Persistence’s Rewards – Part 2

Ugh, why was he even still doing this to himself? Shane was panting at the sixth floor, already winded beyond belief, sweat pouring down his face. He unbuttoned his shirt and fanned himself, trying to cool off, but there was no ventilation in the staircase, and the summer heat was baked into the concrete even though evening was underway. It had been a terrible day anyway–he’d woken up late for work, his head pounding from all the beer he’d drank the night before. He never got blasted like that anymore–not since college. He couldn’t remember a thing, but fuck he’d been horny. Even though he was late, he’d worked a load out of his cock, and he’d shot two more in the bathroom at work during the day. His cock just hadn’t been able to get enough. It hadn’t helped that he’d forgotten to shower, and he reeked. It fact, his BO seemed even worse than usual, and more than a few co-workers, including his boss, had ribbed him lightly. Needless to say, he’d be taking a shower tonight, and shaving off this damn beard too. He…couldn’t quite remember growing it, and everyone at work had thought it was strange, but he’d had one for a while, hadn’t he? He sighed. Should he just give up? He was exhausted, but he struggled on, hauling his body up. He felt heavier today, and his clothes hadn’t fit well either. It was discouraging–he’d been trying so hard to lose weight, and he was only getting bigger. It just made him want to…to stop fucking caring entirely. To just…just park his fat pig ass down, and…

Hard again. What the fuck was it with his cock today? Still, he wasn’t about to whip it out in the stairway like some perv–he could at least wait until he got to his apartment. He crested the ninth floor, took a short break before mounting the final flight, and slogged down the hallway, shirt and pants soaked, but his neighbor’s door was open. He’d introduced himself yesterday–Gary? Greg? Some ‘G’ name. “Hey Shane, how was the day?”

“Fuckin’ exhausted,” he said, and saw his neighbor had a beer in his hand. Just…seeing it made his mouth water. Still, something told him not…not to take it. Not to drink it. Greg pushed it into his hand, and without really being able to stop himself, he but the bottle to his lips and chugged the whole thing down. It tasted familiar…like…like something he’d tasted the day before, and he sighed, a silly, stupid grin on his face as he groped his hard cock in the hallway, trying to remember where he’d tasted that before.

“Why don’t you come inside before someone sees you, Shane. I’d hate to have to explain to any of our neighbors why you’re groping yourself like a fat, sweaty, perverted pig in the hallway.”

Shane couldn’t quite process what he’d just said, but he let Greg pull him into his apartment, even as he tugged the zipper of his pants down, fished out his nine inch cock and started stroking it. “Feel…fuckin’…strange….” he muttered, “Kinda good, though…”

“You know, I was pretty angry at you yesterday Shane, for wasting some of my brew. I go to a lot of trouble to make that, you know. I was just gonna make you a musky, hairy man for some fun, but you know? I think you need to be taught a more severe lesson than that. I don’t share my beer with everyone, you know–you should be thankful.”

Shane was still standing there by the door, shirt open and soaked, gut hanging out the bottom of his shirt, growing and swelling a bit bigger with each heaving breath. Greg helped him out of his clothes, running his hands through Shane’s lengthening beard, watching his already thick chest and belly hair grow in thicker still, as it filled in over his back and ass as well. “Did this yesterday. You…”

Greg shushed him. “Now, I have any number of different styles I brew, you know. One I don’t pull out very often, except for the most difficult pigs like you. I’m not about to let you waste any though, and you’re going to have to drink a lot, so get down on your knees, and we’ll get you all set up.” He pushed Shane down, and then shoved the hose from yesterday into his mouth, and then took duct tape and started taping it in, pinning his beard to his face as he wrapped it securely, making sure there was no way he could spit it out. Then, he brought out a pitcher from the kitchen, held the funnel up, and started to pour. It took Shane a few minutes to find a good rhythm–and Greg poured carefully, making sure he was swallowing and not sputtering, but as the new beer settled in his gut, Shane’s eyes glazed over, and he began swallowing with an odd sort of urgency. This beer was even more bitter than the previous style, but he began to appreciate it more and more as he swallowed it, feeling his gut swell larger and larger, bloating out and remaining firm, like a beach ball inflated in his stomach. His head was swimming, and he was close to passing out again, when Greg finally finished, and started carefully peeling the tape away from his face, managing to avoid ripping away any of his thick, wiry beard.

During his binge drinking, Shane had blown several loads across the carpet. He could smell his own cum, his sweat, but now also something else. He started crawling forward, sniffing the air, something bitter and rank on the air, his vision tunnelling, and then he was at the door to the bathroom, sniffing. The toilet, in the toilet, and he crawled over, and yellow, so yellow, all the yellow, wet, and then he was submerged in darkness once more.

The Morning After – Owen Part 2

As he walked across town, he felt increasingly silly, and before too long, he would have returned to the car if the walk back hadn’t become longer than the distance to the hotel. Luckily Owen had stayed in good shape since college–unlike any number of other reunion attendees, including some of his close friends. Still, if there was one thing to know about Owen, it was that appearance was more important to him than substance. He’d made his living off his looks–he’d learned at a young age that if you were cute enough, and confident enough, then you could get anywhere, and he’d spent the last few years proving it, rising high in the PR department of a major technology firm. Better than Billy, who was stuck working for his father at the family business back home–no room to grow there, but he’d always been too much of a coward to go out on his own. It was hard to believe they’d been friends this long–even before college. Still, they’d grown further apart now than ever before, and both Carl and Tim were largely after thoughts. It was enough for him to know that he looked better than them, even if they might be a bit more successful. A few times he thought about checking his reflection in a window along the street, but always decided against it. Dream or not, that episode earlier had freaked the shit out of him. He did love mirrors too much to stay away for long, but he could primp once he’d gotten back and had a proper shower.

The reunion attendees were staying at a hotel a few blocks away from campus, the Nettywood Suites. It was a small but decent independently owned hotel. His room was on the first floor–he’d bought one entire room for himself, because he hated sharing space with other people. He let himself in, planning on taking a shower, having a nap, and then reporting the car stolen with the rental company, before going and joining the reunion festivities. He stripped out of the clothes he’d worn for the pub crawl and then went in the bathroom, but before he started the water in the shower, he stopped in front of the mirror to preen, without much thought, and stared at the reflection in shock.

That wasn’t him.

That couldn’t be him.

