The Power of Belief – Part 1 (Patreon Commission)

“Look, all I’m saying is that hypnosis doesn’t work like that.”

“That’s because this isn’t exactly hypnosis. It involves what I’m calling deep belief. After all, so much of our reality is structured from our perceptions, and between that and social conformity, it seems that we can alter the deep structure of one mind and affect others as well.”

Professor Harold Larson (but he’d always preferred Harry) leaned back in his chair, frustrated, and looked at Carter, his young graduate student sitting across from him. “Look, I think you need to go back to the theoretical drawing board here, you’re talking in a bunch of new age, pseudoscience nonsense.” The phone on his desk started ringing, “Hold on Carter, let me take this.” He picked up the receiver, but before he could even say hello, his eyes glazed over, and he remained frozen, Carter’s supersonic tones playing in his ear.

The young graduate student smirked, and stood up, coming around the desk, right next to his frozen professor, and ran his hand across his shoulder and down his arm, feeling the muscles locked in place. Harry was young, fresh out of graduate school himself. Slim, he obviously kept himself in very good shape, and was wearing casual “cool” clothes, probably in some misguided attempt to get his students to “like” him. How silly, and so unlike what a professor should be. To Carter, professors were old, distinguished gentlemen, who smoked cigars and pipes, drank good bourbon, wore expensive suits, and loved fucking their young graduate students with their big fat cocks. Still, one step at a time, right?

The tone had been playing long enough to push Harry down into Carter’s “theoretical” deep hypnosis, and Carter stood next to him, and began his mantra, the professor repeating after him mindlessly:

“I believe I am fat…I believe I weigh 447 pounds…I believe I love to eat…I believe I hate exercise…I believe fat men are sexy…I believe my fat body is sexy…I believe I am obese…I believe I have been obese since I was a teenager…I believe I like having my fat body worshiped…I believe I have three chins… I believe that I love the sensation of my fat body jiggling…I believe that I love taking up space…I believe…”

Professor Larson leaned forward, putting the phone down, feeling the edge of the desk cut into his large gut. “Sorry about that,” he said, “Now, where were we?”

“I believe you were berating my theory, Professor,” Carter said, watching his massively obese professor rest back in his now reinforced chair, linking his fingers together and resting them on top of his massive apron like he’d been doing it all his life.

“Look, it’s late…how about we meet again next week? Maybe you should just think of a few other projects, in case this one doesn’t go anywhere.”

Carter smirked, but agreed, and stood up, watching his professor heft himself up as well, and walk him to the office door, and send him on his way. Now alone, Harry sighed, and gave his fat moobs a rub. Fuck, he was horny for some reason. He massaged his fat a bit longer, before sitting back down in his chair, unzipping his fly, and pulling out his cock, stroking himself quickly, feeling his fat wiggle around him as he did…but this…this couldn’t be right, could it? He suddenly felt a strange sense of vertigo, like he was looking at two different bodies. One was thin and well toned, and the other was massively obese, but he believed he was fat, he believed it, so how…how could the other one…

He came, feeling his huge body shake as he did, feeling so fucking fat, and the strange vision was gone…but not quite forgotten. He looked at the proposal Carter had left on his desk a bit incredulously, and then started reading it. It couldn’t be real, certainly…and yet…perhaps he could believe…

Family Heritage – Part 1 (Patreon Commission)

When Grant heard the knock, his first thought was that Aaron was early for their date that evening, but the knock wasn’t familiar, and when he opened it, he instead found himself facing a package handler from UPS, bearing a small box that needed his signature. He hadn’t been expecting anything, and it wasn’t something he’d ordered online and forgotten about, so he took it in and opened it. On top were two sheets of paper–the top one was a short letter from a lawyer, the executor of his Great Uncle Reid’s estate over in Scotland. He remembered a couple weeks before, that his mother had mentioned him passing away, but none of them had been able to afford a ticket overseas to the funeral. Grant had only met him a few times, when the big, burly scotsman had visited the family when he was a kid and teenager. He’d always seemed especially interested in Grant when he came, but he’d never really thought much of it, and he certainly hadn’t expected to receive anything from his estate. The letter was merely informing him that this was the first of a set of packages he would be receiving, as per Reid’s instructions, as well as a list of what the package contained: one blank piece of paper aside from the number one written on one side, one tartan kilt, one smoking pipe, one bag of pipe tobacco, and one pipe lighter.

Grant had no idea why he’d received these things–he looked at the paper, but it was indeed blank, aside from a small circled number one in one corner. He’d never smoked a pipe, but the tobacco reminded him of dim memories from when he was a kid, sitting on Uncle Reid’s knee, tugging at his big red beard while he laughed, and while he hadn’t thought of him in years, he suddenly missed him very deeply. He remembered the last time he’d seen him, when he was a teenager, over a decade earlier, he’d taken him aside, and told him in a serious tone, with that heavy accent and smoke curling out his nose, he’d said:

“You ‘n me, we’re special guys, you know. Well, you may not know yet, but ye will. Just wish I was closer, so I could keep a better eye out. Still, you’ll understand one day, don’ worry, mah boy.”

And this was it? A pipe and a kilt? He looked down and saw that the blank page wasn’t blank any longer—rather, writing had appeared on it, the words, “Put it on and have a smoke–you’ll see.”

