Christmas III: A Brand New Stanta Claus (Part 4)

“I don’t know, I feel…a bit ridiculous. Are you sure this is what I’m supposed to wear? I mean, it seems to me like Santa usually has on…a bit more than this, and that it would be a bit cold, right?”

“Don’t worry about the cold–Santa never gets cold. It’s one of the perks of the job. After all, it would be pretty hard to work and live at the North Pole if you got cold, right?”

“I suppose…I don’t even know if I…have this thing on right…”

“Well do your best, and I can help you fix it if need be.”

Stan came out of the bedroom, mostly dressed in the clothes Timmy had set out for him. The bright red boots, red jockstrap and red leather chaps had been the easy part–what was befuddling him was the harness, which he was trying to latch around himself, but it was upside down and backwards. Timmy had him get on his knees, and the elf helped him into it, securing the chest straps, but Stan saw one final strap running down his chest and past his belly. “I don’t get this thing–where’s that supposed to go?”

“Stand back up, and I’ll fix it for you,” Timmy said. Stand got back up, he slipped the leather strap under the waistband of the chaps, pulled down the jockstrap pouch, and quickly maneuvered the cockring around Stan’s cock. This, sadly, was the one area where Stan was a bit lacking–he’d had to swap out the ring to better fit his relatively small girth, and his cock was only two inches when hard. Still, Santa’s always had a surprising amount of control over their own body–how else could they fit down any chimney so easily? Timmy had a feeling that when he returned, Stan would be plenty well endowed. “There–perfect! You look great.”

Stan knew there was something wrong here, but he…he couldn’t figure out what. In fact, so much seemed off up here, and yet he nothing had fazed his usually prudish self. “A-Alright. If you say so.”

“Now, let’s go over the list again. In most cases, it’s a simple drop–get down, leave the present, and take off again. However, a good number of men around the world have been incredibly naughty this year, and so they’re going to need a more personal touch. They don’t get gifts at all–instead, you get to punish them as you see fit.”

“Those are the red names, right?”

“Yep.”

“Alright–any questions?”

“I…If I get into trouble, can I contact you?”

Timmy shook his head, “Not easily. But you can do this! The first round is always a bit rough, but if you stick to the list, you’ll be fine.”

“What if I don’t finish in time?”

“Santa always finishes on time, don’t worry about that. Now come on, we’re almost ready for launch–you need to get on your way, Santa Stan.”

They walked to the door of the house, but in the doorway, Stan suddenly froze. He…he couldn’t go out looking like this. He couldn’t do any of this. This was a terrible idea, what in the world had he been thinking? He backed up, shivering and shaking, and Timmy followed him. “Stan, it’s going to be fine.”

“How can you just say that?”

“Because we’ve been doing this for millennia. It’s going to be fine.” It obviously wasn’t helping, so Timmy started rustling around in the pockets of the leather vest he was wearing. “Look, I was going to give you this right before you left, as a present, but you could probably use it more now.” He pulled out a beautiful, freshly carved pipe, intricately detailed from wood to briar, as well as a sack of tobacco. “Here, I made this for you. The tobacco is a special blend–one that helps with courage and bravery,” Timmy said, trying not to smirk. “Go on and take a good puff–it’ll help, I promise.”

A pipe did sound good to Stan. He took it from Timmy’s hands, but his own were shaking too much to fill it. Timmy took it back, packed it for him expertly, and then handed it back, helping him get it lit. Stan took a deep breath of smoke, and it…it was a rush unlike anything he’d gotten from a smoke before. He felt warm all over, but…but especially in his groin. However, the shaking did stop, and he did feel better. More…confident, maybe? He took another deep breath, feeling his cock stir strangely, and then stood back up. “Thanks Timmy. Thanks for everything. I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”

“You’re welcome, Santa. Now come on, your sleigh awaits!”

