Author: wesleybracken8258

Interactive – Transformation Contagion #8

As Professor Yangley headed off towards his next class, his pipe puffing smoke, two freshmen heading back to their dorm room from their last class passed a little too close, and each of them got a strong whiff of the professor’s fumes, making them cough for a few moments.

“Was he…smoking in here?” one of them asked, scratching his chest absentmindedly. His name was Chaz, and was the nerdier of the duo. Tall and gangly, he couldn’t seem to keep weight on, even though he had quite the appetite.

“Whatever, that was weird…” his friend, Eddie, said. He was shorter than Chaz, but managed to exude more confidence. He was also a bit chubbier, the beginnings of the freshman 15 already setting in, but his jovial mood still made him plenty likable.

By the time they’d exited the building, however, the oddity of the event had left them, and once they were outside, each of them paused to light up. Chaz pulled out a large bowl, full bent bulldog and packed in some tobacco from the pouch he had around his hanging from his belt, while Eddie plucked a cigar from his shirt pocket, cut off the end, and lit it carefully, before holding his lighter for Chaz, and then the two of them set off for their dorm, puffing along themselves. However, as they walked, each one of them kept noticing that strange things seemed to be happening to them.

For Chaz, he found that he had to start quickening his pace for some reason, to keep up with his friend. Being tall all of his life, he’d always had to focus on pulling back, but suddenly he was hurrying to catch up, and the effort left him a bit out of breath. It was even stranger, since he was actually looking up at his friend, instead of down. Shouldn’t that be the other way around? He couldn’t quite be sure, but whatever the case, Eddie was now well over six feet tall, and his chubby frame was filling out with muscle, which was causing Chaz’s cock to rise against the leather of the kilt he was wearing. “Fuckin’ slow down, boy,” he said, and Eddie immediately bowed his head, and pulled back, allowing the shorter Chaz to take the lead, and he followed behind him at a respectful distance.

This also gave Eddie a wonderful view of his friend, who was now much, much shorter, and far fatter than he had been moments before. But the sight of his friend’s newly hairy shoulders, neck and arms sent a strange thrill through him, and he kind of wondered what his back was like underneath the vest he was wearing with his kilt–and whether he had any underwear on beneath it. He hoped not. As he watched, there was a ripple through Chaz’s hair, almost like a light breeze, as it grew down to his shoulders, and all of it turned to a deep, flame red with a few strands of silver. He tripped again, suddenly–not used to his long legs or his muscular physique. Looking down, he watched tattoos swirl up his arms and onto his chest, as his shirt tightened around him into a rubber tank, and his pants slimmed down into tight leather, which hugged his muscular body and showed off his seven inch cock bulging at the crotch. He wasn’t as hairy as Chaz was, but that was alright, and he felt a few pricks as rings and bars appeared in his nipples, ears and nose, and a thick horseshoe moustache framed his mouth.

They climbed the stairs in their dorm, Eddie licking his lips in excitement, and as soon as they were inside the older pipe bear’s room he fell to his knees in front of him and started grinding his face into the man’s red furred gut, as Chaz ran his hands over the smooth dome of Eddie’s shaved head. “You like that gut, boy? You wanna feel all this fat pressing down on you while I fuck that ass of yours?”

Oh yes sir, please sir…” Eddie moaned, and then Chaz shoved him into his hands and knees, flipped up his kilt and worked his nine inch cock into his friend’s hole, both of them pumping out smoke until they could barely see the room through the haze…and it seemed like the room was changing. Suddenly, the floor was concrete, the walls tile, and the door room became just one poorly lit room in the bathhouse the entire dorm would become, as their cloud of smoke drifted down the halls.

***

Alright, here are your options. There’s only two or three more entries left, so make them count.

1. Let’s follow the smoke to the left, into the floor’s bathroom, turning the guys there into urinals and cumdumps.

2. Let’s follow the smoke into the room on the right, where the floor’s RA becomes a leather bound, sadistic enforcer.

3. We can still see how Pa and Clyde’s trailer trash slothfulness is infecting the uptight suburban neighborhood.

4. Trent still can get to practice and bottom for the entire team and the coaches, turning them all into stupid, fuck-hungry tops.

5. Julian decides he would really like a fat, tattooed skin pig for an intense fisting session that evening.

What would you like to see?

Interactive – Transformation Contagion #7

Professor Adams was in his office, working on grading a series of tests which he wanted to have back to the students of the next class he taught in an hour. He was doing his best to hurry, and so, when the short chubby cub walked into his office, prodded by the massive, middle aged hulk behind him–a man so wide he could barely fit through the door, he’d initially thought it was a prospective student and his father who wanted to ask him questions about the department. “Oh, uh…hi,” he said, as the two men took a seat in the chairs opposite his desk, “I’m actually pretty busy at the moment. If you’d like to find a class to shadow or ask questions about the department, I’d suggest Professor Allister-Hale at the end of the hall–she’s the head of the department.”

“What are you talkin’ about?” the older man, Eric, rumbled, “We’re here to talk about my son Charley’s performance in your class. Apparently he’s been struggling, and being a bit of a general disappointment.”

Charley? The only Charley Professor Adams had in one of his classes was Charles Yangley, one of a set of twins on campus, but this chubby kid wasn’t Charles. Sure, he could see a bit of a resemblance, but there was no way this was him. “Look, I think you’re mistaken. He’s not a student from one of my classes. There’s another Professor Adams in the psychology department, maybe you meant to go to him?”

“Dad, quit fuckin’ around,” the Eric said, “He’s your grandson for Christ’s sake! Don’t play games.”

Professor Adams just stared at the two of them for a moment, shocked, and then the strangest thing happened. It started as a wave of nausea that swept through him suddenly, and his vision started warping and twisting, and a crushing headache flashed through, and then it was all done, and Professor Yangley looked down at his wrinkled hands, and let out a scream. He stood up from the desk, but the heavy gut he’d packed on nearly tipped him back over, and the sudden movement didn’t feel too good on his old joints. “What…what the fuck did you do to me, I’m…I’m fucking old!” he shouted, and looked down at himself. Even his clothes had shifted in a more stodgy variety, with suspenders and pants pulled up over his gut to his belly button. Looking down, he felt a thick beard brush against his neck and chest as well, and he started hyperventilating. He looked over at his son Eric and his grandson Charley sitting across from the desk, trying to understand both how he could be recognizing them now, and how he could have not recognized them moments before.

“Charley, get Grandpa his pipe. I think he needs a smoke.”

“Sure thing dad,” Charley said, and walked over to the rack of pipes that had appeared on the wall, quickly packed on and handed it to his grandpa, holding a lighter and helping him get it lit, and the smoke made him feel better, the episode already fading from his mind, and he settled back down in his chair, his brow furrowing in frustration at his grandson’s performance in his class. He was still passing, sure, but both he and Eric knew he could be doing better. “Well, I do know what worked for you dad when he wasn’t doing as well in school as I wanted,” the professor said between puffs, and then pulled out a drawer in his desk and pulled out a chastity device, “we probably just need to make sure you keep your focus where it needs to be.”

“Oh, come on grandpa, not that…” Charles said, but it was no use. He pulled down his pants and let his father and grandfather secure his cock, feeling it press uncomfortably against the plastic casing.

“You can let it out when you raise your grade to an A–or at the end of the semester, whichever comes first,” the professor said, and Charley sighed.

“Well, I guess I’d better go home and study,” Charley said.

