The Pigtown Chronicles: Chapter 3.7 – Old Acquaintances

“What do you want pig? You want more smoke?”

The man on his knees in front of Kyle gave a little whimper, but the size of his hard on, and the hunger in his eyes showed that his hesitancy was no longer as powerful as his newfound lust. Kyle took a long drag off the jumbo pipe he was smoking tonight at The Hideaway, wrapped one leather glove around the man’s chin, and fed him the smoke. He snorted it down, his already substantial waistline filling out even further, eyes glazed over with lust, and Kyle pulled out his cock, shoved the man’s face onto it, and he started sucking, only to be surprised when even more smoke filled his mouth. Kyle heaved a sigh and shuddered, leaning over against Marshall, who was watching his apprentice work the man over in the bar, where a small crowd of regulars had gathered to watch. 

It had been clear that he was freshmeat. Enough time spent in Pigtown, and you began to smell the scent when they walked past. Everyone described it a bit different. Some compared it to a steak coming hot off the barbeque. Others said it reminded them of the smell of good whiskey rising up out of a glass. Each person had their own take on it. To Kyle, it was like his mother’s fresh cobbler, fresh out of the oven, too hot to touch, and yet it called to you all the same, no matter how much you wanted to deny it. Everyone knew, and everyone wanted you. Pigtown wanted you, and they were all Pigtown. Of course, not everyone could have you, it wasn’t a free-for-all. The freshmeat had to want you first. It made it worse, somehow, when you could smell it, and somehow know it wasn’t for you. Tonight, though, the older fellow had wanted Kyle, and Kyle had wanted a smokepig, and so here they were.

Kyle had thought he’d miss his old life. Thought he’d miss going to college, thought he’d miss his old friends, thought he’d miss his family. Pigtown, though, didn’t give him any space to miss things, every moment was taken up with some little hedonistic delight now, a constant drip feed of pleasure, so he no longer needed to consider what he might be missing. Even his work in the shop was becoming more pleasurable, now that the regulars were involving him in their conversations, since he was one of them as well. Outside the shop, though, he could sense that a number of people feared Marshall, and feared him in turn.

He asked him about this, one morning as they were eating breakfast. Marshall had seemed hesitant to say something at first, but eventually had told him that even among the men in Pigtown, they were different. “You’re not like the people outside of Pigtown anymore, but you know that. We also aren’t like the men inside Pigtown either. No one really knows what to call us. At the precinct, they call us aberrations. I’m not a fan of the term, but you should know what it means, if someone says it to you. We aren’t quite human anymore, not in the ways that humans would say matter. We need different things than humans do, too. I, of course, still think of myself as human, for the most part.” He took a long draw off his second cigar of the morning to make the point, then continued, “But we’re still men. Now, there are some like us who I would say aren’t even men anymore, either. I would hesitate to say that they are dangerous. Pigtown is dangerous, but nothing here will kill you. It will change you, render you into something unrecognizable, but it won’t kill you.” It was more or less an answer. It wasn’t until he met Shadow for the first time that evening, that the boundaries Marshall had outlined became wholly clear. 

It happened like this: 

The light in the room changed, everything seemed to glow a bit brighter as all the light left one corner of the Hideaway, and when the darkness receded, there were two men in full leathers standing beside a small round table, and the men in the bar fled that corner just as the light had moments before. A number of men shot up from where they were sitting or leaning and booked it out of the bar, a few others sat up a little straighter, clearly ready for something, and the bartender poured a couple of whiskey sodas, and sent them to the table, free of charge. Kyle was left looking at Marshall for cues on what to expect, but his Master held the same laid back confidence as always, though perhaps the smoke inside him had quickened, ever so slightly.

“Leave the pig for a bit. We should go pay our respects, and you ought to be introduced,” Marshall said.

“Who…is that?” Kyle asked, “Is that…Shadow? The guy that took Marlon?”

“That is Shadow, yes. I would be very careful with the words you use, though. How is Shadow ‘taking’ Marlon any different than what you’re doing to this poor soul right here?” The sarcasm was exaggerated, but the point stung regardless. Kyle nodded, and followed Marshall over to the dark corner, where Shadow gave Marshall a nod as he approached.

“Marshall, it’s been a while. How’s the shop?”

“Business has been booming around here since you went away for a while,” Marshall said. Shadow stood, the two of them embraced, and then Shadow sat back down. “I heard you were in the jail.”

“Yes, I was.”

“And…you escaped. From what Rumwell is always spouting off, I’d have thought the Warden had the place locked down tighter than that.”

Shadow let a little smirk cross his mouth, the only part that Kyle could see beneath the brim of his cap. “Well, I’m sure he will attempt to return me there as soon as possible, in any case. Now, who is this strapping young man with you? Last I recall, you were rather reluctant to spread your gift, Marshall.”

“I like to think I was waiting for someone worthy of it,” Marshall said, and Kyle couldn’t help but swell with a bit of pride. “I see we have a new shade among us as well.”

“Marlon,” the other leather clad figure said, extending a hand, and Kyle gave a little jump.

“Wait, Marlon? Really?” Kyle said, leaning in close and trying to get a good look at Marlon’s face, but his eyes couldn’t pierce the shadow that seemed to fall across his eyes perpetually, “You…You’re ok then? Jimmy’s been worried sick about you, since you disappeared.”

Shadow stood up, placed himself between them, and pushed Kyle backwards, knocking him slightly off balance. “It’s very rude to look under a shade’s brim, you know. It’s very private.”

“I…He’s my friend. He went missing.”

“I don’t…wait, I do know you, don’t I?” Marlon said, leaned over and laid one hand on Kyle’s shadow. He could…feel it, somehow, and he shuddered. “Ah, of course. I didn’t recognize you from up here. Kyle, right?”

“You don’t remember me?”

“I was Marlon’s shadow, Kyle. I remember, and know, different parts of you than he would have. The Marlon you knew is gone. I took his name; it was one of the few things about him I liked.”

“What do you mean gone?” Marshall dropped one hand on the back of Kyle’s neck and gripped him there, hard enough to make him reassess what he was saying. “I mean…I’m sorry. I was mistaken.”

Shadow looked down at him, or at least, Kyle assumed the blackness under the cap was looking at him, and sat back down. “I wouldn’t have expected you to know everything that goes on here, but I would advise you to be a bit more cautious, in the future, little smoke.”

“Why don’t you go tend to your pig, Kyle. Go have some fun.”

“Yes…Sir,” Kyle said. He left, and dragged his pet pig for the evening towards the maze, wondering if he would have been dismissed so easily if he’d been a little more tactful. Marlon watched him go, rubbing his leather gloved fingers together, feeling that particular darkness, and that name, Jimmy. “Shadow, you said that I can go somewhere else, if I need to, didn’t you?”

“I am not your master, my shade,” Shadow said, “Come and go as you please.”

Marlon stood up, summoned the darkness and slipped away into it, leaving just Marshall and Shadow alone at the table together. Marshall took the seat that Marlon had been in, and watched as the rest of the bar slowly fell back into its prior rhythm, though several men were still glancing back at them both on a regular basis.

“Is it…time for you?” Marshall asked. “It’s been calling to me, lately, that’s the only reason I ask, and I know you’re quite a bit older than me.”

“Oh, all the time. But I have work to do, first, before I go there. He’s a handsome fellow, a little prone to putting his foot in his mouth, perhaps.”

“What about yours? Where has he gone off to?”

“I do not keep tabs on my shades. They go where they please. I’m in the business of freedom, you know that.”

“Chaos, some might say. I like that the nights are more interesting with you in them. I should go follow that little apprentice of mine, before he gets into too much trouble. He still has a pretty heavy hand.”

“I could use something to eat, myself. You’re welcome to join me, if you want. I think your little apprentice will manage one way or another, without your supervision.”

“I ate last week. You know I don’t need as much as you do.”

“You need just as much, you just swallow it all at once. I prefer to share.”

“Have a good night, Shadow. Let me know if I can be of assistance.”

“Last I checked, we weren’t quite on the same side of things.”

Marshall stood up, and adjusted his leather coat. “If the rumors I hear coming out of the precinct are at least half truths, I’m not quite sure where the line is anymore. Things are…breaking down, around here. Getting messy. I hate mess, you know that.”

Shadow chuckled, and from one moment to the next, the chair was occupied, and then it was not, leaving Marshall standing alone in the bar again. The men there breathed a collective sigh of relief, and Marshall wandered into the maze, sniffing out his apprentice’s pipe smoke. Shadow, meanwhile, materialized a few blocks away, in the dark of an alley, closer to the edge of the district. Still a bit early, perhaps. No matter, it would only be a matter of time before some prey wandered along, as it did.

The Pigtown Chronicles: Chapter 3.6 – The Warden

Precinct 27 had been a normal police precinct, at one point. The neighborhood had been rundown, ripe for gentrification maybe, but no more troubled than any other area of the city. But then, they’d seen an uptick in public indecency, nudity, sex in the alleys, all of it originating at the far end of its jurisdiction. Rumor told of a bar or a club or a complex called Pigtown that had opened up, some sleazy gay place, but the officers had never been able to find it and shut it down. Then, it had spread. A few more arrests for public indecency turned into gay bars and bathhouses and more opening up, and it wasn’t long before the corruption, or whatever it was, had spread to some of the officers. Looking back, it was difficult to say whether the choices Rumwell had made then had been the right ones or not, but there was no good reason to second guess himself now. What he had done, he had done in the interest of maintaining order, both within the precinct, and outside of it, as best they all could. It had meant making some deals with a few devils. It had included making a few necessary sacrifices. There had been an equilibrium for a while–Pigtown hadn’t grown much larger than the blocks beyond the precinct, and the commander had done what was necessary to keep the city and other eyes from prying too closely. Over the last few months, though, Rumwell had found it difficult to feel like that balance was going to last forever.

He was in his office, where two of his officers had finished their business with his boots and his cock. He sent them off to other duties, and made his way down to the lowest level of the precinct–or at least, what had been the lowest level at one time, known as the drunk tank. The basement was lined with a few cells, empty at this time of day. It was generally intended for catch and release these days. But what hadn’t always been there were the stairs at the end of the hall, that led down into the jail proper. 

Six months into whatever this was, the precinct had run out of room. There were just too many deviants, and if you jailed them together, they would get up to even worse antics in the cells than out on the streets, and more than a few times, he’d caught his officers fraternizing with the perverts. He’d even lost a few to the alleys, in the early days, before he’d learned how to assert proper control and discipline over his ranks. They’d needed space, and one night, more space had appeared. Another bank of cells below the basement, appearing like magic. But soon those had been filled as well, and more appeared, and more. At this point, it was difficult to know how deep the entire complex went below the precinct. He imagined that the only person who might know would be The Warden. 

