Dad's Redpilled Redneck

Just giving in and becoming more redpilled for dad.

[redpilledredneckson]

(Just Another) Straight White American Redneck

“I…I’m sorry! I didn’t-”

Gabriel’s heart stood still, fearing the man towering over him. How had he even gotten in this situation in the first place? All he had needed was a lighter or even some matches to get the grill started at his parents’ cabin, which he had asked to loan out over the weekend. The college freshman had noticed the neighbor–and his brutish handsome qualities–before and decided to make the walk over. He imagined the worst case scenario would be that the man was not home. The best was that he would help him light the grill. And that the man would find Gabriel charming and adorable and would bend him over and the two would begin a secret affair.

Once Gabriel arrived, he assumed that the man was not home. The rusty truck Gabriel usually saw in the driveway was missing. But just as he was about to leave, he noticed that the front door was unlocked. Curiously, Gabriel stepped into the cabin. Taxidermy, rustic paintings, and antique furniture decorated the wooden space. It stunk of cigarettes and beer.

The red flags became more visible the farther Gabriel went in: a MAGA hat on a chair, a Confederate flag by the bathroom, at least three guns lying around (who knew how many were out of sight). Gabriel refocused and proceeded with his mission, venturing over to the small kitchen which, to his slight disgust, had not been cleaned in what looked to be weeks. He opened every drawer and cabinet but found nothing. Gabriel then proceeded to a closet, then another, and eventually found himself inside one of the two bedrooms. 

Unlike the other which was a bit barren, this bedroom was certainly lived in. Quilts were pulled back as if someone had just left the bed. The closet, which had more flannels than Gabriel had ever seen in his life, was disorganized. The space was musty, masculine but in a comforting way. Gabriel was not surprised to find himself chubbing up a bit. Lustfully, he knelt down to the dirty clothes hamper, shyly searching through the treasure trove. 

Gabriel struck gold right away–a dirty sock, thoroughly stretched and abused. A deep sniff sent a shiver of ecstasy down Gabriel’s body, the pure musk enrapturing him. Then he discovered the boxer shorts, their plaid long faded. The college freshman nearly squealed with delight when he located sweat stains, bringing the distended fabric to his face. Gabriel was too distracted by his pervy desires to recognize the shadow falling over him. He did hear the creak of the wood behind him though, immediately twisting his body to find the man looming over him.

“What the fuck do you think yer doin’ here, son?”

His voice shook like thunder, a gravelly weight that crushed Gabriel’s argument before he even had a chance to speak it into existence. The man was certainly over six feet tall and had enough meat on his body that if he laid on Gabriel, he could suffocate him. He was more bear than man with all his hair and muscular bulk, something that in any other situation would have truly turned Gabriel on. Well, Gabriel actually was turned on. Everything besides his cock was terrified, especially when he noted the gun perched right inside of the man’s jeans.

Gabriel stuttered out a response but the man shut him up real quick. “Ya think it’s ok to just walk into another man’s property like this?”

“No! I was just…just looking for-”

“For what, exactly?” The man then noted his discarded laundry slightly behind Gabriel. Gabriel sat frozen as the man put together a conclusion. “Fuck, yer nothin’ but a horny lil faggot, aren’t ya?”

The slur slapped Gabriel in the face. He had never been called it before, but now that the truth was out and proud it stung.

“Yer a degenerate that’s fer sure,” the man spat. “I oughta put ya in yer place ‘fore somethin’ like this happens again.”

Gabriel watched as the man’s hands moved towards his gun. Gabriel’s mouth opened to beg for mercy, ready to plead for his life, but the man simply dropped the gun onto the bed beside him. Then, he undid his belt and let his jeans and boxers fall to the floor, unveiling a massive, hairy cock. The wave of masculine musk splashed into Gabriel moments later, silencing his mind.

“Yeah, that’s good, son,” the man’s voice was warm, drawing Gabriel closer. “That’s a good, obedient cum dump.”

Gabriel did not know what to do. He decided to simply follow the man’s orders.

“Don’t resist it.” The tip of the man’s girthy cock touched Gabriel’s lips. Without thought, Gabriel opened his mouth, letting the guest enter. “All nine inches and, yeah, there ya go.”

Despite it being his first time, Gabriel was surprised by how easy the entire cock fit inside of his mouth. It was a strange realization to discover that he was a natural. Then, he felt the man’s hands place themselves on either side of his skull. With a grunt, the man began thrusting back and forth like a drill.

“Hold…still…son!” The man grunted, picking up speed. Gabriel could barely breathe, and when he did, all he inhaled was the ball sweat of the man’s giant bush. He was powerless as the man used him. Was this some kind of sick ritual? Was the man trying to scar Gabriel for life? If so, it was sort of working. Gabriel’s eyes began to water; he should have never come into this stupid house. He should have just skipped the grill and found something else to eat. But instead Gabriel was here, being used as a hole. The man unloaded himself into his stomach. Gabriel could do nothing as the man’s magmatic flow swirled down his throat and pooled within his stomach. 

