It’s not that Alex was a prude–hell, he masturbated plenty. There wasn’t any reason why Harry couldn’t jack off too. The problem was the damn smell of it! Ever since the day he’d moved into the house with him, the whole house stank of it. Sure, he hadn’t known what the smell was at first, only that it had come largely from Harry’s room and the bathroom. It wasn’t until Alex had caught him at it (well, “caught him” was one way of phrasing it–really, he’d been crouching outside the slightly open door, watching his housemate tug on his cock while he was on the bed, well positioned to give him a view) and as soon as he’d shot, the smell had smacked him in the face like a ton of bricks.

Of course, the real problem wasn’t that he could smell it–the problem was how it smelled. It smelled amazing. It smelled like cum, sure–rank and a bit cheesy–but for some reason, it made his mouth water. It made him want to jack off too. He couldn’t let Harry know, of course–Harry would probably think he’s a fag, if he knew how much he wanted his cum. If he knew that he’d snuck into his room while he wasn’t home, and stolen his still wet cumrag, and sucked on it for a few hours, milking his own cock for all it was worth. That was something a fag would totally do, right? But he wasn’t a fag. He couldn’t help it if Larry’s cum just smelled really good to him. He was hoping that if he could just taste it enough, he could stop thinking about it, but if fact, getting a taste only made it worse. It was starting to become the only thing he could think about. He started watching Larry more often through the cracked door, still pretending to himself that his roommate had no idea he was watching, even though he spent most of his time watching Alex. Finally, one night, Larry came, but instead of shooting into the rag like usual, he shot it into his hand, and held it out to the door, “Well come on pig, if you want it so badly, get in here and eat it all up.”

Alex tried to resist, but the scent was overwhelming. He crawled into the room and licked all the fresh cum from his roommate’s hand, jacking off his own cock as he did, and the taste of it fresh–his head couldn’t take it. He just kept licking Larry’s fingers clean, his entire mind focusing in on that single act. Off in the distance, he could sense that Larry was talking to him, telling him things, but he couldn’t think about anything beyond licking those fingers. And when he finally stopped licking, he crawled back to his room (for some reason, he wasn’t quite able to stand up and walk, an odder still, he didn’t find that fact the least bit strange) sat on the floor and started jacking off, over and over again, eating every load of cum that he produced, until it hurt to even touch his cock anymore. Then and only then was he able to heft himself up into bed and collapse from exhaustion, his arms burning, though when Larry came in and skull fucked him, he didn’t object. Why would he object to another opportunity to taste his delicious cum?

From that day on, it became harder and harder for Alex to deny that he was anything but a faggot at heart. He would beg Larry for his cum, he would do anything for another taste of it. He took over the household chores, he cooked dinner, he gave him massages and foot rubs, all so he might have the privilege of sucking a load of cum from Larry’s cock. Still, he told himself that it couldn’t get worse than this, right? At least, until it did. Suddenly, it wasn’t just Larry’s cum he smelled, but everyone’s cum. And they all smelled different, and they all smelled delicious. It was getting harder and harder for him to think about anything other than cum, and Larry only made it worse by dressing him up in his leather gear, driving them to the fetish clubs in the city, and making him beg for cum all night long. The words CUM PIG scrawled across his forehead (Larry had told him that once he’d earned enough money as a cum dump, he’d get it tattooed on there properly) and who knew what else drawn on him, all the men would laugh, and he’d drink cum from any cock, because he wasn’t just a cum pig–he was Cum Pig–or at least that’s what Larry called him. And before too long, it was the only name he could remember, as he crawled around the house, oinking and grunting, sniffing around for his next load of cum.

I knew his type. They only come on Friday nights. Wealthy, but not wealthy enough for true luxury. Closeted out of the fear that coming out would jeapordize their climb up the corporate ladder. They only fuck men who they would never see in the city. They also want to fuck us out of a twisted desire they barely understand. They want to be cruel, they spend a career climbing up the backs of hard working men like us, and fucking us is just that last humiliating victory they need to feel justified. They don’t want our names, only give out aliases of their own, and they can’t look us in the eye. This one gave the name Dave–and I made him keep it.

He arrived too early in the day, fresh off work. Like many, he was still in a suit, smoking a pipe. I came later, and he was still looking. You see, some of us just can’t resist that aura–the fantasy. They just haven’t been burned enough. They see that suit, they see that money, that mid-shelf whiskey double in the glass, and they think, “Maybe he wants me, the real me.” But they don’t, and that hope, fuck, they feed on it, they fucking suck it out of us, but I’ve had enough of it, I’ve had enough of them, and I sat down at the bar next to him, and he smelled me, and he smirked. I was the one, he thought, I was the one he wanted, even though he didn’t really know why.

He introduced himself. I remained aloof. This confused him, and he pressed harder for conversation. I berated him, and as insulted as he was, he wanted me more and more. He bought me a drink and tried to drug it; I left it untouched. He bought four more doubles for himself, and got plastered. We ended up in the back of my truck, his tongue all over my body before I skull fucked him. He couldn’t get enough of me, and the whole time, I could see his confusion. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. He was supposed to string me along. He was supposed to have the reins, he was supposed to be on top, this was supposed to be about him, about his manhood, about his pride, about his need to be in control. When I ordered him to cum, with his mouth buried in my asscrack, and he stroked his cock off, he didn’t want that to happen, he hadn’t wanted any of this, and yet he’d never said no. I dropped him off at his sedan without a word.

He was back on Saturday night. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about me. He’d spent the whole day at home, mouth dry, hands shaking, horny as hell but unable to cum. He wasn’t in a suit this time, just a shirt and jeans, still smoking a pipe. I made him plead and beg in the bar, in front of everyone. I ridiculed him some more, because I enjoyed watching him want me more after every barbed insult. I got him drunker than the night before and brought him all the way home this time, to my single wide trailer, to my floor littered with beer cans, to my bed covered with sheets I haven’t changed in a year, the whole place stinking of me. As much as it disgusted him, as much as he loathed everything the place stood for, he fell into it. The sweatier and hotter we got the more of himself he lost until he was at my feet, whimpering, sucking my toes, words lost, desire at the center of his mind.

I kept him for five days. I pimped him out to my bar buddies. I made him ditch his pipe, and forced him to smoke the cheapest cigars I could buy at the reservation smoke shop. And after five days, when he reached that limit of both saturation and exhaustion, I dumped him at his car with a note. Well, really it was a to do list. Everything he had to do, if he ever wanted to see me again, if he ever wanted to taste me, if he ever wanted to smell me, if he ever wanted my cock balls deep in his hole again.