When the jail had first begun growing, a small contingent of officers proved to be more resistant to the corruption spreading from the perverts locked up there than others–or at least, they were less prone to letting them escape, or running off with them. At some point, the group had named one of them their de facto leader, and begun calling him The Warden. Rumwell had known his real name at one point, but now, it was gone, as was most of the man’s prior identity, he supposed. After all, it wasn’t that the men had been more resilient to the corruption spreading through this part of the city, it was merely warping them in a different fashion, and by the time Rumwell realized what had happened down there, it was too late to do anything about it.

The result, now, was a division. The precinct above, run by Rumwell, and the prison below, run by The Warden. They had been cooperative at first, but slowly, the warden had grown more antagonistic. He demanded more guards to cover the cells, and when Rumwell refused, he simply took them for himself. Prisoners that Rumwell had intended to release back onto the street come morning were deemed too deviant to be allowed out, and commandeered on a regular basis. Rumwell couldn’t help but feel like he was no longer entirely in charge, and when he’d confronted the Warden about his actions a couple of months ago, neither of them had escaped the encounter unscathed. They hadn’t spoken sense. 

He descended into the jail, trying to ignore the screams, the sounds of whips and flails and paddles and whatever instruments the guards desired to maintain the prisoner’s compliance. It seemed rather clear to him that their motives were more selfish. Some prisoners saw him, begged him for mercy. The deeper he went, the less he heard that cry–instead, conditioned by constant beatings, twisted by the guards, by the warden, the deviants ached, craved the pain and the discipline, howling with ecstasy from where they were chained on the walls or confined in the cages. 

The occasional guard would notice him, but while some would smile, none tried to stop him. They all knew that they wouldn’t be able to resist him–the only one who could was the Warden. He recognized the faces of a few, but many were unrecognizable, either their faces were hooded, or they had been twisted into such a brutish appearance as to no longer even seem human. This was deeper than he’d ever been before, the depravity around him much more intense. 

“Ah, so he has returned,” a voice said out of the darkness, and The Warden stepped forth, a flogger over one shoulder, half smoked cigar clamped in his bearded jaw, “To what do I owe the pleasure, Commander Rumwell? Come to give me another lecture?”

Rumwell sized up the warden, who seemed to have grown a little wider, and a bit taller since their last encounter. Not quite as large as Rumwell was, but close. He was wearing a full leather uniform, and underneath the smell of leather and smoke, there was the distinct pang of blood in the air as well. “My feelings on the matter haven’t changed, and I assume yours haven’t either. I don’t see a reason to open up old wounds just yet. I’m here on business. I need to confirm that Shadow is still being held here–I want to see him.”

The Warden took a draw off his cigar, and pushed a plume off to the side. “Unfortunately, he escaped.”

“What?”

“A few weeks ago. Found himself a shadow, slid right into it.”

“You told me you had him contained.”

“And I thought I did.”

“Why am I just now hearing about this? Weeks? You know full well how many fucking shades that monster can make! It was a nightmare cleaning up the streets last time, and who knows if we even caught all of them.”

The Warden gave a little shrug, “I’m sure you’ll be able to catch him again.”

Rumwell stalked a little closer, “You let him escape on purpose, didn’t you?”

“And you still aren’t meeting the quotas we agreed on.”

“So you let one of the most unpredictable aberrations loose onto the street because you’re not getting enough bodies to torture?”

“This is not torture, Commander. All of these bodies, if we let them loose, what do you think would happen? The city would be overrun. You can’t keep the streets in order without me, without everything that I do down here. I know what they need. I know how to control them. You can pretend that you sit in that tall office of yours, that you know this city, but it’s down here in the fucking dark that I keep it safe. All I ask is that you give me what my guards need to stay occupied.” He took a draw off the cigar, and blew another plume. “Besides, shades are really…exquisite things. The punishment they can take–the punishment they need. Nothing like it in the world that I’ve found. If Shadow happens to make a few more that end up down here, I can’t say I would be disappointed. Flesh withers so easily, but shadow–so much more resilient.” He held out the flogger, handle towards the commander, and he saw that each leather strap was tipped with a metal spike, a few with flecks of what he imagined must be blood. “My offer still stands, Commander, if you want to try your hand at it. See what it feels like. I know you have the rage in you, I can still feel the bruise on my jaw a little. Why don’t you just let it out on something that really deserves it? They aren’t even human after all.”

Rumwell turned and left before The Warden could finish speaking, the laughter of the man echoing through the halls, mirrored in the ecstatic screams and shouts all around him. He struggled to find his way back up to the precinct, the stairwells and hallways seemed to twist around him, confound him, threaten to seal him in, but finally, he burst his way back up into the drunk tank, and didn’t stop until he was out of the building, standing on the sidewalk, panting in the night air. It was monstrous. It was necessary. He wondered, again, how it would feel, what the screams would sound like if he had brought them forth himself, if he would lose himself. He knew he would. He was strong, but not strong enough, and the Warden knew that. 

He straightened up, and marched back inside, where the night shift was just coming in. They were more hardened, more resilient than the day officers. They faced the brunt of what Pigtown had to offer, and pushed back as best they could–and fed the beast below them. “The Warden has informed me that Shadow has escaped from the jail. He’s been on the loose for a few weeks now. This is now our priority. I want him found, and I want him back down there, where he belongs.”

The Pigtown Chronicles: Chapter 3.5 – Side Effects

Parker swore that it had been a normal workout–usually a couple of hours from when he started stretching to his cool down cardio. When he looked outside though, he was confused to see that it was night already, and he had been lifting weights for close to five hours straight, cycling through arms, back, legs, chest, core and back again, over and over, desperate to try use up the energy that was suddenly thrumming through him. He was a bit addled at first, soaked in sweat, trying to piece together the hours that he had apparently spent here without even realizing it. Not long after that, he realized that more than a few of the men around were staring at him, some lustfully, but more than a couple just looked confused or concerned. He wasn’t quite sure why, until he turned again, saw himself in one of the mirrored walls of the gym, and did his best not to let his own jaw hit the floor at the sight.

The workout clothes that he had on, which he liked a little tight, so they could better show off his bulge and physique, were about to tear themselves off his body, if he flexed a bit too hard. In fact, one of the straps on his tank top had done just that at some point, revealing one massive, hairy pec with a nipple on the end of it larger than some men’s cocks–and was it leaking? He reached over with one hand, and sure enough, it was. That was enough to send him into the locker room for a moment, so he could get a better handle on what he was looking at. 

He went around the corner to the sinks, and there, he realized that he hadn’t just grown more muscular over the course of a single afternoon, he’d also grown taller. The sinks that usually hit right at his waist, now met the middle of his thigh, and he needed to stoop down slightly just to get a look at his face in the mirror. “God damn, what the fuck,” he said, looking at his thickly bearded face, heavier jaw and bro…the receding hairline. He ran a hand through his usually thick hair, only to watch a good chunk of it fall away, leaving him with a substantial bald patch. He splashed some water on his face, tried to stop himself from hyperventilating, got out his phone, and called Hugh–but the dealer didn’t answer.

“God fucking damn it,” he said, face feeling flushed, looked down, and saw another reason the guys had been staring at him. He’d been so focused on his face and upper body, he hadn’t bothered to notice that his cock was simply massive–long enough that the head and a couple inches of the shaft were hanging out of the leg of his shorts, only half hard, and drooling the same viscous, milky substance his pecs had suddenly started producing. He dropped his shorts, and his balls were swollen to easily the size of a bowling ball–he held them in his hands, and he could feel them aching. Not just aching. They were churning. Fuck, how long had it been since he’d last cum? The skin of his scrotum was pulled taut–he couldn’t even feel his testicles inside them. It was like they were swimming in the goo now flowing out of him.

“God, some guys are such fucking freaks, they’ll shoot themselves up with anything. What do you think that fucker’s on, anyway?”

“Who the fuck knows, some of the shit on the street these days can be real fucking shady. Steroids, sure–who hasn’t done them? But I sure as hell don’t want to look like that.”

“Did you catch a whiff of him? Dude fucking reeks too.”

“I bet–looks like he’d be better suited in a fucking barnyard.”

Parker’s face flushed red. They were fucking talking about him, they had to be. The shame he felt surprised him. He loved seeing guys stare at him, but this…what the fuck was happening to him? He needed to get to the hospital or something, needed to figure out what the hell this stuff even was. He went to take leave, only for the shorts he was wearing to finally give up the fight, tear open from crotch to waist, and his massive genitals spilled out, the sudden drop causing a massive burst of milky cum to ooze their way out of the head, making a sizable puddle on the floor. Parker hefted his monstrous package, but just pressing on the swollen sack made even more of the gunk spew all over his hands, and the smell of it, fuck, it smelled a bit rank, but it was making him kind of horny too.

Maybe it was just a minute or two, but when Parker came back to himself, he had both hands wrapped around his cock, milking it with long strokes, grunting and moaning like some fucking animal, just flooding the floor with his precum. He regained a bit of control, just in time for the two men who had been talking about him to round the corner, heading for the showers, and stopped dead in their tracks. “Fucking, hell, what the fuck is that stench?” one of them said, throwing his elbow across the face.

“Christ, you fucking pervert!” the other said, but Parker could see something happening to them both, their eyes going a little glassy. The other one gave a little snort, got down, crawled towards the puddle of precum he’d just made and started lapping it up. The first put up a little resistance, tried to run–but Parker had had enough. He grabbed him, dragged him back, and flung him face first into the puddle with his friend, watched him try to resist for a moment, but he soon gave in and started licking as much of it up from the filthy gym floor as he could. Parker didn’t quite know why he was doing this, but he was so…so full. He needed someone to empty him, didn’t he? He got down on his knees with them, grabbed the back of their heads, and pulled them to his teats, both of them sucking down Parker’s milk right from the source, and as they did, he could see them both changing. 