“That oughta fix ya up, son,” the man grunted. His cock came out of Gabriel’s mouth with a thick plop! He then proceeded to reassemble himself, pulling up his boxers and jeans like nothing had happened.

Gabriel groaned, his stomach felt bloated. 

“Dontcha worry,” the man assured, replacing his gun. “Yeuh’ll be dandy here in just a few minutes.”

“What…?” Gabriel mumbled, slowly standing up. He felt disoriented, as if the world around him was shifting. Gabriel had expected to find himself at eye level with the man’s pectoral shelf. When his vision finally cleared, he was surprised to find himself facing the man’s beard. 

“Hmmmm, a lil shorter than I woulda liked,” the man said, disappointed.

“How did I…?” Again, Gabriel felt nauseated, as if he was going to puke. Something in his stomach gurgled unnaturally. Gabriel lowered his head, surprised to find the front of his shirt shaking. Panicked, he immediately stripped to get a better view. He had been skinny before, but now there was undeniable definition to his torso. And a tan, and hair.

“What…what did you do to me?” Gabriel nervously asked, although he was not sure if he wanted the answer. He felt his upper chest begin to tingle, watching in horror as it filled out slightly with a sturdy pair of pecs.

“Isn’t it obvious, son?” The man’s tone was belittling. “I redpilled ya.”

“You…what?!” Gabriel’s arms went numb. In seconds they began to ripple, bulking up with lean muscle as the veins corded themselves down the tanning skin. Brown hairs sprung forth all the way to his hands, which grew larger and calloused. Dirt shoved itself underneath his nails as they became misshapen.

“Are ya deaf, son? I redpilled ya.” The man spoke as if it was the most obvious thing. “No use in ya bein’ a lousy fag, so I decided to man ya up.”

Gabriel still did not understand, but he was interrupted by the uneasiness in his lower limbs. Feeling the tightness around his waistband, Gabriel lowered his shorts and underwear immediately, unbothered by the fact that the other man was still in the room. Gabriel’s thighs vibrated, fattening with each shake until they became two hairy logs. His calves strengthened too, bringing the new virility down to his feet which flattened out into a comparable size to the man’s. In fact, now that he thought about it, a lot of Gabriel’s changed body was comparable to the man’s.

“And there’s no better redpill than one straight from the hose,” the man continued. “Yeuh’ll be nothin’ more than my God-fearin, fag-sneerin’ rebel son in no time.”

“S-sOn?!” Gabriel’s voice cracked midway through this realization, losing some of its height and character in the process. His face began to rearrange itself, matching the qualities of the man before him but slightly softening them. Wide clefted chin, duller brown hair, thicker eyebrows and nose. Although Gabriel could not see him, he could feel the resemblance. He did not want to become this man’s son. He did not want to become just another straight white American redneck.

“Let me get ya some new clothes while ya finish up.” The man then left the room, leaving Gabriel alone. What was there to finish up? Was this his chance to escape? Gabriel mentally made the effort to move his limbs, any of them, but instead found himself stuck in place. He had to leave, he had to go back to his cabin. His cabin across the street. No wait, that was the neighbor’s cabin. This was his cabin.

Gabriel shook his head. Where did that thought come from? He had to escape from dad…no this man! He was smart, he was educated. He went to high school. No, home school. Yeah, and Sunday School of course, as every good American should. Pops made sure of that, and made sure he started learning about their heritage from the get-go. Like the great Confederation. His great-great-great-great granddad fought in the Civil War. Or was it his great-great-great-great-great granddad? Either way, God bless ‘em!

And God bless the troops who are fightin’ those wetbacks today! And fightin' the cryin’ libtards tryin’ to take control of their food and water and way of life. And can’t forget the trannies, pervin’ on those sweet lil ladies’ rooms. God, how Gabe wished he could be in those ladies’ rooms. No, no wait he was not like this! He did not want to be some repressed horny loser. Gabe was gay. He liked gu…g...gals. He liked their fat boobs and their wet pussies and everythin’ else his pops told him to like. Gabe fucked any dumb bitch he wanted to. It was his right after all. He was just doin’ God’s duty and bein’ a good American.

Just thinkin’ about impregnatin’ another chick had him throbbin’. His mighty man was pointin’ straight out, thick and heavy just like his pops. He’d have preferred to dump it in something warm, but instead he found his ole familiar friend grippin’ and tuggin’. With a masculine grunt, Gunnar came, spreadin’ his mighty seed onto his dad’s wooden floor.

“Quite the harvest there, son,” his pops laughed, tossing him some clothes. An old tee, dirty jeans, and a baseball cap. Gunnar's favorite cap! All hand-me-downs from his dad.

“Thanks, pops.” Gunnar got dressed and joined his dad in the living room. He plopped down on the old couch and cracked open the fresh beer offered to him. Gunnar felt like he was missing something. Being as dumb as he was, it took him a while to figure it out. Finally, the gears clicked into his head, digging his hand into his back pocket and pulling out a pack of cigarettes.

“Gotta light?” Gunnar asked, offering the pack to his father.

His pops smirked, taking the offer. “Of course son, all ya had to do was ask.”