He set the pipe to one side, stripped down (after all, Uncle Reid had been adamant that the only way to wear a kilt was completely “bare arsed”) and pulled it on, but on his slimmer frame, he had to tighten the belt as much as possible just to keep it on him. And then…without really knowing why, he took the old, well worn pipe, packed it with tobacco, doing his best to remember how his uncle had done it, and gave it a light, sucking in smoke, trying not to cough. Almost immediately, he felt something strange–an itch all over his body. At first he didn’t think much of it, and just kept smoking, but it only got worse. He ran his hand over his other arm, and it felt furry–because it was. Where his arm had been mostly smooth moments before, now it was suddenly covered with dark red hairs.

He didn’t know what to do, but something else was wrong. His shirt was too tight, and the waist of the kilt too. He let out the belt a notch, and then another, trying to keep up with his body. Was he growing? He had to be, that was the only explanation. His shirt was becoming tighter and tighter, the collar biting into his neck, and he started tugging at it with both hands until it finally started ripping away, revealing a massive barrel chest covered with red fur, and a thick, muscular gut. He ran his rough hands over it, the terror still there, but now…now he starting to get horny. This was no time to jack off, and yet he reached under the kilt and grasped his cock–his…much larger cock–and gave it a few strokes, groaning and grunting as he did, feeling his balls slap against his thighs as they grew large and swung lower. He bit his lip and shot his load of cum against the underside of the kilt and across the floor in front of him.

He stood there, panting, for a few moments, and then rushed to the bathroom to see what had happened for himself. In the mirror, he still looked like himself…kind of. Like himself if he’d picked up the scottish red in his family, and his hair had grown everywhere. If he’d spent most of his time lifting weights and eating like a horse. He looked to be a few years older as well…or maybe it was just that his skin looked a bit more weathered than before. Strangest of all, the more he looked at himself, the more…normal he felt. In fact, he was having a hard time even remembering what he’d looked like before, and he took a few puffs off his pipe, letting the smoke billow through his mustache and beard like he’d seen his uncle do countless times, and his cock started hardening all over again. Had his uncle planned this whole thing? What was even happening to him?

He tromped back to the box, and discovered that the blank sheet of paper was now covered with writing on both sides–a letter from his uncle letting him know that Grant was the next in line to become the family warlock. This first box was merely a little gift from his uncle to prepare him, but in the next few weeks he would be receiving more packages full of various magical equipment. If he hadn’t just changed right before his own eyes, Grant never would have believed a single word. He was rereading the letter when someone knocked at the door, and he walked over and answered it, revealing Aaron.

Grant’s mind went blank. He tried to stutter some explanation, but Aaron just smiled and stepped inside like everything was normal, joking at his boyfriend for wanting to show off his body around the house. Grant shot some wit back, easing into his new accent like he’d been speaking that way his whole life, and it was only a few minutes later that he had Aaron on his knees under his kilt, licking as his “knob and bawbag”, and Grant smiled to himself, wondering what sorts of things might be coming arriving from his uncle’s estate in a few more weeks.

Master Fitzroy’s Stables – Part 2 (Patreon Commission)

Leopold Grant woke up in his small twin bed in the servant quarters of Fitzroy Abbey. He wasn’t at all sure how he knew that–he had never seen this room before in his life–and while he knew his name had not been Leopold Grant before waking up here, that was the only name he could recall. He could vaguely remember fucking a young twink named Charlie one evening–fuck, that slut had had a tight hole–and then someone barged in while he was mid-fuck, and then nothing after that. As he recalled the memory, however, he had a sudden pang of guilt. That had been bad. A bad thing to do. He…he ruined that young tight hole with his big cock, the whole Master had wanted…he…he…

He looked down, past his furry paunch of a gut, and didn’t see his massive cock. He reached down and groped for the thick shaft, but only found the edge of the bed, felt closer to his body, and only when he reached under the gut did he find his small, shriveled cock and balls. In his mind, he knew he should feel terror at what had happened, but all he really felt was a strange sort of resignation. After all…he deserved this, didn’t he? Of course he did. He was being punished, and he should take his punishment like a gentleman…right?

He knew that these thoughts weren’t his, or that they weren’t the thoughts he should be having, but it was like he no longer quite knew his own mind. How could he resist or fight back against these changes if he didn’t even know what had been changed? He knew there were seams where his mind had been ripped apart and put back together, he could tell there were different fabrics, but the thread itself was invisible to him. For example, he had spent several minutes pondering this conundrum, before realizing that he was no longer a muscular young jock in his twenties, but rather a stout, short middle aged man.

His growing horror was interrupted by a knock on the door, and a fellow servant, Mr. Livingston peeking in, unfazed by the old, naked man sitting on the bed. “Oh good, you’re awake. Master Fitzroy would like to see you in the stables, so he can elaborate on your role and punishment here at the abbey. Do get dressed quickly? He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” He closed the door before Mr. Grant could reply, and thankful for the excuse to not think too hard about what was happening to him, he walked over to his small closet and got dressed. The breeches and shirt were a rough linen, and there was no underwear. He pulled on his knee length socks, high leather boots, a vest and a cap to cover his balding head, and hurried off to the stables…though again, he wasn’t quite sure how he knew where the stables even were.

Fifteen minutes later, he was outside, huffing a bit and sweating in the summer sun, not at all used to his body or the clothes he was wearing. At least in the stables it was cooler, though the air stank of manure. Master Fitzroy was waiting for him just inside, looking calm and collected as ever, even in the heat. Seeing his master there made Mr. Grant feel even worse. “Ah, Mr. Grant–my new stable groom.”

