Captions: Owned / Dirtier

Since I missed yesterday’s post, here’s a double feature!


“How long has it been since you were here, slave?”

“A…a month.”

“A month, Master,” he said, and gave the rubber clad man a smack on the ass, and left it there, running his fingers between his thighs, tracing the chastity cage locked on the outside of the rubber catsuit. “I will not have a slave disrespect me in public. We are lax at home on occasion, but I know you know your manners well.”

“Yes Master.”

“A month since you went home with me. Remember what a confident little shithead you were? Talking about how you were all top, never gonna bottom in your life? Now look at you. That big cock of yours locked away, hole loose and ready,” he said, and slid two of his fingers through the slit in the back of the rubber suit, pressing up against the slave’s hole, feeling him shudder at the touch. “You’re owned now, and once we go in there, everyone is going to know it. Everyone you’ve fucked. Everyone who wanted to fuck you. They’re gonna know that you’re my property. How does that make you feel?”

The slave didn’t respond right away, just let out a little moan.

“It makes you excited, doesn’t it?”

Another little moan, followed by, “Yes Master, it does.”

“How many men do you think I should let use your holes tonight?”

“As many as you want, Master.”

“Good, slave, you do learn quickly. The last slave I had, I couldn’t take him out in public for three months. I know you’re going to serve me well in there tonight, won’t you?”

“Yes Master.”

“And remember–always pride. Be proud that you realized who you are. Most of those men in there are too scared to accept it. But you are right where you want to be, isn’t that right?”

The slave nodded, and he followed his Master into the bar to begin his new life.


You hadn’t taken that old bitch seriously, of course. Who would have, really? Ranting and raving about some curse or something, while security was dragging her out of the bank where you worked, saying something about how if all you cared about was dirty money, then you might as well just keep getting dirtier.

But for the next week or so, you kept noticing things. Dirt kept appearing under your fingernails, no matter how well you cleaned them at night, and it wasn’t like you were doing anything to make them dirty in the first place. Then you noticed that, after you showered, you always still had a lingering musk around you. It wasn’t too bad at first, but by the next week, you got a couple of comments at work. You tried all of these different soaps and shampoos, but nothing helped, and by then, the dirt was starting to spread as well.

Then, it wasn’t just you, either. You went to bed in a set of clean sheets, and when you woke up the next morning, they were filthy. Stained, reeking of sweat and cum and piss, and worst of all, you didn’t mind it. It smelled good to you all of a sudden, and you couldn’t resist rolling over, grinding your cock into the sheets and adding another load to them. You showered after, of course, but it didn’t help. You could smell it lingering around you, that same grungy scent, and the more you noticed it, the hornier you were getting.

You tried to find that woman, but there was no sign of her anywhere, all of her bank records had just vanished. Your boss called you into his office, raked you over the coals for your slovenly appearance. You didn’t know where that beard had come from, or how your hair had gotten so long so quickly. You went home early, tried to shave it off and cut it away, but it would grow back faster than you could remove it, thicker and thicker each time. That day, you went to put on a suit, dreading going in to work again, but all of your suits had disappeared, replaced with grungy looking hi vis workwear and nothing else. 

But then, what else would you wear? In a stupor, you pulled on some of the filthy garments and went to work–but not at the bank. You were a construction worker, right? You spent the day trying to convince yourself otherwise, but couldn’t manage it. This just…felt right. You were scared, and too tired to fight it. Maybe if you just let it happen, it would stop. This wasn’t so bad, right? And for a while, your body didn’t get worse, at least, but your mind started growing filthier instead. Working around all of those other musky, masculine men, you found yourself caught in fantasy after fantasy, about how they would use your dirty body–and as you concocted each scenario, they came true. 

The foreman pissing on you in the portpotty. A father and son tag teaming your holes in the back of their pickup. Timmy, the fattest guy on the crew, sitting his grungy ass on your face while you jacked off your rank cock. You didn’t live in that nice house anymore. You lived in a studio apartment, never cleaned, never cared for. Sometimes, you would fight, try and remember who you’d been, but when you did, it would get worse somehow, always worse, but now, why can’t you find your way home?

You usually walked home, sometimes sucking cock in the alleys on your way to and from the construction site, but now, you just couldn’t find it. You ended up in an alley, and slept there, interrupted by a couple of cops walking their beat, who took a little break to fuck your nasty hole in the middle of the night. Come morning, you went back to the construction site, but you didn’t work there anymore. That didn’t stop all the men from using you of course, but you were too filthy even for that work now. You made your way back to your alley, still so damn horny, but things, at least, couldn’t get worse than this, right?

Stinkers: Finders Keepers (Part 4)

It took half an hour of scouring several blocks before I found the source of the stink which had caught my nose, and when I did find it…I didn’t want what I’d found…to be the thing I was searching for. It hadn’t been easy–he had stuffed himself between two metal dumpsters, but whether that was for warmth in the chilly evening, or so fewer people were likely to find him, I never knew. Like most everyone else in the city, we never…observed the homeless. They were always there, always around us, always a problem with no real solution. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d really…I mean…

He stank. That’s all I knew. He stank, or part of him stank…somehow I could tell the difference. That it wasn’t him, it was something…on him. He was asleep, or drunk enough to seem to be asleep, and so…and so I got down over him, trying not to touch him, and I started smelling around until I worked my way closer to his feet, nauseous about what I was doing, realizing I had one hand down the front of my sweats massaging my thick cock through my grungy underwear. He had on some old, well worn boots…and fuck, they reeked. They reeked…not like the underwear had reeked. They…they were something else entirely, but smelling those boots, and I realized, the socks he had on as well, I recalled that gymrat I’d stalked for several blocks earlier in the week. They hadn’t smelled anything alike–he had been sweat and acrid energy, these boots and socks were piss and aged exhaustion. But I wanted these boots just like I’d wanted that man–or, I realized now, the…shirt the man had been wearing. I was torn…I couldn’t…just take them right? But at the same time, I…I needed them.