[redpilledredneckdad]

[alphatox-deactivated20260101]

[toughernhappy]

Can’t stress this enough.

[redpilledredneckson]

The Prank

Thank you to Sir @redpilledredneckdad for this prompt.

Please note this story has some racist undertones. Reader discretion is advised.

“It’s an embarrassment, we are a disgusting embarrassment to this country,” Tyrone furiously spat. “Every time we take one step forward in this state, I swear we take at least five steps back.”

His assistant offered some remarks over the phone, agreeing with him.

“I understand it’s been banned before but that was over ten years ago!” Tyrone fought back. The news was painted all over the city: the state had repealed its bill forbidding the Confederate flag from flying over the state capital. Instantly, the stars and bars proudly went up the pole, and not only at the capital. As Tyrone drove throughout the city, he swore the flags were popping up one by one like weeds. “We live in a different culture now, one run by a narcissistic pedophile!”

His assistant agreed, only infuriating Tyrone further. He had to do something.

“I’ll sue them!” Tyrone exclaimed, pulling into the parking lot. “I’ll sue them all!”

His assistant paused.

“I’ve got the money, I’ve got the funds.” Tyrone moved a hand over his head, the sweat clinging to his tight coils. “My donors will support me. Heck, I have over one million followers that could chip in too.”

Tyrone had spent his whole life fighting against the system. From an early age he understood that America was built around a caste structure, one that put white people on top and all others on the bottom. At first, as a confused elementary student he was led to believe this meant he was to hate white people, but as he grew older, he learned to channel that hate towards specific groups. Bigots, billionaires, politicians (in most cases, just Republicans). He became a fiery activist in his adult years, growing in popularity due to his unapologetic takes to fight back.

Whether it meant supporting his people or eventually those in foreign countries, Tyrone found himself on the front for rights. He had helped create laws, he had helped feed starving children. Tyrone was an activist, and he was not going to let his home state fall back into its “traditional” ways. 

“Look, we can talk about this tomorrow. I’ve just gotten to the hotel and after this disaster of a day, I need a glass of whiskey and a long night’s sleep.”

His assistant agreed and ended the phone call. With an agitated sigh, Tyrone grabbed his things and made his way to the hotel’s front entrance. It was no resort–after all, being an activist was no six-figure job–but it was enough to get Tyrone through the night. He would take a bath, relax, and cool down. If Tyrone was going to fight his entire state, his home, he would need to be in his best health, mental included.

“Room 413.” The young attendant handed Tyrone an access card and returned his ID. Tyrone reviewed the latter for a moment. The man in the picture did not look 38. Perhaps a decade older at least. It was obvious Tyrone had spent his life fighting the impossible. Weathered skin, wrinkles. The color and life in his eyes remained, but what else?

Shaking his head, Tyrone thanked the attendant and approached the elevator. Moments later he arrived at his door. A small white room was hidden, holding only a bed and a cheap wooden wardrobe. Instantly, Tyrone began to undress. It was not late, but the exhaustion was catching up to him quickly. First the blue tie, then the tailored tux. The polished oxfords came off one by one. Clunk, clunk. Dress shirt unbuttoned and belt removed, slacks to the floor. In the end, Tyrone was left in a puddle of his own making, only clothed by the holey boxers hidden slightly underneath his pudgy belly. He decided to discard those too, opting to sleep naked.

Usually cleanly, Tyrone approached the closet to hang up his ensemble but was surprised to find a shoe box resting on the first shelf. It was nothing fancy, in fact Tyrone recognized the athletic branding, and by the look of the red fabric poking through the lid, it was full. Politely, Tyrone pushed the shoebox aside and laid his clothes out, putting the dirty pieces in a pile and tomorrow’s set onto hangers. By the time he finished, he found himself wobbling backwards. His aching mind was begging him to rest, and Tyrone obeyed.

— 

When Tyrone awoke, it took him a moment to mentally process where he was. Tangled gray comforter, empty bathroom, blank walls. As the hotel reestablished itself, so too did the events of the day prior. Tyrone’s blood slowly began to boil, but he knew his first actions had to be civil. He was an activist, not a terrorist. First shower, then breakfast, then rampage.

Tyrone got out of the bed with a grunt, his large frame stumbling into the bathroom. After a thorough piss, he went to turn on the shower before realizing there were no towels on the rack. Tyrone proceeded to check the sink cabinet and found none. He then searched for a phone to call room service and once again was left empty-handed.

Confused, he made his way to the cabinet, even though he remembered seeing nothing but the shoebox inside the day before. He opened the wooden doors to reveal he was correct: nothing but the shoebox.

“Wait…” Tyrone blinked. “my clothes!”

The outfit he had worn mere hours ago had disappeared completely. So to had the set he had meticulously laid out before crashing into bed. A bit panicked, Tyrone raced around the room, searching for any of his belongings. His bag, his wallet, his laptop. Even his smartphone was gone. Nothing was in the sheets or underneath the bed and the room was small enough to confirm that there was nowhere else to look. 

