Tag: smoke

Joining the Family (Part 4)

All of us ended up waking up at about the same time, and went about trying to disentangle ourselves from one another. Unlike the night before, when everyone had been horny and out of their minds with lust, the morning was a much more sober affair–no one wanted to look anyone else in the eye, and Mikey couldn’t even glance at me, he just sat on the floor, head in his hands, mumbling something to himself. I wanted to tell him it was going to be alright, that we would get past it, but how could I tell him something like that? Decades of sobriety down the drain, just like that. I’d just fucked my own grandson–how in the hell could I ever get him to trust me again? How could I ever trust myself around him again? I didn’t know what to do, but I accepted a hand from the twin’s father, who helped me up, patted me on the shoulder, and he said “Welcome to the family, I’m sorry to say…” And then he walked into the bathroom, lighting a cigar along the way, and I heard him talking to himself cursing, and then he let off a thunderous belch, followed by a wet fart. “Hot damn, I’d been hoping that shit wasn’t gonna get any worse, fuck…”

The twins were next to each other, and I wasn’t sure whether it was the daylight, or just the fact that I’d never gotten a good look at them before, but the two of them seemed different than before. Bigger, more muscular, hairier. They didn’t look much like their father, now that I had light and time to notice. They lit cigarettes, and shared a few smoky kisses, but it wasn’t…lust. They just seemed to be searching for some small comfort with one another. All I knew was that I had to get out of there. The smoke was stifling, the air heavy. I went over and grabbed Mikey by the arm, and told him we needed to go home.

He told me he couldn’t. I asked why, and he said that he was home. Thinking back, what he actually said was, “We’re home,” but I didn’t notice, I wasn’t listening. All I could think of doing was regaining control. He kept insisting he stay, that he shouldn’t leave anymore, that he deserved this, that if he left it would just get worse. I hauled him up–he was heavier, and I was exhausted, but he didn’t fight me as I forced him back into his clothes, dragged him out of the trailer and into the sun. It felt so good, in the light, but it also…hurt somehow. We got in the truck, and he was sobbing at this point, muttering how sorry he was over and over. My hands were shaking; I needed a drink something fierce. I drove off, pulling into a gas station where I bought a bottle of liquor, and it was only when I got in my truck again that I realized how natural that had felt, how instinctual, and I resolved to pour the bottle out once we got home.

Mikey had gone quiet, but he was still crying. I told him everything was going to be ok, and he shouted back, “Everything is not ok! Don’t you know what happened last night? Why couldn’t you have just left me alone? Why the fuck did you have to show up? I…I didn’t want that, I can’t believe what I did…”

I tried to tell him it was me, but he stopped responding. I drove home, and the both of us went into my trailer. I went to pour the bottle out in the sink, only to discover a third of it was missing. I could…taste alcohol in my mouth, on my breath…and something else too. I looked down, and found a thick cigar smoldering between my fingers. Mikey was sitting in a chair, head in one hand, cigarette in the other. The bottle was at my lips again–I realized I had been drinking and smoking ever since I left the gas station, and I hadn’t even noticed it. I recoiled from the bottle, and left the cigar on the counter–Mikey saw my terror, and shook his head. He told me I couldn’t fight it. That it had me now, that there wasn’t anything any of us could do. He wasn’t crying anymore, but I could feel the weight dragging him down, dragging us both down, and at that moment…all I wanted was for him to be happy, was…was for him to feel good again, like before.

I hadn’t actually managed to put down either the cigar, or the bottle. I walked over, got down, and we kissed again, sharing smoke and booze until the bottle was empty. Over and over I told myself that this was wrong, that I shouldn’t be doing this, not with a man, not with my grandson. He started begging me to fuck him, telling me he was a slutty pig, that his hole was aching for a big cock like mine. I…I was so hard. The room was filled with smoke, it was like a dream. I slipped into him again, and I felt so alive, so heavy, so filthy, so…good. It was so good, being inside him again, I never wanted to be anywhere else. Words were pouring out of my mouth, words I never could have imagined saying in a million years, telling him what a naughty boy he was, how he was going to have to learn to keep grandpa happy from now on with both his holes, whenever I wanted it. I licked his sweaty body, he tasted so…so young and sweet. I filled him up over and over again, every shot just made me want to fuck more. It was evening before we finally managed to take a break for food. I wasn’t really hungry, but we needed to eat, I thought. While we snacked, I looked at myself in the mirror, at my sagging gut, my suddenly all white beard, my bloodshot eyes and red nose. I hadn’t looked like that before, but it also seemed…right.