I’m sure he tried to go back. He was charismatic enough to pass off four days of missed work as a mistake, or poor judgement. But I’m also sure he dreamed about me. I’m sure he tried to jack off, over and over, but never managed to work out a load. I know he didn’t wash the clothes he’d had on, because I could still smell my musk on them when he arrived back at the bar, two months later, with nothing but a suitcase. I made him go through the list. Some of the tasks I could tell on my own–the horseshoe mustache, the fresh tattoos, the smell of him after a week without a shower. I made him tell me about quitting his job, how it had felt to flush his career down the toilet so he could taste my pits one more time. How it had felt, giving away all of his shit, just so he could live in a trailer park for the rest of his life. It was funny–he’d actually thought he’d be moving in with me, but I straightened him out on that shit real quick. No, he was moving in with Big B–he wasn’t too happy about that, Big B hadn’t been very nice to him when I loaned him out to him for a half a day–and he stormed out, and I just laughed. He came back, of course–where was he gonna go? He felt better after he sucked my cock out behind the bar, and I let him spend the night with me, on the condition he give my unwashed and unwiped asscrack a proper cleaning.

He’s settled in pretty well now, here at Louisiana Acres. Doesn’t even really remember his old name, and spending so much time with me and my filth had eroded the edges of his brain. Big B still doesn’t treat him very well–I’ll see him with a black eye on occasion, but he takes it because he knows he deserves it, and because deep down, he likes the abuse. Besides, he knows he can’t complain, or heaven forbid, leave us! If he left, he knows he’ll never get to smell me again. He knows I’ll never holler at him across the yard again, I’ll never make him crawl across the overgrown grass, and up the steps into my trailer. I’ll never let him suck on my feet or eat out my pits. He’ll never cum again, because smelling me is the only way he’ll shoot a load for the rest of his sorry life. He spends his days managing one of the smoke shops down on the road through the reservation, and his nights are spent at the bar with the rest of us. He sees the men like him come in on Friday nights, and he wants them more than anyone else. He hooks up with them often, willing to do anything they want, with the hope that some his old life might rub off on him, but they always leave him behind, laughing at him like he’d used to laugh at us, but who’s laughing now, fucker? Who’s laughing now?

Stinkers – Part 4

WARNING: This section contains graphic scat play. If brown turns your stomach, it would probably be better for you to skip this one.

Kurt wasn’t really looking where he was going–his eyes were on his phone. He had to call Jerry to go over the final details of their presentation tomorrow morning. He scrolled through his contacts, and slammed right into a young man who had stopped right in the middle of the sidewalk’s flow. He looked up, his eyes catching the piss and cum stained shirt, the sleazy handlebar mustache, the beat up hat, and then he caught a whiff of him. Of that…funk, that was wafting from him. He was speechless. He was beyond disgusted. He wanted to scream at him, but all the man did was stare at Kurt a moment, and then walk off into an alleyway, beckoning with one finger.

He told himself that he followed the young man because he was angry. Because he wanted to fight, because he wanted to scream, but his breathing was turning ragged, he was snorting through his nose without even realizing it. His nose was…awash with smells he’d just never bothered smelling before. The city itself, the filth of it. The grime, the trash, the exhaust, the sewage. The alley was dark compared to the bright street, and rather narrow. He fumbled for a moment, following his nose while his eyes adjusted. There, he saw the man he’d run into on the sidewalk, beside one of the most massive men he’d ever seen. He was wearing nothing beyond a couple of dirt crusted work boots and a pair of jean shorts that did nothing to hide the massive cock clearly visible through multiple tears. His chest was coated with hair, and he looked…wet. Like he’d just stepped from the shower, but it was sweat. He didn’t know how he knew, but it was sweat soaking the massive man’s beard and chest, his arms, his…his thighs. His cock. He couldn’t stop looking at the man’s cock, his fucking…fucking cock.

The man he’d run into on the sidewalk was speaking, but Kurt only caught the tail end, “…your turn Jed.”

“Don’t fuckin’ mind if I do.”

The huge one stepped towards him, and the musk froze Kurt in place. He couldn’t process it, he couldn’t grapple with how it was making him feel. The man ran his hands along his body, over his suit, down over his flabby chest and gut, down to his crotch, where he groped Kurt’s hard cock, around to his ass and then up to his face, stroking his chubby, stubbly cheeks before wiping some sweat up and shoving two huge fingers right in Kurt’s nose. He snorted, and nearly came in his pants.

“Fuckin’ pig. Old, fuckin, nasty piggy.”

He pushed Kurt up against the wall, and then pressed his body to him, pinning him there. Kurt had never felt so small–he could feel the man’s cock jutting into his gut, and then something warm started soaking into him. He could smell the man’s piss, he could smell it and he wanted it. He didn’t know why, but he’d never wanted anything as much as that, but he couldn’t get down on his knees. He couldn’t get down there, he was pinned, and the man knew it, he could see Kurt’s desperation, and he relished it. “Please…” Kurt whimpered, but he didn’t know whether he wanted the man to let him go, or to let him drink.

“Not yet, you nasty piggy,” Jed said, “First, you gotta do some things for me. Show me what a dirty stink whore you are. Piss yourself. Piss these expensive suit pants of yours. I don’t think I soaked ‘em well enough.”

It was surprisingly easy. Kurt felt his bladder go almost immediately, and as much as he knew he should feel ashamed, he felt…relieved. Sexy even.

“Yeah…yeah, fucker. But here’s the real test. The real piggy test. Shit your pants for me. I wanna smell a full load back there before I count to ten, or there’s gonna be hell to pay.”

“Wait…what? But–”

“1…2…3…”

Kurt tried to think about this, he tried, but his brain just wasn’t working, it wasn’t working at all. Why not shit himself? He couldn’t answer that question, he couldn’t.

“4…5…6…”

He grunted. He pushed. He heard himself fart.

“7…8…”

Another fart. It was coming, he could feel it, and he bore down harder. Filling the back of his pants like a good pig, yeah, fucking pig, he was such a fuckin’ pig!

“Good piggy,” Jed said, and smelled the air, “Gonna be a fun one, eh Sam?”

“You always make good ones man.”

Jed let up some pressure, enough to let Kurt come forward from the wall, and then shoved a hand down the back of Kurt’s pants, right into the mess, and then he pulled it out, dragging his hand up Kurt’s back, to his neck and up the back of his head. It was warm, it was warm and stank, and they were panting with lust. Another coating, this time smearing it across his face, forcing four thick fingers into his mouth, feeling Kurt try to suck all of them clean at once, leaned in and kissed him, invaded his mouth with a thick tongue, and he let him, he let him because he wanted it, because he was a pig, a nasty pig, a filthy pig, and he came. He came, and it felt like he was pouring out of himself, and someone he had never admitted was inside him was coming out in him. Jed stepped back, releasing pressure, and Kurt slumped down the wall, feeling shit squish around his ass and legs when he hit the pavement, but he was used to that…wasn’t he? He hadn’t been able to keep shit in for…for ages, not that he minded, a nasty derelict toilet pig like him.