Their guts grew first, filling up with Parker’s milk, but it soon became obvious that it wasn’t just a full belly–they were actually getting fatter. Their hair was next, both on their heads and their bodies, falling away into the puddle below them. Parker felt something happen to his cock–it moved in a way he didn’t quite understand, in a way he couldn’t even really control, slithering between him and one of the men latched onto his pec, like it was seeking something out. It found it, the head of his cock swallowing up the man’s cock, and it started sucking on it, and both he and Parker let off a moan in unison. He could feel it, feel himself draining the man’s vitality, his muscles, even his youth, his now hairless face growing a bit wrinkled, his muscles atrophying as they were sucked out and added to Parker’s own massive frame. The other man tried to pull away in horror, but his mouth wouldn’t let him detach from the other nipple. When his cock was finished, and had sucked away the man’s cock and balls until the only thing that remained was a piss hole buried in his new fat, the now larger cock snaked over to the second man, and repeated the process, draining him completely dry as well. When he was finished, he stood back up, the two men’s mouths coming away from his tits with a loud sucking sound, and he looked down at them, barely even recognizable as men now, just two short blobs, their mouths sucking up everything they could of their new master from the floor under them. 

He, on the other hand, was even larger. His head was mere inches from the ceiling, the rest of his clothes fell away from him as he stood up and flexed, and he tore the rags away from him. There was no reason to hide this body now–he was superior to every other man, how could he have ever doubted himself before? One of the thralls below turned around and raised its hole, now loose and more than capable of taking its master’s cock, but before he could accept the invitation and fuck the thing, there was a cramp in his arm, and then in his guts that made him double over in pain. 

He didn’t know what could be causing it, but his whole body was screaming out for…for something. Something it needed. He stumbled over to his locker, fumbled it open, and carefully extracted the extra vial of BHB he’d taken from Hugh. Manipulating the syringe with his massive body was difficult, especially with the muscle spasms, but he managed to get himself injected, and after a couple of scary minutes, he felt the pain recede, and the horniness flood through him all over again–but that could wait. Hugh’s place wasn’t too far from here, and if that was how his body was going to react to withdrawal, he couldn’t afford to go without a dose again.

When the staff came to investigate the smell in the men’s locker room, after the emergency exit had been tripped, they found the strange pool of goo, the tattered remains of three sets of men’s workout clothes, and nothing else. Parker was busy strutting his way through the darkness of pigtown, his two thralls lumbering and wobbling their way after him, stopping one after another to slurp up their master’s precum that was still seeping its way onto the sidewalk. It was time, now, to have another little chat with Hugh, and after that, it was time to settle things with Samuel once and for all, and show him who was really the boss in this relationship.

The Pigtown Chronicles: Chapter 3.4 – Creative Block

After Parker had slapped him around back at their apartment, Samuel had spent a few minutes brooding a bit about it, and then packed a bag so he could stay overnight in his studio. It was over between them, unofficially at this point, but he wasn’t stupid enough to wait for a brute like that to come back and break the news to him. He doubted that Parker even remembered where his studio was, he’d only taken him there once, early in their relationship, so Samuel could do a study of him for a piece he’d never bothered to finish. He should have known then he was just an uninteresting piece of meat, and ditched him. He’d wait a night or two, and then go back and settle things with some back up if it got violent again. In any case, he had work to do anyway–if he could just figure out what the work was supposed to be.

There were few things worse to Samuel than a creative block. Later that day, hunched over the desk in his studio, he crumpled up another piece of paper with some worthless sketch on it, tossed it with the others all around him, and then sat back in the chair. The space around him was a mess, not that it wasn’t in some perpetual state of chaos on any other day. Some days though, the mess verged on claustrophobic–abandoned models, canvas, old unfinished work, all of it looming over him, taunting him. None of it was good enough. None of it was what he’d wanted to say, and now, even worse, he had someone who wanted to say something through him, and he couldn’t begin to fathom what it was.

He went to the window and was a bit dismayed to realize it was evening, the summer light already golden on the sides of the buildings. Hours had passed, and he hadn’t anything to even show for it, not even the memory of the time passing. The room was too tight, he needed to get out for a bit, and walk. He bundled up in his coat and slipped down to the sidewalk, not really sure where he was heading, but it was better than whatever he might do in that stale room. 

It was a weeknight, and the crowds were much diminished from what they were on a Friday or Saturday evening. Fewer normies coming in from the suburbs, more regulars in their leather and rubber milling from club to club and alley to alley, partaking in whatever pleasures they might find. He spent a while spying from the sidewalk at the mouths of alleys, a favorite pastime of his, an opportunity to watch flesh work in person. There was still too much light though, and so not much in the way of action, so it didn’t hold his interest for long. He ended up passing Depot, and on a whim, turned around and went inside. Perhaps Rod was there. This was all his fault, he rationalized in the moment. His money had sapped his creative spirit, just like he’d known it would. Until he was free of his patron, he was suddenly certain he wouldn’t make anything again.

He found a couple of bouncers milling by the bar, chatting. The bar hadn’t been open for very long and the floor and nooks didn’t require constant patrolling yet. “Hey, is your boss here? Up in the VIP room?” he said to one of them.

“What?”

“Rod, your boss. Is he here?”

“Do you have an invitation?”

Samuel rolled his eyes, exaggerated it enough to make sure the bouncer knew that what he was about to do ought to be wholly unnecessary, turned around, spotted one of the cameras and gave a wave. The bouncer received something on his earpiece, and shrugged. “Go on up, he’s expecting you, apparently.”

Samuel did not want to be expected. That alone was almost enough to send him back out onto the sidewalk. Instead, he took a drink from the lower bar, and headed up to the VIP lounge, fully planning on throwing it in his face this time. The lounge was nearly the same as when he’d been there nearly two weeks earlier–the same bartender, Rod sitting on the same barstool, perhaps not the same folks having sex among the cushions, but interchangable ones all the same. He resolved to throw the drink before Rod could even get out a word, but the sight of his eyes was enough to stall him, and when Rod pulled out another stool for him, told him to sit, have a chat, he found that same sense of camaraderie overwhelm his good, volatile sense. He sat, and when Rod asked how he was, he was honest about everything–from his artist’s block to financial struggles and recent fight with Parker. Rod was a good listener. Never interrupting, asking good questions but never trying to lead him to a given conclusion. When Samuel had exhausted himself, Rod took a sip from his drink, placed a hand on Samuel’s knee, and said, “I’m glad you confided in me, I really do understand, you know. We are not so different really, I knew that from the moment I saw your art hanging in that gallery. What you’re missing is the correct medium, I believe.”

“What?”

“You have these ideas, yes? And yet, as soon as they are committed to paper, they seem flat and empty. The problem is not the idea, but the paper.”

“I always sketch on paper.”

“You always have sketched on paper before.”

Samuel narrowed his eyes at him, “What are you saying, really?”

Rod looked over at the undulating men on the cushions, who for the extent of their conversation, had not ceased their activities with one another, not even for a drink. Samuel followed his gaze, but as he swung his head, he felt the sharp headache that had struck him that night in the club, right before he’d seen what he’d seen there, something he hadn’t even dared try and sketch, something he hadn’t told Rod about even. But there, on the cushions was something inhuman. A writhing mass of flesh, raw and pure and ripe. The distinctions between their bodies had dissolved away, face became cock became ass became chest. There was no distinction between or within any body, and when he blinked, it snapped back, and once again, he was looking at the men, at the sex, but he couldn’t unsee that either. He couldn’t be convinced that the vision was less real than the image his mind was showing him now.

“You saw?”

“I…did you?”

“Oh, all the time. It’s all I see these days. But then, the struggle has never been seeing it myself, but getting others to see it too. You’re the first. That’s why I have no worries about you, Samuel. I want you to take all the time in the world. You’ll create exactly what you need to, soon enough, and if you ever need a sympathetic ear, you will always find me here.”

“Can…I see it again?”

“Whenever you want.”

Samuel waited, expecting Rod to do something to make it work, but his patron just took another sip of his drink. He looked back at the bodies there, focused, unfocused, cocked his head, but couldn’t seem to slip behind the veil again. “It’s not working.”

“Then you don’t really want to see it again. That’s alright, I know it takes time, and courage.”

He had another drink. He wanted to talk to Rod further, but didn’t know what questions to ask yet. The orgy behind him unnerved him now, and eventually, he bid Rod a good evening, and went down to the club floor again. He stood at the edge of the dance floor, now busier than it had been when he’d walked in, watched those bodies crush and squeeze and float and drool against one another, but while it was another mass of bodies, it was nothing like the mass of flesh upstairs. A young body peeled its way free and spun off towards him, into him really, and looked up at him, stary and drugged and hungry.

He looked up, and saw that Rod had left the stool, and was staring down at him from the VIP lounge above. He nodded to him, and Samuel understood, somehow, that this man was a gift to him. So he took him away to his studio. He was out of his mind on drugs or Pigtown itself, pliable and soft and eager. Samuel thought about sex, but decided against it. He stripped the man down, threw him on the mattress he kept in his studio for naps and long nights, and dug into his body, smelling and tasting, bending and scraping and kneading. The man passed out before too long, and Samuel studied the curve of the man’s back, before taking a marker from his desk, and drawing a line along the man’s spine, feeling a strange shudder through him. The wrong medium, Rod had said. Another line. A shape. The same thing he had struggled to sketch for days flowed right from his hands onto the man’s back. He sketched for hours, across the young man’s whole body, but it still wasn’t enough. He thought of the flesh again, the raw flesh. He pressed against the man’s rib cage, and felt it bend with his pressure, and he was so surprised, he fell back, and it snapped back into place. Samuel didn’t touch him after that, just stared at the man, at the marks he’d scrawled across his body, threw a blanket over him and left him there. He knew, somehow, he would be gone by morning–but Samuel couldn’t be here. He was afraid, not of what the young man might do when he saw the marks. Afraid of what he himself might do, if he touched the man again. He threw on his coat, and headed back out into the night.

The Pigtown Chronicles: Chapter 3.3 – Shadow’s Puppet

Marlon was lost, had been lost for a while now. Sometimes, he was there in the cage, feeling his body slowly draining away, too exhausted to move, too exhausted to do much of anything. Other times, he was out of the cage, with Shadow, who for the last week, had been tormenting Marlon’s shade almost non-stop. Shadow didn’t seem to need sleep, or food, or water. Marlon, on the other hand–or at least, the part of Marlon in the cage, didn’t seem to require them any more either, but didn’t stop feeling hunger or thirst. When he managed to find a voice, he would occasionally call out, begging for sustenance, but Shadow and the shade saw no reason to engage. It ought to be wasting away, after all. It wasn’t going to be important, from now on. 

The shade had been flat, at first. Marlon hadn’t quite understood how Shadow could grip something flat, but he could. His manacles could bind it, his whips and floggers could strike it, his needles could pierce it. There was never any mark on the shade from any of this, no matter how hard it was struck, no matter what sadistic torture it was given. There was no mark on Marlon’s body either, in the cage, but he still felt every strike as though it had been against his own flesh and bone under Shadow’s implements. 