“Not so fast,” Eric said, grinning, “I think your grandpa and I would like to discuss something else with you first,” he grabbed his crotch and leered at his son, and it was after a good half hour of family spit-roasting that they finally let him go home and get to work, and Eric left with him, to supervise.

Puffing on his pipe, Professor Yangley turned back to the tests he was grading, and figured he had just enough time to finish them up. He sighed, marking someone’s paper with an F–some students just didn’t understand what kind of impact their work today would have on their futures, and he chuckled, bundled up the papers and headed to his next class.

***

What happens next?

1. Professor Yangley hands out a test with an F–and the student quickly finds himself becoming a dumb construction worker.

2. Professor Yangley’s pipe smoke has a strange effect on two young men who pass him in the hall, and they turn into two smoking leather bears by the time they reach their dorm room.

3. We can still see how Pa and Clyde’s trailer trash slothfulness is infecting the uptight suburbian neighborhood.

4. Trent still can get to practice and bottom for the entire team and the coaches, turning them all into stupid, fuck-hungry tops.

5. Julian decides he would really like a fat, tattooed skin pig for an intense fisting session that evening.

What do you think?

I think I’m seeing some slight parallels between the ending of Martyrs and your last story, and I’m just as amused as disturbed by that, hahaha.

Well, they certainly share a genre, I’ll say that much. Body horror isn’t pretty, but it is certainly interesting to write. This isn’t to say I have more like this coming down the pipe, merely that I wouldn’t be surprised if it popped out again somewhere later down the road.

why would you do that

*Laughs*

No answer I give you honestly will satisfy you, so don’t expect that, but I assume you want some commentary on “Into the Night of God”. I can provide some context for why the story went where it did, but I’m not going to excuse it or apologize for it, so definitely don’t expect that.

The designing mechanism for the story, the framework that the commissioner and I decided on from the outset, was to take a conventional aspect of these sorts of stories and turn it on it’s head. Generally, when a character is going to undergo some sort of animalistic TF, or any extreme TF which also requires a vast mental TF, nearly every story makes the decision to tell the story in the following way:

1) Character is manipulated mentally, such that he behaves like the target animal/TF result while retaining his previous body.

2) Only then, after the mental change is complete or nearly complete, is there ever any extreme body modification, generally castration or amputation, but also destruction of voice etc. Some stories don’t include this step at all, however.

Now, I don’t think this is a conscious decision. Changes to someone’s mind, in this genre, always feel less extreme than changes to someone’s body. The arc, then, makes logical sense–but the commissioner suggested inverting it. What would a story look like if all of the extreme physical changes happened first, and then the mental changes followed, with the mind forced to match the body? I found it intriguing, and so the basic plot was formed.

I knew from the beginning that I wanted three parts of the story, each in a different character’s voice. The doctor’s journals (Part 1: The Accident) came rather easily. Part 2: Homecoming was much more difficult for me to write, though it was more because of the style that I struggled than anything. When I reached Part 3, however, I realized that the kind of character who earnestly do this to two people, two strangers, would…well, I knew that Part 3 was going to be really, really fucked up.

I discussed my thoughts on the final part with the commissioner and he was down with it. I wrote the entire part in a single day. It made me feel rather sick, but I was confident that it was the correct thing to write. Anything else would have treated the entire scenario too lightly. The extremeness of the tale required an extreme character–still I, like everyone else, was unprepared for how extreme he was going to become.

So, would I do that? Because the story necessitated it. Because writing it any other way would have been shrinking back from the reality of these stories. Welcome, gentlemen, to the heart of the MC/TF genre. I have said before, that every story I write is a rape story. I have said before that what I write isn’t so much erotica, as erotic horror. The fact is, writing these stories requires characters who are insane, who completely disregard the rights of others, who embrace complete sadism, who conceive of others as objects and tools and animals who ought to worship them. So why would I do this? Because it was necessary.

I think the real question is: Did it make you cum?

God I sure hope not.

*Laughs some more*

Into the Night of God – Part 3

***WARNING***

If the first two parts of this were too much for you to handle, don’t read this one. Just don’t. Or rather, read it expecting a horror story–not erotica. Contains amputation, genital nullification, mental death, scat, and bestiality.

Commissioned by Anonymous

Part 3 – The Night

Bruin whines in his crate, but I don’t do anything with him yet. I’m not sure what to do with him yet, to be honest–I had apparently misjudged the weight of the connection they must have formed during the day in the hospital, to allow something like this to happen. Rather, that was a lie. I know what I have to do to him, but I would like there to be some other option. There isn’t though, and it’s all the damn doctor’s fault. I could have been merciful. He could have been happy here, serving and worshiping me, but he clung like a rat to a life that I’d forbidden. He defied me, with that damn journal of his–I should have burned it when I’d had the chance. Still,confidence breeds foolishness–I will be more careful when adding to my flock in the future.

I pour myself another shot of whisky, and take a drag off my smoke. My calm blend tonight, even though it makes my limbs heavy–I need to take the edge off my mind, and file off the anger for a moment. There will be other times for anger, but not now–I have to be calm for what’s coming, if I lose control…well, then I’ll be out a pig. This will require careful work, and I can’t let that fuck mess things up anymore than he has already. Still, he was quite the actor–looking through these new entries in his book, he’s been out from under my mental control for a little over a month now, regaining his thoughts bit by bit, pushing back against me. His mental fortitude is impressive–I introduced him to the donkey a few weeks ago, and Jack does not have a small dick. Still, maybe he really does like it? It doesn’t matter now, still, I find I’m curious anyway.

I pour another shot and flip through the diary again, looking at his thought process, at his plan. It could have worked, if he’d picked a better time, if he’d studied me better, but he’d panicked and run too soon. Grabbing Bruin and getting in the truck, planning on making a break for it–what a fool. Still, I’d stopped them easily enough, even if I’d had to shoot out two of my tires. I’m gonna have to fix those tomorrow–I hate car work. He’s just been one big headache since I’d met him, since that fucker had run over my last dog. I know I lost control, I know I went to far, burning him like that. Still, it hasn’t been a complete waste, even if it had taken me months to clean it all up. I can’t help that I lose control sometimes–I just can’t handle the extent of my wrath. Still, I’m feeling good and calm now. I’m under control, I’m feeling mellow, and I think it’s time.

I’ll deal with Bruin tomorrow and the rest of the week, while the pig heals. I’ll just have to destroy him, as much as I hate doing that. It makes for a dumb ass dog, but his loyalty–an animal is worthless without that. I can’t have him care for anyone else. I’m the important one, Me! I’m his master, how fucking dare he, feeling for anyone else, especially some fucking rich ass twinky doctor like that! I hate him, I’m gonna kill him, I’m gonna make him wish he’d never been born I’m–

Breathe. Deep breaths, keep calm, it will all be sorted out in time. I nearly lost it there, but I can’t postpone this any longer, he needs to be dealt with. He needs to learn his lesson, he needs to understand that I’m the one he has to answer to for his wrongs. That I’m God here, that it’s my judgement, my farm, my world that he’s in now, and my word is law.

I step out into the cold night–but Spring will be here before too long, I imagine. It has been a long winter, but Bruin and the Doc at least kept me busy, and I suppose the Doc will keep me busy this summer too. He’s in the barn, bound up on the cross I keep there for play when I want a change of setting. It’s even darker in there, and I turn on the lights, watch him blink awake, and he’s angry. He’s yelling, but I say nothing. I have to make this quick, before I lose it, before I just decide to just gut him and end it, but he deserves worse than that, he deserves true punishment, but it will be slow, and he will regret defying me.

