Tag: straight to gay

Tyler gruffly watched the parade’s festivities, but he sure as hell wasn’t enjoying it. All of these fucking faggots with their disgusting rituals–it was no fucking wonder they were all going to go to hell for it. He was at one end of a small group of protesters, and for the most part, people were just ignoring them, or hadn’t even noticed them. But hell, how could they, when there were men in dresses, and chicks riding on Harleys with their breasts flapping everywhere, and men in disgusting leather straps and plugs in their butts, it was–

“Goodness, doesn’t it just make you proud?”

Tyler hadn’t noticed the man step up next to him, and he snarled back, “No, it doesn’t make me proud, it’s fucking disgusting!”

“No, you aren’t listening,” the man said, and now that he had Tyler’s attention, he locked eyes with him. The man looked perfectly normal, but…his eyes, the iris were black, but the pupils were…white. Tyler couldn’t look away, “Now, doesn’t it make you proud?”

Something felt like the world was rippling around Tyler, and as it passed, he said, “well, sure, I suppose so. I’m not gay though, I’m just an ally.” Something about that seemed like it should surprise him, but he’d come here as part of a counter-protest–wearing a short shirt with a rainbow on to show his support, but he wasn’t gay himself.

“Well, that’s better, but shouldn’t it make you prouder?” the stranger said, and another wave flew over Tyler, and he gave his head a shake. Looking down, he saw he was wearing his favorite tanktop he’d bought at one of the bear runs he’d been to, and some cut off jean shorts. “Well of course it makes me proud, but…I guess not proud enough to actually be out there, eh?” He chuckled at the man.

“Well, then shouldn’t you try and feel the proudest you can feel?”

Another wave, and then Tyler felt something in the music playing from a passing float, and he just wanted to fucking dance. He started grinding his ass into the church fuck next to him, watching the man recoil in horror that “a faggot” might have touched him, and then with a deep laugh, he pushed his way out into the street and started dancing along with the float. Sure, he was in his fifties, but he’d never in his life imagined that in his lifetime the movement could have come this far. Truly, he didn’t think that at that moment he could have been any more proud.

Looks like I have another one–there’s a farmer’s market on Tuesday evenings a few blocks down, and afterwards, we always seem to get a few farmers looking for nudie mags before they head home to their frigid wives. Still, I do love sending them home with a few…extra purchases. 

Gah, he’s so straight and square and boring though, I’m going to have to make him a bit more interesting first. Hmm…I’m thinking…top, but a little versatile, he loves having his hole diddled while he fucks–how about a butt plug to get him started? He’ll probably be wearing it 24/7 by the end of the week.

Well, he’s too hairy for my tastes, so how about we get rid of that icky hair, and beef up those muscles? Yeah, really roid him up, a perfectly smooth muscle daddy, stretching those overalls to the limit, probably a bit dumber too, sex is the only thing he can think about, oh yeah, he’s going to be a returning customer, I can feel it already…

Source: bareassbear

“I just don’t see why all of this information is necessary.”

“I assure you, Mr. Kilward, that we use all of the information on those forms in the hiring process.”

“Well yeah, but isn’t it just, a little too…personal?”

“If you’d like to leave, no one is stopping you.”

Zach looked at the door, and then at the interviewer across the desk. He really needed this job, but sexual interests? Number of previous sexual partners? When do you feel the most sexy? He didn’t want to answer any of this.

“Here, I’ll tell you what,” the interviewer said, “Go ahead and leave blank any questions you don’t feel comfortable answering, alright, and we can fill them in later.”

That sounded fair to Zach, and so he hurried through the forms, generally leaving the more probing questions blank, before handing the papers back to the interviewer, who started putting the information into his computer.

“Hmm, well, it looks like you left out the number of previous sexual partners you’ve had, Mr. Kilward, I’m just going to ballpark it, and say…1700.”

“What? 1700, but–” Zach said, but his head was suddenly crushed with memories of hundreds of sexual encounters he had somehow forgotten.

“Yes, and I think you made a mistake here, under sexual orientation. You marked ‘straight,’ but you seem 100 percent gay to me.”

Men, all of them men. How many men had he been with? What was happening?