The hunger and thirst made him delusional, or at least, he thought they were delusions, at first. Visions that he was outside of the cage, looking down on himself, but without control of his body. It took a few of these before he realized he was literally looking down at himself, through the eyes of the shade. It seemed to happen when Shadow fucked the shade, or fed him a load. Often the shade would have an orgasm of its own, and Marlon’s vision would slip for a moment, looking at his own body. It was pale, flat, sagging. It seemed less like a body, and more like a costume that someone had left crumpled up on the floor. Then he would be back, shuddering, the torture would begin again, and he would return to screaming.

He didn’t understand why he wasn’t dead. Perhaps he was dead. Perhaps he was dying. He asked Shadow, asked him why he was doing this, why he wasn’t dying. There was no sense of time down in the windowless room, just that constant red light. Shadow never replied, of course. The question didn’t particularly interest him. After all, Pigtown had never killed anyone, to his knowledge. Pigtown didn’t want to kill you, it wanted to use you. The men of Pigtown wanted to use you too. Use, or be used. Take, or be taken. 

At some point, Marlon’s voice was taken from him. It took a few minutes, or hours, before he realized that the moans and screams he was hearing were no longer coming from his own mouth–they were coming from the shade. They were different as well. No longer were they full of terror–they sounded pleased. Delighted, almost. His voice croaked out, asking for more, “More, Master, more…” and he clawed at the bars of the cage, furious at his own shadow’s betrayal. He’d been his, after all, all his life. And now, he was taking everything from him. He tried to scream, tried to shout, but nothing–not even a whisper would leave his lips. It was one of the few times Shadow even acknowledged that he was still there, the shaded face turning to the cage, a slight smile across those bearded lips, and then he turned to the shade. “More of what, my little puppet?”

“Everything, all of it,” the shade said. Even worse, Marlon felt his own mouth move with the words, though no sound came from him. 

Marlon found himself slipping back and forth, between his dwindling existence in the cage, and the painful pleasure outside of it, under Shadow’s controlling hands. He could feel the shade’s voice growing, not just when speaking, but in his own mind, too. How much it hated him. Hated that body in the cage, how it had been tethered to him for so long. Marlon found himself growing more and more sympathetic. The pain on the cross, or over the bench, or whatever else Shadow did to him was nothing compared to the aching hunger and thirst and weakness when he slipped back into the cage. He was miserable. He was a miserable little fleshy thing. Better for it to wither away, better for it to disappear. Eventually, he did–mostly. The shade overwhelmed him, took on color, took on space, took on form and feature. The shade became Marlon, and whatever it was that was in the cage continued to wither, until there was nothing really left at all, not after Shadow shared it with his new puppet. 

To an acquaintance, the shade would have been easily mistaken for Marlon, as he had been. There were only a few differences, the most obvious of which was that he lacked a shadow. After all, he was the shadow, where Marlon had put all of his degeneracy, all of his fear, all of his weakness. But the shade had taken all of the substance from him, locked what little remained of Marlon away deep in his own mind, not that he planned on using any of it. It would take the name though–the shade had always liked the name. He had always hated the man it had been tethered to–most shadows resented their living hosts. Of course, the shade was indebted to Shadow, and more than happy to service him. But now, Shadow turned his attention to the two pitch black cocoons which were still quivering, where they were suspended from the ceiling.

He formed a knife from the darkness of the room, sliced one of them open, and what fell out was…something else. A shade, certainly. The shade of one of the officers, but only half-formed. Shadow had devoured quite a bit of them both, weakened them enough that their shades could overtake them, suck what substance remained from them, but there wasn’t enough. 

“Are…are they alright?” Marlon asked.

“They will be, we just need to give them some more to eat, is all,” Shadow said, gave a little flourish with his hand, and gathered some of the shadows in the room around Marlon’s naked body. It condensed against his skin, becoming a set of leather gear, pitch black aside from the metal buckles that seemed to hold the light shone on them. “Why don’t we go out tonight? I have some social calls to make, but we can get these two fed first.”

The shade cradled one of the little shadows in his arms, could feel it beginning to understand itself. There was pale body mixed in with it too, somehow. Whatever it was, he could tell that it would be different from what he’d become. Shadow picked up the other shade, pulled the shadows of the room together and Marlon followed him through the darkness. 

What the old Marlon had only understood, before, as a void, the shade understood as a tapestry. There were all kinds of darkness there, stretching in all different directions. Follow a strand, and you could go, well, anywhere. Shadow led them out of the darkness and into an alley not far from where he had found Marlon and Jimmy that night a few weeks before. It was night, but not that late. Shadow dimmed the lights, and the two of them waited.

It wasn’t long before the darkness of the alley lured a couple of Pigtown’s residents into the alley for a little fuck before heading off to the next bar. What they didn’t expect, was for the two shades to bolt and scurry out of the darkness, crawl their way up their bodies, and latch themselves onto their heads, the two men screaming and prying at the darkness, trying to rip it from them, until they stopped moving. 

“They’ll probably just remember it as a nightmare, is all,” Shadow said to Marlon as they watched. “They’re not strong enough to take everything yet, like you or I could.”

“Like…I could?” Marlon asked.

Shadow nodded. “I may call you my puppet, but it’s merely a term of endearment. You can do anything I can do–I’m just as much a shade as you are. After this, they’ll be strong enough to make it on their own if they keep to the darkness. I had so many of them for a while, but I can’t feel them at all, not since I escaped.”

“From where?”

Shadow didn’t say. He just started off towards the mouth of the alley, and down the sidewalk, Marlon hustling a bit to catch up. Apparently, his questions would have to wait.

The Pigtown Chronicles: Chapter 3.2 – Filing a Report at Precinct 27

The week before, after going to see his friend Kyle at the smoke shop and having that strange conversation with Marshall,Jim had strode down the sidewalk and gone straight towards the precinct as Marshall had suggested. Standing outside the building, however, his resolve had wavered. Marshall had told him he had two options. Either he could forget that any of this had ever happened, like everyone else had seemed to, aside from him and Kyle, or he could ask the officers here for help. Jimmy couldn’t imagine what help the officers here could give him, especially since he had no concrete evidence that what had happened that night, had actually occurred. He didn’t even have evidence that Marlon existed. 

In the end, he’d left, and gone home. He’d think about it. He’d wait. See if Marlon turned up on his own. He felt like a coward, and it was that shame that kept welling his memories of him back up to the surface, just when the water had gone still. The furthest he got was three days, almost enough that he’d forgotten he’d been trying to forget something at all, only for him find a shirt that had been Marlon’s stashed in his closet that he’d stolen one night after some fumbling half-sex together. He’d felt horrible, horrible that he’d decided to just give up on him, horrible that he could still smell him on the shirt, pressed to his face. Horrible that he was clinging to some strange delusion, an imaginary boyfriend he couldn’t even prove existed at all.

And so, Marshall’s point was proven. There really were only two things he could do, two paths forward. He wouldn’t be able to forget him, he could already see that. Time might stretch longer and longer between remembrances, but Marlon would always come back to him, and that, he was sure, would drive him mad, eventually. The only other choice then, was to find someone who could help–and if the officers of Precinct 27 could help, then that’s where he would have to go. He stepped into the lobby on Thursday afternoon, trying to plan the words that might convince the officers to even listen to him. It would sound crazy, he knew that, but Pigtown seemed to be a little crazy already. Maybe that’s why they would be a little more understanding.

He stepped up to the desk, where a rather bored, disheveled officer had his feet up on the counter, and realized that he was thumbing his way through a rather dogeared porno magazine. A gay one, at that. Unconcerned, the officer looked up at him, raised an eyebrow, and asked, “Can I help you, kid?”

“I…I think I need to file a report,” Jim said.

The officer gave a little snorting noise, something between a grunt and a chuckle, and then leaned in and gave Jim a few sniffs, and sat back, his brow furrowed. “Huh, I think you do, actually. Have a seat, I’ll find someone to help you out.”

“Oh, uh…ok,” Jim said, “Do you…need some info, or anything?”

The officer had already gotten up from the desk and left the lobby, heading down a side hall. Jimmy just looked around, considered leaving before the strange fellow returned, but didn’t. He took a seat on a lumpy chair off to the side, and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long, but for a police station, the place didn’t seem particularly busy. Looking around, it also didn’t seem particularly well cared for either. The walls were stained, the floor tiles peeling up. It was a far cry from the shining, well-funded precinct out in the suburbs where he lived, where the clean, well polished officers had looked at him like he was crazy. He didn’t have to wait long for the officer to return, followed by a rather rotund and stout detective in civilian clothes, with a beard down to his chest. Nothing about him suggested he had abided by any sort of dress code, or that he could even pass a fitness test. “Who, that one?” the other officer said, looking over at Jimmy, “You said he smelled like what?”

“You heard me. Faint though.”

“But it’s the middle of the day!”

“That’s why I didn’t go right to Rumwell.”

The new officer gave a huff, and walked over to where Jimmy was sitting. Now that he was closer, he saw that under the officer’s gut was a substantial amount of muscle, and he found himself second guessing his assumption about the officer’s physical capabilities. He had a name tag on that identified him as Ambrose Winston. “What are you here for, kid? You look a little young to be a resident. Feel fuckin’ sorry for ya if ya are.”

“A resident?”

“Of Pigtown.”

“Uh, no–I…the guy, Marshall, who runs the smoke shop, he said…you might be able to help me. My name’s Jimmy, I live out in Barry’s Hollow.”

“Out in the suburbs?” Something about the way the officer said it, made it sound that it might as well be another continent–another planet in the solar system.

“Uh, yeah…My, uh, friend went missing, the Friday before last. I…I tried to tell the cops, out where I live, but they didn’t believe me.”

The officer looked at each other. “Was that when…” Winston said, looking back at the cop from the reception desk, who just nodded, eyes a little wider.

“Huh. Alright, come on back, and let’s have a chat. I think we might be able to help each other out, actually.”

“What?” Jimmy asked, but Winston was already walking away, and Jimmy hurried to catch up. They went down a short hallway, then up a flight of stairs, and found themselves in a collection of cubicles where a few other officers were busy with paperwork. Winston led them to a small office off to the side, took a seat at a desk, and motioned for Jimmy to sit across from him. “So, your friend went missing…a week and a half ago then?”

“I tried to report it sooner, but…well, it’s a little hard to believe, I guess.”

“Trust me kid, I’ve heard some weird ass shit in this precinct–let me have it.”

So Jimmy did. He told him about walking back from Depot, leaving out the underage drinking, since they had snuck in. He told the detective about the streetlights going out, about the man stepping out of the shadows–and only then did Winston perk up. 