Stan strode out into the snow storm, still surprised by the fact that it didn’t feel cold to him at all, especially considering how little he was wearing. Still, he felt…good. Really good, all of a sudden. And…and a bit horny? That was odd–he didn’t get horny very often. He’d only had sex around ten times, just enough to get Emily pregnant three times, and that…that was all he’d been able to manage, to be honest. He shook his head. That was a strange thought, where in the hell had that come from? He took another drag off the pipe, calming his nerves, and climbed aboard the sleigh. His reindeer were all hitched, and the sacks of toys for naughty boys were all loaded in the back of the sleigh. It was finally time. The elves were all out on the runway, excited to see their new Santa off, and he gave a wave, and received a loud cheer.

It was now or never.

He gave the call, the reindeer pulled him down the runway, and off into the cloudy sky. Despite the fierce winds and heavy snow, it was the smoothest flight he’d ever been on, Rudolph’s cock showing the way, shining bright in the night, and he shifted course to the first stop of the night, the first of many, and tried not to think about the fact that his cock was so hard, and…eager.

Christmas III: A Brand New Stanta Claus (Part 3)

“…so you see, we need a new Santa, and you just so happen to be perfect. Again, I’m sorry for giving you such a fright earlier, but you can understand why I might be a bit desperate. So how about it–would you help us out, and be our next Santa Claus? Stan Claus maybe? It all kind of depends on you, at the end of the day,” Timmy said. He had brought Stan into Santa’s house–the more G-rated part at least–helped him out of the bag, and after giving him a cup of calming tea–since he wouldn’t stop screaming about being kidnapped, Stan had finally calmed down and listened to what the strange imp (or elf, as it claimed to be, allegedly) had to say.

To say that the story was hard to believe was an understatement. It was simply impossible. Santa actually exists? He would have never believed it in a million years. He had his own children weaned off the myth from a young age, making sure they properly understood the true meaning of Christmas and the birth of Christ. They decorated a tree of course, but gift giving was minimal, and generally restricted to religious presents or practical gifts that wouldn’t entice greed or vanity. No, this was madness, and he wasn’t about to have any part in it.

“No, I won’t do this. I refuse,” Stan said. “All this shit does is inspire greed in children, when we should be doing the exact opposite. Maybe a few lean Christmases is exactly what the world needs.” He crossed his arms over his gut with a harumph, “Now take me home, before my wife wakes up and discovers I’ve gone missing. Her heart is weak, and it would probably kill her.”

That was not the answer Timmy had been looking for, and it wasn’t the answer he planned on getting. Still…the rules were rules. You couldn’t force someone to become Santa, they had to agree to it, and they couldn’t do so under duress or the control of another. That said, the rules were…flexible, to some extent. What Timmy needed was more information–about Stan, about what made him tick, about how he could entice him to take the job. It was obvious the old man wouldn’t do it out of the goodness of his heart. What that left then, was an appeal to vices. Power? Authority? Eternal life? He didn’t seem very temptable. Still, the light wouldn’t have chosen him if there hadn’t been some glimmer in him that would lead him to consider taking on the post. At least Timmy had had the foresight of adding a little extra something to the tea. With a snap of his fingers, Stan suddenly slumped in the chair–completely asleep, the cup and saucer slipping from his hand and shattering on the floor. A perfect hypnotic trance–just enough to figure out what might make this guy tick.

Over the next few hours, Timmy got to know Stan better–much better. They had a long ranging conversation, and uncovered exactly what Timmy needed to know, that what really drove Stan, more than anything, was his belief in divine punishment, and in his mind–everyone was guilty–well, everyone except him. There was also, deep deep down, so deep that Stan barely even knew it was there, a massive reservoir of kinky, homosexual desire. Timmy had thought the light had guided him to that house to push back against the elves…but maybe it really had delivered exactly the Santa they were looking for. He slowly brought Stan out from under his trance, the older man completely unaware of the fact that he’d been out for many hours. He got up to leave, but Timmy stopped him.

“It isn’t a chance many people get, you know, to be an…an arbiter of justice. To be able to finally give everyone what they deserve. I’m surprised that doesn’t appeal to you.”

Stan’s eyes were a bit confused–in his heart he knew that shouldn’t be so attractive, and yet…and yet, he did like the idea, perhaps more than he’d even expected to. “No, the only person who can deliver that justice is God.”

“Well, wouldn’t you say God has been slacking off a bit?”

“I mean…he works in mysterious ways, but…there’s just so much filth out there.”

