I knew his type. They only come on Friday nights. Wealthy, but not wealthy enough for true luxury. Closeted out of the fear that coming out would jeapordize their climb up the corporate ladder. They only fuck men who they would never see in the city. They also want to fuck us out of a twisted desire they barely understand. They want to be cruel, they spend a career climbing up the backs of hard working men like us, and fucking us is just that last humiliating victory they need to feel justified. They don’t want our names, only give out aliases of their own, and they can’t look us in the eye. This one gave the name Dave–and I made him keep it.

He arrived too early in the day, fresh off work. Like many, he was still in a suit, smoking a pipe. I came later, and he was still looking. You see, some of us just can’t resist that aura–the fantasy. They just haven’t been burned enough. They see that suit, they see that money, that mid-shelf whiskey double in the glass, and they think, “Maybe he wants me, the real me.” But they don’t, and that hope, fuck, they feed on it, they fucking suck it out of us, but I’ve had enough of it, I’ve had enough of them, and I sat down at the bar next to him, and he smelled me, and he smirked. I was the one, he thought, I was the one he wanted, even though he didn’t really know why.

He introduced himself. I remained aloof. This confused him, and he pressed harder for conversation. I berated him, and as insulted as he was, he wanted me more and more. He bought me a drink and tried to drug it; I left it untouched. He bought four more doubles for himself, and got plastered. We ended up in the back of my truck, his tongue all over my body before I skull fucked him. He couldn’t get enough of me, and the whole time, I could see his confusion. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. He was supposed to string me along. He was supposed to have the reins, he was supposed to be on top, this was supposed to be about him, about his manhood, about his pride, about his need to be in control. When I ordered him to cum, with his mouth buried in my asscrack, and he stroked his cock off, he didn’t want that to happen, he hadn’t wanted any of this, and yet he’d never said no. I dropped him off at his sedan without a word.

He was back on Saturday night. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about me. He’d spent the whole day at home, mouth dry, hands shaking, horny as hell but unable to cum. He wasn’t in a suit this time, just a shirt and jeans, still smoking a pipe. I made him plead and beg in the bar, in front of everyone. I ridiculed him some more, because I enjoyed watching him want me more after every barbed insult. I got him drunker than the night before and brought him all the way home this time, to my single wide trailer, to my floor littered with beer cans, to my bed covered with sheets I haven’t changed in a year, the whole place stinking of me. As much as it disgusted him, as much as he loathed everything the place stood for, he fell into it. The sweatier and hotter we got the more of himself he lost until he was at my feet, whimpering, sucking my toes, words lost, desire at the center of his mind.

I kept him for five days. I pimped him out to my bar buddies. I made him ditch his pipe, and forced him to smoke the cheapest cigars I could buy at the reservation smoke shop. And after five days, when he reached that limit of both saturation and exhaustion, I dumped him at his car with a note. Well, really it was a to do list. Everything he had to do, if he ever wanted to see me again, if he ever wanted to taste me, if he ever wanted to smell me, if he ever wanted my cock balls deep in his hole again.

I’m sure he tried to go back. He was charismatic enough to pass off four days of missed work as a mistake, or poor judgement. But I’m also sure he dreamed about me. I’m sure he tried to jack off, over and over, but never managed to work out a load. I know he didn’t wash the clothes he’d had on, because I could still smell my musk on them when he arrived back at the bar, two months later, with nothing but a suitcase. I made him go through the list. Some of the tasks I could tell on my own–the horseshoe mustache, the fresh tattoos, the smell of him after a week without a shower. I made him tell me about quitting his job, how it had felt to flush his career down the toilet so he could taste my pits one more time. How it had felt, giving away all of his shit, just so he could live in a trailer park for the rest of his life. It was funny–he’d actually thought he’d be moving in with me, but I straightened him out on that shit real quick. No, he was moving in with Big B–he wasn’t too happy about that, Big B hadn’t been very nice to him when I loaned him out to him for a half a day–and he stormed out, and I just laughed. He came back, of course–where was he gonna go? He felt better after he sucked my cock out behind the bar, and I let him spend the night with me, on the condition he give my unwashed and unwiped asscrack a proper cleaning.

