Hey everyone! I have some new stuff to announce that folks might be interested in.
First things first, I’m working on a new long project, something a bit different that my usual stuff, which is a tabletop RPG engine based around Pigtown as a setting. Roleplaying games are something I’ve always enjoyed, and for years, I’ve designed little games as idea engines to help come up with stories and things like that. Folks over on discord have also played some of my other, smaller RP games. I’ve had various ideas for a larger game engine for a few years now, but building your own system from scratch is a nightmare, and I’d never run into an existing engine that felt like something I could hack into what I had in mind. Then, last month, I ran into the BOLT engine, and knew right away it could work for what I have in mind. If you’d like to know more about the game, you can find out more here. I’m going to be posting development blogs over on Patreon each week, diving into the various systems with more detail. You can read the first of those over here. If that’s something you’d like to follow along with, all patrons will have access to those. If you’d like to play early versions of the game and playtest some stuff, then everyone at the $5 level or higher, on discord, will be able to help me out as the various systems get fleshed out. My goal is to have a workable system, basically a player’s handbook, drafted by the end of March, so we’ll see! If people enjoy it, I might put out supplemental materials and story packs on occasion, but that’s a ways down the road. A secondary reason I’m interested in this sort of thing, is that if the system works well, I can build it into twine, and open up some new avenues there too.
In the meantime, I’ll still be putting out stories as best I can, but I’m hoping to make the game my focus for the time being. That said, I’ve decided to give myself a little challenge for this month, which is a caption a day! I haven’t posted much in the way of captions in a long while, and I know people enjoy them a lot. Some of these will be new, some will be captions I already posted on discord, and a few, if I get desperate for ideas, might be some old favorites from the archives, spruced up and extended. I’ll have the first one posted here soon! If you’re a patron and have a photo or two you might like to see me use, don’t forget to head over to discord, and slide it into the appropriate channel.
Thanks, as always, for your support and for reading my stuff. If you’re disappointed that you might not see much in the way of long form stories for a bit, don’t worry too much. I still have a few things up my sleeve…
Mitch had never really felt that life had dealt him the hand that he deserved, much less the hand that he wanted. Gay, but at least able to pass, growing up in a small town as the only kid of a fairly deadbeat, and rather traditional father, who tended to keep him at arms length. Mitch hadn’t done well enough in school to get into college–there was the small issue of the cheating on his permanent record. That had nixed most of his college hopes, so he found himself living with his dad, stuck in a dead end job, and with no real opportunities for relationships aside from the occasional hookup with a trucker passing through, while his dad was passed out on the couch.
However, it was one of those truckers who took a bit of pity on him, and passed him an odd little notebook. It was blank, and the cover of it said, “Notes on Reality.”
“This little thing gave me the life I’d always wanted,” the old, cigar smoking fellow said, as he got back behind the wheel of his semi, adjusting his sizable endowment as he did. “Give it a try yourself–I think it might be just what you’re looking for.”
Mitch had no idea what he was talking about, but he took the notebook home, tossed it on h8is dresser, and promptly forgot about it for the evening–but the book didn’t forget about him. The next day, he found it tucked in his glove box at work. Then, he found it on his bedside table when he was going to bed. It clearly wanted him to do something, but what? He opened up the blank notebook, and there on the inside cover, was something scribbled that he hadn’t noticed before. Write what you wanted, and reality would bend to your whim. It sounded impossible, but then, the book kept appearing right where it couldn’t possibly be. What harm could there be in giving it a shot.
So he wrote a little something, talking about how he had cleaned his room up earlier that day, despite having done no such thing, and all around, him, from one moment to the next, the room was…immaculate. Even odder, he could remember doing it himself! It was almost like nothing had changed–it fact, even reading back to himself what he’d just written, it was difficult to remember exactly how things had been. Suddenly, his hand didn’t seem so terrible after all.
He went out into the living room, where his dad was sitting in his underwear, smoking a cigar, and wondered just how much he could influence things.
He wasn’t sure that he wanted to change himself, exactly…but why not make his stern, overbearing, distant dad a little more…relatable?
