Tag: photo caption

It was just another day at the junkyard with Jack, picking out spare parts for their pet car projects, when Gareth found the ring. It didn’t seem special–but he couldn’t help putting it on. Jack was leaning on a beat up car, sipping a beer and whining about how they were missing the game, and Gareth was sick of it. “Jack, you’re nothing but a big, whiny baby, you know that?”

Jack went to take another drink, but found himself sucking from a little baby bottle–not from his beer. He barely had time to think about that before he felt an odd warmth in his pants–or what had been his pants moments before, and which were now a large, padded diaper. After pissing, he shat a massive load into the back as well, and looked over at Gareth who suddenly looked smaller. Jack was growing–not only taller but also fatter, passing seven, and then eight feet tall and more than 500 pounds, the diaper growing with him while his other clothes burst off him, and he started bawling.

Gareth looked at the ring and grinned. Oh was he going to have some fun with this.

Source: justbulls

You meet some of the craziest guys at the public golf courses–You’d rather play at the private clubs, but you can’t afford the membership fees–so you’re stuck playing a round with a fucking redneck. He comes over to you, smoking a cigar, well over 300 pounds, dressed in a sleeveless shirt and khaki shorts, and all you can do is make the best of it. 

He suggests upping the stakes, and letting the winner of each hole take something from the loser. You don’t really know what he means, but you accept, knowing you’ll be able to outplay this fat redneck any day of the week.

Well, you thought you could. He birdies the first hole to your double bogey, and you ask what you owe him, pulling out your wallet, but he just grins. “I don’t want your money–yet,” he said, “First things first, I want that slim figure of yours, pretty boy.”

Great, a real nutter, you think, but something is glowing–an amulet he’s wearing, and a second later, you feel different. Looking down, you’re stunned to find that you’ve somehow gained close to two hundred pounds–all of the weight the fat redneck just dropped off his body. 

“Come on, fatty–we got seventeen more holes to play.”

Unaccustomed to your fat body, you lose round after round to this crazy redneck, who starts dismantling your life. By the end of the front nine, you’ve lost your expensive clothes, your house, your car, your marriage, four inches off your cock, your college education, and six inches of your height. 

There’s no hope left for you, really. On the back nine he strips you of your ambition, your heterosexuality, your dominance, your full head of hair, fifty points off your IQ, your virility, and your job. With two holes left, you’re little more than a fat, dithering idiot, hacking at the ball as best you can–and that’s when he starts mocking you, barely hitting the ball further than you on purpose. To your surprise, he lets you win, but when he asks you want you want…you’re stumped. You’re so dull witted now that you can’t even remember what he took, and then he starts talking about his cigar, about how nice it is being a smoker, how he’d hate to give that up more than anything, you bite, and steal away his nicotine addiction.

Before the eighteenth hole the two of you nip off to the woods for a moment–you’re ravenous for a cock. In return, he lets you win the final hole as well. He suggests you take his skill at golf, but in that thick head of yours, a dim bulb still glows.

“Nuh-uh,” you slur, “Gimme yer amulet–that’s wha I want.”

Surprised, but not really minding, he hands it over to you and walks off without another word. Sure, you don’t know how to use it, but maybe you can figure it out, and steal someone else’s life before too long.

It was just supposed to be a gag gift. I mean, the label had said “Power Tie!”–with the exclamation point–how was I supposed to know it was serious? I’d given it to my Uncle Benny, my dad’s only brother, who worked in some office building downtown. When he told me the Power Tie had gotten him a promotion, I’d thought he was just joking, but then I started to notice something strange. 

Uncle Benny started coming around a lot more, for one, and he always wanted to see me, and he was always wearing that tie. Before I really knew what was happening, my parents were moving my things into one of the rooms at Uncle Benny’s, telling me I was going to live with him now. I couldn’t resist. Every order was impossible to disobey, and within days I discovered that not only was my uncle gay–he’d been lusting after me for years. Well, he has me now, and all because I got him that dumb Power Tie!

Source: motivated2masturbate

Winter in the Northwest is pretty terrible if you enjoy having a bronzed complexion. Tanning is really your only option, so when the “Light Palace” opened up, my interest was piqued. They were a specialty tanning salon, whose tanning booths gave off different frequencies of light, in order to produce various effects. Of course, I thought the idea was idiotic but novelty can be fun.

I don’t know what happened, to be honest. Maybe I went to the wrong booth, or they calibrated the frequencies wrong. All I remember was lying in the booth when I started to feel itchy. I couldn’t see very well in the blue light, but my fairly smooth body was packing on hair at an incredibly rapid pace. Worse, the booth was locked into a ten minute cycle–I was trapped.

Suffice to say, they gave me a refund, though it wasn’t much compensation considering I’ll never be rid of this pelt. It grows back in a day, and my face has a five o’ clock shadow an hour after shaving. I just learned to embrace it, eventually, though unfortunately, being bronzed doesn’t matter if no one can see your skin.

Source: kawaiibentobox

Aaron had asked the tattoo artist to write “Muscle God” on his back in Chinese–however, maybe he should have been more polite when he had. To say that Aaron was proud of his physique was an understatement and he was arrogant as hell. The tattoo artist had figured a bit of humility would do the bodybuilder good.