The two stinkers were staring at him and grinning. The businessman they’d pulled into the alley was gone, replaced by an old, fat derelict dressed in filthy rubber and leather sex gear, his huge beard crusted with grime, cum and shit, his hair tangled, his skin barely visible beneath the layer of dried scum. Kurt smirked at them, showing his mostly toothless mouth, and licked his lips. Jed knew what he wanted. He dropped his shorts, bent over and braced himself against the opposite wall, and Kurt saw shit start pumping out of the hole. He scrambled up and tried to get ahead of the flow, tried to eat it all up like a good pig, snorting and grunting and shaking with need. Behind him, Sam yanked down his rubber pants and thrust his cock into the cooling muck stuck to the old man’s crack, stabbing around until he found the loose hole, and started fucking wildly.

After they’d both abused him, the two men left him there in the alley. He tried to follow them, but some small part of him was too ashamed to be seen on the sidewalk. What had they done to him? What had he just done to himself? He spent the night in the alley, eating his shit, trading his service as a toilet with other degenerates for booze and cigarettes, and by the next morning, Kurt had no memory of his old life–he was just a pig who wandered the streets, begging men for shit…and more often than not, he’d get it. Something about the way he smelled made men more than happy to slip into an alley and use him as the toilet he knew he was. After all, he was a stinker, through and through, just like the rest of them.

Stinkers (Part 3)

Jed slammed the door, and then punched a hole in the apartment wall. That was the third one. The third fucking prostitute, and every single one of them had reeked. Not unwashed reek, but this fucking reek of woman, and Jed hadn’t even been able to get past the nausea to fucking tough any of them. He stared at the hole he’d made, his arms raised up on the wall, his own unwashed stink calming him down, making him horny, making him hornier. He should take a shower. He’d already taken three showers, in fact, but as soon as he stepped out, it was like his body would immediately start sweating, and in less than five minutes, he’d be as filthy as before. But he had to do something, right? He had to try to get this faggot stink off of him somehow. He tromped back into the bathroom, and while he waited for the water to heat up, he stared at himself in the mirror.

What had that faggot done to him? He didn’t even look like himself anymore. He looked to be a good three or four inches taller, and his entire body was built like he’d been pumping iron at the gym for years. He was hairier, especially his chest, but even his arms and legs had a thick coating which hadn’t been there before, and his pits! They looked like fucking nests now, and the hair was always sopping wet with sweat. The same with his bush. If his cock hadn’t grown several inches longer, it would have been completely swallowed up by the mass of hair. Yeah, his cock. With that new foreskin which had grown over the head, he pulled it back and saw all the cheese he’d eaten off his fingers earlier (he hadn’t been able to control himself, he’d just had to taste it) had already been replaced with even more than before. It was disgusting. He was disgusting, he was turning into some freak faggot, and there didn’t seem to be anything he could do to stop it.

There was another knock on the door. Probably that prostitute angry that he’d refused to pay her. He could set her straight, get her and her stink the fuck away from him, but as he stomped towards the door, he smelled something else. Something familiar on the other side. Something far more…appetizing. No, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t let him in, he wouldn’t do that to himself, he wouldn’t be some stinking faggot like that! He’d fought it this long, he could fight it some more, he could bottle it up all over again, like he’d had to do before, but fuck. Fuck if his cock wasn’t hard as a rock. Fuck if his ass wasn’t twitching. Fuck if he wasn’t drooling into the two inch long beard he’d grown out in a single day. Fuck. Fuck it. He opened the door, and there, in the hall, was Sam.

He grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and hauled him inside, shoving him up against the wall, door still open, and just smelled him. Smelled his pits, smelled his neck, fell to his knees and pressed his face against his crotch, smelling his cock, the cock he’d been wanting to taste all day, the cock he fucking wanted so fucking much. Sam reached out, and swung the door closed. Jed kept sniffing for a few minutes, fighting the urge to rip the jeans apart and swallow him then and there, but he pulled himself back from the brink, and stood back up.

“How…how did you find me here?”

“How do you think I found you? I can smell you across the city, you idiot. Why’d you run off like that?”

“I’m not…not gonna let you make me a faggot.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “I can’t make you a faggot man, you just are one.”

“No…Fuck that. I’m not.”

“Look, this is my fault, I should have made sure you were finished before finding someone to stink up together. Let me help you man, cause you smell fucking amazing, and I can’t fuckin’ wait to see what you’re gonna be once you really let loose.”

Sam brought his mouth close; Jed could taste his hot breath. He’d never wanted to kiss a man before, that was true faggot territory, but…but he was so hungry, he was so horny, he closed the gap, pushing their mouths together, sucking Sam’s tongue into his mouth, chewing his lips, licking his mustache, pulling him closer, tighter, and then shoved him away, turning back, retreating into the apartment.

Sam stripped off his shirt, dropped his pants and dirty brown underwear, kicked off his shoes and pulled off his socks. Jed just watched from a distance. “Please, just leave. Don’t make me do this.”

Sam walked past him, Sat down on the couch, and put his feet up on the table. “I’m not going to make you do anything. You just do whatever feels good.”

So many, different, smells. Crotch, feet, ass, cock, balls, pits, neck, navel. Why was he fighting this? Why? He got down on his knees, and started at Sam’s feet up on the table, licking the tops, and then the bottoms, burrowing his tongue between the toes, milking his cock with one hand, licking his own precum off his palm. Sam was nursing his own hard cock, Jed could see the cheese under the foreskin, and he ran his tongue underneath it, collecting it, savoring it, and then took the head and sucked, and then swallowed the whole shaft. Faggot. He was a faggot. But instead of shame, he just felt…nothing. He just felt like himself. He felt more like himself. He felt his muscles swelling, his beard growing longer, hair coating his body in an even thicker layer than before. Sam pushed him off his cock, rolled over, got on his knees, ass towards Jed’s face, and he shoved his tongue as far up the chute as he could, grinding his beard into the shitty crack, and when Sam farted directly in his face, he almost lost it, he almost shot his load, but no, no, he needed to fuck. He stood up, licking the scum from his lips and beard, pressing his precum slick cock head against Sam’s dirty hole and forced it in. humping and fucking, holding out as long as he could, but he was shooting, and shooting deep. And he felt…free.

Free.

He stayed in Sam’s ass as long as he could, licking the sweat from his friend’s back, sniffing his pits, Sam telling him what a good fucker he was, what a good stinker he was, what a good faggot he was. He was a good faggot. And Sam was a good faggot. Or maybe bad and good had nothing to do with it, maybe they just…were. His cock slipped out, and he finished Sam off, sucking the cum out, letting most of his load splatter into his bushy beard, smiling up at Sam, seeing him smile back. Just a couple of stinking fags, like Jed had always wanted, even if he’d never really known.

Stinkers – Part 2

They had gotten off the bus at around 5:15, and the sidewalk was swarming with men in business suits. Sam was quick, cutting against the flow with ease–more than once, Jed lost sight of him in the crowd, but discovered he could find him just as easily with his nose, if he focused on the foul stench coming off his body. The two of them swam through the current of men, any number of them throwing Jed nasty looks, wondering what a filthy worker like him could possibly be doing on their sidewalk. Jed eventually stopped following his eyes and relied on his nose–and he ran right into Sam’s back, discovering his strange acquaintance had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, and was sniffing the air.