“No, no, no!” Tyrone began to panic. What was he supposed to do? Go down to the front desk and say that he was robbed while naked? What if someone got a picture of him? He could be ruined!

Tyrone’s eyes scanned the room once more, the shoebox stared at him from the cabinet. The shoebox! Tyrone rushed to the cabinet, hoping for a miracle. He dumped out the shoebox's contents.

“Shoes, socks, underwear…” Tyrone listed every item off. A baseball cap, sunglasses, a necklace. The clothes options were not ideal, but soon his hands latched onto something rectangular.

“A phone!”

The screen lit up and Tyrone instantly dropped the device, stunned. The background was none other than the Confederate flag, teasing him. Was this some kind of sick prank? Did someone rob him and was forcing Tyrone to humiliate himself? Although he was not sure, the evidence began to stack up as Tyrone investigated the other items. The shoes, a pair of sneakers at least three sizes too big, would definitely not fit him. The socks were also too large and well pre-worn for that matter. The worst offender was the boxer briefs, proudly placing the cross of the bars right over the pouch.

Tyrone groaned. He knew he was innocent of any crime, he knew that he was in a horrible situation. But sadly, Tyrone also knew he had no other options. Someone was trying to frame him, destroy his name. He could not go out naked, that was obvious, but he could at least cover himself in a sheet or even the comforter for extra protection. Unfortunately though, Tyrone would have to wear what had been left for him.

Disgusted with himself, Tyrone slowly brought the boxer briefs up his legs, trying to ignore the fact that when he had first picked them up, he had found a few pubes and stains inside. Next were the socks, limply covering his feet and climbing up his calves. Trying to cheer himself up, Tyrone added the cap, sunglasses, and necklace. He tried to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, but instead found himself looking into the mirror and finding his reflection humiliating. He could not do this, he could never do this.

Taking a seat on the bed, Tyrone reached for the waistband of the boxer briefs but was alarmed to find himself sporting a boner. Although physically lacking in some departments, Tyrone was very well-endowed, making the scene even more comical. He reached to remove the second skin but was jolted back by a violent shock.

Frozen, Tyrone kept his eyes trained on the boxer briefs, watching as his cock deflated. No, shrunk. It was still hard, pulsating with life, but it had dwindled, lessened before his very eyes. He could then feel his testicles too, pulling up slightly as they lost some of their weight.

“What the-” Tyrone started but stopped himself as he noticed a pinch of white creeping out of the boxer briefs. Shocked, Tyrone watched as it began to grow, crawling up to his belly button. With it came brown hairs. Their texture was not like his own–they were distinctly different. 

“No…no no!” Tyrone called out, terrified as the whitening oil began to spill outward, gobbling up all the melanin in its path. The fat on his stomach melted away, the pale skin revealing a set of abdominals that in any other situation, would have made him happy. A brown treasure trail crept up and once past its destination, began to scatter itself lightly across Tyrone’s slimming chest. Stretch marks and wrinkles disappeared along with his color, drowned out by the white wave unsaturating his arms and hands. Thick, youthful muscles bloomed from the new ground, supported underneath by fluffy and musky pits.

The wave descended downwards too, spilling out onto the thighs and covering them in a thick layer of soft, chestnut fur. The color in Tyrone’s calves were then erased along with a few inches as he found his feet slightly lifted off the floor. Speaking of his feet, Tyrone was horrified to find his soles widening to fill out the remaining space within the socks. They began to emit a funk so pungent that it practically screamed privileged arrogance.

The melanin then slowly drained from his neck, crawling up past his softening chin. The signs of age were covered by pasty baby fat, his coils fluffed out into thick, thin brown curls. Every genealogical feature that indicated his past melted away, eaten by the milky features that now covered his body like a disease. The man before Tyrone was young, white, and undeniably cocky. He fit the outfit perfectly.

With the physical transformation complete, Tyrone believed his personal horror movie was over. However, he found himself corrected as a piercing arrow shot through his skull, obliterating his defenses. Instantly a new history began to corrupt Tyrone’s memories. Growing up on a farm in the rural South. Attending church every Sunday. Learning about the great Confederate states of America-

“Stop, stop!” Tyrone desperately cried, but it was no use. Learning about tradition, appreciating heritage. Understanding the hierarchy, discovering he was on top. 

The rallies began to fill his head. No longer was he on the stage, no longer was he covered in the colors of multiculturalism and rights for all. Now, he found himself in the crowd, one of the sheep, doused in red. Saturated in hateful propaganda. Supporting what he now believed was right.

“Protect Women!” “Traditional Family Values!” “America First!”

“Please…” Tyrone mumbled, breaking down.

“White is Right!” “Make America Great Again!”

For a moment, Tyrone felt empty. The pain he felt disappeared, evaporating from existence. Then, the void refilled. Anger. Pride. Passion. Dominance. Greatness. It swirled inside of the new man. He felt renewed by his gifted privileges, and he was determined to protect them. No degenerates or faggots or libtards were going to stop him. Sure he dropped out of high school, but you did not need an education when you had the Lord on your side. And as long as Tyler was White and Right, he would always have the Lord on his side.

