Stinkers: Finders Keepers (Part 6)

As it turned out, I needed him pretty much every morning before I left for work, and every night after I got home. Usually we would fuck in the alley–I liked smelling the trash around us, melding with our own musk as he served me, but on occasion, when I was particularly horny, I would have him come up to my apartment with me, where he’d have the privilege of sharing my bed, provided I could fuck him all night long. He never seemed to mind, of course.

I…I knew my life was unravelling, and yet, at the same time, everything seemed to be going so…so well. I was just so happy, all the time. Enjoying myself. Even as everything around me slipped–my hygiene in particular–no one at work seemed to notice, or if they did notice, no one wanted to say anything…I couldn’t really tell which it was. I mean, I looked…fucking awful. I hadn’t done laundry in weeks, I was wearing the same two or three suits for days in a row and I fucking loved it. I loved how they smelled on me. I’d stopped shaving and cutting my hair, I was still wearing my massive boots everywhere around the office. I did almost no work on any given day, and spent most of it just masturbating, usually openly in my cubicle. My co-workers would come by, though they were obviously trying to avoid me, and I was even caught a couple of times. The look in their eyes at the sight of me stroking off into these filthy briefs–I could see their disgust, but with quite a few of them, I could see a…hunger too.

I could smell it even, I could smell…so much, suddenly. I could smell things that ought to be impossible. I could smell weakness. I could smell what my co-workers would moan like, with their mouth around one of my filthy socks. I…I could sense, somehow, that I was meant to dominate them, they were meant to serve me. I found myself feeling particularly resentful towards Adam, my manager. He smelled so weak, so lowly, and yet he was supposed to have control and power over me? I knew guys were going to him, telling him what they were seeing, complaining about me, but he was refusing to do anything about it. He was afraid of me–he was afraid, because he wanted me, but he didn’t know how to feel about that. So, I decided I’d better go over to his office and tell him how he should feel about it.

He was resistant, but once I’d gotten my boots off, and thrown my socked feet up on his desk, a couple of feet from his face, he wasn’t able to stop himself from lurching over it and shoving his nose up against them, snorting and huffing my stink, and a few minutes later I had him on his knees between my legs, grinding my nasty underwear into his face, and making sure he properly understood who, exactly, was really in charge around here. From that day on, I made sure Adam came to visit me regularly throughout the day to pay proper tribute…but it wasn’t enough for me, honestly, to only own his ass for eight hours. I kept thinking of my derelict–of Jack, I should say, since I did, finally learn his name. I thought of how…eager he was to be with me, how he’d walked across the city to find me, how he never complained about the cold as he waited for me. But I could see in Adam’s eyes that he was only pushing through me, not toward me. He would get home, to his wife, to his children. He would pretend none of this was happening. He would pretend he didn’t want me as much as he did.

So I brought him home with me that weekend. He tried to object, he tried to tell me that he couldn’t, that if he didn’t go home, his wife would have questions. So, I made him call her. I made him call her and tell her exactly what he had been doing for me at the office. I listened to her disbelief turn into rage. He told her she could have the house, that they could handle the divorce eventually, and then, I took him home and I introduced him to Jack. You should have seen Adam’s face, when I told him to wait for a moment at the door, so I could fetch the old derelict from the alley, all of us riding up together in the elevator, and the stink of us both…Adam could barely contain himself. He thought he’d be servicing me all weekend, but no–no, I had him service Jack. Obey him. Worship him. Warping his mind until the old, grungy fucker was the only man he wanted in the world–aside from me, of course. But I felt he no longer deserved me. That he would have to prove his commitment before he’d be allowed to lick my feet clean again. On Sunday afternoon, while the two of them were occupied, Adam’s face buried in Jack’s asscrack, snorting and grunting like the pig he was going to be, I went down and had a chat with the building manager. Sure enough, he had a few vacant units in the building, and he was more than happy to let Adam sign a new, year long lease for the empty unit on my floor, and the two of them moved in together that evening–and I made sure Jack had very clear instructions for the sort of care and attention he should expect from his pig–and clear instructions for how his pig should be cared for as well.

