Interactive: Three Word Difference (Part 12)

Sorry for the delay on this, Christmas week turned out to be a lot busier than I was planning.

WARNING: SCAT


Skip could do nothing as the genie twisted Jason’s words yet again:

“Please, I just wish we would get fuckin’ dumber!”

“God fuckin’ damnit! Shut yer trap!” Skip said again, feeling a slight sense of deja vu as it happened, looked over at the genie, who snapped his fingers, and Skip could almost feel the thoughts in his head slow down to a crawl. “Fuck…I…Fuckin’ feels so…so fuckin’ good,” Skip said, and gave a great guffaw as he pounded deeper into his son’s hole, “Don’t it feel good boy?”

“Fuck, I…I didn’t mean tah, why, I…why’s it so hard tah think?” Jason said, his hole finally adjusting a bit to his daddy’s cock, and the pleasure started to overwhelm him a bit as well. “Fuck…feels…better Daddy, feels good havin’ ya inside me.”

Skip didn’t reply, he didn’t have the mental processing power to fuck and talk at the same time. He was just grunting and snorting behind him, driving in faster and harder until he exploded inside his boy’s guts, an even larger load than the one he’d shot in the restroom just a few minutes before this…but had he even been there really? Everything seemed like a dream to him all of a sudden, and his simpler mind couldn’t really comprehend what was happening to him. He pulled his cock free of his boy’s hole, suddering a bit, and whirled on the genie where he floating in the corner of the filthy bedroom, and stomped over to him. “I might not be the smartest fucker, but I can tell when someone’s fuckin’ with me. What the fuck are ya doin’? Yer messin’ with the shit we say, ain’t ya?”

“I can assure you, Skip, that I am fully within the bounds of the contract of my service to you, that you consented to when you made your first wish with me.”

“Contract? What fuckin’ contract?”

The genie waved in the air, and a thick document appeared in his hands, written on rather ancient parchment. He handed it to Skip, who stared at it for a few moments, and shook his head. “I can’t read fuckin Arab or whatever this is!”

“Oh, I gave you a copy in English, Skip,” the genie said.

Skip stared at it again, and realized that his son’s wish had made him illiterate on top of everything else. He threw the document in the genie’s face, who made it disappear again before it got anywhere close to him. “Fuck you, I want ya tah change us back!”

“I only accept requests in the form of a wish,” the genie said, shrugging and smiling at Skip, who scowled at him, and turned back to where his son was lying on the bed, sweaty, fat stinking, trying to sort his own thoughts out. 

“Come on son, we gotta figure this out. If we put our heads together, we can figure out a wish that’ll fix this.”

Skip concentrated–or at least he tried to concentrate. His face turned a bit red, and just as a thought was coming to him, a loud fart escaped his ass, and distracted him. Jason thought that was a hoot, and laughed on the bed, his dad cracking a grin as he did. “Oh ya liked that, huh? Ya like yer dad’s smelly farts?”

“Fuck no Pa! Yers are the worst!”

Skip lifted a leg, gave it a shake, and let another one loose in Jason’s direction, before climbing up on his boy, already feeling a bit horny again, his worries about the genie pushed to the back of his mind where they disappeared.

“Fuck Pa! Git offa me,” Jason said, “I can’t breathe with yer stink in the damn air everywhere.”

“Hell boy, wish the stink a mah farts made ya as horny as hell.”

Too late, he realized he’d just made a wish. The genie twisted things around, and what came out the second time chilled Skip to the bone:

“Hell boy, wish the stink a mah farts made ya hungry as hell fer shit.”

Skip saw the swirl of color in his son’s eyes, and Jason liked his lips, his stomach growling. “Fuck Pa…ya…ya got a load fer yer toilet boy yet? Sure smells like ya do.”

Skip shook his head, and looked over at the genie, “Ya fucker! What the fuck?”

“Come on Pa, yer boy’s so damn hungry, feed me yer shit.”

“Fuck no, git a hold a yerself, that ain’t…I mean, we’re dirty fellas, but that’s just gross.”

“I wish Pa loved feedin’ me shit,” Jason said, as Skip looked at him in horror, and it only got worse after the genie twisted it:

“I wish Pa loved feedin’ on shit with me.”

Skip felt his stomach give a great big growl, and the smell of his farts on the air was…enticing. “Fuck…fuck, you sick son of a bitch…”

“Come on Pa, feed yer dirty fuckin’ pig boy.”