And yet, the reflection was in the same position as he was, about two feet from the counter, staring straight at him. The man was older, probably about ten or fifteen years older than Owen was, with a short beard covering his round face, and extending quite a ways down his neck. It looked unkempt, but helped hide the double chin underneath the flabby face, in the same way that it helped his jowls look like cheeks. The nose was too broad, the mouth small and thin lipped, the ears too big and sticking out too far, the eyes close together like marbles on the wide head. His hair was either too long or too short. He was balding, but the hair had been brushed over into a combover that only emphasized his hair loss. It was silver at the temples, and salt and pepper throughout. The reflection was smiling, and the teeth…the teeth were like shards of glass, and unable to help himself, Owen discovered he was smiling with him.

“Much better,” the reflection said. Owen felt his mouth form the words, though no sound came out. “Much, much bigger, much more fun to be had here, I think, don’t you, Owen?”

He saw the reflection’s hands run down the older man’s body, starting at his chest before descending down over his massive gut, grabbing hold of the flab and giving it a shake. Unable to break his eyes away, Owen could only feel his stomach twist as his hands did the same, running over soft, hairy moobs, then meeting the gut, soft. He grabbed hold and it shook. It shook like it was real. The man in the mirror was one of the hairiest men Owen had ever seen, a thick coating all over his gut, thickest in the center, so thick he could just barely make out pale skin beneath, running up onto his shoulders and (he assumed) all over his back as well. He had to be close to 400 pounds, and judging from where his perspective, he had to be quite a bit shorter than Owen’s previous six foot one.

“Yes, so much fun, I think,” the reflection continued, “What do you think? It feels good, doesn’t it? Feeling your fat jiggle like that? Watching your fat body shake in the mirror? Let’s see if you like it or not…eh?”

One hand drifted lower, under the gut, digging beneath, finding the short cock there amidst the mass of fat, gunt, and hair. It was hard, but a weak kind of hard. Flimsy, and yet pleasure shot through him all the same.

“Goodness, someone does like what they see, don’t they?”

His other hand had moved up and was tweaking a nipple. His fingers, unable to grip his shaft, instead ran their way over and around the head of his cock, feeling it turn slick with precum. He was breathing hard, beneath all this fat, and yet it felt good, it felt really good.

“You like looking at yourself don’t you? I know this isn’t the first time you’ve jacked off while looking at yourself in the mirror, Owen.”

“Fuck…” Owen said, the first word he’d been able to manage. It was true–he considered it something between a vice and a bad habit…but he did like jacking off in front of the mirror. But he hadn’t looked like this…had he? Hadn’t he looked different? Younger? Thinner? The exact appearance was fading before he could grab hold of it, but his hand never stopped working his stubby cock, his eyes never drifted from his bouncing gut, his free hand kept running its way through his hairy chest and belly…and he realized his reflection was no longer copying him. Or was it that he’d been copying his reflection?

“You like how you look, don’t you?”

““Fuck…yeah. Such a fat, hairy daddy bear…” his voice was strange to his ears. Deeper and older, but also attractive in its own way. Part of him still knew he should stop. That something was wrong, that he’d been changed. But looking at himself there, how could…how could he not want to jack off? He just looked so…damn sexy.

Mr. Drake’s Games – Part 3

“Here’s what we’re gonna do, boy,” Mr. Drake said, “Or rather, what you’re gonna do. I want to see you jack off, lard ass. I wanna see you pump a load of cum out into those massive rolls of fat you have now. And what I’m gonna do, is every minute you spend trying to cum, I’m gonna change something about you. Alright? See that clock on the wall? In fifteen seconds, that second hand is gonna hit the twelve, and then you can start–heh, well why don’t I give you a head start? You might need it.”

Jay didn’t need any encouragement or direction beyond that. He started digging around under his fat with both hands, desperately searching for his half sized cock. He could find his balls relatively easily, and they were really very huge, but for the life of him, he couldn’t quite reach his cock. He kept trying, pushing up into his fat as hard as he could, occasionally brushing his hand across the head, but he couldn’t get a grip.

“That’s your first minute–How about he give you some more hair? Hell, how about a lot more hair? I like my fatties hairy as hell.”

“I can’t fucking reach it. I can’t fucking reach my cock!” His body was itching as hair grew in, dense across his entire body, and the thick bush accumulating at his groin didn’t make it any easier to reach his cock either.

“Well, then I guess I’m gonna be changing you a whole lot then, aren’t I?”

Jay kept trying, one hand working his nipples, keeping himself hard, but it was no use.

“Another minute down–how about a big beard to go with that hairy body of yours? I want to see that head shaved, though.”

“Please, there’s nothing I can fucking do!”

Mr. Drake wrapped his hand in the long beard pushing it’s way out of Jay’s chin, and he leaned in closer, “I just don’t think you’re being very imaginative, is all. I don’t think you really want to cum, is your problem.”

Jay did his best to calm down, and tried to think. If he couldn’t reach his cock, then he was going to have to try something else to stimulate himself. He rolled his body, and felt a shiver of pleasure, and then shoved his hips forward, feeling his cock working its way in and out of his fatpad. With a grunt, he started tugging at his nipples, feeling his arousal growing higher, bucking his cock into his fat. Closer, he was getting closer now.

“Still taking too long, boy. How about we see what happens when we make you a bit dirtier, eh? No more showers, no more baths, just a stinking pile of fat, and you fucking love it.”

The sweat building up as he tried to fuck himself suddenly reeked, and as much as Jay wanted it to disgust him, it didn’t. It only made him hornier, and he lifted one arm, taking a long snort of his hairy pit, licking up his own fat sweat. But he was getting tired, he had to find a better way to rub his cock off. Maybe if he tried a different position. He rolled over and dropped off the couch onto his knees, facing the seat, bucking his hips as hard as he could into his fatpad, but it still wasn’t enough for him.

“Poor little piggy, it seems like you’re still having some trouble there. Maybe you should go ahead and start making some sexy pig noises too?”

His face hurt, like his nose was pushing into his face, and suddenly he was snorting and grunting, unable to help himself. “Please, I can’t, *grunt* I need help…” he managed to get out between gasps.

“Do you want me to help you? I could probably do that, but you’d better ask me nicely. You’d better beg.”

“Please, please help me, I *snort* need to cum so bad, I can’t do it, I need you to help me.”

Mr. Drake helped Jay stand up and bend over the sofa, presenting his ass away towards Mr. Drake. Of course, all of this had cost another minute, and he could feel the heavy septum ring now hanging from his nose, feel the studs in his nipples, the rings in his scrotum which Mr. Drake added. Mr Drake worked his cock into his fat hole, and it was unlike anything Jay had ever felt before. He was squealing, desperately trying to get as much of the old man’s cock in him as he could, and he was cumming, he was finally cumming, and he huffed and puffed and collapsed into the couch while Mr. Drake kept pounding his fat hole, shooting his own load deep inside his ass.