He went into the kitchen and wrote:
“I came out to my dad around a year ago, and he was very supportive and kind. He wants me to be happy, and has absolutely no problem with me being gay.”
As he finished the thought, he felt reality twist around him–and sure enough, he could remember sitting his dad down and having the talk, and he’d been…fine with it. Better than fine, really. If anything, their relationship was better and more open than ever.
He laid awake that night, pondering and scheming and wondering. He could stop now, of course. He didn’t…need to keep using the notebook. But…why not keep using it? He hated living here, he hated so much about his life, and he could change it, all of it. So he started writing in the middle of the night, as much as he could. About living and growing up in the city, about going to college–but his thoughts turned to his father again, and what came out was…not quite what he had planned, initially.
His dad was unhappy, he knew that. At first, he just wanted to make him happy too. He wrote about his dad going to gym, he wrote about how he had a good job that he liked. And then, he wrote about how his dad was gay too. Then, he started writing more about him, about how he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but that he made up for it with his kindness and his strength of character. He wrote about how he had a substantial cock, but was a total bottom in bed. He wrote about how his dad was attracted to him. He wrote about how his dad had begged Mitch to fuck him, how he loved getting plowed by his son’s cock more than anything. Finally, he couldn’t write anymore, after filling pages and pages with his fantasies, and the resulting wave, as reality shifted, was too much, and he passed out in his bed.
When he woke up, it wasn’t in his dad’s small house–it was in the apartment they shared, while Mitch was going to college in the city. He had been woken up by a massive, white haired, burly fellow with a substantial cock sucking him off, a man he knew was his father, but did not quite recognize as such quite yet, and then the older man climbed on and fucked himself on Mitch’s cock while he watched, moaning and panting like a fucking slut, until they both came–Mitch inside his father’s ass, and his father all over Mitch’s chest and face.
“Fuck boy, I needed that,” he said. The voice was familiar, but lacked the drawl, and was instead a bit higher, a little freer. “I’m gonna hit the gym–you coming?”
Of course he was. Mitch always went to the gym with his dad before class. More than once he caught his dad flexing and winking at him on the gym floor, and before he could stop himself, they were fucking again in the sauna–like usual, right?
His dad was a fucking slut after all, he needed a cock in his ass all the damn time. Preferably Mitch’s, but he’d take almost any young buck in a pinch. After a long day of school, Mitch found himself back at home, and much to his unease and muted delight, the notebook was waiting for him as well. He tucked it away in a drawer, and it seemed to stay put, for the most part. After all, he had everything he wanted, right? At least, for now.
What a treat for a dream imp! Two young men, asleep in the back seat of their father’s car during a long road trip. Pulling two men into the realm of nightmares at once was difficult, which is why the imp rarely did so, but the stronger the connection between the two, the easier it would be to bring them together.
Kyle and Steve were brothers, sure, but they were also rivals, and had been their entire life. Encouraged by their father, both of them were challenged to one-up each other in whatever athletic contest he might decide. As such, the brothers were both well built, athletically accomplished young men, who, on a certain level, despised one another.
And so, they began to dream. Kyle found himself in a dungeon, full of all manner of painful devices. Steve was in the center, chained up and unable to move. Before Kyle could move to help him, a voice told him to stop. He turned, and saw his father in the corner of the room–no, not his father, not quite his father, the face kept…sliding away from him, the eyes were red, the teeth too sharp.
“Come now, Kyle,” his not-father said, “Don’t you want to show me what a good boy you are? Don’t you want to punish your brother? Show me what you can do?”
Kyle…didn’t, not at first, but then, there was a flogger in his hand, and he started bringing it down on his brother’s back, and fuck, it felt good, thinking about all the times he hadn’t measured up. He was the oldest brother, he should be the one to be the best, but then why did he lose? As he pounded on his brother’s flesh, he didn’t notice that Steve was beginning to change, his muscle growing thicker, his body hair and beard filling in, his cries of pain now punctuated with the occasional moan of delight.
Then, a whistle, and before Kyle even knew what was happening, he was there in the middle of the room, in chains, and his brother–his larger, hairier, brutish brother, was leering at him, cock leaking, his not-father’s red eyes gleaming in the shadows. “Now now, you boys take turns, alright?”
