12 Months ‘til Christmas (Part 3)

~~February 20th~~

John was on the back porch of the house, naked as usual, but not feeling the cold wind against his skin. Not thinking about much at all, really, just…remembering. Thinking back, to that first night, with his…father…

It was so confusing, trying to understand what had happened. His father had died last year, hadn’t he? And yet, when that strange, fucked up Stanta had appeared in that house, with him and his brothers…he’d known, somehow, that this man was his father. Stanta hadn’t wanted to talk about this, the few times John had managed to clear his head enough to bring it up. Usually John didn’t have much attention for these sorts of things, because the pendant around his neck had kept him rather…preoccupied.

That first week or so, while the elves had been resting, he’d remained his father’s innocent little cub the entire time. Everything had felt so new, and exciting, and while Stanta had enjoyed it for a few days, he’d grown bored with his inexperience, and begun pushing him harder and further than that persona (John wasn’t sure that was the right word, but it was the one he’d used to separate out the various forms he’d taken over the last two months) had been able to take. Finally, disgusted by him, Stanta had dumped him in a back guest room and told John that he didn’t want to lay eyes on him until he was back to himself. At first, John–as that cub–hadn’t known what he meant. He tried to get out, but Stanta had locked him inside. John had worried he might starve, but the gift of immortality made that a laughable concern. So he sat, alone, and felt himself begin to return, bit by bit. The pendant, it seemed, would maintain a persona once created, but if he was alone, he would slowly revert back to his original body and mind–thankfully.

Once he was normal again, Stanta had been willing to see him again–and this time, he was the same cub…somewhat. Just much, much more experienced. Tattoos all over his body, cock permanently locked and pierced, he’d desired nothing more than to serve his daddy’s every perverse whim, but Stanta had tired of that even faster–and when John had been sent back to the room, he’d returned to himself faster as well.

In this way, he’d begun to discover some of the rules of the amulet. If Stanta saw him when he was normal, he’d change into whatever he desired at the moment. The longer he was in a persona, the longer it took him to return to normal, once he was isolated. Figuring this out, at least, helped him feel like he had a measure of control, even though he had none at all.

He’d been through a few other personas at this point–all of them equally unsuccessful, and he was back to himself, now, for a moment. Stanta no longer locked him in the room, but he’d told John he wasn’t ready to see him yet. In fact, he hadn’t seen Stanta much at all, the last few weeks, ever since he’d come back from the workshop with those two pigs and that rubber thing, and taken them down into the basement with him. So here he sat, perfectly comfortable in temperatures of thirty below, staring into the endless dark of winter (well, there was a peek of sun now, but just a peek) above the arctic circle, wishing he could stop loving his captor. Wishing he knew what Stanta wanted. Wishing he could just be…perfect, for him.

In the wind, he didn’t hear the crunch of footsteps approaching around the side of the house–an elf. It didn’t occur to him to be concerned, when he saw the small figure, until he felt the amulet heat up, signalling a change. A new rule then: when he was normal, he’d change when anyone saw him, not just Stanta. He felt himself shrinking–much more than when he’d become that cub–until he was about three and a half feet tall, but with substantial muscle and a short full beard. The elf came closer, stopped like he recognized him, and his jaw dropped. John knew his name, somehow–Timmy. And he…his name was…Marty? His head felt fuzzy, like it usually did, when under the amulet’s effects, especially at first–he beckoned Timmy closer, and said, “I…never meant any of those things I said, Timmy. I always wanted you–so come…come and get it…”

Timmy did. The two of them fucked on the back porch for nearly two hours, until they’d both come multiple times, and John’s head began to clarify slightly, and he could pull away. Timmy, too, stepped back, cheeks flaring red, unable to believe what he’d just done. He’d…known that this wasn’t Marty, but fuck, just seeing him there…

“I’m sorry, I didn’t…” Timmy started to say.

“Don’t. It’s alright. I wanted you to,” John said, “I mean, I…it’s this amulet. Stanta is forcing me to wear it, I can’t really…stop.”

“I just wanted to introduce myself is all. I suppose this was a bit more than an introduction,” Timmy said, “I’m Timmy.”

“Right–the…second in command, right? I’m M–…John…” He said, finding it very hard to get his real name out, and not say “Marty” instead.

Timmy looked at him a bit odd. “No I’m head elf.”

“Oh I thought I was…” John said, and then realized his memories had gotten crossed, and shook his head. “Sorry, I can’t always…separate these thoughts apart. Who is Marty? Is he another elf?”

“I…don’t really want to talk about it,” Timmy said, “I just wanted to make sure you were settling in alright, but it looks like…do you need help?”

John shook his head, “No, I…I want him to love me. It’s complicated. Just…just let us be. You should leave, and let me change back. If he finds out someone else changed me, he’ll want to know who, and you might not want him asking those things. He’s…already suspicious of you.”