“What are we doing up here, anyway?” Jed asked.

“Eh,” Sam said, took a long snort, and sighed, “I was bored, wanted to play. I wasn’t expecting to find someone like you on the bus though.”

“Like me?”

“Another Stinker like me.”

“A Stinker?”

Sam took another deep breath, and gave a shudder, “Can’t fuckin’ concentrate with you stinking like filth behind me, fuck…”

Before Jed could do anything, Sam grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him across the sidewalk’s flow, towards a narrow alley between two large office buildings. There were a couple of dumpsters a fifty feet back or so, and Sam pulled him behind one, shoved Jed up against the wall, and pressed his body into him, licking Jed’s neck, sucking at the sweat there, listening to him moan and grind his cock into Sam’s filthy jeans. “Look…just…just stay here for a bit, I’ll be back in a moment with something fun to play with.”

Jed waited. Sam went back to the alley entrance, sniffing at the men who passed by without them really noticing. Something caught his attention, and he stepped back out into the flow of men, Jed struggling to see him in the throng of businessmen. A minute later, He stepped back, pulling someone with him–one of the businessmen. He was younger, probably in his late twenties. Well manicured, with that greased back hair that was so popular these days, and a smooth face. He was a bit taller than Sam, but probably a bit shorter than Jed was now. He didn’t look particularly happy, being dragged along by some strange filthy man, but Jed could see the tent in his tailored pants, and he could…smell him. He didn’t smell quite like Sam and him, not filthy, and he didn’t just smell “clean”, he smelled…like fresh meat. He smelled like prey, like a target, and without really noticing, Jed felt his mouth start drooling a bit, and he was stroking his cock.

Jed wasn’t a faggot, but he’d had sex with men before, always as a top, and now he realized that every single one of them had smelled exactly like this young man smelled. And every single one of them had done everything he’d said, no matter what it was, and in all of those situations, Jed had always been…surprised by the depths and filth of his imagination. He recognized that look in the businessman’s eyes, that confusion as he leaned in closer, Sam lifting one arm, the man sniffing, then giving in and burying his face in the stink. Sam spit in the man’s face, and Jed watched his anger turn to humiliation, then turn to arousal. Sam eventually walked away, deeper into the alley. The man didn’t want to follow, but he wiped the drool on his hand, sucked it up, and then followed him, staggering a bit.

“Ready to have some fun?” Sam said, when he rejoined Jed.

“I’ve…smelled men like him before, what the fuck is that?”

“Heh, don’t fuckin’ worry about it, just enjoy yourself.”

The businessman came around the dumpster, saw Jed there, smelled him…but this close, Jed couldn’t stop himself. He shoved the businessman back, hard enough to knock him onto his ass, surprised at his own violence. His hands quickly dropped his shorts, grabbed the back of the man’s head and forced him down on the shaft, enjoying the sensation of him gagging around it.

Sam came up behind him, pressing his body against his back, holding him tight. “Fuck, I forgot…what it’s like when two of us play together, fuck…and you’re still fuckin’ changin’, so fuckin’ excited man, can’t fuckin’ tell you…”

Jed, however, was having doubts. He wasn’t a fucking faggot. He’d had urges sure. He’d fucked pussy fuckers like this one, but he couldn’t explain Sam. He couldn’t accept that this man like him could be turning him on. That, when he felt Sam’s cock sliding up his ass crack, that he…wanted it inside of him. As much as it hurt–and it hurt a surprising amount, he got out from between them and stepped back a few paces. He needed some air–some fresh air. He couldn’t get the smell of Sam out of his nose, or the smell of this worthless business faggot. His head felt like it was slowing down, like he was just running on instinct, and his new instincts terrified him.

Sam stepped up. He said something to him, but all Jed could think about was how much he wanted to get on his knees and smell his ass, smell his crotch, smell his feet–all his faggot smells, fuck! He looked down at the man in the suit, and he looked different. He’d grown a beard, he had a gut, he had the hungriest look in his eyes and he was staring right at Jed, licking cum from his lips like a whore. Not this, he can’t do this, and he shoved Sam to one side, pulled his shorts back up and bolted. Sam shouted for him, but Jed just ran. He ran down the busy sidewalk, he ran as quickly as he could, until he couldn’t run anymore, until he’d finally gotten that smell from his nose, from his lungs. Home, he had to get home. Had to get home and just…forget any of this faggot shit ever happened. And once he calmed down, he could find some pussy (even though pussy was the last thing he wanted, the last thing he had ever wanted) and feel like a real man again.

Stinkers – Part 1

Jed met Sam on the bus (though he didn’t learn his name until quite a bit later), or rather, he smelled his pits as he walked past him, and knew, then and there, that he would have to get closer. Jed worked as a construction worker, and could build up quite the stink himself. He’d always enjoyed the stench of his sweaty pits, and while he would never in his life admit to enjoying any sort of faggotry, there was something about another fucker’s musk that got him riled up in a way no pussy stench could. And something in that guy’s eye, as he walked past, smirking under that sleazy handlebar mustache, made Jed think that he might not mind the attention. Before the bus could move on, he got up from his seat and followed him back. Sam took a window seat, and Jed slid in next to him on the mostly empty bus.

The musk simply enveloped him, and Jed breathed deep, feeling his heart pulse, his cock growing harder. Almost immediately a hand gripped the inside of his thigh, stroking the hardening shaft. He wanted to come up with something to say, but Sam put his arm around Jed’s shoulders, and he could see the yellow pit stains embedded in his white shirt, and he shuddered. Sam stroked a bit faster. Jed leaned in closer, snorting more of the stench up.

“Guess someone likes it nasty,” he whispered into Jed’s ear. He came in his shorts with a gasp.

“I’m…I’m not a faggot.”

He just smiled back.

“Fuck, you smell fuckin’ amazing.”

Sam leaned over, pressed his nose to the nape of Jed’s neck, took a sniff, and then licked up some of his hot sweat. “You’re not too bad yourself, you know.”

Jed couldn’t take his nose away. He took the pit of the shirt in his mouth and started chewing on it, filling it up with spit, and then sucking it out again, moaning louder this time. Somehow one of his hands had ended up in Sam’s lap, right on his cock. He ran his hand up and down the shaft. Eight inches? Nine?

“Not…Not a faggot…” he said again, but his heart just wasn’t in it this time.

Sam had his hand stuffed down the front of Jed’s shorts, coating his whole hand with cum, and spilled it back out. He pressed his hand to his nose, took a couple loud snorts, and then smeared it on the pit of his shirt. Jed sucked that up as well. It wasn’t the first time he’d tasted his own cum, but fuck, this was fuckin’ out of control. He wanted to look around, see how many people on the bus were staring at them, see how many were trying to not stare at them, check the rearview to see what the driver was looking at, but everytime he tried, somehow a hand pulled him back into the pit…and he just stayed there. He wasn’t quite sure how long, and then the bus came to a stop, and Sam put his arm down, forcing Jed to take his mouth away from the sopping wet fabric, his breath hot and quick.