Steve set on him with the floggers, with the paddles, with the clamps, with slaps and fists. At first, all Kyle could feel was the pain, all of it excruciating. But then, buds of pleasure, then full blossoms, as his body grew, piling on muscle, piling on scar, piling on hair. When it was time to switch once more, he could see that Steve had grown just as hungry for it as he had–and he would be sure to give his brother as much pleasure as he possibly could.
And on the road, his sons quiet for so long, the father looked back and discovered the back seat vacant–yet he hadn’t stopped, and there was nowhere for his son’s to have gone. He was blamed, of course–there was no other explanation, but if his boys ever did make it back to the mortal plane, they never crossed paths with him, that he knew of.
Zane didn’t know that Pigtown existed. He was as straight as could be, had never so much as looked at another man–aside from a few times, out of drunk curiosity, but that was different. That didn’t matter though–sometimes, Pigtown comes for you regardless.
He had been working a construction job down by the docks, adjacent to Pigtown, though he didn’t know that. All he knew was that there seemed to be a lot of queers and fags about on occasion, but they generally gave him a wide berth. All the better, really, so he didn’t have to bash their teeth in. Some in Pigtown, regarded that a worthy challenge.
Once evening, Zane worked a little longer than he usually did, the fog rolled in a bit thicker, twilight came a bit quicker, the street lights were a bit late to turn on, and he found himself lost in the streets and alleys, looking for his truck. The streets were quiet–not even cars were passing him by, for whatever reason, but for all the stillness, he couldn’t shake the sensation that he wasn’t quite alone, either. Sure enough, he could see the occasional shadow of a person following behind him at a leisurely pace, too far back to make out clearly in the mist, but close enough to give an impression, one of size and substance. Not exactly threatening, but also not…weak.
Zane picked up the pace a bit, and lost his pursuer–at least until the sizable man stepped out of the alley in front of him, sending him stumbling back in surprise. He was certainly large, wearing all of this leather gear, like the fags did on occasion around here. He also had a heavy chain in his hands, and from one end, hung a heavy metal collar. “Where do you think you’re going so quick, boy?” he asked with a grin.
“Look, I don’t want any trouble, alright? I’m just trying to find my t–” Zane said, only for the man to rush into him, wrap a gloved hand around his neck, and pin him to the brick wall behind him. He clawed at the man’s leather grip, but couldn’t get a finger loose. “Hmm…thought you’d be more fun, honestly. Rather boring. Still, I caught you fair and square–so that means you’re mine, doesn’t it?”
Then, it wasn’t the hand around his neck, but the heavy metal collar, and Zane soon discovered he was unable to disobey the man who held the other end of the chain. Right there on the misty sidewalk, he sucked the man off, and then was half dragged, half led, down the street, into Pigtown proper.
Zane never made it back to his car. He remained with his Master for a while, who trained him, and then released him back into the wilds of the streets. And then, it was time for a new hunt. Hopefully this one would give him a little bit of a challenge–these men thought they were so tough these days, but a little leather, a little metal, and they just melted in his hands, every time.
Coming from a rich family has plenty of perks. The trust fund is a big one. I mean, my father expects me to hold down a job, something to show I have some sort of incentive to improve myself. I do have papers verifying a kind of employment as a consultant with a variety of companies downtown, mostly thanks to the many friends I’ve made at the gay clubs since I moved to the city here, away from my father’s estate where he retired. So yes, I work. By which I mean, I fuck my way through piles of drugs, men, and all manner of depravity on a daily basis, because that is how I wish to spend my time and my father’s money. I’m an only child–what other choice does he have?
Well, imagine my surprise when I get an email from him, along with a photo attached:
Yes, that’s me. I counted myself lucky, I suppose. There were many others, far more filthy that he could have found, which would have resulted in something more immediate than the ultimatum he gave me. I was to return home. I would marry a young woman, approved by him, immediately. I would work at his business for the rest of my life, or all of my privileges would be revoked.
