Tag: smoke

I knew his type. They only come on Friday nights. Wealthy, but not wealthy enough for true luxury. Closeted out of the fear that coming out would jeapordize their climb up the corporate ladder. They only fuck men who they would never see in the city. They also want to fuck us out of a twisted desire they barely understand. They want to be cruel, they spend a career climbing up the backs of hard working men like us, and fucking us is just that last humiliating victory they need to feel justified. They don’t want our names, only give out aliases of their own, and they can’t look us in the eye. This one gave the name Dave–and I made him keep it.

He arrived too early in the day, fresh off work. Like many, he was still in a suit, smoking a pipe. I came later, and he was still looking. You see, some of us just can’t resist that aura–the fantasy. They just haven’t been burned enough. They see that suit, they see that money, that mid-shelf whiskey double in the glass, and they think, “Maybe he wants me, the real me.” But they don’t, and that hope, fuck, they feed on it, they fucking suck it out of us, but I’ve had enough of it, I’ve had enough of them, and I sat down at the bar next to him, and he smelled me, and he smirked. I was the one, he thought, I was the one he wanted, even though he didn’t really know why.

He introduced himself. I remained aloof. This confused him, and he pressed harder for conversation. I berated him, and as insulted as he was, he wanted me more and more. He bought me a drink and tried to drug it; I left it untouched. He bought four more doubles for himself, and got plastered. We ended up in the back of my truck, his tongue all over my body before I skull fucked him. He couldn’t get enough of me, and the whole time, I could see his confusion. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. He was supposed to string me along. He was supposed to have the reins, he was supposed to be on top, this was supposed to be about him, about his manhood, about his pride, about his need to be in control. When I ordered him to cum, with his mouth buried in my asscrack, and he stroked his cock off, he didn’t want that to happen, he hadn’t wanted any of this, and yet he’d never said no. I dropped him off at his sedan without a word.

He was back on Saturday night. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about me. He’d spent the whole day at home, mouth dry, hands shaking, horny as hell but unable to cum. He wasn’t in a suit this time, just a shirt and jeans, still smoking a pipe. I made him plead and beg in the bar, in front of everyone. I ridiculed him some more, because I enjoyed watching him want me more after every barbed insult. I got him drunker than the night before and brought him all the way home this time, to my single wide trailer, to my floor littered with beer cans, to my bed covered with sheets I haven’t changed in a year, the whole place stinking of me. As much as it disgusted him, as much as he loathed everything the place stood for, he fell into it. The sweatier and hotter we got the more of himself he lost until he was at my feet, whimpering, sucking my toes, words lost, desire at the center of his mind.

I kept him for five days. I pimped him out to my bar buddies. I made him ditch his pipe, and forced him to smoke the cheapest cigars I could buy at the reservation smoke shop. And after five days, when he reached that limit of both saturation and exhaustion, I dumped him at his car with a note. Well, really it was a to do list. Everything he had to do, if he ever wanted to see me again, if he ever wanted to taste me, if he ever wanted to smell me, if he ever wanted my cock balls deep in his hole again.

I’m sure he tried to go back. He was charismatic enough to pass off four days of missed work as a mistake, or poor judgement. But I’m also sure he dreamed about me. I’m sure he tried to jack off, over and over, but never managed to work out a load. I know he didn’t wash the clothes he’d had on, because I could still smell my musk on them when he arrived back at the bar, two months later, with nothing but a suitcase. I made him go through the list. Some of the tasks I could tell on my own–the horseshoe mustache, the fresh tattoos, the smell of him after a week without a shower. I made him tell me about quitting his job, how it had felt to flush his career down the toilet so he could taste my pits one more time. How it had felt, giving away all of his shit, just so he could live in a trailer park for the rest of his life. It was funny–he’d actually thought he’d be moving in with me, but I straightened him out on that shit real quick. No, he was moving in with Big B–he wasn’t too happy about that, Big B hadn’t been very nice to him when I loaned him out to him for a half a day–and he stormed out, and I just laughed. He came back, of course–where was he gonna go? He felt better after he sucked my cock out behind the bar, and I let him spend the night with me, on the condition he give my unwashed and unwiped asscrack a proper cleaning.

He’s settled in pretty well now, here at Louisiana Acres. Doesn’t even really remember his old name, and spending so much time with me and my filth had eroded the edges of his brain. Big B still doesn’t treat him very well–I’ll see him with a black eye on occasion, but he takes it because he knows he deserves it, and because deep down, he likes the abuse. Besides, he knows he can’t complain, or heaven forbid, leave us! If he left, he knows he’ll never get to smell me again. He knows I’ll never holler at him across the yard again, I’ll never make him crawl across the overgrown grass, and up the steps into my trailer. I’ll never let him suck on my feet or eat out my pits. He’ll never cum again, because smelling me is the only way he’ll shoot a load for the rest of his sorry life. He spends his days managing one of the smoke shops down on the road through the reservation, and his nights are spent at the bar with the rest of us. He sees the men like him come in on Friday nights, and he wants them more than anyone else. He hooks up with them often, willing to do anything they want, with the hope that some his old life might rub off on him, but they always leave him behind, laughing at him like he’d used to laugh at us, but who’s laughing now, fucker? Who’s laughing now?

The Fall of Troy – Part 3

***Warning*** It starts getting a bit messy here, including some light scat. 

Troy opened the door to the bathroom, and it was the stench that caught him first, and he had to suppress his gag reflex. Its true that he wasn’t exactly the cleanest guy, but even that was a bit more than he could handle. The floor was littered with dirty laundry–a large amount of it underwear, the toilet looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in ages, and the sink was clogged with hair. The cleanest part of the room was probably the shower, which was missing a curtain…and also a shower head, meaning it probably hadn’t been used in quite a while. Still, how did it look this bad? He was pretty much the only person who used the room, since Leo and his mom shared the master bath upstairs.

“What’s wrong, son?” Troy looked over his shoulder, right into Leo’s pitch black eyes, eyes he’d seen the night before. He could almost…remember, but his mind, Leo was inside him again, messing with him again, and he couldn’t do anything but stand there, drooling dumbly as Leo mindfucked him once again. “Now, son, I know how important your private bathroom time is for you, so why don’t you go ahead and enjoy yourself for a while, eh?”