Unable to stop himself, Skip got on the bed, squatting over his son’s face, and bore down, licking his own lips as he did, smelling his own shit, hoping his boy saved him some…but then, his boy loved feeding him too…didn’t he? Yeah, of course he did. Why wouldn’t he?

***

The next morning, they awoke to the sound of an alarm on one of their phones, still in the pocket of their pants, and Skip and Jason untangled their filthy bodies from one another, still in the bed. Shit was…everywhere, but then, when wasn’t it, when they got down to business? “Fuck boy, we’re gonna be late fer fuckin’ work,” Skip said, checking the clock on his phone. Gotta…gotta make ourselves a least a bit…presentable…”

Skip went into the bathroom to wipe some of the worst shit off his face, and Jason rolled out of bed, licking the dried shit off his lips. “Fuck Pa, I don’t wanna go tah work.”

“Gotta pay the bills son, come on.”

The genie was still there in the corner of the room, and that was when Jason had the idea. A great idea. An idea that could fix everything, right?”

“I wish we got paid just tah eat shit.”

The genie’s smile grew wider than Jason had ever seen it:

“I wish we got paid just tah eat trucker’s shit ‘n piss.”

Skip didn’t hear his son’s wish over the running tap, and after they threw on some clothes, they got in the truck, and headed down the interstate to a little truckstop owned by a friend of Skips–one who understood the special sort of needs a father and son like this could have. There, they took up their place in the back of the trucker’s showers, ready to take whatever the trucker’s passing by wanted to give them–piss, shit, cum–they had no limits. They were infamous really, and they truckstop was always busy with all sorts of nasty fuckers off the interstates, but Skip and Jason were happy. They had a job perfect for a couple of illiterate, filthy shit-scarfing rednecks like them, and the genie left them there, certain they would manage well enough on their own from here on out.

Where did the genie go next? We’ll have to find out some other time–but needless to say, be careful what you wish for.

Interactive: Three Word Difference (Part 11)

“I wish we were big, filthy rednecks!” Skip said, full of enthusiasm, but he realized, a moment after the words came out of his mouth, that they were not quite the words he had meant to say. “Wait, what? I–”

It was too late to take anything back though–the genie snapped his fingers, and both Skip and Jason shuddered as the changes swept through them, and both of them began to grow. Taller, first–neither of them had been very tall to begin with, Jason coming to around five foot ten, and Skip a couple inches shorter than that. Their bones swelled, and both of them were soon pushing six foot three, and the rest of their bodies were growing as well. Thick with muscle first, but it wasn’t long before a layer of fat started to cover that up. It was more pronounced on Skip, who was older. He ended up with a sizable beer gut hanging out over his waist, making him lean back a bit just to keep it well balanced. Jason had a gut of his own, but broader shoulders and hips to carry it a bit better, giving him the general shape of a barrel. 

The filth came next. Their uniforms went from relatively clean to looking like they hadn’t been washed in weeks–the fronts of both were covered in food stains, oil, dirt, grime, and who knew what else from all of their tasks around campus. Skip caught a whiff of himself and gagged a bit, before he found himself growing more accustomed to it. He swung around and looked at himself in the mirror over the sink, at the hair growing down the back of his head (he’d had a mullet ever since high school after all, and Skip wasn’t really one to change something that worked), the yellowed, crooked teeth (he’d never taken good care of them after all, and all the cigarettes he smoked had, well, his boy didn’t seem to mind the taste of his mouth at least) and the scraggly beard around the rest of his face (why cut it? It just grew back anyway!). He shook his head, pushing the rationalizations away as best he could, and looked over at his son, sweaty, his own bearded face covered with acne, smelling just about as rank as his father did in all honesty. “Fuck Pa, what the fuckin’ hell happened tah us?” Jason asked, looking down at himself, running his big, grimy hands over the front of his soiled uniform, “Why the hell’d ya make us a couple a filthy rednecks?”

“I didn’t, I mean, it ain’t what I wanted tah wish fer!” he said, and turned to the genie, “Ya’ve been fuckin’ with me, haven’t ya? Messin’ with what I was tryin’ ta say!”

The genie just shrugged, “My powers allow me a small amount of leeway, to ensure that my Master’s wishes are fulfilled in ways that are most amenable to reality, and to me.”

