Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 6)

~~May 3rd~~

Timmy stood in the room, where Stanta had invited him to hold their weekly progress meeting, wondering what, exactly, this was concerning. It was rather unorthodox for them to meet in Stanta’s house, and not on the floor of the workshop, where production was ramping up, so they could discuss various bottlenecks and production issues on several new toy lines the elves had developed. But he’d insisted. Stanta wasn’t even in the room at the moment–he’d ushered Timmy in, and the left, puffing on his pipe, saying he’d forgotten something. It was…suspicious, to say the least.

Stanta returned a moment later, bearing a large animal crate with him–and there, in the crate, Timmy could clearly see the small pig which until a year and a half ago had been Marty. He kept his face as cold as he could, desperate to not let any tell-tale emotion seep through. He didn’t think Stanta would have been able to get any information from either pig of that strange urinal, but he couldn’t be certain of anything. “As you recall, back in January, I confiscated some…curiosities from the elves’ workshop,” Stanta said, “I can’t say I’ve had much luck discovering much about what had happened in there. That said, I can say with some certainty that the larger pig is likely my predecessor, and this little piggy here is an elf. Am I correct in my assessment?”

He knew he couldn’t lie, but that certainly didn’t mean he needed to provide the entire truth, either. “That’s…correct.” Stanta set the crate on the floor, a few feet from where Timmy was standing. He concentrated on Stanta instead. “Is there something you’d like to discuss about that?”

“Why wasn’t I told about this?”

“Because it didn’t deem it relevant. The previous Santa was unable to serve, and I needed a replacement. Informing you at any stage of any of your predecessor’s…eventual fates would likely have deterred you from taking the position. No Santa lasts forever, and the only things which can dispose of immortals are…generally harsh. You can understand why I’d be reluctant to share that information with you.”

“That’s a rather cold calculation, Timmy,” Stanta said, “You do seem to have a penchant for sneaking behind people’s backs, and laying traps.” With that, Stanta pulled the love gun from small box he had on a table, and examined it. “This, for example. Given to my boy. Why in the world would an elf such as yourself give him something like this?”

Timmy wasn’t quite sure what to say. He’d assumed John simply hadn’t worked up the courage to use the gun–he hadn’t imagined that Stanta would have gotten his hands on it instead.

Still, Stanta didn’t need an admission of guilt. “You know, I did learn a bit about who this little piggy is, from a friend. You had such…passion for him. Why don’t we melt that cold, manipulative heart, and divert your attention to something a bit more warm, eh?”

“No! Wait, just give me a chance to explain!” Timmy shouted, but Stanta had already leveled the gun at him, coating Timmy with it’s soft pink glow. Holding down the trigger, he dragged the beam over to the boar who had been Marty, connecting the two of them together. He held the beam solid for a moment, making sure Timmy’s feelings would be sufficiently intense, and then released the trigger, allowing Timmy to move and think again.

Well, try to think, at least. He had to do something, he couldn’t let Stanta get away with this, but those concerns were overwhelmed by something else–by Marty, by that pig. How could he have been so cold? Marty was still in there, and he’d tried to deny it so much, but he couldn’t anymore–he still loved him, even more than he had as a elf. With a whimper of need, he scrambled for the door to the crate, opened it, and dragged the pig out, trying to embrace it, but the pig seemed…uninterested.

“Oh goodness, I seem to have set the gun to ‘unrequited’, silly me,” Stanta said. “Also, I can assure you Marty there doesn’t have much interest in elves–I have a feeling that if you want that little pig to love you, it’s going to require a few…changes, Timmy. Still, I’m more than happy to help,” Stanta said, walking towards Timmy, where he was trying to kiss the pig, and the pig was trying to shove him off with his trotters.

“Please…” Timmy said, but even he wasn’t sure whether it was asking Stanta to give him his free will back, or asking him to change. In any case, Stanta took his plea as the second, and laid his hand on Timmy’s head. His body began to shift immediately, his slender frame piling on layer after layer of fat. Timmy felt his mind dulling, his rationality draining away and allowing his love to become a single-minded drive, as his feet and hands became trotters, his clothes shredding apart as he grew out of them, and with the last flickers of his mind, he realized something else. He didn’t look like the same kind of pig as Marty–while Marty was a hairy, muscular boar with a huge cock, Timmy was soft, hairless and flabby, with four rows of teats running down his belly. Worse, he felt his cock and balls shrink until they were just nubs, and a new, gaping pussy opened up below them. Marty took one sniff of Timmy’s new cunt, and could tell this sowboi was in heat–Timmy was more than happy to go onto all fours, and allow his new boar to mount him, driving in deep, the pleasure washing all of his other concerns away.

Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 5)

~~April 26th~~

He’d fucked up–he knew that. But the simple fact was, John hadn’t been able to take it anymore. He…wasn’t even sure who he was anymore. It was the middle of March, when his father had picked up a renewed interest in John, after close of a month of paying him almost no attention at all–and from that first day, when he’d taken on a new form…John had known something was different with Stanta. He had never been particularly jolly, of course, but when he’d laid eyes on John that next time, he’d become an old painpig–obese, coated in metal, hair and tattoos, begging for pain and abuse. But inside–unlike the last times–John had still been inside there, and Stanta had known it, had taunted him with the knowledge that he knew John was in there and he didn’t care. That he wanted him to suffer.

