The Mailman’s Pup (Flash Commission)

The mailman would be here any second, and Carson couldn’t swallow the pit of dread in his stomach, the same one that was there every day now, ever since he’d received that first letter in the mail. Carson worked remotely, managing customer service for a few tech companies out of his small house, and one day, his mailman had delivered a fragile package all busted up. He’d been furious, and demanded the man’s name to report him…but when the mailman had handed him something on a sheet of paper…something else had happened instead. He’d let the mailman in, blown him, and then the man had left–all without him ever learning his name.

Now the mailman came to the door everyday, and each day he’d make Carson service him, calling him his special little pup, and he’d give him a new letter each day. He never knew what the letters said, or how they did what they did, but they would…compel him to do new, humiliating acts the next day, either to himself, or to the mailman.

He heard the gate open, and he opened the door for him–and he saw the mailman had a package with him. A sizable one. “Don’t worry pup–I’ve been extra careful with this new toy of yours–got here safe and sound.”

Carson had no idea what could be in the odd, flat box–likely he had ordered something online, as ordered by the mailman’s letters, and then forgotten about it entirely. Usually he could recall what the man had written, mostly, but other times, the man liked to surprise him. He stood back, and the mailman pushed his way inside–he was short and fat, and reeked of BO–but while that had bothered Carson at first, now it just aroused him more than anything, and he could already feel the need to service the dirty man’s feet and pits beginning to overwhelm him.

“Well come on then, open it up–I’m eager to take it for a ride,” the mailman said.

Carson found some scissors and opened the package up–and as soon as it was open, he could remember ordering it–and what it was. A rim chair. He’d…he’d ordered one, because he needed to worship his mailman’s ass–after all, a pup like him loved liking and smelling dirty holes, right?

Carson wasted no time getting the chair out of the packaging, the mailman behind him ridiculing him, telling him what a dirty pup he is, ordering a thing like this, telling him he hasn’t wiped his ass all day, reminding Carson what a perverse, horny little pup he truly is. When it was finished, the mailman got out of his shorts, and boots, but left on his socks, and sat down. “First things first pup–I’ve been on my feet all day. You know what to do.”

That had been one the early letters–making Carson obsessed with the mailman’s feet. He shoved his face into them, snorting in the man’s reeking scent, feeling his cock harden as he did–but he didn’t touch it. He couldn’t touch it in his presence, but when the mailman was gone, Carson masturbated all the time, thinking about the mailman, about what he made him do, and…and how much he enjoyed doing it all. He tugged the socks off with his teeth and got to work on the man’s feet properly, and when he was satisfied they were clean, he ordered Carson under the rim chair, and told him to get to work.

It stank, and the mailman hadn’t been kidding when he said he hadn’t wiped. He was torn between his disgust, and his desperate desire for the man’s hole–the former fading away until only Carson’s puppy lust remained, moaning as he licked at the mailman’s ring, cleaning it, working his tongue inside of it, listening to the man moan over him. He…he was doing a good job. He was being a good pup–good pups didn’t bark and yell at a mailman, they did whatever a mailman told them to do, like good boys, and Carson wanted to be a good boy more than anything.

The mailman put one foot on Carson’s chest, and the other started working the pup’s cock. “Come on you dirty pup–you’re going to cum with your dick under my foot, like a little bitch–I want to see you do it–tongue up my ass, under my feet–you’re really my bitch now, and I still have so many letters for you to read–just you wait.”

Carson tried to hold off on his orgasm, just to spite him–it was one of the few bits of control he still had. The man liked seeing him struggle though, and won in the end–Carson sprayed the underside of the man’s foot, and his own belly, with a load of cum, and he used his feet to rub it into Carson’s skin until it turned tacky.

“Alright, enough of this–get out, hands and knees–I gotta get back to my route.”

Carson wormed his way back out from under the chair, got up, and the mailman fucked him–he had a surprisingly large cock, and while Carson had hated getting fucked by him at first…now, it was really the easiest part of the entire ordeal. The mailman finished quickly, and then got his shorts and boots back on–before handing Carson the next letter, and leaving for his truck.

He tried not to open it, he fought as hard as he could, but he tore into the envelope, and pulled out the letter, and read it. Like before, he couldn’t ever remember what was written on it exactly, and when he came back to himself a half an hour later, he always found the letter burned on the stove–but the contents were sealed in his mind.

Master wanted him to be a dirtier pup–much dirtier. No more showers–and no more using the bathroom at all, in fact. From now on, he was going to do his business out back in the yard–naked of course, and always on all fours, like a proper mutt. He managed to hold it until later in the evening, so his neighbors were less likely to see him, and he crawled out of the house, over to a tree, lifted a leg and peed on it–feeling a bit proud of himself at how good he’d done on his first try, and then humped up to shit as well. He smelled it, and thought of his Master’s hole again…and even though he knew it was wrong, he was already looking forward to servicing him the next day, and the day after that–and then all day on Sunday. Sundays were his…favorite. After all, there was no mail to deliver on Sunday, which meant Master could spend all day with his pup…training him. Carson had a feeling he’d be under the rim chair a lot this Sunday–and hoped cleaning the mailman’s hole was all he’d be doing.

The Bro Apartments (Flash Commission)

Commissioned by @mutabear

“Yeah bro–it isn’t much, but it should do you for now, I think,” Greg said, as he showed me around the small one bedroom apartment I was looking at renting. I had just graduated from college this month, landed a tech job with a startup nearby, and the apartment was workable–at least until the app took off and we got some of that sweet venture capital coming in.

