Commission: Serving the Cloth 2

Brett liked to run. He’d always been good at it, even when he was younger, running from cops through the streets. But he’d always felt like there was somewhere he had to run to, or something he was running from. Now though–he was just running. Running through this nice suburban neighborhood, running without really feeling like there was anywhere to go, running in a circle, starting at Regis’ sizable house, and ending right back at that sizable house again, an hour later, sweaty and exhausted, but not feeling like he had gotten anywhere.

He had, of course. He’d gotten here. He’d leveraged his body, and his wits, and his charm, and he’d gotten out. Here he was, twenty years old, slender and lean, cute face, good hair, a perfect little twink for older men to slather over–but he’d caught one. From whoring himself out on street corners, to settling down with a sugar daddy like this–it was everything he’d wanted, right? But then why did he hate it so much? Why was he feeling so miserable? He had money, a credit line, could whatever he wanted. The sex was…sex. He had never really felt much for anyone, and Regis was no exception–but over the last few months, things had gotten…harder. Regis had been so excited about moving him into his place, promised him the world–but it was really just a gilded cage. He was so controlling, and outright abusive at times. It was easier being on the street, in some ways. He was comfortable here–but for how long, really? He could tell already that Regis was tiring of him, and as much as he hated it, it hurt. It hurt, because while Brett had been using him to get out of there, he’d also…loved him, in a way. Loved a version of him. Loved what he could provide him with–safety and security. Regis was away on a business trip right now, and they’d had such a fight when he’d left a few days ago, that Brett was not looking forward to him coming home tomorrow. He thought about just running–taking what he could, and just…be gone. Maybe.

He probably would have talked himself into it that day, if he hadn’t run past that house. The haunted one, he thought, though haunted houses weren’t real, of course. All of the houses in the neighborhood were a bit…odd, but this one was especially odd. No one had lived in it consistently for ages now–it was either left empty, or someone would buy it, and then…well, no one really knew what. Brett had seen haunted shit before–the back alleys of the city were full of places like that, where you could feel the souls of people in anguish. This place was like that, and he usually avoided it, and took the long way around. However, he wasn’t focused on his route, and so he was already running past it before he realized where he was. The same car was parked out front, in the same place, where it had been for weeks. He’d seen a father and son pull up a few weeks ago, looking like they were going to overhaul it and flip it, but he hadn’t seen them since. Today though, something had changed. There was a bunch of detritus on the lawn–old clothes, actually, filthy looking stuff, and one of the windows on the upper floors was broken out, like someone had thrown everything out of it. Brett picked up his pace, but then he heard…something.

He picked up the pace, eager to be past it, but all the way home, he had a curious sense that he was being followed, by someone or something. He got to the garage of Regis’s place, unlocked the door, when something slammed into him, sending him stumbling through the doorway and onto the pavement inside.

He awoke a few moments later, and rolled over, looking around for who, or what, had slammed into him–but there was nothing around him. Cautiously, he stood up, locked the door, and listened…but he didn’t hear anyone or anything inside the house. Or…or was there something? A voice?

You don’t have to run anymore.

Brett nearly jumped out of his skin. The voice was so close, almost inside his ears, and yet seemed so…quiet, a whisper recorded and played back at an impossibly loud volume. Then, he felt something squirm under his running shorts, and in a panic, he dropped them–and saw that instead of his usual briefs–there was a rancid looking jockstrap that had somehow materialized under his clothes. Worse, he could feel the pouch…moving, groping him. It was unsettling, and yet…also arousing, and he groaned a bit.

You want things. We want things. Others…waste. We don’t want to waste, We want to help…

Brett looked down and saw that something was happening to his running shorts too–they were…beginning to squirm as well, the orange nylon darkening, becoming a light denim cut off short, ones that smelled as rank as the jockstrap he had on smelled in the enclosed space of the garage…but he didn’t mind it, did he? Brett groped himself with one hand, torn between trying to understand what was happening, and simply…wanting to enjoy it. The change was spreading to his tanktop now, becoming a simpler, ribbed wifebeater…and Brett pushed back. He hauled the clothes off of him–all of them, his shoes too, and hucked them across the garage into a pile, and stood there, naked and breathing heavy…but the smell wasn’t going away. He looked down, and saw that his…cock and balls had changed. He’d never been well endowed, in all honesty, but that had changed substantially–his cock was now close to eight inches long, as thick as a beer can, and had a long, wrinkled foreskin around the head. His balls, too, were massive–and his usually hairless crotch was seething with a riot of curly black hair. 

“What…what the fuck did…how did that…” Brett looked up in time to see the clothes had stood up, of their own accord, and were crawling, rolling and hopping into the house proper. His sneakers were the last, shuddering as they changed into a pair of heavily worn work boots, and they stomped off after the other clothes.

What could he do? He didn’t have anything to wear. He couldn’t call the cops and complain about living clothing. Regis wouldn’t be home for another day. He had no friends he could call. It…was up to him. He cautiously stepped into the house, listened, and heard the clothing on the stairs, and he followed them up.

Come here, follow us…

Was he hearing voices, or was it his own head? Brett didn’t know for sure. He also was no longer certain that following this…weird shit was the smartest thing he could do…but when he tried to turn around and go find a weapon downstairs…his feet wouldn’t stop climbing.

Up here, we have so much to show you…

–He should run, he should be running he had to run he had to run–

You don’t have to run anymore.

The thought struck him hard. Not having to run–what would that be like? He’d been running his whole life now, it was ingrained so deep inside him, that he didn’t know what it would even be like to…not do it. To plant his feet. To stay. He was at the top of the stairs now, one hand still on his now massive, uncut cock. He missed the feeling of that nasty jock now, how it had caressed him, how it had loved him. It had loved him, his body, in a way nothing else had. No one else had.

He was making his way to the bedroom now. He pushed open the door, the voices louder now, but…but more than just loud. There were more of them. All of them speaking differently, and yet at the same time, amplifying each other, louder and louder and firmer. He saw now, what was happening. The jock, the shorts, the boots and the socks and the wifebeater–they had found their way to the closets and were pulling out the clothes they found there, touching them, changing them, and throwing them into a pile in the middle of the room, a seething, warping…mass, and Brett stood there, gaping at it. 