He’s settled in pretty well now, here at Louisiana Acres. Doesn’t even really remember his old name, and spending so much time with me and my filth had eroded the edges of his brain. Big B still doesn’t treat him very well–I’ll see him with a black eye on occasion, but he takes it because he knows he deserves it, and because deep down, he likes the abuse. Besides, he knows he can’t complain, or heaven forbid, leave us! If he left, he knows he’ll never get to smell me again. He knows I’ll never holler at him across the yard again, I’ll never make him crawl across the overgrown grass, and up the steps into my trailer. I’ll never let him suck on my feet or eat out my pits. He’ll never cum again, because smelling me is the only way he’ll shoot a load for the rest of his sorry life. He spends his days managing one of the smoke shops down on the road through the reservation, and his nights are spent at the bar with the rest of us. He sees the men like him come in on Friday nights, and he wants them more than anyone else. He hooks up with them often, willing to do anything they want, with the hope that some his old life might rub off on him, but they always leave him behind, laughing at him like he’d used to laugh at us, but who’s laughing now, fucker? Who’s laughing now?

Stinkers – Part 4

WARNING: This section contains graphic scat play. If brown turns your stomach, it would probably be better for you to skip this one.

Kurt wasn’t really looking where he was going–his eyes were on his phone. He had to call Jerry to go over the final details of their presentation tomorrow morning. He scrolled through his contacts, and slammed right into a young man who had stopped right in the middle of the sidewalk’s flow. He looked up, his eyes catching the piss and cum stained shirt, the sleazy handlebar mustache, the beat up hat, and then he caught a whiff of him. Of that…funk, that was wafting from him. He was speechless. He was beyond disgusted. He wanted to scream at him, but all the man did was stare at Kurt a moment, and then walk off into an alleyway, beckoning with one finger.

He told himself that he followed the young man because he was angry. Because he wanted to fight, because he wanted to scream, but his breathing was turning ragged, he was snorting through his nose without even realizing it. His nose was…awash with smells he’d just never bothered smelling before. The city itself, the filth of it. The grime, the trash, the exhaust, the sewage. The alley was dark compared to the bright street, and rather narrow. He fumbled for a moment, following his nose while his eyes adjusted. There, he saw the man he’d run into on the sidewalk, beside one of the most massive men he’d ever seen. He was wearing nothing beyond a couple of dirt crusted work boots and a pair of jean shorts that did nothing to hide the massive cock clearly visible through multiple tears. His chest was coated with hair, and he looked…wet. Like he’d just stepped from the shower, but it was sweat. He didn’t know how he knew, but it was sweat soaking the massive man’s beard and chest, his arms, his…his thighs. His cock. He couldn’t stop looking at the man’s cock, his fucking…fucking cock.

The man he’d run into on the sidewalk was speaking, but Kurt only caught the tail end, “…your turn Jed.”

“Don’t fuckin’ mind if I do.”

The huge one stepped towards him, and the musk froze Kurt in place. He couldn’t process it, he couldn’t grapple with how it was making him feel. The man ran his hands along his body, over his suit, down over his flabby chest and gut, down to his crotch, where he groped Kurt’s hard cock, around to his ass and then up to his face, stroking his chubby, stubbly cheeks before wiping some sweat up and shoving two huge fingers right in Kurt’s nose. He snorted, and nearly came in his pants.

“Fuckin’ pig. Old, fuckin, nasty piggy.”

He pushed Kurt up against the wall, and then pressed his body to him, pinning him there. Kurt had never felt so small–he could feel the man’s cock jutting into his gut, and then something warm started soaking into him. He could smell the man’s piss, he could smell it and he wanted it. He didn’t know why, but he’d never wanted anything as much as that, but he couldn’t get down on his knees. He couldn’t get down there, he was pinned, and the man knew it, he could see Kurt’s desperation, and he relished it. “Please…” Kurt whimpered, but he didn’t know whether he wanted the man to let him go, or to let him drink.

“Not yet, you nasty piggy,” Jed said, “First, you gotta do some things for me. Show me what a dirty stink whore you are. Piss yourself. Piss these expensive suit pants of yours. I don’t think I soaked ‘em well enough.”

It was surprisingly easy. Kurt felt his bladder go almost immediately, and as much as he knew he should feel ashamed, he felt…relieved. Sexy even.

