Caption: Lunch With My Uncle

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My uncle had always been hard on me. No, that’s an understatement. He always hated me, I think, or something, because he spent most of my youth criticizing me for anything, really. My dad always told me not to take it to heart, that he was family and still loved me, but when I came out, well, my uncle had a few choice words to say about that as well. Needless to say, as soon as my parents didn’t force me to see him anymore, I didn’t speak to him for years–but things change, sometimes. 

A few months ago, I decided to reconnect with him. He’d been through two divorces by this point and didn’t have any kids of his own–not really surprising to me, and he was lonely. So I decided to start having lunch with him on a regular basis. I’d moved back to town where both my parents and my uncle lived after college, and so we started meeting for lunch–first once a week, but after awhile, we were meeting every day–I can be pretty insistent, you see.

“Go on Unc,” I said, Dig in,” I said, when the waiter brought our food out.

He just sat there, looking at the three entrees I’d ordered for him, looking a bit sick to his stomach. He’d been meeting for lunch for most of a year now, and my uncle was looking a little, well, chubby. Hell, I eventually made him tell me how much he’d gained, and he was over 300 pounds at this point. 

“Please…please, I’m sorry,” he said to me, quiet enough no one around us could hear. He’d started doing this lately, trying to apologize, and it was getting a bit tiresome.

“Your food’s getting cold, go on now,” I said, and picked at the salad I’d ordered for myself.

“I don’t…wanna eat anymore. Please, I…I’m so full already, and–”

“If I wanted to hear your excuses, I’d be your therapist, now eat up, pig.”

There was a flash in my eyes, and he picked up his fork and started shovelling bites into his mouth, faster than he could really chew.

“There we go, that feels better, doesn’t it? Filling all that emptiness inside your soul with food, because you never bothered to fill it with anything else. Makes that dick of yours hard too–go on, give it a rub, pig.”

With one hand still stuffing his face, the other reached into his lap, under his gut, and started groping his cock, right there in the busy restaurant.

“You know, I’m getting really tired of your complaining all the time when we have lunch together. I’m being rather civil, you know that, right? I could have you tear off all your clothes, right here, shove your face in that bowl, devour everything until you cum, squealing and grunting like an animal. Right in front of these normal families, enjoying your lunch. Is that what you want me to do pig? Is that what you want to do?”

I could tell by the shudder that my teasing had gotten the expected reaction–he’d shot his load right into his underwear. We ate the rest of the meal in silence, and when dessert came, he was a good pig and ordered a triple helping, all by himself.

While we waited for it to arrive, I decided to ask him something that had been on my mind, as I’d been watching him pack on all these pounds. “So, what does Martha think of your new look?” Martha was my aunt–not quite as cruel as he was, but she’d had her moments too.

He clearly didn’t want to talk about it, but with a little nudge, he spilled the truth. “She hates it. She complains about it all the time, calls me all sorts of disgusting names. She won’t even sleep with me–I’ve been sleeping on the couch for a month now. She says I can come back to bed with her when the springs don’t squeak when I lay down.”

“When’s the last time you had sex with her?”

“I don’t know. Months ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. It’s not easy to be a man, horny all the time because of how monstrously fat you’ve become, and your wife won’t even touch you. That just makes you even hornier too, since knowing how disgusting she thinks you are is so humiliating, right?”

He was crying now. I almost had him to sobs, but I held back, because we were in public. “Well, I think you deserve a reward, for being such a good piggy, and gaining so much weight. I have someone who would love to help you out–but you need to eat all of your dessert,” I said, as the three plates arrived, “but then I stole the spoon that came with them. “You need to eat them all with your hands.”

He blanched, but with a little cajoling, he gave in. He was horny, and he hadn’t had someone else touch him in so long, and the looks of everyone else in the restaurant as he stuffed his face with his fat paws was too good. Of course, I didn’t tell him the important details. I had a muscle bound friend of mine with an eight inch dick waiting back at my place. I was helping him out with a few problems of his own, and he’d agreed to fuck my fat uncle for me–provided he could do him rough and raw. I had no problem with that of course–and my uncle would deal with it. He wasn’t going to have a choice, after all.

The Pig Squad

Week One Debrief, From the Training Journal of Officer Bernard Matthews

Look, I’ll be the first to admit that the squad had some issues, alright? But we weren’t any worse than any of the other squads in the state patrols, I can tell you that. Harrison could get a little rough with folks out on the highways. Everyone knows that Klein is a racist, though he can keep it in usually. Ricci does his best as sergeant, but his heart isn’t really in it. His dad was a cop, so he had to be too, you know? Sure, the lawsuits look bad, but most of them got settled easily enough. Hell, I’ll point you to five squads in this state with records worse than ours, but hell, one high profile chase goes wrong, and suddenly we have to do something about it. Something being, of course, this fucking psycho bullshit re-training.

I heard from Lewis that this is all because the quack doctor is some friend of the governor’s brother or something. Someone’s always greasing someone’s shaft, right? So the whole squad has to spend five fucking weeks off patrol, and instead we’re locked up in a classroom all fucking day long, with this old fuck prattling on and on at us, making us watch these boring ass movies about how we can work better as a team, how we can better serve the community, it’s all a bunch of horseshit. I’ll tell you this right now, after one week, I’ll gladly get the squad to shape up just so I don’t have to sit through this trash ever again.

And now, we have to keep a journal too, whatever. Something about helping the doctor assess the course’s effect over time. Well here doc, when you read this in a few weeks, here’s what I want you to know. You’re a fucking piece of shit quack, with no fucking idea what it takes to be a police officer. How about that for a baseline? Five weeks from now, we’ll all be back on our bikes, laughing about what a fucking waste of time this all was, and you’ll have your chunk of government money–that’s what this is all about I bet.