Let us love you we love you, we will love you

The mass threw itself at him, surrounded him, absorbed him. The smell was intense and impossible to avoid, but it…it was his smell. They were his clothes, after all, weren’t they? The jock was on him again, groping him, and more, so much else, but he couldn’t breathe. There wasn’t enough air, and as he blacked out, the last thing he heard was:

No more running, you’ll be a man who doesn’t run from anything or anyone ever again.

***

Brett wasn’t sure how much time had passed, when he came to again. The light coming from the window hadn’t changed–it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, but he felt like he had slept for ages. He groaned, and pushed himself up from the floor onto his hands and knees, got his feet underneath him, and forced himself upright. His head ached–his whole body ached, really, but his head hurt the most. The voices were there and so loud–it was difficult to try and parse apart into anything meaningful. They also…didn’t seem to be from outside him anymore–they were in him. In his mind. Or they were his mind, digging in and pushing out anything that wasn’t right, that old him that…that other him. He turned, still a bit wobbly on his feet, saw himself in the mirror, and just…stared at himself, at what the clothes had done to him.

The clothes he was wearing weren’t his clothes, or Regis’s clothes either. Neither of them had anything like this in their wardrobe. Somehow the jockstrap had…changed them into this. He was wearing a wifebeater under a leather vest, both of them looking like they’d been worn for years, and not cared for particularly well. On his legs were a set of leather chaps, biker boots, and under them a pair of filthy looking jeans–though he could only judge that by the crotch, which was more yellow-brown than blue at this point. But him–underneath the clothes. That couldn’t be him, it just…it couldn’t.

He was huge–easily a few inches over six feet tall, broad shouldered, thick pecs, massive muscular arms covered in a riot of tattoos–and over those, a thick layer of hair. His face though–that was the worst part. He’d been handsome before, even beautiful. His face had gotten him out of poverty, further than even his body could have, and now, he was…ugly. A wide mouth and nose, a heavy brow, a thick black beard a couple inches long and growing high on his cheeks, a scar across one side of his face, brown eyes staring out at himself. He was…fuck, he looked like a brute. He felt like a brute, and the voices, they wanted him to like it, they wanted him to enjoy this, but all he could feel was horror.

He started trying to pull the clothes off of himself, but they fought him, refusing to budge. He could hear the voices starting to panic, shouting louder, so loud he had to scrunch up his eyes and clasped his massive, calloused hands over his ears in an effort to clock it out, but nothing worked. 

You want to be a real man, you want this. You want to stop running, be the kind of man who doesn’t run. 

He could feel them rummaging through his mind and his memories, trying to find something else to use against him, and they found Regis, and suddenly, he was all he could think about. How…how angry he was at him for being such a manipulative and abusive asshole. He’d never been this angry at him before in his life, but the voices were amplifying it, intensifying it, making it the only thing he could feel.

We’ll fix him. We’ll fix him for you, we’ll make him love you, we’ll pay him back for everything he did to you just let us in let us in and let us stay stay with us stay keep us on live in us we live in you and we’ll fix you and fix him and

Something broke. Something in his head broke, and Brett just stared at himself in the mirror for a moment, the voices quiet…and then he said, in a voice not quite his own, but one…better than his last one. “I’ll fix him…” It was low and gruff. It sounded mean. He liked it. He liked being mean. “Yeah, I’ll fucking fix him real fucking good, we’ll fix him, fuck yeah…” He hauled his cock out of the front of his jeans and started jacking off, thinking about Regis now, so many cruel, mean, nasty ideas, and all…all he had to do, was listen. Stop thinking so hard, just…just do what the voices told him to do, and everything would work out just fine. He lumbered over to the remaining mass of clothing piled in the middle of the room, looming over it, jacking harder now, and he came with a groan–a massive load of cum splattering all over the clothes there, drying instantly, and Brett felt much better. No more running. No–he would…wait here. Some planning to do of course, some preparations had to be made, but Regis…Regis would love him, really love him. He would fix them both for good.

***

Regis was fuming as he climbed out of the uber parked on the sidewalk in front of the house, went around to the trunk, and hauled his luggage out. That fucking boy–he knew he was supposed to pick him up from the airport today, one fucking job to do, and he couldn’t even do that properly! He’d even done him the courtesy of texting him that morning, but he hadn’t even been checking those apparently. Regis straightened himself out a bit, and braced himself. He’d settle this–that boy was out, as of today. He didn’t care where he went, or with who–this had been a mistake.

Brett had been charming, when they’d first met. But then, Regis had paid him to be charming, and Brett had known what was good for him. The sex had been great too, of course, and Regis had stupidly tricked himself into thinking that this one might be different. He might be worth bringing home. But as the months had worn on he’d grown bored of the boy, the allure of him standing on the street corner dashed when you could have him whenever you wanted him. Regis had been seeing other boys of course–on the trip he’d fucked two just yesterday, and they’d been better and more interesting than Brett by a mile. Yes–he was done with him. Go in there, throw him out on his ass, and pretend that none of this had ever happened. It was for the best, really. At least for him–but then, Regis generally only cared about what was best for him.

He was in his fifties, and not exactly the most handsome man to grace the earth. He was short, and pudgy–a little top heavy really, with a fat chest and gut riding on small legs. He was balding badly but didn’t put much effort into either hiding the fact or embracing it. He had a mustache, and usually a bit of stubble around his face. His looks had never mattered to him, not when he could grease his path with money–and that had served him well enough. 

He walked up the drive and in through the front door–and there was the first sign that something was amiss. There was a smell in the house–something…heady and musky and certainly human but also…not. There was also no sign of Brett anywhere–he’d hoped the boy would have enough sense to at least beg for forgiveness–it would make it that much more satisfying to throw him out. But there was…nothing. No one. He shut the door behind him and set his bag by the door, and called out–but no one replied. The smell grew…more intense though, and then he heard the sound of boots on the hardwood floor, and someone came around the corner.