“I…I’m sorry if I kept you waiting, sir,” Mr. Grant stammered. His voice sounded so strange to his ears, gruff and slightly gravelly, with a natural british working class accent he never could have faked.

“Oh goodness no, you were very prompt. Now, I’ve made sure you are well prepared for your work here, but there is one special animal here that I wanted to introduce you to myself. It is a very special creature, who requires very special care. In fact, I have no doubt that he will be the focus of the majority of your time in the stable. If you’d kindly follow me, Mr. Grant.”

They walked down the stable together, past lines of horses–somehow, Mr. Grant already knew each of their names, their temperaments, their particular requirements, even though he also knew that he’d had no idea that the abbey even possessed a stable before any of this. They passed through a door into a small room, and Mr. Grant witnessed the first thing which legitimately shocked him all day, so much that he had to choke back a bit of bile from his throat.

What even was it? He’d seen it from the side at first, and the rear was normal enough, a normal, dapple grey rump of a stallion, but halfway along it’s body, the hair faded to pale flesh, and the upper body of a man, it’s arms far too long and large, the same length as it’s back legs, the head too large as well. The face turned to them when they entered, and he realized he knew that face–it was the young man he’d fucked with his huge cock, whose hole he’d ruined. What had Master Fitzroy done to him?

“What do you think, Mr. Grant? I must say Charlie turned out rather well–one of my most successful projects to date. Still, why don’t you come over and say hello to your lover?”

At the word lover, it was like everything in his mind shifted. The twisted form in front of him was no longer disturbing in the slightest…in fact, it was rather…appealing? There was some sort of stirring in his gut and chest, and he saw Charlie look at him, and sniff the air. “Mr. Grant? Is that…you?”

He walked over, his face at the same height as Charlie’s, though it seemed much too large. He kissed him anyway, feeling their tongues intertwine. Mr. Grant didn’t want this, and yet he could…smell something in the air, something that was making him horny. From the way Charlie was snorting the air, it seemed something was affecting him as well. “Smell so good…Mr. Grant…gettin’ horny…”

Charlie let out a snort, and Mr. Grant pulled away, seeing his lover’s eyes dimming somewhat. “I’m afraid that when the beast becomes horny, most of his concerns become rather…instinctual. And considering the fact that you smell just like a mare in heat, Mr. Grant, I’m afraid he’s going to be rather horny whenever you’re around.”

Mr. Grant was too busy absorbing what his master had said, when he felt the tug on his breeches, yanking them to the ground. Charlie had pulled them down with one big hand, and when Mr, Grant tried to step away, he tripped and fell into the dirt floor of the stable. Charlie was huffing deeper now, and from where he was on the ground, Mr. Grant saw Charlie’s new cock, slide from it’s sheath. It was so massive, and he could only imagine where it might be headed.

He started to crawl, but Master Fitzroy stood in his way. “Now now, Mr. Grant, don’t you think you ought to take your punishment?”

Yes, of course. His punishment. How could he have forgotten? He hiked his ass into the air, and Charlie spent a moment trying to find the best position to fuck from, eventually working his cock head into Mr. Grant’s tight hole, the older man trying to suppress a scream at the size.

“Don’t worry too much, Mr. Grant. That old hole of yours is loose enough to take that big cock, but it will hurt going in,” Master Fitzroy had his cock out, and was stroking it to life, “Yes, I hope it hurts quite a bit, you deserve to be punished, don’t you?”

“Y–Yes sir, I do,” Mr. Grant said, and pushed back against the horse cock, accepting the pain, accepting his punishment, and he knew he would need to be punished much much more. Multiple times every day, in fact. And as much as he tried to fight it, his puny cock kept pumping cum into the dirt below him, and he didn’t think he’d be considering this to be punishment for very long at all.

Master Fitzroy’s Stables – Part 1 (Patreon Commission)

The Master of Fitzroy Abbey was relaxing in his study, finished with his various fuckboys for the evening with a decanter of whiskey and a half smoked pipe, when a knock came at the door. “Enter,” he said, and Mr. Livingston, slipped in.

“I am so very sorry to disturb you, sir. I merely wanted you to know that…Mr. Grant, I believe he is named now? Has finished his initial changes, and is currently undergoing his initial rounds of edification. I have already uploaded the video of to the server, for your examination. I know you were particularly interested in this case, and I thought you would like to know.”

“Thank you, Mr. Livingston. Is that everything?”

“Yes sir.”

“Sleep well.”

“You too, sir.”

Mr. Livingston slipped away again, and the Master hefted himself up out of his chair, refilled his glass, and brought it and his pipe to his second study. Unlike the first, which had appeared to be frozen in the early twentieth century, this smaller room appeared as a futuristic anachronism, full of monitors and keyboards. Technology–he rather loathed it. It had made him his billions certainly, but he so enjoyed the slower pace of his current lifestyle. He could almost forget, sometimes, that things had progressed so far and so quickly. Still, it did have it’s uses–after all, this whole world he’d created would crumble without it. He settled down, brought up the list of folders full of hours and hours of video footage, and found Mr. Grant’s newly uploaded files. There were five total–one from each camera, making sure he could the transformation from each of his preferred angles and focal points–but he decided to begin with the wide, full body camera first, to see how things went for Mr. Grant.