Timmy was more than happy to get back to the workshop, trying to sort out what had just happened. He thought he’d set Marty aside. He thought he’d been able to forget about it, but apparently he was never going to be over it. But could…could he really…be Marty? Did it really matter? He could be whatever Timmy wanted him to be, couldn’t he? Timmy hadn’t really gone there to simply introduce himself, after all–he’d been looking for information, or a weakness…and he may very well have found one.

The next day, John returned to the porch, no longer Marty–that one had only lasted a few hours, but it was…strange. He’d…known things, about that elf. Things from his own mind, and he still knew them. Not all of them good things, either. But there, on the stoop, was a wrapped present, with his name on the tag. He opened it, and found a small toy gun inside, and a short note. A love gun, apparently. John took it inside and stashed it in his room. He couldn’t use something like that, could he? No…no, that would be…wrong. But his father had made him fall in love with him–was it really so unjust if he returned the favor?

Spray

WARNING: FILTH AND SCAT AHEAD!

The bathhouse wasn’t a place you went often. Only when you got…particularly horny, and were craving something a bit more crazy. Not too crazy, mind you–you’d seen some of the things the men there got into, especially down in the basement. That wasn’t for you, you told yourself. You liked things clear, though you liked a little rough on occasion. But that night, something went askew, didn’t it?

You’d liked him, as soon as you’d seen him. A bit grungy, a bit of a rebel. That mohawk, that…dirty jock he was wearing. He was willing to throw you around, push you up against walls, willing to take it from you too. The two of you wrestling around on the concrete, a few other men watching the scene, curious if there was a chance of joining in. He got you on your knees, and you were expecting to suck cock–instead, he slipped his cock free of his jock, aimed, and sprayed you with a blast of piss. The force of it stunned you–like someone with their thumb over a garden hose. You were soaked in a second. You couldn’t escape the smell, the taste, the thrill of it. You’d never once imagined you might enjoy a scene like this, but as the men circled around you and hoed you down, you found your…mind shifting.

You swore to yourself it was a one time thing, as you walked home in street clothes, your skin still damp and reeking. You didn’t shower when you got home however–you laid down in the tub and jacked off to your stench, and then pissed all over yourself for good measure. After that, the bathhouse became a…regular activity for you, didn’t it? You just couldn’t quite find anywhere else that made you feel the same. You tried to keep away from watersports at first, but as soon as anyone caught a whiff of you, they knew what you really wanted. You felt so…ashamed, walking home, dripping with piss. Knowing that everyone who passed by could tell what you wanted, what you were. But while the shame never faded, you found yourself…enjoying it. You wanted people to know what you were, it made you harder than a gut full of secondhand beer.

You didn’t see him for almost a year. You never even realized you were looking for him, until you saw him again. The lump in your throat–was it fear, or thrill? It was too late to move to another room, he’d already seem you there, in the basement corner–what had come to be known as your “spot” when you were there. You sucked him off for a bit, drank his piss down too, but you could…sense something coming. He spun around, bent over, and before you could do much more than blink, he sprayed the contents of his ass all over your face and chest–and like the piss before…it was more than you could take, more than your mind could possibly handle, and remain whole.

Now here you are, in your corner. You almost never leave the building now–most men only see you as an it, a thing, a toilet, a trashcan, a repository for their shame. He’s over there, your creator. Some man is desperate to fuck his hole–a new top, apparently. Were you unlucky, to have been made into this thing? Could you have been fated to be something else? The man’s in balls deep now, and you’re licking your scummy lips. He’ll feed you, after this–he’ll want you to taste his new creation, right from his own ass. You wish you weren’t hard, you wish you weren’t cumming at the thought of the frothy, cummy shit you’d be feasting on soon, but that you is long gone now, and won’t ever be coming back, not after your taste of this life.

Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 2)

January 2nd

It had been a relaxing week of rest, for the elves and Stanta Claus, who had spent much of the week in bed with John, as the chubby, cubby slut he’d become at the moment. The mirror pendant was capable of changing someone’s mental and physical form, but it needed time to recharge between each use–anywhere from several days, to even weeks–and John had resigned himself to the fact that, for the time being, he was stuck as a horny, desperate cub, his holes aching for cock at all hours of the day–and Stanta was all too happy to keep him satisfied, even though he told him, regularly, that while he enjoyed John’s slutty ways, this wasn’t a man he could love.

Still, it was time to get back to work. The elves were back in the workshop, toying around with old projects, putting together research and development groups, planning for next year’s logistics and reexamining last year’s weak points and production gaps. From January to March, little was done in the way of actual production–this was the chance for the elves and Stanta to plan for the coming year–and Stanta, in particular, needed to get caught up on the details of his new position, and that meant he needed a grand tour, which Timmy was providing. The two of them were up on the catwalks overseeing the workshop, and Timmy was discussing Stanta’s role as director–his primary duty being to construct the list of deliveries for the next year–while the head elf generally took on the position of production overseer–but Stanta wasn’t really paying close attention. Instead, he found himself focusing on the elves below.