Troy nodded slowly, and then stepped into the bathroom, allowing Leo to shut the door on him, and it was like he’d woken up in a dream. This couldn’t be real, none of this could possibly be happening. He took a few deep breaths of the stinking, stale air, and felt himself calm down a bit. He always felt better surrounded by his own filth, right? He looked at himself in the grimy mirror through an additional haze of smoke from his cigar, and had a hard time recognizing himself. The beard he’d grown the night before was even longer now, very curly and bushy, looking like his face was coated with a pubic bush. His hair had grown out as well, and it shone with grease. The rest of his body was similarly hairy, and he ran his filthy hands over his gut, feeling the fur, before lifting an arm to sniff at his massive, stinking pitbush. It was rank. He was rank. Then again, when you hadn’t taken a shower in months that’s what happens, not that he minded. He felt a gurgle in his gut, and let loose a long, wet fart–probably time to get down to business.

He walked over to the toilet to take a seat, and saw that the bowl was already filled with at least two loads of shit, and who knew how much piss. No wonder it smelled so fucking foul in here, and his smoke wasn’t helping either. He was starting to feel a bit lightheaded, though he wasn’t sure if it was the air, or just how fucking excited he was. A part of him, a small part growing smaller, tried to reach for the handle to flush it, but he pulled his hand back. It wasn’t time to flush it, not yet. He’d been saving it…right? Saving it for…for his private time. He was getting hard again–he pulled out his dildo and set it on the counter next to the toilet seeing the fleshy head coated with his shit (later–later) before plopping his fat ass down on the seat, and he let off a long, loud fart as he did. “Awww, fuck yeah…” he groaned, sniffing the fresh funk on the air for a moment, giving his fat nipples a twist. Still, he could shit in a moment–his bladder was calling.

Too bad he was too fat to piss on himself like before, still, he’d managed to devise a system that was almost as good. He fished around in the piles of his filthy clothes for a pair of briefs, well worn and stretched, stained a light yellow brown with a prominent shitstripe up the ass, positioned it under his cock, and started pissing on it, soaking it well, and then he stopped himself, took the soggy underwear and started sponging his fat body with his own piss, taking a moment every once in a while to suck as much as he could from the fabric with his mouth in between deep drags off his cigar, and once the briefs were no longer wet enough, he repeated the process with an equally filthy XXXL wifebeater, which he soaked through, wiped all over his body, and then pulled it on. His cigar was finished; he dropped the butt into the sink, and turned on a tap. He released the rest of his piss into the toilet, and then bore down, piling even more shit on top, his cock hardening, he he started working it slowly, taking long, snorting inhales of the filthy air, yanking up the filthy wifebeater to his nose and mouth, sucking at it, and when he was close, getting close, he fumbled for the filthy dildo next to him, shoved the nasty shit coated head in his mouth, and started sucking.

His cock exploded, spraying the toilet bowl, the wall across from him, the clothes in front of him. He worked the dildo deeper into his mouth, he kept milking his cock, horny as ever. With the dildo slick with spit again, he hefted himself up from the toilet, turned around, and got down on his knees in front of the full bowl, pushing the dildo back inside himself to the hilt, face to face with his own mess, and he fucked himself, taking long, deep breaths of his stink, until he came again across the base of the toilet.

Exhausted, coated with a foul mix of sweat and piss, surrounded by his filthy clothes, he started to calm down. He knew he should feel ashamed of himself, but it was like that part of his mind had shut off entirely. Instead he felt…proud. Excited. Happier than he could remember being in recent memory. He stared at the massive pile of shit in the toilet. He should flush it–or at least try to flush it, or…or he could just leave it. Just imagine what it might smell like in a few hours, if he did. Smirking, shit still smeared on his lips, he pushed himself back up. He found the briefs he’d soaked in piss and pulled them on, making sure to floss the ass deep into his nasty crack, and let out a belch. Fuck, he was hungry again already, maybe his dad had something cooking in the kitchen for them. He lumbered upstairs, and went to look for Leo.

The Fall of Troy – Part 2

Troy groaned on the couch, and shielded his eyes from the sunlight blazing in the front window. Fuck, how much had he drank last night? He didn’t usually get hangovers like this from a normal night of drinking, smoking and pawing his cock off. He reached out for the table, scattering empty cans too and fro, and thankfully there was a partial–flat and warm, but he chugged it down anyway, feeling some of it run out the sides of his mouth and down into his beard. He belched. One thing out of the way at least. He grabbed a cigar from the table and his lighter, puffing it gently, already feeling a bit better, and he laid back, rubbing his full gut, before letting his hand wander down to his hard morning wood.

“Awww, fuck yeah…” he groaned, and holding his cigar in his teeth, he rolled over slightly, letting himself grab the dildo which was still wedged in his ass, and start pumping it, “Nothin’ like a fuck to make a mornin’ better.”

He heard someone tromping downstairs, looked up and saw Leo yawning, naked, at the base of the stairs. For a moment he was embarrassed to be caught like this…but it sure as hell wasn’t the first time Leo had seen him with a dildo up his hole, right? Besides, he was too close to blowing to stop now, and if anything…seeing Leo sneer at him was kind of turning him on, and a couple strokes later, he felt his body spasm.

“Good to see someone’s morning’s going well.”

“Aww shut the fuck up, Leo. You makin’ breakfast?”

“Sure, but if I do, you know what you owe me.”

Leo made plenty of breakfast, and Troy plowed through two thirds of it, stuffing himself silly. Then, as was their usual bargain, he got down and sucked on Leo’s thick cock. He’d kept the dildo in his hole all through breakfast, and was again fucking himself with it, stroking himself closer to his second climax of the day, Leo helping him along by yanking on his fat tits, making his whole belly jiggle. Leo ended up spraying his load all over Troy’s beard, and Troy shot his load into his hand, before licking it up–but as he did, there was a flash of bright light from Leo’s eyes, and it was like a veil had been lifted. He screamed, heaving his fat body up, staring down at himself.

“What–what the fuck happened to me!” he stared at Leo and screamed at him, “You did this, what the fuck did you do?”

Leo just smiled, “Now now, is that any way to talk to your father? Especially when his cum is splattered in your beard?”

Troy took a step backwards away from him as Leo stood up, his anger boiling down into fear, “You did this. I don’t…Why?”

“Oh Troy, even when you were smart, you were dumb as a rock. I can’t very well have you draining your mom’s bank account with silly shit like ‘college tuition,’ or ‘room and board’. You see, milking her for money is my gig–but don’t worry, I’m sure with your skills we can find something for you to do with your life instead of college.”

“You can’t just…change shit like that.”

“Oh really? Tell me, what classes are you taking in high school right now?”

It was on the tip of his tongue, but not there at all. He wasn’t going to school–he’d dropped out as soon as he could…hadn’t he?

