Porn Stash

Jeff and his two friends had decided to spend the weekend hunting up at his uncle’s cabin, and that night after dinner, as the three guys were lounging around on the way to getting drunk, they started arguing over what movie to watch on his uncle’s DVD player–since there was no TV reception. Jeff was the one who found the unmarked box with the disc inside–they’d all been curious, so he popped it into the machine, and it had started playing.

Much to their surprise, it was porn. It was faggot porn. Three burly guys were going at it together in a cabin…kind of similar to their own. They were older fellows, all of them with beards tinged with grey and white, smoking cigars and pipes, and having, apparently, a grand old time together. Now, none of the young men was gay, but they were sufficiently drunk to mostly find the situation funny, and after determining Jeff’s uncle must be a faggot (which explained why the older man’s hunting trips with his own friends never seemed very successful) they watched the video anyway, laughing at the sight…all of them massaging their cocks a bit, eyes all focused on the TV.

The first scene was short, as the three guys had a bit of fun with one another, and then a second scene started–a solo jack off session with one of the men from before, but now he was dressed in some sleazy looking biker leathers, smoking a thick cigar, and milking his cock slowly. Each time the camera zoomed in on the man’s face…Jeff was certain he was looking at someone he knew, but who? It was with some surprise that he recognized him after a couple of minutes–it was Tim. Tim–one of the two guys in that room with him. Just add twenty years to him, a bit of a gut, and lots of hair…and it was fucking Tim!

He tore his eyes away from the screen, and looked over at Tim, to see if he was right in the resemblance, but…Tim wasn’t there. Not the Tim he remembered, at least. No–the grungy biker was sitting right there, stroking his own cock and smoking that cigar, groaning and grunting as he edged his cock, watching himself on the screen. Jeff knew he needed to turn off the TV, but he had…to keep watching. His other friend, Aaron, had noticed Tim’s change as well, when another bear entered the room and started sharing smoke with the biker. This one was also from before, now dressed in leathers like Tim, and as soon as it focused on his heavily bearded face, Jeff recognized him as Aaron.

“No…No, fuck! It’s not…not me…” Aaron groaned next to him, but the voice was…so deep.

Jeff looked over, and saw Aaron changing, aging up, beard growing down to his chest, a big pipe appearing in his hand as his clothes shifted into leather, a heavily tattooed gut hanging out from his vest and over his chaps. He got up and crossed the room to Tim, and started making out with him, the room filled with as much smoke as the room in the video, and…the third man made his appearance.

He crawled into the frame, snorting and grunting. Jeff hadn’t noticed how fucking fat the man had been before, but now that he was wearing that harness, pulled tight against all that flab…he crawled over and started licking at Tim and Aaron’s boots, and one of them started pissing on the fucker’s head. Thankfully, though, he had on a hood…for a moment. The camera panned in, and the hood came off, and Jeff…Jeff saw that he was the pig. Forty years older, sure. Head shaved clean, a massive white beard stained yellow from smoke, and all…all that fat…the change was over in a few moments, and Jeff got on his hands and knees and crawled over to his two masters, to service their dirty cocks. The video ended abruptly, but the two new biker bears and their slave pig kept going all night long, all on their own–and when Jeff’s uncle showed up with some of his own dirty minded friends, the weekend only got longer.

A Home of Mirrors (Part 2)

Eli Billings enjoyed power. He enjoyed being important. Wealth and privilege and status all mattered to him. Yet, his entire life, he’d been very careful to keep himself grounded as best he could. Perhaps it was watching his wife succumb to cancer which had planted that reluctance within him, but whatever it was, he was prone to a certain restrained stoicism. He enjoyed his life, but looked down on the hedonists he encountered among the wealthy. He saw the purpose in being a strong leader, but detested those who abused with their power. He imagined he was a good person, for resisting these temptations, for trying to instill these values in his sons.

But that’s not what he saw in the mirror, as he walked forward. That wasn’t the person which was facing him now, smoking that expensive, elegant cuban cigar. Those weren’t his eyes. His feet drew him closer to the mirror now, close enough that, looking forward, he lost the frame. It was no longer a mirror, it wasn’t even a window–as far as he could tell, the room simply doubled in size, and there was nothing separating him from his doppelganger. When the thing reached out and brushed his cheek, he flinched slightly, and it laughed. “I’ve been looking forward to this, you know. To finally bringing you to heel.”

The slap surprised him, and sent him stumbling a step or two to the side. He felt his stinging, bearded cheek, confused, and looked at his doppelganger adjust the leather gloves which had appeared on his hands, the air filled with a fine layer of smoke. “This isn’t real. This can’t be real…” he muttered, turned, and started for the door, but his reflection moved out of the mirror and tackled him, throwing them both to the ground. Leather gloves circled his throat, and he could feel the air in his throat cutting off, looking at his own face leering over him. He knew that look, from his own heart, that maniacal glee, drool running from his smiling mouth around that thick cigar.