“Can you describe the man for me?” he asked.

“Not really well. He was covered in leather. All I could see was the bottom of his face. His eyes were always shaded.”

“Shaded how? Did you see his eyes at all?”

“I…I don’t think so.”

He kept going, describing how Marlon had stepped into the shadow and disappeared. Then he told them about the two officers coming to his rescue, and again, Winston perked up. He asked him questions about them, their size, even what they’d smelled like, the sound of their voices. Jimmy didn’t understand why he was so interested in them, but he hadn’t even gotten their names. He finished by describing how everyone else seemed to have forgotten that Marlon had even existed. Just he and Kyle recalled him at all. When he’d finished, Winston sat back in his chair for a moment, mouth twisted in a bit of a scowl.

“You…believe me?”

“Unfortunately, I do.”

“Can you find him then? He’s not dead is he?”

“Pigtown doesn’t kill anyone. Death would be a mercy.”

“What does that mean?”

Winston didn’t reply. He just pushed a card into Jimmy’s hand, told him to call if he remembered anything else, or if anything happened that reminded him of that night. Jimmy left, realizing only afterward that he hadn’t left any information with the officers–he made the man at the reception desk take down his name and number for the detective, but he didn’t seem to consider it important. He left feeling demoralized, but in an entirely different way. They believed him, but he had no idea what he was supposed to do. He didn’t know if Marlon was alive, he didn’t know who could have done this. It would have been easier if they’d just laughed in his face.

But inside the precinct, Winston wasn’t laughing. He hustled up the floors to the top story, where Commander Rumwell’s office was. He pushed inside, not even bothering to knock, and interrupted the commander with one officer cleaning his boots, while another one was between his legs, sucking and nursing at his sizable cock. Winston didn’t blink at this, of course–he gave a little salute, and said, “Sir, I have new information regarding the disappearances of Glison and Avery.”

“Oh?” Rumwell said.

“I…I think it was Shadow.”

That brought Rumwell up from where he was reclining, and he pushed the younger officer off his cock. “Excuse me? We know where Shadow is–he’s in the jail.”

“I…have solid testimony that leads me to believe he may have escaped. Have you…uh…spoken to the Warden lately?”

Rumwell’s face soured. He took a long draw off his cigar, and pushed the smoke out his nose in twin jets. “We haven’t been on the best of terms lately, no.”

“What?” Winston said, “I mean…I don’t know what that means.”

“It means nothing, for the moment. He’s just sulking. Tell me what you heard.”

Winston told him, and by the end of it, Rumwell had sucked his cigar down to a thin butt, which he snuffed out in the ashtray on his desk. It was credible, as much as he didn’t want to believe it. 

“Do you have a lead?”

“Marshall’s, maybe. I heard he has a new apprentice who seems to know the witness and the victim.”

“He does have a new apprentice, nice kid–little green,” Rumwell said. “Go have a chat. I’ll go see what I can wring out of the Warden.”

The Pigtown Chronicles: Chapter 3.1- Feeding the Fire

The Tuesday after he’d met Rod in the VIP room above Depot, Samuel had given him a call and said he wanted to talk about his offer. He’d intended the meeting to be short–long enough to turn his deal down, and maybe throw a drink in his face. Samuel had never wanted to be bought. You couldn’t get anywhere in the art world without selling your work of course, but there was selling the work you made, your unadulterated vision distilled, and then there was commission, creating for someone else, with your own voice. Advertisements, really. Marketing. He found it distasteful, and after that strange vision in the bathroom of Depot, he also found it terrifying.

Yet, once Rod had stepped into the studio, and begun probing at the art in the revolving process of ideation and disintegration around him, Samuel found his plan already falling off the rails. What unnerved him the most, was that Rod understood. Understood what he saw, what his art was, why he did it. Samuel was obsessed with flesh. Many reviewers misunderstood when he said this to them, and translated his precise word of ‘flesh’ to the more palatable ‘bodies’. Bodies were composed of flesh, of course, but it was not the body itself that drew Samuel’s attention. It was what comprised it. Muscle, fat, sinew, tendon, bone, blood, organ. Rod had used the precise word, without prompting. “I love your depiction of flesh in this one,” he said, holding up a canvas, looking back at Samuel with those steel grey eyes. 

“It’s not right, that one is no good,” Samuel had said, attempting to deflect.

“Oh, none of them are good. None of them are anything like what you’re really capable of, Samuel,” Rod had said, and he’d struck his second weakness, that fine line between backhanded compliment and earnest encouragement. They’d chatted a bit more, then Rod had left, and Samuel stared down at the check in his hand, astonished that he’d taken it. Astonished that he’d wanted to take it. For a moment, after cashing it, he was flush with inspiration, but as soon as he’d sat down to work some of it out, it vanished. 

Since then, he’d spent over a week trying to recapture that moment of inspiration, but it hadn’t returned. Not a single idea that, as soon as it was down, didn’t feel like the most insipid, self-satisfying bullshit he’d ever considered. Normally, when faced with a block like this, he’d found that his best solution was a good fucking at the hands of whatever muscle bound man he was with at the moment. Something about being pounded by a mountain of flesh could provide insight, but Parker, currently filling that role, only terrified him now.

Terrified was the wrong word. Disgusted was the wrong word. He’d yet to find the correct one, in any language that he knew. He could barely stand to exist in the same space as him, and he’d hoped that a few days of distance from that scene in the bathroom would help settle his mind and let him get back to fucking, but the vision refused to fade away. It was always there on the edge of his sight, that beast, those sucking thralls at his monstrous feet, beckoning him. He’d considered telling Parker what he’d seen, asking him about the new steroid that Hugh was apparently selling him now, but neither of those things could cross his lips. He told himself that Parker was far too simple to grasp what he’d witnessed, but he was also afraid that perhaps he would understand perfectly. Perhaps Parker’s ignorance of the beast behind him was the only thing keeping it from bursting free at any moment.

Parker, on the other hand, spent the early part of the week following his night at Depot feeling great. Every workout was phenomenal. He broke through his plateau in a matter of days, packing on a solid five pounds of mass, even as he could tell he was cutting fat, giving his body the sort of definition he’d only been able to manage after a few days with minimal water. His energy was up, his libido was definitely up, and after trying a couple of times to get Samuel interested in a good fuck, he gave up, and started fucking anything that moved–and there were a lot of things in Pigtown that wanted him, day or night.

But as was usually the case with steroids, the effect wore off a few days before it was time to shoot up again, but that first week, the relief was enough for Parker to push through to Friday, get another dose from Hugh, with the usual discount of a good fuck, and then enjoy the rush again. That second week, however, the high dwindled away quicker, his impotence was back by Tuesday, and he was left feeling frustrated that the drug wasn’t delivering what Hugh had promised him. 

Thursday afternoon, he’d returned home from the gym to discover Samuel there. He hadn’t been spending much time at their apartment for the last few weeks, for some reason. He seemed…afraid of Parker, but wouldn’t tell him why, and the two of them hadn’t fucked since before that night at Depot. They ended up fighting about money, of course. Without the fucking to distract them, there was nothing to hide the fact that the two of them were completely at odds with one another. Much to Samuel’s surprise, however, Parker ended up getting rough with him, something he hadn’t done before, pinning him up against the wall, grinding his cock against him–it was only the fact that he couldn’t even get it up that made Parker retreat, leaving Samuel with just a few slaps and a lighter wallet before storming out of the apartment, and heading for Hugh’s, to get his next fix.

He had to pound the door for most of a minute before Hugh finally answered. It was early afternoon, but judging from the fact all he had on was some boxers and heavy bags under his eyes, it had been a late night for him–but then, dealers didn’t get to work normal hours. “Fuck Parker, what is it?”

“I need another dose.”

“You shouldn’t dose again until tomorrow, once a week. Like I said–this shit is real experimental.”

“Real fucking worthless you mean, the stuff doesn’t even last a whole week!” Parker said, pushing into the apartment, “Now I got your money, give me another vial.”

“It has to fully cycle out before you can take another–”

“Trust me Hugh, it’s fucking cycled out, now give me the shit already.”

“Ok ok, calm down man,” Hugh said, shut the door and went into his room, dug around in his stash, and pulled out another vial of BHB. “Are you doing alright? You seem a little agitated.”

“I’m not here asking you to be my therapist,” Parker said, grabbing the vial out of Hugh’s hand, threw the wad of cash he’d taken from Samuel’s wallet down on the dresser, looked around until he found a syringe that seemed clean, and drew out his dose. 

Hugh just watched, just wanting to get Parker out of here. He was obviously agitated, but whether that was a side effect of the drug, or whether he was just frustrated that the drug wasn’t perfect, he couldn’t tell. He had a few other guys testing it out, but he hadn’t seen any of them react quite like this before. Hugh injected himself, junked the syringe, and heaved a sigh of relief, and set the vial down on the counter of the bathroom. “Now, how about that other part of the payment?” he said, and dropped the gym shorts he was wearing.

“Fuck Parker, not right now, I have a hangover the size of Texas. I don’t even know how I got home last night.”

“Well nothing helps a hangover like a good dose of protein, you know?”

Parker stepped closer to him, and Hugh noticed something strange–he smelled different. He was used to Parker smelling–he didn’t exactly shower much after the gym, and Hugh didn’t mind a little musk. This was different, it was sharp, and drew him in with a moan. Parker lifted up his arms and let Hugh clean them both out for a few minutes, before he could feel the same rush of horniness as before, and pushed him over to the bed.

“Seriously Parker, take it easy,” Hugh said, but Parker was aching to fuck now, climbed up, and literally tore to boxers off his body, shoved the slick head of his cock against Hugh’s hole, and pushed it inside. Hugh moaned, that same sharp scent, that need now somehow inside him, suffusing him. He moaned in pleasure as Parker drove in deeper, reaching around his neck with one muscled arm and pulling him back, choking him lightly and also keeping him from moving too much. 

“I don’t do easy, slut,” Parker said, and slammed his cock the rest of the way in, and Hugh gave a howl of pleasure. He lost track of how many times Parker came over the next hour, as he fucked him non-stop. Each time he did, he would feel that same sharpness leech into his body, making him feel weaker, making him want it more and more, until Parker, sated for the moment at least, hauled his cock free, and watched the cum drool from Hugh’s well worked hole, onto the sheets below him, the dealer still moaning. “There we go, that’s better, isn’t it?” Parker said, got up, and fished around in Hugh’s good for another vial of BHB. “A tip–you don’t mind, do you?”

