Vignettes 1-5

By Wesley Bracken -
published August 18, 2011

A collection of short (and rough) vignettes

Vignettes 1-5

by Wesley Bracken


Over the years, I have devised a number of porn games, all of which essentially serve as random character generators. Recently, I’ve decided to start taking some of these characters and writing short vignettes about them, something between 1000 and 2000 words, mostly as a warm up, and to practice new techniques and ideas, etc. I won’t post them regularly, but will put them up in groups as I work on new ones.


The stories that follow can be extremely graphic, including scenes of rape, violence, incest, watersports, scat, hate speech or whatever else wants to come out of my head. Before each story, you will be warned of what fetishes you can expect from it. If you don’t like it, don’t read it. Also, the writing is crappy, but these are all unrevised, so live with it. The author does not necessarily condone or agree with the actions of his characters.

#1 (slavery, domination, hate speech)

It was a minute past, and Jones was tired of waiting. This pig should know better than to keep his master waiting. On the computer screen he could see the pig’s apartment, or what was left of it, really. Jones had forced the pig to sell off most of his possessions within a week of starting his training. He still had his job, sure, but most of his money was being funnelled directly into Jones’ own bank account. He checked his watch again, and saw that it was now four minutes past. He’d had this discussion with the pig. About how being on time was very important. This was very disappointing, really.

Jones sat back, and ran one hand across his mostly bald scalp, aside from the short mohawk he kept trimmed there. He was a man in his mid forties, and in his youth, had run with one of the more ruthless and violent skin gangs in the area, but he’d gotten too old for that now, and while he still worked out religiously, the lack of physical exercise had given him a definite paunch. Still, that didn’t mean he had to let the young guys have all the fun. He’d gotten into training slaves years ago, and had gotten it down to a science, really. He supplied all the local gangs with their skin pigs and gimps, their dungeon boys and toilets. Better yet, he ran the entire operation from his computer–none of his victims ever say his face. Well, that was a lie. They would all see his face once, and only once, when they had reached the final point in their training. When they now wanted Jones to control and dominate them. When their old lives were so far behind them that they would never see them again. Then he would visit them, once. They would have the privilege of serving him for a night, before he sold them off to whatever gang they would spend the rest of their life serving.

Most were surprised by their master. They all knew he was a skin, but rarely did they expect the tall, massive and furry man who would strut into their apartments or homes, push them to the ground and begin fucking them with his massive cock, before they could even register what was happening. They they would know. They knew him by how he controlled them–how he knew their kinks, habits and idiosyncrasies. He loved that moment–it was the only sex he had anymore. Not because it was the only sex he could get, but because no other sex could compare to the rush of breaking in a new slave. He would hold off on masturbating for weeks before hand, just to be ready for his slave. As he broke down their last few barriers to him. As he watched them beg him to come fuck them, to let them serve him. The agony was so sweet, he could barely stand it, knowing how they must feel. But this slave–this one had been difficult. Still, he was almost there, Jones could sense it.

Two months ago, on his way to meet with a gang, arranging a sale of a new gimp he’d trained, he’d spotted a businessman check over his shoulder as he dashed into a down town hotel. Yeah, Jones knew the type. The one with the wife and the mistress. He got off and waited after cancelling the meeting, and followed the man and the much younger woman he exited the hotel with, taking pictures. Sure, both of them noticed him–he got noticed a lot, from the violent tattoos on his arms, his bleached jeans and braces, his T-shirt stretched tight across his fat, muscular chest, hair bursting everywhere, his beard reaching all the way down to his gut. Jones got noticed everywhere, but neither of them imagined what would happen next. Now, Gary was named Crud. He was going to be a skin pig, whether he liked it or not, but by now, the blackmail wasn’t what was keeping him here. He’d already lost his wife and mistress, and was barely clinging to his job. He needed Jones. Jones paid the rent on his apartment. Jones bought him food. Jones provided for him in a way Gary no longer could. He wanted to resist, but only because he thought he should be resisting. When he finally stopped, and just let it go, then he would see what Jones had planned for him. Then Jones would start preparing for his inevitable visit.

