Remembrances – Episode 2 (Part 3)

“Everything alright, Harry?”

Mr. Elroy was over on the couch now, sitting with his son, arm around his shoulder, and his boy had that far off look in his eye again, like he had before. “Looked like you were remembering something. Your boy coming back to you finally?”

Harry nodded, “Yeah, some of it, I suppose.”

“Well, why don’t the three of us take a trip down memory lane together? After all, I think your son here could use a refresher as much as you could.”

They were all back in the old house again, and Wilbur was there, sitting with his son. He was older now, probably around ten or twelve, and Wilbur was talking about working in the factory, about tools, about mechanics and all the cool stuff they did at work all day, and his son was enthralled. He turned to Harry, who was just watching, and asked him if, when he was all grown up, he could go work there too, just like them, and Harry told him that nothing in the world would make him happier than having his son follow in his footsteps, and be a union laborer just like him.

The scene shifted, and now he was in the bleachers of the local high school, watching the two cross town rival teams duking it out on the field. Harry found himself following one member of the defensive line closely, and it wasn’t for a few minutes that he realized it was his son, Pete. But of course it was Pete! He was the biggest fucker out on the field after all–thanks to his mom’s big meals, and going to the gym with Uncle Wilbur. He sacked the quarterback, the stands erupted in a cheer, and he pulled his helmet off and waved to his dad in the stands. Harry waved back, along with Wilbur, and he had a hard time imagining that he could be more proud of his son than he was in that moment.

Time slipped again, but seemed…more fluid this time, like he was existing in more times than just one. He could see his son, eight or so, struggling with his homework, and Harry suggested he just skip it, and they go play football instead. Later, there was something similar, an argument he was having with Patricia while Pete was listening in, talking about his grades–or rather, about how bad his grades were. Harry didn’t think it was a big deal. You didn’t need to be smart to work in a factory, after all, but Patricia was concerned. It dawned on Harry that the reason Pete was so large as a Freshman on the football field in high school was because he’d been held back twice…or was it three times? He could also see Pete talking to him, older now, smoking a cigar with his dad in the garage while they worked on the car, telling him he wanted to drop out of school and just go work in the factory with him. Harry felt the entire time collapse there, somehow…and he knew what he was supposed to say–what Mr. Elroy wanted him to say…but he also knew it wasn’t right.

His son wasn’t stupid. He was clever, and intelligent, and just because school was a struggle didn’t mean he should quit…right? But more than that, Harry knew that what he was seeing…it wasn’t what had really happened. This wasn’t really his son, and he wasn’t really Harry at all! He…he was ruining his father’s life, the one he’d worked so hard to build, and for what?

He looked at him in the memory, grease covering his clothes and face, a thick beard already growing around his cheeks, haircut the same flat top his dad liked, ever since his days back in the army. He looked at him there, wanting an answer, and he could…see how if he gave him permission, there wasn’t going to be anything left for him. The factory would close down in a few years, after the accident, and everyone’s pensions would evaporate. His son needed an education if he was going to be someone–someone who mattered to the world–and not just some washed up redneck living in a dying small town, like Harry had become. So he said it.

He sat down with his young son, and even though Harry himself wasn’t very bright, they worked out the problems together, before going out and playing football in the yard as a reward. He agreed with his wife, and they did his best to work with Pete’s teachers to get his grades back where they needed to be, so he wouldn’t have to be held back. He talked him out of dropping out when things got rough, and told him that he wanted his son to have the sorts of opportunities he never got to have. That there was more to life than just working in a factory, that he could be so much. The potential in him was limitless! Why cut himself off at the knees? He could feel it–feel it having an impact and making a difference. He could almost see him walking across that stage to get his diploma, but before it fully materialized, he found himself flung back out, and he was back in the present, his son looking around, bleary and confused, and Mr. Elroy…did not look pleased.

Remembrances – Episode 2 (Part 2)

He shuddered, felt something inside him well up, and when Harry opened his eyes again, he wasn’t in the retirement home anymore, he was back in the old living room. But better than that–he wasn’t old, either. No he was young again, like he’d been in the picture–strapping young factory worker in his early 30’s, newly married after the war to his old high school sweetheart, his best friend and strange love, Wilbur, standing beside him, and there, on the sofa, was his son. His only son, no more that five or six, just sitting there with a happy grin on his face, without a care in the entire world.

“There he is, Harry, your boy.” Was it Wilbur speaking? Was it Mr. Elroy? Harry was beginning to wonder if there was even a difference between them at all. “This is what I was talking about, Harry, when I mentioned my other projects. See, it wasn’t just you that I wanted–not that you wouldn’t have been…delicious on your own.”

Harry felt an odd clarity returning to him, and he could almost remember what had happened to him, what Mr. Elroy had done to him or whatever this thing was, if it was even human at all. He looked up at his friend from his memory, but it was… wrong. His teeth shouldn’t be that sharp, or his jaw that distended, looking over at his innocent little son like he was nothing more than a snack. Then, just as quickly as it had come over him, it passed, and it was just his best friend again beside him…but the lingering sense of unease persisted.

“Excuse me, for that, Harry,” Wilbur said, “I can get over excited before a meal, sometimes.”

“What…What the fuckin’ hell are you?” Harry asked, a quaver in his voice.

“Something very old, Harry, with a much longer memory than you can possibly understand,” Wilbur said, “But that has nothing to do with you and your son, now does it? See, I know how disappointed you are, seeing that your son has grown up and become just the sort of person you despise, no better than the managers at the factory, the ones who wouldn’t bother listening to the warnings from the union. No better than the mealy mouthed fuckers at the department of labor, denying your claims, or the fuckers at the bank, who took this house from you when you needed it most, those asshole doctors who took not just one, but two of your loves far more early than they ever deserved to go.”

