Mitchell Davis had been an eccentric. Rich as the rest of the neighborhood, certainly, and yet, nothing was ever simple with him. Single, for one thing–gay for another. He could have been tolerated if only he’d fallen into the straight white patterns of the wealthy around him. Instead, he’d holed himself up in the large mansion and become a recluse, until his death. Rumors had circulated quickly, how he’d been found down in the basement, a…gas mask over his head, naked, the other end attached to a large balloon. Self-asphyxiation? suicide? That’s what the neighborhood called it, preferring the easy story.

For Howard Margus, he saw the death as an opportunity. He had, once, before Mitchell’s eccentricities had cloistered him entirely within the mansion, been inside and seen the rarities within: priceless art, antique furniture, an entire library of first editions, a life’s dividends he’d coveted for years now. When it came time for the estate sale, he wrote a check for everything within the house. The neighbors thought he was insane, but indeed, the house was a treasure trove, and he had six months to pick it clean and sell the remainder before it had to be emptied and sold on the market.

If Howard had one vice, it was for pipes. He’d always regarded them as a sign of his wealth, and when he discovered that Mitchell had collected several scores of them, he decided to sample each of them, to decide which ones he might like for himself. It was the forty-fifth piped he smoked, which had been the one found between the legs of the dead Mitchell Davis in the basement dungeon, and when Mitchell lit the pipe, he choked on the smoke. He’d put in his favorite tobacco, so why did it taste so rough? It was like the tobacco he’d smoked before he’d known better, it was like rubbing your tongue up the backside of some hairy beast of a man, before you get down and start licking and sucking at his rancid hole, getting ready to fuck, getting ready to rut.

He stumbled into the wall, his clothing so tight, so…conservative? Prudish? He shouldn’t be wearing this, he should…he should be wearing leather…leather and rubber and fucking yes fucking he should be fucking! He ripped his way into his slacks and began jacking his cock, shooting the first load into his underwear. Stripping the rest of the way, he sucked his own cum from the fabric, snorting and grunting, sucking down the smoke greedily until the bowl burned to ash, and the urges dissipated.

Unable to believe what he’d just done, and thankful he’d been alone at the time–the workers he’d hired to sort through Mitchell Davis’ collection were scattered through the mansion at the moment. But the pipe…the pipe was…could he hear it? He could hear something. He threw the pipe across the room, but he could still hear it, it was inside him, something had crawled inside of him, into his head, and it was getting louder. He shut it out for the rest of the afternoon, but after the worker’s had left for the day, he stumbled upon a massive closet filled with leather and rubber, and the voice surged back. Somehow…somehow the pipe was back in his mouth. He was naked, but the leather against his bare skin, it was so fucking–! He could no longer provide words for the sensations ripping through him at the level of pure instinct. The voice was so loud now, and he could feel something happening to him, something in his body, but it didn’t matter, what mattered was perversion. What mattered was fucking, but he had no one to fuck! He had to settle for a night of constant masturbation, the pipe remaining lit the entire night, until Howard woke the next morning, collapsed in the basement dungeon, wearing grimy, cum soaked leathers, padlocks pierced through his nipples with no key in sight, a collar and chain wrapped tightly around his neck (he could feel the bruises but why did he want more of them?) and tattoos? He’d never had tattoos!

The voice told him that of course he’d had tattoos. A filthy, perverse pig like him has to have tattoos. He ran a hand through his beard, now three inches long, coarse and wiry, and the glove against his face…his gloves against his body, tugging on his fucking nipples, stretching his sack. He’d seen a ball stretcher down here somewhere, he needed these fuckers hanging to his knees! The pipe had lit again, pouring out smoke, a sharp pain in the head of his cock, and he yanked on the PA, huffing and panting and so close to cumming.

“Mr. Margus?” a voice called. The voice of someone to fuck! Oh, he was going to fuck so hard, fuck another pig, make a pig, a pig for him! “Are you down there? The guys are here–so we’re just going to get started, alright?”

“S–Sure, *snort* Fuck!” Howard cried.

“Are you alright, sir?”

“Yeah, sir, fuck yeah, fuckin’ Sir to you, fuck…” Howard muttered, “Get…get down here, I need some help with something.”

The man started down the stairs, and caught the first whiff of smoke as he descended. His cock was hard by the time he hit the concrete floor, but then the leather hood was shoved over his head, across his face. He couldn’t breathe! He fought, and felt Howard’s hard cock thrusting against his jeans. How was the old fucker so strong? He collapsed, and Howard pulled the hood away, checking to make sure he was unconscious, but not dead. Just how he wanted him! He wanted to fuck but work to do first. Work to get the pig ready, work for pigs to do today–lots of work indeed.