What else was there–oh right, the drugs. We have to take these pills too, apparently. Don’t know what they are, but they give them to us at the start of the day, and make sure we all take them. Harrison got found out when they tested our piss for it on Wednesday–he’d been hiding the pill under his tongue and spitting it out later. Had to have a “private” session with the doctor about that. More bullshit I think. At least they’re feeding us well–though without going to the gym, I look a little flabby. Wish they’d give us some time for physical activity at least–then this wouldn’t be quite so mind numbingly boring. We even had to watch a bunch of videos over the weekend at home–they were so dull I can’t remember a thing about them. Whatever–nothing else to fucking report this week, other than to say, go fuck yourself Doc, you fucking queer. As for me, I’m heading to the strip club with a couple of other guys from the squad. I know I could use a good fuck right about now, after a week of this shit. Just four more to go.


Week Two Debrief, From the Training Journal of Officer Bernard Matthews

Alright, so I think something strange is going on with those drugs they’ve been giving us, and I’m not the only one who thinks so. They don’t give us a lot of private time–we always have the doctor or one of his various assistants watching us throughout these sessions, but the few times we’ve been able to talk to each other, we’re all reporting the same things. All of us are eating more. We just can’t help ourselves, and the fact that the doctor always has a full snack bar for these sessions isn’t helping. I’ll look down in the middle of one of his boring videos and discover I’ve demolished a massive load of candy and other snacks without even realizing it–and worse, I’m still fucking hungry, every time!

Fields said that he was taking a shower the other day, and when he looked down, a bunch of hair was clogging the drain. He’d just lost all of the hair off his body in a single shower, and apparently a bunch off his head as well. I hadn’t really thought about it until he said something, but I realized that I couldn’t recall the last day I’d needed to shave my face. I don’t grow a lot there, so I can usually get away with every other day, but I couldn’t think of when I’d shaved over the last week my chin and cheeks are perfectly smooth. When I checked the rest of my body, it was smooth too, and a lot of my muscular definition had been swallowed up in a thick layer of fat. My hair was even looking thin, and receding higher than it should have. It has to be those drugs. None of us want to take them, but when the doctor gives them to us, we can’t stop ourselves. I’ve…noticed that a lot, actually. The doctor gives us orders, and we all follow them, without even really thinking about it. It only got worse with the physical exam on Friday.

We all had to strip naked, together, and hell if it wasn’t obvious that something was happening to us. All of us were smooth as a button. Klein had lost his goatee entirely, and looked 50 pounds heavier. Hell, all of us looked 50 pounds heavier, if not a bit more. We were ushered into the doctor’s office, poked and prodded by his assistants, and then we had to answer all these…sex questions while we had electrodes hooked up to our cocks! It sure as hell didn’t have anything to do with police work, but while I…I wanted to say something, I wanted to stop it, I couldn’t do anything at all. Just answered his questions like some stupid dolt, and then they gave me a new uniform to wear for the rest of the re-training. We could wear our civilian clothes home at least, but we’d have to change in the locker room every day before the sessions started.

I wore it the next day. We all did. The shirts and breeches are so tight on all of us, with all of the new weight we’ve put on. It’s more like a dress uniform, but the tightness–the rigidness…it made my cock a bit excited. We even have to wear perfectly shined leather boots, gloves, and a hat while we sit in for sessions now. In it, I feel like I’m sweating so much, but during one session, I caught myself grabbing my crotch while the Doctor spoke, and looking around, I wasn’t the only one doing it.

I’ve heard rumors that a few guys are going to try and push back. I don’t know what they’re going to do exactly, none of them are guys I tend to run with–Klein, Harrison, a few others, Ricci probably, since he’s always one for bad decisions. I don’t know if they’re going to go to the chief, or if they’re going to try and take matters into their own hands…but I’m staying out of it. I…I just, it’s so hard to think now, that I’m sitting here at home. Last week I went out to the strip club, had a session with Sonja afterwards, and I couldn’t even get hard. She offered me a blue pill, and I just left. But now, I think it’s…smaller. My balls too. And I haven’t gotten hard thinking about a woman in…days? Just at these sessions, in my new uniform…fuck, what’s wrong with me? I need to fucking eat something, fuck this. Why am I even writing this down? I don’t want the doc to read this…


Week Three Debrief, From the Training Journal of Officer Bernard Matthews

I don’t know what to do. I feel like…I know that this is wrong, but…but fuck, sitting here, rubbing my gut, smoking one of my cigars, feeling my little dick get hard, it all just feels so right, all of a sudden. 

I read what I wrote last week, and it feels so far away now. So much happened since I wrote it, but I…I just keep hearing Doc’s voice, and…and fuck, he makes me feel so good, thinking about him. I like feeling good, I just want all my brothers to feel good too, right? Why wouldn’t I? If we just relax, and follow the program, I can tell everything will be alright, but part of me is telling me I have to fight this. That this isn’t my body. That I don’t smoke cigars, that I don’t want to be fat, that the feeling of my leather gloves on my cock isn’t heaven on fucking earth. But I don’t think we can fight it. Hell, look at what happened to Klein and the others when they tried.