“Well, I’m offering you a chance to do something about that. Maybe…maybe this is God, offering you the chance to help him in his work.”

Stan narrowed his eyes, still suspicious. Suddenly, this damn elf was making almost too much sense.

“Look, consider it a trial run. If it just…feels wrong? Then after this Christmas, call it good, and no one will know different. But I think the position might grow on you, once you see what we’ve been working on. Us elves? We know. We know the world’s a shit show, but we’ve been needing a proper Santa to help us. One who isn’t so easily convinced to put someone on the nice list, you know what I mean?”

I…I think I do.”

“Well what do you say–be Santa for a year?”

He couldn’t believe he was actually considering it, that he really wanted this. But hey, why not, right? The elf did have some good points, after all. “I…I still don’t trust you, but fine. I’ll help.”

“Excellent!” Timmy said, and summoned a contract and pen from the air. “A one Christmas contract of service.”

Stan read the contract over carefully, and saw no mention of his eternal soul. He reluctantly signed it, and when he did, a strange jolt of energy shot through him. He didn’t look different really, but he felt…he felt amazing. Like he was young again. Nothing hurt, and that sudden euphoria was enough to make him break out a rather uncharacteristic belly laugh, which he cut off, face red with embarrassment.

“There are a few, side effects–sorry,” Timmy said, “Now though, we need to get you trained! Christmas is in just a few days, and I bet you’ve never even driven a sleigh before…although it’s been a long night, why don’t you sleep for a while, and we can get started once you’re better rested?”

Stan agreed that might be for the best, and Timmy led him into the master bedroom. Stan put up a bit of a fight when he saw the rubber sheets and sling, but another snap of the fingers, and he was out again. Timmy laid him down, and got to work. He didn’t want to reeducate him, really. No, the dominoes were already set up in Stan’s mind, and they’d fall all on their own. Still, he needed to make sure he wouldn’t freak out at the sight of the elves’ “toys”, or rudolph’s bright red cock head. Still, while it was going to be a lot of work, Timmy knew Stan was going to be a great Santa, once he learned a bit more about himself in the process.

Christmas III: A Brand New Stanta Claus (Part 2)

There was no perfect way of telling who, exactly, the light would settle upon. There were, after all, any number of people around the world who could become the next Santa Claus, but the beacon would only settle on one, and it tended to be, well, a bit finicky, and well, a bit conservative. It was, after all, designed to correct the course when things went awry, and so it tended to go with people who were, in general a bit stodgy. This, of course, would be the difficult part, and why Timmy had rifled through his old clothes, and found a more traditional outfit to wear than his much more comfortable leather harness and chaps. This wasn’t to say that the elves planned on moderating themselves–not in the least–but they needed a Santa more than anything else, and so Timmy was going to bring back a Santa no matter what it took. Once he’d agreed to take on the position? Well…then things might take a slightly different direction. Still, Timmy didn’t have much interest in returning to Marty’s methods, even if his goal was the same. All the elves agreed, in fact–the kinds of presents they were making now were much preferred to the stupid toys for the stupid children they’d been making before. Still, he’d no more once he got inside and investigated who, exactly, they would be dealing with this year.

The light came to rest over a large house, nestled in the suburbs of the American heartland–not exactly a good sign. Still, the light would choose–it was just Timmy’s job to fetch them. The sleigh alit on the roof of the house, and looking down, Timmy could see a large nativity on the lawn, and the house was festooned with lights. It was late–nearly midnight, when Timmy made his way to the chimney, and slipped down into the house below.

Inside, Stanley Marshall was just about ready to say his prayers and put himself to bed for the night. Emily was already upstairs, but he’d been relaxing in his small study, nursing a pipe, and practicing the bible passage he’d be reciting at church the next Sunday. Christmas was, really, his favorite time of year, although he couldn’t help but wish that, someday soon, Jesus might come again and bring his wrath down upon the sinners of the world. It needed it so desperately, but alas, it likely would not be in his lifetime, which was nearing it’s end. Already seventy five this year! It was hard to believe that he was that old, but every time he saw his grandkids, that was all he could think about–how old he was. He should take better care of himself, he knew that–his doctor kept telling him that if he didn’t lose some weight he’d have a heart attack, but he loved food too much–his only vice, really. Hopefully God could forgive his occasional overindulgence. He set the bible down and adjusted his spectacles, rubbing his sleepy eyes for a moment, before hefting himself up from the chair, walking around the desk, and finding himself faced with…with a strange, tiny person in the doorway of the study. It was a very curious thing–clad in some red and green jumpsuit, grinning up at him from it’s height of about three feet tall. “Hello,” it said, “You must be Stanley–it’s such a pleasure to meet you.”