“Well done, pig–too bad that still took you an extra minute. But watching that performance, I know just the thing, right pigslave? Yeah, Pigslave. Owned by your fat, nasty dad, and he lends you out to all the perverts in the neighborhood, and you fucking love it. You love it because you’re too dumb to know any better. You love it because seeing someone look at you like you’re less than human makes that little piggy cock of your hard. You love it because it gives you an excuse to belly up to your trough and get even fatter, isn’t that right, Pigslave?”

He tried to say no, but all he could do was grunt and squeal–after all, he wasn’t allowed to talk. Pigs were never supposed to talk like men. Something tight was around his neck, and he recognized it as his collar. It felt good, actually, a reminder that he was owned. That he was just an animal for men’s pleasure. Mr. Drake clipped the leash onto it, and led him out the door and across the asphalt, back towards his house. He knew he should be embarrassed, but he also wasn’t quite sure why. Why would a pig like him be embarrassed? This is just what he is. His dad–no, his Master–was happy to get him back, and made sure he’d done a good job pleasing Mr. Drake. As a reward, Jay got his dinner an hour early. He crawled over to the trough in the kitchen, and his dad poured in his slop, and he lost himself in his feast. By the time he’d finished, Jay was dead and gone, and all that remained was the neighborhood pigslave, exactly what he’d always wanted to be.

Family Heritage – Part 1 (Patreon Commission)

When Grant heard the knock, his first thought was that Aaron was early for their date that evening, but the knock wasn’t familiar, and when he opened it, he instead found himself facing a package handler from UPS, bearing a small box that needed his signature. He hadn’t been expecting anything, and it wasn’t something he’d ordered online and forgotten about, so he took it in and opened it. On top were two sheets of paper–the top one was a short letter from a lawyer, the executor of his Great Uncle Reid’s estate over in Scotland. He remembered a couple weeks before, that his mother had mentioned him passing away, but none of them had been able to afford a ticket overseas to the funeral. Grant had only met him a few times, when the big, burly scotsman had visited the family when he was a kid and teenager. He’d always seemed especially interested in Grant when he came, but he’d never really thought much of it, and he certainly hadn’t expected to receive anything from his estate. The letter was merely informing him that this was the first of a set of packages he would be receiving, as per Reid’s instructions, as well as a list of what the package contained: one blank piece of paper aside from the number one written on one side, one tartan kilt, one smoking pipe, one bag of pipe tobacco, and one pipe lighter.

Grant had no idea why he’d received these things–he looked at the paper, but it was indeed blank, aside from a small circled number one in one corner. He’d never smoked a pipe, but the tobacco reminded him of dim memories from when he was a kid, sitting on Uncle Reid’s knee, tugging at his big red beard while he laughed, and while he hadn’t thought of him in years, he suddenly missed him very deeply. He remembered the last time he’d seen him, when he was a teenager, over a decade earlier, he’d taken him aside, and told him in a serious tone, with that heavy accent and smoke curling out his nose, he’d said:

“You ‘n me, we’re special guys, you know. Well, you may not know yet, but ye will. Just wish I was closer, so I could keep a better eye out. Still, you’ll understand one day, don’ worry, mah boy.”

And this was it? A pipe and a kilt? He looked down and saw that the blank page wasn’t blank any longer—rather, writing had appeared on it, the words, “Put it on and have a smoke–you’ll see.”

He set the pipe to one side, stripped down (after all, Uncle Reid had been adamant that the only way to wear a kilt was completely “bare arsed”) and pulled it on, but on his slimmer frame, he had to tighten the belt as much as possible just to keep it on him. And then…without really knowing why, he took the old, well worn pipe, packed it with tobacco, doing his best to remember how his uncle had done it, and gave it a light, sucking in smoke, trying not to cough. Almost immediately, he felt something strange–an itch all over his body. At first he didn’t think much of it, and just kept smoking, but it only got worse. He ran his hand over his other arm, and it felt furry–because it was. Where his arm had been mostly smooth moments before, now it was suddenly covered with dark red hairs.

He didn’t know what to do, but something else was wrong. His shirt was too tight, and the waist of the kilt too. He let out the belt a notch, and then another, trying to keep up with his body. Was he growing? He had to be, that was the only explanation. His shirt was becoming tighter and tighter, the collar biting into his neck, and he started tugging at it with both hands until it finally started ripping away, revealing a massive barrel chest covered with red fur, and a thick, muscular gut. He ran his rough hands over it, the terror still there, but now…now he starting to get horny. This was no time to jack off, and yet he reached under the kilt and grasped his cock–his…much larger cock–and gave it a few strokes, groaning and grunting as he did, feeling his balls slap against his thighs as they grew large and swung lower. He bit his lip and shot his load of cum against the underside of the kilt and across the floor in front of him.

He stood there, panting, for a few moments, and then rushed to the bathroom to see what had happened for himself. In the mirror, he still looked like himself…kind of. Like himself if he’d picked up the scottish red in his family, and his hair had grown everywhere. If he’d spent most of his time lifting weights and eating like a horse. He looked to be a few years older as well…or maybe it was just that his skin looked a bit more weathered than before. Strangest of all, the more he looked at himself, the more…normal he felt. In fact, he was having a hard time even remembering what he’d looked like before, and he took a few puffs off his pipe, letting the smoke billow through his mustache and beard like he’d seen his uncle do countless times, and his cock started hardening all over again. Had his uncle planned this whole thing? What was even happening to him?

He tromped back to the box, and discovered that the blank sheet of paper was now covered with writing on both sides–a letter from his uncle letting him know that Grant was the next in line to become the family warlock. This first box was merely a little gift from his uncle to prepare him, but in the next few weeks he would be receiving more packages full of various magical equipment. If he hadn’t just changed right before his own eyes, Grant never would have believed a single word. He was rereading the letter when someone knocked at the door, and he walked over and answered it, revealing Aaron.

Grant’s mind went blank. He tried to stutter some explanation, but Aaron just smiled and stepped inside like everything was normal, joking at his boyfriend for wanting to show off his body around the house. Grant shot some wit back, easing into his new accent like he’d been speaking that way his whole life, and it was only a few minutes later that he had Aaron on his knees under his kilt, licking as his “knob and bawbag”, and Grant smiled to himself, wondering what sorts of things might be coming arriving from his uncle’s estate in a few more weeks.

(I felt like doing some short captions today. There will be two of them. Hope you enjoy them!)

Caption Day (1 of 2)

The note on the unlocked front door said he was waiting for you in the basement. You’d never been to his house before, but he’d left a trail of discarded clothes down the hall leading to a door down the hall, but when you opened it, you couldn’t see anything. Not because it was dark—but because the entire room had been filled with fog…no, now that you could smell it, it was smoke. Sweet smoke, like a pipe, but how in the world had he made so much of it?