Right hand first, with the hedge clippers. Thumb, and every finger cut off at the root. He screams, understanding–or beginning to–what he’s done to himself. Then the second hand like the first. I could take the whole hand as punishment for theft, but I take both his feet instead, saw them off below the ankle. He’s begging now–pleading with me, the fool. God’s don’t respond to the pleas of mortals, God’s don’t care about their subjects. What a delusional fuck.

Two more operations. I dig into his mouth with a bloody hand, drag out his tongue and snip off half, stopping the bleeding as quick as I can, and then the final cut, I remove his balls and cock with a single snip, and then tend to his bleeding and wounds. I wonder if I should just let him die, but that’s too easy for him, for the defyer, for the pig. He’s sobbing now, he’s already hopeless. Good, but as a final measure, I douse his cock and balls on the ground where they lay in gasoline and light them on fire, before leaving, shutting out the lights, the flame his only light–for the moment. Now, I must let him heal before we continue.

I focus on Bruin for the next few days as I planned, and it is good practice for what I will eventually do to the pig as well. It is a hybrid I have rarely used because it is exceptionally strong–it destroys the mind, rather than enhancing it. For the tribes, any who used it were generally left as nothing more than drooling fools, rendered more like animals than anything else. It was supposed that strong spirits dwelt in these particular leaves, the spirits of animals, and that they would overwhelm anyone with a weak spirit. In fact, they simply degrade an individual’s mental faculties so far that they can barely reason, behaving more on instinct than anything, but the hypnotic state that it induces is strong enough that it can overcome anything, even love.

I administer it to Bruin through the gasmask. His remaining humanity disappears quickly, and before I realize my object, I begin to replace it with anger and hatred. I pour my own dire emotions into him, I make him hate the pig, I make Bruin loathe him, I make him trust only me, his Master, his God, the Divine. I stop before I lose too much of his mind, but he’s far stupider–just an angry brute, a guard dog, a hunting dog. When I let him loose in the fields after this, I often find him later in the day, his mouth caked in the blood of some rabbit he chased and disemboweled during the day. He makes me so proud. I love that beast, and he now, truly, only loves me.

I bring this new Bruin before the pig as he heals, as well. I show him what he made me do to our pup–my pup. I show him how Bruin hates him. In the barn Bruin leaps at him, leash taut, leaping for his throat, ready to kill him should I release the lead. The look on the pig’s face–terror, but also regret and sorrow. He understands. He understands that this was his fault, that he made me do this, that this is all part of his punishment, in the end. He is healing well, though. My healing blends have closed his wounds, and they are scarring well. I mind his crotch–well, it’s crotch, now. I mind it to make sure it can still piss through a small hole, but otherwise it is just a flat, round scar–nothing left of it’s manhood, as it should be.

I fuck and fist it, and it still finds it pleasurable. It still realizes it belongs to me, that I control it. I love knowing that the act of pleasing me still brings a stupid grin to its face. On occasion, I regret what I have done, but I must remain steadfast. It had to be done, it had to be punished, I cannot allow myself to be defied. There is more to be done, more work to do, and it will begin soon. I start him with the smoke. The pig’s mind is far, far sharper than Bruin’s, it will take much longer to unravel, but I will enjoy watching it happen. It struggles against the gasmask at first, coughs from the smoke, but as soon as he has sucked it all down and gone limp, I pull it away and begin introducing it’s new habits and desires. Especially it’s hunger. It will be central to him, his stomach his new mind. The next day, I test him, and put him in a stall with a trough, and begin pouring in the slop.

The pig fights it for a few moments, but cannot resist for long. It devours as much as it can, and quickly, it realizes that he cannot stop. The trough never empties, I make sure of that, and even though the pig grows fuller than it has ever been before, it continues eating non-stop, until it collapses from exhaustion and faints. I wait until it wakes again after close to an hour, and sure enough, it continues eating–the compulsion is far too strong for it to fight. I have already won, and he doesn’t even realize it. He still fights the compulsion, still believes it has will, that it can defy it’s Lord God.

I clean up after the pig for now. I want it to grow accustomed to its new appetite. At first, it can only eat in two hour blocks, but soon its stomach has stretched large enough that it can continue eating for nearly three times as long. It no longer fights against the compulsion, the hunger has only grown stronger. I have smoked him two more times, reinforcing it’s need to eat, but I hold back. I don’t want to destroy it’s mind entirely, not yet, I want it to realize what it will become, I want it to accept it, to accept it’s complete submission to my will.

I’ve been taking care of the pig’s waste so far, scooping it out along with the rest of the hog manure, but I decide it’s time the pig starts managing it’s own matters. I smoke it again, and this time, the hunger becomes paired with a need for filth. I expect this one will take more work to ingrain within his psyche, but that’s alright–I have all the time in the world. Spring is now nearly giving way to summer, and I’m minding the pig less. I’m working on several new hybridizations, and I have my own crops to maintain. Bruin is as good a guard dog as any, and only grows more loyal to me by the day. Still, one day he got into the barn by accident, and I had to drag him off the pig before he killed it–still, it gave the hog a much needed, and much enjoyed–fright, for me at least.

The pig doesn’t want me to know what it’s been doing, I can tell. It’s doing it’s best to hide it, but I can see–the streaks of shit across it’s growing body, and finally I catch it in the act. I look in the stall, and there it is, rolling in it’s own massive pile of filth, grunting and snorting as it does, and before it can do anything about it, I’m straddling it, my cock down it’s throat, and I piss gallons into it’s guts, and it loves it. I can tell. It gives me a chance to see it’s growth too. As much as I detest chemicals, the additives and hormones in the slop have been working marvelously. The pig’s muscles have withered, and it’s packing on fat faster than anything I’ve seen. I fist it’s filthy hole next, and then force it to lick it the filth off my arm. I want it to realize that I did this. That I’ve known what it’s been doing all along, that it has no secrets from me, not anymore. The last place it can hide, it’s mind–not even that will last, but it doesn’t realize that yet. It will soon though.

The need and compulsion for filth grows, as I increase the frequency of it’s smoke sessions. The first signs of mental loss are showing–the pig will “blank out” as I call it, and run on instinct alone for minutes at a time. It’s new obsessions dominate it, and I watch it wake up from these mental time gaps, it’s face in a pile of hog manure from the pig in the next stall, and it’s horrified, but it can’t stop. Before long, I don’t even have to clean up after the pigs–the hog does all the work for me before I can get to it. Still though, it eats. I feed it too, my own shit. It fought the first time, but now it’s excited–it craves it. I bring it Bruin’s as well, and make sure it knows where it came from as it chews it down.

I begin pressing deeper into the pig’s mind, destroying it forcefully. I remove its memories–its past. It can no longer remember a time when it wasn’t a pig on my farm, when I didn’t own it, mind, body and soul. The blanks last longer now–hours at a time. But he is fighting me still. He still believes he can win if he tries hard enough. But you can’t win against God, you can’t defy me and expect a chance to defy me again. Still, I taunt it, on occasion. I bring it out of the barn. I leave it by the side of the road, and I step back. I give it the choice, I give it the chance to leave. I tell it that I won’t follow, that it can crawl into town if it wants, or wait for some passerby to find it and rescue it. I know that my commandments are too strong for such a weak pig to resist them, but it fights them anyway. It gets a few hundred yards down the road before it’s fat body, too tired and exhausted to make the trek, overloads its feeble mind. It blanks, and the pig inside draws it back to the barn to feed, to degrade itself for my pleasure.