It was Tuesday. Wednesday? I don’t know, they all blend together. I saw Doc yesterday, I know that, and it was two, three days before? I was already dressed, in the main room, had taken my pills and gotten in my seat. A few guys on the squad were all missing at this point, the ones I knew had been planning something, and a couple others that didn’t surprise me. Most of the bad apples, you might say–the ones who were causing the bulk of the issues in the first place. A few minutes after I noticed that, the assistants (I call them that, but they’re guards, aren’t they? Keeping us there like that, controlling us) dragged them all in, kicking and flailing. Fuck, that was a sight. Doc came out, asked them why they were late, and Klein ripped into him, yelling and shouting, accusing him of all sorts of shit, trying to hypnotise us, warp our minds, fucking with our bodies. The rest of us just sat there. I was scared, honestly. I knew he was right…I think? I don’t know, I just feel so out of it.

Doc tells the assistants that they all need a special group sessions with him for the day, and the rest of us just rewatch some of the videos we’d already seen, while the assistants watch us. I try and focus on them this time, really hard, but by the end of the day, hell if I can remember what the videos said–though I knew they were ones I’d seen before, somehow. I knew that I…I knew what they’d said, even if I couldn’t say it, or think it. We change out of our uniforms at the end of the session, and the rebels are there, eyes…glassy. They’re smearing some weird cream on their crotches, vile smelling shit. Harrison bent over, and I swear I saw something in his ass. A plug or a dildo, who knows what. None of them said anything, and the next day, all of them were on time, fully dressed, took their pills like good hogs, and sat down.

Hogs–why did I just write that? Reading it makes me so fucking hard, why the fuck…I can’t think about that, I can’t handle this.

I know what I have to do. I just gotta cruise through. Make sure no one notices me. But then, yesterday, Doc holds three of us back. Wold, Fields, and I. We all go into his office, he…talked with us, about stuff. Then Wold and Fields left, and it was just the two of us.

Now, I’m scared. I’m scared, because this is the first time I can really remember something Doc said to me, clearly. He asked me why I’d never pursued a leadership position in the squad, and I told him the truth, that I didn’t want the trouble. That it was easier to just go with the flow, rather than try and push back against a bunch of shit that will never change. I learned years ago that you can fight the racists like Klein, or the fascists like Harrison, or the legacies like Ricci, but there’s always more of them that show up. Doc just nodded. Then he handed me a bunch of cigars and a set of videos. Told me to watch them this weekend, and smoke at least two cigars a day for the rest of training.

Everyone else was gone, when I’d left. I didn’t notice until I got home that I was still wearing my uniform–it was the first time I’d worn it outside of the training. I looked at myself in it, in my mirror, and I hardly recognize myself. Smooth face and head, fat body squeezed into the thick cloth and shiny leather. It made me leak. I’ve gotten through half the discs, I think. I don’t know what they’re doing to me, but thinking about Klein and Harrison, how stupid they’ve seemed for the last few days, thinking about that…plug in Harrison’s hole, fucking hogs. Need a good boss to tell them what to do. Yeah, plug their hogholes, make ‘em squeal, that’ll–

Fuck, what a fucking mess. Filled the front of my fucking breeches with a load, just thinking about those stupid hogs of mine. Fuck, why am I writing this? What is he doing to me now? And why the fuck do I keep farting so dang much?


Week Four Debrief, From the Training Journal of Officer Bernard Matthews

I broke him. Fuck, and it felt fucking good doing it, fuck.

This week was different. Instead of group sessions, Doc scheduled individual meetings with all of us. Mine was early on, which kind of surprised me, since I’d just had a personal session with him a few days before. He asked me how I’d liked the cigars that he’d given me. I’d smoked them all over the weekend–I hadn’t really been able to stop once I’d started them. They didn’t really hit me like the few cigarettes I’d had before. There was a bit of a nicotine rush of course, but mostly I felt…powerful, when I was smoking one. Powerful, and dominant, and I’d usually found myself thinking about my squad brothers, about how they looked in their uniforms, and more and more, how they might look out of them, kneeling in front of me, and…

Fuck, is this me? Has this always been me? I can’t really remember how I used to look, you know? I try. I look in the mirror, but I can’t picture myself with hair on my head. I can’t imagine what I’d look like if I managed to lose the weight I keep putting on somehow. 

I told all that to the Doc. He just nodded, and then he asked me whether I’d noticed myself farting more. I blushed–I’d been passing gas the whole time I’d been sitting in his office, trying to keep them quiet, but more than a few had been at least a little noisy. I’d belched a few times as well, when I was trying to talk. I told him I didn’t know what was causing it, but assumed it was just how much I’d been eating lately, but he told me to relax. He was my closest confidant, after all–I could be myself around him, if I wanted to.

Well, apparently “being myself” meant leaning back, groping myself, sniffing my own farts while I told him all of my…disgusting fantasies I’d had about the other men in the squad. As horrified as I was, I couldn’t stop myself–and more than once, I came in the front of my uniform, and Doc just smiled at me in the oddest way. I don’t recall a lot after that. He spoke a lot, but as always, I just zoned out when he was speaking, though it had been a full hour when I finally realized what was happening. He told me that for the rest of the week, I would be leading workouts with the squad while he was having individual meetings. I asked him why Ricci wasn’t doing them–he was the squad’s sergeant after all. Doc told me not to worry about it. As I left, I remembered that he had been one of the guys involved in the little revolt, so the answer was obvious, in the end.

The next day, with a fresh supply of cigars, I started putting the rest of the pigs through their paces in the gym. It had been relatively unused in the training up until then, but now, all of us were sweating up a storm, and for all the weight we’d put on, I was surprised to find we were all…stronger. I could bench 200–I’d never been able to do that in my life, though I let a massive fart rip when I did. The rest of the guys were a bit…confused as to why I was put in charge, but I whipped them into shape well enough, and as more and more guys went to see the Doc, their attitude towards me changed more too.