Now you were at your most terrified. Who knew what this guy had planned? But you had to go down there…right? You took the first step.

It actually smells…pretty good. In fact, it’s making your cock hard in your pants. You can smell, something else, too. Like…musk. Find the next step.

Fuck, it’s hot in here too, it’s making you sweat, and itch. You run one hand through your hair, not noticing it come away in clumps, leaving behind a perfectly smooth scalp. Find the next step.

Sweating like a pig. One hand runs over your hairy gut. Is it swelling? It…it is swelling. But when did it get so…small? Shouldn’t you be even fatter? And when did you take off your clothes anyway? It felt good to be naked though, it was cooler. You find the next step with your bare foot.

Panting now. Taking a moment to feel yourself. Soft, flabby gut. Hair everywhere. That feels more right. You look back over your shoulder, one hand pulling at your beard. You can’t even see the door up there anymore. You consider going back, but take another step down.

Why would you want to go back up, anyway? He—He’s down here. Somewhere. Waiting for you in all this sexy smoke. Waiting for…for his pig. Yeah, pig fucker, fuck. Such a fucking pig. You pause, reach around behind and finger your hole while you grope your short, pig cock, snorting and grunting. But you can cum later, you need to get down to him now. Take another step.

You can’t feel the wood on your feet anymore…but of course you can’t, you’re in your gear. Rubber stretched tight across your body, making you sweat even more, making you pant, making you stroke your piggy cock faster, hurry down another step.

Can’t wait to see him, can’t wait to see your master, can’t wait to taste his cock, feel his piss in your beard, can’t wait to serve him, the last step, now, feel the concrete, but fall to your knees because there he is, waiting with his pipe for his pig to arrive, but you’re here now, you’re here and you’ll never leave. He comes closer to you, and some small part of you is scared. Something just happened to you, something wrong, but what? You’re mind is too slow, too focused on the collar glinting in the smoke. He puts the leather around your neck, and you can feel the terror in you reaching a fever pitch. Why can’t you move? Why aren’t you doing anything, why—

The collar cinches tight. Your mind is empty. Master’s cock is there, and you salivate, drool running down into your beard.

“May I sir?”

“Of course, slave.”

Earl’s Truck Stop – Part 2 (Patreon Commission)

After watching Paul for a couple of minutes, long enough to make sure the spell had settled in well–and long enough to shoot a load of his own against the outside wall–he headed back to the counter, and asked one of his employees to mind it for him. He had some customers to chat with for a while. He found Matt in the diner, a heaping helping of chicken fried steak and potatoes drowning in gravy before him, and a pile of wide plates stacking up beside him, evidence that he’d been very busy for the last several hours. The young man’s face was one of disgust, confusion, and helplessness. Nothing much about him had changed–he was still his muscular self, but his stomach was taut with food. He wasn’t sure how he was even still eating. He felt sick with food and shame. Why was he even doing this to himself?

Earl settled into the seat across from him, smiling. “How are doing, Matt? Enjoying your meal?”

Matt struggled to choke down a mouthful, but before he could say anything, his hand shoved another chunk of steak into his mouth. Earl waited patiently until Matt finally gave in and just started talking a garbled sentence with his mouth full.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

Matt tried again, and this time managed to make himself understandable. “Please, there’s something wrong with me, I can’t stop eating.”

“There’s nothing ‘wrong’ with you Matt, you’re just stuffing yourself like a fat pig because I wanted you to.”

Matt looked shocked, but kept eating. Earl had done this to him? He recalled his earlier confusion, and tried to piece together their previous conversation as he chewed. “You…you did this?”

“Oh yes, I certainly did,” Earl said, “But you like it, don’t you? You like the feeling of having your gut stuffed. You like how everyone here has been staring at you with disgust, while you stuff your face. Stuffing your face has your cock harder than it’s ever been in your life. You can jack off, if you want. Everyone will understand–we all know pigs like you have a hard time controlling yourselves.”

Matt’s eyes went wide, but just like before, he felt his mind shifting underneath his feet. He…did like it. He liked it a lot. The feeling of his bulging gut, his hard cock. He tried to fight it, but while one hand kept shoveling food into his mouth, the other reached down and started groping at his bulge. The button on his jeans released happily, the zipper dropping all on it’s own by the force of his gut. Fuck, he’s such a horny pig.

Earl got up and came around to his side, running his hands over Matt’s body. “This body doesn’t feel right, does it? No, you should be one big mass of fat. Go on, think about it. Think about yourself. Think about how you’ve spent every spare moment of your life up to this point eating. Think about your apron, your fat man tits, your triple chins, how you wheeze as you eat, how hard it is to walk, and how you love all of it.”

With a shudder, Matt came, spraying cum under the table, and as he did, his body began expanding, muscles atrophying as they were encased in fat. The table squealed as his huge gut shoved it away from him, Matt could barely keep his chubby hand on his cock. It was gone. His body was gone, but his past too. All he could remember now was eating–it was all he did, and he fucking loved it. He finished off his plate, mopping up gravy with a biscuit, grinning, chins jiggling as he gulped his meal down.

“That;s better,” Earl said, “Now, how about dessert? I’m thinking one of everything on the menu, and then you should get to bed, I think.”

Matt didn’t want to be this excited…but he couldn’t quite figure out where his reluctance was coming from. He loved dessert, after all…right?

Earl found Jack holding down the bar by himself. The ashtray beside him was already full, and the bartender had finally just left him a fifth of cheap whiskey which was already nearly empty. Earl took the stool next to him, and an old fashioned appeared in his hand along with a lit cigar, which he sipped. “How are you doin’, Jack?”

“Fuck…I fucked up…” he groaned back, “What the fuck am I doin’?”

“Looks like you’re enjoyin’ yourself to me,” Earl said.

“No…I don’t fuckin’ smoke. I don’t drink. What the hell am I doing here?” Jack looked up, took a long, deep drag off his cigar, and sighed, “Fuck I’m drunk, what was I saying?”

“You know what, Jack? You’re just too fucking uptight, that’s your problem. Don’t you know how to relax? Come on, admit it. This is kind of nice, isn’t it?”

Jack didn’t say anything, but he knocked back the rest of the whiskey in his glass–Earl poured him some more, and he didn’t object. After a moment, he said, out of the blue, “Fuck, why am I so fuckin’ horny?”

“There’s just something about smoke and drink that makes your cock hard, I bet.”

“Fuck.”

“Go on, let loose. Let’s see that drunk cock of yours.”

Jack just stared at Earl, unable to believe what he’d just heard, unable to believe he was actually considering it, unable to believe that, without even making up his mind, he was already unzipping his fly, pulling out his cock, stroking it nice and slow.

