Stinker’s Drive (Sketch)

It had been a gag, one day–a prank by one of the guys on the football team, and no one had ever fessed up to it, not that Jeff would really give a fuck who it was. He’d gone out one afternoon, after practice, to find that someone had slipped his keys from his locker, gone out, and hung his dirty jock from the rearview mirror, like an air freshener. It had been a gentle ribbing, aimed at Jeff’s hygiene, because he almost never washed his jocks and other gym clothes, so the rest of the team could smell him coming around the corner, but rather than humiliate him, he just considered it to be a source of pride–and so, rather than take it down, he decided to just leave it there for the rest of the semester.

It wasn’t like his decoration went unnoticed around town, either, since it was a small college town in a rural part of the state. He didn’t really mind the reputation though–he didn’t give to fucks what anyone thought of him, because when it came right down to it…he liked the way he smelled, and he wasn’t going to change for anyone, just to make them more comfortable. So it was, one afternoon, that Jeff climbed into his car, at the end of the day, and when he did…he noticed that something stank a bit more than usual.

He looked around at his car, which was a bit of a mess, but there wasn’t any food or anything in the back. Besides, it didn’t smell like rot–it smelled like…sweat, and piss, more than anything else. Still, he couldn’t find the source, and figured it wasn’t a big deal–he buckled up and pulled out of the parking lot, heading for the house he was renting with some friends a few miles away from campus.

Still, the smell lingered, and while it didn’t bother him, he was…surprised to find that it was making him a bit horny. He hadn’t gotten laid lately–most of the girls on campus avoided him because of his musk, but it didn’t bother him all that much. He liked his hand more, in some ways, because a pussy always seemed to be attached to something complaining. But he did want to know what in the hell the smell was, and so, stopped at a red light, he looked around again–and noticed his jock, hanging from the rearview mirror–or at least, what should have been his jock, but it wasn’t.

This thing–it was almost grey brown in color, and looked like it hadn’t been washed in years. How in the hell had he not noticed that? Was this another prank by one of the guys on the team, pushing him a bit further, since the first prank hadn’t worked? But…maybe it was his jock. It looked right, to him, and part of him was telling him that it…smelled right too, somehow, but he couldn’t quite be sure. Against his better judgement, he leaned in, took a whiff, and as pungent as it was…it did smell amazing.

He shuddered in his seat, groping himself waiting for the light. It seemed…hotter in the car, than it usually did, somehow. Sure, the sun was out, beating down on the chassis, but this…it was an internal heat too. Something inside him, making him sweat–and by the time the light turned green, it was pouring off him, soaking his hair down, and soaking into his clothes too. It didn’t feel right–in fact, he was feeling dizzy and lightheaded. He…he needed to smell that jock again. Yeah, that would make him feel better for sure.

He took another whiff, shivers crawling up and down his spine. He kept driving, but his mind was focused elsewhere–he didn’t notice his college t-shirt soaking through with sweat under his hoodie begin to dissolve away, the same with his jeans–the denim around his ass succumbing first, and then the rest down his legs, to his feet, which were similarly melting his socks and shoes. He started groping his cock openly now, looking around at the drivers in the other cars, wondering if they could see him. It felt…good to be driving naked, actually. Risky. He liked risks, and he liked showing off too. He unhooked the jock from the mirror and looped it over his neck–better to smell it, and better to let other people see what a fucking pig he was too.

The air was heating up inside the car, the seats blistering and popping, the metal warping and reforming around him as he drove. Over the course of the next two streets, Jeff’s little sedan swelled and grew into an old grey pickup, paint peeling and rusted, but man, did the cab smell good. It smelled like the jock–it smelled like him. He was breathing deep, sucking in as much of the filth off his jock as he could, hair growing in all over his chest, shoulders and back, and something else was happening to his body too–color swirling to life all over his chest and belly, down onto his legs. Thankfully, he had a ways to go before he would be home–give him plenty of time to sniff and edge himself while he drove, passing the little house where college students usually lived, and got on the highway out of town. He enjoyed the ride, sniffing his ripe pits, stroking his long, sweaty cock, hotboxing in his own heat and sweat. He got to the house after about half an hour, pulled into the garage and finally opened the door of the truck–and the scent of the place–oil, dirt, smoke and beer. He started stroking faster, jock out in front of his cock, and he shot a massive load into the pouch, feeling a pair of leather biker boots form around his feet, along with a leather bracelet and cock ring–his usual driving gear.

