Tag: tattoos

Coach’s Summer Training – Part 2

Phillip Emerson was my next pupil. I’d met him while helping out with a few local wrestling meets at the college level. Part of what I liked about him was he was more than an exceptional all around athlete, he was incredibly smart to boot, in the midst of pursuing some degree in an advanced math program. Just the kind of guy I can destroy, and love every second doing it, usually with a bit of challenge along the way. Wrestling was his chance to not think for a while, he told me, and I figured that by the time we were through, he wouldn’t be thinking much at all. We spent a day in the ring getting nice and sweaty, and I offered him a massage to help him cool down afterward. I started on his shoulders, and immediately his body went limp, and he let out a groan. I urged him to relax, to just focus on his good it felt as I kneaded all the tension from my body. He still eventually noticed what I was doing, of course, once he saw his legs shrivelling up and disappearing into his torso. I started pulling him on, and he couldn’t do anything but flap his withering arms at me, his head shrinking down into his neck of the shirt as I pushed my head through. I sniffed the sweaty fabric and jacked off, making sure to shoot up the front–the first load of seed of many more to come.

As I expected, Phillip was too smart to be a screamer–he was a bargainer. He obviously knew that I wanted something out of him, but he didn’t know what. His mind was too adept for me to wear him down to the breaking point like I had Shawn–so I decided to work on him a little differently. I proceeded with what I had been planning, and I started a long, intense workout regimen which had Phillip soaked in my sweat from dawn to dusk, and as I lifted weights and ran my miles, I counted. I counted steps, I counted sets and reps, and I counted at him, and soon, unable to help himself, he was counting too. He didn’t exactly have much else to do, right? And he did love math, after all. Then, while he was busy counting, I could sneak around in his head, sand off off a little cleverness here, erode a little vocabulary there, take off a little bit of wit over there. By the time he noticed that he was getting dumber, it was too late–then he started screaming.

Thankfully he got too dumb to figure out why he should scream soon after that. Soon his mind was so far gone that pretty much all he could do was count–and not very high at that. He’d usually lose track somewhere around ninety during our runs–that jump to one hundred always seemed to confuse him, so he’d happily start back at one again over and over and over again. He was much better with sets and reps, of course–smaller numbers were better, he said. I had him eagerly sucking up all of my sweat at this point too. You know those fabrics that are supposed to wick away moisture? They don’t have anything on a jock trapped in a shirt sucking all your sweat up and drinking it down for you. I had also been making him bigger this whole time, baggier, with big arm holes and a low scooping neck. When I was happy with him, I decided it was probably time for the finale.

As I said, if I focus hard enough, I can keep someone as clothing even when they aren’t on my body. One morning, I finally peeled Phillip off my wet body, laid him out on a table, got out a black sharpie, and I started drawing. On the back I wrote “MUSCLE FAGGOT”, in big, thick letters, and then filled in the rest with smaller stuff. Some of it was writing–“Musk pig”,  “Fuck my holes” with an arrow pointing down the back–but everything else was just swirls and blocks of black ink all over the shirt. He didn’t understand what I was doing at all–but once he was more black ink than white (well, “white” I suppose, he was really more of a dingy brown at this point) I released my focus, and the brand new Phillip Emerson emerged from his form.

He was huge–at least six and a half feet tall, and packed with muscle from neck to calf. Hell, he could have been an amazing bodybuilder, if it wasn’t for all of his tattoos. He was covered everywhere, even up onto his neck, face, and shaved head with tribal swirls. Of course, the centerpiece on his back was “MUSCLE FAGGOT” in massive letters so large it had to be spread down over two lines, and the simple minded oaf didn’t really know what was going on, but he could smell me, he could smell my musk, and so he got down and started cleaning my body for me. I fucked his surprisingly tight hole in return, before dropping him off at his home, a local gym. He lived upstairs there, and worked out day and night–when he wasn’t getting gangbanged by the regulars in the locker room. Being as stupid as he was came with some issues of its own. He was lucky that the owner was a sadistic fucker who loved the idea of keeping a big, stupid, muscle faggot pet for himself and all of his friends. Still, because he didn’t quite understand social standards, Phillip’s dick was kept locked 24/7, so he couldn’t just drop his shorts anytime and start jacking off like a pig during business hours. When he kept stripping his clothes off anyway, his master forced him to wear singlets, because he was too stupid to figure out how to take them off without help–and so he never did, usually wearing them until they started ripping and tearing at the seams, his locked cock obvious underneath the spandex. Needless to say, I keep a membership there now, but rarely to work out–I mostly just like to drop in on my muscle faggot on a regular basis. He’s always so excited when he smells me coming–even though he doesn’t even know why.

Caption Day – 1 of 2

In the end, it had been easier than I’d thought to get the nanobots into Mac and his two chubby sons, Eric and Kyle. A good dose in their family pool took care of the two boys while they were swimming one afternoon, and Mac was more than happy to take a beer from me that same day while we chatted across the fence. And now–well, now I get to have all the fun I want with the three of them.

All of them know something wrong, but none of them can quite articulate what exactly. Besides, who would they tell? It’s not like Mac can tell the police that sometimes when he’s with his sons, he becomes uncontrollably horny and rapes whatever hole he can stick his cock in the fastest. Sometimes, they even seem to want it more than he does, jacking off in the open, Kyle pinning him down while Eric sucks his cock. And his sons seem to spend more time fucking each other than anything else anymore, and sometimes Mac will just sit and watch, milking himself to orgasm after orgasm, over and over again.

But this last week, well, this has just been me testing what the bots can do–I haven’t even introduced them to me yet. I think that will happen tonight. I’ll go over, and all three of them won’t be able to help themselves–but we have plenty of time, they can spend all night worshiping my body. By morning, I’m sure all three of them will be more than willing to call me Master, and do anything I say, like proper bear sluts.

