Tag: under 200

Growing older sucked. Now forty, Roy was fighting his body every day, from the balding to the body hair, to the paunch that resisted every diet and workout. There was no denying it–he was a bear, and he wasn’t happy about it. Well, he did like the way he looked, the real problem was that none of the guys he wanted were all that into his mature look.
Yeah, Roy loved twinks–he almost hated admitting it out loud, but something about their boyish looks and smooth, slim bodies drove him absolutely wild. Unfortunately, none of them ever gave him the time of day–until now. He still couldn’t believe the shirt had worked. He’d bought it online for the hefty price of 500 dollars, and he thought he’d been scammed when he couldn’t see anything odd about it–it just looked like a yellow shirt to him. But the first time he’d worn it to the club? The twinks had swarmed him. He’d gone home with three different boys, who’d kept him up all damn night.
So maybe growing older wasn’t so bad, so long as one always had the sense to be fashion forward.

Source: irishcubby

Your eyes flicked to the clock on your computer screen–its been 45 minutes? How…how could you have been staring at this photo for 45 minutes? Especially considering how the faceless pic is most definitely not your type, with the huge belly hanging distended over the waistband of the huge pair of jeans barely held up by a set of braces. It was part of an ad on Craigslist–you’d never actually called anyone–you mostly went on there for laughs, right? I mean, you weren’t actually…thinking about calling him, were you?

You read the advertisement again. You’ve read the short message written in all caps so many times now you’ve memorized it, but you read it anyway: “OBESE MASTER SEEKS SLAVE. MUST BE WEAK WILLED. CALL 555-253-6535 IF YOU CAN’T HEP YOURSELF.” Fifteen minutes later, you’re calling the number, begging and pleading him to let you come worship his massive frame. He gives you an address, and you leave, forgetting your phone and keys–you aren’t planning on coming back.

You never did notice notice that the picture was a GIF, did you?

Source: fatfiend

The house was haunted, or at least, that’s what everyone said. No one in the neighborhood had ever seen the ghost themselves–but everyone knew the stories. The children made up their own tales to terrorize, gleaned from small, true details overheard from hushed whispers–the rattling of chains, the screams of pain coming from the basement. 

It never stayed vacant for long–a young couple would move in, convinced that with some hard work they could have the dilapidated old building looking good as new–and the price was always such a steal. They would move in, and the neighborhood would watch. The wife would leave within a month, driven away by the specter and their suddenly intolerable husband. They always became demanding–abusive, with a new desire for doggy style and the wife’s back door, yelling at empty spaces, spending days in the basement all by themselves.

No one knew where the husbands went. One day, they were just not there anymore, a new “for sale” sign up within a week, luring in another victim, another master to sate house slave’s endless desires.

Source: fagthing

Lost? No, you weren’t lost anymore. Sure, a few days ago, when you’d found yourself stranded in the bayou after you were separated from the tour group, tromping and crashing through the muddy water trying to find your way back to civilization, yeah, you’d been lost then. But now? No, you weren’t lost, you were home.

The Bayou had taken you in, it had chosen you, spared you death so that you could be reborn. It did it in dreams–every night, after emerging from a deep, horrific, and fitful sleep filled with fires and dank mud, you woke changed. Your clothes had gone missing the first morning–the tattoos, the marks of the bayou–they had come the second. Your body shifting and changing as the days passed, your mind growing accustomed to life here, filling with knowledge as your old life washed away out to the ocean. 

And now, you were close to your birth. Clothes had begun to drift towards you–a hat, a pair of boots–but more would come. The bayou would provide after all–the bayou will provide.

The construction workers didn’t know where the toilet in the rotted out building had come from. It wasn’t hooked up to any plumbing, it didn’t flush, and yet it always stayed reasonably clean–and for some reason, they all felt compelled to use it when they were on the job. However, the toilet isn’t really a toilet–it’s you.

You aren’t really a toilet, but that’s how you’ve the witch cursed you to be seen, all those years ago, back in college. You remained in your frat house for a while, but since then you’ve spent years being moved from place to place, servicing filthier and filthier men. By now, you’ve stopped trying to get them to hear you or see you for what you are. You wouldn’t want them to–your skin caked with filth–your body obese and bloated with thousands of pounds of shit and piss. They approach, you open, they do their business, they wipe their crack with your long, filthy beard, and then they leave. It’s the only life you remember now, and the only life you know you’ll ever want.