I found Lewis in the locker room after a workout, rubbing his shiny boots against his tiny cock, moaning and grunting…and when he saw me, fully dressed in my own uniform, his jaw just about dropped. I…I don’t know why I did it. I ordered him to get down and lick mine clean. He was reluctant, but once he sniffed my farts, he went into a bit of a frenzy, eventually humping my boots, tongue hanging out, smooth flab coated in sweat until he came all over them, licked them up, and told me, “Thank you Sir, for letting me serve you.”

I was horrified. But that night, sniffing my farts and belches, all I could think about was how hot it had been, and how I wanted to do it again, as soon as I could. Other guys were picking up interests of their own. A few confessed to me that they’d started using dildos–it was the only way to get their little cocks to cum any more. Harrison needed to be fisted, apparently–the Doc had prescribed him some drugs to help him get stretched out enough so he’d be ready by the end of training, and I wondered what it would feel like, my fat fist shoved up his hole, making him beg for mercy. Some just wanted to smell me, my farts, my belches–they couldn’t get enough of it. By the end of the week, I had the whole squad eating out of the palm of my hand, and fuck if that wasn’t a powertrip. Then I realized I hadn’t seen Klein in a couple of days. I asked Doc, but he avoided the question–then, on Friday, during a video, he had me follow him instead–and he showed me where Klein was through some one way glass.

He was in a small room, staring at a screen flashing a seductive series of spirals into his face. He was clearly zonked out–eyes unfocused, drool rolling down his first and second chin. He was completely naked as well–and that was when I saw the result of that strange cream all of them had been using. Klein’s cock and balls were…gone. Just a piss hole in the middle of his crotch, and nothing else. “Hog”. I thought it again, and now I knew why I had thought it the first time. There were the pigs in the squad. Then there were the hogs like Klein, Harrison and Ricci–and then there was me, something else entirely. A pig too–but the head pig, I guess.

Doc turned off the screen, and after a couple of moments, Klein came back to himself, shouting and yelling, trying to get out of his restraints. Doc told me that this was a leadership test–Klein was ready and primed, all I had to do was get him in line, and show him how a hog ought to behave. I protested, but the assistants shoved me into the room, undid Klein’s restraints, and he charged at me.

I just…reacted. I was so much stronger than him, I just…knew I was, and I had him shoved up and pinned against the wall in a few moments, grinding my crotch into his ass, cigar tip warm against his cheek. It felt good. He deserved it. He had to be put in his fucking place. It didn’t take me long–just a few belches to knock him off balance, get him horny, then a blast from my ass, and he couldn’t stop himself–he dug in and started eating out my smelly hole–and fuck, it was the best feeling I’d ever had. Ten times better than an orgasm, as Klein’s thick tongue dug deep into my ass. By the time I was finished with him, he was well broken, face glazed with a few loads of my cum. He kept thanking me for letting him have his favorite snack–his Sergeant’s hole.

That’s right–I’m the squad sergeant now. It makes sense, I guess. I do have the biggest cock of the whole fucking bunch, even though mine’s just a couple of inches. Doc gave me the honor of letting me grow a mustache too this weekend, with a special cream–a thick, dark walrus over my lip–a sign of my authority and maturity. I feel it too–everything else is fading faster and faster. I don’t care if it goes, really. I’m ready. My squad is ready. We’re gonna be the best fucking motorcycle cops in the state, me and my brothers. I’ll make sure of that. And really, we have Doc to thank for all of it.


Week Five Debrief, From the Training Journal of Officer Bernard Matthews

Fuck, I’m so damn proud of my squad of pigs! You know, when we started this training, I didn’t really know what to make of it, but looking back on it, and seeing how far all of my pigs and hogs have come, I really couldn’t be more proud. Fuck, just thinking about all of them at the retreat this weekend has my little pig cock all hard in my breeches again. 

Doc announced my promotion, officially, on Monday. None of the pigs were surprised of course–it was just natural that I ought to lead the squad–after all, I’d like to see one of those pigs try and grow a mustache–much less get harder than an inch! The hogs couldn’t really care less–but then, the hogs aren’t really much for caring, or thinking really. The six of them usually sit in a little cluster, drooling and rocking back and forth, riding their plugs like good little hogs ought to do. Klein, Harrison, Ricci and the rest–they were good brothers, and they’d be good cops too, but like Doc said, the more some guys think, the more trouble you get. Best to just smooth them out all over–brains included.

We spent the rest of the week going over the new order of things. No more unnecessary stops, no more racial profiling, no more use of force. Mandatory community service events. We were gonna be good pigs, like Doc said, and do everything by the book. We were here to serve, after all. Service is the cornerstone of what pigs like us do–that’s what Doc says all the time. Serve like good little pigs, and everything will be just fine. 

Then came the weekend, and the big retreat. As a reward for doing so well on our training, we were going to spend the whole weekend at a campground in the woods, that Doc had reserved just for the squad, the assistants, himself, and a few special guests that he wouldn’t even tell me about. We all got in our uniforms and piled into the bus. I had Klein next to me, and the fucking hog wouldn’t tear his snout from my pits the whole way there–at least, unless I was letting him suck my cock out the front of my breeches.