None of what the thing was saying could possibly be true–Harry knew that, for the moment. But as he spoke, memories flooded into him, as real as anything he had ever truly experienced, and along with them came an anger. A deep, bitter resentment at everyone who had ruined his life. He’d had…such promise, and he’d lost it all to fate. He could have been somebody, if it wasn’t for the fuckers of the world like his son had somehow managed to become.

“But we can fix it, Harry, don’t you worry. We can make sure your boy grows up to be exactly the sort of man you can be proud of.”

Harry felt everything in the memory spring to life around him, looked over, and the look in his son’s eyes–it was awe. He was just staring at Harry, smoking his cigar, standing with his best friend, and it seemed to stretch for…so long, somehow, and then it was gone. They were back in the retirement center, but not everything was the same. No, now his son was sitting there, still in a suit, sadly, but now he was smoking a cigar, the same brand Harry always smoked, looking at his dad beside him with the same awe and thrill as he had in the memory. “Well, I hope you’re liking it here, dad. I only want the best for you, you know that,” Peter said, taking a draw off his cigar, adding his own smoke to his father’s in the air. “It seems like they’re treating you well, though.”

Harry didn’t know what to say. He just looked up at Mr. Elroy standing beside him…but what was he even supposed to think? The real him, the kid that was growing more and more distant with each passing moment, was horrified, and couldn’t bear the thought of this monster doing to his father what had been done to him. But this new person he was becoming, with all of these vivid memories…he was thrilled…and he wanted to see more. He wanted his boy to become exactly the kind of man he was, to lose…everything, and be swallowed up and spit back out again.

“I can assure you that your father is very much enjoying his place here, isn’t that right, Harry?”

Harry nodded, and cleared his throat, “Yeah, yeah, it ain’t…home, but it’s alright.”

They all chatted for a few minutes, and Harry couldn’t tear his eyes away from his son’s cigar. The boy had always been obsessed with them as a kid, he’d always thought that when he could smoke them, then he’d be a real man, just like his dad was. Fuck, the first time he’d caught him with one, he’d had to give him a spanking (Patricia had demanded it, and he wasn’t about to contradict her word on household manners) but afterwards, he’d taken him for a ride in the truck, out of town a ways, and shown him the right way to do it, how to cut the cap off (or bite it off, if you were in a pickle), how to light it, how to hold it. He’d inhaled too much, and ended up having to throw open the passenger door and vomit on the side of the road, but it wasn’t like Harry hadn’t done the same thing when he’d smoked his first one too!

Patreon Suggested Stories – June 2018 | Wesley Bracken on Patreon

I have three short stories for my Patrons this month, all based on their suggestions. Here’s one I wrote for them last month, which was too early to post then, and is too late to post now, but oh well, happy Father’s Day anyway.

Happy Father’s Day From Arctos

Jace and his dad, Patrick had never really seen eye to eye on anything, especially not since Jace had become a teenager. Patrick had spent his whole life pursuing the middle class dream, and now in his mid-fifties, he’d achieved it. The big house in the suburbs, a good wife, a handsome son. Sure–his life wasn’t exactly exciting–he spent the week working as a middle manager at a technology company in the city, and the weekends were usually spent golfing and relaxing at home. He liked the simple, boring life though, and he’d hoped his son would be the kind of boy he’d wanted–playing golf with him, playing baseball or football at school. A good student with an interest in business, going to college–but Jace had wanted anything but that, and his teenage years had been one rebellion after another. Growing his hair out, getting into music and trying to start a band in the garage, refusing to take golf lessons or play sports, and Patrick was almost certain he was a stoner too–but Jace was clever, and hadn’t gotten caught, yet. His wife generally stayed out of it, and after years of fighting over it, Patrick had more or less resigned himself to accepting that his son was going to do his own thing–and probably fail at it, but he refused to listen to reason.

Jace was eager to get out and live on his own. He didn’t want to go to college–he was more interested in trying to make it as a musician than studying or anything. He hadn’t quite figured out how to break that to his father yet, though–so he decided to try and smooth things over a bit and get on his good side, before dropping the hammer over the summer that he wasn’t going to apply for school anywhere. And so, he found himself in a store, looking around for a Father’s Day card he could give his dad, along with the gift of some golf balls–it was stupid, but he knew his dad cared a little too much about stupid shit like that. He didn’t pay much attention to the card he grabbed–it came from a novelty rack sponsored by some company called Arctos. He signed it at home, and then left it on his dad’s desk in his office, where Patrick would see it when he got home from golfing in the early afternoon, before going out into the garage to practice.

He was too absorbed in his playing to hear the shout of alarm coming from the house after his dad got home, found the card, and opened it. Patrick had been touched to get anything from his son this year, since usually he pretended that Father’s Day didn’t exist, or just called it a corporate scam. But when he’d opened the card, a thick cloud of smoke had exploded out of it, engulfing him, and when it cleared, he felt…strange, and looked stranger. He stumbled to the bathroom down the hall, and saw that his gold outfit had disappeared. In it’s place, he was wearing a strange assortment of leather gear, and his body was all wrong too. He had hair all over the place, for one thing, with a thick bushy beard down to his chest. But as shocking as it was, he…looked good, and looking at himself all leathered up, he thought he’d pay his boy a visit, so they could celebrate Father’s Day properly.

Out in the garage, he yanked out the power cord to Jace’s guitar, and before he could react, he had him pinned to the wall, kissing and groping him, more smoke emerging from him and swirling around Jace–though he didn’t change as much as his father, at least not physically. He found himself helplessly obeying his father’s commands, and there was nothing he could do as the smoke around them turned his guitar and music equipment into a sling and sex dungeon right there in the garage, where his father used his boy all afternoon and evening, making sure he was properly broken in.