Greg for his part seemed…nice. Mid forties probably, but not really dressed like it. He reminded me of the frat bros back in college, but one who never grew out of it. Sports jersey, gym shorts, big belly from too much beer every night, hat on backwards…I mostly felt a bit sorry for him, because he seemed really nice and genuine beyond that.

“Of course,” Greg continued, “We have a gym for you to use if you want. A lot of the bros work out there–saves money on a gym membership! We’re a real tight community around here, so I’m sure you’ll fit in.”

“Well, I’ll probably be at work most of the time,” I said.

Greg nodded. “Well, you just owe me first, last, and a deposit–I don’t bother with credit checks or shit like that.”

“Really? Aren’t you worried about people flaking out?”

Greg laughed, “Eh, not really. Besides PJ gave you a good recommendation, so I’m not worried.”

It took me a moment to realize he was talking about my friend Paul Jeffers, who had moved in a few months earlier, and recommended I check it out. Never in my life had I ever heard Paul referred to by his initials. I signed the lease agreement for six months, gave him a check, and got to work moving in.

It was a week later when I finally managed to connect with Paul in the complex. Moving in had been easy–even the furniture. A couple neighbors of mine (just as broish as Greg was, but still nice fellows) helped me get stuff up into my room, and insisted I come over to their apartment for a beer afterward. The strangest thing…is I don’t really remember getting home that night, and when I woke up, I…was nearly naked. All I had on was this weird, ripe smelling jockstrap. I took it off of course, and meant to throw it out, but it ended up by the bed.

When I did connect with Paul, or rather, PJ as everyone in the apartment complex called him, I…well, it was a surprise to say the least, on many, many fronts. The Paul from school had been a small guy, really bright, a sharp programmer…but this was not the same Paul I had known from a year ago.

For one thing, he was taller than me. He must have grown a foot taller somehow, and when I pointed it out, he just told me it was a late growth spurt. He was more muscular, with a decent sized gut, wearing sports jerseys like everyone else in the complex besides me it seemed. He spoke different too–slower, with a whole lot more “Bro” and “Dude” than he had…but it was the same guy. I was put off, but once he’d coaxed me into drinking a few of the beers he’d brought by, we got on perfectly well…but again, I fucking blacked out, and woke up alone, in my bed…wearing that same jock from before.

I thought it had to be some prank the guys were pulling on me, but I’d also woken up horny as hell, jacked off, and blew my load into the pouch…and I left it there, and dozed back off. When I woke again, I pulled the thing off in disgust and took a shower…but still couldn’t seem to throw it away.

It was a few days after that when I got an even bigger surprise–when PJ introduced me to his boyfriend–Alec. Paul–Paul who had always been straight, if not all that successful at it, was gay! It…surprised the hell out of me, and I wasn’t too keen on hanging out with him after that, especially since the last time I’d woken up with no memory and mostly naked…but he was just so congenial, and Alec was sweet, and with some more beer, they coaxed me over to watch a game–and then another game a few nights later. And then I started going to the gym with them, and hanging out more, and…and I was having so much fun, and work was just so difficult and stressful!

I couldn’t seem to focus while I was at the office, and the capital wasn’t coming, and I didn’t know how I was going to be able to pay rent a few months down the line. So yeah, I…avoided my problems a bit. Hanging out with PJ and Alec–and some of the other bros in the complex was just so much more relaxing. It was a week later when I realized I had the jock on–at work. I had woken up in it a few days earlier, and just never taken it off! I was horrified, but didn’t have anything to change into…and by the time I got home, and had a couple of beers…I didn’t want to take it off. Greg…told me about this party he’s throwing for the whole complex here in a few days. He really wants me to come…but I’m scared. This place, these guys, they’re doing something to me, they’re making me like them, and…and I’m so happy, I don’t know what to do.

The party was a fuckin’ blast bro! Just–fuck! You had to be there to really, you know, get it.

So I showed up, and everyone from the complex was there, hangin’ around the pool, and they were all wearing these jocks, just as dirty as the one I had on. A few other guys, more “normal” ones like me, were there too…and we all started stripping down to our own jocks…and fuck, it felt so good not to have to hide anymore, or be alone!

PJ and Alec found me, got some beers in me, and before I knew it, PJ had his tongue down my throat, and fuck, I…I’d wanted him since the day I’d seen him here, but I hadn’t even realized it. Alec came back, lubed up my hole, and coached me through it, just like he’d coached me at the gym, and soon I was riding his cock, moanin’ and gruntin’, PJ sucking me off, and Greg…he was holding court, watching all a us bro’s hangin’ out and fuckin’, and happy as a fuckin’ bro whose team just won the championship.

I woke up between them in their apartment…and I knew there wasn’t any way back for me. I’m…fuckin’ huge, and hairy, and…maybe a bit stupid, but who cares? PJ ‘n Alec don’t care–when they woke up we went right back into it, fuckin’ and suckin’ and lickin’…

I quit my job. Alec says he can find me somethin’ nearby at the college working in sports administration or something, nothing too hard. I’ll be saving money in any case, ‘cause I’m movin’ in with them next week–Greg was more than happy to let me off the lease, as long as I recommend someone to take it, and I got just the friend in mind.

The Fetish Gun is Loose! (Part 9)

And we’re back! There will still probably be a few days this week without new updates, but hopefully it should be back to normal(ish) by next week. Bear with the upheaval–besides, it’s my birthday on Friday! You all have to cut me some slack, so there.

Rick gave a groan, and sat up in the booth where he’d been thrown by the gun, when it had gone shorted out. When he realized where he was, and who he was, he made a quick check of himself to see if anything about himself had changed when the gun had struck him–and to his surprise, he was still the same tall, thick leather clad biker bruiser he’d been after his tussle with Parker a few minutes ago, or at least, what he assumed had been a few minutes ago. He had no idea how long he’d been out, in all honesty.