John couldn’t think of anything he’d done to deserve such treatment, and in fact, he hadn’t been guilty of anything at all–but punishing him had been convenient. After his discussions with Santapig, Stanta had been furious. Furious with Timmy. Furious with that little pig who had been Marty. So furious in fact that, with Santapig watching gleefully, he’d destroyed every remnant of Marty’s old self still residing in that pig body, as Santapig had requested. After all, Timmy didn’t have to know what he’d done to use the pig as leverage, if he needed it, and having any chunk of Marty still hanging around was much too large a risk for him. So furious at himself, for being sucked into this entire mess, for bringing his son here, the son he’d always hated. It wasn’t surprising that, after a few weeks of that treatment, John had snapped.

Pushing through the persona, he’d gone for the love gun Timmy had left him, and threatened his father with it. He hadn’t pulled the trigger, however, and Stanta had, after disarming him, beaten him even harder, and made John tell him everything that had happened, leading up to him getting the gun, and he had–everything about his strange encounter with Timmy on the porch, and the gift left the next day for him. After Stanta was satisfied, he’d locked John in this room again, where he was still sitting, weeks later. He’d returned to himself at this point, close to a week ago, now, but his father hadn’t returned to check up on him. So here he was, naked on his small bed, wondering what, exactly, his daddy would do to punish him–because that was the one thing he was certain would happen.

But today was different than the other days–today, he heard the lock on the door falling away–apparently his isolation was over, and his punishment was about to commence. He braced himself for whatever he might become when Stanta laid eyes on him after opening the door–he was certain it wouldn’t be anything good. But it wasn’t Stanta who opened the door. Instead, John found himself looking at a massive pigman, standing upright on two trotter-like feet, staring at him with tiny dark, greedy eyes, and with a lurch, he felt his body shifting around him.

A pig? Who in the world was this? He remembered seeing Stanta bringing those two pigs back with him from the workshop months ago, but…what in the world had he done to them? Was he going to become a pig too, thanks to the amulet? He looked down at himself, expecting the worst, but was somewhat surprised to see that he wasn’t losing his human features. He was shrinking slightly, and growing a sizable gut coated with white hair, with a thick white beard as well. He himself looked a bit Santa-esque, but he wasn’t Santa–his name…his name was Claude?

It was similar to what had happened when Timmy had seen him on the porch–he wasn’t simply assuming a form, he was assuming an identity along with it–one which was…slightly warped, it seemed, as his cock engorged itself, growing over a foot long and as thick as a two liter bottle, the pigman (Santa, his new mind told him, but this pig couldn’t be Santa, could it?) started drooling at the sight. “I’ve…*grunt* missed you more than I even realized,” the pig said, walking into the room and embracing John, “Claude…fuck, I thought I’d lost you forever.”

“Shut up you pig–I’ve missed you too, and that hole of yours,” John heard himself say, and then shove the pig over the side of the bed, lined his huge cock up with his hole, and slid into him with a long shudder of pleasure, and…and love. Not true love, some strange, warped desire that was close enough to fill in the void, but one which felt…so dirty, to him. John fucked the pig’s filthy hole, disgusted by the sensation, but the pig was pushing back, eager to be filled to the brim. John looked over and saw Stanta in the doorway, watching the scene with a stony face, waiting for them to finish–which took about half an hour. John slid out after he’d shot a massive load of cum deep into Santapig’s bowels, and then the pig whirled around, got down and started cleaning off the massive cock, grunting and snorting while he did, and John looked to his father. “Dad, I–”

“John, you made a mistake, but not an unforgivable one. But my friend here…has been very helpful to me, over the last month or so, and he deserves a reward. That’s going to be you, for the next several months.”

“But–”

Stanta walked over, and put a finger to his son’s lips. “You’re still mine–don’t forget that. He’s merely…borrowing you, right pig?”

There was a disgruntled sound made around John’s big cock, and he felt it bob, as Santapig nodded, reluctantly.

“I have business to settle, and I can’t have you getting in the middle of it. Once it’s settled…” he paused, “I’ll try harder too. I promise. To be the father for you I never was. But for now, I need you to do this, for me, understand?”

John nodded. All in all, it wasn’t that bad, right? He got a cute piggy ass to plow whenever he wanted, right? He was less enthused, when Stanta made them move into Santapig’s room with that…creepy urinal attached to the wall, but he knew, without a doubt, it could have been much, much worse.

A Family’s Legacy (2 of 2)

That summer, the father noticed an improvement in his son’s temperament and commitment to the family legacy. He worked out less, took a greater interest in his father’s business, and that summer, accepted an unpaid internship at his father’s suggestion. Of course, he still worked out quite regularly, but he accepted some of his father’s other advice–taming that hair of his and making it a more conservative style. Pruning back the wild beard he wore, though he insisted on keeping at least a small goatee. But a week before he was set to leave for college, his father discovered something…disturbing on his son’s computer–a very large stash of porn. Gay porn.

No–no, this would not stand. A great family required an heir, after all. He resolved to demand answers from his son, to send him for counseling if he needed it, but the time never felt…right. His son went off to college, only to return for Thanksgiving with a young woman on his arm–and assurances from both of them that his son was very much interested in her, both romantically and sexually. He thought his fears unfounded, and after he’d returned to school, he realized he’d kept the folder of porn on his own computer. He went to delete it…but instead, found himself…looking through it, curious. The photos were all of rather chubby, hairy men–ages ranging from their young twenties to early fifties. James found himself unable to comprehend how his son could have found anyone like this attractive–and found himself equally unable to explain why he, now, was masturbating to the images and videos every night.