“Oh, to just choke you out and be done with you,” he said, grip tightening a moment, watching Eli’s mouth gasp noiselessly, and then he released his hold. Eli coughed and gagged, as his double rolled him over on the carpet, grabbed the back of his suit pants and underwear and tugged them down, exposing his ass, kneading it with his gloved hands. “Still, if you go, I go–and I’m not planning on going anywhere, any time soon.” Eli tried to crawl out from under him, but he grabbed his balls and tugged, hard, making Eli cry out. “These, I can take, if you want. I’ll still have mine, no matter what happens to yours. Now take it like the man you never could be, Eli, fucking take it.”

He heard the sound of his double’s fly being opened, a bit of spit, and then he was shoving his own cock into Eli’s ass, and he was trying to crawl away again–but each time he did that hand would appear around his balls, and tug him back into position, until he stopped struggling entirely, and just went…limp, hoping it would be over quicker that way.

“Yeah, that’s it, you fucking loser–give up,” the thing fucking him said around the cigar. He could feel it’s heat, an inch from the back of his neck, and his body…he felt strange. Numb, in one way, and invigorated in another. As he lost sensation around his body, he found it was being replaced by something else. He could…feel his cock in a tight, virgin hole, feel hot smoke deep in his lungs, feel his body sweating in his luxurious suit. His consciousness was expanding, filling both of his selves. He felt the pain in his ass, but also the rush of violating it. The pleasure at being in control suffusing his entire body. He clamped his teeth into the cigar, gnawing at the leaf, tearing at his own clothes, wanting to see his own flesh, wanting to feel his own nails raking across his back, wanting to feel them close around his own neck, wanting to violate and be violated, no longer certain who, or what, he even was, as he finally came.

He was still fucking that ass, but he couldn’t feel it inside him anymore. There was a body beneath him, but as he rammed his exploding cock inside it, he felt, and heard, it breaking and snapping under his weight, like a glass husk. Eli put one of his gloved hands on the back of the things head, pressed down, sucking in smoke, and watched his own head cave in, and he laughed. Unable to contain the immense glee at being free, at last, he started tearing apart that thing he’d been, until it was just scraps and shiny dust dissolving into the air, floating through his smoke to the mirror, where he could see his reflection was back…along with a second version of him. That old, weak failure he’d been, rematerializing on the other side. It screamed, soundlessly, one hand thumping against the mirrored barrier, as his new reflection got up, grabbed the pig by the neck and dragged it into the room to be raped again, and Eli watched.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t look away, it was that he no longer wanted to. He wanted to watch this–there were few things that could get him harder than a nice, brutal rape. His cock was hard again, and he stroked off again after a few minutes, and then left the two mirror beings to their play. He found The Agent on the porch–he seemed unsurprised that Eli was smoking, nor question the sudden appearance of his gloves. “I think the place is perfect for me and my boys. Where do I sign?”

They went through the paperwork inside, and while Eli looked over the contract, The agent checked in with his real client–the house was very pleased. “I believe you owe me a down payment?” the agent said. The house bristled at the mention, but he heard a soft crack in another room. A small office–one of the mirrored walls had broken, and a shard had fallen to the floor. The hole in the mirror was already closing back up, like a wound. The Agent collected the shard in a velvet cloth, and then closed the deal with Eli.

A Home of Mirrors (Part 1)

“And it’s for sale by the bank?”

“Yes–at a wonderful price in fact. Foreclosure, still leftovers from the slump. It’s a shame too, because this neighborhood is lovely, and this poor house is just sitting here, aching for a family like yours, Mr. Billings. The agent opened the door, allowing the older, suited man to step inside the house, before following him inside, the agent feeling the house…examine them both.

The agent, after all, wasn’t quite your usual real estate salesman. He didn’t buy properties from banks, and he didn’t work for homeowners, per se. His specialty was houses which were, shall we say, off-market. No, his client was no one alive–in the colloquial sense–no, he had been hired by the house itself. He was rather indifferent for whom he worked for–he placed families with hauntings and curses, he works with a nice mythic portal in South Dakota after every solar eclipse, but this home was a new client, one he hoped to please, because it was…powerful, to say the least. The agent, after all, didn’t do this work for money, but for access to, and power from, the beings residing in these walls. This was his third walkthrough, and the house had been…displeased with the other two. The agent hoped this one would suffice. “It seems well kept up,” Mr. Billings said, as he walked through the foyer and into the kitchen and den. “Is there a reason for all of the mirrors everywhere?”

“They come with the house, actually. Most of them are fabricated right into the walls. It isn’t a house for the modest.”

“No…no, it isn’t that…” Mr. Billings said, a bit absent mindedly. He was staring at his reflection in the large mirror which stretched from end to end in the den. It seemed to be a single sheet of perfect, reflective metal–without a hint of blemish anywhere…but then why did his reflection seem…off somehow? It was disconcerting, but he couldn’t quite look away. The agent watched the subtle exchange, feeling out to the house, wondering what it might be thinking…it seemed intrigued, but not convinced.

“Do you think your two sons will like it?” The agent asked, feeling a swell of interest from the house.

