Tag: photo caption

“Dang Tory, how much shit did you give him?”

“Well, I got ‘em drunk first, ‘n then some heroin–hey, if he wants tah know what it’s like tah be homeless, might as well give ’em the good stuff.”

“Shit, fuckin’ heroin? That’s pricey man, how much ya’d find on him?”

“Eh, not too much, but I got’s my payment elsewhere–he’’s a total fag man, look how hard his cock is, all chained up like that. He’s been beggin’ fer me cock–gettin’ me so damn hard…Already had his ass twice, ‘n look how hard he is, even drugged the fuck out. Think I’m gonna keep ’em, actually. Might be nice havin’ a pet fag around. ‘Sides, I can rent ’em out for some extra cash.”

“That’s fucked up Tory.”

“Eh mind yer own fuckin’ business. Panhandlin’ ain’t paying out like it used to–too many assholes takin’ all the good spots who ain’t even one of us.”

…

“How much?”

“Two bucks, either hole.”

“Here. I ain’t a fag, but a fresh hole’s too good to pass up.”

“I hear ya man, I hear ya.”

When my son told me he that someone was bullying him at school, I hadn’t imagined it would be a teacher. Apparently Mr. Wilson, his English teacher, was a bible thumping conservative–and as soon as he’d found out that my boy and I are gay, he’d started flunking him on nearly every assignment. 

Now, I’ve raised my boy right–he’s going to be strong, masculine man like his dad when he grows up, but while I knew he could take care of himself in a school yard brawl, I figured a more nuanced approach would be best here. I went in and tried talking like a reasonable man, but Mr. Wilson didn’t want to hear it, and the administration was no help…so I took matters into my own hands.

My son’s off at college now, and Mr. Wilson is in my basement. He doesn’t want to be there right now, but he’ll change his mind soon enough. I have four years to get him pretrained so I can hand the leash over to my boy as a present when he graduates. My boy’s first slave–goodness, how time flies.

Source: barebearnc

Yeah, I’m a computer geek, I work in IT, so what? I enjoy what I do. Sure, I’m not the most attractive guy, I’m pudgy, maybe don’t have the best hygiene, but I get enough action, trust me. I just call it one of my on the job perks. 

See, I have access to every computer in the office complex, and I’ve spent years developing my subliminal desktop application. See, there are these tiny flickers on every screen–no one really notices them unless they know what to look for, and I might plant a few suggestions for my fellow employees to follow. Take Rick for example. He’s been working out, and I love his new work clothes–those fatigues really look great. And damn, do I love cigar smokers, they get me hard as a rock in no time…Hey, don’t get me wrong, I love pipes like yours too–and it really looks good with that beard you’re growing for me, trust me.

So yeah, maybe I am a geek–but I have the whole office wrapped around my finger–including you. Now suck my dick, I haven’t got all day.

Source: suxitnnyc

Jake and Mitch were chatting behind the counter in the army surplus store, when a young man standing over by the boots said to the roughnecks, “I was wondering if you guys could help me figure out what boots size I should wear.”

“It’s usually the same as your shoe size,” Mitch said.

“Well, I have weird feet.”

With a sigh, Mitch went over, and saw that the kid had already kicked his shoes off, and then the stench hit him. His brain blew a few circuits, and drooling, he got down on his hands and knees, taking as much of the kid’s socked foot in his mouth as he could. Jake rushed over to see what was going on, and a moment later, he too had succumbed to the smell, and each taking a foot, the two roughnecks worshiped the kids feet, obeying his every order without a second–or even a first–thought. 

When he left, it was with a pair of free boots, and the promise of his two new slaves that they would come see him after their shifts–and not take off the filthy socks pulled over their rock hard cocks until then.

Boys these days have no discipline. I mean, our nation faces great peril every day, and they’re far more interested in their smartpads and jpods. Well not the boys who come to my shop–they all leave with a different outlook on life. 

My special lather makes them all willing to learn how they’ve been wasting their lives, how they should respect their elders and serve their nation. I’m not sure who’ll end up recruiting this one–maybe I’ll see whether he sucks cock more like a marine or a sailor before telling him where to enlist. It sure is easier now that Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell is gone–all my army boys can suck as much cock as they want. The ones who’ve come back from service tell me that sucking their mates off definitely increases cohesion and camaraderie, and men in the service don’t need women back home distracting them. Their entire focus should be on making our country the greatest world power history has ever seen. Is it a sacrifice? Sure, but it’s one I make sure they’re willing to make.

Jeremiah had been furious when he’d found out he had to take special sensitivity training in the wake of the DADT repeal, but considering the vitriol he regularly spewed about “fags” and “dykes” he wasn’t surprised. Still, he was confident he’d come out of it without his views changing. Gays were sinners, and that was that, in his opinion. 

He’d arrived at camp, and was assigned to a platoon of like minded associates, all of them laughing about this bullshit, but over the coming weeks, as the soldiers were beaten, broken down, and humiliated over and over again by their gay staff sergeants, they all eventually had a change of heart. A few, like Jeremiah, found that their hatred against homosexuality was actually due to their own repressed sexual desires.