Now, I couldn’t have any of that spoiling my fun, of course. Thankfully, quite a few of my contacts in the city had rather…unsavory connections in the world, and I was promised, for something as weightless as my soul, that they could help me with my little problem. I was more than happy to pay up of course, I was hardly convinced that souls existed in the first place, after all. There was a marketplace, I was told, where they could be bought and sold. The things we’ve learned to commoditize.
The results were quick. I received, two days later, a series of photos, some of them tastefully anonymous, like the one below.
Others far more revealing, and filthy. I had no idea my father could be capable of such filth, to be honest. I was proud of the little hypocrite.
So, I sent them along, telling him that this revelation would be far more damaging to him than the little activities I entertained myself with. Unless he wanted them seeing the light of day, he ought to just keep the trust fund flowing.
My father was horrified. He had no idea when these photos had been taken, no memory of any of this occurring. It didn’t really matter to me whether his denials were true, or whether someone had drugged him, hypnotized him, brutalized him into disgracing himself for a camera. I had my money, and that was all that mattered to me–at least, until I was told that my soul had been sold.
Apparently, souls are very much real, and being in possession of one allows a remarkable level of control. I’m owned by my Master now, and reside in his dungeon as his full time gimp.
The trust fund is his. He also, apparently, was the one who manipulated my father, and so he pays me visits on occasion as well–it’s the only time my hood is removed, when I get to watch my old father being beaten in the dungeon by my Master, fucked and pissed on and fed the ash from his cigars. I don’t know if he knows its happening to him. I do. Then he is gone, and the hood returns. But I can’t object. My soul is his now. I love him. I could never disparage him. I will serve him for the rest of my life, or until he sells me off again. I hope he doesn’t. I don’t think I could stand to lose him.
Joe and Harry didn’t like the work they had to do at their uncle’s place. The old farm was falling apart, and it seemed like every time they went over, they were just managing to patch the place up for another month or two. But they didn’t complain, too much, because their uncle was always happy to keep them supplied with plenty of beer, not only after they were done working, but any other time they needed it. It certainly kept them popular with their friends, since they were all a couple of years shy of 21 still.
“Alright boys, let’s call it a day I think,” their uncle Barry said, shirt off, smoking one of his cigarettes, and a bit burnt from a day in the sun.
“Sure thing Unc,” Joe said.
“You boys fancy a beer?” Barry asked.
They both nodded, and followed him back to the garage at his house. Barry pulled a couple of beers out of the fridge there and handed them to his nephews. They were a different brand than what their uncle usually gave them, but they weren’t going to complain. Both of them chugged the first one back while Barry popped one of his own, and watched his two nephews with a grin.
Joe let off a belch, and looked a bit nauseous. “Fuck Unc, where’d you get this? Tastes like piss.”
“Yeah, well, mine tasted like a damn ashtray,” Harry said, feeling a bit dizzy himself.
Barry just chuckled, and both Joe and Harry looked to one another, feeling faint, and that was the last thing they remembered clearly. The next thing Joe knew, he was in Barry’s dirty bathroom on his knees, next to the toilet. He tried to stand up, but he couldn’t get his legs to unbend. He tried to call for help, but he couldn’t make a sound at all. After a few minutes, Barry came in, stood in front of him, and hauled out his cock, proceeding to piss all over him–mostly in his mouth, but also down the front of him as well.
“Fuck, ya make a handsome urinal boy,” Barry said, shaking his cock and zipping back up. “I’m sure you’re worrying a bit, but don’t worry, I’ll keep you from getting too thirsty.”
“You…you can’t do this,” Joe managed to croak out.
“What, you think ya can stop me? Far as anyone’s concerned, yer just my property now. Just an object. All ya need now is piss, and pretty soon, that brain of yers will shut down, and you’ll forget ya were ever human at all.”
With that, Barry went back out to the sofa and plopped back down. Harry was on his knees next to the couch, face already covered in ash from Barry’s earlier cigarettes. He was trying to fight it, but he was already starting to get…hungry for more ash, eyeing Barry lighting up another cigarette hungrily, licking his ashy lips. Back in the bathroom, Joe found his throat feeling a bit parched now…but he tried to deny it. At least, for now. But the next weekend when their dad visited, and didn’t even recognize them at all, that’s when they knew–they weren’t human anymore, not really. And now that the spell had worked, Barry had a few ideas for some more property he’d need soon enough.