As he recovered from his orgasm, Jeff realized that he had no clue where he was, or how he’d even known to come here. Still, just like the jock, he could tell, from the smell of the place, that he was home. He was home, and he was finally the man he’d been meant to be, all this time.

Pigtown Prison (Part 6)

“Fuck Rod, you know I’ll do anything for you,” Keith said, “I’ll keep the fucker nice and safe.”

“Yeah, it looks like he already knows how to treat you right, boy–but I don’t really think that’s enough, do you? No–I think you owe me and the boys a little something tonight, don’t you? You ran out on us so quick before, we didn’t get a chance to play with you at all. Besides, no lawbreaker can go out in the real world looking all pretty like you do now–no, I think you’re gonna have to have a whole new look, just like Keith here,” Rod paused a moment, and crouched down so he could look Oliver in the eye, “But after tonight, Keith ain’t gonna remember anything about who he was, or who you were to him. You’re just going to be his worthless fucking prison slave, and he’s gonna be a hotshot motorcycle cop. But you–you’re gonna remember everything. You’re gonna have plenty of time to think about all of the mistakes you made, you fucker, and you’re never gonna have a chance to cross me ever again, I can promise you that.”

Rod spit in his face, and then grabbed Oliver by the collar and dragged him towards the back of the bar, into the dark rooms where countless men were waiting for them. He wasn’t prepared for it to hurt as much as it did, but Keith enjoyed watching every moment of it–his slave raped and tortured and changed by Rod and his men. It was payback–he knew it…but he found it harder and harder to recall what the fucker had actually done to him. In any case, it didn’t matter–Rod had sentenced him to life in prison (with a chance of parole, if Rod thought of some better fate for him later), and Rod was the boss, after all. It was shortly before dawn when he dragged the slave back out into the air, shivering and shaking and flinching at the slightest sound, naked aside from a heavy metal collar riveted shut around his neck, and a metal chastity cage around his cock, similarly sealed forever. Keith locked him in the trunk of his car and drove to a home Oliver had never seen before. In the basement, he found a fully equipped dungeon along with several prison cells–Keith shoved him in one and locked the door behind him, before marching back upstairs and abandoning Oliver in the dark.

It wasn’t until a few days later that Oliver finally had a chance to see what had happened to him in Pigtown. He…couldn’t recall much of it, beyond the excruciating pain Rod had put him through, the ants crawling just under his skin for what felt like hours. He lived in the cramped cell–really more of a cage–and only saw Keith twice a day when he was fed. At last, Master decided to take him out for a bit of play–he bent him over the horse and fisted him for close to an hour, before fucking his sloppy hole–and the whole time, Oliver could look in the mirror and see what had been done to him.

Gone were his twinky good looks and his lithe, muscular body. His arms and legs had shrunk, looking a bit stick like, and he’d grown a substantial gut where his tight abs had been at the beginning of the night. In contrast to his weakened body, the rest of his body had taken a thuggish turn–from the tattoos covering his body, to the nose that had been broken several times, and rehealed a bit more formless each time, to the teeth missing when he grimaced, and the head shaved completely smooth. But even the superficial toughness was a fraud–the tattoos, which from a distance looked like gang or prison tatts–were revealed to be nothing more than humiliating words and perverse images when studied up close. Looking at his new face, Oliver tried to push back, tried to deny it, but he could no longer recall who he’d been before all of this, before he’d been judged and imprisoned by his new masters. He looked like a prisoner, he looked like a criminal, someone unsavory and untrustworthy, and before too much longer, he’d even become convinced that this was who he was–truly. That he deserved this. After all, Master Rod was always right, and if Master Keith felt he deserved this, who was he to challenge him? They were law, they were order, and they were right.