“Sorry man, this is my stop.”

Jed looked outside, and realized he’d missed his own by three or four. Sam got up, purposefully ground the crotch of his jeans into Jed’s face as he pushed past. Every part of his nose lit up; it was an entirely different stench, and with a deep shudder, Jed felt his cock spasm, pumping even more cum into his already wet shorts.

He stopped in the aisle and looked back, “You could always come along for a little fun, you know.”

He kept walking, Jed kept sitting. He watched the man smirk at him as he got off the bus, and he scrambled up and after him, out onto the sidewalk. It was a part of the city he wasn’t particularly familiar with, part of the business district, men in suits hurrying past them on the sidewalk. The man was waiting for him. Jed fell to his knees, and pressed his nose to the front of the man’s filthy jeans, desperate to smell it again, running his tongue along the outline of his hard cock.

“I’m not a faggot, but fuck I wanna suck you off.”

“We can make each other gag later, don’t you fucking worry. Now come on, get up, and let’s have some fucking fun, man.”

Sam walked off down the sidewalk, and Jed caught a look at himself in the window of the building there, and he just stared at himself for a second. That couldn’t be right…could it? He looked…bigger all of a sudden. Taller, and more built, like he’d packed on some muscle during the bus ride. His shorts were tight across his thighs, and the shirt was riding up. He still had a belly, but there was more hair on it than before. In fact, there was more hair…everywhere. His arms were hairier, he had a short beard which had somehow grown in rapidly over less than half an hour. And…and fuck, he stank. He lifted one arm, and sniffed his own pit, his cock leaking more cum into his already wet shorts.

Sam had turned and was watching him. Jed hurried over and caught up.

“Did you do this to me?”

“If I said I did, would it even matter?” Sam turned and kept walking, “Come on, I want to have some fun.”

Jed told himself that this was a bad idea. That he shouldn’t follow him, but his legs were moving even before he’d made up his mind. His nose wanted more, his tongue wanted more. And he couldn’t quite manage to care much about what might happen to him if he kept on smelling.

Rick and The Beast (Part 2)

Another three texts, all from The Beast. Rick ignored them like usual, but he sounded more pissed off than usual. It had been two weeks since he’d been raped at that party, and The Beast had texted him almost non-stop since, demanding that Rick come over and let him plow his hole, or meet him around campus to suck his cock. Rick was so stressed out that he was failing half his courses. He couldn’t report it–who would believe him? And even if they believed him, Jim was a god to this school–if people found out he’d accused him of not only raping him, but of being gay…no, that just wasn’t a possibility. It didn’t help that his obsession with the jock Jim had given him was only growing stronger. The only way he could get a load out was with it stuffed in his mouth or pressed to his nose, and he always imagined the most vile, exciting fantasies. But the texts had turned into threats lately. He did everything he could to avoid The Beast, and anyone else, and in particular had started eating very late at night, or skipping meals altogether, to avoid the crowd of students. That night, when he was sitting alone, and a hulking figure started crossing the room towards him, he realized this had been an error of judgement. He started packing up his stuff, but before he could escape, Jim had slid into the booth, where Rick was seated, pinning him to the wall.

“Let me see your phone, fuckpig,” The Beast said, and when Rick did nothing, he rummaged through Rick’s pockets until he found it, made him unlock it, and checked the text messages. “You have been getting them, you fucker!” he said, “I thought you might have given me the wrong number, but you’ve been fucking ignoring me. People don’t fucking ignore me, pig.”

“Please, I’m sorry, but I don’t…”

“I don’t give a fuck what you do or don’t do,” The Beast said, throwing up an arm. The stench of his pit washed over Rick, but he felt that same feeling he’d felt in the hallway, the same feeling when he picked up the jock in his room, his heart in his throat beating fast, his cock hardening, “Lick it.”

Rick already had his tongue out before The Beast gave the order, burying his face in that stinking armpit, thirsty for his sweat. He felt like he was drunk again, even though he hadn’t had a drop of alcohol since that party.

“Now open up your laptop there, unlock it for me, and then get under the table. We’ve got a couple of hours to waste, and I don’t want to get bored.”

Rick did as he asked, and then crawled under the table. It was a tight fit for him, but he saw The Beast already had his cock hanging out for him.

“Edge me, pig. If I cum, I break your laptop. If I get soft, I break your face–got it?”

The task proved harder than he’d expected. The Beast’s cock ran on a hair trigger, and while he was generous enough to warn Rick that he was getting close, balancing him on the edge took all of his concentration…but he enjoyed it. He enjoyed running his tongue under The Beast’s foreskin. He liked sucking on the head, the feel of it pushing down his throat, the taste of his balls and precum. He had his own cock out and was jacking it off under the table, and while The Beast never came, he shot three loads over the next two hours, until the kitchen closed and the last of the staff had left the building.

By that point, the stench had settled over Rick’s mind like a fog–he would have done anything The Beast told him to do at that point. They got up, The Beast telling him he’d be punished for cumming without permission later, and went around behind the building. The beast stacked up a couple of milk crates and told Rick to sit on them, and then said, “Now pig, as punishment for not responding, we’re going to have a little feeding session. Fresh food’s too good for a pig like you though, so you’re going to be eating trash.”

The kitchen had already tossed the extra product from that day, and it was still tepid from the warming trays. Rick tried not to vomit–The Beast told him that if he vomited, he’d make him eat it all back up. Eventually he got used to it, and when The Beast thought he’d suffered enough, Rick’s gut taut with thrown out food, he told him to get on his hands and knees, and he fucked his ass in the alley. Between the pain of his ass and his stuffed gut, he wanted to just die, but instead, he shot another load of cum onto the pavement beneath him, when The Beast’s massive cock slammed into his prostate.

“God damn it, pig fucker…” The Beast said, after he came and pulled out, “Lick up that fucking nasty cum of yours right fucking now.”

Not that, anything but that, and yet he was scooting back, his tongue scraping the cum up from the asphalt. Why was he doing this? Why was he letting The Beast do this to him? While he licked, he felt The Beast grab his cock and balls, fit something over them, and then heard the click of a padlock.

“As punishment for cumming without my permission, we’re just going to keep you locked up from now on. If you start acting like a good piggy, and respond to my texts, and don’t refuse a single meet up for the next month, I’ll let you shoot once. Oh, and one more thing pig–”

The Beast stood up, aimed his cock at Rick, and unleashed a torrent of piss.

“You’re mine. Got it? Fucking mine.”

He soaked every inch of his clothes down to the skin, and then put away his cock and left without another word, leaving Rick shivering in the cold, wondering how any of this could get any worse.

(To be continued at some later date???)