Things were different for them both, from that day on. Patrick’s wife had disappeared from their lives, leaving just the two of them living in the house together, as father and son, and as lovers. Jace tried a few times to talk some sense into his ‘Daddy’, as he now always called him, but while Patrick could remember their old life just fine, he much preferred this new arrangement. Jace, in a desperate effort, tried to run away, but his daddy hunted him down, and Patrick told him he would have to be punished for his disobedience. After a long night in the dungeon, and after the same smoke from the card emerged from his father and surrounded Jace, he found himself in a rather different body than before–still young, but his long hair was cut into the same style as his father now, and his thin frame was now short and pudgy, his six inch cock cut in half–which Daddy promptly locked away for the rest of the summer, as a way of encouraging his boy to be on his best behavior.

But Jace’s rebellious streak died hard, that summer. His father took over his life–what he wore (his band shirts replaced with business casual, or nothing at all when he was at home), who he hung out with (his bandmates never knew why he stopped hanging out with them, but Patrick entertained the other dads of the neighborhood regularly, and all of them had their fun with Jace’s holes), and what he did with his time (he played round after round of golf with his daddy, but was also in charge of keeping house and cooking meals, since Daddy didn’t have time for it, with work). He fought back, but every time he did, his father would drag him back out into the garage, the smoke would return, and change something else. He got older, aging up into his forties at first, and then even further, passing his father in age and ending up at sixty-two, though he would always be the boy in the relationship. He lost all the hair on his body, and most of the hair on his head, his voice shifting higher and picking up a femme touch–something that drove daddy wild, when he listened to his boy beg for him to fuck him every night like the little slutty boy he was, and by the end of the summer, he’d resigned himself to his new life as his one-time father’s subby boy, and the slut of the entire neighborhood to boot.

Remembrances – Episode 1 (Part 7)

The fear he felt, when Mr. Elroy said that, was different. It was existential. Harry had, to that point, known that the nurse held power over him, but it wasn’t until that moment that he understood exactly how much. If he could make him live through something like that, see something like that…remember something like that, then Mr. Elroy–he could do anything to him. And worse…he could make Harry want it. Make him beg for it.

“Things could be good for you Harry. You could be happy here. All you have to do, is give me what I want, and help me out along the way, with a couple of…other projects.”

“Other…there’s other people here, like me?”

“At the moment? No. I prefer to just keep one of you around–but you’ll understand, in time. So–what do you say, Harry? You going to be cooperative? Or maybe we could start showing you some other memories? Maybe turn you into a nice, faggot cuck–watching Wilbur, that best friend of yours, fuck your wife right in front of you. That sound like a memory you want to relive, Harry?”

He shook his head. He…he knew Wilbur would have never treated Patricia like that, but Mr. Elroy…well, he could make Wilbur treat them however he wanted.

“Good–now, why don’t we go get some lunch? We still have time.”

Harry thought that was a good idea, mostly because he didn’t want to be alone with this man anymore–not if he could help it. He got up from the bed and tottered to the hall, passing his cane as he went, but Mr. Elroy cleared his throat, and pointed to it. “You’re going to have to accept some things, Harry, even if they are hard to swallow. Get your cane.”

Harry stared at it, and remembered how much of a trial it had been to get to the dining hall that morning, but he didn’t want to use it. He didn’t want to admit that Mr. Elroy had won. “Please…I’ll do whatever you want, just fix my leg.”

Mr. Elroy shook his head, “I can’t fix things, Harry. I only break them. There’s no going back–I told you this. Now get your cane like a good little faggot.”

He hobbled over, and took it in his hand, hating how comfortable it felt against his palm, and how much easier it was to move with it supporting him.

“Good boy,” Mr. Elroy said, and opened the door, “Now, let’s go eat.”

The evening was easier, at least. The cane helped more than Harry wanted to admit, and Mr. Elroy seemed to be in a better mood, now that he sensed that Harry was beginning to give in. It was easy, almost, to accept that what he remembered as that rather strange childhood was what Mr. Elroy told him it was–just the ravings of an occasionally demented mind. But he was feeling better now, more certain about himself. Mr. Elroy chatted with Harry about his past–about Patricia and Wilbur in particular, and Harry found himself able to answer the most…personal of questions about them both. That shouldn’t be possible, if they hadn’t been real, right? But if he’d just been a kid the day before, how could he know any of this? How could he remember Patricia on their wedding night, how could he remember how Wilbur had cried next to him in the hospital room, after the accident? That…that was the only time Wilbur had ever cried in front of him, and it was enough to make his weep too. But men weren’t supposed to be weak like that. Harry…he didn’t understand men these days, wearing makeup, and flouncing about. Everything seemed so…out of sorts. It was better to stay here, and just trust Mr. Elroy. Trust his memories–his real memories–and push that dementia as far away as he could, because if he let it get too close, Mr. Elroy told him it would just…eat him away, until he was nothing at all. Just a husk lying in bed, drooling, diapered, just…trapped in this old thing until someone merciful allowed him to die–but Mr. Elroy told him that could be a long time, because this place had very strict policies against euthanasia.

Mr. Elroy was so pleased with his behavior that day, that he allowed Harry to go to bridge that evening. It was a treat, and Harry enjoyed it–he and Patricia had loved hosting bridge nights with other couples in the neighborhood, and while the first few hands were a bit rough (Harry, for some reason, struggled to recall some of the rules) by the end of the night, he was back to his old tricks–and more than a few women, widows mostly, were eyeing him handsomely, but he allowed Mr. Elroy to escort him back to his room. After all, it was time for his evening smoke, and drink, right?

He settled down in his recliner, in front of the television, watching a sports network, smoking a cigar and drinking his bourbon, talking with Mr. Elroy about how much he loved smoking, how he thought it was important for a proper man to smoke, that they seemed so much more…attractive. Mr. Elroy chuckled, and lit one for himself, “What do you think, Harry? Do you think I’m more attractive now?”

Harry didn’t answer–that…that wasn’t something one man should say to another, but it was difficult to deny it. He was…rather attractive with a cigar in his mouth, it only made him look even more like Wilbur. He drank back the rest of his glass of whiskey, not noticing the spidery veins spreading across his nose and cheeks, as he did, and took a deep draw off the cigar, only to give a deep, raspy cough. Still, that’s what you got, when you smoked four or five cigars a day, like he did–he…needed them, as much as he hated admitting it. In him a voice was screaming at him, trying to convince him this was all wrong, that he needed to stop, but he pushed it away. That…that was just the senility talking. He needed to be clear eyed, for when his son visited tomorrow.

