Get your ass over here, pronto.”

There was a click, and the line went dead. It was Aaron–but not just Aaron. It was the demon. Orwell knew he should run, he knew he should, but instead, his legs walked him out the front door of his house, down the driveway, over to Aaron’s house, where he walked up, opened the front door, and stepped inside, expecting the worst.

What he found was a house so thick with smoke, he assumed something must have caught on fire. In fact, it was just Aaron, sitting in his armchair, with a massive cigar in his mouth, almost as big as a forearm. He was naked otherwise, covered in hair, grinning at Orwell in the doorway. “There ya are. Get on over here, piggy. I’m…tired of cigars. I wanna know what it’s like to smoke a pig.”

He had to run, he couldn’t let this happen, not again, not to someone this close to him! The smoke, however, was clouding his mind, drawing him closer to where Aaron was sitting, his clothes falling away, revealing his fat body, stinking of shit, covered in a riot of tattoos. As he came closer, Aaron picked up a butane cigar lighter from the table beside him, wrapped his other hand around Orwell’s back, and pulled him close, between his legs. Orwell felt something…rough against his cock, looked down, and saw that between Aaron’s legs wasn’t a cock–but another cigar, even more massive than the one he’d set aside in the ashtray beside him. “Don’t worry pig, you’ll get to smoke him too, I promise–but first, let’s light you up.”

He watched, frozen, as Aaron took the lighter and brought the bright blue flame to his left nipple, the pain searing through him, his cock pumping out cum as he shuddered. He opened his mouth to scream, but Aaron leaned over, locked lips with him, and inhaled. Orwell felt the heat on his nipple intensify, his mouth flooded with smoke, and when Aaron pulled away, a thick cloud of dark, sooty smoke between them, he looked down and saw that his left nipple had become a cinder, red with heat–just like a cigar. Aaron repeated the process with his right nipple, and locked lips with him again, more smoke pouring out of him, Aaron sucking it down, the heat unbearable on his chest, and yet, so…erotic.

“Yeah, that’s a hot smoke pig–now get down there, and let’s smoke your neighbor down, eh?”

Aaron shoved Orwell to his knees, and he took the end of his cigar cock in his mouth, while Aaron lit his own nipples as he had Orwell’s, ordering him to draw hard on the cigarcock, pull the smoke into him, and he did as he was ordered, head swimming with smoke, guts churning, certain that if everything in his guts had still been hooked up correctly, he would throw up from it. Aaron let Orwell smoke his cock for a few minutes, enjoying the hot smoke from Orwell’s body on his own cigar, and then shoved Orwell over and fucked him, the leaf rough on his hole, but thrilling all the same, smoke billowing from both of their bodies until with a loud moan, Aaron came, in huge gouts of smoke, filling Orwell’s hole with it, his body crumpling and turning to ash in the middle of his living room floor, leaving Orwell alone, naked, and with two still smouldering tits.

Arctos Audio 2: True Story (Part 3)

*Meanwhile, elsewhere*

Paul was about ready to head home from work, putting the finishing touches on his work and shutting down his computer, already dreading the commute home–but dreading having to see Nate even more. Something…was wrong with him. It had been going on for a couple of weeks now, but every time he’d tried and talk about it with him, Nate had avoided the conversation like the plague. It had been little things at first–mostly these…violent dreams, where he’d be thrashing and squealing and no matter how hard Paul shook him he wouldn’t wake up. Then things had gotten stranger–Nate usually kept a pristine house, but lately he hadn’t seemed to be keeping anything clean, and the way his body was looking, he’d been spending a lot of that time binge eating.

It shouldn’t have been that big of a deal, he supposed, but the change had happened so quickly…and Paul didn’t know how to deal with it. This weekend…he’d have to talk about it with him, he just didn’t have any other option. They’d work through it, whatever it was–he was sure of it. With his things packed up he got up from his chair and checked his phone, where he saw a strange notification from an app he didn’t recognize, and which he was certain he hadn’t ever downloaded, called Arctos. He tried to dismiss the message telling him he’d been selected to receive a complimentary audio album from their collection, but instead of swiping away, it took him to a download screen, which he couldn’t stop.