Stinkers: Finders Keepers (Part 5)

Sunday I didn’t dare leave the house. Sunday…hell, I probably couldn’t have left the house even if I’d wanted to. I woke up that morning in bed, wearing the filthy underwear as usual, but also found I’d managed to climb in with the derelicts socks and boots still on my feet, crusted with all manner of filth, but it didn’t bother me one bit. I…I wanted to smell them some more, but I also…I also didn’t want to take them off, in the same way that I didn’t want to take off the underwear I had on as well, though with the boots, the urge was less strong. As I went about my day, however, I did notice something strange–that as I would take my occasional break from masturbating to go to the kitchen for something to eat, I would notice that the boots which had been much too large on my feet–so large simply walking home in them the night before had been a challenge…they weren’t nearly as uncomfortable as I remembered.

By the time that evening rolled around, I was no longer sure if I didn’t want to take off the boots because I enjoyed wearing them, or if I didn’t want to take them off because I was afraid of what I might find within them. They were, at this point…the most comfortable shoe I’d ever had on, but I…I needed to know, really. I already knew what I was going to find, of course, but I just…I pulled off both boots, looking down at the browned, holey socks, and I could tell right away that something had changed about my feet. They were…huge. No wonder the boots fit so well, my feet had swollen up to match them! Had I caught some strange disease? Did I need to go to the hospital? I hauled off the socks, expecting some red, horrific infection, but instead saw two…normalish feet. I qualify that, because they were…well, monstrous in size, but otherwise completely normal…aside from the smell.

At first, I couldn’t tell if the stink was coming from the socks and boots, or if it really was coming from my newly changed feet–I had to cross the room, the feel of the carpet under my new feet…it felt wrong, and I wanted to get the boots back on as soon as I could, but I forced myself to get away from them for a moment, crouched down, and took a whiff of my feet alone, and moaned. It…it was both of them, of course. But my feet didn’t smell like my feet anymore–they smelled like the boots, but stronger than them too. Like my feet had somehow…somehow learned from the smell of the boots, like the smell had changed them in the same way that my now nine inch cock seemed to be learning and changing from the underwear I was still wearing. All of it was too much to try and understand, so I did what seemed easiest–I jacked off, and then put the socks and boots back on, feeling much, much more comfortable immediately. They…they were mine, after all. I’d taken them, and they were mine. No–he’d given them to me. He’d wanted my cock, and he’d given me his boots. A fair trade. Finders keepers.

It was harder to tell myself that when I left for work the next day, and as I left my apartment building, driving past an alley, I saw him lying against the side, in an alley. The derelict. The panic and guilt in my throat almost made me throw up in the car, but I tamped it down, and kept driving. Had he followed me home somehow? I hadn’t…seen him following me, and I know I had checked behind me a few times. Still, if someone had stolen my only pair of boots…I’d probably want them back too.

But I hadn’t stolen them. He’d given them to me! They were mine now, they fit, they were mine!

The sheer…force of those thoughts surprised me. The sense of ownership I had for these things I was wearing…I jacked off into both boots that day at work–because…because I had to wear them to work. It didn’t look very good–a nice suit on with two massive, grungy, well worn boot on my feet, but I hadn’t even considered wearing something else…not that any of my other shoes would have even fit me, given the new feet I had after the weekend. Still, I couldn’t focus–what in the hell was he doing there? Was he going to call the police? Accuse me of rape? I…I had to confront him. I had to get him to leave.

Passed by the same alley as I went home, and sure enough, he was still there, and…still barefoot. I did feel awful about that, I admit it. I went down later that evening to confront him, to tell him to leave, but the encounter didn’t go how I was expecting it to go. As soon as he smelled me, he turned to me, and he…fuck, I could see the hunger in his fucking eyes, and he raced over, shoving his face into my crotch, huffing at my stink.

“Fuck I…I needed more sir, I’m sorry,” he moaned, “I could smell you across the city, I…with your shoe, I’m sorry for following but I had to, I had to…I…”

He didn’t get anything else out before I dragged him away from the sidewalk, behind a dumpster halfway down the alley, and fed him my cock. The way he shuddered and groaned–it was like watching an addict get their fix, and rather than horror, what I felt was…was power. I had power over him, just because of my stink. I started to wonder what I could make him do. I ordered him to take off one of my boots, and suck the sweat from my sock–he did as ordered, and the pleasure that washed over him, and the massive load of cum he shot from his cock, was enough for me to shoot as well, blowing a load of cum into his face and beard. I stepped away, got my boot back on, and it was clear that he wanted to follow me, but I told him to stay here…where I’d be able to find him whenever I needed him.