Remembrances – Episode 1 (Part 6)

“No!” Harry said, and crossed his arms, “I’m…I’m not hungry.” He was, in fact, a bit peckish, but as far as he was concerned, this was one hill he was willing to die on.

“Not hungry, eh? Something else you’d rather do on our lunch break, then, buddy?”

That hadn’t been Mr. Elroy’s voice. It had been Wilbur’s, but it had come out of Mr. Elroy’s mouth. Just…hearing him again, filled him with such longing, but Harry pushed back, as best he could. Wilbur wasn’t real. None of this was real. “You’re…not him. You can’t be him…” Harry said, shaking his head, hand shaking and dropping the ash of his cigar onto the floor beside him, where Mr. Elroy stamped it out, before plucking the half smoked cigar from Harry’s hand.

“Careful now–if you can’t be careful, I won’t let you smoke in here anymore–you’ll have to do it outside.”

“I don’t…I’ve never smoked before in my life…” Harry said, staring at the cigar, trying to remember where it had even come from.

“Nonsense–you smoke like a chimney, Harry. Now–you said you didn’t want lunch–but don’t you at least want a snack?” Mr. Elroy unzipped the fly of his pants, stuck the cigar in his mouth, and pulled out his cock. It was erect, and inches from Harry’s face in the recliner. “Go on then, you old faggot.”

“I’m not a faggot!” Harry said, bristling at the word. No–he wasn’t a faggot. He was…straight. What he’d had with Wilbur, that was something else. He’d never really known how to explain it, and he’d never dared tried to talk to Patricia about it…though he suspected she’d known something was going on between them. No–but not one of those limp-wristed faggots. But Harry pushed those thoughts aside too. He’d never been married–hell, he’d never even had sex before! He…honestly didn’t know if he’d been gay or straight, not anymore. Everything just felt so muddled in his head, and just impossible to untangle. “I’m…not a faggot…” he said again, less certain this time.

“No?” Mr. Elroy said, and then…something happened. It wasn’t Mr. Elroy standing in front of him–it was Wilbur again, and he wasn’t in that apartment, he was in his old living room. Was it…a memory? Was it something else? “What about for me, Harry–think you could be a faggot for me?” Wilbur said, and stroked his bearded cheek. He looked…so young, like when they’d first met, and when Harry looked down at himself, he saw that he was young too, his leg uninjured, his body strong and vital, and he was so…happy, and so hungry, he leapt on his lover’s cock and started sucking on it. “Yeah, that’s it–I never could keep you off this thing, even if I wanted to try.”

Harry didn’t care–he was happy. He was happy here, in the past, where he…where he felt like he belonged. “Fuck Wilbur, I’ve…I’ve fucking missed you so much,” he said, licking around the head of his cock.

“Yeah, I know how you get without a good fucking, buddy–now come on,” Wilbur said, and hauled Harry into the bedroom, getting his suspenders off his shoulders and his pants down, pushing him over the bed. “This is what you want, right you fucking faggot?”

That…that didn’t seem right to him. Wilbur would have never called him that, but fuck, he did want it. He was so fucking horny for his cock, it felt like ages since he’d been fucked properly. “Y-Yeah, give it to me Wilbur.”

“You old fucking pig–I’ll give you what you fucking need.”

It was rough, and it hurt. He tried to pull away, tried to get Wilbur to slow down, but he just grabbed hold of Harry’s hair and tugged him back onto his cock, told him to take it like the man he claimed he was. It hurt, hearing that…but he was so hard, all the same. He just let it happen, let Wilbur have his way with him, the room filling with his cigar smoke, and when he came, deep inside him, the bedroom scene around him evaporated, and he was back in the apartment bedroom, his leg aching, Mr. Elroy’s cock throbbing inside his ass, laughing. “Yeah, that’s a good old fuckpig–faggot is right. No man would moan like that with a cock deep in his ass, right?”

Harry tried to crawl away, and Mr. Elroy let him, Harry trying to sort out what was real, and what wasn’t. Wilbur…Wilbur had never treated him like that. No, that wasn’t really a memory, was it? It was so hard to tell, like he didn’t even know his own life–but of course he didn’t, because none of it was real! He had to remember that, Wilbur wasn’t real, none of this was real. “You…That wasn’t real. I know this isn’t real.”

Mr. Elroy shrugged, “I suppose. But what’s real, Harry, really? What do you know is real?”

“I’m…I’m not supposed to be old. I’m a fucking kid, goddamnit!”

“Oh? And where’s the evidence? Real things should have evidence, right? But your dad doesn’t even remember you, Harry–or your son, I should say. That’s just a fabrication of a feeble, senile mind. But don’t worry, we can make you better, Harry, if you want to get better. We can help you remember everything. And what you remember–well, that will be more real than anything else, soon enough. So tell me, Harry, what’s real? Is it this?”

Mr. Elroy reached out and touched him, and a fantasy came back. Wilbur was there, they were in bed, a rare moment alone, just…being close, just loving each other in the small, cramped, secret spaces of their lives. It was tender, and it was so…tender. It felt like it would crumble at the slightest touch, if he wasn’t careful. Then, before he could really appreciate it, it was gone, and Wilbur was on top of him, ramming his cock in deep, demeaning him, threatening him, humiliating him–he hated it, and craved it, all at the same time. Then, he was back, and Mr. Elroy pulled his hand away.

“What’s real, Harry? It’s up to you–depending on how much you want to…cooperate.”

My Town (Part 12)

Quentin looked up at Todd from where he was on his knees. He wanted to cry…but he couldn’t. All he could feel was that same hunger beginning to build in him, and he reached around, pulled the cigar butt from his ass, and stuck it in his mouth, unlit, and began to chew. “Please…Please, I’ll do anything you want. Make me whoever you want. I’ll be your sheriff, I’ll beat up whoever you want, but not this, please not this,” he muttered to Todd.

