Fantasy Feedback Loop (2 of 2)

When the second flash faded…he was still my dad, but fuck…he was big. He’d added close to half a foot in height, that beard of his had grown out a couple of inches and added some grey, he bulked out too, piling on muscle, thick cords of it, with a hefty, solid gut jutting out. He was, literally, the daddy of my fucking dreams, and then I looked down at myself, and saw he wasn’t the only one who had changed, this time.

Apparently, while he’d been sucking me off for the first time–or the hundredth, it was hard to remember exactly–he’d been…thinking about me, too. I’d never been a big kid, hell, was I kind of a nerd, and my father had always wanted me to jock out a bit more, follow in his footsteps…and now, I realized that I had. I wasn’t going to college anymore–I was working with him on the building crew. I wasn’t as massive as he was, of course, but I looking like a slightly smaller version of him, and fuck, if I didn’t feel sexy as fuck. I knew…that I needed to get up and turn off the generator, but what I did instead was roll over and present my boyhole for him, he lubed his cock up with some spit and slid it into me, nice and fucking deep, right where it belonged. I could smell us both, sweaty and rank from today’s work, how I’d just stared at him all day, longing for this moment, like everyday. He was rough, ramming in deep, pulling my hair, tugging my nipples, and I was enjoying it, wishing he’d be harder still…when I felt that same thrumming in the air, and another flash…

This time, I’d flipped over, and was swinging in the air, in…in our sling. Daddy was in his gear, sneering at me, my legs locked to the chains while he worked on my hole…getting ready to fist his boy into oblivion. He was just as massive as before–maybe even a bit bigger–his beard fuller and longer, and tattoos all over his arms and chest, just…just like my own. I wasn’t just his son now…I was his boy, I was his slave. He lit a cigar for himself, fed me his smoke, making me even more hungry for him, and then worked his hand into me…and fuck, if I didn’t feel just…it was fucking heaven.

He’s in me almost to my elbow now, and I can feel the energy pounding in my ears, vibrating my teeth. This is going to be a big one, and I don’t know if I’m ready for it. He’s grinning at me, and I can almost see my own, twisted reflection in his eyes, and then there’s a flash, a loud pop or explosion, and when the after image fades, he’s…huge. My…my fucking master. Eight feet tall, 500 pounds of almost pure muscle, hair coating every inch of his body. My cock drools in its cage at the sight of him, and he shoves his foot and a half inch long cock into me, nearly making me scream, but I need it. This piggy hole needs to be filled all the time now…and fuck if I’m not the happiest I can ever remember being. I can see the smoking ruins of the fantasy generator on my dresser, and I know I’ll never be going back, but why would I fucking want to? Why would I want to be anything other than a stupid fuckhole for my muscle beast of a father?

Fantasy Feedback Loop (1 of 2)

I’d had no idea where it had come from, it was just there on the porch when I’d gotten home from community college. I was still living with my parents, getting some credits under my belt before transferring to a state school to finish a bachelor’s degree. Regardless, I saw this box on the step, with no one’s name on it, so I took it inside and up to my room. Now, usually I got home first from class, then my dad would get home, and then my stepmom later, so everything was quiet. I liked living with my dad…well, I’ll be honest, I’d had the hots for me father for as long as I could remember.

I was still in the closet–I didn’t dare tell him, after listening to him rant about “those faggots” my entire youth, but he was a walking wet dream for a bear chaser like me. Nice full beard, heady musk (I had a…collection of his dirty underwear and socks stashed away for personal use), and a muscular body from manual labor with a nice, healthy gut. If he wasn’t so fucking straight, right? I’d messaged a few a few guys and chatted on some sites, but I hadn’t actually had the chance to get my cherry popped yet–I think part of me was still holding out for my dad, as sick as that might sound. I opened up the package, and found a small statue inside–well, statue is a bit misleading. It looked high tech–a thick pillar of metal mounted on a wide base with a few buttons, including an on/off toggle, so it had to do something, right? There was a thick manual beneath it, and apparently, the thing was something called…a fantasy generator.