Their looks up at him were often. He made them nervous, that much was clear. It was understandable, he supposed–even Stanta found his new appearance disturbing when he caught a glance of himself in a mirror, and didn’t expect it. Still, there was something else in the air as well, hanging over the entire place like a fog–more than unease, there was deception here, he could sense it. He caught more than one elf glancing at him and Timmy, and then at a door along the far wall–a door with a sizable padlock, and no handle. A door which, he wasn’t even sure he was “supposed” to have noticed. It was along the wall with several other private workshops for various elves in managerial roles, like Timmy, but it had no name hung on the front like the others. “Whose workshop is that?” he asked, interrupting Timmy’s monologue, and he pointed to the locked door.

“That’s not a workshop–it’s just storage,” Timmy said, but while it wasn’t a lie–Stanta had found his capacity for catching falsehoods to have skyrocketed with his new position–he could tell from Timmy’s sudden nervous glance that it wasn’t the entire truth.

“What are you storing inside? It seems odd that you’d have a room for storage in line with all the other workshops on that wall, don’t you think? I’d like to have a look.”

Without waiting for a reply, Stanta dropped down from the catwalks and crossed the floor of the workshop, Timmy racing after him, trying to divert his attention with excuses. The work on the floor had ceased–further confirming his suspicions. Still, Timmy wasn’t worried. That lock was his own design–no one could open it without the key–but Stanta held it in his hand, gave a light tug, and the padlock popped open without the slightest protest. The elves all turned to look at Timmy, whose jaw had dropped. All Santas had the ability to, say, unearth truths and secrets, but none of the Santas Timmy had worked with would have been able to pop open that lock–or at least not with such ease. This…did not bode well. He hurried his own pace, trying to catch up before Stanta could get inside, but–curse his tiny legs!–Stanta opened the door wide and stepped inside, where he found a destroyed workshop and two pigs rutting amongst the mess.

“I see,” Stanta said, as Timmy caught up to him in the doorway, “A rather odd thing to be storing, wouldn’t you say?”

“It’s complicated, and I can explain, but–”

“Shut up, Timmy,” Stanta said, and Timmy felt his mouth clamp up tight. Stanta sighed, and walked over to the pigs as they fucked, and laid a hand on each of them for a moment. They had been…people, it would seem, but who was a bit of a mystery. The animals in each of them had pushed most everything else out. One, the hog getting fucked, was nearly twice the size as the boar fucking him–though the boar’s cock was nearly a foot long. Still, there was something else in here, or perhaps, someone else. He looked around, but the entire room was a mess–still, one thing stood out to him, hanging on the wall–what looked like a human head and torso, the mouth misshapen into a funnel, and hung…quite low on the wall. A urinal for an elf, he supposed, though looking at it, it was clear the pigs had been using it as well, to some extent. He touched the flithy surface, and felt something stir within–some other poor soul, even further destroyed than the two pigs. Still, whatever had happened here, he knew he couldn’t trust Timmy to give him a full answer. “I think the tour’s over, for now,” Stanta said, “I’ll be confiscating a these for some personal research,” he added, grabbed the urinal, and tugged it free from the wall. The pipe, sticking out of the thing’s ass, began to wriggle wildly, like it was alive–he bound it up in a hand, and tucked the thing under his arm. With his other hand, he gave a wave, and two leashes flung from his leather wristband, securing themselves around the necks of both hogs. Timmy watched, still unable to speak, as Stanta dragged them both out of the room, and back to his house. A moment later, his mouth opened up again, and Timmy found the elves all staring at him, and muttering to one another.

This, Timmy knew, wasn’t good. A Santa this strong…Timmy hadn’t wanted to resort to the old tricks which had plagued the last few years and created so much strife, but if Stanta got the wrong idea, then Timmy was going to have to figure out some way to control him, for the sake of Christmas itself. He gathered the elves together, to discuss their options and, and consider contingencies. Still, if Stanta was as powerful an incarnation as he appeared to be, Timmy wasn’t quite sure there was much any of them could do, should Stanta come to the conclusion that the elves were his enemies.

Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 1)

December 25th, Last Year

As confident as Timmy had tried to appear, when he was sending Stan off in the sleigh for his first Christmas, the truth was, he was dreadfully, horribly, nervous that something was going to go awry, and he spent much of the night staring at the massive clock in the midst of the workshop, counting down the last few hours to Christmas Day. The truth was, the contract…wasn’t quite as airtight as it might seem. If Stan felt he had been deceived in some way, or if he had come to believe that the presents the elves had fashioned weren’t fulfilling their purpose, there was a chance that this Christmas would be considered null and void…and when the clock struck zero…well, none of them would exist–or if his ploy worked, they’d all live on to another Christmas next year. Hopefully, Stan had remained none the wiser. When he got to the end of the night, if he had a conscience left, he would likely leave service, which was fine. That at least gave Timmy time to find yet another Santa for next year. The rest of the elves could sense his anxiety, and all eyes were on the clock as it ticked down, and neither Santa, nor the sleigh, had returned. That didn’t mean he’d failed, of course, but it didn’t help any of their anxiety. The clock at last struck zero, and every elf held their breath…until the entire device clicked, and reset–365 days and counting. Christmas had been a success–now all Timmy had to find out was what kind of success it had been.

