Tag: incest

My Boys (Part 2)

“It’s stupid, this whole trip–you can say it, Nick, we both know it,” Sean said.

“Look, Dad wanted this for us, it’s the least we could do, really,” Nick said, but Sean was more interested in feeling frustrated than talking. He waited a moment, and added, “I have things I’d rather be doing too, you know. You’re still in school–you’re on vacation. Do you have any idea how much shit I’m going to have to catch up on?”

Sean just rolled his eyes at him, and Nick leaned back in the sagging, well worn booth. “Look, can you at least pretend to enjoy yourself a little bit? Dad needs this.”

“Dad needs to get a fucking life.”

The chef came around to take their orders–Nick got a salad, Sean a burger–and then they stayed quiet, until their new dad walked in, chuffing on his pipe, beard to his gut, saw his sons, grinned and walked over. “Scoot over, boy. Make room for your Pa,” he said to Nick.

Nick looked up, and his eyes went wide, and he looked to Sean. He had no idea what was going on either. There’s no way that this could be their dad…and yet they both knew, somehow, that this was him. He was in the right clothes, but the beard, and the hair, and the pipe smoke…

“I…I don’t think you can smoke…that in here.”

“Daddy never puts out a pipe before it’s done smokin’, you know that boy. Now scoot.”

Nick slid over slowly, and Bruce plopped down into the booth with a sigh and a grunt. “Fuck, I’m fuckin’ famished boys. What did you two order?”

“Just…Just a burger and fries.”

“A salad–everything else is too damn greasy. I have new suits I have to be able to fit into when I get home,” Nick said.

Bruce stared at Nick for a moment, and then blew a plume of smoke from his nose with a snort. “No fuckin’ son of mine is gonna be eatin’ fuckin’ salad while I’m fuckin’ alive,” he grumbled, and then called out at the chef, “Hey! My boy here wants to change his order. In fact, just bring all three a us two burgers each, and a shitload of fries, got it?”

“Sure man, whatever you want,” the chef grumbled. Nick tried to object, but before he could speak, he coughed–the smoke had gotten stuck in his throat all of a sudden. Bruce pounded him on the back a couple of times, telling him to man up.

“Dad…are you…feeling alright?” Sean asked.

“Never felt better boy–but what the fuck’s up with you two? Ya’ll look like you’re at a damn funeral,” he turned to the kitchen again, “Hey, you got beer?”

“Sure do,” the chef said.

“Give us a round.”

The chef brought out three bottles. Sean was happy for a drink, but Nick tried to object–Bruce bullied him into drinking it, and then gave him his as well.

“Damn, got my work cut out with the two of you, don’t I?”

Neither of them had any idea what that meant. Sean shrugged and looked to Nick, but his older brother had no idea what was going on either. The three of them sat in an awkward silence for a few minutes, and Nick gave a start when his father’s hand landed on his thigh, and then slipped inside his thigh, over to his crotch, groping at his cock. He kept trying to tell him off, to yell at him but his throat had sealed itself from the smoke, and the more his father exhaled in his direction, the more he relaxed into the booth. He looked to Sean, wondering if he could signal his brother somehow, but he too seemed to have zoned out, lying back against the back of the booth, mouth slack, taking deep breaths of his father’s pipe smoke.

“That’s better, you boys are just tired after a long day’s ride, right? Tired and hungry,” Bruce said, leaned in closer to Nick, “No boy of mine is gonna be eatin’ fuckin’ salad tonight–hell, you ain’t gonna be touchin’ a salad for the rest of your damn life.”

Nick’s frustration and confusion were growing into anger and fear. He didn’t understand what his father was doing, what he was saying. And why was he touching him like this? His father had never done anything like this–it was like he’d become a completely different person. Their food arrived, and all three of them tucked in, but Bruce ate slower than both of his boys, neither of whom felt hungrier than either could remember being in a long time. So hungry, that neither of them noticed when Bruce told the chef to make each of his boys another double helping of burgers and fries. Nick in particular found himself caught in a position he’d never felt before, with his father’s hand massaging his cock while he ate. He found himself…almost enjoying the act of eating in a way he never had before.

Finally, they finished eating, and the cook came around to clear their mess. Nick managed to look up and saw that the big, greasy lug looked just as dazed and confused as they were. His father reached out and grabbed his hand as he reached for his empty basket. “Hey man, those burgers were fuckin’ fabulous, just great. Thanks for all the cookin’ you were doin’ back there.”

“I…You’re welcome, sir.”

“I wanna give you a tip. Or rather, my boy there, he wants to give you a tip, don’t you boy?” he said, looking to Sean, “Go on man, let out your cock, my boy would love a load of cum for dessert.”

Sean’s eyes went wide, as did the cook’s, but neither of them could stop themselves, Sean twisting out of the booth to face the cook, who pulled off his apron and dropped his shorts to his ankles, letting the young man start sucking on his cock.

Nick started thrashing weakly. This was wrong, all of this was wrong, so fucking wrong. Bruce’s grip on his cock tightened, his other hand grabbed his son’s face and pulled him around. Before Nick could do anything, he locked lips and exhaled a full lung of smoke right into him. Nick took it in, the heat of the smoke horrible, and yet he pushed it back, and they shared it for a few moments. When he released Nick, he wasn’t struggling anymore–and when Bruce freed his cock, Nick bent over, careful of his very full gut, and started sucking his father’s cock, and Bruce heaved a sigh of smoke over all of them.

My Boys (Part 1)

It certainly wasn’t somewhere the three of them wanted to stop at for the night, but it was best they had seen for miles. Besides, this far from a city–not that they were really certain how far away from a city they were, at this point–a single story motel, an all-night diner and a small convenience store was obviously the best they would be getting this late at night. Bruce turned off the engine, exhausted after driving nearly the entire day–his two sons climbed out of the car, stiff and frustrated that their dad was so bullheaded when lost. They’d given up trying to get him to ask for directions, they’d just have to do it behind his back in the morning. Of course, for Bruce this was part of the fun of road trips. If you didn’t get at least a little lost, then how would you ever find something interesting?