Mr. Billings didn’t reply. He didn’t even seem to have heard him. He was still staring at himself in the mirror. He was in his early fifties, but the age, rather than weakening him, had given him a rugged confidence instead. The agent knew that would fade in another decade or so, but he was in his prime at the moment. His full beard, and hair flecked with a bit of grey, his muscular physique packed into his power suit. The house was getting a taste, and the more it tasted, the…better it was feeling about this one. “Could…I see…the master bedroom please…” Mr. Billings said. His voice came out softer, with little inflection, almost like he was dozing off where he stood.

“Certainly!” the agent said, took Mr. Billings by the arm, and led him back the way they’d come. This was further than he’d gotten with the last two buyers he’d brought by, who’d taken one look at themselves in the mirrors around the house, and demanded they leave immediately, unable to even speak about what they’d seen in their own, supposed reflections. The agent hadn’t looked in any of the mirrors himself–his consultation with the house had been done blindfolded, and he carefully averted his eyes as he walked Mr. Billings through the hall, up the stairs, and towards the sizable master suite at one end of the house.

“I will need…to be alone for a while…” Mr. Billings said.

“Take all the time you need,” the agent said, and Mr. Billings went into the room, and shut the door behind him. “Don’t get greedy now,” the agent said quietly, pushing the words out in his mind as much as through his mouth, “You won’t be getting those sons until after your down payment, and you definitely won’t be getting them if you can’t control yourself.”

He felt the house lash at him, glints in the mirrors trying to catch his eye as he slipped down the stairs and out the front door, taking a moment to breathe. It was going…surprisingly well, as frustrating as his client was. These first placements were always difficult–however, once they saw what The Agent could provide them they almost always became rather appreciative.

Inside the master suite, Eli Billings shook his head, trying to process what he’d experienced down in the living room while staring at his reflection. He’d heard himself speak, but it hadn’t quite been…him doing it. Rather, he’d seen the image of himself speak, and he’d…spoken with it, but not out of his own will. It was difficult to explain, but what he did know, was that he wanted out of this place. He didn’t quite feel…like himself. He turned around to open the bedroom door and leave, when he felt a hand land on his shoulder, grab him, and spin him around–but when he’d turned to face the room, there was nothing there. Just an empty, unfurnished room, and like below, one entire wall was coated with that same, mirrored surface. It had the effect of making every room seem twice as large, and again, the surface was so pure that he could almost imagine himself stepping through, like water.

He was in the mirror, too…but not where he was supposed to be. The angle was wrong–even though he was looking at the room diagonally, his reflection was staring at him straight on, smiling. Unable to tear his eyes away, he watched himself pull a cigar from the pocket of his suit coat along with a lighter–it flared to life, and the smoke…moved from within the mirror to beyond–into the room where Eli was standing. His reflection beckoned, and he stepped forward, terrified, but unable to stop his body from doing what his reflection demanded.

“Let’s See How He Likes It” (2 of 2)

He ended up not at the bear bar, but at one of the twink bars he usually went to when he was looking for someone hot to fuck. Only now, instead of his sexy muscled body, he was an old, slobby grandpa, reeking of cigar smoke and booze, holding down the bar and ogling all of the sexy twinks in the room…but he wasn’t…here to just stare. No…no, he needed…to do something more.

He was already ashamed of himself, of his appearance, but when one hot, muscled guy caught his eye (someone he’d fucked around with before, in his old body), he hopped off the barstool, waddled over and started hitting on him, asking that muscle god to plow his old hole into next week. He got turned down of course, and duly humiliated for even trying at all, but much to his surprise, Vince’s now much smaller cock started leaking cum, and he felt…good. Yeah, humiliating himself like that felt amazing. Unable to stop himself, he spied some other muscle fuck and begged him as well. He knew he never had a chance, but that wasn’t what he was after–not really. No, he wanted these hot men to shame him, to humiliate him and berate him. Nothing…nothing got him harder than that now, he was starting to realize.

After a few hours, he’d bugged enough guys that the bouncers tossed him out. Fine–he had…other places to go too. Now his feet were heading somewhere else, in the late night…heading back towards one of the bear bars he always used to fuck with, but now, everyone there seemed to be expecting him. They parked him in the corner on his knees, and he was the night’s cumdump and urinal. Happily so, in fact. Every load of cum and piss just got him hornier, but his cock refused to get hard–it would just…leak, soaking the crotch of his jeans in precum, but his desire only intensified.

Finally, the bar closed, and he waddled home, gut heaving with cum and piss. Home was different now–a filthy studio apartment–but while he recalled his old life clearly…he knew he’d never be going back. He got naked and logged onto the computer, ready to start messaging some of the muscle men he paid regularly–paid them to…humiliate him over video chat. Sometimes, they even shamed him enough that he was able to cum, but that usually only happened a few times a month. This was his life now–spend all day paying young men to humiliate him, cruise the hot bars for more punishment each night, drink cum and piss at the sleazy bars and bathhouses around town until the early hours of the morning, and then get up and repeat. Soon enough, his old life seemed like a dream–but he wouldn’t trade his new one for anything.