The video began–all four days worth. Of course, Master Fitzroy wasn’t going to sit there for four days–he could speed the video up so those four days would pass in five minutes. But he wanted to take a minute to examine the body that was. He no longer remembered what the young man’s name had been–he generally could only recall a name as long as it took to get his cock in their holes. This young man was a bit of an exception to his kind of usual guest–generally there was nothing that turned him off more than a muscular hunk with a cock bigger than his–a feat which was quite a challenge, considering his cock was nine inches long. But something about this one–his cocky attitude, that beautiful face of his that he knew would look angelic wrapped around his thick shaft–made him invite the man anyway. It had been a mistake.

Master Fitzroy had no problem with the young men he invited to stay at his estate taking their pleasures with one another, but this beast had wrecked holes right and left. There wasn’t a tight ring left for the Master to indulge himself with, and he certainly couldn’t have that. One young man in particular–he believed his name started with a ‘C’?–had been so stretched that the Master couldn’t even finish inside. Such reckless destruction simply couldn’t go unpunished.

He sped up the video. Nothing much happened for the first couple of minutes–the first round of drugs and treatments did little more than prepare the body for the changes to come, and Master Fitzroy teased his cock, working it up to half mast, scanning the screen for the first change–a slight softening of the young man’s firm stomach. He wasn’t quite defined enough to have a six pack, but over the next several minutes it bulged up into a small gut, inflating steadily as the video progressed. The other changes happening to his form were a bit harder to see, his legs shrinking up into his body, dropping him several inches in height, to around five foot six. His gut continued to expand, but his arms and shoulders were developing muscle underneath the fat–he’d need it in his new position at the abbey, working in the stables. The changes slowed, and Master Fitzroy admired the new curve of Mr. Grant’s round paunch, his thick, short legs and strong shoulders, but closed the video before it had finished, and opened a second–this one a top-down close up of the young man’s face.

He increased the speed of the video, shortening it to just a few minutes, and then set it to loop. He leaned back in his seat, stroking his cock, and watched the young man’s face rapidly shift to that of a seasoned laborer in his mid to late forties. Two things, in particular, kept drawing his attention. The first was how rapidly the young man’s hair receded. He began with a thick, full head of hair. By the halfway point of the video, it had pushed back in two deep divots, and by the end, it had pushed back even further, past the crown of his head, with a thin tuft of hair left in the front. The second thing was his mouth–or rather, his jowls. As Mr. Grant put on weight and age, the sides of his face began to sag down to his chin, giving him a flabby, resting frown across his face. He was happy with his decision to leave Mr. Grant without facial hair–those jowls were far too beautiful to hide behind a beard. He stroked a bit faster, bringing himself a bit nearer to his climax, closed down that second feed and opened a third.

There, in high definition, was the young man’s massive, eleven inch cock, flopped across his thigh. Again, he sped up the film, leaning in close, watching as it slowly shriveled away. “Fuck, that’s what you fucking get,” he muttered, “someone as careless as you doesn’t deserve a tool like that.” By the halfway point, it had shrunk to a mere four inches, but it continued shriveling up, and now he could see his balls beneath, the sack pulled tight around them, constricting them smaller and smaller as well. In the end, he was left with a cock less than an inch long, with much of the loose, wrinkled skin remaining as a heavy, overhanging foreskin, and beneath was a small sack, two balls smaller than grapes pulled up tight beneath it. It was ugly, so fucking ugly, and Master Fitzroy loved it. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket in time to catch his cum, moped his sweaty forehead with the other side and composed himself. Of course, Mr. Grant wasn’t finished yet–the Master had a second surprise for him once he was finished with his conditioning in a few days. Then, he would understand the full scope of his punishment.

(I felt like doing some short captions today. There will be two of them. Hope you enjoy them!)

Caption Day (1 of 2)

The note on the unlocked front door said he was waiting for you in the basement. You’d never been to his house before, but he’d left a trail of discarded clothes down the hall leading to a door down the hall, but when you opened it, you couldn’t see anything. Not because it was dark—but because the entire room had been filled with fog…no, now that you could smell it, it was smoke. Sweet smoke, like a pipe, but how in the world had he made so much of it?

Now you were at your most terrified. Who knew what this guy had planned? But you had to go down there…right? You took the first step.

It actually smells…pretty good. In fact, it’s making your cock hard in your pants. You can smell, something else, too. Like…musk. Find the next step.

Fuck, it’s hot in here too, it’s making you sweat, and itch. You run one hand through your hair, not noticing it come away in clumps, leaving behind a perfectly smooth scalp. Find the next step.

Sweating like a pig. One hand runs over your hairy gut. Is it swelling? It…it is swelling. But when did it get so…small? Shouldn’t you be even fatter? And when did you take off your clothes anyway? It felt good to be naked though, it was cooler. You find the next step with your bare foot.

Panting now. Taking a moment to feel yourself. Soft, flabby gut. Hair everywhere. That feels more right. You look back over your shoulder, one hand pulling at your beard. You can’t even see the door up there anymore. You consider going back, but take another step down.

Why would you want to go back up, anyway? He—He’s down here. Somewhere. Waiting for you in all this sexy smoke. Waiting for…for his pig. Yeah, pig fucker, fuck. Such a fucking pig. You pause, reach around behind and finger your hole while you grope your short, pig cock, snorting and grunting. But you can cum later, you need to get down to him now. Take another step.

You can’t feel the wood on your feet anymore…but of course you can’t, you’re in your gear. Rubber stretched tight across your body, making you sweat even more, making you pant, making you stroke your piggy cock faster, hurry down another step.