At 5:37, the door to Crud’s apartment opened with a crash, as a fat man came bursting in, dressed in a poorly fitting suit, he immediately began stripping, revealing that his entire body had been tattooed over the past weeks. Most of them were quite fresh, especially the one on his growing belly, a massive swastika symbol in black ink. In fact, most of Crud’s tattoos were inflammatory in some way. They had been chose for that reason. Crud would never be a part of any polite society ever again, and that was just how Jones wanted it. “I’m sorry master. I’m…I’m sorry, I…” Crud started to say, but soon just began weeping. “I’m sorry! I…My boss, he…uh, he uh saw my tattoos today, on accident, and he…he fired me sir. That’s why I’m late. I’m sorry, I couldn’t keep them well hidden. I’m sorry, please, please–”

“Shut the fuck up, Crud! I don’t want to hear it.” Jones shouted into the microphone on his desk, “Strip, and assume position one, in front of the camera.”


“Be silent, you god damn worthless piece of filth!” Jones screamed, knowing the speaker’s in the pig’s apartment would amplify the message to near ear drum breaking levels. The man cowered and immediately was silent, undressing as fast as he could before kneeling in front of the camera, his arms clasped behind his back. Jones let him sweat the silence for a moment, before speaking again. “Now, tell me what happened.”

“I…I was handing my boss a brief, when he noticed the…the bracelet tattoos on my wrists. He asked to see them, and I tried not to show them to him, but he made me pull up my sleeve, and the look on his face…he was appalled, and he shouted at me, about how he could have never guessed I could be such a piece of racist filth, and fired me on the spot.”

“Well, are you a piece of racist filth?”

“I…I…Please sir, please just let me go…”

“You know I won’t do that, Crud. Besides, doesn’t our relationship mean anything to you?” Jones said, and pushed a button on his desk. On the screen, Crud moaned and writhed with pleasure, his little piggy cock getting hard as the butt plug up his ass began to vibrate. “Now, answer my question. Are you a piece of racist filth? Are you not the perfect representation of everything which is wrong with society? An obese, ignorant, hateful pig, begging for cock, obese beyond recognition, covered with the symbol of Hitler himself? How could anyone think otherwise? How could you think otherwise?”

“Please…Please! Dont!”

On the high definition screen, Jones could see that Crud’s cock was already leaking. He’d been trained to enjoy anal stimulation weeks ago, and now any vibration up there caused him tremendous pleasure. “Well, it looks to me like you enjoy being a piece of racist filth. I mean, you haven’t denied it yet. And that’s damning enough. Go on, admit it. Say it, and I’ll reward you for speaking the truth.”

Crud said nothing, and tried not to moan from the anal stimulation. Suddenly, a bolt of electricity shot through the ring strapped around his balls, and the tit clamps attached to his huge nipples. He let out a scream of pain, but his cock only leaked more. This was Crud’s problem, Jones realized. His body already knew what it wanted. His cock wanted pain, he wanted pain. But he refused. He still though of himself as a person. As someone belonging to proper society. He needed to crush that, obliterate it from the pig’s mind. “Say it pig, and don’t fucking lie to me.”

“No, I’m not. I’m not like you, I’m–” The pig screamed again, the zap more powerful this time, and longer.

“You are not like me, you fucking beast! You’re a piece of trash! Look at you, I may be a skin, but at least I have respect for the dead! Look at you, you piece of nazi trash, you’re disgusting! You should be cast out, removed from society for everyone’s sake. You’re worthless! You’re lucky I care enough about you to even speak to you. Now tell me the truth. Are you, or are you not, a piece of racist filth?”

“I…I…I am,” Crud finally admitted, but Jones could tell he didn’t mean it. He just didn’t want to get shocked. So that’s what he got, higher powered than before, sending spikes of agony through his fat body, the anal vibration increasing as well, sending the pig over the edge, his cock erupting with a load of cum which sprayed all over the carpet in front of him.

“Look at that. You love being a racist asshole so much it makes you cum, eh?”

“No, I didn’t really, I didn’t want…please, don’t, no more…” Crud sobbed.

“Clean it up, pig,” was all Jones said, and Crud immediately got down on his knees and licked up his own seed, still sobbing, his cock still rock hard. When he finished, he sat up again, sweating and shivering with exhaustion and fear. “Now, I think we made some good progress this session. You’re closer to admitting what a horrid person you are, what an ignorant piece of racist filth you are, and that that makes you aroused, and want to serve your aryan skinhead masters even more, correct?”

Crud just shook his head, but said nothing. Closer, but not broken yet. Still, he would come around soon. Without a job, Jones would be free to increase the intensity of his sessions. Some good old sleep deprivation would do wonders as well. maybe he’ll keep the tracks playing all night. “Now, dinner will arrive soon. Until then, I want you to think about how much of a disgusting nazi racist you are, and how much that turns you on.”

