Hey everyone! It’s a new month, and that means there’s a brand new suggestion box open for all of my patrons at the $5 dollar level and up. Is there a story you’d like to see me write, a fetish you’d want me to focus on, or a kind of character that turns you on? Let me know! I can even take photo inspirations over on my discord channel, open for patrons only. Here’s one of the stories I wrote for patrons last month, inspired by one such photo–if this is something you’d like to get in on, sign up on my page over here at the $5 tier or higher!
It’s just a store, you try and tell yourself, but you’re still nervous all the same. The space is big–too big, and too bright and white. It’s unnatural. The smells are too clean or perhaps just non-existent, without the manure and grass you’ve become so used to lately. There are also too many people, and all of them are staring at you–some of them shake their head in disgust or shame, while others–the teenagers mostly–just point and laugh. You can understand why, of course. You’re huge, for one thing–nearly seven feet tall at this point, and almost five hundred pounds of fat and muscle hanging on your frame. The hair is the other thing–your entire chest, back and belly coated in a thick pelt of brown hair, all of it easily visible through the straps of your muddy overalls–the only clothes you wear anymore. You’re beard is tangled, your hair long and bleached a bit from the hours and hours spent out in the sun this summer. You’re only…22? 23? But you look like you’re at least forty, if not fifty now. This is the first time you’ve been inside a building other than the barn and stable in months, and even though the aisles are wide, you still feel much too confined–for the first time, you’d rather be back on the farm, in the fields doing your work, rather than…this place. A place you…swear you recognize, but finding all of those old memories is so difficult now. You suppose that’s why Master feels so confident bringing you here now.
The mobility cart he’s sitting in jolts forward, and the lead in his hand, connected to the collar around your fat, hairy neck, jerks you forward as well. “Keep up, you stupid lug–get two of those and put them in the cart.”
You look at the boxes he’s indicating, grab two, and set them in the basket in front of him, and then you continue onward–you fetching and carrying from the shelves, while Master barks orders at you in public, treating you like a slave and a idiot while everyone in town watches–and while you know the truth, but can’t say it. You can’t seem to say much of anything, anymore. You’re too afraid to speak, ever since you lost your words last week–or maybe it was the week before that. It seems like the only thing that comes out of your mouth are the grunts, loos, and squeals of the beasts to care for and sleep with back at the farm. Anything more than a simple sentence just dissolves–and the thought along with it, as soon as you start.
You hadn’t always looked like this–though you were having a harder and harder time remembering that, from day to day. You’d been young and slim and muscular–not this fat, hairy stupid beast of burden he had warped you into, starting the day you got on the farm, after taking the job offer you’d found on the internet, looking for some summer employment. Master liked to play the part of the crippled invalid, but you knew the truth–he was ancient, yes, but as a wizard, he didn’t need the cart, or even you, to get the farm work done. But centuries of power had warped him, and he’d grown bored. You were just another amusement, at the end of the day, for the old wizards perverse desires.
“Come on, you stupid thing–help me get to the bathroom. I have something I need to take care of.”
You gulp, and help him up as he feigns a limp, and help him into the restroom. This room feel even smaller than the rest of the store, with the too bright halogen lights, and the small stalls. Master goes into the handicapped stall, and tugs you in as well–to help him out.
“Get down, you fucking beast, fuck, watching you lumber around like some stupid fucking ape–you’re just an animal, you know that? You’re my fucking service animal–how does it make you feel, knowing that you’re just a simple pet now?”
He opened up the fly of his jeans, and you got down–you didn’t know if you were gonna have to suck or drink, but you knew something was coming. It was piss, first. He fired before you even had your mouth around the head of his cock, but you scrambled and recovered, only a bit of piss running down into your beard as you drank down his full bladder. Once he’d finished with that, he started fucking your face, telling you what a good service pig you were, doing such good work–that as long as you were useful, he’d keep you around for a while longer, before turning you into just another member of his livestock, and replacing you with some new fellow.
You sucked, hard, and were rewarded with a load of Master’s cum shot across your beard. You knew better than to try and clean it up–Master hated it when you showed any concern like that. He wanted you to be humiliated–and he wanted you to accept it. Your task finished, you up, Master put himself back together, but before you could make it out of the bathroom, you froze–it was coming, and out on the farm, who really cared?–but not…not here, you could stop it, you could control it…
You stumbled for the urinal, tugging on the lead, but it was too late. Piss was flooding the front of your overalls, running down your thick hairy legs, pooling in your boots and across the floor. You were just mooing in panic, like one of the bulls on the farm, horrified, but unable to stop yourself, and Master just…laughed. Laughed at your soaked overalls, and tugged you back out into the store, and kept shopping–expanding the list, just so he could make you wander around with your cold overalls, making sure everyone saw you, making sure everyone knew exactly what you were, what kind of beast you were.
At last, you left, loaded the groceries into the back of the truck, climbed into the back with them, and Master drove off, back towards the farm–back home. Back home, where a beast like you belonged.