Job Revenge (Sketch)

wesleybracken:

This shit shouldn’t be legal in the goddamn 21st century, Jordan thought to himself, unable to believe he could be so stupid. Sure, some of the country thought it was a good idea to make sure people couldn’t be fired for being gay, but not here in the fucking Carolinas. Nope, here it was perfectly legal, and after his boss, Rodney, had overheard him the other day telling one of his coworkers, who wasn’t a social troglodyte, that he had a date with a hot guy that evening, he’d had a fucking grin on his face he hadn’t wiped off for a few days. It was no secret that Rodney hated Jordan–in part because everyone knew Jordan could do Rodney’s job better than him, but mostly because he was a little femme, and had always suspected Jordan might be “one of those disgusting faggots,” as he called them. And so, at the end of the day, Rodney had confronted him, and told him that Jordan had two weeks to wrap up his projects and get out.

That was yesterday, and news that he was being fired, and why he was being fired, had spread through the office like wildfire. Still, Jordan wasn’t about to give up without a fight, because what Rodney didn’t know, was that Jordan was descended from a line of witches. He’d never really dabbled much in it, not after seeing some of the crazy shit that had happened to his mother when he was younger, but for this…well, he needed this damn job! The job market wasn’t exactly getting better, after all, and he’d been hoping he could at least crawl his way up to management here before looking for better work with a bit of experience. So, he pulled out his grandmother’s grimoire, and started studying.

It wasn’t easy–it took him a week just to find a spell he thought would do the trick, gather all the ingredients for the curse, and then to make it. The whole time, Rodney had been insufferable. Gloating at every chance, calling him names, turning his coworkers against him–so yeah, he was angry. When he finally wrangled the spell together into a potion Rodney would need to drink, he finally had something to channel his anger into…and the potion didn’t turn out quite right. It was supposed to be a clear blue, but his was kind of a muddy purple. Still, he didn’t have time to do it over, right? If it didn’t work, then it didn’t work, but he had to at least try.

The easiest part was getting Rodney to drink it. He always brought lunch and kept it in the fridge, along with a thermos of coffee which he always forgot around the office all day long. He’d waste hours hunting it down when he was supposed to be doing something more pressing. Jordan waited for it to be abandoned, added the potion, and then had someone return it to him–so he wouldn’t suspect Jordan had done anything to it…but he kind of had. How could he resist, really? He’d slipped into the bathroom, and jacked off into the thermos as well. All it took was a sip, after all–so even if he could taste it, he’d have a bit more revenge.

The spell was supposed to have a suggestive effect on someone, where they would find themselves unable to resist the orders of the witch for a time after drinking the spell. How long of a time was unclear–apparently in varied based on the caster’s skill (minimal) and the subject’s willpower (also minimal, since Rodney could barely grasp the concept of a spreadsheet.) All he’d need was a few hours to…change Rodney’s mind about Jordan’s worth, and everything would be just fine.

He waited half an hour, and then decided to go check on Rodney–when he got to his office, he even saw him take a swig from the thermos, grimace, and then set it back down–perfect. That, supposedly, was all it should take! So he went ahead and stepped inside and shut the door behind him–but Rodney just glared at him. “Faggot, get the fuck out of here, unless you want to be packing up your shit today.”

“No Rodney, I think the two of us need to have a little chat. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To talk to me?”

He saw Rodney start to retort, but an odd purple wave washed through his eyes, he shook his head, and said, “Uh…I mean, what…would you like to talk about?”

Jordan had planned this–planned what he was going to say, but he felt…something odd inside him. He felt so…angry all of a sudden. Angry and…horny as hell. This…wasn’t right, was it? The spell wasn’t supposed to affect him. But this…rush! “I think you…should apologize to me. For all the shit you’ve called me.”

The same wave of purple, the same wave through him of anger and horniness. “I’m…sorry,” Rodney said, gritting his teeth, trying to fight it.

“Sorry for what?”

“For…calling you a fag, and…queer and shit.” Rodney said, but something seemed strange about him. He looked…happy, like he’d just had a burst of pleasure. “What the hell is wrong with me?” He said, a bit quiet, “I…why did that feel so good?”

“Maybe because you like submitting to me. I think you do, Rodney, I think the idea of doing whatever I say turns you on.” The words were just tumbling out now, unbidden. Sure, he’d always kind of…fantasized about this, but what in the world was he doing?

“Oh fuck, it…kind of does, doesn’t it?”

“Get over here, and lick my shoes clean.”