In business, you can get away with a certain amount of sleaze, and Carl tended to push the line a bit more than most. But mostly, what Carl was looking for was power, and now, as a hiring manager for a major company, he could wield a good amount of it, and fuck, did he like ruining someone’s day. Hell, just today, he’d had some middle aged guy come in for a job interview–they couldn’t legally screen for age, but needless to say, he was not looking for someone this old. Still, why not fuck with the guy a bit? They had a nice chat, and Carl did everything he could to butter the guy up a bit, even sharing a cigar with him in the office.
But finally, at the end of the interview, he told the guy that the position had already been filled–but he could offer him an unpaid internship instead. The guy’s face just melted–after all, those fucking internships were designed for kids with trust funds, not for older fellows with bills to pay. He asked Carl to reconsider, and instead, Carl just starts selling him on the position, telling him it will be great to build experience, and he can see the guy getting angrier and angrier, but he finally realizes he’s been played, and stormed out.
Carl had a good laugh with some buddies after that one. The dream imp wasn’t laughing, however.
That night, Carl found himself sitting in a chair in a waiting room. He didn’t know how he’d gotten there exactly, but he knew that he was waiting to be interviewed for a job of some sort, but he didn’t know what. He started to panic a bit, in fact, trying to wrack his head and remember what, exactly, he was here for. Then, his name was called, he stood up, and went into the room.
It wasn’t an office though, it was a spacious living room–and there, in a comfy armchair, was the older fellow he’d interviewed that day, except…not quite. He was more muscular for one thing, and he was wearing this strange leather gear, and these boots shined to perfection. There was no chair in front of him, and he did not motion for Carl to sit anywhere–so he just stood, awkwardly, in his suit.
“Well Carl, I must apologize. I’m afraid the position of Master that you’d applied for has already been filled, by me,” the man said, taking a long draw on the cigar he had between his gloved fingers. “Luckily though, we do have a few other openings–unpaid, sadly.”
“I…I don’t understand, I don’t need a job from you.”
“Yes, but don’t you want one?” the man asked. Carl felt something in his head flip, and looking at him now, the leather, the boots, he…he was horny. Why the fuck was this making him horny? “Why don’t you get on your knees, boy.”
It wasn’t a request, it was an order, and Carl found himself compelled to obey him. “Please Sir, I think there’s been a mistake.”
“I should say so–I can’t believe you wore a suit to your interview with me. Everyone knows that good slaves ought to show up in the gear they want to serve in.”
The suit on his body started to wriggle, becoming a pair of bleached jeans with yellow bracers, and a black tank top. “Please, this has to be a dream, just let me wake up!”
Something cackled behind him, and there, he saw the imp crouched, watching the two men in delight.
“Don’t worry about him, slave,” Master said, “Why don’t we start the practical interview?” He clicked his gloved fingers, and something appeared in Carl’s mouth, a gag attached to a short rod, with an ashtray at the end of it. Master put his booted feet on Carl’s crotch, mashing his cock and making him moan in something between pain and delight.
“Now, I’m going to smoke, and then I’m going to fuck your hole slave, and then we’re going to do a few hundred more things, and by the time we’re finished with this interview, I think you’ll be ready to come serve me in real life, how does that sound?”
He crushed Carl’s cock again, and he groaned through the gag. Apparently, it didn’t matter what he wanted. This dream wasn’t going to end anytime soon, and by the end of it, Carl would have a brand new position in life, whether he wanted to or not.
He couldn’t have been gone longer that five minutes, and his son was nowhere to be seen. Nick and his son were on a little camping trip while he was home for the summer. Nick had gone to the rest area bathroom to take a shit, and when he’d come back to the car, where his son had said he’d wait, he was nowhere to be seen. Figuring he’d just gone to the bathroom himself, or maybe was walking around to stretch his legs, he walked back to the bathroom, but didn’t see him. With a little more panic mounting, he kept looking around, and saw a young man, about his son’s size, following another fellow back around the front of a pickup truck. Wondering what his son could be doing over there, he followed them, came around the front, only to discover that the young man was blowing the fellow right there in the open.