The gun wasn’t where it had fallen, and he got up to look for it–but when he did, he heard a rather unsettling moan coming from under him, and his foot sank into something…squishy, and fleshy. He tumbled back down in alarm, and saw that both of his boots–were not quite boots any longer. They were still black, mostly, but the rim of the top of each of them were shaped like lips, and he could feel them sucking on his feet gently. The tongues of the boots were becoming more active and shrinking, becoming red instead of black, as fledgling limbs began to sprout on the sides and out the toe of the boot. The leather faded into flesh–though it remained quite leathery–he reached down and stroked one gently, and felt Anthony–he thought–shudder at his touch, and suck a bit harder, trying to stay on his foot even as his body was beginning to reform into a proper sort of form.

The foot of each boot began to grow, becoming a proper body–small at first, but becoming larger with each passing second. He could still feel his feet filling each man’s mouth, and down a bit of their throat, though it was becoming tighter and tighter. The men tried their best to keep his feet slammed in deep, but it proved hopeless as their human anatomy regained prominence. They each had to release the foot eventually, though their oversized tongues kept slathering Rick’s feet as hungrily as they had before.

As they grew larger, Rick noticed something else–that he couldn’t quite tell who was who. When he’d fired the gun at Anthony, by accident, he had been his father–wearing his soggy diaper, covered in shit from Parker’s eager fisting of Anthony’s hole, before he’d tried to grab the gun. But when he’d shot Parker, he’d been…normal, mostly. Now however, he was looking down at two versions of his dad–they looked…identical. Two massively fat old pigs, both of them eagerly sucking and feasting on his filthy feet.

As they both changed back, new memories were filling in his mind–and it wasn’t his father and a stranger sucking on his cock, but rather his uncle and father, twin brothers/, and both of them hungry for Rick’s filthy body more than anything else. They were mostly changed at this point, and Anthony noticed something else, that each of the brothers was actually a mirror image of the other–just like his boots of course.

After another few minutes, they were both back to their (new) old selves, their prior lives forgotten for the most part. Rick allowed the two of them to keep servicing his feet for a couple of minutes, lost in the pleasure of it until he recalled the gun, and kicked both of them off–they could take care of cleaning his feet later.

Rick surveyed they bar, and saw a couple of guys tussling over something by the dance floor. Sure enough, he caught sight of the gun between them, the pig turning the other man into a brutal looking rubber master, who proceeded to fuck the pig’s mouth right there on the floor–and the pig let the gun fall to the floor beside him, largely forgotten.

This was his chance–if he could get to the gun, it would be his again–and he could have some more fun with it before the night was through. Then again, the rubber redneck looked…pretty sexy. He might be amenable to joining forces, and families. There was always Davey too–and the odd, shifting bartender over there. He could find some way to get his hands on the gun again…probably.

So what should Rick’s plan be next?

He tries to work out a deal with the rubber redneck, and sees what he might want to trade for the gun.
He fights with him for the gun, causing some wild, unpredictable shots.
He notices that the drinks poured by the bartender seem to be having strange effects, and wonders if that could help deal with the rubber redneck.
He heads over to Davey instead, and sees if he wants to team up and get the gun back together.

The public poll is here!

The patron only poll is here!

Votes will be counted in two days!

The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 5 (Part 2)

I felt the clothes then, and they didn’t feel like the cotton and wool they should have been–they were smooth and slick, like something in their makeup had changed, or the cum coating them was warping their actual nature. It felt…good. I had fought so hard to get it off, and feeling it, all I wanted to do was put it right back on. Instead, I hung it up in the closet to dry–I didn’t bother thinking about washing them then, because I knew I wouldn’t be able to, even if I wanted. I did, however, manage to shower for the first time in days.

It seemed like such a feat, in the moment, but I think what allowed me to do it was the fact that I knew, even if I was clean on the outside, everything on the inside was wrong. No amount of water, or soap, was enough to scrub away what (I’d thought) Cumster had done to me. All the same, I felt better when I stepped out, though once I saw myself in the mirror, some of that feeling of good will disappeared. Not everything that had changed about me was bad, exactly. I was more muscular than I thought I should be, and perhaps a bit taller and hairier, even. The beard I hadn’t bothered shaving in a few days was thicker than my stubble usually was, but it framed my jaw well, though the hair was too long and needed a trim. It was the most disordered part about me, and I wanted it back in my usual high and tight, but there were more pressing concerns than a haircut. Mostly, my balls.

They had easily quadrupled in size in the course of the night, from Cumster’s eager treatment. No wonder I had been able to cum as many times as I had–I could almost feel them churning in my palm when I hefted them up, barely able to hold them with my fingers spread wide. I…didn’t know how I was going to hide them. I didn’t know if I wanted to hide them at all. I…I kind of wanted everyone to see them, I wanted them to know I was different, that I was wrong. That I…I wasn’t like them. My mind keeps telling me to write it, it wants me to say that I’m not human, but that’s not right. I know I’m human too, even if I’m also something else now, or maybe I always was, the things I remember now…I don’t know what to believe. I don’t know what belongs to me, what was buried away, and what all of these freaks have put in my mind along the way.

My phone was dead–I plugged it in, and immediately got a deluge of notifications from it, mostly calls from the department. Dreading what I was going to have to bear, I called the captain, telling him I’d developed some nightmare flu. In the end, the excuse didn’t matter, because there was something more important than the fact that I’d kept dropping off the grid for most of the last three days. Jules had called in with a location, and nothing else. The department was getting ready to go investigate it–I told them I would meet them there.