The retreat was a blast. It felt so good getting back to nature, and really just going wild. I knew some of the special guests there–the governor’s brother, for one, who grabbed the first pig he saw–Fields I think–shoved him down into the dirt, and started fucking his hole, while the pig squealed in excitement. There were some of the higher ups in the department, and even the chief of the Metropolitan Police Department. I had a session with him myself, since Doc told me he was going to be a bit reluctant. But once the chief got a whiff of my farts and my belches, he came around–eating out my dirty hole before fucking me with his big fuckin’ cock! Fuck that felt so damn good, I fuckin’ love gettin’ plowed. Doc told me I’d done a real good job on him, that the city would definitely be partnering with him for a round of training with their own troublesome cops. Doc rewarded me with a fuck–and damn, can that man fuck. Makin’ me squeal like a dirty animal, cock oozing load after load as he rams his big cock deep inside me, fuck, I’d do anything for him, I really would.

Harrison spent most of the days and nights in a set of stirrups, naked except for his boots, with one fist after another shoved deep in his hole. Ricci ended up in the toilets, guzzling piss. Fucker smelled like a urinal all the way back home on Sunday. Klein was pretty much always buried under one ass or another, though he usually found his way back to mine before too long. He says, “There ain’t no ass like yers Sarge! Tastiest fuckin’ crack there is.” Fuck, that dumb fuckin’ hog, I fuckin’ love him though. I love all my brothers, and I couldn’t be more proud of them, and how they’ve performed over the last five weeks. We’re gonna be the star squad this year, just you wait.

But the best part–that was the gift Doc gave me on Sunday. I know that what my squad needs most is to get fucked–hell, I doubt I’d be able to think if I went a few days without getting fucked myself. Only problem is my little two-incher can’t even get in any of the pigs–we’re all just too damn fat! Well Doc gave me the best gift–a fucking strapon. Big nine inch rubber cock I can put on, and ream all of my fuckin’ squad, right in a line. In fact, that’s what I did, when I got it–ordered them all to line up and salute, then had them bend over, and I fucked ‘em all, one after another, until I brought all of them to a squealing orgasm–even the dickless hogs. By that point, I was so horny that I begged Doc to fuck me, right there in front of my men, making them all watch, telling us all that he was the Master of all of us, that we were all just stupid pigs now, and we would do what we were told–and the person giving the orders was Doc. Fuck, I ain’t felt that satisfied in my whole damn life as I was on the ride home, Doc’s cum leaking out into the seat of my breeches with every fart, already excited for next years retreat that Doc promised us. Provided we’re good pigs of course. But of course we will be! What else could we be, anyway?


Three Month Assessment, From the Files of Doctor Leoncett

Our third trial of the training program, using a rather troublesome squad of motorcycle cops with the state police, concluded three months ago. In that time, the state police has seen a dramatic decrease in complaints leveled against members of the squad, both internally from other police members, and externally, from civilians. While it is still too soon to judge the long term stability of the program, the short term results are an unqualified success.

There have been some mentions made about the sudden change in appearance by the squad–especially the rapid weight gain and hair loss that is a result of the pharmacological treatment regimen. The same mentions were seen in the earlier studies as well, though the addition of the sergeant’s rather smelly means of suggestion has subdued some of the concern, helping them adjust to the new manner of the squad’s functioning going forward. 

Morale is high. Cohesion is high. Sergeant Matthews was an excellent selection for the leadership role, and his quarterly review was exceptional, both from the squad below him, and from his higher ups in the chain of command. 

Some side effects have been noted. The additional castration treatment given to the especially troublesome elements of the squad seemed to have an additional impact on their mental faculties. Even after three months, their average IQ hovers in the mid 70’s, while the baseline for the rest of the squad is closer to 90, as is our target. I’m not sure this is a detriment, but perhaps uncovering the mechanism causing this would give us a finer grade of control over the result, allowing us to tweak it as necessary. One subject, an Officer Harrison, did degrade further, closer to 50 or 60, and had to be retired from the force. I found a home for him, and he is living happily as a fist pig several states over, for a pair of lovely gentlemen, in exchange for another round of research funding. 

Other projects are on the horizon as well. The governor’s brother continues to be an asset. Having the sergeant of the squad spend some time with the city chief of police during the retreat paid great dividends–I have been given oversight on the entire force’s training schedule come Fall. While the conversion of the entire force using the program would be too obvious, being able to select small groups of officers for specialized training and testing is an great opportunity for this project. The future is bright–with a few more contacts, we might even be ready to create a standardized program for nationwide rollout to departments across the country my as early as next year. And after that–well, with all of these pigs at my disposal, who will stop me then?

Early Access: The Pig Squad

Hey all! Here’s a new story for patrons to enjoy. I’ll post it publicly for everyone else in a week. A squad of troublesome motorcycle cops have been selected to undergo a new re-training program to help them become a more cohesive, cooperative team. However, one of the cops thinks that the doctor running the program might have some ulterior motives behind the strange training sessions. Here’s a sample from the story to whet your appetites. If you want to read the whole thing, you can find it over on my patreon page.


Week One: 

Look, I’ll be the first to admit that the squad had some issues, alright? But we weren’t any worse than any of the other squads in the state patrols, I can tell you that. Harrison could get a little rough with folks out on the highways. Everyone knows that Klein is a racist, though he can keep it in usually. Ricci does his best as sergeant, but his heart isn’t really in it. His dad was a cop, so he had to be too, you know? Sure, the lawsuits look bad, but most of them got settled easily enough. Hell, I’ll point you to five squads in this state with records worse than ours, but hell, one high profile chase goes wrong, and suddenly we have to do something about it. Something being, of course, this fucking psycho bullshit re-training.