It had to be fake, I told myself. Some stupid prank or something. The book claimed that if you turned it on, and let it charge, it would gather the desires of people around it, and when it was fully primed, unleash those desires, and make them come true. It would literally change reality. That had to be impossible right? Then again…maybe it was at least worth a shot…

My dad would be home in about an hour. I plugged in the machine, saw it had power, and turned it on…and as soon as I did, it’s like…some force just overwhelmed me, and I lost control of myself, got on my bed, and started jacking off with my dad’s dirty underwear, thinking about him, about how much I needed him. I could…feel the energy building up around me, until the room was thrumming with it, and when I heard the sound of his truck pull up, and he walked into the house, and came within the reach of the field…there was a pulse, and everything went white, for a moment. When I could see again, my dad was in the doorway of my bedroom, a hungry look on his face–he walked right over and started sucking my cock–his son’s cock! I nearly shot from that alone…but this…this was normal now, wasn’t it? We’d…been fucking for years at this point, since I was sixteen or so. I was in heaven–so thrilled, that I barely noticed that the machine was warming up again…and when another flash came a half an hour later, I realized I probably should have read the whole book first.

Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 8)

~~September 6th~~

The previous three months under the literal whip of Stanta, producing toys non-stop under the summer sun, may sound hellish to an outsider, but a substantial number of elves felt a sensation of relief. After all, they had all spent centuries under similar conditions, often worse than this. The previous years of relative freedom and control now felt like some strange fever dream, and to them, Christmas was once again returning to it’s proper order. But for a second camp, those who had tasted freedom, control, and self-determination for the first time, bristled. They were the ones who created the toys, and Stanta was never intended to be more than a delivery boy, a human elevated by the elves who ought to serve at their whim, not the other way around.

This tension was clear to Stanta, even before his final encounter with Timmy several months prior, and was also why he hadn’t yet bothered to free John from his cloistered tryst with Santapig–he himself didn’t feel safe so long as there was a chance that the elves might choose to align themselves against him once more. His time as taskmaster in the workshop was not only spent ensuring production remained on schedule, of course–he was also gathering information, attempting to tip the scales in his own favor, ahead of the elves election. To begin with, a sizable majority of the elves had been furious at him, for whatever he might have done with Timmy, but he could also sense a large reservoir of nostalgia within the group, which he tapped into–maintaining a firm hand, pushing them and encouraging them, reminding them of what a proper santa could do, pulling from examples their own history, which he had culled from the library. He had made progress–the faction of elves who no longer desired to oppose him, who saw a way forward driven by cooperation and mutual understanding was growing, but on the eve of the vote, even he wasn’t sure he had done enough. He, as a non-elf, was barred from the meeting, which took place on the floor of the workshop. The elves mulled about, and fell silent, waiting for the first elf to stand on a table and announce their candidacy.

No one was surprised when Lenny was the first to clamber up onto a table, and announce to the room his desire to be elected head elf. Many had been surprised when Marty selected Timmy as his second in command, and not Lenny, who had been most eager to put Santa under his new boots. He gave his speech, urging a hardline against Stanta, and the attempt to establish the equality, if not the dominance, of the elves once more. This shocked many of them, to hear the goal stated so bluntly. No one got up on a table after he finished, and some were worried no one desired to contest him at all, but at last, a second elf climbed on a different table–Petey.

Where Lenny was thick, muscular and hairy, with a full beard and rough, hard demeanor, Petey was lean, tall, and considered to be one of the more intelligent elves on the workshop floor. He had emerged early on as a supporter of detente–and in his speech, he redoubled Lenny’s call for equality, but pushed in a different direction, towards self-sacrifice, for a new world, for the sake of Christmas itself. No one else threw their hat into the ring, and the elves began to sort themselves, gathering into two camps around each table. The votes were tallied, and to everyone’s shock, it was a perfect tie–something which was unprecedented. Rule books, bylaws, and histories were consulted, but there was no plan in place to resolve a tie. The two camps pleaded with one another, trying to flip one vote, but no elf wanted to become the true deciding factor. And so, it was decided that, for the time being, the two of them would have to serve in the position together, and Lenny and Petey, together, trapsed through the summer snow to Stanta’s home, where the man was waiting to hear the results of the elves deliberations. The rest of the elves, eyeing one another with suspicion, all returned to their own positions, and resumed their labor.