He stumbled back, wondering what in the hell this thing was. A hallucination? Some strange imp sent by the devil to tempt him? He didn’t know, but it wasn’t natural, and he wasn’t about to tolerate it in his house! He went to the bookshelf, reached up to the top shelf and brought down the shotgun he kept there in case someone broke in, and pointed it directly at the strange thing…who did nothing but roll its eyes.

“Ugh, one of those ones, eh?” it said, “Sorry, but I can’t go back empty handed, and I doubt you’ll be very receptive without seeing it for yourself, so why don’t we just do this the easy way?” it said, and faster than Stan could react, lobbed some strange black ball at him, striking him in the arm when he raised it to shield his face. The ball immediately broke, or maybe it merely stretched out, coating his arm and…and spreading. He dropped the gun and tried to shake it off, but it just kept coating him, and in less than thirty seconds it had absorbed him entirely, mummified and struggling in the tight rubber.

Timmy walked over, and the rubber formed a tie for him to grab–a convenient invention, actually. Santa had used it to transport people in his travels over the last couple of years, generally to give them as gifts to other people nearby, but it would work equally well in getting Stanley back to the North Pole. He grabbed the tie and dragged the still writing, grunting and whimpering form of the old man back to the chimney and whisked them back up and into the sleigh, the reindeer immediately taking off, as the light winked out over the house. The next Santa had been chosen–all that remained now, was to actually convince him to do the job. Then again, if he couldn’t convince him, the elves had plenty of other means of bringing him around, but Timmy hoped it wouldn’t come to that. After so much strife the last few years, what this next Christmas needed was so peace on earth, and sexy toys for all the men of the world.

The Kingsford County Line (Draft, Chapters 1 & 2)

Merry Christmas! Here’s an early draft of a long story I’ve been working on in bits and pieces, for everyone who’s helped me out on Patreon this year–this one is available to all patrons, from one dollar and up. I hope you all enjoy it! If you feel like giving me something, and you haven’t already contributed to my Patreon, it’s been a tremendous help over the past year–I honestly can’t believe how successful it’s been, and it’s been a big reason why I’ve been able to keep providing so much content over the last year. So if you want to support that, even one dollar a month helps–and one dollar gets you access to a massive archive of unposted and unfinished material. you can find more information here. Hope everyone has/had a good holiday season!

The Kingsford County Line (Draft, Chapters 1 & 2)

A Brand New Stanta Claus (Part 1)

I almost didn’t write one of these this year, but it just didn’t feel right not doing something for Christmas, but I was a bit lacking in inspiration. Still, here we go again, continuing off from where we left Santa, Marty, Timmy, Claude and all the elves last year, and the year before that. If you need a refresher course in what’s happened, you can find every previous entry from the last two years here, in reverse order, naturally. This year’s entry will have a bit of a slow start unfortunately, but I hope you all enjoy it, and Merry Christmas! I’ll have another present for all my Patreon supporters tomorrow as well.

Nothing. That’s what had happened in the workshop so far. Well, not exactly nothing–the mass of elves had been hard at work, at least, crafting an all new manner of disturbing and perverse toys for the men of the world to enjoy come Christmas day. But, as far as having someone deliver them, or as far as having a head elf to take charge and lead them through the final push to the holiday, which by now was a mere week away…nothing.