“Ya fuckin’ piece a shit, change us back right the fuck now!”

The genie smirked, “Would you care to phrase that as a wish, Master?”

Skip scowled at him, not really willing to risk it. He didn’t know how the genie was messing with him exactly, and so he couldn’t try and reverse this.

“Pa, who ya talkin’ to?” Jason asked, and Skip looked at his boy, wide eyed and a bit terrified, obviously, to see his father talking to air.

“Fuck, would ya just show ‘em?” Skip said, and the genie nodded, and appeared for Jason as well, who’s jaw just about dropped to the floor. “That’s…that’s how ya been doin’ it? There’s a fuckin’ genie! Fuck you, you…you fuck!”

“Now son, calm down,” Skip said, “We gotta think about this.”

“Fuck you! Genie, I fuckin’ wish this fucker had never run intah me!”

The genie smiled, and Jason felt the odd sensation of time running backwards, his words knitting themselves together into new patterns, and what came out instead was:

“I fuckin’ wish this fucker would always piss intah me.”

“As you wish, Master,” the genie said, and snapped his fingers, both of their eyes clouding over for a moment.

“Get down on yer knees son, Daddy’s gotta piss after ya sucked the cum outta me,” he said, and Jason found himself unable to resist. He got down, took his Pa’s cock in his mouth, and Skip pissed right down Jason’s throat, while the genie just laughed and smiled at them both. When Skip was finished, Jason sprang back up, stormed over at the genie, tried to punch him, but his fist went right through him.

“Now now, Master, I can only grant you what you desire,” the genie said, and Jason punched at him again. 

“Fuck you, ya fuckin’, if I could hit ya, I’d…fuckin’ hell!”

“Jason! Calm down!” Skip said, but it was clear Jason wasn’t going to calm down anytime soon.

“I wish I was back tah normal!” Jason shouted at the genie, but again, the words twisted, and out came:

“I wish we was back home fuckin’!”

“As you wish, Master,” the genie said, and with a snap, the smoke engulfed them both, and when it cleared a moment later, they weren’t in the bathroom anymore–they were home. Or rather, they were in the single wide trailer the two of them now called home. The place was a sty, with dirty laundry, empty take out bags and containers, and beer cans strewn about everywhere. They were in the bedroom, Jason on the bed, naked, his father behind him, and without any warning, Skip found his cock thrust into his son’s hole, making Jason holler in pain.

“Fuckin’ shut up, you dumb fuckin’ shithead!” Skip shouted at him, unable to stop his body from forcing his cock in deeper. 

“Fuck it fuckin’ hurts! Stop!”

“I can’t stop boy! It’s what ya fuckin’ wished for!”

“But it fuckin’ hurts!”

“Take it like a fuckin’ man, I’ll be done in a few minutes.”

Jason started blubbering a bit, and even though he knew it wouldn’t do any good, he said, “Please, I just wish you would stop fuckin’ me!”

“God fuckin’ damnit! Shut yer damn trap!” Skip said, but it was too late–the genie was already warping his next wish, and giving Jason exactly what he asked for next.


Use the poll below to vote for the final chapter! You get two choices like usual. Patrons can access their bonus poll over here.

Caption: Brownnoser Brother

Patrons who are on my discord server get exclusive access to all of my caption stories as I write them! This one is in three parts–here’s the first one for you. If you’d like to become a patron and support my writing, you can find out more info here!


I couldn’t believe the fucking nerve of my fucking brother, texting me out of the blue like that. I should back up a bit, I guess. He was always the black sheep of the family, four years older than I was, and he’d always hated me. Resented me is a better word I guess. Even in my earliest memories, he was always a bully, picking on me, setting me up to take the fall for shit I didn’t do, but our parents always sided with me, which probably only served to piss him off even more. When he was a teenager, shit went even more sideways–he started drinking a lot, falling in with some guys at school that were real pieces of work, probably got involved in some drug shit though I never saw any proof. He dropped out–well, he was expelled–my parents kicked him to the curb when he was 17, and that was that for a while. My dad always had a soft spot for him and kept in touch, hoping he would turn things around, but nothing ever worked, and I mostly pushed him out of mind as I went off to college. The last time I saw him, a year ago, was for my grandmother’s funeral–he looked like garbage, stank to high heaven, couldn’t even be bothered to dress up. He came because he needed money, and thought he was getting some! Even that was enough to turn my dad against him too, and that was the last I heard from him, until I got the text today, asking me for money!

