The Fetish Gun is Loose! (Part 2) [Interactive]

Davie took a break from the dance floor, got a bottle of water from the bar, and went to take a seat on the upper floor, where he could get a good view of the rest of the bar for a bit. It was…weird. Usually he would be having a better time here, or at least, he remembered usually having a better time here, but he hadn’t really been able to find anyone who, well, interested him that much. Of course, Davie didn’t have much trouble finding plenty of men interested in him–and the men he could remember going home with before were similar to him. Muscled, young, nicely hung…but tonight, no one seemed…big enough for him. Even the guys who were his usual fuckbuddies weren’t piquing his interest. They were all shorter than him, too…too normal.

He wanted a freak, is what he wanted. Some massive brute, seven feet tall, tattoos and piercings all over his body, cock and balls injected full of silicone until they were impossibly large…but why in the fucking hell did he want that? He…shouldn’t want that, right? It wasn’t what he could recall wanting, at least, at any point before this, but for some reason, it was the only thing he could think about, and every time he thought about it, his cock got rock hard. He looked over at a nearby empty table, and saw something there that looked…suspiciously like a gun. He went over to it, and saw it wasn’t a normal gun, but more like a toy gun of some sort–thought when he picked it up, the thing was surprisingly heavy. There was a sheet of paper wrapped around the narrow barrell of the gun. He unfurled it, and saw that it was a list of instructions–but when he read through them…there was no way the thing could be real, right?

It was, allegedly, called the fetish gun. It had five settings, which he skimmed through, but there was no way this could possibly be a thing. He looked around, and there were a few people chatting as well, he moved into a booth, set the gun to A, and shot it at the ground. A yellow beam shot out of the tip of the gun, hit the floor, and spread out–doing nothing, but it was…a pretty effect if nothing else.

Could it really be true? He thought about the…obsessions that had gripped him over the course of the evening, and figured there was nothing he would lose if it didn’t work. He pointed the gun at his thigh, thought about the fetishes he’d been obsessing over, and fired. This time, instead of just dispersing, the light infused him, spreading from where it hit his body, all around him, and he felt his skin…tingle. He let the gun go for five seconds or so, let it go, and when he looked at himself…he definitely wasn’t the same person he’d been a moment before.

He was bigger for one thing. Not just more muscular, but taller as well, by a couple of inches. Of course, the steroids he’d been using for most of a year now were helping with that. The memory surprised him–he’d never used steroids before, right? But he had new memories now, how he’d grown so disappointed with his progress (as good as it had been) that he’d decided to throw caution to the wind, and make himself the body he wanted, no matter what it took. That included…silicone. Lots of it.

He’d started with his cock and balls. Now, they were twice the size they’d been before, and he loved how they bulged in the front of the tight spandex singlet he’d worn to the bar tonight. He hadn’t been able to stop there though–he’d started injecting his pecs as well, making them bigger and puffier, as well as his ass, filling out the back of the singlet with a wide bubble butt. He looked…strange. Not quite right, but he didn’t care–he loved it. He loved that people stared at him like he was a freak, and he loved how many men wanted to be with him, because he was a bit fucked up. The tattoos and piercings were just the icing on the cake really–thick blackwork lines running all over his arms and legs. He was going to fill in the rest of him eventually, but shit, it was expensive. He’d also been pumping and stretching his nipples, and just put in new zero gauge door knockers tonight. He loved how it felt, feeling them pulling down on his chest, just like the bull ring he kept in his nose all the time now.

He knew this wasn’t right, but it was what he’d fucking wanted, and now it was true! He looked down at the gun in his hand, which seemed…smaller now, and at the dial on the side. The slip of paper with the instructions had disappeared, but he remembered well enough what they all did. A would make him or anyone else match the fetish he was thinking about, B would make his fetishes contagious, C would…do something with an object and make someone else like that same object, D would make people into couples or groups, and E would cause someone to absorb the fetishes of the people around him. He gave it a spin, before settling on one of them. This would be fun, he thought, and then he could always try out something else later–probably.

So, what’s Davey’s first move with the gun?

He uses setting B to make people in the bar obsess over his changes.
He uses setting C on his silicone filled cock and balls, wondering what night happen if he shoots someone afterward.
He uses setting D on a big leatherman in the bar, to make them fuckbuddies.
He uses setting E to absorb different fetishes from other men on the dance floor.

Here’s the twitter poll

Here’s the patron only poll

Voting ends in two days on Friday!

The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 2 (Part 4)

I didn’t tell him about the apartment just yet–instead, I asked him about Bernard, about whether anything he’d seen him say reminded him of his own experiences. He was dismissive of him. Bernard didn’t know anything, really. He said that he didn’t matter, that he could see Master had gotten tired of him, found nothing worth his time and effort, not like him–and only realized after the fact that he’d let his guard slip. I pressed him, and he clammed back up, refusing to say anything at all. He knew more about this–all of it–than he was willing to tell me, but I didn’t understand why. What sort of loyalty could this rapist possibly engender in his victims, that they would go to these lengths to defend him, and praise him? I had seen Stockholm syndrome before, on rare tragic occasions, but this…this was something else. This was a degree of change and control that, I had no reasonable explanation for at all.

He wanted to leave, and I told him it would be best if he settled down, and waited for his clothes to arrive, so he wouldn’t leave walking around in a prison jumpsuit. He didn’t argue with the point…but I think he also realized that no one was going to be finding anything of his back at the address he’d given me in the car. Instead, I went to my superiors–I wanted to hold him overnight, or really, as long as I could manage. I knew, if I wasn’t careful, that as soon as he was out of here, he’d disappear just as quickly as Bernard had. Ray changed tactics, and instead started asking about Jules–he still wanted to apologize to him for his accident earlier, and I told him I’d do my best to find him…but he was beginning to panic. Jules, however, had returned from his place, wearing a new change of clothes, and so I told him Ray wanted to talk to him and apologize–and that anything he could do to convince him to cooperate would be a big help.