How must it feel, when it loses consciousness on the road, and winds up back in it’s stall, eating, or licking the holes of it’s fellow pigs? I’m sure it’s beginning to realize what’s happening to its mind. It probably assumes that I bring it back though, that I stop it. I wonder when it will see the truth–that deep down, it wants to be here. That the animal I’ve crafted within it is winning. That before long, there will be no doctor–just a pig. A fat fucking pig covered in filth, devouring shit and piss, desperate to be fucked and fisted by me, it’s Lord and Master–it’s God. Sometimes, when it collapses, exhausted from eating, I listen to it sob. That’s how I know he’s still in there, how I know he’s losing, but hasn’t lost yet. Still, I should make it more tempting, I should corrupt it even further now.

Another session of smoke, but this time–pleasure. How much pleasure it gets from it’s filthy life. How content it is here. Now, when it devours the pig’s manure, I watch it shudder with delight. It can no longer cum, certainly, but it can orgasm. I watch as the pleasure overwhelms his disgust, I watch the doctor begin to rationalize its own descent into darkness. “This isn’t so bad,” it is thinking, “I am fed, I am cared for, I am happy. It could be worse.” But could it? Could it really be worse? Have I not been creative enough? Have I not punished it enough? The pig has fallen so far that he can no longer recall what he was, what it’s life could have been. His world is shrinking. I define the world, and the pig’s place within it, and he can do nothing but nod gleefully and accept it. Then, I give him pleasure for his service and piety. A pig’s pleasure, but pleasure all the same, to him.

I smoke him every day now, he is getting close to the final night of the mind. He struggles to understand me now. I speak to him often, but he usually just stares at me blankly, unable to comprehend language and words that should be familiar to him. He tries so hard though, to understand me, to comprehend the word of the Lord, but his brain can no longer grasp it, and he will inevitably blank out, and wander off to search out whatever filth it can find to satiate it’s never ending hunger. How must it think, when it is aware of itself? In images? In feelings? It’s language is disappearing, things must seem so simple now. Eat. Filth. Fist. Piss. Happy. Sad. Pain. Nothing else, anymore, aside from a few stubborn remnants.

It spends entire days, now, in the instinctual darkness. My mindless pig, obsessed with filth and devouring anything in front of it. It is clear that in it’s rare moments of relative lucidity, it struggles to piece together anything like a rational thought. I wonder if it still has any capacity to hate it’s life? It doesn’t seem to. At this point, it’s thoughts must be of how lucky it is to have a life which gives it so much pleasure. That, or simply confusion. Its mind struggling to do something–anything–with these higher order thoughts which were once so second nature, but which serve no purpose in the world I have made for it to exist in. I am with it nearly constantly now. I want to see it, that moment when the light goes out forever, when it’s mind finally shuts off, when it can no longer recognize itself as a self. I decide, finally, that I will give it a moment so pleasurable, so full of instinctual bliss, that it will give me the moment I have been waiting for for so long now.

I give it a pile of fresh sludge and slop, and it squeals with delight, hurling itself into it, eating it, covering itself with it, and then in comes the stallion. It has never ridden a cock this large, but it is eager to try, and It is soon impaled on it, the horse thrusting it into the pile of muck, and I can see the massive waves of pleasure rippling through it’s obese body, but the eyes, I watch the eyes. In them, there is a flame, it flares wildly. It can’t comprehend this situation, it has discovered bliss, it has witnessed the divine in it’s pleasure, has entered heaven, and then it dies. The pig continues, but it is an empty vessel now. It has known my wrath, and it has known my bliss. Night has fallen, and dawn will never come.

Into the Night of God – Part 2

Commissioned by Anonymous

Part 2 – The Homecoming

The sun broke past the far side of Bruin’s window, the light slanting into his eye from the low-slung sun, signalling that the chilly winter afternoon was now dusk, and night would arrive soon enough. The knot of anxiety tightened in his gut, and he let out a soft whine. He was going home tonight–that’s what Master had told him. He’d been a good pup, he’d passed all of his obedience tests, and he could walk all on his own on his new legs, and so Master said tonight would be the night. Why then, wasn’t he happier?

The sun pushed it’s way into the window proper and Bruin turned his head away from the glare. Night came so quickly this time of year, it felt like Master had just left a few hours ago, and already he would be coming back soon. It would go behind some trees in a few minutes, and after a little while longer, it would drop past the horizon, and after that, the smoke-smell, and then Master would come and take him home. He should be happier about that–Master had told him to be happy, but then why wasn’t he happy? Maybe because of the dark–he doesn’t like the dark, he doesn’t like what happens when Master comes in the dark. Still, things are better than they were, right? He shook his head side to side, trying to clear the unease, but he caught sight of the sun, and it was the same way the sun had looked when he’d been driving, when he’d crested that hill and the sun had blinded him, and–

–a flash of light over the hill–the setting sun shot into my eyes, and I shielded them with one arm when I should have just slowed down, I should have slowed down, and then there was the thunk, and I slammed into the steering wheel. I hit something, but what did I hit? I can’t remember, I got out of the car, I got out and I ran around to the front. The impact had sent the thing flying ahead of me, there was a smear of blood across the pavement where it had slid to stop several yards away, and it was a person, wasn’t it? I walked over and it was…it was a dog, it was a dog like me, me there, lying there looking up at the truck that hit me? Master was there–he was there and he grabbed the bad man the man who hit me and he was so angry and Master dragged me off and knocked me out and I was dying, I was dying on the road and he left me? Why did he leave me why–

Bruin was trying to grip the sheets with his paws, but he didn’t have paws anymore, but they still hurt. They hurt all the time now, but more when he thought about that stuff, but it was never quite right, he could never piece it all together. There were his memories, and then what his Master had told him, and then what Doctor had said, and none of those things lined up. Which was the right one?

He realized he was huffing and wheezing, but since that awful nurse had stabbed him he couldn’t make much noise, aside from a soft whine and a quiet bark. Still, Master liked having quiet dogs, he didn’t like dogs that drew attention to themselves, and Bruin wanted to be a good dog for Master. The sun finally started moving behind the grove of trees, and Bruin felt most of him relax. His paws still hurt, even though they weren’t there, but now that he was calm, he was able to work through some of the exercises Doctor had given him, how he could imagine opening his paws, and that sometimes helped a bit. He took a few deep breaths, and wished his master could leave his paws on. He liked having them on at nights, he liked practicing with them. It helped him feel more normal, more like how he had been, when he could actually walk, even if he wasn’t very good at it. Still, he could do well enough, and Master said that soon enough he’d be jumping and running around the farm just like he’d used to, before the accident.

Now that his room was darkening though, the fear that memory had put in him wouldn’t quite dissipate. It hung in his quiet throat now, right below the scar, and he started to whine as he watched the sun slowly sink lower and lower behind the trees. He’d never seen Master during the daytime, he realized–he’d only ever come at night. What would it be like to be around him during the day? Could…did he even exist in the day? What if he took Bruin to a place where there was only night? Here, in the bed, people fed him and took care of him and Doctor came sometimes to talk to him, even though Bruin couldn’t say anything back. He’d felt safe with Doctor there, for some reason, he could tell he was a good man. Master was…he was important, he was God but he wasn’t a good man, he was a dangerous man, a wrathful lord, but he should be afraid of Master. That’s what made him a good master after all. If Bruin didn’t fear him, if he wasn’t afraid, then that meant Master couldn’t control him, but thinking about what had happened, what Master had done those first nights–

–Suck it, you fucking bitch, open your mouth and suck it!”