“I love dumb bear’s like you, Jack. You love simple pleasures–nothing gets you harder than a little smoke and a little drink, right? Laid back and easy-going as fuck. Who cares when you had a shower last por changed your clothes? Who cares when you last got your hair or beard cut? You sure don’t. But more than that, you’re simple minded too, right? Not too smart at all, but that doesn’t bother you. Crude, nasty, and a horny hairy bear of a man. Nothin’ bothers you, except when you run out of cigars and drink, right?”

“F–Fuckin’ right…” Jack grunted, “Gonna, fuckin’ blow…” With a loud snort, he shot several ropes of cum all over the underside of the bar. The smell of booze and smoke intensified around him along with a heavy pang of BO ground into his clothes, which were growing older, tattered and dirty. Jack scratched his face, feeling a beard sprout and grow long and tangled down to his chest, his hair growing out as well, caught in a lazy ponytail. His body softened and expanded, a thick gut pushing his shirt out, ass filling out the back of his jeans, but plenty of muscle too. You had to be strong to survive on the road, had to be strong to…to fucking fuck, yeah…fuck. “Fuck, what was I doin’? Fuckin’ forgot.”

“Don’t worry about it, Jack.”

“Heh, I don’t worry ‘bout shit, Earl, you know that.”

“How about you finish off that cigar and whiskey there, and head for bed.”

Jack shrugged, Earl finished his drink and left the building, pulled the second key to room 102 from his jeans, and figured it was time to check up on Paul.

Good Things – Part 1 (Patreon Commission)

“You let him haggle you down to what?” Mr. Greery just stared at Eddie in his office, “I can’t run a dealership if you’re selling our cars at a loss.”

“I-It wasn’t at a loss, we got that car at auction for a couple thousand–”

“Don’t quote numbers at me Eddie!” Mr Greery shouted, “I could have sold that junker for eight thousand!”

Eddie doubted him, but he stayed silent, intimidated by his boss. Then again, Eddie was intimidated by everybody. Short, slim, blond haired–the picture of a twink. Mr, Greery was all man. He was a local competitor who’d bought the dealership out a few months prior, and he’d been gunning to fire Eddie the entire time for his “faggotry”. Eddie wasn’t the best salesman, sure, but he could move product. It wasn’t fucking fair, but he knew an outburst could get him forced even faster.

After the half hour tongue lashing, Mr. Greery left him with a warning that if his sales numbers failed to hit projection by the end of the month, he’d be gone. Thankfully, it was his weekend, and Eddie got out of there as soon as he could, and decided he could use a drink or five. He spent the afternoon at home, looking at porn. It didn’t help matters that Mr. Greery was totally his type–big, muscular, bearish, bearded, rough…He ended up fantasizing about his boss fucking him on his office desk, but too much alcohol had made his four inch cock depressingly soft. He couldn’t have anything good today.

He went to close the porn window, but ended up clicking a pop-up that appeared unexpectedly. Cursing, he fought his way through a series of redirects and windows until only one remained, a site he’d never seen before–and it didn’t even look like porn. He tried to close it, but it kept popping right back up, three times, until there was suddenly a banner flashing spastically across the top:

EDDIE FUCKING LOOK AT MY SITE ALREADY

And so he looked, but this couldn’t be real, right? A website…run by a fucking wizard? Wizards didn’t exist! He closed it and the window came back with a new banner:

FUCK YOU EDDIE WE DO TOO

He was too drunk, this was crazy. It was probably just a virus, he’ll take care of it tomorrow. Scared to turn off his computer, he flipped off the monitor and went and watched TV for a bit, but kept sneaking glances at the black screen. What if it really was real…

He woke up in bed, head pounding. He knew better than to drink that much, but fuck if he wasn’t horny. He wrapped a hand around his cock and started stroking it, not really thinking about it, and after less than a minute he was cumming…and his cock. It writhed in his hand, suddenly growing a bit longer and thicker…and even harder. He stared at it, but his horniness hadn’t abated at all. He gave it a tentative stroke–it was even more sensitive than before, and ended up spending two hours in bed, stroking himself off over and over again, groaning and grunting, covering himself in cum, before he finally ripped his hand away, sat up on the edge of the bed, looked at himself in the mirror, and screamed.

What in the world had happened to him? It was him in the mirror, right? He waved his hand in the mirror, and then flexed his arm, watching his bicep bulge up, running his other hand past his firm pecs and down over his ridged, furry abs. Furry! He’d never had this much hair on his body before, it was insane. Hell, he’d gone from clean shaven the day before to a heavy, dark shadow across his cheeks and jaw. He’d somehow gone from short twink to muscle bear overnight…and he could only think of one way this might have happened.

He hurried over to the computer, and saw that a receipt email was in his inbox from that strange wizard’s porn site he’d stumbled on the night before:

Thank you for your purchase!

You purchased one item:

Curse (Target – Self): Too Much of a Good Thing…………$399.99

No refunds. If you have any questions or concerns, please contact spellsandcurses@mail.wiz.

A curse? This wasn’t a curse, this was the best thing that had ever happened to him! He leaned back in his chair, massaging his cock, and before long he was jacking off again, running his other hand all over his body until he blew another load all over himself, rubbing in the cum, and he kept going. He’d never felt like this, so fucking powerful, so fucking…horny! His arm was starting to hurt, but after he came again, he watched both of his arms bulge out with even more muscle, the fatigue drained away, and to celebrate he went ahead and came a third, and a fourth and fifth time, never moving from in front of the computer.

What convinced him to stop stroking himself off wasn’t exhaustion, but two other things. First, he was starving. Looking at the clock, it was nearly five in the evening–he’d spent the entire day jacking off. The second thing was this buzzing in his head, this…craving. His tongue felt like it was missing something, like…a flavor he needed but couldn’t quite put his finger on. Then he spied the ashtray next to the computer, stared at the cigarette butts snuffed out in it, and realized he needed a smoke. He rummaged around the room, surprised to find it as messy as it was. Papers which he usually kept perfectly organized were scattered everywhere. He found a pack in the pocket of a coat he’d left on the floor, tapped one out, found his lighter and got it lit, taking a long drag, and sighing out the smoke. Only then did he realize that he’d never smoked before in his entire life.

Where in the hell had these even come from? And the room had gone from clean to looking like a complete mess all while he’d sat around jacking off all day. Odder still, he didn’t mind much at all. He’d always been a bit of a clean freak, but if anything, the mess felt…comfortable. He ran his hand through his now inch long, thick brown beard, stroking it and smoking for a minute before he even considered the fact that he shouldn’t even have a beard. He looked at his bearish self in the mirror through a thin haze of smoke for a moment, and decided that it wasn’t too much good for him yet.