He had to focus and really concentrate…but it was his son, almost. He hadn’t had a shaved head, nor tattoos, nor had he been wearing those clothes, but it was his son, he was sure of it. “What the hell are you doing with my son!” he said, went to grab him away, but the redneck swatted his hand away.
“Buddy, I think yer confused,” he said, “This ain’t your son–I’m his daddy, ain’t that right boy?”
The young man looked up with a rather love struck expression and nodded, “Yeah Daddy, ‘course, I’m yer son!”
The drawl shouldn’t have been there, but it was his son’s voice! Nick was sure of it. “I don’t know what fucking game your playing, but let him go.”
“Buddy, I think yer confused is all,” the redneck said, lowered his sunglasses, and the eyes beneath them…Nick had never seen anything like them. The color kept…shifting, and the gaze was so intense, he forgot…everything, for a moment. Forgot his son, forgot about calling the cops, forgot about camping, forgot himself, even.
“Now, like I said, this here is my son–isn’t that right, buddy? Ya don’t have a son, do ya.”
Nick shook his head slowly. He…he must have been mistaken. He didn’t look anything like his boy–no, he didn’t even have a son, did he? “S-Sorry man, I…I guess I was just confused, I’ll…I’ll leave ya to it…”
“Now hold on, don’t go just yet. Ya like tah watch, don’t ya?”
Nick nodded slowly. He was right, he did like to watch. He groped his own cock while the fellow’s son deepthroated his daddy’s big cock. “Fuck man, yer fucking lucky that your son sucks cock like that,” Nick said.
“Yeah, he does real good, gotta say,” the man said. “Got a pretty good cock on himself too, loves fuckin’ fat truckers like you, and looks like that ass of yours could use it. Wha’d’ya say, 200 bucks, and my boy’s all yours for an hour.”
Nick’s clothes shifted to some ratty, dingy denim, and he licked his lips. He hadn’t had a nice young cock in him in ages–and hell, he sure as hell needed one. “Ya got yerself a deal fella,” he said, hauled out his wallet, and shoved 200 dollars in his hand. “Come on boy, let’s see if ya can fuck as good as yer Pa there.”
An hour later, the young man climbed out of the cab, grinning from ear to ear, and went back to where his Pa was waiting, climbed in the truck, and took off with him. Nick climbed down after him, feeling the cum drooling from his ass and down the inside of his jeans, and shuddered a bit. The boy sure could fuck! Too bad he didn’t get any contact info from them–these rest area hookups wouldn’t compete. He needed to be on his way anyway–this load wasn’t going to deliver itself! He climbed back in, still envious of the man’s son, and drove off into his new life.
Not having a gym was rough for the guys on the block, but with the quarantine stretching out longer and longer, it was looking like they wouldn’t be able to get back there anytime soon, and when they could, there would probably be so many restrictions it wouldn’t even be worth it. In the end, a savior came from a surprising place–old Mr. Wilcox at the end of the road starting letting all of the jocks know that he had an old gym in his basement. It wasn’t surprising, really–he was in his 60’s but still in good shape. He told the young men they could come over and use it whenever they wanted, but only on their own.
But there were other odd requirements as well. Mr. Wilcox told them all that they couldn’t wear their own clothes–too much risk of infection. They would have to shower when they arrived, they would put on their gym uniform, work out, shower, and then leave. There was also always this weird new age hippy music playing, but hey, a free gym was a free gym.
The music put them all in a really focused headspace–their workouts would zoom by, and they were all making great progress. None of them objected when Mr, Wilcox started making changes to each of their gym uniforms.
Mark found his gym shorts and shirt replaced with a rubber singlet one day, but Mr. Wilcox told him it would be easier to keep sterile, so he was happy to put it on. Much to his surprise, he found the sensation of rubber against his skin incredibly erotic–but when he asked Mr. Wilcox if he could take it home with him, he said no. But a few weeks later, he got an upgrade, a full body latex suit, complete with a gas mask, even better to keep everyone safe. He worked out for hours in it, and never ended up going home–the gimp was stored in his cage where he belongs instead–after all, he didn’t want to take off his new skin, did he?