I heard from Lewis that this is all because the quack doctor is some friend of the governor’s brother or something. Someone’s always greasing someone’s shaft, right? So the whole squad has to spend five fucking weeks off patrol, and instead we’re locked up in a classroom all fucking day long, with this old fuck prattling on and on at us, making us watch these boring ass movies about how we can work better as a team, how we can better serve the community, it’s all a bunch of horseshit. I’ll tell you this right now, after one week, I’ll gladly get the squad to shape up just so I don’t have to sit through this trash ever again.

And now, we have to keep a journal too, whatever. Something about helping the doctor assess the course’s effect over time. Well here doc, when you read this in a few weeks, here’s what I want you to know. You’re a fucking piece of shit quack, with no fucking idea what it takes to be a police officer. How about that for a baseline? Five weeks from now, we’ll all be back on our bikes, laughing about what a fucking waste of time this all was, and you’ll have your chunk of government money–that’s what this is all about I bet.

What else was there–oh right, the drugs. We have to take these pills too, apparently. Don’t know what they are, but they give them to us at the start of the day, and make sure we all take them. Harrison got found out when they tested our piss for it on Wednesday–he’d been hiding the pill under his tongue and spitting it out later. Had to have a “private” session with the doctor about that. More bullshit I think. At least they’re feeding us well–though without going to the gym, I look a little flabby. Wish they’d give us some time for physical activity at least–then this wouldn’t be quite so mind numbingly boring. We even had to watch a bunch of videos over the weekend at home–they were so dull I can’t remember a thing about them. Whatever–nothing else to fucking report this week, other than to say, go fuck yourself Doc, you fucking queer. As for me, I’m heading to the strip club with a couple of other guys from the squad. I know I could use a good fuck right about now, after a week of this shit. Just four more to go.


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Patron Exclusive – The Department of Magical Corrections

There’s a new suggested story up for patrons to enjoy, based off some suggestions I received in the box and on discord from the last month. This one is a bit supersized, but it was a lot of fun to write–I might end up toying with a longer version of it at some point, but we’ll see. Here’s a sample for everyone who isn’t a patron–if you want to read the whole thing, you can find it here.


“Now serving number 351.”

Aiden looked down at the ticket in his hand–367–getting closer at least, this place was worse than the damn DMV. He heaved a sigh and adjusted himself on the squeaky metal chair he’d perched himself on in the waiting room. The temp in here wasn’t that hot, but he was still sweating all over, as was the norm for him now, and he adjusted some of the rolls of fat hanging off him, trying to get comfortable, but the fact was, he hadn’t been comfortable once in weeks now, ever since Jerry had cast that dang spell on him.

Jerry, having been born with no real affinity for magic what-so-ever, and no friends or family with much talent aside from a minor prestidigitation or two had never really given it much thought. Then, after college, he’d moved states for a new job, and ended up living in an apartment complex next to Damon. Damon and Jerry had hit it off, and Damon had taken to boasting about his magical ability, showing off a few spells around his place, and that was when Jerry’s wheels had starter turning.

See, Jerry had never been very happy with his body. He was rail thin and tall, and had never been able to put on much muscle. Damon, one night, talked about how he’d taken a course in transformation magic in school and aced it, showing up for the final as a buff muscle stud, and so Jerry had asked him to cast it on him. Damon had balked, and made some excuses at first–that it wasn’t exactly illegal but highly frowned upon, and that it had only been one course. Jerry had pressed the issue though, and offered him a good chunk of cash, and so Damon had relented–but the spell hadn’t quite gone as Jerry had hoped.

“Now serving number 356.”

He’d gotten bigger sure–but all of it had been fat, and there had been some other unfortunate side effects to go with it. He was so hairy now that he couldn’t even see his skin in the places where it was most thick–across his chest, down his back and in his ass crack. His beard and hair would grow almost an inch a day, forcing him to shear them off nightly, and by morning he’d have a solid bread again no matter what he did. He’d freaked out, of course, and Damon had promised to fix him, but it would take a couple of days to figure out. So Jerry was resigned to wait–until two days later, when some guys had knocked on Damon’s door and arrested him for using magic without a licence! He’d never even gone to school for any of it, apparently–he was a fraud. Jerry had followed after them, huffing and wheezing, knees aching under almost 400 pounds of flab, and asked the wizards arresting him what to do. All they’d done at first was laugh at him, Jerry dressed in some tight boxers since none of his clothes fit him, and nothing he’d ordered had shown up yet, standing in the apartment parking lot looking like a hairy beach ball. In the end, they’d told him it would probably wear off in a few weeks–but if it didn’t, he’d have to come here, to the department of magical corrections, where bad spells got sorted out by professionals.

“Now serving number 363.”

He scratched his hairy pit again, and tried to reposition himself on the metal chair. The clothes he’d bought online had ended up still being too small for him, but he’d refused to buy more, since he’d held out hope he’d be back to normal soon enough. But he hadn’t gone back to normal. He’d begged off work for a week, telling the office he was sick, but was too ashamed to tell them what was really happening. A coworker had come by to check on him, found him there, looking like a hairy, fat stranger, and freaked out–he’d gotten a call from his boss the next day that he was fired. So now he was also unemployed. Walking anywhere was exhausting, sweaty, and hurt his knees and back–and the stares. He hated the way people stared at him the most, like he was some sort of freak. The hunger too–he was hungry all the time, and while he tried to resist it the best he could, he was eating more these days than a small family–he’d weighed himself the other day and discovered he was even fatter. It wasn’t going away on its own–and so, he was here. Waiting, and hoping, someone would fix him.

“Now serving number 367.”

That was him. Jerry hauled his ass up and went to see if someone could get him out of this mess.