The meeting with Stanta was short, and the two head elves returned to the workshop after an hour, and the two of them made a surprisingly good team, though no elf was blind to the wary looks the two were casting one another across the room. Back in his house, smoking his pipe, Stanta deliberated the situation himself. Even he had expected Lenny to win by a substantial margin, and that he too, would need to be dealt with. But with a vote this close, the short, stocky elf was now the one thing standing between him, and a chance at peace with Petey at the helm. He went to his room, and found the love gun. He would give it a few weeks, to see how things developed, but he had a feeling Lenny would have a change of heart about Stanta very soon. Very soon indeed.

Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 7)

~~June & July~~

Summer at the North Pole was an odd kind of misery, particularly for those who hadn’t experienced it before. The sun never set, it only traced a strange, wavering path in a circle around the sky, never quite rising fully, and certainly never setting close to the horizon. It made every day blend together, particularly because sleep was largely impossible. As immortals, the inhabitants’ bodies had entered their own kind of perpetual state, with no need for the basic necessities which had governed their entire lives before. Now, their bodies had no need for anything, and with the sun never setting, sleepiness never came, leading to a strange twilight of the mind, the sensation that this was a day doomed to last forever.

For the workshop, this strange mania was necessary–from the month of May to September the elves largely worked non-stop in the omnipresent sunlight, producing nearly all the toys and gear for the next Christmas in those few bright months. It was a time for Stanta and the head elf to be near constant presences on the workshop floor, but with the sudden, unexplained disappearance of Timmy, that left the entire task of guiding the elves to Stanta himself. Of course, all of the elves knew what must have happened to Timmy–even if they didn’t know the details. The last several years of strife led them all to presume Timmy’s plan of subjugating Stanta had failed, or backfired, and he had been taken out of commission as well. It was lucky, in some ways, that their new Stanta possessed a strong authoritarian streak, or production would have been derailed entirely–they likely would have never made their yearly quota. This was complicated by the fact that Timmy, in a breach of protocol, hadn’t bothered to name another elf to act in his place should something happen to him–this meant that the elves would need to hold elections for a new head elf, but they were barred from doing so until 90 days had passed, placing the election date in early August.

Inside the house, a different sort of hell was emerging for John. Despite having dealt with Timmy, his father still had not returned to free him from his forced cohabitation with Santapig, and he was quickly learning that the effects of the mirror pendant he was wearing only grew more intense with sustained contact. His only way of juding the passage of time in the room, without the presence of night, was to try and keep track of each time to sun passed through the single window in the room, shining across the increasingly filthy room each day, where the two men spent nearly every moment fucking. Santapig was insatiable, and clearly, his mind had been relatively shattered by his experiences over the past few years. He insisted on addressing John by the name Claude, and would grow violently angry should John try to assert his true identity to him. But to make matters even more confusing, the pig harboured deep, emotional sentiment towards both of the Claudes in the room–John was certain, in fact, that the pig loved the strange urinal on the wall far, far more than he could ever love him.

The pig insisted the urinal be fed–he claimed that he could hear when it was thirsty, and he would milk Claude’s cock into the thing’s funnelmouth, demanding that he piss for him, demanding that he feed his lover, demanding that he feed himself. John found his own mind beginning to warp–at first, he thought it was simply the fact that he was trapped with this insane pigman as some form of Stockholm Syndrome, but he became convinced, with time, that it was largely the doing of the amulet. He was, it would seem, still changing. Each time Santapig grew unhappy with him, or dissatisfied with his performance, John would change a bit more. He wasn’t even sure that the pig was aware of what he was doing to him–at least, he never mentioned it, but as the months wore on, John noticed that as his mind was beginning to twist, his body was shifting slowly as well.