I got down, as quietly as I could, and I started undoing the laces on the boots. I got them both undone…and I realized there was no way I was going to be able to do this without him waking up, so I might as well just…just try to do it as quickly as I could, and hope he was as drunk as he smelled. I tugged off one shoe, and he stirred–I was about to grab the other one, when he lashed out with a kick, connected with my chin and sent me falling back onto the pavement behind me, blood in my mouth from where I’d bit my tongue.

“What the fuck ya fuckin’ cunt!” I think he said, something like that. I…had one of his boots in my hand, and he lunged for it, trying to get it back, landing on me, clawing at my face. I just…I just reacted, grabbed his head, and shoved it down to my crotch, getting his face in a leg lock, his nose pressed to my stinking crotch, and I hear him gag immediately. He’s calling me all sorts of shit, telling me what a fucking pervert I must be, trying to bite me, but…but I can feel him start to give, slowly. Hear the gags become moans, his grip on me slackening slightly, and when I pull down my sweats, he can’t stop himself–he shoves his face right into the nasty briefs and starts…snorting like a fucking pig, and I’m so turned on by the sound I nearly fill the front of my briefs with a load right then and there. Still, I shove his face away–he tried to lunge back to keep sniffing, but I grab him by his greasy hair and haul him away.

“You’re giving me those boots and socks, fucker, and then you can have my stinking cock.”

It didn’t…sound like me, or something I would say, but none of this was something I would ever do in my entire life. He tried to protest, but he gave in–hauled off his other boot and both socks, and then I allowed him to get back to licking and snorting at my underwear, while I grabbed a boot, shoved a sock in it, pressed it to my face and started huffing the man’s footstink.

It…fuck, it was exactly what I’d wanted. It was heaven. I was so close to shooting, I hauled down the front of the briefs and shoved my cock into the derelict’s mouth just in time to fill it to bursting with a massive load–the first one in nearly a week that I hadn’t shot directly into my underwear. The guy gulped it all down, and then buried his nose back into my crotch, snorting and grunting as he he stroked his own cock off, and I let him finish in a minute or so, spilling the seed all over the front of my sweats and shirt, but I didn’t fucking care. I didn’t fucking care.

I was lying in an alley, with some strange derelict, and I didn’t fucking care. I took another whiff of the fucker’s boots, and I cared even less–the only thing I fucking cared about, was getting the things on my own feet as fast as possible. I shucked off my own shoes, pulled on the crusty, damp socks, shuddering with pleasure at the feel of them, and then tugged on the boots as well…only to discover they were massive. My feet aren’t large–a size ten, and while I couldn’t make out the tag on the old tongues, these have to be at least a size 18 or 20, and four or five E in width. I laced them as tight as I could just to keep them on, and the guy just stared at me, horrified by what he’d done, barefoot in the cold, but I didn’t feel bad at all. He picked up my old shoes, held them to his feet, but they were obviously much too small. I…I couldn’t really handle it obviously, watching his face. I knew I should feel worse than I did…but I took off and headed home to my apartment where I locked myself in, tugged off a shoe and a sock, and started jacking off to the stink, caring less and less with each load shot into the nasty underwear I was, more and more, considering to be mine.

You might live in suburbia, but it didn’t always feel like it, from where you lived. You could see your neighbors, sure, but your property backed up onto a nice wooded area and undeveloped wetland which still gave it a nice sense of nature. Unfortunately, soon after you moved in, you heard from your neighbors that part of the natural fauna of periurban space were the homeless. Still, they never seemed to bother anyone, and people in the neighborhood seemed reluctant to go into the wetlands all the same. It wasn’t really considered…safe, for reasons none of them could really describe, but you figured they were just scared for no real reason. After all, even if they were homeless they were people too, and so you would take your short walks through the woods, often with a backpack ready to hand out water or a snack if you should happen across anyone who needed it.

In fact, you never really saw a soul out there, but that didn’t stop you from getting the eeriest sensation that someone was watching your every move while you were within the treeline. You assumed it was just your imagination getting the better of you, the stories your neighbors told about some of the strange folk they’d seen here getting the better of you. But over time, the sensation became…more curious, and it wasn’t too much longer before, as you were walking through the woods, you came upon an older man leaning against a tree in raggedy clothes–a long coat and jumpsuit, but under the jumpsuit he had on some leather straps, and the jumpsuit was unzipped down, revealing no underwear and an erect cock.

You backtracked as quick as you could, but now you were seeing others surrounding you on all sides, all of them filthy, and all of them leering at you lustfully, most stroking their cocks as they approached. You tried to talk to them, but they ambushed you, stole your pack, ripped your clothes off of you, and they all started…grabbing at your flesh, at your cock, tugging at your hair, licking your face, feeling your ass–

You scrambled up and ran for your house as fast as you could, breaking through the treeline with the men pursuing you, running to the sliding glass door and trying to pry it open, but it wouldn’t bugde. You know you’d left it unlocked–hell, you’d left it open aside from the screen, hadn’t you? You look around, but is this even your house? Then–in the glass window you see your reflection, and nearly scream. Who is that? That can’t be you, can it? The reflection looks to be an old man in his late fifties, short with a underdeveloped chest and bulging, taut gut coated with white hair. A huge, bushy beard and matted hair–you miss the rest as someone else comes down to the door, sees you, and screams.

You flee back into the woods, but they’re waiting for you. They pin you down and fully initiate you, seeding you with their cum, your memories fading. You can no longer even remember the house you lived in, you can’t remember anything at all about that life you knew you had, only this new one lying before you, as they dress you in filthy, cast off clothing and drag you deeper into the wetlands.

“Trash, get out of those clothes, and get over here. My nasty cock is waiting.”