Stinkers: Finders Keepers (Part 4)

It took half an hour of scouring several blocks before I found the source of the stink which had caught my nose, and when I did find it…I didn’t want what I’d found…to be the thing I was searching for. It hadn’t been easy–he had stuffed himself between two metal dumpsters, but whether that was for warmth in the chilly evening, or so fewer people were likely to find him, I never knew. Like most everyone else in the city, we never…observed the homeless. They were always there, always around us, always a problem with no real solution. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d really…I mean…

He stank. That’s all I knew. He stank, or part of him stank…somehow I could tell the difference. That it wasn’t him, it was something…on him. He was asleep, or drunk enough to seem to be asleep, and so…and so I got down over him, trying not to touch him, and I started smelling around until I worked my way closer to his feet, nauseous about what I was doing, realizing I had one hand down the front of my sweats massaging my thick cock through my grungy underwear. He had on some old, well worn boots…and fuck, they reeked. They reeked…not like the underwear had reeked. They…they were something else entirely, but smelling those boots, and I realized, the socks he had on as well, I recalled that gymrat I’d stalked for several blocks earlier in the week. They hadn’t smelled anything alike–he had been sweat and acrid energy, these boots and socks were piss and aged exhaustion. But I wanted these boots just like I’d wanted that man–or, I realized now, the…shirt the man had been wearing. I was torn…I couldn’t…just take them right? But at the same time, I…I needed them.

I got down, as quietly as I could, and I started undoing the laces on the boots. I got them both undone…and I realized there was no way I was going to be able to do this without him waking up, so I might as well just…just try to do it as quickly as I could, and hope he was as drunk as he smelled. I tugged off one shoe, and he stirred–I was about to grab the other one, when he lashed out with a kick, connected with my chin and sent me falling back onto the pavement behind me, blood in my mouth from where I’d bit my tongue.

“What the fuck ya fuckin’ cunt!” I think he said, something like that. I…had one of his boots in my hand, and he lunged for it, trying to get it back, landing on me, clawing at my face. I just…I just reacted, grabbed his head, and shoved it down to my crotch, getting his face in a leg lock, his nose pressed to my stinking crotch, and I hear him gag immediately. He’s calling me all sorts of shit, telling me what a fucking pervert I must be, trying to bite me, but…but I can feel him start to give, slowly. Hear the gags become moans, his grip on me slackening slightly, and when I pull down my sweats, he can’t stop himself–he shoves his face right into the nasty briefs and starts…snorting like a fucking pig, and I’m so turned on by the sound I nearly fill the front of my briefs with a load right then and there. Still, I shove his face away–he tried to lunge back to keep sniffing, but I grab him by his greasy hair and haul him away.

“You’re giving me those boots and socks, fucker, and then you can have my stinking cock.”

It didn’t…sound like me, or something I would say, but none of this was something I would ever do in my entire life. He tried to protest, but he gave in–hauled off his other boot and both socks, and then I allowed him to get back to licking and snorting at my underwear, while I grabbed a boot, shoved a sock in it, pressed it to my face and started huffing the man’s footstink.

It…fuck, it was exactly what I’d wanted. It was heaven. I was so close to shooting, I hauled down the front of the briefs and shoved my cock into the derelict’s mouth just in time to fill it to bursting with a massive load–the first one in nearly a week that I hadn’t shot directly into my underwear. The guy gulped it all down, and then buried his nose back into my crotch, snorting and grunting as he he stroked his own cock off, and I let him finish in a minute or so, spilling the seed all over the front of my sweats and shirt, but I didn’t fucking care. I didn’t fucking care.

I was lying in an alley, with some strange derelict, and I didn’t fucking care. I took another whiff of the fucker’s boots, and I cared even less–the only thing I fucking cared about, was getting the things on my own feet as fast as possible. I shucked off my own shoes, pulled on the crusty, damp socks, shuddering with pleasure at the feel of them, and then tugged on the boots as well…only to discover they were massive. My feet aren’t large–a size ten, and while I couldn’t make out the tag on the old tongues, these have to be at least a size 18 or 20, and four or five E in width. I laced them as tight as I could just to keep them on, and the guy just stared at me, horrified by what he’d done, barefoot in the cold, but I didn’t feel bad at all. He picked up my old shoes, held them to his feet, but they were obviously much too small. I…I couldn’t really handle it obviously, watching his face. I knew I should feel worse than I did…but I took off and headed home to my apartment where I locked myself in, tugged off a shoe and a sock, and started jacking off to the stink, caring less and less with each load shot into the nasty underwear I was, more and more, considering to be mine.