“No answer? Are you even going to school, or are you lounging around the house with your slobby stepdad, sucking and riding his cock every chance you get?” Leo fondled his cock, and Troy saw it was getting hard again already…and he wanted it. His body wanted it. His body was tired of dildos, it wanted its hole filled with flesh. “Tell you what, why don’t you go ahead and bend over the couch, and I’ll pump that ass of yours full of cum, how does that sound?”

His mind was fading fast, falling back into his new dullness. He needed a smoke. He needed a drink. He needed…he needed a fuck. His body was walking, not running. It was walking around behind the sofa, and he was bending over it, leg’s spread, showing off his fat ass, dildo still lodged inside.

“You need a cigar, son?”

“I’m…not your son.”

Leo shrugged, “Do you need one though?”

Troy nodded weakly, and Leo shoved one in his mouth, and lit it for him. “Now beg for it.”

“W-What?”

“Go on pig, beg for me to fuck you. Beg like those fat manwhores do in all those pornos you watch all day. Beg for me.”

“Not…I’m not gonna…” he moaned suddenly–Leo was working the dildo in and out, and then he pulled it out entirely. Empty, so fucking empty. “Fuck Leo, come on, put it in me already.”

“Put what in you?”

“Your cock man, your big fat cock, stuff your son’s fat hole full, come on man, I need it bad…”

Leo slipped into Troy’s hole, and laughed as the pig moaned. “Yeah, fuck, this is fuckin’ great. I could get used to this, you know? Fuckin’ not only that whore mom of yours, but her fat, slob son too. Both of you begging for my cock, all day long. Still, I’m really more of a pussy guy, you know? We might have to find a few more guys willing to fuck a nasty pig like you, eh?”

“S-Sure, but ya can stick that cock in my holes any time, daddy…”

“Heh, you fuckin’ slut,” Leo said, giving Troy’s fat ass a hard slap, “You’ll give your ass up to any cock that comes along. Still, don’t you fuckin’ worry, we’ll be keeping you plenty stuffed.”

Troy was fighting in his mind, fighting to hang on to any little shred of himself that he could find, but it just felt so…damn good. Sucking on a cigar, his daddy’s big cock lodged in his hole, what more could he ask for? He’d never wanted to go to college. He’d hated school, he’d hated sports, all he really wanted was to be a big, fat slob like Leo. With a loud groan, Leo came, pumping cum into him, and Troy felt his own stubby pig cock spurt his own load across the back of the couch. They both remained connected for a few moments, huffing and puffing, and then pulled apart, Leo collecting himself, Troy getting down and licking up his cum, sliding his dildo back into his loose asshole. But now, nature was calling–Troy hefted himself up. “Fuck, after all that pounding and I gotta piss like a horse. Could shit a mountain too, right about now.”

Troy smiled, “Make sure you use yours down in the basement–its all ready for you.”

“In the basement? Fuck, but then I gotta climb back up.”

“Go on, pig.”

Troy rolled his eyes, but obeyed unthinkingly, hefting his bulk down the stairs step by step, and Leo chuckled under his breath. By the time he had stepped inside and let out a gasp of surprise, Leo had followed him. He had to keep an eye on him after all.

The Fall of Troy – Part 1

For the life of him, Troy could never figure out why his mother had decided to marry Leo. It wasn’t that he was bad at her for divorcing his dad–he’d been as lousy a father as he’d been a husband, fucking plenty of women behind her back. But why couldn’t she see that Leo was just as terrible a guy, if not worse? Hell, at least his real dad could hold down a job–Leo couldn’t even manage that. All he did was lounge around the house, usually shirtless, his big gut hanging out, eating snacks, drinking beer and watching TV. And his mom just…accepted it. She was even working overtime at the firm to make extra money to cover expenses…but it was so strange. He tried to talk to her about Leo, but every time he did, she just got this…glazed over look in her eyes, like she wasn’t even listening. And she’d even had the nerve to ask him to find a part-time job after school to help pay for expenses! He couldn’t wait to graduate and head for college, just to get out of this crazy house.

Then, out of the blue, she left for an entire three day weekend–a girl’s weekend in Vegas that she hadn’t even mentioned to Troy, leaving him alone with Leo. Upset beyond words, he holed himself up in his room in the basement all Friday afternoon, just avoiding Leo as best he could, when there was a knock on his door. He didn’t answer it. Leo just opened the door, and he sighed, “What, Leo.”

“We’ve talked about this, Troy. I’d really appreciate it if you’d call me dad.”

“You’re not my dad. What do you want?”

Leo sighed, “Look, I know you don’t like me, I get it. But look, can we just try to…at least live together? Why don’t you come up and watch a movie with me or something? You can even have a beer, if you want. I won’t tell your mom.”

Troy looked back at him, suspicious, “You’ve never wanted to do something like that with me before.”

“I know I’m not always the nicest guy, but least come hang out for a bit. Two hours, one movie, have a beer, and I won’t bug you for the rest of the weekend if you don’t want me to.”

“I have schoolwork to do.”

Leo gave a heavy sigh, “Look…I’m trying my best, you know? But if you can’t even meet me halfway…No, you know what? It’s fine, really.” He turned and left, plodding downstairs.

Troy was happy he was gone, but the guilt still ate away at him, and he couldn’t even concentrate on his school work. After a couple of minutes, he grumbled a quiet “Fine…” to himself, stood up, and followed his step dad upstairs. “Leo? Look, I’ll watch a movie with you, if it means that much…” but that was as far as he got before he rounded the corner, and locked eyes with his stepdad, who was standing behind the couch…but his eyes, they were…black. Pitch black. And he couldn’t look away, but he felt something in his mind, he felt something happening to him. But before he could quite figure out what, Leo blinked. His eyes were back to normal, and Troy was left trying to figure out what had just happened to him.

“You know, on second thought, why don’t you enjoy some alone time, eh Troy?” Leo said, and walked around the couch, to his stepson. Leo wanted to run, but not…not really. More than that, he wanted to…watch a movie and…and relax. Yeah, take a load off, relax. Drink a beer and just…just…be for a while. Leo stopped in front of him, smiling, “I left you some of your favorite things on the coffee table–make sure you play with them all, son.”

Troy nodded, and then he lumbered past Leo and plopped down on the couch. The movie was already playing, and for a few minutes he watched some massively fat man, covered with hair, being fucked roughly by some massive, muscular, hairy man. He let out a moan, and stripped off his shorts and shirt, and he looked at the favorite things of his Leo had left for him on the table: a twenty-four pack of beer; eight or nine short, fat cigars with a zippo lighter beside them; piles and piles of snacks and candy; and one, massive, flesh colored dildo.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to run out the front door. What he did instead was sit up, grab a beer from the case, pop it open, and chug it. Then, he took a moment to light a cigar for himself, sucking the smoke down like he’d been doing it for ages (then again…hadn’t he been smoking for ages?) before grabbing a second beer, opening it, setting the the largest bowl of snacks next to him on the couch, and leaned back with a sigh, watching the porn like he did this all the time.