The food tasted rotten, even though it wasn’t, and we didn’t eat much. The hunger was still there, the darkness clawing at my guts. Mikey told me we should go back, that we’d been away too long. He was pale and shivering, sweating. I knew he was right. We got back in the truck and drove back to Dale and Rick’s, with a quick stop for more booze and smokes. We got there, and Dale opened the door. He told us to make ourselves at home, and we haven’t left since.

Joining the Family (Part 3)

I realized too late that Rick and Dale had said something, that Mikey had gotten up off the mattress from between them, grabbed a liquor bottle and taken a swig, carrying it with him as he walked over. This wasn’t Mikey, though. I don’t quite know how I knew that, instinctively. Something in the sway of his hips, the way his face seemed to catch more shadow than the rest of the room. “Hey Gramps,” he said, “I was gonna wait until tomorrow, but the boys say no time like the present, right?”

I told him that he was going to get dressed, and get in the car. That we were going home, and we were going to have a long talk about what he’s doing, about not throwing his life away like this. He laughed, but something in his eyes didn’t match the mirth, like I’d noticed with Rick’s father. I was getting ready to grab him and haul him out, but he moved first, caught me off balance, shoved me back and I toppled onto my back. I tried to get up, but he landed on top of me will all his weight. He was heavier all of a sudden, even though he didn’t look different–like something else was pressing down on me through him, my arms pinned to my side by two strong thighs. He took another gulp from the bottle he had in his hand, holding it in his mouth. I yelled at him to let me up–he took advantage of my open mouth to lock lips with me and feed me the mouthful of liquor.

Now I hadn’t so much as tasted alcohol in decades at that point, and…and fuck, it wasn’t like I hadn’t thought about it. I sputtered that first mouthful out, but god, the desire was there, and I sure as hell wanted a drink, I can tell you that much. Mikey tisked me, told me not to be so wasteful, took another swig and locked lips with me again–this time with more force. I couldn’t wrench my head away, it was like something else had stuck us together, the booze sloshing between us until I…I swallowed it, and I just felt my entire body relax, the whiskey burning it’s way into my gut, so warm and familiar, and fuck I’d missed it so damn much. He took another drink and fed me that one too, and then I was happily drinking and kissing him, my own grandson. The booze raced to my head, it was numbing everything it touched. I lost track of time, of space, of myself. At some point, the twins came over and repositioned Mikey, giving them access to his ass while we kept kissing, their father masturbating over all of us, huffing and panting and grunting, the only other sound in the trailer was the occasional moan, and the static from that damn TV.

One of the twins got down below the other and started sucking my cock. I just tried to pretend it wasn’t happening. They took a moment to move Mikey up, lining his cock up with my mouth, and I resisted, refused to suck it until…until they coated it with liquor and fed it to me that way. My face was inches from my grandson’s hole, I could hear the twin’s cock squelching inside him, I could smell their sex, and it was…it was making me hornier. The weight was only getting heavier, but instead of it being focused within a body, it felt like it was pressing into me, joining with me, some strange, alien darkness.

I would only take breaks from sucking on my grandson’s cock, so I could drink from the bottle–anything, at this point, to dull what was happening. As soon as that bottle was empty, someone handed me another one. The twin came inside my grandson, I felt his cum dribbling back out of his hole and onto my chest, where someone’s hand rubbed it into my skin. Mikey was getting close, a voice was urging me on, telling me to suck harder, suggesting motions with my tongue, how to keep myself from gagging. I thought it was one of twins or their father, but thinking back it wasn’t any of their voices, and it felt like…like something resonating in my own head, some irresistible suggestion inside myself. Mikey came with a choked gasp, and I swallowed all of his sweet, young cum at the voice’s urging, my head spinning.

I…I don’t know how it happened. I…I want to say someone put him there, put us into position, made us do it. I want to say it was the voice, compelling me. But I…I think it was me. I was the one who pushing the twin away from my cock, slid up, and told my own grandson to sit on my cock, to feel his grandpa’s big cock deep inside him. He was loose and wet, well used already at that point, but…but that only made it hotter for some reason. I blacked out not long after that, but I do remember filling him up. I came, and at the same time, it felt like the darkness inside me solidified, turned to barbed wire and thorns, tearing its way into my soul, impossible to unwind and disentangle. I couldn’t stop the thoughts anymore, they felt like…like my own. They were my own. I demanded one of the twins sit on my cock, and he obliged, the other keeping me plied with liquor kisses. My grandson, meanwhile, worshiped the twin’s father’s filthy body, and sucked his cock. I…I kept drinking in the hope that I wouldn’t remember any of it, and honestly, nearly all of it is a blur, but it’s there, all the same, the certainty that it happened, even if I can’t access the particulars. It never seemed to end, but it did end at some point, because eventually I woke up on the filthy trailer floor, entangled with everyone else, and as much as I wanted to feel horrified by what I’d done, all I wanted was, first, another bottle of booze, and then second, to plow all their holes all over again.