Stinkers: Finders Keepers (Part 3)

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

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

I noticed…that my dick was bigger.

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

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

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

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

Stinkers: Finders, Keepers (Part 2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stinkers: Finders, Keepers (Part 1)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey!”

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

Winston’s Stable – Titpig (Part 2)

The man watched them shuffle off for a moment, and when they’d gotten a few yards away, he said, “Boy, I think you’d feel a lot better if you came back here and stuck around close to me.”

“Creep,” Joey muttered, but much to his surprise, Mark slipped out from under his arm, turned around, and walked back over to the stranger in leather. “Mark, what the fuck?”

Mark was just as confused as Joey was, but to his surprise, when he got closer to him, he did feel better, more clear headed. Still, he didn’t get too far, before Joey grabbed him by the hand and dragged him away, through the throng on the dance floor, and to the door. Mark relented, knowing it’s where he wanted to go, but as they went, he did feel…worse. Nauseous and dizzy, especially. They got out the door of the club, and he promptly threw up his drink from earlier on the sidewalk. “Fuck, what the fuck is wrong with me?”

“Maybe he put something in your drink. Come on, let’s get home. A rest will sort you out. You can crash at my place tonight.” They made it a little way down the sidewalk, but Mark felt…something building up in him, some kind of need, or desire, and unable to even explain why, he pulled away from Joey and staggered back towards the club. “Mark!” Where the fuck are you going!”

“Sorry! I…I forgot something, just wait a second,” Mark said, and ducked back into the club. He scanned the room, worried, but the man was right where they’d left him, sitting at the table now, nursing the drink Mark had abandoned. He made his way around to him, trying to keep his gut from dry heaving, but once he got within a few yards, his stomach settled, and…and he felt that same high wash over him, but this time it felt…better. Pleasant. Like a reward.

“That’s a good boy,” the man said, “You’ll feel much better, I promise, as long as you’re near me. In fact, if you try to leave me again, it’s only going to feel worse, I promise you that. Now, come on over and let me have a look at you.”

Mark walked over and stood to one side of the chair where the man was sitting, shaking slightly. “What…You did this to me, what’s wrong with me?”

“Oh, my boy, it’s not what’s wrong with you, it’s what’s very, very right about you,” the man said. He reached out to grope Mark’s crotch, but he stepped back before he could touch him. “Now, now. You want me to touch you. Having me touch you anywhere I want is going to make you feel good. Now come close and don’t step back again.”

Mark tried to keep his body from obeying, but it refused to listen to him. He came closer, and this time when the man reached out he couldn’t avoid him–but soon enough, he didn’t want to. The man’s touch, even through his clothing, was electric. “F-Fuck…” he muttered, “Please…please stop.”

“You don’t want me to stop, do you?”

“N-No?” Mark said, and the man slid one gloved hand up his shirt and along his stomach, feeling Mark shiver.

“You’ll be addressing me as sir, from now on, do you understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good boy. Take off your shirt.”

Mark did as he was told, and the man looked him over, surveying him. Mark was in his early thirties, and in fairly good shape, with a well developed chest and a small gut, all of it covered with a fair amount of hair. “Hmm…decent, but not quite what I want yet. Still, it’ll have to do, won’t it?”

“Mark? Mark! What the fuck?” Mark wanted to shrink smaller where he stood, as Joey hustled over to them. “You said you’d fucking forgot something!”

“Boy, that’s not nice of you to lie to your friend,” the man said, “Tell him the truth now.”

“Joey…being…being by Sir makes me feel good, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to feel sick anymore.”

“Yes, that’s right–I make you feel very good, don’t I boy?” the man said, and slid a hand around behind Mark, squeezing his ass, and making him groan.

Joey just gaped at them both. “Please, I’m sorry I can’t…I don’t know why…” Mark pleaded, “Please…help me.”

Joey, however, wasn’t listening. He turned around and abandoned him, and Mark tried to call after him, but one of Sir’s hands stroking his hard cock through his jeans made him moan instead. “Don’t worry about him boy. In fact, don’t worry about anything for a while. What you’re going to do is kneel here, beside me, while I finish your drink. I don’t usually like the fruity shit, but this one isn’t too bad. Then, we’re going to leave, together.”