Still, he was getting a bit too old for this, and his sons were a bit too old to keep humoring him for much longer. It had been fun, when they were little, to take these road trips–all three of them had sworn that they’d reach all forty-eight states together, but with college and internships and sports they’d been putting off this last leg for years–a trip through the upper midwest, from Iowa up through the Dakotas and Montana. It was clear to him, halfway, that he’d misjudged his now adult sons’ enthusiasm for the trip. They were just humoring him, really, and maybe he was just humoring himself too. Ever since Brianna had died a few years ago, he had to admit that he’d been in a funk. The road trip had seemed like…a way to get his old, younger self back. See something new, maybe. But in the end, he had to admit he was just fooling himself. They’d get back home in a week and a half, and she’d still be missing, the house too empty, his sons’ avoiding him.

“Do you want to get something to eat, Dad?” Nick asked. He was a year or two out of college, holding down a decent job. The younger son, Sean, was going to be a senior this year.

“You two go on and order me something, I’m gonna have a smoke.”

“Dad–”

“You won’t let me smoke in the car, so I’m gonna have a damn smoke.”

Sean was about to say something else, but Nick just dragged him along, knowing their dad well enough to let him be. The two of them had been trying to get him to stop smoking for years, especially after their mom died of cancer. Bruce knew he should quit, but he’d done it for so damn long–he was just happy his sons had never started–not that they’d taken after him much at all. He suspected that the reason he never saw them much was because neither of them had much love left for him, beyond that minimal amount that draws you back for the occasional holiday or two, with quiet dinners (quieter now, without Brie filling the vacuum with inane chatter he’d always hated, but which he now missed more every passing day) and this nagging expectation that things had always used to be better than this.

Nick and Sean stepped into the diner, he waited by the car for a moment, lighting one of his cigarettes. He only had a few left in the pack, so he might as well buy a few more. He walked towards the convenience store connected to the gas pumps, a few semis parked among them filling up, and a couple of rusted out, dirt crusted pickups, most likely owned by the farmers around here. As he walked, his nose caught a strange scent on the wind–it was smoke, but strangely sweet and floral. Curious, he began circling around to try and find the source of the smell, circling back behind the convenience store, where he found an older man smoking a large pipe.

The man had to be in his sixties or seventies, with a long white beard reaching town to his ample gut, his hair receding back into a overlong horseshoe of hair reaching the nape of his neck. He wasn’t particularly clean either–wearing just a grungy wife beater and a pair of jeans which had seen better days, and as he approached and got a better look at the short, fat man, he only grew more disgusted. Why was he even approaching him at all? The man had noticed him at this point, but paid Bruce’s approach little care, aside from a slight smile, revealing more than a few missing teeth.

“Howdy,” the man said when Bruce came close enough for a handshake, “Don’t see families like yours around here very often, that’s for sure.”

“I–I’m sorry,” Bruce said, “Who…are you?” His words felt silly and sluggish as the rolled out his mouth, and his cigarette tumbled from his slack lips. The old man stepped forward and put it out with a stomp of boot, coming closer to him.

“I just couldn’t help noticing what fine looking boys you have there,” the man said, “Handsome, strong. Always wanted boys like that of my own, you know. They don’t seem too fond of you. In fact, you don’t seem like a very good father figure at all, to me.”

Bruce wanted to storm off, get away, but the slackness had spread to the rest of his body, his mind increasingly numb. He was helpless as the old man unzipped each of their flies, reached in, and carefully freed both of their cocks. The old man was already hard, and with a few strokes Bruce was hard as well.

“It got me thinking–maybe you don’t deserve those boys. Maybe you can’t love those boys enough, the way they deserve to be loved. But I can, so why don’t I take things over from here?”

The old man pressed the heads of their cocks together, grabbed his long loose foreskin and stretched it out, so that it covered Bruce’s head, linking them together. Bruce had never felt anything like this before, and when the old man started stroking his cock, he felt…something start pumping from his balls, through his cock, directly into the old man’s sack. He tried to pull away, but the smoke had him tight within its clutch, and all he could do was watch as the old man’s face started to grow younger. No, more than younger, the more he pumped, the more he was certain that the old man was beginning to look like…him. That same broad nose, the man’s chin growing more angular. He was growing younger as well–his hair growing back in, though it remained the same semi-long, tangled mess as before–the same with the man’s beard, which turned to match Bruce’s own hair color, but remained just as long. All the while, Bruce was feeling weaker and weaker, smaller, like he was shrinking, his head…something was wrong with his head…

“Yeah, an old faggot like you, you don’t have sons. Hell, you don’t have anyone.”

Old…faggot? He tried to shake the words, but struck some odd, deep truth that he couldn’t avoid. Bruce shuddered, pumping the last of himself into the stranger’s heavy, full sack, and he stepped back, disconnecting them. When the man commanded him to strip, he did it without hesitation, putting on the man’s nasty clothes, which fit him better than the baggy things he’d been wearing. The man sucked on his pipe and examined the wallet he found in the back pocket of the jeans. “Bruce, eh? I can be a Bruce.”

“But…Bruce…my name.”

“Your name ain’t Bruce. Your name is Faggot. Now get out of here–go find some trucker dick to suck, and don’t come near me and my boys ever again, you hear me?”

Bruce watched the new old man, now nameless, totter off towards the trucks parked off by the gas pumps, and then walked towards the diner to join his new sons for dinner.

Always Another Curse (Sketch)

“What the fuck did you do to me?”

Jerry looked next to him, and saw Mac–by far the fattest kid in school–had waddled up next to him and was staring at him. Of course, Mac hadn’t been the fattest kid in school for very long–before, that title had belonged to Jerry, and Mac had been one of his biggest bullies. “You did this to me, fucking fess up, you…you said something to me yesterday and I…” his pudgy jowls turned bright red, and he looked away, unable to keep going.

“Tell me everything you did yesterday–but make sure you speak loud enough that everyone in the hallway can here,” Jerry said calmly. Mac’s eyes went wide, but words were already tumbling from his mouth.

“I was gonna beat you up yesterday, but you…said something, and I decided I had better shit to do, but…but my ass was itching really bad when I got home…”

It was obvious from his face that he was desperately trying to keep the words back–Allie was right there–and her loose lips murdered reputations just as easily as the sucked down cum behind the bleachers. Jerry knew that she was there, of course–this was too perfect.

“…When I got home, I…I got undressed and I stuck a finger in my ass to…to try and itch it, but it felt really good, and I had two fingers in there, when I started growing fatter! I tried to stop, but I kept using my fingers, and now I’m like, 700 pounds. So…so what did you do to me?”