Jules was a bit off, though. I didn’t realize it in the moment–after all, what we’d been through that day had us all a bit on edge, but I remember smelling the piss on him still–piss and something else, something that I now think was probably his own cum, judging by what happened later. Maybe if I’d been less distracted, I could have prevented what happened next–but as I was about to go down with Jules to see him, Marcus, Mr. Cold Case, came barging in, demanding to see the latest victim I was holding. Jules went down to talk to Ray, while I dealt with him. I refused to let Marcus get involved, of course and he had no legal ground to demand anything from me at all– but I was more interested in how he’d learned about us bringing him in, because as far as I’d heard, no one from the media had caught wind of the case yet. He made a scene eventually–I think he was trying to get locked up down in the hold with him, but in the end he left without doing anything stupid. With that taken care of, I went down to holding, only to discover that, while Marcus had been distracting me, Ray had simply left.

To say I was furious was an understatement. I demanded to know who, exactly, had cleared him to leave, and the officers on duty told me that Jules had gone into the room with him for a few minutes, alone, and then the two of them had left the precinct together. I went into the room where the session had been taped, rewound the footage, and watched and listened to what had happened when Jules had gone into the room, but as…normal as the encounter might have seemed on the surface, something was very, very wrong.

Jules had entered the room and hurried over to where Ray was standing, getting…very close to him, and on the tape, I think I can hear him sniffing, or maybe even snorting. “There you are,” Ray said, “I wanted to say sorry for gettin’ my piss all over you earlier,” Ray says, putting one massive arm around Jules’ shoulder, and bringing him close, turning around so their backs were to the camera. Whatever was said next I can’t make out on the tape–they’re both talking too quietly, but I can see Jules leaning in closer and closer, nodding along to whatever Ray is telling him, and then they leave–and when they leave, I can see that Jules is hard as a rock in the front of his uniform pants, eyes a bit distant, licking his lips–and Ray just looks…thrilled with himself, somehow.

I called Jules immediately, but he didn’t answer. The Captain was furious that we’d just let a victim walk out without getting any information about where he was going or what he was planning on doing–and I didn’t have a good answer for him. I went by Jules house that evening to talk to him, but his wife told me he’d come home to change, reeking of something awful, and had left again without even bothering to shower. He didn’t show up again the next day either, and now the Captain was even more furious–not only had a victim walked out on us, leaving us with a dead end on the most high profile case in years, apparently he had kidnapped one of our own cops in the process.

I had no leads. All I had was the video from the interrogation room, and so I poured over it, turned up the volume as much as I could, watching body language from those few minutes, trying to understand. Trying to understand why, without even knowing why, I kept trying to jack off while I watched it. Trying to understand why I could still…smell him, even now, as I walked around the precinct. I found nothing–and so I started digging into Ray’s past, only to discover it was scrubbed. No employment records. No driver’s license. No birth certificate. Someone had wiped him off the face of the Earth, whoever he’d been, and left a stinking brute in his place–and the monster who did it had who knew how many other victims in the wings, ready to reveal to the world whenever he wanted–and there was nothing I could do to stop him.

To Be Continued…

The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 2 (Part 3)

Eventually, what I had first assumed to be the man’s mindless obsession shifted into…something more self-aware. Jules, the only one of us who could get close to him, and honestly, the only one of us large enough to really compare to him, kept trying to get him to stop, and at one point, tried to block his way when he went to move to a different machine. The huge fucker just stood chest to chest with Jules, his jaw as slack and eyes as distant as they had been since we entered, sounding confused…and then he pissed all over him. In the halflight, as Jules sprang back, cursing, uniform soaked, I swore I saw the man sneer nostrils flared, his cock half hard as he pushed past Jules and worked through the next set in his routine. Jules went home to clean himself up, and the rest of who remained discussed whether we were going to have to drag him out of there by force. As we reached the decision to get some gas masks if necessary and drag him out, he dropped the barbell he’d been lifting with a clatter, announced that he was finished, and that he could leave with us.

We suggested he go to the hospital to get checked out and cleaned up, and he refused. He didn’t want to go to a hospital, he insisted that he felt perfectly fine, and he didn’t see any reason at all why he needed to get clean. I told him that there was no way he would be riding back with us anywhere smelling like that, and he just shrugged. “I don’t even know why you’re here. I was just doin’ my workout, when you barged in here.” His voice was gruff, with a practiced stupidity I didn’t quite believe was authentic. I told him that someone had called 911 and reported a rape victim, and since he was the only person in the area, we assumed the call had meant him. He looked down at himself, clenching and unclenching his fists a few times. “I…I mean, at first…” he muttered, then shook his head. “No, I’m fine, but…but I…I’m sorry for, uh, pissin, earlier, I don’t always have the best control or focus when I’m workin’ out. Is he…around? The guy I soaked? I’d like to apologize.”

“He’s back at the station,” I lied, “Why don’t you ride back with me, answer a few questions I have, and you can get a chance to apologize then.”

“Am I under arrest? I didn’t do nothin’,” he said.

“You’re welcome to do whatever you want…though I would like to know why you were trespassing on private property here. If you were here of your own volition, then I’ll have to charge you with squatting.”

He got real quiet. I didn’t understand what he was playing at, at the time. Why not just come out with it, and admit it? Then again, if he’d been in here more than a few days, he would have had no idea about the other case that had just come to light. Right then, he thought he was alone. “There’s others, you know. You aren’t the first one to deal with this. I know it seems impossible, looking at yourself, but I’m willing to believe just about anything you tell me about him at this point, after what I’ve seen already.”