It was another hour before the lookouts spotted Rudolph’s glowing cockhead in the storm clouds to the south. After a few minutes, they were able to confirm that there was indeed someone in the sleigh–it seemed that the beacon had chosen well–if Stan was returning, then that meant he must have…enjoyed some part of the entire exercise. Probably quite a bit of it, Timmy hoped. The sleigh banked around, but there was no celebratory “Ho, Ho, Ho!” like the previous incarnation, just steely silence and the ripping wind. The reindeer landed along the runway and slid to a halt–and Stanta hauled himself up, grabbed his nearly empty sack and the rubber bag containing his son, John, and dragged them out of the sleigh, into the calf high snow.

The elves were all agape. They’d…expected Stan to undergo a few changes along his first journey–after all, that was what they had planned. What they hadn’t expected was how extreme their new Santa would become in a single night. In fact, they’d never seen a Santa quite so…well decorated, before. Stanta stomped his way through the snow, over towards the cleared area where it was easier to walk, pipe smoke and steam streaming from his pierced nose, his huge, tattooed belly hanging down over the waist of his chaps, but not low enough to hide his massive, many times pierced cock, and pendulous sack. As he moved, the clatter of metal almost rang like sleigh bells, heard at a distance. His beard, rather than the usual pure white, looked more like freeway snow–a dingy brown, tinged with yellow around his mouth, his eyes hollowed and slightly sunken. He looked haunted. He looked…furious.

He dropped the sacks, one of them squirming, and walked up to Timmy, glaring down at the little elf. “I believe you have a contract I need to sign, Timmy.”

The words came out almost as a growl. With a gulp, Timmy conjured forth the contract–Stanta swearing to fulfill his obligation as the North Pole’s new Santa Claus for as long as he was willing and able–and then, after scrawling his signature, he grabbed Timmy by the leather collar, and hauled him up to eye level, snorting smoke in his face.

“For the record, I do not take kindly to being tricked. I…understand, with hindsight, why your ploy was necessary, but do not think it is forgotten, or forgiven, elf,” Stanta muttered. To Timmy, inches from his mouth, each word was a slap, but the rest of the elves heard nothing over the whistle of the constant wind around them. “I will not tolerate such antics ever again–not without due punishment. Is that clear?”

Timmy nodded, and Stanta dropped him to the snow. “Yes…sir. I’m sorry,” Timmy said. “If I….had had other options, trust me when I say I would have taken them/” He stood up, brushing off the snow, “I…hope your first trip was…pleasant, at least.”

Stanta took a long drag off his pipe, and exhaled into the dark air “It was enlightening.” His look of anger had diminished somewhat, “I do…thank you, Timmy. For giving me this chance. I appreciate it in ways I’m only beginning to understand.” He looked out at the other elves, their jaws gaping at his new appearance, “So now what? I hope we all get a day of rest, at least,” he said, grabbing his sacks, and heading for his home, “I could use some quiet time, with a project.”

“I’ll, uh, come meet with you in a couple of days, to discuss production plans for next year then!” Timmy shouted after him, but he wasn’t sure Stanta had heard, or cared. The massive man just tromped up to his door, flung it open, dragged in his things, slammed it shut behind him, and locked it. Timmy breathed a sigh of relief–that could have gone much worse. The elves, satisfied and exhausted, retreated to their own lodgings, for a bit of rest themselves.

Inside the house, Stanta grabbed the sack containing the still squirming John, opened it up, and shook his boy out onto the floor in a heap. The man, in his early forties, looked up at Stanta, at his father, at his captor, at the man he inexplicably loved and desired…and cowered, his ass still sore from the fucking a few hours prior. “Please…dad, I–”

“Shut up, John. You wanted my love, well you’re going to have to fucking earn it. You can start…hmmm…” he said, and rummaged around in his sack, examining the knicknacks which remained–found something useful, and pulled it out. A small square mirror, about an inch on each side, tied up in leather cord into a pendant and necklace. He tossed it to John, who, stared at it. “You can start by at least looking like someone I might be interested in loving, you sad sack.”

John was captivated by the reflection in the mirror–it wasn’t clear at all, and swirled around, like it was waiting for direction before forming. “I…what is this?” he asked.

“Put it on, boy. And don’t take it off, until I tell you otherwise.”

John found himself slipping it over his head, and the pendant came to rest on his bare chest, and as soon as his father looked at him again, he felt…a pulse, from the small mirror. He was reflecting something, becoming a reflection of something from his father–it was difficult to describe, but looking down at himself, he was changing. Growing younger, a bit shorter, his already pudgy body inflating further until he had a soft gut and wide ass…perfect for fucking, yeah, fuck! He looked at Stanta’s massive cock hanging from under his gut, and felt a strange stirring of desire, but also…also fear. He was just an innocent little cub, he’d never been with a daddy like this before–he’d never been with a daddy at all.