“Yeah…yeah, fucker. But here’s the real test. The real piggy test. Shit your pants for me. I wanna smell a full load back there before I count to ten, or there’s gonna be hell to pay.”

“Wait…what? But–”

“1…2…3…”

Kurt tried to think about this, he tried, but his brain just wasn’t working, it wasn’t working at all. Why not shit himself? He couldn’t answer that question, he couldn’t.

“4…5…6…”

He grunted. He pushed. He heard himself fart.

“7…8…”

Another fart. It was coming, he could feel it, and he bore down harder. Filling the back of his pants like a good pig, yeah, fucking pig, he was such a fuckin’ pig!

“Good piggy,” Jed said, and smelled the air, “Gonna be a fun one, eh Sam?”

“You always make good ones man.”

Jed let up some pressure, enough to let Kurt come forward from the wall, and then shoved a hand down the back of Kurt’s pants, right into the mess, and then he pulled it out, dragging his hand up Kurt’s back, to his neck and up the back of his head. It was warm, it was warm and stank, and they were panting with lust. Another coating, this time smearing it across his face, forcing four thick fingers into his mouth, feeling Kurt try to suck all of them clean at once, leaned in and kissed him, invaded his mouth with a thick tongue, and he let him, he let him because he wanted it, because he was a pig, a nasty pig, a filthy pig, and he came. He came, and it felt like he was pouring out of himself, and someone he had never admitted was inside him was coming out in him. Jed stepped back, releasing pressure, and Kurt slumped down the wall, feeling shit squish around his ass and legs when he hit the pavement, but he was used to that…wasn’t he? He hadn’t been able to keep shit in for…for ages, not that he minded, a nasty derelict toilet pig like him.

The two stinkers were staring at him and grinning. The businessman they’d pulled into the alley was gone, replaced by an old, fat derelict dressed in filthy rubber and leather sex gear, his huge beard crusted with grime, cum and shit, his hair tangled, his skin barely visible beneath the layer of dried scum. Kurt smirked at them, showing his mostly toothless mouth, and licked his lips. Jed knew what he wanted. He dropped his shorts, bent over and braced himself against the opposite wall, and Kurt saw shit start pumping out of the hole. He scrambled up and tried to get ahead of the flow, tried to eat it all up like a good pig, snorting and grunting and shaking with need. Behind him, Sam yanked down his rubber pants and thrust his cock into the cooling muck stuck to the old man’s crack, stabbing around until he found the loose hole, and started fucking wildly.

After they’d both abused him, the two men left him there in the alley. He tried to follow them, but some small part of him was too ashamed to be seen on the sidewalk. What had they done to him? What had he just done to himself? He spent the night in the alley, eating his shit, trading his service as a toilet with other degenerates for booze and cigarettes, and by the next morning, Kurt had no memory of his old life–he was just a pig who wandered the streets, begging men for shit…and more often than not, he’d get it. Something about the way he smelled made men more than happy to slip into an alley and use him as the toilet he knew he was. After all, he was a stinker, through and through, just like the rest of them.

Master Fitzroy’s Stables – Part 2 (Patreon Commission)

Leopold Grant woke up in his small twin bed in the servant quarters of Fitzroy Abbey. He wasn’t at all sure how he knew that–he had never seen this room before in his life–and while he knew his name had not been Leopold Grant before waking up here, that was the only name he could recall. He could vaguely remember fucking a young twink named Charlie one evening–fuck, that slut had had a tight hole–and then someone barged in while he was mid-fuck, and then nothing after that. As he recalled the memory, however, he had a sudden pang of guilt. That had been bad. A bad thing to do. He…he ruined that young tight hole with his big cock, the whole Master had wanted…he…he…

He looked down, past his furry paunch of a gut, and didn’t see his massive cock. He reached down and groped for the thick shaft, but only found the edge of the bed, felt closer to his body, and only when he reached under the gut did he find his small, shriveled cock and balls. In his mind, he knew he should feel terror at what had happened, but all he really felt was a strange sort of resignation. After all…he deserved this, didn’t he? Of course he did. He was being punished, and he should take his punishment like a gentleman…right?