“Please, don’t…call me that any more. I did what you asked, I gave you the money, please, just let me go…” the man said, He was dressed in an expensive suit tailored for a frame different than his current one–his gut pushed the buttons apart, but he had to keep pulling it up, the pants falling down around his ass. At the word ‘Trash,’ the man’s hair–already lank and greasy–had grown another inch, added more grey, his hairline receding further. “I don’t…want to do this…”

“Oh trust me, I appreciate the money–a few thousand will cover rent and drugs for a month–but why pass up a nasty fucker like you? Now come over here–you don’t want me calling you anything else, right?”

But the man was fighting all the same, trying to make his body move towards the door. “You fucking piece of disgusting filth, I said get over here, and suck my cock!”

The energy drained from the man’s eyes, as a wet patch appeared on the front of his pants. He was pissing, unable to stop himself, and kept pissing as he dropped his pants, stumbled over to the filthy young man, got down, and began sucking at his cock.

“Nobody gets away from me, you fucking pig,” the man winced, a tattoo appearing on his back, another on his arm. “You hear me pig? You fucking nasty whore?”

The man moaned, reaching around behind him and pushing a few of his fingers into his own loose hole, while his tormentor laughed. “That’s the spirit! You want me to fuck that hole of yours, bitch?”

“Oh god, I…please, fuck my nasty hole…”

He was more than happy to oblige him–and what the man didn’t know, was that as soon as the man shot his load deep into his guts, reality twisted around him, his previous life as a young, wealthy entrepreneur gone forever, his suit now just a bunch of rags thrown after him, as he was thrown out naked into the hallway, the young man still laughing the entire time.

Derelicted (Part 3)

Caden recovered slowly. He missed the last half of his senior year–he had developed a crushing phobia of walking the streets of the city he’d called home for his entire life, or rather, a crushing fear that in some dark alley, he might encounter that thing, and whatever might be left of Wyatt. It was a year before he was able to walk the sidewalks again, but the color always made him think of those eyes, and the mouths of alleys seemed so much blacker than they had before. He tried to only go out during the day at least, and while he kept telling himself he’d finish his degree or get his GED, somehow he never managed it. Before, he’d been a good student–not at the top of his class or anything, but he’d been accepted to several colleges. Now though, the basic act of reading or writing was excruciatingly difficult. Nothing came out right, and nothing stuck. His mind was a sieve, leeching out knowledge and memories–but never the memories he wanted to forget. After a few years living at home with his mom, doing nothing with himself beyond eating and packing on two hundred more pounds, a sympathetic uncle in the construction industry managed to get him a job on a crew as a favor.

It was hard–harder than it should have been for him. He knew that, and at the same time, he felt himself slowing down even further. People spoke to him differently–slower with as few large words as possible, and even though he knew what they were saying, he’d still manage to fuck shit up on a regular basis. People called him a fuck up long enough that even he started to believe it. He turned thirty, and could barely believe what he’d become–450 pounds, hairy, a thick briown beard flecked with white like dirty snow beard balding, stinking, alone, masturbating every night, lying to himself that he wasn’t thinking about that night, that he wasn’t thinking about that thing each and every time.

He managed for a time. He turned forty. He buried his mom, and then his uncle. Cracks had begun to form, but he didn’t notice them. His hygiene slipped, until he rarely even thought of showering, or brushing his teeth. A pack a day habit became two, and then he switched to cigars. Masturbation wasn’t enough, reliving it wasn’t enough, so he sought out the filthiest men he could find, and begged them to abuse him however they saw fit. It was in those moments that happiness found him–digging toejam from between a derelict’s feet, his first taste of shit, the powerful memory jogged whenever his mouth was flooded with piss. Winter’s were the best. He never felt cold, somehow, in the snowy streets. He stayed out one night, amazed that no one would even see him, like he blurred together with the grey and brown and filth around him. Feeling himself slipping, he drank to forget, but it only made things worse. His uncle’s replacement wasn’t as forgiving as he had been, and Caden wore out his goodwill in a matter of months, until he was fired, after getting caught masturbating to the stench of the porta-potty for the hundredth time.

That night, he saw them again. Depressed, he’d gone to his usual bar and drank himself under the table, the bartender chucking him out at two in the morning. He’d meant to head home, but a whiff of something on the air caught his attention, and he turned in the other direction instead, heading downtown. The city had changed over the decades, neighborhoods falling in and out of style, in and out of wealth. The smell grew stronger, but he didn’t recognize it until he saw them, deep in an alley, the glint of two pins in the dark, two flat steel disks, and a third hanging from twine. He screamed–the police arrested him, when he’d accosted a woman looking for help, but a few days in jail did nothing to help him. He got out, and knew the only thing he could do was try and turn himself around.

He did have a few friends, sexual and otherwise. A master found him work as a janitor, which lasted a few months until he pissed himself in the middle of an office building without even noticing. A few other gigs came and went, until he managed to land a job out of town. He was so hopeful–maybe getting away from the city would break this curse of a life, but as he left town in his truck, his hands began to shake, his gut churning. He vomited, and had to pull over. He couldn’t drive, so he staggered back several miles until he was back across the city limits, shirt crusted with vomit, the seat of his pants filled with shit. He wandered the city for a few days, unable to remember where his apartment was, derelicts whispering to each other as he passed, and fleeing away from him, terrified of being caught in the thing’s path. They knew it well–it would swallow them all eventually, but not that day, if they could help it.

They found him, shivering behind a dumpster. He’d smelled them coming for hours, but had decided not to run–it had been easier to jack off, the smell giving him the first taste of sexual energy he’d felt in ages. The thing loomed. In a voice better described as a sigh, it turned to the thing that had been Wyatt, and asked, “Ripe?” the word drawn out into a muggy breeze.

Wyatt dropped to his knees beside the shivering Caden, and with a black tongue, cold as ice, licked the side of his face from second chin to forehead. “Overripe,” it rasped.