Crud tried to object, but he knew what was coming. The projectors on the wall lit up, playing german propaganda films on every wall. The speakers in the room began blaring propaganda, telling Crud how proud he should be to have the opportunity to serve the aryan race, how all other races were inferior. He would believe it soon enough, Jones thought. He had never been much into the politics of the whole movement, preferring to revel in the power of the gang itself, but some were more particular. The gang who had commissioned crud wanted a completely submissive pig, an idiot who did little more than rattle off aryan propaganda between sucking each gang member’s cock. Who was he to deny them that?

On the monitor, he saw Crud huddled on the bed, sobbing, trying to shut out the track but failing. He would succumb. He’d already succumbed, he just didn’t know it yet. But he would soon, and then, Jones would build him up again, turn him into nothing more than a racist, cock sucking skin pig desperate to serve his aryan masters until his death.

#2 (violence, rape, forced submission)

It had begun with a good deed, as these things never should. Saul had pulled over at the rest area to relieve himself, on his way back from visiting his brother, and looking forward to being reunited with his wife. Saul was in his sixties, and quite portly. The image of an old gentleman, well groomed, and a bit stodgy, his hair kept in a meticulous comb over, round glasses perched on his broad nose. He got out of the car and sauntered over to the restroom, only to find, inside, two huge bikers pinning a young man up against the stall, picking through his pockets and smacking him around.

Not being one to stand aside and allow vandals to rule the day, Saul raised his voice and told the hooligans to stop, to which they laughed.

“Looks like we have ourselves a hero here.”

“Don’t you think he’s kind of old to be a hero?”

“Yeah old man, why don’t you just hobble away like a good boy?”

Saul stood his ground, not exactly sure why he was doing so, but told them he would call the cops if they didn’t leave this moment. He pulled out his jitterbug cell phone, only to have one of the bikers rip it from his hand, throw it to the ground, and smash it beneath his boot. The other finished frisking the young man, then booted him out, while the other pushed Saul up against the wall and began grinding his crotch into Saul’s ass. He tried to wrench away, the heavily muscled biker was far stronger, and pulled his close. Saul could smell the man as he licked the back of his neck, making Saul shiver with revulsion.

“What do you think Duke, think we should play with our old hero here? Have some fun?”

The other biker sauntered over, grabbed Saul’s head and drove his tongue into his mouth. Saul tried to bite down on him, but the biker pulled back, and slammed his fist into Saul’s face.

“You fucking bite us, and you aren’t going to leave this bathroom alive, bitch. Now pucker up.”

Scared beyond belief, he allowed the biker to rape his mouth, the other’s hard cock now grinding against the seat of his pants. Duke, the man had said. Duke’s mouth was filthy, tasting of cheap liquor and smoke. He almost didn’t feel the other biker behind him slit the seat of his pants with a knife. He tired to clam up, but the biker thrust into his hole roughly, his scream muffled in the mouth of Duke, who chuckled, tugging on Saul’s tits through his shirt, then dropping one hand to Saul’s crotch.

“What’s the matter old man? Don’t like getting fucked? Or can you just not get hard anymore?”

“Aw, I bet he’s been soft for ages. Does he look like he’s had sex recently to you?”

“Naw, Nate, he don’t. Probably married to some hag whose got a dry ass cunt.”

Saul felt his face redden, but he didn’t say anything, just buckled down and hoped someone–anyone would come in and help him, but no one came. Nate, the biker fucking him, got rougher as Saul opened up, while Duke took the knife and began cutting away Saul’s shirt, revealing his hairless belly and huge tits, which the biker kept pulling and twisting, making Saul moan in anguish. Finally he heard Nate grunt, slam his cock home, and then start pulsing. He was cumming, and Saul felt tears roll down his face. He had just been raped. There was no other way to put it. Raped by two bikers, because he was brave enough to stand up to them, for the sake of another.

Nate pulled out, and Duke pushed Saul onto his knees and shoved his cock into his mouth, warning him that if he felt so much as the scrape of a tooth, Saul would loose all of them. Still crying, he allowed Duke to fuck his face, gagging on occasion when the long cock went so deep he couldn’t breathe. After a couple of minutes, Duke pulled out, and after a couple of strokes, shot his load all over Saul’s face.

“Yeah, that’s a good pig. You look damn hot with a biker’s load all over your face, don’t you agree, Nate?”