It had been so difficult, but Bruin had made it difficult and painful, if he’d just done what Master had said, if he’d just obeyed from the beginning.

–Go on boy, lick it up–you love how your Master tastes, you crave it. You want to drink as much of it as you can, you love how I smell, how I taste, how I look, everything about me. I am your Master, your Lord, your God. The thought of being away from me makes you anxious, the thought of never seeing me again scares you more than anything else in the world.”

Bruin was whining again, and he couldn’t tell now if the fear was because Master was going to come, or because Master might not come. What if this was just his last night with the Master? What if someone else was coming to take him away? He hadn’t thought about that, and these last thoughts felt like some kind of trespass–a violation of what Master would approve of him thinking–and he tried to bury them back down. He was a good dog–Master told him he was, so that had to be true. He wouldn’t abandon him–he was cruel, sure, but not cruel like that, and Bruin…Bruin didn’t know what would happen if Master and Doctor both left him.

He hadn’t seen Doctor in weeks now–in fact, he was beginning to wonder whether he had ever been real. No one talked about him, no one mentioned him, it was like he didn’t exist. It was all nurses now, and they never spoke to him, and they all smelled like Master, all had that same glazed look in their eyes as they fed and cleaned him, but they never said a word. Doctor had at least tried to talk to him. Doctor had treated him like…like an equal, like a person, like more than the dog he was.

“It’ll be ok Bruin, I promise.”

He missed his voice.

“I’ll protect you, you won’t have to worry about the Night Man, I swear.”

He missed him, but he’d lied. He hadn’t protected him–Master had come every night without fail, and it was Doctor who’d abandoned him, who no longer came, and he always smelled like Master. More than once, he’d wondered if they were actually the same person, if they were just tricking him. He’d thought that at first, because of the smell, but he knew it wasn’t true, but the doubts were always there, and Master didn’t care about protecting him, Master would hurt him, Master would do anything he wanted to him, but he was just the puppy, right? He was just a dog, just an animal, just his Master’s property, just something for his amusement and enjoyment, and that was good. Bruin liked that, he liked making his Master happy, he really did, but still, his Master didn’t love him, not really. Not really at all–in fact, he sometimes thought his Master hated him.

Bruin looked out the window again. The sun was now fully behind the trees, and the room was darkening quickly around him. Soon, he’d be here soon. The realization that he wouldn’t be in this room the next day washed over him, and he felt fearful again. He was helpless, really, without Master–Master could do anything with him, and Bruin wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. He focused on trying to ease some of the pain in his imaginary paws for a few minutes, until he smelled it–Master’s smoke. Less than a minute now. And then the sound of his boots on the tile, and Bruin’s cock was so hard, so excited, and he just watched the doorway until his Master’s silhouette filled it up.

“Evening, Bruin–you ready to get out of here and come home with me, boy?”

Bruin barked softly–his voice could barely raise above a whisper now, but that was enough for his Master to know he was excited. He was, too. At least he wouldn’t be here anymore. At least he wouldn’t be stuck with this endless cycle, the days spent worrying and the nights spent training with Master. It was exhausting. As scared as he was, it was a change, and one he was ready for. His master set down the duffel bag he’d brought along with him and pulled out Bruin’s real paws–four specially designed artificial limbs especially for Bruin. The two front paws were shorter, and Bruin’s forearms slipped into them easily enough. The fiberglass curved down to the point where it terminated in a realistic dog paw, with small enamel claws and everything. His back paws were similar, but much longer, connecting at his disarticulated knee, they curved back, and then forward to paws of their own. It had been months of practice now, every night, but Bruin could finally manage to walk on his own without falling. It still didn’t feel very natural, but Master told him that now that he didn’t have to stay in bed all the time, he’d be getting much more practice, and that he’d be running around the farm like nothing had happened at all, before long.

When all four paws were secured, Master helped Bruin out of the bed and set him down, where he padded around a bit on his paws, getting used to them again. He was still a little unsteady, but he was more confident in them than he had been before, and he did love his paws. They made him feel like a real dog, like all the dogs he could remember seeing, like how he’d been before the accident…right? But…Bruin shook his head, that was too hard to think about, and he realized he hadn’t thanked his Master for his paws today, and he pawed over and nuzzled the crotch of Master’s jeans, knowing what was expected of him.

“In a moment, Bruin–we have to put the rest of your gear on though–we can’t have you going around without your muzzle and tail after all.”

Master pulled both out of his bag, and strapped the muzzle on around Bruin’s face first, and then strapped the rubber tail on above Bruin’s asscrack, where he gave it a wag or two in thanks, and then nuzzled Master’s crotch again.

“Well, someone’s eager tonight,” Master said, and unzipped his jeans, before pulling out his cock, “Well I suppose you can have your bone early. I was going to wait until we got home, but seeing you all geared up–fuck, you’re one sexy pup, you know that?”

Master slipped his cock into the front of Bruin’s muzzle–it was short enough that he could take most of Master’s cock in his mouth even with it on. Of course, it helped his Master had a nine inch cock–and Bruin still preferred sucking on it than having Master fuck him with it. He was too rough, and usually it just hurt. Still, it made Master happy, so he didn’t resist, and besides, he remembered when he had resisted–

Bad dog! Bad dog, you know what happens to bad dogs? Bad dogs get their nuts cut off! Do you want to lose your nuts? Do you?

Bruin shivered at the remembered threat, and focused on sucking Master off like a good dog, like a good pup, like a good slave. He was all those things, after all, and he wanted Master to be happy, that was most important. If Master was happy, he didn’t get punished, and if Bruin wasn’t punished, he could be happy too…mostly. No, more than mostly, he did like his life, with Master, and he was excited to be away from this hospital, away from these people with their blank stares, just…home. He wanted to be home, he’d been going home before the accident, right? But then why had he been in the road? It was so confusing, like two pieces of a puzzle he kept trying to fit together even though their edges didn’t match up at all.

Master grabbed the back of his head and rammed his cock down Bruin’s throat, mashing the leather muzzle against his face as he came, and Bruin swallowed it all down and licked the head clean before Master pulled it out, and then he received a pat on the head, and le licked his Master’s gloved hand, thanking him for allowing Bruin to serve him, and gave his tail a wag without thinking about it. “Well, shall we get going, Bruin? I bet you’re excited to finally be out of here–I know I am. It’s been too long since I had a dog on the farm–besides, I have someone I want you to meet. I think you two will get along great.”

Bruin wasn’t sure what Master meant by all that, but he didn’t care. He saw Master pull out the leash and his heart leapt–he was going, he was really going! Master clipped the leash to the collar Bruin wore, and then they left, Bruin doing his best to avoid slipping on the tile floor with his paws, still, he was doing much better than the first time he’d tried walking in them. It had taken all night just for Master to show him how to balance on all four, and two more nights before he could take a step or two without falling. Oddly enough, everyone they passed seemed to not notice them at all, even though the sight of the two of them walking down the hospital’s hallways would have probably been quite the shock. Master led Bruin down to a side emergency exit which had been propped open, and then they walked to a pickup truck parked around back, the chilly air strange against Bruin’s skin.

“Alright Bruin–we’re gonna have to put you in the kennel for now. I don’t want anyone seeing you, after all, and I wouldn’t want you falling out, right? We can’t have you hurt yourself, and put you back in the hospital again.”

Master grabbed Bruin around the waist and hefted him up onto the tailgate of the truck, and Bruin saw a plastic kennel a bit too small for him tethered to the bed. He didn’t like it, and he started to whine a bit. Something about the tight space, he didn’t want to go in there.