Can’t wait to see him, can’t wait to see your master, can’t wait to taste his cock, feel his piss in your beard, can’t wait to serve him, the last step, now, feel the concrete, but fall to your knees because there he is, waiting with his pipe for his pig to arrive, but you’re here now, you’re here and you’ll never leave. He comes closer to you, and some small part of you is scared. Something just happened to you, something wrong, but what? You’re mind is too slow, too focused on the collar glinting in the smoke. He puts the leather around your neck, and you can feel the terror in you reaching a fever pitch. Why can’t you move? Why aren’t you doing anything, why—

The collar cinches tight. Your mind is empty. Master’s cock is there, and you salivate, drool running down into your beard.

“May I sir?”

“Of course, slave.”

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.

Earl’s Truck Stop – Part 2 (Patreon Commission)

After watching Paul for a couple of minutes, long enough to make sure the spell had settled in well–and long enough to shoot a load of his own against the outside wall–he headed back to the counter, and asked one of his employees to mind it for him. He had some customers to chat with for a while. He found Matt in the diner, a heaping helping of chicken fried steak and potatoes drowning in gravy before him, and a pile of wide plates stacking up beside him, evidence that he’d been very busy for the last several hours. The young man’s face was one of disgust, confusion, and helplessness. Nothing much about him had changed–he was still his muscular self, but his stomach was taut with food. He wasn’t sure how he was even still eating. He felt sick with food and shame. Why was he even doing this to himself?

Earl settled into the seat across from him, smiling. “How are doing, Matt? Enjoying your meal?”

Matt struggled to choke down a mouthful, but before he could say anything, his hand shoved another chunk of steak into his mouth. Earl waited patiently until Matt finally gave in and just started talking a garbled sentence with his mouth full.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

Matt tried again, and this time managed to make himself understandable. “Please, there’s something wrong with me, I can’t stop eating.”

“There’s nothing ‘wrong’ with you Matt, you’re just stuffing yourself like a fat pig because I wanted you to.”

Matt looked shocked, but kept eating. Earl had done this to him? He recalled his earlier confusion, and tried to piece together their previous conversation as he chewed. “You…you did this?”

“Oh yes, I certainly did,” Earl said, “But you like it, don’t you? You like the feeling of having your gut stuffed. You like how everyone here has been staring at you with disgust, while you stuff your face. Stuffing your face has your cock harder than it’s ever been in your life. You can jack off, if you want. Everyone will understand–we all know pigs like you have a hard time controlling yourselves.”

Matt’s eyes went wide, but just like before, he felt his mind shifting underneath his feet. He…did like it. He liked it a lot. The feeling of his bulging gut, his hard cock. He tried to fight it, but while one hand kept shoveling food into his mouth, the other reached down and started groping at his bulge. The button on his jeans released happily, the zipper dropping all on it’s own by the force of his gut. Fuck, he’s such a horny pig.

Earl got up and came around to his side, running his hands over Matt’s body. “This body doesn’t feel right, does it? No, you should be one big mass of fat. Go on, think about it. Think about yourself. Think about how you’ve spent every spare moment of your life up to this point eating. Think about your apron, your fat man tits, your triple chins, how you wheeze as you eat, how hard it is to walk, and how you love all of it.”

With a shudder, Matt came, spraying cum under the table, and as he did, his body began expanding, muscles atrophying as they were encased in fat. The table squealed as his huge gut shoved it away from him, Matt could barely keep his chubby hand on his cock. It was gone. His body was gone, but his past too. All he could remember now was eating–it was all he did, and he fucking loved it. He finished off his plate, mopping up gravy with a biscuit, grinning, chins jiggling as he gulped his meal down.

“That;s better,” Earl said, “Now, how about dessert? I’m thinking one of everything on the menu, and then you should get to bed, I think.”

Matt didn’t want to be this excited…but he couldn’t quite figure out where his reluctance was coming from. He loved dessert, after all…right?

Earl found Jack holding down the bar by himself. The ashtray beside him was already full, and the bartender had finally just left him a fifth of cheap whiskey which was already nearly empty. Earl took the stool next to him, and an old fashioned appeared in his hand along with a lit cigar, which he sipped. “How are you doin’, Jack?”

“Fuck…I fucked up…” he groaned back, “What the fuck am I doin’?”

“Looks like you’re enjoyin’ yourself to me,” Earl said.

“No…I don’t fuckin’ smoke. I don’t drink. What the hell am I doing here?” Jack looked up, took a long, deep drag off his cigar, and sighed, “Fuck I’m drunk, what was I saying?”

“You know what, Jack? You’re just too fucking uptight, that’s your problem. Don’t you know how to relax? Come on, admit it. This is kind of nice, isn’t it?”

Jack didn’t say anything, but he knocked back the rest of the whiskey in his glass–Earl poured him some more, and he didn’t object. After a moment, he said, out of the blue, “Fuck, why am I so fuckin’ horny?”

“There’s just something about smoke and drink that makes your cock hard, I bet.”

“Fuck.”

“Go on, let loose. Let’s see that drunk cock of yours.”

Jack just stared at Earl, unable to believe what he’d just heard, unable to believe he was actually considering it, unable to believe that, without even making up his mind, he was already unzipping his fly, pulling out his cock, stroking it nice and slow.

“I love dumb bear’s like you, Jack. You love simple pleasures–nothing gets you harder than a little smoke and a little drink, right? Laid back and easy-going as fuck. Who cares when you had a shower last por changed your clothes? Who cares when you last got your hair or beard cut? You sure don’t. But more than that, you’re simple minded too, right? Not too smart at all, but that doesn’t bother you. Crude, nasty, and a horny hairy bear of a man. Nothin’ bothers you, except when you run out of cigars and drink, right?”