After a few moments, he reached down and started tugging at his cock, but as he did, his hand ran over something else–a gut. He hadn’t had a gut earlier, had he? He’d been in great shape, he spent almost all of his time in high school playing sports…or…or did he? He let out a belch, grabbed another beer, easily juggling the can, his cigar, handfuls of snacks, and his cock all the while. This felt…more natural than sports. Didn’t he really spend most of his time on the couch, binge eating, drinking beer, and watching porn? Fuck, that fat chub sure could take cock like a pro. He wondered what it might be like to get fucked like that.

Hours passed. He had no idea how many times he’d cum, or how many pornos he’d watched, but his eyes just kept drifting to the dildo on the table. Fuck it. He didn’t have any lube, so he licked it like he’d watched that fat chub lick that bear’s cock, and then placed it at his asshole, rolling over onto his big belly, reaching around and pushing the dildo into his hole. His cock shot a massive load as he did. He groped for another beer, but couldn’t quite reach. More important to fuck his piggy hole anyway, right? At least he still had a cigar to smoke.

Leo came down to investigate a little later, once he heard loud snoring coming from the couch. There Troy was–his stepson, weighing probably over four hundred pounds, reeking of beer and cigar smoke, a thick beard coating his face and fat chins, the dildo still buried in his ass as he slept. Just like he’d wanted. He headed down the basement stairs and made his way to Troy’s room, and sure enough, it was completely different. Where before it had been the cleanest room in the house, now it was utterly filthy. All of his athletic equipment had disappeared, replaced by XXXL shirts and drawers full of lube and dildos, and there on the desk beside an ashtray heaped with cigar butts–the set of college acceptance letters had disappeared, and he had a feeling that the new Troy had probably already dropped out of school entirely at this point. Leo smiled–if anyone was going to drain his bitch mom’s money it was him, not some clean nosed son going to college. Still, he wasn’t quite done–Troy had so much further to fall, after all. And luckily, Leo had all weekend to do shove him down further and further, but first he had some preparations to make down here, and got to work on Troy’s private bathroom in the basement.

The Power of Belief – Part 2 (Patreon Commission)

I believe I am a smoker…I believe I smoke pipes and cigars…I believe I collect pipes…I believe I prefer pipes…I believe I smoke whenever I can…I believe I drink bourbon when I smoke…I believe real men are smokers…I believe I am gay…I believe I am attracted to my graduate student, Carter…I believe Carter is attracted to me…I believe I am dominant…I believe I have a nine inch cock…I believe I have large, low hanging, sensitive balls…I believe I like to talk dirty…I believe I am a real man…I believe being gay is good…I believe…

Professor Larson had quite a few more talks discussing his project with Carter, and he found himself enjoying the young man’s company more and more. At first they would talk about his student’s work, but as time passed, their conversations became more casual though more often than not, the professor’s office phone would ring and cut into the conversation. During the chats, he would often be smoking one of his many pipes and drinking bourbon–Carter would often drink with him but rarely smoked. Carter got a bit too drunk one evening, and finally confessed that he was very attracted to his professor, and Harry was all too happy to mention that the feeling was mutual. Carter ended up on his knees, under his teacher’s apron, digging out his massive cock, which Harry was all too happy to slam down his throat, calling his student a dirty slut until he came. From that moment on, there was considerably less talking, and considerably more fucking going on at their meetings.

I believe I am old…I believe I am 64…I believe I have white hair…I believe I have muttonchops with a connecting mustache…I believe I wear spectacles…I believe I am balding…I believe I am proud to be bald…I believe baldness is sexy…I believe old men are sexy…I believe my old body is attractive…I believe I have wrinkles…I believe I am very hairy…I believe I have very large feet and hands…I believe I am a polar bear…I believe I am a daddy bear…I believe Carter is my lover…I believe I love Carter like a son…I believe Carter should obey me…I believe I like to be in control…I believe I am powerful…I believe sex should be rough…I believe I should be addressed as Sir…I believe I am entitled to respect…I believe I am a genius…I believe age gives one a better perspective on the world…I believe I prefer being called Harold…I believe…

It was, at times, difficult to keep up with someone less than half his age, but he had never had trouble in the bedroom, despite his weight and age, and Carter loved it. He loved being dominated by Harold, feeling his massive weight pressing down on him in the office or the bedroom, his fat cock buried in his hole, while he smoked his pipe, muttering abuse in his ear. Carter was always obliging, and when Harold demanded that he begin addressing him with more respect. He never faltered in calling him Sir, and would run to his old lover’s office at a moments notice so he could grovel in front of him, and beg him to let him worship his fat body, allow him to suck his cock, or feel it in his ass. Feeling this kind of control over someone was both new, but so incredibly comfortable for Harold that it came completely naturally, and before too long, he began to crave it. It seeped into his teaching style; where before he had relied on discussions to drive the class, he switched more and more to lectures. After all, he had a whole life of experience in the field–these young men and women ought to respect him enough to listen to it.

I believe I am wealthy…I believe I am selfish and greedy…I believe I am arrogant…I believe I am conservative…I believe I look down on people younger than me…I don’t think young people understand the world…I believe I feel lost in the modern era…I believe I refuse to use email…I believe I don’t own a computer…I believe I prefer to wear expensive suits…I believe that dressing anachronistically turns me on…I believe that wearing expensive fabrics turns me on…I believe the feel of leather arouses me…I believe I am kinky…I believe being fully clothed while someone submissive is completely naked turns me on…I believe inflicting pain arouses me…I believe I live in a mansion…I believe I have a large sex dungeon in the basement…I believe I am abusive…I believe safe words are unnecessary…I believe Carter should serve me as a sex slave…I believe I love Carter…I believe Carter loves me…I believe Carter should live with me for the rest of my life…I believe…

Their affair only lasted a semester, before Harold suggested (or really rather forced) Carter to move in with him. It wasn’t like Harold didn’t have enough room in his massive home, and he very much loved having access to Carter’s holes whenever he liked, and on his first night, he introduced him to his dungeon. Carter loved it, of course, but why wouldn’t he? It had been his idea, after all. Harold was relatively content to let his young lover have his fun for a bit longer, answering the phone when he called, believing what he told him to believe, seeing how far his fantasy went. But he also knew that Carter had been in control for far too long, and so, during a bondage session, Harold put a pair of headphones on Carter (he despised the fact that he had to rely on technology for this, but his student’s work had been rather clear on its necessity), and played the same tone which had been sending him into a trance for months, watching his young student’s eyes flicker shut, his limbs fall slack. After all, Harold had been more than a little accommodating–and he thought it was time for Carter to try out a new role that Harold had had in mind for him for quite a while now.