Another inscrutable look, but one which I was certain contained some anger. That surprised me more than just about anything else had, that day. It was enough to convince him to come along with us back to the station to take a statement, at least–he rode back with me, giving me plenty of time to get…accustomed to his musk. It was heady, but it also wasn’t…old, if that makes sense. Rather, it smelled fresh in a way I couldn’t quite describe, and as I adjusted to it and found myself able to breathe a bit more normal, I felt a stirring in my crotch, and my cock started to harden inexplicably. I distracted myself with some basic questions–getting his name (Ray Campbell), whether he had anyone he wanted us to contact (no one that he was willing to name), and where he lived, so we could get him a change of clothes (an apartment downtown, though at the mention of clothing, he gave a dismissive grunt). I radioed someone to head to his apartment, with his permission to enter, and then we arrived at the station. I got him a blanket, but the only clothing I had for him was a jail jumpsuit. He took it, begrudgingly, and we went into an interview room to discuss the actual subject at hand.

He stonewalled me, right from the beginning. If Bernard had been confused and befuddled by what had happened to him, Ray seemed to fully understand what had happened, but hid it, poorly, behind a feigned ignorance, stupidity and dullness. He didn’t know how long he’d been in the shipping container. He didn’t know anything about who had put him in there, what they’d looked like, or why they had forced him to workout. Instead, he kept trying to flip it around, poking and prodding about the other people I had mentioned this happening to…and so, since he was going to see it at some point anyway, I got the tape of the interview Bernard had done on the nightly news, and let him watch it while I got us some food. It was then that the men I’d sent to his apartment returned, empty handed. The landlord had told them that Ray had disappeared four months earlier, leaving all of his shit behind, and when no one came by to pay the rent, he’d claimed everything in the place, pawned the valuables and junked the rest, and was already renting the apartment out to someone else.

Four months. Bernard had been in that basement for a week (or so he’d said), and Ray had been missing for at least four months. I checked for a missing person report, or anything, but there was nothing–perhaps the one thing Ray had been honest about was that he didn’t have anyone he wanted to contact. Armed with some information, at least, I went back into the interview room, and found the tape finished, and Ray was agitated, pacing the small room, back and forth, muttering to himself something I couldn’t make out under his breath. When I arrived, he did his best to protect the air of idiocy he’d been attempting with me, but he was off balance. I thought, maybe, I’d be able to get something out of him now.

The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 2 (Part 2)

So we talked about Marcus’ encounter, but I quickly realized that while he was trying to appear helpful, he was fishing for something else–information about Bernard’s case. He allegedly didn’t recall much of anything from the night he’d been assaulted, but he’d drop a hint, and then ask if something similar had happened to Bernard as well. When I’d try and get him back on the subject of his own case, he’d twist it back around, quizzing me about Bernard, and the evidence from the case, and whether I had found anything else about the Bruiser during the investigation–and if I had any leads on where Bernard had disappeared to. I didn’t have any leads of course, and I wasn’t about to tell this stranger any details from the case. When it became clear that we were stonewalling each other, he got agitated, and then angry, grabbed the photos he’d brought, accused me of not being interested in justice, and stormed out of the precinct, leaving me more confused than anything.

All I knew now, was that this…this case was big. The biggest thing I’d ever dealt with, by far, and Marcus was right about one thing–Bernard knew more than he was letting on. In fact, it was now quite likely he knew the man who had kept him down there all week, given his extracurricular activities. But if it was a scene gone wrong, why not say so? And how on earth did this even begin to explain how he had…changed? In any case, I had a lead, and so I started hunting down some of Bernard’s associates in the BDSM community, to see if any of them could help me figure out who had done this to him, or where he might have gone. No one was really interested in talking to me, and I didn’t get much in the few days I had before the next 911 call came in, the same voice as before, directing us to an old, abandoned warehouse down by the docks.

The search, however, turned up nothing at first. The building wasn’t being used for anything at the moment, and was just vacant–the docks still hadn’t fully recovered from the last recession, like a lot of the city, and so that wasn’t surprising. The caller hadn’t given us any details regarding who we were looking for, or where they might be, but it turned out that there wasn’t anything inside the building at all. Instead, we got a radio call that one of the cops, an older veteran by the name of Jules, had been searching the perimeter of the building, when he heard an odd sound coming from several supposedly empty shipping containers in the yard beside the building. It was metal on metal, a rhythmic clanking of some sort, and it wasn’t long before we’d identified the container, broken the lock on it, and when we flung open the doors…it was the smell that I remember the most.

You know how a locker room can smell, when it doesn’t get cleaned often enough? It was like that, and yet, somehow a hundred times stronger. The only light in the shipping container was a bare light bulb suspended from the ceiling, and inside the cramped space was one man working out with a collection of weight machines and free weights. Even when we opened the door, he didn’t stop–from where he was, he just seemed like this…monstrous shadow in the darkness, moving back and forth, eyes zoned out in the middle distance, completely uninterested in us.

I want to say that it was the cramped space that smelled the worst, but it was actually him. We tried to get close to him, tried to tell him that he could stop, but none of us could handle the sheer…force of it, and we’d retreat back, eyes watering, coughing and hacking. In the end, it was Jules who managed to get close enough to touch him, and it was like he woke from a dream at the touch, and he stopped drawing the weights up, and looked around at us, confused by who we were, and what we were doing in there with him.

I started asking him questions, asking him who had locked him in here, how long he’d been in here, but he just stared back at me like nothing I was saying made any sense. I backed up a bit and just asked him his name. That one he thought about for a couple of moments, trying to get something to come up from the depths of his mind, but he just shook his head, a thick mane of hair spraying all of the officers around him with little beads of sweat. “I don’ know, I don’ know! I just…Master said to keep working out, so I…I have to keep going…”

There it was again: Master. Something stirred in me, when I heard him say it, the same thing that had stirred in me when I’d listened to how Bernard had talked about his rapist, both during the interviews, and during that broadcast. It was a zealotry. It wasn’t a name, or a title–the way they said it, it was like they were naming a god. I don’t know if it was the smell finally getting to me, or if it was the horror of it–I left the shipping container, went around the corner, and vomited.