Do You Shrink as You Get Older? – Part 3 (Patreon Commission)

“That’s a good little man,” Don said, and opened the top of the cage, reached in with one huge hand, and stroked Howie’s furry back, making his shiver, and shoot a load of cum into his underbelly. “Silly Howie, thinking you could just leave me. Well now you’re never going to leave me. If I can’t have you as a lover, then I guess I can settle for a pet.”

Don reached down and grabbed him under his armpits and stood up, Howie kicking his legs in the air. He was so high! Don hadn’t been this tall before, had he? He couldn’t tell whether it was just his own vertigo, but instead he focused on Don’s sweet eyes, his wrinkles when he smiled, his thick white beard, and they kissed, or rather, Don licked and sucked at his smaller face, cleaning his own cum out of Howie’s beard, and then carried him into the bedroom, set him down on the bed, and laid back down.

Howie immediately went to drink more cum, but Don pushed him away. “Nuh uh, there’s one thing I still want to do. You always said I was too small to be a good fuck, eh? Well now let’s see how my cock fits in that tight, tiny hole of yours.”

Howie tried to fight against Don, tried to push back, but there was a cloud over his mind, he couldn’t find any good reason not to dig Don’s cock free from his gunt, no good reason not to smear fresh cum over the head, and place it against his ass. However, he couldn’t quite get enough leverage, and it was so big! Don had to help him, and once the cock was deep inside of him, he grabbed Howie and starts sliding him up and down the short shaft, Howie helpless in his hands, groaning and moaning with pleasure, orgasms shooting through them both spontaneously. Cum was pouring from his hole, and each time he shot, he grew even smaller, the dick stretching his ass a bit larger, the cock pushing a bit deeper. Finally, he couldn’t fit it any longer, and Don dropped him, his gut taut with cum, hole aching, he collapsed onto the bed and groaned in pain, but his hand wouldn’t stop rubbing the head of his cock, just barely within reach of one tiny hand not pinned by his huge belly. Don sat up and stroked his side with one huge hand. How small was he now? A foot and a half? A foot?

“Fuck I’m hungry,” Don said, “Gonna go eat something, and then I’ll be back to finish you off.” He heaved himself up off the bed, and knocked himself on the top of the doorway. He was taller, and so fat the sides of his gut brushed the side as he slid through, heading for the kitchen. Howie, however, was still so thirsty. He hefted himself up, fighting his massive gut, and then struggled across the bed to the edge, hung off, and managed to slip off without hurting himself. He followed the trail of Don’s cum into the kitchen, lapping up each drop and puddle as he came to it, and found Don on the sofa, surrounded by a pile of snacks which he was stuffing into his mouth, his cum dribbling onto the sofa cushion, and back under him, into the couch itself. His cum. Howie’s cum. He needed it, he was so thirsty–it was all he could think about. He picked one fat leg and started his climb, falling off a couple of times before he realized he could use the thick hairs growing on Don’s fat legs to pull himself up. Don would shout encouragement to him as he climbed, watching the short old man heave his way up his leg, grinding his crotch against the fur, spasming occasionally. By the time he reached the sofa, he was less than a foot tall, but Howie no longer cared. His mind was shrinking too–all he could think about was drinking cum and playing with his cock and his fat old body. He burrowed his way into Don’s gunt, found the head of his cock and pressed his whole mouth against the slit, drinking down as much as he could, feeling himself growing smaller and smaller, his head turning fuzzier, and then everything went dark.

He woke up on something scratchy. He pushed himself up, and tried to figure out what was going on. He wasn’t in bed, it was somewhere else. There were bars around him, and he walked up to them, looking out, and saw that he was up on the dresser in a cage meant for a mouse. Looking down, he realized that if someone wasn’t paying close attention, they might even mistake him for one. His round, fat body covered with white fur, pink ears and a bald head, a face covered with a thick beard. But he wasn’t worried. He wasn’t scared. All he really was, was thirsty. He tried to speak, but all that really seemed to come out was a squeak a bit more high pitched than his usual voice, and a huge figure eventually lumbered into the room and bent over, looking at him in the cage.

Don–he was massive now, probably weighing close to six hundred pounds and covered with hair. He tapped on the cage, Howie licking at his finger. “Now now, calm down. I just have to go into town for some supplies. After all, I think we’re going to be living here for a while, don’t you?”

Howie didn’t care where he was, as long as Don was close by, and he could drink his cum.

“I just don’t want you wandering around on your own is all–a little man like you could get into trouble. So much better keeping you safe in your cage. I bet you’re thirsty though–don’t worry, I got your bottle right here.”

Don slid a water bottle into the fixture on the cage, the little spout on the end pushing through the bars into the cage. Howie went and licked at the small metal ball, allowing the cum in the bottle to flow through, and he drank and drank.

wesleybracken:

“I just don’t see why all of this information is necessary.”

“I assure you, Mr. Kilward, that we use all of the information on those forms in the hiring process.”

“Well yeah, but isn’t it just, a little too…personal?”

“If you’d like to leave, no one is stopping you.”

Zach looked at the door, and then at the interviewer across the desk. He really needed this job, but sexual interests? Number of previous sexual partners? When do you feel the most sexy? He didn’t want to answer any of this.

“Here, I’ll tell you what,” the interviewer said, “Go ahead and leave blank any questions you don’t feel comfortable answering, alright, and we can fill them in later.”

That sounded fair to Zach, and so he hurried through the forms, generally leaving the more probing questions blank, before handing the papers back to the interviewer, who started putting the information into his computer.

“Hmm, well, it looks like you left out the number of previous sexual partners you’ve had, Mr. Kilward, I’m just going to ballpark it, and say…1700.”

“What? 1700, but—” Zach said, but his head was suddenly crushed with memories of hundreds of sexual encounters he had somehow forgotten.

“Yes, and I think you made a mistake here, under sexual orientation. You marked ‘straight,’ but you seem 100 percent gay to me.”

Men, all of them men. How many men had he been with? What was happening?

“Hmm…preferred position? I think, ‘bottom.’ Oh and I love this one—‘When do I feel the most sexy?’ Hmm… that’s a hard one, but if I hazarded a guess, I’d have to say, ‘When I’m humiliating myself, acting like a fat pig and begging men to use my like the fat slutty cumdump I am.’”

“No, no what are you doing? Please, please stop!” Zach said, but let out a loud snort of pleasure when the interviewer reached over the desk, pinched his nipples through the shirt and gave them a twist.

“Tell me what you want little piggy, don’t be shy.”

“Oh fuck, can…can I suck your cock *grunt* please sir, I haven’t had a drop of cum in hours and I’m so hungry…”

“Then get under my desk and suck me off bitch, but take it slow—you left so many blanks, it’s going to take me hours to fill it out for you.”