Mark felt his knees buckle, and he slumped to the floor beside the man, his head level with his thighs, eyes directed under the table, cheeks burning. His display with the man and Joey had attracted quite a few eyes around the bar, but he didn’t want everyone to stare at him, he just wanted to disappear. Still, the concern ebbed a bit, after a moment, and Mark found it hard to be worried about anything happening to him. Instead, he just enjoyed the sensation of Sir petting his head while he finished the drink, and after a few minutes, he stood up, reached into the pocket of his leather jacket, and pulled out a strap of leather–a collar, Mark realized, attached to a chain leash.

“Put this on boy.”

He did as he was instructed, and then allowed Sir to slowly walk him out of the club, almost like he was enjoying the attention the display was generating–but Mark still just wanted to hide his face. No matter what happened next, he’d never be able to show his face here again. Outside, the man walked him a few blocks until they came to a sedan parked on the street–the man ordered Mark into the back seat, and they drove off into the night.

September Bonus Story Ready for Download! | Wesley Bracken on Patreon

Hey all! I’m going to interrupt “In the Doghouse” for a day to mention that this month’s Patreon Bonus story is ready to be downloaded, for anyone giving $5 or more a month to my page. The title of the story is “Kegger: Initiation”, and focuses on a top jock attending a party at a fraternity on campus, only to discover that the frat president seems to have an awful lot of control over the brothers in the house. There’s a whole lot of stuff in here: musk, muscle, weight gain, mind drain, slob, smoke, feet, piss, etc. so if that interests you, head on over! There’s a sequel coming next month as well, for October. Here’s a sneak peek of the story for those curious!

*Two Beers Down*

“Hey bro, what’s up? Havin’ a good time?”

Gregory had actually been slipping towards the door to the frat house, and planning on ditching the party. He hadn’t quite known what to expect, he supposed, from a college party, especially one at a frat house, but movies and TV had led him to believe it would involve a lot more…girls. The whole place was a sausage s, and all of the guys here seemed more interested in getting drunk than anything else. “Hey, uh…yeah, It’s ok I guess.”

Brad smirked, and leaned against the wall, blocking Gregory’s path. “Hey, so you’re the hot shot Freshman, right? The bro who’s supposed to take us all the way to the Rose Bowl or something. Some of the other bros were talking you up–I thought ya’d be bigger ‘r somethin’.”

“Well, when you’re a receiver, being quick is more important than being big,” Gregory said, looking at the guy blocking his way out. He sure didn’t have what it takes by any means, not with a bug gut like that. He doubted that Brad did much of anything physical, besides flipping channels on the remote, and getting up for more beer. “Gotta keep my figure, you know?”

“Hey, well, a few beers can’t hurt anyone, right?” Brad said, and clinked his red solo cup to Gregory’s–his own sent up a little splash of brown foam, but Gregory’s was clear. “Fuck man, is that fucking water in there? No one drinks fucking water at a Delta Iota Kappa Kegger!”

“Sorry, two’s my limit. I should get going too–I have some early classes tomorrow.”

“Two? Fuck bro, don’t be a fucking loser,” Brad said, “You gotta hang around a little while longer.”

“No, I fucking don’t alright?” Gregory said, “I came here tonight thinking I’d get some pussy, but all you fucks want to do is sit around like a bunch of idiots and get wasted. It’s boring. I’m gonna call a bitch and get laid.”

Brad had his arm high against the wall in front of Gregory, his hairy armpit exposed by the tanktop he was wearing. Gregory pushed forward, planning on sliding between Brad and the wall, but when he got close to Brad’s pit, the foulest odor hit him, and he froze, his face inches from the hairy mass…and he just kept…breathing. He knew he needed to keep moving, but his mind felt like it was shutting down, and struggling to reboot, and all he could really think about was how horrible Brad’s pits smelled…and how he kind of liked the stench.

He didn’t know how much time had passed, maybe a minute, when Brad tapped him on the shoulder. “Here bro! Here’s another beer for ya. I saw you needed a refill.”

Gregory looked around, a bit confused. Brad wasn’t where he’d been a moment before–had he just been standing and staring off into space like an idiot? How long could it have taken Brad to leave, and come back with a beer? He didn’t even want another beer, right? Hadn’t he been planning on leaving? “Uh…thanks, bro,” Gregory said, and took the beer from Brad, who just smiled.

