Stinkers: Finders Keepers (Part 3)

But I did leave. I had to keep going to work, after all. I was…afraid to not go, I was more afraid of being alone, in some ways. Thursday and Friday passed relatively well. The women at work still refused to engage with me…and honestly? Part of me was really enjoying that. I had just never really noticed how much time talking to all of them took up during my day, nor had I realized just how few fucks I gave about their lives, their problems. Their lazy husbands, their shopping, their gossip–what did it matter? I mean…I mean, I knew it had mattered to me more, before, but I just wasn’t missing it. Now, I had more time to myself, more time to, well, slip off to the bathroom to jack off. But still, most of the guys around the office…I noticed that they seemed a bit more…interested in me somehow. Stopping to talk, asking how I was, just…small shit. I didn’t really appreciate it, to be honest. They all seemed…kind of annoying–that much hadn’t changed. But they all seemed really interested in me, and more than once, I noticed hardons in their slacks after a five minute conversation with me, and I…I started to wonder if it was me.

Was it really all the smell that was doing this? It seemed hard to believe that just wearing some strange pair of filthy underwear could change how everyone viewed me, instantly, but what other explanation did I have? The weekend was bearing down on me, honestly…I was scared, going home on Friday. I had two days with no obligation to be anywhere other than my apartment, and before, when I just hung around here…well, I had spent almost all the time masturbating. I knew I should go out, see some friends, maybe hook up…but with who? None of my regular fuckbuddies would be vaguely interested in…in this. If I went to the club, and anyone smelled me, what would everyone think? Then again, if I didn’t show up, what would people think? I was, I hate to say it, a regular barfly. But Friday night, I stayed home, jacked off into the underwear, and as I did…I noticed something.

I noticed…that my dick was bigger.

Gay guys–we know our dicks. I’d always been a bit below average, I suppose–five inches hard. But when I was stroking off that night, everything felt just a bit…larger. My cock, my balls, my sack hanging lower. I went into the bathroom after shooting one of the loads, pulled down the front and got a ruler. Sure enough–six inches. I’d gained an entire inch onto my cock. I remeasured two or three more times, trying to figure out what I’d been doing wrong, but the more I looked at it, the more I was certain–it really had grown. My balls too, each was probably the size of a lemon at this point, and I could see the bulge in the underwear when I pulled them back up–and that didn’t even begin to cover the hair.

I was…well, in my younger years I was a twink, but at this point I’ve aged out of that category long ago. Still, I never quite became a bear–the best I could describe myself now would be a bad case of dadbod. Pot belly, saggy chest, decent shoulders, arms which I’ve always felt were way too skinny, legs too. Not…attractive, really, but I’d always made do with personality, even when I had the looks. That–and a very nice hole. I turned around to look at my ass, pulled down the briefs, and even my ass crack was hairier–just like the thick bush which had sprouted around my cock and balls, a bush I’d never seen in my life. And yet…fuck, was I turned on, I nutted again right there, then a second load while I sniffed the sweat and grunge off my hand.

On Saturday, it was seven inches, and I was freaking out. I knew I couldn’t go to the club or anything, but I also knew I couldn’t stay here, jacking off all weekend…because I was starting to really enjoy it. I’d…I’d never had this much fun masturbating in my life. My orgasms were more powerful, my cock was more sensitive, and the stench…fuck, my apartment was smelling almost as rank as the underwear at this point, and the effect on me had gone from disgust to intoxicating without me being aware of it. I came out of my stupor on Saturday afternoon after one particularly huge load, one I discovered I’d been edging out for close to two hours. Two hours! Two hours of my life wasted on masturbation. I didn’t know what I needed–fresh air, a walk, a fuck, someone to talk to, but I knew I couldn’t stay here, I needed to get out for a bit and clear my head.

I threw on some clothes and left the apartment, only realizing after I hit the sidewalk I hadn’t showered in two days now, or even considered deodorant once since finding the the briefs back behind the club. I…I stank. It was a tossup whether the people twisting their faces in disgust were doing so because of the briefs, or just because of me. Still, I couldn’t go back. I wouldn’t shower, I’d just…jack off again, and I needed to stop. I headed for the club, waved at some guys, but didn’t dare go in, didn’t dare even go close. I just kept walking. Evening turned to night, I kept walking. I kept walking, and then, around ten o’clock, soaked in sweat, cock achingly hard, searching for something but not knowing what…I smelled something. I smelled something I needed, and I started to hunt.

