My Boys (Part 1)

It certainly wasn’t somewhere the three of them wanted to stop at for the night, but it was best they had seen for miles. Besides, this far from a city–not that they were really certain how far away from a city they were, at this point–a single story motel, an all-night diner and a small convenience store was obviously the best they would be getting this late at night. Bruce turned off the engine, exhausted after driving nearly the entire day–his two sons climbed out of the car, stiff and frustrated that their dad was so bullheaded when lost. They’d given up trying to get him to ask for directions, they’d just have to do it behind his back in the morning. Of course, for Bruce this was part of the fun of road trips. If you didn’t get at least a little lost, then how would you ever find something interesting?

Still, he was getting a bit too old for this, and his sons were a bit too old to keep humoring him for much longer. It had been fun, when they were little, to take these road trips–all three of them had sworn that they’d reach all forty-eight states together, but with college and internships and sports they’d been putting off this last leg for years–a trip through the upper midwest, from Iowa up through the Dakotas and Montana. It was clear to him, halfway, that he’d misjudged his now adult sons’ enthusiasm for the trip. They were just humoring him, really, and maybe he was just humoring himself too. Ever since Brianna had died a few years ago, he had to admit that he’d been in a funk. The road trip had seemed like…a way to get his old, younger self back. See something new, maybe. But in the end, he had to admit he was just fooling himself. They’d get back home in a week and a half, and she’d still be missing, the house too empty, his sons’ avoiding him.

“Do you want to get something to eat, Dad?” Nick asked. He was a year or two out of college, holding down a decent job. The younger son, Sean, was going to be a senior this year.

“You two go on and order me something, I’m gonna have a smoke.”

“Dad–”

“You won’t let me smoke in the car, so I’m gonna have a damn smoke.”

Sean was about to say something else, but Nick just dragged him along, knowing their dad well enough to let him be. The two of them had been trying to get him to stop smoking for years, especially after their mom died of cancer. Bruce knew he should quit, but he’d done it for so damn long–he was just happy his sons had never started–not that they’d taken after him much at all. He suspected that the reason he never saw them much was because neither of them had much love left for him, beyond that minimal amount that draws you back for the occasional holiday or two, with quiet dinners (quieter now, without Brie filling the vacuum with inane chatter he’d always hated, but which he now missed more every passing day) and this nagging expectation that things had always used to be better than this.

Nick and Sean stepped into the diner, he waited by the car for a moment, lighting one of his cigarettes. He only had a few left in the pack, so he might as well buy a few more. He walked towards the convenience store connected to the gas pumps, a few semis parked among them filling up, and a couple of rusted out, dirt crusted pickups, most likely owned by the farmers around here. As he walked, his nose caught a strange scent on the wind–it was smoke, but strangely sweet and floral. Curious, he began circling around to try and find the source of the smell, circling back behind the convenience store, where he found an older man smoking a large pipe.

The man had to be in his sixties or seventies, with a long white beard reaching town to his ample gut, his hair receding back into a overlong horseshoe of hair reaching the nape of his neck. He wasn’t particularly clean either–wearing just a grungy wife beater and a pair of jeans which had seen better days, and as he approached and got a better look at the short, fat man, he only grew more disgusted. Why was he even approaching him at all? The man had noticed him at this point, but paid Bruce’s approach little care, aside from a slight smile, revealing more than a few missing teeth.

“Howdy,” the man said when Bruce came close enough for a handshake, “Don’t see families like yours around here very often, that’s for sure.”

“I–I’m sorry,” Bruce said, “Who…are you?” His words felt silly and sluggish as the rolled out his mouth, and his cigarette tumbled from his slack lips. The old man stepped forward and put it out with a stomp of boot, coming closer to him.

“I just couldn’t help noticing what fine looking boys you have there,” the man said, “Handsome, strong. Always wanted boys like that of my own, you know. They don’t seem too fond of you. In fact, you don’t seem like a very good father figure at all, to me.”

Bruce wanted to storm off, get away, but the slackness had spread to the rest of his body, his mind increasingly numb. He was helpless as the old man unzipped each of their flies, reached in, and carefully freed both of their cocks. The old man was already hard, and with a few strokes Bruce was hard as well.

“It got me thinking–maybe you don’t deserve those boys. Maybe you can’t love those boys enough, the way they deserve to be loved. But I can, so why don’t I take things over from here?”

The old man pressed the heads of their cocks together, grabbed his long loose foreskin and stretched it out, so that it covered Bruce’s head, linking them together. Bruce had never felt anything like this before, and when the old man started stroking his cock, he felt…something start pumping from his balls, through his cock, directly into the old man’s sack. He tried to pull away, but the smoke had him tight within its clutch, and all he could do was watch as the old man’s face started to grow younger. No, more than younger, the more he pumped, the more he was certain that the old man was beginning to look like…him. That same broad nose, the man’s chin growing more angular. He was growing younger as well–his hair growing back in, though it remained the same semi-long, tangled mess as before–the same with the man’s beard, which turned to match Bruce’s own hair color, but remained just as long. All the while, Bruce was feeling weaker and weaker, smaller, like he was shrinking, his head…something was wrong with his head…

“Yeah, an old faggot like you, you don’t have sons. Hell, you don’t have anyone.”

Old…faggot? He tried to shake the words, but struck some odd, deep truth that he couldn’t avoid. Bruce shuddered, pumping the last of himself into the stranger’s heavy, full sack, and he stepped back, disconnecting them. When the man commanded him to strip, he did it without hesitation, putting on the man’s nasty clothes, which fit him better than the baggy things he’d been wearing. The man sucked on his pipe and examined the wallet he found in the back pocket of the jeans. “Bruce, eh? I can be a Bruce.”

“But…Bruce…my name.”

“Your name ain’t Bruce. Your name is Faggot. Now get out of here–go find some trucker dick to suck, and don’t come near me and my boys ever again, you hear me?”

Bruce watched the new old man, now nameless, totter off towards the trucks parked off by the gas pumps, and then walked towards the diner to join his new sons for dinner.