“Now Bruin, don’t make me start punishing you again–you’ve been doing such a good job, boy, and I’d hate for you to backslide. Now get in the kennel.”

Bruin knew that he would end up in the crate on way or the other, either without being punished, or after being punished, and so he took a few tentative steps forward, sniffing the crate as he went in, and as soon as he could, Master closed the grated door, and then the realization that he was trapped shook Bruin to the core. Trapped, he was trapped, there was no way out–

Why can’t I move? Why can’t I move, and he’s there, he’s just watching me, looking at me, can’t he see the truck is on fire? Can’t he see that it’s burning? I didn’t mean to hit the dog, I didn’t, it was an accident, just an accident, please! Please! I can’t speak, if I could just speak, if I could just tell him how sorry I am, I can feel it, it’s almost to me, and I can’t move an inch. What did he do to me? There was that smoke, and now I can’t move a muscle, and it’s on me! I’m on fire, I’m on fire somebody help me, somebody–

“Bruin!” Master shouted, “Get a hold of yourself,” and slapped the dog across the face, bringing him back to the moment. He didn’t know what he’d just seen, but Master looked angry and scared. Bruin shrunk down, embarrassed at having lost control like that, but what he remembered hadn’t made any sense. He’d been in the cab of a truck, and he’d had hands, not paws, and it had been on fire, and he hadn’t been able to move, and Master was there watching him, watching the fire burn him, but why?

Then Master shoved Bruin back into the crate and locked the door again, and Bruin started to panic, but he didn’t have another flashback like before. He just whined and pawed at the grated door, but Master had already climbed into the cab of the truck and started the engine. The drive lasted close to an hour, and the entire time, Bruin did his best to keep calm. The terror would come in waves, usually with a sudden bump, and then he would be trying to force himself out of the kennel until he calmed down enough to breathe and stay put. However, as the drive wore on, and twilight grew even darker, his paws–the ones that hurt but that he couldn’t see–they starting itching, and then heating up until he was certain that the leather and fiberglass paws he now had would burst into flame right before his eyes. It hurt–it hurt more than anything he’d experienced, but he pushed through, keeping as calm as he could, until the truck took a sharp left off the road, and he heard gravel crunch under the tires, meaning that they were home on the farm–or at least that’s what Bruin hoped.

The truck rolled to a stop, and he heard the door to the cab open. He had a moment of terror, when he thought that Master might leave him in the kennel, and that he might freeze to death in the harsh night, but he came around the back and let Bruin out of the cage, and he couldn’t scramble out of it fast enough. “Gonna have to work with you on that, I suppose,” Master said, “Can’t have a dog who hates being crated. Still, we can worry about that later.”

He picked Bruin up and set him down on the gravel, and it took Bruin a few steps to adjust to walking on something that wasn’t hospital tile or carpet. Master didn’t bother lashing him, and Bruin followed him up onto the porch–struggling a bit on the stairs–but Master pushed open the screen, and looking in, Bruin saw Doctor there in the living room, and he couldn’t help but wag his tail and try to bark. Doctor! He missed him–now he knew why he’d gone missing, he must live with Master too…but if he lived with Master, did that mean…could he trust him?

“Bruin!” Doctor shouted, and a silly grin spread across his face as he ran over and wrapped his arms around the big dog, “I missed you so much Bruin, but Master needed me here, working and stuff so I couldn’t come see you. But you’re home now Bruin, isn’t that neat? I missed you tons, though…”

“That’s enough, faggot,” Master said, and shoved Doctor away, “Why don’t you do something useful, and give Bruin here something to fuck? I bet our new dog is horny, right boy?”

“Yes sir!” Doctor said, and got down on his elbows and knees, ass up, and Master walked over and pulled out the big plug from his ass.

“Well Bruin, make sure you give it a sniff and a lick first, like a good boy, and then I want to see you fuck the bitch like a good boy.”

Bruin wasn’t too sure about this, really, but his cock was hard, and he had always…sort of liked the Doctor. Still, it felt wrong for some reason–but an order was an order. He padded over and sniffed at Doctor’s hole, before giving the crack a few licks through the muzzle, and then he mounted him–with a bit of help from his Master–and he had to admit, it felt good. It felt good topping the bitch, it felt good asserting his dominance, and listening to the bitch moan like a whore beneath him, begging him to fuck harder. Bruin didn’t last very long–and he unloaded his cum into the bitch’s pussy where it belonged, and then his Master shoved him off and took his place, ramming his own cock in a moment later, making the whore moan louder.

“Bruin,” Master said, “Get over here, and I want you licking my shaft as I fuck this cunt.”

It took a bit of maneuvering, but Bruin managed to get his muzzle against the base of the Doctor’s hole, between Master’s legs, so he could lap at his cock while he fucked Doctor good and hard. He could taste his own cum as he licked, and when his Master shot his own load up there and pulled out, he kept licking the crack as cum leaked out of Doctor’s hole, the Master telling him he was a good dog for cleaning up the whore’s hole after they’d finished using it, and he felt good. This felt good, it felt right. He was home–this was home, this was his life, his Master, the Doctor, and their dog.

However, one thing stuck with him, before Master got him ready to sleep in the doghouse out in the back, putting on Bruin’s thick fur coat to keep him warm in the winter night, before locking him in the roomier kennel. It was when Doctor pulled him close for a moment, after Master finished fucking him, and Doctor whispered into his ear, “Don’t worry Bruin–I’ll protect you. No matter what. I promise.” It kept Bruin awake most of the night, thinking about that, about what Doctor had said before too, but he couldn’t protect him from Master. Couldn’t protect him from the night. It had caught them both he realized, and there was no way out for either of them, and he shivered in the cold cage, and gave a silent howl to the rising moon.

Into the Night of God – Part 1

Commissioned by Anonymous

Part 1 – The Accident

The excerpts that follow were taken from Dr. Nathan Monroe’s personal journal.

***

August 16th, 2012

Just when you think you’ve seen the worst of it, the world surprises you. I mean, as a doctor, I’ve seen some pretty grisly scenes, sure, and ones worse than this I suppose, but still, it’s funny how little things can lead to horrific catastrophes. Patient Z, as I’ll call him (I have to call him that not just because of confidentiality, but we don’t have any way to ID him as of yet, but I’ll get to that) was admitted around 3:30 this afternoon after a car accident on Route 93. One of the farmers out that way reported he’d seen the truck Z had been driving run off the road after hitting his dog. The man had tried to swerve out of the way, apparently, but not soon enough, but even worse than the dog dying, well, he’d crashed hard enough for the truck to burst into flames.

The farmer had seen it happen, and had run inside to call for help, but by the time he’d gotten back out, the flames had swept into the cab. The farmer (I feel bad calling him that, but no one had gotten his name that I’d spoken to about it, so I don’t know it!) had run over and pulled the man out, but not before the unconscious man had caught on fire.

It isn’t pretty, I can say that. The burns cover about forty percent of his body, which, I suppose, could be worse, but most of the damage was incurred at the extremities and his face. I got a look at him today, shortly, and well, it isn’t pretty. I honestly don’t think we’ll be able to save his hands and feet, and even if we did, they’re so damaged he’ll never use them again. Amputation, I think, might actually be best–at least then he won’t have a constant reminder. Well, amputation would be a constant reminder, too, I suppose, but a negative rather than a positive. Is it worse to have something you can’t use, or nothing at all?

