Interactive: New You Resolutions 2020 (Part 2)

Jim opened up the second envelope, and pulled out the note inside:

Here’s your second resolution Jim:

— You resolve to stuff yourself every day and gain as much weight as you can.

We’re here to help! Head into the kitchen. You’ll find everything you need to make yourself a nice, filling lunch.

Jim just stared at the note, reading it again, unable to believe what he was reading. This had to be some sort of joke, didn’t it? But then, he had just quit his job! Sure, it was something he’d wanted to do, for a very long time even…but he’d never actually thought he would do it, right? He went into the kitchen, and his gut gave a rather uncharacteristic rumble. Jim wasn’t exactly in great shape, but he’d never really liked food much. It had as much to do with his sedentary desk job as anything else. He expected a meal, in all honesty, but all he found was a new blender on the counter, and a canister of some sort of powder. He looked at it, and saw it was a mix to make a weight gain shake–all he needed was some heavy cream. He checked the fridge, and sure enough, the right amount of cream was there. He wasn’t going to do this though, was he? His gut growled again, more urgently, and he pulled the cream out of the fridge, dumped the powder in the blender, and started it up. The hunger was overwhelming. He didn’t even bother pouring the mix into a glass–he just tipped the pitcher of the blender back and chugged it straight down. He tried to stop himself, especially as his gut swelled and started to ache, but he couldn’t put the thing down until it was all inside him.

At last, it was done. He felt his gorge rise a bit, but resisted the urge to hurl. He had to keep it inside him. He had…he had to get fatter. He shook his head, trying to push the urge away, looked down, and saw another envelope next to his hand, that hadn’t been there a moment earlier, he was sure of it. He opened it up as well:

Now that you don’t have to worry about that pesky job anymore, why don’t we find something more fulfilling for you to do with your free time, Jim? Here’s a few more resolutions for you:

— I resolve to start smoking cigarettes, working up to two packs a day.

— I resolve to start pumping my cock, stretching my balls, and pumping my nipples on a daily basis.

— I resolve to begin collecting gay porn, and masturbate to it at least three times a day.

Why don’t you head up to your office and get started, Jim? Dinner will be ready in a few hours.

What?

Jim was straight, wasn’t he?

Sure, he’d…thought about it on occasion, and women always seemed…difficult, to him, and he’d never really managed with relationships, but…

But an hour later, he was in the thick of it. He had a metal stretcher secured around his balls  dragging them off the front of his office chair. His second cigarette from the pack he’d found next to the keyboard was lit, and he was happily inhaling off of it, eager to feel the addiction settle in. He had already worked out how the vacuum tubes worked, and had his tits inflating inside them, and now had his cock in the larger one, watching it swell and swell as he pulled the air out of the glass tube, more turned on than he could recall being in his life, as he started perusing sites for porn. When he couldn’t handle it anymore, he pulled the tube free, and started stroking his puffy cock. It was harder to cum when it was pumped, but he managed one load easily enough, before his gut grumbed again, and he went downstairs, where the ingredients for another shake like the first was set out for him, along with some assorted junk food, to get him through the evening. He made his shake and guzzled it, then carried the chips and candy upstairs with him, where he jacked off late into the night, lost in a haze of lust and smoke he couldn’t seem to control.

The days blurred together, after that. He would wake up in bed, or sometimes in his office, covered in ash and cum, and his gut would drag him downstairs for breakfast. The shakes started out small, but got larger and larger as he grew accustomed to them, and he could see an effect after just a couple of days. He would shower in the mornings on occasion, when he could resist the pull of his office for long enough, and then he would settle in for the day, light up a smoke, pump his cock, put on his stretchers, pump his nipples, and then start working on his collection, only coming down for meals and snacks as demanded by his gut.

Months passed. It was Spring now, and Jim barely recognized himself in the mirror. He’d left the house maybe twice since leaving work on January second. He smoked two packs of cigarettes a day, from the moment he woke up, to the moment he fell asleep. His cock was…different. It didn’t look right when it wasn’t pumped, and he couldn’t get hard at all unless he got it in his tube. A month ago, it had been upgraded to a larger size, and now, when he was done, it was around nine inches long, and as thick as a beer can. His balls hung quite low, another two inches or so, and his tits were always thick, and very sensitive. By far, the most drastic change was his weight. He had no idea what was in that powder, but it worked–he’d gone from 225 to 350 in a matter of months. His gut was covered in stretch marks from the rapid growth, and he couldn’t get used to navigating spaces with his new heft.

He came down this morning, to discover something that terrified him–another envelope. Apparently, it was time for a few more resolutions. What does the envelope have in store for Jim now?


Here’s your next poll! Remember, you can select three of the options below, so don’t leave votes on the table. Patrons have their bonus poll over here as well.

He’s deep in the pits of Pigtown, taking a break from the mass of men around him, pumping his dick to new sizes, staring at it through the plastic tube, panting a bit, wondering how big it can get, what it might feel like shoved up some faggots loose cunt. He looks to the side, and catches the eye of someone across the room, in the dark. He can’t make out much of him, but in those eyes, what is it about those eyes?

“Pigtown? You can’t be serious.”

“Oh come on, I’ve heard it’s one of the best bathhouses ever.”

“You told me you weren’t going to do this anymore.”

“I’m…look, I like to have fun. This is one of the ways I have fun. I just thought, if you came along, maybe you’d enjoy yourself! I brought some E–you had a blast last time–”

“No, I’m done with this, I’m done with you–go get lost in there, or whatever the fuck you want to do with your life, I’m fucking done.”