“Wait, Parker…I think something’s wrong…with you…” Hugh muttered, but Parker either didn’t hear him, or didn’t want to hear him. He was out the door and back on the street, heading home to finish what he’d started with Samuel–but when he got there, he was nowhere to be found. The coward had probably run off to his studio. Parker considered tracking him down, but that long fuck with Hugh had mostly fixed the frustration he’d been feeling. What he wanted now was a good long workout, and then maybe he’d hit a few clubs to find a few more holes to plow. Before he left though, he took out the partial vial from Hugh’s place, drew the rest of it out, and injected himself again–a booster, he told himself. By the time he got to the gym, he was riding high, pumping more than he ever had in his life. Even if there was a risk, he was willing to take it–he could take anything he wanted, as long as he felt like this forever.

The Pigtown Chronicles: Miles’s New Boss

Hey all! For the month of April, I’m taking a break from The Pigtown Chronicles, and will be posting some caption stories instead. We’ll have captions Monday through Thursday, and I’ll be posting some longer stories on Fridays. This week, we have a mysterious force punishing men for their cruel language. Whatever you might feel about others, be careful, they might just come true for yourself.


I’ve had a couple requests for commissions set in the universe of The Pigtown Chronicles, including this one! They are, unless otherwise noted, canon, so as the series develops, we could very well see these characters coming back into play, for a cameo, if nothing else. No need to read the whole series for this one, it stands on its own.


Miles probably should have been paying more attention to where he was going, but he was more than used to people stepping out of his way, not the other way around. He’d been going down the sidewalk at a brisk pace, trying to find this new restaurant that he was supposed to have a lunch meeting at in fifteen minutes. He’d made a wrong turn a few blocks back, and wandered into the outskirts of Pigtown instead–or perhaps, that was where Pigtown had wanted him, all along. He hit what felt like a wall, and spun off, a little stunned, looked back and saw that he had collided with a very large, very intimidating looking skinhead, surrounded by a small gang of three or so others. 

The man he’d run into was clearly the leader of the pack. A few inches taller than six feet, heavily muscled with a sizable gut, covered in tattoos and piercings, even onto his shaved head. He turned around, took a long draw off the thick cigar he was smoking, and pushed two jets out of his nose, scowling at Miles, standing there in his suit, not quite sure what to do. They stared at each other for a moment, and then Miles managed to break eye contact, turn around, and hustle away for a few steps, before a hand reached out, grabbed his arm, and shoved him up against the brick wall of a shopfront.

“Well? Not even an apology?” the skinhead said, leaning in close enough that Miles could feel the heat of the cigar against his cheek. “Not even a, ‘Sorry I was staring at my phone, couldn’t be bothered to look where I was fuckin’ goin’?’ Too fuckin’ important for the likes of us, right?”

“Look, I’m late for a meeting, I’m sorry–” was all Miles could get out, before the skinhead took a mouthful of cigar smoke and pushed it into his face. The scent of the tobacco was strong, and unlike any cigar he’d ever smelled in his life. He suddenly couldn’t focus on anything else, other than that flavor, that scent, and before he could snap out of it, the skinhead leaned in, kissed him, and something strange happened. He felt a sharp pain in his nose, and in his tongue. When he tried to pull away, he found that he physically couldn’t–somehow, the ring in the skinhead’s nose and pierced through his own, along with the stud in his tongue. The skinhead kissed him for a moment, pressing their faces together. He could feel other sharp stings all over his face and then pulled away with the sound of metal snapping, and Miles’ hands went to his face, where he found not only a new, thick septum ring in his nose, but studs in his tongue, in his eyebrows, gauges and rings and studs in his ears. He looked in the window beside him, horrified at the face looking back at him–at least until the skinhead grabbed him by the hair, and fed him another load of smoke from his cigar.

When he pulled away, satisfied that Miles was dazed by his smoke again, he said, “Come on boy, you’re late for your appointment, aren’t you?”

“What…what did you do? I…help me get these off, I don’t…”

“Why would you want them to come out? You love the way they look, don’t you? Come on, let’s get you to your appointment.”

Miles took one last look at his now freakishly pierced face, and then was dragged away by the skinhead, falling into step with the gang, trying to push his way out of the smoke that was still clouding his mind. Along the way, he learned that the rest of the gang simply referred to their leader as Boss–if he had a name, he wasn’t inclined to give one, when Miles asked him. Boss led them deeper into Pigtown, and came to a heavily graffitied building and into a shop front called, “The Bodyshop.”

Inside was a little bit of everything. The front was a barber shop, and further back, he could see a tattoo and piercing equipment, all of it being manned by various flavors of skinheads, all of them in various leather, rubber or denim gear. 

“Who’s the new guy, Boss?” the young skin at the reception desk asked him.

“Don’t have a name yet. I’ll be working on him personally today.”

“Of course Boss.”

“This isn’t–” 

“Shut up, boy–now come on.”

Boss took him alone into the back of the shop, and through a door, into a small, private studio, where as soon as the door was closed behind them, Boss started tearing his clothes off, Miles trying to push him off and failing, the enclosed space filling up with the smoke faster than he could fight it off. Soon, he was totally naked, his clothes trashed and torn. Before he could even grab them up, another skinhead came in, grabbed them, and bundled them off. “Why are you doing this? I didn’t mean to run into you,” Miles said.

“Well, you shouldn’t have done that, but I’m always looking for new boys to add to the gang, so I’m glad we ran into each other. You will be too, soon enough,” Boss said, coming close and pressing his heavily pierced cock up against Miles own. Like before, he felt the sharp pain as Boss’s piercings joined with his own skin–his PA now running through the heads of both their cocks, a jacob’s ladder locking their shafts together, and he could feel rings and studs erupting all through his sack as Boss pulled him closer, pressing their chests together, his thick nipple rings sliding into Miles’s own. They were locked together, no matter how hard Miles tried to pull away, he couldn’t tear his flesh off the rings and studs threaded through their bodies. Boss’s arms wrapped around him, pulled him close, and he kissed him again pushing smoke into him, making him go weak at the knees–not that he could fall far, and there was a new sensation now, almost like something was crawling onto him. He pulled away, looked down, and saw that the ink covering Boss’s body was swirling around, and running down and onto Miles’s own body. He tried to brush it off, but it was already under his skin, spreading up his arms, across his chest, over his cock and down his legs, coating him with a riot of tattoos, and as they did, he felt something new. A voice in his head, a whisper at first, but then, growing stronger. He found himself looking up at Boss with something other than fear, with a growing lust, and he started grinding their cocks together, almost enjoying the pain of the piercings tugging between them.

“Fuck…fuck Boss, what the fuck are you doing to me?”

“Just giving you what you want boy. Don’t you want to be one of my rough fuckin’ skinhead pigs? Don’t you want all those hot men out there to abuse that hole of yours? Don’t you want to be walking down the street, some tough, scarred up looking fucker, watching men get the hell out of your way–like they ought to?” Boss planted his hands on Miles’s shoulders, and shoved them apart, making him scream in pain. Like before, when he came away, he was left with piercings where they had been connected–two thick rings in his much larger looking tits, a big PA in the head of his cock, weighing it down, a jacob’s ladder down the shaft, and countless studs and rings all through his sack. The ink, however, was still flowing under the surface of his skin. He could feel it, and it made him feel a bit nauseous. He looked at himself in the mirror, horrified at how quickly he had changed–and he found himself wanting…more. But something was missing, wasn’t it?

“Get in the chair, boy. It’s time for your shave, isn’t it?”

“Y-Yes Boss,” Miles said, realizing that’s what he needed. He didn’t look like a true skinhead, not yet. He got in the chair, heard the buzz of the clippers, and Boss started shearing away his styled hair, and with each swipe, he felt that new voice getting louder, that old one getting quieter. He wanted this, of course he did. 

“Take care of this for me, won’t you boy?” Boss said, and shoved the cigar in his mouth, which Miles’ happily sucked on, drawing in the smoke deeper and deeper, feeling it sanding away at the edges of his mind. He gripped his pierced cock and started stroking it, staring at his new head in the mirror, shuddering with each pass of the razor over his head, removing more and more of his worries and cares, until Boss lathered up his skull, and razored even the stubble off. When he was finally finished, toweled him off and showed him his new look in the mirror, it only took a couple of pumps before Miles exploded all over himself, shuddering as Boss ran his hands over his smooth scalp, humiliated, yet more turned on than he’d ever been in his life.

“I’ll forgive you for that one, I know haircuts get you boys all excited, but don’t think you can cum without permission again. Now, up against the wall boy, time for you to thank your Boss properly.”

He dragged Miles out of the chair by the rings in his tits, pushed him up against the mirror, and ran his cock up and down his crack, the metal rings and studs bumping up against his hole making Miles shudder. “Fuck Boss, fuckin’ get inside me…” he moaned, and only realized after he’d said it, what had just come out of his mouth.

“Heh, you fuckin’ pig. I think I know a good name for you, actually. Why don’t we go ahead and call you Piggo from now on, eh?”

“Fuck Boss, ya can call me anything you want, just fuck me!”

Boss drooled some spit down Miles’s crack, and then pushed in, his new boy’s hole already open and eager to be fucked, just like they always were after a good shearing. He shoved the boy’s face against the wall, the other hand gripping his hip, and rammed in deep, making sure it was good and rough, just the way his boys liked it. Miles had never been fucked like this in his life, and he could feel something happening, the ink across his shoulder blades shifting and reforming, becoming his new title, “Piggo” in big letters across his back, with the “O” in the shape of a pig’s snout. He gave a grunt, and his old name went fuzzy. He had to actively try and hold onto it, as something like a drain opened up in the bottom of his mind, and bits of his mind started tumbling into it, lost to the depths. He was so focused on that, that he didn’t notice his  body swelling larger, Boss’s precum already beginning to have an effect on his new boy’s body.

After all, he wasn’t quite big enough to be a pig yet. He needed a bigger gut and broader, more muscular shoulders. A little shorter maybe, with a wide stance. No one would be able to push this pig around, unless the pig wanted them to, of course, and this slutty pig was going to want as many rough fuckin’ skinheads pushing him around as possible. “When I cum in this hole, pig, that means it’s mine. I can have it whenever I fuckin’ want it. Any man I take a liking to, can take it. I own your hole, I own your body, I own your fuckin’ soul from now on, do you fuckin’ understand me? You’re one of my boys now, and you’re never gonna be anything else!”

With a roar, Boss came deep in Piggo’s hole, the newly made skinpig grunting and snorting, bucking back, hungry to get as much of his boss’s seed inside him as he could, packing on mass, even as he shrank a bit, turning into a stocky fireplug, the only hair on his body now a short, chinstrap beard. Boss flipped him around and the kissed for a bit, swapping spit while they came down from their fuck, and then Boss stepped back, looking him up and down.