“Hell yeah. Now clean off my cock, bitch. You got your shit all over it.”

Nate rammed his filthy cock into Saul’s mouth, who cleaned it with his tongue, gagging from the taste and smell of his own ass. As he did, Duke began pissing on him, the acrid yellow liquid soaking the remains of his shirt, soaking his hair and pooling on the concrete beneath him. When Nate’s cock was clean, the two bikers left the bathroom, leaving Saul on the floor, face covered with cum, soaked with piss, and horrifically violated. After a moment on the floor, he got up and cleaned himself up as best he could in the sink, thankful that the nightmare was over at least. He could hear the bikes start up and drive off, Duke and Nate whooping and hollering as they left, and Saul welcomed the silence. When he felt like he was at least somewhat put together, he exited the restroom and started over to his car, only to find it had been trashed. Every tire was slashed, every window shattered, the seats torn apart, the hood up and hoses cut apart. It would never drive–he was trapped.

The bikers returned a half hour later, a whole gang following both of them, circling around Saul in the parking lot, terrified beyond thought. They offered him a choice. Get on Nate’s bike and come with them, or they’d castrate him right there, at the rest stop, and leave him to bleed to death. He got on the bike. He got on the bike knowing he would never see his wife again, or his sons. Knowing he would never be free of these men, they would make sure of that. That first night, they burned his clothes, and gave him a set of filthy leathers to wear, clothes which were far too big for him, even at his weight of almost 300. Then, they started the training. He was pierced everywhere they could put a ring, the larger the better, and tattooed all across his body, from his face to his feet. His ass was stretched, by dildos and fists. He was taught to drink piss and eat shit, give them tongue baths and the proper method of sucking a cock. His name was Pig, or Bitch, nothing more.

A year later, Saul didn’t exist anymore. The leathers which had been so big on him were now almost too small, after the force feedings every night. They refused to let him shave, cut his hair, or shower, and so he was a filthy mess, his hair long and uncombed, beard tangled. He stank like an outhouse, but loved it. Yes, he did love it. He loved eating shit, drinking piss, sucking cock, getting fisted. He begged his biker master’s to use him every night, and they were happy to oblige. Finally on the one year anniversary of his first rape, the bikers kidnapped Saul’s own son and brought him as a present, forcing Saul to suck off his own son before the bikers raped him repeatedly. Saul could only watch, and realized that he didn’t feel any pity towards his son at that moment–he just wished it was him bent over that bike, getting fucked by his masters. Saul was gone from that moment on–only Pig remained.

#3 (prostitution, slob, humiliation)

“Alright, now where’s my ten bucks?” Bill said, holding out one fat grubby hand to the fat john hiking up his grubby jeans. Bill was still on his knees, cum plastered all over his grimy face and big beard.

“Tell you what, you clean off my boots with that nasty tongue of yours, and I’ll give ya fifteen,” the john said with a grin. He wasn’t one of Bill’s regulars. He saw quite a few guys on a daily basis, but he looked like he had come fresh off a construction site Bill’s owner found him a few new clients to serve each day as well. The guy looked down at Bill, expectation in his eyes, and pushed one mud crusted boot forward, and with a shrug, Bill got down on his hands and knees, his fat gut brushing the floor, and started licking, choking down dried pieces of mud. His mouth dried out quickly, but he kept going, hating himself for it, but unable to resist. He was just a dumb filthy whore, just like his owner always told him, and if a john wanted him to clean his boots, he was going to do it, for money of course. At least he could be good for something. He got the last of the mud off, choking it down, as three crumpled five dollar bills fell on his head, and the john turned and left, snickering. “What a pig,” he mumbled as he opened the door to Bill’s studio apartment and shut the door behind him.

Bill gathered up the money, hefted himself to his feet, and walked over to the large jar on a shelf by the bed and dropped the three bills in. The jar was halfway full. His owner says that if he can fill it up, he might let Bill have a day off, or let him take a shower with soap and hot water. He hiked hp his leather chaps again–they had a habit of slipping down his fat ass–and readjusted his leather harness, as he tried to get a good look at himself in the grimy window. There wasn’t a mirror in the apartment bathroom, so Bill hadn’t actually seen himself in…in who knows how long. He couldn’t remember a time before sucking cock on a daily basis for his owner. He did like it though, he had to admit that. He liked men cumming on him, and having their cocks up his hole, and even cleaning their boots. On the schedule next to the window, he saw that his next apppointment should be arriving any minute now, so he went over in front of the door and knelt down, arms folded behind his back, head down, his greasy hair hanging over his fat face.