“Then…sweeter,” it said. It bent at the waist at an excruciating angle, pressed its face to Caden’s, and he felt it’s tongue push its way into his mouth, stretching his jaw wide, stopping his breath, wriggling deep into him. It found his soul and gave it a lick, and then everything turned brown, like filthy snow.

Derelicted (Part 2)

That was all he was able to notice before Wyatt got up from the couch, cock still leaking piss, and he rushed to the bathroom and locked the door behind him. “What the fuck!” was all Caden heard–and not knowing what else to do, he got up, went into the kitchen and opened another beer for himself–that piss had been rancid.

He heard the first pounding on the door, but ignored it, and went to the bathroom, but Wyatt refused to open the door.

“Come on man, just let me see!”

“Fuck no! Fuck this fucking shit!”

His voice sounded different–deeper and raspier than before.

There was another pound on the door.

“Dude, you need to call the hospital or something,” Wyatt said.

“The hospital? Why? Because you pissed yourself?”

“No, you don’t get it man, you don’t fucking get it! Just call 911!”

The pound came again, but this time it kept coming, a relentless beat.

“Dude, what the fuck would I even tell them?”

“Just fucking call them! Get a fucking ambulance!”

Caden backed up from the bathroom door, trying to focus. Call 911? What the hell for? What was going on in there? He tried to calm down and think a moment, but the pounding on the door was growing more urgent and he…he needed to get the door. Yeah, he could at least tell them to leave, and then he might be able to focus on what the hell had happened. He went to the apartment door, and flung it open, more than ready to tell whoever it was to fuck off, but the words froze in his throat when he saw, and smelled, the man from the alley, well awake and grinning a mouth of rotten teeth at him, eyes black aside from a glimmer so deep Caden could barely see it without falling into them.

He couldn’t breathe. The smell had locked up his lungs, and he stumbled back and collapsed to his hands and knees, fighting, trying to get his lungs to function again, and managed a weak, rasping breath. The man gave him a short look, sniffed the air noisily, and then pushed open the door, stepping into the apartment and walking right to the bathroom door, where he pounded once again on that door.

“Caden, did you fucking call them? Why are you pounding on the damn door?”

He tried to speak, but all he could do was cough and wheeze for air. His phone, where the hell had his phone gone? He saw it–it was on the table, he reached for it, but before he could grab it his entire body froze, midbreath, his eyes snapping toward the bathroom where the dark-eyed derelict was staring at him, and pounded once more on the door, louder.

“Fuck off Caden, and leave me the fuck alone until the ambulance fucking gets here!”

This must be what turning blue felt like. The derelict pounded again, and then again, and then a third time, louder and louder. Someone else would hear, someone else would have to come see, right? He managed to twist his eyes to the apartment door, but it flung closed in a snap. Did it read his mind? Was he going to die here?

“Fucking what?” Wyatt opened the door, and Caden came to life again, heaving for breath, the thing’s attention away from him and focused entirely on Wyatt, or at least the man Wyatt had become. He was shorter now, with a sagging gut heaving out, arms and legs withered sticks. He was old now, at least in his fifties–his eyes lined with wrinkles, beard and hair the grey sidewalks. His eyes were wide, lungs frozen, the thing leaning in and locking lips with him, filthy fingers running through Wyatt’s tangled locks, down his body to his cock. It looked like he was trying to scream, but something was caught in his throat, and eventually he collapsed to his knees. Caden’s first thought was that he was dead–but he could hear the slick smack of mouth on cock, and Wyatt was swallowing the thing’s cock to the hilt. Satisfied, it’s neck twisted a few degrees too far to look back at Caden behind him, those black holes freezing him in place. The medallion was once again back around it’s neck, a black tongue hanging down past it’s chin. Caden didn’t want to look, but couldn’t peel his eyes away.

Eventually, it was satisfied, and broke the gaze itself, leaving Caden a whimpering, sobbing heap on the floor. Wyatt stood up, lickiing cum from his lips, his eyes now a solid steel grey, and followed it out of the apartment. Caden was found that morning by Wyatt’s father, still curled up naked in a puddle of his own piss, cum and sweat. He claimed to remember nothing, when the police questioned him–he knew no one would believe him. They suspected him in Wyatt’s disappearance, but without any evidence of anything beyond Caden’s severe trauma, the case went cold.

Breaking Point (Part 5)

It was the end of August–the Friday night when, in his old life, Leon would have been finishing up all of his college packing, and getting ready for college orientation next week. Instead, after spending the week working on the site, finishing up friday completely coated with mud and filth–as usual–the guys on the site gathered around him for his weekly shower, pissing some of the muck away while he grunted and snorted, trying to deny the fact that he was enjoying this, sucking down cigar smoke as he did. But he was grinning for a different reason–I’d been hinting that I’d felt like he’d seen the light, that I’d be willing to give him back his life. When he was done with his shower, I went into my trailer, opened the safe, and pulled out the cigar that contained all of his old life, and slipped it into my pocket. He saw me, of course–he thought better than to ask when I’d let him smoke it, but the way he held his head high…he was certain everything was going to sort out right in the end. He’d have his old life back, the one he “deserved”–yeah right.

He expected us to drive straight home; instead, we drove into town. He probably thought we were going to a club–I’d started taking the pig out in public, to a few bathhouses and leather clubs, where I’d rent out his mouth and ass. I have to give him credit–as much as he hated his body, this life as my pig–he relished the attention. He’d found…a bit of a calling, in fact, in his new desires, not that he dared admit that to me.But tonight, we kept going, past the club district, down to a…less friendly part of the city, and I gave him a task–that the first thing he’d have to do, his first task to prove to me that he was ready–was he’d have to find a some poor homeless soul willing to let Leon suck his cock, and bring him back to the car so I could talk to them.