Father’s Rules (Part 5)

***Warning*** Darkness ahead.

The list began growing longer all over again. His dad would still bring home men, but now instead of just watching, Blake was forced to serve them and his dad sexually all night long. To further his sexual education, his daily routine of masturbation began incorporating any number of toys–at first, just dildos, but then also clamps, stretchers, pumpers–before long Blake was compelled to fuck his hole regularly as he masturbated, and had to wear a buttplug at work and the gym. His father forced him to have his nipples and cock pierced, and they were pumped and stretched as well. He fought, of course. He fought hard, but there was nothing he could do, except watch himself grow older and older in the mirror, his hair picking up strands, and then streaks of grey–though grey was a bit of a misnomer. He smoked so much, that they were really just yellow. His face grew wrinkled, his eyesight failing and forcing him to wear glasses. Eventually, one day–either from exhuatsion or simply terror at his own age, he decided to give in.

He worshiped his dad happily, cleaning his entire body every chance he could get. He would offer up any of his holes to any man his father took a liking to, and happily submit to any kind of sex. Slowly, he even began to forget that there was ever a time when he wasn’t his dad’s personal whore. Reality, thankfully, shifted with him. He went from being his father’s son to his brother. He hoped that would be enough for his father, he hoped that, maybe, he would let things slide, let the list die, so he could be free–instead, Saul saw his son’s new eagerness as an excuse to double down and force him to go even further.

He established a cum quota on the list–the number of loads Blake would have to swallow or take in his ass–raw–every day. The number began at a manageable five, but soon escalated to a nearly impossible fifty. Blake was forced to spend nearly every moment of his day seeking out men to service sexually–and he soon became a regular feature of local gloryholes, bathhouses and gay saunas, where he would occasionally collect enough loads to satisfy his father’s demands, but often his failure would simply mean disobedience, and he continued aging. He hoped that when he grew older than his own father, the list’s power would wane–but it made no difference, as he became his father’s older brother, resting in his upper fifties, once he realized how low he had to go in order to meet his father’s arbitrary quota.

His desperation had rooted out any remaining desire to disobey–he became meek and desperate to please, one eye always on the list, hoping it would finally shrink to nothing, but there was always something else–a new commandment that he drink ten loads of piss a day. Another, forcing him to eat his own cigar butts, as well as any cigarette or cigar butts he found, not to mention he would happily serve as a spittoon for anyone who asked. His nicotine addiction became crippling in short measure–before too long, simply smoking his cigars wasn’t enough for him–he would have to smoke and chew at the same time, swallowing his own foul spit, just to keep the tremors at bay, but finally, his father seemed pleased. He encouraged him, told him that his son had finally become a real man, and the praise…the praise made him so happy, it disgusted him. But the list waned, it waned slowly, but he held out hope that the end was finally in sight.

In those rare times when he was home alone, he would often just stand in the bathroom, staring at himself, trying to hold onto some bit of his past, trying to remember who he’d been. It had been a little over a year now. A whole year, and he was older than his father, his thick, tangled beard reaching down the length of his belly, his hair–what remained, at least, now that he was balding severely–reaching halfway down his back. He reeked all the time–like he hadn’t showered in ages, like a full ashtray someone had pissed in. His teeth had started rotting out of his months ago, and he’d gone into the dentist to get a full set of dentures. Saul and his friends appreciated it–he loved the feel of his “brother’s” gums around his cock, much more than teeth. All of his clothes were soaked with piss, cum, tobacco spit, ash and sweat–no one at work could get within a few feet without facing his stench. Yet, every time, in front of the mirror, cigar permanently clamped in his jaw, a huge wad of tobacco also pushing out his cheek, he would end up jacking off. He would jack off, staring at himself, because a part of him, a part of him growing larger every day, liked it. Liked how much he reeked, liked the feel of the dildo thrusting in and out of his loose hole, loved licking the cum from his gritty, filthy hands after he shot his load. Loved that he was a perverse, nasty old bear, constantly hungry for cum and piss and smoke. Despairing, he’d leave the bathroom, until even that despair abandoned him too. Until that became a routine too–after his father caught him–forced him to enjoy his new body, to feel confident in his perversity.

The list was almost empty again. Saul seemed to have forgotten about it, mostly–that, or Blake had finally become the disgusting pervert he’d always wanted, and had no more desire to change him. Just as Blake had suspected, it had been his father all along. Saul had given up pretending, at this point. He lorded it over him, that he could do whatever he wanted to him, and Blake couldn’t do anything to stop him. Hell, Blake didn’t want to stop him. He liked this. He liked being his father’s–no, not his father. He didn’t think of him as a father anymore, not really. His brother’s pig. His younger brother’s filthy sex pig. But then, his father brought home Anthony.

Father’s Rules (Part 4)

It wasn’t often that Saul didn’t manage to bring someone home–his standards were relatively low–or, he preferred his standards low. Blake was beginning to suspect it was a matter of choice more than anything. Hell, he’d watched his dad have sex with who knew how many men. Some of them he was certain were hobos he’d picked up off the streets. He was drawn to their desperation, it gave Saul a certain level of control over them that he couldn’t otherwise get, a form of control Blake was well acquainted with. He came home, and Blake sensed that he shouldn’t be there. He tried to excuse himself for a late night trip to the gym, but Saul grabbed his wrist and pulled him over the the couch, where he suggested he help his dad out with a blowjob first. Blake told him there was no way he would ever suck his dad’s cock, not after what he’d done to him. Saul slapped him. Blake tried to punch him, but couldn’t–as always. They fought for a moment, but Blake couldn’t keep him from the list, where his dad wrote:

My son must have sex with me whenever I want.

