For the next few weeks, he managed to keep the desires better under control, only pigging out on rare occasions, usually after having a bit too much to drink. Each time, he would begin with the package from the last time he changed…but each time he did, it never quite felt like enough, and so he started adding more and more filters to the package he’d been curating for himself. He gave into the snout next, but discovered that it did more than just affect him cosmetically. It was much harder to talk–his mouth just didn’t seem to be designed for human words, and it was so much easier (and so much sexier) to just lay around the house grunting, oinking and squealing his way to orgasm after orgasm. One night, in a drunken haze, he went and added a thick brass ring in his pig nose as well, and the sensation of it tugging down on the end of his snout was so hot, he went and added rings in both of his ears, and in his nipples as well. Out of curiosity one night, he decided to swap out the fat filter he’d been using for one that was even larger–and also decided to make himself a bit taller. The result was him growing to almost seven feet tall, weighing close to 600 pounds, listening to the floor creak underneath him as he lumbered to and fro, snorting, groping for his now slightly too small cock–but he fixed that too, his piggy member growing to almost ten inches long. He found a barnyard musk filter, and soon he was smelling like he’d been rolling around in muddy manure all day long–and the stink turned him on even more, made him long to be in a real puddle–longing for….someone. No matter how much he changed, though, no matter how extreme he pushed himself, something was always missing. He would turn the filters he’d used on Jean’s photo back on, and just scroll through, fantasizing about having a big, butch farmer to fuck his piggy hole, roll him around in the mud, collar him, chain him on all fours, treat him like the animal he deserved to be.
And then, in the morning, he would usually wake up with a hangover, still in his piggy form, take all the filters off, hating how…ashamed he was of this human body now, and he would go to work, and go see Jean, and just feel…miserable. He was so focused on himself, and his own strange obsession with the pig he’d begun to identify with, that he didn’t notice Jean losing patience with him. For a month or so, Jean took a softer tack. He could tell something was wrong, that as much as his boyfriend tried to tell him there wasn’t anything going on with him–he was clearly lying. Bruce was distracted and morose. He would be non-responsive, and then something minor would set off an inexplicable tirade of anger. He couldn’t read him–and he was no longer sure that he even wanted to know. Why was he putting all of this effort into a man who clearly had no real interest in being honest with him?
As Bruce found himself falling back into his obsession, he began to cling tighter to Jean as a reference point to himself, but Jean was already pulling away. Where Bruce had seemed mysterious and thoughtful, all he saw now was someone with no self-awareness, and no capacity for a mature relationship. Just as Bruce was beginning to think he could make this relationship work with Jean for the long run–Jean pulled the rug out from under him and broke up the next time they got together. He was so stunned, he didn’t know what to do about it, or what to say, or even what to feel, as Jean ran down the list of reasons why he didn’t think Bruce was ready for a relationship, and why Jean didn’t want to bother helping him learn. Bruce could only sit there, listening to Jean describe someone else. Someone he’d come to hate as well, someone he’d never understood. He just wished that he could just get away, back to his apartment where he could get drunk, turn on his filters, and be who he really wanted to be. Be the pig he was coming to think he really was, on the inside. Jean was surprised by how little push back he got from Bruce, as he explained his reasoning. He didn’t seem to care–and to Jean, that only served to cement for him that leaving him was the right decision.
Bruce left as soon as he could find an opportunity, and on the way home, everything Jean had told him just…didn’t seem to matter to him in the slightest. Maybe everything he’d said was true, maybe it wasn’t. It didn’t really matter, in the end, because all of Jean’s complaints weren’t about him, not really. They were about a man, about the man he’d been, but this had clarified something for him–Bruce didn’t want to be that man anymore. Nothing about the way he’d been made any sense to him anymore–the only time he felt complete was when he had those filters on, when he was a pig. A real pig. He knew it was impossible though. He knew he could never really be that pig, and he knew that being that pig couldn’t possibly solve all of his problems overnight. He got home, and started drinking. A few beers in, he turned on his filters and sat down on the couch, listening to it creak under his heft, groping his slimy cock and scrolling through pictures of him and Jean–and then he started digging into the app a bit further.
Underneath the settings, he found what he was looking for–reset default form. He clicked it, and a warning window popped up, telling him that if he reset his defaults, the filters he currently applied would become more detailed and fleshed out as they were fully incorporated into reality–but that once the choice was made, there was no going back. While he might be able to use other filters to get back to something close to who he’d been–it would be gone forever. His memories, too, would disappear or become faint. More like a half-remembered dream. This would be him, forever. He would finally get to be the pig he knew he wanted to be…but what if he didn’t really want this? Did it matter? He wanted it more than who he’d been, he knew that. He could always be something else, later, after all. All he really knew, was that he was done being this particular human, forever. Still, he wavered for a couple hours, and didn’t work up the courage to do it until after a few more beers. He didn’t remember much about the process–just a splitting headache, the sensation of the world twisting around him…and when it was finished, he didn’t feel…particularly different. Or at least, no different than he usually felt. Then, he passed out, snorting and snoring on the couch, and he didn’t get up until the early afternoon the next day.
Bracken's Corner 