Finding guys off the street willing to get their cock sucked wasn’t difficult–but I had veto authority. Each one he brought back that I didn’t feel…fit the picture I had in my mind, I’d make Leon suck them off as promised, in the cab of my truck, and then send him off to find another. Finally, he returned with someone I felt was worthy. He looked like he’d been on the streets for quite a few years, hair and beard overgrown and ragged, but in the old man’s eyes–I could see…worth. It’s difficult to explain, perhaps it was just intuition. I told the man that I’d like him to come home with me for a thousand dollars up front, for a night, and a thousand dollars more if he helped me with my pig. He was wary, but he wasn’t willing to turn down an offer like that. He piled in–it was hard to decide who stank more–Leon or the derelict–Leon of course couldn’t figure out why this guy was returning home with us. This weekend, after all, was supposed to be about him. About his redemption. This fucker had nothing to do with him, so he thought.

Back at the house, I got the guy’s name–Ned–offered him a drink, and said I had to get my pig ready. He was happy enough to drink a straight from the whisky bottle, and I led Leon down into the dungeon in my cellar, where I told him the next part of his final punishment would take place. I got him bound standing, arms pulled high, legs spread wide, and gagged him quiet. Then I went back upstairs and invited Ned downstairs. I pulled a chair over in front of Leon, had Ned sit facing him, and he was obviously confused. I reassured him–and offered him a cigar. He tried to refuse, but I insisted, placing it between Ned’s bearded lips, and lighting it for him. He took an inhale, and it was clear he enjoyed it–then again, who wouldn’t enjoy the taste of youth and vitality when you’ve had neither in decades?

Ned slouched back in the chair a bit, breathing deeply off the cigar. Each time he exhaled, there wasn’t nearly enough smoke–he was absorbing almost everything he took in, just like I’d hoped would happen. Now that he was relaxed, I took some scissors and began cutting his clothes away from his body–it was a few minutes into that process that Leon, behind me, began to realize that something was amiss, and started struggling and snorting, hoping to get my attention. I made him squirm for a few minutes, until I made sure Ned was comfortable, and then walked over to where Leon was rattling his chains like a needy prince.

He couldn’t speak, but I knew what he wanted to ask, from his gestures and the desperation in his eyes. So I told him the truth, finally. That I didn’t think he’d earned his life back, but that I hadn’t wanted his opportunities to go to waste, languishing away in my safe. So I figured I might as well give them to someone else, who would probably get more out of them than Leon ever would.

He was sobbing, he was yanking on the chains hard enough to bruise his wrists, and all I could think about was how hard my cock was, watching him crumble–I walked behind him, and slipped my cock into his ass, fucking him slow while we watched Ned suck down Leon’s life in that cigar…and he broke. He broke…completely, into tiny pieces. He couldn’t even hold himself up–he just went limp in his chains, staring at Ned, tears streaming down his face, making paths through the mud crusted there, and dripping onto the concrete below. He was mine. I’d broken him, and that made him mine, and when I came, oh fuck, but I wasn’t done yet, oh fucking no, I wasn’t done yet–

The Fetish Gun (Part 4)

Wade waited until night to emerge from his apartment. Part of him knew he should try and keep from looking too conspicuous, but that proved easier said than done, with his limited wardrobe. He ended up stuffing his balls into some bulging rubber shorts and paired them with thigh high rubber waders. He couldn’t find anything that would cover up his leaking nipples–everything was either a harness, or had holes cut for them to pop free through, and the more tops he tried on, the more he enjoyed the look. He ended up picking out a rubber tank cut so narrow that his nipples were revealed through the wide cut arm holes, and last he grabbed a rubber hood. If those two uniformed guys he’d stolen the gun from were still looking for him, at least they wouldn’t be able to get a good look at him.

He hit the streets, and immediately regretted emerging this early in the evening. It was a Saturday night, and while seeing people in strange fetish garb wasn’t that odd in this neighborhood, it was clear from the stares that if his goal was to avoid attention he was going to have to give up on that. He had the gun in a small backpack he had over his shoulder, and even though he didn’t know what the settings did (and even though he liked his body) he also couldn’t deny the temptation to duck into an alley and try and become something more normal. Of course, the other question was whether the gun was even capable of making someone normal again–for some reason, he kind of doubted that it even could. Still, he’d find out soon enough–if he was going to figure this thing out, he’d have to find someone to experiment on.

It was pretty clear at this point that the settings didn’t have anything to do with their literal letters–but that just made things even harder to figure out. Setting D, he was pretty sure, had simply amplified his existing fetishes, making them stronger and warping his life around them further. The only other setting he’d seen was B–but he hadn’t seen enough to know for certain what it’s rules might be. So he wandered the streets for a half an hour, looking around for someone he might be able to use as a test subject. He needed someone alone, away from large groups of people. Finally, he caught sight of someone he might be able to use–a young, somewhat drunk guy slipping into an alley, no one else with him, and Wade slipped after him, pulling the gun from the backpack. The question, then, was what setting to use–might as well try something new, he figured, and rotated the dial to setting A, crept closer to where the guy was pissing against the side of a dumpster, and fired.

The light from the gun was…prismatic. It struck the young man, coating him for a few minutes, and becoming opaque–when it dissipated a moment later, the guy was still there, but…well, instead of the casual straight cug chic he’d been wearing, he was clad head to toe in well worn denim gear. Instead of pissing on the dumpster like before, now he was pissing into a plastic cup, licking his lips, and while Wade watched, he took the full cup and drank the entire thing down in a few gulps, stroking his hardening cock as he did, before looking over his shoulder and seeing Wade standing there. He looked surprised, sure, but he also looked, eager. “What, you got a load for me?”

The young man turned around, and Wade could see that his gear was soaked down the front–it even looked like he’d pissed himself at some point, a patch of wet running down one leg of his jeans. Had the gun sensed the guy pissing and turned him into a piss freak? He hadn’t been thinking about piss…beyond thinking about the guy pissing. Had it taken it’s cue from his own thoughts? Any one of those ideas seemed reasonable, but it was hard to know with any certainty from a single example. Still…he did need to take a piss. And the guy did look hopeful and more than a little eager.