Allie’s eyes had lit up at the mention of anal pleasure–she’d already fled to tell everyone she could find. “Do you have something up your ass right now, Mac?” Jerry asked.

“One…one of my mom’s…dig dildos. Please…Don’t make me keep talking!”

Jerry smirked. “Meet me in the bathroom after school, and try not to cum–you won’t like what happens.”

“I can’t even reach my cock! I haven’t been able to cum all day,” Mac said, but Jerry just turned and walked away, leaving Mac to heave himself to class, until they met up in the bathroom after school, where Jerry immediately told him to strip naked. Mac did as he was told–standing there in his obese glory. “Please, just fix this, please…”

“Lift up your gut,” Jerry said. Mac did so, and he got down on his knees and started fiddling with Mac’s cock. “The only way to get your body back is to cum three times–but you’ll keep twenty five pounds for each day you remain in this form, so I’d suggest you hurry.”

There was a click, and Mac felt something pulling his cock down slightly–and like his cock was…restrained. “What…”

“I just put a chastity cage on you.”

Mac just stared at him. “But…But you said–”

“Well I didn’t want it to be easy for you, you fucking asshole. Besides, the only way you can cum is with a cock in your ass–a real cock, not a dildo. Anyway, I have to get home–I have homework to do.”

Mac screamed and tried to grab him, but he ended up just falling to the ground, Jerry stepping out of the way.

“Screaming isn’t going to make a difference–I suggest you find some guys to fuck you, and soon, if you don’t want to be that fat permanently. Of course, with that stubby cock of yours locked, you’re going to have to rely on anal stimulation, so fisting would really be the best option.”

“Fuck…fuck you.”

“Heh, no Mac. Fuck. You.” Jerry said. “But if you ask me nicely, maybe I’ll give you some help.”

Mac glared at him, and spat at his feet–he didn’t give in and accept Jerry offer until after school three days later, after he’d been relentlessly bullied by all of his previous friends, and spent every evening fucking his ass raw with his mom’s stolen dildo. Jerry made him beg, and suck his cock, before giving him assistance, mumbling a second spell over him. Mac didn’t notice a difference; Jerry told him he would soon enough. Mac was pissed, but he walked home–and nothing at all seemed strange until his dad came home, and they smelled each other…

They ended up in the garage, his dad’s cock buried deep in Mac’s asshole, fucking him deep, but as good as it felt, with the cage on he couldn’t cum–that didn’t stop his dad from fucking him again that evening, twice during the night, and one last time before work. Worse than getting fucked by his dad, was that Mac liked it. He wanted to submit, he wanted to be fucked by him, and it felt…it felt so fucking good, to have his dad’s cock in his hole. Still, it was time for school–he passed several men before another one caught his nose–a chubby roughneck wearing some dirty workgear, and they fucked in a narrow gap between two houses. At least twenty men smelled attractive at school, including several teachers and his old coach, but between the orgy that kept him occupied in the bathroom most of the day, he managed to eek out one load from his locked cock.

It took him all weekend and two more days to come all three times, and then, finally, he felt the fat beginning to fall off his body–but not all of it. He had been a muscular 225 before all of this, but after the curse, he only lost about half–resting at a still obese 450 nine days later. But the men still smelled amazing…and he quickly realized that just because he’d overcome the first curse, didn’t mean he’d beaten the second–who knew what sort of demands Jerry was going to make if Mac wanted all his freedom back?

Father’s Rules (Part 5)

***Warning*** Darkness ahead.

The list began growing longer all over again. His dad would still bring home men, but now instead of just watching, Blake was forced to serve them and his dad sexually all night long. To further his sexual education, his daily routine of masturbation began incorporating any number of toys–at first, just dildos, but then also clamps, stretchers, pumpers–before long Blake was compelled to fuck his hole regularly as he masturbated, and had to wear a buttplug at work and the gym. His father forced him to have his nipples and cock pierced, and they were pumped and stretched as well. He fought, of course. He fought hard, but there was nothing he could do, except watch himself grow older and older in the mirror, his hair picking up strands, and then streaks of grey–though grey was a bit of a misnomer. He smoked so much, that they were really just yellow. His face grew wrinkled, his eyesight failing and forcing him to wear glasses. Eventually, one day–either from exhuatsion or simply terror at his own age, he decided to give in.

He worshiped his dad happily, cleaning his entire body every chance he could get. He would offer up any of his holes to any man his father took a liking to, and happily submit to any kind of sex. Slowly, he even began to forget that there was ever a time when he wasn’t his dad’s personal whore. Reality, thankfully, shifted with him. He went from being his father’s son to his brother. He hoped that would be enough for his father, he hoped that, maybe, he would let things slide, let the list die, so he could be free–instead, Saul saw his son’s new eagerness as an excuse to double down and force him to go even further.

He established a cum quota on the list–the number of loads Blake would have to swallow or take in his ass–raw–every day. The number began at a manageable five, but soon escalated to a nearly impossible fifty. Blake was forced to spend nearly every moment of his day seeking out men to service sexually–and he soon became a regular feature of local gloryholes, bathhouses and gay saunas, where he would occasionally collect enough loads to satisfy his father’s demands, but often his failure would simply mean disobedience, and he continued aging. He hoped that when he grew older than his own father, the list’s power would wane–but it made no difference, as he became his father’s older brother, resting in his upper fifties, once he realized how low he had to go in order to meet his father’s arbitrary quota.

His desperation had rooted out any remaining desire to disobey–he became meek and desperate to please, one eye always on the list, hoping it would finally shrink to nothing, but there was always something else–a new commandment that he drink ten loads of piss a day. Another, forcing him to eat his own cigar butts, as well as any cigarette or cigar butts he found, not to mention he would happily serve as a spittoon for anyone who asked. His nicotine addiction became crippling in short measure–before too long, simply smoking his cigars wasn’t enough for him–he would have to smoke and chew at the same time, swallowing his own foul spit, just to keep the tremors at bay, but finally, his father seemed pleased. He encouraged him, told him that his son had finally become a real man, and the praise…the praise made him so happy, it disgusted him. But the list waned, it waned slowly, but he held out hope that the end was finally in sight.