His son excelled in college, and with each success, James seemed to suffer setbacks and distractions. The spring of his son’s freshman year, James could no longer resist his new desires–he began going out at night incognito, cruising bars and parks, sucking off men, letting them fuck him–the fatter the better. He found himself disgusting. He could barely look at himself in the mirror, he was so aghast at the state of his soul–and at the state of his body. He’d let himself go to pot, over the years, he realized. His singular focus on work and family had left him middle aged and closing in on 300 pounds. No–that he wouldn’t let happen.

So that summer, while his son toiled away at two unpaid internships, saving an hour a week to date his girlfriend, his father found himself toiling away in the gym. He’d hoped it would prove to be a distraction from his new obsession with sucking cock, but working out only seemed to make him…hornier. He began collecting pictures and videos of his own, expanding his son’s collection, finding his tastes drifting in a certain…grungier direction. Unkempt beards, musk, armpits, big cocks, dirty asses. He was down to 250, and was looking beefy. He’d decided to grow out a beard, but hadn’t kept it well trimmed. His hair had gone wild as well, but something about it–he liked it.

Then, someone caught him. The tabloids made his life hell, and the board removed him immediately. His severance was…substantial, but without work, James–or Jimmy, as he was calling himself these days, when he introduced himself to the big men he thought about constantly–found he only had two things left he wanted to do: have sex, and work out. His son came home that next summer, and announced his engagement. Jimmy was happy for him, but all he could think about was…how handsome, his son had become, in just two years. He’d packed on a good amount of weight, and he seemed so…powerful. Confident. James was all too happy to let his faggot father beg for his cock, of course. He’d have to keep his failure of a father well under control, if the family was going to survive his massive fuckups. Still, James the Third had no doubt he’d be able to rise to the challenge. The Wilheim line would ascend–just like his father had always wanted.

A Family’s Legacy (1 of 2)

“It’s a fucking embarrassment, is what it is. I mean, if I’d known this was how he would turn out, I would have made that bitch give me two, before booting her sorry ass out of my house.” James Willheim the Second, chuckled over his lunch, before wiping his mouth with his napkin, taking another bite, and continuing. “Still, you should fucking see him. I tried to tell myself that it was just a phase, that it was good to have a son interested in athletics, but I barely fucking got him into college as a legacy, his grades were so poor! Really, I’m just embarrassed that he even has my name, we’re so different.”

“Well, you could always get a new wife, couldn’t you? Try again?”

“In my fifties? I suppose so. Hell, maybe two girlfriends, and I’ll marry whichever gives me a better boy than this one!”

The men around the table chuckled, and chatter turned to other subjects–their businesses, their plans for the coming summer on Martha’s Vineyard. But James’s thoughts still turned to his son, James Willheim the Third, and to what a disgrace he was turning out to be. The Willheim line was supposed to be ascendant–his son was supposed to be the pinnacle, the one who pushed them into real wealth and power. Instead, he’d gotten a dud. All his son seemed interested in doing was lifting weights, playing sports, and running off at nights to do who knew what around town–drinking and carousing most likely. Still, he’d never once brought a woman home–something which also…unsettled him. It wasn’t that he couldn’t tolerate a certain level of…rebelliousness. It was that somethings had to be more important than one’s own selfish desires. Your family’s legacy, for instance.

The men finished their business lunch, paid the bill, and left. James ended up at the back of a group, and as he walked down the city sidewalk, a hand reached out, grabbed his cuff, and stopped him. It was attached to an old man, bent over on the sidewalk–a beggar, most likely. He raised his eyes–they were a pure, milky white.

“You shall have the son you desire, in time. But that which is given, cannot be kept. That which is removed, must be received.”

James gave a tug, but the man’s frail arm was surprisingly strong. After a harder yank, he managed to lurch away, and carried on with his day–but the encounter…haunted him. He returned home, and discovered his son was asleep in his bed–James too, felt an oddly crushing fatigue weighing on him. He made his way to bed early as well, and slept, the man’s words repeating their way through both their dreams.

12 Months ‘til Christmas (Part 4)

~~March 12th~~

Stanta had named them Big Pig, Little Pig, and Urinal, for lack of better names. He hadn’t been quite sure what, exactly, he was going to do with them all once they were at him house–in all honesty, he’d been more interested in keeping them out of the elves’ hands since they had seemed so interested in keeping them away from Stanta. The question then, was: Why? What in the world was so dangerous about two rutting pigs and a urinal in a messed up workshop that it had been worth locking them all up inside? He’d had a pretty good guess, after the first week–it didn’t have anything to do with what they were–it was about who they all had been.

Stanta, after all, had been recruited under rather quick and shady circumstances. It begged the question of what, exactly, had happened to his predecessor. Timmy hadn’t mentioned anything about him to Stanta, not that he’d really thought to ask much, either. In any case, he didn’t think he could really trust Timmy to deliver him the truth anyway. That meant he’d just have to try and figure out what happened himself–but thankfully, he seemed to have two eye witnesses right here in the room with him. Well, three–but Urinal didn’t have enough of a mind remaining to even try reviving. Whatever had happened to him, there was no fixing it. For the two pigs, however, there was hope, and after a couple weeks of research in the library he’d found in the house, he thought he’d give it a try.