It was so fucking hard not putting my filthy dress uniform back on when I was getting ready. Something…told me I was going to need it, I would want it…but I couldn’t be seen in something like that, and it wasn’t exactly easy to hide under my usual clothing. I felt it, and it had cured somewhat in the closet, in just that short while. It was no longer wet, nor not exactly wet, but it wasn’t dry either. It took be a few moments to realize it didn’t even feel like the right kind of fabric at all…because it felt more like rubber.

It felt like rubber–smooth and flexible–but it didn’t smell like it. It smelled like…like me, like my cum. It smelled like sex, and my cock pumped a load of precum into the front of the boxers I was wearing, saturating the front in a matter of moments. It felt like something from my memory, like something I’d forgotten so long ago, that I might have just been inventing some imagined past out of fog. I wanted to put it back on, I wanted to feel what it…felt like to have it on, but I knew if I did it would never come off again. In the end, I got dressed in my usual clothes, and tucked the uniform into a bag that I took with me. At least if it was close, and I needed it, it would be there. The one exception were the gloves at boots–they still felt like they had…kind of. The gloves were…thicker, though more flexible. On my hands, they seemed to warp to every wrinkle on my hands, while at the same time making them seem…huge. The same with my boots. The cum had made them grow in some odd sense, and yet they hugged my feet so tightly they had to have been made for me. I didn’t care if anyone noticed, I…wanted them to notice, even. I was terrified, and yet, whatever was inside me, was hungry all the same.

The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 5 (Part 1)

I lost something that night with Cumster. I don’t know if that’s quite right, really, but the next morning I didn’t feel like the same person who had come home the night before. Even now, after everything I’ve witnessed, it feels so pivotal, even though it was so small, like something inside me had opened up. Sometimes, I see a door. Other times, it feels like a flower. More and more, it doesn’t feel like a thing, but like…an entity. I wasn’t entirely the same person, when I woke up on the floor of the basement, as the person who had gone down to interrogate Cumster the night before, but I was close enough to pretend that nothing had happened. Pretending was the last defense I had left, but I can’t pretend anymore. I can’t pretend that there is some mundane explanation for everything I’ve seen. There’s more in the world than he know, and as much as I wish I could close that door, or burn the plant to the roots growing inside me, I think I know that there’s no way back for me, or for any of us. I have to go though. I have to end this, one way or another, and I’m the only one in this city who can.

There was a dream, that night. I don’t remember much of it, but I do remember how it felt. Like a memory. Like I was reliving something, but not my own life–or parts of my life I had forgotten. I remember feeling alone, as well–not the sort of loneliness you feel when you are by yourself, but the loneliness of loss, the sensation that something is missing, or had been missing all this time, and then the opening came, and I wasn’t alone anymore. I felt surrounded by something, something tight and rough like a smooth skin against mine, pressing around and into me, though I was also certain it had always been there, somewhere. That all of my life, I had been struggling through without all of my pieces, and now, at last, I was fully…there. I don’t know how that can also feel like loss–but one can miss loneliness, I suppose. If you live with a hole in your heart for so long, and it’s suddenly full, so full it’s bursting and seeping through your skin, you miss that emptiness. I felt like a man who’d been starved for so long, that when I finally could eat, the sensation of fullness made me sick. I wasn’t made to be full. I wasn’t supposed to feel complete, and it made me nauseous. When I woke up, I threw up almost immediately, even though I couldn’t even remember the last thing I’d eaten. The bile was black like tar and clung to my lips. It was bitter, and did not burn my throat.

Cumster was awake, and still free. When I could stand upright, he allowed me to cuff him back to the pipes. It wasn’t necessary. I knew he would stay here until his task was finished, whatever that task might be, but I needed him under my control. The look in his eyes infuriated me, that morning, he was so pleased with himself. He could sense I was different as well, but I think that if he had known how different, or what I was feeling, he likely would have fled. This wasn’t what he thought it was. It wasn’t what he had led me to think it was, at least. Maybe he did know, but I don’t think so. I remember the surprise in his eyes, later.

Upstairs, still in my filthy, cum soaked dress uniform, which felt surprisingly…comfortable, somehow, I made breakfast for the both of us. I didn’t know how hungry I was, but I ate far more than I usually do, and then I went upstairs to deal with the filth. I was coated in cum–or at least, it had been cum at one point in the night, that much I knew, but for how long it had been, it was still wet against my skin. Wet and warm, making the fabric cling and stick to me, but not awkwardly. I remembered by dream, that sensation of being wrapped in a smooth hand, and it wasn’t unlike the uniform I was wearing, somehow. Taking it off proved to be difficult, both because I found myself dreading being naked, for some reason (well, not really naked, but now, wearing anything other than my uniform feels like I am naked) and also because nothing seemed to want to come free of my skin.

The gloves proved impossible, so I skipped them, and moved onto my shirt. The were impossible, the cum had glued them shut through the holes. Some of them couldn’t even be grabbed. I ended up prying it up over my head, tugging my arms through the sleeves with the gloves still on, until at last it came free. The pants were easier, though they were the same as the shirt, somehow both stiff and damp. My boots were a struggle, as were the socks, but I managed, until finally it was just me and my gloves, which I unstuck a finger at a time before they pulled free with a sucking sound from my hands.

The Fetish Gun is Loose! (Part 6) [Interactive]

Well it looks like we have a power struggle! The votes (on both polls!) were tied between Rick and the bouncer, so we’re going to have a little skirmish between the two and see what happens.

The bouncer, named Parker, hadn’t been able to believe what he’d seen happening in the bar over there. Some chubby guy, on the younger side, wearing a diaper, and some older, much filthier old man, also wearing a diaper of his own–though his was much fuller and sagging around his waist–on his hands and knees, sucking the young man off. Parker had no interest in letting play like that happen here in this bar–but as he went over to eject them both, something strange happened. The young man saw him coming, held up a strange looking gun, and before Parker could try and dodge it, it fired a yellow ray of light that engulfed him…and when it faded, he felt…decidedly differently about what he was seeing than he had before.