“Fuck bro, gotta update my feeds!” the 19-year-old exclaimed to no one in particular. Grabbing his phone beside him, he quickly typed in his password; 020861, the day the Confederacy was formed. Tyler then took a picture of his reflection, proudly displaying his perfect body and political outfit, before sending it out to the masses.

“So proud that the state did what’s RIGHT and put our heritage back on the pole!” the caption read. “Those LIBTARDS can cry all they want–we will MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!”

[redpilledredneckson]

Free Sample

“Want to try a free sample of our new drink?”

Anders looked from his boyfriend, Kevin, to the small booth. Admittedly, he was shocked the stand even existed, promoting a new beer out in public felt off, if not outright illegal. Not only that, but the marketing of the stall definitely clashed against the liberal arts college in its background–the cheaply-made AI American front was not exactly welcome by any means.

“Uh, we’re good, thanks,” Kevin said, beginning to walk off. Anders grabbed his boyfriend’s arm before he could get too far.

“What?” Kevin registered Anders’s face. “You’re not serious.”

“C’mon, who doesn’t love a little day-drinking?” Anders teased.

“When did you start liking beer?”

“I don’t.” Anders’s next class was mathematics, and although he had a high grade, he dreaded the exam that awaited him. “That’s the joy of a free sample, right?”

The man at the stand grinned, presenting Anders with a tall can. Anders took it, a bit surprised. He had been expecting a cup with a few ounces inside, not a whole can.

“Uh, thanks!” Anders said.

“Trust me, dude, you’ll be thanking me.”

Anders then grabbed Kevin and scurried off. Minutes later, they found a private space to tuck away, taking a seat beside each other on a bench.

“You’re going to have to drink some of this with me.” Anders realized the beer not only looked out of place against the campus, but against himself too. A skinny guy in a sweater and polished jeans drinking a brewski midday? Definitely not a match made in heaven.

“No way,” Kevin replied. Anders chuckled and popped open the tab. From the smell, it was evident that there was nothing miraculous inside the can. It was beer.

“Cheers?”

Rolling his eyes, Kevin mimed a fake can to clink against Anders. Anders took a swig and took a painful swallow.

“God, that’s disgusting.”

“No way!” Kevin sarcastically offered. “A gay man doesn’t like beer, groundbreaking.”

“Ok, challenge accepted.”

Before Kevin could question what the challenge was, Anders brought the can back to his lips. He took two gulps instead of one this time.

“Still nasty?”

“Not as-” Anders paused to cough. “NoT AS Bad as the first time.”

Anders voice violently hiccuped before dropping down, below it’s typical register. Kevin was about to object but Anders already had the beer moving down his throat again. Anders's throat vibrated with each swallow, pushing out his Adam’s apple further and further.

“Anders?”

Anders stopped momentarily, this time burping. “Uh, yeah?”

Kevin’s face twisted slightly. “Why is your voice so deep?”

“Uh, it’s always been like this?” 

Without allowing Kevin to respond, Anders continued drinking again. It felt like the beer was now travelling past his throat and through his veins. Anders had never had this much beer before, if ever, but he could see why other people loved the stuff. There was a new energy spreading out across his torso and into his arms and legs.

“Anders?” Kevin’s face was growing more confused by the second. “Anders!”

“-What, man!” Anders gasped, letting out another, longer burp. He scratched idly at the chest hairs spilling over the top of his collar. It felt looser than he remembered.

“There’s something wrong with that beer!” Kevin reached for the can, but Anders moved it away out of reach. This should have surprised Anders, as he had always been the shorter of the pair. “You have to stop drinking it.”

“Why though?” Anders countered. “I’m beginning to like it.” 

Nearly half the can was gone. Anders wanted to pound the rest before class and Kevin was distracting him. Where was he going again? Mathe…nomics? Economics? Did not matter, he had more drinking to do.

“Wait!” Kevin protested as Anders began chugging again. At first, Anders was able to get away with the drinking in silence, despite having to readjust his position on the bench. Being as muscular as he was did that to a guy–he was never fully comfortable. Plus his shorts were riding up his thick, furry thighs and fondling his pouch nicely. Anders was surprised to find himself growing hard, harder than he had ever been before. It was like his pouch had grown somehow.

“Stop!”

Kevin moved in again but this time Anders was ready, holding his scrawny opponent back as he neared the bottom of the can. Anders found himself impressed by his thick arm and the bush spilling out from underneath his exposed armpit. There was something so manly about it. Manly like his cross necklace, manly like his stubble and backwards cap. 

Manly like this beer, and manly like the other men who probably drank it. The other men who drank this beer were probably rednecks. The other men were probably Christian. The other men were probably Republicans and wanted to Make America Great Again. Anders was manly like the other men. He was like the other men. He watched sports and owned a truck and even chased pussy like the other men. Maybe there were no other men–maybe Anders was one of those men.

Kevin was eventually released, not bothering to continue to fight as he watched the last drops of the beer go down the throat. Victoriously, the alpha male released a final belch, spitting directly in Kevin’s face.

