Broad idea suggested by an Anonymous ask, but this caption is also related to this caption.


Jerry knew he was getting close to figuring out the secret to Pigtown. The guys at the precinct all told him he was crazy to try and stop it, to try and figure out what the bar was doing to the men in the neighborhood. They even pointed out Scrimm, told him that story, but Jerry was never one to listen to threats–that is, until he came home one evening and discovered his sons were missing.

He and his wife searched for days, the entire police force was mobilized, but there was no sign of them anywhere–no one claimed responsibility, no one demanded ransom. But Jerry knew, Pigtown was involved somehow, but he didn’t know why or how. He’d always found himself able to resist the advances of the men there–was that why they were targeting him? He told the precinct Chief his theory, but the older man wouldn’t–or perhaps couldn’t–say anything. His eyes thought, told Jerry all he needed to know. 

His wife broke down–she left for her mother’s, and Jerry carried on by himself for another day, before he finally received the gift, and the note.

If you want to be with your boys, you know what to do.

–Rod

That’s all it said. He opened the small box, and inside he found a small cigar and a lighter, but nothing else, no clue or anything. Should he report it? Rod–he’d come across that name over and over again in his investigations, but he had no idea who he might be. But what choice did he have? It was just a cigar, and he’d been able to resist so much else, right?

Jerry was a very different man a couple hours later. The cigar–it just kept growing, and at this point it was stretching his jaw to the limit, but he’d only suck down more smoke, twisting his now massive nipples, stroking his white beard, growing thicker and longer. He didn’t know when his clothes had become leather, but fuck, it felt good on his bare skin, on his massive cock, but as much as he stroked it, he couldn’t seem to climax–and then the doorbell rang.

There, on the stoop, was a cage. And there inside the cage were his two sons. They were naked, but otherwise completely unharmed, but Jerry knew what to do. With strange, inhuman strength, he dragged the cage into his house, his two sons screaming at him to stop, but as soon as he started feeding them his smoke, they changed their tunes rapidly, and their bodies too–both of them becoming chubby, perfectly obedient cigar cubs for their daddy, happy to be home in his arms. 

His wife never did see any of them again, but some of the officers at precinct 17 would on occasion, in a dark corner of a bar or alley. Jerry wore a thick metal collar, as did his two cubs–the two boys attached to their father’s collar by two short, thick chains, assuring them that they’d never be apart again, Jerry’s cigar still smoldering in the dark, as big as ever, and unlikely to go out anytime soon.

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