He only left Master Keith’s home rarely, and even then, it was only so he could be taken to Pigtown–Rod liked to see him every six or eight months to check in on the slave’s progress, and to test out his holes, and to make sure Oliver still fully understood why he was in this situation at all. His loneliness was interrupted by Master Keith bringing other men into the basement, on occasion. Cops from the precinct who had accepted one of Keith’s invitations to go drinking and had ended up at Pigtown, where Rod twisted them into some pervy muscle slave for Keith’s other sick fantasies. Other lawbreakers Rod had decided needed a sentence in prison with his officer of the law, though they only stayed for weeks, or months, at the most–only Oliver was a full-time resident. As his harem of policemen and prisoners expanded, Keith used Oliver less and less, and soon, he found himself abandoned entirely, his cock achingly hard in its permanent cage. He should have been thankful the abuse was over, but now…now he craved it. He didn’t care how rough it was, he just wanted contact, he wanted someone to use him more than anything. Still, what he wanted no longer mattered; he’d broken the rules, and this was the price he would have to pay for the rest of his life.

Smoke Spirit (Part 9)

It wasn’t long before Steven got home from class. He was shy and a bit of a loner, keeping to himself in the house. Wiry and short, with medium length hair cut into bangs, he managed to hide from attention more often than not–while he honestly didn’t care much about Douglas’ smoking, he sided with the other two just to avoid conflict as much as possible. And so, when Steven entered the house and saw the thick haze of smoke, his only thought was whether he could get away fast enough to avoid dealing with whatever must be going on inside, but instead, he found the sweet smelling smoke drawing him in, and he shut the door behind him, almost in a daze. The smoke was so thick, he could barely even see, and he started coughing immediately. In his head, he knew he should turn right back around, leave, and call 911, but instead he found himself stumbling into the haze, still coughing, trying to keep the smoke out of him as best he could, pulling up the collar of his shirt over his nose and mouth.

“In here, Steve!” A voice called, and it wasn’t a voice he recognized at all. Who in the world could that even be? He…he didn’t know why, but he needed to find out. He needed to…to join them? No, why had he thought that? He froze in the middle of the living room, holding his breath, trying to focus, telling himself he had to leave, that it…it was dangerous in here. The voice called out again, “Steve! Git yer ass in here, Howie’s about tah blow his bladder all over the floor, ya pig. Unless ya wanna lick it all up–I know…I know ya wanna do that sometimes…” the voice started chuckling then, and then groaned. He realized, too late, that his legs had started moving him closer to the doorway into the kitchen, and it was…hard to see, for some reason, like something was wrong with his eyes. But inside, he saw the most disturbing sight of his life–three men, all of them covered with tattoos–the same tattoos, in fact, in the midst of of a sweaty, smoky sex session. He could smell it on the air, the musk, and…and it was making his…his piggy cock so fucking hard.

No–why the fuck was he in here? Something was obviously very wrong, but…but didn’t he need to help out Howie? He always helped out Howie, and Pete, and Doug, of course. He was frozen in place, between his good sense and this strange compulsion, when Doug walked over to him, reeking of smoke, eyes bloodshot and smirking at him. “Don’t think too hard pig–we all know ya ain’t good at thinkin’. Hell, yer fucking dumber ‘n yer dad, ain’t that right Howie? This boy a yers popped out with even fewer fuckin’ brain cells than you did.”

“Yeah boy, git yer dumb ass over here ‘n help out yer Pa with this big ol’ load a piss I been savin’ fer ya. Ya know I ain’t gonna use a toilet when mah nasty boy is thirsty, right?”

No. No, he wasn’t doing this. None of this could be real. Everything seemed so…fuzzy all of a sudden. He tried to step back, but his Uncle Doug tugged him back, and shoved his cigar in Steve’s mouth, and the smoke made his head go light, his stomach turning itself into knots. Did he want to throw up? No…No, he…he was thirsty, wasn’t he?

“Come on, you dumb fucker, git down there ‘n drink.”