Kent arrived one morning for his workout, and found that the only thing Mr, Wilcox had for him to wear, other than socks and shoes, was a diaper. He balked, of course, but Mr. Wilcox had noticed him using his restroom the other day, and that just wasn’t sanitary. Better to keep his messes to himself. He told himself he wouldn’t use it, but he zoned out so much he pissed into it, and a few days later, he started shitting himself as well. It wasn’t long before he had a few accidents at home as well, and he had to ask Daddy for a supply of diapers for himself. He moved in too before long, though his exercises are more focused these days on opening up his dirty baby hole, and getting rid of that gag reflex so Daddy can fuck baby’s throat easier.
Bud got the same gear, day in and day out, and Mr. Wilcox never seemed to wash it. When he asked about it, he said that it was Bud’s filth, so he could wash it if he wanted–but Bud always forgot to take the clothes home with him. In fact, he stopped showering as well, and stopped doing laundry at home, the entire house filled with his sweaty musk, and more and more the smell of cum, since he kept masturbating all over himself. He’s Mr. Wilcox’s filthy pig, and when he’s done with his workout, he usually gets fucked by Master’s cock while he huffs on baby’s full diaper, already excited for tomorrow’s workout to come.
You don’t always know you’re in Pigtown until it’s too late.
Richard liked to take long runs around the city on his days off. It was a good way to explore, and he nearly always saw something different, that he would have never noticed in his car. Today, he found his way to a large park and decided to cut through it for a bit of nature. It started off innocently enough–families with kids playing in the sun, the occasional picnic. It was wholesome. But at some point, after the trail passed through a few dense patches of wood, he found himself in a chunk of park that was quite a bit seedier. Unknown to Richard, he had just found himself in Pigtown.
It was the light that threw him off first. He had started his jog in the morning, but suddenly, it was like the sun had set. The sodium lights were all lit, but filthy, and they only seemed to increase the shadows around him, rather than dispel them. There were strange moans, thumps and shrieks coming from the woods around him, distorted enough that he couldn’t be certain men were making them, and the few people he did see were men who leered at him, and at his spandex clad running shorts, with lust.
But he kept running. He tried to turn back, but the path, which he was certain had been straight and unambiguous, suddenly branched and forked and looped back around on itself in countless ways. He was lost, and getting a bit winded. Finally he stopped to catch his breath and calm down, get his bearings, only to find that he wasn’t alone. There was a filthy looking man on a park bench near him, drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette. He looked up at Richard, licked his lips, and said, “Fuck man, bet you smell fuckin’ amazing.”
Before Richard could even think of how to reply, the man had stood up, thrown up one of Richard’s arms, and started licking at his pit. The man smelled horrific–like a urinal, like a cumrag, like…like heaven. Richard shook his head and gave a snort, trying to focus, but he couldn’t seem to tug himself away from the man, and all around them, more men, just as filthy as him, were coming out of the brush, groping their crotches, leering at him, the light fading more and more as they all surrounded him, touching him, smelling him, and Richard lost track of himself, for a moment. For a while.
When he came back to himself, he wasn’t at the park anymore. He was in some apartment, hands tied up above his head, and he wasn’t wearing his clothes, or at least…they weren’t the clothes he’d had on before. He had on some long underwear and a white t-shirt, all of it covered in cumstains, soaked with piss. He could smell it, and fuck if it didn’t smell amazing.
The man from the bench came out, still in the same nasty clothes as before, and stood in front of Richard. “Fuck man, I hadn’t really planned on bringin’ anyone home tonight, but fuck me, if ya just aren’t so much fuckin’ fun. Haven’t gotten my hands on freshmeat in a long time, I forgot how fuckin’…flexible you are. We’re gonna have a lot a fun tonight, gonna have some more boys over, and you’re gonna be in heaven, I promise you that.”
Richard tried to do some math, tried to figure out what time it was. He’d left in the morning, but it had gotten dark in the park. He’d spent…hours there already, and now here, and…and it was still pitch black out the window. “I…I have to get home, I…it’s so late.”