“Hmm…preferred position? I think, ‘bottom.’ Oh and I love this one–’When do I feel the most sexy?’ Hmm… that’s a hard one, but if I hazarded a guess, I’d have to say, ‘When I’m humiliating myself, acting like a fat pig and begging men to use my like the fat slutty cumdump I am.’”

“No, no what are you doing? Please, please stop!” Zach said, but let out a loud snort of pleasure when the interviewer reached over the desk, pinched his nipples through the shirt and gave them a twist.

“Tell me what you want little piggy, don’t be shy.”

“Oh fuck, can…can I suck your cock *grunt* please sir, I haven’t had a drop of cum in hours and I’m so hungry…”

“Then get under my desk and suck me off bitch, but take it slow–you left so many blanks, it’s going to take me hours to fill it out for you.”

Source: paintchipsforpyromancers

Donny’s my neighbor–fuck, I’ve had a crush on him for so damn long. Still, straight, married and five kids? What chance did I have with a breeder like that? Still, he was nice enough, and he wasn’t a homophobe or anything. Still, the few times I got drunk enough to risk a come on he shot me down pretty hard–even refusing a god damn blow job. 

It was pretty hopeless, but then I happened upon this strange shop at the mall, a place called Spells ‘R Us. Just one of those curio shops–figurines, knockoffs, though I had to admit that it was pretty high end as far as kitch went. I struck up a conversation with the shop owner, and before I knew it, he was ringing me up for a cigar of all things.

Crazy–I wasn’t a smoker. I didn’t know anyone who smoked. And here I was, one cigar, nothing else, I took it home, put it on the table, and the doorbell rang, and there was Donny, here to return some tools he’d borrowed the other day.

I invited him in for a beer, he saw the cigar, and I told him he could smoke it if he wanted to–and the next thing I knew, we were upstairs in my bed, his cock buried deep in my hole–it was everything I’d ever wanted and more–but the story didn’t end there…

There are spirits that live in mirrors–the beings which mimic us as our reflections, and as of late, they have become rather intrigued by this new love of people taking pictures of themselves with the little hand held devices they call smartphones. These spirits, though, while usually friendly, aren’t above being a bit meddlesome. They’ve found that, by twisting the image that gets sent back to the lens, they can radically alter the world outside their mirror, and Max was unlucky enough to be their next victim.

They’d watched him for weeks now, berating the black men who came into the locker room to change, especially the larger, out of shape ones, and the mirror spirits thought he might deserve a lesson. He’d snapped the picture, planning on sending it to a bitch he was trying to get laid with, but the image that showed up on his phone was all wrong. The man was fat, for one thing–very fat–like “having no business ever stepping into a gym” fat. There were other details that were strange too, like a tattoo across the man’s chest reading “I ❤ BBC.” What in the world was BBC? Even the case of his phone was different–where the confederate flag had been, there was now that faggoty rainbow one.

“Aww yeah, there’s my bitch–you been waiting all this time, just for me?” a voice said behind him, and he spun around. It was Ned, one of the heavy set men Max had teased regularly, but when he saw the fat black man now–and the big cock he had in his hand, Max’s mouth watered.

“Yes sir–you know I can’t leave without serving my black masters.”

What did he just say? Max barely had time to register the words that had come out of his mouth, before he was on his knees, Ned’s massive cock rammed down his throat, and he realized the strange picture was now truth. On the outside he was the fat pig, a fag desperate for black cock, but inside, he was still the same–for the moment at least.

Source: thelockerroom

I was always a breast man—I admit it. And a bit of a chubby chaser. A woman with curves could get me going like no other, I swear. When I started chatting with her, and she started sending me her pics—oh my god, I would have done anything for her. I suppose I should have found it odd, how I never remembered our conversations in detail—only that I wanted to talk to her more than anything. Still, it was months before she finally relented and sent me a face pic—and my jaw dropped.

It wasn’t a she at all—but a he. I was angry, confused, betrayed—but there was nothing I could do by that point. I came crawling back, desperate for more pictures—he made me apologize, and promise to never desert him again—I had to say yes, I had to. 