Still, emotions are easy–thoughts take a bit longer to embed in my three subjects. Still, I’ve been wearing them down. All three of them have already become complete nudists at home, without even being consciously aware of it. Mac went and got his first tattoo yesterday, a bear paw colored like the bear flag across his ass, without even questioning it, and he’s going to be getting quite a few more in the weeks to come, I can tell you that. In a few months, the whole family will be sponsoring orgies off of Craigslist, and then all of my friends will have access to every one of their kinky holes. Anyway, I’d better get going before it gets totally dark–I have a long night ahead of me after all, and I can’t wait to get started.

The Fall of Troy – Part 6

***WARNING*** Contains mentions of scat and bestiality.

Troy had expected, like before, that he would have no memory of that old life of his, but Leo had no real reason any more to lock them away–after all, Troy had no real desire to go back to his old ways anymore. Trying to describe it to himself, once his father’s eyes had returned to their normal grey, it was like he was trapped on the side of a sheer cliff plunging down into darkness. leo had been leading him down the side all weekend, but only now did he realize his predicament. He was now incapable of climbing the side of the cliff back to where, and who, he’d been, but more importantly, he no longer desired that self. Down there, into the darkness, there was someone down there, someone he could be who was far more interesting, far sexier, far more desirable than anything he’d been before, and he wanted to get there, he wanted to climb down as deep as he could go.

From that moment on, Troy rarely ventured up the stairs into the house proper. As far as his step-mother was concerned, he didn’t even exist. Leo, in an effort to help his son, brought in a number of private tutors he’d contacted online, who were more than happy to help guide his son deeper into the pit. Master Parker, an overly muscled power bottom, helped stretch Troy’s holes, taught him to eliminate his gag reflex, showed him how to take two big arms in his ass at the same time, and just how good a punch fuck could feel. Master Jack, a chubby, grungy trucker, oversaw his development as a true, full service toilet slave. Master Emerson developed his sadism, schooled him in bondage and pain, as well as the proper manners of a pig in his position. Troy eagerly learned everything he could, finding his way down the slope. Before too long, he discovered that the light was disappearing on its own. He could barely recall his old self, and he pushed it away, eager to be away from it.

Of course, he had to make money in order to pay rent. Leo was flexible, but he wasn’t about to have a son in his house who couldn’t pay his fair share. Much of his money, at first, came from renting himself out to private fetish parties, generally as a toilet, or occasionally as a fist hole for a group of tops to brutalize. His camshows gained a devoted viewership as well, watching him degrade himself in his rooms, fuck himself with massive dildos, eat his own shit off a plate. For a certain amount of money, someone could pay him to fulfill a particular fantasy of theirs–some were easier than others, but finding a farmer willing to let a boar fuck his hole in his barn took him and Leo several months of searching.

It was his idea to sell off his skin. For a steep price, including the cost of the tattoo, anyone could buy a patch of his skin and cover it with the tattoo of their choosing. His father actually purchased the first one–which turned out to be a fine business investment of it’s own. He had the name of his cam site tattooed across his forehead–www.fithpigtroy.net–and immediately he saw an increase in subscribers. Some people paid for more traditional tattoos, like the realistic turds tattooed on his cheeks, but quite a few others followed Leo’s example and used his skin to advertise their own fetish sites.

Years passed, and Troy began to notice something new–there were certainly plenty of men who watched him to see him humiliate himself, but there was also a group who wanted to be him. Who wished they could take the same steps that he had, who wanted to be pigs too. He offered an apprenticeship (serious applications only) and was swamped by the response. He eventually culled the applicants to one, and he moved his apprentice pig in with him, showing him the ropes, finding a strange pleasure in controlling someone and forcing them to walk their way down into the same deep pit of deranged filth that he himself now called home. And that was when the trouble started.

He and Leo started fighting more and more often. Troy was the one making him all of his money after all, so why shouldn’t he be able to keep it? Leo, finally, had had enough, and he tried to stare him down, only to discover his son had fallen deeper than he could control–Troy was his own pig now, and there was nothing he could do about it. Troy and his apprentice pressed their advantage, blindfolded him and chained him to a chair, and a new bidding process began. Tens of thousands of dollars later, it was decided–Troy shipped Leo off to a private bathhouse where he would spend the rest of his days chained in a bathroom, just another urinal for the men who visited there, and Troy’s empire grew. True, he may have fallen, and yet, who could have known that at the bottom of the pit he would find himself atop a castle of another sort altogether?

(I felt like doing some short captions today. There will be two of them. Hope you enjoy them! I already posted one, so if you missed it, check back one post.)

Caption Day (2 of 2)

Dustin knew things had to change. He was just so tired of being fat, of the looks people would shoot him in the office, of the sighs from his doctor. But he knew he wouldn’t be able to do it by himself, he would need help. So he asked around, and everyone seemed to recommend this particular trainer, Eddie Willis. He’d gone in for a meeting, which had turned into an impromptu work out. He’d been so impressed, Dustin had signed up for a nine month program on the spot.

“And how’s Dumbo doing today?”

“Dumbo’s super good today sir, feelin’ super pumped.”

“Because Dumbo likes lifting, right?”

“Yes Mr. Willis, Dumbo good at liftin’ heavy stuff!”

The results had been even more than Dustin could have imagined. In just a few months time, he’d lost close to fifty pounds, and he was feeling better than he ever had in his life. Sure, it was strange that he never seemed to remember his sessions with Mr. Willis, and…and there were some…other strange things too, he supposed.

“What else is Dumbo good at?”

“Suckin’ cock!”

“What else?”

“Gettin’ fucked!”

“And…?”

“Obeyin’ Mr. Willis, cause Mr. Willis is my master!”

He’d started having these…fantasies, where he was getting fucked by muscular men, or sucking their cocks. His dreams were always sexual now as well, and usually even more obscene, and more than once, he’d discovered that he’d cum in his sleep like a teenager. But when he started wearing butt plugs regularly to work, when…when that man had stopped by, and he’d sucked him off. It had felt so…normal.

“That’s very good, Dumbo. And why do we have to make sure Dumbo gets big and strong?”