It was getting harder and harder to remember I’d asked him to come over so he could help me, and not so I could make him like me. Maybe…maybe the former was just a lie I’d told myself. When I picked up my phone to text him, hands shaking, the cigar still between my fingers where I couldn’t release it, had my cock been hard? Had it…wanted me to bring someone over? Had it wanted me to try to escape? 

It doesn’t matter now of course. There is no escape. When I’d called, I’d had a hairy ballgut covered with hair. I could have passed for a man in his fourties. Now, I’d be lucky to be in my sixties. I hadn’t grown much larger, but I can grown weaker, my muscles weakening and dying , making it…so much easier to just sit here in my chair (my chair–this chair? Its chair? Our chair?) and smoke this endless cigar, and drink this endles bourbon that appeared not too long before, and watch him lap at my cock.

He was about where I’d been, when I’d called him. He hadn’t believed me, when I tried to tell him who I was, his best friend, and before he could get out, his eyes had glazed slightly, and I’d had all these…ideas suddenly. They were in him too, I knew, because he’s the one who got down on his knees and started sucking at my cock–now shorter and thicker than before, and we’d moved here, to the chair. 

I don’t know how many loads I’ve fed him at this point. I don’t know what time it is, it’s stopped all the clocks. Its timeless. We’re timeless. Almost like we’re caught in a loop, changing a bit more each time we go around. My hairline still creeping back. I didn’t have these glasses earlier, I’m certain. He’s only getting larger and fatter, chins jiggling around my shaft, hair sprouting everywhere, even as his head balds messily. Maybe it will let us go, eventually, but will we want to leave? Will there even be anything out there for us? Maybe we should just stay–that would be easier, wouldn’t it? 

Orwell’s Demon (Sketch)

“Look, I’m going to be honest with you Orwell. This is the fourth disappearance this year–and all four of them were connected to you in some fashion or other. This is the second case where we know, for a fact, that you were the last man to speak to him,” Sheriff Hurlbane crossed his arms where he was sitting on Terry’s couch, “Now, you’ve been very cooperative, and I appreciate that. And I also know that all of this is circumstantial. But you understand how bad this looks, don’t you?”

Across from him, in an armchair, was Orwell Beckert. In his late forties, he seemed so…normal. A little overweight, clean shaven, easy going. He was a teacher at the local high school, and every student the sheriff had spoken to had had the same opinion–a good teacher, but boring as hell. But over the last few months…men had started disappearing around town–first a fellow teacher at the school, then a trucker from a local truck stop passing through. One of the students in Beckert’s homeroom, and now Beckert’s neighbor down the street. The men only had one thing in common, and that’s the normal, boring man sitting across from him, twiddling his thumbs, staring down at the carpet, looking like he was desperate to say something he couldn’t let himself say. The sheriff hadn’t wanted to believe this man could have done this–not that they had any idea what had happened to them. Their bodies hadn’t shown up anywhere, there was no evidence of them anywhere–just…gone. One day there, the next there was no sign of them anywhere. This normal man…maybe he wasn’t responsible. But he was involved–Sheriff Hurlbane knew a look of guilt when he saw one, and this was textbook–the guy was too boring to even be creative with it.

I have to tell him. I have to go to jail for this, I can’t, not anymore. I can’t let you do this anymore.

You don’t have to go to jail, Orwell. We can have fun with this one too.

No! No, please don’t, he’s a good man, he has a family!

I know what you’re thinking, Orwell, don’t forget. I know what you want. Everytime he comes over to ask you questions, that little pecker of yours gets hard. You have such a wonderful imagination, but you’re so…scared. Still, every time he’s alone with us, you think about it, about what we could do to him, just like all the rest. Come on, we can start small, can’t we? Just a little?

The sheriff leaned back into the couch, settling in. Orwell had muttered something under his breath. “What was that?”

“Nothing, please–please, just leave. You need to get out of here, sir.”

“No…No, not this time Orwell. You have something you want to tell me, something about these missing men, and I’m not leaving until you tell me,” Sheriff Hurlbane took a drag off the cigar that had appeared in his hand a moment earlier, and exhaled the smoke in Orwell’s direction, some of the smoke twining through the mustache growing from his lips, and the beard sprouting around his smooth face.

Please…don’t. Not him, please…

But doesn’t he look good like that? So much sexier, turning into a nice cigar daddy for you, I know how much you like those, Orwell.