Getting him to come with us was the next challenge. He refused to leave the container–Master had told him to keep exercising, and so, he was going to keep at it, for as long as he could, until Master came back and told him what to do next. We tried to remove him by force, but the scent of him was so strong, no one could get close enough to lay a hand on him–without even dealing with the fact that he was…huge. Seven feet tall was my guess, and packed with more muscle than I could really ever remember seeing on a man before. His hair and beard were grown long–years long, though I knew there was no way he could have been inside here for years (I had to believe there was no way he could have been in there for years, at least) and and his cock…even on his tall frame, the thing was monstrous, and nearly always half erect.

My Town (Part 8)

“Well? Go on then, get out. You don’t want to be late to work, do you?”

Todd was in the driver’s seat of his brother’s truck, and they were parked on the street, a block down from the construction project where he’d spied on him the day before. His brother was in the seat beside him, crushed up into the cabin as best he could. He hadn’t really realized how large he’d grown, until he’d climbed into the cab, knees crunched up to his chest, head bent over to keep from being pressed against the ceiling. He…didn’t want to get out. He didn’t want anyone to see him, not looking like this.

Todd had not been kind to his brother during the night–he’d left marks, purposeful ones, all over his brother’s aching body. Lash marks across his ass and back onto his shoulders and neck, cigar burns on his thighs, bruises all over, including a black eye he’d given him, after feeling a brush of teeth on his cock while his brother had been giving him head. He looked battered and broken–and the clothes his brother had given him to wear this morning hid nothing–just a pair of short denim shorts, pockets hanging out the bottom like the daisy dukes Kyle had chased in his teens, and a t-shirt cropped short, showing off the welts across his lower back, where the hair didn’t cover them up. He looked over at Todd, pouting slightly with his fat lip. “Please bro…please, can we just go home? You…you can fist me, all you want, but don’t…I don’t want them to see me like this.”

“Oh Kyle, I can fist you all I want, no matter what,” he said, slapping his face lightly, but enough to make Kyle flinch slightly, “But right now, what I want, is for your whole crew–hell, for the whole damn town–to see you looking like a beaten piece of meat, dressed like a fucking whore. Now get out of the car, and lets go get you to work.”

Kyle fought, but his body obeyed all the same–his brother’s voice didn’t give him a choice. Without thinking about it, he took a cigar and lit it, which eased his nerves slightly, and he waited for his brother to get out and come around to the sidewalk with him. “They…they won’t even recognize me, will they?”

“Maybe not a first, no, but that’s why I’m coming with you,” Todd said, “To make sure they know who you are, and what you’re for,” he said, slapped Todd on the ass right in front of an older couple walking down the street, who looked away in shock and disgust. Kyle…didn’t know what to feel. He was almost thankful for his now shrunken cock, at the moment, so no one could see how hard he was, and he squeezed the dildo in his ass, thankful he was at least plugged. He thought about the older man, thought about him turning around and calling him out on his shame, calling him a whore, shoving him against the wall and beating him, making him suck his cock right here in the street, and he turned back and tried to get back in the truck–only for Todd to grab him with a gloved hand and drag him back.

“Please…please, I don’t want to be this, I don’t want to do this…”

“Do you know, Kyle, how many times I had to walk the halls of school with a black eye, or a swollen nose?” Todd said, linking his arm in his brother’s, and walking him the block to the construction site, where Kyle could see his co-workers–his friends–gathering to get started for the day. “More times than I can really count. At least you enjoy it. At least everyone seeing you as the muscle bound slut masochist turns you on more than anything. You know what I think? You’re afraid you’re going to like this. You’re afraid you’re going to like this so much you’re going to want it. And you know what, Kyle? You’re right.”

They rounded the corner, and Kyle saw the first couple guys see him, and look shocked. Then came the recognition, a moment later. “Kyle? Is…what the fuck happened to you, man?”

His face was red. He couldn’t speak. He wanted to die, he wanted them all to fuck him. He wanted to be humiliated. He wanted it all to stop.

“Just a normal night, right guys?” Todd said, as the men clustered around them, eyes going a bit cloudy from his smoke, looking at the older fellow walking with their muscle bound worker, “I mean, which one of you guys here hasn’t spent a night with your crew slut, beating him while he begs for more, fisting his hole, covering his face with spunk? I bet every single one of you has, right? You can remember, can’t you Kyle?”

He could remember. He could remember them all, and Kyle realized he was forgetting as well. Forgetting all the women he chased and battered, all of the conquests, all of the macho posturing he’d wasted his life with. No–he remembered better now, remembered all the men he’d slept with, all the cruel, vile things they’d done to him, that he’d begged them to do to him. The men around him, the eyes were turning cruel, the mouths twisting into leers, more than one of them rubbing their cocks through the front of their pants, thinking about their last nights with Kyle, and thinking about how they could use another one soon.

“Is that fucking Kyle? You fucking piece of fucking shit, you’re late again!” An older man, the foreman, pushed himself through the circle of men, and met Todd, who brushed him with his gloved hands, warping him just slightly, and Kyle fell to his knees in front of him. “Sorry…sir, I’m sorry. I just had to help my brother out, and I lost track of time. I can make it up to you right sir?”

Todd pushed the cigar into the foreman’s mouth, and stepped away. “Yeah, you can make it up to me, in the trailer, you fucking slut. Get going.”