Piggo–no, not Piggo, that wasn’t his name! Miles shook his head, trying to sort out what was going on in his head. He knew this was wrong, knew that something had happened to him, changed him, but he couldn’t sort everything out. He stumbled over to the mirror and stared at himself in a mix of horror and horniness, his pierced face, his stocky frame, his freakish cock and balls, the riot of tattoos still swarming and settling around his body. “What the fuck did you do to me?” he said, and turned on Boss, “What the fuck did you just do to me, Boss?”

“Still got some fight in you, eh?” Boss said, and came closer, “I do like a fighter, but we’ll have you good and broken soon. Let’s get you dressed, and then it’s time to show Pigtown my new boy.”

“No, fuck–fuck you! Fix whatever the fuck you did to me!” Miles said, doing his best to sound brave, but his voice was wavering, and Boss just laughed, wrapped a hand around the back of his head, and forced him into a kiss, pushing a lungful of cigar smoke down his throat, making his mind spin again, the drain opening up, sucking down more and more of his old self into it. He tried to pull away, but Boss just shoved him back up against the wall and fed him more smoke until he stopped fighting, until he was kissing him back, drooling a bit in smoky stupor.

“Hmmm,” Boss said, “Thought you would be smarter than that, but I can’t tolerate insolence like that, boy,” he said, giving a tug on one of the rings in Miles’s nipples, making him groan. “Gonna be a fun night boy, let’s see how long you can keep that fight up at the Hideaway.”

Miles only had a foggy memory of what happened next. A boy came in with a pile of clothes for him. Some tattered and grungy bleached jeans, calf high rangers with bright red socks he knew to roll over the top, no underwear, and a thick leather biker jacket, leaving most of his upper body exposed. Last, Boss put a choke collar on him attached to a short collar, and tugged him out of the room and out of the shop, Miles struggling to keep up as they headed down the sidewalk. It was only out in the cool evening air that he realized the ass of the jeans was mostly gone–anyone walking down the street could look back and see him hanging out, and the crew around Boss all took turns groping and fingering him, while he tried to keep up with the lead in Boss’s hand.

They arrived at a bar after a twenty minute walk, a place called the Hideaway, and the bouncer out front let them all in without so much as a glance. Despite the relatively early hour, the bar was already quite packed, and as soon as they were inside, Boss used the lead to force Miles onto his hands and knees and made him crawl through the bar while he chatted with a few regulars, ordering Miles to lick their boots clean while they talked. He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t tell if it was the smoke, or the bar, or just the power of Boss himself, he couldn’t seem stop himself from licking any boot put in front of him, no matter the condition. After an hour of that humiliation, enough to soften him up, he was led deeper into the bar, into a maze like series of hallways, where any number of men were already fucking away in the red lit corners. They arrived at a bank of slings, and with a little help, from the rest of the gang, they had Miles in one of them, wrists and booted ankles secured to the chains, and it was clear he wasn’t getting out of this.

“Alright Piggo, time to take your punishment,” Boss said, standing over him, the end of his cigar the brightest thing in the room. “I was gonna let you be a tough little bouncer back at the shop, but after your little outburst, I think that’s aiming a bit high for a pig like you. You’re gonna be a housepig for a while. Cleaning boots, taking fists, serving all of us as our personal ashtray, until you can show me that you can behave, how does that sound?”

He could see it, when Boss’s eyes suddenly glowed a bit in the dark, rested on his exposed gut, and the ink that had still been swirling over his body began to solidify. All over him were inked boot prints, and he found the taste of leather and bootblack lingering on his tongue incredibly erotic. Across his forehead, more ink formed the word ASHTRAY”, and when Boss took one hand away to tap the ash from his cigar into his mouth, he gulped it down, horrified at how eager he was to chew at the hot ash and swallow it. Boss laughed at his excitement, teased his body with the heat of his cigar, eventually pressing it into his skin at the base of his cock, making him howl in pain and delight, the rest of the crew all lighting up cigars and cigarettes of their own, sucking them down so they could feed him the ash and tease him with the heat, while Boss went to work on his hole. 

He skipped his cock, and started working his fingers into Miles’s hole, and Miles groaned from the stretch. He was clinging to anything he could now, so desperate to fight any of this, but he could feel the ink and spreading through him, deeper into him, into his veins, into his heart, as Boss worked two fingers in, and then three, roughly digging into his ass, demanding he be allowed inside, demanding that Miles submit. He could feel it slipping away again, that name, and all he could find again was Piggo as he began snorting and grunting in delight, begging the men around him for more ash and more burns, pushing down, aching to feel all of Boss’s hand inside him, and finally, it slid in, and when it did, he could feel something inside him snap. Piggo’s short, thick cock erupted with cum all over his tattooed gut, taking what remained of his resistance with it, taking the name Miles with it, and Boss drove his hand deeper and deeper into his hole until he was satisfied, and then let the rest of the gang around them took their turns.

Some fisted him too, others opted to ram their cocks into his sloppy hole. Piggo didn’t care as long as he was being used, and every fuck only made him hornier for his gang, for Boss, for boots and ash and cock and pain. He didn’t quite know when the night ended, but everything seemed to fade away into darkness, and Piggo awoke with a snort on a filthy mattress, tongue pressed to the bottom of some other skin’s boot.

He sat up, confused for a moment, crawled over to a mirror and looked at himself, at his tattooed body, his tattooed face, at his smooth head, forever smooth now that he was one of Boss’s pigs. He knew, somehow, that something had changed, but he couldn’t remember what. Instead, he crawled back over and finished what he must have been doing when he fell asleep–cleaning the boots of the gang, and when they woke up, he was more than happy to take their morning loads and their morning ash, a skinpig forever more.

TPC – Chapter 2.14

Chapter 2.14 – The Reality Check

Barry woke up the next morning, refreshed and satisfied in a way he couldn’t recall being since college. Maybe since before college, if ever. It was disconcerting, because he couldn’t remember getting into bed. The last thing he could recall with any real clarity, was watching Ian milk his own desires right out of Richard. He knew he had driven home, he could recall some of that. He’d gotten in the house, drank the cum and that was it.

He felt great though, and the more he thought about it, the more he could begin to recall something else, something different. He’d been at the bar for a party, but it was a party for him. He’d gotten the promotion, of course. There was no one else remotely qualified like he was, or as well liked and respected by his team and leadership in the company. Evan had called him into his office for his interview, and nearly handed him the job right then and there. There was no Richard, anymore. He didn’t even exist. Barry heaved a sigh, laid back on the bed, and basked in what he recalled. It was what he’d wanted. All of it.

Eventually he got up, went into the bathroom, and there in the mirror, he could see a few shifts as well. It wasn’t as extreme as the Prestige he’d taken in the bathroom (not that that had happened in his new memories) but it was still apparent. A stronger jaw. He was a little more toned, his posture a little straighter. He just looked more important than he had the day before. He looked like someone who could hold the attention of a room. He took a shower, and only after did he notice that something was missing–he wasn’t sure where Dennis was.

He checked his phone but didn’t see a text from him, though there was one from Ian.

“Hey, just checking in, I bet you woke up feeling great. You might notice some lingering nausea and blurry vision–this is perfectly normal. Your reality is still sorting itself out, tying up loose ends. Try not to do anything too crazy–choices you make for the next while can have repercussions if you don’t take it a bit easy. For something like this though, you should be fine in a couple of hours.”

He texted him back, asking him what he meant by repercussions exactly, but didn’t get a reply right away. Ian was probably still asleep, after all, it seemed like he’d still had more work to do on Richard after Barry had left. In any case, he was sure that it couldn’t be anything that terrible. That still left him wondering about Dennis. He tried to remember if Dennis had been there when he’d gotten home, but he couldn’t remember either finding him, or not finding him there. Most likely he’d just gone for a morning jog. He didn’t do it regularly, but sometimes he’d get to feeling like he needed to try and get into shape again, go jogging for a week or two, and then call it quits when it came clear it wasn’t going to happen like magic. 

Beyond that, he was hungry. He went down to the kitchen, started making himself some breakfast, only for the world to lurch around him, making him feel like he was going to vomit. It took a minute or two for it to settle, and when his vision cleared, the world wasn’t quite the same, but he couldn’t quite place what had changed. That must be what Ian had been talking about. He checked his phone again, and there was still no reply. Now he was worried, but if Ian said it would pass, then he’d just have to be patient. In any case, the sudden lurch had spoiled his appetite, and he set the breakfast he’d started back in the fridge for now. Maybe when Dennis got back they’d eat together, while he congratulated him on his promotion. He was looking forward to watching his husband eat crow–not that he supposed he would notice. He wondered how this reality stuff would even affect him. Barry could remember the way things had been, but would Dennis?

It was not long after that he heard the garage door opening–which was odd. When Dennis went running, he always went out the front door. He also heard the car. Maybe he’d just gone to the store or something, but that was rather unlike him. He went out to the garage in time to watch a sheepish Dennis climb out of the car, wearing a rather odd assortment of clothes–leather gear, with an oversized shirt on top and some baggy pants below. They looked at each other, Dennis’s eyes as large as plates, and he stammered out a few syllables, but Barry didn’t hear any of it. His vision slipped sideways again, and his guts twisted, and he could feel something growing taut, but he didn’t know what to name it.

When the world snapped back, he was clinging to the bannister of the small flight of steps down into the garage, and Dennis was leaning over the side mirror of the car–but he looked different. Smaller, a little chubbier. Younger too. No, he’d always looked like that, but it felt like his eyes were trying to stare at two versions of Dennis occupying the same space. “Fuck, what did…what was that Barry?” Dennis asked, forcing himself upright again, and saw himself in the mirror. “I…no, I was changing back, why do I look like that again?”

Barry turned around and went back in the house, stumbling a bit as he went. He needed to call Ian, find out what this was doing to them both. He checked his messages, but there was nothing. He called him, the phone rang a few times and then went to voicemail, and Barry almost threw his phone across the kitchen. 

“What’s going on, Barry? What happened?”

Dennis had followed him inside, and when Barry turned to look at him, the world just kept turning and spinning, Dennis blurring and spinning with it. Dennis didn’t fit right, he was the wrong shape, the wrong color, the wrong sound. He needed to be different. He needed to fit. That thing grew taut again, tighter and tighter, and then it snapped apart, everything slammed together again but it was right now. Of course Dennis was getting home late–his slutty cub of a husband liked to go out on the weekends. Barry went with him usually, but didn’t last night because of his own party–he’d told Dennis to go on without him. “Looks like someone had a good night at the Hideaway,” Barry said, grinning at him. “Go home with the staff again?”