How long had he been down here? There were no clocks anywhere–hadn’t he arrived a few hours earlier? He looked down at himself, the filthy jockstrap, his rubber boots–hadn’t he been…wearing something else? Wearing more? It seemed…so long ago, for some reason. Lost in thought, he hadn’t noticed the man make a beeline for him across the room.

“Jack…oh fuck, Jack, I can’t believe I found you–we have to go, please…”

Those eyes, now that they were so close…he did know them, but not the body they were attached to. The head shouldn’t be shaved. The body was too…thin, like it had lost some mass and wasted away, and he’d grown older–years older. The beard was wrong, and there shouldn’t be a piercing in his nose, or those tattoos. “You came in after all–looks like…you’re having fun…” He had trouble getting the words out, and he couldn’t quite recall the last time he’d bothered using words.

“Jack, it’s been weeks! You’ve been in here for weeks. I…I’m losing it, Jack. But I know how to get out, I can get us out, I can get us better!”

Jack just smirked, released the pump, and hauled out his massive cock, wrapping it tight, keeping it full, hefting it, those eyes latched onto it, unable to look away. “Just give it a chance–you’ll like it, I promise.”

He fought. He fought hard, but he collapsed, the knees of his bleached jeans in a puddle of piss and cum, as he explored the massive cock with his hands and mouth, losing himself in the pit, like all the other pigs around him had already.

Sketch #2 – What I want, What They Want

Everyday, for so long now, it had become a ritual for all of them. They would walk down the street, he would stand on his driveway. They would smoke their cigarettes, he would stand in his work shirt, sweating in the late afternoon heat, just home from his air conditioned office. One or both would wave, shout a howdy. He would wave back, sometimes. Other times he would just smile, sweat, adjust his crotch and then hurry inside. Today, he waved. He liked the days where he waved, he felt like less of a coward for the rest of the day.

Terry loved them. Not them as people, he knew nothing about them. He loved them as this thing, this thing he wanted–no, that wasn’t quite right–he didn’t want to possess, he wanted oppression. He wanted them to strut over, burn holes in his dress shirt, rip it off, rape him on the sidewalk where everyone could see what a bitch he was, how his money meant nothing, how he was just a faggot, a lowly faggot, a pig a whore a cunt–

He took a breath. His short, four inch cock leaked a bit into his briefs. He realized that, instead of continuing onward, like they usually did, the two men had stopped across the way, and were looking at him, then whispering to each other, and then looking at him some more.

“S–Something I can…uh, help you with?” Terry said, a bit too quiet for the slight breeze on the block.

“What?” one of them shouted–the shorter, stockier one. The one he imagined with a huge cock, and a thing for fisting.

“Oh…uh…” Terry said, not quite able to rearticulate.

“You wanna get a drink with us?” the other, taller one asked. He was the leader, the real master. The one who would leash him up, keep him in the backyard in a doghouse. Drive the humanity out of him for good, make him a real bitch in the end.

“Excuse me?”

“Do you want to get a drink, with us?” the man asked again, and then stepped out into the street. “You know, you wave at us everyday, and we don’t know anything about you. What’s…what’s your name?”

“T–Terry. Terry Blankenheim.”

“Nice…nice to meet you Terry. Say, uh, Buck and I, we were heading to the bar for a drink. Would…would you like to come along? I mean, you don’t have to, it’s…kind of silly now that I’m saying it.”

Was he nervous? He sounded nervous. Why would he be nervous? He wasn’t fat, he wasn’t worthless. “Oh, uh…I mean, I don’t usually–”

“Oh, yeah…I mean, if you don’t, then…” the man said, and stepped back, almost glad for the excuse.

It was slipping away, it was almost gone, his chance, “No, I mean, I’d be happy to. Let–let me change though, I mean–”

“No, it was odd of me to ask, I mean–” the taller worker said, “I don’t want you to, uh, feel pressured.”

“No, I’d enjoy it, really. Just let me change.”

“Oh…uh…would you…not?” the taller man asked, “You look…good how you are.”

Terry blushed, but stepped off the curb, and shook the man’s hand. “I didn’t get your name though.”

“Oh, sorry…” the man’s hand was as sweaty as his was. “It’s Dylan.”

“Nice to finally meet you Dylan. So, where are we going?”

***

It was midnight. Dylan was five drinks drunk, Buck was eight and reeling a bit, Terry at three split up by waters. He’d just heard the opposite of what he’d wanted to hear.

***

Hungover–very hungover. His bed? Someone elses? The news he’d gotten came roaring back from the night before.

“You’re gay…right?”

“I…”

“It’s ok, we are too.”

“Oh…sure, I mean, I guess it was kind of obvious, huh?”

“Will you be our master?”

Their master. No, he wasn’t worthy of being their master, that was ridiculous. What a disaster.

He tried to roll up, his hands were tied to the bed posts. He opened his eyes, not quite able to make out the leather clad and collared Buck and Dylan on either side of him. He was dressed in the nicest suit they could find from the closet, Buck had shined some dress shoes for him. They had his cock in a pump they’d brought from their apartment–Terry’s four inches was now six, and purple hard.

“No, what are you…”

“Is it ready?”

“I think so.”

Dylan released the seal on the pump and pulled it off, Buck hopped up on the bed and immediately started fucking himself on Terry’s cock. “Oh fuck sir, oh fuck!”

“Get–Get off! Don’t!”

Dylan circled around to the foot of the bed, and started spit shining his dress shoes, moaning. He yanked, rope burning his wrists, and let out a quiet sob.