Family Heritage – Part 1 (Patreon Commission)

When Grant heard the knock, his first thought was that Aaron was early for their date that evening, but the knock wasn’t familiar, and when he opened it, he instead found himself facing a package handler from UPS, bearing a small box that needed his signature. He hadn’t been expecting anything, and it wasn’t something he’d ordered online and forgotten about, so he took it in and opened it. On top were two sheets of paper–the top one was a short letter from a lawyer, the executor of his Great Uncle Reid’s estate over in Scotland. He remembered a couple weeks before, that his mother had mentioned him passing away, but none of them had been able to afford a ticket overseas to the funeral. Grant had only met him a few times, when the big, burly scotsman had visited the family when he was a kid and teenager. He’d always seemed especially interested in Grant when he came, but he’d never really thought much of it, and he certainly hadn’t expected to receive anything from his estate. The letter was merely informing him that this was the first of a set of packages he would be receiving, as per Reid’s instructions, as well as a list of what the package contained: one blank piece of paper aside from the number one written on one side, one tartan kilt, one smoking pipe, one bag of pipe tobacco, and one pipe lighter.

Grant had no idea why he’d received these things–he looked at the paper, but it was indeed blank, aside from a small circled number one in one corner. He’d never smoked a pipe, but the tobacco reminded him of dim memories from when he was a kid, sitting on Uncle Reid’s knee, tugging at his big red beard while he laughed, and while he hadn’t thought of him in years, he suddenly missed him very deeply. He remembered the last time he’d seen him, when he was a teenager, over a decade earlier, he’d taken him aside, and told him in a serious tone, with that heavy accent and smoke curling out his nose, he’d said:

“You ‘n me, we’re special guys, you know. Well, you may not know yet, but ye will. Just wish I was closer, so I could keep a better eye out. Still, you’ll understand one day, don’ worry, mah boy.”

And this was it? A pipe and a kilt? He looked down and saw that the blank page wasn’t blank any longer—rather, writing had appeared on it, the words, “Put it on and have a smoke–you’ll see.”

He set the pipe to one side, stripped down (after all, Uncle Reid had been adamant that the only way to wear a kilt was completely “bare arsed”) and pulled it on, but on his slimmer frame, he had to tighten the belt as much as possible just to keep it on him. And then…without really knowing why, he took the old, well worn pipe, packed it with tobacco, doing his best to remember how his uncle had done it, and gave it a light, sucking in smoke, trying not to cough. Almost immediately, he felt something strange–an itch all over his body. At first he didn’t think much of it, and just kept smoking, but it only got worse. He ran his hand over his other arm, and it felt furry–because it was. Where his arm had been mostly smooth moments before, now it was suddenly covered with dark red hairs.

He didn’t know what to do, but something else was wrong. His shirt was too tight, and the waist of the kilt too. He let out the belt a notch, and then another, trying to keep up with his body. Was he growing? He had to be, that was the only explanation. His shirt was becoming tighter and tighter, the collar biting into his neck, and he started tugging at it with both hands until it finally started ripping away, revealing a massive barrel chest covered with red fur, and a thick, muscular gut. He ran his rough hands over it, the terror still there, but now…now he starting to get horny. This was no time to jack off, and yet he reached under the kilt and grasped his cock–his…much larger cock–and gave it a few strokes, groaning and grunting as he did, feeling his balls slap against his thighs as they grew large and swung lower. He bit his lip and shot his load of cum against the underside of the kilt and across the floor in front of him.

He stood there, panting, for a few moments, and then rushed to the bathroom to see what had happened for himself. In the mirror, he still looked like himself…kind of. Like himself if he’d picked up the scottish red in his family, and his hair had grown everywhere. If he’d spent most of his time lifting weights and eating like a horse. He looked to be a few years older as well…or maybe it was just that his skin looked a bit more weathered than before. Strangest of all, the more he looked at himself, the more…normal he felt. In fact, he was having a hard time even remembering what he’d looked like before, and he took a few puffs off his pipe, letting the smoke billow through his mustache and beard like he’d seen his uncle do countless times, and his cock started hardening all over again. Had his uncle planned this whole thing? What was even happening to him?

He tromped back to the box, and discovered that the blank sheet of paper was now covered with writing on both sides–a letter from his uncle letting him know that Grant was the next in line to become the family warlock. This first box was merely a little gift from his uncle to prepare him, but in the next few weeks he would be receiving more packages full of various magical equipment. If he hadn’t just changed right before his own eyes, Grant never would have believed a single word. He was rereading the letter when someone knocked at the door, and he walked over and answered it, revealing Aaron.

Grant’s mind went blank. He tried to stutter some explanation, but Aaron just smiled and stepped inside like everything was normal, joking at his boyfriend for wanting to show off his body around the house. Grant shot some wit back, easing into his new accent like he’d been speaking that way his whole life, and it was only a few minutes later that he had Aaron on his knees under his kilt, licking as his “knob and bawbag”, and Grant smiled to himself, wondering what sorts of things might be coming arriving from his uncle’s estate in a few more weeks.

(I felt like doing some short captions today. There will be two of them. Hope you enjoy them!)

Caption Day (1 of 2)

The note on the unlocked front door said he was waiting for you in the basement. You’d never been to his house before, but he’d left a trail of discarded clothes down the hall leading to a door down the hall, but when you opened it, you couldn’t see anything. Not because it was dark—but because the entire room had been filled with fog…no, now that you could smell it, it was smoke. Sweet smoke, like a pipe, but how in the world had he made so much of it?

Now you were at your most terrified. Who knew what this guy had planned? But you had to go down there…right? You took the first step.

It actually smells…pretty good. In fact, it’s making your cock hard in your pants. You can smell, something else, too. Like…musk. Find the next step.

Fuck, it’s hot in here too, it’s making you sweat, and itch. You run one hand through your hair, not noticing it come away in clumps, leaving behind a perfectly smooth scalp. Find the next step.

Sweating like a pig. One hand runs over your hairy gut. Is it swelling? It…it is swelling. But when did it get so…small? Shouldn’t you be even fatter? And when did you take off your clothes anyway? It felt good to be naked though, it was cooler. You find the next step with your bare foot.