Rick and the Beast – Part 1

“Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug!…”

Rick had never had a drink before in his life. He took the end of the funnel in his mouth, and the chant grew louder. But what could it hurt? He was at college! This is what college was for! The beer hit him fast, and he sputtered out the first bit, got the end of the funnel back in his mouth, and tried to keep up, the cheap, unlabelled beer from the keg tasting like slightly bitter water. He finally quit, when he couldn’t keep up anymore, let out a big belch, and people whooped and hollered. He grinned, feeling like he belonged.

An hour later, with five more cups of beer pushed onto him by guys from the frat hosting the party, he was smashed, stumbling down a hallway, trying to find a bathroom where he could either shit or puke or both. He ended up puking before he could find one, into a handy bucket the frat had hopefully left out for that very reason. He wiped his mouth, let out another belch and figured that the smart thing would be to excuse himself quietly. Turning around, he saw the hallway was blocked.

At least six and a half feet tall, weighing in at a rumored 300 pounds of nearly solid muscle, hair and cock, was Jim Newman–known around campus as “The Beast”. The prize athlete from the school, a senior already being scouted for the NFL draft, and he was staring right at Rick–short, big gutted, Rick Trubert, on a partial scholarship from Smalltown, Nowhere.

“Did…” Rick started to say. His heart was caught in his throat for some reason. “You saw that, I bet…”

The Beast didn’t say anything, but came forward, pushing right into Rick’s personal space, abs to moobs, and Rick’s heart caught again. He was panting, and…and hard? Why the fuck was he hard? He wasn’t gay, he’d had sex with girls and everything, but there was…a smell. The Beast’s musk enveloped him, this rank, filthy smell, and something about it was making him hard as a rock. “You looked good with a funnel in your mouth, piggy,” The Beast leered down, “Bet you’d look even hotter with my cock stuffed in there instead.”

“I’m…I’m not…”

“You think I give two shits?”

“Please–”

The Beast squatted a bit, reached under Rick’s gut and found the hard cock like he’d expected it to be there. Rick tried not to groan, but did anyway, loudly.

“Ya know, maybe not throat tonight. Looking at you now, I’m thinkin’ ass.” With his other hand, The Beast pulled up the bottom of his tank, revealing his hard abs, shiny with sweat, and Rick leaned in, snorting, licking up salt. When The Beast opened a bedroom door, Rick didn’t hesitate to follow. The Beast bent him over the bed, yanked down his pants, and fucked him raw, forcing Rick to bite down on a pillow so he didn’t scream, the ten inch cock buried deep into his guts, filling him with cum, and then Beast zipped up and left, but not before getting Rick to mumble out his cell number for him. Rick was happy to be drunk; it disguised the pain. He pulled up his pants, feeling cum and a bit of blood leak out into the back of his underwear, and fled back to his dorm room–thankfully, it was empty.

What should he do? Who should he call? No, he couldn’t tell anyone. Who would even believe him? The Beast was well known as a pussy hound; nobody would believe that he’d fuck a guy. He laid down on his bed, trying not to cry, trying not to think, when he felt his phone buzz. He checked it–a couple text messages from an unknown number.

left you a present pig

check your pocket

Rick noticed then that he had a strange bulge in his back pocket–he reached in and pulled out a jockstrap–The Beast’s jockstrap. The Beast’s stinking…well worn jockstrap. He pressed it to his nose, it had the same stink on it that he’d smelled in the hallway, and unable to stop himself, he had his cock in his hand, and he was jacking off. He noticed that his underwear was wet and tacky already…had he cum while The Beast was fucking him earlier? He could kind of remember in the bedroom, begging him to fuck his hole harder, grunting and snorting and panting like a fucking pig…yeah, he’d cum, he’d cum harder than he ever had before. He waded up the jock and shoved it in his mouth, sucking the sweat, piss and dried cum from the fabric, and while one hand kept stroking his pig cock, the other slipped around behind to his sore, wrecked hole, probing it, slipping two and then three fingers in, unable to stop.

After several minutes of abusing himself he shot again, and kept the jock in his mouth as he came down from his orgasm. Realizing what he’d done, he threw it across the room, and saw a few more messages had arrived on his phone.

think you should cum to my room and thank me pig

r u there?

fuckin answer pig I dont like waiting!!!

Rick’s thumbs tapped out a few replies, but he kept deleting them before sending them. His roommate came back from a different party, and Rick had to cover himself up quickly, and only then did he realize he’d never sent a message back. That was probably for the best…but he had to silence the phone–the stream of messages didn’t stop coming in until the early morning, and he deleted them all before he could give into the temptation to read them. He kept the jock, though–he hid it from his roommate, but before long the only way he could get a load of cum out was with it pressed to his nose or stuffed in his mouth, but he never replied to The Beast. He was too terrified. He didn’t have to worry though–The Beast would be more than happy to hunt him down.

(To be continued Friday)

You check back over your shoulder, and sure enough, he’s still following you. You can hear him panting, and the occasional whine. You’d seen him earlier in the leather bar, dressed in nothing beyond a skank jock, blowing some rough looking guy off in a corner, but once you’d left to walk the several blocks home to your apartment, he’d slipped out after you, and had been following you since. A couple of times you’d turned around and yelled at him, or thrown a bottle, and while he backed off for a bit, he still persisted.

A gay guy playing pup is following me home–you couldn’t make this shit up. Maybe it was just his thing or something? The guy hadn’t even put on any clothes–he was just wearing that same jock, ass naked. Luckily the streets were deserted, and the few people around didn’t give either of you a second glance. Odd how some things can start to seem normal. He just isn’t your type though, and while the persistence is flattering, you get into your building, make sure he stays locked out, and head up to your apartment, happy to be alone–at least until you hear scratching at your door, and a familiar whine behind it.

You check the peephole, and there he is. How in the hell did he get in the building and find your apartment? Still, you’re worried that someone might see him outside your door–and the last thing you want is the building supervisors on your case, and so you open the door a crack. He refuses to leave. In fact, he just seems thrilled to see you, and licks your face when you lean in too close, trying to shoo him away. He’s making such a racket that you eventually just let him in, rather than risk being seen with him in the hallway.

He bounds around the room, barking and panting, jumping up on you and nearly knocking you to the floor, rubbing his face against your crotch. You try to tell him no, but your cock is saying different, and he knows it. Relenting once more, you let your cock out of your jeans and he starts sucking on it–finally calming down once you feed him a load of cum. However, he refuses to drop the act, and when you try to force him to leave, he barks and whines outside your door loud enough to wake the entire floor, and you let him back in again. Worried he might take the pup thing too far and piss right on the carpet, you make him use the toilet, which he does begrudgingly, and then, exhausted, you head to bed. After much effort expended in keeping him out, you eventually let him up and under the covers with you, where he spends the whole night hogging the bed.

When morning comes, you hope that you can finally put an end to this ridiculous charade, but several things happen which complicate matters. First, you realize that if you force him out during the day you will be sure to be noticed by your neighbors, and second, you see that something new has appeared on the pup in the course of the night–a leather dog collar with a tag hanging from the D-ring with your name and phone number on it. As soon as you read it, it’s like a strange veil lifts from your mind, and you realize that of course this is your pup–Spike. How could you have forgotten that? And while forcing him to leave would be impossible, you also realize that you have no real desire to make him leave. After all…where would he go?