Blake tried to fight it, but his body is no longer interested in what he might think. His dad yanked down his filthy underwear and rammed his cock in his ass, Blake begging him to be gentler, but Saul just spanked his ass, telling him to fucking enjoy it, that this is how real men fuck. He came quickly, and stumbled off to his room where he passed out, Blake sobbing himself to sleep on the couch, staring at the list. He’d been close–so damn close…

Saul woke him up with his cock at five-thirty. Blake sucked him off. They went to work, together, Saul making him blow him in the truck on their mutual cigar and lunch break, and then came home. Blake had said nothing to him all day, and Saul tried to apologize, tried to tell his son that the list had made him do it. Blake exploded, calling his dad a rapist, calling him a pervert, and he stormed out, spending the rest of the afternoon and evening at the gym, trying to lift away his frustration, and he considered simply staying away entirely, and not going back. He didn’t have to go back there, he could just leave, but something…something dragged his feet back home…where he found his father, once again drunk off his ass, sitting on the couch, naked. Blake found himself sinking to his knees and licking his father’s filthy body clean, from his stinking pits and crusty feet, to his sweaty balls and ripe asscrack. Only then, could he finally beg his father to fuck his fat, nasty pighole. Saul was only too happy to oblige him, and it hurt, but not as much as the night before. In fact, Blake realized he’d soon be used to this, just like he’d gotten used to everything else. It was only afterward that he noticed the list had grown longer, again.

My son must worship and clean my body every day.

My son must beg for me to have sex with him at least three times a day.

Saul came up behind him, stinking of smoke and booze, and ran his hands over his son’s body, “You think I’m a pervert, son? Maybe so, but you’ll be a pervert soon enough too, begging me to fuck you every day, obsessed with my body. And last I checked, you can’t rape the very, very willing.”

“You sick fuck! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“No Blake–the question is what’s wrong with you! I think I’ve neglected a very important part of your education, Blake. I don’t think you’ve been properly introduced and educated in the ways of sex, and who better to show you then your father? I thought I was sparing you, by keeping this distance between us, but you haven’t really learned anything, have you? No, you’re still the same prick, you just look hotter. Well don’t worry–we’ll have you singing a different tune here soon. You’ll be a perfect fucking pigson.”

He shoved Blake against the wall, and Blake could smell him, smell them both. Smell the musk between them, the smoke from both of their cigars, the booze and coffee on their breath, and his cock…his fucking cock was getting hard. When Saul leaned in and kissed him, pushing smoke into his lungs, he tried to push him away, but his efforts grew weaker until he was kissing him back, their tongues exploring each other’s mouths. Their lips parted–Blake was panting, Saul at ease with a smirk.

“P-Please…” Blake said.

“Please what, son?”

He meant to ask him to stop–he really did. But what came out was Blake begging his father to fuck his face, his knees buckling, Saul only too happy to use his son’s throat. Blake tried to resist, but his hand found his way into his filthy briefs and started jacking his own cock, cumming even before his father did.

“I don’t think you’re going to be sleeping on the couch anymore, do you?”

Blake didn’t respond, and he tried to hold out for the whole night, but when he woke up to smoke a cigar, the longing in him was undeniable, and he climbed into bed with his father, asking him to for a midnight fuck while they smoked. So close–he’d been so damn close, but things were only going to get worse, Blake realized–or, from a different perspective, better–he thought, as his father wrapped him in his burly arms, cock still lodged in his ass, and they drifted to sleep.

Father’s Rules (Part 3)

Blake woke up, hungover, at six in the morning like always, only to discover more rules had been added to the list while he was asleep:

My son must masturbate to the smell of his own pits, his dirty underwear, and his father’s dirty underwear.

My son never showers, brushes his teeth, or cuts his hair or his beard.

His father had already left for work, and he spent the whole day fighting the new rules–trying to trick himself into getting wet and cleaning himself, but the best he could do was wash his hands–without soap. He was disgusted with himself, but he couldn’t stop from smelling himself, couldn’t stop smelling his dad’s underwear as he jacked off madly, soon falling back into his routine of smoking, drinking, eating and jacking off. He had to do something, he had to. He held out for about a week, but finally, he broke down sobbing one morning, begging his father not to leave him alone in the apartment, that he couldn’t take this anymore.

“I tried to be reasonable.”

“I know, but please, I’m sorry. Whatever you want. I’ll do anything, just…just make it so I don’t have to smell myself, please, I fucking reek…but I’m starting to like it dad, I’m starting to fucking like it!”

Blake looked up at his dad, but Saul was looking away from him. Why couldn’t he look at him? Finally, he responded. “I can’t. I can’t erase the rules I made. That’s not how it works.”

Blake just stared at him. “W-What?”

“The list is educating you, Blake. The rules don’t disappear until you follow them without even thinking about them. Until you don’t even realize you’re following them. Until you want to follow them. Do you remember that first rule I made? About you masturbating?”

Blake nodded.

“Go look for it.”

It wasn’t on the list. It should have been at the top, but he’d become so used to spending almost his entire day jacking off…he hadn’t even noticed when it had disappeared. “How…how long has it been gone?”

“Probably two weeks now.”

“You mean…you mean I’ve been jacking off this much on my own…for two fucking weeks?”

“You’re going to be jacking off like that for the rest of your life son, trust me. You couldn’t do it less if you tried. Look at those fucking balls on you, I mean, they’re fucking huge. You’re made to pump cum out now, son, you don’t have a choice anymore.” Saul looked away again, “Look, the list…the list wants me to punish you, Blake. To be honest..I don’t remember writing those last two rules, I just don’t. But I thought…I thought about them and they just…appeared on the list. I don’t know what it’ll do if you keep fighting me. Please, for your own sake, just…let’s figure out what to do together, alright? You’re already thirty or so…if you aren’t careful, you’re going to be as old as me before too much longer.”

Blake didn’t want to believe him, but did he have much of a choice? Even if his dad was lying to him and had written those rules…if Blake didn’t obey, something worse was bound to happen, regardless whether it was his dad doing it sadistically, or the list itself forcing his hand.

“I should never have done this to you, I know that. But if you just…if you be good, it’ll be over soon enough. I promise. I figured it out when I was a kid, when my dad did this to me. I know you can get past it too.”

Together, they sat down and talked–for the first time, really. Saul suggested that, if he wanted to get out of the apartment, then the best thing he could do was get a job. Blake didn’t know what sort of job he could get, however, looking like he did–so his dad asked his bosses at the construction company he worked for, and they agreed to hire his son on a temporary basis, to see what he could do. It was hard work, for sure, but with his dad helping him–and with a few rules urging him on to be a hard worker and quelling some of his…nastier…urges while he was out in public, Blake was given a full time position after a few months. His dad helped him out with a few other rules as well–especially by requiring Blake to lift weights regularly at the local gym. It didn’t change the fact that he was well past obesity, but before too long, between the hard labor and the weightlifting, he’d gone from total pudge to a 400 hundred pound, chubby bull. He’d stopped aging as well, now that he was cooperating, and was holding stable at thirty-two years old.