“No problem bro! As president of this frat, I make sure everyone is taken care of at all times,” he gave Gregory’s stomach a pat, and leaned in close–close enough that Gregory caught another hint of his musk, and felt his cock stiffen in the front of his jeans. “Now relax and enjoy yourself! Have a good time, and get to know some of the guys. You’ll find out that we all have more in common than ya might think, bro.”

*Five Beers Down*

Gregory’s head was spinning, and he felt like he was losing control–but he didn’t lose control, and he sure as hell shouldn’t be feeling this drunk after five beers. He’d been lying earlier, when he’d told Brad that his limit was always two–back in high school he’d gotten plenty wasted on several occasions, but he…he needed some air, maybe. The air was too stale, and all of the guys were starting to get a bit rowdy, and sweaty, and every time Gregory got close to one of them and caught a whiff…

Well, it wasn’t like with Brad–that…that had been something else. Something really strange. No, the problem now, whenever he caught a whiff of another guy’s musky pits, was that it gave him a raging hard on, and there were no bitches in sight. He didn’t want anyone here thinking he was a faggot, but he also couldn’t deny how horny he was. He needed to get out, but Brad was watching the door–and watching him. The president had intercepted him again when he got too close, and insisted on getting him yet another beer, but maybe out the back somehow.

He made his way to the kitchen, claiming he needed a refill, and then slipped out the back door of the house and out onto the porch. The crisp fall air was a relief, and he felt his head clear up a bit immediately. It was definitely time to get out of here–there was something…off about this frat, and Gregory had no desire to hang around and find out what it was. Then, he caught a whiff of something on the wind, and someone spoke off to his side. “Hey bro, come out here for a smoke too?” He looked over, and sitting in a patio chair off to the side was one of the frat brothers, shirtless in the cool air, smoking a cigar. “Nice to have the company–I usually get stuck out here alone when I need a stogie.”

“No, I don’t smoke,” Gregory said, “I…uh…I just wanted some fresh air.”

“Fair enough. It can get a bit crazy in there. My name’s Josh by the way.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty wild…” Gregory looked around the yard, but he didn’t see a gate he could run for, and he didn’t want to leave with the guy just sitting here. He couldn’t just say nothing though, right? “Wish the party had some chicks–I’m horned up as hell, bro, but got nowhere to stick it.” His face turned red, unable to believe he’d just said that out loud. He must be drunker than he thought.

“Eh, who wants to deal with cunts anyway? They just ruin a good party. Us bro’s can always just jack it, right man? Come on, have a seat–this stogie’s got me ready to burst too.”

Gregory stared at him for a second, wondering if he’d just heard him right. Did this guy want to jack off with him? Was he some sort of faggot? He wanted to tell him to fuck off, but instead, he walked over, and sat down in the chair next to him on the patio, downwind, catching a mix of Josh’s cigar smoke and musk that made it even harder to think about what he was about to do, and how wrong it seemed.

“Hell yeah bro,” Josh said, and pushed down his shorts and jockstrap, letting his hard seven inch cock come free. He gave it a couple of slow strokes, and then looked over at Gregory, who couldn’t take his eyes off it. “Come on bro, let’s see it!”

September Bonus Story Ready for Download! | Wesley Bracken on Patreon

In the Doghouse (Part 1)

Carson looked up at the house, and double checked the address. Appearances could be deceiving, right? Just because the place looked like a wreck on the outside, didn’t mean it might not be spotless on the inside. He told himself that, but he didn’t believe it–still, he told himself he might as well check it out–rooms for rent around here scarce and expensive–and this was one of the few he could really afford right out of college. He let himself through the chainlink gate and walked up to the front door, paint peeling off it. The screen opened up with a screech and loose hinge, and he knocked, hoping no one would answer. But he heard a deep voice muttering something on the other side, and after a few moments, the door opened.

Yeah, there was no way this was going to ever work, not if this was the guy who owned the place. Even if he hadn’t looked like a complete slob–easily 350 pounds, clothes stained and ill fitting, his hair grown out into a greasy mullet–the shirt he had on with the confederate battle flag across the front of it, stretched out by his huge belly had quite faded, told Carson that even if the room was decent…he was never going to get along with a landlord like this. The man hocked a wad of black tobacco spit onto the step beside Carson, and asked, “What the fuck you want, boy?”