Stanta looked at the quaking cub standing in front of him, a bit surprised himself. The amulet turned whoever wore it into reflections of what the people who saw him desired, and while he’d wanted a cub, he hadn’t necessarily wanted one so…inexperienced. Then again, it might be fun, breaking in a new, tight hole. He stepped forward, bent down and gave the boy a smoky kiss, feeling him shudder with need, the boy’s small cock nearly blowing from his first taste of a proper daddy. Not someone he could love, of course–but a nice reward for his first successful night as Stanta. “Come on, boy, Daddy’s gonna give you your Christmas present in the bedroom.” Knowing this was wrong, knowing it was all wrong, John took his daddy’s hand as he was led back into the house, but the ache in his heart hadn’t stopped. He wanted this man’s love–he needed it, and he’d earn it, somehow. He had to. Maybe…maybe he wasn’t worthy of it yet, but this year, this long year, he’d prove himself, somehow. He could feel it.

Think Bit To Be Big (2 of 2)

This isn’t me. This isn’t me. I have to focus on that, I have to remember that. If I can just…get out of here, if I can just focus on that, and leave without…without any of them suspecting anything, maybe I can get away.

How long have I been coming here? Six months? This seems impossible–there’s just…just no way, I could look like this, not in that short amount of time. I’m a fuckin’ beast! Yeah, fuck, look at those fuckin’ meaty ass thighs on me–gotta get back out there, it’s fuckin’ leg day, ‘n I gotta get big!

No! Fuck, I almost went out there again, but I have…to stay in here. Collect myself, calm down, and focus. I’m not like this. I’m not one of them. God, I can’t believe I’m wearing fucking camo shorts, like some fucking hick or something. The goatee doesn’t help either or the hat. And…and does this shirt say West Virginia? I’m not…from West Virginia, am I? But why do I…fuck, everything’s so hazy in my head, I don’t know who I am.

“Ford? Bro? Everything all right in here?”

Fuck, it’s fucking Mike!

“I saw you out on the floor. Looked like you were thinking a bit, Ford. You know how we feel about you all thinking here. What are we supposed to think about, Ford?”

“Think Big! Be Big!”

Oh fuck, I just said that out loud, didn’t I?

He opens the door, and he’s blocking the entire frame of the bathroom stall, where I sought refuge. He’s bigger than all of us, but he’s fucking smart as hell too. He’s the one who does this to us, who…changes us. Warps us around his little fantasies and desires.

“There you are, Ford. Yeah, you’re thinking, aren’t you? Come on you stupid hick, you know you’re shit brain isn’t good for thinking.”

Fight it, gotta fight him, “Ya fucker, I ain’t no fuckin’ hick, yer fuckin’…ya did somethin’ tah me, tah all a us.”

Oh fuck, he’s got his fucking hand on my cock–is…isn’t even…bigger? Fuck, I think it is, ‘n look at that fuckin; foreskin on my damn shaft, fuck! Yeah, that there, that’s a real fine piece a redneck meat. Gonna fuckin’ stroke that fucker off, that big thing, big…big, yeah, think big, like Mike always says. Think big, ‘n be big…yeah Mike’s gonna feed me that cock a his, then it’s back tah fuckin’ leg day, just like everythin’s supposed tah be.

Think Big To Be Big (1 of 2)

It’s evening down on the beach, and I’m taking my leisurely stroll down the sidewalk–the same walk I usually take each evening. It’s a bit of exercise I suppose, but not nearly enough to make my doctor happy. “You’re nearly sixty,” he told me at my last visit, “you need to cut that waist of yours down, or you’ll be dropping dead sooner than you’d like.” A flair for the dramatic, that one. I suppose he is right–275 is a bit heavy, especially on my shorter frame, but I’ve never particularly minded my size. I’d much rather have my hair back, than a slimmer waist, I can tell you that.

The weather is nice, but the place is quieter than usual at this time. Maybe it’s just the first chill of fall in the air, driving everyone indoors early. I enjoy the relative calm, and the cool breeze. There is one person out, up ahead. Some young musclehead standing by a small folding table, with pamphlets weighted down by rocks against the wind. He’s got on one of those stupid looking tanktops–far too oversized, so it drapes low from his shoulders–obviously trying to advertise his body. In fact, it turned out he was advertising a new gym a few blocks over from the beach–the tank was branded with the gym’s motto–”Think big to be big.” It made me chuckle–the guy didn’t look like he did a lot of thinking at all. I expected him to ignore me–after all, I was hardly within his target market, but he turns to me, and waves, walking over with a pamphlet.

“Hey bro,” he says–I bristle–“Gots a brand new gym opened up over at the corner of Third and Grove. First month’s free! All are welcome, if ya wanna get big!”

When he says that, he flexes both arms up–I can see the bush of hair in each pit, and my nose curls up in disgust–and then…and then I catch a whiff of him, on the sea air, and…and I don’t know what comes over me. I step closer. He raises one arm a bit higher. I try to look around, wondering if anyone might see this, what I’m about to too, but my eyes can’t tear themselves away–I start eating out his pit. He moans, rubbing his cock through his gym pants, moving my hand down to feel him…to see how…big he is.