The young man got on his knees and Wade walked over, pulling his tiny, yet engorged cock from his rubber shorts and unloading his bladder across the man’s face. More had changed about him that just the clothes and the piss fetish–he didn’t look older exactly, but he did look…nastier. Like he’d spent less time in bars and more time in alleys like this, getting pissed on. No, if anything, he looked like the alley suited him. Like he belonged here, like he had changed to match the place, more than anything else. If he was asleep here, Wade doubted he would have even noticed him, the grey denim disguising itself against the concrete. He finished pissing, and the guy licked the piss from his mustache. “I’ll suck that cock too–twenty five bucks.”

Wade didn’t have any cash, and he told him that. The guy seemed disappointed, but whether it was because he wouldn’t be getting any money, or because he was also thirsty for cum and was sad he wouldn’t get any without undermining his own business, Wade didn’t know for sure. Either way, it was obvious that their interaction had completed, and Wade started retreating to the opening of the alley–his target didn’t move, just stayed witting against the dumpster, making no effort to leave, like he belonged there. This didn’t seem…good. Maybe Wade couldn’t make things normal again with the gun, but he could try to make them different. Someone more helpful, someone he could bring home with him, to keep testing the gun on, but what setting? He went with his gut, twisted the knob on the gun to setting B, and fired at the young man one more time.

Father’s Rules (Part 6)

***Warning*** Really dark. Physical and emotional abuse, extreme aging, amputation.

His father rarely brought home the same man more than once, and once he had Blake willing to do anything he wanted, he rarely brought home anyone at all. There were a few that came over regularly, but it was always focused on sex. But as soon as they stepped in the door, Blake could immediately sense something different between them. They came home, and his dad wasn’t drunk off his ass, and they were…laughing. He introduced Anthony to his filthy brother, but instead of using him…Saul told Blake that he should go spend a few hours at the gym–give them some privacy. A small part of Blake was relieved, but his new self was…hurt. Hurt that his brother didn’t want to use him, hurt when he saw the look of contempt and loathing in Anthony’s eyes. He worked out, but during his multiple breaks for a cigar outside, he fumed. What did that guy have that Blake didn’t? Sure, he was young, he was clean. He wasn’t obese, just chubby and soft in all the right places. But could he take two dicks in his ass at once? Could he drink a gallon of piss in one sitting? Did he have teeth you can take out, like Blake’s proper mouthhole? No! So why send him away? Why do all of this to him, if you didn’t want to use him?

Blake returned that night. Anthony was still there, sleeping with Saul in the bed, and Blake started a fight. He wanted to know why Saul had sent him away, why he couldn’t play with him. Anthony was disgusted, and told him so. Saul suggested he leave–that he needed to have some words with his brother. Saul finally confessed everything to him. He’d been dating Anthony for a few months now, behind Blake’s back. Blake wanted to know why, and Saul told him it was because he wanted someone in his life who wasn’t a pig. Who had some self-control, and some basic hygiene and who wasn’t in their sixties. Blake exploded. Saul stopped responding, marched over to the list, and scrawled a new rule:

My son has to move out out of the apartment.

Blake begged and pleaded. Where was he even supposed to go? Saul was uncaring, and shoved him out of the apartment and locked the door behind him; he searched his key ring for the key to the apartment but it had somehow disappeared, so he started banging and pounding on the door, screaming threats until the police arrived, cuffed him, and dragged him off.

Saul posted his bail, but said that was the last he wanted to see of him. He’d already talked to their boss and gotten him fired, and told him he’d have to find something else to do with his “retirement”. That if he ever came near him or Anthony again, there’d be hell to pay. With nothing else to do, he emptied his wallet at the bar, and decided he might as well use the only skill he had left, and started turning tricks with anyone desperate enough to fuck him, usually only asking for a bed or a couch and a meal for payment, instead of money. He knew enough perverts from his years living with his father that he was able to survive, at least–although now that he was at their disposal and rather helpless, he found himself at the mercy of each man’s own extreme natures. One man offered him a home in his basement, but only if he slept in a cage, and he suffered as the man’s old helpless pig for two month, until he too grew tired of him and kicked him out again. He met several men who would pay him to be in amateur porn flicks, and he found his sexual limits pushed in all sorts of strange–often painful–directions. Throughout, he would still see Saul and Anthony on occasion at various bars. The meetings were always coincidental–the list wouldn’t allow him to seek them out–and he would always leave as soon as he noticed them, but not without incurring another year or two of aging each time. Before too much longer, he was nearly eighty–his hair pure white, contrasting with his riot of tattoos. It was around then that he went home with someone too rough–someone who beat him senseless, shattering his arms and legs in multiple places, before dumping him at the hospital.

Blake woke up in a bed, his father looming over him. He tried to speak, he tried to yell, but his dad shushed him.

“Don’t worry dad,” Saul said to him, “I’m here for you.”

“But…but where am I?” Blake replied, “Where–did you say…dad?”

“Of course–you know me. It’s Saul, your son.”

Blake couldn’t speak, tears welling up in his eyes. He hurt all over, but he managed to look around the room. It was small, and looked like a hospital–some other old man was in a bed next to him, sleeping, some monitor beeping quietly. “Is this the hospital? Why…why can’t I feel my legs…”

“I’m…the doctors said you were too obese to save your legs–they had gone necrotic. I’m afraid that they had to amputate them, dad–after, you know, your fall? They saved your arms, but they say you won’t be able to use them very much in the future. ”

Blake refused to believe it. He started screaming, and an orderly came in, helping him calm down, before showing him his missing legs–one at the hip, and the other at the knee. His arms and hands were still in casts, but he could…feel the damage enough to know they weren’t lying. He was too terrified to do anything but cry, and his dad stroked his bald head gently.