Many times, Blake asked his father to make some rules that might help offset his earlier punishments. The guys at work complained about how bad he smelled, for one thing, and his hair and beard were simply unmanageable, and seemed to only be getting longer. He also wanted him to help him cut back on the cigars. The addiction had gone from constant to nearly crippling. He could barely last half an hour without smoking one, and he’d usually have to get up three or four times in the night just to satisfy his nicotine craving. His dad said that there was simply nothing he could do. The list refused to accept any rules that would reverse earlier changes–he could try to balance the equation with other rules as best he could, but there was only so much he could do.

Blake was becoming more and more certain that Saul wasn’t telling him the whole truth–and that the real reason he wouldn’t change him back was because he liked his new son better than his old one. Granted, Blake liked his dad better too, now that they had more common interests, but he still couldn’t forgive him for doing this to him. Still, he couldn’t deny that there was an attraction there. He’d been watching his dad fuck for so long, that he started to…admire him, and the way Saul would look at him sometimes…that worried him even more. Still, he watched the list grow shorter and shorter by the day, doing his best to follow the rules to the exact wording, feeling them become a second nature to him, so he could finally be free of the curse. But then, one night his dad went out to the bar, but didn’t get lucky with anyone–and returned home very drunk, and very, very horny.

Father’s Rules (Part 2)

Blake woke up at six o’ clock on the couch, right on the dot, like someone had thrown a switch. He looked up at saw his dad was up as well, dressed in his clothes for work, next to the list of rules on the wall.

“What, watching me sleep, pervert?” Blake said, sitting up.

“No, I was just waiting for you to wake up–no more sleeping in for you. Up at six o’ clock every morning, whether you like it or not. Now I have to get going to the site, but I wanted to make sure you saw your new rules.

Blake looked at the list, and saw a number of new entries had appeared:

My son will consume at least one pot of black coffee and at least 2000 calories between six A.M. and noon.

My son will consume at least one twelve pack of beer and 4000 calories between noon and midnight

My Son will consume at least six cigars a day.

“What the fuck? But what about school?”

“Both of us know you weren’t even going to school when you could go to school. No, I think you’ll be staying here for a while, where I can keep an eye on you, son.”

Blake tried to protest, but Saul just left the apartment, abandoning him to his rules. The first few days he fought–but his body wouldn’t let him disobey. His father had kept the house stocked with plenty of food–almost all of it fatty snack foods, and since he couldn’t count calories easily, he’d just eat until the hunger died away, usually jacking off as he did to get to fifteen ejaculations by the end of the day. He was a mess the first week. The second week he managed better, but by the third week, his father increased the numbers–two pots of coffee, 9000 calories a day, eighteen beers, and ten cigars. Almost every night, his father would bring home another man to fuck around with, and he’d managed to find a quite a few guys who didn’t mind Max watching them fuck, while he drank his beers and smoked his cigars, but he couldn’t keep doing this, he just couldn’t.

He got a knife from the kitchen and tried to attack his dad when he got home one evening, but the list wouldn’t let him harm Saul, he couldn’t even bring himself to try and land a blow on him. So Saul made a new rule that Blake had to eat all of his own cum. He lasted two days before he finally broke down, sobbing. He couldn’t live like this, he had to get out of the apartment. He felt sick all the time, his cock was chaffed, the smoke hurt his lungs, he couldn’t take it anymore. He’d do anything, anything Saul wanted him to do, if he could just go back to being a normal teenager again.

Saul didn’t do or say anything right away. Then, he laughed. “Teenager?” he asked, “Son, you haven’t been a teenager for quite a while now.”

Blake just looked at him, confused. Saul rolled his eyes. “It usually takes a few days for your head to catch up and fill in, but you’ll figure it out. Now, I’m fucking beat–I’m gonna go jack off if you wanna watch, and then I’m going to bed.”

Blake figured out what his dad was talking about the next day, when he finished taking one of his long beer pisses, and caught sight of himself in the mirror. He was a mess, of course. He eyes were bloodshot, and he’d gained quite a bit of weight from his binging. Too much weight, really. It had only been a month–he managed to dig an old scale out from under the sink, and sure enough, he’d gone from one hundred and fifty pounds to two hundred and sixty in less than a month. That didn’t make sense, did it? Then again, he hadn’t weighed one fifty since he was in high school, so–

He ran that thought back. Since he was in high school? He was still in high school…wasn’t he?

He knew the answer. He’d dropped out when he was sixteen–he was too lazy to do much of anything beyond smoke, drink, eat and jack off in his dad’s apartment. He looked at himself in the mirror, and he did look older–like he was probably around twenty seven or so, not sixteen. He freaked out–all he could think to do, however, was drink more beer and smoke more cigars, anything to calm him down until his dad got home from work, and Blake demanded answers.

“The more you fight it, the more you age, son. That’s how it works. And you become whatever the rules you’re following think you should be. You’re a fucking slob now, son. You stink–Have you even showered this week? You didn’t even notice the beard either I bet–hell, it almost reaches your chest–the same with that hair of yours.”

“No…no, this is insane.”

“No, this is your fucking punishment. But if you’re ready to grow up and be a man, then we can have a conversation about what your rules might be, but–”

“Fuck you!” Blake screamed, tried to punch him, but he only hit air, “I fucking hate you! I don’t fucking care what you do, fuck you!”

Saul scowled, “I’m trying to be patient. My dad wasn’t this patient with me, but I know how it feels. If you just cooperate…”

Saul could see Max wasn’t listening, so he shrugged, and went to bed; Max sat on the couch and did his best to keep his hand away from his cock, but he…he simply couldn’t. He was addicted to masturbation as he was to the cigars he was smoking and the cheap beer he was guzzling. What was this list doing to him? Hell, what was his dad doing to him? He was beginning to suspect this was less about punishment and more about his own father’s twisted imagination, but what could he do?