He knew that these thoughts weren’t his, or that they weren’t the thoughts he should be having, but it was like he no longer quite knew his own mind. How could he resist or fight back against these changes if he didn’t even know what had been changed? He knew there were seams where his mind had been ripped apart and put back together, he could tell there were different fabrics, but the thread itself was invisible to him. For example, he had spent several minutes pondering this conundrum, before realizing that he was no longer a muscular young jock in his twenties, but rather a stout, short middle aged man.

His growing horror was interrupted by a knock on the door, and a fellow servant, Mr. Livingston peeking in, unfazed by the old, naked man sitting on the bed. “Oh good, you’re awake. Master Fitzroy would like to see you in the stables, so he can elaborate on your role and punishment here at the abbey. Do get dressed quickly? He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” He closed the door before Mr. Grant could reply, and thankful for the excuse to not think too hard about what was happening to him, he walked over to his small closet and got dressed. The breeches and shirt were a rough linen, and there was no underwear. He pulled on his knee length socks, high leather boots, a vest and a cap to cover his balding head, and hurried off to the stables…though again, he wasn’t quite sure how he knew where the stables even were.

Fifteen minutes later, he was outside, huffing a bit and sweating in the summer sun, not at all used to his body or the clothes he was wearing. At least in the stables it was cooler, though the air stank of manure. Master Fitzroy was waiting for him just inside, looking calm and collected as ever, even in the heat. Seeing his master there made Mr. Grant feel even worse. “Ah, Mr. Grant–my new stable groom.”

“I…I’m sorry if I kept you waiting, sir,” Mr. Grant stammered. His voice sounded so strange to his ears, gruff and slightly gravelly, with a natural british working class accent he never could have faked.

“Oh goodness no, you were very prompt. Now, I’ve made sure you are well prepared for your work here, but there is one special animal here that I wanted to introduce you to myself. It is a very special creature, who requires very special care. In fact, I have no doubt that he will be the focus of the majority of your time in the stable. If you’d kindly follow me, Mr. Grant.”

They walked down the stable together, past lines of horses–somehow, Mr. Grant already knew each of their names, their temperaments, their particular requirements, even though he also knew that he’d had no idea that the abbey even possessed a stable before any of this. They passed through a door into a small room, and Mr. Grant witnessed the first thing which legitimately shocked him all day, so much that he had to choke back a bit of bile from his throat.

What even was it? He’d seen it from the side at first, and the rear was normal enough, a normal, dapple grey rump of a stallion, but halfway along it’s body, the hair faded to pale flesh, and the upper body of a man, it’s arms far too long and large, the same length as it’s back legs, the head too large as well. The face turned to them when they entered, and he realized he knew that face–it was the young man he’d fucked with his huge cock, whose hole he’d ruined. What had Master Fitzroy done to him?

“What do you think, Mr. Grant? I must say Charlie turned out rather well–one of my most successful projects to date. Still, why don’t you come over and say hello to your lover?”

At the word lover, it was like everything in his mind shifted. The twisted form in front of him was no longer disturbing in the slightest…in fact, it was rather…appealing? There was some sort of stirring in his gut and chest, and he saw Charlie look at him, and sniff the air. “Mr. Grant? Is that…you?”

He walked over, his face at the same height as Charlie’s, though it seemed much too large. He kissed him anyway, feeling their tongues intertwine. Mr. Grant didn’t want this, and yet he could…smell something in the air, something that was making him horny. From the way Charlie was snorting the air, it seemed something was affecting him as well. “Smell so good…Mr. Grant…gettin’ horny…”

Charlie let out a snort, and Mr. Grant pulled away, seeing his lover’s eyes dimming somewhat. “I’m afraid that when the beast becomes horny, most of his concerns become rather…instinctual. And considering the fact that you smell just like a mare in heat, Mr. Grant, I’m afraid he’s going to be rather horny whenever you’re around.”

Mr. Grant was too busy absorbing what his master had said, when he felt the tug on his breeches, yanking them to the ground. Charlie had pulled them down with one big hand, and when Mr, Grant tried to step away, he tripped and fell into the dirt floor of the stable. Charlie was huffing deeper now, and from where he was on the ground, Mr. Grant saw Charlie’s new cock, slide from it’s sheath. It was so massive, and he could only imagine where it might be headed.