Panting now. Taking a moment to feel yourself. Soft, flabby gut. Hair everywhere. That feels more right. You look back over your shoulder, one hand pulling at your beard. You can’t even see the door up there anymore. You consider going back, but take another step down.

Why would you want to go back up, anyway? He—He’s down here. Somewhere. Waiting for you in all this sexy smoke. Waiting for…for his pig. Yeah, pig fucker, fuck. Such a fucking pig. You pause, reach around behind and finger your hole while you grope your short, pig cock, snorting and grunting. But you can cum later, you need to get down to him now. Take another step.

You can’t feel the wood on your feet anymore…but of course you can’t, you’re in your gear. Rubber stretched tight across your body, making you sweat even more, making you pant, making you stroke your piggy cock faster, hurry down another step.

Can’t wait to see him, can’t wait to see your master, can’t wait to taste his cock, feel his piss in your beard, can’t wait to serve him, the last step, now, feel the concrete, but fall to your knees because there he is, waiting with his pipe for his pig to arrive, but you’re here now, you’re here and you’ll never leave. He comes closer to you, and some small part of you is scared. Something just happened to you, something wrong, but what? You’re mind is too slow, too focused on the collar glinting in the smoke. He puts the leather around your neck, and you can feel the terror in you reaching a fever pitch. Why can’t you move? Why aren’t you doing anything, why—

The collar cinches tight. Your mind is empty. Master’s cock is there, and you salivate, drool running down into your beard.

“May I sir?”

“Of course, slave.”

Earl’s Truck Stop – Part 3 (Patreon Commission)

The room stank of cum–Paul had been busy. Earl noticed that he’d picked up some memories as well–he’d dug out the small trove of tapes in the dresser once the first video had finished, and had another one playing in the VCR while he stroked his cock on the bed–and what a cock! Paul was panting, stroking his ten inch cock from tip to the base of the shaft slick with the cum dribbling out in a constant stream. Still much, much too young though, for Earl’s personal tastes.

Paul looked up when Earl came in. One part of him wanted to be alarmed that Earl had just walked in unannounced, but why would he be concerned? He knew Earl…right? He had all of these…memories, suddenly, but none of them felt quite real enough to him.

“You’ve been busy,” Earl said.

“Fuck man, you know no one can soak a bed in cum like I can.”

Earl laughed, walked over to the TV, and gave it a smack on the top. The fuzzy VCR image turned to static, and after a moment, a perfectly clear image of a hotel room much like the one they were in flickered into view.

“What gives man? I was watchin’ that.”

“I got something better to watch–the show should be starting any moment now…”

Sure enough, on the screen they saw the door to the room open, and a massively fat man struggled into the motel room, and flopped down on the bed, heaving for breath. His shirt was covered with food stains, and he still had chocolate sauce smeared around his lips, that he licked at lazily. Paul looked over at Earl, wondering what the old fuck was pulling. A minute later, while the fat trucker was still lying on the bed, the door opened again, and a very drunk, hairy bear in ragged flannel and denim stumbled into the room, a lit cigar shoved in his mouth. Both looked at each other, surprised like they had expected to have the room to themselves, and then Earl hit the pause button on the VCR, and the image froze.

“How about we have some fun, eh Paul? I got these two guys here, and I know how much you like porn. What would you like to see them do, you fucking pervert?”

“I thought it was a video–what do you mean?”

“Tell me your fantasy, man,” Earl said, “Whatever you want to see, it’ll happen. Think of it as…as interactive porn!”

“You mean…anything I want to see?”

“Yep.”

Paul looked at the screen a moment, “I want the bear to strut over, fill that fat pig’s lungs with smoke, and knead his fat body with those big, rough hands of his.”

Earl smiled, hit play, and the two men on the screen started moving again. No longer surprised to see each other, the drunk bear walked over, taking a deep breath of smoke off his cigar, locked lips with the chub and filled him with his smoke, his spare hand groping one fat tit.

“Holy fuck, it actually happened?”

“That’s how it fuckin’ works,” Earl said, and paused the video again, “Now lets get a bit hardcore, eh? Let’s make ‘em get nasty.”

“Yeah, fuck!” Paul said, stroking his huge cock again, “That pig looks hungry, make him eat out that bear’s dirty hole!”

Earl hit play. They stripped off each other’s clothes, and the bear bent over the bed, legs spread wide, cigar in his mouth. The chub, licking his lips, got down behind him, gut resting on the ground, spread the bear’s ass, and dug in. Paul and Earl watched them for a couple minutes, and then Earl paused the video again. “Ya know? This is hot, but I just don’t feel like I know these two well enough. I gotta have a backstory, you know? Some history. Don’t those two look a bit too young to you?”

“Yeah, fuck–I love fuckin’ old fag truckers–they are truckers, right?”

“Of course they are, but what do you think about that pig? Let’s call him Matt.”

“Matt eh? I bet…I bet he’s a fuckin’ fat whore. The only thing he loves as much as food is drinkin’ cum, yeah, fuck. Glory holes, biker gangbangs. He’s been suckin’ cock across the country for forty years, the old fat fag. He’s so proud of his fat, he leaves his gut hanging out all the time, or he just goes shirtless, his ass crack showing, and all his clothes are stained with food and crusty with cum.”

As Paul spoke, Matt was shifting on the screen. His hair turned grey and started creeping back up over his scalp, and his clothes tightened up on his body, becoming a filthy, stained tank top and cargo shorts, both of which could barely contain his fat. “Now how about that bear? Let’s call him Jack.”

“Jack, fuck, I bet he’s a dirty fucker. Definitely a top, and a fucking rough one. I think he’s in his fifties, salt and pepper hair, loves getting into fights and fucking the men he roughs up. Yeah, he drives trucks now, but he was a biker back in the day, he’s still got the tatts, piercings and scars to show for it.”

On the bed, Jack started aging as well, his hair and beard shimmering with grey. Tattoos spread all over his arms, chest and back, and the clothes he’d thrown on the ground now included a pair of grungy, well worn leather chaps and a thirty year old vest still bearing the patches from his old gang. Now, still paused, Earl admired the ex-biker bent over the bed, in the middle of a moan as some fat pigwhore, buried his nose in his nasty hole. Fuckin’ beautiful.

“Now, I got a real surprise for you,” Earl said, walked over the the wall, next to the TV, gave a wave, and a hole appeared, large enough for an eye, or even a cock. “Get over here and have a peep.”

Paul did, and saw Matt and Jack, frozen stiff in room 103, and he let out a soft moan. A second later, time restarted, and he could hear Matt licking at Jack’s hairy hole, but Jack was ready for more. He rolled over, grabbed Matt’s fat, jowly face in his rough, scarred hands, and shoved his mouth onto his fat cock.