From outside, he heard footsteps approaching, and they stopped at his door, but didn’t open it. A newcomer then–only the newcomers were hesitant. His owner must have been doing some recruiting, to have gotten Bill two new customers today. The owner often told Bill, usually as he slammed a huge dildo up his ass, training him to relax and be able to take even more, that he had a god awful time convincing guys to pick a fat, filthy slob like Bill was, but his regulars seemed to like it. He wondered if the newcomer would like it. He’d had a few men open the door, see him, and then just turn around and leave. Others would berate him, say how disgusting he was, and wonder how in the hell he could hope to make a living as a whore looking like he did. Bill didn’t like looking like this–but his owner only stocked the kitchen with greasy junk food and candy, and then ordered Bill four or five huge pizzas a day, so of course he would be fat. He didn’t like it–in fact, he hated it, but it was what the owner wanted, so Bill had to eat.

The doorknob turned slowly and the door swung open, revealing a slim man dressed casually–not Bill’s usual clientelle. But hey, who was he to question some other guy’s tastes? Still, he remained on his knees, head bowed, waiting for orders, when the man said, “Bill? Bill, is that really you?”

Bill looked up at the newcomer, and felt a strange sense of deja vu. Had he…seen this man somewhere before? He wasn’t a regular, he knew that, but…somewhere else? He tried to think, but he was so stupid, he couldn’t figure it out.

“Bill. Bill, it’s me, Donny, your brother! God, I thought you were gone for good–you’ve been missing for months! And you’re fucking whoring yourself out? What the fuck? And how…how did you get so damn fat?”

Brother? Bill again struggled to remember, not even listening. It sounded…right, but…he didn’t have any family, did he? All he had was his owner, he was the only person who mattered. This guy must be mistaken. “No…No I don’t know you. I ain’t got a brother,” Bill said, but his eyes betrayed his confusion.

“You don’t…Come on Bill, you know me. Come on, I don’t know what kind of trouble you’re in, but I can help you, trust me.”

“No, the owner says I can’t leave. I have to stay here and do what the johns say, that’s my job.” Bill blurted out, but he felt himself start to panic. His head hurt. He did know this newcomer from somewhere–did he really have a brother? And maybe parents? What was going on?

A door opened in the hallway, and a short, bald man dressed in a wifebeater and boxers came rushing to Bill’s doorway. Before Donny could turn around, the short man had slammed the hypodermic he was carrying into Donny’s thigh. “What the hell!” Donny shouted, and whirled around, but lost his balance and stumbled about. The world was spinning fast–too fast to see what was going on. He tired to grab onto the bed, but ended up collapsing down on it, not asleep, but not awake either, his mind suddenly sluggish, unable to hold onto much of anything.

“Quit thinking, whore,” the man said to Bill, whose mind went blank, his jaw slack, and he slumped forward. “God damn it, I hate it when this happens,” the man added, walking over to Donny on the bed, “This’ll take weeks of programming to bury again…still, brother eh?” he said, looking Donny over. He could see the resemblance, certainly. Well, with the Bill he’d kidnapped close to nine months ago at least. Still, in a few months time, and with a bit of fattening, Donny could be ready for some action with his brother. The man chuckled. Yeah, a pair of bother cocksuckers–he knew some guys who would pay for that. “Up whore. You too, on the bed, stand up. We got some things to straighten out. Follow me.”

Bill obeyed immediately, standing and walking after his owner, jaw still gaping, drool dribbling down his beard. Donny was a bit more sluggish, as he fought the desire to obey the drug was instilling him with, trying to keep himself from exiting the room, walking down the hallway to the owner’s apartment. The owner grinned at him as he entered, an evil smile, and Donny was suddenly afraid. Bill was in trouble, just like he’d thought–but instead of being his daring rescuer, Donny was now doomed to be his fellow captive.

#4 (hypnosis, slavery, smoke, anal play)

He hadn’t left the apartment in days, Roy realized suddenly, as he was finishing his fifth set on the bench press, and the last time had just been a quick run to the grocery store and the smoke shop to pick up more protein shakes and cigars, before returning home and continuing his workout. His constant workout. He hadn’t been to work since then–maybe that’s what the phone had been ringing about, that first week? It didn’t matter. What did matter was that he was finally starting to show some mass, but he needed more. He had to get bigger, for his master.