All that was left, then, was to decide which pig he wanted to talk to first. Chances were, Little Pig was an elf. It was probably the elf who’s workshop had been boarded up by the others. Big Pig was a…bigger curiosity. Chances were, Big Pig was the previous Santa…but that brought up some concerns. If the last Santa came back, would he want his old position back? Stanta had read through the contract, and found that even if an old Santa returned, he wouldn’t have any claim to his old position–unless something happened to Stanta in the meantime, which made him unable to perform his duties. In any case, he’d need to be careful, but the risk, in his mind, was worth it. If he was going to figure out what was going on up here, he’d need the story straight from the Santapig’s mouth–assuming that was, in fact, who this pig was.

He grabbed Little Pig by the collar and dragged him over to a small cage, locking him up. Big Pig wasn’t very happy about that–but the fucker wasn’t ever very happy without a cock inside him. Still, maybe with more of a mind, he’d be able to control himself a bit better. Stanta laid his palm on the pig’s forehead, like the book had instructed, and felt the pig freeze. Stanta focused–it was a lot harder fixing things in someone’s head than it was breaking them, and he also didn’t want to fix too much. Still, he started unravelling the pig in him, letting the human surface again–and much to Stanta’s surprise, some of the man’s physical form began to revert as well. The full pig snout retracted until it was much shorter, with a mostly human mouth capable of speech, his trotters becoming somewhat functional hands, the bones in his body shifting until he could, with some effort, push himself up and balance on his back trotters. Big Pig shook his head, and looked around–then looked at Stanta. “Well fuck–guess that means I’m out of a job then.”

So that was one suspicion confirmed. Stanta shrugged, “I’d offer to give it back, but I’m growing a bit fond of it, I must say. The name’s Stanta.”

“Alright, and to what do I owe the pleasure? Last I remember, I was…it was Christmas? What year is it?”

“March, 2016.”

“Fuck, seriously? It’s been over a year? Those little, manipulative fucks!”

Stanta waved a chair into exist, behind Santapig, as he figured he’d be calling him from now on, and motioned for him to sit. “I think I’d like to hear your story, if you don’t mind.”

Santapig sat down, and crossed his flabby arms. “Yeah? But then you have to do something for me. I want you to find Claude for me.”

“Claude? Who’s Claude? Is that the other pig?” Stanta said, looking over at the small one squealing in the cage.

Santapig shook his head. “No, that’s fucking Marty. Do whatever the fuck you want with him…just don’t…let him fuck me anymore. I feel dirty enough already. No, Claude was my…Mr. Claus. They couldn’t just send him away, not as an immortal. So he has to be here somewhere.”

Stanta looked over at the urinal, another piece of the puzzle sliding into place. “I think…I may have found him already.”

Santapig followed his eyes to the urinal hanging on the wall, where the tail had reattached itself to the pipes in the walls. His eyes went wide, and he got up from the chair and went over to him. “No…No, it can’t…You can’t be fucking serious! Bring him back!”

He shook his head. “There’s nothing left. It was…messy, whatever happened to him.”

Santapig clung to the Urinal for a bit, trying to deny it, but…but he could tell. The face was featureless, but he’d rested his head on this chest enough times to recognize it, rubber coated or not. “You can’t trust them. Not for a moment. Not after what they did to me–to us. And him!” He said, whirling on Little Pig in the cage, “I want him gone. Dead, banished, I don’t care. He’s the one who did all of this, who started all of this. As long as he’s here, you’re never going to be safe.”

Stanta considered a moment, but told Santapig he’d wait until he’d heard his story. So they sat down, and he learned what had happened the prior years, ever since Marty had decided to take matters into his own hands and change Christmas forever. One thing Stanta knew, was that he wasn’t safe–not nearly. Especially with Marty here, and Timmy as head elf. The pig was right–he’d have to dispose of him at some point–but if Timmy still harbored feelings for him, then he might also be leveraged. In any case, he should try and make the first move. If he did nothing, then he’d only be playing defense–and the elves had proven themselves…rather capable of dealing with Santas so far. It was time for Santa Claus to be back in charge around here, and Stanta figured he was just the one to make that happen.

12 Months ‘til Christmas (Part 3)

~~February 20th~~

John was on the back porch of the house, naked as usual, but not feeling the cold wind against his skin. Not thinking about much at all, really, just…remembering. Thinking back, to that first night, with his…father…

It was so confusing, trying to understand what had happened. His father had died last year, hadn’t he? And yet, when that strange, fucked up Stanta had appeared in that house, with him and his brothers…he’d known, somehow, that this man was his father. Stanta hadn’t wanted to talk about this, the few times John had managed to clear his head enough to bring it up. Usually John didn’t have much attention for these sorts of things, because the pendant around his neck had kept him rather…preoccupied.

That first week or so, while the elves had been resting, he’d remained his father’s innocent little cub the entire time. Everything had felt so new, and exciting, and while Stanta had enjoyed it for a few days, he’d grown bored with his inexperience, and begun pushing him harder and further than that persona (John wasn’t sure that was the right word, but it was the one he’d used to separate out the various forms he’d taken over the last two months) had been able to take. Finally, disgusted by him, Stanta had dumped him in a back guest room and told John that he didn’t want to lay eyes on him until he was back to himself. At first, John–as that cub–hadn’t known what he meant. He tried to get out, but Stanta had locked him inside. John had worried he might starve, but the gift of immortality made that a laughable concern. So he sat, alone, and felt himself begin to return, bit by bit. The pendant, it seemed, would maintain a persona once created, but if he was alone, he would slowly revert back to his original body and mind–thankfully.

