“Gosh, I sure do love these chances we have to visit together, don’t you?” Ray says.
You moan in response, and shove your dirty jockstrap deeper into your mouth, sucking your piss and dried cum from it while you stroke your cock.
“We have so much more time too, now that you’ve quit that silly job you insisted on going to the past few weeks, but you don’t want to go to work now, do you? You like this so much better, just lounging around, jacking off all day, in your filthy clothing…”
You try to say something through your jockstrap, but Ray can’t understand you, and he takes it as assent. You don’t disagree with him very much anymore–most of your brain is mush by this point, so he doubts you have many thoughts going on in there at all really. Still, he liked it more when you were disagreeable, he liked pinning you down to the carpet, and shoving your face into his armpits or his ripe crotch, feeling you struggle, relishing that moment when his stench finally shut your brain down and you turned into his pig again, the pig who would do anything for his filth, beg Ray for his cum and piss and rank asscrack.
And then, when you’d wake up again, slowly, only recalling bits of what you’d done–you were horrified, but Ray always made sure you knew that every time you fell back into your piggy space there was less of you that made it back alive. That your brain died, bit by bit, every time you became disagreeable. You couldn’t stop fighting though, and now you’re just a pig, barely capable of speech at all, but you don’t need to speak really. You just spend your days wallowing in your own filth, waiting for Ray to come visit, like he visits everyone on the block, all of his piggies, in all of their own houses, their personal filthy sties. A suburban barn full of filthy animals for Ray’s personal enjoyment.
Bracken's Corner 