You never gave up on him. What father could give up on his son? The police all said their was no hope of finding him if he didn’t want to be found, but that just wasn’t your boy–you knew he would never run away like that. It was the cities fault. He’d been a small town kid–innocent and trusting–he didn’t know how rough things could get in the city. No–something had happened to him, and you were sure of it, but you also couldn’t prove it.

When the police hadn’t been able to find anything, you’d taken a leave of absence from the shop you owned, and headed for the city to try and find him yourself. You interviewed his roommate from college–he told you that your son had seemed happy and good for the first few months, but one night he didn’t come home to the dorm until the next morning, and something had seemed different about him. Distant. Aggressive. He’d started smoking and drinking heavily, and he was hanging out with a group of guys off campus. He missed class regularly, and then one day he just stopped showing up at all. But that didn’t sound like your boy–what had those guys done to him?

Other people on campus you interviewed gave you similar stories, but no real details you could actually call a lead–that is, until someone dropped the name of some club on the other side of the city–some place called Pigtown. You went there, took one look at the place, and left–utterly disgusted. That was some faggot place! Your son would never have been caught dead in a place like that–he wasn’t a faggot! He’d had a girlfriend and everything all through school, and so you keep looking for clues, but every once in awhile, you feel…like you’re being watched.

Because while you were out looking for your son, your son found you. He doesn’t quite…remember who you are, or who you were to him, but he does know you. He hates you. Hates you for never seeing him. Hates you because so much of him hates now, so much of him lives to cause pain, to humiliate, to abuse. He lurks in the shadows, following you around the city as you search for him, rubbing his ten inch cock through his pants, thinking about you. About what a good pig you’ll be when he gets his hands on you. About how you’ll be getting everything you deserve tonight, when him and a few of his slaves catch you, and drag you into Pigtown kicking and screaming for a night you won’t soon forget.

There’s a new party drug on the streets, produced by some strange company called Arctos, and it’s a doozy, as Avery found out, when he went out to a club on Saturday night with a couple of his friends. He noticed the two skinheads–not the usual clientelle of the bar’s he frequented as a college student–but he didn’t pay them any mind, until around his third drink–which he’d accidentally left at the table unattended for a few minutes. He began to feel a bit like he was floating, and before he could get help from his friends, the two skinheads had cornered him, and rather easily convinced him to go home with them instead. 

This decision confused him, but he found himself unable to say no to either of their demands. They got back to their slummy apartment a few blocks from the bar, and they immediately made Avery strip…and he didn’t remember much after that, to be honest. But when he woke up, Avery wasn’t quite Avery anymore. In fact, he wasn’t quite sure who he was. His two mates in the apartment–Len and Jack–told him he was part of their crew…but that didn’t quite feel right somehow. He thought he was going to school or something, but his mates just laughed at him–Aver was too dull to ever think of going to college after all. Then they hauled out their cocks and fucked him at both ends…and Aver figured his mates were probably right. 

His mates kept him drugged regularly–the entire personality usually reverts after a day or two, but with repeated doses, the person loses more and more sense of themselves, and eventually they lose their old self entirely. Poor Aver–he’s been with his mates for a year now, but he’s been dosed so many times, he barely has a mind left. He’s just their skinhead pup slave now–and will be forever. So mind your drinks–this is one drink you don’t want to have end up in your glass.

ChatChange (Part 2)

MasturCub90909: Fine, whatever, let’s just get this over with. What do you want to start with?

DaddySugarBear: Well, I’ve been thinking about your image a lot, you know? I mean, I get the whole clean cut, nice guy image, but I just don’t think that’s what a lot of guys want to see. At least, it’s not something I’m interested in at all. You just sort of fade into the background, one more pretty face. You need an image! Something that will catch people’s attention. So when they see you, they’ll know exactly who you are.

MasturCub90909: Yeah, and what the hell do you have in mind?

DaddySugarBear: I’ll show you.

<<Change initiated…Change applied successfully>>

DaddySugarBear: There, I think that’s better, don’t you?

MasturSkin90909: Fickin A what the hell ya fuckin do! I look like a fuckin freak!

DaddySugarBear: I know, right? No one’s gonna be able to look away from you now, I can tell you that, not with that face.

MasturSkin90909: What ya mean my face?