He didn’t expect him to do it, but Rodney got up, a throbbing erection obvious in the front of his pants, and he walked over, got down, and started licking, and Jordan felt an uncharacteristic sneer turn up the corner of his mouth. He could have some fun with this, actually, and Rodney would as well, at least if he told him so.

It’s a vacation week! Each day, this week, I’ll be reblogging old sketches of mine I’m thinking about turning into complete stories, and this coming weekend, I’ll put up a poll where you all can tell which ones you’d like to see extended! New content resumes next week.

Orwell’s Demon (Sketch)

wesleybracken:

“Look, I’m going to be honest with you Orwell. This is the fourth disappearance this year–and all four of them were connected to you in some fashion or other. This is the second case where we know, for a fact, that you were the last man to speak to him,” Sheriff Hurlbane crossed his arms where he was sitting on Terry’s couch, “Now, you’ve been very cooperative, and I appreciate that. And I also know that all of this is circumstantial. But you understand how bad this looks, don’t you?”

Across from him, in an armchair, was Orwell Beckert. In his late forties, he seemed so…normal. A little overweight, clean shaven, easy going. He was a teacher at the local high school, and every student the sheriff had spoken to had had the same opinion–a good teacher, but boring as hell. But over the last few months…men had started disappearing around town–first a fellow teacher at the school, then a trucker from a local truck stop passing through. One of the students in Beckert’s homeroom, and now Beckert’s neighbor down the street. The men only had one thing in common, and that’s the normal, boring man sitting across from him, twiddling his thumbs, staring down at the carpet, looking like he was desperate to say something he couldn’t let himself say. The sheriff hadn’t wanted to believe this man could have done this–not that they had any idea what had happened to them. Their bodies hadn’t shown up anywhere, there was no evidence of them anywhere–just…gone. One day there, the next there was no sign of them anywhere. This normal man…maybe he wasn’t responsible. But he was involved–Sheriff Hurlbane knew a look of guilt when he saw one, and this was textbook–the guy was too boring to even be creative with it.

I have to tell him. I have to go to jail for this, I can’t, not anymore. I can’t let you do this anymore.

You don’t have to go to jail, Orwell. We can have fun with this one too.

No! No, please don’t, he’s a good man, he has a family!

I know what you’re thinking, Orwell, don’t forget. I know what you want. Everytime he comes over to ask you questions, that little pecker of yours gets hard. You have such a wonderful imagination, but you’re so…scared. Still, every time he’s alone with us, you think about it, about what we could do to him, just like all the rest. Come on, we can start small, can’t we? Just a little?

The sheriff leaned back into the couch, settling in. Orwell had muttered something under his breath. “What was that?”

“Nothing, please–please, just leave. You need to get out of here, sir.”

“No…No, not this time Orwell. You have something you want to tell me, something about these missing men, and I’m not leaving until you tell me,” Sheriff Hurlbane took a drag off the cigar that had appeared in his hand a moment earlier, and exhaled the smoke in Orwell’s direction, some of the smoke twining through the mustache growing from his lips, and the beard sprouting around his smooth face.

Please…don’t. Not him, please…

But doesn’t he look good like that? So much sexier, turning into a nice cigar daddy for you, I know how much you like those, Orwell.

“Okay! Okay, it was me. It was me! I…I found this necklace, alright? But it’s fucking possessed!” he said, hauling a medallion out from under his shirt, “I…I didn’t know what it would do, and I can’t take it off. Please, Sheriff, get out of here before it takes you too.”

Sheriff Hurlbane laughed around his cigar, groping his cock through his uniform pants, a wet spot of precum already soaking into the fabric. “No…No, I don’t think so Orwell, I don’t think I’m going anywhere.” He felt so…strong all of a sudden. He flexed, and heard the fabric of his uniform start to rip. With a growl, he grabbed at the shirt, clawed at it, tearing it away from himself, revealing underneath a skintight rubber tank, which he ran his gloved hand over, feeling his full gut and meaty pecs, blowing smoke through the fur sprouting all over him.

Oh…oh fuck, he’s so…fucking sexy…why, why him? He didn’t…didn’t deserve this.

He didn’t deserve it, but this is what you wanted Orwell, I know this is what you want.

I–I didn’t think it could happen, it was just…just supposed to be a fantasy…

You want the rest though, don’t you? I can feel how hard you are, how much your cock is aching in your pants. You want to see it, you want to see him. He wants you too, you know. Look at how he’s looking at you, through the smoke. Officer Hurlbane knows what you want–what you need. He wants to give it to you, he wants to help you, Orwell. He knows how much you want to be punished.

