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.

Matt pulled into the rest area needing two things–a cigarette and a piss. Unfortunately, he’d smoked his last one fifty miles back, and he was desperate for another one. Still, he could at least take a piss before worrying about that.

The only other guy in the restroom was a huge, imposing redneck at a urinal. He had to be close to seven feet tall, and thickly muscled. Matt felt rather inadequate standing next to him, especially when he caught a peek of his huge cock. He stared for a few seconds before the man asked, “Like what ya see?”

Matt blushed and shook his head no, the redneck chuckling as though he were used to that reaction, before leaving the bathroom. Completely embarrassed, Matt finished up and left as well, but soon found that the parking lot was completely empty, aside from the redneck’s truck. He couldn’t really ask him, not after that, but god he needed a cigarette.

“Hey, do…do you have a cigarette?”

“So ya are interested then. Ya can suck me off in the woods if ya want.”

“No…No, really. I’m sorry, I just need a cigarette.”

“Oh…suit yerself then. All I got is chaw.” He pulled a metal tin from his back pocket, opened it up and presented it to Matt, “Go on, it ain’t gonna bite ya, bro. You’ll like it.”

Mike gave the man a glance of suspicion, but took a wad of the tobacco. He felt a near immediate rush of nicotene when he stuffed it in his lip…but also something else. Looking down, he could see his small gut start to shrink back into his stomach, as hair grew in all over his body. Unsteady on his feet, he felt almost as if he were being stretched, and was overcome with vertigo as he passed six and a half feet and kept climbing. He tried to get away and spit out the tobacco, but it tasted so good he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

His clothes shifted into a western style denim vest and jeans, size eighteen cowboy boots, and his crotch began to bulge out obscenely. As the onrush of horniness overwhelmed his mind, he dropped to near idiot IQ. His last thought was a realization that he now looked identical to the redneck next to him. “Fuck man, that’s hell of a rush,” he said with a drawl thick enough to match his new friend’s voice.

“Nah bro, that’s nothin’ compared tah this,” the redneck said, leaned in and started kissing his twin, swapping tobacco spit as sexy memories flooded Matt’s head about his twin brother Jack.

“Damn Jake, ya sure know how tah get me goin’. How’s about we finish this in the woods?” Matt said, groping his ten inch cock.

“Sound’s good tah me bro, soun’ds damn good tah me. But yer suckin’, I’m horny as fuck.”

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.”

One Change #4 – Words

***WARNING: This episode contains scat.***

The Changer rarely researched his targets very heavily–he found that the more he got to know someone’s history, the harder it was, in a way, to figure out what to change about them. It was too hard to try and anticipate what would happen most times, so usually, he would wander around various cities, listening to what people were saying. He secretly enjoyed making people’s stupid, thoughtless words come true. Like in Terry’s case.

neck

Terry lived in a modest, city apartment in a nice, generally clean neighborhood. His office was only a few minutes away, and he was right in the middle of a culturally vibrant downtown. He hated it, or at least, that’s what he told everyone in conversation. He hated the smell, the homeless, the cramped living spaces, the prices. The first thing he was going to do when he retired, he said, was move miles away from every city. The Changer wondered why he should wait, and decided to give Terry what he said he wanted.

The Terry who woke up in the small, filthy, single wide trailer had never been to a city in his life. The closest city was nearly fifty miles away, and it was a far cry from the metropolis he’d lived in before his change. The Changer had expected him to be just as miserable here as in the city, but to his surprise, the opposite was true. The new Terry loved his quiet, simple life working on cars as the only gas station in a twenty mile radius. Still, not everyone ended up meaning what they said.

Frank loved picking fights with people, especially his neighbors, and he had a mouth which let loose any number of horrid, disgusting insults at the people around him. It was just a way for him to feel important by knocking down everyone else around him. The Changer happened past while he was engaged in one of his cross-fence shouting matches, and decided that he would immediately come to embody the last insult he hurled during the fight. Now, as far as Frank was concerned, “shitface,” was a reasonably mild insult, but as soon as those last words were uttered, Frank felt a strange compulsion.

In Frank’s case, The Changer had decided the change shouldn’t be retroactive, but only affect him from the present onward. His obsession with shit was sudden, very strong, and by the weekend, he was hosting an orgy with all of his new friends at his home. The Changer hoped that all the shit he would be eating from now on would keep his mouth busy.