Kyle booked it into the trailer, and for the next several hours, the men listened to the cries and screams of their crew slut, as the foreman worked him over, and when the foreman stumbled out, sweaty and exhausted, he sent each member of the crew in for a break, like usual. By the end of the night, Kyle was limping along with Carl, a particularly thickly forearmed bricklayer, already hungry for a night with his ass full of him–and whatever else he might feel like doing to him. He deserved it after all–but he needed it, more than anything.

My Town (Part 7)

He started towards me, ready to swing, but my gloves were faster–they went right to his massive tits and tugged on them, and the blast of pleasure scattered every thought of hurting me, and he just stood there, jaw slack, eyes distant, groaning as I twisted and tugged at his nipples, growing them until each was larger and meatier than the puny cock between his legs. I grabbed each of his hands and brought them to his tits–he started playing with them of his own will now, no longer even thinking of violence–no, my brother would look like a brute, but violence, from now on, would be the furthest thought from his mind. I had him bend over, face pressed to the wall of his trailer, ass out, and I slid the first two fingers of one gloved hand into his hole.

I’d needed that fuck–I’d needed to get it out of the way, so I could get to the real task at hand. Two fingers, then three, and then my whole glove fist slid into him, my brother moaning and howling in pain, but he wanted it–he wanted it more than he could even understand, and with my hand in him, I could find his prostate, and I began milking it, swelling it larger, until it went from the size of a golf ball, and became an orange, throbbing inside him, and the first orgasm ripped through his body. He cried and hollered in a deep voice, but just a few dribbles of cum fell from the tiny cock he now had. The orgasm itself, however, lasted for nearly a minute, and by the end of it he was sweating and shaking, his legs giving out as he slid down further onto my forearm, my other hand eager to join in, and slowly, I stretched his hole even further, until both of my gloves were inside him, pleasing him, his mind going numb from pleasure and desire, forcing him to have orgasm after wracking orgasm, until he collapsed to the floor, quivering, pale, and panting, begging and mewling, though I couldn’t tell if he was asking me to stop, or if he was asking for more. I doubt he even really knew what he wanted himself. Still, I figured he wouldn’t try anything for a few minutes, and I went back to my car, dug around for his presents, and went back inside the trailer, where he still hadn’t recovered.

“Alright Kyle,” I said, “I’m going to be sleeping here tonight, just to keep an eye on you, until we can finish you off tomorrow. I’ll be taking the bed of course–a beast like you will be plenty comfortable on the floor, won’t you?”

“F-fuck…” he muttered, and tried to push himself up as best he could, but could only really manage to get to his knees, where he looked at me. He was trying to be angry–he really was. It was only his natural reaction, after all, but I was breaking him of that, slowly. Instead, I could see something else, a dullness to his eyes, a hunger there as well. “How…the fuck did you…fuck…”

“Don’t worry so much, bro,” I said, walking over to him, one glove rubbing his head, the hair there falling away until it was a smooth dome, the other hand gripping his jaw, thick stubble sprouting into a full, wiry beard a second later. His face shifted too, slightly–not so much as to make him unrecognizable, but his brow thickened, his mouth widened, his eyes sunk slightly and his nose and ears both expanded. “You won’t have to worry about much going forward. Your only concern is going to be finding enough cock for that ass and throat of yours, and finding enough men to abuse you to make that little cock of yours spurt. But that’s for later–for now…for now, I need you here, with me. For one night, I want my brother in there, worshiping me, serving me, hanging on my every word, begging for my cock, begging for whatever sort of abuse I might feel like giving you.” My hands were tightening on his skull now, worming into his thoughts, “I want you to want me to hurt you. I want you to want all of the abuse you’ve given me over the years. I want you to want to suffer–it’ll be more fun that way, trust me.”

I walked over to the duffel bag I’d brought in with me, unzipped it, turned it over, and let the contents fall to the floor in front of him. Massive dildos, tit clamps, candles, cigars, a humbler, handcuffs, rope, flogger, whip, and plenty else for us to play with. His eyes latched onto the largest dildo of all, right away–a black rubber replica of a fist and forearm, at least two feet long. He tore his eyes away and up to mine, both terrified and desperate.

“You want that in you, don’t you, you fucking slut?”

All he could do was nod.

“Well go on then. I know how that ass of yours gets, when you haven’t been punchfucked in a few minutes. Then we’ll introduce you to your other new friends.”

My Town (Part 6)

My other hand grabbed him by the jaw, three leather fingers finding their way into his mouth, forcing it open, running over his teeth, sloppy with his spit. They…wanted him. They wanted him bad, at least as badly as I did, as I always had. Without even noticing it, one glove had opened the fly of my jeans, hauled out my now larger cock, and was giving it a few strokes–and I felt it growing even larger now, nearly eight inches. “What do you think bro? Think your little brother is man enough for you?”

I didn’t give him a chance to answer, and plunged my cock into his mouth, forcing it down his throat, listening to his gag and moan, my gloves tugging at his clothes, ripping at them, hungry for the skin underneath. They knew what I wanted him to be–they knew what he deserved. My brother thought that strength was everything–that if he was bigger than everyone else, that meant that he got to be in charge. Well I was going to show him that size isn’t everything–that just because you’re the most massive, most brutish looking fucker in a room, doesn’t mean shit when I can get my gloves on you.

Both of my hands sweep across his back, and I watch it explode with muscle, his shoulders, neck and delts all swelling in size. He barely notices–his focus is entirely on my cock–right where it should be. From there, my gloves grope his chest, feeling his pecs grow thick and meaty, the nipples like bolts jutting from them. Hands on his arms, and his biceps, triceps–even his forearms swell, his hands doubling in size, easily large, and strong enough, to palm a watermelon. The hair comes next, a thick pelt forming all over his body, but most heavily on his shoulders, arms, back and chest, like a proper brute should have, in my opinion. I shove him over so he falls onto his back, straddle his wide chest, and kiss him, shoving smoke into his mouth, feeding it to him, and push my cigar in there once I’m done–he starts chuffing away at it, like a good little pig. “Alright big boy, bend over. Let me see how that ass is.”