Zach tried to resist for a moment, but who was he fooling? He got down on his hands and knees and squeezed his way into the small space underneath the desk, his bulk not fitting very comfortably, but he didn’t care much at all when he saw the interviewer let his cock out of his fly, and he started licking at the head, hornier than he could remember being ever in his life.

“So Zach? What should we fill out first, do you think? Let’s see, there’s this whole section on medical history here, maybe we should look here. Now, weight and height…just keep sucking piggy, I’ve got some work to do here.”

Zach sucked happily, distantly aware that as he did his body was shifting in ways that he couldn’t explain, but which felt completely natural. After half an hour of sucking, the interviewer stopped writing, reached under the desk and wrapped his hands around the back of Zach’s head, ramming his cock deep into his throat. He expected to gag on it, but it slid down his throat so easily. He reached under his gut to try and touch his cock, but for some reason he couldn’t. He could feel his cock there somewhere, but he was so big. Cum erupted down his throat and he swallowed it down hungrily, grunting and snorting as he did, and the interviewer rolled his chair back, allowing Zach to crawl out.

The Zach that emerged was very different from the one who crawled under. Now in his fifties, his head had balded entirely, but his body was covered with massive amounts of hair, along with a thick beard reaching to his huge moobs. He’d lost over a foot in height, standing just over five feet, but was even larger, the fat rolling off of him, making him pant and sweat as he stood there, hornier than ever, yanking at his too tight collar, trying to pull his polo down over his huge gut.

“Let’s get those off of you, I have a new uniform for you to wear anyway,” the interviewer said, and stripped Zach down. Then he pulled out the leather and chains, boots and fist mitts first before shackling his Zach’s feet and hands together, a leather hood, and then the interviewer circled around him and started slipping a finger into Zach’s ass.

“Shall we continue the interview, you fucking pig? I have a special chair for you here,” the interviewer said, and showed Zach a simple stool with a thick, ten inch dildo stuck on it. “Your ass is hungry, right? That enlarged prostate and sloppy bladder of yours desperate to be fucked?”

Zach couldn’t stop himself, and he started working the dildo into his old ass. As soon as the tip hit his prostate, he felt his cock spurt into his fat pad. He didn’t know what it was–cum or piss–but it had felt wonderful, and he kept fucking himself, only barely listening to what the interviewer was saying now.

“I made a few alterations to your work and education history. After all, a sex pig like you doesn’t need a college degree, or even a high school diploma.”

“Trashman? Nah…hmm….I think janitor. Yeah, a janitor at a gay bath house, that filthy one downtown.”

“Must have been hard, finding work with all those tattoos on your face, but hey, you have to let the slut shine, right piggy?”

“Zach, what a dumb name. Your name’s Crud now, bitch. And no fucking last name for you–you don’t need a fucking family being embarrassed by you.”

Piss, he was dribbling piss–he could smell it. Hell it leaking down his huge legs and onto the floor, his nostrils flaring at the scent. Crud wanted to get down, lick it up, but he had to fuck himself first, he was such a fucking whore.

“Still, we’re going to find you some steady work, just trust me. How would you like some slave work? It doesn’t pay well, but you can have all the cum and piss you’ve ever wanted. A rough, filthy biker gang is looking for a pig like you–how’d you feel about meeting them, and seeing if it’s a good fit?”

“Oh fuck, I’d love that sir, thank you!” Crud said, and he felt the tingle of his tiny cock which had been building finally release, and a piddle of cum spurted out along with the piss leaking from his worthless cock.

“Oh yes, I think you’ll be perfect for the job. First though, let’s see if that worthless hole can take both of my fists, and then you’re going to have to suck the piss from this carpet. I have another interview in three hours, and if I can smell one whiff of piss, I’ll take your balls.

Crud pulled himself up off the stool and immediately got down and started sucking at the damp carpet, while the interviewer started working one gloved fist into his slutty ass. He’d get it perfectly clean–he was a great pig. He was so happy the agency had found him a slave job! It’s just what he’d always wanted.

Source: paintchipsforpyromancers

The Smoker Tapes (Part 1)

[Pictured: Hunter, before and after his meeting with The Smoker.]

Report 1927-01 of the Special Investigations Bureau

A number of cassette tapes, CD’s, and MP3 files have been discovered which have been colloquially termed The Smoker Tapes. All of them were presumably recorded between 2003 and today, and they catalogue conversations between Person of Interest “The Smoker” (see case file P001927) and a number of his victims around the country. SIB classifies these recordings as class B mental influencers, requiring security clearance level two and a psychological assessment before any agent can listen to them. The transcripts, however, are accessible by anyone with security level five or below. These recordings, it is assumed, are one of The Smoker’s primary recruitment techniques, and new copies are found daily as tapes and CD’s in adult bookstores and bathhouses, as well as online, most commonly circulated in the deep web.

This recording is generally considered to be the first attack of “The Smoker” that was recorded, between him and a reporter known only on the tape as Eric. All attempts to identify and track Eric, both before and after the attack, can be found in report 1927-54. Unlike the others, where “The Smoker” himself is recording the attack, this first was instigated by the reporter, as a means of documenting his interview with “The Smoker”. The other transcribed tapes can be found in reports 1927-02 through 1927-34.

***

Eric: Ok, it’s on–not sure where to put it…

Eric: This place is a mess. Do you live here?

The Smoker: No. It’s a friend’s place, and I figured we could use it for the interview.

Eric: One of your victims?

The Smoker: They aren’t victims.

Eric: The legend would say otherwise.

The Smoker: Legends are exaggerations. They’re just men I’ve helped out, when they needed it.

Eric: Well, have you helped your friend out yet, then?

The Smoker: No, not yet. He might be interested, but we haven’t discussed it yet.

Eric: Do you always discuss it with them?

The Smoker: Of course. I’m not the monster most people talk about, you know. I mean, look at me. five foot three, two hundred pounds, flabby. What exactly am I going to do to them? How could I force them? They all come to me, not the other way around.

Eric: Well, on the topic of rumor and legend, I’d like to start asking you about some of the mythos surrounding you as a figure. As you know, you’re quite the boogeyman on the streets, though–

The Smoker: Actually, before we begin, do you mind if I smoke?

Eric: Do you think I’m stupid? Of course I mind. You’ll do something to me.

The Smoker: It isn’t my smoke that does anything. Besides, I never do anything to someone without their consent. For someone interested in the truth, you seem very interested in upholding fictions about things you know nothing about.

Eric: Well, you can’t blame me for being cautious–

The Smoker: But if I’m not going to get a fair shake, or an even hand, I might as well just walk out right now.