I…I do…deserve to be punished.

Yes, you do, for telling the truth like that, for trying to tell him about me.

“You were a bad boy, Orwell,” Hurlbane said, his voice suddenly deeper, with an edge like charcoal, his eyes suddenly red, and he stood up from the couch. The rubber top suddenly was lined red, and his uniform pants tightened, becoming rubber, the crotch opening, allowing a massive, foot long cock to fall free, dribbling cum onto the carpet. “Bad boy, trying to tell me the truth. But that’s ok, Officer Hurlbane will teach you a lesson, won’t I, boy?”

Orwell whimpered, tried to get up from the chair but tripped–he looked down at himself and found he was naked, aside from the necklace around his neck which had tighted around his neck like a collar. “No…God no.”

“There’s no god here, Orwell, only your real Master. Now lick my boots pig, and then I’m gonna shove these thick fists in your hole until you scream,” Hurlbane said, shoving the toe of his rubber wader in Orwell’s mouth, “Hurry up, before I burn my way through this one too.”

Locker Room Spirit (Sketch)

wesleybracken:

No one thought anything strange was going on at first. Sure, there were several awkward incidents, as the spirit settled into the walls and lockers, the floor, the sauna, the toilets and the mirrors. As it investigated the space and the men inside it. Occasionally, as they were changing a man might…lose focus for a few moments, idly rubbing his cock, only to break from the odd trance a moment later, embarrassed but thinking little of it. But the spirit began to feed in earnest soon, gripping the place tighter as it gained strength, and before too much longer, things became a bit stranger–not that the men inside noticed anything wrong. In their minds, they would walk into the room, change, and leave, just like they always had. They might not remember the details particularly well, but it was just a locker room, after all…right?

However, as soon as they entered, the spirit would grip them, and begin bending them to it’s will, urging them to strip, urging them to become horny, urging them to cum. All around the room, men were on benches, kneeling on the floor, their hands wrapped around their cocks, standing around the drains, shooting their loads down them, and into the spirit’s gullet below, feeding it, allowing it to become stronger, and each time they shot, the spirit would grip them a bit tighter. Men who only occasionally bothered to change at the gym suddenly found themselves needing to go in every time, somehow…excited to be changing. It did seem strange to them, but harmless. But spirits like this one–they want to feed, yes, but more than that. They want to spread and expand, and to do that, well, let me tell you, it isn’t pretty, watching it happen to an unsuspecting person, not after all of these years doing this work.

Hopefully, I can catch them early, around this point. Pull the spirit out by the root, before it can do any real damage, but I can’t catch everything, and sometimes…sometimes these spirits are smart. And this one, it’s the smartest one I’ve seen in awhile, as I’ve been investigating it, watching it, watching the men enter and become its victims.

Spirits like this one, they can get you in two ways. The first is, in many ways, the better fate–at least in my opinion. Or perhaps, it just seems quicker. Certainly it’s the one most spirits prefer. The longer a human spends under the sway of a spirit, the deeper a hold the spirit has on the person. It can start eating away at their soul–their thoughts, dreams and desires–replacing it with the spirit’s instead. So, in time, the men who were in the locker room the most…well, they found their minds overwhelmed with desire for sex and cum and fucking. Men would enter the room to feed the spirit, and were often fucked and abused by these avatars in the process, until, in time, they were fully taken over, their original soul corrupted beyond any sort of recognition. Several bodybuilders–they were held in there for a week by the spirit, fucking each other nonstop as the spirit absorbed them, and then sent on their way, mindless, to seek out other places where the spirit might take root. It wasn’t enjoyable, putting them to rest, but there quite simply wasn’t anything human remaining inside them.

But the other fate–that I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Should someone be able to resist the spirit’s mental hold, and be able to recognize what’s happening within its domain, the only way they can be contained is physically. The men inside will secure them, and the spirit will begin to…incorporate their body into it’s own physical form. For two weeks now, a young man has been chained to the wall by the urinals. I…doubt he remembers being human at this point. All of his body has been sucked into the wall, leaving only his head, which has begun to contort, becoming identical to the other urinals beside it with each load of piss the men feed him and the spirit he is now connected with.