“F–Fuckin’ right…” Jack grunted, “Gonna, fuckin’ blow…” With a loud snort, he shot several ropes of cum all over the underside of the bar. The smell of booze and smoke intensified around him along with a heavy pang of BO ground into his clothes, which were growing older, tattered and dirty. Jack scratched his face, feeling a beard sprout and grow long and tangled down to his chest, his hair growing out as well, caught in a lazy ponytail. His body softened and expanded, a thick gut pushing his shirt out, ass filling out the back of his jeans, but plenty of muscle too. You had to be strong to survive on the road, had to be strong to…to fucking fuck, yeah…fuck. “Fuck, what was I doin’? Fuckin’ forgot.”

“Don’t worry about it, Jack.”

“Heh, I don’t worry ‘bout shit, Earl, you know that.”

“How about you finish off that cigar and whiskey there, and head for bed.”

Jack shrugged, Earl finished his drink and left the building, pulled the second key to room 102 from his jeans, and figured it was time to check up on Paul.

Earl’s Truck Stop – Part 1 (Patreon Commission)

The first of the expected three came in a little after five in the afternoon. The pump outside was having a problem processing his company card–Earl was more than happy to run it for him on the machine inside. Perhaps he was just old fashioned, or maybe he was just a pervert with particular tastes, but the young man looked nothing like Earl thought a trucker should look. Way too uptight, in a shirt buttoned all the way up to the collar. Clean shaven, hair combed, smelling like some girl’s prissy perfume shit. Earl made sure the machine inside took had some trouble as well, and struck up some conversation.

“I haven’t seen you come through here before. The name’s Earl–Owner of the Flying G here.”

“Yeah, this is a new route for me,” the young trucker said, “Did the card work?”

“It’s still processing.”

Silence. Maybe he’d have to bend him a little. A touch of power in the air and…

“You know, I’ve had a long day so far…it says you have an inn here?”

“Sure do. You wanna call it a night already?”

“I can get back on the road early tomorrow.”

“Sure thing. Can I just bill it on the card?”

“Why not.”

“The card says your name’s Jack?”

“Yep.”

“Alright Jack–I’ll put you up in room 103.”

“That’s a non-smoking room right?”

“You said you needed some cigars too, right?”

Jack just stared at him, thinking hard. Earl got him to nod.

“Any brand? Nah, you know what? Let’s go with cheap and rough. I doubt you could afford anything pricey, right?”

Jack still couldn’t find anything to say for some reason, but he handed Earl cash, took the cellophane wrapped cigars from him.

“You can still smoke in the bar too, you know. Why don’t you go take a load off and have a few drinks, before bed?”

Jack didn’t drink, but something had him walking through the restaurant proper and into the smoky bar behind it, lighting up a cigar, and then having the bartender pour him a whiskey double, straight, cheapest he got, and he pounded it back, and waited for the next one.

Half an hour later, Earl felt the second of three walk in. Just like the first, he looked nothing like a trucker–just another one looking to make some money and then get off the road as quick as he could. Where Jack was slender and uptight, the second looked like he spent his spare time on the road with a set of weights. Earl rolled his eyes.

He was also having trouble with his card. After a short conversation, it turned out that he, too, could use a room. Earl thought for a moment, and then gave him the second key to room 103.

“Anything else I can help you with, Matt?” Earl asked.

“Actually, yeah. It’s probably a stretch, but have you got a gym here, or even just a workout room of some kind? Most of these places don’t, and I doubt they get much use, judging by how fat most of these fuckers are, right?”

Earl bristled. “Actually, you’re hungry.”

“Wait, how did you know?”

“Why don’t you go have a seat in the diner, I’ll let the cook know you want the all you can eat special.”

Without really understanding his own change of heart, Matt walked over to the attached restaurant and sat down at a booth–a young, chubby waited immediately came and set down a soda and a full plate of food. That ought to keep the asshole occupied, Earl thought.

It was an hour later when the third expected guest arrived. Unlike the first two, Earl didn’t need to work to get him a room–he already looked exhausted.

“This fucking company has had me on the road for eighteen hours straight, they can fucking pay for a good bed, you know?”

Earl nodded, and handed Paul a key to room 102.

“I just don’t think I can handle it for much longer.”

Earl had driven a truck for fifty years. These young upstarts had no fucking stamina. He said nothing, but scowled slightly.

“Thanks for the room, I think I’ll turn in for the night.”

Earl watched him leave the office, and kept watching through the window until he saw him climb up into his truck, grab a small overnight bag, and carry it over to the inn across the parking lot. Once Paul had gone inside, he waited five minutes, and then picked up the phone and dialed room 102.

Paul had gotten into the room, and without doing anything else, had dropped his bag by the door, and slumped on the bed. Tired. He’d known trucking was going to be rough, but he’d needed the job. This, though, was ridiculous. Maybe he just needed to try a different company, but from what he’d gathered from other truckers he’d talked to, the pressure to just keep driving was everywhere. Just a bed was a relief after a week in his sleeper. He was already drifting off when he heard the phone on the nightstand start ringing.

“Just fuckin’ let it ring,” he mumbled to himself, but he was already rolling up, and picking up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hey Paul, forgot to tell you. I left you something in the VCR. It’s right up your alley you nasty pervert. Enjoy yourself, and those sheets better be crusty by the time I get there.”