Regis had no idea who the massive fucker was, standing there in those filthy clothes and all of that leather gear, leering at him. “Hey daddy,” the stranger said, “Glad to see you made it home in one piece.”

The voice…it couldn’t be. It was too deep, and yet…something about it rang familiar. “I…I don’t know who you are, but I will call the police and have you arrested.”

Before Regis could even make a move to grab his phone, however, the man charged him, slammed into him and pinned him back against the door. Now he knew where the smell was coming from–it was coming from him. It wasn’t just him though–it was the clothes…and this close to him, he could feel them…squirming against him like they were alive, the man just staring at him with his eyes, slightly vacant, but the erection pressing against Regis’s gut was very much eager and excited. Regis was frozen for a moment, before he managed to shove the massive man away–he was so large, that Regis was sure he only stepped back because he wanted to–not because of Regis’s shove. The man was just leering at him, groping his crotch and the massive bulge there, and Regis realized that the strange writhing sensation was still there–because his own clothes were…shifting.

He looked down, and saw that a multitude of stains were spreading across the front of his white dress shirt, and he quickly tried to pull it off–but the fabric fought him, the buttons disappearing under his fingers as the shirt sealed down the front, the fabric shifting from the expensive cotton he always wore to something far cheaper, his suit pants changing similarly, becoming rougher, and dirtier, becoming ragged denim–even as a voice started speaking in his mind, a voice he didn’t recognize–more forceful and powerful that the brute’s had been.

Down, down piggy, such a good little dirty piggy daddy yes go down down hands and knees before him before us before your masters

He tried to speak, but as he did, the tie he had on constricted suddenly, choking him, making him gargle and snort for breath. Brett just watched as his daddy’s fancy suit began to assume it’s new form–a cheap, threadbare t-shirt, covered with all manner of food stains with several holes in the front and under the armpits. The pants turned to denim, and started to grow up–his belt becoming denim as well and looping up over his shoulders, completing the new set of filthy overalls, his suit coat picking up color, a checkered pattern, turning to a flannel vest–the sleeves disintegrating before his eyes, the tie turning dark brown and becoming a thick leather collar cinched tight around his daddy’s throat. He clawed at it for a moment more, and then he fell to his knees, and the collar loosened, allowing him to gasp for air, snorting for it really, the voice louder in his ears, telling him what a good obedient pig he was, what a good slave he was going to become for his new master.

Brett stepped up, grabbed his pig by the hair, and dragged his face into the crotch of his filthy jeans, forcing the pig to snort in his stench now, the voice urging him to breath it in, lick it, taste his masters, taste the filth, serve the man, serve the cloth, serve them all–they would both serve them so well now, serve them well forever.

“I’m not running anymore, you fucking piece of shit,” Brett said, hocking a wad of spit right in Regis’s face, “You’re going to do exactly what I say, from now on–got it? You’re just my fucking pig, and…and yeah, fuckin’ hell, you’re gonna be so fucking hot, fuck–come on pig, let’s go play.”

Brett walked to the basement door and went downstairs, leaving Regis there, spit running down his face, more humiliated and disgusted than he’d ever been in his entire life…but it was too late, wasn’t it? The voices were already inside him. He was so much less resistant, so much more…pliable. As he crawled towards the basement, his body sagged heavier, more and more fat piling on him, the cloth growing to accommodate his new size, even as his cock shrank down. He didn’t need a big cock, not that it had ever been large to begin with. But he needed a pig cock, short and thick and always leaking. He crawled down the stairs, and when Brett saw him, more changes had appeared–a thick beard all over his face, growing longer by the moment, all of it a filthy off-white. He walked around his pig, found the convenient hole in the ass of his new pig’s overalls, and the nasty, unwashed briefs underneath, unleashed his cock, and rammed it into the pig’s hole, listening to him snort in excitement as his master fucked him for the first time of many, his own mind draining out his cock and soaking the front of his overalls in cum–and piss soon enough, the pig losing total control of his bladder, soaking his clothes and the concrete floor under him in it–though a number of filthy garments crawled out from the dark corners of the basement and soaked up every drop they could find. Yes, these two would feed them well, but the cloth would be smarter here–smarter than the cloth over in the other house, who simply devoured mindlessly. They would be careful, feed from them, and lure others, yes, already, Brett knew what he would do, what this pig would do for him. He hauled his cock free, and unloaded his cum all over the clothes swarming them, feeding them, the pig whirling around and sucking the last few drops from the cheesy head of his master’s cock, already eager for more–rough fucks, piss, anything it’s master wanted, the filthier the better, the pig would do anything to be with him, anything at all. He loved him, loved him so much he could barely stand it.

But the pig also had work to do–he understood that. Brett would find the men–online sometimes, or more often in person. Entrance them with his own powerful musk, but bring them home with him, tell them that he had a sex pig willing to do anything for anyone. Sure, once the men caught sight of the massive, old, hairy, stinking pig, some of them had second thoughts–but not for long. The cloth would swarm them, show them the error of their ways, and usually the men would leave with a brand new wardrobe different than what they had arrived in–more than willing to come back and feed the pig–and the cloth–whenever they could. Yes, this way they would survive–no, more than survive. They would thrive.

Early Access: Serving the Cloth 2

A commissioner requested a sequel to this older story of mine, which has always been a popular one. The full sequel is available to just patrons for a week, but here’s a teaser for the rest of you!


Brett liked to run. He’d always been good at it, even when he was younger, running from cops through the streets. But he’d always felt like there was somewhere he had to run to, or something he was running from. Now though–he was just running. Running through this nice suburban neighborhood, running without really feeling like there was anywhere to go, running in a circle, starting at Regis’ sizable house, and ending right back at that sizable house again, an hour later, sweaty and exhausted, but not feeling like he had gotten anywhere.