Everything seemed even more hazy than before, like something was clouding up his eyes, but one thing he could se was his fat, lazy pa, sittin’ in a chair by the table, cock hanging out, and fuck, that thirst of his was only getting worse. He stumbled forward, his body feeling…too light all of sudden, like he might blow away if he wasn’t careful, but he was down in front of his dad, mouth around his thick cock head, and as soon as his dad started pissing, all his other cares just…slipped away. Why in the hell had he been trying to worry about all of that other shit before? He was no good with thinking stuff–hell, none of them were, aside from Uncle Doug, who called the shots. The smoke was getting thicker around him, and when Pete stepped up and started pissing all over his filthy cousin, he could feel the stream running down his head and his back, but all he could see was Pete’s cock–the rest of him was lost in the thick smoke surrounding them.

On the outside, Doug could see the clouds condensing around the scrawny kid who’d come into the house–he could…kind of remember him from before, like he could kind of remember all of them, but none of that really mattered. No, what mattered to him now, was family. His family. His dirty, nasty, piggy biker family, and fuck, he was so fucking horny, he could just fuck his boy’s ass again, or hell, maybe he’d take a turn with Stew’s hole–that boy’s ass was so fuckin’ loose, but then again, when you got fists shoved up there as often as he did, that’s what tended to happen. Yeah, that’s…that’s what he should do, give his nephew a good fisting–break him in right.

He barely noticed the spirit pulling him over towards the other three, all of them already disappearing into the thick clouds of smoke surrounding Steve, where he was kneeling on the ground, moaning and gulping piss. Doug got down, fished around in the haze until he found Stew’s ass–not quite wide enough yet, but he’d be himself soon enough–and started probing it with his fingers, feeling the boy shove back onto his hand, hungry to have his filthy hole filled up. The spirit was in front of him, his smoky cock right in Doug’s face, and he…swallowed it to the hilt. It wasn’t solid…but it was there. It was energy, it was force, it was…him, in a sense he could barely describe. The thing started pumping smoke into Doug’s guts, and he could feel the heat of it infusing every bit of him, burning away the last remnants of Douglas from every corner of his mind, the spirit slowly losing form, shoving its way down Doug’s gullet until it disappeared entirely, and then, Doug’s eyes–like the rest of his family–clouded over, becoming a swirling mass of smoke even thicker than the others…and he realized that he could feel them.

Smoke Spirit (Part 8)

Doug tried to fight and push back, holding onto his own memories, but every time he tried to bring forth something to counter the spirit’s assault, it seemed to catch fire, and before he could even think of it, it was gone. There was just him, his dirty minded brother and equally perverse son…and…and someone else, too, but they’d find him eventually too. And then the whole family would be back together, like nothing had happened at all. The searing burns were more frequent now, and he could feel his boy flinch a bit as well, on occasion, meaning he was probably suffering the same sensation. He realized, at last, what he was feeling–it was his tattoos, of course! He and Howie had gotten matching tattoos when they were teenagers, and had just…kept on going. It wasn’t hard to see that they were related, given how similarly decorated they were, and as soon as they could convince someone, they’d started tattooing their boy the same as they were, when he was a teenager. He was getting close now, as was his son, and Howie, and the three of them came within seconds of one another, the smoke finally beginning to dissipate, and Doug could step back and haul his cock free of Pete’s sweet hole, and look at the damage the spirit had done to them all this time.

Then again, maybe damage wasn’t quite the right word, because when the smoke began to lift away from Howie’s body, where he was in the chair, all Doug could do was let out a gruff moan, climb over his son between them, and start groping his brother’s flabby body. His…his twin brother’s flabby body. Yeah, he was only ten minutes older, sure, but he was still the big brother–although Howie had him beat in the weight department. He’d settled in at around 275 pounds at this point, and he carried it well–his thick gut sticking out in front of him, two meaty tits with massive nipples resting on top. His ass was plenty wide, and jiggled a bit more than his gut ever would–Doug could…remember how it reverberates when he’s pounding his brother’s fat hole over…over the back of their bikes–fuck! What the fuck is he thinking? What the fuck is he doing?

“Fuck, I gots the hottest fuckin’ big brother in the whole fuckin’ world,” Howie said, looking up at Doug, his eyes the same solid grey as Pete’s below him. “Hottest fuckin’ nephew too! That’s fer suckin’ down Unc’s cum, Petey.”