“To get rid of Dustin!”

“That’s right. Because Dustin is bad, right?”

“Right!”

“You’d much rather be Dumbo, right? Lifting, sucking, fucking, too dumb to write your name, too dumb to ever question your master, right?”

“Fuckin’ right, Mr. Willis…Mr, Willis, I’m super hard, sir. Can…Can I jack off?”

“Get down and suck my cock, slave, and then you can cum.”

“Thank you sir!”

And lately, lately he was having trouble remembering things. Sometimes, he’d black out, and wake up without any recollection of what had happened. His quality of work had been slipping. Apparently, in one paper, he’d misspelled his name as “Mr. Dummbo” or something strange like that. Thinking was just…so much work. Maybe…maybe he should talk to Mr. Willis about it. Mr Willis would know what to do, Dustin was sure of it.

“Go on and jack your cock slave, but don’t cum until I allow you. I want you to think about what you’re going to look like in a year. I want you to see yourself even more muscular, we’ll even start giving you steroids, turn you into a real beast. We’ll tattoo the shit out of you. You’re going to be covered in them, just a dumb, tattooed brute, and then Dumbo, when Dustin is completely gone, when you’re just a drooling hunk of tattooed and pierced slave meat, I’m going to sell you to some old pervert, for millions of dollars. F—fuck! Think about that hard, Dumbo, think about serving some old pervs cock all day, every day, and shoot! Shoot the dumb load of yours, and feel a bit more of Dustin leave when you do, and swallow my fucking load, you dumb whore, swallow it all!”

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

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

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

“You’ve been busy,” Earl said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You mean…anything I want to see?”

“Yep.”

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

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

“Holy fuck, it actually happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Patreon Commission: Liam’s Grandfather

I met Liam’s grandfather by accident. The two of us had early release from high school on Wednesdays, and we’d usually go to this little cafe in town for coffee and to work on our homework. We’d been friends since kindergarten, and lived down the street from each other. Both of us were on the swim team–tall, lean, and generally hairless. He’d hung around with each other for so long, some people would mistake us for blonde haired, green eyed brothers, but Liam…Liam had been acting a bit strange lately. He told me that a few months ago his grandfather had moved in with his parents, because he couldn’t afford the mortgage payments on the house he’d been living in across the country, and while he hadn’t told me anything in particular, he was just being…well, it made more sense once I met his grandfather myself

So anyway, we get to the cafe. It’s early afternoon, after the lunch rush, but the place is still busy. We get in line to order, when Liam looks around and spots his grandfather sitting at a table in the middle of the room. He freaks out, and says we have to leave before he notices us. I don’t get what the big deal is, but then we hear a loud, gravelly voice calling Liam’s name, and it’s like someone flipped a switch, and Liam is calm as can be, even…happy.

He waves at his grandfather, and without ordering he heads over to where the old man is seated. I don’t hear what they say, but then his grandfather grabs Liam’s chin and pulls his mouth down, and starts making out with him right in the middle of the room, and no one says a thing. That was the strangest part. Telling you about it now, sure, it was fucked up. No one kisses their grandfather like that. But when I was there, staring right at them, it seemed like the most normal thing in the world. It didn’t bother me at all.

I knew what Liam liked to drink, so I ordered for the both of us and then took them over to the table where his grandfather was sitting. They didn’t pay me any mind, and as I watched the two of them make out, I started to get…kind of jealous. Now that I was closer, Liam’s grandfather…he suddenly looked really sexy. That bushy, untrimmed beard, the gut hanging out the bottom if his shirt. A real sleazy sexy. I mean, I know…I don’t feel that way right now, but when I was close to him, I just…the thoughts were just–there. Obvious. And I was jealous. How lucky was Liam that he got to live with a hot daddy like that?

I think I cleared my throat or something, but they broke off the kiss, his grandfather smiled up at me, a couple gold teeth in his mouth, and my heart started pounding as he looked me up and down. He said, “Oh Liam, now where have you been hiding this handsome young man from me?” and I swooned into him. He had smoker’s breath, I didn’t care. I told him my name, he tweaked one of my nipples through my shirt, and I nearly came in the front of my jeans.

Liam was furious, and pushed me away, placing himself between us, blurting out something like, “He’s no one Gramps, just a friend.” Then he said he wanted to show him something, and pulled off his shirt in the middle of the cafe revealing two freshly pierced nipples, and also dropped his pants. He was wearing a jockstrap, and he turned around, showing his grandfather his bare ass, which I saw had a tattoo on it which I had never seen before in the showers after swim practice. His grandfather whistled, and when Liam turned back around he nodded approvingly and pulled Liam into his lap. I wished that I had something I could show off, Liam’s grandfather looked so happy, twisting his grandson’s tits, pulling him close, reaching around to knead his ass. He let go long enough to unzip the fly of his pants, letting his cock flop out. It was huge–I’d never seen one so thick, but before I could do anything, Liam was on his knees, sucking on the head, moaning.

I was hurt, but he beckoned me closer and we made out. One of his hands was on the back of Liam’s head, the other reached down the back of my pants, fingering my asshole. Between kisses, he’d tell me how hot I’d look if I was a bit…edgier. Some piercings, maybe a tattoo. Then I’d be fuckable. He said I’d be fuckin’ irresistible. I came, two of his fingers deep in my hole, grinding my crotch against the side of his gut, his tongue running it’s way around the inside of my mouth. He gave a couple of grunts, and then he was filling up Liam’s mouth. Liam had, at some point, started jacking off, and at the taste of his grandfather’s cum, he shot his own load across the ceramic floor of the cafe.

Then we got up, like nothing strange had happened. We all sat at the table and had our drinks, flirting, vying for his attention for a couple of hours, and then he excused himself, and waddled out of the cafe. As he left, the horror descended on both of us. I couldn’t even look at Liam, I just stood up, grabbed my bag, and fled. I couldn’t tell anyone. Who would even believe me? Hell, everyone in the cafe had just watched it happen, and no one had done anything! No–I was bound to take the reality of what had happened to the grave.