He had, of course. He’d gotten here. He’d leveraged his body, and his wits, and his charm, and he’d gotten out. Here he was, twenty years old, slender and lean, cute face, good hair, a perfect little twink for older men to slather over–but he’d caught one. From whoring himself out on street corners, to settling down with a sugar daddy like this–it was everything he’d wanted, right? But then why did he hate it so much? Why was he feeling so miserable? He had money, a credit line, could whatever he wanted. The sex was…sex. He had never really felt much for anyone, and Regis was no exception–but over the last few months, things had gotten…harder. Regis had been so excited about moving him into his place, promised him the world–but it was really just a gilded cage. He was so controlling, and outright abusive at times. It was easier being on the street, in some ways. He was comfortable here–but for how long, really? He could tell already that Regis was tiring of him, and as much as he hated it, it hurt. It hurt, because while Brett had been using him to get out of there, he’d also…loved him, in a way. Loved a version of him. Loved what he could provide him with–safety and security. Regis was away on a business trip right now, and they’d had such a fight when he’d left a few days ago, that Brett was not looking forward to him coming home tomorrow. He thought about just running–taking what he could, and just…be gone. Maybe.

He probably would have talked himself into it that day, if he hadn’t run past that house. The haunted one, he thought, though haunted houses weren’t real, of course. All of the houses in the neighborhood were a bit…odd, but this one was especially odd. No one had lived in it consistently for ages now–it was either left empty, or someone would buy it, and then…well, no one really knew what. Brett had seen haunted shit before–the back alleys of the city were full of places like that, where you could feel the souls of people in anguish. This place was like that, and he usually avoided it, and took the long way around. However, he wasn’t focused on his route, and so he was already running past it before he realized where he was. The same car was parked out front, in the same place, where it had been for weeks. He’d seen a father and son pull up a few weeks ago, looking like they were going to overhaul it and flip it, but he hadn’t seen them since. Today though, something had changed. There was a bunch of detritus on the lawn–old clothes, actually, filthy looking stuff, and one of the windows on the upper floors was broken out, like someone had thrown everything out of it. Brett picked up his pace, but then he heard…something.

He picked up the pace, eager to be past it, but all the way home, he had a curious sense that he was being followed, by someone or something. He got to the garage of Regis’s place, unlocked the door, when something slammed into him, sending him stumbling through the doorway and onto the pavement inside.

He awoke a few moments later, and rolled over, looking around for who, or what, had slammed into him–but there was nothing around him. Cautiously, he stood up, locked the door, and listened…but he didn’t hear anyone or anything inside the house. Or…or was there something? A voice?

You don’t have to run anymore.

Brett nearly jumped out of his skin. The voice was so close, almost inside his ears, and yet seemed so…quiet, a whisper recorded and played back at an impossibly loud volume. Then, he felt something squirm under his running shorts, and in a panic, he dropped them–and saw that instead of his usual briefs–there was a rancid looking jockstrap that had somehow materialized under his clothes. Worse, he could feel the pouch…moving, groping him. It was unsettling, and yet…also arousing, and he groaned a bit.

You want things. We want things. Others…waste. We don’t want to waste, We want to help…

Brett looked down and saw that something was happening to his running shorts too–they were…beginning to squirm as well, the orange nylon darkening, becoming a light denim cut off short, ones that smelled as rank as the jockstrap he had on smelled in the enclosed space of the garage…but he didn’t mind it, did he? Brett groped himself with one hand, torn between trying to understand what was happening, and simply…wanting to enjoy it. The change was spreading to his tanktop now, becoming a simpler, ribbed wifebeater…and Brett pushed back. He hauled the clothes off of him–all of them, his shoes too, and hucked them across the garage into a pile, and stood there, naked and breathing heavy…but the smell wasn’t going away. He looked down, and saw that his…cock and balls had changed. He’d never been well endowed, in all honesty, but that had changed substantially–his cock was now close to eight inches long, as thick as a beer can, and had a long, wrinkled foreskin around the head. His balls, too, were massive–and his usually hairless crotch was seething with a riot of curly black hair….


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It was supposed to be a gag gift, I know that. I was retiring, and my son bought me a leather jacket for my “retirement motorcycle” which we had always joked about. I put it on at the party, and I quickly realized it was used–he’d probably bought it at the goodwill or something–he wasn’t doing the best financially, and it’s the thought that counts, right?

Well, I mean, I put it on, and wore it the whole night–it was just really comfortable, and to be honest…well…I didn’t really want to take it off. I mean, I did, at first, but before long, well…I was just kind of wearing it all the time. But it didn’t really look good with any of my clothing, so I just started cruising around second hand stores, and it was like…like the jacket knew what I should buy to wear with it, and everything I bought, fuck, I just wore it constantly. I mean, it almost hurt, physically, to take it off.

And now…fuck, now I mean…now I’ve actually got the motorcycle–a beat up Harley off Craigslist. And I’m cutting my hair and beard different–it just looks better with the jacket, you know? And sure, the cigars aren’t healthy, but they just complete the look. And…and I know, I know that I would look best at…at one of the gay leather bars downtown, I know that, I really do, it’s just…I mean, maybe I could just go and have a drink? I mean, sure, it would look great if I picked up some leather cub, and we drove off into the backcountry and fucked on the back of my bike–I bet my jacket would look real good if I was doing that…but…

Oh fuck it…I’d better just go get my helmet.

Mick had given up trying to hold it back–to hold it in. He had enlisted his son’s help in cleaning out the rental house he owned–the last tenet had skipped out on the lease and left the place a complete sty–and everything had been going well, until the jockstrap. Mick had found it in the bedroom a few days prior, and just…hadn’t been able to throw it away. He’d stashed it, and whenever his son was out of the room, he’d take a sniff, or a lick, or a suck…

Ty had gone out for cleaning supplies, and Mick just hadn’t been able to resist any longer–and so he stripped down and pulled on the stiff jock…and then he hadn’t been able to stop. Now here he was, sitting in the living room, the old tenet’s clothes on–the filthiest ones he could dig out of the trash bags they’d filled already, waiting for his son to come back.

He took a deep drag off the half smoked cigar he’d found in an ashtray and ran his hands up his arms, amazed at how fast the dingy hair had spread. He even had a goatee now, and some of the most disgusting pit stench he’d ever smelled, but he loved it. With the groan, he let loose a blast of piss into the front of the jock, feeling it run off the seat of the chair and puddle on the floor, but that didn’t matter. He’d just have his son lick it up when he got back–after he finishes giving his dirty old Pa a bath.

