The diner was usually a quiet place—even though it had the best pies in the county, it had yet to be ‘discovered’ by the folks in the city, so the clientele was mostly farmers and the older folks who lived out in the sticks.
Myself, I’d only found it because I was looking for work and I’d already run out of places to apply that were anywhere near where I actually lived. I was half disappointed when they actually did hire me: a long commute and a low paycheck? Awesome.
Still, every day is an opportunity to get a little bit better, and I tended to that dining room like a boss in hopes that I’d be able to move up the ladder, such as it was.
I’d been working there a few weeks before I first saw him.
The farmer was enormous. Now, a lot of folks are on the portly side around here, but this guy was at least a head taller than me and he was wide enough he needed to take two seats when I sat him at a table. (With a gut like his, our booths would have been out of the question altogether.)
Most people, I’m sure, would look at a guy like him with derision or contempt. And, well, while my first reaction may not have been the kindest, there was a part of me that wished I could follow after him. Not—not necessarily to be as big as him. But to just let go of what I thought I had to be, and be…my real self, whoever that was. Maybe a little more of a slob. Maybe a little fatter, sure. Maybe a little lazier.
I took his order and soon was bringing him out a plate piled up mostly with sausage and bacon.
“Gotta love the pig,” he said, as he started tucking in. “Don’t know whatever we’d do without them.”
Gotta love the pig, I thought. The sight of him eating had caused a stirring in my pants, and I made a quick retreat to the restroom to hide my sudden needy boner.
As soon as I got out of public view I couldn’t help myself—I scrambled to pull my dick out of my pants with one hand as I locked myself in the stall with the other and sat down.
Fuck, I want to be a pig, I thought, pumping my cock as I imagined being under the farmer’s massive belly and servicing him as he ate. The fantasy deepened, the image of myself becoming more and more piggish, grunting and squealing as my curly tail wagged from side to side. I just want to be a filthy beast for him to use…
I don’t know if it was the fact of me being in the restroom at the time, or just because it was the easiest filthy thing I could think of, but I couldn’t help but dream of taking it further—not just being a sex pig for the enormous, glorious man, but being a toilet pig for him as well. Why make him get up for anything when he could have a portable urinal on hand at any time?
In my daydream I was swallowing down loads of piss straight from the tap, eagerly slurping down the sharp-tasting liquid from what I imagined must be an enormous cock buried deep under all that fat.
The thirst carried over into reality. I need to be a pig, I thought, bending down to bring my face closer to my cock, and pointing its head at my mouth. I need—
Piss shot out before I was even ready, drenching my face and splashing over my shirt before I was able to get the stream under control. I drank in the smell and the taste of it and felt the warmth slide down my throat.
OINK, I thought. I’m a pig.
The thought of getting off faded as my piss stream ended. After all, what kind of release could be better than that? I pulled my pants back on and left the bathroom stall.
I was greeted by my reflection in the mirror: all too human. A little stocky perhaps, but definitely far from a proper pig.
I was half disappointed before I remembered my shirt was entirely drenched in urine.
I left the bathroom, luxuriating in the smell of myself, and called out to the manager that I’d had a rather bad restroom accident and needed to go home and change.
“Do, and you aren’t coming back,” she said.
“Fine.”
I left, feeling the big farmer’s eyes on me as I went.
Of course, I didn’t change when I got back to my apartment. Why would I? In fact, I’d taken the opportunity on the drive home to piss myself a couple more times. I was soaked, I smelled amazing, and I wanted more.
I went online and typed PIG into the personals search. What came back was far more than I’d expected: piss pigs, sure, but also scat pigs, pain pigs, scent pigs, cum pigs, fist pigs…
Anyone can be a pig, I thought. Anyone can let go of what they think they have to do, and pig out on what they really love.
I knew what I wanted. I posted an ad inviting all men to come and give a pig some piss. I put my home address in, too, because who wants to wrestle with emails?
At first I was a little worried about the kind of guys who’d just show up to an ad like that, but after the first guy—a burly biker type—came in, crammed a fat cock in my face, and made me gulp down every drop of piss that gushed forth, I realized I didn’t care.
This was my element.