“Okay! Okay, it was me. It was me! I…I found this necklace, alright? But it’s fucking possessed!” he said, hauling a medallion out from under his shirt, “I…I didn’t know what it would do, and I can’t take it off. Please, Sheriff, get out of here before it takes you too.”

Sheriff Hurlbane laughed around his cigar, groping his cock through his uniform pants, a wet spot of precum already soaking into the fabric. “No…No, I don’t think so Orwell, I don’t think I’m going anywhere.” He felt so…strong all of a sudden. He flexed, and heard the fabric of his uniform start to rip. With a growl, he grabbed at the shirt, clawed at it, tearing it away from himself, revealing underneath a skintight rubber tank, which he ran his gloved hand over, feeling his full gut and meaty pecs, blowing smoke through the fur sprouting all over him.

Oh…oh fuck, he’s so…fucking sexy…why, why him? He didn’t…didn’t deserve this.

He didn’t deserve it, but this is what you wanted Orwell, I know this is what you want.

I–I didn’t think it could happen, it was just…just supposed to be a fantasy…

You want the rest though, don’t you? I can feel how hard you are, how much your cock is aching in your pants. You want to see it, you want to see him. He wants you too, you know. Look at how he’s looking at you, through the smoke. Officer Hurlbane knows what you want–what you need. He wants to give it to you, he wants to help you, Orwell. He knows how much you want to be punished.

I…I do…deserve to be punished.

Yes, you do, for telling the truth like that, for trying to tell him about me.

“You were a bad boy, Orwell,” Hurlbane said, his voice suddenly deeper, with an edge like charcoal, his eyes suddenly red, and he stood up from the couch. The rubber top suddenly was lined red, and his uniform pants tightened, becoming rubber, the crotch opening, allowing a massive, foot long cock to fall free, dribbling cum onto the carpet. “Bad boy, trying to tell me the truth. But that’s ok, Officer Hurlbane will teach you a lesson, won’t I, boy?”

Orwell whimpered, tried to get up from the chair but tripped–he looked down at himself and found he was naked, aside from the necklace around his neck which had tighted around his neck like a collar. “No…God no.”

“There’s no god here, Orwell, only your real Master. Now lick my boots pig, and then I’m gonna shove these thick fists in your hole until you scream,” Hurlbane said, shoving the toe of his rubber wader in Orwell’s mouth, “Hurry up, before I burn my way through this one too.”

It was just some stupid looking show on Netflix, something probably no one had ever watched, something that Chad popped on for a laugh and to burn an hour, just to see how bad it was. It was called “Ruining Your Life”–apparently, it was some reality show following around people who’s lives had gone from great to terrible–or so he thought. Instead, what came on his TV screen was a strange, swirling pattern, and then a floating head of some old man, big beard, chuckling.

“Well hey there Chad, so good of you to join me. Now why don’t we get down to business, eh?”

He tried to look away, but he couldn’t. All he could do was watch the man, listen to his deep, raspy voice, grope his hard cock and…and fantasize about what…what it would be like, to let this man ruin him. Now Chad had always been a good guy, went to the gym, was getting good grades in school, had lots of friends. But what if things were…different?

He found it impossible to avoid binging the show. He started skipping the gym and class, avoiding his friends. He’d still go out on occasion, but usually only for snack runs and to stop by the gas station for drink and cigarettes. He would sit in his room, on the couch, stuffing his face, chain smoking, and masturbating until his cock was raw, feeling his muscles fade and fat bulk up all over him, faster than should have ever been possible. By the time he got to the end of the first season–all 24 episodes in five days–he didn’t even recognize himself. 

He didn’t watch the show as much, but it didn’t matter. His work ethic was shot–he started flunking his classes because he couldn’t bring himself to care about his assignments. Still, he managed to pull himself together, and eeked out enough to stay in school at the end of the semester. He’d…figure out something, he told himself, he’d get a job over the summer, he’d put his life back on track. Then, in June, the second season came out–and he couldn’t stop himself from watching every episode in a row, 24 hours straight, and by then, there was no going back, not ever, and he no longer cared at all.

Source: scruffysmokers

Requested by Anonymous

These fucking kink festivals these faggots throw, fuck it’s disgusting, but hey, it’s a fun way of ruining a few faggots lives at least. You know, get a few pictures of some of them, and all it takes is some sleuthing on the internet, figure out their day job, and ruin their careers with a bit of blackmail. Heh, there’s one now–look at that old fuck, like anyone wants to see that disgusting body out in the sun. Gotta get a picture of that shit.