Why…Why did he keep putting it on? It had been three days since Greg’s visit to the strange curio shop in Chinatown. He’d picked up the small bottle of deodorant as a joke. What company, after all, would say their deodorant smelled like “Backwoods Musk”? He’d put it on before going to the gym to workout with Jeff, and they’d had a good laugh at the cedary, sweaty smell, but this was getting out of control. Greg was putting on weight, his beard was growing uncontrollably, and he couldn’t stop smelling himself.
There was a knock on the door, and when he opened it, there was Jeff, or he thought it was Jeff. He was looking a bit younger, and maybe even…chubby? “Greg…Greg, I gotta smell it again, please tell me…” Jeff said, but stopped and tackled his friend to the ground, lapping and licking at his pit, Greg groaning, his cock rock hard, and he knew why he kept putting it on–because it was his scent–his stench, and he and his boy here, they were going to be smelling like backwoods musk for the rest of their lives.

Lost? No, you weren’t lost anymore. Sure, a few days ago, when you’d found yourself stranded in the bayou after you were separated from the tour group, tromping and crashing through the muddy water trying to find your way back to civilization, yeah, you’d been lost then. But now? No, you weren’t lost, you were home.

The Bayou had taken you in, it had chosen you, spared you death so that you could be reborn. It did it in dreams–every night, after emerging from a deep, horrific, and fitful sleep filled with fires and dank mud, you woke changed. Your clothes had gone missing the first morning–the tattoos, the marks of the bayou–they had come the second. Your body shifting and changing as the days passed, your mind growing accustomed to life here, filling with knowledge as your old life washed away out to the ocean.

And now, you were close to your birth. Clothes had begun to drift towards you–a hat, a pair of boots–but more would come. The bayou would provide after all–the bayou will provide.

Southern Blackmail

The corded phone rang, and Robert picked it up on the first ring.

“He–Hello?”

“Where’s my fuckin’ cash, faggot?”

Robert cringed at the sound of the Gabe’s deep southern twang on the other end of the line,

but knew better than to try and hang up the phone at this point–he wouldn’t be able to. “I don’t…I mailed it out last week, I hoped it would have gotten there on time, like always,” Robert said. None of what he’d said was a lie, of course, he couldn’t lie to Gabe on the phone. It had gone out last week, but later than usual, because it had taken him an extra day to scrounge up the funds.

“Bullshit, what aren’t ya tellin’ me faggot?”

“I…I didn’t have the money, Gabe. I got it out a day late. Please, you’ve already emptied my savings, I don’t have anything! I had to pawn my watch, and sell some of my electronics on Craigslist–”

“Faggots don’t need tah tell time, ‘n ya could use a little less time on those disgustin’ porn sites a yers. Well then again, maybe ya do need a watch, since ya can’t figure out when tah pay me.”

“Ye…Yes…I’m sorry, I just didn’t have the money, please–I’m sorry,” Robert said, with a gulp. He was in trouble, not that he hadn’t already been in trouble for months now. Robert lived in the deep south, and worked for an ultra-conservative baptist church as a bookkeeper–and he was gay. Sure, he was conflicted about it, but he’d really just fallen into the position there before having his personal, sexual epiphany, and in his small community, he was cornered. The internet was too risky, so he’d turned to highway rest stops, writing his barely used home phone number on the wall, asking for hook ups. It had worked well, until Gabe had called one day.

They’d hooked up–or rather, Gabe had come over one night, shoved Robert down on the wood floor at the front door and had his way with him, calling him a worthless faggot and worse the whole time, before getting up and leaving without a word, and Robert had been glad to see the backside of him–but the redneck was smarter than that. When he’d fucked Robert–he’d done something to him–he could control him using his voice, even through the telephone, and after one more conversation, he’d learned all of Robert’s secrets–and had then threatened to force Robert to out himself at work if he didn’t send Gabe five hundred dollars cash in the mail every week. He didn’t make much at the church, but he’d been able to rely on his savings for a while, but now even that was dry–and he had no idea what Gabe was going to do now that Robert couldn’t make his payments.