He eats the human food you give him, though he refuses to use his hands. He presents his ass to you regularly, whining and begging until you relent and fuck him. By the end of the day, you’re fucking him rather willingly, and at night, you make him beg for your cock, like a proper pup should. This shift is just obvious enough to be noticeable, and yet too slow to be worrying, but that evening, he refuses to settle down, and instead is pawing and barking at the door, like he wants to leave, but you no longer want to see him go. Still, he grows louder and more insistent, and unable to stand it, you open the door and let him out–but he doesn’t bolt. He stays in the hallway, bounding and barking…and you realize that now he wants you to follow him.

And with that, you realize that you don’t know where you are. This isn’t…this isn’t your home, or your stuff. What are you even doing here? You throw on some of the clothes around–they aren’t yours but they’ll have to do, leave the apartment and head for the elevator with your pup, and out of the building, onto the city street. It’s the middle of the night and the streets are dead, the pup takes off at a run heading south, and you shout at him, racing to keep up. His path zigs and zags a bit, but you neither lose him nor have much of a sense of where you’re both going. The apartments turn slummier, and messier, and things begin to look a bit more familiar to you. Your pup eventually stops in front of an old tenement and waits for you to catch up. Your pup noses a lose brick–you move it and find a pair of keys, one that opens the door, and the other that opens the door to a rundown studio apartment–home.

You feel safe here–comfortable. It smells like your brand of cigarettes, and you recognize the filthy clothes strewn around the room as yours, and smell your musk. Spike is happy to be home too, and you reward him with a fuck for being smart enough to lead you here. Still, looking at the clock, it’s almost time to get to work at the construction site…right? Something about all of this still feels off, but you pull on a nasty jock, a pair of camo pants, and a white wifebeater stained brown with sweat, and take a whiff of your pits, feeling your cock harden at the stench. Looking around for your wallet, you find an empty, ornate glass bottle on the table, along with a note:

Follow your master home, and you will be his forever.

Have him follow you home, and he will take your place.

You have no idea what to make of it, but luckily pup knows where your wallet is, and brings it to you, happy to finally have the master he’d always wanted.

***

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Commission – The Roadhouse Men (Musky)

~1994~

“Marty look, I know I let you help out around here on occasion, but you can’t really expect me to–”

“Ed, I don’t have anywhere else to go. He kicked me out!”

“Weren’t you saving the cash I’ve been givin’ you?”

“He already found it. I don’t have anything. Please, I’ve thought about it, alright? I really have.”

“Eddie, just let him do it,” Danny boy said, where he was sweeping the bar floor in a pair of bright green gym shorts and nothing else, “Bruno and I could use the help, right Bruno?”

The big, hairy bear behind the bar, dressed in a perfectly shined leather uniform didn’t say anything, but he never said much, really. Ed looked at them both, and then at Marty. He’d been waiting on the stoop of the roadhouse this morning when Mitch Evans had dropped Danny Boy off in his truck. Ed had arrived half an hour later to Danny Boy patting Marty on the back while the young man sobbed, telling him how his dad had kicked him out of the trailer for being a queer. Ed was sympathetic, and it was because he was sympathetic that he was reluctant.

“There’s no way back, you know. You won’t age. You won’t be able to go against my orders. You’d be giving up a whole lot. How about I just hire you as a barback, under the table? You can sleep in the backroom with Bruno, until you get back on your feet–”

“I don’t…” Marty said, and then stopped. “I don’t want to be a barback, Eddie. I want…” he looked over at Danny Boy, where he was standing, but Eddie knew he didn’t want Danny Boy. Marty’s tastes ran decidedly older–and quite a bit ranker–than his green whore. What he wanted was what Danny Boy could do. He could bend men to his will–no man older than forty could resist him. Marty had spent his life powerless, and the power of the whore was immediate and tempting. Ed knew the temptation–he made quite a bit of his living off it, but there was so much more to Marty than that.

“Danny Boy, would you please tell Marty here that your life isn’t as glamorous as you make it seem?”

“Are you kidding? I fucking love my job, daddy.”

“Danny…”

Danny strutted over, “What? You made damn sure I like daddy dick, it’s your fault.” He leaned over the bar and gave Ed a deep kiss, before returning to sweeping.

“At least you’re letting him have a choice,” a deep voice said, and they all turned to Bruno.

“No need to go dredge up that old shit again,” Ed said.

Bruno shrugged, “It is fun. It’s…powerful. I know why he wants it.”

“That doesn’t mean he should want it.”

“You can’t protect him, sir, or rather…If you really want to protect him, then you should keep him.” Feeling he’d said enough, we went back to stocking the bar for the evening. Ed scowled at the bear’s wide, hairy back.

“Fine. If it’s really what you want.”

“Really?”

“Yes, but you need to think about it, and be really sure this is what you want. You need to go out, take a walk–make damn sure. Don’t come back until after seven, got it? Or the deals off.”

Marty nodded excitedly, and rushed out the door. Ed sat for a moment, and then turned to Bruno. “You can finish that later, Bruno. We got somewhere to go. You keep cleaning, Danny. We’ll be back in a bit.”

Bruno and Ed waited a few minutes until Marty was a ways off, and then climbed in Ed’s truck and took off towards town, to make a pickup for tonight’s party.

***

Marty returned at quarter to seven, but Ed wasn’t going to disbar him on a technicality. By nine, he was good and drunk on the house brew, and word had spread around that everyone’s favorite little barback was going to be joining the Roadhouse crew full time, and the betting pool started up, guessing what color he might be representing by the end of the night. At ten, Ed called for silence, helped Marty to a table in the middle of the bar, giving everyone a good view, and then pulled out a bottle of fortified wine, pouring a glass of the deep magenta liquid into a tumbler for the young man.

“Purple?” Marty asked, “What the fuck’s purple? How come I can’t be something cool, like red?”

“Trust me Marty, if there’s anything you’ll enjoy, it’s purple, now drink up.”

The room was silent, but everyone could see that Marty was choking. Suddenly faced with the crucial decision, everything didn’t seem quite so easy as it had in the sober daylight. “I don’t…I don’t know, maybe you were right, maybe this is a bad idea. I don’t…” he stood up.

“Sit down, Marty,” Ed said, and he immediately plopped back down in the chair.

“How…how did you do that?” Marty asked, “I didn’t…”

“Oh Marty, I’m sorry, but one of the first things you’re going to have to learn is that you don’t get to say no–not anymore. Now drink.”