He wanted 200 dollars. I told him to fuck off. Before I could block his number though, he sent me a nasty fucking insult, calling me a “faggot brownnoser,” with a little tongue emoji to go with it. It was enough to set me off really, but what could I do? I got dressed and headed into work–I’d gotten a summer internship at a local tech firm that was going really well, and I couldn’t let my brother fuck that up for me.

Still, I felt…weird all morning. Angry, sure, but like something else was off, something I couldn’t really explain. I got an email from my boss before lunch, asking me to come by so we could discuss some details of my project, and I went to his office…and that was where it happened.

My boss didn’t even wait for me to get into the office before he stood up, dropped his pants and underwear, and bent over the side of his desk. “Well come on then, you faggot brownnoser,” he said, “Get to fucking work.”

I wanted to tell him to eat shit, go right to HR and report his ass…but instead, something took hold of me, and I got down and started eating out his hole, right there in his office, my cock hard as a rock, while he kept berating me, telling me what a worthless fuck I was, that the only reason he kept me around at all, was because I loved eating out dirty holes like his. I was horrified, but I couldn’t stop–and he made me sniff his underwear, tell him how much I loved the smell of the brown streak in the back of his briefs, all the while stroking my own cock.

He turned around and shot his load across my face, and I came in my pants–then he kicked me out of his office, telling me he wanted me back after he’d had his afternoon shit, and I fled. I was so fucking humiliated, I didn’t know what to do–but I sure as hell wasn’t going to go back there. I packed my bag and left the building–horrified at myself, the words still ringing in my mind–and I realized it was the same thing my brother had called me. It couldn’t be possible I told myself–it was just some fucked up dream. I needed to get something to eat, calm down, and call HR–but my brother’s curse was just getting started.

Interactive: The House Made Me Gay! (Part 5)

Dinner was good, but boring. In line with his new look, Taylor made a simple dinner–chicken breast, brown rice, a side of vegetables–high protein for his growing physique, but for Quinn…it just wasn’t quite enough, or what he was really feeling like. They chatted a bit, Quinn trying to ask about Taylor’s research, but not really getting anywhere with him. Taylor mostly wanted to talk about his workouts, and about how nice their landlord was, and how much he liked living here so far. He was sure that Quinn would feel the same way soon enough.

After dinner, Quinn ran to the store to get some food of his own, and to get a few things on Taylor’s list. Things would have gone fine, probably, if he hadn’t caught sight of his reflection in the doors of one of the freezer cases…and seen those same, shining eyes from the mirror in his bedroom. Quinn just stared at them for a moment, popping an erection right there in the grocery aisle, and then he went back out into the parking lot, grabbed a cart, and started filling it. Ice cream, chips, cookies, soda–things Quinn usually never bought all just sounded so good to him all of a sudden–and what was wrong with enjoying himself, really? It wasn’t like he was going to be able to mooch off Taylor, since he was on such a health kick. He checked out, loaded everything into his car, and then drove home. Taylor was in his room, presumably studying, and so Quinn was left to his own devices–he put the groceries away, and then tore into some chips, still ravenous after the meager dinner Taylor had made. He took the chips with him back to his room, planning on playing a computer game or something, but he never made it that far–his reflection caught his eyes, and he just sat in front of the mirror for the rest of the evening, only leaving his room to go down and get more food, and the rest of the time he spent jacking off, feeding load after load of cum to the mirror–before collapsing into bed, exhausted.

The next morning, Quinn woke up hungry–but before that, he needed to take care of something in the bathroom. After taking a piss, he looked at himself in the mirror–and he was certain something was off. His stubble seemed too thick for one thing. He usually only had to shave a couple of days a week, but it was coming in thick, and dark after just two. He thought about shaving it for a moment, but the eyes of his reflection sparkled for a moment, and he changed his mind. It looked…good, didn’t it? He admired himself in the mirror, the slight paunch that hadn’t been there a few days ago looked nice too…but it might look better if it was even bigger…

No, wait, why had he thought that? 