“So what if its late, man! The night doesn’t end until we want it to, in Pigtown, and I think we can go for a while longer, don’t you?”
The man shoved the wet crotch of his filthy jeans into Richard’s face, and he couldn’t help himself, licking at the nasty denim, feeling his cock grow larger, and start to pump precum out, soaking the front of the nasty underwear he was wearing. He didn’t want it to stop, did he? No, he didn’t. Not long after that, men started appearing, and toyed with him, pissed on him, came on him, in him, fed him, filled him up, clothed him, changed him in ways that Richard could barely understand, and when Rich awoke, it was morning.
Some morning. He looked around at the nice backyard where he’d woken up, and part of him knew he should recognize it…but as hard as he tried, he couldn’t find the memory anymore. He pulled out a cigar, lit it, and that helped wake him up a bit, but it still didn’t bring out the memory. One thing he knew for sure, was that he didn’t belong here. It was too bright, the sun…hurt, somehow, even through all of his filthy gear.
He stood up and left, following his instincts back home, back to the park. Rich never left Pigtown again after that, but why would he want to? It’s where he belonged now, after all.
The divorce had been rough. Sure, he’d made mistakes, but now he was losing the house, he could only see his son on the weekends, and he was going to have to pay her alimony? It had just been a fucking prostitute–ok, a few prostitutes, usually while he was out of town on business. If she’d just put out more, none of this would have happened.
Dale wound up in a two bedroom apartment not too far from work, but it was hard not to resent the whole mess. Frustrated, he ended up befriending one of his neighbor’s Max, and the two of them would stay up drinking, talking about their respective problems. Or at least, Dale would talk, and Max would listen.
One evening, Max interrupted Dale’s usual diatribe to suggest something. “You know, I have this little app on my phone, maybe it can help you out a bit, move past this a little.”
“Oh?” Dale asked.
Max pulled out his phone, loaded it up, and the flashlight in it began to strobe. “Yeah, it’s just a little trance program. Puts you in a relaxed state. All you have to do is look at the light. Might help you settle a bit, sleep better. I could help you push some of this stuff out of your head for a bit, get past it.”
Max looked up, and saw that Dale was already staring at the flashing light, mouth open and drooling a bit.
He smiled. “Yeah, that’s perfect. Don’t you worry buddy, I know just the thing to help you get over that bitch ex-wife.”
And so, Dale found himself developing a new relationship, this time, with Max’s feet. It was just a few suggestions at first, and Max went barefoot for a while, watching Max’s eyes track his footsteps all over their apartments. Soon enough, he got him drunk, and Max was more than happy to worship his feet, love them, kiss them, and each sniff helped him forget his ex-wife a little more.
Once Max was certain the new footpig was well under his control, he told him that he wanted to make a deal. After all, Dale shouldn’t just get to worship these wonderful feet for free–no, there was something else that Max wanted. He wanted his son. Dale had introduced them, of course, and Max was just a few months shy of turning eighteen, which meant he’d be able to visit his dad all he wanted. Except Dale was going to help Max out, wasn’t he?
So the next weekend, they pinned his son down, tied him up, and after a few hours, he was already sniffing the inside of Max’s sneakers, moaning and groaning like the little foot slave he was going to become, just like his dad.
Since Max was going to be busy, and Dale wouldn’t be able to service him as much, Max had a surprise for him–he’d started renting him out as a footwhore online, and he already had his first client scheduled today.
Sure enough, a motorcycle pulled up, and an old, grungy looking chubby biker got off, and headed for where Dale and Max were standing in front of their apartments. “Hey Dale, this the pig?” he asked.
“Yep–you’ll show Willis here a good time, won’t you Dale?”
Dale gulped–but once the biker got his boots off and he got a whiff of his road funk, Max’s reservations melted away. Soon enough, his son didn’t even visit his dad, he just went right to Max’s apartment. Not too long after that, Dale and his son forgot that they were even related. He was Max’s dirty little footpig, his obedient, sexy son, and Dale was just the nasty, perverted footwhore who lived next door.