Was it some virus? He tried to click away, frustrated, but it only let him get out of the screen after it had finished downloading whatever it was onto his phone. Was it a fucking virus or something? It didn’t seem to have messed with anything else on his phone, but he’d have to get it checked out this weekend as well, to make sure it wasn’t something malicious. Trying to focus on his bigger problem with Nate, he rode the elevator down and got to his luxury sedan out in the parking lot, and started the engine. Without thinking much of it, he hooked up his bluetooth from his phone to the car, ready to play some of his music, but as soon as it was connected some strange country song started blaring out of the speakers instead of his usual classic rock. Checking his phone, he discovered that whatever strange album that program had downloaded had been set to autoplay, and he couldn’t make it stop, no matter what he did–even turning down the car volume wouldn’t work for some reason. Frustrated, he simply resigned himself to the problem–he’d get it figured out this weekend, but if this was the worst the virus did, he might as well count himself lucky–and now that he’d listened to it for a couple of minutes, the music wasn’t bothering him nearly as much as he’d have expected it to. To his own surprise, he belted out the chorus of the first song without even realizing he’d learned it by heart:

Ya don’t want no city livin’.
Got ya wishin’ for a simpl’r time
Well ya’ll be a big, old country bear
If ya just listen tah mah rhyme!

Ya got a beard down tah yer gut
And mullets never went outta style.
Relax ya big, old country bear
And crank that volume dial!

Paul didn’t notice, as he kept humming along to the catchy tune, that he was starting to change in the driver seat of the car. He’d always taken great care to make sure his appearance was professional–he knew that appearances mattered in business, and he wasn’t about to let a beard or a paunch get in the way of a promotion. Yet he slumped a bit in his seat now, adjusted the crotch of his pants as his cock picked up a few more inches, heaved a sigh, and his gut pushed out against his tight shirt, a couple of buttons popping as it grew. He scratched his face, unfazed by the beard growing out from his cheeks and chin, rapidly rowing longer than a foot–his meticulously styled hair growing greasy and long, hanging around his head in tangled locks with streaks of grey, the top shaved short–but not short enough to disguise his now receding hairline. Unaware of the changes, and curious about the album now that he’d gotten through the first song, he turned up the stereo and kept listening:

Wearin’ yer waders ‘n yer overalls
Smokin’ a ‘gar in yer rusty truck
Nothin’ but a dumbfuck redneck,
ain’t it just yer fuckin’ luck!

Ya Never wash yer clothes
‘N ya never take a shower
The worse ya stink the dumber ya think
But a real man ain’t a fuckin’ flower!

Paul guffawed at that line–because…because he was a real fucking man, and he sure as hell didn’t smell like those prissy bitches in the city. No–he didn’t want to live like that anymore–why worry about climbing the corporate ladder, when he could just work on the farm all day–simple shit, without having to worry about complex shit like accounts, or computers or whatever. He leaned forward and gave the ass of his overalls a scratch, digging into his crack a bit with a grunt around the cigar he was smoking, and then sat back with a sigh, hearing the old seat of his pickup groan under his weight, smelling the grungy musk welling up around him and making his cock stir Sure was his luck! No better fucking life than this one he had right now as a dirty fucking farmer bear, right? This was a great album–how in the world had he never heard of it before? He kept listening, humming along and singing when he got the choruses of the song’s down. As he was pulling onto the subdivision where he lived with Nate, the last track of the album came on, called “Hogfucker” and this one made his breath catch in his lungs:

Those curly tails and big wide rumps
get ya rarin’ fer a nasty fuck
Can’t help climbin’ in the filthy sty
just a plowin’ in the mud and muck!

Who’s a proud hogfucker?
Yer a proud hogfucker!

Manure and slop sure turn yer crank,
The oinkin’ snortin’ ‘n squealin’.
Ruttin’ away in the disgustin’ filth
Yeah! Ain’t no better fuckin’ feelin’!

Fuck, why in the hell was his cock so hard all of a sudden? He thought the song was metaphorical for a moment, but pretty soon…he was sure it was talking about pigs. Real fucking pigs, and how…how fucking sexy they were. Hell, why should he try and deny it anyway? It was true–he’d fucked a few pigs in his life–it was always better than fucking a dude or a bitch in his opinion.

“Who’s a proud hogfucker?” The song asked again.

“I’s a proud hogfucker!” Paul shouted back with a chorus of redneck voices on the track, hauling his cock free of his overalls and stroking himself roughly, thinking of the last time he’d been with a proper hog–too fucking long ago in his opinion. He needed to get back out on the farm, into the country, where he’d feel more at home anyway–but he…he had to do something here first. The song ended–too soon for Paul to finish his load–and the heavyset redneck got out of his truck with a grumble and tromped up the steps of his house, feeling out of breath and out of sorts, but he was sure he’d feel better once he was back on the farm, where he belonged.

Smoke Spirit (Part 10)

He could feel Howie groping his fat tits while his son, Stew, sucked the last few drops of piss from the head of his cock, and then started sucking on the fat head. He could feel Pete stroking his cock while he watched his own father fist his cousin’s tight hole. He could feel Stew’s ass clench tight around his own fist. They were all one. They were all one with the spirit in the smoke surrounding them, and with a cry, all four of them came, sealed away in their new fate–four slaves to the spirit of the smoke which had infested Doug that night, and the thick haze in the house finally began to disperse, allowing them all to see Stew, their final member, in between them all.