*CLICK*

Yeah, sexy old fuck like that, damn–not that I’m much younger than he his. No, wait, what the hell am I even saying? Look, whatever. I’ll just focus on some of these other fags–fuck, look at that one! Parading around in fucking panties, it’s like they’re fucking asking for me to ruin them!

*CLICK*

Yeah, I know how he feels, they’re so fucking sexy, and the way guys look at me like I’m some fuckin’ fairy makes me so damn hard. I…I love coming down here, really feels like I can be myself, let the freak out a bit, you know? Fuck, look that that sexy fucker! Big old gut, hot goatee, smoking that cigar in that leather gear of his! Gotta get a picture of that.

*CLICK*

Fuck yeah, got my old cock so fuckin’ hard, gonna love jacking off to these pictures for the rest of the year! Not like many guys wanna get with a pansy old fat fuck like me, but I’d rather watch and look at pics anyway! Think I might go smoke my cigar and look at these pics for a bit, blow a wad in my panties, and then see if I can find a few more sexy fucks for my photo collection!

Requested & Submitted by @inchingtowardursinity

He couldn’t believe how long they’d been taking, building the house next door to his. He’d been surprised when the person who’d bought the large house beside his had simply bulldozed everything, opting to build a new house all from scratch. he hadn’t really seen much of the new owner; he appeared to be taking a rather hands off approach to his new house, and in Charles’s opinion, it showed in the amount of work the crew was putting into it. Often, it seemed like they weren’t doing anything all, beyond being rowdy, loud and a general nuisance. 

The crew was full of older, burly men—all of them with a considerable amount of tattoos, most with beards, and every single one of them seemed to be smoking something–cigarettes, pipes, cigars. The smoke was the worst part–he couldn;t seem to escape it, and the more he smelled it, the harder it was to focus on his own work around the house. One time, he’d been trying to do yard work, when he realized he’d just been…standing there for close to half an hour in one spot, just…smelling the smoke. He was angry at himself, and didn’t even notice the fact that he was hard, suddenly.

Still, Charles warmed up to the crew over time. He befriended a few of them over the fence one afternoon. It turned out that the reason things were taking so long was that the crew was understaffed, and the owner was taking forever, on the plans and details. Not too long after that, the men started suggesting he come over and hang out with them in the afternoons and evenings. He never really recalled the meetings well, but…but he sure did enjoy himself every time. There were flickers of clarity–once when he had his cock through a hole in his fence, getting sucked off by one of the workers on the other side. He couldn’t believe what he was doing, but he also couldn’t stop, and he fell back into his smoky stupor long before he came, got down, and returned the favor.

Soon he was craving smoke, but for some reason none of the men would let him smoke anything of theirs–all he could do was suck their second hand smoke from their mouths. It was not long after that, when the owner came knocking on Charles’s door. Charles was in the middle of a terrible week–he’d…simply forgotten to go to work for a few days, and his boss had called and informed him he’d been fired. The owner had heard of his troubles, and had come by to offer him some relief. He had a perfect job for him, he said–all Charles had to do was give him the deed to his property.

Charles refused at first–he loved his home. But when the owner laid out a pipe, a cigar, and a pack of cigarettes, and offered him one of those in addition to the job…he couldn’t stop himself. He grabbed the pipe, packed it and lit it like he’d watched the crew do countless time, and sucked down the smoke, feeling his entire body heating up, from his toes to his gut to his hands…and in a matter of moments, a very, very different man was standing there, chuffing on his pipe.

“What do you think Chuck? Think we can have this house torn out in a week?”

“W-What? I…I don’t…” Chuck looked down at his body, his full gut coated in a riot of tattoos–at least what he could see around his long thick beard, “I…where am I?”

“You’re a member of my crew Chuck. We’re looking at this house I just bought. I want to tear it down and add it to my property next door.”

“O-Oh…I…I guess me ‘n the crew could do it…”

“That’s what I like to hear–now you fat pig, bend over–I wanna fuck your nasty hole.”

Chuck was all to happy to oblige, letting his owner fuck him bent over the side of the couch, and then he went back and joined the rest of his crew. He was welcomed like an old friend, and all of them wanted a taste of Chuck’s new, eight inch cock, and a chance to admire his new, beautiful body; just like the bodies the owner had all given them over the years.

Ruining Mr. Fisher (Part 3)

Needless to say, Gerard began staying late much more often at the office. In fact, he found it impossible to leave until Ned had come through to clean the office, and to find some new way to bring the banker down a few more pegs at a time. It was the very next night that Ned made the banker strip naked in his presence–the fat redneck gave him a hand job and then as soon as Gerard’s cock softened again, forced his cock into a metal cage, and locked it with a padlock. It was a tight fit–immediately Gerard’s cock tried to get hard again, and the pain was excruciating, but he didn’t have a choice in the matter. Ned said he needed to be punished for cumming without permission, and so the cage would stay on until he felt Gerard had earned an orgasm for himself.