A moment later, he pushes me away, leaving me with salty sweat around my lips, and a raging hard on in my shorts. He winks at me, says, “Think big, bro,” and hands me a pamphlet. The next day…I signed up for a lifetime membership at Think Big Gym.

12 Days of Christmas Recap

It’s that time of year again–and it’s coming a bit earlier this year that usual! I have another entry in the “12 Days Saga” for all of you, which will be starting next Monday, though this one’s…a bit different in format, than the previous entries. The reasons for that are several. First, I want the next chunk to be the final entry in the saga. This story and these characters feel fairly well exhausted, and keeping a narrative going though this next chunk was going to be a struggle, so I decided to focus this last part on wrapping up the many loose ends remaining from the previous three entries. Second, while I enjoy the episodic style of stories on occasion, each part has been veering more and more towards a plot heavy narrative. As such, breaking with tradition, the bulk of this entry is going to be focusing on what happens (or I suppose, what happened) at the North Pole between last Christmas, and this Christmas coming up. So, I’m excited to present “12 Months ‘til Christmas” to you all next week, and I hope you enjoy the final chapter in this weird story that started from three weird Christmas porn comics I’d always liked, way back when. So, now would be a good time to catch up, if you don’t remember anything from last year. You can find all the entries here, in reverse order. Or, here’s a briefer recap, if you don’t have time to go read all of that.

PART 1 – “The 12 Days of Christmas”: The elves have had enough of taking orders from Santa. In particular, one elf, named Marty, has decided that it’s time for Santa, and Christmas itself, to become a bit more…naughty than it ever has been before. After consolidating the elves under his control, he…disposes of Mrs. Claus, and then begins manipulating Old Saint Nick. Over a year, while the elves prepare for their new Christmas, Santa is…reprogrammed. Addicted to the elves’ magic cum, he does whatever Marty demands, and soon, a new, leather daddy Santa rides off into the night, delivering naughty toys to the men of the world. But when Santa returns, he has a new Mr. Claus on his arm–a man named Claude–and he exacts some revenge on Marty, turning him into a rubber dildo, and taking control of Christmas back from the elves.

PART 2 – “The 12 Days of Christmas: The Elves Strike Back”: It’s a new year, and Santa departs on his trip around the world, leaving Claude, his husbear, alone at the North Pole with the elves. What Santa doesn’t realize, however, is that the elves, led by the new head elf Timmy–Marty’s old second in command–have surprises planned for both of them, during that night. Claude is dominated by the elves, and forced to free Marty from his dildo prison–furious, and jealous of Claude for winning Santa’s heart, Marty exacts his own, demented revenge on Claude, turning his limbs into rubber gear, and infecting him with a rubber parasite of his own design, which melds to Claude’s body, turning him into a living, rubberized urinal, mounted on the wall of Marty’s workshop. Meanwhile, as Santa does his work, the elf cum he’d been given is revealed to be tainted, making his grow fatter, slobbier, and eventually turning him into a filthy pigman. But Timmy has always loved Marty, and is rebuffed–his unrequited love unreturned. Marty, meanwhile, has plans for Santa, when he returns. He has a love gun prototype, which he uses on Santa in his sleigh as he approaches, unaware that the Santa who is returning is rather…different from the one who he remembers. The now piggish Santa is deeply in love with the elf, and in a cruel twist, Marty finds himself enchanted by the Santapig’s magic, becoming a small, big cocked boar. Marty, desperate to reverse this, locks him and Santapig in his workshop, and doesn’t emerge. Timmy, equally distraught, takes the pieces of Marty’s love gun, and holes himself up in his own office. Meanwhile, the elves–without leadership or a Santa, keep working. Christmas has to go on somehow, right?

PART 3 – “The 12 Days of Christmas: A Whole New Stanta Claus”: It’s Early December, Christmas is weeks away, and Timmy, Marty, Santapig have yet to emerge from their lairs. At last, Timmy emerges, bearing the completed love gun, planning on forcing Marty to love him. He breaks into Marty’s workshop, and discovers the magic was too strong for Marty–both him and Santapig have lost their wits and reason, and are now little more than animals. He’s distraught, but realizes he’s neglected his duties. Thankfully the elves have been working on gifts this whole time, but without a Santa, there can be no Christmas, and without Christmas, the elves will all disappear. Thankfully, there are contingencies in place. With the help of a magical light, Timmy takes off in the sleigh to find a new Santa. The light leads him to a man named Stan–a stodgy, prudish, and rather conservative fellow, who Timmy eventually persuades to become the new Santa Claus…though he doesn’t reveal the changes the elves have made to the usual arrangements. Instead, they plan of making Stan see things their way, eventually. Stan flies off, unaware that he’s delivering leather, and sex toys to the men he visits…but the elves have indicated men who deserve…extra punishment, which Stan himself will be doling out. He is horrified to discover that the kinds of punishments he’d giving all seem to involve filthy, faggot sex…and that the more he does it, the more he’s enjoying it. Stan eventually gives in, and becomes Stanta–a massive, hulking, heavily pierced ad tattooed bear, hungry to punish the men of the world in whatever way he sees fit. His final stop is his old house, where he doles out punishments to his wife and three sons. Two of the boys end up living together as bearish men, but his youngest son, John–Stanta feels compelled to bring him home with him, to the North Pole. John, more than anything, wanted to earn his father’s love, and now it seems he has his chance.