“Yeah, look at what you did,” Earl said, getting down next to Paul, who was still jacking off his huge cock, “But you know, I think the one person here who still sticks out like a sore thumb here is you, Paul. How about we give you a new life to match that nasty head and big cock of yours, eh? An old pervert, I think. What are you–70 and still driving around the country? Sure, you could retire, but with stamina like yours, you can keep going for a few more years, drillin’ glory holes in motels and rest area bathrooms, jacking off in your cab as you drive, talking filthy with other roadfags over the CB. Your old, saggy, pale, hairy body might not be much to look at anymore, but that ten inch cock of yours is fucking legend around here, right? Go on, blow that load you old faggot, blow it!

Paul shot his largest load so far, and as he did, he could feel his youth sapping away, his young body growing wrinkled and old, his saggy paunch and thin arms and legs, a full, dingy white beard. He suddenly couldn’t see as well what was happening in the other room, but he didn’t really care. He could imagine what was happening, in his mind eye, Jack pushing himself up, shoving Matt onto his knees, slamming his cock down his throat. He watched the two of them fuck for hours, not even noticing when Earl got up and left after shooting his own load next to him. The next morning,  Earl couldn’t have been happier, watching all three proper truckers getting back on the road. He’d have another three or four in about two weeks, he couldn’t quite tell yet, but one thing he knew for certain–only certain men were made to be truckers, and Earl wasn’t about to lower his standards anytime soon.

Earl’s Truck Stop – Part 2 (Patreon Commission)

After watching Paul for a couple of minutes, long enough to make sure the spell had settled in well–and long enough to shoot a load of his own against the outside wall–he headed back to the counter, and asked one of his employees to mind it for him. He had some customers to chat with for a while. He found Matt in the diner, a heaping helping of chicken fried steak and potatoes drowning in gravy before him, and a pile of wide plates stacking up beside him, evidence that he’d been very busy for the last several hours. The young man’s face was one of disgust, confusion, and helplessness. Nothing much about him had changed–he was still his muscular self, but his stomach was taut with food. He wasn’t sure how he was even still eating. He felt sick with food and shame. Why was he even doing this to himself?

Earl settled into the seat across from him, smiling. “How are doing, Matt? Enjoying your meal?”

Matt struggled to choke down a mouthful, but before he could say anything, his hand shoved another chunk of steak into his mouth. Earl waited patiently until Matt finally gave in and just started talking a garbled sentence with his mouth full.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

Matt tried again, and this time managed to make himself understandable. “Please, there’s something wrong with me, I can’t stop eating.”

“There’s nothing ‘wrong’ with you Matt, you’re just stuffing yourself like a fat pig because I wanted you to.”

Matt looked shocked, but kept eating. Earl had done this to him? He recalled his earlier confusion, and tried to piece together their previous conversation as he chewed. “You…you did this?”

“Oh yes, I certainly did,” Earl said, “But you like it, don’t you? You like the feeling of having your gut stuffed. You like how everyone here has been staring at you with disgust, while you stuff your face. Stuffing your face has your cock harder than it’s ever been in your life. You can jack off, if you want. Everyone will understand–we all know pigs like you have a hard time controlling yourselves.”

Matt’s eyes went wide, but just like before, he felt his mind shifting underneath his feet. He…did like it. He liked it a lot. The feeling of his bulging gut, his hard cock. He tried to fight it, but while one hand kept shoveling food into his mouth, the other reached down and started groping at his bulge. The button on his jeans released happily, the zipper dropping all on it’s own by the force of his gut. Fuck, he’s such a horny pig.

Earl got up and came around to his side, running his hands over Matt’s body. “This body doesn’t feel right, does it? No, you should be one big mass of fat. Go on, think about it. Think about yourself. Think about how you’ve spent every spare moment of your life up to this point eating. Think about your apron, your fat man tits, your triple chins, how you wheeze as you eat, how hard it is to walk, and how you love all of it.”

With a shudder, Matt came, spraying cum under the table, and as he did, his body began expanding, muscles atrophying as they were encased in fat. The table squealed as his huge gut shoved it away from him, Matt could barely keep his chubby hand on his cock. It was gone. His body was gone, but his past too. All he could remember now was eating–it was all he did, and he fucking loved it. He finished off his plate, mopping up gravy with a biscuit, grinning, chins jiggling as he gulped his meal down.

“That;s better,” Earl said, “Now, how about dessert? I’m thinking one of everything on the menu, and then you should get to bed, I think.”

Matt didn’t want to be this excited…but he couldn’t quite figure out where his reluctance was coming from. He loved dessert, after all…right?

Earl found Jack holding down the bar by himself. The ashtray beside him was already full, and the bartender had finally just left him a fifth of cheap whiskey which was already nearly empty. Earl took the stool next to him, and an old fashioned appeared in his hand along with a lit cigar, which he sipped. “How are you doin’, Jack?”

“Fuck…I fucked up…” he groaned back, “What the fuck am I doin’?”

“Looks like you’re enjoyin’ yourself to me,” Earl said.

“No…I don’t fuckin’ smoke. I don’t drink. What the hell am I doing here?” Jack looked up, took a long, deep drag off his cigar, and sighed, “Fuck I’m drunk, what was I saying?”

“You know what, Jack? You’re just too fucking uptight, that’s your problem. Don’t you know how to relax? Come on, admit it. This is kind of nice, isn’t it?”

Jack didn’t say anything, but he knocked back the rest of the whiskey in his glass–Earl poured him some more, and he didn’t object. After a moment, he said, out of the blue, “Fuck, why am I so fuckin’ horny?”

“There’s just something about smoke and drink that makes your cock hard, I bet.”

“Fuck.”

“Go on, let loose. Let’s see that drunk cock of yours.”

Jack just stared at Earl, unable to believe what he’d just heard, unable to believe he was actually considering it, unable to believe that, without even making up his mind, he was already unzipping his fly, pulling out his cock, stroking it nice and slow.

“I love dumb bear’s like you, Jack. You love simple pleasures–nothing gets you harder than a little smoke and a little drink, right? Laid back and easy-going as fuck. Who cares when you had a shower last por changed your clothes? Who cares when you last got your hair or beard cut? You sure don’t. But more than that, you’re simple minded too, right? Not too smart at all, but that doesn’t bother you. Crude, nasty, and a horny hairy bear of a man. Nothin’ bothers you, except when you run out of cigars and drink, right?”