MasturSkin90909: Holy fuckin shit Im fuckin ugly! What the fuck? When did those fuckin piercings show up? Where’d my hair go?

MasturSkin90909: Change me the fuck back right now this fuckin shit is fuckin over ya bastard Im not jokin!

DaddySugarBear: Look, just hear me out. There’s plenty of skins on tumblr, I mean, you can’t swing a bat without hitting one (though looking at that new nose of yours, I think you probably know what I’m talking about). So look, you have up the ante somehow. Those piercings are your trademark, man! That’s what makes you, you! Besides, I know you think they’re sexy as fuck.

MasturSkin90909: Well ya their sexy but i didn’t ask to look like this even if they do look fuckin hot on me

DaddySugarBear: They go perfect with your new persona though! Just a dumb, rough skinhead thug, nice and thick, little eyes, that busted nose, missing teeth. Everyone’s gonna love or hate you, but no one’s going to look away, I can promise you that. Still, we aren’t done, I mean, we have to fix that wardrobe of yours. Afterall, if you’re going to spend all day cumming on yourself, best to make it easy to clean right?

<<Change initiated…Change applied successfully>>

RbbrSkinStrokr69: Where the hell this come from?

DaddySugarBear: That’s what I’m talking about, I fucking love singlets.

RbbrSkinStrokr69: No fuck u Im takin this shit off

DaddySugarBear: You will do no such thing!

RbbrSkinStrokr69: Shut up you mothrfuck! Im donewith this shit!

<<Toggle Subject Autonomy: Obedience–Aware>>

DaddySugarBear: Sit back down in that chair, get that rubber singlet back on, and keep stroking that cock of yours, right now.

DaddySugarBear: Oh don’t look at me like that, you said that you would listen to what I have to say, and I’m not done yet. Just relax for a bit, focus on that nasty cock of yours–damn, that thing has almost as much metal as your face. I bet that feels pretty good, doesn’t it? Way better than before, so sensitive like that.

DaddySugarBear: Get your hand off that keyboard!

DaddySugarBear: I’m tired of you taking my advice for granted, you know that? Here I am, taking time out of my evening to help you and your tumblr, and you’ve been one ungrateful prick this entire time. Now, we’re going to continue, and I was going to save this for a bit, but I think you need it now.

<<Change initiated…Change applied successfully>>

DaddySugarBear: Now, tell me what you think, and be honest now.

RbbrSkinPOS: Oh fuck sir I so sorry, I fucking deserve this, I do

DaddySugarBear: What do you deserve, bitch?

RbbrSkinPOS: I deserve to be a stupid skinbitch. A pig. A whore. Fuckin worhtless thats all I am, just a bitch for real men to use and abuse as they see fit

RbbrSkinPOS: Fuck sir just thinkin what you did to me so fuckin horny. Plz sir, can I cum? Will you let this worthless skinpig shoot a load for you?

DaddySugarBear: No pig, you haven’t earned a chance to cum. You’ve been a very bad pig, and that means you need to be punished.

RbbrSkinPOS: Yea sir punish me fuck do whatever the fuck you want

DaddySugarBear: Do you think I should change you more? Turn you even further into a disgusting skin pig? Turn you into something most men would spit on?

RbbrSkinPOS: O fuck sir ruin me fuck whatever you want I deserve it

<<Change initiated…Change applied successfully>>

DaddySugarBear: Tell me pig, what’s your favorite color?

RbbrPissSkinPOS: Duh fckin yellow

DaddySugarBear: Probably could have guessed that, judging by that yellow rubber of yours

RbbrPissSkinPOS: Fck yeah never wear anythin else

DaddySugarBear: Alright pig take off one of those waders of yours and I want you to fill it up with your piss, and then I want to see you drink it for me.

DaddySugarBear: Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about! Do you know how many fucking pigs are going to love you on tumblr, if you post a video like that everyday? You’re going to be damn famous. Everyone’s going to know what a worthless urinal you are pretty soon, how does that sound?

RbbrPissSkinPOS: Sounds fuckin good to me, sir. Damn that tasted good, but it sure wasnt punishmnt sir.

DaddySugarBear: Oh, that wasn’t your punishment pig–I’d have to deliver that in person. Still, since we live across the country, I can’t very we’ll do it, so we’ll have to do it by proxy.