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Orcish Recon: 1.2.1.1 – An Inside Job

This is one ending of Avoy’s story! I hope you enjoyed the chapters. i’m still working on a little twine adventure based on this one, that I hope to release in a week or two, depending on how fast I can work, and how cooperative twine is. I wrote an alternate storyline as well for patrons, which I concluded yesterday–you can find that post here. I’ll see about getting another interactive started, or something else, next week!


It was the dagger. Avoy stared at it, lying there in the top of his pack, trying to recall how it had gotten in there. He couldn’t recall taking it–he’d…no, he had taken it, but then he’d gotten captured, and then…and then something else, something that was right on the tip of thought, about to crash over him–and he remembered the medallion.

That light, that sweet green light washing over him, over his mind, back when he’d been an orc–no, a half-orc…right? He…he hadn’t been an orc before, he’d been human.

No, this is a disguise–remember…

A disguise? He pulled out the mirror from his pack again and looked at himself. It wasn’t right. That wasn’t what he was supposed to look like, but what was he supposed to look like? Why had he lost his face?

Remember the sigils. They will give you back your true self. 

Symbols swam to the front of his mind. He wasn’t sure what they meant, at first, until he looked down and saw the dagger in his hand–but he wasn’t changing. He had changed before, hadn’t he? He’d changed because he wasn’t an orc, but if he wasn’t changing now, that meant…

You are an orc. Meant to be an orc. An orc in disguise. Reveal yourself, destroy them all, as you know you can.

Avoy tried to stop himself, but the dagger traced it’s way along his flesh, digging in, the magic pouring into him. He could feel it warping him, re…returning him to his true form, yes, his rightful form. A trick! He was no human at all, the clever shaman, he was an orc, had always been an orc. He carved faster, marking the sigils on his skin, the marks of a great warrior, and he could feel the magic coursing through him. He finished, and collapsed onto the floor, wounds scarring over already, his body twisting and changing, Avoy knotting up his mouth to keep from screaming and alerting everyone in the monastery. He had to change. Return to himself–then…then one last thing, and he could…begin.

It was the dead of night when he felt the magic ease away, and Avoy stood up–he was back, a true orcish warrior, as he ought to be. Now, the attack, yet…yet there was something else. He picked up the dagger in his hand, and slammed it into the stone floor. The glass blade shattered into shards of crystal all over the surface–Avoy picked one up, pressed it to the skin of his scrotum, and slit it open. He pushed the crystal shard inside, feeling the magic heat up his massive orc sack, an aching horniness overwhelming him, shimmering green precum leaking from the tip of his cock. He dug in the pack and found the medallion there as well–now, it was time.

He found the abbot first, sleeping in his bed. Avoy raped the old man–he was far too weak to put up much of a fight, though he tried to scream and bite through Avoy’s massive paw as he held it over his mouth. He didn’t have to for long–as Avoy’s enchanted cum made it’s way into the abbot’s guts, he began to change, skin turning green, tusks growing from his mouth, and Avoy began swinging the medallion in front of his face, telling the old pig about his new position in the clan as the collective fuck pig for all of the warriors to use whenever they desired. By the time he finished, there was no one left aside from a mindfucked, fat, cockhungry orc, and together they made their way to the other monk’s bedrooms, corrupting them as they went.

A few days later, travelers came to the monastery, but found it empty of life. There were signs of a struggle, but not a single body found anywhere inside the building. It was considered a mystery–at least until the orc horde stormed down from the mountains a few months later, raiding settlements, turning unsuspecting men into new grunts for the massive army, and Avoy was among them, humanity long forgotten, happily raping and pillaging for the rest of his days.

Patreon Bonus Story: Fast Food and Snake Oil

The suggestion box is back open, and that means a new short story each week based off the suggestions of patrons! This week’s bonus story can be found here. Thanks, as always, for your support, especially in this rough time. Here’s a teaser for everyone else, for an idea of what you’re missing.


Hugh read the email, and felt the dread welling up in his throat. He’d been furloughed for a month at this point. The owner of the small firm where he worked had promised to bring everyone back on once this dang lockdown was over with, but the fact is, revenue had dried up. They hadn’t been in the best of positions at the beginning of the year, and the owner was cutting his losses, and shuttering the whole company. 

Now what? Unemployment? Hugh had heard from a number of folks that no one could even get through to figure out where their benefits were. Rent was due, and other bills–what the hell was he going to do? There had to be something.

Hugh had always been a worker–this last month just sitting at home, doing nothing at all but watch TV, he was bored out of his mind. He could at least be doing something–he wasn’t afraid of some dumb virus, and at least it would help him pass the time. After a couple of days, he found a job working at a local fast food joint. Most of the employees had quit recently–not a surprise really, but the franchise owner was a bit desperate. Hugh had worked at places like this when he was younger, to get him through high school and college, so he decided, why not? It was just temporary–once the economy was up and running again, he’d find something else and land on his feet, just like he always did.

He ended up working the restaurant on the day shift with another guy named Billy. He’d started working at the place a few months before all of this mess started, and he was one of the few employees to stay on. The work was dull, in all honesty, but at least he didn’t have to clean tables or mop up bathrooms after customers. One of them would take orders, and fry, the other ran the grill, and during the ample downtime, they struck up a bit of a friendship. 

Billy was a simple guy. He lived in a trailer park not too far from the restaurant, and didn’t have the college degree, or even a high school diploma to his name. He was funny though, and quick witted–but pretty large, and rather hairy. His uniform didn’t quite fit him, and as the first couple of weeks passed by, it was getting easier and easier to see his belly hanging out from the bottom of the shirt–at least no customers could see it through the window. When Hugh asked him about why Billy hadn’t quit, he told him it was because he wasn’t afraid of the virus. “I bought these immunity boosters from a guy I know. Work great! I’ve never felt healthier–I’m not going to catch this thing.”