The eyes of his reflection sparkled a bit brighter now, and Quinn went a little blank, hauled out his cock, and started masturbating right there in the bathroom, looking at himself. He looked good. Hot, really. He liked masturbating to himself, liked admiring himself, wanted…yeah, wanted to get fatter, and hairier, and…

He didn’t cum–but he came back to himself at the edge, and pulled back. He could…cum in his room, but first he needed breakfast. He went down to the kitchen and stuffed himself, then went back up to his room, where much of his day was spent the same way–sitting there in front of the mirror, masturbating, and the changes continued.

A week later, Quinn was hardly the same young man who had moved into the house. The scrawny, five foot six inch fellow was now nearly six feet tall, and had packed on close to 100 pounds in just a few days. His once hairless skin was now covered with a thick layer of body hair, across his chest and shoulders, down his forearms–and across his sizable gut. He was also balding–enough to make him look a few years older at least. It had distressed him, when he’d first noticed it, but after some time in front of the mirror, admiring it, he realized it just made him look even more manly. He liked looking manly. He liked men.

That was a thought that had been occurring to him more and more lately. He liked men–and since the only man he was around regularly was Taylor, Quinn found himself liking him more and more. He would fantasize about how he had caught him masturbating after that workout, think about what he could have done if he’d been more of a man at the time, and not so scared. Then again, he was a man now, wasn’t he? He stroked his larger, seven inch cock…and started to wonder if there wasn’t a way he might get the two of them to do a little exploring together.

Alright, how are we going to bring these two together? You can choose two of the four options. The bonus patreon poll is over here–as always, patron votes count five times more than votes in the regular poll!

Interactive: The House Made Me Gay! (Part 4)

Quinn was about to hang his clothes up in the closet, when he noticed that something was still in there, leaning against the back wall, with a sheet hanging over it. It was large–easily five feet by two feet, and when he leaned it out, discovered it was pretty damn heavy too. He dragged it out on his own and got the sheet off, and found himself looking at an ornately framed mirror. It was a little…gaudy, sure, but the more Quinn looked at the frame, at the intricate swirls of the darkly stained wood, the more…he wanted to see what it looked like, hanging on the wall, just out of curiosity.

He looked around, and saw what he figured there had to be–a couple of nails in the wall where it must have been hanging before. Funny–Mr. Woodrow didn’t seem like the sort of guy who would be so careless as to leave the nails there after taking it down–but it saved him the effort he supposed. Still, the mirror was heavy! He tried to lift it up on his own, and nearly crashed backwards with it. He might as well get help.

“Hey Taylor!” he shouted, “Could you help me out for a sec?”

He listened, but didn’t hear a response–so he went down and decided to see if he was still in the basement, and just couldn’t hear him. He made his way down the stairs, turned the corner, froze, and quickly turned back around the corner of the stairs, cheeks blushing red. Nervously, he looked around the corner again, and sure enough, there Taylor was…jacking off.

Jacking off, with one of his arms thrown up, snorting up his own musk as he stroked off, spandex shorts down around his thighs, wearing one of the nastiest looking jocks Quinn had ever seen.

What the fuck was wrong with him? Taylor had never lifted a weight in his life, and now, one summer after living here, he was…what, some stinking, musky bodybuilder now? It didn’t make any sense, and yet…he found himself watching him, unable to look away, until with a few loud snorts, Taylor came, shooting his load into his jockstrap, and then pulling his shorts right back up.

Quinn decided he might as well do it now–he stomped on the stairs a couple times, like he was just coming down, and then turned the corner. “Hey Taylor, think you could help me with something real quick?”

Taylor smiled at him, “Sure man, I was just finishing up–what do you need?”

They went up to Quinn’s room together, and Taylor helped him get the mirror up on the wall. He was still covered in fresh sweat from his workout, and the musk rolling off him, and the smell of cum, was making Quinn gag a bit–but the mirror was there. “Hey, are you, uh…feeling alright?” Quinn asked him. 

“Sure–why do you ask?”

“I just…I mean, I didn’t know you were into weightlifting, I guess.”

Taylor shrugged, like it was no big deal, and didn’t really see why Quinn was asking. “I’m gonna go eat something–want me to make you some too?”

“Yeah, sure–thanks.”

Taylor left then, and left Quinn alone. Or almost alone. He was with the mirror, after all.