RbbrPissSkinPOS: Whats poxy sir? sounds kinky

DaddySugarBear: Don’t worry your stupid head about it pig. Just send me a contact from your list, someone who lives close to you, who’s online right now.

RbbrPissSkinPOS: K

<<Contact Received: HTHogarth>>

DaddySugarBear: Who’s that?

RbbrPissSkinPOS: Some lame nerd I used to study with. Lives a few blocks away.

DaddySugarBear: Works for me. Give me a second to warm him up, and then let’s start a group chat, eh?

Blank Skin

Everyone wanted to know about the shaved head, and his missing beard. Wasn’t the cue ball look a bit too radical, for someone like him? A wealthy, older man like him in his fifties, who dressed in fancy suits tailored to his large gut? He told them he’d wanted a change, and they all just passed it off as a mid life crisis. He couldn’t tell any of them the truth, he wasn’t allowed to, and it was frustrating, so frustrating. He acted a bit strange all day long, in his meetings. It seemed to his co-worker’s like it was hard for him to get comfortable–he kept fidgeting in his seat, and glancing to the clock, like he had somewhere else that he needed to be. A man who was known for short, practical lunches rescheduled meetings and was gone for an hour and a half so he go to some all you can eat buffet nearby. However, other than those relatively minor oddities, he played his role, as usual, leading the team, directing their focus, but when five o’clock struck, a man who rarely left earlier than seven or eight instead grabbed his briefcase and rushed out of the office as quickly as he could. He knew something none of them knew, he knew a secret he couldn’t tell anyone. The secret was, that Mitchell Pratten wasn’t a person anymore–Mitchell Pratten was just a hog in a fancy suit.

That Friday, he’d left later than usual, and the subway had been empty, aside from a rough looking, burly skinhead, face full of piercings, arms coated with tattoos, carrying a backpack. Mitchell had been wary, but unprepared for the man to spring at him and shove a needle in his neck–but after they’d had a chat, everything had been sorted out, and he’d let the skinhead follow him home and into his apartment.

But he was almost back now, he was so eager to get out of these clothes. It was stifling him, the real him. He couldn’t be himself in it, he had to be “Mitchell Pratten” and do “Mitchell Pratten” things, like read the paper and scowl at young punks when what he really wanted to do was crawl over and beg the young men to fist his ass with their big hands. He reached his stop, and he hurried to his building, taking the elevator up to his condo, where he opened the door with shaking hands, and stepped inside, immediately ripping at the suit, tearing it away from his body, so he could be rid of this horrid fabric skin.

Master had taught him so many important things, on Friday night, in his condo. He’d taught him that he wasn’t a person at all, that once you stripped away the clothes, that once you stripped away the hair and the beard and the fur coating his body, he wasn’t anything at all–just a blank page. And blank pages needed to be written on, right? And so master had written on him, had taken the tattoo gun he’d brought along in his backpack and helped fill in all the gaps. He wasn’t blank anymore, as he stood at the door, free of “Mitchell Pratten” for the day, his entire arms and chest were covered with crudely drawn words and pictures, all of them marking him for what he was. A whore. A hog. A pervert. A masochist. A hole. A slave for his master. He rubbed his smooth skin, still sore from Master’s work, and let out a snort of pleasure, before getting down on all fours and crawling where his master was sitting, and began licking his boots. He served him for the evening, licking his body clean of any sort of filth, before Master finally allowed him to eat, setting a huge steel bowl on the floor, watching as his pig shoved his face into the slop and devoured it hungrily. He was a glutton now. He was gluttonous pig, and Master liked his pigs fat, so very fat. The fatter he was, after all, the more skin he had, and the more Master could fill him in. That was why Master had insisted on cutting off his balls this weekend–hogs grew fatter much faster than boars, after all. It had hurt, but he’d already noticed the difference. He was calmer, more focused. His pleasure didn’t matter–the only thing that mattered was pleasing his master. Master told him that once that wound had healed, he’d remove his cock as well–after all, he didn’t need it, right? Right–the hog would be more than happy for it to be gone as well.

He emptied the huge bowl four times–only then did Master help wipe his face clean with a rag, and afterwards, Master told him that it was time for him to fill in more of the hog’s body, and he grew excited. He loved having his master fill him up, he loved everything his master did to him. It hurt as he tattooed him, working on his back, and as he did, Master told him what he was writing. That this hog was not only a cumdump and a fisthole, but a urinal too. This hog craved the taste of piss, and would drink whenever he could, fresh or old, and when his Master fed his his first load, he knew it was true, that he’d spend the rest of his life drinking piss and getting pissed on by his Master and any other man. But by that time, it was very late, and they were both exhausted. Master climbed into his large bed, and Hog curled up on the floor next to him, already dreading the morning.