Without even thinking to question it, he struts over to the bed–which is quite a sight, really, given how top heavy he’s become in the last few minutes. He manages to keep himself upright, however, and bends over, my gloves diving right for his ass, swelling both cheeks into thick globes, then down onto his thighs and calves, swelling them larger, the bones thickening and growing longer, pushing him up to a new height of nearly seven feet tall. Then, his feet–rubbing them both until they’re well over size twenty…and then I can’t resist it anymore. I dive in, licking at his ass for a minute, listening to him groan and open up slightly, and then slam my cock in, nice and rough.

While I fuck him, the gloves turn their attention to me–swelling me up in the same fashion as my brother, though not nearly as large. I can see myself aging again as well–a bit more white a grey sprinkled in my chest hair and beard…but I don’t care, and I light myself a second cigar, since my brother is well occupied with my first one. I’m a smoking hot daddy bear at this point, and this muscle pig of a brother is moaning and begging for me to fuck him harder, and harder…but I have one more thing before I cum. I roll him over, throw his legs up in the air, and keep fucking him–but I can see his cock now as well. It was always quite large–one of his best qualities, really. But now, at his new size, it actually looks quite small–but not nearly small enough. I grip it in one gloved hand–both cock and balls, and I squeeze, feeling them contract and shrink as I apply more and more pressure, until there’s barely any left of either–just an inch long micro cock, buried in the massive forest of my brother’s pubic bush, and a tiny, tight sack with two balls smaller than grapes. Looking at him, at this massive fucker with a miniscule cock, moaning for me to fuck him harder, and deeper around my thick cigar–it’s too much. I explode, deep inside him with a shout, but keep fucking until I fall out soft. It’s done, mostly. The physical side, at least. His head is mostly still there–I want him to see what I made him, before I turn him into the man he’s going to be from now on.

He keeps sucking down smoke, and finally sits up, staring down at himself, his hairy body, and his missing cock–he stares at me blankly until he finally puts everything together, and his eyes go wide in terror. “You…Bro, what the fuck…what the fuckin’ hell did you fuckin’ do to me?”

I smile at him, and light a second cigar for myself. “Trust me Kyle, it’s going to be so much better this way, for us both.”

“But I’m…I’m fuckin’ huge, bro! I…and I can’t…fuck, I…I’m so fuckin; horny bro, I’m so…” His hand doesn’t go to his cock, though–it goes to his ass, two fingers sliding inside himself while he groans, eyes wide, trying to understand why he just did that, and why he wants to keep doing it, and hell, if my cock isn’t twitching already, hungry and desperate for another round with him. “I…Fuck, I wanna get fucked again bro, ya turned me into a fuckin’ faggot!” He pulled his hand free, and I could see how much it pained him–he wanted it in there, he needed something in there. His eyes were narrowing–I could see the gears turning, as he went back to his anger, the shock and horror beginning to fade. He knew how big he was–and even if I was larger too, he knew he was still bigger than I was. And if he was bigger than me, then he could take me–or so he thought.

April 2018 Suggested Stories Ready for Download | Wesley Bracken on Patreon

The suggested stories from this month are also ready to download! One dollar a months gets you access to three or four vignettes, like the one below, each month (as well as all of those I’ve written previously!) It also gives you the ability to suggest ideas for these at the beginning of each month.

Milk the Fat Right Off

“Dude, you can’t keep eating like that! Coach told you that you have to start cutting–we have a meet next week!” Reggie said, as he watched Max pile up yet another full tray of food and start gorging himself.

“I can’t help it man, I’m fucking hungry.”

“Well no shit you’re hungry, you’re cutting.”

“No man, trust me, I got this. There’s this new fucking place in town, it’s fucking amazing. You go there, for free, and…I don’t know the details of it or what they do, because they put you under or something for the procedure, but when you leave, you’re fucking cut, like they sucked the fat right off of you.”

Reggie just looked at him like he was crazy…but Max had been acting kind of strange for the last few months, and his weight had been swinging wildly. He would gain 25 or hell, even 50 pounds in a few weeks, stuffing himself night and day, disappear for a day, and come back in time for a meet, and somehow slide right into his ideal weight class. It didn’t make sense, but Reggie was sure it was some eating disorder…and he was really worried about him. He’d gone through a real rough patch of binging and purging in high school, and he knew what it looked like, even if he’d never swung quite as wildly as Max managed on a regular basis. Still, Max kept eating, and Reggie decided he was going to follow him, and see what, exactly, this magical place was he was talking about.

The Friday before the meet, Max headed downtown, and Reggie followed him to a rather boring looking office park. There, he went into the Fat Studies Clinic, a place Reggie had never heard of. He gave it an hour, and then went in after him, just to see what was going on. He meant to ask the receptionist what they did there, but the nice young man chatted with him for a while…and there was an odd buzzing in his ear, something he couldn’t quite pin down. Before he really understood how it happened, he’d agreed to a trial–he was ushered into a small room, where a man drew some blood, announced he was a viable candidate (whatever that meant) and they took him deeper into the building, and the buzz kept getting louder, and his head kept getting more and more thick.

They got him undressed, and they gave him a shot–a very large shot–and one that hurt like hell, all over his body. He demanded to know what they had done to him, but they said nothing, and just dragged him into a room full of food–and as soon as he saw it, he had to eat it–he was ravenous. He didn’t know how long he stuffed himself in that room–all he knew was that he was still hungry when the men pulled him away, and when he looked down at himself, he was horrified to see he had somehow gained nearly 100 pounds of pure fat, a huge gut and two moobs hanging off of him, as the doctors, ecstatic at his performance, dragged him to another room, strapped him into a chair–and then he saw the thing filling the rest of the room, and started shaking.