Albert’s Last Party (Part 2)

The revelers began to arrive, and the house was oddly quiet–usually Albert had the stereo going early, but the young men approached the house, not really paying attention as the girls arriving turned away, each of them suddenly realizing they had better ways of spending their time. The young men entered, and found the foyer littered with small, wrapped boxes–all of them with names on the tags, aside for a few left aside, unnamed, for anyone who had come uninvited or unexpected. The young men were suspicious, but the tags were all written in Albert’s hand writing. Still, a few managed to resist the pull and left–good for them, they didn’t deserve to be punished, in my opinion. Others were greedy enough to open the boxes, revealing a pipe of their own given from my collection–and found themselves unable to resist packing them with the provided tobacco and lighting them up, the room full of smoke, as they filed their way down the basement stairs, where they found that the rec room–the usual dance floor–had been converted into a sex dungeon, and that there in the center of the room, chained into a sling, was Albert.

None of them knew how they knew it was Albert–but they knew. They also knew that they were here to help punish him–and more than a few, I could sense, also could tell that they might be down here to be punished as well. I was next to Albert, no longer wearing a suit, but my own leather gear, smoking a huge boswell pipe, and watched as they lined up at my boy’s ass, the first in line stripping off his clothes, stroking his cock hard, before pushing it into his friend’s ass.

I took this chance to poke around in his mind, seeing what kind of person he was. The first was lazy, greedy, and had raped several young girls at previous parties of Albert’s. By the time he came, I had shrunk his height to just under five feet, his cock to a meager one inch nub–he went and climbed into a sling as well, one thick hand toying with his loose, eager hole. One by one, the men filled my boy’s hole with their cum, and I judged them–some deserved leniency–I let them go on their way, though they would remain pipe smokers for the rest of their lives–a reminder that they should behave. Most, though, remained. I changed them as they fucked–my boy’s hole. Thick, burly, hairy bruisers covered with tattoos and hair, all of them dumb as rocks and no longer able to even think about something beyond their cocks. Other’s grew soft and fat, smoother, finding their minds consumed with various hungers–food, cum, piss, musk, filth. Before the line had ended, the room around us had turned into an orgy–the first in line taking town fists in his hole, another obese man surrounded by a group of muscle bears, bathing in their piss and cum, other’s in pairs and triples, exploring each other’s bodies and various holes, hungrily sharing fluids and smoke. But finally the last one finished his fuck, and joined the others, allowing me to finally take my turn at my boy’s hole.

Boy. It was tongue and cheek now. Every load of cum had aged him, and Albert now looked to be in his mid fifties, only a few years younger than I appeared. His massive beard was a tangled mass with a streak of white down the middle, his body covered with a riot of tattoos, his head bald aside from a short horseshoe of grey. His hole was loose and slick with cum, but he wanted to please me. He’d forgotten all about the old Albert at this point–now, he remembered something entirely different. How he’d pledged his life to me, promised to be my horny, cock hungry and cum starved fuckslave for the rest of his days. I came, and several men returned for seconds helpings of his hole–one especially filthy looking bear more interested in eating the cum from it and licking it off the floor than anything else. I took a tour of the room, filling in gaps here, intensifying a fetish there, cementing a relationship or two in stone. It was early morning by the time I was satisfied, and the men, all of them exhausted, but still sucking smoke from their pipes, filed their way back up from the basement, their old clothes and old lives forgotten in heaps left on the basement floor.

In the entry way, there were more gifts–larger ones this time, again with their names on the tag. New lives for all of them–they had all wasted the silver spoon gifted to them by their parents, and so I saw no reason why they shouldn’t have to work just as hard as I had, if they wanted to reclaim the quality of life they’d wasted partying, and ruining my sleep. Dirt crusted construction workers, grimy trash collectors, older men in cheap suits still plugging away at dead end office jobs–those were the lucky ones. Others became sex addled, unemployed rednecks who’d lived in the same filthy single wide trailers their whole lives, homeless bikers who spent their time whoring their bodie out at truck stops, and the worst became derelicts who spent their time begging for piss and cum outside of gay bars in the city. But none of them knew lives other than those any longer, and I didn’t regret it, watching them stumble out to their trucks and motorcycles and beat up sedans, driving off into the dawn, leaving me and my fat, old boy alone, and we returned to my–well, our–home.

The couple returned from their vacation on Monday, now childless, and stopped by to thank me and my “boy” for watching the house for them while they were away. I told them it had been no trouble at all, and we would be happy to do it again in the future. In fact, I had quite enjoyed that party I’d thrown, not that I told them about that, and figured I might host a few more with the men I’d changed in the future, to check on their progress. They did have one question which almost got me to laugh–there as a strange stain that had appeared on the Persian rug in the entryway–they wanted to know if either of us knew what had happened.

I shared a knowing look with my old boy through the haze of our pipe smoke, but told them no, neither of us had any idea. Still, if they needed help getting it out, I had an old secret for stains–it worked like magic.

Albert’s Last Party (Part 1)

Look, I’ve worked hard my whole life. I saved my money so I could retire and move into a neighborhood like this, a neighborhood where I expected there to be some standards, where I could expect quiet weekends, not like the city apartments I’d grown up in, listening to rude neighbors and loud parties while I was just trying to relax after a long week. Things had changed, however–some people just didn’t know how to respect others at all. Such was the case with my next door neighbor’s bratty son, currently a sophomore in some expensive ivy league college he didn’t deserve to be attending, but now home for the summer making me miserable. His parents were nice enough, but they were jet setters–which meant that nearly every weekend was spent in some other luxurious resort or foreign country, leaving their house in the hands of their irresponsible son, and the parties! They shook the foundations, I swear, and the cops wouldn’t do anything about it, since his father was very active in local politics. So I decided, one week, that I’d had enough.

I had a friendly chat with his father, asking about their future travel plans–they were taking a long weekend to London in a few weeks, leaving Thursday and returning Monday morning–more than enough time for my plan to work. You see, I inherited from my grandfather a…peculiar knack for magic. It had served me well in life, when I needed it–of course I got to where I was through my diligence and strength of character, but the extra boost on occasion did help, I must admit, but I hadn’t seen fit to use it in years. I dusted off my grimoires and brushed up on the various spells I’d be needing, and on the Friday morning after his parents had left for London, there was a ring from the doorbell, and an anonymous gift left on the doorstep–a small package, rather innocuous, with his name, “Albert” on the tag. I counted on him being more greedy than he was suspicious–it was an easily winnable bet, and he disappeared inside with my gift as I watched from the sidewalk, invisible to any normal person’s naked eye.