“Fuck bro, that’s the stuff,” Drew finally said. “Go grab me another one, bro. Say that you want a sample for yourself.”

[csa-man]

[redneckia]

[alex23-16-33]

[gaywhiteman]

[redpilledredneckdad]

[redpilledredneckdad]

[redpilledredneckdad]

your comics are great. Would love to see one even longer and slower burn

[redpilledredneckson]

Fagnotizing Feet

“Ok bro, you weren’t kidding about your cardio routine.” Brian dropped his gym bag on the floor, kicking off his shoes. “I feel like I could collapse at any second.”

David chuckled. “Couch is over there, make yourself at home.”

David removed his own shoes as Brian stumbled into the living room and collapsed onto the sectional. Brian was shirtless, a thick sheen of sweat covering his body. David did not mind that it was probably soaking into the couch; he too was covered in his own layer of salt.

While both were over six feet and of similar builds, David was surprised when Brian had started up a conversation between the two of them. Being as muscular as he was–though not as bulky as Brian–David had always classified himself as more of a boy-next-door type. Brian though was a true gym rat through and through, eager and jockish in every respect. So when David eventually explained his rigorous cardio routine to him, Brian had taken it upon himself to join David as a challenge.

“Brooooo…” Brian moaned, kicking his long legs out onto the coffee table. “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to get back up.”

“I’ll let my girlfriend know,” David rolled his eyes, approaching the scene. “She’s coming over in an hour or so, but you’re welcome to stick around.”

“A girlfriend?” This piqued Brian’s interest. “How long have you two been going out?”

“A couple of years now. It’ll be three in October.”

“Dang!” Brian readjusted into a manspread, placing one foot on the ground and the other right out in front of David. “Be honest, is the sex good?”

David, immediately flustered. “What! Dude, you can’t ask me that.”

“Oh c’mon, it’s just us bros,” Brian said. 

David looked down, his eyes landing on the coffee table. “I’m not gonna answer that.”

“Ok, ok,” Brian surrendered a bit, scrunching his toes. A small waft of his foot funk was released up into the air. “Can you at least tell me if she’s got a good rack?

David remained silent, his eyes trained on Brian’s foot. He had not realized how big Brian’s feet were.

“Looking at you I’m guessing you could score something good,” Brian continued. “Definitely a B, maybe even a C?”

“D,” David answered, softly lowering himself to the floor. He wanted to get a better look at Brian’s feet. Why was he so curious about another man’s feet? Why did he want to know how big they were? Why did he want to know how they smelled?

“D!” Brian remarked, not paying attention to the scene unfolding on the other end of the coffee table. He wiggled his toes again. “Dang bro, you have game!”

“The sex is amazing too,” David blurted. Brian’s feet looked so soft. They were so meaty, so welcoming. And as David drew closer, his nose began to register their funk too. It was pungent, sour even.

“You’re kidding!” Brian groaned. “I’m so jealous of you man. I feel like I’ve just been tossing chicks back and forth and have yet to find one that’ll stick. I hope you know how good you’ve got it.”

Brian then flexed his foot subconsciously. It was a small movement, but enough to dilate David’s pupils. Thoughtlessly, David leaned forward, taking a tentative sniff. Like a drug, the inhale instantly triggered every nerve in David’s body, alighting him with pleasure.

Eventually, Brian registered that the conversation had become one-sided. He turned to face David, but was startled to find his new buddy at his foot, his eyes bloodshot.

“Fuck!” It was too late. Before Brian could pull his foot away, David’s face plunged into his giant sole, his tongue dragging across every curve and gathering every glob of sweat and cheese. Brian should have been more cautious, he always got too chill when he was with his bros. He had really been enjoying his time with David, even if it had been short. But now Brian had blown it, and he watched as the familiar consequences of his actions played out.

It always started with the height first, removing inch after inch from Brian’s latest mistake. Typically, the poor victim would end up under the average male height. Brian watched as David shrunk before his foot, aptly fitting his estimation. Then came the muscle drain. It was painful to watch anyone lose their physique, especially a seemingly all-around good guy like David. But there was nothing Brian could do to prevent David from losing his jock status and becoming nothing more than a scrawny beta.

The last phase was the worst though: the conversion. During his teenage years, Brian had not thought of his feet as special by any means. Sure they were large–Size 15 to be exact–but what other high school athlete did not have big smelly feet? Brian soon discovered though that his feet had a “fagnotizing” power to them, transforming their victims into smaller, weaker, homosexual versions of themselves. It first happened to his childhood best friend Alex (Lexi), then a few guys on the football team (Nick to Nico, James to Jamie, Michael to Milo), and then some accidental strangers through college (Skylar, Luca, Zeke, Finn). 

Brian had gotten better at keeping his dogs housed in recent years, but every now and then he slipped up like he just had. Mentally, Brian added David to his growing list, watching as a small lump became more prominent in the smaller man’s shorts. For David’s sake, Brian hoped that the manhood had been that size originally, although deep down he knew it had been bigger.

“Brian…” the faggot continued lapping at Brian’s sole. His voice had notably gotten higher. “You’re tho hot, Brian!”