He would have to be Mitchell Pratten again, for the day. He’d have to be Mitchell Pratten for ten or eleven long hours. Master told him he’d have to play the role for quite a while, that a good hog would want to make lots of money for his master, and Mitch did make lots, and lots of money. But the hog wasn’t happy. The hog didn’t like meetings and suits. He didn’t want to discuss business strategies–he wanted to suck his coworker’s cocks and drink their piss. At least Master had ordered him to stuff himself silly during Mitchell’s lunches–that was the one moment when he’d felt the most free. Still, he was just a hog–he didn’t get to choose, he could only obey. Just a hog–something gussied up in a suit–but at the end of the day a hog through and through.

Garrison’s Physical

by Wesley Bracken

What kind of doctor’s office even was this?

Garrison sat in the stiff, leather upholstered chair in the waiting room. The slender, heavily pierced receptionist had taken his name with a flourish; he was ninety percent sure he was a faggot. In fact, looking around, he was ninety percent sure that he was surrounded by faggots. They sat around the room, all in these strange leather chairs–two big hefty men in biker gear chuckling along the wall, a grimy, fat skinhead in coveralls fidgeting by the door, and him, in his suit, here for a company physical because he hadn’t been to the doctor in years, but he hated going to the doctor. He hated having some guy put his hands on him, all doctors were probably faggots anyway, and he was perfectly healthy regardless. But he’d needed to, they said, and so he’d picked a random doctor from the book and here he was. He would have gotten up and left in disgust already, if that strange smell in the air wasn’t so…

He’d kind of blanked out again there, that was the second time. Looking at the clock, only a couple of minutes had gone past–the skinhead had gone in, the bikers were staring at him, or more precisely, his crotch. Garrison grabbed a magazine and covered himself, staring them down, and they just stared back. A young man in black, shiny scrubs opened the door and called his name.

Height and weight. Blood pressure and body temperature. Any medications? Any reason you came to see us in particular? Did you fill out our new patient survey? No, we don’t send it to the government, it remains in our office, we merely like to–. Well that’s alright, the doctor will be in to see you shortly.

The smell was stronger here, and the black blinds and black paint and the lack of windows made him feel like hours had passed already. He pulled out his phone and tried to get some emails written, but he just couldn’t focus for some reason. He blanked out for a bit, breathing deep, staring at the wall and counting odd shapes in the spackle, when a loud groan of pleasure from somewhere close by startled him. This was definitely strange, he thought to himself, but still couldn’t quite manage to stand up and leave, and so he sat, and he sat, and he sat. He checked his phone, but it had to be wrong–he couldn’t have been in here for three hours already. It felt like thirty minutes at most, and didn’t most doctor’s offices close around six anyway? Why would he still be here at eight at night?

Finally there was a knock at the door, and the doctor entered the room. He wasn’t dressed like any doctor Garrison had ever seen, he could see the older man’s hairy ass through those rubber chaps he had on, and was he smoking a cigar? And wearing waders? This, he told himself, was wrong, and yet his body couldn’t seem to do anything about it. Somewhere along the line, he had relaxed so much that he simply seemed to be moving in slow motion, as he tried to protest and push past the doctor, who just shoved him back into his seat, talking to him like he hadn’t just tried to get away at all, and just kept talking for a while, his voice distant and muddled, until he told Garrison to go ahead and strip. He tried to leave his underwear on, but the doctor made him take those off too, gathered everything up, and handed it to a nurse out in the hall, before starting the physical.

It proceeded normally enough at first, the doctor working with his stethoscope, inspecting his body, asking him normal enough questions. The man’s smoking bothered him not because of the smoke–Garrison smoked cigars himself–but because the smoke was the same smell he’d been surrounded with all day in the office, but far stronger. He realized that the doctor had been talking this whole time, and he’d also been talking back to him–answering questions, agreeing with statements–but couldn’t remember anything either of them had said the entire time, until the question came, “When did you have your last prostate exam?”