The phone went dead. That had sounded like that old dude from the front desk–what was he even talking about? Had he called the wrong room or something? Curiosity got the better of him, and Paul heaved his tired body up from the bed, walked over to the small TV, hit eject, and an unmarked tape popped out. He pushed it back in, turned on the screen, and after a few moments, a video started. The picture was tracking poorly–it took him a moment to figure out that he was looking at two fat, hairy truckers making out in a communal shower–fuck, he hadn’t seen a shower like that in ages! Now that was a great place to fuckin’ peep.

Paul shook his head, trying to figure out where that thought had come from. And why did he have his cock out of his jeans? And why was he stroking it? And why was he still looking at these two sexy bears get ready to fuck each other’s brains out? Didn’t see men like that out on the road much anymore. They were a dyin’ breed, and that was a fuckin’ shame. Where had Earl even gotten this? It sure as hell looked vintage, probably from the eighties, judging by that mullet. Hell, he’d known a guy on the road back then with that same fuckin’ hair, huge beast of a cock. Just thinkin’ about that cock, fuck…

Paul shot his load all over the dresser, panting a bit. What in the hell was he doing? He always shot his fuckin’ cum on the sheets, had to get them smelling good and rank for whoever came next, right? Or maybe for…for Earl, yeah. When Earl got here later. He kept watching the video on the bed, milking his young cock onto the sheets beneath him, and outside the room Earl was watching the young man jack off through the blinds, grinning wide.

Good Things – Part 3 (Patreon Commission)

Just how much was too much anyway?

Eddie was in the bathroom again, leaning on the counter, his gut pressing against the lip, looking at himself in the mirror. His coveralls were unzipped down to his belly button, and he ran one hand across his hairy chest, over to one fat nipple and gave it a tweak, feel his cock pulse and leak. He couldn’t fucking stop himself. He just couldn’t. But he knew this was too much, that this had simply gone too fucking far now. I mean look at him! Look at him, yeah, fuck, look at how fucking sexy he’d become.

His driver license said he was sixty, and fuck, he felt sixty when he was on his knees in the garage, sucking his fellow mechanic’s cocks. He’d been good with cars when he was younger, sure, but he was just a bit too slow now. It was easier just to…to hang around the bathrooms, yeah. Hang around sucking all the cock he could get, begging anyone who came in to fuck him. Oddly, no one ever seemed to turn him down, not that he minded, he could never have too much cum in his belly or up his ass. Cum was such a good thing.

His hand had migrated down to his crotch and was milking his cock; he yanked it away, and rubbed his eyes, smacking his face, stroking his massive beard crusty with cum. He had to focus. What had he even come in here for? He couldn’t fucking remember. God he was fucking stupid now. He’d never been this dumb, but now it was becoming a struggle to just string together a sentence, and his memory was shot. He’d come in to jack off right? He always came in here to jack off, but there’d been something else…something…

He focused on stroking his cock some more, figuring he might remember after he shot a load. Two loads later, he remembered. He’d come in for…for piss? No, he’d come in…to piss, right? His head didn’t seem to be thinking straight, he was pointing his cock up towards his mouth, shooting off a blast of piss, and he drank down as much as he can, though it was hard arcing the stream up over his belly. He ended up soaking himself in more piss than he drank, and just stared at himself, reeking, unable to believe he’d just done that…and that he had never done that before. It tasted so good! So good he…he just had to jack off some more. Three loads of cum later, Big Red came in–now nearly as big as he was red–and Eddie dropped to his knees, ready to drink. Piss was almost as good as cum after all, and he could never have too many good things…right?

Eddie groaned, and opened his eyes a bit. Fucking hangovers. He reached out to the table next to him, trying to find a cigar, but something kept shaking his arm, making it harder for him to grab anything at all–and he realized he was in the middle of being fucked. Big Red was behind him, already awake, and in the middle of his morning fuck–Eddie hadn’t even woken up when he rolled him over onto his fat belly, and plowed his massive cock into his loose asshole. He grabbed his lighter, but couldn’t find a cigar; he looked over his shoulder and saw Big Red was smoking. “Gimmie some a that ‘gar, man…” he said.

Big Red took a deep suck, and then handed it to Eddie, who clamped down on it and let Big Red go to town on his hole. The bed beneath him was cold and clammy–he must have wet it again. That was getting to be a fuckin’ habit–he’d pissed himself twice at work yesterday. Luckily it had been in the bathroom (granted, he spent almost all day in the bathroom, sucking cock and drinking piss) so he just cleaned it up off the floor with his tongue, but he’d been wetting the bed every night lately. Heh, Big Red was threatening to force him to wear fucking diapers, the shit head. He’d never follow through–Big Red loved the stench of piss almost as much as Eddie did.

Fuck, last night though, what had that even been? He’d come home with Big Red like always, they started fucking like always, and for the first time in a long while, Eddie had shot a big load of cum out of his cock. Just like that, his usual raging horniness had disappeared, and he’d been in this weird fuckin’ mood, talkin’ about how he’d been cursed or something, how he needed to get to a computer. Fuck, Eddie didn’t even know how to fuckin’ use a computer, he’d been talkin’ so damn crazy. Thankfully Big Red had fucked him straight in the head again, got him all horned up with a few loads of piss and cum.