Once he was normal again, Stanta had been willing to see him again–and this time, he was the same cub…somewhat. Just much, much more experienced. Tattoos all over his body, cock permanently locked and pierced, he’d desired nothing more than to serve his daddy’s every perverse whim, but Stanta had tired of that even faster–and when John had been sent back to the room, he’d returned to himself faster as well.

In this way, he’d begun to discover some of the rules of the amulet. If Stanta saw him when he was normal, he’d change into whatever he desired at the moment. The longer he was in a persona, the longer it took him to return to normal, once he was isolated. Figuring this out, at least, helped him feel like he had a measure of control, even though he had none at all.

He’d been through a few other personas at this point–all of them equally unsuccessful, and he was back to himself, now, for a moment. Stanta no longer locked him in the room, but he’d told John he wasn’t ready to see him yet. In fact, he hadn’t seen Stanta much at all, the last few weeks, ever since he’d come back from the workshop with those two pigs and that rubber thing, and taken them down into the basement with him. So here he sat, perfectly comfortable in temperatures of thirty below, staring into the endless dark of winter (well, there was a peek of sun now, but just a peek) above the arctic circle, wishing he could stop loving his captor. Wishing he knew what Stanta wanted. Wishing he could just be…perfect, for him.

In the wind, he didn’t hear the crunch of footsteps approaching around the side of the house–an elf. It didn’t occur to him to be concerned, when he saw the small figure, until he felt the amulet heat up, signalling a change. A new rule then: when he was normal, he’d change when anyone saw him, not just Stanta. He felt himself shrinking–much more than when he’d become that cub–until he was about three and a half feet tall, but with substantial muscle and a short full beard. The elf came closer, stopped like he recognized him, and his jaw dropped. John knew his name, somehow–Timmy. And he…his name was…Marty? His head felt fuzzy, like it usually did, when under the amulet’s effects, especially at first–he beckoned Timmy closer, and said, “I…never meant any of those things I said, Timmy. I always wanted you–so come…come and get it…”

Timmy did. The two of them fucked on the back porch for nearly two hours, until they’d both come multiple times, and John’s head began to clarify slightly, and he could pull away. Timmy, too, stepped back, cheeks flaring red, unable to believe what he’d just done. He’d…known that this wasn’t Marty, but fuck, just seeing him there…

“I’m sorry, I didn’t…” Timmy started to say.

“Don’t. It’s alright. I wanted you to,” John said, “I mean, I…it’s this amulet. Stanta is forcing me to wear it, I can’t really…stop.”

“I just wanted to introduce myself is all. I suppose this was a bit more than an introduction,” Timmy said, “I’m Timmy.”

“Right–the…second in command, right? I’m M–…John…” He said, finding it very hard to get his real name out, and not say “Marty” instead.

Timmy looked at him a bit odd. “No I’m head elf.”

“Oh I thought I was…” John said, and then realized his memories had gotten crossed, and shook his head. “Sorry, I can’t always…separate these thoughts apart. Who is Marty? Is he another elf?”

“I…don’t really want to talk about it,” Timmy said, “I just wanted to make sure you were settling in alright, but it looks like…do you need help?”

John shook his head, “No, I…I want him to love me. It’s complicated. Just…just let us be. You should leave, and let me change back. If he finds out someone else changed me, he’ll want to know who, and you might not want him asking those things. He’s…already suspicious of you.”

Timmy was more than happy to get back to the workshop, trying to sort out what had just happened. He thought he’d set Marty aside. He thought he’d been able to forget about it, but apparently he was never going to be over it. But could…could he really…be Marty? Did it really matter? He could be whatever Timmy wanted him to be, couldn’t he? Timmy hadn’t really gone there to simply introduce himself, after all–he’d been looking for information, or a weakness…and he may very well have found one.

The next day, John returned to the porch, no longer Marty–that one had only lasted a few hours, but it was…strange. He’d…known things, about that elf. Things from his own mind, and he still knew them. Not all of them good things, either. But there, on the stoop, was a wrapped present, with his name on the tag. He opened it, and found a small toy gun inside, and a short note. A love gun, apparently. John took it inside and stashed it in his room. He couldn’t use something like that, could he? No…no, that would be…wrong. But his father had made him fall in love with him–was it really so unjust if he returned the favor?

Spray

WARNING: FILTH AND SCAT AHEAD!

The bathhouse wasn’t a place you went often. Only when you got…particularly horny, and were craving something a bit more crazy. Not too crazy, mind you–you’d seen some of the things the men there got into, especially down in the basement. That wasn’t for you, you told yourself. You liked things clear, though you liked a little rough on occasion. But that night, something went askew, didn’t it?

You’d liked him, as soon as you’d seen him. A bit grungy, a bit of a rebel. That mohawk, that…dirty jock he was wearing. He was willing to throw you around, push you up against walls, willing to take it from you too. The two of you wrestling around on the concrete, a few other men watching the scene, curious if there was a chance of joining in. He got you on your knees, and you were expecting to suck cock–instead, he slipped his cock free of his jock, aimed, and sprayed you with a blast of piss. The force of it stunned you–like someone with their thumb over a garden hose. You were soaked in a second. You couldn’t escape the smell, the taste, the thrill of it. You’d never once imagined you might enjoy a scene like this, but as the men circled around you and hoed you down, you found your…mind shifting.