He walked over, taking the flogger from his belt (a flogger he both knew he always carried with him in the bar for fun like this, but which he also couldn’t ever remember having in his life) and started laying into the old faggot’s back with it, laughing as he moaned and cringed in pain–but he deserved it. Anthony was such a fucking pig slut–Parker had beaten him multiple times before, always with Rick’s blessing of course. Anthony’s son had some…strange tastes in play, but Parker wasn’t going to question it, so long as he got to hurt someone. After beating him for a few minutes, Rick shot Parker again, and a whole new set of ideas filled his head–disgusting, wonderful ideas.

He hauled down Anthony’s full diaper and started fisting the old man’s shitty hole, Parker’s own cock throbbing in the front of his own filthy, leather pants. Part of his was still reeling, however, and he looked at the gun Rick was holding. Everytime he shot him with that thing…something changed. About him, about what he wanted. Rick kept fucking his father’s face while Parker fisted him, leering at him. “Fuck, look at you, you nasty piece of work. Can’t decide if I want to keep you as some fucking bruiser, or turn you into my diaper for a few days–or maybe you’d rather be my dad’s diaper–he could use a new one at this point.”

One thing was for sure, and that was that Parker had no intention of doing what anyone else wanted him to do. He was in charge! He hauled his fist out and lunged for the gun, grabbing hold of the barrel before Rick could fire it at him. They fell to the ground, fighting for it, the dial spinning around in their hands.

((Gun fires randomly! Setting C [objectification]))

Rick thought he had Parker in his sights, but he hadn’t realized the dial had spun to setting C, objectification. He fired a bit wildly, and hit Parker in his biker boot–it glowed for a moment, but did nothing else. Confused, he went to fire it again, but Parker shoved the barrel to the side, and the beam struck Anthony instead. They both watched as he moaned, and shrank in on himself, the ray not dissipating until all that remained where Anthony had been was a filthy looking boot, lying on the ground.

“That was my daddy, you fucker!” Rick shouted, trying to wrench the gun away from Parker once and for all, and they kept fighting, the dial getting spun around once more.

((gun fires randomly! Setting E [absorption]))

Parker, however, had both height, and strength on him, and at last, he hauled the gun away from Rick, turned it around, and shot him, not realizing that the gun was on setting E, absorption. He held it down, and then released it–both of them confused that Rick hadn’t seemed to have changed at all. He fired again, holding it down longer, but he didn’t realize that the one changing wasn’t just Rick–but them both. Rick charged him then, and the gun got knocked from Parker’s hands, but he was…confused. The aggression, the filth, the sadism–it felt like it was draining from his mind, the more they fought, but more than that. He’d been…big before, but suddenly, Rick was…monstrous. A huge, leather clad, heavy bearded beast, who pinned him to the ground and sent his head reeling with a punch to the face.

Rick stood up, amazed at how…good that had felt. Then he looked down at himself, and then down at the gun, and realized why–he had been absorbing all of the fetishes and changes he’d put into Parker while they’d been fighting. He wasn’t complaining though–but he was angry at what he’d done to his Pa, turning him into a boot like that–though he was a sexy boot for sure. In fact, so sexy, he could use a friend.

Rick turned the dial around to C, and fired at Anthony, and then turned the gun at Parker, trying to stand, blood flowing from his nose, and shot him with the gun, until he was a perfect match to Anthony–both of them new boots for Rick to wear for the rest of the evening, while he had some more fun around here, with his toy. He stepped out of his old shit kickers and into his new ones, and grinned. They felt real nice–Parker especially. He might let his dad change back in a bit, but Parker–Parker might be staying as his boot for a good long time.

He was still fucking horny though–he’d have to find someone else to play with, until his Pa changed back.

What happens with Rick and the gun next?

He decides to make himself some more clothes from the people around him.
The gun sustained some damage during the fight, and releases a few random bursts of power before returning to normal.
Davie confronts him, gets the gun away, and uses it on Rick.
Anthony and Parker both change back, but now, Parker is Anthony’s identical twin brother–the gun copied everything when it shot Anthony as a boot.

Here’s the twitter poll

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The Fetish Gun Is Loose! (Part 5) [Interactive]

So it was a tie, between giving Rick some additional humiliating fetishes, and having Anthony become his father, so we’ll do a mash up of both. Also, there’s a 42% chance that this is going to end up backfiring on Anthony–and since there’s two changes, there’s two chances it’ll backfire on whoever has the gun at the moment! So we’ll see what happens!

WARNING: SCAT

Anthony was enjoying the hell out of his diaper boy–but he wanted to push things a bit further. What he was really fantasizing about was taking him home and treating him like a stupid little boy…but why not push that in a more taboo direction, and actually become Rick’s father? He didn’t want that idea to turn him on quite as much as it was…and he wasn’t even sure if the gun could do it. Sure, it could create relationships–all he had to do was turn it to dial D–but why not just give it a shot, and see what happens? He turned the dial around to D, while Rick was still busy sucking his cock, and he pointed it at–

(Backfire save roll……Failure! Anthony’s plan backfires.)

Rick. What he forgot, was that the person that gets shot with the gun first, is the person who will be more dominant in the relationship. He pulled the trigger, the ray engulfed Rick in the yellow aura, and then bounced back and swallowed him as well. It was the first time he’d experienced the gun itself–and it was…unsettling. He found all of these new ideas and memories in his mind, how he’d raised his son Rick–and he’d always hated potty training. He’d throw tantrums, insist his father put him back in diapers, and Anthony had always relented–just to get him to stop. He’d assumed he’d grow out of it–and he did, somewhat, but not out of his brashness, and his domineering attitude, and Anthony had just…never been able to say no to him.