Todd stepped into the cell with him, his leather boots hard against the concrete, and crouched down with him, watching him chew the cigar while he smoked his own. Quentin saw that his eyes had changed, from the night before–something was…wrong with them. They had been blue before, and certainly cold and calculating, but now they were something else. The iris was grey, and seemed to swirl gently as they looked at one another, and the pupil was black, but almost had a sheen of leather. Todd stroked the side of his face with one of his gloves, and he flinched away, only for Todd to grab him by the neck, squeezing him gently, tilting his head so his cheek was half an inch from the burning end of his cigar.

“This is my town now, do you understand that? I don’t think you do, really. None of you do, yet. I remember you, you know, when I was a kid. You were just a deputy then, always the perfect image of professionalism on the beat. I wonder, do you remember me at all? Do you remember watching me getting beat up in the school yard from across the street, that same grin as always plastered on your face? You didn’t do shit for me then–you were useless, and spineless. Now, at least, I have a use for a piece of scum like you. Like all of you–my dad, my brother, every man in this town. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this? Do you have any idea what I’ve given up for this? You can’t possibly understand–but that’s alright. I’m not keeping you all around because of your smarts, or because of your compassion. I’m keeping you all here for my pleasure–and do you know what would please me most right now? Making you a filthy fucking ash pig for the rest of your miserable life,” Todd smiled, “And you know what else? I think that’s what would please you most too.”

Quentin…remembered something then. Something he was certain wasn’t real, something fabricated by Todd and inserted into his mind, but it felt…so real. He remembered how, for so long, he’d been keeping a secret–that while to the rest of the town he was an upstanding, respectable citizen, whenever he was alone in his garage, he’d been…consumed by a desperate, insatiable desire for smoke and ash. “No–no, it isn’t true, I…I never did any of that.”

“No? You didn’t go on cam with strangers all over the world, devour full trays of ash in front of them over cam, coat yourself with it, and beg them to send them their own fill ashtrays? You didn’t do any of that? But you remember it, don’t you? I can pull up your xtube account, I can show you everything. It’s real now–it’s all real as could be. So you see, Ashtray–all I’m doing is setting you free. Setting you free to be the man you always wanted to be–because in my town, you can be exactly who you were meant to be, all along.”

He fled. He pushed himself to his feet, shoved his way past Todd, and ran all the way out of the police station. He didn’t pay attention to the other leather clad officers laughing as he passed them by, didn’t notice the thick haze of smoke in the air, from all of their collective pipes and cigars–he didn’t stop running until he was on the sidewalk, two blocks down, and crouched in an alley between a bar and a cigar shop–and he tried to deny it. Tried to find himself, but he was still chewing the cigar, still swallowing down bits of it, taking it out, licking the still warm end, coating his tongue in ash, moaning, groping himself, thinking about how…how satisfying it was. It was true–he’d hated that side of himself, hadn’t he? No–no, not that side. He’d hated his public face. He’d hated how everyone had looked at him in uniform, hated the standard he had to abide by…but now, there were no standards for him. He was free to fall as far as he could, and as terrifying as the thought was, he was so…happy, all the same, to be free at last.

Now, he walked the streets during the day, begging the men of the town for ash, smoke, spit, piss–whatever they were willing to give him, and enduring any act of humiliation to get it, and at night, he’d sleep in the alleys or get picked up by his favorite cops, and spend the night in a cell servicing them all night long. Now–now he simply was who he was–no illusions, no disguise. The ash starved pervert he’d always wanted to be…it was real now, and as much as he tried to convince himself that it wasn’t right, that he had it backwards, the relief was so real. He stepped out of the alley, wanting everyone to see him. Wanting them to know him for exactly who he was, the cigar unraveling in his mouth, leaf stuck in his teeth, and a couple of bears were coming towards him down the sidewalk, cigars half-smoked.

“Fuck, any…anything a filthy Ashtray can do for some of that ash of yours fellas?” he said. He said it. He wanted to say it, and when the two men shoved him into the alley for a little fun behind the dumpster, he felt that old Quentin withering in his mind, and he pushed him away. This is just who he was–who he’d always been meant to be–and thank god for Todd, for his town allowing him to become the nasty pig he’d never known he really was.

This is the end of “My Town” for now–there may or may not be more in the future.

My Town (Part 8)

“Well? Go on then, get out. You don’t want to be late to work, do you?”

Todd was in the driver’s seat of his brother’s truck, and they were parked on the street, a block down from the construction project where he’d spied on him the day before. His brother was in the seat beside him, crushed up into the cabin as best he could. He hadn’t really realized how large he’d grown, until he’d climbed into the cab, knees crunched up to his chest, head bent over to keep from being pressed against the ceiling. He…didn’t want to get out. He didn’t want anyone to see him, not looking like this.

Todd had not been kind to his brother during the night–he’d left marks, purposeful ones, all over his brother’s aching body. Lash marks across his ass and back onto his shoulders and neck, cigar burns on his thighs, bruises all over, including a black eye he’d given him, after feeling a brush of teeth on his cock while his brother had been giving him head. He looked battered and broken–and the clothes his brother had given him to wear this morning hid nothing–just a pair of short denim shorts, pockets hanging out the bottom like the daisy dukes Kyle had chased in his teens, and a t-shirt cropped short, showing off the welts across his lower back, where the hair didn’t cover them up. He looked over at Todd, pouting slightly with his fat lip. “Please bro…please, can we just go home? You…you can fist me, all you want, but don’t…I don’t want them to see me like this.”

“Oh Kyle, I can fist you all I want, no matter what,” he said, slapping his face lightly, but enough to make Kyle flinch slightly, “But right now, what I want, is for your whole crew–hell, for the whole damn town–to see you looking like a beaten piece of meat, dressed like a fucking whore. Now get out of the car, and lets go get you to work.”