He didn’t know what it was at first, just some heaving blob of flesh. As they secured the milking tube over his cock, he realized it was actually…a person. A massively obese person, larger than should even be possible, just staring at him, licking his lips…but the sound he’d been hearlng was even louder here, and Reggie found his disgust giving way to fascination, and then to arousal. He was…beautiful. So massive, so fat–it was good to be fat, but he…he didn’t deserve to be fat, no, he…he only got fat so he could serve him, his massively obese master, his god.

His cock was rock hard, and the doctors slipped a tube over it–and then the milking began. It ached for a few moments–but the flow of his cum began right away, and the pleasure was unlike any orgasm he’d ever felt before. The cum looked strange as well–too thick, and almost like cream. It flowed through the tube and over to the obese man, who drank it all down, from a massive pipe hanging over him on the ceiling, and Reggie watched it run down his multitude of chins–wishing it could be him devouring it, getting fatter and fatter…and to his horror, he realized he was shrinking. The cum he was putting out wasn’t just cum, it was all of his fat, all of the fat he’d just gained was disappearing. After an hour with the machine, he was more cut than he’d ever been in his entire life, but depressed and angry and sad at his body–a body he knew he should desire, but that he no longer wanted. Once they released him, he went right over to the massive man in his grief, over to his Master, his God, and began worshiping his fat, serving him, cleaning him, longing to be close to him, knowing that he could at least provide his god with the fat he desired, that he wasn’t worth of gaining any himself.

Max was there too, climbing over their Master, and they fucked for his amusement right there on his massive gut, both of them eager to do whatever they could for their lord–and that evening, they left with no solid memories of their time there. Both of them won their division at the meet that day, but the hunger never went away, the desire to gain, and Dennis discovered that everything they ate became fat nearly instantly. Reggie packed on the pounds especially quick–three days later he was back to being morbidly obese–not quite as large as he’d been in the lab, but close. He was horny too–so horny, but he couldn’t get off, no matter how hard he tried, even if Max helped. He…he had to go back. That was the only place he could get relief–that was the only place he’d find relief ever again.

The Bruiser Rapes – Case One (Part 3)

The next few days were…strange. I kept trying to put all of the pieces together, tried to figure out what I was missing, tried to find the whole I knew had to be there somewhere, but nothing turned up. We found no evidence of anyone else being in Bernard’s home–unbelievable if the rapist had been staying there the whole time, and it was impossible for the story to make sense if he hadn’t. Part of me wanted to bring Bernard back in and hold him until he finally told us the truth–the whole truth–but I in the end, I didn’t have to do that. Instead, Bernard called the local TV station, and told the truth on the evening news for the entire city–and soon enough the entire country to hear.

I didn’t see the interview until the next day, when someone from the department told me to watch it online. I couldn’t fucking believe what I was looking at, what I was fucking seeing. He got on there, and talked about the rape with the anchor, and what I was expecting was for him to rip into us, the police, for not doing enough to try and find his rapist. But what I saw instead was something else altogether. He denied it was a rape at all. The anchor was confused, because he had obviously told them he wanted to talk about his rape on the air, but he had been given a soapbox, and so he used it. He looked right at the camera, ripped off the turtleneck he had on, and there he was, still wearing that fucking collar around his neck. He starts raving, begging for his Master to come back, begging to know what he’d done wrong, and why he’d left. He told Master, whoever he was, that he loved him, that he wanted to be his slave forever–and then the station finally pulled the plug.

Needless to say, that caused some waves. We had to make a statement assuring the city we were investigating it as a rape. Somebody paid to have opinions on things on the television called Bernard a bruiser, and wondered if it was even possible to rape someone who looked as strong and burly and tough as that, and the name stuck, but to the wrong person. It was a mess, obviously, and the next day, I went over to Bernard’s home to try and get some better answers out of him, now that he’d gone and made him, and his rape, a national issue.

He was a wreck. One minute, he was lucid, and the next, he was raving at me to tell me where Master was, demanding to know where I was hiding him, demanding to know what he had to do to get him to come back. He’d told everyone, he’d told the world, but what else could it possibly take to get him to come back to him? I wondered if I should commit him to a psych ward, and as I tried to pin him down and get some straight answers out of him, I found myself getting rougher, and more demanding, and angry, and…well, horny.

He could feel it too, I think. I could see the fear in his eyes in what was happening between us, even before I realized anything strange was happening at all. I saw the fear for just a moment, and then he began pushing back, becoming obstinate and standoffish, arguing with me one moment, and then backing off and agreeing with me the next, always apologizing, and always calling me Sir.

I pushed and I pushed, and he retreated to his bedroom upstairs–I assumed out of shame and fear of what was happening to him, and locked the door. I demanded he let me in, I demanded he tell me exactly what the man had done to him, and when the door to the bedroom finally opened, all he told me was that he would show me exactly what Master had done, that we would learn together.

He was nearly naked, and that was worse, somehow. He was wearing only a leather harness, a cock cage, and a leather hood–and that fucking collar he still hadn’t removed, the collar I doubt he will ever take off for the rest of his life–and he got on his knees, and he told me he understood now. Master had left, but he’d sent him…me. A new master, someone he needed to serve as well as he’d served Him. He crawled over to me, where I was standing in shock at the doorway, and started prying open the front of my pants…and I let him.

I wanted him to do it, I wanted him to suck my cock, and I could hear…all of these little things in the back of my head, things some alien voice was whispering to me, just like how Bernard had described it to me in the interrogation room. I fought it off though, and pushed him away. I tried to talk some sense into Bernard, I told him he was traumatized, that he was suffering from some extreme PTSD, and that he needed to get help, but the only thing Bernard wanted was my cock. I ended up leaving–I couldn’t handle being that close to him, I didn’t know how long I’d be able to resist that voice, before I ended up doing to Bernard everything that rapist had already done to him down in that basement.