He was fatter than the rest of them–even Howie–large enough that his gut hit the ground where he was on his knees, mouth still wrapped around his dad’s cock, sucking hard, making sure he sucked down every drop of cum to go with the piss swilling around in his gut. Their history had shifted as well–now, the prostitute Howie and Doug had fucked had brought twins, and the two of them had raised the boys in their…respective fashions. Where Pete was turning into a handsome muscle cub, taking after Doug, Pete had learned to indulge his greed and gluttony, just like his father. Howie leaned back, moaning, a thick cloud of smoke escaping his mouth as he did, and Doug could feel how close his brother was. He walked over, straddled his nephew’s back and started tugging on his brother’s tits, knowing just how to push him over the edge, feeling how happy the spirit was inside them all, now that it had a family again, a family like it had had before.

Of course, it hadn’t been a family quite like this one–Bandgar had gotten into a fight with a rough biker gang one night, and as he’d always been able to do, he turned them into a single spirit of smoke, and absorbed them into his body, where he’d begun warping and twisting them into something else. Bandgar liked to think of the spirits he made as gifts, and this spirit was a gift he’d decided to give to Douglas after that concert. Doug couldn’t be more thankful–he was alive again! He’d forgotten what it had been like, to be alive, and made of flesh, and how good it felt to cum in one of his boys’ nasty fucking holes. He–no, they needed to thank him.

“Keep playing you dirty fucks,” Doug said, “I gotta check a message.” He went upstairs and found his phone–or Douglas’ phone, rather. He wasn’t…quite the spirit, but he wasn’t quite Doug either. He was someone new–someone better. Something better, actually, because he couldn’t forget that he wasn’t alone here. Sure enough, Bandgar had sent him a message–a link to the band’s touring schedule, and that night they were playing in a big city one state over–close enough that they could make it if they ride all day. Of course, to do that, they’d need bikes. His family had to ride hogs, right?

He went back downstairs, and felt the rest of his family falling into yet another smoky orgy, but with a few smacks upside the head, he set they straight. They had to get on the road, and they had to get going soon. The smoke in the house had thinned somewhat, but hadn’t dissipated–it had been waiting, it seemed for the thought to form that they needed to leave, and it starts to swirl around each of them. It wasn’t like before, where they’d been swallowed up–this time it stuck to them and became clothing–and like their identical tattoos, all four of them were dressed in the same basic outfit–ragged jeans and leather chaps, boots, leather vests with no shirts. The two boys had on collars, of course, showing their place in the hierarchy below their fathers. They headed for the door, and the rest of the smoke followed them, flowing out into the late afternoon sun and forming a cloud on the driveway. It faded away after a minute or so, revealing four old Harley’s–the men all headed for them, instinctively knowing which of them was theirs, and with a cry from Doug, they all drove off, abandoning their house, and their lives, without a second thought.

It had been a decent gig, and tear-down was going smoothly–smoothly enough that Ned felt he could justify taking a break for a cigar outside, while the rest of the crew got shit wrapped up. He wondered how that kid from the night before was getting on–from the sound of his message that morning, the spirit he’d been working on had been…vigorous. Still, those were the best kind, in the end. The kid might not have deserved it, but fuck, Ned had been horny, and having the four of them hanging around in his head had been getting a bit tiresome. It was time to start a new project, but to do that, you gotta get rid of the old shit first.

He stepped out into the alley, cigar out, when he saw them–four hulking men standing beside four Harley’s, smoking cigars and watching the door. “There you are, ya fucker!” one of them shouted, and ran for him. Ned braced himself–depending on how things had settled he was either about to get punched, or…well, something a bit more pleasant, hopefully.

It was a kiss–a nice smoky one, though it didn’t last long enough for Ned’s liking. “Heh, guess the day went well for you. Got the family back together?”

“Sure fucking did! All four of us. I–We…fuck man, what ya fuckin’ did tah us–we’re so fuckin’ happy to be out again man. We owe ya a nice long night before we hit the road again, what do ya say? You wanna fuck around with four dirty fuckin’ biker bears?”

It sounded like a real good time to Ned–he was getting good at this. He lit his cigar, and hauled open the door, “Hey boys! I gotta take off. I’ll see ya in the morning before we leave!” A few guys complained at the boss ditching work, but Ned didn’t give a shit–he was following Doug over to his family for introductions, and then climbed on with him and rode off for a night of sex with his creations, before sending them off again in the morning. Still, he had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last time he met up with the four of them–after all, the highways could be a surprisingly small place, when you’ve been on them as long as Ned had. He reached around and groped Doug’s hard cock, admiring the size, and knew he was in for quite the ride himself later that night.