“Let’s See How He Likes it” (1 of 2)

You could tell that Vince enjoyed it, that he went to bars like this on purpose. He was a twink, or maybe he just seemed like a twink in the midst of all the bears–he was more of a gymrat, really, on his own. But he seemed younger, and smaller, in those rooms, flaunting his body for all those “old faggots” as he called them, dancing alone, making them all want him–and when someone had the audacity to even approach him, he’d ridicule and humiliated them, berate loud enough for the whole room to hear–what kind of loser would think someone like him could ever be interested in a hairy old fag like that, after all? It was only a matter of time, really, before someone got sick of him, and did something about it.

It was a Friday night, and Vince was planning another raid, as he called them. He’d swing in, get those bears all hot and bothered, and then skip out to a better bar, where he’d actually find some tail worth fucking. Still, seeing how much all of those fuckers wanted him–it was a rush, really. He was everything that they wanted, and they were never going to get him–not in a million years. He was getting dressed for the evening–nice tight fitting band shirt, sexy jeans, smoking a cigarette, when he checked himself in the mirror…and gawked.

He had a beard. Not just a beard, either–it was…jet fucking white. He took off his hat, and saw a bunch of hair fall out as he did–his hairline was receding, rapidly, and the hair that wasn’t falling out was growing longer. He had to shave it, he had to do…something. He hurried to the bathroom, but by the time he got there, the beard was several inches long, and he saw that his body was changing as well, a gut pushing up his shirt, his pecs growing larger and flabby. He started clawing at the shirt, where his neck was tight against the neck, and the thing changed into a stained, grubby looking wife beater, his jeans growing to accommodate his wide ass as well, and suspenders appearing, looping over his massive gut and holding his pants up, now that no belt would really reach around his girth.

He just stared at his new, old body–easily 400 pounds, and at his new height of five foot six, he only looked wider. He couldn’t go out like this, he had to get to a hospital or something…but…but he had to go…somewhere, right? There was a nagging feeling in his head, something he needed to do tonight. He went out and lit one of his cheap, foul tasting cigars, got on his old, ragged boots, and headed downstairs, trying to stop himself, dying from shame at the looks he was getting from people he passed on the street…but little did he know, his night was just getting started.

Source: lukasgardiner

Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 12)

~~December 24th~~

“How do I look?”

“Handsome as always, daddy,” John said, and with a few grunts, he adjusted a strap of Stanta’s harness, making sure it ran from shoulder to the central ring along the most handsome line. He smiled up at Stanta, and even though it wasn’t the first time he’d seen it, when Stanta smiled back at him with that odd warmth of his, he found it difficult to contain the strange joy it gave him every time. He turned away and blushed, but Stanta had wrapped both arms around him and pulled John into his chest, his snout turned towards one of his daddy’s musky pits, and he felt his piggy cock jump as the smell.

Stanta had been exhausted when he’d finally returned to the house, and John had spent the next few days focusing on caring for him, and as the days of recovery wore on, Stanta found himself surprised by this strange boarman, and the strength he exuded. Had that always been there? He wasn’t quite sure. He’d spent so much time wrapped up in his dreams and plans of vengeance for the last year that he hadn’t quite allowed himself the chance to feel much of anything else. But something had happened, and everyone could feel it. The world didn’t seem quite so dark any longer.

If Timmy had had any mind left, he might have recalled his surprise at the light’s selection of Stan the year before. He had expected the light to choose someone from a more conservative bent, and certain it’s choice of Stan had been that on the surface, but now, he would have seen something different. The light wasn’t searching for conservatism, the light had been searching for balance, and it seemed to have found it.

John pushed away from the hug with a snort, Stanta reached for his hard piggy cock, but John shook his head. “It’ll still be here when you get back, daddy–you have a job to do!” He shoved Stanta towards the door, and he gave a booming laugh which rang through the dark night outside. The elves were running to and fro on the runway, double checking manifests, looking at last minute changes to the various naughty lists Stanta had drafted up over the last year, detailing men all over the world who would need to some form of punishment for a whole variety of reasons this coming trip. Petey was in the thick of it, shouting orders, and he looked frustrated that Stanta wasn’t already in the sleigh, the reindeermen prancing eagerly, Rudolph’s cock erect and shining bright in the flurries of snow.

Still, he pulled John close and gave the pig one last, long kiss. He’d offered to help John return to his more normal form already, but he’d refused. “I’d rather get something as a Christmas present, daddy,” he’d told him, “Make me into something fun next year, that we can both enjoy.”

Stanta still hadn’t quite decided on what that was going to be, but he had quite a few ideas rolling around in his head. But one thing he knew he’d never be able to change was the fact that, after all of this, John had finally become a man–a son–that he loved, deeply, and without reservation, and without some silly love gun to make it happen.