He started to crawl, but Master Fitzroy stood in his way. “Now now, Mr. Grant, don’t you think you ought to take your punishment?”

Yes, of course. His punishment. How could he have forgotten? He hiked his ass into the air, and Charlie spent a moment trying to find the best position to fuck from, eventually working his cock head into Mr. Grant’s tight hole, the older man trying to suppress a scream at the size.

“Don’t worry too much, Mr. Grant. That old hole of yours is loose enough to take that big cock, but it will hurt going in,” Master Fitzroy had his cock out, and was stroking it to life, “Yes, I hope it hurts quite a bit, you deserve to be punished, don’t you?”

“Y–Yes sir, I do,” Mr. Grant said, and pushed back against the horse cock, accepting the pain, accepting his punishment, and he knew he would need to be punished much much more. Multiple times every day, in fact. And as much as he tried to fight it, his puny cock kept pumping cum into the dirt below him, and he didn’t think he’d be considering this to be punishment for very long at all.

Master Fitzroy’s Stables – Part 1 (Patreon Commission)

The Master of Fitzroy Abbey was relaxing in his study, finished with his various fuckboys for the evening with a decanter of whiskey and a half smoked pipe, when a knock came at the door. “Enter,” he said, and Mr. Livingston, slipped in.

“I am so very sorry to disturb you, sir. I merely wanted you to know that…Mr. Grant, I believe he is named now? Has finished his initial changes, and is currently undergoing his initial rounds of edification. I have already uploaded the video of to the server, for your examination. I know you were particularly interested in this case, and I thought you would like to know.”

“Thank you, Mr. Livingston. Is that everything?”

“Yes sir.”

“Sleep well.”

“You too, sir.”

Mr. Livingston slipped away again, and the Master hefted himself up out of his chair, refilled his glass, and brought it and his pipe to his second study. Unlike the first, which had appeared to be frozen in the early twentieth century, this smaller room appeared as a futuristic anachronism, full of monitors and keyboards. Technology–he rather loathed it. It had made him his billions certainly, but he so enjoyed the slower pace of his current lifestyle. He could almost forget, sometimes, that things had progressed so far and so quickly. Still, it did have it’s uses–after all, this whole world he’d created would crumble without it. He settled down, brought up the list of folders full of hours and hours of video footage, and found Mr. Grant’s newly uploaded files. There were five total–one from each camera, making sure he could the transformation from each of his preferred angles and focal points–but he decided to begin with the wide, full body camera first, to see how things went for Mr. Grant.

The video began–all four days worth. Of course, Master Fitzroy wasn’t going to sit there for four days–he could speed the video up so those four days would pass in five minutes. But he wanted to take a minute to examine the body that was. He no longer remembered what the young man’s name had been–he generally could only recall a name as long as it took to get his cock in their holes. This young man was a bit of an exception to his kind of usual guest–generally there was nothing that turned him off more than a muscular hunk with a cock bigger than his–a feat which was quite a challenge, considering his cock was nine inches long. But something about this one–his cocky attitude, that beautiful face of his that he knew would look angelic wrapped around his thick shaft–made him invite the man anyway. It had been a mistake.

Master Fitzroy had no problem with the young men he invited to stay at his estate taking their pleasures with one another, but this beast had wrecked holes right and left. There wasn’t a tight ring left for the Master to indulge himself with, and he certainly couldn’t have that. One young man in particular–he believed his name started with a ‘C’?–had been so stretched that the Master couldn’t even finish inside. Such reckless destruction simply couldn’t go unpunished.

He sped up the video. Nothing much happened for the first couple of minutes–the first round of drugs and treatments did little more than prepare the body for the changes to come, and Master Fitzroy teased his cock, working it up to half mast, scanning the screen for the first change–a slight softening of the young man’s firm stomach. He wasn’t quite defined enough to have a six pack, but over the next several minutes it bulged up into a small gut, inflating steadily as the video progressed. The other changes happening to his form were a bit harder to see, his legs shrinking up into his body, dropping him several inches in height, to around five foot six. His gut continued to expand, but his arms and shoulders were developing muscle underneath the fat–he’d need it in his new position at the abbey, working in the stables. The changes slowed, and Master Fitzroy admired the new curve of Mr. Grant’s round paunch, his thick, short legs and strong shoulders, but closed the video before it had finished, and opened a second–this one a top-down close up of the young man’s face.