In those rare times when he was home alone, he would often just stand in the bathroom, staring at himself, trying to hold onto some bit of his past, trying to remember who he’d been. It had been a little over a year now. A whole year, and he was older than his father, his thick, tangled beard reaching down the length of his belly, his hair–what remained, at least, now that he was balding severely–reaching halfway down his back. He reeked all the time–like he hadn’t showered in ages, like a full ashtray someone had pissed in. His teeth had started rotting out of his months ago, and he’d gone into the dentist to get a full set of dentures. Saul and his friends appreciated it–he loved the feel of his “brother’s” gums around his cock, much more than teeth. All of his clothes were soaked with piss, cum, tobacco spit, ash and sweat–no one at work could get within a few feet without facing his stench. Yet, every time, in front of the mirror, cigar permanently clamped in his jaw, a huge wad of tobacco also pushing out his cheek, he would end up jacking off. He would jack off, staring at himself, because a part of him, a part of him growing larger every day, liked it. Liked how much he reeked, liked the feel of the dildo thrusting in and out of his loose hole, loved licking the cum from his gritty, filthy hands after he shot his load. Loved that he was a perverse, nasty old bear, constantly hungry for cum and piss and smoke. Despairing, he’d leave the bathroom, until even that despair abandoned him too. Until that became a routine too–after his father caught him–forced him to enjoy his new body, to feel confident in his perversity.

The list was almost empty again. Saul seemed to have forgotten about it, mostly–that, or Blake had finally become the disgusting pervert he’d always wanted, and had no more desire to change him. Just as Blake had suspected, it had been his father all along. Saul had given up pretending, at this point. He lorded it over him, that he could do whatever he wanted to him, and Blake couldn’t do anything to stop him. Hell, Blake didn’t want to stop him. He liked this. He liked being his father’s–no, not his father. He didn’t think of him as a father anymore, not really. His brother’s pig. His younger brother’s filthy sex pig. But then, his father brought home Anthony.

Father’s Rules (Part 4)

It wasn’t often that Saul didn’t manage to bring someone home–his standards were relatively low–or, he preferred his standards low. Blake was beginning to suspect it was a matter of choice more than anything. Hell, he’d watched his dad have sex with who knew how many men. Some of them he was certain were hobos he’d picked up off the streets. He was drawn to their desperation, it gave Saul a certain level of control over them that he couldn’t otherwise get, a form of control Blake was well acquainted with. He came home, and Blake sensed that he shouldn’t be there. He tried to excuse himself for a late night trip to the gym, but Saul grabbed his wrist and pulled him over the the couch, where he suggested he help his dad out with a blowjob first. Blake told him there was no way he would ever suck his dad’s cock, not after what he’d done to him. Saul slapped him. Blake tried to punch him, but couldn’t–as always. They fought for a moment, but Blake couldn’t keep him from the list, where his dad wrote:

My son must have sex with me whenever I want.

Blake tried to fight it, but his body is no longer interested in what he might think. His dad yanked down his filthy underwear and rammed his cock in his ass, Blake begging him to be gentler, but Saul just spanked his ass, telling him to fucking enjoy it, that this is how real men fuck. He came quickly, and stumbled off to his room where he passed out, Blake sobbing himself to sleep on the couch, staring at the list. He’d been close–so damn close…

Saul woke him up with his cock at five-thirty. Blake sucked him off. They went to work, together, Saul making him blow him in the truck on their mutual cigar and lunch break, and then came home. Blake had said nothing to him all day, and Saul tried to apologize, tried to tell his son that the list had made him do it. Blake exploded, calling his dad a rapist, calling him a pervert, and he stormed out, spending the rest of the afternoon and evening at the gym, trying to lift away his frustration, and he considered simply staying away entirely, and not going back. He didn’t have to go back there, he could just leave, but something…something dragged his feet back home…where he found his father, once again drunk off his ass, sitting on the couch, naked. Blake found himself sinking to his knees and licking his father’s filthy body clean, from his stinking pits and crusty feet, to his sweaty balls and ripe asscrack. Only then, could he finally beg his father to fuck his fat, nasty pighole. Saul was only too happy to oblige him, and it hurt, but not as much as the night before. In fact, Blake realized he’d soon be used to this, just like he’d gotten used to everything else. It was only afterward that he noticed the list had grown longer, again.

My son must worship and clean my body every day.

My son must beg for me to have sex with him at least three times a day.

Saul came up behind him, stinking of smoke and booze, and ran his hands over his son’s body, “You think I’m a pervert, son? Maybe so, but you’ll be a pervert soon enough too, begging me to fuck you every day, obsessed with my body. And last I checked, you can’t rape the very, very willing.”

“You sick fuck! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“No Blake–the question is what’s wrong with you! I think I’ve neglected a very important part of your education, Blake. I don’t think you’ve been properly introduced and educated in the ways of sex, and who better to show you then your father? I thought I was sparing you, by keeping this distance between us, but you haven’t really learned anything, have you? No, you’re still the same prick, you just look hotter. Well don’t worry–we’ll have you singing a different tune here soon. You’ll be a perfect fucking pigson.”

He shoved Blake against the wall, and Blake could smell him, smell them both. Smell the musk between them, the smoke from both of their cigars, the booze and coffee on their breath, and his cock…his fucking cock was getting hard. When Saul leaned in and kissed him, pushing smoke into his lungs, he tried to push him away, but his efforts grew weaker until he was kissing him back, their tongues exploring each other’s mouths. Their lips parted–Blake was panting, Saul at ease with a smirk.

“P-Please…” Blake said.

“Please what, son?”

He meant to ask him to stop–he really did. But what came out was Blake begging his father to fuck his face, his knees buckling, Saul only too happy to use his son’s throat. Blake tried to resist, but his hand found his way into his filthy briefs and started jacking his own cock, cumming even before his father did.

“I don’t think you’re going to be sleeping on the couch anymore, do you?”

Blake didn’t respond, and he tried to hold out for the whole night, but when he woke up to smoke a cigar, the longing in him was undeniable, and he climbed into bed with his father, asking him to for a midnight fuck while they smoked. So close–he’d been so damn close, but things were only going to get worse, Blake realized–or, from a different perspective, better–he thought, as his father wrapped him in his burly arms, cock still lodged in his ass, and they drifted to sleep.

Father’s Rules (Part 2)

Blake woke up at six o’ clock on the couch, right on the dot, like someone had thrown a switch. He looked up at saw his dad was up as well, dressed in his clothes for work, next to the list of rules on the wall.

“What, watching me sleep, pervert?” Blake said, sitting up.