My New Suspenders Part 1

What can I say? I like wearing suspenders–is that weird? Well, maybe if you’re just using them to hold up your pants, but hell, I wear them pretty much all the time, even if I’m just hanging out in my underwear, taking pictures to show to the various guys I chat with when I’m bored and horny.

One guy though, he’s this young submissive guy who likes talking about how he wants a daddy to serve. In all of our chats, he likes to pretend that I’m growing older (and fatter, which is weird), before I pin him down and rape his ass. Well, he knows all about my suspender obsession, and so he sent me this new pair for my birthday–it was last week, but they arrived last week. I joked with him about it, but all he’d say was that “he hoped it would be worth the weight” (and yes, he did misspell it). Still, they’re a bit big–I have to tighten them all the way up to my shoulders to get them to fit.

***

Ok, so I don’t know what’s going on with this, but I woke up this morning, and I’m…pudgy. I’d had abs yesterday, and now I have a gut, what the fuck? I tried to take these new suspenders off too (I accidentally fell asleep wearing them somehow) and I couldn’t even undo the clasps, but I had to loosen them, given my sudden increase in size…but as soon as I did, I felt my stomach gurgle, and right before my eyes, it started inflating again.

I ran to my computer, and sure enough, the guy who sent them to me was online, and I wanted to know what he’d done to me. He just laughed, and told me to keep an eye out for another package. It came later that day, sure enough, and inside…well, I’d had to keep loosening the suspenders, alright? In fact, by the time the package came, well, I was definitely fat, I’ll just say that–none of my clothes could possibly fit me, the underwear I was wearing was cutting into me painfully, and the suspenders were as loose as I could get them. I opened the box and found a collection of clothes inside that definitely did not match my age, but as soon as I touched them, I head a click, and the suspenders fell off me, letting me take off my underwear, finally. But still, I’m not going to put those clothes on, no way, no how.

***

It’s been days now. I’ve missed work, but if I miss any more, they’re going to fire my ass, and my pantry is empty. I took out the clothes and inspected them–they were pretty normal, just underwear, jeans, a shirt, and another set of suspenders bigger than the last, which were already hooked to the jeans, and I can’t get them off for the life of me. The guy keeps messaging me, but I haven’t replied yet, not since that last conversation. He just keeps telling me to put them on, that I’ll enjoy it, but fuck, I don’t want to be fat! But I have to go out, I can’t stay in here for fucking ever either.

It’ll be quick, I decide. I’ll them on, go to the store, stock up, and then come back and take them off before I can change more. I pull on the briefs, the jeans, the shirt, tucked it in, pulled up the suspenders, and left without looking in the mirror–I didn’t want to know, I’d decided, I’d just leave and come back as quick as I could.

***

To be continued: Parts 2 and 3 will arrive later this evening.

The Family Farm

I’ve gotten many requests to expand this photo caption from several months ago, so I figured it might be a good way to get these Fridays started.

WARNING: Contains graphic depictions of incest, raunch and incontinence and scat. Don’t like it? Don’t fucking read it, and if you do read it, please don’t be a whiny bitch.

***

Grumbling a bit, Peter stepped out of the shower and towelled off, wishing he could just get his son and get going. He hated staying here, out on the family farm with his big brother–Louie. Well, that wasn’t entirely true–he didn’t mind the farm too much, it was really Louie he couldn’t stand. He didn’t know what had happened to make the two of them grow up so differently, they’d both had the normal suburban childhood, but something had made Louie fall in love with the country, and convinced him to move out and stay with their great uncle on the farm when Peter went off to college, and farm life had made his brother unrecognizable. Still, to each his own Peter supposed.

Peter had come out to the farm in late august to pick up his son, Sam, who had spent the summer here, living with his uncle. He was going through a bit of a rough patch, getting into trouble with alcohol and drugs, doing poorly at his first year of college. Peter had made a summer at Uncle Louie’s farm a requirement, if Sam wanted Peter to keep paying the tuition bills, and he’d hoped a summer of hard labor away from the city would help set his son back on the straight and narrow. Still, things hadn’t gone all that smoothly since he’d arrived a few hours ago. Hell, he hadn’t even seen his son yet–Louie and he had been on their way to the barn where he was working, when Louie had stumbled into Peter, knocking him over into a massive mud puddle. Louie had insisted that they head back to the house, get Peter’s clothes off him so they could go in the wash, let him shower, and he could wear something else in the meantime.

Peter hung up the towel, thankful that at least the house had been updated a bit from his memory. Running water was a nice change–he’d always hated having to get it from the well out back when he visited as a kid. He went into the bedroom and saw that Louie had already picked up all of his clothes to be washed–including his underwear–and left a set of his own, a flannel shirt, a pair of overalls, and some rubber boots–nothing else.

Peter rolled his eyes, and figured his brother must have forgotten what more civilized people wore. Still, it wasn’t like he needed to keep himself up for anyone, living out here all alone. If anything, he’d gone even more hick than when Peter had last seen him years ago. Louie was a big man–several inches over six feet tall, and thick, that mix of fat and muscle Peter only saw on powerlifters and farmhands with an appetite. He was hairy as fuck too, and Peter had no idea where he’d gotten it. Neither Peter nor their father could grow a beard to save their lives, but Louie’s was down to his chest, and very full and wiry. Still, Peter figured he didn’t have much choice, and so he pulled on the clothes Louie had laid out, finding them way too big for his slender frame, but thankful that they were at least clean, and headed downstairs, to find his brother out on the porch, drinking some strong smelling alcohol from a mason jar.

“There ya are, nice and clean,” Louie said, smiling, “Again, sorry ‘bout pushin’ ya earlier, I musta tripped over mah own feet.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Peter said, “So, is Sam back yet?”

“Nah, I guess he’s still dungin’ out the barn, though he’s probably almost done. Why don’t we head over there again? I promise not tah fall intah ya this time.”