“Welcome, Uncle Howie! You know I love the taste a yer fuckin’ cum. Dad’s too!”

“Yeah…yeah, yer a little fuckin’ slut. Take after yer Unc like that, boy,” Doug said, but even though the words felt…right, and that new twang sounded so natural and easy, part of him was fighting for dear life against this. But then, Howie took a deep breath of cigar smoke, grabbed Doug by the collar and locked lips with him, and fuck, the sharp taste of tobacco on his brother’s lips had him hard all over again, and ready for another round. But he…they…they had to wait, because…because wasn’t someone else still missing? He had his bro, his son, but wasn’t there someone else? Yeah, there was, but his brain was being dumb–hell, he was pretty fucking dumb, but not as dumb as Howie and Pete, that’s for sure. Someone had to be the brains in this family after all. He took a breath off his own cigar, got Pete’s mouth around his cock so he could clean it off like a good boy, and kept kissing his brother. He could…tell, everything was going to sort itself out. All he needed to do was wait. Or…Or should he be fighting this? Resisting? Isn’t…that what he should be doing?

He felt a hotter pair of hands on him, and beside him he saw the spirit. It was so solid now, and he was certain that if he reached out he wouldn’t be able to push his hand through it. It looked…so much like him, somehow. It came closer, it’s smoky belly pressed against Doug’s side, and he sighed in pleasure–from the heat, the smell of the spirit, wishing…wishing he could smell like that, even.

“It says you’ve done real good, bro. It’s real happy with ya. One more, ‘n ya’ll be one a us too,” Howie said, looking up at Doug.

“Yeah Pa, I can’t wait until yer wit’ us. Yer gonna love it. It says yer gonna love it, ‘n I love it, so it’s gotta be true, right?” Pete had crawled out from under Doug and was standing beside him, opposite the spirit, and looking at the three of them, he couldn’t believe how…similar they all looked to one another. The differences were there, sure, but no one would ever not guess they were family. That…that they were…one. Together. “One more Pa, we can wait. He’ll be home soon.”

Steven, of course. What time was it, even? He couldn’t see a clock, he couldn’t tear his attention away from his family long enough to care. He was getting hard again–they all were–he leaned down and kissed his twin again, feeding the hog some smoke, listening to his snort a bit in excitement, while his boy licked at his musky pit, blowing smoke over his skin. He could…feel them somehow. Hear them in his head, if he focused hard, but it was too hard. “Soon,” came another voice, his own voice, actually, “Very soon.”

Smoke Spirit (Part 7)

He shoved his lit cigar in Howard’s mouth, who kept trying to spit it out. Douglas ended up shoving it in, nearly down his throat, while Pete plugged Howard’s nose, forcing him to inhale the smoke, watching as Howard’s eyes clouded up–again, not as quickly as Pete’s had, but he could tell that there wouldn’t be much fight left in him soon, and the two of them released his arms.

“Y-Yeah, don’ know what I was thinkin’!” Howard said, “Me…fuckin’…runnin’.”

The smoke was pouring out of him now, like it had out of Pete in the bedroom–first from his mouth, but then it seemed to be pouring out of his very pores. The spirit touched Howard’s running clothes, and they turned black, dissolving into ash and crumbling away, as the smoke began to envelop him. “Son…help your uncle out, would ya? Suck his cock, while I have a…another go at your hole.”

“Aww…fuck yeah, ain’t nothin’ like mah hot nephew’s mouth round mah thick cock, tah clear my drunk ass head out!” Howard said through the cloud of smoke, which had swallowed his entire head. His voice had shifted again, lower, and picked up an accent so thick Douglas thought it only existed in movies and stupid TV shows for hicks. Still, even if it was heavy, it was also…familiar to his ears. Comforting even. The cloud of smoke began to descend lower, covering his chest and flat stomach, and when it reached Pete’s head, it began swallowing up his son as well. He wanted to run, he wanted to do something to save them. He managed to take a step back, and then another, watching the smoke absorb the bottom half of Howard’s body, as well as Pete’s head and neck, planted in his crotch, sucking his cock.