The spirit, in the end, is a simple mind, governed more by instinct than any real intellect, though the more men it absorbs, the smarter it becomes. I do, at least, have the advantage of surprise, and thankfully I found it before it had grown any larger, or I would have had a sizable challenge on my hands. Still, only a fool would run into a place like that, magic blazing. No, I have to size this thing up first, and that’s why I’m waiting for it to send out another drone it’s been preparing. I won’t kill this one, but merely capture it, so I can better understand the nature of this thing, and how best to contain it before it gets further out of hand. In fact, looking through my scrying pool, I can see the drone is preparing to leave now! If I hurry, I can intercept it, bring it back here, and proceed with my analysis.

Subway (Sketch)

wesleybracken:

Officer Hugo Mason had been with the city police department for close to ten years, and in that time, he’d always been highly respected by his fellow officers and superiors, enough so that his occasional fag bashings, both in and out of uniform, were usually overlooked and shoved under the rug by the rest of the department. After all, none of them liked faggots–although none of them disliked them nearly as much as Hugo did. Whether it was from a position deep within a closet of his own, or simply lashing out at a particular target, he was merciless either way. He was never quite certain, in the thick of what happened, whether it had been coincidence or some grand scope of cosmic revenge that it was him that ended up on the subway, alone in that car, that late at night. All he could really be certain of was that something strange had happened to him–though in the immediate aftermath, even he hadn’t been quite sure what it was.

It had been a late shift and he was on his way home–that time of night, there were never many people on the subway, but being alone in a car–that was rare enough that generally everyone notices when it happens, and the sensation is always eerie. A place which was usually so full of people–you realize just how large and small the space is at the same time. Hugo once heard a story of someone hyperventilating while alone in a car. It was probably just an urban legend, but sitting there by himself, the tunnel roaring along outside, he could understand how it could do that to a certain kind of person.

It was a decent distance to the next stop, long enough for him to notice–and the lights in the car flickered once, then again, and plunged him into momentary darkness, before coming back alive. The car had never stopped moving, but when he looked around, after the darkness, he say that he was no longer alone in the car. Down towards the other end, standing, holding onto the upper rail, was a sizable man–well, a sizable faggot, by the look of him. He was clad all in some sick, leather mockery of the uniform he wore during the day, and that alone made Hugo furious. Those faggots–was nothing sacred to them? Or was everything just some…disgusting target for their filth? Did faggots see him like that? Is that why they were always looking at him? Because they wanted something like that?

He stood up, the lights flickering again as he did, the train swaying and keeping him off balance. “Hey! Faggot! What the fuck thinks you have the right to wear something like that?” The man did nothing, didn’t even look at him, like he wasn’t even there. “Hey! Hey fucker, I’m fucking talking to you!”

He stalked towards him. The lights cut again, and when the lights came back up–there was no one there. He looked around, confused–the lights cut again, this time longer, and then came back after a few seconds–the man inches from his face–Hugo staring right into his eyes, smelling his hot breath, tinged with cigar smoke, and Hugo…he felt different. He…he was different. He was cold–his shirt and pants were gone, replaced by a harness and leather shorts…and a collar, which the man grabbed him by, pulling him into a kiss. Hugo knew he should be disgusted, but all he could think was how much he wanted him, wanted this man, wanted to be with him. The train was slowing down as they kissed, and came to a halt. The man stepped away, and asked, “Coming, boy?” He left the train without waiting for a reply.

Hugo crept to the doorway and looked out at the empty station–a station he didn’t recognize from the route. It was…somewhere else. The man walked off and disappeared up a staircase–something in him ached to follow him, but the terror was greater–the door slipped shut again, and started up, the lights flickering off, and he was left standing there again, his old self, the taste of the stranger still on his lips, which he licked. His cock achingly hard in his pants–so hard that he was able to whip it out and jack off onto the seat beside him before the train reached it’s next station–his station, so he could get off, legs shaking, trying to grapple with what he’d just experienced, what he’d just felt, the certainty that soon, very soon, he’d have to feel like that again.

Coach Ray Gets Trained (Sketch)

wesleybracken:

Ray gave a start, and shook his head; he was falling asleep at his computer again, so it must be time to head home. He looked up at the clock in his office, in the high school locker room, and was surprised that it was already seven. He must have really dozed off there, for a while. Ray Montaigne was the head coach at River Hills High School, and he was one of the student bodies favorite teachers. He wasn’t quite in peak physical shape anymore, unfortunately–he was in his late forties, had a bit of a gut, but he could still run a nine minute mile, and bench press 200, so he wasn’t doing too badly.