True, last Christmas had been a fiasco, between Timmy plotting against Santa and turning him into a near total pig, Timmy resurrecting Marty from his rubber prison, only for Marty to turn around and…well, no one knew what had happened to Claude, exactly. Marty had dragged him into his workshop, and no one had seen him since. Marty had emerged at dawn long enough to run out onto the runway, shoot the newly swined Santa with his prototype love gun, only to have Santa turn on Marty–the new love of his life–and turn him into a pig as well. And so, there things stood. Marty and taken Santa with him back into his private workshop, Timmy had disappeared into his own private lair with the remains of Marty’s love gun, and neither of them had emerged once for almost a year. The elves were getting anxious. If nothing changed soon…then what? There were, of course, counter-measures in place for a missing Santa, but those required a head elf to instigate, and no one had been designated as the interim leader. All they could do now, was wait, and hope something happened before Christmas Eve.

That day, however, something did happen, at last. Timmy burst from his workshop, cackling like a madman, a sizable beard on his face, holding aloft the repaired and improved gun Marty had abandoned after shooting Santa the year before. Finally, it was done. If Marty didn’t love him, then Timmy would just have to make his fellow elf fall in–or out–of love. His version could destroy a relationship as fast as it could make one, and he stormed across the floor of the workshop, shoving elves out of his way like he didn’t even see them, until he came to the door of Marty’s workshop, rattled the door on it’s hinges, and shouted, “I know you’re still in there Marty, and you’re gonna love me whether you want to or not!”

He pulled a key from his pocket–a masterkey he’d invented that could defeat any lock–slid it into the latch, broke the lock, flung open the door…and his heart sank. Marty–the Marty he’d known–his workshop had always been more chaotic than not, but it was chaos backed by planning and creativity. There was order there, even if he’d never been able to see it, but this…this was madness. The entire room was trashed. It looked like no work had been done in months, if not longer. How long had Marty been able to withstand it? Not long enough. The two pigs were rutting against a wall–the fatter one, Santa, although he had lost nearly all traces of his once humanity at this point, was squealing and throwing himself back at the stunted boar behind him, ramming a massive cock into his hole. It turned to Timmy when the door opened, but it’s eyes–they were dark and feral, they didn’t even recognize him, or even care that it was being watched. He was too late–much, much too late to be able to do any good. But…now what?

He stepped back and closed the door behind him, and found himself faced with every elf on the floor of the workshop, or on the catwalks, all staring down at him. A few were happy, or perhaps simply relieved, but most were angry. He’d…he’d let them down, and he looked to the digital clock counting down to launch, and his stomach bottomed out. He’d been so lost in his work, he hadn’t even grappled with how much time he’d wasted on the whole fool’s errand, and yet…it still hurt. It hurt more than anything, knowing that not only did Marty not love him, but that Marty…Marty was gone. Gone forever, probably. But he couldn’t think about that. He couldn’t do anything about that now, and so he pulled the door shut and locked it again, and called a meeting of the elves.

He apologized. He was begrudgingly forgiven, but the elves knew they had a bigger problem. Without a Santa, there could be no Christmas, and if there was no Christmas–well, then they would all cease to exist–forever. Thankfully, there were emergency measures that could be taken, and had been taken before, when a Santa had, for whatever reason, been lost, or abandoned their post. In fact, there had been many, many different Santa’s over the years, and all of them had brought their distinct flair to the position–leading in many cases to the variety of myths surrounding him. The elves biggest mistake, by far, was the serial killer Krampus they’d selected who’d run around the world murdering children for close to a century, before finally getting knocked off himself. Timmy declared the state of emergency, and from outside the workshop came a strange rumbling. The elves ran out to investigate, and found that Santa’s house was shaking until a bright light–a beacon, really–rose from the ground, hovered over the house for a moment, flashing bright, and then flew off into the dark night.

The next step, then, was retrieval, and that was all up to Timmy. The elves got the reindeer suited up and ready to fly, and Timmy hopped in the sleigh, took the reigns and flew off after the shining light, following it south. It would lead him to the next Santa, and the next legend–all he’d have to do is convince him to take the position.

Magic Show (Part 3)

Snorting and grunting uncontrollably now, he walked–though it felt more like crawling now–back to the stall, wormed his fat, hairy body between the fucker’s legs and started sucking on the dribbling cock, sucking down his cum. Despite his inhuman appearance, neither one of them seemed shocked when they saw him–if anything they were happy for the company, as the top finished his fuck, the bottom came, and both of them left Ethan in the stall to lick cum from the toilet seat where it had dribbled earlier, his head clearing a bit. That fucking magician! He’d called him pigheaded, and now this? No, this was enough, that fucker was going to put everything right, or…well, Ethan didn’t really know what he’d do, but he’d figure out something.