“Oh, uh…there was an ad saying you have a room for rent? But I–”

“Want a look, eh?” the guy said, interrupting, grabbing Carson by the arm and pulling him inside, “It ain’t much, but helps with the mortgage.”

Carson stepped carefully around the mess filling the entire house, most of it trash, and the stench nearly made him gag. Still, now that he was inside, he had to at least play along for the moment.

“My name’s Gage. I don’t really give a fuck about you makin’ a mess or whatever–you pay your rent, ‘n you can do whatever the fuck you want, as long as I don’t have to talk to the cops about it.”

“Yeah, I…just need a place for the summer, until I start my grad program in the fall,” Carson said.

Gage snorted, “Some college kid eh? Whatever–waste a fuckin’ money–just gonna turn ya into some pussy faggot liberal.”

Gage led him down the hall to the spare room Gage was offering, but Carson didn’t want to bother looking at it, after what he’d said. “You know? Fuck this. I am one of those liberal faggots, you know? Fuck you–I wouldn’t want to live with some filthy slob like you anyway, you live like an animal.”

Gage just smiled, showing off the tobacco leaf stuck between his teeth, “Yeah, I had ya pegged fer one a those faggots–lucky I keep a room fer animals like ya’ll too,” he grabbed Carson by the arm and hauled him into the room with him–for a fat slob, he was strong, and Carson couldn’t break his grip. He dragged Carson to the window in the room, which looked out on the yard behind the house. There, Carson saw a dogrun with a sizable doghouse against the back fence. “Ain’t the nicest a quarters, but ya’ll fit in there just fine soon enough.”

Carson again tried to tug his arm away, but Gage hauled him in closer, where Carson could get a proper smell of his personal stench, and then shoved one of his hands down the front of Carson’s pants, grabbed hold of his cock, and Carson felt something like a shock sear through his cock and balls.

“Heh, animal–we’ll see who’s the fuckin’ animal,” Gage said, leaning in, groping Carson’s dick and balls with one of his calloused hands. It felt…different. Wrong, and yet Carson found himself moaning with pleasure, as ashamed of that as he was. Gage used his other hand to pop the button and drop the zipper on Carson’s jeans, and then shoved down his pants. Carson leaned over his own smaller gut, wanting to see why he felt so strange, and gasped at what he saw–his cock and balls, they weren’t his anymore–they were…a dog’s.

A short, furry sheath ran up under his belly, and a bright red cock jutted out from it, and into Gage’s hand. It seemed…wet and slimy, and yet the sensation was very close to bringing him to his knees. “Fuck…how…what did you do?”

“Now now, be a good boy, and we can have a good time,” Gage said, “I never had much of a thing fer fags like you, but nothin’ turns me on quite like a filthy dogboy.”

He had to get out of here, he had to get help, but Gage’s grip was so strong. Carson leaned in, relaxing slightly into Gage, as disgusted as he was by the idea of being anywhere close to him, and then, when he felt the grip on his arm relax slightly, he shoved him away and ran–or tried to run. He had to abandon his shoes, pants and underwear to get moving at all. This, he realized, wasn’t the best choice–he couldn’t very well run outside with nothing on–with nothing covering his new cock in particular. He turned away from the front door, and looked around for a phone, since his was still in his pants. He spotted a landline hanging on the wall in the kitchen, fought through a pile of junk to reach it, and gave a sigh of relief when he heard the dial tone, punching in 911 as gage rounded the corner and raced towards him. Before the operator picked up on the other line, Gage was on him. He touched Carson’s face with his hand, and Carson felt the same disturbing shock ripple through his mouth and jaw with the force of a punch. He dropped the receiver and stumbled back, as the operator picked up on the other line.

Manning Up (Part 6)

I asked the guys at the site what the hell they were all standing around for, acting good for fucking nothing, but none of them could answer me. I told Brock to face the truck and not move, that if anyone went to touch him he’s shout for me, and I started investigating, expecting a trap, but Aaron was still nowhere to be found. I asked about him, and finally I got an answer out of someone, that Aaron hadn’t shown up at all, not since leaving the day before, my cum still running down his legs. I asked them why they hadn’t gotten to work on their projects, and a few of them kicked the dirt.

“We were…waiting for you, sir.”