You swore to yourself it was a one time thing, as you walked home in street clothes, your skin still damp and reeking. You didn’t shower when you got home however–you laid down in the tub and jacked off to your stench, and then pissed all over yourself for good measure. After that, the bathhouse became a…regular activity for you, didn’t it? You just couldn’t quite find anywhere else that made you feel the same. You tried to keep away from watersports at first, but as soon as anyone caught a whiff of you, they knew what you really wanted. You felt so…ashamed, walking home, dripping with piss. Knowing that everyone who passed by could tell what you wanted, what you were. But while the shame never faded, you found yourself…enjoying it. You wanted people to know what you were, it made you harder than a gut full of secondhand beer.

You didn’t see him for almost a year. You never even realized you were looking for him, until you saw him again. The lump in your throat–was it fear, or thrill? It was too late to move to another room, he’d already seem you there, in the basement corner–what had come to be known as your “spot” when you were there. You sucked him off for a bit, drank his piss down too, but you could…sense something coming. He spun around, bent over, and before you could do much more than blink, he sprayed the contents of his ass all over your face and chest–and like the piss before…it was more than you could take, more than your mind could possibly handle, and remain whole.

Now here you are, in your corner. You almost never leave the building now–most men only see you as an it, a thing, a toilet, a trashcan, a repository for their shame. He’s over there, your creator. Some man is desperate to fuck his hole–a new top, apparently. Were you unlucky, to have been made into this thing? Could you have been fated to be something else? The man’s in balls deep now, and you’re licking your scummy lips. He’ll feed you, after this–he’ll want you to taste his new creation, right from his own ass. You wish you weren’t hard, you wish you weren’t cumming at the thought of the frothy, cummy shit you’d be feasting on soon, but that you is long gone now, and won’t ever be coming back, not after your taste of this life.

Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 2)

January 2nd

It had been a relaxing week of rest, for the elves and Stanta Claus, who had spent much of the week in bed with John, as the chubby, cubby slut he’d become at the moment. The mirror pendant was capable of changing someone’s mental and physical form, but it needed time to recharge between each use–anywhere from several days, to even weeks–and John had resigned himself to the fact that, for the time being, he was stuck as a horny, desperate cub, his holes aching for cock at all hours of the day–and Stanta was all too happy to keep him satisfied, even though he told him, regularly, that while he enjoyed John’s slutty ways, this wasn’t a man he could love.

Still, it was time to get back to work. The elves were back in the workshop, toying around with old projects, putting together research and development groups, planning for next year’s logistics and reexamining last year’s weak points and production gaps. From January to March, little was done in the way of actual production–this was the chance for the elves and Stanta to plan for the coming year–and Stanta, in particular, needed to get caught up on the details of his new position, and that meant he needed a grand tour, which Timmy was providing. The two of them were up on the catwalks overseeing the workshop, and Timmy was discussing Stanta’s role as director–his primary duty being to construct the list of deliveries for the next year–while the head elf generally took on the position of production overseer–but Stanta wasn’t really paying close attention. Instead, he found himself focusing on the elves below.

Their looks up at him were often. He made them nervous, that much was clear. It was understandable, he supposed–even Stanta found his new appearance disturbing when he caught a glance of himself in a mirror, and didn’t expect it. Still, there was something else in the air as well, hanging over the entire place like a fog–more than unease, there was deception here, he could sense it. He caught more than one elf glancing at him and Timmy, and then at a door along the far wall–a door with a sizable padlock, and no handle. A door which, he wasn’t even sure he was “supposed” to have noticed. It was along the wall with several other private workshops for various elves in managerial roles, like Timmy, but it had no name hung on the front like the others. “Whose workshop is that?” he asked, interrupting Timmy’s monologue, and he pointed to the locked door.

“That’s not a workshop–it’s just storage,” Timmy said, but while it wasn’t a lie–Stanta had found his capacity for catching falsehoods to have skyrocketed with his new position–he could tell from Timmy’s sudden nervous glance that it wasn’t the entire truth.

“What are you storing inside? It seems odd that you’d have a room for storage in line with all the other workshops on that wall, don’t you think? I’d like to have a look.”

Without waiting for a reply, Stanta dropped down from the catwalks and crossed the floor of the workshop, Timmy racing after him, trying to divert his attention with excuses. The work on the floor had ceased–further confirming his suspicions. Still, Timmy wasn’t worried. That lock was his own design–no one could open it without the key–but Stanta held it in his hand, gave a light tug, and the padlock popped open without the slightest protest. The elves all turned to look at Timmy, whose jaw had dropped. All Santas had the ability to, say, unearth truths and secrets, but none of the Santas Timmy had worked with would have been able to pop open that lock–or at least not with such ease. This…did not bode well. He hurried his own pace, trying to catch up before Stanta could get inside, but–curse his tiny legs!–Stanta opened the door wide and stepped inside, where he found a destroyed workshop and two pigs rutting amongst the mess.

“I see,” Stanta said, as Timmy caught up to him in the doorway, “A rather odd thing to be storing, wouldn’t you say?”