Rick wet the bed constantly as a teenager–so much that Anthony believed he must have liked it. If he washed the sheets, then he’d come home from work to discover his own mattress soaked in piss as well. It wasn’t long after that, when Rick coaxed his father into sucking his cock one evening, while they were both drunk, and things had only spiraled out of control from there. Now, here they were–Anthony in his late fifties, and Rick in his mid-thirties, and his son had…total control over his father’s life.

He realized what he’d done, as the gun faded away, but Rick was too quick–he snatched the gun from his father’s hand, and then stood up, and Anthony…quaked. “That’s a very naughty daddy–turn around, someone needs a spanking, don’t you think?”

Anthony realized he was nearly naked in the club–Rick liked to bring him here on busy nights to humiliate his father, usually with both of them diapered. He hadn’t messed his yet–so Rick pulled it down and started spanking his fat father’s ass, and Anthony…liked it. He felt his cock getting hard, knowing his own son was punishing him, and he craved it–Rick had warped his mind so much over the years, that he was willing to do anything for him, now. When Rick was satisfied, he pulled his dad’s diaper back up into place, sat down with a squelch (his own diaper, at this point, was rather full) and ordered his father to sniff his diaper, while he examined his new toy.

He saw the dial on the side, with the settings, and had his daddy explain them to him. He considered lying…but what was the point? He’d just get punished for not telling the truth, if he did. “Well dad, did you shoot me with this earlier? Be honest now.”

Anthony nodded, his face pressed to his son’s pissy diaper. “I…I turned you into a diaper obsessed pig, son, I’m sorry…”

“Don’t apologize daddy–you did good, but you need to be punished for using my toys without permission. If you got to change me, I think it’s only fair that I get to change you, right?”

Anthony gulped, as his son turned the dial to setting A, turned to gun on him. He fought…hard. He had to stop him, he had to regain control, and push back against this…

(Backfire check #2! The risk is still 42% percent, that things will, this time, backfire against Rick, who is holding the gun. Backfire save roll…….Success! No backfire.)

But before he could work up the will to fight for the gun, his son fired–and Anthony found himself losing the will to do…anything, really. More memories filled in, how he’d always been just as lazy as his son–if not even lazier. He…liked being a slob, and being fat, and being…being a loser. It was natural that he serve his son–after all, he was so much smarter and better than he was. When the gun stopped, Anthony had gained close to 300 pounds, kneeling there in his own oversized, saggy diaper–the same one he’d been wearing, and filling, for days at this point. He could smell himself, and he was so filthy–he loved it, and he loved his son even more for showing him just how much of a pathetic loser he could be.

The people around them were just as disgusted as they ought to be, and they’d also attracted the attention of a bouncer, who was coming over to eject them from the bar–but Rick had a plan for that. He fired the gun at the man, and instead of ejecting them, he shoved his dad down and started hitting him–lightly at first, but then harder. Rick just watched the bouncer abuse and beat his father, berating him the entire time, shooting him on occasion with the gun to push him further, until the bouncer–now a filthy, ugly bruiser obsessed with physical abuse, hauled down Anthony’s full diaper, and shoved his hand into the old man’s ass, fisting him roughly right there in the bar, while Rick watched–until he couldn’t resist joining in, fucking his father’s face while the bouncer kept fisting him, jacking off with his free hand, all of them lost in the moment–and none of them minding the gun.

No one else intervened. The longer it had gone on, the more…normal it seemed for everyone. After all, as disturbing as the trio were, they were all regular sights here, at the bar–the same with Davie and his posse of admirers on the other side, all of them worshiping his massive, monstrous cock–though none were as devoted as Phil–who had an…unhealthy obsession with Davie’s cock. But who gets a hold of the gun next?

So, now that we have a few characters involved, things can get a bit more…interesting. Who gets a hold of the gun next?

Davie recovers it–and starts modifying the three of them to suit his interests.
The brutish bouncer claims it, and uses it on Rick, making him his submissive pain slave as well.
Anthony gets hold of it again, and uses setting E on himself–so the bouncer and Rick will absorb his new fetishes.
Rick keeps hold of it, and uses it to warp some other people into permanent fixtures of the bar’s bathroom.

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Remembrances – Episode 2 (Part 9)

Pete nodded, “Fuck Unc, fuck me, fuck…my loser hole…”

“See? He’s grateful for it. He deserves it–unlike you. But don’t worry, you can watch…sometimes. When I feel like it. But I don’t think you’re going to get this cock in your ass very often anymore at all. But you’ve found….other ways, haven’t you?”

Harry’s hand fumbled for the humidor, found a thick, 90 ring cigar, ones he kept in there for…special moments like this. He licked the end, and then leaned forward, sliding it into his ass, fucking himself with his cigar while Wilbur fucked his boy and he watched, wishing it could be him in either position, wishing he hadn’t been foolish enough to challenge him, wishing he’d been better, wishing he hadn’t simply been…replaced. “Please…please, I’m sorry…” Harry muttered.

“What? What was that? You gotta speak up, Harry, I can’t hear you over the sound of your son begging me for more of his uncle’s cock.”