“F–Fuckin’ right…” Jack grunted, “Gonna, fuckin’ blow…” With a loud snort, he shot several ropes of cum all over the underside of the bar. The smell of booze and smoke intensified around him along with a heavy pang of BO ground into his clothes, which were growing older, tattered and dirty. Jack scratched his face, feeling a beard sprout and grow long and tangled down to his chest, his hair growing out as well, caught in a lazy ponytail. His body softened and expanded, a thick gut pushing his shirt out, ass filling out the back of his jeans, but plenty of muscle too. You had to be strong to survive on the road, had to be strong to…to fucking fuck, yeah…fuck. “Fuck, what was I doin’? Fuckin’ forgot.”

“Don’t worry about it, Jack.”

“Heh, I don’t worry ‘bout shit, Earl, you know that.”

“How about you finish off that cigar and whiskey there, and head for bed.”

Jack shrugged, Earl finished his drink and left the building, pulled the second key to room 102 from his jeans, and figured it was time to check up on Paul.

Earl’s Truck Stop – Part 1 (Patreon Commission)

The first of the expected three came in a little after five in the afternoon. The pump outside was having a problem processing his company card–Earl was more than happy to run it for him on the machine inside. Perhaps he was just old fashioned, or maybe he was just a pervert with particular tastes, but the young man looked nothing like Earl thought a trucker should look. Way too uptight, in a shirt buttoned all the way up to the collar. Clean shaven, hair combed, smelling like some girl’s prissy perfume shit. Earl made sure the machine inside took had some trouble as well, and struck up some conversation.

“I haven’t seen you come through here before. The name’s Earl–Owner of the Flying G here.”

“Yeah, this is a new route for me,” the young trucker said, “Did the card work?”

“It’s still processing.”

Silence. Maybe he’d have to bend him a little. A touch of power in the air and…

“You know, I’ve had a long day so far…it says you have an inn here?”

“Sure do. You wanna call it a night already?”

“I can get back on the road early tomorrow.”

“Sure thing. Can I just bill it on the card?”

“Why not.”

“The card says your name’s Jack?”

“Yep.”

“Alright Jack–I’ll put you up in room 103.”

“That’s a non-smoking room right?”

“You said you needed some cigars too, right?”

Jack just stared at him, thinking hard. Earl got him to nod.

“Any brand? Nah, you know what? Let’s go with cheap and rough. I doubt you could afford anything pricey, right?”

Jack still couldn’t find anything to say for some reason, but he handed Earl cash, took the cellophane wrapped cigars from him.

“You can still smoke in the bar too, you know. Why don’t you go take a load off and have a few drinks, before bed?”

Jack didn’t drink, but something had him walking through the restaurant proper and into the smoky bar behind it, lighting up a cigar, and then having the bartender pour him a whiskey double, straight, cheapest he got, and he pounded it back, and waited for the next one.

Half an hour later, Earl felt the second of three walk in. Just like the first, he looked nothing like a trucker–just another one looking to make some money and then get off the road as quick as he could. Where Jack was slender and uptight, the second looked like he spent his spare time on the road with a set of weights. Earl rolled his eyes.

He was also having trouble with his card. After a short conversation, it turned out that he, too, could use a room. Earl thought for a moment, and then gave him the second key to room 103.

“Anything else I can help you with, Matt?” Earl asked.

“Actually, yeah. It’s probably a stretch, but have you got a gym here, or even just a workout room of some kind? Most of these places don’t, and I doubt they get much use, judging by how fat most of these fuckers are, right?”

Earl bristled. “Actually, you’re hungry.”

“Wait, how did you know?”

“Why don’t you go have a seat in the diner, I’ll let the cook know you want the all you can eat special.”

Without really understanding his own change of heart, Matt walked over to the attached restaurant and sat down at a booth–a young, chubby waited immediately came and set down a soda and a full plate of food. That ought to keep the asshole occupied, Earl thought.

It was an hour later when the third expected guest arrived. Unlike the first two, Earl didn’t need to work to get him a room–he already looked exhausted.

“This fucking company has had me on the road for eighteen hours straight, they can fucking pay for a good bed, you know?”

Earl nodded, and handed Paul a key to room 102.

“I just don’t think I can handle it for much longer.”

Earl had driven a truck for fifty years. These young upstarts had no fucking stamina. He said nothing, but scowled slightly.

“Thanks for the room, I think I’ll turn in for the night.”

Earl watched him leave the office, and kept watching through the window until he saw him climb up into his truck, grab a small overnight bag, and carry it over to the inn across the parking lot. Once Paul had gone inside, he waited five minutes, and then picked up the phone and dialed room 102.

Paul had gotten into the room, and without doing anything else, had dropped his bag by the door, and slumped on the bed. Tired. He’d known trucking was going to be rough, but he’d needed the job. This, though, was ridiculous. Maybe he just needed to try a different company, but from what he’d gathered from other truckers he’d talked to, the pressure to just keep driving was everywhere. Just a bed was a relief after a week in his sleeper. He was already drifting off when he heard the phone on the nightstand start ringing.

“Just fuckin’ let it ring,” he mumbled to himself, but he was already rolling up, and picking up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hey Paul, forgot to tell you. I left you something in the VCR. It’s right up your alley you nasty pervert. Enjoy yourself, and those sheets better be crusty by the time I get there.”

The phone went dead. That had sounded like that old dude from the front desk–what was he even talking about? Had he called the wrong room or something? Curiosity got the better of him, and Paul heaved his tired body up from the bed, walked over to the small TV, hit eject, and an unmarked tape popped out. He pushed it back in, turned on the screen, and after a few moments, a video started. The picture was tracking poorly–it took him a moment to figure out that he was looking at two fat, hairy truckers making out in a communal shower–fuck, he hadn’t seen a shower like that in ages! Now that was a great place to fuckin’ peep.

Paul shook his head, trying to figure out where that thought had come from. And why did he have his cock out of his jeans? And why was he stroking it? And why was he still looking at these two sexy bears get ready to fuck each other’s brains out? Didn’t see men like that out on the road much anymore. They were a dyin’ breed, and that was a fuckin’ shame. Where had Earl even gotten this? It sure as hell looked vintage, probably from the eighties, judging by that mullet. Hell, he’d known a guy on the road back then with that same fuckin’ hair, huge beast of a cock. Just thinkin’ about that cock, fuck…

Paul shot his load all over the dresser, panting a bit. What in the hell was he doing? He always shot his fuckin’ cum on the sheets, had to get them smelling good and rank for whoever came next, right? Or maybe for…for Earl, yeah. When Earl got here later. He kept watching the video on the bed, milking his young cock onto the sheets beneath him, and outside the room Earl was watching the young man jack off through the blinds, grinning wide.