Gerard never earned an orgasm, not in the next several months. Most nights, Ned would simply come by the office, looking more and more filthy and disheveled and slobby each day, force Gerard to serve him in any number of ways, and then leave him again. At first, Gerard would do his best to not do anything to make Ned change him further–he was agreeable and wouldd serve him as required…and in some ways he kind of enjoyed it. He’d already found himself making time for himself throughout the day to slip away from the office for an hour or two, so he could go to the porn theaters and shops downtown and suck a few loads from strangers when he got hungry. On the weekends, he would spend the entire afternoon and evening there, drinking cum like a fiend, praying his wife wouldn’t figure out why he was suddenly completely uninterested in having sex with her–not that they’d had sex much at all, in this new life of his. Still, Gerard could only take so much humiliation, and from time to time, Ned’s picking and goading would work. Gerard would start resisting–would yell and scream and swear and try to punch and anything to get back at Ned for ruining his life, and Ned would use his outbursts as excuses to press the medallion to his heart again, and ruin his life bit by bit.

The second week, during his first outburst, Gerard made the mistake of ridiculing Ned for his size and fat body–so Ned shifted his life until Ned himself was a binge eater. His waist exploded in size immediately, and Gerard kept hoping it would stop, as he looked down at himself, but it just kept going, stopping only when he was over four hundred pounds. Not quite as large as Ned, but still, that shut him up. He hated it though–he was hungry constantly, and found that he had to have a snack with him at all times, or he couldn’t function, and the only place he could go for lunch and feel full were all you can eat buffets. After two weeks he broke down, begging Ned to let him stop eating for a bit. Ned took a kind of pity on him. Gerard didn’t stop eating by any means, but suddenly he loved the feeling of his fat body, and found himself fantasizing about becoming even larger. Eating became a challenge, to see how much he could stuff in his face each day, and even though he was disgusted with himself, he couldn’t stop. Worse, the fuller his belly the more turned on he got, but his cock, trapped in a cage, couldn’t be satisfied. Instead, he just ate more and more, driven into a sexual feeding frenzy–usually capping off his meals with at least ten loads of cum from strangers at the bathhouse.

The situation with his wife and son was becoming unbearable however–whenever he was home, it seemed like they were fighting. Two months after Ned first seized control of him, he broke down in tears, on his knees in front of the redneck, begging him for mercy, desperate to keep his family together. The redneck just laughed at him, pressed the medallion to Gerard’s chest, and when it pulled away, he didn’t have to worry about his wife anymore, since he’d been divorced for years. Ned consoled him as he sobbed, reminding him that now he lots more time to spend stuffing his face and sucking cock, without have to worry about hiding it from his bitch of an ex-wife. He still saw his son on occasion–one weekend a month. Shawn hated his father’s faggot guts however, and refused to spend any quality time with him at all, even when he did have a moment of custody.

Still, Ned helped him settle in a comfortable, bachelor lifestyle. Ned gave him a ten cigar a day smoking habit, and made him an alcoholic–helped him realize how silly it was taking a shower every day–or more than once a week. After six months, Gerard was a completely different person–close to over 450 pounds, reeking of sweat, smoke and booze, ill fitting and often unwashed clothing, crusty with food and cum. He’d gone from being the star of the company in a corner office to a low level manager barely hanging onto his job–but he hung on all the same. It was, really, the last bit of himself that he had left.

Then, one night, Ned told him that he’d finally thought of a way for Gerard to earn an orgasm for himself. All he had to do was, when the next weekend came that his son Shawn was staying with him, bring his son out to the trailer where Ned lived in the country, and give him to Ned. If Gerard brought him his only son, then he could get the chance to shoot his first load in months. Gerard refused, at first, until Ned pressed the medallion to a new spot on his body, right over his cock, inflating his genitals to massive proprotions. His cock, which ached already, was suddenly in constant pain in it’s enclosure, and his cum production was so constant that even in his cage he leaked constantly. The pain was too much to bear, and so Gerard agreed–he’d bring Ned his son, for a chance to be free of this pain. He couldn’t believe what he was about to do, but what choice did he have? He couldn’t live like this, and…and it wasn’t like Shawn loved him anyway. In fact, he kind of hated his son, hated the way he looked at him. If he could get a little comfort, then Shawn was a sacrifice Gerard was willing to make.