Still, funny, isn’t it? You try and do the right thing, you try to miss the dog, and you end up comatose in the hospital, burned all over, about to lose your hands and feet. How fucked up is that? We need to see if we can save his hands and feet first, if not, then amputation will be best, and help get rid of most of the burnt flesh. The face, well, we can probably get a plastic surgeon to fix the worst eventually, but I don’t know. It might heal well enough that it might just scar badly while remaining mostly functional–it’s too early to tell.

On top of all of that, we have no idea who he is. When the farmer got the guy out of the truck, still on fire, something happened to the patient’s wallet, so we have no ID on him at all. And to top it all off, by the time the firefighters and ambulance got there, the car had already exploded. We don’t have details yet, but they can’t even find the license plates. It’s all very strange, actually, but that’s an issue for the police, not for me. To top it all off, he’s in a coma, probably after sustaining some head trauma in the crash, so we can’t ask him either. Still, we’ll know who he is soon enough, once the police investigate, but I’m not looking forward to that phone call. There was no wedding ring, so I hope he wasn’t married, but he’s young enough to still have parents. Gah, how horrible is that, to have this happen to your son? I can’t think about that, it’s too awful. I just have to get him better, or as better as he can be, after something like this.

***

August 20th 2012

Well, as I suspected, in the case of Patient Z, amputation was necessary. The burns were just too extensive, and the tissue is already showing signs warning signs of wet gangrene. As awful as it may be, it saves us the trouble of treating the burns there, so in the long run, it might be better for Z. For his arms, we were able to save most of the forearm, cutting just about the wrist. His legs were worse, and unfortunately, we were forced to disarticulate at the knee. Still, it has made his prognosis better, I believe. The remaining burns are not as severe and appear to be free of infection, which is lucky. Those on his face, aren’t as severe as I first thought, and seem to be healing well. I’m hopeful–now we just need him to wake up, so we can figure out who he is!

Now, leaving work aside for a moment, I submit that I have a date for Friday night! I know, who would have thought that out in this rural shithole of homophobia, I would actually find someone who not only was gay, but who was willing to risk coming out to me? It’s a bit surreal, actually, but not unwelcome. It’s been lonely out here, even if the money is alright. I thought I would be able to handle it, but as you know, it’s been rough.

The guy, as a matter of fact, is the farmer who saved Patient Z–how strange is that? I was checking in on him today, when the farmer (whose name is Jerome, I have finally learned) when he came by, asking about Z’s condition. I updated him on what had happened, and he said he and the police had searched his property for anything that might have helped identify him, but found nothing. He wondered if he’d been driving without plates for some reason, but we both agreed that was the police’s problem, not ours.

Still, he’s surprisingly bright, for a roughneck. Articulate, a nice sense of humor, but definitely a country guy, which as you know, doesn’t really appeal to me. Of course, me being a bit flamboyant cued him into my possible orientation, and while his question was a bit crude, it was nice to know that I wasn’t the only “faggot” around. He isn’t really my type, I must say. He’s a bit older–probably around 40 or so, and a bit heavyset–definitely a bear. Plus, he had a strange smell about him. Not unappealing, I suppose, but I suspect he’s a smoker, which is a definite turnoff for me. A friend would be nice though, and he didn’t seem very romantically interested himself–mostly he sounded lonely, which would be two of us. I’m going over to his house for dinner on Friday though, so wish me luck. Hopefully it won’t be a complete disaster.

***

August 25th 2012

Well, it wasn’t my usual kind of date, but I suppose I could call it a success. It was easy enough to find, I just had to look for the remnants of Z’s accident on Route 93, which is kind of awful. (Z, by the way, hasn’t woken yet, but that’s all I’ll say about that for the moment.) As I’d expected, Jerome is indeed a smoker, but not tobacco–it’s some sort of strange plant he grows himself. Supposedly, or so he claims, it’s a much cleaner smoke than tobacco, something the Native Americans around here used to grow or something, I don’t remember. Actually (and I hate admitting this) I don’t remember a whole lot about the evening. I must have had a bit too much to drink, because the evening is pretty much a blur until morning, when he woke me up, in his bed, with a rough fuck.

Did I mention how hot he is? Fuck, I love that big belly of his, and I never knew that feeling someone that hairy next to you could be so…fucking hot. I mean, I’ve always had a thing for roughnecks, why else would I have moved out to the sticks to work at a hospital like this one? Funny, that never occurred to me before, huh, but it’s true. Anyway, so Jerome fucked me, and to be nice, since he’d made me dinner the night before, I got up and made him breakfast (naked, I might add–I know, I’m such a bad boy) and after we ate, he fucked me again–God, I can’t enough of him. We’ve been sending each other filthy texts all day since I left, and I just can’t stop thinking about him, about how hot he is, about how…how safe I feel with him. He’s the kind of guy who you just…feel like opening up to, you know? The kind of guy who you just innately trust. Still, I need to try and take it slow, these quick burn relationships are the ones I tend to rush into and that bite me in the ass later, so I’m going to hold off as best I can.

***

August 26th 2012

Alright, so this is one of those angry entries, you know, the ones where my hand is shaking, and my face is red, so I’m just going to keep it short, and get it out of my system. So, since my date on Friday ran over into Saturday, I needed to go it Sunday morning to get some work done, which is fine with me, since most everyone is at church anyway, so the whole building was quiet. Z’s room happens to be on the way to my office, and as I was coming down the hallway, I saw Jerome of all people letting himself out of his room.

Weird, right? So I stop him and ask him what he was doing in there, and he tells me he was just checking up on him, which I suppose sounded reasonable enough, but what followed, well, it was fucking inexcusable. He was horny, apparently, because he pulled me into the room (which was really smoky by the way) and proceeded to fuck me right there, up against the wall, in the hospital, in a patient’s room! Fuck, I was so…well, I mean, it was hot, but just so fucking wrong. And…and it was so weird, the entire time, he kept telling me that–fuck, it sounds so rediculous writing it down–telling me that I was his God, and that I should be on my knees worshiping him day and night. How messed up is that? He left, and I just sat in my office, angry for a few hours, before I finally called him and told him off, telling him I never wanted to hear from him ever again.

Look, that’s all I can write, I just can’t deal with this right now.

***

October 23rd, 2012

I admit, that I had been losing hope in Z’s case, hardly anyone wakes up after a week, much less two months, but finally, he’s out of it, for better or worse. Still, I must say that while I expected there to be some cognitive issues…the symptoms he’s presenting with are rather strange, to say the least. On the positive side, he seems to have had no loss as far as his cognitive abilities go. He still is capable of processing language, of speaking, of visual and spatial reasoning, and yet…well, there’s the amnesia for starters. We still have no idea who Z is, and it turns out that he has no idea who he is either. The amnesia seems to be centered around the accident itself, as we expected, but beyond that, appears to be rather localized around his identity and his own, personal past. Nothing about what he was doing, where he was traveling to, where he was from, family, friends, just all of it gone.

Still, that’s not the strangest thing. I went in to see him, and as soon as I came close, he…started screaming in terror. Just, abject terror, and tried to worm his way off the bed as best he could, and the nurses were forced to restrain him as best they could. I left the room, and he calmed down a few minutes later, garbling something about “the night man” and “smoke.” Apparently something about me had scared him half to death, I’m not sure what. The nurses gave him some meds to calm him down, and when I entered next, I was able to explain his situation. Once he got calm, he was able to tell me that I smelled like “the night man,” which I don’t understand at all, but he was kind enough to tell me that I wasn’t him, and I promised I’d do my best to keep him safe. I know, silly right? But he seemed relieved.