Are you confused? Probably. It’s a long muddled thing. Still, I hope you all enjoy the fourth and final installment. It probably should have been three times as long, and might feel a bit rushed, but I think it’s a fitting end to the whole saga. See you on Monday, and Happy Holidays!

The Power of Society (Part 7)

“Come on Brodie–just come lift with us! Classes aren’t for fucking jocks,” his two frat brothers guffawed and laughed–that was about as close anyone in the house got to a joke these days. After all, Jocks weren’t really known for their subtlety. Well, except for Brodie, and a few others. Against the orders of the study, Brodie still showered himself down at nights, when no one else was awake, and that helped him keep his mind clear enough that he could still go to a couple of classes on campus, even if he was nearly failing both of them. The professors were patronizing–they knew he didn’t really belong there as much as Brodie did, but they also found his attempt charming, and tolerated it. Brodie ignored his bros, and left the frat house, heading for campus–it wasn’t until after a few blocks that he felt warmth in the pouch of his constantly wet uniform, and realized he was pissing himself in the middle of the sidewalk–but the piss streaming out wasn’t what unnerved him–it was that he had completely forgotten to put anything else on over his uniform.

He was standing on the sidewalk in broad daylight, wearing nothing but his yellow and brown, cum and piss stained uniform, cock bulging in the pouch, his muscular, dirty, hairy ass hanging out for everyone to see…but that was normal, wasn’t it? He entertained the thought of heading back to campus and putting on some other clothes–or at least a pair of shoes–but that was ridiculous–the house didn’t have any other clothes. Jocks didn’t get to wear clothes–what did he think he was…a normal person? He felt frozen there, on the sidewalk, not really certain how to take what was happening. He’d worn clothes yesterday, hadn’t he? When he’d gone to class? Or had he? It was hard to focus, with the stench of his piss wafting up from the pavement, and he kept walking before he gave in and started lapping at the puddle. It would be delicious, of course, but if he got distracted he’d never make it to class on time.

He kept going, crossing the road onto campus proper and headed for his campus building. He saw, up ahead, a crowd gathering around a bench–some Nerd was making a scene on the bench. He took a different path, wanting to avoid it. Nerds could be…distracting, for a Jock like him, and that one looked…especially dirty.

“What the fuck is up with that Jock?” he heard someone say, as he walked, “They don’t usually walk like that do they?”

“Yeah, it’s kind of weird–almost looks like a human or something, when it does that.”

God, what was he doing, Brodie asked himself. He knew better than that. He hunched forward and crouched down a bit, so his hands were on the ground and kept walking. He was aware that this position should be…very uncomfortable, if not impossible…but something odd had happened to his body. It was like his legs were shorter–squat and thick–and his arms had lengthened. He seemed almost simian, as he walked, and the copious amount of hair coating his body didn’t help. Still, he felt less naked, with his pelt on. He always felt sorry for swimmers, and the shaving and waxing they had to put up with. So much easier just being a dumb football jock like he was.

He was almost to the building where the class was being taught, when something flying through the air caught his eye. He dropped his books to the ground in a heap and launched after it, tongue hanging out of his mouth, every concern in him pushed aside. A thing was in the air! A ball? No–no, a frisbee! Brodie fucking loved frisbee! He launched himself into the air–a sense of vertigo washing over him when he saw how…high his squat legs could propel him–and intercepted the disk in the air, grabbing it with a sound something between a howl and cheer, and landed on the ground with a roll. Some focus returned to him, and looking around, he realized he’d interrupted a game of catch being played by three normal guys on the quad, and he felt a bit embarrassed.

“God, fucking Jocks,” one of them said.

“Hey, be nice! It’s not like they can help it.”

He loped over, holding the frisbee in his mouth, and handed it to one of the men, who tousled his hair like a kid, or a dog…and Brodie felt a surge of pride.

“Throw!” he said, his voice gutteral, almost a growl. “Throw again! Brodie catch! Brodie good catcher. Brodie play football.”

The guy rolled his eyes, “Hey guys, the jock wants to play.”

“Of course he fucking does.”

“Throw!” Brodie said, jumping up and down, an odd glee and exuberance filling his chest. “Throw for Brodie!”

“He’s not going to stop, is he?”

“How about keep away?” one of them suggested, and the other’s agreed. So the three of them began throwing the frisbee between them with Brodie in the middle, chasing after the disk like a pup, intercepting it often…and sometimes letting it go, because he liked seeing the people happy. Jocks, after all, wanted to make men happy, right?”