I went back the next day with a social worker for a welfare check, but Bernard was nowhere to be found. Eventually I found a note in his bedroom, addressed to no one, but I felt like he was speaking to me, or maybe at his rapist. He told him he understood what he needed to do now, that he’d found someone to serve, someone he needed to serve, and most importantly, someone who wanted him to serve him. He wouldn’t be returning here, apparently, and he didn’t care what happened to his possessions. We looked for him, but he did not want to be found. I’m sure, somewhere this very moment, he’d chained up somewhere, in some pervert’s home…and I think he might even believe he’s happy. I think about him too, some nights, the way I think about…all of them. The way I think about the rapist, the way I think about…so many men now. I can’t help it, I’m too close, too close to get away from it now, but I didn’t realize how close until a couple weeks later, when an old cold case came to my desk, wanting to talk about the bruiser.

The Bruiser Rapes – Case One (Part 2)

The questioning took a rougher turn. I demanded to know why he was lying, and he insisted that he wasn’t. We questioned him about details on the license, and he knew everything. He knew Bernard’s social security, his mother’s maiden name, and the city where he’d been born. Still, none of us could believe–really believe–that this hulking man was actually the man from the photos. So we cuffed him (I noticed at the time, to my disgust, that it gave him an erection) tried to undo the collar, but discovered the lock had been glued shut. It ended up being easier for us to cut the chain instead, we arrested him for filing a false report, and took him to the station.

It was when we took him to the interrogation room that he first got a good look at himself in the one way mirror–and his reaction…I have never seen a man look so horrified at himself in my entire life. He denied it, he thought it was a trick, he started raving about how this was Master’s doing, that he was being tested, that of course he wouldn’t abandon him, but that Bernard believed he had failed him somehow. I didn’t get anything useful out of him, so we stuck him in a cell for the night, and in the meantime, we ran the stranger’s prints in the database to try and figure out who this fucker was claiming to be Bernard Goldwell.

We got a match, but not the one we expected. The fingerprints of the victim did in fact belong to Bernard Goldwell, from a background check done for a security firm a few years prior. But the picture attached to the file, again, bore no resemblance to the man we had sitting in the cell. I didn’t sleep much that night, let me tell you. I spent the entire night trying to figure out how, exactly, this man could fake all of this, because the possibility that the man was in fact who he said he is…I didn’t even know how to begin processing that. I didn’t know how to begin processing most of what I had witnessed that day–thought at this point, I can officially say I have seen stranger shit than this.

So the next day, I sat down with him, alone, and started the conversation over. I didn’t know how to explain any of this, and so I asked Bernard to explain it. I wanted to know exactly what the man had done to him down in the basement for ten days, and maybe, along the way, I would learn what, exactly, had happened to take the Bernard from the photos and turn him into this man sitting across from me, still wearing that heavy metal collar like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He was hesitant, but I worked it out of him, eventually. He confessed that he’d invited the man who’d done this to him over to his house for a hookup, and that night…something had happened. When he arrived, the man was slight, wore glasses, seemed awkward and small and a bit nerdy. However, he had warmed up quickly, and gotten horny quickly, and plans for a beer and a chat were skipped, as the man took Bernard straight into the bedroom, but somewhere between the front door and the bedroom, he’d…changed.

He got taller, and hairier, and rougher, and more muscular. Bernard had always had fantasies about rough, submissive sex, but nothing he’d ever acted on, or imagined doing beyond mere imagination, but that night, something inside him unlocked. It…started out as a rape, the man definitely raped him that night, though in the interview Bernard tried to hedge it somewhat. It was forced, but not bad. He’d been asking for it. He wasn’t into it at first, but as it went on, he started actually enjoying the rough treatment, even if the man he was with didn’t seem to be engaging with what he was doing at all. He didn’t speak, and he didn’t do…much at all, aside from fuck, for…hours, reaching orgasm several times that first night. When Bernard assumed he’d finally finished, the man had drugged him, and when he woke next, he was down in the basement, collared, tied up, and watching the man hammer the spike right into the brick wall–barehanded.

He’d been even bigger, then, and his eyes, apparently, had turned entirely black. When Bernard got to that detail, he shook in his seat, and he looked at me, holding back tears, and then looked at himself in the mirror. He couldn’t believe it either, I think. I still thought it was impossible. Even after talking with Bernard, and coming to believe he was telling me something he thought was true, I still thought it was impossible until the next case surfaced a couple weeks later. Bernard went on and detailed some of what the man had done to him…which mostly was a lot of sex. The man didn’t speak at all that Bernard could recall, but he had somehow always known what Master desired from him, almost like there was a whisper of some kind in the back of his mind, some other voice, something between his own fantasies and some other entity entirely speaking to him, speaking about him, right into his mind.

He slept in the basement. He was given food and water twice a day. He used a bucket as a toilet, and Master emptied it promptly after he used it. Beyond that, he would rape him, over and over again…and as far as Bernard could really tell, whatever had happened to him, whatever had happened to change him from the scrawny guy in the photos to the hulking bear sitting across from me, had happened slowly, so slowly he never he realized it was happening until he’d seen himself in the mirror here. Then, that morning of the 911 call, Master had never come down with his breakfast. A couple hours later, we’d arrived, and here we were.

It wasn’t the whole story, I could tell well enough, but it was as close to the truth as I was going to get, but the confusion had ruined our chance of getting anything useful from his body in a rape kit, and he, and his body, was so unreliable, even if we’d found a suspect, there was no way this story was going to work in court–mostly because Bernard had no interest in pressing charges. With no crime that I could see, even if I couldn’t explain Bernard’s strange transformation, and with nowhere to go on this rape and kidnapping, we let him go–and in doing so, we forgot to get that damn collar off of him, believe it or not.