Indeed, the gun had been sealed away down in the basement of the house, along with the hundreds of other dangers previous Santas and the elves had faced over the eras. The urinals–and the remaining eggs–were sealed away as well, and that one even deeper and tighter than the rest. Marty would have laughed, knowing that his strange, failed creation had caused so much havoc over the last year, though he would have found no joy knowing it was the fruits of his own labor which had brought his rebellion to an end, at last.

Stanta climbed up into the sleigh, and found his list, excitement stirring at all the names on his list, and this year, all of them in red! Yes, that old Santa, who’d revelled in giving gifts to boys and girls all over the world was gone now–the world would now hear tales of a new Stanta, who punished evil men all over the world, one who spread sex and mischief in his wake at every turn. It was a whole new Christmas, really, and with the crack of a whip, the reindeer took off down the runway and into the sky, towing the sleigh behind, leaving Petey and John beside one another on the runway, the elves cheering and celebrating around them.

“I never did get to thank you properly, Petey,” John said, “If you hadn’t found me that night, in the snow, I don’t know what I could have done without you.”

“Give yourself a bit of credit,” Petey said in reply, “Still, if you really want to thank me, I have a few suggestions.”

With a laugh, John picked the elf up in his arms and carried him off into the workshop, the elves clustering around them, tearing off each other’s leather pants and harnesses for a night of revelry. Christmas had returned, Christmas was reborn, Christmas was a miracle–one they hoped would last for centuries to come.

~~~THE END~~~

Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 11)

~~November 7th~~

It took John a few days for his mind to pick up speed again, and for some of the changes inflicted on him by Santapig to regress–though he had a feeling he wouldn’t truly be back to normal anytime soon. The pendant around his neck no longer shown as brilliantly as before, when it had caught every bit of light and every eye in a room–the metal seemed tarnished, almost like it had become muddied. Any longer with the pig, under his sway, and the pendant may have lost all of it’s luster, leaving him trapped.

Petey had to keep up appearances, and so it took a few more days for him to bring enough supplies that they could unlock the door and enter the room. The late fall snows had been flowing in through the window, and everything was coated in a soft layer of white. Carefully, they dusted the dry flakes from the urinal, and began collecting the eggs, wrapping them carefully to keep them from breaking, and placing them in a case. Petey’s one concern about the plan was that there simply wouldn’t be enough eggs, but there turned out to be an ample supply. Petey would have preferred a chance to study the specimens and learn more about them–how they functioned, and more importantly, what sorts of defenses one might raise to prevent…infestation. But they had no time, and any further experimentation would have raised further suspicion, as well as exposed both Petey and John to further risk.

Lenny had been conducting meetings in a small conference room with several other of his closest associates several times a week. They were actively plotting a broader takeover of the system, focusing on ousting Petey. He’d avoided any direct attack thus far by simply feigning ambivalence, and allowing Lenny and his crew to do as they pleased, but he, and many other elves, could see that Lenny was drunk on power, and was endangering Christmas further. Stanta was now little more than a gimp slave, dressed all in rubber, always at Lenny’s heel, ready and eager to do whatever his love ordered. He spent much of his time chained down in the workshop, Lenny ordering the elves to abuse him, ensuring that Stanta was being properly conditioned to enjoy it–and need it, of course.

The addictive cum had originally been Petey’s idea, in fact, when he’d been collaborating with Marty, at the beginning. He had, of course, synthesized an antidote which had been administered to all of the elves, but he was the sole guardian of the formula. This, Lenny could not stand, because without love, the only thing tethering Stanta to his control now was his newfound addiction. Petey also didn’t dare trust the formula with anyone else, and kept it only in his mind, and that, even more than his willingness to cooperate with Stanta, was the reason he bore a target on his back, and the reason Lenny needed to be dealt with.

And so, Petey and several of his close confidants snuck into the vents, and huddled over the conference room, until Lenny and his friends entered, with Stanta in tow. That was the true sticking point. Thankfully, when Stanta wasn’t in use, Lenny kept all of his holes sealed with a special mask and buttplug. Without testing, Petey couldn’t know if that was enough to keep him safe or not…but he could hope. Once the business of abusing Stanta had finished, and he’d been sealed up and business had commenced, the elves dropped the literal bomb down onto the table–smoke bombs first, followed by an exact number of eggs shattered on the table.

They couldn’t see, through the smoke, to know if their plan had worked. They could certainly hear screams, as the strange, rubber bugs found their newest hosts and infested them. The smoke cleared ten minutes later, and the last of the elves was shuddering as the rubber began to coat them–whether the mask and plug had been enough to protect him, or whether he’d just gotten lucky, it was never known, but where Lenny and his lieutenants had, minutes before, been laughing and plotting their seizure of power, there were now five urinals attached to the wall, ten toilets adhered to the floor, and Stanta, chained to the wall, trying to call out to his love through the mask.