They stopped after an hour. Brodie hadn’t thought about his class once, and to thank the men for letting him play with them, he blew them all in sequence, and drank down their piss on the quad. No one really batted an eye at that–after all, Jocks could be a bit…forceful if the didn’t get their way. In the end, Brodie heard the four o’clock chime ring from the bell tower, said a hasty goodbye, and took off in the direction of the fieldhouse. Practice started at four fifteen, after all, and Brodie didn’t want to be late. Brodie wanted to play football! Maybe tomorrow, those guys would be playing frisbee again. He liked frisbee too, and their cum had been delicious as well. Maybe, if he was extra good tomorrow, they’d fuck his dirty ass too.

The End for now…

If I may say something, I think the reason why a lot of people (including myself) would like to see you do fan fiction is because no one else does in this genre. Stories of men being turned into fat pigs are already rare, but fanfics of that are practically non-existent.

brackenousjunk:

Well, yes. Part of the issue, I think, is that most of the sites which support this genre have, over time, tightened their restrictions on copyrighted characters, especially over on Choose Your Own Change, where there actually was quite a lot of fan fiction, including some of the slobbier variety. That said, that site has removed all of that content at this point, and the gay spiral stories seems to have a a tighter grip on the copyrighted stuff than the NCMC ever did. Without an environment to nurture these kinds of stories, it’s hardly surprising that they’re rare.

But I’m only one person, there’s only so much that I can write, and the only reason I’m as prolific as I am is because I focus on writing stories that I enjoy. Would I be willing to do fan fiction for a commission? Probably. Do I understand that there is a massive, untapped demand here, and do I wish I had the time, energy, and willpower to supply that demand? I sure do, but I can’t clone myself. That said, there are other very good writers on the tumblr-verse and on other sites who might have the time and energy to invest in it, so I’d suggest asking around to some other writers, and seeing if there’s any other interest in this sort of thing.

Because honestly? I’d like to read these stories too–but i don’t necessarily want to be the one to write them.

Thank you @mcbaer, for the reminder! The place to go for at least a few fan fic stories with a bear/slob vibe is @gravick‘s tumblr. He’s done some nice twists with the Avengers and also Once Upon a Time, if that interests anyone, and he might be persuaded to try out something video game inspired…

Police Auction

“Wakey, Wakey, Officer Prescott–I wouldn’t want you to miss this.”

The gloved hand slapped his face, hard, palm and then backhand, making the man groan. He could smell smoke, and piss, and dank. He could remember being out on patrol, but after that–things got fuzzy. He opened his eyes. The room was dark, aside from red lighting overhead, and some man in a leather uniform he didn’t recognize was smiling at him a few inches from his face–close enough that he could feel the heat from the man’s cigar on his cheek. “Wha–where the fuck am I?” he said, struggling a bit, testing the strength of the ropes binding him to the metal bars behind him.

“Where you are isn’t important, officer. This is only going to be your home for a few days, while I get you sorted out. You’ve made quite a few enemies on the force, these last ten years–I haven’t had someone rack up the bidding like this in a long time.” The leather stranger stepped to the side, and Prescott saw, behind him, a laptop with some program running. Every few seconds, another line would pop up on the bottom. Squinting…he saw they were numbers–dollar amounts. “Let’s see here,” the man said, and looked closer at the screen. “Looks like we’re down to a bidding war between the Aryan Nationals, and the Lobos.”

Prescott had been working in the gang unit for quite a while, and he’d been instrumental in arresting several higher ups in both groups. Ironically, both groups were engaged in an on and off again turf war in a few neighborhoods. Still…had he said, bidding war?

“Yeah–looks like I’ll be getting over 10,000 for your ass.”

“You’re what, you’re fucking auctioning me off? For what, who gets my head?”

“Oh, nothing so easy as killing you, no,” the man said, taking a drag off your cigar. “No, I specialize in more…complex manners of revenge. If the Aryans win, they’ll probably want another pig, like a made a few years back–think the guy’s name was…Anderson?” Prescott recognized him, but his name had been Anderstone. He’d gone missing from the unit a few years back, but a body had never turned up. “You’ll be much more interested in scoring drugs, eating boots, and taking their fists than much else. The Lobos–you’re a bit old for what they usually ask for, which is young guys to whore out on the block. That said, I’ve heard a rumor that one of their new leaders, he likes white guys–but big ones. Fatties. Pretty crazy guy too–likes beating them pretty rough. Still, if you beg for me, I’ll let you…enjoy that part.”

“That’s fucking…that can’t fucking happen!”

“Oh?” the man said, and Prescott felt something…in his head. A presence, wiping things clean, removing memories, putting in new ones. He realized, after a few minutes, he was losing every memory of every woman he’d ever been with, including his wife, and each was being replaced with some dirty, brutal encounter with rough men off the street. When the man left, Prescott was shaking, and vomited a bit on his uniform, and looked back at the screen. Only a minute left on the auction, and then he’d learn what his new position on the block was going to be from here on out.

Source: greyhankie