Still, he wasn’t done with me—every month, it was new pictures, new training. One month focused on his gut, and how much I wanted him to crush me beneath it. One month on his ass, and how I’d worship and clean it. One month on his nub of a cock, and how I’d happily suck it whenever he told me to. One month on how I was an encourager, and would do anything to make him bigger.

I’m his little house pet now, I suppose. I do anything he wants, and I love him—all 500 pounds of him. He had me sell all my possessions and move out to live with him, and now, any separation is physically painful. I’m a slave to his fat now, and will be for the rest of our lives.

My dad is such a prick. He makes fun of me because I’m not as muscular as he is, and even steals my goddamn protein shakes the time. I think that if he knew I was gay he’d pummel me. Still i think I’ve found a way around that little problem.

See I’ve been messing around with many chemistry teacher at school. He’s this chubby bear of a man, and an awesome bottom. I told him about my father, and he suggested a little concoction he uses to pack on the fat himself. I replaced my protein shakes with it, and dad is already putting on weight. The aphrodisiac is just a bonus, really.

Yeah, he can’t explain why he suddenly needs my cum so bad–but he’s been sneaking into my room every night now at least once to suck me off while I “sleep.” I think he’s starting to notice the weight he’s packing on too, but it’s already too late–the shakes are highly addictive–Hell, I should know, since I can’t stop drinking them either. Yeah, that was part of the deal–my teacher wanted me fat too. Still, I think it’s worth it, just to bring my dad down with me, and my teacher loves my fat cock too much to make me a bottom. Looks like by the end of the year, I’ll have two big piggies to fuck. I can’t wait–even if I’ll probably be over 500 pounds by then too.

In the last eight years, we have seen a large uptick in membership among extreme right wing groups, particularly among violent militias in rural areas of the western states. While generally harmless, these groups still pose a possible threat to national security, and represent efforts on the part of citizens which could be used for better, non-violent purposes.

Now, studies have shown that men make up 90% of militia members, and that the violent tendencies of these men are often rooted in extreme sexual repression of homoerotic desires. Operation Prisma uses a psychodeinhibitor that, when planted in the militia’s water supply, encourages the expression of these repressed desires. The drug dose is so small that results are not generally seen for approximately four to six weeks, however, the men in the militia eventually lose interest in anti-government sentiment in favor of other activities. In test cases, militias have dissolved within days of the initial onset of symptoms, with many of the men partnering up and moving to more urban areas to rejoin society. Mr. President, we have men stationed at fifty targets–all we need is your approval to commence the operation.

Evan had been a casual gamer–meaning he had a life outside of video games. Unfortunately, that meant that every game he played he lost. He hated it, and worst of all, he knew that the guys who creamed him day in and day out were just fat loser faggots who lived in their parents’ basements and did nothing but play games all day, but still, he wanted to beat them so badly, it wasn’t fair. 

Of course, he didn’t think it was very fair when he woke up one morning in his parents’ basement, two hundred pounds heavier with glasses and a neck beard to boot. But his orc warrior could obliterate nearly every player on his pvp server, and he’d somehow mastered every fps from Counterstrike to MW3 overnight, and he found it nearly impossible to not play games from dawn till far past dusk–at least when he wasn’t jacking off to his massive archive of gay porn. He’d become the guy he’d always hated–and yet he couldn’t help but enjoy every second of it.

Jeremiah had been furious when he’d found out he had to take special sensitivity training in the wake of the DADT repeal, but considering the vitriol he regularly spewed about “fags” and “dykes” he wasn’t surprised. Still, he was confident he’d come out of it without his views changing. Gays were sinners, and that was that, in his opinion. 

He’d arrived at camp, and was assigned to a platoon of like minded associates, all of them laughing about this bullshit, but over the coming weeks, as the soldiers were beaten, broken down, and humiliated over and over again by their gay staff sergeants, they all eventually had a change of heart. A few, like Jeremiah, found that their hatred against homosexuality was actually due to their own repressed sexual desires.

On his final night, he had a private training session with Sergeant Hale, and Jeremiah spent the whole night worshiping his superior’s boots and cock, begging for more. The next day, he discovered he had been reassigned–and would continue serving under the sergeant until further notice, but Jeremiah had to call him Master from then on.