“No, I was just waiting for you to wake up–no more sleeping in for you. Up at six o’ clock every morning, whether you like it or not. Now I have to get going to the site, but I wanted to make sure you saw your new rules.

Blake looked at the list, and saw a number of new entries had appeared:

My son will consume at least one pot of black coffee and at least 2000 calories between six A.M. and noon.

My son will consume at least one twelve pack of beer and 4000 calories between noon and midnight

My Son will consume at least six cigars a day.

“What the fuck? But what about school?”

“Both of us know you weren’t even going to school when you could go to school. No, I think you’ll be staying here for a while, where I can keep an eye on you, son.”

Blake tried to protest, but Saul just left the apartment, abandoning him to his rules. The first few days he fought–but his body wouldn’t let him disobey. His father had kept the house stocked with plenty of food–almost all of it fatty snack foods, and since he couldn’t count calories easily, he’d just eat until the hunger died away, usually jacking off as he did to get to fifteen ejaculations by the end of the day. He was a mess the first week. The second week he managed better, but by the third week, his father increased the numbers–two pots of coffee, 9000 calories a day, eighteen beers, and ten cigars. Almost every night, his father would bring home another man to fuck around with, and he’d managed to find a quite a few guys who didn’t mind Max watching them fuck, while he drank his beers and smoked his cigars, but he couldn’t keep doing this, he just couldn’t.

He got a knife from the kitchen and tried to attack his dad when he got home one evening, but the list wouldn’t let him harm Saul, he couldn’t even bring himself to try and land a blow on him. So Saul made a new rule that Blake had to eat all of his own cum. He lasted two days before he finally broke down, sobbing. He couldn’t live like this, he had to get out of the apartment. He felt sick all the time, his cock was chaffed, the smoke hurt his lungs, he couldn’t take it anymore. He’d do anything, anything Saul wanted him to do, if he could just go back to being a normal teenager again.

Saul didn’t do or say anything right away. Then, he laughed. “Teenager?” he asked, “Son, you haven’t been a teenager for quite a while now.”

Blake just looked at him, confused. Saul rolled his eyes. “It usually takes a few days for your head to catch up and fill in, but you’ll figure it out. Now, I’m fucking beat–I’m gonna go jack off if you wanna watch, and then I’m going to bed.”

Blake figured out what his dad was talking about the next day, when he finished taking one of his long beer pisses, and caught sight of himself in the mirror. He was a mess, of course. He eyes were bloodshot, and he’d gained quite a bit of weight from his binging. Too much weight, really. It had only been a month–he managed to dig an old scale out from under the sink, and sure enough, he’d gone from one hundred and fifty pounds to two hundred and sixty in less than a month. That didn’t make sense, did it? Then again, he hadn’t weighed one fifty since he was in high school, so–

He ran that thought back. Since he was in high school? He was still in high school…wasn’t he?

He knew the answer. He’d dropped out when he was sixteen–he was too lazy to do much of anything beyond smoke, drink, eat and jack off in his dad’s apartment. He looked at himself in the mirror, and he did look older–like he was probably around twenty seven or so, not sixteen. He freaked out–all he could think to do, however, was drink more beer and smoke more cigars, anything to calm him down until his dad got home from work, and Blake demanded answers.

“The more you fight it, the more you age, son. That’s how it works. And you become whatever the rules you’re following think you should be. You’re a fucking slob now, son. You stink–Have you even showered this week? You didn’t even notice the beard either I bet–hell, it almost reaches your chest–the same with that hair of yours.”

“No…no, this is insane.”

“No, this is your fucking punishment. But if you’re ready to grow up and be a man, then we can have a conversation about what your rules might be, but–”

“Fuck you!” Blake screamed, tried to punch him, but he only hit air, “I fucking hate you! I don’t fucking care what you do, fuck you!”

Saul scowled, “I’m trying to be patient. My dad wasn’t this patient with me, but I know how it feels. If you just cooperate…”

Saul could see Max wasn’t listening, so he shrugged, and went to bed; Max sat on the couch and did his best to keep his hand away from his cock, but he…he simply couldn’t. He was addicted to masturbation as he was to the cigars he was smoking and the cheap beer he was guzzling. What was this list doing to him? Hell, what was his dad doing to him? He was beginning to suspect this was less about punishment and more about his own father’s twisted imagination, but what could he do?

Father’s Rules (Part 1)

Blake had never met his father–he’d abandoned him and his mother when he was just a kid. When his mother died of cancer, he certainly hadn’t expected his dad to take him in, but when the state found him and gave him little choice, the two were forced to co-exist. Blake was a sixteen year old rebel, with no interest in authority. His father was a burly, hairy lower class slob, holding down a construction job when he wasn’t too drunk to go to work. Their first few days together, unsurprisingly, were difficult. Saul–his father–refused to make room for him in the small one bedroom apartment he kept downtown, forcing Blake to sleep on the couch. Blake refused to accept any sort of authority, and when his dad brought home a burly coworker one night for a fuck, he was disgusted and stormed out of the place after screaming at Saul, calling him a “disgusting faggot,” and spitting in his face. He stayed away for several days, and only relented to returning home when a police officer picked him up as a runaway and took him back against his will. Saul was waiting, and they sat down to talk some of this out.

Much to Blake’s anger, Saul had no real interest giving any sort of ground–in fact, Saul told him that if Blake wanted to live with him, then it was going to be on his terms, under his rules. Blake told him that if he was grown up, he’d be out of there immediately, but since he wasn’t eighteen, then he didn’t have much of a choice. Saul leaned back on the couch. He confessed that when he’d knocked Blake’s mother up as a teenager, his father had been furious–and he decided that Blake would just have to see what it meant to live by his rules. He’d still be living by them if his dad hadn’t died the year before.

Blake just narrowed his eyes, and did some math. As a teenager? But his dad was at least in his fifties, and Blake was a teenager. How did that even make sense? Saul just got up, picked up a strange looking piece of parchment and pinned it to the wall by the front door of the apartment. Something was already written on it–a header in some fancy calligraphy which simply said, “Father’s Rules.” The rest of the page was blank. Saul leered at him, and then said to the paper, “When at home, my son can only wear his underwear.”

As he watched, Blake say the words appear on the parchment, and immediately after he stood up, his hands stripping off his clothes until he had on nothing but his boxers. “What the fuck, you fucking pervert!” he shouted at him, and Saul laughed.