Liam and I grew distant. Everyone at school was talking about him, how he’d turned into a bit of a bad boy. He got more tattoos and piercings. He shaved his head down to the skin. He was smoking cigarettes and failing his classes. I knew why, of course, but the worst part was…that I want it to be me. Fuck, I want it to be me so badly. I know he’s disgusting, I know it’s wrong, I know I’m straight, and yet all I can think about is him.

So that’s why I need these tattoos and piercings. That’s why I can’t ask my parents. I…I heard you’d bend the rules for…for a blow job. I could…do that. You look a bit like him, if I squint.

***

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Commission – The Roadhouse Men (Musky)

~1994~

“Marty look, I know I let you help out around here on occasion, but you can’t really expect me to–”

“Ed, I don’t have anywhere else to go. He kicked me out!”

“Weren’t you saving the cash I’ve been givin’ you?”

“He already found it. I don’t have anything. Please, I’ve thought about it, alright? I really have.”

“Eddie, just let him do it,” Danny boy said, where he was sweeping the bar floor in a pair of bright green gym shorts and nothing else, “Bruno and I could use the help, right Bruno?”

The big, hairy bear behind the bar, dressed in a perfectly shined leather uniform didn’t say anything, but he never said much, really. Ed looked at them both, and then at Marty. He’d been waiting on the stoop of the roadhouse this morning when Mitch Evans had dropped Danny Boy off in his truck. Ed had arrived half an hour later to Danny Boy patting Marty on the back while the young man sobbed, telling him how his dad had kicked him out of the trailer for being a queer. Ed was sympathetic, and it was because he was sympathetic that he was reluctant.

“There’s no way back, you know. You won’t age. You won’t be able to go against my orders. You’d be giving up a whole lot. How about I just hire you as a barback, under the table? You can sleep in the backroom with Bruno, until you get back on your feet–”

“I don’t…” Marty said, and then stopped. “I don’t want to be a barback, Eddie. I want…” he looked over at Danny Boy, where he was standing, but Eddie knew he didn’t want Danny Boy. Marty’s tastes ran decidedly older–and quite a bit ranker–than his green whore. What he wanted was what Danny Boy could do. He could bend men to his will–no man older than forty could resist him. Marty had spent his life powerless, and the power of the whore was immediate and tempting. Ed knew the temptation–he made quite a bit of his living off it, but there was so much more to Marty than that.

“Danny Boy, would you please tell Marty here that your life isn’t as glamorous as you make it seem?”

“Are you kidding? I fucking love my job, daddy.”

“Danny…”

Danny strutted over, “What? You made damn sure I like daddy dick, it’s your fault.” He leaned over the bar and gave Ed a deep kiss, before returning to sweeping.

“At least you’re letting him have a choice,” a deep voice said, and they all turned to Bruno.

“No need to go dredge up that old shit again,” Ed said.

Bruno shrugged, “It is fun. It’s…powerful. I know why he wants it.”

“That doesn’t mean he should want it.”

“You can’t protect him, sir, or rather…If you really want to protect him, then you should keep him.” Feeling he’d said enough, we went back to stocking the bar for the evening. Ed scowled at the bear’s wide, hairy back.

“Fine. If it’s really what you want.”

“Really?”

“Yes, but you need to think about it, and be really sure this is what you want. You need to go out, take a walk–make damn sure. Don’t come back until after seven, got it? Or the deals off.”

Marty nodded excitedly, and rushed out the door. Ed sat for a moment, and then turned to Bruno. “You can finish that later, Bruno. We got somewhere to go. You keep cleaning, Danny. We’ll be back in a bit.”

Bruno and Ed waited a few minutes until Marty was a ways off, and then climbed in Ed’s truck and took off towards town, to make a pickup for tonight’s party.

***

Marty returned at quarter to seven, but Ed wasn’t going to disbar him on a technicality. By nine, he was good and drunk on the house brew, and word had spread around that everyone’s favorite little barback was going to be joining the Roadhouse crew full time, and the betting pool started up, guessing what color he might be representing by the end of the night. At ten, Ed called for silence, helped Marty to a table in the middle of the bar, giving everyone a good view, and then pulled out a bottle of fortified wine, pouring a glass of the deep magenta liquid into a tumbler for the young man.

“Purple?” Marty asked, “What the fuck’s purple? How come I can’t be something cool, like red?”

“Trust me Marty, if there’s anything you’ll enjoy, it’s purple, now drink up.”

The room was silent, but everyone could see that Marty was choking. Suddenly faced with the crucial decision, everything didn’t seem quite so easy as it had in the sober daylight. “I don’t…I don’t know, maybe you were right, maybe this is a bad idea. I don’t…” he stood up.

“Sit down, Marty,” Ed said, and he immediately plopped back down in the chair.

“How…how did you do that?” Marty asked, “I didn’t…”

“Oh Marty, I’m sorry, but one of the first things you’re going to have to learn is that you don’t get to say no–not anymore. Now drink.”

He picked up the glass, hand shaking, trying to spill it out, but then it was at his lips, the acrid liquid in his mouth. It didn’t taste like wine, it tasted like some foul jockstrap which had fermented at the bottom of a laundry heap. It tasted like a bum’s unwashed armpit smeared with rubbing alcohol. It tasted…really damn good. Soon, Marty was being passed around the bar, swigging openly from the bottle, only noticing slightly that he could suddenly distinguish the subtle differences between each roughneck’s musk and sweat as he passed them by. He started lingering more, sniffing and licking necks and bare pits, tasting each of them in turn. His pants had disappeared, as had his shirt. Looking down, he’d grown somewhat leaner, with a bit of a belly, his body smooth, but covered with a riot of purple tattoos that hadn’t been there earlier. He grabbed one pierced nipple with one hand, threw up his other arm, and licked up his own sweat, his hand brushing against something stiff over his head. Looking at himself in the mirror across the room, he saw a bright purple mohawk greased up in spikes six inches high, his head shaved smooth on both sides. In fact, he was hairless aside from a purple goatee, a thick purple bush around his cock, and his thick purple bushes under each arm. Metal studs gleamed magenta all over his face, with studs in his nipples and a thick gauge PA in the head of his cock. He looked so fucking nasty, he fucking loved it.