His cock was the first thing he noticed. First, it was massive–after all Santapig, despite his control over the entire relationship, had remained a resolute bottom in bed. He demanded constant satisfaction from John, and in turn, found himself in a state of constant horniness, needing to fuck at all times to even be able to think about anything else. But he noticed, soon, that at some point his cock had ceased to be human, and had taken on the same corkscrew shape as the pig’s. He noticed other shifts as well–increased muscle mass, short tusks pushing out from his mouth as his skull began to form a snout. He was becoming the same sort of monstrosity as Santapig, and worse, he…liked it.

His mind was slowing. He didn’t need to worry about anything, really. He just needed to be Claude–or half of Claude, really. He could never be complete, he knew that, somehow. He too, found himself developing an odd attraction to the urinal, but rather than wanting to care for it, he found himself…mourning it, somehow. Trapped within that rubber, was himself, a piece of himself he needed to reclaim in order to be complete. He could only ever really be Claude’s body, but his soul was there, deep inside, and the loss he began to feel was indescribable, even as he desperately tried to tell himself it was deeply irrational. It was in late July that John noticed something else–the urinal…something was happening to it. Around the base, where the body adhered to the wall, strange bulges had appeared–and more began to appear as well, all over the surface. Once, he felt one of the bulges stir, as though something inside it was alive. In his strange midsummer dream, he felt an odd sense of joy–part of him, it was alive, there, in these strange mounds of rubber. They continued to grow, however, and alongside the joy was a constant dread. They were eggs–he knew that, somehow. He also knew, that he didn’t want to be in this room when they hatched.

My Son the Whore

“There’s been a fucking mistake! That’s what the fucking problem is. What the…he’s my own fucking son!”

Carl looked over at his teenage son sitting on the edge of his bed, naked, a dazed, pleased look on his face, like they all had. But before, when he’d seen that, he’d always felt a thrill of excitement at having a young man completely at his disposal for hours, with permission to do whatever he wanted to the body while it was absent any mind…but now. He’d been with the service for years now, and it had always been a different young man. This time, however, when he’d opened the door it had been Anthony–his own fucking son! The son who was so involved at school that he usually came home late, going out at odd hours on occasion–how long had this been going on? And fuck, he was…hard. He’d never thought of his son like that, though he was…his type. Smooth, hairless, chubby, sweet and pliable. How had he never noticed that before?

“We do not take prior relationships into account when assigning guests to clients. If you do not wish to use your assigned guest, he will remain until his scheduled departure.”

“No–no you don’t understand. You need to fucking wake him up, right this fucking instant. You are not doing this to my son.”

“I can assure you your current guest has no knowledge of his employment with us. You are free to use him without repercussion.”

“If you don’t fix him, I’m going to the fucking police.”

The piercing tone in the receiver of his headset caught him off guard–but after a few seconds, Carl wasn’t thinking much of anything at all–he had the same pleasant look on his face as his son, a few feet away.

“Threatening our company is against your contract, as you well know. We’re within our rights to conscript you on the spot, but given your…emotional state and long history as a client, I am willing to be lenient. You won’t be telling the police anything. Please, go lie down on the bed, and allow your son to service you.”

Carl did as he was ordered. In some distant part of himself, he was fighting himself, but there was nothing he could do. He got on the bed, and his son immediately began sucking on his cock like a complete whore…and fuck, if he wasn’t incredibly turned on by the sight.

“Now, we’re going to have a little chat, Carl. And by the end of it, you’re going to realize that what you want more than anything else in the world, is a sexual relationship with your son. Then, we will move on to discussion of long term leases of our hosts out to…clients with needs like yours.”

Carl just nodded, and listened, and by the time he hung up the phone, he ruffled his son’s hair–his new slave’s hair, and plowed that boy’s chubby ass–pleased with the company’s excellent service, as usual.

Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 6)

~~May 3rd~~

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

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

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

“Why wasn’t I told about this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 5)

~~April 26th~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But–”

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

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

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

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

A Family’s Legacy (2 of 2)

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

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

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

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

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

A Family’s Legacy (1 of 2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

12 Months ‘til Christmas (Part 4)

~~March 12th~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

“March, 2016.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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