I waited a few hours. A few excruciatingly long hours, for someone who has some experience waiting. I suppose you don’t know very much about me, now do you? I probably look like I’m in my sixties to you–but the truth is I’m ninety-seven this year–thanks to a good dose of magic on occasion. That said, I enjoy being older–my portly gut, my hairy belly, relaxing around my lavish house smoking any number of pipes from my exquisitely curated collection. Yes, I’m a lifelong pipe smoker–every man needs a vice, right? I have hundreds in my possession, and I know all of them well, but I can sacrifice something I love in order to get what I want, on occasion.

As afternoon settled into evening, I walked from my house, no longer invisible, wearing one of my suits and carrying another package, looking like everything is perfectly normal, and knock on my neighbor’s door. And then I knock again. I can feel him in there, sense that his mind is…somewhat preoccupied, and give him a telepathic nudge as I knock a third time. A few moments later, I hear the lock in the door turn, and it opens, revealing Albert, one of my pipes locked in his teeth, billowing smoke. He’s naked, and from how he’s breathing, I can tell that I just interrupted him jacking off. He’d probably been jacking off for quite a while at this point, judging from redness of his shaft, but that isn’t all that’s happened to him.

Albert had always been chubby, with a shaved head and face, and a mostly smooth body I’d noticed watching him swim in the pool his parents kept in the backyard. However, nearly all of that had changed. He had a full beard, already several inches long. Hair had filled in all over his body, most noticeably in a thick bush around his cock, and he’s packed on close to fifty pounds, a huge belly jutting out in front of him, along with flabby moobs pierced with two metal rings he hadn’t had earlier. He stares at me, not knowing what to think of me anymore, looking me up and down, his eyes lingering over my own pipe and gut, until he mutters a one word question, “D-Daddy?”

“What of it, boy?” I ask, reaching out and twisting one of his nipple rings. He grabs my hand and pulls me inside, shutting the door behind us, gets down on the entry rug, his ass towards me, and who am I to resist such an invitation? The boy has needed a good fucking over for ages, really, and he groans and grunts like a pig, chuffing out smoke like a life long addict, and I watch his hair spread over his back and ass, his beard growing even longer. He cums several times just from my big cock buried in his ass, spoiling his parent’s obviously Persian rug, before I cum deep inside him.

“Tell me boy,” I ask, huffing after I pull my cock from his hole, “are you having one of your parties tonight?”

“Yes…yes, daddy.”

“Good, because it’s going to be a party you and all of your obnoxious friends won’t be forgetting for a long, time. Now go get dressed, we have to get ready for the party, don’t we?”

He stands up, my cum dribbling down one leg, and he turns to me. I can tell he wants to fight it, that he wants to yell and scream, but when I lean in and kiss him, shoving my smoke into his lungs, he simply melts into me, hungry for smoke, hungry for cock, hungry for daddy. So much hungrier than angry, and when we break apart, the thought of fighting has dissipated again. I put my suit back together, and drop the package at his feet. “Here are your party clothes, boy. I have some stuff to bring over, and I expect you to be dressed by the time I get back.”

Indeed. I had initially planned on just taking Albert down a notch or two, but as I’d been dipping my toes into magic again, I’d thought–why stop at Albert? All of his friends deserved a little comeuppance too. And so, I came back with a whole box filled with little gifts, and to find Albert fully dressed in his new leather chaps, vest, boots and collar. I checked his hole as well, and he’d even put in the buttplug without argument–such a good boy already. I set him to the work of filling in the gift tags with the names of all the boys he knew would be attending tonight’s party, while I got to work on the house. We only had a few hours after all, and we had to make sure everything was perfect.

Family Heritage – Part 2 (Patreon Commission)

Grant had received a steady stream of packages from his grandfather’s estate since the first a few months ago. The pace was so rapid that his apartment quickly was becoming cluttered with his things. His mind was becoming rather cluttered as well–there was so much to study, so much to process, and he just didn’t know where to even begin his studies. Quite a few of the boxes had simply been filled with books–everything from spellbooks and alchemical references to family memoirs and genealogies, while others contained jumbled collections of pipes, alchemical materials, and one shipment was simply a massive chest with no hinges or sign that it could even be opened. But perhaps what was most frustrating was that he had no way of testing his new powers. He lived in the middle of a large city–he couldn’t just go around casting spells on random people, especially when he couldn’t even be sure he was doing it right. He could try them on himself, but if something went wrong, then he might not be able to fix it at all.

Given that his apartment was quickly becoming a mess and a laboratory, the few times he escaped were to either go to work, where he mostly thought about magic, or heading over to visit Aaron, where he could get away from the books and spells for a bit and just be a person again–and fuck around of course. If there was anything his new body loved to do, it was fuck. Still, Aaron could sense something was bothering him, and Grant couldn’t exactly confide in him about his new hobby. Grant pulled away, and Aaron couldn’t figure out how to get him to open up. Finally, they had a raging argument over Grant’s constant pipe smoking–something Aaron couldn’t stand–and Grant stormed out of the apartment. Aaron pouted for a couple of hours, and decided he had to figure out what was wrong with his boyfriend.

Grant, however, had spent those few hours in his apartment, surrounded by his grandfather’s things, fuming smoke. He was just so frustrated, and Aaron didn’t understand anything! His family had always been known as hotheads, but it was never a trait Grant had struggled with, but now…he simply couldn’t stop being angry. He could feel everything in the apartment resonating with his anger as well, books falling from shelves, liquids boiling in their jars. If anything, all of the energy stored up in the place was shaking, desperate to get out, along with his anger. And so, when Aaron knocked on the door, and Grant flung the door open, and they started shouting at each other all over again in Grant’s living room, it only grew worse. The walls and floor started to creak and shake, and Aaron saw Grant’s hair start to swirl out as though lifted by an invisible wind. Terrified, he backed towards the door, but it was locked by some invisible force.