A whistle sounded behind him, he spun around. “Hey Musky!” Ed said, “Dirty Doug’s got something for you.”

Dirty Doug was one of the roadhouse’s filthiest slobs. Massively fat, he always stank, his hair and clothes unwashed. Marty had always had a bit of a thing for him though, but now, seeing the fat slob bent over, pants down, his crusty crack pointed towards him…he licked his lips, strutted over and got down on his knees. Parting the crack, he admired it for a moment, and then dug in, licking and gnawing at the hole until Doug rewarded his attention with a loud, nasty fart right into his mouth. The hot air was putrid, and Musky moaned loudly as the room cheered. Doug followed it up with a second fart, and Musky felt his cock spasm, spraying cum across the floor in front of him. Dan flipped over and pushed the head of his cock into the whore’s mouth, leg’s up, still farting as Musky sucked, watching his purple eyes roll back in pleasure until Doug finally sprayed a load of cum across his pierced face. He didn’t eat it–instead he rubbed it in. It felt so much hotter, the sticky sensation on his face and skin as it dried.

“Well everyone, why don’t you all give our newest whore a round of applause, eh? Welcome him to the family, Musky!”

Everyone cheered, and inside himself, this new self, Marty sought some sense of shame, but all he felt was pride. He liked the applause. He liked knowing that he’d done his job well.

“Now, however, we have a little surprise for you. See, you not only love stink, you put out quite a bit of it yourself. It’s pretty powerful stuff too, from what I hear. How about we all watch Musky work his magic on someone, eh boys? And it turns out I know just who Musky can use for a test run. Bruno? Bring the man out. Let’s see was Benjamin thinks of his son’s new profession.”

Bruno came out of the back room of the roadhouse, holding a leash, and following behind him was Marty’s father–Benjamin, naked aside from the collar tethered to Bruno’s gloved hand and the shackles binding his hands behind his back. Benjamin glowered at the rest of the crowd, and even spotted a few faces he’d recognized–that he’d trusted. He couldn’t believe how many faggots were surrounding him, and his son. His fucking, faggot son, naked, filthy, pierced…purple. What the fuck had these faggots done to him? Is this why’d he’d been acting so strange these last few months? Well they weren’t going to get him, he was more man than any of these fuckers.

Musky just stared at the man who had caused him so much misery these years, and smiled. He could…smell himself now. And just like Danny Boy, just like Bruno, he had a few tricks up his sleeve too. “Well hey dad,” Musky said, walked over and took the leash from Bruno, yanking his father over and pushing him down into a chair, “Fancy running into you at the Roadhouse. And here, you used to tell me that only faggots came around here.”

“Boy, I don’t know what they did to you, but you have to–”

Musky placed a finger at his father’s lips, “Oh dad, you still don’t get it, do you? This is where I’ve been hanging out, all those nights I told you I was chasing girls. See, I’ve been chasing boys instead. But you know? I’d rather we not talk right now. In fact, what I’d rather see you do is lick.”

Muky sat down in his father’s lap to one side and threw up one arm, shoving his purple bush into his dad’s face. The stench was horrific, but then why wasn’t he pulling away? Why was he leaning in, why was he sniffing deeper, why was he licking at the filthy hairs, tasting his son’s sweat?

“What do you think dad? How do I taste? Seems like you like it,” Musky wrapped the leash in his hand over and over, pulling his dad in tight, but he wasn’t fighting it–he was relishing it. Why was he relishing it? Sure, he’d never been one to shy away from a bit of pit stink, but this was different. This was rank, and yet he couldn’t pull himself back, and when Musky stood up, he was panting, tongue out, sweat or saliva dribbling from his chin, he didn’t know which. “You want the other one, dad? You like my fuckin’ stink?”

“I…” his throat was so dry, “Please don’t, don’t make me like them, don’t…”

“Look at your cock, dad–it’s so hard…” Musky said, wrapping one hand around the shaft, “I didn’t know you got turned on by my stink, like a fuckin’ pig. Are you a fuckin’ stink pig, dad? Is that what you like more than anything in the world?” Musky reached around and dug around in his ass with two fingers, then walked around behind his dad, hooked them into his nose and pulled it back. His father’s eyes rolled back in, and he shuddered, precum seeping from the head of his cock and dribbling back down the shaft. He was snorting the stink in, but he needed more, he fucking needed so much more. His son pulled his fingers out and got down on his hands and knees in front of his dad. “Well come on piggy, get down here and have a taste of my filthy hole.”

Benjamin fell out of his chair and onto his knees with a grunt. He couldn’t support himself with his bound hands, so he had to get close, cock bobbing and swinging cum onto the floor, before he could push his face in between his son’s cheeks and into his ass crack. Something was wrong with him. He shouldn’t want this, he shouldn’t be doing this, but he didn’t want to stop. Musky screwed up his face and let the first fart rip, and the load that had been building flew from the head of his father’s cock, as he spasmed, his nose taking in deep snorts of his son’s gas, but it wasn’t enough. Musky farted again, and Benjamin felt his old self dissolving away, replaced by a desire for filth, for nasty asses and filthy pits, and his son’s especially. Musky reached under himself and starts stroking his pierced cock, getting close, and then he turned around and shot his load all over his father’s face, before getting down and sharing it with him, licking it up, the room cheering around them, and then the men pulled them apart, wanting a piece of them both for themselves.