Peter nodded, and the two of them set off again, making it to the barn without incident, and stepped inside. It stank–bad, and Peter did his best not to breathe through his nose, but Louie stepped up next to him, took in a deep breath and sighed, “Damn I love the smell of a barn, don’t you, little bro? Go on, take it in, ain’t nothin’ like it.”

Peter wasn’t about to do that, but surprised himself when he took a deep inhale, nearly gagging when he did, Louie pounding him on the back when he doubled over.

“Aw, don’t sweat it–you’ll get used tah it, trust me. Come on, Sam oughta be over here.” Peter followed his big brother past the various stalls and the animals there, until they came to one, and Peter initially thought it was a pig, naked on all fours, it’s head stuffed in a trough. “Here he is, Sam sure does love life on the farm–in fact, I don’t think he wants tah leave, do ya Sam?”

The pig looked up at the sound of the Louie saying his name, and Peter’s jaw dropped–it wasn’t a pig at all–it was his son. His son was naked, on his hands and knees in the barn stall, face covered with slop, his body covered with filth, and with an approving snort towards Louie, Sam went back to cleaning out his trough. Peter saw that his son was no longer slender like his father–but fat. Just…fat, well over 500 pounds, his belly actually brushing the straw on the ground. It was disgusting, and he looked over at Louie, only to find his brother lustily staring at his fat, filthy nephew, massaging his cock through his overalls.

“What the fuck Louie? What the fuck did you do to him?” Peter said, fear and anger shaking his body.

“Well, ya told me Sam was having trouble at home and school, so I took care of it,” Louie said, walking over and patting Sam on the back, “I gave him a new home here, with his uncle out in the barn, and he’s too stupid for school now, so no worries there. Trust me, he’s gonna be real happy here, and I have a good feeling that yer gonna be happy here too.” Peter didn’t know what Louie meant by that, but he wasn’t about to find out. He backed up a few steps, shaking his head, but Louie said, “Stop moving,” and Peter’s feet rooted to the ground where he stood.

“What…what the fuck?” Peter said, trying to move.

“You can fight all you want, it won’t work. Goodness, I sure fought it when Great Uncle Mick dressed me up in them, and Sam fought it too, trust me, but we all give in eventually. You’ll love it soon enough, bro, just trust me,” Louie said, walking over, standing close enough for Peter to smell his filthy musk, “Now kiss me bro, while that fat pig boy a yers finishes his dinner.”

Peter couldn’t fight it, and he kissed his brother, his stomach churning in disgust as it happened, keeping his eyes closed, but he could still feel Louie’s beard scraping across his face, his hard cock grinding against his own, hear Sam devouring his slop and licking the metal clean. Louie pulled away after a couple of minutes when he heard Sam finish up, and walked back over to the pig. “Please Louie, please don’t do this.”

“Oh fuck you, Peter–you’ve had this coming, thinkin’ yer so high ‘n mighty. But we belong on the farm man, this is where the family oughta be. Ya gotta let loose, give up some control. Yer way too high strung. Here, git over here ‘n fuck this pig’s ass–that’ll loosen ya up–he’s got a great hole this one, nice ‘n tight,” Louie said, and slapped Sam’s ass cheek, the pig giving a grunt of approval.

“No, no I’m not going to do this, I’m not…”

Peter took a few steps forward, his hand reaching down and unzipping the fly of his overalls.

“I’m not going to fuck my son, God damn it Louie! Louie, fucking quit it!”

His cock was hard, why in the fuck was his cock hard…and…and dripping?

“Please, please Louie, don’t make me, don’t do this…come on!”

He was there now, he could smell his son’s filthy body, see the shit caked in his ass crack. He spread the cheeks apart, his cock so damn hard, and started working it into Sam’s asshole.

“Louie! Louie, please! Don’t do this, this is so fucking wrong!”

He was fucking his son. He was fucking his fat son’s hole, driving his cock in, and it felt…so damn good. It was tight, tighter than his wife’s pussy, so damn tight.

“Yeah, that’s it little bro,” Louie said, his own cock out of his overalls, “It feels good fucking yer boy, don’t it? Yer big fat piggy son? Yer damn proud a him, ain’t ya? Isn’t he a good lookin’ pig? Ain’t his ass nice and tight, like ya want?”

Peter shuddered, listening to his big brother’s words. His mouth was so dry, he couldn’t say anything, couldn’t fight it, it felt so good.

“Ya’ve always wanted this, just let go, quit holdin’ it in, relax. Just relax, and let it all out. Trust me Peter, it’ll feel so good to just relax…”

Peter gave another shudder, and it felt like the only thing in his body with any stiffness was his cock, and then he felt it. He felt himself shit right into the back of the overalls, and then he smelled it. “Oh fuck, oh fuck I didn’t, oh fuck…”

Louie could smell it, and the grin on his face scared Peter to death, as his brother reached around and felt the load of shit in the seat of his brother’s overalls. “Oh yeah, that’s the ticket–I didn’t know ya were intah the real nasty shit bro,” Louie said, “Yer a man after mah own heart.” He leaned in and started kissing his brother, kneading the shit around in the back of Peter’s overalls as he fucked his fat son. “Yeah, now cum bro, blow that load up yer son’s filthy hole.”

Peter let out a loud groan as he came, filling his son’s ass, disgusted with himself, and yet…it was turning him on. He tried to fight it, but the clothes were too strong. They were changing him–Louie was changing him, and there was nothing he could do about it.

“Damn bro, that was so fuckin’ hot–get down there ‘n suck off yer big brother. I have a feelin’ the three of us are gonna be one big happy family from now on.”

It was hours later when Louie and Peter tromped back to the house. It was already past dusk, and they could barely see where they were going in the near dark. Peter stumbled inside after Louie, humiliated, disgusted with himself, and yet hornier than ever. He’d lost track of how many times Louie had made him cum–with his face buried in Sam’s filthy ass crack, with Louie’s cock crammed up his own shitty hole, while he was wallowing in Louie’s piss after he’d set his own uncontrollably, and he wanted more, oh fuck if he didn’t want more of everything. Still, he was hungry more than anything, but Louie wouldn’t feed him until he’d made the call.