He put his arms up in a stretch, and caught a whiff of his pits–damn, they stank today, he hadn’t even really done much activity himself. He mostly taught health, as well as a few PE classes, and it was right at the beginning of the winter trimester, so the sport teams hadn’t even gotten going yet. Had…had he taken a shower this morning? Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t, had he? Had he taken one yesterday? He leaned in and took another sniff, and then another, then stuck out his tongue and gave it a lick–and only after that did he question what he was doing. This was disgusting–why in the hell had he just licked his own armpit? Why…why did he want to do it some more? And why was his cock getting hard in his shorts?

Leaving one arm up, he pushed the shorts down, revealing his jockstrap, tented by his cock. It was…kind of odd that he was wearing a jock. Sure, he made his athletes wear them, but he’d always found boxers more comfortable. Last week though, he’d…kind of wanted to wear a jock, and had…had he even changed it since? Another, funkier smell his his nose, making his cock throb, and he realized he hadn’t. He’d worn the same jock for a week–he didn’t think he’d even taken it off once. That…that was disgusting, right? He definitely shouldn’t be so turned on by how…how rank it smelled…right? Then…then why was he groping his cock through the mesh? He realized he had, without realizing it, turned his face into his other pit, and had been taking deep, long snorts of his own musk at the same time–he tried to stop, but…but he couldn’t. In fact, he suddenly felt like his entire body was running on autopilot, like he couldn’t even control himself. And so, it was with great embarrassment that he saw through the glass window of his office someone enter the locker room in a hoodie, look around, and head for his office door, open it, and step inside.

He couldn’t see who it was–not with his face stuck in his armpit. The person just laughed softly, set something down on the desk in front of him, and then turned around and left as quickly as he’d come. Ray managed to rip his face away long enough to see what it was, and found himself looking at a dildo. A…sizable dildo, in fact. His hand pulled itself away from his cock and grabbed it, his face turning back to his armpit for another lick, and he put his feet up on the desk, tipping his office chair back, feeling his hole as he started pushing the dildo in dry, groaning and muttering in pain, but he couldn’t stop himself–and then he saw that he was being observed.

Outside his office, through the window, he saw the man in the hoodie who’d just left the dildo had been joined by another man–this one, however, he recognized. It was Jullian Porter–the computer science teacher who had quit the year before, after being accused of molesting several seniors in his classes. Ray had good reason to know him–two of his football players had been targets, and he was the person who had first accused Jullian. No one had been able to prove anything; none of the boys could remember details of what had happened while they were alone with Mr. Porter, but he’d been forced out all the same. Julian smiled at him, and pulled back the hoodie on the person with him, revealing…Noah. Noah Ambert, his star quarterback, who, after the humiliation of the entire ordeal, had dropped out of school shortly after Porter had quit, and no one had heard from him since. They…they were together?

He had to clench his eyes, the dildo hurt so much, but he couldn’t stop. There were another couple of inches to go, but he already felt so fucking full…his hand didn’t care, it just kept twisting and pushing and shoving, and as soon as the dildo was lodged to the root, he felt his cock start spasming, pumping cum into the mesh of his jock, Ray whimpering in something between pain and pleasure–he looked up again, and Julian was still watching him, but Noah was on his knees…sucking Julian’s cock, right in front of him, and he couldn’t do anything. His hand was pumping the dildo now, and he could feel it sliding in and out a bit easier now…and he was kind of enjoying it, even though he knew, in his head, that this couldn’t be happening. This kept going for several minutes, until Julian came down Noah’s throat, and then he walked around and into Ray’s office, behind him.

“Good to see you’ve taken so well to the programs coach,” he said in Ray’s ear, “You’re going to be so much fun in my stable. You aren’t really my kind of man, of course, I like them a bit…younger, smoother, muscled…but I’m sure we can find a use for you, once you’re…well seasoned.” Before Ray could respond, he added, “End trial, enter neutral state.” Ray’s eyes went blank, his mouth gaping–his feet slipped from the desk and he returned to a normal sitting position. Julian leaned in and gave him a kiss on the neck, before saying into his ear, “Erase memory of program trial. Add desire, dildo. Enhance desire, pit musk. Enhance desire, jock musk. Resume consciousness in two minutes.”

Julian turned and left the locker room, Noah getting up and following after him. Two minutes later, Ray gave a start, and shook his head; he was falling asleep at his computer again, so it must be time to head home. He looked up at the clock in his office, in the high school locker room, and was surprised that it was already seven forty-five. He must have really dozed off there, for a while. He rocked a bit on the dildo in his ass and moaned a bit, before he pulled his shorts up and got his things together, turned out the lights, and headed home.