Regardless, my explanation didn’t go as well as I’d hoped. When I tried to explain what had happened to him, and about his amputations, he refused to believe that he had ever had hands or feet. How strange is that? I have no idea what to make of it–I’m not a psychologist, and there isn’t one at the hospital capable of dealing with this kind of psychosis. I’m going to recommend his transfer to a larger hospital. We can deal with his injuries, but his mental stability really worries me.

***

October 24th, 2012

Well, just when I thought yesterday couldn’t get stranger, I get home from the hospital, and what should I find on my doorstep? Flowers. From Jerome. I mean, I haven’t heard from him in weeks, not since I blew up at him after we fucked at the hospital that day. Still, it was a nice, if belated gesture, and I don’t know what kind of flowers they were, but they smelled just like him, and like that smoke of his, and I admit, I got a bit of a hard on thinking about him again. I didn’t feel like talking to him really, but I brought them in and put them in some water, not wanting them to go to waste, and that evening, my phone rang, and it was Jerome.

I thought about not picking it up, but he had sent me the flowers, so I thought I could at least hear what he had to say. We talked for I don’t know how long–hours? And I missed him so much, that when he told me to come over, I couldn’t stop myself, and over at the farm, on the porch, I got down on my knees, and told him how sorry I was for how I’d acted. I don’t know what had come over me, to be honest, he was so sexy, I was the one who’d begged him to fuck my ass in the hospital–he hadn’t forced me to do anything. How could I have forgotten that? Still, he was good enough to forgive me, but he refused to fuck me until after I’d licked his whole body clean (which was so fucking hot, especially his sweaty ass crack, fuck, I’m getting hard just thinking about it) and god, if it wasn’t the best fuck of my life after that.

I think I love him. No, I know I love him, my heart just aches being away from him like this, and at home, I just smell the flowers he sent me all the time and think of him, and how much I love him, how much I want to worship him, and how I’d do anything for him anything he asked me to, because he’s so smart, way smarter than me. I mean, he knew just what to do about Z, didn’t he? He gave me this list of drugs to prescribe, but I can’t call him Z anymore. Jerome’s right, Z’s a stupid name, I should call him Bruin, like he does. Isn’t that a good name for a dog? But anyway, he knew just what to prescribe for him, and I called the hospital and withdrew my transfer request because of course we can treat him here, just like Jerome says.

He just sent me a text! He’s horny and wants my ass–I have to go, I’ll write more later.

***

December 6th, 2012

Gosh, has it really been that long since I last wrote something? Still, I have been really busy. Jerome’s been putting me to work on the farm, and it’s getting close to harvest time, not to mention all of the cooking, cleaning and fucking I’ve been doing for him. Still, it’s a small price to pay. The only patient I’ve had any time for is Bruin, and he’s really starting to improve, I think. Those drugs Jerome suggested I prescribe have really helped his clarity of mind–he’s remembering more and more these days, the poor pup. What an awful thing, to be in a hit and run like that? Very traumatic, especially for a puppy dog like him. Sure, he still has some issues, like he keeps forgetting he’s a pup, and thinks he’s human. How silly is that? But he’s doing a lot better. Jerome thinks we’ll be able to take him home soon. Still, I wish I could do something about his night terrors–nothing seems to be working. His screams are waking up the entire hospital at times, but I just don’t know what to do.

Actually, I haven’t been at the hospital very much lately, because I’ve been getting these splitting headaches whenever I try and do my work. It seems like anytime I try to do something more complicated than cooking Jerome dinner or washing his clothes, my head starts beating itself against a wall. It means I can’t do a lot of stuff I used to enjoy, like read my medical journals or do crosswords and stuff like that, not that I really have much time anyway. When I tell Jerome about the headaches he just tells me I should smoke more–oh, did I tell you about that? Jerome got me hooked, I admit it, and the stuff is nice. Still, I don’t think it’s the same plant Jerome smokes, or if it is, it just makes me feel stupid and silly and really horny when I smoke it. He tells me that it’ll help with the headaches but it doesn’t do much at all really.

Work, with the headaches, has gotten really difficult, but someone else is going to have to deal with it this weekend, because I’m moving in with Jerome! Isn’t that exciting? I already got rid of most of my things–Jerome said I didn’t need them anymore, and he was nice enough to talk to the bank about settling my mortgage, so I’m all set. Not that I haven’t been living over there nearly full time anyway, but it’ll still be nice to make it official.

***

December 11th, 2012

Fuck.

Naturally, I take a weekend off, and everything goes to hell. Thank god Jerome was there, or I don’t know what would have happened.

I’m getting ahead of myself. So I spent the weekend moving my things to the farm, so I wasn’t at the hospital. However, from the sound of things, Bruin’s night terrors and screams only got worse, and apparently, one of the night nurses just went and lost it, took a scalpel, and tried to cut his throat. I mean, thank God Jerome was there, watching out for Bruin, or he might have died. The police took him into custody, but our poor pup–I don’t know if he’ll be able to bark, but he certainly won’t be speaking anymore. Jerome sounds hopeful, and that makes me feel good, but still, how crazy is that?

Jerome wants us to bring him home, and I agree. He’ll be safest home with us, taking care of him. Besides, he’s Jerome’s pup after all, where else would he go?

But didn’t he I don’t, it’s another headache coming on

Hurt so gotta stop

Fuck, oh my god, it’s never been this bad,

I…I remember, he’s not…not a pup? But then

Don’t know how long I can keep fighting it, so much pain. He’s not a pup, I think Jerome’s done something. I tried to stop smoking but it hurts so much, I feel like I might pass out any moment. I hear his truck, he’s coming in, I have to stop him, I have to stop this, but hide this first, where he won’t find it, and hope I’m strong enough.

***

[Undated]

Jerome was right I was thinking too hard. I’m just a stupid slut after all just his stupid slut and Bruin is his pup and of course Bruin needs to come home with us. Well, I’m not just any stupid slut, I’m his stupid slut. Jerome own’s my faggot ass, or at least that’s what he says to me when he’s fucking me. He fucks me so hard, I love it when he fucks me. I love it when anything fucks me, that’s what Jerome said, Jerome said my ass exists to be fucked, and it’s a shame that such a smart guy had to be attached to such a fantastic ass but that’s not a problem anymore I’m just a dumb slut like Jerome wants me to be yep just a dumb slut no more headaches for me just fucking and sucking and doing chores for Jerome because I love him I love him so much diary I can’t tell you because it’s like as big as the sky.

I’m not supposed to be writing in you by the way so this has to be our little secret. Jerome says I can’t have any secrets that I can’t tell him anything but I haven’t told him about you, and we’ve been good friends for so long I’m sure one little secret won’t hurt, right?

I can’t wait for Bruin to come home. Jerome says he’s been watching over him all nights and getting him started on his obedience training but that when he’s home the two of us will make him a proper puppy, and eventually Bruin will fuck me isn’t that exciting!!! Jerome can’t wait for Bruin to try on the paws Jerome made for him, I saw them and they look perfect Bruin will walk around just like a real doggy, and Jerome can’t wait to teach Bruin how to fuck me he wants all the animals to fuck my hole he said and I can’t wait because I love to get fucked I’m practicing now diary on a big dildo Jerome just gave me it feels so good I’m gonna go practice now and hide you again where Jerome won’t find you. Goodbye diary I don’t think I’ll have much time to write again but I’ll keep you safe I promise. And Bruin too. I promised him too, can’t forget that too. Ok I have to hide you now, gotta keep you safe. I’ll try to write soon I swear.