He walked over to the phone and dialed his home number.

“Hello?“

“Hey Trish.”

“Oh hey Peter, what’s up? Why aren’t you home yet?”

“Well, Sam’s really enjoying himself here, actually. It’s been a real change for the better.”

“Really? Oh thank god, that’s great.”

“Yeah, he actually wants to stay for another…another week. And I forgot how peaceful it is out here, so I’m gonna stay here with him.”

“Oh, well alright. Tell Louie I said hi.”

“I will…Love…Love you…”

“I love you too.”

“Bye…” Peter said, and hung up the phone, licking his lips. Louie was already naked, sitting on the homemade rim seat, and Peter got down and crawled underneath, licking at his brother’s hole, his stomach growling, wishing he hadn’t had to tell those two lies. Truth was, he didn’t think he and Sam would be staying for just another week–he had a feeling it was going to be a much longer stay than that. And he also didn’t really love his wife, not any more, not like he loved his family. Family was the most important. Family was where he and his son really belonged.

Giving Charge (Part 1)

Commissioned by rtrose

It was the night of the Midsummer Gala, the biggest fundraising benefit for the museum where Travis worked. This year, he had been put in charge of the event, and while he’d expected to enjoy the responsibility, the reality of taking charge was a lot less pleasant. The sheer amount of organization required–the invitations, the exhibits, the caterers, the party rental, the squabbling employees–Travis could barely manage a few smiles as the photographers drifted around the room, snapping photos of the attendees.

Still, he had a role to play, and if the museum didn’t bring in a decent amount of revenue tonight, it was his head on the line. He secretly hated events like this, the schmoozing and small talk. It was exhausting, and as the event organizer, he was obligated to interact with all of the big donors who had come tonight, and do his best to get them to open their wallets as wide as possible. He’d just finished an overly long discussion with Emmanuel Garrison, a wealthy rancher outside of town who had been heavily implying that he would be happy to donate more money if the “Garrison Family Legacy” were more heavily represented in the local history exhibit, and Travis didn’t know how much more of this he would be able to take. He just needed a breath of fresh air for a moment, a chance to catch his breath. Glancing around, he spotted an emergency exit door which opened into the back alley, and when he saw his boss looking away, he ducked out with a sigh of relief.

Outside, it really wasn’t much nicer than inside. Even though the sun had long since set, the air was still sweltering and thick with humidity–Travis felt himself start to sweat almost immediately. Still, as uncomfortable as it was, it still was a relief to be out from the crowded cocktail party inside. More than anything, it was a relief to be alone–or at least, he thought he was alone, until he heard a voice call out down the alley, “Evening, man. You out here for a smoke?”

Travis, a bit surprised, looked down the alley and saw a grimy, bearded man in a set of coveralls, leaning up against the brick wall of the museum, a cigarette burning in his hand. Travis felt a wave of disgust looking at the man, but he still couldn’t face going back in there, so he decided to just stay silent.

“Hey, you listening, boy? Or you just deaf?” The man, said, coming down the alley towards Travis.

“No–No, I don’t smoke,” Travis said, mostly sensing that the man wouldn’t let up until he responded, “I just needed a break from the party in there.”

“Oh, so that’s what all the ruckus is about. My name’s Larry.”

The man extended his oil stained hand and Travis accepted it gingerly, giving it a light shake. “I’m…uh, Travis. Nice to, uh, meet you.”

“So you work in there? That’s kind of a ridiculous suit–you a waiter or something?”

“No, I’m an employee of the museum. I’m in charge of outreach and funding…I put on the party going on in there.”

“That’s your party? Well why aren’t you in there enjoying yourself?”

Travis paused, not really wanting to say, but hell, what did it matter? It wasn’t like he would ever see this guy again in his life, once he went back inside. “Well, it’s just…exhausting, I guess. Putting the entire event together, hobnobbing with all the donors, making sure everyone’s having a good time–it’s exhausting. I guess, I just hate being in charge, you know? I can’t enjoy myself when I have all of this responsibility on my shoulders.”

“Oh, is that what’s going on with you? Well, I don’t know why they’d but a little twerp like you in charge–it’s pretty clear to me that you’re the kind of guy who should be taking orders, not giving them.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Travis said, but he suddenly sensed that this conversation was heading in a direction he hadn’t anticipated, as Larry came in closer, his smoke and body odor invading his personal space. He tried to duck away but one of Larry’s arms shot out, blocking his way. When Travis swung back around, he came into direct contact with Larry’s cloudy grey eyes…and he felt something being pulled from him, and into Larry. He tried to break the eye contact, but there was nothing he could do. The gaze probably only lasted for a few seconds, but in his mind, it felt like hours. Finally, Larry blinked, and Travis felt control return to him, or, some control. Something felt different–wrong, but he didn’t know what.

Larry, on the other hand, seemed happy as could be, and let out a chuckle, then pushed his cigarette up against Travis’ lips, and said, “Inhale, boy.”

Travis was already breathing in before his head could think about refusing, and the acrid smoke in his lungs made him start coughing uncontrollably. Why had he just done that? He hated smokers and smoking–he’d lost track of how many times he’d promised to himself that he’d never be a smoker–and now he’d taken a massive breath of a cancer stick because some roughneck had told him to? “What–What did you just do to me?” Travis gasped, trying to speak through his smoky throat.

“Why, I’m taking charge, boy–and you’re giving it. Now if I’m not mistaken, we have a party to get back to, isn’t that right?”

“We? But…I mean, you–you–” Travis was trying to refuse, trying to deny him entrance, but the words wouldn’t form. Of course Larry didn’t belong there, but as soon as he’d said it, Travis found it impossible to disagree, or disobey. “I mean–if you go in there looking like that, they’ll–they’ll throw you–us, they’ll throw us out.”

“Hmm…” Larry said, “You may be a twerp, but you have a point. I suppose I can’t go in there in these dirty coveralls, can I?” he smirked, “Now, if I were wearing a fancy suit like yours–then I could get in there no problem. So strip.”