Arctos Monthly (Part 4)

Andy was, shall we say, impressed with my new look when he came back from class–and he was even more happy when he got a taste and a feel of my new, extended cock, all the way down his throat, and shoved up his ass to the hilt. However, once we’d gone a few rounds, and were lounging around the room, smoking, I could tell he was mulling something over in his head, and I prodded it out of him–he was thinking about what might happen when he got his next package sometime in the next week. I told him to not sweat it too badly, that I was sure Arctos wouldn’t do something to him he wouldn’t like, but I could understand his reservations at the time. After all, the clothes he’d receives had all been cut from a certain…style–walking around campus, he looked more like he belonged as an extra in a country music video, or working on a farm or something, than going to college. Still, the cigar showed up in its small box, a few days later, and Andy had simply decided he wasn’t going to smoke it.

That…well, I hadn’t really considered that as a possibility. That he might just…not do it. Still…I felt a bit guilty, I admit it, for pushing him into the whole thing to begin with. I kind of expected him to just throw the cigar away, and I think that’s what he wanted to do…but instead he just left the box on his messy desk, open. I caught him staring at it more than once that day, like he was questioning his own resolve, but I knew it was better for me to just stay out of it, and let him figure it out himself. What I didn’t expect, was that by the next morning, the cigar would be different. Longer. Thicker. Rougher. Now Andy could barely keep his eyes off of it, and I had a feeling he wasn’t going to have much choice in the matter, whether he wanted to smoke it or not. Still, somehow he held off for another day–it helped, I think, that he was gone at classes for most of it, but come Saturday…well, the cigar was massive, he had it in his mouth, and I went ahead and excused myself–there was no way I wanted to get caught in that room, with him smoking that monster. Turns out that was a very good idea.

Apparently, the longer these things sit–the stronger they get. I came back and found Andy had grown well over an extra hundred pounds–hell, he was probably closer to 500 at that point. His beard was huge and long, down past his fat moobs to his chest, his hair equally long, greasy and uncombed. His side of the room looked like a fucking sty, piles and piles of unwashed clothes, and he was still smoking, sitting on a dildo, and as soon as he saw me come through the door, he started demanding I fuck his fat hole, speaking in a southern accent so thick I could barely understand him around his cigar.

From that day on, Andy…didn’t have much of a mind for school work. Andy didn’t have much of a mind at all. Sure, he tried to keep up for a few days, but his head was so empty now, he preferred sitting around the dorm room, fucking his hole, and eating—and then I noticed Mitch. I still don’t quite know what happened, but Mitch seemed…a bit changed, when I saw him next. He spoke with a slight southern accent, his usually expensive wardrobe seemed a bit grungier, and a bit more southern all of a sudden, and he was obsessed with Andy. That obsession generally took the form of ridicule and pranks, but I thought I knew what might have happened–he must have walked past the room while Andy was smoking that big cigar, and gotten a whiff of the fumes. Not enough to make a huge difference, but enough for me to decide that it was time the bully realized the truth of that old maxim: if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

I didn’t tell Andy what I was planning, and I’m not sure this new Andy would have really cared all that much. The only things he really seemed to care much about now were drinking, eating, smoking and plugging his ass with my big cock, which frankly? Was a bit of an exhausting endeavour now. He was fucking insatiable, and don’t get me wrong, he was–and remains–a wonderful fuck, but damn, nothing is enough for him. It wasn’t too selfish a wish, right? That someone else might pick up a bit of the slack?

Well, a week passed. I had no way of really knowing when Mitch might get his package, or if he’d even open and use it–though as I’d seen with Andy, I didn’t think Arctos would take no for an answer. It was only half a surprise then, when someone started pounding on our door one evening. Andy wasn’t about to heft his bulk up and answer it, so I did–and found myself faced with Mitch–or the guy who Mitch was now. He’d grown taller and matched my own substantial height, and his already muscular body had grown only more so, along with a thick forest of black hair all over. He had on jeans, leather chaps, leather vest, boots and a muir cap, like he’d stepped out of a leatherman’s dream, but he didn’t want me. He pushed his way past, rolled Andy over with very little ceremony and started pounding away at his hole, Andy groaning and grunting and begging for more…and watching the two of them go at it, I realized I might have just cut myself out of the equation entirely.