Kyle fought, but his body obeyed all the same–his brother’s voice didn’t give him a choice. Without thinking about it, he took a cigar and lit it, which eased his nerves slightly, and he waited for his brother to get out and come around to the sidewalk with him. “They…they won’t even recognize me, will they?”

“Maybe not a first, no, but that’s why I’m coming with you,” Todd said, “To make sure they know who you are, and what you’re for,” he said, slapped Todd on the ass right in front of an older couple walking down the street, who looked away in shock and disgust. Kyle…didn’t know what to feel. He was almost thankful for his now shrunken cock, at the moment, so no one could see how hard he was, and he squeezed the dildo in his ass, thankful he was at least plugged. He thought about the older man, thought about him turning around and calling him out on his shame, calling him a whore, shoving him against the wall and beating him, making him suck his cock right here in the street, and he turned back and tried to get back in the truck–only for Todd to grab him with a gloved hand and drag him back.

“Please…please, I don’t want to be this, I don’t want to do this…”

“Do you know, Kyle, how many times I had to walk the halls of school with a black eye, or a swollen nose?” Todd said, linking his arm in his brother’s, and walking him the block to the construction site, where Kyle could see his co-workers–his friends–gathering to get started for the day. “More times than I can really count. At least you enjoy it. At least everyone seeing you as the muscle bound slut masochist turns you on more than anything. You know what I think? You’re afraid you’re going to like this. You’re afraid you’re going to like this so much you’re going to want it. And you know what, Kyle? You’re right.”

They rounded the corner, and Kyle saw the first couple guys see him, and look shocked. Then came the recognition, a moment later. “Kyle? Is…what the fuck happened to you, man?”

His face was red. He couldn’t speak. He wanted to die, he wanted them all to fuck him. He wanted to be humiliated. He wanted it all to stop.

“Just a normal night, right guys?” Todd said, as the men clustered around them, eyes going a bit cloudy from his smoke, looking at the older fellow walking with their muscle bound worker, “I mean, which one of you guys here hasn’t spent a night with your crew slut, beating him while he begs for more, fisting his hole, covering his face with spunk? I bet every single one of you has, right? You can remember, can’t you Kyle?”

He could remember. He could remember them all, and Kyle realized he was forgetting as well. Forgetting all the women he chased and battered, all of the conquests, all of the macho posturing he’d wasted his life with. No–he remembered better now, remembered all the men he’d slept with, all the cruel, vile things they’d done to him, that he’d begged them to do to him. The men around him, the eyes were turning cruel, the mouths twisting into leers, more than one of them rubbing their cocks through the front of their pants, thinking about their last nights with Kyle, and thinking about how they could use another one soon.

“Is that fucking Kyle? You fucking piece of fucking shit, you’re late again!” An older man, the foreman, pushed himself through the circle of men, and met Todd, who brushed him with his gloved hands, warping him just slightly, and Kyle fell to his knees in front of him. “Sorry…sir, I’m sorry. I just had to help my brother out, and I lost track of time. I can make it up to you right sir?”

Todd pushed the cigar into the foreman’s mouth, and stepped away. “Yeah, you can make it up to me, in the trailer, you fucking slut. Get going.”

Kyle booked it into the trailer, and for the next several hours, the men listened to the cries and screams of their crew slut, as the foreman worked him over, and when the foreman stumbled out, sweaty and exhausted, he sent each member of the crew in for a break, like usual. By the end of the night, Kyle was limping along with Carl, a particularly thickly forearmed bricklayer, already hungry for a night with his ass full of him–and whatever else he might feel like doing to him. He deserved it after all–but he needed it, more than anything.

My Town (Part 6)

My other hand grabbed him by the jaw, three leather fingers finding their way into his mouth, forcing it open, running over his teeth, sloppy with his spit. They…wanted him. They wanted him bad, at least as badly as I did, as I always had. Without even noticing it, one glove had opened the fly of my jeans, hauled out my now larger cock, and was giving it a few strokes–and I felt it growing even larger now, nearly eight inches. “What do you think bro? Think your little brother is man enough for you?”

I didn’t give him a chance to answer, and plunged my cock into his mouth, forcing it down his throat, listening to his gag and moan, my gloves tugging at his clothes, ripping at them, hungry for the skin underneath. They knew what I wanted him to be–they knew what he deserved. My brother thought that strength was everything–that if he was bigger than everyone else, that meant that he got to be in charge. Well I was going to show him that size isn’t everything–that just because you’re the most massive, most brutish looking fucker in a room, doesn’t mean shit when I can get my gloves on you.

Both of my hands sweep across his back, and I watch it explode with muscle, his shoulders, neck and delts all swelling in size. He barely notices–his focus is entirely on my cock–right where it should be. From there, my gloves grope his chest, feeling his pecs grow thick and meaty, the nipples like bolts jutting from them. Hands on his arms, and his biceps, triceps–even his forearms swell, his hands doubling in size, easily large, and strong enough, to palm a watermelon. The hair comes next, a thick pelt forming all over his body, but most heavily on his shoulders, arms, back and chest, like a proper brute should have, in my opinion. I shove him over so he falls onto his back, straddle his wide chest, and kiss him, shoving smoke into his mouth, feeding it to him, and push my cigar in there once I’m done–he starts chuffing away at it, like a good little pig. “Alright big boy, bend over. Let me see how that ass is.”

Without even thinking to question it, he struts over to the bed–which is quite a sight, really, given how top heavy he’s become in the last few minutes. He manages to keep himself upright, however, and bends over, my gloves diving right for his ass, swelling both cheeks into thick globes, then down onto his thighs and calves, swelling them larger, the bones thickening and growing longer, pushing him up to a new height of nearly seven feet tall. Then, his feet–rubbing them both until they’re well over size twenty…and then I can’t resist it anymore. I dive in, licking at his ass for a minute, listening to him groan and open up slightly, and then slam my cock in, nice and rough.