Roy had been working as a bulldozer operator on various construction for several years now, and he was getting sick and tired of the fat accumulating on his waistline. Between long hours, and never seeming to have enough money, he ate shit all the time, and never worked out like he had in high school. Discouraged, he did what most men would do, and went online looking for an easy solution, and found a promising one–hypnosis. Some guy promised him that listening to this audio file while he slept would help snap him out of his doldrums and encourage him to start working out again. He was even nice enough to let Roy have the file for free, saying something about Roy paying him back later.

He’d used the file exactly like the guy had suggested, putting it on loop all night long. He thought it would be difficult to fall asleep to someone’s voice, but the voice on the file was so soothing, Roy had never slept so well in his entire life. Yeah, so soothing, and so hot, he thought, massaging his swollen cock after setting the bar back up on the rack. After a few days, he’d gone out and bought some weight equipment and was working out regularly, and he’d never felt better. He took another drag off the cigar held in his teeth, and set the butt in an astray on the floor next to him. There was little more than a butt left–he’d have to light a new one soon, he thought, taking a moment to rub his cock through the jockstrap he was wearing. In fact, that’s all he wore anymore–just a jock strap. He liked the feeling of exercising naked, how he could see his muscles flex as he worked them to the breaking point over and over again. Sure, it hurt, but no pain, no gain, right?

That’s what the guy had said, when Roy contacted him, telling him how well the first file had worked. The guy had suggested another file of his, telling Roy that it would boost his workout efficiency. When Roy had expressed his worries, the guy had simply written “No pain, no gain. Take the file and listen to it like the first one.” Roy had done as he asked, downloaded the file and listened to it on loop while he slept. He missed work the next day. He needed to work out after all–he needed to get bigger. He missed it the next day as well, and the next. He would work out for eight hours straight, and then collapse on the couch, exhausted. All he’d been eating was these power protein shakes the guy had suggested he buy, and they kept him energized, but still, he was wiped afterwards all the same.

Well, until he listened to that third file, then the only thing which wasn’t exhausted was his cock. He wa hard all the time he worked out, and had to stop six or seven times to jack off in the middle of his workout, he was so horny. He couldn’t help it–the mere act of watching his muscles work turned him on so much he didn’t know what to do with himself, other than jack off. of course, he also spent the evenings chatting with the guy online, but he had a hard time remembering most of their conversations. However, by the end of them, he had usually jacked off so many times his chest was covered with cum, so he’d go get in the shower and hose himself off before falling into bed and sleeping, always the files playing in the background.

He played them all day long now too, but he didn’t really hear them anymore. Still, they helped him focus on his workout, and on his cigars of course. When his master had asked if Roy smoked, he’d told him that he didn’t, but that he’d had a cigarette a few times. He’d sent him a new file, and within days Roy had visited a smoke shop and loaded up on cigars, which he now chain smoked all day long, the apartment hazy with the fumes. He had his cock out now, and jacked it for a moment or two, blowing another load all over himself. Today though, was odd. He felt off his game. There was this odd itch around his asshole that he’d woken up with, and he just couldn’t seem to get it to go away. He tried to ignore it, and picked up the bar to start another set, when the phone rang again. Irritated, he set the bar back up, reached for the phone and answered it. “Hello?”

“No pain, no gain,” a man’s soothing voice replied, and Roy’s eyes emptied of all awareness of the world around him, but he kept smoking. He had to keep smoking.

“Hello, master.” Roy replied in an odd monotone.

“Are you working out like I’ve told you to?”

“Yes sir, I am working out like you told me to.”

“And how is that…itch, you told me about. The one up your ass?”

“Bad sir, and getting worse.”

“Well…have you tried, putting something up there? One of those cigars of yours might work.”

Careful to keep his ear next to the phone, Roy took an unlit cigar from his stash next to the bench and worked it against his asshole, moaning as the tip worked it’s way in. The itch did go away, surprisingly, and it felt…really nice, having something up there. Like he was supposed to have something up there, all the time.

His cock was hard again, and he started stroking it, almost immediately blowing another load, as his master continued speaking. “Yes, I can tell that’s much better. Now, from now on, you’re going to keep a cigar up your ass, just like that. When you finish a cigar, you’re going to take the one from your ass to smoke next, and then put an unlit one up there to replace it. This will seem entirely normal to you. The taste of your ass on the cigars might bother you at first, but by the end of the day, you’ll relish the taste, thinking it adds depth to your smokes. That is all, muscle slave. When I hang up you will wake up and not remember this conversation.”