Never. He’d never let some faggot touch his ass like that. That was what faggots did, that was ‘an exit, not an entrance,’ and yet he was lying on his back on a table, legs in the air, while the doctor slipped his rubber gloved fingers in one by one, and it felt good. It felt so good. It felt like those few times, drunk, that he’d taken the dildo one of his ex-girlfriends had left in his apartment and he’d…so fucking good, fuck. Too good. He couldn’t be feeling this, he shouldn’t be feeling this, but the words no couldn’t quite get out of his mouth, and then all of the fingers were in his hole, pushing in, making him cry out, and then the whole fist inside him, so fucking full.

“Good, it look’s great. You have a great hole.”

His cock was hard now, like it’d been those few times. He tried to not think about it, but then the doctor’s other hand wrapped around it and started massaging it, testing his reflexes, the doctor was making curious noises…or were they his noises? He was shooting suddenly, spraying cum up onto his chest.

“Perfectly natural, you’re doing just fine.”

Fine, he felt humiliated, and yet the fist drove in deeper still, and he wanted it in there, he was telling the doctor he wanted his fist inside him.

“Really? My, that seems serious. I’m afraid that you might be a fist pig, did you know that?”

He hadn’t known that.

“Yes, you see, fist pigs need constant anal stimulation, or they tend to develop depression, anxiety, and other problems. I think that we’re going to have to do something about that, don’t you? I’m sure that if you come in twice a week, we can have your ass properly stimulated in no time. A lot of the symptoms you’re seeing will clear up in a few weeks.”

Garrison thanked him. The doctor asked if he’d like to stop, and Garrison said he’d like to cum again, he’d feel a lot better if he shot, yeah, he begged the doctor for more, until he came screaming a second time, and the doctor allowed him to sit up, warned him that he’d have some residual pain and looseness, and that he should come by on Tuesdays and Fridays for his appointments. The doctor also wrote him a prescription–for a haircut, and for twenty sessions at a local tattoo parlour. To help boost his confidence.

Six months later, Garrison had never been happier. Sure, he’d had to quit his office job when he’d gotten his head and hands tattooed, but Grant–the filthy skin in coveralls he’d seen in the waiting room that first day–had gotten him a job at the garbage dump working in the office, so it was all ok. And Grant’s hands were fucking huge, he fucking loved taking that trashman’s arm up to the elbows. e had no idea why he’d waited so long to get a physical, he’d never been in better health in his whole life. Well, the doctor had started to worry about his gastro intestinal urinary imbalance, but that didn’t sound too serious, right?


I’m on Patreon! If you’d like to see more stories like this, help me out with a monthly pledge here, and gain instant access to a massive archive of unreleased stories.


“Ha, damn dude how about that party! That was amazing,” Nick said, “Man, these temporary tattoos are the bomb, they really sold the biker costume, eh? Man, I’m beat, gonna go wash this crap off and then go to bed.”

Nick tromped up and you hear him turn on the water, but your heart is racing. You’ve had a hard on all night, watching Nick strut around in those biker leathers, and he damn well deserved the best costume prize he’d gotten at the end of the night, but you hadn’t been entirely honest about the tattoos.

See, they weren’t temporary, like you’d said. And on your computer, you loaded up the program which controlled the ink and started making some changes, switching the pattern from “Rough Biker (Full Body)” to “Gay Pig Bottom (Full Body)” and then checked the box next to “Modify Personality to Match Selection.” After a second, you hit submit. Yeah, Nick was going to have those tattoos for the rest of his life, and be your nasty pig slut to top it off.

You went up into the bathroom, and the Nick gaped at you. “What the fuck dude? I was just trying to wash this odd, and they started changing! It’s a bunch of faggot shit all of the…the sudden…*grunt* Fuck…Kinda horny all of the sudden.”

“I bet you are, you fuckin’ nasty pig.”

You walk over and start tugging on his nipples, and Nick can’t stop grunting and snorting, one of his hands slipping into the water to jack his cock. “Fuck man, fuck–I don’t…”

“Shut the fuck up,” you say, slapping his face with your cock, “Suck it.”
He does, no reservations. You let him enjoy it for a moment, the personality changes settling in and taking root, and then you spray him down with you piss. He loves it, and begs you for more, and you’re happy to give it to him–you order him to follow him into your bedroom and introduce him to his new collar that he’ll be wearing from now on, and you plow his fat ass, telling him how long you’ve been lusting after him, how thrilled you are that this tattoo program could finally make him into the bitch pig you’ve always wanted.