Stinkers: Finders, Keepers (Part 2)

I tried to take them off. I really did. I woke up to my alarm that morning, horrified that I was still wearing the disgusting things, soaked with my own cum now as much as everything else, and while I could pull down the front of them to piss, at the very least, for whatever reason…I just couldn’t bring myself to take them off.

I knew I had to. I knew I couldn’t go to work with these things on, I knew that as soon as anyone caught a whiff of them, I’d probably get reprimanded or fired on the spot, but I spent twenty minutes in front of the mirror, trying to get my hands to cooperate, but every time I brought them close to the briefs, with the intent of pulling them down, they’d move right to my cock instead, groping myself through the filthy fabric, one hand sliding inside and I’d be helplessly jacking off again, unable to do anything until I’d shot yet another load into the front of them. And so, at a loss…I just put on some slacks, threw on a work shirt, and went off to work, trying to convince myself that it would be fine, and no one would notice the stink wafting off of me…and to my own surprise…it went fine.

I mean, it wasn’t an easy day, by any measure. It was clear that everyone in the office could smell…something, and yet none of them seemed to point the finger at me, or blame me for any of it. Watching them, it was like…like some unconscious thing. I tried to have a conversation with Judy, a really good girlfriend of mine a couple cubicles over, but about a minute into the conversation she just…fled off down the hall, coughing, eyes watering, and she…avoided me for the rest of the day. But she didn’t report me. It was the same with all of the women, actually–they did their very best to avoid interacting me as best they could, but at the same time, I don’t think any of them could figure out, what, exactly, was making them do it. The guys on the other hand…they didn’t seem to be bothered much by it at all, or at the very least, they weren’t saying anything. Even my boss–one of the cleanest, and most organized fellows I know…I could see that he smelled it on me, but he said nothing, and I swear…I swear, when he walked away, he was hard. And he wasn’t the only one, trust me.

I must have slipped off to the bathroom…eight? Nine? I don’t know, it had to have been once an hour at least. I was so hyper-aware of my filthy underwear that I kept getting hard, my hand finding it’s way down the front of my pants, and as soon as I started jacking off, I just–there was nothing I could do to stop it. By the end of the day, the underwear was saturated with my cum, and it had started to seep through, staining the front of my pants–thankfully they were black today. Back home, I immediately stripped them off and threw them in the washer, disgusted with myself, and the more disgusted I felt, th hornier I got, until I was jacking off again, filling the front of the briefs over and over, smearing the cum seeping through the fabric all around and over my ass…and I knew I had to do…something.

I couldn’t just keep sitting here, masturbating. If I did, I was going to hate myself, and my cock was so raw I didn’t think I’d be able to handle a few more days of this. I needed…something to try and occupy myself, and so I threw on some clothes, and I went for a walk, certain that being in public would at least tamp down the urge somewhat. Besides, I was hungry, and there were some good food trucks a few blocks over that would sate that issue as well. I go down there, it’s busy, and I’m…terrified that someone there is going to smell me while I’m standing in line–hell, I know they can smell me, because I have a two foot buffer around me, and I saw two young women glance my direction and split after a couple of minutes. But before I can get to the front…it’s me who smells something.

Sharp, astringent. My mouth goes dry. I whirl, and somehow I can pinpoint who it is–a hefty looking guy with a gym bag slung over his shoulder, sweat marks all over the tanktop he’s wearing. I’m not…hungry anymore, not for food, and I start following him. I don’t know, why, I follow him. I don’t know what I want to do, or what I’m thinking even. I can tell he’s straight, he just doesn’t have the look about him, but I want…I wanted…not him exactly, even. I follow him for a few blocks, before I realize I’m openly groping myself through my sweats, cock leaking, and he slips into an apartment building with no way in after him.

Frustrated, confused, hungry…there’s only one detail that sticks out to me. The name on the gym bag–Planet Workout. I look it up on my phone–there’s four in the city, but only one close enough that it would make sense for him to walk. I slip into a nearby fast food joint, one with a bathroom, get some food and use the facilities, thinking about him, still…smelling him in my mind. I’m terrified, really, and by the time I get back to my apartment, I wonder if I should ever even leave the apartment again.