On his final night, he had a private training session with Sergeant Hale, and Jeremiah spent the whole night worshiping his superior’s boots and cock, begging for more. The next day, he discovered he had been reassigned–and would continue serving under the sergeant until further notice, but Jeremiah had to call him Master from then on.

You know, as a bully–there are the kids you pick on, and then there are just the ones which are almost too easy. It almost isn’t even satisfying to beat them down, because they’re already so miserable. Timmy was one of those. Short, fat, glasses, lisp, new kid–how could I avoid it? 

Now, I mean, I used to get called into the principal’s office a lot, back in school, but I never cared. All the kids knew that if they told on me, they’d end up with it even worse down the line, so complaints never really stuck. When word got around I was picking on Timmy, I got called in, and Principal Jacobs…well, he was different this time. He was usually pretty stern and angry, but this time he…almost begged me to stop, for my own good.

Well, I called bullshit, and stepped it up–because, why the hell not? Well, I learned why Principal Jacobs was nervous. It was in gym class, and I just made fun of the fact that he didn’t have any gym clothes that could fit his fat body…and he got angry…and he grew.

Not just taller–he put on a ton of muscle and hair…I think he was even growing older. By the end of it, he didn’t have any clothes that fit, as his jeans and shirt had ripped away, and he smirked at me. Everyone else had fled at the point, and we were alone. I turned and dashed off, but he plowed after me and tackled me to the ground. I begged him to stop, but he beat the shit out of me, then ripped away the back of my gym shorts like they were made of paper and shoved his cock up my hole.

I tried to struggle away, but with a broken arm, I couldn’t get far…and then, I started to have all of these strange thoughts, telling me that I deserved to be fucked. That my hole was Timmy’s, that he owned me…that I was his slave. Sure, I managed to fight back for a bit, but my the time he’d cum up my ass the third time…I could only beg for more.

After that…you understand why I had to drop out. I was in the hospital for a while–but the real reason I felt so sick was because I wasn’t with Timmy. I fought the urge for as long as I could…but eventually, I gave in, found his house, and pledged myself to him. I wasn’t his first–he has a whole collection of bully slaves who lived with him and cared for his every need. He didn’t even have any parents–apparently he was in his thirties, but lurked in high schools, picking up slaves as he went. I love him though–we all do. We don’t have a choice, after all.

Dennis had always hated being a little guy, but that strange hat shop had given him the answer to his prayers. He’d picked up the “Bubba” hat as a joke more than anything else, and when he’d put it on, he’d suddenly been transformed into a massive daddy bear wearing work boots, dirty Levis and a grubby t-shirt instead of his skinny jeans and hipster wear. Taking the hat off and on, he found he could switch bodies at will. He’d rushed home, admiring his new, bearish self in the mirror while he jacked off, and then decided to hit some of the clubs too see if he could find a hot bear to test drive this body with.

Unfortunately, Dennis should have read the warning label, telling him that prolonged use could result in irreversible mental effects. When he returned home the next morning freshly fucked, he’d already lost thirty-five points off his IQ, his fine arts degree had been replaced with truck driving and repair know-how, and he spoke with a thick, southern drawl. Now, with the hat or without, he was a “Bubba” through and through.

When I switched bodies with that redneck I swore to myself that I was going to try and make the best of the shitty situation and turn this life around. I mean, I still had  my mind, right? I figured I’d be able to do anything. Besides, he was a good ten years younger than me, I figured that shouldn’t waste them.

Well, here I am a year later–it turns out this body is a lot harder to control than my old one. I mean, I haven’t even been able to quit smoking–I thought that would be an easy one, and I still drink too much, but I can’t stop myself. I’ve tried landing decent jobs, but no one is willing to take a chance on someone someone who doesn’t even bother showering before the interview, so I’m still stuck working in construction. I’m horny all the time too. I jack off ten times a day, when I’m not having sex with random men off the street. We like to tell ourselves that our identities are in our heads, but its the habits of our bodies that really define us. 

Source: roughtradez

“Dude, how do you expect me to wear these? I mean, I know I’m working on a farm, but these don’t fit at all, man.”

“Would you rather get manure on your good clothes?”

“I can’t believe I have to do this all summer. This is fucking awful.”

“Hey, your parents sent you here to build some character, and I’m not gonna put up with that kind of attitude from my own nephew.”

“This is bullshit.”

“What did I just say, boy?”

“Fuck you.”

“Fine, you want bullshit? Go clean out the barn–there’s plenty of it in there.”

“Are you kidding? I’m not doing that–What…what the fuck? What kind of fucking clothes are these? Where are these boots taking me?”

“To the barn, of course. You’re gonna do what I say, when I say it, whether you like it or not. In fact, by the time you leave here, you’re gonna be a whole new person, I think. My bastard brother thinks he can just make me babysit? Just wait until he sees the fat, filthy redneck I send home in August. That’ll learn both of you.”