“Come on Pa, thought ya’s was gonna give mah cubby hole another rough plowin’!”

It was Pete’s voice this time, drifting from the cloud of smoke–he wasn’t going to let this happen to him, he wasn’t going to give into this any more. The spirit beside Howard on the chair walked over to him, once it realized he wasn’t simply going to give in, and started stroking Douglas’s cock, pulling him forward into a kiss, the things mouth hot and dry–like eating an ashtray, and yet he was so turned on, he couldn’t help but moan.

“Please…don’ do this tah us,” Douglas said, his own voice picking up the same accent as his two roommates, “We ain’t done nothing tah deserve this, it ain’t right. I’m sorry ya lost yer family, but I ain’t gonna do this.”

But even as he protested, the spirit was stroking harder on his cock, pulling him forward, step by reluctant step, until the spirit had it lined up with Pete’s ass, and unable to resist–just…wanting to know if his son’s hole felt as good as he remembered it–he slid inside with a low groan. The spirit straddled Pete’s body, weightlessly, it’s form joining the thick cloud of smoke covering the front half of his body and still spreading further, inching closer to where Douglas was now fucking his boy’s tight, wet hole. He had to stop, but he couldn’t. The spirit kept kissing him, pushing into him, breathing into him, and Douglas…felt little bits of his soul heating up, drying and blowing away with each smoky exhale. The smoke was beginning to coat him as well–he could feel his son’s hole, but he couldn’t see him anymore, and the only evidence he had that Howie–no, not Howie, Howard–existed was the occasional moan and smack of his boy’s mouth around his uncle’s cock. Douglas gave in, too tired to fight, too hungry for smoke, and the smoke enveloped him again–but this time, the sensation was different.

Before, the heat had been inside him body, as his muscles had grown–and there was still some of that heat, mostly concentrated in his gut and chest. He also felt heat on his skin however, sometimes searingly hot, enough to make him wince and flinch as he fucked his son’s hole. The tenuous connection he’d felt form between his son and him deepened, and he found himself forming the same link with Howard–no, with Howie, of course. With…with his brother. Memories came to him, more than he could really begin to process, from his time spent growing up with Howie, the two of them jumping one another’s bones every chance they could as soon as they’d figured out what their cocks were even for. In the trailer park, in the woods, back behind the school when they should have been in class–they’d been, quite literally, as close as two brother’s could be. As the older one, Doug had always been the one to call the shots, and Howie had been his always willing accomplice.

They’d fucked the bitch together, one night at a truckstop–one of the very few times they’d even bothered with pussy, and they’d been surprised with the appearance of Pete about a year later–a three month old infant left in their care–and they’d done as well as they could with Pete. They still weren’t totally sure who the father really was, but for ease, Doug had accepted the official title, while Howie had been the ever-present uncle. Pete had, thankfully, turned out to be as much of a pervert as his daddies, sucking their cocks, getting fucked–anything was good for Pete, as long as a cock was inside him.

Requested & Submitted by @inchingtowardursinity


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Justin’s Lost Nights (Part 1)

Justin rolled over groggily in his bed. Out too late last night, and too much to drink. Still, when better to make bad decisions than while you’re young, right? He couldn’t even remember where he’d ended up. He rolled up and sat on the side of his bed, one hand collecting a cigar and his lighter from the nightstand, and he took a moment to get it lit, puffing gently, getting his first bit of morning smoke in his lungs. Much better–get rid of that fuzzy tongue and take the edge off his headache–once he takes a piss and eats something, he might feel mostly normal again. He stood up, and left a trail haze of smoke behind him as he walked to his bathroom, not really paying attention to the other person rolling awake in his bed.