“Don’t worry, I picked out this nursing home especially for you. You’ll be quite happy here, and I’ve made sure you’ll be well taken care of now, isn’t that right Mr. Allan?”

“Of course, Mr. Emerson–I’ll follow your instructions to the letter, I promise.”

“Good,” Saul said, “My father has a very particular set of needs, after all, and I’m sure you’re just the man to help him through these last years of his life.”

Blake tried to protest, but he was too tired to speak. Saul turned and left, leaving him with Mr. Allan. He was young–probably in his thirties and very muscular. He came around the side of the bed, unzipped his pants, and pulled out his cock. “Yeah, your dad’s told me that you need all sorts of special treatment to stay happy, and it just so happens this sort of thing is my specialty.”

Blake tried to resist, as the young man reached in his mouth and pulled out his dentures, but once the cock was in his mouth, he decided to just enjoy it–and he did enjoy it. He was especially thankful when Mr. Allan shot deep down his throat, and followed the cum with a load of piss–just how Blake liked it. After, he helped him into a wheelchair and pushed him outside, lighting a cigar for him and helping the old man smoke it, before reaching one hand under the blanket covering his stumps and jacking his old, soft cock until it leaked out a load of cum–and then wheeled him back inside, and lifting him into his bed–but only after hooking up a milker to his cock and a sliding a large vibrating dildo into his hole–to help keep him happy, Mr. Allan said.

Yeah, happy. This…this wasn’t so bad, was it? He told himself, as he spasmed and let loose another load into the milker. But then again, if this wasn’t so bad, why couldn’t he seem to stop himself from sobbing?

Commission – Anything?

“Not fuckin’ generous–what the fuck? Jus’ cause I don’t feel like buying her shit, ‘n eating out her nasty pussy–bitch…” Alan kicked at a bottle, and sent it skittering down the alley and himself  teetering into the wall, not quite able to keep his balance after…how many drinks? Who really cared–not enough by any means. Suzy had broken up with him earlier, after another screaming fight, not that he cared. He was sick of that bitch, and done with all her nagging. She was into some crazy stuff anyway, with all that occult crap in her apartment, and always talking about witches this and spells that. Why can’t he just find some normal girl, just once? Why’d they all have to be so damn crazy?

A gust of wind blew down the alley, and he swore he heard a voice on the wind. He perked up his ear, trying to make out what it was saying, and found himself stumbling down into the alley for some reason he couldn’t quite figure out. There was something…something down here that he needed…no, there was someone. He owed someone something, yeah, or…something like that. He came around a dumpster, and found a middle aged derelict sitting with his back against the wall, bundled up in a blanket, but even then, it was clear from the way he was moaning that he was masturbating. Disgusted, Alan went to turn back down to the street, but instead, his mouth opened and words came pouring out unbidden. “H–Hey, you wanna suck my dick? If…If you suck my dick, I’ll give you anything you want.”

The older man looked up at him, but didn’t stop jacking off. “Heh,” he said, “You can’t give me what I really want.”

His gaze made Alan uncomfortable, but his feet wouldn’t let him walk away. If anything, he found himself standing up a bit straighter, flexing his arms and his chest slightly, highlighting his youthful, toned body. Almost like he was showing off to the man bundled in front of him. “I got money.”

“Don’t need money,” the man said, and licked his lips, “Money just makes problems. Nah, I’m happy on the streets–I can get booze, scrounge up enough food–I’m always fuckin’ horny though. Man, I bet if I had a body like yours, everyone would wanna have sex with me. How about that? You wanna give me that hot body of yours?” He laughed.

Alan didn’t answer–instead, he unbuttoned his jeans and pulled out his cock. What the hell was he even doing? Sure, he was horny, but he wasn’t actually going to let this creepy old dude suck him off, was he? The man licked his lips again, and got up onto his knees, the blanket falling away, and Alan got a better look at the man’s body. He was amazingly fat–how in the hell could he be homeless and so obese? Filthy too–his hair and beard were long and completely unkempt, and he stank. He did, however, know a thing or two about sucking cock–and he took Alan’s dick all the way to the hilt immediately, making him groan with pleasure…and in the cold night, he felt his body fill up with a strange warmth. It felt really good, and he wrapped his hands around the back of the derelict’s head and started fucking his throat. Something strange was going on though–he was usually pretty quick to cum, but after a couple of minutes, even though he was hard as a rock, he was nowhere near an orgasm. He had to keep shifting his grip too, like something was making it harder to fuck the guy’s mouth. Both of them were in the zone however–it wasn’t until Alan looked down and saw the big gut bulging out where his abs had been that he let out a yell, and stumbled back into the opposite wall.

“What the hell man? Why’d you stop?” the derelict asked, and Alan just stared at the man’s slim figure. What the fuck was happening to him? How in the world had he gotten fat…while the derelict looked almost…muscular. “Man, you’re cock tastes so fucking good, I can’t wait to see what that cum of yours tastes like,” he started crawling across the alley to where Alan was, but he retreated back towards the mouth of the alley, stumbling awkwardly between drunkenness and his new size.

“Fuck, fuck no–what the fuck did you do to me?”

“I’m just suckin’ your dick like you asked!” the man said, “Now come back here and let me finish.”

Alan really wanted him to finish. His cock was rock hard and he’d never felt this horny in his whole life. But this was insane, he shouldn’t be this big, he had to get help. His house wasn’t too far from here, he should get there, and figure out what to do then. He yanked up his pants, but couldn’t even get them buttoned, so he held them up with his hands and lumbered out of the alley, and off towards his house. Luckily it was the middle of the night, and no one was around to see him try and jog home, his new fat body sweating profusely, while the derelict chased him, begging him to let him finish, seemingly unaware that he’d lost close to one hundred pounds–though keeping up with the much fatter Alan was surprisingly easy for him.