Petey found the love gun in Lenny’s workshop, and used it to undo the spell of love over Stanta’s mind–only then did they dare release him from the chains holding him. If he had gotten free and seen what had happened to his lover…chances were good that no elf would have been safe. Instead, Stanta was disgusted with himself, appalled with his behavior, and surprised, more than anything, to find Petey and John, together, standing over him. Petey took one further step, to demonstrate his good will–he provided both Stanta and John with the same immunity to elf cum they all enjoyed–further levelling the playing field. Then, together, they went out into the workshop, John carrying the hard rubber toilet which had been Lenny, and dropped it to the floor of the workshop, and the elves all stared at Stanta, at his cold, furious eyes, but he steeled himself.

“The ones who deserved to be punished have been dealt with, as you can see. I desire no further conflict between Stanta and the elves. I implore you: let justice stand here, let no one seek further revenge, in the…spirit of Christmas.”

The sincerity could only be proven in time, but everyone in the room knew that there were larger stakes to be dealt with–Christmas was now only a month and a half away, and the existence of all of them hung in the balance, just as it did every year. Stanta did his best to show his good spirit, and even though the nights turned dark, and the winds colder than ever, everyone could feel a Christmas spirit warming the workshop which many had thought gone forever. Christmas, was back, and everyone was rejoicing without even realizing it.

Corporate Sabotage

“Hey, Bishop,” Frank said, knocking on the door of my office, “I just heard you landed the promotion to VP–congrats! I put my name in the hat too, but I had a feeling you were a shoe in.”

I smirked at Frank. We’d been…something between friends and rivals in the office for years now. To each other’s faces, we’re all smiles, but we’d fought hard for every last scrap–projects, bonuses, promotions–but I suppose you could say that with this, I’d finally won, in a sense. “Thanks Frank, I appreciate it. You would have been a great choice too. Who knows? Another slot might open up in a few years–I’ll certainly recommend you.”

“Heh, or even sooner,” he said, “Anyway, I got you a gift–something for you to enjoy tonight, while you’re celebrating,” he walked over and handed me a small, wrapped package, “I’d come to the party, but I’ve got plans.”

“No worries–don’t be feeling too sorry for yourself. You always fight hard.”

“You know it,” he said, with a wink, and then left. At least he had the courtesy to lose with dignity. Maybe I actually will follow through on that recommendation in the future–it’ll be dull without him around, in a way. I put the gift in my briefcase and forget about it, and leave to go get beers with the bosses to celebrate. I get home late, and only remember the gift when I see a bit of wrapping stuck in the hinge of the case. I open it up, and find a pack of cigars–nice ones, by the look and smell of them, but not a brand I recognize. Why not? I don’t smoke them often, but I deserve a treat, and I’m too wired to go to bed just yet.

Frank definitely has good taste in cigars–the first one is a pleasure to smoke. In fact, I feel more relaxed than I have in ages, and surprisingly horny too. I haul out my cock and start jacking off as I smoke, and I swear my cock seems…different. Longer, and…and with a bunch of skin hanging over the head. It feels good though, and I keep at it, feeling my head dull a bit. I take off my shirt and start tweaking a nipple, seeing…tattoos on both of my pecs. I don’t…have tattoos though, right? I blow a load all over my chest, and rub it into my skin, feeling gross as I do so, but it just…feels right. But now I have tah piss like a fuckin’ racehorse, ‘n I get up and head for the crapper–where I see a fuckin’ stranger in the gahd damn mirror, lookin’ out at me!

I look like a fuckin’ hick! I’m so fuckin’ pissed, ‘n I just has a feelin’ it’s gotta have somethin’ tha do with these cigars. I might not be able tah think too good, but ya gotta wake up pretty fuckin’ early tah git one past this cowboy! I find mah work phone ‘n text Frank, demandin’ answers, when I hears a knock on the door. I answer it, ‘n there’s Frank, and somebody’s with him. An old fuck, lookin’ like he just stepped off a pig farm, and…and fuck, he’s…real sexy like. He’s smokin’ a gar too, ‘n the fat fuck has me pressed to the wall in a moment, feedin’ me his fuckin’ smoke, rubbin’ mah tool, ‘n fuck, all I wanna do is taste ‘em.

“Sorry about this, Bishop, but…well, you’re the one who said I always fight dirty. Looks like that cigar of yours is almost done–how about we light another one for you?”

I know I shouldn’t, but fuck…Ah know Ah can’t help mahself.

“Won’t be much left of you after this one, I can promise you that. But don’t worry–this here’s my Uncle Eddie–owns a pig farm out in the heartland. He’s been needing a new boy, and I offered you up, in exchange for a bit of help with our family magic. He’s a mean fucker, and dirty son of a bitch, but I don’t think the new you is going to mind much. Everyone’s going to assume you cracked under the pressure, I suppose–well, at least I can take over for you, right? I’ll just let the two of you finish up here, and he’ll take you home in the morning. Have a nice, new life.”

Course, Ah didn’t hear too much a that–had mah face buried in mah…pa’s reekin’ pit, ‘fore he shoved me down ‘n gave me a right proper skullfuck. Now we’s in his truck, headin’ west–ain’t lookin back though. How can Ah, with mah face buried in Pa’s nasty crotch the whole way home?

Source: wantin2ride

Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 10)

~~October 28th~~