Benjamin was a staple of the roadhouse from then on, and that first night he’d picked up a few nasty habits, no longer showering, shaving or wiping his ass after a shit. He struck up a friendship, and then a relationship, with Dirty Doug, and usually he could be found with his face plastered in some trucker or biker’s nasty pit, stopping only to take a swig off his beer. But when he could afford it, he’d buy a night with his son and take him home, lick every inch of Musky’s body clean, and his mind would dissolve a bit more, turn even dumber and filthier and nastier, but he couldn’t stop himself. Didn’t want to stop himself. Musky had his own home now though, and things were different, and even hard, at times. But he never once regretted his choice, and he did everything he could to make sure the Roadhouse, and Ed, had a successful, happy future ahead of them.

***

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Long Lost Brother

“Are you gonna get the door, dad?”

Terry leaned in from the kitchen where he was cooking dinner, his son Derek was splayed out on the couch, watching TV. He’d heard the knock–he’d just hoped his son might get up off his ass for once, but no cigar. He knew the job market was bad, he knew that more and more kids were coming to live at home after college, but that didn’t make it any easier sometimes. He left the kitchen and went to the front door. He wasn’t expecting anyone–it was probably just the girl scouts or something–he opened the door, and his heart leapt into his chest in terror.

“Terry! It really is you!”

Like out of his nightmares. Evan, his younger brother.

“Well, go on, invite me in. Nice and calm now. Don’t do anything to upset anyone.”

“Come…come on in, Evan.”

“Thanks bro,” Evan pushed past him and into the living room, where Derek looked up from the TV, “And who might this be?”

“That’s my son, Derek,” Terry said, “Derek, this is your Uncle Evan.”

“Uncle Evan?” Derek asked, “You never said you had a brother.”

“Really Terr? You never told him about me?”

“Would you have expected me to, after what you did to–?”

“Shut up Terry,” Evan said, and his brother’s mouth clamped shut. “It’s very nice to meet you, Derek, and I’m excited to get to know you. Evan’s offered to let me stay here for a while so I can get back on my feet. Unemployed, this economy, you know?”

“Ugh, tell me about it. I went to college and there’s fucking nothing.”

“Well, you can tell me all about it later. Right now, your dad and I have some catching up to do, right Terr? Why don’t we go somewhere more private, like your bedroom?”

His mouth still shut for him, Terry led his brother upstairs and into his bedroom. Evan shut the door behind them, and pulled off his shirt, then unbuttoned his jeans and let them droop, showing off his drooling cock, “Oh Terry, I missed you, you know, after you ran off like that. Looks like you’re doing well for yourself though.”

Terry scowled at him.

“You can talk, for now, but polite, please, and only at a reasonable volume.”

Terry sputtered, “You…you…how the…how did you find me?”

“Well, it did take a while, I admit, but here I am. And it looks like none of that conditioning has worn off in all these years–isn’t that impressive? Now get over here and show me how much you miss sucking my cock, bro–I certainly have missed your mouth.” Terry tried to resist, but he dropped to his knees and started blowing his brother. “And how about that boy of yours! He looks real nice, you know. I think he takes after his uncle though, don’t you? Now, don’t worry–you have a real good thing going here, no one else will even know I’m here. You’ll keep going to work at that big bank, but…well, when you’re home, you know who’s in charge?”

Terry kept sucking, and so Evan pulled his cock free.

“Who’s in charge, pig?”

Terry glared at him, but relented, “You are, bro.”

“That’s fucking right,” Evan said, and drove his cock balls deep into his big brother’s throat.

***

“That’s right Derek, just relax. You trust me don’t you?”

“S–sure…Uncle Evan.”

Terry was at work, and Evan had been living with them for close to a month now. Derek had quit looking for work–it seemed like all of his time was taken up hanging out with his uncle. He was kind of gross, but pretty cool overall.

“You trust me more than your dad, right?”

“Y–yeah…my dad’s dumb.”

“He sure is. Your dad’s weak.”

“Yeah, weak.”

“A pig. A dirty pig bitch.”

“Fuck yeah…pig bitch.”

“Go one, jack off, imagine your dad in a fucking sty, covered with mud. He’s two hundred pounds heavier, fucking obese. Did you know your dad used to weigh 500 pounds? I was so proud of him, and then he escaped, and went and lost almost all of it. Well, we’re gonna put it back on him, aren’t we? We’re gonna show that pig what happens if you disobey, right?”

“Right, Uncle Evan.”

“Now you’re in the pen too. You’re in the pen, but you look different.”

“I…I do?”

“Yeah. You’re fatter too. You have a big gut, covered with hair, but the rest of you is bulky with muscle, and you have tattoos all over your body, even your cock.”

“Fuck…fuckin’ love tattoos…”

“And you reek. You haven’t showered in months, and you fuckin’ love it. You don’t need to be clean. Being clean is for weaklings, not people like us. Not real men.”

“Nah…don’t want to be clean.”

“You’re not smart either. You’re dumb as a brick. You never went to college, you didn’t even finish high school. You’re fucking mean though, you pin down your pig dad and you rape his ass, don’t you?”

Rape his…his holes, yeah, fuck.”

“That’s a good boy–you’re gonna be one hot daddy fucker before long, aren’t you?”

“Yes sir, Uncle Evan.”

“Now open up–I wanna fuck your throat while you jack off, imaging yourself raping your pig dad.”

Yeah, Uncle Evan was great, actually. He took Derek to get his first tattoos the other day. Derek had always wanted tattoos, but his stupid dad wouldn’t let him. Well fuck him…yeah, fuck that pig. Derek was gonna do what he wanted. And what he wanted was whatever Evan wanted. That was how family worked, right?

***

Done for the day–he hated this part. The anticipation. Terry stepped out of the office building and took a moment to light his pipe. His fucking pipe. He’d quit smoking after Evan had force fed him cigarettes before, but here he was, smoking again, and he loved it. He loved it because Evan loved it, but…but he loved it too. Himself, inside all of this, and that’s what he hated most. His own complicity.

Six months now, and he’d already had to buy a collection of new suits. Two hundred and eighty pounds, and still growing. Everyone at the office just assumed he had a new girlfriend fattening him up. Her name was Claire. She was really nice, just really shy, preferred to stay at home, somewhat old fashioned. She liked his beard. He liked his beard too, or so he told everyone. It didn’t actually matter whether he liked it or not, he had to grow it out.