“Well since ya can’t be a good little faggot and pay me on time, Ah guess yer gonna have tah be punished. Strip faggot.”

Robert couldn’t resist the order, and he put down the phone, pulling off all of his clothes before sitting back down, “Please, you don’t have to do this, I can get you the money on time from now on,” he pleaded.

“Do ya got a butt plug or a dildo, faggot? I bet ya do, all ya faggots gotta have those nasty things.”

“Yes, but please–”

“Shut yer god damn trap, ‘r we’re gonna have a real fuckin’ problem, faggot!” Gabe shouted through the receiver, making Robert whimper, “Ya got it?”

“Yes…yes, sir.”

“Better. Go get it, ‘n put it up yer hole. Tell me when it’s there.”

Robert again put down the phone, went into his room, and retrieved his six inch long, flesh colored dildo, the only one he owned. He’d bought it while on vacation up north, but didn’t use it very often, so working it in was hard, especially since he couldn’t find his lube. Still, he had to obey Gabe and get it up there, and soon the plastic balls were against his hole between his legs, and he walked oddly back to the phone. “It’s in.”

“Good. Now, here’s what yer gonna do, faggot. From now on, yer gonna wear that dildo in yer ass to work, all day, everyday. Yer gonna fuck yerself on it when yer alone, ‘n at least once a day, ya gotta go intah the bathroom ‘n jack off while ya fuck yerself, ‘n eat yer cum, got it?”

“No, please–”

“What the hell did Ah say ‘bout talkin’ back, bitch?”

“But–but what if someone catches me?”

“Then ya better beg them tah keep quiet–ya can even offer tah suck their dick off in exchange fer not tellin’. Yer a faggot, men love a hole tah fuck, if ya seem desperate ‘n worthless enough.”

Robert was speechless. Even worse, he knew he wasn’t going to be able to resist the order. Tomorrow, he’d march into work with a six inch dildo up his ass, and there would be nothing he could do to stop it.

“Ya there faggot? Ya got all that?”

“Yes, yes I got it.”

“Good. Now, we’re gonna have tah figure out a way fer ya tah get some more money tah pay me with, ‘cause this job ain’t gonna cut it alone. So how about this. How about ya start rentin’ out those faggot holes a yers, tah any roughneck lookin’ fer a hole? How’s that sound?”

“No…No, I’m not going to–please don’t make me do that!”

“No? Then how come yer cock’s all hard from thinkin’ ‘bout it, faggot?”

Shit, he was hard. “I’m not going to do it.”

“Go on, jack off yer cock faggot, it’s alright. Think about how much ya’d love tah be used ‘n abused by big roughnecks like me fer hours ‘n hours. How ya’d beg ‘em tah plant their seed deep in yer hole, how ya’d finish the night wit’ a ass ‘n face plastered wit’ cum. Jack off too, ya faggot, Ah know ya can’t resist.”

Oh Jesus, it really was turning him on, wasn’t it? Robert felt his hand wrap it’s way around his cock and start jacking it, while his mind pictured him bent over the bed or the couch, while a long line of bikers, truckers and trailer trash lined up behind him to use his holes.

“Ah can hear ya faggot, gettin’ all excited over there. Hear ya pantin’ like a bitch ‘n heat. Go on, ya can admit it. It’s yer ultimate fantasy. It’s got ya so excited yer gonna cum, ain’t ya. Ya can’t hold it back bitch, I know ya can’t–”

“Fuck! Fuck oh god damn it!” Robert hollered as he came all over his belly, cum shooting all the way up to the phone cord.

“Nasty fuckin’ faggot,” Gabe said, “Since ya want it so much, maybe Ah shouldn’t let ya do it. Maybe Ah should make it so ya can’t even cum!”

“No! Please, I’ll do it, I’ll do it, please,” Robert said, unable to stop himself. The fantasy–it had been so hot. He did want it, he really did, even though he knew deep down that he shouldn’t. That he’d fallen into one of Gabe’s many traps once more.

“Oh, like Ah’m gonna do what a faggot asks me tah do. Forget it.”

“No, look, I’ll…I’ll send you all the money I make–and pictures! Or video, whatever you want!”

“You disgusting piece of trash!” Gabe shouted, “You think I’m a gay boy like you? Fuck no, I don’t want any pictures of you taking another man’s cock up your hole, it’s disgusting!”