He needed to do something, right? He couldn’t just…stay here. John was plowing Santapig’s ass, but the action was rote at this point. At least with his fifteen inch pig cock buried in a hole, the desperate desire to fuck receded enough to allow him a chance to think, but lately, even that was becoming difficult. The long summer days had returned to a more natural day and night cycle, and now the days were incredibly short–just a few hours at a time. His mind felt similar–John was descending below a horizon of the mind. At first, he’d worried that he’d be subsumed by “Claude”, by some personality dictated by Santapig, but the reality was turning out to be far worse. Whatever magic had restored the previous Santa’s mind, over the last month is was clearly beginning to fade. Santapig barely spoke any longer, and his appearance was devolving further, his snout and tusks longer, hide thicker, and he rarely walked on two legs any longer. This change in him had, in turned, affected his desires, and John too, was changing.

The room had no mirror, but from where he was standing he could see a transparent reflection of his head and torso in the window, and he no longer…looked particularly human. Even the features of Claude had begun to fade, and he was looking more like a stocky, brutish boar–even his hands and feet were beginning to curl up, the nails of his fingers growing back up along the fingers, threatening to become true trotters. He turned away from the window, and over to the other wall, where the urinal was…where the eggs were still growing. They hadn’t burst yet, but the outside had become translucent, and he could clearly see things squirming around inside of them. They looked like bugs of some strange variety, and given what they were coming from, he had few doubts regarding what they might do to someone they found once they hatched. He was trapped between the beast he was becoming and the strange things growing–one or the other would finish him off if he didn’t leave, but how? The door was locked, and the window didn’t open, but maybe…maybe if he wasn’t too far gone, he could still try and talk some sense into him.

It hurt to do so, but he hauled his cock free, feeling that scratching, aching voice start up in his mind again, that desperate desire to fuck, and Santapig looked over one shoulder. “Not finished–keep fucking!” he said in his guttural voice.

“No–No, we have to get out of here, we can’t stay here. We have to get out,” John said. It wasn’t the first time he’d tried to talk to the pig about this, but all signs indicated that this attempt would go as poorly as the others. Already, his hand was lining his massive cock back up with the hole, hungry to back inside him…but he fight harder, and stepped back, turning to the door, pounding on it with his fists. “Dad….Dad! Please, I know…you told me to stay, but please, you have to let me out now!” Again, this wasn’t his first attempt at rousing his father, but that too, had proven fruitless.

“Stupid boar–boar only good for fucking! Now fuck!” Santapig said, and at the words, John felt the amulet around his neck warm up again, his mind…draining further than it had already, and a stupid grin spread across his face. Yeah, he did need to fuck–what had he been thinking? But still, he hesitated, trying to grasp at the straws of his mind–but it was too long for the pig’s preferences. “I said fuck!” Santapig said, and got off the bed, stomped over, grabbed John by the shoulders and threw him at the wall beside him. He collided with it hard enough that one of the eggs hanging from the urinal snapped off, dropped to the floor and shattered. Something resembling a centipede coated in shiny black and yellow rubber uncurled itself, and began slithering it’s way across the floor towards John, who stepped away. Santapig tried to get in his path, but John just grabbed him and threw him behind him, his heart aching at what he was doing, but he…wasn’t going to become one of those things.

Santapig stumbled forward, snout open–the creature sensed him, and leapt. As he fell, the thing shoved it’s way into his mouth and down his throat, the tail in unfurling into a funnel with sharp hooks that embedded themselves around the pig’s mouth, as he struggled for air on the ground. After a minute, the creature erupted from Santapig’s asshole, swiveled for a moment, and then drove into the floor, dragging the pig down with it and anchoring it in place. The remaining changes…took several hours. The funnel began to secrete a rubber solution which began to coat the pig’s body–from the look on his face, and judging by how much cum he shot, the experience must have been…quite pleasurable, but from the outside, John could only watch on it horror as his facial features were sanded down, his back bent back at an impossible angle, arms and legs adhered to the body until all that remained was a standing toilet, ready and eager to be used. And for the first time in months, John was also alone.

His mind returned quickly, and he realized that the obvious step was to simply break the window. He did so and managed to squeeze his way out into the cold snow, before returning to the house through the back door, searching for Stanta, but the house was empty–and seemed to have been empty for quite some time. Worried that the worst might have happened, the pig crept to the workshop and investigated, and saw his father dressed as a rubber gimp, bound to the floor of the workshop, as a line of elves waited to use his mouth either as a cumdump or a urinal. The anger he felt surprised him. He hadn’t expected to ever care that much about this man, and yet…he did, and seeing him there, like that, it gave him an glimmer of an idea–but how would he even manage to do something like that?

“You must be John.”

He spun around, and found himself facing a wiry elf. He didn’t know what to say, other than stammer, but the elf calmed him.

“My name is Petey. I did some…investigating around the house, and noticed your situation. I wasn’t going to intervene unless you managed to escape. You can see that…Stanta is in a bit of a bind. It isn’t, in my opinion, the best option, but unless we can get rid of the elves supporting Lenny, it’s the situation we will have to endure. You can return to the house, if you’d like. As long as you don’t interfere, I can guarantee you a measure of safety and comfort. But if you’d like to…resolve the situation you can see in the window, we can discuss a few plans I’ve drawn up.”