Stinkers: Finders, Keepers (Part 1)

It was the stink that caught my attention. Out back behind the bar, where most of us just slip out the back for the smoke before heading back into dance or flirt or whatever we all go there to do anymore, in a world where Grindr exists. Hell knows, it seems like no one shows up anymore–the place used to feel so alive back in my twenties, after I’d moved here, but here I am, twenties years later in my forties, chasing versions of my younger self. The alley never smells good, mind you, but that night, there was something…extra rank on the air. There was no one out there with me at the moment, and I don’t know if it was pure curiosity, or…well, considering what came next, I have no doubt someone would have gone hunting for them. Mostly I just remember being extra horny that evening, and wondering what in the world could smell like that–I’d just…never smelled anything like that, even in this city, and yet I also…knew the smell all the same.

I should stop trying to explain it, really. Just…just stick to what happened, as best I can. I go digging around the trash in the alley, sniffing around. I finish my cigarette and toss the butt, and I…want to go back inside, because it’s really fucking cold, but I can’t stop. I need to know what the smell is at this point, and I can tell I’m close. The funny part? I’m standing right over the thing, but it’s not…what I’m expecting, you know? Something that smells like that–you’re expecting a body, or some rotting food, or something, not the grungy pair of briefs lying on the pavement under your foot.

And so I’m walking up and down, back and forth, seeing the thing on the ground but not really paying it any mind. I mean, underwear out back behind a gay club is hardly a new thing, you know? People ditch shit back here all the time, and don’t always come back for it. But every time I pass by the smell is stronger, and at last, I stoop down, give a sniff, and sure enough, it’s the fucking underwear, and now that I was closer, I could see why. Sodium light doesn’t really do…yellow much justice, but thee things aren’t just crispy, they’re some of the grungiest fucking things I’ve ever laid eyes on, and you’re talking to a guy who hung out in the bathhouses back before they cleaned up.

So I found it–end of story, right? But here I am, staring down at these things, and before I can really think about why I’m doing it, I reach down and pick the brief’s up by the waistband, bring them to my nose, and I give them a close sniff, and then a deeper snort, and then they’re pressed to my mouth, my cock is out and I’m on my knees in the alley, jacking off, to this rank fucking shit–and I do know the smell now, and why it was so familiar. The difference, I suppose, was just…how concentrated it is–cum, piss, sweat, shit marks up the ass. I know all those smells, but I’d never smelled them like this before in my life. I switch hands, wrap the briefs around my shaft and keep stroking, the coarse texture of the soiled fabric rubbing against my cock, and I shoot, adding a load of my own to the thing–and that’s when I get the thought.

That’s when my brain says, of all things, “Put them on.”

See? That’s why I can’t try and explain any of this shit, it has no explanation. I haven’t felt like I’ve had a reason for anything in months, there’s no reason, there’s just a series of wants and urges and instinct. I know all of the reasons why I shouldn’t do it, why I should just drop that shit, go inside, and wash my hands and face as well as I can, but instead I take a quick look behind me at the door to the bar, propped open but empty of anyone else, and haul off my shoes, pants and boxers. I’m telling myself this is crazy, I’m cursing myself out for being some fucking freak, but my cock is already hard again as I slide the underwear up my legs to my waist. I can feel the wet spot from my cum on the left ass cheek and my stomach churns a bit, but I pull my jeans back on and my boots. I have nowhere to put my boxers though, and so I stuff them back behind a dumpster, figuring I can always come get them later.

I step back into the bar, and it’s a little busier at this point, but I keep my distance from everyone in there. I…I can still smell the thing through my clothes, and I’m horrified by what I just did. I want to go back out there and change again, but by the time I do, there’s other guys smoking, and I can’t…reveal what I did. Rumours spread quick, you know. I see one guy’s nose twitch, and he turns and stares at me, and in the dark strobe, I can’t tell if it’s excitement or disgust–so I ditch. I push my way back out of the bar to the street, and I’m take off at a quick pace back to my apartment a few blocks away.

“Hey!”

It’s the guy who smelled me, he yelled at me a few times from the doorway of the bar. I didn’t turn around, I didn’t look. I turned the corner, and I assume he went back inside. All I wanted, was to get home, get out of these briefs, burn them, and never think of this again. Instead, I get home, and I’m so horny from the rough sensation of the cumdry fabric against my cock that I grope it through my pants as soon as I’m through the door, and it takes less than a minute for me to shoot again, fully clothed–and after I got the jeans off, I stroked off again, and again, until I lost count, and I finally fell asleep, exhausted.