The men started arriving. I’d have three or four lined up at a time. Most wanted to use me as a urinal, making me drink down all their piss. Some were happy just to drench me in it, soaking me from head to foot. A few shoved their dicks in my ass and filled me from that end. Sometimes they’d drop a load of cum in afterwards. I didn’t care, so long as I got what I wanted.
For a while there was a lull, and I sprawled out on my couch—noticing that someone had done me the favor of soaking it and a good deal of the rest of the room—and thought of what a good pig I was. I could smell the individual scents of every man that had came through, and their tastes had merged together into a single golden river of masculinity.
I was so lost in pleasure that I didn’t even notice I was face down and slurping piss from the couch cushions until I heard a tentative knock from someone in the doorway.
The man at the door was big; he wasn’t the giant that the farmer had been, but being shorter only made him look all the more round. He waddled in the door, breathing heavily—my apartment’s up a flight of stairs—and came around to take a seat on the couch beside me.
“Hope you don’t mind if I take a load off before I share my load,” he said.
I couldn’t hide my admiration of the big man—my hands already moved to explore the sides of his massive belly as I knelt in front of him. “Fuck,” I said. “Make yourself at home. A man like you gets carte blanche with a pig like me.”
He chuckled, reaching down to rub my chin. “Looks like you’ve been having all sorts of piggy fun already. But let’s give this snout a whiff of me.”
His hand moved up the side of my face, tracing along my—
My eyes crossed as I noticed the development on my face: my nose really had grown out into a snout. And I didn’t even have time to react before the big man hooked his fingers into my nostrils and pulled my head between his legs—into the dark, humid, musky space outlined by his thighs and underbelly.
OINK, I thought. I’m a pig.
The smell was even more powerful than I expected. At first I couldn’t tell if it was because having a piggish snout meant I could breathe in so much more of the scent of piss, or if—
“You know, when your belly hangs this low, you can piss yourself a little in public and no one can tell.”
I couldn’t help myself—I buried my face deep in that crotch and suckled as much of that stale piss from the denim as I could. After a few moments, I felt a new stream forcing its way through the fabric, and I planted my mouth over it and drank as eagerly as if I’d been thirsting for days.
More guys came around after him, but it just wasn’t the same.
I needed to serve a big man, I knew it now, and I already knew who that big man had to be.
I took my ad down, waited a little while for the last of the men to finish showing up—big or not, I wasn’t going to let any man’s piss go to waste—and drove back out to the country.
Of course, I’d been taking piss all day; evening was coming on now and there was no way the farmer would still be having breakfast at the diner. However, I felt a strange sense of ‘home’ in the area, like I knew where my…where my sty was, and how to get there.
I drove down back roads as the sun started setting; I couldn’t help but stroke my piss-filled gut on the way. It felt huge and bloated, pressed against the steering wheel, and I couldn’t get over the way it jiggled—my dick was hard as I reached down to push my seat back.
And it wasn’t more than a couple of minutes before my gut was swollen out against the steering wheel again, making me feel squeezed into my seat. The pig is coming out, I thought, feeling the wet clothes plastered against my body grow tighter. OINK. I’m a plump sausage.
I saw the light of a house in the distance and somehow knew it was the farmer’s home—the place I belonged.
I pulled up and tried to turn the car off, but found my fingers wouldn’t respond. In the moonlight I could just barely make out why: I didn’t have fingers anymore, and I couldn’t figure out how to make my trotters grab hold of stuff.
I decided to leave it running. The farmer would take care of it. I opened the car door—which was a little easier, but only barely—and before I could make two steps out I tumbled onto the ground.
That was silly, I thought, as I tried to work out what’d happened. Trying to walk upright. I’m a pig.
I went on all fours to the front door of the house, feeling my belly dragging on the ground the whole way. I’m gonna be the best pig. I could probably have reached the doorbell with a bit of effort but what kind of pig would do that?
I squealed long and loud until the farmer came to the door. My master, my owner, my farmer. I couldn’t keep my eyes off him.
Like a good farmer he recognized me right away, even though I’d changed a lot since last he saw me. “Gotta love the pig,” he said, sighing a bit. “C’mon, porker. Welcome home.”
Bracken's Corner 