“I’m sorry!” Harry shouted, “I’m sorry Wilbur, I’m sorry, but…but please, I need you inside me, please, I know I was wrong, I’ll be good, I swear, but please, you have to…do what you want to me, take whatever you want, but I love you Wilbur, I…I love you…”

Harry felt a surge of pleasure as he rammed his cigar deeper into his ass, and his flaccid cock leaked a dribble of cum from the head. It was as a good as an orgasm got for him anymore, that he could remember. He looked over at Wilbur, at Mr. Elroy, at his son, but they weren’t paying him any mind. He wasn’t important. He was just a weak, impotent old man. Wilbur kept fucking until he came deep in Pete’s hole, and then slid out, Pete pushing himself up with a grunt, face red, hating how his Uncle Wilbur could make him feel so weak, and yet he…loved it somehow.

The vision of Wilbur faded, and Mr. Elroy was there once again, and he walked over to Harry, still helplessly siding his cigar into his hole, deeper and deeper, feeling slightly sick from the surge of nicotine in his system, leaching into his ass. “I accept your apology, Harry. But I think you understand now, that things are never going to get better for you–for either of you. If you cooperate, I can make sure you are at least…happy and cared for, but you will never be anyone of importance. You’re mine now. I can make you whatever, and whoever, I desire you to be, and you will believe it. Do you understand that now?”

“Yes sir, I do,” Harry muttered.

Mr. Elroy bent over and slid the cigar free of Harry’s hole, making him grunt. “Good. Now, I think you do deserve a treat, because all difficulties aside, your son was…a delightful meal. And we haven’t even gotten to your grandson yet, have we?”

Kyle. He hadn’t thought of him once since he’d gotten into this. His younger brother, or at least, he’d been his younger brother…ages ago now, it felt like. Those memories were dying on the vine, faster and faster now, but he could remember his grandson’s face…though it was blurry, like his son’s had been, before he’d arrived.

“No–not him, you can’t…”

“Oh, I most certainly can. After all, the three of you are family–whether you like it or not, your fates are tied together. As soon as you stepped into this room, Harry, you sealed all of your fates together. You’re all mine, and you’ll all be mine until your all just husks, and I’ve taken everything from you that I can get. Still, that won’t be for a while yet–after all, I do so enjoy playing with my food, and my last meal was quite…sustaining, though the three of you are mighty hearty yourselves. No, Harry–I think you’ve learned your lesson well enough, and I think you and your boy here have earned yourselves a little time alone together–some father son bonding–won’t that be nice?” Mr. Elroy looked over at Pete, hauling himself up and pulling his grimy pants back up. “He’s such a handsome brute after all–you always thought so, didn’t you?”

The memories came back, a new version of their time together. Now, though, while they had often wrestled…in was Pete who always would win, or at least, nearly always…because Harry wanted him to win. Because Harry loved how weak he felt, his own brutish son overwhelming him, and when Pete had fucked him that first time…they even dropped the pretense of wrestling. Pete knew his father would do anything for his cock, just like Harry would do anything for Wilbur’s. More than once, the two of them had fucked him together, trading ends back and forth, and when Wilbur had died, his son was the only one left who understood him, who knew how to…treat Harry right. He’d learned from the best after all–and while he’d never been one for school, Pete had learned everything he’d needed to know about being a selfish, brutal top from his favorite uncle.

The memory faded, and Harry looked around his apartment, but Mr. Elroy was gone. It was just him in his favorite chair, and his son on the couch, both of them smoking cigars in the quiet afternoon. Pete gave a stretch, showing off two very hairy armpits from the ash covered wife beater he had stretched over his massive gut. “Well Pa, looks like yer settling in well here–and that nurse a yers seems like a swell fellow. Reminds me…a bit of Uncle Wilbur, you know?”

Harry nodded, not sure what to say. Should he try and talk some sense into him? What was the use? Mr. Elroy might not be here…but he knew what would happen if he tried to fight this. Where would he go, if he did escape? “Yeah, he treats me pretty good,” Harry said.

“Think I’ll bring Ky over tomorrow to say hi too–don’t think he’s had a chance to visit yet, but that boy…he don’t understand how important family is, I don’t think. Doesn’t really take after you the way I do, right Pa?”

He hefted himself up, lumbering over to him, and he smelled him, the stench of stale cigars and his fat body, booze and food and laziness, and he wanted to say he wasn’t turned on, but he was. He…remembered how proud he’d been of him, when he’d had so much potential, and yet something about seeing his brawny young son turn into his fat piece of trailer trash…he loved it in a way he couldn’t explain. “I’ve tried a couple a times, tah show him, but he just doesn’t have much interest in wrasslin’. You don’t need any encouragement, do ya Pa? Haven’t gotten mah dick sucked in a few days now, ‘n sure could use a hot mouth like yours. Take those teeth out–feels real nice without ‘em.”

Harry felt the resistance ebb away. What could he do? Even though his son was a fat piece of shit, he still was stronger than Harry was–and Pete had never been one to take no for an answer. He set the cigar aside, pulled out his teeth while Pete hauled out his cock, and fucked his father’s face in the living room for a few minutes, until he came. Neither of them said anything about it afterwards, they just turned on the TV and watched the news for a while until Mr. Elroy returned, and announced it was time for Harry to take his pills–and asked Pete if he’d like to stay for dinner.

“Nah, I should get goin’,” Pete said, “Ky’s probably wonderin’ where his deadbeat dad has gotten off to. Need to keep the boy fed, right?” He winked at Harry, and he felt his gut twist all the same, thinking about what was in store for his brother soon enough. “Can’t wait tah bring him by here tomorrow, I think he needs to be more involved with his family from now on.”

“Yes, recovery goes so much smoother when the whole family is involved, in my experience,” Mr. Elroy said, “The afternoon is best for Harry’s schedule–we’ll be expecting you around two or so.”

“I don’t…think I want any visitors tomorrow,” Harry interjected.

“Nonsense Harry,” Mr. Elroy said, “You always have time for family. Don’t you want to get better?”