He looked at himself in it, and he was…amazed at the clarity. It seemed more like a window, than a mirror, and looking at himself, and thinking about Taylor, he didn’t really have much to compare to. Still, there was something about him, in the mirror, something that seemed…off. It took him a moment to realize that what was off, was that his reflection’s pants were tented with an erection.

He blushed, looked down, and sure enough, he was hard! Had Taylor noticed? How long had he been like that? He looked back up, and this time caught his own eyes in the mirror…and they weren’t his eyes. They sparkled, like crystal. They were beautiful, and terrifying, and he couldn’t look away, as his reflection opened his pants, pulled out his cock, and started jacking off–Quinn doing the same thing, not quite sure who was leading who.

He lasted for a couple of minutes, his eyes never leaving his reflection, and came–the cum flying out and splattering across the surface of the mirror, where it…was absorbed, but Quinn didn’t notice that. He as still lost in those eyes–they were so much larger, all consuming, like they…wanted to devour him. At last, shaking, he could look away, and when he looked back at himself after a moment, his reflection was normal. The eyes were normal too…but then, as he looked, something else seemed off, but he couldn’t quite place it. He thought about taking the mirror down, but he’d have to ask Taylor again…and things were awkward enough. Instead, he kept unpacking, and then joined his housemate for dinner.

Little did he know, his reflection had changed, somehow–but what was different?


Alright, here’s the next poll! The possibilities below can all be a bit mixed and matched, so there will probably two or maybe three that get used together, to determine what happens to Quinn over the next few weeks. You can choose two options! Patrons have their bonus poll, worth five times as much, over here!

Interactive: The House Made Me Gay! (Part 2)

The initial explorations didn’t turn up much of interest to Taylor, and so he found himself back in the room, unpacking, when he saw something poking out from between the mattress and box spring of his bed. It looked like fabric or clothing–he grabbed it and pulled on it, and with a tug, the thing came loose–and Taylor found himself holding a pair of dirty looking briefs.

“Eww…what the fuck?” Taylor said, and stretched them out as best he could, but they were…well, a bit crispy, with some colorful brown streaks all over them, like, well, like they’d been used as a cumrag for quite a while, and someone had forgotten all about it before moving out. 

He dropped the underwear on the floor and immediately went into the bathroom to wash his hands off, shuddering. He thought about that weird guy he’d seen the day he’d signed the lease–could they be his? It seemed like something a creepy gay guy like him would do, jack off into a pair of his own underwear, and then stash it for fun later–how disgusting. He went into the kitchen, dug around under the sink for some gloves, and when he found some, he put one on, and went back up to get rid of the nasty thing–but as soon as he stepped in his room, he gagged.

The stench of the thing had spread quick–he hadn’t really noticed it when he’d pulled them out from under the mattress, but now that they were in the open air, he could smell it–and it did smell like cum, like old, nasty, disgusting, cum…Taylor gave a little snort, and took a step into the room. It smelled awful, but it was the only thing he could think about–he shoved one hand down into his shorts, and started groping his cock, before getting down on his knees, picking the underwear up, and shoving it into his face, inhaling deep, snorting even, as he grew close to a climax of his own. His cock exploded in minutes, and he filled the front of his own briefs with a load of cum–and then kept going. The smell was just getting stronger inside his mind now, and he couldn’t stop–he didn’t want to stop.

It was three loads later, his own briefs now soaked inside his pants, that Mr. Woodrow came up the stairs and looked in on him. “Oh dear, I guess I could have hidden those a bit better,” he said, and stepped into the room. The smell didn’t have any effect on him, but Taylor fought tooth and nail to keep the older man from taking the filthy briefs away from him–but Mr. Woodrow sent a little surge of energy into the young man, and he went slack. “There, that’s better. We can’t have you losing yourself too quickly now–not until all of your friends have moved in here.” He lifted up the mattress again, and this time he stashed the underwear on the other side, against the wall–it wouldn’t get as good of circulation, but after that direct dose, Taylor would just need a little…reminder on occasion. Then, he sat down, and told Taylor what he was going to remember.

Taylor woke with a start an hour after that, the dream already fading from his mind. Fuck–it had been one the wildest sex dreams he’d ever had–and he couldn’t even remember it! He looked down, and saw that the briefs he’d been wearing were soaked–he couldn’t recall the last time he’d had a wet dream, especially not one this powerful. He stripped off the briefs, ready to throw them into the laundry, but paused–and sniffed them, tentatively. They…reminded him of something, kind of. Then, he had a better idea. He got up, lifted up the mattress, and stashed his own briefs there, unaware of the much fouler pair on the other side. It couldn’t hurt to have a cumrag at the ready after all, he told himself, and got back to unpacking, feeling much refreshed after his nap.