He was nervous about leaving the bathroom, but no one else seemed disturbed by his new appearance in the least. He wandered the club on all fours–occasionally overwhelmed by his need for cum enough to suck a load from a stranger who offered him a cock. Hell, he soon discovered he couldn’t turn down a cock even if he wanted to, but he finally found Max the magician again, over in a booth, sitting with the same bear from before–but he could see things weren’t quite going how the magician had planned it, the bear, now wise to Max’s tricks, was trying his very best to resist the magician’s wiles–so Ethan got under the table without him noticing, and bit the magician’s ankle. He kicked him in the snout but lost his focus, the bear made a break for it, but Max was faster, getting out of the booth and finally forcing him under with a direct gaze, as Ethan wiggled his way out from under the booth, defiance his eyes and cum on his chin and mustache.

“You are just–you don’t know when to quit, do you? Fuck it, this one’s not even worth it anymore–it’s only fun when they don’t know what’s going on,” Max said, looking at the bear in front of him, “Still, I think we can find a mutual use for him, don’t you?” he said, and turned his gaze back to Ethan–freezing the pig in place. “I was only going to have the pig thing last for tonight, you know. You’re the only one who sees yourself like that–everyone else just sees a fat bear crawling around, begging and snorting for cum like a fool, but I don’t think we should stop at illusion with you. As for this fucker–well, what’s a pig without a farmer to own him, eh?”

The bear the magician had been pursuing had come dressed in leather gear, looking like a biker–but the leather began wriggling all over his body, fading into a blue, his gear becoming a set of overalls, his shiny boots a couple of muddy waders. His body followed suit, his muscle bull body, well honed at the gym, dissolving into a fat apron which pushed out the overalls, his hair turning grey and thinning out, his body sweaty and muddy, smelling like a field of manure.

“Still, a pig farmer can’t very well raise a pretend pig, can he?” Max said, turning back and looking down at Ethan, “So how about we make that a bit more physical?”

The pain that ripped across his body was horrendous, but he couldn’t scream, he couldn’t do anything. What he’d felt in the bathroom, that had only been a phantom of this agony. As he passed out, he felt something close around his neck, heard a cruel, deep laugh, and then everything went black.

He woke the next morning in his pen. Of course, he didn’t know it was his pen, or even where he was–he’d slept the whole ride out of town, his new farmer master following the magician’s directions to their new home out in the country, and as soon as he’d arrived he’d forgotten everything about his old life–and knew he’d never go near the city again. No, he was happiest here, on his small farm with his pigs–especially his prize hog, Ethan.

He brought out his slop. Ethan trying to talk, but his permanent snout was more interested in eating than resisting, and his farmer–his master, climbed into the muddy pen while his hog ate and fucked his hole with his big cock…and Ethan felt his mind start draining away, as his cock started leaking cum into the mud. He looked beneath, where he saw his still human cock and balls, but his sack was changing, shrinking. With one final orgasm, his balls disappeared entirely, and from that moment on, Ethan really was nothing more than a hog–though a bit of a strange one at that. In fact, some parts of him looked outright human–particularly his now permanently soft cock, the odd mustache that formed under his snout, and the fact that it’s favorite food in the whole world was cum straight from his master–or any other man who happened by. For some reason, something about how the hog smelled, no man could resist feeding him his cum, and something about eating cum made the hog gain weight like nothing else. By summer, Ethan was close to six hundred pounds–and happy as could be in his new prison.

Magic Show (Part 2)

The magic show lasted about thirty more minutes. Max called up several more men to the center of the dance floor, taunting each of them with the dumbbell, all of them unable to lift it, and all of them suffering some slightly humiliating change as a result, though in Ethan’s opinion, none of the men suffered as much indignity as he had. The last volunteer came up–an older, pudgy bear–Max encouraged him to lift with all his might, and sure enough, he was able to lift it–and packed on quite a bit of muscle in the process. Everyone laughed and cheered, the final volunteers eyes bright, and the Max called the show to an end, the music returned, and everyone went back to dancing.