Grant, however, in the middle of the storm, felt both incredibly calm and impossibly tense at the same time. He was desperately trying to wrangle together his thoughts. He was angry–angry at Aaron for wanting to intrude. Angry at himself, for keeping him at a distance. In love with him, even though he knew he could never bring him close enough to love him completely. If only. If only Aaron was someone closer. If only Grant could protect him. If only Aaron could love him completely. If only, if only, if only, and the power building in him twisted those desires into a ball of light and smoke, and flung it directly into Aaron’s chest.

The collision was blinding. Aaron felt it infuse every part of his body with light, heating him up, changing him…somehow. It was hot as well, so hot, it felt like his mind was boiling and shifting, like he wasn’t quite himself anymore, and even as he felt that strange idea in his mind, he couldn’t quite remember how he’d used to be to even make the comparison. For Grant, the flash passed in an instant, searing his eyes, and he blinked a few times, but in the aftermath, Aaron was gone–or at least, the Aaron that had been there moments before was gone. In his place was someone new–or at least, Grant thought he was new.

He was quite a bit shorter, for one, and much wider. Aaron had been a bit of a beanpole in shape, but now he couldn’t have been more that five and a half feet tall, but his trunk was packed with fat and muscle, making him take up plenty of space, his legs thick, heavy and a bit bowed, with a thick, hefty cock hanging down, his sack hanging a bit lower even. He was covered in hair, almost as much as Grant, all of it a light strawberry blonde, including a bushy goatee centered in a round face topped with short bristly hair. And his eyes. He was looking at Grant, but with a look he’d never seen in Aaron. He wasn’t just horny, it wasn’t just love, it was hunger, and the naked cub tromped towards Grant while he couldn’t move, got down under his kilt, and started sucking on his cock.

What had he just done? He could feel the magic still reverberating around the room, waves of it washing back over him, and each wave brought an onslaught of thoughts and memories that hadn’t been there before. The first evaporated his anger, converting it into lust. Lust for his boy, lust for his cub. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this hard, and he started thrusting into Aaron’s open mouth, feeling his entire cock slip effortlessly down his boy’s well trained throat. Another wave rocked him, and he felt his chest well up with love, but a different kind of love than he’d felt for Aaron before. It wasn’t a cautious love, it was now impossible to deny, as though it was built into his very bones. His son–he’d do anything for him, anything he could to protect him and keep him safe. Another wave, and his old memories of Aaron faded into a dim backdrop as others filled in. How he’d raised him from a small lad, how he’d become closer to him than anyone else, how they knew each other’s bodies intimately. Aaron’s blow job suddenly intensified–he knew exactly where to tease his daddy, exactly how to push him close to the edge without sending him over. But Grant knew what he really wanted. He wanted his boy’s ass today.

He pulled his son out from under his kilt and hauled him up, leaning over him, feeding his smoke from his pipe for a few minutes, before pulling him over to the couch, sitting him down on it, facing him, so they could keep kissing while he fucked his son. He couldn’t believe what he’d done. How could he forgive himself? He locked eyes with Aaron, and felt another wave push through him. Then again, there was nothing to forgive, was there? He thrust inside his boy’s perfect hole, hearing him gasp in pleasure, reached down, and started milking his thick cock with one hand while thrusting inside him. They exploded together, and it felt like the air around them finally settled again, the chaotic spell finally finished. They shared a bit more smoke, Grant staying inside his son’s ass a bit longer, as he softened. He’d have to fix this, of course–but maybe…maybe for just a while, he could enjoy this, and be happy.

Baby Bear – Part 3

Such a sweet baby bear. A fighter to the end. But now those big eyes of his are empty, ready to be filled with whatever I want–still, that can wait until morning. He’s very tired after all of that, and so am I for that matter. I get him changed into a fresh diaper and then put him to bed–he’s sleeping in the nursery now, of course, not the guest room. He’s so cute in his crib, binky in his mouth, clutching a blanket.

The next morning, I wake him up, and after a morning blow job, I see what remains after the battle the night before. He is quite stupid, I must say. A pity too–I was hoping he’d be smart. I’d been wanting to raise a businessman, but it looks like I’ll have to change my plans. His vocabulary is very simple, his math and reasoning skills are stunted. Still, he has a good sense of humor, and goodness is he eager to please! That’s such a good sign–that means he’ll be all grown up again in no time at all.

Of course, the first few months were spent getting baby to a place where we could start his education proper. Helping him remember how to walk, for instance. He may have been a baby, but I certainly couldn’t carry him everywhere, especially with his developing appetite. This was going to be a chubby bear, I’d already decided–he’d arrived husky, and I wanted to see what he looked like with some more meat on his bones. And of course, I reinforced his oral fixation–he just wasn’t happy without something in his mouth. That helped inspire his new name, too–Orel. A good name for a fatass, dumb baby bear who loves to suck on anything he can get his mouth around.

After those first few months, he was finally walking again, and had recovered some of his vocabulary, but not very much at all. I realized I was going to have to lower my expectations for Orel rather substantially. That’s not to say I don’t love him! I love all my boys, but some rise higher than others. Once I felt like I could trust him to not drop it, I got him smoking. All my boys smoke, of course, just like their daddy. We started with cigarettes, and once the addiction had him smoking two packs a day, I switched him to cigars, which he enjoyed much more, because, as he said with his characteristic enthusiasm, “they’re shaped like cocks!” That had him so excited, he giggled about it all day, but watching him suck on those tobacco shafts sure did get me hornier for his throat more than anything else.

He stayed with me for a few years. Pretty soon, he was tipping the scales at 400 pounds, and it was getting hard to find diapers large enough for him to wear. Potty training was proving difficult. In fact, it seemed that he liked soiling himself. Of course, all my boys like it to some extent–it reminds them of their second childhood more than anything else–but for Orel, he eventually confessed that he just liked how it felt to have a heavy diaper on, that it made him feel like a bad boy who needed to be punished by his daddy with a fuck or a spanking. He liked feeling like a bad boy, he added, and then he giggled like a fool. I suppose I shouldn’t have been all that surprised–someone who’d put up as much of a fight as he did was bound to have a rebellious streak in him, so I decided to just go along with it and encourage him. If he wanted to be stuck in diapers for the rest of his life, then so be it–I certainly wasn’t going to complain about it–but forcing him to take responsibility for it…well, that proved to be a bit harder.