For the next few weeks, the dream kept returning every night, and after every nap. Nick would never remember much of it in the end–but everytime he woke up having already shot his load, or so close he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from rubbing one out, and adding another load to the cumrag underwear he now kept stashed under the mattress. He didn’t know what had come over him really–he was just so horny lately, but porn wasn’t really holding his interest much like it had before. Instead, he dove harder into his research project, and found himself worrying less and less about the dreams as the days wore on. He’d find a girlfriend in the fall, and things would sort themselves out naturally, he assured himself.

Then, Mr. Woodrow made a surprise visit one afternoon while he was studying, hauling with him a sizable box. “Afternoon, Taylor,” the old man said with a smile, “My son has been cleaning out his things, and well, the two of you are about the same size I think. I brought over some of his clothes, to see if you might want them. No worries if you don’t–just throw them out, but I wanted to check.”

They chatted a few more minutes about other stuff in the house, and Mr. Woodrow promised he’d fix the few minor issues that Taylor had found, then left before Taylor could remember to open the box with him there. Alone now, Taylor hauled the box up onto the table, and opened it up–but what sort of clothes did he find inside?


Alright, it was a pretty close poll last week, so if you really want to see some leather, you’ll have another chance. The answers below are designed such that if two seem popular, I might combine them–we’ll see! The patron only poll is over here as well–remember, patron votes count 5x as much! You can pick up to two options!

Caption: Who’s the Boss Now? (Part 1)

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Some people don’t deserve their authority, and one of those people was Simon. He was nearly fifty, but he still behaved like he was in a frat in college. Despite his antics, he had already failed up through most of the levels of his father’s company, and now held the title of vice president  of such-and-such–what it was didn’t really matter, at this point, even his own father knew that giving Simon any more authority would be a disaster. So Simon could do pretty much whatever he wanted. It didn’t matter if he didn’t show up to work, it didn’t matter if he was hungover, if he smelled like pot, if he brought a hooker. More than once, the hookers had gotten pregnant. Abortions had been arranged in most cases, all aside from one–Simon had one son who was now of college age, but without a real role model in his life, he wasn’t going to amount to anything either. It was clear though, to the faeries, that it was time for Simon to learn some responsibility–it was time for him to learn what it was like at the bottom of the totem pole.

The day started like any other day, though. He woke up, somewhere between drunk and hungover, dismissed the whore in bed with him, and got into the shower. He didn’t really feel like going into work today–it was a Monday, and usually he just skipped them entirely, but something…told him that he needed to go in today, but he didn’t quite know why. He put on a shirt and slacks, but no tie–he hated wearing a tie–and then he went downstairs, where his slacker son was in the living room, bong on the table, playing video games. On a different sort of morning, Simon might have joined him for a hit or two and some shooter of some sort, but instead he got in one of his several cars, and drove off to the office. He had…a meeting with his dad today, one he couldn’t quite recall making, but it was…important.

His father was an older gentleman, almost seventy now, but he had staved off retirement, because even he knew that passing the reins of the company to his son Simon would be a disaster. Simon headed for his father’s office, but as soon as he passed through the door and the secretary shut it behind him…he could sense that something was off.

“There you are, late as usual, I see.”

The criticism wasn’t new, but the disgust, and disappointment–the utter contempt in his father’s voice–that was new. Simon stammered for a reply, unsure what was happening, and that’s when he noticed that his father…wasn’t wearing his slacks, sitting at his desk.

“Well, get the fuck under here boy–you know I’m the fucking boss around here, right? And what does that make you?”

“The…the…s-slave sir.”

“That’s right–now suck your daddy’s cock like a good boy.”

Simon tried to fight it, but he crawled under his father’s desk, and started sucking his cock. To his horror, people kept coming into the office for meetings, and Simon stayed there, his father’s cock in his mouth, while his dad went about the company business, keeping Simon under there for almost an hour before finally cumming in his mouth, and dismissing him with barely a word, Simon scrambling out of his father’s sight, confused and horrified at what he’d just done, and he hurried to the bathroom, to sort himself out.