Mitchell Davis had been an eccentric. Rich as the rest of the neighborhood, certainly, and yet, nothing was ever simple with him. Single, for one thing–gay for another. He could have been tolerated if only he’d fallen into the straight white patterns of the wealthy around him. Instead, he’d holed himself up in the large mansion and become a recluse, until his death. Rumors had circulated quickly, how he’d been found down in the basement, a…gas mask over his head, naked, the other end attached to a large balloon. Self-asphyxiation? suicide? That’s what the neighborhood called it, preferring the easy story.

For Howard Margus, he saw the death as an opportunity. He had, once, before Mitchell’s eccentricities had cloistered him entirely within the mansion, been inside and seen the rarities within: priceless art, antique furniture, an entire library of first editions, a life’s dividends he’d coveted for years now. When it came time for the estate sale, he wrote a check for everything within the house. The neighbors thought he was insane, but indeed, the house was a treasure trove, and he had six months to pick it clean and sell the remainder before it had to be emptied and sold on the market.

If Howard had one vice, it was for pipes. He’d always regarded them as a sign of his wealth, and when he discovered that Mitchell had collected several scores of them, he decided to sample each of them, to decide which ones he might like for himself. It was the forty-fifth piped he smoked, which had been the one found between the legs of the dead Mitchell Davis in the basement dungeon, and when Mitchell lit the pipe, he choked on the smoke. He’d put in his favorite tobacco, so why did it taste so rough? It was like the tobacco he’d smoked before he’d known better, it was like rubbing your tongue up the backside of some hairy beast of a man, before you get down and start licking and sucking at his rancid hole, getting ready to fuck, getting ready to rut.

He stumbled into the wall, his clothing so tight, so…conservative? Prudish? He shouldn’t be wearing this, he should…he should be wearing leather…leather and rubber and fucking yes fucking he should be fucking! He ripped his way into his slacks and began jacking his cock, shooting the first load into his underwear. Stripping the rest of the way, he sucked his own cum from the fabric, snorting and grunting, sucking down the smoke greedily until the bowl burned to ash, and the urges dissipated.

Unable to believe what he’d just done, and thankful he’d been alone at the time–the workers he’d hired to sort through Mitchell Davis’ collection were scattered through the mansion at the moment. But the pipe…the pipe was…could he hear it? He could hear something. He threw the pipe across the room, but he could still hear it, it was inside him, something had crawled inside of him, into his head, and it was getting louder. He shut it out for the rest of the afternoon, but after the worker’s had left for the day, he stumbled upon a massive closet filled with leather and rubber, and the voice surged back. Somehow…somehow the pipe was back in his mouth. He was naked, but the leather against his bare skin, it was so fucking–! He could no longer provide words for the sensations ripping through him at the level of pure instinct. The voice was so loud now, and he could feel something happening to him, something in his body, but it didn’t matter, what mattered was perversion. What mattered was fucking, but he had no one to fuck! He had to settle for a night of constant masturbation, the pipe remaining lit the entire night, until Howard woke the next morning, collapsed in the basement dungeon, wearing grimy, cum soaked leathers, padlocks pierced through his nipples with no key in sight, a collar and chain wrapped tightly around his neck (he could feel the bruises but why did he want more of them?) and tattoos? He’d never had tattoos!

The voice told him that of course he’d had tattoos. A filthy, perverse pig like him has to have tattoos. He ran a hand through his beard, now three inches long, coarse and wiry, and the glove against his face…his gloves against his body, tugging on his fucking nipples, stretching his sack. He’d seen a ball stretcher down here somewhere, he needed these fuckers hanging to his knees! The pipe had lit again, pouring out smoke, a sharp pain in the head of his cock, and he yanked on the PA, huffing and panting and so close to cumming.

“Mr. Margus?” a voice called. The voice of someone to fuck! Oh, he was going to fuck so hard, fuck another pig, make a pig, a pig for him! “Are you down there? The guys are here–so we’re just going to get started, alright?”

“S–Sure, *snort* Fuck!” Howard cried.

“Are you alright, sir?”

“Yeah, sir, fuck yeah, fuckin’ Sir to you, fuck…” Howard muttered, “Get…get down here, I need some help with something.”

The man started down the stairs, and caught the first whiff of smoke as he descended. His cock was hard by the time he hit the concrete floor, but then the leather hood was shoved over his head, across his face. He couldn’t breathe! He fought, and felt Howard’s hard cock thrusting against his jeans. How was the old fucker so strong? He collapsed, and Howard pulled the hood away, checking to make sure he was unconscious, but not dead. Just how he wanted him! He wanted to fuck but work to do first. Work to get the pig ready, work for pigs to do today–lots of work indeed.