“I feel fine.”

Mr. Elroy and Pete shared a look.

“Always a stubborn son of a bitch. Don’t worry, we’ll be here tomorrow,” Pete said.

“Excellent–I’m sure it will be great to see you both.”

Pete shook Mr. Elroy’s hand, and then left, still smoking his cigar on the way out. Harry could only wonder. Wonder if there was anything of his father–his real father–buried anywhere inside of him, just like he was…or was there nothing left? After all, Mr. Elroy said that the only reason he was here was because of his connection to Harry–was Mr. Elroy keeping his mind intact for that reason? Maybe…Maybe there was a chance still. A small one. Maybe with Kyle’s help they can be free of this. “Now, dinner I think,” Mr. Elroy said. “Given how difficult you were today, you’ll only get your cane tonight. I feel like watching you struggle–this is always more fun when you struggle.”

Suggested Story – The Sponsored Rehabilitation of a Resistance Fighter Jeff Wood | Wesley Bracken on Patreon

Here’s this weeks short story that’s available to Patrons only! If you want access to these flash fictions, and the ability to suggest your own ideas, all it takes is one dollar a month! This week, the government has mandated that all men in the country must have a BMI of at least 40. There has been…resistance, of course, but one of the resistance leaders, Jeff Woods, has been captured, and the government has planned a special rehab program just for him, with the help of his father.

The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 4 (Part 2)

He was still cuffed to the pipe, but only by one hand, so he could eat and drink as necessary. He had finished the water, and used the container to hold his other business in the meantime–which I disposed of, and then I showed him the mugshot I’d gotten from the computer, the picture of his old face.

“Who’s that?” he said, and then looked a bit closer, eyes going a bit wide, “Oh…where did you dredge this old thing from? I haven’t seen that face in the mirror in…a very long time.”

“So you do remember.”

“Of course I remember–what made you think I didn’t?”

“Tell me what happened. Tell me what the bruiser did to get you from there,” I pointed at the picture, “to here,” I moved my finger to him.

He sighed. “I don’t really feel like talking–isn’t there something you’d rather do to me, sir?” he grinned, “I can smell the cum on you–you didn’t shoot while you were gone did you? I only want that cum of yours going one place.” I told him he was vile, but he just laughed. “The only way you’re going to get me tell you anything, is if you give me what I want.”

I had no patience for this–I walked over and got rough with him, feeling the need to dominate well up inside me, the voices getting louder now, and the smell of him…I lost myself, that night, for the first time. Lost myself to some strange mixture of our own sick desires–my aching need for control, his desperation for filth, both of us meeting somewhere in the middle. I could feel my balls swelling with every load I shot on him, and everytime I came, I only seemed to get hornier, until we both collapsed in exhaustion, and in the early morning hours, my head on his chest, still stroking myself and unable to stop, he relented and told me his story.

His life before his fateful encounter with the bruiser was, as far as he was concerned, a waste. He’d grown up in the sticks, in a little trailer park. Never amounted to much, never done well in school, picked up a few jobs here and there, but nothing had ever really stuck with him…because there was really only one thing he liked to do–and that was sucking cock. He’d sucked off his older brothers, and even his dad once, when he was drunk as hell, but soon discovered that the best place he could find fresh dick was at the rest area about ten miles down the highway, where a few other enterprising faggots had taken to drilling gloryholes faster than the maintenance crews could put new walls in the stalls.

From the way he talked about himself…it was like he was talking about a different person. He only talked about in it the third person–Steven was, Steven did, Steven thought. He’d clearly disassociated himself from the person he’d been entirely–and it was clear that he hated him. He’d been weak, too scared of himself to really commit to what he wanted, torn between what was acceptable and respectable, and what he really was. It was also the most emotional he’d been–it was clear that he hadn’t talked about this in a long time, if ever. I doubted that he’d ever had the opportunity to tell the story to someone who would believe him, much less be able to understand what he was even talking about–although at the time, I didn’t really understand much.

Even after everything that had happened to me, after everything that I had done, I couldn’t really believe that this was something…beyond rationality. Beyond the real, the physical, the mundane. There had to be some other explanation–a drug, most likely. Something in the…smell of them, that was doing this to me, was what I thought. I did listen though. I listened, and for the moment, I let that doubt go. This, I could tell, was his truth–what he firmly believed. Whether it was real or not is something I couldn’t know, but sometimes a lie can be more helpful than the truth. There is power in stories. Anyone who has seen a rape victim take the stand against their rapist can attest to that to the power of one’s story, and of witnessing. So I listened, and I was a witness for him, and he told me what happened that night, at the rest area years ago, the night the bruiser came in to the restroom, stepped into the stall beside the one where the young Steven was crouched down, mouth to the hole, waiting for another cock to service, working his own cock slowly. He thought he heard the man…sniffing at the air, and then, after a moment or two, a cock slipped through, and Steven got to work.

At first, it was nothing particularly interesting. Average to small cock, uncut, uninteresting flavor–but that was no reason for him to not enjoy himself on it. Then, as he worked on it, he began to notice that something about it was changing–that it was growing. At first, he’d thought it was just the process of the man’s cock getting fully hard, but it wasn’t just gaining girth–but length as well, sliding deeper down his throat with each thrust, deep enough that he gagged on it, and had to pull away for a moment to recover. The man on the other side of the wall growled when he did, and the cock pulled back through–and Steven saw it really was larger, so large it scraped the sides of the small gloryhole as it withdrew. The man stepped out of the stall, and hammered on the door of the stall where Steven was kneeling, and the weak lock gave way after a moment, the door swinging in and hitting him in the face, and the man who came in…there was something wrong with him.