Dang, he was just about done with this cigar, he thought, smoked the butt to the end and set it aside in the ashtray. He reached around, gave the cigar up his hole a few thrusts for good measure, then hauled it out, stuck it in his mouth, and lit it up. He could taste the bitterness of his own ass sweat on it, but he liked how it enhanced the flavor of the smoke. He grabbed another cigar and replaced the emptiness in his hole, before grabbing the bar and restarting his set. After all, he still had four more hours left in his workout, and he wanted to be the best muscle slave on the block by the end of the year. Or at least, that’s what his master had told him he wanted to be. What did it matter, really? He started lifting again, dropping back into his haze of smoke and his master’s instructions. His new life was just beginning, but he was excited and ready to see what it would be like.

#5 (rape, violence, filth, watersports)

Martin was important, so it was understandable that, even though he could have stepped out of the way and allowed the old woman to use the narrow city sidewalk, he continued on had his usual pace, using his large belly to push her out of the way, off the walk and into the gutter. She sputtered for a moment, Martin not even turning to look, when he felt her glare pierce him. He didn’t know how he knew she was staring at him, but suddenly he couldn’t move an inch, his large belly frozen in mid swing, as she picked herself up from the gutter and tottered over to where he was.

“You fools are so impolite in this century, I just don’t understand it. Ah, but you probably don’t recognize a witch when you see one. Still, at least you aren’t burning us on stakes anymore, or trying to. Still, I suppose I ought to teach you a lesson. Now, where were you going in such a hurry?”

“Home. I was going home,” Martin blurted out, then froze still again. What was going on? He felt his forehead begin to bead with sweat, as it always did when he got nervous.

“Home? I see. Well, I hope you can find it, and that you don’t get too lost,” she said with a smirk, and then brushed past him, continuing the way she was going, and Martin was unstuck, his gait resuming, no memory of the encounter in his mind, and he continued on back to his condo. The office was just a few blocks away, even though he could drive there in his Jaguar, or Audi, or whatever car he wanted, really, he walked there every day. His executives salary certainly paid the bills, and left plenty for fun, but the doctor wanted him walking, to get some of the weight off. Approaching fifty, Martin couldn’t be too careful with his health, he figured, but still, he hated walking. He hated the city too–always so crowded, and so much filth everywhere, he thought, as he passed a homeless man jingling a cup filled with loose change. Without even noticing, he strolled right past his doorman, who held the door open as he always did, but Martin didn’t even see him, he was so lost in thought, and he continued down the street.

An hour later, he looked up and around, and realized that he had no idea where he was, but it definitely wasn’t the posh downtown city center he spent most of his time in. This area was dingy and run down, with people eyeing his business suit with suspicion as he walked down the cracked sidewalk. The sun was setting–had he been walking for that long? He didn’t remember any of it, but he was starving. Up ahead, he spotted a bar, and decided he should probably eat something. He sat down and ordered some bar food and a beer, and then another, and another. He stayed there until closing time, when the owner threw him out. Completely smashed and disoriented, he wandered into a nearby alley, stumbled into a pile of trash, and passed out.

“Well what have we got here…”

Martin struggled against the pain in his head, thrashing weakly as he felt someone taking his shoes off, and then his pants.

“Dang, fancy wallet. Keys too. Very nice. Think I’ll keep em.”

Martin opened his eyes, and in the dim street lights, saw a filthy derelict pawing through the pockets of his pants. “hey, gimmie…gimmie those back.”

“Aw, it speaks!” the derelict said, bending over close to Martin’s face, “I thoughts you might be dead. Oh well. Give me your shirt and coat.” Martin tried to fight him off, but the man pulled out a switchblade and held it to his throat. “Nuh uh, I’d hate to get that blood of yours all over these nice clothes. Now take them off.”

Hands shaking, Martin did as the derelict ordered, shivering in the cold night in just an undershirt and boxer shorts. “You fucking freak, give me my clothes back.”

“Freak?” the derelict said, “I’m not the one sleeping in a pile of garbage in his underwear.”

“I…I wasn’t doing it on purpose. I was just trying to get home.”

“Home eh?” the derelict said, and opened Martin’s wallet, “354 Market street, apartment 23D? Sounds like a nice place. Maybe I’ll crash there for a bit.” He shook the keys in his hand and grinned.