They reached the house, and Alan got inside and shut the door, locking it, the derelict knocking, and then pounding, desperate to finish the blow job. Alan tried to think about what to do, but his cock was insistent. He needed to cum. He tried jacking off, but couldn’t get anywhere–it only made him hornier. He was fantasizing about the derelict’s mouth, thinking about how nice it was, and he was at the door, knowing he shouldn’t, but he let the man in anyway. The derelict was on his knees before Alan could shut the door, ripping down Alan’s pants, the hard cock back in his mouth, and the warmth returned, Alan feeling even more fat piling on his body, the derelict’s frame swelling with his young muscle. Alan couldn’t look away, he found himself obsessing over the changes he could see. The older man’s hair and beard started pulling back into his head, and Alan felt his scalp itch as his own hair and beard grew out to match, turning slightly grey as it did, matting and tangling with filth. He could feel the years start weighing down his body, his skin wrinkling, fat sagging, his cock shrinking up as the man’s grew longer. He was so close to cumming now, but he was exhausted. The derelict was doing most of the work now, while Alan slumped against the door, groaning in a deeper, raspy voice, his balls tensing up, and he was finally cumming, feeling his youth spew from the head of the cock, swallowed down by the derelict in his body. He slumped down, looking at his old face, not at all sure what to say. He was tired–so tired. He tried to get up, but ended up collapsing onto the floor by the couch, snoring heavily, while his old body examined itself in the mirror, jacked off, ate his own cum, and then slipped out of the house and into the early morning, grinning wide.


Alan woke up blearily hours later on the floor of his house. With a groan, he rolled over onto his back, feeling his huge, fat body pressing down on him, and felt like vomiting. What in the world had happened to him? This shouldn’t be possible. He rolled up onto his knees and stood up, and looked at himself in the mirror. He was old. He was fat. He was disgusting. And yet, as he stared at himself, his cock was getting hard. He…he actually thought he looked kind of hot. No, no that was crazy, he was being crazy. He shouted out a couple of times, but he was alone in the house. Where had that fucker gone with his body? He couldn’t leave the house looking like this though, what if the neighbors saw him? It didn’t help that none of his clothes had a chance of fitting him–he ripped apart the one’s he’d worn the night before, and the rags the derelict had arrived in were missing. He just had to hope the guy might come back. Sure enough, an hour later, the door opened, and Alan saw his body tromp in–followed by four derelicts as fat and filthy as Alan was now.

“Oh good, you’re up,” the derelict in Alan’s body said, “Hold on guys, we’ll get the orgy started in a bit–I gotta have a chat with Phil here.”

“What the fuck–who the fuck are they?” Alan said, but instead of answering, his body grabbed his arm and dragged him into the kitchen. “What the hell–what the fuck are you doing? We need to fix this! I need my body back.”

“Nuh-uh,” Phil said, “You gave it to me for that blow job, remember? It’s mine now–and trust me, I’m gonna get a whole lot of use out of it–you know how much I made today? 500 dollars! Everybody wants a piece of this ass of yours.”

Alan couldn’t even process what the man had said, “You…you fucking whored out my body?”

“It’s my body now–but you know, I’ve been thinking about what to do with you. See, I can’t just have you here, screwing things up for me, wanting your body back, blah, blah, blah. So, you know how you said you’d do anything if I suck your dick? Well, you want another blow job?”

Alan felt that same strange sensation fall over him that he felt the night before, and he muttered, “S–Sure, I’ll do anything…anything you want.”

“Good…well here’s what I want. If I suck you off again, you’re going to be happy as a nasty, filthy derelict, and you’re gonna follow me around wherever I go, and do whatever I say, and please whoever I tell you to. In fact, you’re gonna be so dumb that following me around is the only thing you’ll be able to think about–got it? Now let me at that cock of yours–I’m thirsty as fuck.”

Alan was all to happy to let Phil drop his ill fitting and start sucking on his short cock–and felt his head start draining almost immediately. The concerns he’d been stressing over the last few days all seemed to drain away in a matter of moments. What was so wrong with this body anyway? In fact, he thought he was pretty sexy. And being a sex hungry derelict was going to be great–he wouldn’t have to worry about a thing. All he’d have to do is everything Phil–no, not Phil, he was Phil now–everything Alan said. Yeah, Alan was so fucking hot, he was lucky a hot guy like that would let a nasty old pervert like Phil hang around him at all. With a loud groan, Phil shot a wad of cum into Alan’s mouth, and grinned dumbly. Alan brought him back out and introduced him to the four men he’d brought with him, but all Phil really wanted was for all four of them to fill every hole–and over the course of the night, they did exactly that. Alan used the money he’d made whoring to order a bunch of food, and in between fucks, he’d stuff himself, and encourage Phil to eat too.

In a few months, the entire house was in shambles, but Phil, Alan, and the rotating gang of derelicts who stayed with them didn’t care–at least until the neighborhood banded together to get them all evicted. None of them could understand what had come over that nice man, to turn him into such a filthy, lazy, slob. The months hadn’t been kind to the young man’s body–he’d packed on quite a few pounds, though nowhere near as fat as Phil was, and had let his hair and beard grow out. He tried to argue with the bank, but they were late on their mortgage payments, and so all of them got the boot.

Without a home, they were all back out on the street, but Phil didn’t mind, of course–he was happy as long as he was with Alan. He’d do anything for Alan, anything at all. Having already ruined his body, Alan found it harder and harder to find men willing to pay to have sex with him, but he luckily Phil was still willing to do anything for him. He managed to find a few gay clubs in town who would hire Phil to me a human urinal in their back rooms a few nights a week, and between that and what Alan could make with his ass, they managed to keep themselves supplied with a steady supply of food and booze. After a year, Alan’s body was almost as massive as Phil’s, and the two of them were a regular sight in the alleys, just a couple of nasty derelicts, though it was often rumored that one of them would do literally anything for a blow job.


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