Fuck, if only he could be horny all the time, right? Who in the hell could have too much fuckin’ horniness? As he thought it, it was like something around him started turning again, something which had paused. His balls were churning, he was getting close to cumming. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cum so much…and yet, some part of him told him to stop. To resist. To keep it from happening. He was caught in the middle of it–it felt so good getting fucked, but…but what? With a groan, he felt Big Red spasm, filling him up with his cum. “Got…somethin’ else for this filthy hole this mornin’,” he said, and a second later, Eddie felt something else warm his ass.

Piss. Big Red was pissing in his ass, like he was a fuckin’ urinal. By then it was too late–he was cumming, and cumming hard, and there was something…cold around his cock, something a bit painful. With one hand he reached down to feel what it was…and felt the chastity cage that had locked itself around his cock…but that wasn’t odd. He’d…he’d had that thing on for…for years…right? Big Red had locked him up one night for fun, but then they’d lost the key in the mess that was their single wide trailer. He hadn’t…cum since, except for painful, unsatisfying milkings that only made him hornier than ever.

It was like he was drowning in desire. He’d just shot his load…hadn’t he? No, he couldn’t have, right? All those doubts he’d felt, they just washed away. All that mattered was fucking. All that mattered was making himself even hornier. He didn’t care if he ever came again, so long as he could be this horny for the rest of his old, fat, stinking life. Being horny was so fucking good, and who’d ever said you could have too much of a good thing? And Eddie had so many good things, he could never wish for anything else.

Good Things – Part 2 (Patreon Commission)

Eddie found that his days at work were increasingly interrupted by a constant need to excuse himself to the bathroom in order to jack off. He knew, in his head, that he should try to moderate, that these changes were eventually going to cascade out of control, but it was so much easier to lock himself in a stall, whip out his cock, and blow a load, or two…or three. The changes tended to come in spurts–sometimes nothing would change at all. It was a few days since he’d bought the curse, and things had settled into something like a new normal–he loved his muscular physique. Every cum seemed to make him bigger, manlier, and hairier, and he relished it. He relished it so much in fact, sitting here on the toilet, that he might cum four times in a row this time.

He heard the door open, and he stifled his groans. Through the crack in the stall door, he saw that the person who’d come in was none other than Mr. Greely himself. He’d softened up to Eddie since the changes had begun, and was no longer threatening to fire him over his sales numbers, but Eddie still hated him. Hated him so much, he could just…just suck his cock. Fuck yeah, he could suck his fucking cock so fucking hard. With a shudder, he shot another load, this one splattering against the door, where his eye was pressed to the crack. Something had changed in the air, he could sense it.

“I can hear you in there, Eddie. If you want my cock, faggot, come on out, and you can get it.”

Was…was this really happening? Eddie tried to stop himself, but he flew out of the stall, his dress pants still around his ankles, and licked his lips. Mr. Greely shoved his cock down his throat, and came in less than a minute, Eddie somehow managing to shoot on the floor twice in the meantime. Mr. Greely tsked him, “You’re such a slob, Eddie. At least clean up after yourself.”

Eddie’s first thought was to just get down and lick it up, but he fought that desire off and grabbed some paper towels instead, while Mr. Greely left the room. In the mirror, he noticed that his hairline had started receding a bit…and was his body looking a bit softer? Fatter? He shook his head–it still wasn’t too much of a good thing.

By next week, Eddie had taken to eating his lunches in his truck. He didn’t remember when his car had turned into a truck, but he appreciated the fact that it offered a bit more room for him to spread out in. He’d tried eating at his desk, like usual, but lately he’d just spent his entire lunch hour in the bathroom gloryhole he’d drilled a few days earlier, sucking cock, that eating out here in the parking lot was easier. Besides, he was fucking hungry today–hell, he’d been fucking hungry all week.

He let out a belch, unwrapped another hamburger from the sack in the passenger seat, and went back to stroking his cock with this other hand, not noticing he’d smeared the shaft with grease and a bit of ketchup. It was a bit harder to jack off, with this new gut of his, but he kind of liked it. It made him look older, more mature and refined. Being a muscle bear had been nice, but now he really did look like a true man. The receding hairline had bothered him at first too, but once it had pushed back past the crown, it actually looked kind of good. The same thing with the beard, which had grown long enough to brush his fat chest, and was streaked with a bit of grey. It all just looked…good to him. Almost as good as the mechanics he was watching from his parking spot.

He fucking loved them–he could always tell when he was sucking a mechanic off in the bathroom, because they stank of sweat and grease. He’d usually blow a few loads by the time they came, which he’d lick up off the floor and stall wall, as he waited for the next person to come in for a blow job. He downed the hamburger in three huge bites, belched again, chased it with the rest of the cheap beer he’d bought, and then reached for another burger, but found the bag empty. He was still hungry, but that would keep him satisfied for a bit. He took a moment to light one of his fat cigars–he didn’t miss the cigarettes at all–and then rubbed his gut, smearing his grubby dress shirt with grease, enjoying the taut sphere jutting out in front of him, and saw Big Red slide out from under a car.

He came once just at the sight, and then kept stroking, getting ready to shoot again. No one called him Big Red but him–in fact, he was the shortest mechanic at the dealership–but his cock, fuck, it was fucking huge, and thick, with a tangled red bush. He shot again, and saw Big Red turn and stare right at him, lick his lips, and then grab the bulge in his coveralls. Nearly tripping over himself, Eddie got out of his truck, nearly forgetting to hike up his pants and zip himself up. Sure, he was a mess, but he had a date with a big red cock in the bathroom–he could never have too much of a good thing like that.