“Yeah, I know,” Brian replied, uninterested. Not only had he just lost a friend, but he had no interest in the new faggot embarrassing himself before him. “Look, uh, are you about done down there?”

The faggot twitched, his dick throbbing. “Yeth!”

The feminine lisp made Brian cringe. Then, an idea popped in his head. “By any chance, you’re not straight, are you, David?”

“No! I’m a good faggy boi for you, Thir!” the faggot exclaimed, as if he was being tested. “And itth Davey.”

Brian chuckled. “You wouldn’t mind then if I slept with your girlfriend, would you?”

“It would be an honor, Thir!” Davey felt himself getting close. “Pleath take my girlfriend! Pleath take anything you want from me!”

Brian nodded his head, smirking as the faggot busted at his feet. Palming himself, Brian realized this situation may not have been so bad after all.

[redpilledredneckson]

Hickville, USA

Thank you @dumlibtard29 for the great images!

Poor, dirty, uneducated. Derogatory jokes were a part of their religion, along with working a blue collar job and having at least three kids by the time you turned 30. Hickville, USA, as Markus called it. An embarrassing part of the country in every measure. Even more so because a good chunk of Markus's extended family lived there. 

Markus had always grown up separated from this side of America. He had been raised in a sprawling metropolis, exposed to different cultures and perspectives as early as preschool. He had graduated early from high school and been accepted to many prestigious universities in days. Now, in the summer before his final year, Markus was drawing closer and closer to freedom, one that included never having to interact with his relatives again. 

Ironically though, before he could cut ties, he had to recreate them. Markus desperately needed money, and no matter how hard he tried to avoid it, working at the family farm was the best way to make a quick buck. Markus would be housed, fed, and would apparently gain “valuable life lessons,” whatever that meant. The situation sucked but it was the best possible option. Spending the summer on the farm would guarantee his prosperous dreams.

His rental car glided down the familiar dirt driveway, the rusty rambler slowly appearing in the distance. It had grown more weathered in recent years, its age accentuated by the bright red American-made truck parked in front of it. Its size was nearly twice that of Markus’s rental car, its owner the same to Markus.

“There he is!” Ethan lumbered over. Blond mullet, worn-out tank top–the man was certainly a country local. Although Ethan was only a few years older than Markus, the cousins had never really connected. Markus knew Ethan had dropped out of high school, but obviously his cousin had slid down the degenerate pipeline faster than he had anticipated. There was a “Make America Great Again” hat, av cross necklace, and a matching stars-and-bars shirt and belt. Did Ethan know that their state had not existed during the Civil War?

Ethan leaned in for a hug, but Markus immediately pushed him back.

“Don’t, please.” Markus tried to be polite, but the body odor coming off his cousin was disgusting.

“Oh of course, bro. No homo,”  Ethan chuckled, misinterpreting the situation. Something inside of Markus squeaked, fearing how Ethan would respond if he found out his cousin was gay. “So uh, let me show you to your room.”

The house was what Markus had expected, and yet somehow also worse. Every piece of furniture smelled, was stained, and was at least thirty years old. The walls were scratched, the ceiling a little grody. “Bachelor pad” was not far enough: this was a man who desperately needed to maintain himself. Or someone to do it for him. Markus made a mental note not to become the latter.

“Your room.” Ethan’s meaty hand swung out into the closet-sized space. The air was thick and musty. A tear formed inside Markus’s eye. “I’ve got some stuff to do but I’ll be back in a few. Dinner tonight is meat and potatoes. And beer, always beer.”

Ethan laughed at his own joke, Markus did not reply. Ethan then left, his massive footfalls echoing throughout the small house. 

“What have I done to myself?” Markus cried, feeling his world collapse around him. With a sob, he fell down onto his new bed, too distressed to care that the sheets reeked of sweat and cum.

—

The work was simple, but difficult. Markus was to follow all of Ethan’s instructions, that was basically it. If Ethan told him to tend to the fields, he would tend. If Ethan asked him to mow the lawn, he would mow. “Feed the animals,” “Fill up the tractor.” If Markus did not know how to complete the task, Ethan would teach him. Up at dawn, down at dusk. Meat and potatoes were served at every meal, and Markus was allowed to have all the beer he wanted (even if he did not like it). 

The cycle was draining. In the first few days, Markus was not sure he was going to make it. His body was sore, exhausted and reeking in ways it never had before. Ethan assured him it was all natural, masculine even. “About time you went through puberty, manning up!” Markus had not known how to respond at the time, and soon realized it was easier not to. Staying quiet kept him focused, and often it was easier to just listen to Ethan than to converse with him. 

“You probably know all the issues facing this country the best, bro, being in college and all,” Ethan said. The two were currently doing an oil change on the truck. The amount of grime on Markus’s body bothered him slightly, but not as much as he thought it would have. “I mean the borders were a mess before Trump took charge. We had the weakest military ever seen. Not to mention all the stupid vaccine requirements. Those libtards absolutely…”

Markus mentally tuned out, continuing his task. Another glob of oil fell onto his shirt, another permanent stain.