When you’re finished, you kick him out of the bed–pigs don’t get to sleep with their masters after all, and Nick curls up on the floor, and you both fall asleep–or so you think. When you wake up the next morning, the arm you have curled in front of your face and under your pillow is a riot of tattoos. You leap up and see that it isn’t just your arm–it’s your whole body, just like Nick’s. You run out of the room and find him at the computer, still grunting and snorting, jacking his piggy cock. “If you get to have the pig you’ve always wanted, then I get the fuckin’ *snort* nasty skinpig top I want too!”

He hit return, and you quickly realize that he didn’t only match your personality to the tattoos–but your body is changing as well. Muscles redouble on themselves, buning away all trace of fat in the process, and in a minute you’re well over six feet tall and nearly 300 pounds of beef. Your whole body is completely hairless, including your face and scalp, which will now be a permanently smooth dome, and the tattoos shift and grow up your neck and cover your head as well. The personality creeps up on you, as you stand there, staring at your nasty pig slave, stroking your eight inch, uncut cock, sneering at him. With a snarl, you throw him to the ground and fuck him raw, but you can only manage two orgasms before you start going soft. You’re not done with his hole though–you work your fist deep into him, making him scream as you shove in your whole forearm, screaming insults at him, demeaning him, twiddling his nasty pig cock as he leaks load after load of cum onto the carpet.

The Smoker Tapes (Part 2)

Pictured: The Smoker’s victim (1) at Pride, (2)in his dungeon, and finally (3)living his new life.


<The door opens, Eric walks across the room. The sound of him sitting down again.>

The Smoker: Feeling better?

Eric: How do I even know that you are The Smoker, anyway? How do I know that you aren’t just jerking me around?

The Smoker: Like I said, when the owner of this apartment gets here, I’ll be happy to offer a demonstration, provided he’s interested.

Eric: Well, you have to admit that this is hard to believe.

The Smoker: Of course it is. But just because something is unbelievable doesn’t mean it can’t be true. Hunter existed. All of the men I’ve helped existed. I exist. Why the sudden bout of doubt? You seemed inclined to believe me when we spoke on the phone.

Eric: A journalist has to be skeptical of his sources.

The Smoker: Ah yes. The only way to maintain your integrity is to challenge mine.

Eric: You don’t have to get upset. If you can’t corroborate any of this, then you’re no better than the men spreading legend on the street. You just seem more interested in offering embellishment.

The Smoker: I would call them details. Embellishment implies that I’m lying.

Eric: As far as I’m concerned at the moment, you might as well be lying. I think you’re just trying to shock me into believing you.

The Smoker: If that’s really what you believe, then we might as well stop this interview now. If my testimony has no worth, why seek me out in the first place? You were, after all, the one looking for me. I only contacted you after I heard that someone wanted the truth of things. Like I said, I’m happy to offer you proof when my friend returns. Why not give me the benefit of the doubt until then? At worst, I’m just a fool telling tales. At best, I’m the best story you’ve ever found in your rather lackluster career as a lifestyle journalist.

Eric: It isn’t lackluster–

The Smoker: It is lackluster, and you know it. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost say that you aren’t particularly interested in your career as a journalist. But if that were true, why pursue a story as big as this one, right?

Eric: …Right.

The Smoker: So, while we wait for my friend, I assume you have a few more questions to ask.

<The sound of a notebook’s pages being flipped.>

Eric: How do you choose your…patrons? What do you look for in the men you change?

The Smoker: Well…that’s a bit complicated, actually.

Eric: Complicated how?

The Smoker: I don’t really choose my targets, exactly. I mean, that’s not precisely true. To say…maybe here’s a better way to put it. I can’t just walk down the street, smoking a cigar, changing men left and right. There’s only a small set of men who are even receptive to my assistance. And even then, not everyone in that set is interested in being helped. Not everyone in that set even has a problem that I can solve for them. So to say that I choose anyone isn’t the best way of putting it. It’s more like…there are some people who need help, and I’m the only person who can help them.

Eric: Alright then, so who can you help? What qualities do all of your patrons share?