“It’s complicated, and I can explain, but–”

“Shut up, Timmy,” Stanta said, and Timmy felt his mouth clamp up tight. Stanta sighed, and walked over to the pigs as they fucked, and laid a hand on each of them for a moment. They had been…people, it would seem, but who was a bit of a mystery. The animals in each of them had pushed most everything else out. One, the hog getting fucked, was nearly twice the size as the boar fucking him–though the boar’s cock was nearly a foot long. Still, there was something else in here, or perhaps, someone else. He looked around, but the entire room was a mess–still, one thing stood out to him, hanging on the wall–what looked like a human head and torso, the mouth misshapen into a funnel, and hung…quite low on the wall. A urinal for an elf, he supposed, though looking at it, it was clear the pigs had been using it as well, to some extent. He touched the flithy surface, and felt something stir within–some other poor soul, even further destroyed than the two pigs. Still, whatever had happened here, he knew he couldn’t trust Timmy to give him a full answer. “I think the tour’s over, for now,” Stanta said, “I’ll be confiscating a these for some personal research,” he added, grabbed the urinal, and tugged it free from the wall. The pipe, sticking out of the thing’s ass, began to wriggle wildly, like it was alive–he bound it up in a hand, and tucked the thing under his arm. With his other hand, he gave a wave, and two leashes flung from his leather wristband, securing themselves around the necks of both hogs. Timmy watched, still unable to speak, as Stanta dragged them both out of the room, and back to his house. A moment later, his mouth opened up again, and Timmy found the elves all staring at him, and muttering to one another.

This, Timmy knew, wasn’t good. A Santa this strong…Timmy hadn’t wanted to resort to the old tricks which had plagued the last few years and created so much strife, but if Stanta got the wrong idea, then Timmy was going to have to figure out some way to control him, for the sake of Christmas itself. He gathered the elves together, to discuss their options and, and consider contingencies. Still, if Stanta was as powerful an incarnation as he appeared to be, Timmy wasn’t quite sure there was much any of them could do, should Stanta come to the conclusion that the elves were his enemies.

Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 1)

December 25th, Last Year

As confident as Timmy had tried to appear, when he was sending Stan off in the sleigh for his first Christmas, the truth was, he was dreadfully, horribly, nervous that something was going to go awry, and he spent much of the night staring at the massive clock in the midst of the workshop, counting down the last few hours to Christmas Day. The truth was, the contract…wasn’t quite as airtight as it might seem. If Stan felt he had been deceived in some way, or if he had come to believe that the presents the elves had fashioned weren’t fulfilling their purpose, there was a chance that this Christmas would be considered null and void…and when the clock struck zero…well, none of them would exist–or if his ploy worked, they’d all live on to another Christmas next year. Hopefully, Stan had remained none the wiser. When he got to the end of the night, if he had a conscience left, he would likely leave service, which was fine. That at least gave Timmy time to find yet another Santa for next year. The rest of the elves could sense his anxiety, and all eyes were on the clock as it ticked down, and neither Santa, nor the sleigh, had returned. That didn’t mean he’d failed, of course, but it didn’t help any of their anxiety. The clock at last struck zero, and every elf held their breath…until the entire device clicked, and reset–365 days and counting. Christmas had been a success–now all Timmy had to find out was what kind of success it had been.

It was another hour before the lookouts spotted Rudolph’s glowing cockhead in the storm clouds to the south. After a few minutes, they were able to confirm that there was indeed someone in the sleigh–it seemed that the beacon had chosen well–if Stan was returning, then that meant he must have…enjoyed some part of the entire exercise. Probably quite a bit of it, Timmy hoped. The sleigh banked around, but there was no celebratory “Ho, Ho, Ho!” like the previous incarnation, just steely silence and the ripping wind. The reindeer landed along the runway and slid to a halt–and Stanta hauled himself up, grabbed his nearly empty sack and the rubber bag containing his son, John, and dragged them out of the sleigh, into the calf high snow.

The elves were all agape. They’d…expected Stan to undergo a few changes along his first journey–after all, that was what they had planned. What they hadn’t expected was how extreme their new Santa would become in a single night. In fact, they’d never seen a Santa quite so…well decorated, before. Stanta stomped his way through the snow, over towards the cleared area where it was easier to walk, pipe smoke and steam streaming from his pierced nose, his huge, tattooed belly hanging down over the waist of his chaps, but not low enough to hide his massive, many times pierced cock, and pendulous sack. As he moved, the clatter of metal almost rang like sleigh bells, heard at a distance. His beard, rather than the usual pure white, looked more like freeway snow–a dingy brown, tinged with yellow around his mouth, his eyes hollowed and slightly sunken. He looked haunted. He looked…furious.

He dropped the sacks, one of them squirming, and walked up to Timmy, glaring down at the little elf. “I believe you have a contract I need to sign, Timmy.”

The words came out almost as a growl. With a gulp, Timmy conjured forth the contract–Stanta swearing to fulfill his obligation as the North Pole’s new Santa Claus for as long as he was willing and able–and then, after scrawling his signature, he grabbed Timmy by the leather collar, and hauled him up to eye level, snorting smoke in his face.

“For the record, I do not take kindly to being tricked. I…understand, with hindsight, why your ploy was necessary, but do not think it is forgotten, or forgiven, elf,” Stanta muttered. To Timmy, inches from his mouth, each word was a slap, but the rest of the elves heard nothing over the whistle of the constant wind around them. “I will not tolerate such antics ever again–not without due punishment. Is that clear?”

Timmy nodded, and Stanta dropped him to the snow. “Yes…sir. I’m sorry,” Timmy said. “If I….had had other options, trust me when I say I would have taken them/” He stood up, brushing off the snow, “I…hope your first trip was…pleasant, at least.”