He turned on the light, but it was too bright for his eyes. He pissed squinting, and managed to blink them open. He went to fill his glass for some water, say his arm, and nearly dropped his cigar in the sink. Tattoos. His entire arm and hand was covered in tattoos up to his shoulder. He didn’t have any tattoos–he fucking hated tattoos…didn’t he? As he stared at it, a memory came to him, something powerful–

The room was dark, mostly lit by the hallways and rooms next to it, the air thick with smoke. He didn’t want to be here, he wasn’t supposed to be doing this. Someone saw him, a burly guy, thick cigar wedged in his mouth, his arms coated with tattoos that looked like tendrils of smoke, with a flash of red around his wrist. Taking a closer look, it was the burning butt of a cigar, his hands also tattooed the texture of the brown leaf, and he felt himself drawn to him, drawn to his smoke.

They were making out, the man feeding him smoke, and as much as Justin didn’t want it, his body sucked it in deeply. He could feel…something wrapping around his arms and hands, something tingling. Breaking away, he gasped–seeing the tattoos unwinding from the man’s arms and winding their way around his instead, like they were alive, and he could feel the heat, but all he wanted was the man’s cigar. He took it from his mouth, and sucked the smoke in for himself, sucked it deep, so deep–

“Here you are,” a voice said behind him. Justin turned around and found himself face to face with the man he’d just remembered from the bar, except his arms were completely bare. “You really do smoke those things from dawn to dusk.”

He was trying to hold onto what he’d just seen, but it was fading like a nightmare, with just a residue of unease hanging over him. “Yeah…it’s…it’s a habit.”

“Well I think it’s sexy as fuck, especially on a young guy like you. No one your age smokes cigars like that.”

“Look…I must have had too much to drink last night. Did you…come home with me?”

The older bear nodded walking over and wrapping his arms around Justin’s body. His hairy arms felt strange against his smoother skin, the man quite a bit bigger than he was as well. Then again, Justin was smaller than most people, at five seven and 160 pounds, “Sure did, and we had quite the night. Too bad you don’t remember it. Guess that means I’ll have to give you some more to remember this morning.” The man leaned in and locked lips with him, sucking the smoke from his mouth–

They weren’t alone, people were watching, but they didn’t care. The tattoos burned, but he welcomed it, just like he was welcoming the smoke into his lungs, like a friend he hadn’t seen in years. The man shoved him down; he exhaled smoke all over his hard cock and balls, warming them, held the burning end close enough to singe hairs, feeling his shiver and spasm, and when he’d been edged to the point of heaving breaths, Justin turned him around and started blowing smoke up his ass, the bear moaning, begging him for his cock, and he slid it in, feeling the heat of his smoke and the heat of his body–

The bear was bent over the counter, Justin fucking him roughly. One tattooed arm was holding down his head while he groaned, the other holding his cigar. He took another deep breath, staring at himself, trying to remember what he’d been. Before he’d felt those tattoos snake around him…or had…had he gotten them himself? He fucking…fucking loved cigars. Couldn’t live without them. He took another deep suck of smoke, his cock close, thrust himself over the edge, and unloaded deep into the bear’s hole, both of them panting, the bathroom choked with smoke.

“F-Fuck…For a little guy, you sure don’t fuck around.”

Justin slid his cock out and stumbled back. “S-Sorry, I just, kind of lost it there…”

“I’m not complaining man, I love that shit,” the bear said, “Now, how about breakfast? My treat.”

They went out, but breakfast was an exercise in torture for Justin. Away from his cigars, the food tasting bland and uninteresting, when all he could think about was lighting up again. He made small talk as best he could, however, and managed to pry more information out of the guy–or Robin, as he eventually learned. Apparently, they’d hooked up at a bar downtown called Pigtown. It didn’t sound familiar to Justin at all, but Robin told him it was the best club in town.

“No rules man–anything goes. The health department doesn’t even know about it. The fuckin’ best.”

The best or not, Justin knew something strange had happened to him and Robin there the night before. He tried to tell him about his strange visions, but Robin found them boring. He tried to suggest they go back, but Robin had work on Sunday, so he couldn’t be out late.

“Every night at Pigtown is a late night, you know.” Robin said with a grin. “And I’ve had a few too many late nights there lately. Not even sure who I am anymore, you know?”

Justin didn’t. But he got directions from Robin, and when evening came, returned, chuffing his cigars the whole way, already thinking he’d been smoking for most of his life, and everyone there seemed to welcome him like a friend.