The Smoker: Well, they’ve all smoked at some point in their life. I can’t do anything to someone who hasn’t tasted smoke before. While it isn’t a requirement that they be gay, I can’t do anything if the person isn’t at least open to the prospect of becoming gay.

Eric: So you make all of your patrons gay?

The Smoker: Considering the sexual nature of my work, it’s hard to imagine how they could turn out any other way.

Eric: Anything else?

The Smoker: Well, they all have a problem. Or rather, they all have a problem I can solve. A problem with themselves…..Again, it’s hard to explain. They have to be dissatisfied with their lives, or with their bodies, but it’s more complicated than that even. They have to be willing to sacrifice, they have to give up and not look back.

Eric: And how do you know when you’ve found someone who you can help?

The Smoker: Well, usually they find me. Or rather, I attract them. The legend attracts them, rather. But when I meet them, I…well, when I meet them, it’s not that I can read their minds exactly, but I can sense their problem and how to solve it. That’s a rather inelegant way to put it, unfortunately, but the details of the process aren’t really…it’s rather unconscious.

Eric: None of that made much sense, unfortunately.

The Smoker: Well, it isn’t something I try and articulate very often. You do something so many times, it becomes a part of you. You don’t think about it anymore. It can become rather dominating at times, and you forget that things could have been any other way. So trying to explain it, is difficult. Perhaps if I used an example.
Last year, during the summer–during pride weekend, actually–I wandered through the street fair in the afternoon. That’s usually how it starts, I end up wandering somewhere with no particular goal in mind, but I’ve come to recognize the sensation of being pulled towards someone who’s looking for me. And in the mob of people, in the street, I saw a young man, beer in hand but not comfortable with it at all. Not comfortable at all, with any of it, and looking at him, I could just tell everything about him. Just started college, but uncomfortable in his own skin. Gay, a virgin, no confidence, desperate for attention and control over his life and situation but he was too busy doubting his own ability and desire to actually attain anything. Overbearing mother, distant father, seeking approval from older men and hating himself for it. Unhappy with his body, but lacking the discipline and determination to change it. Caught at a crossroad, unable to decide where to go. He was lost, and he saw me standing there, smoking a cigar, and I saw this flourish of jealousy there. He wanted what I could give him–well, what he actually thought was, “I want what he has,” but he got the next best thing.
I don’t know if that actually clarifies anything or not. But that’s what it feels like, finding a patron.

Eric: And what happens then?

The Smoker: Well, then I offer them help. In that young man’s case, he was rather belligerent. He didn’t want to admit to anyone that he needed help. Actually, he was one of the harder cases I’ve had recently.

Eric: What was so hard about him? From the way you talk, it doesn’t seem like there’s much anyone can do to stop you.

The Smoker: Well, I do require consent, but even with consent, there has to be acceptance. There has to be a desire to leave the old behind and welcome in the new. But once consent is given, and once the process begins, there’s no going back. It just makes it all the more difficult for me. Hunter, and men like Hunter, the easy ones, they take a matter of minutes or hours. The hard cases, like that young man, they can take days. The longest I’ve ever had took close to three weeks to finish up. Anyway, when we talked in the street, he refused help, but I offered him my phone number and he took it. A few days later, when he was drunk, he called me and wanted to know more. He eventually consented at my home, but in the middle of the process, his doubts and fear stepped in and fought back. I had to go to some…extreme measures.

Eric: Like what?

The Smoker: Well, I have an extensive dungeon in my basement, something I’ve assembled for hard cases. I kept him locked in a cell–he’d already changed quite a bit at that point. His body had grown heavily muscled, but completely hairless. In fact, his body was almost there–it was his head that was fighting back. And so…I made him start masturbating his brains out. He was jacking off almost constantly, and as he came, over and over, the air saturated with smoke, he just got dumber and dumber, and eventually he just lost the will to doubt. He lost all reason to fear. I had to put something else in there of course–he grew into a very aggressive, domineering top. Skinhead, dresses all in leather, keeps a number of slaves now, chain smoking unfiltered cigarettes. He’s very happy, but it was a lot of work getting him there.

Eric: That doesn’t sound like consent, that sounds like kidnapping and torture.

The Smoker: Well, perhaps, but that’s all the consent I require.

<The sound of scribbling, a page turns.>

Eric: There seem to be a lot of rules involved in your work.

<A short silence.>

Eric: What?

The Smoker: Nothing. Nothing at all. What’s your next question?