Stanta took a long drag off his pipe, and exhaled into the dark air “It was enlightening.” His look of anger had diminished somewhat, “I do…thank you, Timmy. For giving me this chance. I appreciate it in ways I’m only beginning to understand.” He looked out at the other elves, their jaws gaping at his new appearance, “So now what? I hope we all get a day of rest, at least,” he said, grabbing his sacks, and heading for his home, “I could use some quiet time, with a project.”

“I’ll, uh, come meet with you in a couple of days, to discuss production plans for next year then!” Timmy shouted after him, but he wasn’t sure Stanta had heard, or cared. The massive man just tromped up to his door, flung it open, dragged in his things, slammed it shut behind him, and locked it. Timmy breathed a sigh of relief–that could have gone much worse. The elves, satisfied and exhausted, retreated to their own lodgings, for a bit of rest themselves.

Inside the house, Stanta grabbed the sack containing the still squirming John, opened it up, and shook his boy out onto the floor in a heap. The man, in his early forties, looked up at Stanta, at his father, at his captor, at the man he inexplicably loved and desired…and cowered, his ass still sore from the fucking a few hours prior. “Please…dad, I–”

“Shut up, John. You wanted my love, well you’re going to have to fucking earn it. You can start…hmmm…” he said, and rummaged around in his sack, examining the knicknacks which remained–found something useful, and pulled it out. A small square mirror, about an inch on each side, tied up in leather cord into a pendant and necklace. He tossed it to John, who, stared at it. “You can start by at least looking like someone I might be interested in loving, you sad sack.”

John was captivated by the reflection in the mirror–it wasn’t clear at all, and swirled around, like it was waiting for direction before forming. “I…what is this?” he asked.

“Put it on, boy. And don’t take it off, until I tell you otherwise.”

John found himself slipping it over his head, and the pendant came to rest on his bare chest, and as soon as his father looked at him again, he felt…a pulse, from the small mirror. He was reflecting something, becoming a reflection of something from his father–it was difficult to describe, but looking down at himself, he was changing. Growing younger, a bit shorter, his already pudgy body inflating further until he had a soft gut and wide ass…perfect for fucking, yeah, fuck! He looked at Stanta’s massive cock hanging from under his gut, and felt a strange stirring of desire, but also…also fear. He was just an innocent little cub, he’d never been with a daddy like this before–he’d never been with a daddy at all.

Stanta looked at the quaking cub standing in front of him, a bit surprised himself. The amulet turned whoever wore it into reflections of what the people who saw him desired, and while he’d wanted a cub, he hadn’t necessarily wanted one so…inexperienced. Then again, it might be fun, breaking in a new, tight hole. He stepped forward, bent down and gave the boy a smoky kiss, feeling him shudder with need, the boy’s small cock nearly blowing from his first taste of a proper daddy. Not someone he could love, of course–but a nice reward for his first successful night as Stanta. “Come on, boy, Daddy’s gonna give you your Christmas present in the bedroom.” Knowing this was wrong, knowing it was all wrong, John took his daddy’s hand as he was led back into the house, but the ache in his heart hadn’t stopped. He wanted this man’s love–he needed it, and he’d earn it, somehow. He had to. Maybe…maybe he wasn’t worthy of it yet, but this year, this long year, he’d prove himself, somehow. He could feel it.

Think Bit To Be Big (2 of 2)

This isn’t me. This isn’t me. I have to focus on that, I have to remember that. If I can just…get out of here, if I can just focus on that, and leave without…without any of them suspecting anything, maybe I can get away.

How long have I been coming here? Six months? This seems impossible–there’s just…just no way, I could look like this, not in that short amount of time. I’m a fuckin’ beast! Yeah, fuck, look at those fuckin’ meaty ass thighs on me–gotta get back out there, it’s fuckin’ leg day, ‘n I gotta get big!

No! Fuck, I almost went out there again, but I have…to stay in here. Collect myself, calm down, and focus. I’m not like this. I’m not one of them. God, I can’t believe I’m wearing fucking camo shorts, like some fucking hick or something. The goatee doesn’t help either or the hat. And…and does this shirt say West Virginia? I’m not…from West Virginia, am I? But why do I…fuck, everything’s so hazy in my head, I don’t know who I am.

“Ford? Bro? Everything all right in here?”

Fuck, it’s fucking Mike!

“I saw you out on the floor. Looked like you were thinking a bit, Ford. You know how we feel about you all thinking here. What are we supposed to think about, Ford?”

“Think Big! Be Big!”

Oh fuck, I just said that out loud, didn’t I?

He opens the door, and he’s blocking the entire frame of the bathroom stall, where I sought refuge. He’s bigger than all of us, but he’s fucking smart as hell too. He’s the one who does this to us, who…changes us. Warps us around his little fantasies and desires.

“There you are, Ford. Yeah, you’re thinking, aren’t you? Come on you stupid hick, you know you’re shit brain isn’t good for thinking.”

Fight it, gotta fight him, “Ya fucker, I ain’t no fuckin’ hick, yer fuckin’…ya did somethin’ tah me, tah all a us.”

Oh fuck, he’s got his fucking hand on my cock–is…isn’t even…bigger? Fuck, I think it is, ‘n look at that fuckin; foreskin on my damn shaft, fuck! Yeah, that there, that’s a real fine piece a redneck meat. Gonna fuckin’ stroke that fucker off, that big thing, big…big, yeah, think big, like Mike always says. Think big, ‘n be big…yeah Mike’s gonna feed me that cock a his, then it’s back tah fuckin’ leg day, just like everythin’s supposed tah be.