He picked up the glass, hand shaking, trying to spill it out, but then it was at his lips, the acrid liquid in his mouth. It didn’t taste like wine, it tasted like some foul jockstrap which had fermented at the bottom of a laundry heap. It tasted like a bum’s unwashed armpit smeared with rubbing alcohol. It tasted…really damn good. Soon, Marty was being passed around the bar, swigging openly from the bottle, only noticing slightly that he could suddenly distinguish the subtle differences between each roughneck’s musk and sweat as he passed them by. He started lingering more, sniffing and licking necks and bare pits, tasting each of them in turn. His pants had disappeared, as had his shirt. Looking down, he’d grown somewhat leaner, with a bit of a belly, his body smooth, but covered with a riot of purple tattoos that hadn’t been there earlier. He grabbed one pierced nipple with one hand, threw up his other arm, and licked up his own sweat, his hand brushing against something stiff over his head. Looking at himself in the mirror across the room, he saw a bright purple mohawk greased up in spikes six inches high, his head shaved smooth on both sides. In fact, he was hairless aside from a purple goatee, a thick purple bush around his cock, and his thick purple bushes under each arm. Metal studs gleamed magenta all over his face, with studs in his nipples and a thick gauge PA in the head of his cock. He looked so fucking nasty, he fucking loved it.

A whistle sounded behind him, he spun around. “Hey Musky!” Ed said, “Dirty Doug’s got something for you.”

Dirty Doug was one of the roadhouse’s filthiest slobs. Massively fat, he always stank, his hair and clothes unwashed. Marty had always had a bit of a thing for him though, but now, seeing the fat slob bent over, pants down, his crusty crack pointed towards him…he licked his lips, strutted over and got down on his knees. Parting the crack, he admired it for a moment, and then dug in, licking and gnawing at the hole until Doug rewarded his attention with a loud, nasty fart right into his mouth. The hot air was putrid, and Musky moaned loudly as the room cheered. Doug followed it up with a second fart, and Musky felt his cock spasm, spraying cum across the floor in front of him. Dan flipped over and pushed the head of his cock into the whore’s mouth, leg’s up, still farting as Musky sucked, watching his purple eyes roll back in pleasure until Doug finally sprayed a load of cum across his pierced face. He didn’t eat it–instead he rubbed it in. It felt so much hotter, the sticky sensation on his face and skin as it dried.

“Well everyone, why don’t you all give our newest whore a round of applause, eh? Welcome him to the family, Musky!”

Everyone cheered, and inside himself, this new self, Marty sought some sense of shame, but all he felt was pride. He liked the applause. He liked knowing that he’d done his job well.

“Now, however, we have a little surprise for you. See, you not only love stink, you put out quite a bit of it yourself. It’s pretty powerful stuff too, from what I hear. How about we all watch Musky work his magic on someone, eh boys? And it turns out I know just who Musky can use for a test run. Bruno? Bring the man out. Let’s see was Benjamin thinks of his son’s new profession.”

Bruno came out of the back room of the roadhouse, holding a leash, and following behind him was Marty’s father–Benjamin, naked aside from the collar tethered to Bruno’s gloved hand and the shackles binding his hands behind his back. Benjamin glowered at the rest of the crowd, and even spotted a few faces he’d recognized–that he’d trusted. He couldn’t believe how many faggots were surrounding him, and his son. His fucking, faggot son, naked, filthy, pierced…purple. What the fuck had these faggots done to him? Is this why’d he’d been acting so strange these last few months? Well they weren’t going to get him, he was more man than any of these fuckers.

Musky just stared at the man who had caused him so much misery these years, and smiled. He could…smell himself now. And just like Danny Boy, just like Bruno, he had a few tricks up his sleeve too. “Well hey dad,” Musky said, walked over and took the leash from Bruno, yanking his father over and pushing him down into a chair, “Fancy running into you at the Roadhouse. And here, you used to tell me that only faggots came around here.”

“Boy, I don’t know what they did to you, but you have to–”

Musky placed a finger at his father’s lips, “Oh dad, you still don’t get it, do you? This is where I’ve been hanging out, all those nights I told you I was chasing girls. See, I’ve been chasing boys instead. But you know? I’d rather we not talk right now. In fact, what I’d rather see you do is lick.”

Muky sat down in his father’s lap to one side and threw up one arm, shoving his purple bush into his dad’s face. The stench was horrific, but then why wasn’t he pulling away? Why was he leaning in, why was he sniffing deeper, why was he licking at the filthy hairs, tasting his son’s sweat?

“What do you think dad? How do I taste? Seems like you like it,” Musky wrapped the leash in his hand over and over, pulling his dad in tight, but he wasn’t fighting it–he was relishing it. Why was he relishing it? Sure, he’d never been one to shy away from a bit of pit stink, but this was different. This was rank, and yet he couldn’t pull himself back, and when Musky stood up, he was panting, tongue out, sweat or saliva dribbling from his chin, he didn’t know which. “You want the other one, dad? You like my fuckin’ stink?”

“I…” his throat was so dry, “Please don’t, don’t make me like them, don’t…”

“Look at your cock, dad–it’s so hard…” Musky said, wrapping one hand around the shaft, “I didn’t know you got turned on by my stink, like a fuckin’ pig. Are you a fuckin’ stink pig, dad? Is that what you like more than anything in the world?” Musky reached around and dug around in his ass with two fingers, then walked around behind his dad, hooked them into his nose and pulled it back. His father’s eyes rolled back in, and he shuddered, precum seeping from the head of his cock and dribbling back down the shaft. He was snorting the stink in, but he needed more, he fucking needed so much more. His son pulled his fingers out and got down on his hands and knees in front of his dad. “Well come on piggy, get down here and have a taste of my filthy hole.”

Benjamin fell out of his chair and onto his knees with a grunt. He couldn’t support himself with his bound hands, so he had to get close, cock bobbing and swinging cum onto the floor, before he could push his face in between his son’s cheeks and into his ass crack. Something was wrong with him. He shouldn’t want this, he shouldn’t be doing this, but he didn’t want to stop. Musky screwed up his face and let the first fart rip, and the load that had been building flew from the head of his father’s cock, as he spasmed, his nose taking in deep snorts of his son’s gas, but it wasn’t enough. Musky farted again, and Benjamin felt his old self dissolving away, replaced by a desire for filth, for nasty asses and filthy pits, and his son’s especially. Musky reached under himself and starts stroking his pierced cock, getting close, and then he turned around and shot his load all over his father’s face, before getting down and sharing it with him, licking it up, the room cheering around them, and then the men pulled them apart, wanting a piece of them both for themselves.

Benjamin was a staple of the roadhouse from then on, and that first night he’d picked up a few nasty habits, no longer showering, shaving or wiping his ass after a shit. He struck up a friendship, and then a relationship, with Dirty Doug, and usually he could be found with his face plastered in some trucker or biker’s nasty pit, stopping only to take a swig off his beer. But when he could afford it, he’d buy a night with his son and take him home, lick every inch of Musky’s body clean, and his mind would dissolve a bit more, turn even dumber and filthier and nastier, but he couldn’t stop himself. Didn’t want to stop himself. Musky had his own home now though, and things were different, and even hard, at times. But he never once regretted his choice, and he did everything he could to make sure the Roadhouse, and Ed, had a successful, happy future ahead of them.

***

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