wesleybracken:

(This hot story was submitted by Donald T. Oolong.)

After college, Aaron decided to see the country. While in Tennessee, he heard the legend of the Old Man of the Smokies. Victim to a curse, the Old Man was trapped in a certain hollow, seeking freedom through passing the curse to someone else. There was a goofy T-shirt for sale in one of the shops reading I ESCAPED OLD MAN SMOKEY with a Tom-and-Jerry-style drawing of a fat bearded redneck chasing after younger man looking over his shoulder in cartoonish terror. Aaron bought one as a memento, and decided to go on an excursion. Folklore interested him, and he wanted to check this out for himself.

Early that evening, Aaron set up camp by a stream. No weird Old Man anywhere (of course), but it was still beautiful.  He hung his clothes out to dry and read in the tent, playing with his cock absently. God, why was he suddenly so horny?  He was fully hard when he noticed the Old Man outside, naked with his own hard cock jutting from beneath the expanse of a considerable belly.

“Hooo-wee! Well ain’t you a handsome devil?” The old man grinned mischievously at Aaron.

He couldn’t understand why he wasn’t terrified when the Old Man entered. Aaron kissed him, nervously at first, until he realized (am I gay?) the Old Man was the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. They rolled about the tent floor, groping at one another, kissing, grinding their cocks until Aaron lifted his legs into the air and felt the Old Man’s cockhead pressing against his ass. It hurt the first time, less so the second. The third was bliss. He fell asleep in the Old Man’s soft yet sturdy arms, whiskers bristling against his neck, the air thick with the scent of semen and the sound of rushing water.

 “Mornin’ gramps. Have fun last night?”

Aaron awoke to the oddly familiar grin of fuzzy-faced young man with long red hair leaning over him. The ache in his ass brought back memories of before, but this man was considerably skinnier. And younger.  Aaron sat up, noticing an unfamiliar shifting as the fat that blossomed on his muscular frame overnight jiggled. “No!” His voice sounded different too.  He grabbed desperately for the hippyish young man.

The hippie playfully slapped his hand away “No tag backs! I’m granted safe passage. It’s cool, the rules will come naturally to you. You could find a guy tonight, tomorrow or…hey, is Nixon still president?” Aaron shook his head, and a look of sadness crossed the hippie’s features. “How long has it been?”

Aaron sat naked by the stream, watching the hippie wade toward the other bank, clad in the now-vintage clothing that had appeared outside the tent. Aaron’s clothes were gone, replaced by a pair of large denim overalls. He somehow knew that he couldn’t cross that far bank. Not yet, at least. Bathing in the stream, he chuckled bitterly “First I gotta escape Old Man Smokey.” He’d earn that shirt back.

wesleybracken:

No…No this can’t be happening, it can’t. I mean, I sure as hell didn’t take the curse all that seriously, sure. I mean, those fucking “witches” and shit, it was just a bunch of fat goth girls trying to inflate their egos, and when Gina, the ringleader of the bunch, had told me they cast a spell on me, I almost laughed. So what if I had raped one of the bitches in their little coven? When she told me that I would spend my the rest of my life with the next person I slept with, I made a mental note to make sure it was a good one, and got on with the rest of my life.

Well, a few days later, I got drunk—really drunk. Blackout drunk, and now this. “Damn boy, ya sure are a fine lay, how ‘bout ya climb back in here ‘n take care a yer daddy’s mornin’ wood?” the fat redneck said, pulling out his cock from his pajamas. Worse, I wanted to tell him to fuck off and leave, but, well, I couldn’t. “Sure thing daddy,” I said instead, climbed in bed, and sucked off his not very clean cock, and all I could think about was what Gina had said as I scoffed and walked off that day.

“You might also want to know that when you wake up, you’ll be transformed into their ideal partner, so be careful what you sleep with.”

There was a mirror in the bedroom, and I almost didn’t dare look at myself. Young, obese, hairy, goatee—the perfect redneck cub for my daddy…yeah, daddy’s cock tastes so good, god I love all the cheese under his fuckin’ foreskin. Gonna beg ‘em tah fuck mah hole later, breed me real good, aw yeah, life is gonna be real good from here on out, I can already tell…

wesleybracken:

“Alright, I have more cookies for you!” your friend said from the kitchen.

“What? More? But I can’t…” you say, but he’s already out in the living room and setting the tray piled high with snickerdoodles down next to you, and they smell so divine. You have one in your mouth before you can stop yourself. 

“I’ll get you some more milk too, just a second,” he says, and disappears back into the kitchen. Ten cookies are gone before he comes back with a tall pitcher—you just can’t stop yourself. This has been going on for a few hours now—him baking these amazing cookies, you eating them with an apparently bottomless supply of milk. He leaves, and alone again, you notice something in the TV playing some Christmas movie—a strange reflection in the screen. You reach for the remote and turn it off—and get a better look in the black screen.

“Ho Ho Holy shit!” You exclaim. That isn’t you there on the couch, that’s some fat old man with a giant white beard.

Your friend runs back in from the kitchen, “You weren’t supposed to notice yet!”

“What in the hell did you do to me?” you shout, looking down at your clothing stretched tight across your fat frame, but your friend has already grabbed something from a side table—a pipe, ready packed with tobacco, and he shoves it in your mouth and lights it. You inhale, the cinnamon and clove laced tobacco making your face numb…and you feel…really good, all of a sudden.