He’d had the chat with his boss today, about retiring early. He certainly had enough invested that he could live comfortably, but wouldn’t he get bored? No, he said–they set a target date for him leaving in another four months, and then he’d be free, or trapped, depending on who was standing where.

He got in his car and drove home, making sure to get caught in traffic jams when he could. He parked the car in the garage next to his brother’s and son’s motorcycles, shut the garage door behind him, and stripped out of his suit, throwing it in the laundry by the door, and got changed into his “pig clothes”–the overalls he had to wear when he was home, the same ones he’d been wearing for months straight, the crotch stained with cum and piss and the front matted with food stains. Fuck, he was hungry. Yeah, he was such a hungry piggy, fuck yeah. He snorted, rubbed his hardening cock through the denim, opened the door, and crawled into the house on his hands and knees, still smoking his pipe.

Derek and Evan were smoking and kissing in the living room, in their own slobbish world. The whole house was trashed, it reeked of piss and sex and sweat. Derek–he was so far gone now. He loved Evan, but couldn’t he see what it was doing to him? He didn’t even remember going to college anymore, he spoke like a hick. He had more tattoos than his uncle now, his cock and balls pierced in more places than Terry had thought possible. Still, food first–food was what pig had to think about, yeah. He crawled into the kitchen, set his pipe on his shelf, and dug into the mass of food his masters had waiting for him in his trough.

***

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Garrison’s Physical

by Wesley Bracken

What kind of doctor’s office even was this?

Garrison sat in the stiff, leather upholstered chair in the waiting room. The slender, heavily pierced receptionist had taken his name with a flourish; he was ninety percent sure he was a faggot. In fact, looking around, he was ninety percent sure that he was surrounded by faggots. They sat around the room, all in these strange leather chairs–two big hefty men in biker gear chuckling along the wall, a grimy, fat skinhead in coveralls fidgeting by the door, and him, in his suit, here for a company physical because he hadn’t been to the doctor in years, but he hated going to the doctor. He hated having some guy put his hands on him, all doctors were probably faggots anyway, and he was perfectly healthy regardless. But he’d needed to, they said, and so he’d picked a random doctor from the book and here he was. He would have gotten up and left in disgust already, if that strange smell in the air wasn’t so…

He’d kind of blanked out again there, that was the second time. Looking at the clock, only a couple of minutes had gone past–the skinhead had gone in, the bikers were staring at him, or more precisely, his crotch. Garrison grabbed a magazine and covered himself, staring them down, and they just stared back. A young man in black, shiny scrubs opened the door and called his name.

Height and weight. Blood pressure and body temperature. Any medications? Any reason you came to see us in particular? Did you fill out our new patient survey? No, we don’t send it to the government, it remains in our office, we merely like to–. Well that’s alright, the doctor will be in to see you shortly.

The smell was stronger here, and the black blinds and black paint and the lack of windows made him feel like hours had passed already. He pulled out his phone and tried to get some emails written, but he just couldn’t focus for some reason. He blanked out for a bit, breathing deep, staring at the wall and counting odd shapes in the spackle, when a loud groan of pleasure from somewhere close by startled him. This was definitely strange, he thought to himself, but still couldn’t quite manage to stand up and leave, and so he sat, and he sat, and he sat. He checked his phone, but it had to be wrong–he couldn’t have been in here for three hours already. It felt like thirty minutes at most, and didn’t most doctor’s offices close around six anyway? Why would he still be here at eight at night?

Finally there was a knock at the door, and the doctor entered the room. He wasn’t dressed like any doctor Garrison had ever seen, he could see the older man’s hairy ass through those rubber chaps he had on, and was he smoking a cigar? And wearing waders? This, he told himself, was wrong, and yet his body couldn’t seem to do anything about it. Somewhere along the line, he had relaxed so much that he simply seemed to be moving in slow motion, as he tried to protest and push past the doctor, who just shoved him back into his seat, talking to him like he hadn’t just tried to get away at all, and just kept talking for a while, his voice distant and muddled, until he told Garrison to go ahead and strip. He tried to leave his underwear on, but the doctor made him take those off too, gathered everything up, and handed it to a nurse out in the hall, before starting the physical.

It proceeded normally enough at first, the doctor working with his stethoscope, inspecting his body, asking him normal enough questions. The man’s smoking bothered him not because of the smoke–Garrison smoked cigars himself–but because the smoke was the same smell he’d been surrounded with all day in the office, but far stronger. He realized that the doctor had been talking this whole time, and he’d also been talking back to him–answering questions, agreeing with statements–but couldn’t remember anything either of them had said the entire time, until the question came, “When did you have your last prostate exam?”

Never. He’d never let some faggot touch his ass like that. That was what faggots did, that was ‘an exit, not an entrance,’ and yet he was lying on his back on a table, legs in the air, while the doctor slipped his rubber gloved fingers in one by one, and it felt good. It felt so good. It felt like those few times, drunk, that he’d taken the dildo one of his ex-girlfriends had left in his apartment and he’d…so fucking good, fuck. Too good. He couldn’t be feeling this, he shouldn’t be feeling this, but the words no couldn’t quite get out of his mouth, and then all of the fingers were in his hole, pushing in, making him cry out, and then the whole fist inside him, so fucking full.

“Good, it look’s great. You have a great hole.”

His cock was hard now, like it’d been those few times. He tried to not think about it, but then the doctor’s other hand wrapped around it and started massaging it, testing his reflexes, the doctor was making curious noises…or were they his noises? He was shooting suddenly, spraying cum up onto his chest.

“Perfectly natural, you’re doing just fine.”

Fine, he felt humiliated, and yet the fist drove in deeper still, and he wanted it in there, he was telling the doctor he wanted his fist inside him.

“Really? My, that seems serious. I’m afraid that you might be a fist pig, did you know that?”

He hadn’t known that.