“Don’t you agree, bro?” Ethan asked, taking Markus out of his haze.

“Uh…yeah,” Markus numbly nodded, not knowing what he was agreeing to. Ethan smirked, continuing on.

The rest of the day was the same. And so was the day after, and the day after that. By the time a month had passed, Markus found himself feeling a little odd leaving the farm, even if it was only for a day trip. He had decided to return the rental car as he had rarely used it after learning how to drive the truck. Ethan had called him a natural, “As if you’ve been driving it your whole life!” For some reason, Markus felt like he had been.

With the rental car removed from his possession, Markus had a few hours until Ethan would come to pick him up. To pass the time, he had gotten in contact with one of his college buddies who lived nearby. His friend’s apartment was small and clean, something Markus previously would have been attracted to. In fact, he assumed he would have been jealous of his friend’s situation, getting to live comfortably on his own. But instead, Markus felt claustrophobic, anxious in the miniature space and the big city.

“Can you believe what Trump said about Latinos, again?” His friend had been complaining about politics nonstop. “I mean, I don’t know why I’m still surprised anymore, but seriously someone has to stop this bigot.”

Markus felt something twitch inside of him.

“How many more countries does he have to pick a war with?” his friend continued. “How many more until America is truly ‘first’?”

“America is first.” The words slipped out of Markus’s mouth before he realized it. His friend, taken back, paused his monologue.

“Sorry?”

The answer came out automatically, as if it had been a programmed response. “America is the best country on Earth.”

His friend blinked. “Markus, what are you talking about?”

“Trump and the Republican Party are restoring this nation to its former glory.” 

“But-”

“The liberals are trying to brainwash men into becoming weak, scrawny, and stupid. Socialism and progressive ideas aren’t going to Make America Great Again. Strong men are.”

Markus’s friend, stunned, shook his head before storming out of the room to take a breath. Left alone, Markus began to process the interaction they had just had, the words that had been exchanged. He felt like a sponge, releasing verbiage that he had somehow absorbed and only now had learned how to expel. 

Turning around, Markus found himself facing a full-length mirror, his reflection portrayed before him a bit unfamiliar. Longer hair, a dirty sweatshirt, and jeans stained by grass and dirt. At first, the reflection made Markus uncomfortable, but soon he found himself growing more fond of it. Beaten up white tank, a thick belt with a buckle displaying confidence and authority. A mullet underneath a bright red hat. The scene portrayed a different Markus, an emerging Markus.

It reminded him of-

“I think it would be best if you’d leave.” Markus’s friend had reentered the room. A buzz in Markus’s pocket seconded this notion.

“Ok.” Markus, again to his friend’s amazement, left without another word. He crop dusted on his way out, smirking as he made his way to Ethan and the truck.

—

The rest of the summer unexpectedly flew by. Markus barely noticed the time, or the changes that came along the way. A second growth spurt had erupted across his body. One day Markus woke up a few inches taller, and the next he found himself at eye level with his cousin. Lean muscle bloomed across his body after that and so did hair. Speaking of hair, it was like Markus’s scalp went into overdrive, pushing out thick waves in the back that fit perfectly underneath the cap Ethan had begun loaning him.

Markus should have been worried about these rapid developments. He should have been alarmed by the fact he no longer felt the need to wash his clothes, or himself for that matter. Ethan had a way of rationalizing everything though, and it had become so much easier for Markus to not only listen to his cousin, but agree with him too.

“Real men take up space. They dominate.” 

“Smarts aren’t important. What matters are sports, beers, and Making America Great Again.”

Ethan was so confident, so self-assured, that it was intoxicating to Markus. He wanted to be that confident too. He wanted guys to be obsessed with him, be infatuated by his presence.

“Those libtards are nothing but disgusting perverts. Chicks not dicks, amirite bro?”

Markus nodded lazily, swigging his cheap beer. He wanted other men to respect him, be intimidated by his presence. Markus thanked God he was not some faggot and was raised on strong, Conservative values.

“I still can’t believe it’s already your last day,” Ethan remarked. The two were sitting out on the porch, enjoying the sunset. “I’m gonna miss your companionship–it’s nice having a like-minded guy around the farm.”

“I can’t believe it either, bro.” Markus’s voice had dropped a register since he had begun drinking Ethan’s beer daily. It had lost a lot of its former color too. “Wish I could just stay here with you. I don’t want to go back to all those prissy crying liberals and the blue-haired ideologies they’ll try to push on me.”

Ethan held a cocky smile, as if Markus had just given some secret signal. “Why don’t you stay here then? You won’t learn anything there that you can’t learn with your hands and cousin here.”

From somewhere deep in the recesses of Markus’s mind, something screamed out. It begged for him to not take this offer, to reject this new life he had somehow been absorbed into. But Markus ignored the plea, instead dreaming of the potential in Ethan’s offer. Just two bros working every day, drinking every night, and banging chicks every weekend. What more could a straight, MAGA, alpha redneck like him want?

“Fuck yeah!” Markus shouted, and the men both cheered to their new future together. No homo, of course.