“My son must jack off at least fifteen times a day. He can only cum while looking at gay porn featuring older hairy men, or while watching his father jack off or have sex with another man.”

“You’re fucking sick.”

Saul chuckled, “You’re in my house now, son,” Saul said, “I swore that I’d never put someone through what my dad did to me, but you know what? Fuck it. Because you’re a fucking brat, and someone needs to teach you a fucking lesson, and who better than your dad?”

“You can’t make me, I’ll just fucking leave!”

Saul turned to the list, “My son can’t leave home without my explicit permission.”

Blake pushed past him, but his hand couldn’t grab the knob for some reason. Saul laughed, pushed Blake back, and said, “I’m going out–see you in a few hours. You might want to get started, or you aren’t going to be sleeping tonight, son–I got plenty of old mags you can use under my bed, since I don’t have a computer.”

Blake spent a few more minutes trying to get out of the apartment, and trying to ignore his rock hard cock. Finally he started stroking himself, but just like the rule said, he found it impossible to shoot–he was only rubbing himself raw trying to think about women. Finally he relented, dug around under his father’s filthy bed and found a box full of gay porno mags. Most of them were well used–their pages crinkled with who knew how many of his father’s loads, but looking at the burly, hairy, fat men in the magazines let him finally start pumping out load after load of cum–shooting on his father’s bed and pillows out of spite. After ten or so loads, his arms aching, he heard the door to the apartment open, his father laughing drunkenly with some other guy. Terrified that someone might see him, he fled his father’s room, clutching a magazine and dashed to the bathroom, but the more he listened to his dad and the man talk and grunt outside the door, the harder he got, and the more curious he became.

Unsure if he could stop himself or not, he opened the door and slipped out into the hall. Saul had left his door open–his dad was fucking some other man on the bed, a man as fat and hairy as the men Blake had been staring at all evening, and he wrapped his hand around his cock and continued.

He shot twice before the man heard him, looked over and saw Blake in the doorway, letting out a yell.

“What the fuck! Who the fuck’s the kid?”

Saul looked over, “Oh, sorry. That’s my son–he’s a bit of a pervert. He loves watching me fuck.”

“That’s fucking disgusting,” the man said, “I’m getting out of here!”

He grabbed his clothes and pushed passed Blake on his way to the front door, shooting him a look of disgust Blake had never imagined might be directed his direction in his life. He just sat in the hallway, his dad padding to the doorway, stroking his still hard cock, “Now who’s the pervert, son?”

“F-Fuck you.” His eyes were locked his his father’s cock, and he jacked off again, watching his dad stroke himself off as well.

“Have a good night son,” Saul said, and stepped back into the bedroom, “Hope you won’t be up too much longer now–we have quite a few more rules to discuss in the morning.”

Master of Men (Part 2)

Craig opened a trapdoor in the floor of his garage, revealing a staircase which descended into the ground below. Paul followed him, no longer able to think of doing anything beyond following the stink of the older man’s sweat down into the depths. The stairs gave way to a ramp, the tunnel linked up with other tunnels, and soon they emerged into a broad, high ceiling cavern. In the center of the room was a dias poised a story and a half off the ground–it looked ancient, and far too well crafted to have been made by anything crude–rather, it seemed to have erupted from the ground as a fluid mass, before something froze it in place. Paul reacted instinctively, tugging back when he saw it, but Craig yanked the lead, and he followed him up a winding stair to the surface above.

The men of the neighborhood were already there, milling about, finding their places around the circle. Paul saw Jason there, limping, but he wouldn’t look at him. Unlike the other men, who all bore plain robes, he was naked aside from a solid ring of steel around his cock and balls. Paul wanted to cry for help, but his jaw was slack. He didn’t think he could even muster a single word. The surface of the dais was perfectly even, yet bore an intricate pattern of metal inlay, winding around the black rock, glinting in the torchlight. However, as soon as Craig stepped into the circle, the metal began to glow a dull red, the other men hurrying to the edge of the circle, where they knelt in a ring around them both.

He waited for them to settle, and for the cavern to return to silence, before booming out, “Welcome, my Men.”

“Glory to the Master of Men,” they replied, in unison.

“Today, my men, is a very special day! A day all of you know well, a day when we welcome a man into our midst, the day we elevate another to our height, a day when we add another to our service. Jason, come here, come, stand tall and be joyful! Today is your day, a day you have been working toward for such a long time.”

Jason stood, he limped into the circle, head bowed away from his brother, and stood on the other side of Craig.

“You have completed your duties, as an initiate, and you have provided a worthy sacrifice. Today, you will claim what you seek, the true manhood you desire. We shall witness your re-manning, and we shall welcome you into our midst.”

Craig waved his hand over the floor, and the metal shimmered, slithering up as though it were alive, before grasping Paul’s neck, ankles and wrists, tugging him down to his knees, and then all fours, holding him in place on the floor. He tried to fight against the enchantment addling his brain, but he couldn’t, just drool on the stone, as Craig turned to his brother.

“Your brother has failed to use his gifts. You shall make better use of them than he has. But the Beast in him will not give up easily–a true man must be firm of hand and strong of spirit. If you want to join us, you must take from him what he has abused.”

Craig stepped to the edge of the circle, leaving the two brother’s alone in the center of the platform. Jason stood still for a moment, and then walked around behind Paul, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but I…I can’t…”

“Ja….son…” Paul managed to force from his slack mouth, but it dissolved into a moan, as his brother’s thick fingers slid into his sweaty hole, loosening him, and then he felt Jason’s cock push into him. It was hot, it was so hot, and he wanted to crawl away, but the metal held him tightly in place, as Jason fucked him. Craig began a chant; the men around them were soon following him, and floor began to glow a brighter red. Jason was panting, but he was close. The chant grew louder, and he groaned loudly, cumming into his brother’s hole, and Paul felt a searing force push it’s way into him from his brother, twisting him, destroying him. He fought it, he but it was so strong–it ripped his defenses to shreds. His body was gurgling, and his muscles began to fade as fat filled up the place they left behind, his barrel chest dissolving into a heavy gut and two pendulous moobs, and his knee. His right knee, it hurt–a desperate, searing pain. Is this what Jason had felt? Is this what he’d suffered with for so long?