“No, I have a plan. Come with me,” John said, and he led Petey back to the window, hoisted him up so he could see the remains of the room, and explained the outlines of his idea.

“Ah, yes…poetic, and feasible,” Petey said, “If you invite me in for tea, we can see about making it happen.”

Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 9)

~~September 14th~~

In their early meetings, Lenny made it clear where he stood, regarding the last few years struggles for power in the north–that, while he held Stanta in relative contempt, so long as he considered the elves to be equals and they continued their joint work towards reshaping the world in this new image, then he was perfectly willing to accept the majority of Petey’s proposals regarding detente between Stanta and the elves. Timmy, he said, in delivering the love gun to John, had acted recklessly, and alone. Petey concurred on that point, and while Stanta had tried to pry deeper into some sort of understanding regarding why Timmy had acted so rashly, neither Lenny or Petey would–or even could, give an answer. Of course, Timmy’s love for Marty had been well known, but none of them could have known about that chance encounter on the porch, and the deep longing that it had awakened in Timmy. His actions had never, really, been aggression towards Stanta, but only the hope that John could replace the love which had never been requited.

Stanta did not particularly trust Lenny at all, and even towards Petey, who did his very best to demonstrate his good intentions, his paranoia demanded caution. Still, production continued apace–and Stanta knew that if Lenny was planning something, either with or without Petey’s assistance–it would strike on his yearly ride around the world or immediately afterward, when he was at his most vulnerable. This meant, that if he was going to secure himself, he would need to strike first. Stanta had no real desire to put either Lenny or Petey out of commission, of course–in fact, the two of them, despite their deep philosophical disagreements, were both able managers and generally cooperated on the floor. Their interests were aligned after all–both sought to secure the future well being of the elves, and keeping Christmas alive was the only way to do so, but their sizable long term disagreements could be set aside, now that Christmas was mere months away. Stanta, however, couldn’t afford to wait. He needed to know now if he was facing a threat, and so he retrieved the love gun once again.

Lenny would be his target. After all, if there was a plot against him, Lenny would be leading it in any case, whether Petey was colluding or not. If Lenny revealed that Petey was a pawn of his, then Stanta would deal with him as well, but this was the reasonable first step. Lenny, this particular evening, left the workshop to discuss logistics with Stanta while Petey managed the floor, and Stanta was surprised that an opportunity had presented itself so readily. He hadn’t quite anticipated that Lenny might have already made preparations against a first strike. When he leveled the gun at the elf and fired, intending to make the small man fall deeply in love with him, the pink ray slammed into some invisible force surrounding the small elf, and bounced right back at him. Before Stanta could do anything, he felt emotion overwhelm him, the gun dropping to the floor as he stared at Lenny, at the love of his life, weeping slightly at the sight of him, horrified, now, at his own attempted betrayal.

In fact, Lenny had been true to his word. He’d promised Stanta that so long as he allowed elves equality, then nothing would happen. However, his shield charm had been in place for just such a possible act on Stanta’s part, since he’d already revealed himself as someone who preferred striking first. Lenny’s main surprise was that Stanta had resorted to the same trick twice. He made the large man get down on his knees and crawl over towards him, kiss his leather boots and properly apologize, and then Stanta got his first taste of elf cock, and their magic, addictive semen. After Lenny had sampled both holes, and found a collar and lead for his loving pet, he led the large man through the snow back to the workshop. Petey saw them enter, and his jaw dropped at the sight.

“See? I told you the fucker was going to try something,” Lenny said, tugging Stanta in front of him, “Tried to hit me with Timmy’s love gun.”

Petey sighed–he’d been worried something like this was going to happen. He’d talked Lenny out of trying any tricks of his own, but in turn, had promised him that should Stanta try anything first, then “that fat ugly pig”, as Lenny called him, was going to get what was coming to him.

“Just make sure he can still fly the sleigh, please,” Petey said.

“Oh, I will–I think Stanta here will do anything for me, right?”

“Yeah Lenny, please–can…can I have some more cum please? I can’t believe how good that shit tasted before,” Stanta said, the tone…meek and quiet, compared to the brutish shouting the elves had grown accustomed to on the workshop floor.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be getting plenty of that. Why don’t you crawl around the floor, and beg some of the elves for theirs? It would make me very happy to see you do that, you stupid pig.”

“R-Really?” Stanta said, “Ok! I…I really want you to be happy Lenny, I really do.”

“Don’t use my name cunt–you address us all as sir, understand?”

“Yes sir, sorry sir,” Stanta said, and the crawled off to the nearest elf, who he politely asked for his cum. Petey just watched the sorry sight, but he still felt relieved. Christmas would survive, at any rate, and if that took maintaining a lovesick, cumdump Stanta, then so be it.