WARNING: SCAT, INCONTINENCE
I got back to the nasty trailer where Spitty had been hiding out about twelve hours later, and as soon as I stepped inside, I got the strong stench of piss and shit on the air, like I’d been expecting. Spitty hadn’t been able to hold anything in for that long, but he didn’t seem to distressed by what had happened–I doubt, in his current state, that it was the first time he’s messed himself like that, or even if it was, it wasn’t the first thing on his mind. As soon as I got in there, he started begging and pleading–not to let him go, but to help him cum.
I don’t know how often Spitty was cumming a day at this point, but back when he’d been under my thumb, he was blowing fifteen or so loads a day–and chances are he was shooting even more at this point. I could see, on his gut, at least a few loads he’d managed to work out just out of desperation, but it was clear he was aching, but I ignored him–after all, if I was going to make Spitty suffer, then I was going to have to deny him everything he longed for–and that meant he was going to be cumming much, much less in the future. So we got started, and I started feeding him his own shit, washing it down with my piss, and rewarding him with my spit for being such a good little shitfaced pig. For the next few days, I fed him almost non-stop. Food, mostly, but plenty of shit as well. I got him to embrace his lack of control, enjoy the sensation of pissing all over himself, of shitting right wherever he was, but above all, making him understand how worthless his cock was, how small it was, how hard it was for him to cum, how pointless and hopeless. No, he was just horny now–horny all the time, but never satisfied. The only satisfaction he could find now, was pleasing the cocks of others, and maybe–maybe–he’d manage to explode once or twice a month, but that was good enough, right?
He protested, of course. He tried to tell me that he regretted what he’d done, that he’d been fantasizing and longing for me for all these years, that he’d been trying to find me too, that he wanted to be my little whore, just like I’d planned to begin with. I didn’t believe him, of course. How could I possibly believe him, after what he’d done? No–this was better. This is what Spitty really deserved. I gave him another dose of leaf from his special tin, after a week of treatment. He hadn’t been up from the bed in all this time, he begged me to not do this to him, that he was sorry–but I took a sizable wad–a third of what remained in the tin–shoved it in his mouth, and watched him succumb to the pleasure of the leaf. I told him that he was going to be a good pig, a fat pig, that he wasn’t going to be moving much, that he hated moving. That he loved shitting and pissing himself wherever he was, that his cock was so small he couldn’t even reach it up in all his fat, and he was desperate for cock–any cock. He swallowed the leaf, and when reality centered itself again, he was still on the bed–but it wasn’t rope pinning him down now, it was his own massive body.
He woke with a snort, and immediately started begging me for a load of shit–and I knew he was mine again–but I wasn’t finished with him, not yet. No, I started inviting my new circle of friends around. Filthy truckers and bikers–and if they were too grossed out by Spitty to fuck him, a bit of spit or leaf was enough to bring them around to seeing things my way. Spitty never left the bed anymore–he was just on his belly, ass up, ready for a cock, or a fist, or anything to slide inside him, his mouth constantly calling for more shit or piss or tobacco, but pretty soon I had one guy coming around a bit more than all the others. Jack was the biker who’d tipped me off to Spitty and helped me find him, and I felt he deserved a reward. Of course, Jack wasn’t too…keen on the kind of reward I was planning on giving him, but after a dose of leaf from his own special tin…well, he was just the dirty, nasty biker bear Spitty needed. Fuck, watching the two of them go at it–Jack was a beast in bed, with a massive cock, loved getting himself covered in shit and then making his pig lick it off–and when I gave Spitty another dose of leaf from his tin–leaving just one last dose in it…well Jack was more than a regular companion–Jack was his biker master, and Spitty was his raunchy pigslave.
So here we are. Jack living in the trailer now, full time. Spitty is close to 700 pounds, I think–I don’t exactly have a scale to weigh him with. He’s gotta be pushing seventy years old at this point: teeth rotting out, biker tattoos all over his filthy body, too stupid to read–all he cares about is where his next load of shit is coming from, and who’s going to fist his loose, hungry hole. Or, at least most of Spitty cares about that. See, I know there’s that old jock, still in there. That bit of them, it always hangs around in their head. There’s nothing he can do, of course, but he’s in there. Sometimes I bring him forward, and we chat a bit–or rather, he sobs and begs me to change him back, and I fuck his throat and feed him shit until his little cock squirts out a load of cum into his fatty folds. I’m thinking it’s about time for the last dose, however. Spitty is terrified–he thinks he’s going to be some fucking geezer, or just fucking dead, but not quite–no, there’s a reason I don’t usually give anyone a complete tin, you see, but for Spitty? Well, I think it’s a well deserved end–or beginning.
Bracken's Corner 