Source: pigtoulouse

The hypnotist’s show a few weeks ago was great, though there had been a few changes to some of the bar’s regulars. The one who changed the most though, was Robbie. He was a loud, obnoxious drunkn–but the other regulars ignored him, and if he got too riled up, the bouncers knew to just kick him to the curb.

Well, the night the hypnotist came, Robbie refused to shut up. He spent the whole evening shouting that hypnosis was fake and calling the hypnotist a crock. When he suggested Robbie come up, he insisted that he couldn’t be hypnotized–but before long, Robbie was clucking around  like a chicken…but then the show took a strange turn.

He told Robbie to pretend as hard as he could that he was a urinal, and told the other participants they needed to piss. One by one, Robbie drank it all down, and while he claims he doesn’t remember it, every night now, he sits at the end of the bar, guzzling piss like its his favorite thing in the world. Still the bar is a lot quieter now–so maybe things worked out for the best.

Hank had been so wrong when he’d walked into the leather bar that evening, in his new, shiny pants and jacket, scanning the room. He’d imagined himself a master. He had thought that looking the part was enough to gain a slave–to gain respect. He’d been wrong–the Masters had been kind enough to show him that.

No, his place, where he belonged, was beneath them. Not next to them, on his knees like their many slaves, waiting to be called upon and served. No, he was lower than even them, only worthy of crawling along the filthy floor, licking up their spilled beers, piss and cigar butts, but most importantly, cleaning the filth from the bottom of their boots. 

They stepped on him without paying him any regard, and he bore their weight like a good worm, orgasming helplessly whenever their soles crushed his worthless groin. One day, maybe, one of these leather gods would take him as a slave. Perhaps, even later, he might earn the right to become a Master himself, but for now, he finally knew his place. 

Source: boytony

“Who’s that? Oh, that isn’t anyone anymore. It’s just an art piece now. It was my last boyfriend. Sure, the relationship started well enough, but we had some problems. He didn’t really like wearing the rubber gear I wanted him in, he even tried running away. I tried talking some sense into him, but he wouldn’t listen to my reasoning, so I had to take some…extreme measures.

"Sure, I suppose I could have let him go, but he was so beautiful…not as beautiful as you, of course. He screamed at first, as I pumped the liquid latex into him, but he can’t scream now–he can’t do anything. He can just hang there, rubber sublime.

"Oh no, you can’t leave now, I have so much gear I want to see you in, so much rubber for you to wear. We can go out to the clubs, two hot rubberbois on the dance floor–it’ll be perfect. But if you really don’t want to–I do still have a lot of that liquid latex, and I think you might look even more beautiful wrapped in rubber forever.”

Source: fetishmen-ryan

It wasn’t easy to relax and enjoy the rodeo when you could feel the eyes of those two, burly cowboys drilling into the back of your skull. The worst part, was that they made no effort to hide it. Whenever you looked back, they’d keep staring, and grin. You asked them to stop, but they never said anything back. Soon, you couldn’t take it, and you left.

They followed you, waited for the right moment before dragging you off, and throwing you into the back of their truck. You don’t know how long you’ve been here–there’s no outside light in the barn, but the lights turn on and off at intervals which seem to fast to be days. You’re tied up, and there is a trough in front of you which is always full. You eat. If you don’t eat, you get punished. On occasion, they come back and stare, but they speak now. They say that you’ll get them a fortune on the auction block in a year. They say you’ll make the buyer’s very happy, after all, they do love their potbellied pigslaves.

It had started as a walk in the park. Daryl had gone around half the lake, when he noticed a dirt path he hadn’t noticed before, and feeling like some exploration might be fun, he took it. The path meandered deep into a thicket of trees, and soon he could neither see, nor hear the families picnicking and playing less that 200 yards away, and then he found the clearing.

The men were lounging on some found, inflatable furniture, and the grass was littered with various other pieces of furniture, some tables, mattresses, all of it junk. They beckoned him over, and he was unable to resist. He didn’t know why, but before long he was seated next to the Mayor, sucking his cock, feeling his beard grow longer, his clothing tattered and filthy. The other derelicts, laughing and drunk, surrounded them and soaked the newcomer with their piss. Before too long, he was just another filthy derelict–the hobo camp had claimed another victim.