“Yes, you see, fist pigs need constant anal stimulation, or they tend to develop depression, anxiety, and other problems. I think that we’re going to have to do something about that, don’t you? I’m sure that if you come in twice a week, we can have your ass properly stimulated in no time. A lot of the symptoms you’re seeing will clear up in a few weeks.”

Garrison thanked him. The doctor asked if he’d like to stop, and Garrison said he’d like to cum again, he’d feel a lot better if he shot, yeah, he begged the doctor for more, until he came screaming a second time, and the doctor allowed him to sit up, warned him that he’d have some residual pain and looseness, and that he should come by on Tuesdays and Fridays for his appointments. The doctor also wrote him a prescription–for a haircut, and for twenty sessions at a local tattoo parlour. To help boost his confidence.

Six months later, Garrison had never been happier. Sure, he’d had to quit his office job when he’d gotten his head and hands tattooed, but Grant–the filthy skin in coveralls he’d seen in the waiting room that first day–had gotten him a job at the garbage dump working in the office, so it was all ok. And Grant’s hands were fucking huge, he fucking loved taking that trashman’s arm up to the elbows. e had no idea why he’d waited so long to get a physical, he’d never been in better health in his whole life. Well, the doctor had started to worry about his gastro intestinal urinary imbalance, but that didn’t sound too serious, right?

***

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We met through a cigar group. I was new–he was a founding member. My relationship with cigars, at that point, was little more than curiosity backed by fascination–the sexuality of it too, I guess. I had smoked them a few times, always jacking off while I did, but I knew next to nothing about them, or what to smoke. A few guys I chatted with online recommended the group to me, and I figured I might as well go to one. I was hardly someone to be as nervous as I was then–muscled, young, gay but passing–I could have anyone I wanted, and usually that translated into cockiness, but plunged into a group of cigar smokers while knowing next to nothing, I was a bit intimidated. If Nate hadn’t been so welcoming and jovial, I probably wouldn’t have gone back for a second outing.

I usually hated chubby guys. I mean, they’re just slobs at heart, they don’t care about themselves, about their bodies, about their health. So I tolerated Nate, I guess, since he was in charge. Actually it was hard to get a word in–he dominated the conversations like he dominated the space with his huge frame. It was a turn off, to say the least…and yet…maybe even then, I was just deluding myself about that, like I was about everything else. He was certainly interested in me, and made no attempt to hide it. In fact, I became a sexual joke for him–he would go into these strange scenarios with the two of us, ask me to take our shirts off so we could compare, apron to abs. He was more articulate than I was, smarter too, more knowledgable. Anything I could talk about, he could too, but better, with more humor, with more interest. And so I listened instead, trying to figure out why this huge, obese man fascinated me as much as the cigars we smoked together, when every other fat man I’d ever met was so easily dismissible before this one.

He showered me with favors, bought me expensive cigars at group outings to cigar shops. The tobacco was fabulous, and after the fourth or fifth meeting, he invited me back to his home for a tour of his humidor, with plenty of innuendo. I…I was curious. I was curious about my own budding attraction to him. I thought that, maybe, if we could just have sex, or if I could just see his (hopefully disgusting) body without clothes, I could maybe shed this growing desire. His humidor was massive–a small climate controlled room in his massive house. Wealthy, rich as fuck. The money he has, I had no idea what I’d do with it. It’s no wonder he succumbs to food–as rich as he is, he can afford to become obsessed. He was overly generous. The cigars he offered gave me a high closer to strong pot than tobacco. I was out of it; he stripped off my shirt and felt my body. I kept trying to take off his clothes, trying to take back some kind of control, but he remained stubbornly clothed. Soon, I was naked, he was not. He touched me everywhere, and I let him. I expected him to suck me off–I expected him to want to consume me, like a cigar, but instead he pushed me to my knees, and fucked my face, came, made me jack off while he watched, and then we shared a glass of bourbon. He kept me naked the whole time, I let him stare at me, and then went home, somewhat disgusted, but more aroused than anything I had experienced.

I went over to his house more often after that. I found myself unable, or unwilling, to turn down any invitation. It was months before I saw him naked, but by that point any possibility that he could disgust me enough to abandon sex was out of the question. I was attracted to him. When he fucked, it was like nothing else–I was strong, and yet he could (and often did) crush the breath out of me. He made me feed him. He made me clean every sweaty fold of his flabby body. I was the one devouring him. I was the one with the addiction. I soon stopped smoking cigars, and stopped attending group meetings. He was the new object of my fetish–the smoke he fed me in our kisses was far more powerful than anything else I’d ever tasted.

He grew more demanding, and I accommodated him. I shaved my body smooth, from head to toe. I started practicing with dildos at home, so I could take his cock without resistance. I learned how to cook, and the weekends I spent at his home would often be consumed with feeding his hunger more than fucking my holes. He sent me a particularly exhausting exercise routine, and I followed it religiously. he introduced me to his dungeon soon after that. I had noticed the stairs down into the basement before, but when he led me down into the space filled with all manner of bondage and pain equipment…I was eager. I asked him to show me everything, to use it on me. He was more than happy to do so, and then he showed me to small room off to the side–a windowless cubby barely large enough to fit a cot and a small chest. He told me I would move in with him–that I could bring only enough that might fit in the chest, and everything else would be sold off. I told him no, that I couldn’t–so he beat me until I came twice over and asked again. I agreed.

My new life revolved around him. The demands of my body became more extreme. Every week, a new tattoo or piercing. Soon, I could barely even recognize myself. I worked out more than ever, I cooked all of his meals, he paid me in fucks, pain, bondage, and smoke. For two years, I haven’t left this mansion. It is my home, my prison and my sanctuary. In my chest, I have a small collection of photos I printed out to keep, and I compare my selves. Who was I? This freak with the tattooed face and head, with padlocks hanging from my nipples, with my balls weighted down six inches? I have never been happier, but…

I can’t finish the thought in any manner that rings true. I lock up my photos. It’s time to start cooking dinner anyway.

~~~

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