He increased the speed of the video, shortening it to just a few minutes, and then set it to loop. He leaned back in his seat, stroking his cock, and watched the young man’s face rapidly shift to that of a seasoned laborer in his mid to late forties. Two things, in particular, kept drawing his attention. The first was how rapidly the young man’s hair receded. He began with a thick, full head of hair. By the halfway point of the video, it had pushed back in two deep divots, and by the end, it had pushed back even further, past the crown of his head, with a thin tuft of hair left in the front. The second thing was his mouth–or rather, his jowls. As Mr. Grant put on weight and age, the sides of his face began to sag down to his chin, giving him a flabby, resting frown across his face. He was happy with his decision to leave Mr. Grant without facial hair–those jowls were far too beautiful to hide behind a beard. He stroked a bit faster, bringing himself a bit nearer to his climax, closed down that second feed and opened a third.

There, in high definition, was the young man’s massive, eleven inch cock, flopped across his thigh. Again, he sped up the film, leaning in close, watching as it slowly shriveled away. “Fuck, that’s what you fucking get,” he muttered, “someone as careless as you doesn’t deserve a tool like that.” By the halfway point, it had shrunk to a mere four inches, but it continued shriveling up, and now he could see his balls beneath, the sack pulled tight around them, constricting them smaller and smaller as well. In the end, he was left with a cock less than an inch long, with much of the loose, wrinkled skin remaining as a heavy, overhanging foreskin, and beneath was a small sack, two balls smaller than grapes pulled up tight beneath it. It was ugly, so fucking ugly, and Master Fitzroy loved it. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket in time to catch his cum, moped his sweaty forehead with the other side and composed himself. Of course, Mr. Grant wasn’t finished yet–the Master had a second surprise for him once he was finished with his conditioning in a few days. Then, he would understand the full scope of his punishment.

Jackson grinned as he checked his email, and saw the email, the subject line: Your custom file. Jackson was a bit of a hypnosis freak–in particular, he liked the idea of being hypnotized into becoming a rough, muscular leather master. He was just a fucking middle manager at some massive corporate firm, completely powerless, but with hypnosis, he could at least be somebody. And his own custom file, from one of his favorite writers. He didn’t like most of his stories, but he had a way of making the files and stories seem so real, when he was in a trance–when he found out that the guy made custom made, tailored guided imagery, he couldn’t help but order one.

He plugged in his special headphones and pulled his cock out of his suit pants, letting himself drift off as the induction played, as the voice he was listening to started talking to him in that soft, soothing voice…

Fuck you’re horny, just can’t stop touching your cock on the work site, can you? Feeling it in your grubby work pants, go on, slip into that porta-potty there, drop those pants and sit down on that grimy seat a bit wet from one of your mate’s piss, but you like that, don’t you?…

What was this? This isn’t what he’d asked for. He tried to take off the headphones, and stop the file, but he…he wasn’t at a computer, was he? He was…was…

Rub that cock in that dirty jock of yours, feel those cum and piss stains you’ve been building up for months, but you need a cigarette too–what’s a good wank without a cigarette? You pull one out and light it up, feeling that rush, feel that throb in your cock. You savor it for a moment, your reeking pits, the stench of the filth beneath you. Your cock is dripping now, soaking the front of your jock…

It was so real, so more real than the other ones, he could feel his body, his pudgy gut, the stubble on his face, his hard hat as he slipped his cock out of his filthy jockstrap and started jacking it, taking a few deep draws off his cigarette.

Getting close aren’t you? Thinking about your mates outside the toilet, their musky, sweaty bodies. Good thing they all know your a faggot right? A nasty, cocksucking faggot, drinking their piss, slurping down their cum like a total slut. You love it, you’re so close now, you nasty fucker…

Jackson groaned as he came, shooting cum all over the front of his suit, still zoned out, and the file still had close to half an hour remaining. And he would listen to it many, many more times over the coming months, coming closer to his new ideal–rarely showering, smoking like a chimney, slurping up his own cum and piss at every moment–and ordering more files of course. As many files as he could afford with his severance pay, after he was fired for pissing all over himself in the bathroom at his job.