“What?”

“Strip, boy! I hate giving orders twice. Get out of those clothes and give them to me.”

There were so many things wrong with this and so many reasons he shouldn’t be cooperating, Travis had plenty of time to try and get them out of his mouth as he undressed himself in the alley, before handing Larry his clothes, who stripped off his coveralls, “Now boy, dress me up–I haven’t worn a suit in a long time–I forgot how to put one on.”

Trying to swallow his disgust, Travis, naked, began sliding his own clothes onto Larry’s chubby, hairy body. None of the clothes fit very well–Larry was a good three inches taller and probably fifty pounds heavier–but the suit had been a bit big on Travis, which allowed him to find some way to cram Larry into it. “Damn boy, you’re more of a little twerp than I’d thought–we’re gonna have to do something about that later tonight.”

“Look, please stop this,” Travis begged, “I don’t know what’s going on or why you’re doing this, but I’m sorry. Please, just give me back my clothes, and we’ll forget this ever happened.”

Larry laughed, “Forget about this? Hell no, I love breaking in boys like you–now, you sit tight while I duck in there and scope out the situation. Don’t even think about going anywhere.”

“But I’m naked! What if someone sees me?”

“You got some clothes there–put them on–and smoke another cigarette too–I like a boy with tobacco on his breath,” Larry said, pointing to his discarded coveralls and boots, and again, Travis couldn’t resist pulling on the filthy, oily clothes and lighting up another cigarette while Larry ducked back into the gala. He was gone for fifteen, long, minutes–leaving Travis there, shaking and terrified (though he had to admit, the cigarette did help calm his nerves). He was just starting to think that Larry had abandoned him when he stormed back through the door to the museum with food splattered up and down the front of his suit.

“Dang boy, they have quite the spread in there! I haven’t eaten like that in a long time. Here, I brought you something from the bar so we can have a party of our own back here.”

Larry handed Travis the bottle of whisky he’d taken from the catering company, but he pushed it away, “Please–please hasn’t this gone far enough? Just give me back my clothes–please. I don’t know how you’re doing this, but I didn’t mean it.”

“Didn’t mean what? That you hate being in charge? Of course you meant it–twerps like you hate being in positions of authority–the only thing you’re good for is doing what you’re told–you’re here to be dominated and controlled and ordered around. It’s what you live for, boy–and you’re gonna love me because following my orders feels so damn good…Now drink up.” He shoved the bottle mouth against Travis’ lips and he drank, the alcohol burning his throat and resting uneasily on his empty stomach, and something else. He did…sort of like it. He did like having this big man telling him what to do. It was so much easier, really, and when he felt Larry’s rough hand slip down the front of the coveralls and start stroking his cock, he felt even more of his resistance drop away. “See that’s a good boy. Drink some more while you and I have a nice chat about how things are going to work from now on.”

Travis listened, and drank. He listened to Larry tell him about how he was going to be obeying his every command from now on. How he was going to serve him, clean his dirty body, drink his cum, beg for his master’s cock up his ass every night and every morning. All of his money, his property would belong to Larry, and Travis was happy about that. He was happy about all of it. Larry would occasionally take a moment to duck back into the party, bringing out plates of food for Travis to eat, and more liquor for him to drink. It was starting to feel natural–and this scared Travis more than anything else. It was starting to feel right.

When Larry told him to get back into his suit, he was confused. He’d grown to like wearing his master’s clothes–the stench which had bothered him so much before was now comforting. His shirt didn’t fit well around his full belly and he was very unsteady on his feet, but he weaved his way back into the gala, still not sure what he was doing. He was…doing what his Master wanted him to do. He walked up to his boss, who was in a deep discussion with Emmanuel Garrison, still discussing the Local History exhibit, and he got down between the two of them, making both men stop in mid sentence.

“Please Sir,” he shouted over the din of the party, looking up at his boss, “Fuck me with your big cock, sir. I’m just a little twerp with an ass aching for a big cock–please fuck me sir, please.” Even he had to admit that he sounded ridiculous, and he heard the rest of the party come to a complete silence around him, his face burning, and without any sort of control, his bladder released, piss streaming into his suit pants. Mr. Garrison smelled it first, and the look of horror on his face as he retreated away from Travis was surpassed only by the look of pure fury on the face of Travis’ boss.

“Travis–what in the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Please sir, fuck me sir–I deserve it sir, I’m just a pretty boy twerp who needs his ass fucked so bad–please,” he said, then got down on his hands and knees and pushed down his pants, presenting his ass to his boss and listening to the gasps and shrieks from all the donors in the room.

“Get out!–Get out, and don’t ever come in this building again!” his boss screamed, and that was enough to send Travis fleeing, hauling up his sopping wet pants and he ran out the back door to where Larry was waiting, smoking another cigarette.

“So, did he do it, boy?”

“No sir, he wouldn’t fuck my ass,” Travis said.

“Seem he doesn’t know how to treat a little twerp like you at all. Still, he’s not your real boss, is he? Now me on the other hand,” he said, shoving Travis up against the wall and yanking down his pants, “I know exactly how to deal with a bitch like you.”

The satisfaction of his master’s cock being shoved up his ass did more to seal the deal for Travis than anything else Larry had told him or done to him that evening, and Travis was unable to stop himself from cumming all over the brick wall in front of him, and happily got down on his knees to lick it up after his Master had shot his own load deep up his ass. When he finished, Larry threw another set of coveralls at him. “Put those on twerp–they’re my spares. I don’t think you’ll need that nasty suit anymore.”

Travis did as he was told, throwing his old clothes in a dumpster and pulling on the dingy coveralls. “What…what happens now, Sir?” he asked.

“Now?” Larry laughed, “Now we need to do something about you being such a twerp–let’s head home and see what we can do about that.” He walked off towards a truck parked on the side of the street, Travis following, feeling his stomach begin to churn uncomfortably–though whether it was from fear, eager anticipation, or the load of cum swimming in his guts–he didn’t know, but he climbed into the truck anyway, and into an uncertain future.