“Like they’d let a filthy pig like you in.”

“Oh? well maybe we can fix that,” the derelict said, and started stripping off his clothes, and putting Martin’s on. The man was quite fat, and about as old as Martin was, and he was shocked to find that with the suit on, aside from the wild beard the man had on his face, he could probably look the part. Suddenly scared, Martin lunged for the keys but the derelict stepped back and brandished the switchblade again, holding it up to Martin’s throat. “Now, we can’t have any of that now, can we? I’m not done with you yet, either. Put em on,” he said, pointing to his filthy clothes.

Martin didn’t move.

“Put them on.”


“Put them on now, or I’ll slit your throat first, and then dress you up in them. Either way you’ll end up wearing them so do it, bitch.”

Crying a bit, Martin bent down and picked up the filthy jeans and started pulling them up his legs, catching whiffs of piss and who knew what else from them, the stench making him gag. Next came the wife beater, and then the jacket, and the derelict laughed. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, now it’s time for some fun, bitch. See, now you’re the freak here. I’m the respectable businessman, you’re the homeless pervert, and I think,” he said, as he put the switchblade against the seat of Martin’s pants and cut through the fabric, “that it’s time for some fun.”

Martin tried to wrench himself away, but the derelict pushed him up against the wall and slammed his hard cock up his hole, making Martin shout, though a press from the switchblade just deep enough to draw a line of blood quieted him. As he fucked, the derelict put his mouth up to Martin’s ear: “Yeah, you like that pig? I think you do. I think you’re just a nasty drunkard who loves a big cock up his ass all the time, and loves living in a pile of trash, and smelling like it too. Moan pig. Moan like you love it or I’ll slit your disgusting throat.”

Martin let out a weak moan, now more scared than he’d ever been in his whole life, and he felt a warm sensation against his crotch, as his bladder released, filling his pants with piss. He started sobbing then, the derelict fucking him harder now.

“Oh? And someone likes pissing himself too? I bet ya love the stench of piss on you, you don’t even bother using a toilet, just drinking it or letting it go in your pants. Hell, you probably beg people to piss on you, or if they give you enough, they can use you as a damn toilet! Yeah, you fucking nasty piece of trash–oh fuck!” He said, as he came, filling Martin’s ass with a load of cum, then releasing him, letting Martin slump down, sobbing and shaking. He looked up, just in time to see his attacker pick of up a brick in the alley. “Night, night, pig.” he said, and slammed it into the side of Martin’s head, knocking him unconscious.

He woke late the next morning, his head throbbing and confused. Where was he? Who was he? He didn’t know. Looking down at himself, he saw that the clothes he was wearing were filthy, and he was lying in a pile of trash (loves living in a pile of trash). Wait, did he? What was going on. His head hurt.

Feeling the side of his head, he felt that it was tacky with dried blood. Had he been attacked? He didn’t remember anything (pig). No, he remembered some things. Fragments. He’d been a…a…(filthy drunkard)? He did feel hung over. Dang, he could use a beer actually, to take the edge off. He sat up, rubbing his head, and realized his ass was sore (up his ass). Had…Had someone fucked him? He did like…(a big cock up his ass). Yeah, the bigger the better. Fuck he was horny–he wish he knew who’d fucked him.

With one finger he reached around and probed his dirty hole, moaning a bit as he did, rubbing his cock in his piss soaked jeans (likes pissing himself). He smelled like a damn urinal, but that just made him hornier. Maybe whoever fucked him had pissed on him too (a damn toilet). Yeah, he loved drinking men’s piss for them for spare change, or–even better–a bottle of liquor. He slipped his finger into his tight hole, but he (big cock) wanted something bigger. Looking around, he saw a beer bottle in the garbage heap, grabbed it, and started working that in, neck first, opening his fly and openly jacking his cock (homeless pervert) desperate to cum. Finally he shot a load all over the alley floor, grunting and moaning as he did.

That was better. Things were making a lot more sense now. He stumbled to the mouth of the alley, wondering where he could find some cocks to fuck for some liquor money. He walked down the street a bit, then saw an old woman coming his way, and stepped off into the gutter, giving her plenty of room to walk past. She didn’t even look at him–he was trash, of course. But he liked being trash, and living in trash, and (smelling like it too). He was just a nasty, homeless, perverted piss loving derelict after all, he thought, and stumbled down the street, shoving the beer bottle further up his ass as he went.

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Mind control
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