“I’m sorry, but please…please let me do it sir, please.”

“Alright, fine. Since yer bein’ such a whiny bitch. But Ah got a few conditions. One, Ah’m in charge a yer schedule, ‘n yer appointments. Ah set them up, set the prices ‘n the men pay me directly, since ya can’t be trusted tah send me mah payment on time. Two, ya do anythin’ a man asks ya tah do on the clock–no refusals. They can fuck ya raw if they want. They can piss on ya if they want. They can make ya dress up like a bitch before they fuck ya if they want. Lastly, ya don’t cum, ever, when yer servin’ a man. Yer job is tah please their cock, not yers. Got it?”

“Yes…Yes I–I understand. I’ll do it.”

“Good. Now, ya better get ready. Ah have six guys scheduled fer half hour blocks startin’ in fifteen minutes. Now yer gonna go unlock the front door, greet every client naked ‘n on yer knees and kiss their boots when they come in, then do anythin’ they want.”

“Wait…six? Six? I can’t, I don’t have time–”

“Hey faggot, yer only pullin’ in twenty bucks a session. It’s gonna take at least, what, twenty five sessions a week tah make yer payment? In fact, might as well up yer payment tah me, since yer gonna be enjoyin’ it so much–so get ready, yer gonna be workin’ those holes a whole lot from now on. Now have a good afternoon faggot.” Gabe said, and hung up before Robert could say another word.

He’d been played–the entire time, Gabe had been setting him up for this…and he didn’t care. He wanted to be a whore for rough, dirty men, it had become his ultimate fantasy the moment Gabe had said it. He couldn’t have been the first one he’d done this to. Gabe probably had a network of men like him on call. He got up and undid the deadbolt on his front door, before getting down on his knees, head bowed, staring down at the same floor he’d been forced down on when Gabe had stormed in and raped him, the same floor he’d licked his cum off of when Gabe saw he’d cum just from getting fucked–or had any of that happened? Was he just imagining, and justifying, his new wants and cravings? But he was a faggot, wasn’t he. Gabe was right, and this was where he really belonged.

It all started when my brother and I ran into a bit of a problem. See, our parents were leaving town for a week, and we wanted to throw a party–the problem is that I was twenty, and he was eighteen, and neither of us had any older friends to buy the booze for us. So what do we do? We put an ad on Craigslist–stupid, right? Well, it had seemed like a good idea at the time, and we got a response pretty quick.

It was from a farmer on the outskirts of town, who wrote back and said that he had just finished up a batch of his moonshine, and that he’d sell it to us dirt cheap. We hadn’t gotten any other offers, so we decided to give it a shot–if it was horrible, we could always not buy it. We drove out to the farm, met the toothless hick, and he gave us a bottle to try, and he said we could get the rest if we liked it.

We got back home and sampled it. It was strong, way stronger than anything we’d ever had before, but the taste wasn’t too bad, and it went down surprisingly easy. But…strange things started happening. My brother started talking in a Southern drawl after a few shots, and when I passed by a mirror, I saw my clothes were gone, replaced by a pair of overalls and nothing else. We both were packing on weight as well…and horny as shit. Before I could stop him, my older brother shoved me down on the sofa, hauled out my cock and sucked me off, and later than evening he fucked me back, and it all seemed perfectly right and normal, until morning, when we both woke up with the worst hangovers of our lives.

We were back to our old selves thankfully, and we said we wouldn’t go back, but the hangover only got worse. We needed more of that damn moonshine, and we both knew it. The farmer was waiting for us, grinning like an idiot. He…He made us drink another whole bottle each then and there, and before long our alter egos were back, worshipping our “Pa’s” fat, filthy body, and we both knew it was wrong, but we were hooked.

We did throw the party that week. All of our guy friends are hooked on the moonshine now too, and most of us stay in our redneck forms full time now–it hurts too damn much to be normal. I’m writing this sober, because when I’m Jerod, I’m illiterate, but I can barely take the pain. I just want someone to know what happened. I’m never going back–I’m going to be drunk on Pa’s moonshine for the rest of my life, and I don’t care. But tell my parents, tell them Jerry and Grant love them very much. Tell them goodbye.