Ethan tried to keep an eye on Max as he left, but as short as he was, it was nearly impossible to spot the magician in the crowd–so he spent the next hour scouring the entire bar looking for him, shoving his way past people with his big round gut, becoming a bit panicked. What if he didn’t find him? What if he was stuck like this? He couldn’t go back to his life looking like this–no one would even recognize him! Finally, he spotted Max chatting up some bear at the bar, and Ethan pushed his way over, accidentally jostling the man Max was talking to. The bear shook his head quickly, like he was coming out of some daydream, gave the magician a strange look, and then left without another word. Max scowled down at Ethan, “What the hell man? I was working on him. He was gonna be my bear slave for the night.”

Ethan just stared at him, and then shook his head, not even wanting to know. “No, look, I just want you to change me back, alright? I mean, this isn’t permanent, right? It can’t be.”

Max heaved a sigh, “It’s such a pain in the ass when they remember.”

“What?”

Max rolled his eyes and turned to walk off, but Ethan grabbed one of his hands and pulled him back, “I’m not done with you! Fucking change me back!”

The magician didn’t say anything, he just glowered at him, Ethan met his stare…and immediately realized he shouldn’t have, because he couldn’t look away. “Someone should learn to be less pigheaded–still, I think that’s going to be hard for you from now on, eh?”

His anger turned to fear, as he struggled to break the gaze. It felt like an eternity before Max finally blinked, and walked off, leaving him standing there, shaking. What in the hell had just happened to him? He thought about trying to catch up, but he’d already lost sight of the magician again in the crowd. He needed to get away from all these people for a second, he needed to figure out what had just happened to him.

Even before he reached the bathroom door, he could tell something was wrong. His face hurt, for some reason–almost like someone had punched him in the nose, and it was swelling. At first he thought it must just be his imagination, but even in the dim light of the bar, he could see something pushing out into his field of vision. He pushed his way into the bathroom, which was empty, as far as he could tell, but he was too short to be able to see himself in the mirror. There was a bucket of cleaning supplies behind the door–he emptied it out, overturned the bucket in front of the sink and climbed up on it. It wasn’t very steady, and he was a bit worried that he’d crush it with his new weight, but he managed to get a better view of himself–and toppled back off the bucket with a surprised squeal.

Pigheaded was right. What in the hell was wrong with his face? He got the bucket back in position and climbed back on it, using the counter as support, and saw that, indeed, his face wasn’t looking quite human at the moment–his nose was indeed swelling, almost right before his eyes. His upper lip had pushed out, his nose becoming flat and wide and pushed out further along with his mouth, giving him a very obvious pig snout–though he still managed to keep the handlebar mustache he’d grown, making the whole effect look rather comical, even though he was terrified. His ears looked different too–they were larger, thinner, and pointed. As he watched, the left one grew too tall for it’s weight and flopped over in half, his right side following suit after a second more.

This was a nightmare–but then two things happened so fast that he couldn’t be sure which one happened first. He heard, behind him in one of the stalls, a very loud groan. Apparently, he discovered, he wasn’t nearly as alone as he’d thought he was. Secondly, he became aware of the most amazing, delicious smell that he’d ever caught wind of before. It wasn’t particularly clean–if he had been forced to describe it, he would have said it was something between a stale locker room and a slightly rotten egg, but he wanted it. Drool welled up in his mouth, and he swung his nose around, and decided that the groan and the smell must be related, and he had to know what it was that had him so…hungry.

He crept around the corner so he could see into the stalls–the doors were both open, but it was in the handicap stall that he found them. Two bears, both of them in leather, were poised over the toilet. One had his cock buried in the other’s ass, but the delicious smell wasn’t coming from there. Now, it was coming from the other guy, who was leaking cum onto the toilet seat below him, and the sight of it–all Ethan could do was resist with all his might, and keep himself stationary, transfixed on the man’s precum.