“Here, let’s get you out of those clothes—they’re too tight.”

You let your friend undress you, and you stare down in disbelief at your new body. The tobacco is going right to your head, and it feels so good to smoke your pipe and rub your hairy belly with your hands…

“Now go sit down, finish your cookies and milk, and smoke your pipe, Santa.”

“Ho Ho Hokay…” you say, and plop back down on the couch. 

Your friend works in the kitchen for a bit and comes out to find the pile gone, the pitcher empty, and your pipe finished. He cleans, refills and lights it for you, then gives you a deep kiss, and you wrap your flabby arms around him and pull him into your lap.

“So tell me, have you been a good boy this year?” you say with a lecherous grin.

“Oh yes Santa, I’ve been very good all year, just for you.”

“Well in that case, Santa has a special sack for you. Why don’t you suck on it for a bit?”

Your friend gets down between your legs, and sucks on your big balls, your dick pressed against his face, smearing precum across his forehead. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good fucking tonight, you think, and ram your candy cane down his throat.

wesleybracken:

Gary was an inventor—one who was obsessed with creating a real, working time machine. He was convinced that, theoretically, it was possible, but always a solution eluded him. His last failure was certainly his greatest—he thought he’d created a device which could create a time suspension field—allowing everything within fifty feet to cease aging while everything outside sped along at normal speed. 

Ready to venture to the future, Gary had triggered the device, only to find out he’d reversed the polarities. He, and everything else aged incredibly fast, and before he could stop it, he was a chubby old geezer with a massive white beard.

There was no way to reverse it. The device was fried by the field, and everything in his home caught in it had aged into older versions of themselves. His now circa 1990 computer couldn’t begin to make sense of his complex files on time theory, and his aged brain couldn’t formulate possible solutions to his dilemma. He lived the rest of his life as a recluse, a testament to the dangers of overzealous experimentation with the forces of time.

wesleybracken:

When Danny was told that he’d have the opportunity to sit in on an executive board meeting, he was elated. How often, after all, did a lowly intern get to witness the grand wheeling and dealing of a Fortune 500 company? When he arrived, a secretary ushered him into the room, but something was off. All of the men at the table were older gentlemen, and they were all staring at him, licking their lips. 

Before Danny could say anything, the men swarmed around him, ripping away the layers of his cheap suit and latching themselves onto his cock and nipples, fighting like sharks for prime position. Danny was soon so overstimulated he could barely keep track of what was happening to him, his body growing chubby, hair whitening and falling out, bones and muscles atrophying as his face sagged and wrinkled. 

The company has been nice enough to set Danny up with a nice pension, a mansion and a butler—not that he’s ever allowed to leave. He wakes up each morning and stares at his ninety year old reflection full of regret. He certainly became successful in business, just not in the way he imagined.

wesleybracken:

You meet some of the craziest guys at the public golf courses—You’d rather play at the private clubs, but you can’t afford the membership fees—so you’re stuck playing a round with a fucking redneck. He comes over to you, smoking a cigar, well over 300 pounds, dressed in a sleeveless shirt and khaki shorts, and all you can do is make the best of it. 

He suggests upping the stakes, and letting the winner of each hole take something from the loser. You don’t really know what he means, but you accept, knowing you’ll be able to outplay this fat redneck any day of the week.

Well, you thought you could. He birdies the first hole to your double bogey, and you ask what you owe him, pulling out your wallet, but he just grins. “I don’t want your money—yet,” he said, “First things first, I want that slim figure of yours, pretty boy.”

Great, a real nutter, you think, but something is glowing—an amulet he’s wearing, and a second later, you feel different. Looking down, you’re stunned to find that you’ve somehow gained close to two hundred pounds—all of the weight the fat redneck just dropped off his body. 

“Come on, fatty—we got seventeen more holes to play.”

Unaccustomed to your fat body, you lose round after round to this crazy redneck, who starts dismantling your life. By the end of the front nine, you’ve lost your expensive clothes, your house, your car, your marriage, four inches off your cock, your college education, and six inches of your height. 

There’s no hope left for you, really. On the back nine he strips you of your ambition, your heterosexuality, your dominance, your full head of hair, fifty points off your IQ, your virility, and your job. With two holes left, you’re little more than a fat, dithering idiot, hacking at the ball as best you can—and that’s when he starts mocking you, barely hitting the ball further than you on purpose. To your surprise, he lets you win, but when he asks you want you want…you’re stumped. You’re so dull witted now that you can’t even remember what he took, and then he starts talking about his cigar, about how nice it is being a smoker, how he’d hate to give that up more than anything, you bite, and steal away his nicotine addiction.

Before the eighteenth hole the two of you nip off to the woods for a moment—you’re ravenous for a cock. In return, he lets you win the final hole as well. He suggests you take his skill at golf, but in that thick head of yours, a dim bulb still glows.

“Nuh-uh,” you slur, “Gimme yer amulet—that’s wha I want.”

Surprised, but not really minding, he hands it over to you and walks off without another word. Sure, you don’t know how to use it, but maybe you can figure it out, and steal someone else’s life before too long.