The force ebbed, the tatters of himself settling within him, and Jason withdrew, standing up. Craig approached, “Welcome! Welcome, my newest Man!” he said. Paul couldn’t turn his head with the metal clamped around his neck, but Craig led him around his fat body, and he could see his brother–he was huge. At least seven feet tall, and packed solid with muscle, far more muscle than he could have simply stolen from Paul. He was sobbing. He was sobbing, and he fell to his knees before Craig, “Master…Master, thank you. It doesn’t hurt. The pain–”

“I know,” Craig said, caressing his bearded face, “I know, and you are a Man now. Your sacrifice was great–you should be proud.”

“I promise…I promise to serve you, to obey, anything, anything for you Master, anything, I swear, for what you’ve given me…” Jason tried to continue, but he dissolved into wrenching tears, and Paul could only watch. Craig stepped away, the men of the neighborhood came forward and helped Jason stand, bringing him back out of the circle. But what about him? What about his sacrifice? Paul was broken too–why should he be forced to carry Jason’s burdens as well as his own? How was that fair?

Craig walked back to him, and kneeled in front of Paul. His face was kind, and that only made Paul angrier. “You provided your brother with a great thing, you know. You should be proud.”

Anger. Anger greater than anything he’d ever felt in his life, greater than anything he’d felt in war welled in him, pushing Craig’s musk from him. He screamed and cursed at him, his body tensing, but the metal refused to give an inch. In that moment, he felt like all of the layers of himself were being stripped away, and he was simply an animal. Craig didn’t flinch, he waited until he stopped, heaving for breath, before standing up and turning to the men behind him. “All men are broken. All men are flawed, are deficient. They are prone to vice and sin. This man, is more than broken however. He was welcomed the Beast into his heart. It is not his fault–he has been trained to shurg off empathy and fellowship, to replace them with hatred and rage. This, my Men, is no man at all, but a beast in the guise of a man. But I am the Master, and I can free him of his self-imposed illusion. Bear witness to my miracles.”

“We are the men who witness,” the men reply.

Max Meets Junior – Part 2 (Patreon Commission)

By the next morning, it was like Junior had lived with him all his life. By the end of the week, if you had tried to tell him that he hadn’t had a stepson, that he’d never even been married, he would have laughed, and thought you were insane…although he still couldn’t remember ever getting married. Junior was more than family, however, he quickly became a confidant. Max had never been very good at making friends. If anything, he sort of despised people–not that he would ever allow himself to admit something like that–but the fact was, he thought most people were simply cruel, mean and petty. Why would he want to engage with people like that?

He told Junior this and Junior laughed. Max insisted he was serious, and Junior simply told him, “I know, and that’s why you’re going to be so much fun. We’re going to have so much fun together, you and I!”

He laughed again, and not wanting to seem strange, Max found himself laughing too, even though he wasn’t certain what was so funny.

They still hadn’t gotten any further than a kiss, however. Max wanted to, but he didn’t want to want it. Junior could tell, and toyed with him, but made no attempt to force him, because he knew Max would never really want to resist, or even try. Their days settled into a bit of a routine. Max had begun getting up earlier now to cook breakfast for Junior, and Junior insisted that Max eat as well. He would go to work, spend much of the day thinking about his stepson, and then go home. They would eat dinner together, spend the rest of the evening talking, and eventually Max would get tired and go to bed. On the weekend, they had spent most of the day talking again, and most of it had been spent discussing Max’s current dilemma at work.

Max worked for a large technology company as a mid-level manager responsible for a team of eight. However, the new budgets had just been sent down from on high, and Max’s manager had informed him that their budget no longer had any room for “fat or gristle,” as Mr. Herman had said. He said that Max would need to let two people go by the end of the month, but Max hadn’t been able to do it. He didn’t want to fire anyone–he thought his whole team worked hard, and more than that, he needed everyone to get the project done on deadline. He’d tried to explain this to Mr. Herman, who had instead informed him that if he didn’t have names by the end of the week, he would be firing Max instead.

To Junior, the answer was obvious–just fire people. Max didn’t think it was so easy, and he didn’t know if he really wanted to work for a company that was so interested in its bottom line that it would fire good employees. When Max told him that, Jenior just stared at him–or maybe through him or into him, and smirked. “But what about me?” he asked, “Don’t you care about me? You need to keep bringing home the money to keep me happy, daddy.”

“We could make it work, I have some savings, and–”

Junior just scowled at him pursed his lips. Max again had this odd awareness that he didn’t know how old his stepson actually was. That..that he didn’t even really know who he was, either.

“Look, let’s talk about something else. How’s school going.”

“I don’t go to school daddy, you know that.”

“What? But–”

“Look, Daddy, I know you must be tired,” Junior said, standing up and stretching, Max’s eyes feeling heavy even as he tried to focus on his stepson’s crotch as hard as he could, inches from his face, “Why don’t you go to bed–you have an important decision to make this week, and you need your rest.”

“Y-Yeah, I mean, I do feel…tired.”

“That’s a good daddy. Now give me a good night kiss, and go get to bed.”

Max Meets Junior – Part 1 (Patreon Commission)

Max was already not having a very good day. He’d hit the snooze button one too many times, and finally managed to roll out of bed and find his way into his apartment kitchen to try and cobble together some breakfast for himself. He didn’t exactly have time for much, not if he didn’t want to be late to the office, and with how Mr. Carson was feeling about him stalling on his decision, being late wasn’t going to be an option for him. He popped some bread in the toaster, and while it cooked he tried to found his shoes, tied his tie. The toast was too light; he put it down for another round. He scrounged together the papers covering the ikea coffee table he’d bought off Craigslist, and smelled something burning–now it was overdone. He slathered it with some butter and started checked to make sure he had everything, when his stepson came around the corner, muscular arms stretched and flexed high as he yawned.

Wait–Stepson?

“Fuck daddy, did you have to burn the house down?”

He didn’t have a stepson. Hell, he’d never even been married before. He worked too much to date–and he was gay anyway. The young man dropped his arms, scratching his bare abs. Fuck, he was built, and didn’t mind showing it off, obviously. He was only wearing a pair of skimpy briefs which were cut a bit small, and were colored an electric blue. Max took a bite of toast, his eyes fixed on his stepson’s cock outlined in his underwear…what had he been thinking about again?

“I hope my breakfast isn’t that burnt like that.”

Max shook his head, “What? I didn’t make anything for you.”