“Didn’t want you mad at us, sir.”

“Just, after yesterday, we…well, you’re the boss sir.”

I cussed them all out, called them a bunch of lazy fucks, and told them to get to work–they scurried off and double-timed it. I marched into the trailer and started sorting through paperwork–I’d been working with Aaron long enough that I know the basics of his job, and the holes filled themselves in easily enough. It took me close to an hour to realize I had no idea where Brock was, and my heart skipped two beats. I shoved my head out of the trailer, and saw him still standing in front of the truck, staring at the hood, sun beating down on him, sweat pouring down his back. I ordered him into the trailer with me, got him some water and told him he’d been a real good boy for staying just like I’d told him to do, and then told him to get to work with the rest of the guys–but that if a single one of them made a move on him, he’d better come tell me. He nodded, unable to look me in the eye, and squeezed his massive frame out of the trailer.

It was afternoon when Aaron’s Jeep came rolling up, but the man who climbed out…he looked like Aaron, but something was off about him. He looked shorter for one thing, and fatter. I could see that his clothes didn’t quite fit right, his gut hanging out the bottom of his shirt. I ordered his ass into the trailer, and he jumped to obey. He apologized profusely and begged me to forgive him–and then he went a step further, and begged for my cock again. That surprised me, but fuck, his ass had been nice yesterday, and listening to him beg for his job had gotten me hard as a rock–still, I gave him a good beating with my belt for being late before raping both his holes again, and then I dragged him back out and tied him down to a sawhorse out in the yard. As a team building exercise, I made every guy take a turn–all of them were straight, of course, but none of them were willing to disobey. I even let Brock take a turn, though he had a very hard time performing as a top, even with his eight inch cock. I let everyone know that, from now on, Aaron was the bottom rung around here, and that his ass was fair game, anytime and anyplace. That if he refused, come tell me, and I’d set the pig straight. Aaron was terrified, but his stubby cock was rock hard after I said it. I let everyone go home early, and back home…I noticed something, when I went to go have a shower.

Aaron wasn’t the only one who looked different after yesterday. I…I barely recognized myself in the mirror. Six foot one and probably 275 pounds of mostly beef–last time I’d weighed myself I’d been 260 with a pot belly, but my gut had mostly disappeared, with just a thick layer covering a hard core. I had more hair all over, and a good amount of it was turning a bit silver. My scruff had grown into a full beard, my hairline receding slightly–and fuck, I reeked. I took a good whiff of my musk, and my cock started leaking in the front of my jeans. I skipped the shower, and gave Brock a good long fuck instead, and then I sat down with him, and asked him if he’d noticed what was happening to me.

“A bit,” he said, “I…not too much before, but after my dad, and after Aaron…yeah. You…got really fuckin’ sexy, sir. Smell really sexy too.”

“Fuckin’ pig–you wanna sleep in my bed tonight? Your face buried in my pits?”

He nodded, a bit reluctant, but I knew what he wanted–what he needed. I knew what was best for him.

“But sir…don’t forget you promised. You said you’d take me back to school, don’t forget, please don’t forget. I trusted you with this because you’re…good. A good guy. No one else would.”

I’d completely forgotten about it, to be honest, but I nodded. Fuck, it had seemed so long ago at that point, I had a hard time even remembering what Brock had looked like before all of this. Still, I told myself that I had promised…but I had my doubts too. What was a big lug like him going to do at a college? He was too stupid for that shit. Besides wasn’t he happy here? He should be happy here–this is where he belonged, right? With me, with his daddy. With his master.

But this wasn’t me. I kept trying to tell myself that, for the next few days, but it was becoming harder and harder to believe. It just…it all felt so right, you know? It felt right, and I fucking enjoyed it too, I’ll be honest. I could make Brock do anything I wanted, whenever I wanted, and no matter what it was, he’d thank me when I was finished. I…I could have the man I’d always wanted. I hadn’t realized how exhausting it was, being alone like I had been, until I had someone with me. Someone I could trust, someone I could own. I know, it’s fucked. It’s too late now anyway. He’s not a person, not really. Besides, if I let him go now, what the fuck do you think would happen? He’d be dead in a week–if I don’t tell Brick to go to the bathroom, he shits and pisses himself like an animal. You see? I have to do this, for him. Because I am a good guy. No one else would put up with this, not now. I’m the only guy he has left.