If you want to read more, you can find the whole story–and many more like it!–over on my patreon page.

Interactive: Orcish Recon 1.2.1 – Captured by Orcs

“There he is!”

The cry was in orcish–Avoy went for his pack where the dagger was stashed, but an arrow landed right where his hand would have been if he’d been a bit quicker. Avoy froze–he’d been in worse situations before, but not many. He wasn’t going to be able to run his way out of this one, and whatever the dagger had done to him, his body wasn’t ready to fight its way out either. 

The orcs crashed their way down into the ravine and pinned him down in the mud, grabbing his sack and digging through it until they found the dagger and hollered in celebration. “Thief,” one of the orcs muttered in Avoy’s ear, “Don’t worry, we’ll take you back and put you to good use…” Avoy’s stomach turned a bit when he realize the thing poking against the small of his back wasn’t a weapon–but the orc’s cock hardening as he bound Avoy’s wrists behind him with twine.

Of course, that wouldn’t be a first either. Avoy tried to make a deal with the orcs–he’d happily be their little pig down in the ravine, if they wanted that, provided they let him go. They could have the dagger, he didn’t care one bit about what happened between them and the monastery, so long as he could keep his life, and a bit of his dignity. The orcs just laughed at him, and then hauled him back up the steep slope. Pushing him along, and returning to the camp.

And so, Avoy found himself right back where he’d started, in a large tent full of pens, really–clearly designed to hold a much larger number of prisoners than it currently possessed–which was two. Avoy in one cell, and in one a short distance away, an orc. The guards left, and Avoy moved over to try and talk to the orc–only to discover that it wasn’t an orc, not really. He was talking to the monk that he had seen in the ritual the night before–apparently, getting cut apart by that dagger hadn’t been as fatal as Avoy assumed. Instead, he had…changed. Changed in the same way Avoy had, with his short contact with the dagger–although obviously changed…further. As far as he could tell, the young man was a full grown orc–though from his speech, his mind was still intact, though…he was terrified of…something. He kept babbling about some medallion–talking about what had happened to the knights that had been captured with him, how…how they were gone. Avoy didn’t know what to make of it, but he didn’t have to wait long to find out.

The guards returned, and with them, was the shaman–but no chief. If that wasn’t a sure enough sign of who was really in charge around here, then nothing would be. “Ah, the little thief,” the shaman said, “I was wondering how long until those filthy humans down in their little castle would come poking their noses around here, and try and see what the fates have in store for them soon enough.”

“Look, it was just a job, alright? I don’t have a stake in any of this–if you have a better offer, I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” Avoy said, “Hell, just…just fix me, and I’ll do anything you want.”

“Oh, I know far more than you ever could about what’s going on here,” the shaman said, and came close to his cage, “Those little monks down there–for years, they’ve been stealing our young men, twisting them, turning them into their little slaves with their so called white magic. Well no more,” the shaman said, and pulled the medallion off his head. Avoy found himself following the stone, green like the dagger, but…not quite the same. The shaman laughed, and Avoy pulled his eyes away from it–obviously, some sort of mind magic of his own.

“Pity, it only works on orcs,” the shaman said, “and half orcs. But good enough for our use here,” the shaman turned to the other cell, where the monk was, and the new orc’s gaze was drawn right to it. Avoy told him to look away, but it was too late–the shaman began whispering something to him, the medallion growing brighter, the monk’s eyes filled with a green glow, and when it ceased–they released him from the cage. He greeted the orcs with a traditional greeting, and was taken by one of them out into the camp–just another warrior now, ready to demolish the human monastery below, and take revenge for what they had done.

“Now, that brings us to you. Shouldn’t have touched the dagger–you know. Not good to play with things you don’t understand. Still, this is a fine opportunity for us, in a way. The curse on you will lift in in a few more hours–and I’ve been meaning to…experiment a bit. Now, be a good little orc and keep your eye on the stone, right where it belongs.”

Avoy tried to resist–he could feel the human side of him trying to pull away, while the orcish part of him drawn deep into the crystal, into the shaman’s words, absorbed. The human side couldn’t fight the pull, and found itself sucked away as well. It was like…falling asleep, almost. He could…hear the shaman, planting something in his mind, something he couldn’t quite hear, couldn’t quite know. Then, the voice was gone, but he was still asleep. Then, he was awake–but he wasn’t in the cell anymore–he was in the forest.

He tried to recall what had happened to him, but everything was slipping through his fingers faster than he could hold onto anything. He’d…escaped, right? Yes–he’d fled and…and the monastery wasn’t far from here. But he…he couldn’t go back there, could he? Not looking like…like… He pulled a mirror he used for sneaking through tight hallways out of his pack, and was relieved to see his face looking back at him. His real face–a human face. It had to have been a dream, of course. He…he would go back, and he would report what he saw. And then…and then he would know what to do, after that, something told him, in the back of his head. He would…do what needed to be done.

That night in his room, he opens up his pack, and there, he finds the dagger. As soon as he sees it, he knows what he has to do–what he was sent here to do. A new mission. A better mission. For the clan. This–this is not his body. Not his true body. Merely…a disguise! Yes, it…it’s time to return to…to his true form. He runs the dagger along his arm, tracing the lines he knows, feeling the daggers power flowing into him.


Here’s the next poll! What happens next?