“What do you mean you didn’t make me anything?” he pouted, “You always make me breakfast, daddy.”

“Look…” He drew a blank, trying to conjure his stepson’s name. That was odd, right? Wasn’t…wasn’t all of this odd? He didn’t remember this young man at all. He stared harder, trying to find a name, find anything in his memory that could tell him who this young man was, what he was doing in his apartment, why…why his eyes were so blue, like fucking crystal, and whenever he cocked his head to the side like that and smirked, fuck his cock got hard. He could feel it tenting in his suit pants–his stepson’s eyes broke away from his, flashed down to his crotch and back up. Max blushed and looked away. What had he even been getting ready to say? Breakfast, they’d been talking about breakfast, right? “Look, let me see what…what we have.” He set his toast down on the counter and walked over to the pantry. “There’s cereal, why don’t you just pour yourself a bowl?”

“But I want something…hotter than that.”

“Oatmeal?”

“Something…meatier, I think…”

Max looked over at him, but his stepson’s eyes were on his body, and a wave of heat shot through him. What was he doing? Was…was he hitting on him? Why…why didn’t that bother him more than he imagined it should? “Meat….meat, right…well,” he hurried over to the fridge and started looking around inside, “I have bacon.”

“No sausage?”

“N-No…no sausage this morning.”

His stepson let out a long sigh, “Fine, I guess I’ll just have some bacon and eggs then.”

Max pulled the carton of eggs from the fridge along with the pack of bacon and set them on the counter, got out a couple of pans and started heating them on the stove, when he remembered he was still late for work. “Shit!” he said, “Look…uh….look, I’m going to be late for work, I can’t make this for you, I’m sure you can…can…uhh…” Max had turned around and discovered his stepson had moved from the doorway to the kitchen and taken a seat at the small table in the nook, facing Max at the stove. His legs were spread wide, giving him a clear shot of his thick, muscular thighs and that big bulge again. Hiss stepson wasn’t looking at him, however, and he ran one hand across one pec and down his firm abs before cupping his bulging crotch in one hand and giving it a squeeze, Max’s own cock spasming as it did, spurting out a bit of precum into his underwear. He turned around quickly, hoping his stepson hadn’t noticed, and laid out the bacon in the pan, focusing on it for a few minutes, though he did risk the occasional peek over his shoulder at the young man behind him, though whether it was out of fear or allure he couldn’t quite tell–or be honest with himself.

“Don’t make the bacon too crispy–I want it to have some bite.”

“Sure.”

“And I want the eggs medium well. Like…when you break them with a fork, it should ooze out like…like…like cum from a daddy’s cock.”

Max whirled around, “What did you say?”

He didn’t reply, he just kept massaging his crotch, and Max whirled back around, blushing hard.

The bacon was done–he cooked the eggs in the grease left behind and served them to his stepson on a plate. “Thanks daddy, you’re the best.”

“Oh, I mean, you’re welcome…” he still didn’t have a name for him, why couldn’t he think of his own stepson’s name! He stared at him, trying to remember, trying to piece this together again, but his eyes got lost in his stepson’s arms as he ate, moving egg and bacon to his mouth, those lips, big lips, and now he wished he’d had some sausage, wished he could see those lips wrapped around something thick, wrapped around his cock. This wasn’t right, this wasn’t normal. “You…you know, this is going to sound very odd, but…but somehow I forgot your name.”

His stepson smirked, “Ah, names. What’s in a name, really? Such a bother, really. Why don’t you just call me Junior, alright daddy? Now, shouldn’t you be getting to work?”

Fuck.

He looked at the clock–he’d wasted half an hour making Junior breakfast, and now he definitely was going to be late. He hurried to gather the rest of his things and head for the door, but Junior called to him, “Wait daddy! You can’t leave without giving me a kiss, right?”

A bit exasperated, he walked over to where Junior was finishing his breakfast, intending to just give him a peck on the cheek, but his stepson pushed his face back towards his and locked lips with him. It was electric, Junior slipping his tongue into Max’s mouth, shocking him, and yet…and yet…he pushed back, shoving his tongue into his stepson, invading him tasting him. He realized he was moaning, his hard cock pressed against Junior’s side, but he didn’t care. Finally, Junior pushed him away gently, Max licking his lips. “I’ll see you when you get home, daddy. I love you.”

“I…I love you too…” Max said, backed away, and then rushed for the door, opening it and slamming it behind him before Junior could say anything else, and took a moment to breathe. What had he just done? No one kisses their stepson like that! But fuck, if he could still feel his thick lips, fuck if he couldn’t imagine what they’d feel like wrapped around his cock. How…how old was Junior, anyway? Something in the way he’d kissed gave him the idea that he was old enough. And…and its not like they were family anyway, right?

No. A Thousand times no.

He hurried to his car and drove to the office, and even though he was half an hour late, he couldn’t go in like this. His cock had been hard for the whole commute, and his pants were too tight to hide it. He couldn’t let people see this, right? So he jacked off in his car–it was the only reasonable thing to do, right? He jacked off, and he fantasized about his stepson, about junior, about peeling off that blue underwear, about tasting his young cock, about shoving him to his knees grabbing that blonde hair of his in his fist and shoving his cock down his young throat, fucking, fucking fuck–

He shot into a napkin he’d managed to find in the center console, mopped himself up as best he could, and then hurried into his office. He didn’t know what he was going to do about Junior–and he passed off his lateness as his alarm not going off properly. But still, as the day wore on, the horniness didn’t ever abate. All he could think about was his stepson, as he slipped away to the bathroom more than once to relieve some of the tension. When the day was over, he didn’t know what to feel. Terror? Excitement? Arousal? He drove home with all three swirling in his gut together, climbed the steps to his apartment, and paused outside. He couldn’t do this. He should call the police, report an intruder…but he wasn’t an intruder, was he? He didn’t even know anymore, all he wanted was those lips, to feel those soft lips against is, to taste his tongue again, and his shaking hand managed to force the key into the lock, and he pushed it in.

His stepson was waiting just inside the door, still in his underwear. Had he done anything today? Gone to school? Watched TV? Or had he just stood there, at the door, waiting? They shared another kiss, longer than the one they had that morning, and his worries all faded and ebbed away, sucked out of him by Junior. “So daddy, what’s for dinner?” he said, wrapping one hand in Max’s tie, holding him close, “I hope its steak or something, because I’m still in the mood for meat.”