While I fuck him, the gloves turn their attention to me–swelling me up in the same fashion as my brother, though not nearly as large. I can see myself aging again as well–a bit more white a grey sprinkled in my chest hair and beard…but I don’t care, and I light myself a second cigar, since my brother is well occupied with my first one. I’m a smoking hot daddy bear at this point, and this muscle pig of a brother is moaning and begging for me to fuck him harder, and harder…but I have one more thing before I cum. I roll him over, throw his legs up in the air, and keep fucking him–but I can see his cock now as well. It was always quite large–one of his best qualities, really. But now, at his new size, it actually looks quite small–but not nearly small enough. I grip it in one gloved hand–both cock and balls, and I squeeze, feeling them contract and shrink as I apply more and more pressure, until there’s barely any left of either–just an inch long micro cock, buried in the massive forest of my brother’s pubic bush, and a tiny, tight sack with two balls smaller than grapes. Looking at him, at this massive fucker with a miniscule cock, moaning for me to fuck him harder, and deeper around my thick cigar–it’s too much. I explode, deep inside him with a shout, but keep fucking until I fall out soft. It’s done, mostly. The physical side, at least. His head is mostly still there–I want him to see what I made him, before I turn him into the man he’s going to be from now on.

He keeps sucking down smoke, and finally sits up, staring down at himself, his hairy body, and his missing cock–he stares at me blankly until he finally puts everything together, and his eyes go wide in terror. “You…Bro, what the fuck…what the fuckin’ hell did you fuckin’ do to me?”

I smile at him, and light a second cigar for myself. “Trust me Kyle, it’s going to be so much better this way, for us both.”

“But I’m…I’m fuckin’ huge, bro! I…and I can’t…fuck, I…I’m so fuckin; horny bro, I’m so…” His hand doesn’t go to his cock, though–it goes to his ass, two fingers sliding inside himself while he groans, eyes wide, trying to understand why he just did that, and why he wants to keep doing it, and hell, if my cock isn’t twitching already, hungry and desperate for another round with him. “I…Fuck, I wanna get fucked again bro, ya turned me into a fuckin’ faggot!” He pulled his hand free, and I could see how much it pained him–he wanted it in there, he needed something in there. His eyes were narrowing–I could see the gears turning, as he went back to his anger, the shock and horror beginning to fade. He knew how big he was–and even if I was larger too, he knew he was still bigger than I was. And if he was bigger than me, then he could take me–or so he thought.

My Town (Part 4)

His dad left the stall and looked at his new figure and clothes in the grungy mirror, and true to his son’s words…it didn’t bother him at all. He knew it should, and he felt humiliated, but his small cock was rock hard in his jeans at the sight of the big bellied trucker he’d become in less than a minute.

“Something is still missing, I think–ah, of course! An old fuck like you, I bet you’d be smoking something like this,” Todd said, and again, his glove whipped out a small curved pipe, which he slipped into the pocket of his vest, “That’s for later–for now, why don’t we go have some real fun?” Todd said, with one hand on his father’s shoulder, he leaned in and started whispering into his dad’s ear, a grin twisting on his face as he did. All Edwin could do was listen, his jaw dropping in horror at what his son was telling him to do–at what his son was going to make him do–but by the time Todd was finished speaking…he wanted to do it too, and he groped his puny dicklet a couple of times, hiked the ass of his grimy jeans up, turned around and left the bathroom.

He surveyed the bar for a moment–it was much busier than it had been when he and his son had arrived, so many more…options. For a moment he looked at a table of rough construction workers enjoying some beers after work, but his eyes drew him to what he knew he wanted–what his son knew he wanted too. The thicket of bikers who had come in an hour ago, now quite drunk and clustered around the pool table after a long day’s ride. They were no group of hobbyists either–and looking at the grizzled fuckers over there, Edwin knew what he wanted–what he needed, and walked over to them.

Todd just watched as his father waded into the gang, and begged biker after biker to drag him into the bathroom and fuck his dirty trucker hole, loud enough so the whole bar could hear what was going on. The bikers didn’t know what to think about it, for a moment, and just ignored him, but Edwin didn’t like that, so he pushed things further, and started groping them, egging them on. That, it turned out, was a bad idea. Two bikers grabbed him under the arms and hauled him out the front door, the rest of the clientele giving them plenty of room as the rest of the gang followed them out, ready to give the faggot a proper beating in the parking lot. After they left, the bar picked up where things left off, and Todd slipped out, taking a spot on the porch of the bar, where he could see the ring of bikers form around his father, see him fall to his knees and beg for their cocks again, helplessly, terrified out of his mind, and then the first punch connected with his face.

The punch–the gloves shivered, and unable to stop himself, they took control of Todd’s hands, forcing open the front of his pants, one glove stroking his cock roughly, the other tugging at his balls, pulling them away from his body hard enough that he could almost hear the skin stretching. He deserved this, he thought, watching the bikers beat his father, his now faggot father, and still he was begging for a fuck–but he couldn’t stop. Todd knew he could do nothing–if he did nothing, the bikers would probably kill him, but that was better than his father deserved, it wasn’t…enough. The hand on his sack pulled away, took the cigar from his mouth, and whistled, loud and piercing, and every biker froze in place, turning to the stranger on the porch of the bar.

“Gentlemen,” Todd said, stepping down, feeling…taller. More imposing. Even a bit…older. His cock was still out, and he was still stroking it with his free hand, but none of the bikers seemed to mind this. “No, not gentlemen, nothing gentle about you lot, right?”

The bikers all laughed. It sounded forced, compelled from their lips.

“This has been a good show, I must say, but don’t you think it would be better for everyone if you simply gave the faggot what it wants? After all, what’s a gay biker gang without a sex slave pig to haul around with you, right?”

