What Would I Do To You? #5 (Roidpig)

Today is the last day of this week of flash stories! Flash commissions will be open through the rest of the month, and likely into September. If you are interested, send me a message!

You’re in good shape, but not great shape. You like working out, go three times a week (though you skip, on occasion), but do you love it. I think you could do better, be more dedicated. You could be so much better with just a little assistance. Good thing I know just how to help–this stuff is potent though, and it’s best if we introduce it to your system gradually. I don’t tell you of course–you’ve told me what you think of those guys at the gym, the ones you’ve seen injecting each other. You just don’t understand how someone could be so obsessed with themselves, that they’d use drugs to change their bodies like that. Well, I’m obsessed with yours, so I guess you’ll find out what it’s like, one way or another. So to start with, just a couple of drops in your food at each meal–aren’t I nice, making sure you have breakfast before work? Packing you a lunch? Dinner for you when you get home? So considerate.

I see the effects before you even notice them. How restless you are, around the house. I suggest you go workout some of your energy, and you think that’s a great suggestion. You’re up to five days a week at the gym, and you’re feeling–and looking–great. I up the dosage, and then you start to notice some things feel…off. You have a hard time focusing at work–sitting behind a desk for hours on end, without doing anything? It just seems…impossible now, for some reason. You take longer breaks, and workout in the midday–it helps for now, but we’ll break you of that pesky job soon enough. You feel the same restlessness at home too–I suggest you invest in equipment for a home gym–think how much you can save overtime, by skipping the membership! You see my logic, and buy a treadmill, and a set of free weight equipment–you don’t…quite recall ordering the power rack, but you must have, right? It gets used a lot, in any case–you work out so much more, now that you live where your gym is–on occasion, when you can’t sleep, I can hear you on the bench, grunting in the middle of the night.

At some point, you begin to suspect something. Is it the hair growth? The ache in your teeth? The inability to focus? Your insatiable appetite? You accuse me–and to your surprise, I admit it. You’re furious, you want to strike me, but you resist, and just tell me to get out–I leave without argument–I know you’ll come around soon.

In less than a day, you call me. You demand to know what I put in your food–now that the withdrawal symptoms have set in. It hurts, doesn’t it? The ache in your muscles, from all that exercise? You can barely move, you’re starving, you want to die. I come home, and fix you up–but I think you’ve grown past the oral dose–I prep the needle, and make sure you see it. I make you beg me for it–and I inject it into your ass. The relief is immediate–and euphoric. There’s a reason you start off easy with this stuff–if you’d injected it without any tolerance built up…well, the results would have been interesting, but not the results we want, right? Or at least, the results you want now–after our chat. You just felt so good, after getting your injection, after all, it felt so good to agree with me, and do what I say, and believe what I want you to believe. How important it is to you to workout all the time, as much as you can. How sexy you look now. How you should be thanking me, for knowing just what to do with you. You do thank me–you suck my cock like a good little roidpig, and then you go workout, like I never even left.

It’s easier, now that you’re fully onboard. You get your injections twice a day, morning and night, and after each one, we have a good chat. You’re finding it harder to think after each one–you don’t know it it’s the drug, or if it’s me telling you how stupid you’re becoming. How helpless–how you have to depend on me for everything. You realize before too long that you holding down a job at an office is hopeless–you’re too stupid to do anything like that, after all. Best for you to focus on the important thing–working out, and pleasing me.

In a month, the results have accelerated. You’re much shorter now–five foot two, the last time we measured. It’s like, as your muscles grow, they are tugging on your bones, making them shorter, and thicker. All of you is thicker, not just with muscle (though there is plenty of muscle) but also with a thick roid gut–you love it when I rub it during our chats, feeling all that bristly hair growing in. You lost a tooth the other day–and that freaked you out, until I showed you the new one growing in under it. A week later, you have one tusk poking out the side of your mouth–but it’s brother comes in soon after.

It’s your cock and balls that worried you most, though. They’re so…small. The shorter you grow, the more they seem to shrink, like they’re withering away to nothing. You ask me what’s happening to them–well, you try to ask. You keep forgetting words, more and more these days. Grunting is just so much easier, and it gets the point across, usually. During our next chat, after one of your injections, I ask you why you even need them. You don’t fuck anything–who would want an ugly best like you to fuck them at all? No–you don’t need to worry about silly things like that–you just need to worry about working out, and being a good roidpig for me. That eases your concerns, and a few weeks later, when the husk of your cock falls off your body, you bring it to me like a trophy, full of pride, and ask me–I think–if you’ll grow another one, like your new teeth. Instead, I make you forget you ever had a cock–as far as you know, you’ve never had a cock, or balls–just a hairy crotch. Not like me. I have a cock, that’s what makes me so much better than a Roidpig like you. I’m smarter than you. I’m better looking than you. You’re a freak, but that’s alright–you like being a freak, don’t you?

I take you outside sometimes, on a leash, wearing a bright red wrestling singlet. The way people stare at you, four feet tall, wider than you are tall, lumbering about, snorting with your piggy snout and tusks, licking them while you stare at all the men’s bulges at your eye level, you hungry pig. We keep you well sated–you had to do some kind of work, right? Men pay handsomely to fuck a Roidpig like you, you make more as a whore than you ever did as a office grunt, and you’re so much happier now! We both are.

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