“No, Barry, how do you know that? I…I feel so weird, what’s happening?”

Barry walked over, and pulled him into a tight embrace, wrapping one hand around the back of him and cupping his ass. He was smaller then him, but then, he always had been. The sensation felt strange to him all the same, and the sense of power it gave him, was an unexpected rush, and he pushed his tongue into Barry’s mouth, reminding him who he really belonged to–only for Dennis to push him away.

“What’s gotten into you? Why…why do you look…strange? Barry, answer me.”

Barry, however, was feeling a bit frustrated. How dare the cub rebuff him like that, so easily? Barry was the important one. Barry was the one who brought home the money. Barry was the one in control. He could almost feel his vision shaking this time, Dennis stubbornly refusing to shift into his proper place. Yeah, proper place, he’d put him in back where he belonged. He stepped forward, and when he went to grab Dennis this time, the world shuddered again, but at last, he felt something turn around and lock–and when it snapped back, he had Denny shoved up against the wall next to the door to the garage, one hand running down to his hole and probing it. 

“You fucking slut, how many men had you last night? Did you even count?”

“Barry, I–”

“What’s one more, eh?” Barry said, and pushed his cock into his loose hole and Dennis gasped in sudden delight. 

He knew this was wrong. Barry had never been this aggressive before, this domineering, but where the old Dennis would have put him in his place, his hole was too hungry, his heart thrumming at a different, eager frequency. They fucked right there in the hallway, Barry cumming after a few minutes, and pulling free. 

“Get yourself cleaned up–and then make us breakfast, would you?” Barry said, “Something a little celebratory, after my promotion.”

Dennis just mumbled something like a yes, and scampered upstairs and into the shower, trying to sort out what had just happened to him, what he’d felt, what he was, who he was. The shower didn’t really help, and when he climbed out, he looked at himself in the mirror, and he just felt wrong. He’d been different. Older, more dominant. He’d been important, he’d been a surgeon. But that was gone now. He just worked…as a receptionist. A receptionist at the hospital, he didn’t want to work more than that, after all, when would he get to go out and get fucked if he had an important job like that? He shook his head, the thought felt so natural, but he had to remember it was wrong. He went downstairs, planning on demanding Barry explain what happened to them, but his voice wouldn’t come out, like he forgot the words even as he tried to say them. Instead, he fixed them both a nice breakfast while Barry read the morning paper.

After they’d eaten, Barry checked his phone, and saw Ian had replied to him. Reality, apparently, could struggle to accommodate other odd changes or deviations in behavior, leading to radically altered timelines. Barry shot back an angry little note, telling him he would have appreciated the warning first. Ian apologized, and asked him if he could think of anything happening. Barry couldn’t though. As far as he was concerned, his life had never been better. Everything was exactly as it was supposed to be.


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TPC – Chapter 2.13

Chapter 2.13 – The Give and Take

Barry and Dennis didn’t cuddle much. Perhaps it was because Dennis was a bit cold in bed, and guarded his sleep close. You couldn’t do a clean surgery if you were tired in the morning, after all. But this morning, Dennis appreciated it. The little spoon wasn’t his usual position, since he was bigger than Barry was, but this morning, he felt enveloped in his husband’s arms somehow. Safe. He snuggled back a bit, thankful it was Saturday and he didn’t really have to get up for anything quite yet, other than a jog–maybe.

The arms around him squeezed him tighter, and maybe it was how strong they were. Maybe it was the rasp of the stubble against his neck, the tongue that flicked his ear. Maybe it was the cock that slid up between his cheeks when the grip around him tightened. Maybe it was the smell, the sounds, the rougher sheets than his usual. Maybe all of it. Dennis realized that he wasn’t in his bed, and it wasn’t Barry that was holding him and pulling him closer, and in a panic, he wormed himself out of the stranger’s hold and nearly fell on the floor beside the bed.

“Hey now, calm down cub, it’s all fine,” the man said behind him. It took Dennis a moment to recognize him–the bouncer from The Hideaway. He vaguely remembered going home with him the night before, after…after everything else that had happened, a massive crush of memory, seemingly too much for a single night. He felt nauseous, and disgusted with himself. He stumbled through the bouncer’s apartment (he didn’t even know his name!) found the toilet, and fell in front of the dirty bowl, almost willing himself to vomit. He wanted to vomit, he wanted something to present to the world that would demonstrate his disgust, but nothing came up, just tears, and then the bouncer was beside him, on the tile, pulling him close, and Dennis sobbed into his chest.

“Fuck, first time, eh? Don’t worry boy, I got you, just let it all out.”

Dennis sobbed, unable to reconcile what had happened to him the night before, what he’d done, with the person he’d thought he was. He didn’t go to leather bars like that. He didn’t wear leather, he didn’t have sex with random men, he didn’t…he didn’t! But he had. He had, and he’d liked it. The disgust was there, but it was one level removed. He wasn’t disgusted at what he had done in the club–he was disgusted that he had enjoyed it all so very, very much. He could smell the sweat and the musk rolling off the bouncer’s chest, and Dennis felt his cock throb, and that was enough to push him away and wipe his eyes. He had to get himself together. 

“The first few hangovers are a real bitch. I know, I remember mine. You’ll get used to them, don’t worry.”

“I’ve never had a hangover in my life. I didn’t even drink last night.”

“Not that kind of hangover. A Pigtown Hangover. We get lost in it all, and wake up back home, no idea how we got there. Or in someone else’s bed, still no idea. It happens. It just means you had a real good night.”

“I…you all raped me. I didn’t want to do any of that!”

The bouncer sighed. “Really? You didn’t want all the guys in the bar to line up behind you and pump a load into that hot hole of yours? That doesn’t turn you on?”

Dennis had to hide his cock as it got harder still, and the bouncer laughed. “Dicks don’t lie, bud, not around here.”

“But I didn’t–”

“You disregarded my very clear suggestions that this was not the place for you, and instead you snuck in, violating our rather clear dress code. What did you think was going to happen?” he said, then sighed, “I guess you didn’t know what was going to happen, did you? Well, part of you knew. I could smell how hungry you were at the door.”

Hunger. Dennis poked around a moment, but that hunger he’d felt for days now, it was gone. Not gone, not really, but sated. “I…I need to get home.”

“Sure thing man. You live close?”

He shook his head.

“I don’t have a car, or I’d drive you. Looks like you’ll have to join the march of shame.”

He helped Dennis up to his feet, who turned, saw himself in the mirror, and gasped. He looked different. Really different. Younger, for one thing. Shorter, hairier, a little chubbier. He gave his face a poke, then the rest of him, trying to map his ego onto the body he was seeing. 

“I think that was Marshall, did that to you. You were trying to talk to his apprentice, weren’t you?”

Dennis focused, and could remember that smoke, the strange sensation. But it was Kyle who had done it, not Marshall–or the older fellow who had been with Kyle at least, if that’s who he was. “He…said I was going to be a cub with…a hungry hole, looking for a Daddy.”

“Well, you found one, and that hole sure was hungry last night,” the bouncer said, coming up behind him, running a hand down Dennis’s ass, running a finger around his ring. Dennis moaned at the sudden pleasure that welled up in him, and pushed back before getting a hold of himself. “Does the cub need one last fuck before he goes?”

“I can’t, I…my husband doesn’t know where I am, and…”

“No worries man, I get it.”

Dennis looked at himself, at what he was wearing. He still only had the jock, boots and harness on. No phone, no wallet. No keys. “I don’t…have any of my stuff, I must have lost it with my pants at the bar.”

“It’ll show up where you need it. Pigtown loves to take, but it’s not interested in any of that stuff. It gives you plenty too, if you’re brave enough to let it in.” He probed his finger against Dennis’s hole, working in a bit, feeling how eagerly it opened for him, and smiled. “Come on you cute cub, how about one more for the road?”

Dennis knew he should say no, knew he should push him away, knew he should hold onto what little bit of dignity he still had. Instead, he let the bouncer bend him over the counter, lube his cock up with some spit, and slide it deep in his hole, right where it belonged. Getting fucked had never felt like this before, it had never, not once in his life, felt good. But this was wave after wave of pleasure washing over him, and he found himself pushing back, begging for more, the smell of their sweat filling the bathroom and steaming the mirror in front of them before the bouncer finished inside him, reached around, and with just a couple of strokes brought Dennis to orgasm all over the front of the counter.

He kept his cock inside Dennis until it got soft, both of them panting together, and Dennis eventually muttered, “I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Craig.”

“I’m Dennis.”

“Nice to meet you Dennis, I hope you don’t regret it.”

Surprisingly enough, he didn’t. Craig pulled free of him, helped Dennis out of his leather gear, and they showered together. He offered him breakfast, but Dennis really was starting to worry about Barry, and declined.

“Well, we should at least cover you up a bit. Otherwise, you won’t make it to your car before some other Daddy drags you down a dark alley and has their way with you.”

Somehow, Dennis didn’t doubt that Craig was telling the truth. He also found himself wondering if that might not be so bad after all. Craig gave him some jeans an old flame had left in a drawer that mostly fit–the legs were a bit long and the waist needed a belt, but it worked well enough. Then, he gave him the work shirt he’d had on at the bar the night before. It was soaked with sweat still, and smelled like heaven when he pulled it on.

“I need that back eventually–company property,” Craig said.

“What’s your address?”

“You can find me at the bar–you know where I work,” he said, giving Dennis a wink and a swat on the ass as he pushed him out the door and into the hallway of the apartment building where he lived. “You even have some leather gear now–so you can get in the front door, like a civilized cub.”

They had a bit of a laugh at that, and then Dennis was out and onto the sidewalk, along with a good number of other men in situations similar to his. He exchanged a few knowing nods along the way, and that helped too. That he wasn’t alone. Dennis made it back to his car in good time, and without losing his hole to any sexy Daddy along the way–though more than once he considered it. Just like Craig had said, his keys were resting on the hood of his car, his phone and wallet in the center console. How they had gotten there he didn’t know, but after everything else that had happened, he wasn’t surprised. He drove home, already trying to figure out what he was going to tell Barry to explain…any of this. The fear almost made him turn around, go back, and crawl back into bed with Craig–but he couldn’t do that. But the thought made his guts growl. He thought it was because he’d skipped breakfast for a moment, but he knew what it was now, that hunger. He’d sated it for the night, at least. But how long could he go without now that he’d feasted?


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