Eric: There’s no need to get…now hold on, don’t–

The Smoker: There. See? No harm done. Now, you were going to ask me about the myth?

The Smoker: Are you holding your breath?…Oh for goodness sakes, if you’re that terrified of me, why did you agree to interview me in the first place?

The Smoker: I’m not putting it out. You can either breathe in, or leave. It’s up to you.

The Smoker: There, see? You’re fine.

Eric: How do I know–

The Smoker: You’ve already come to meet me, “The Smoker” of legend, in an unknown location, alone. It seems to be that caution is the last thing on your mind.

Eric: Those were your terms. I didn’t have much of a choice.

The Smoker: And you still agreed to meet me. Now, do you have some questions, or not?

Eric: I wanted to start with some of the aspects of the urban legend, to see if any of the stories are true. As you know, I’m sure, the legend of “The Smoker”, or also “The Smoking Man”, has been a staple of the gay subculture in this city for decades. You are, according to the stories, either a demon or a madman who kidnaps men and forces them to become smokers.

Eric: I assume you take issue with the stories?

The Smoker: Well, I don’t force anyone to do anything. All of the people I help consent to my services. I also don’t kidnap anyone, though sometimes my work requires them to take an extended stay with me at my home. I’ve never had an unsatisfied patron.

Eric: Well, then how do you think these stories started?

The Smoker: Like I said, I only change people who are willing. I have, in the past, misjudged people. I thought they wanted my help, when in fact they weren’t ready to admit that they needed it. How would you react to someone who just walked up to you, offering you the life you’d always wanted but that you were too terrified to ask for? People talked. Stories spread. I’ve gotten much more careful over time, though. I haven’t had anyone turn me down in quite a few years now.

Eric: The stories have been in circulation for quite a while. How long have you been changing men?

The Smoker: My first was back in 1976.

Eric: So, did this power manifest when you were, I’d guess, around twenty?

The Smoker: Oh no, I was fifty-six.

Eric: Uh…

Eric: I’m sorry, but that would mean that you were born in…in 1920? You don’t look to be in your nineties.

The Smoker: I’ve stayed healthy.

Eric: Is that related to your powers? Do you steal youth?

The Smoker: No, nothing so vampiric.

Eric: You must understand that this is hard to believe.

The Smoker: I have my birth certificate if you’d like me to furnish it as proof.

Eric: Well, assuming you are telling the truth, you’ve been changing people for close to forty years now, correct? How many men have you changed in that time?

The Smoker: One hundred and seven.

Eric: So you keep track of them all?

The Smoker: It’s impossible to forget any of them, actually.

Eric: So you must have celebrated your centennial recently, did you do anything special for you one hundredth…customer? I know you object to the word victim, but what do you call them?

The Smoker: Patrons. And my one hundredth wasn’t particularly unique or special. An older gentleman–let’s call him Hunter–was unhappy and looking for help. I provided it.

Eric: And what was his problem?

The Smoker: He had a very, very small dick.

<Laughter.>

The Smoker: Trust me when I say Hunter wouldn’t have found the humor in it.

Eric: I’m sorry, it just seems a little ludicrous. If that was the only issue, I’m sure half the guys in the city would be looking for your help.

The Smoker: How do you know half the men in the city don’t want my help?

Eric: So, how did you assist…Hunter, you said?

The Smoker: He was, rather desperate. And when I say small, I don’t mean a simple matter of overcompensation. His dick was a little less than an inch long, something Hunter had resented his whole life. The term ‘involuntary chastity’ comes to mind.

Eric: I can’t imagine many people would be very interested in that.

The Smoker: Well, some men find pleasure in minimal endowment. Hunter was just bitter and angry. He came home with me, rather reluctantly I might add, but he was much happier the next morning, leaving with a twelve inch cock and a grapefruit sized sack, stuffed in the front of his cum stiff jockstrap, unable to stop leaking as he chuffed on a thick ring cigar.

Eric: ….I see.

The Smoker: Did that make you uncomfortable?

Eric: I suppose I wasn’t expecting something quite so graphic.

The Smoker: Well, my trade is a graphic one. You are a reporter. I hadn’t expected the details to bother you so much.

Eric: That’s not really–

The Smoker: Some men, well, all they need is a taste of smoke and a bit of a push. They can take it from there all on their own. Others need more help, like Hunter. I started on his balls, taking big breaths of smoke and breathing it down his cock, inflating his balls with each exhale. I’ve been told that the heat of the smoke in the body can be painful, but from Hunter’s moans, he didn’t seem to mind.

Eric: Really, I don’t need–

The Smoker: I admit to getting a bit carried away. He seemed to enjoy it so much I kept going. Watching the testosterone flood his system, a thick white beard coating his face, hair sprouting up and down his chest. Muscle filled in as well–he was a sexy fuckin’ beast, I tell you.

Eric: This really isn’t relevant.

The Smoker: How would you know what’s relevant and what isn’t? Isn’t this why you agreed to interview me? To hear my story?

Eric: The graphic details–

The Smoker: This is my work. I hardly think leaving out the process itself would do a service to your readers. To continue, Hunter was finally ready for his own smoke. A large ring cigar, of course–a big tool makes a big tool. He smoked that down in near record time, and I nursed his cock all the while. I had to stop sucking once my jaw got stretched to the limit, but I couldn’t resist fucking myself on that huge cock. I mean, how often do you get a chance like that? Fuck, and when he came–filled me up, I could feel it in my guts–you ever felt anything like that, when someone fucked you?

Eric: I’m not–no, I mean, how do you know…

The Smoker: Know what, that you’re gay? No straight man would be interested in this story, legend or not. And no straight man would have an erection in their slacks after I tell that story. Good to know you don’t have Hunter’s problem, by the way.

Eric: I need…I think I’m going to take a break, I’ll be outside.

The Smoker: While he’s gone, I just want to introduce myself, properly. Many people know me as “The Smoker” but I’m more interested in who you might be, listening to this tape, listening to me and Eric have this nice chat. He’s scared you know, but being scared of the unknown is natural.

<Silence. The Smoker coughs.>

The Smoker: Whoever’s listening to this–it’s alright to be scared. But at some point, you have to stop being scared, and act. Act on what you want. Act on what you need, on who you want to be. You don’t want to be who you are forever, do you?

<Silence.>

The Smoker: I would be very interested to meet you, you know. I wonder if you’d be interested to meet yourself too? I could show that to you. Eric hasn’t met himself yet, not really. But I’ll be introducing him to himself before too long here. Perhaps you’d like your own introduction? Perhaps I’ll be able to make both of your acquaintances someday. I’d like that–and I’m sure you would too.