Sometimes, I’m sure he just forgot to change himself, but other times, I knew he’d just keep his filthy diaper on because he liked it. He liked being dirty, and he liked being a slob. Part of that was my fault, I suppose. I’d conditioned him to enjoy humiliation, especially being belittled for how stupid he was, and so it isn’t surprising that he enjoyed the fact that he was a sat around in his own filth as well, but It was a bit of a complication in my plans. By this time, he was pretty much all grown up again–just another one of my bears–and that meant it was time for him to move out and move on with his new life. But to do that, well, he needed a job, but that was going to be a challenge. He was too stupid to do anything with a computer from home, which would have let him be as much of a slob as he’d like, and he couldn’t do anything social with his poor hygiene and lackluster social skills. Thankfully, one of my other boys, Barry, came through for me. He had a fuckbuddy who ran a delivery company, and he was willing to let Orel drive one of his trucks. He’d be working nights, so he wouldn’t have to talk to many people, and as long as he could drive well enough, and provide his boss with a throat to fuck on occasion, it would work out fine. Now all I had to do was teach him to drive–a challenge, but not an insurmountable one, and giving him something that he could succeed at made Orel happy. “I might be dumb as a rock, ‘n I might be a nasty poopypants, and I’s a fat slut for sure, but at least I can drive a damn truck, right Daddy?” he told me one day with that big grin of his, sitting in the driver seat of the truck we were using for driver’s education and I could tell everything would work out alright for my baby bear in the end. Now I just had to get to work on finding one to replace him.

Baby Bear – Part 1

I was a junior, and I was sick and tired of living in the dorms on campus. The creaking heaters that refused to turn off, the mold, the toilets that couldn’t flush shit–all of the buildings should have been razed twenty years ago, but school instead had built a bunch of other dorms they could charge more for, that I couldn’t afford, naturally. So I figured, “Fuck it,” and I managed to find a room to rent a few blocks from campus from a nice older gentleman named Willard. He’d lived in the neighborhood for years, but he told me when I came to see the room that he didn’t really need the rent money–he just hated being all alone in the house more than anything else, and so he usually rented it out to students at the local college for some company, and to help the house feel “lived in.” It was a little pitiful, but the rent was so cheap, I figured I could give him some company on occasion.

In fact, as the first semester wore on, I discovered that Willard was one of the best landlords a college student could ask for. He had dinner for me every evening if I was home–all I had to do was give him some extra money for the grocery bill. He was a bit of an insomniac, and since I often stayed up late studying, he let me use his office to work in, and he would sit in there with me, usually smoking a pipe, and we would chat. It never really struck me as odd, however, that I never seemed able to remember the things we’d talked about, or even remember doing any work for my classes. He started sitting in the study wearing less and less clothing, usually opting for an open robe, his cock hanging out, and I was, for some reason, completely unfazed as we chatted, his pipe billowing smoke, while we both had some of his whiskey.

Those first few weeks, I also noticed that, for a lonely old man, he sure did seem to have quite a few visitors who came around regularly. Some were only a bit older than me, while a few others were approaching middle aged, but they all seemed very familiar with him. They shared some other similarities too–they all were smokers, and all of them were big, hairy, burly guys. One other thing, is that they all gave me this…look. Like they were trying to suppress a laugh, or were in on some joke I had no idea about yet. I suppose I should have seen something coming, but I was just oblivious.

Then, during midterms, I wet the bed for the first time. I was mortified–I couldn’t remember the last time I’d done something like that. I managed to get the sheets through the washer and dryer without Willard noticing, but the next night it happened again. I knew I couldn’t tell him, I was too embarrassed, and yet, in his study that night, it all came tumbling out, how ashamed I was of it, how I couldn’t believe I’d lost control like that, how I was afraid I’d do it for a third night in a row. He was very understanding, holding me close on his lap until I’d stopped sobbing, and then he suggested that I start wearing diapers every night “as a precaution”.

I should have thought he was crazy. I should have left right then and never come back. But for whatever reason, his suggestion just made perfect sense to me. Diapers–of course I should just wear diapers. I never asked why he already had a supply ready for me–he just helped me strip, got me powdered and diapered, and put me to bed with a kiss on the cheek like all of this was perfectly normal. I woke up with a heavy, cold, wet diaper, but Willard was there, ready to get me changed out of it. I never bothered asking why he was so intent on helping me–I just let him, and then I went off to school like everything was normal, until a few weeks later, when I wet myself during a lecture.

I couldn’t stop it. I noticed after a few seconds, feeling my crotch turn warm, but I couldn’t do anything. I panicked. I heard it dribbling off the seat and onto the tile floor. I could smell it. I grabbed my things as quickly as I could, and fled the room, piss still running down my leg and into my shoe, and I didn’t stop running until I got home. Sobbing, I was barely able to get the words out to Willard to tell him what happened to me. He seemed…perfectly fine with it, as he hugged me tight, and when he told me that I would just have to start wearing diapers all the time from now on, it seemed like a perfectly reasonable suggestion. He helped me out of my wet jeans and underwear, got a diaper for me and helped me into it. But this time…this time, something else happened. I got hard. I got hard in the diaper–just the feeling of it was turning me on, and I started…doing things. Humping the air, grinding my crotch into Willard’s side, and my landlord shoved his hand down into the front of the diaper, finding my hard cock, and started jacking me off, his other hand pulling my face to his, and he kissed me deeply, shoving his tongue into my mouth, the taste of his pipe overpowering everything else.

I ended up on my knees, his old, hard cock working its way into my throat. I couldn’t put my hand in my diaper for some reason, and so I was forced to rub my cock through it, humping it, getting myself closer to cumming, but he came first, filling my mouth with cum. Even though I knew I had never sucked him off before, the taste was so familiar and comforting, and I came soon after that, filling my diaper with a load of cum. I pulled away from his cock and licked my lips. He said, “Time to remember everything, Baby Bear–we should have a talk,” and suddenly I could remember everything.

And never have I felt so used in my entire life.