It started slow–with Aaron noticing the large cocks of the black men in the gym, catching himself licking his lips before blushing and pushing the thoughts away, but they always came back stronger. He felt so much better when he gave in and begged one of them to let him suck his cock. It had taken some groveling but the man had given in eventually–now Aaron was out of control.

He’d fallen in with a gang of black youth, satisfying all of their twisted sexual desires and finding himself warping more and more in response. He couldn’t get hard without a long black cock in his ass and throat–he longed for black men to order his around. Still, what else would you expect from a man with “Slave for Black Cock” tattooed on his back?

Source: tombianchi.com

In the last eight years, we have seen a large uptick in membership among extreme right wing groups, particularly among violent militias in rural areas of the western states. While generally harmless, these groups still pose a possible threat to national security, and represent efforts on the part of citizens which could be used for better, non-violent purposes.

Now, studies have shown that men make up 90% of militia members, and that the violent tendencies of these men are often rooted in extreme sexual repression of homoerotic desires. Operation Prisma uses a psychodeinhibitor that, when planted in the militia’s water supply, encourages the expression of these repressed desires. The drug dose is so small that results are not generally seen for approximately four to six weeks, however, the men in the militia eventually lose interest in anti-government sentiment in favor of other activities. In test cases, militias have dissolved within days of the initial onset of symptoms, with many of the men partnering up and moving to more urban areas to rejoin society. Mr. President, we have men stationed at fifty targets–all we need is your approval to commence the operation.

Jared received the suit a week ago, and put it on more out of curiosity more than anything else. Now, he really wished he hadn’t. The suit’s seam had sealed itself as soon as it was on, trapping him inside–he’d had to wear a hoodie at work just to keep it hidden. Worse, he hadn’t been able to jerk off all week–the suit made all sensation in his cock completely dead, and he was horny as hell when the weekend came.

The past few nights, he’d been having strange dreams as well, the same one, looping over and over all night long. In it, he picked up his electric razor, and shaved off his hair into a mohawk, and then did it again, and again. His nerve broke on the third day, and he shaved his head, only to have the suit open and reveal his rock hard cock. 

No jack off session had ever felt so good–but as soon as he came, the suit closed up again, and the next night he was dreaming about getting gauges in his ears. Still, he couldn’t do that could he? No, he’d manage to hold out…somehow.

Continued from here:

Of course, not every convergence is beneficial, or so extreme. Others are more like seeping pools of corruption which leave a bit of slime on everything which passes through them. There is, for example, a public toilet in London, which never seems to get cleaned–the seats of the toilets crusty, the urinals reeking and brimming with cold piss. Every man who enters leaves a bit raunchier than they were. Sometimes it’s just a piercing, or a new fondness for dirty underwear. Others emerge from the toilet unsure of how much time has passed, and almost unable to recognize themselves in the cracked and splattered mirror.

Some men, however, grow addicted to the place–to the filth it spews. After their first visits, they find themselves longing to return, over and over again. They are the only ones who clean it–lapping the urine from it’s bowls and chipping away at the filthy floor with their teeth. Before too long, they begin to melt into the walls, giving the place more power–becoming tiles, sinks–even new toilets and urinals for the growing morass which might one day consume London, if it grows unhindered.

This was my stepdad, Sal. He was always mean to me and my mom, and I don’t know why she stayed with him–I think she was afraid more than anything–so I decided to do something about it. I’d always been a wiz at computer programming, but it still took a lot of experimentation, but pretty soon Sal’s computer was flashing all sorts of suggestions at him all day long.

It was a slow process, getting him interested in guys. I think he’d been at least a bit bi, or it probably wouldn’t have worked at all. From there, making him a submissive bitch who craved punishment was easy. I was enjoying myself, I admit it. He started going out all night long, cruising from club to bathhouse to craigslist orgy, until he finally gave up and left us for good. My mom is pretty broken up about it, but we’re doing better now that he’s out of our lives for good.

Still, I won’t say I didn’t get my personal satisfaction. I tracked him down at the filthy YMCA apartment he rented with the money he made selling himself, and gave him a fisting he won’t soon forget. 

Hot damn, did I do a number on this pig’s head; it’s a fucking mess. I don’t know any gang in the city who would want something like this for a bitch. I usually try to start with the sharpest guys I can find–graduate students, young hot shot bankers, those sorts–because the drugs really do a number on their thinking abilities. It was the same with this one, he sure seemed sharp, but after his treatments he can barely walk, his mouth is always gaping open, drool leaking down his chin, he doesn’t even obey orders. I think the only words he really understands are ‘cock’ and ‘boot’. 

Well, he is kind of cute though, and he does seem taken with me. Maybe I’ll keep him for myself. I don’t think he’ll be able to manage being more than a dog, but hey, it might be kind of fun walking him down the street in pup gear to the clubs. Wait, did he…oh god damn it! First things first, though, we’re going to have to get this skinpup fucking housebroken. Looks like I have my work cut out for me.