The bikers felt a wave pass through them. It left them feeling uneasy, and unsure of themselves–Todd could tell it wasn’t quite enough. He made eye contact with his father, eyes swollen, bloody mouth, a tooth lost on the ground beside him, and Edwin knew what he needed to do, what he had to say. “Please, I’m just a stupid faggot trucker. I’m worthless, with a tiny fuckin’ dick. I was made…to serve you, please let me be your biker bitch.”

“Come on guys, if one of you rough fucks hasn’t got a hardon, hearing that, then kill the pig.”

As it turned out, none of them were soft. With a few whoops, they headed for their bikes parked along the front of the bar, a couple dragging Edwin over and tossing him into a bitch seat. He glanced over at his son, eyes wide with terror, but Todd just sneered at him. “Don’t worry dad, you’ll be back home in a few days, probably.”

Edwin tried to shout something, but it was lost over the sound of the roaring engines. The gang took off, leaving Todd in the dust and smoke of his cigar, and with one more rough tug, his cock exploded all over the ground in front of him, his body shuddering. He fell to his knees, out of breath, mind heady with the rush of power he’d just wielded, to bend the wills of so many men, all at once–he’d known it would be possible, but the act of doing it was something else entirely. It was a minute before he could stand again, and when he did, he looked different. Taller by a few inches, shoulders wider, chest inflated with some muscle, a bit of grey in his beard. He went back to his father’s car and climbed in–he needed some sleep, and then, in the morning, he’d pay his brother a long overdue visit.

My Town (Part 3)

“Calm down dad–no one is going to notice a thing, as long as you don’t moan as loudly as you did when I fucked back at home,” Todd whispered in his ear, one gloved hand massaging the crotch of his slacks.

The two of them had spent the afternoon and early evening getting acquainted. Todd had finished his cigar while his father sucked him off nice and slow, and then he’d fucked him on his bed and made sure Edwin was nice and loud with the window’s open–enough that the neighbors outside might have possibly heard the commotion. So far, Todd had done his best to keep the gloves from altering his father too much, but the exciting afternoon had left a few effects. The most notable one, by far, was the beard Edwin was sporting across his face and neck–thick and bushy, and a bit greyer than the hair on his head. Still, a little weight there, a little hair there–he’d beared up nicely. By the time Todd was finished, he almost looked like someone he wanted to fuck.

Still, Todd wasn’t planning on keeping his dad as a personal slut. Sure, that had been his fantasy for years, but with his new gloves…well, he’d decided that he could set my sights a bit higher than that now. Still, his dad, and the rest of this fucking town, needed to be taught a lesson–a hard one. Well–really Todd was just going to make them live by their own rule–that appearance and presentation are everything. If Todd was going to hurt his father like he deserved to be hurt…well, he was going to have to suffer a few changes right?

But for now, they were relaxing for a moment, just a couple of guys in a booth at the trucker bar on the outskirts of town, the one his dad had always warned him about. It wasn’t quite a rowdy as it had been twenty years back, but it still carried a reputation. “Drink your beer, dad–look like you’re enjoying yourself a bit.”

Edwin picked up the mug and drank about half of it, and then set it back down. “Look, Todd, I’m sorry, alright? But enough is enough. I am your father, and I demand you get your hand off of my crotch.”

Todd just smiled, “Dad, I still don’t think you quite realize the level of shit you’re in–why don’t we go ahead and head into the bathroom for a bit?”

“Please, not here.”

“Calm down–we’ll do it wherever I fucking want, but this is going to be…different.”

The glove pointed to the bathroom, and his dad was compelled to go. Todd waited a beat, and then followed him. The bar was lively, and no one was paying them much mind. Inside the bathroom, he told his dad to go into the handicap stall, and then the glove ordered the other two guys present out of the room. They obeyed…but weren’t quite sure why they did. Then, Todd slipped into the stall with him.

He took a moment to look his dad over. Aside from the beard, and a bit of weight on his midsection, he was still the upstanding elder of the community he’d always believed he was. Todd had even made him dress in the same outfit he’d come home in, the waist of the khakis a bit uncomfortable, but otherwise untouched. “Now dad, you were always so ashamed of me, and my lisp, and my size. You had me marked as a faggot from the age of then–the fact that I like cock was always incidental. If I’d been more of a man, I could have at least hidden it, right?”

Edwin’s silence at the accusation was all the confirmation he needed.

“Well dad–since you think appearances matter so much, I think it’s time you tried on a new look.”

With both hands, he reached out and took hold of the suit coat his father had on, gave it a tug, and they both felt it squirm in his hands. A moment later, it wasn’t a coat anymore, but a ragged looking leather vest.

“How…how did you do that?”

“It’s easy, if you know the trick,” Todd said, ran a hand over the shirt, and the buttons disappeared, the front coming together seamlessly until it was just a grubby looking t-shirt, emblazoned with the logo of some forgotten truck stop, and the pants were next, turning into a pair of old jeans, the belt unlatching, and slinging over his shoulders into a set of suspenders. Lastly, he bent down and tugged at his shoelaces, watching as they grew up his ankles into a set of grubby work boots, caked with mud. “See? A brand new wardrobe in ten seconds flat,” Todd said, “but it’s what’s underneath that counts too, right?”

Todd grabbed hold of his father’s crotch with one hand, kneading his cock again, and this time Edwin felt a shift as his six inch cock began to retract, halving in size as his balls pulled up tight. His son’s other hand stroked his stomach, and it began to round out, becoming a hefty beach ball of a gut, stretching the t-shirt to the limit, the words of the logo a bit warped by the size, his father forced to lean back a bit to counter it. Todd came close, pressing his own stomach to his dad’s new belly, reached around, and palmed his ass, feeling it grow out as well, filling out the seat of his new jeans. Lastly, he mussed up his father’s hair, watching it grow out a bit and turn lanky, his beard tangled, and with a snap of his fingers a trucker cap appeared in one hand, and he rested it on his father’s head.

“Go on dad, have a look–but I think you’ll like what you see,” Todd said, stroking his father’s cheek with one hand.”