Arctos Monthly (Part 3)

Still, I suppose I’m getting ahead of myself, mentioning Mitch–he was in the picture, sure, but he didn’t really get, uh…involved until a while later. So anyway, Andy and I finished that first fuck of ours–I came twice in his hole, he shot at least once all over my sheets, and then licked it up afterwards. I was happy to just smoke my pipe, lounge around, and enjoy the smell of our sex in the room, but he, well, he wasn’t exactly happy about what had happened. I suppose I can’t blame him, but the way I was feeling, the way I was acting–hell, the way I feel and act I should say, I should just use the present tense, since I sure haven’t gotten better about it–I honestly didn’t care all that much, I thought he was just over-reacting. After all, he’d enjoyed it, hadn’t he?

We got into…a bit of a fight. A bit of a fight, because there wasn’t much he could do to me, at least with the body he had now. He threw a weak punch, I tackled and pinned him down, groped him a bit, lit another cigar for him, and we went right into round two. He mellowed out a bit after that, or he knew there wasn’t a whole lot he could do to stop me, but he liked it, he admitted it. Hell, by the end of the week, he needed it more than I did, that fat ass of his was never satisfied, and he’d…well, he never forgave me, exactly, but he was enjoying it all the same, the same way I was. We both knew, in our heads, that we shouldn’t be doing this. That I should feel bad about turning into a domineering top, that he should hate being this fat, desperate bottom. But neither of us did…and we enabled each other because we didn’t have anyone else. It wasn’t like we had much of a social circle after all, looking like this. Everyone else in the dorm thought we were crazy.

Yeah, we gave the floor RA a headache, especially with the smoking. Both of us got written up multiple times, but both of us needed the smoke too much to really care, and even the RA knew there wasn’t much he could do about it, especially this close to the end of the year, so eventually he just gave up, and we smoked with the window open, fucking all the while, and both of us settled in pretty well. Other people in the floor? Well, that’s where Mitch entered the picture. Mitch was the Freshman Hotshot, the Football Recruit, the Drunk Bro, and a huge homophobe to boot. Everyone knew what the two of us were up to, and most people didn’t care, even if they didn’t like it, but Mitch was the one who had to be vocal about it, who had to make sure everyone knew how much he was disgusted by us. It was a performance–we both knew it, but while I was too big for Mitch to do much to, he did harass Andy more than once. I considered referring him to the program for a while, but wasn’t sure if he deserved it, if I really wanted to be around him that much even if he was different, so I held off–then my second package arrived from Arctos, and I forgot about that for a while.

It’s important to note here, I think, that very little else had changed when we got our first package, beyond our bodies and desires. The boxes had been filed with quite a large assortment of clothes, of course, but that was literally all either of us had been wearing for close to a month, and as relatively poor college students, neither of us had the cash to completely revamp our wardrobes. So when I saw the next package from Arctos–or rather, when I saw how small it was–I was a bit disappointed, to say the least–it certainly wasn’t large enough to have any clothes in it. When I opened it up in my room–alone, I should add, since Andy was in class–all I found was a pipe and a bag of tobacco with a note. I didn’t keep that one, but it was shorter and I remember the gist it. All it said was, “Big changes come in small packages. Smoke in your bedroom, either alone or with bears you care about.”

I thought about waiting for Andy to get back, but I was too excited to try it, so I packed the pipe and lit it, but nothing happened, aside from the pipe pumping out way more smoke than should have been possible. At first I thought I had packed it wrong. I tried to take the pipe out…but I couldn’t. It was locked in my lips, and I was sucking in and blowing out even more smoke, so much that the room was soon so foggy I couldn’t see a thing, and I began to feel a bit lightheaded, slumping down at my desk, completely focused on smoking the entire bowl down as quickly as I could.

It was exhausting, but the bowl finally went out, and the smoke began to clear away from the dorm room…and I saw that, indeed, this package had been much, much larger than I had initially thought. My closet door was open, but instead of being filled to the brim with clothes I could no longer hope to fit, I saw it filled with shirts to fit my new physique…and a whole bunch of kilts–tartan, leather, denim. It was true, I had…really enjoyed wearing that kilt in my first package, and finally able to stand, I got up to take a closer look, and was overwhelmed with vertigo.

I was even taller now, by a few inches. My body had packed on muscle…and my entire frame was covered from top of foot to my back in bright red hair–and especially a thick, curly bush around my now ten inch cock. I lumbered over to the mirror in the dorm, and sure enough, my head and beard were the same bright red, and I noticed I had also received some tattoos–the scottish flag, my clan…yeah, my clan. I knew my fucking clan, and had the coat of arms tattooed across my entire back. My family had been in the states for a while, so I don’t have much of an accent, but…well, it comes out when I get a bit drunk. I had trophies from when I competed in the highland games, and others for weightlifting and powerlifting. Small packages indeed–and when Andy got his a week later, well…that’s when I knew we needed to do something about Mitch.