No–No, what the fuck was wrong with him? He backed away, hurrying to the bathroom door, but as he did, the craving became even stronger, and new pains started ripping their way through him, his snout pushing out further, his teeth shifting and rearranging, short tusks pushing out from his bottom jaw. He reached up with his hands to feel what was happening–but they weren’t hands–not anymore. His fingers hand begun to fuse and turn black, quickly becoming trotters, his legs growing shorter, his boots no longer fitting his feet. He grabbed for the bathroom door, but ended up tripping. His legs and arms were now the same length, and he landed on all fours, staring up at the door handle so far away, his nose still pulling him back around, towards that filthy smell…

Magic Show (Part 1)

It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now that he was here…Ethan was no longer so sure. He stood off to the side of the bar, trying to figure out how to feel less awkward. It was Halloween–there was no reason to be this awkward on Halloween! But this…it was different. He’d always wanted to come here–ever since he’d started college in this city a few years back–because even though he was a bit of a twink, he’d always had a thing for…Bears. Daddies. Chubs. He’d hooked up a few times before, but something about going to the bar, it had always felt a bit off limits for him, because he was so young, and thin, and hairless.

His choice of costume for the night wasn’t helping matters, he supposed. He’d decided to go as a strongman–wearing a striped singlet he’d found online, some bright red boots and a handlebar mustache he’d stuck on with spirit gum, along with a fake barbell he’d made out of styrofoam and cardboard. He wasn’t the only one dressed up by any means, and he certainly wasn’t showing the most skin, but he couldn’t help but feel…out of place, even though plenty of guys were smiling and complimenting and…and why couldn’t he just feel normal! He thought about getting a few more drinks, but he had to drive back to school. He sighed, and caught someone across the room staring at him. He was an older gentleman with a sizable gut, dressed in a tuxedo and a cape, with a large top hat on his head. He threw Ethan a wink, and then slipped away into the crowd–strange, but Ethan forgot it quickly in his pouting.

He thought about leaving but didn’t. The party grew rowdier, until the music died and the dance floor cleared. Curious, Ethan came to the back of the crowd to see what was happening. There, in the middle, was the man in the tuxedo he’d glimpsed–apparently calling himself Magic Max, with a magic show planned for the evening. Ethan thought it was silly, but everyone else seemed excited–he didn’t expect much until the magician boomed out his own name, Ethan Gallanger, as his first volunteer.

He didn’t believe it–how could the guy know his name? He wanted to shrink away, but his feet marched him forward instead, out onto the empty dance floor. “There you are Ethan! So glad you could join me for a bit of fun this year.”

The crowd clapped and cheered, Ethan went red in the face.

“I must say, I saw your costume earlier, and I was simply enthralled by your commitment to realism! That mustache in particular–it must have taken you months to grow it out like that.”

“I…actually, it’s…fake…” Ethan stammered, his voice amplified somehow, even though he couldn’t see a microphone anywhere.

“Oh nonsense, let me see that!” Magic Max said, and before Ethan could stop him, he grabbed the end of his mustache, yanked hard, and Ethan yelped in pain, feeling the hairs pulling at his skin, refusing to come away. “Looks real enough to me, now!”

Cheers and laughter erupted around him, but all Ethan could do was drop his fake barbell to the floor, and feel the mustache–his mustache–with both hands. Real…it was real! He looked at the magician, his jaw dropped low. “How…how did you do that?”

“A magician never reveals his tricks, Ethan. I think you dropped your weight there! Why don’t you pick it up–show us how strong you are. After all, you look a bit thin and scrawny for a strongman.”

Laughter again. Blushing, Ethan bent down, grabbed the barbell and went to lift it, but it wouldn’t budge. It felt like someone had glued it to the floor, and the laughter only got louder as they watched him struggle with it. But something else was happening, every time he tried to lift it up. He would yank on it, and the barbell seemed to yank back, pulling him lower and lower each time, until he finally gave up, unbent, and discovered that he’d shrunk.

He’d already been rather short at five foot seven, but after his struggle he couldn’t have been much taller than four feet, barely coming to eye level with the top of Magic Max’s full, round belly. The rest of him had grown smaller as well, making him look even weaker, even as the barbell had grown larger, now nearly twice as large as he could remember it being.

Max held up his hands for quiet, and the crowd obliged. “I’m sorry Max, but you gave it a good try–I know your lifting days are well behind you at this point. Hell, you have enough to worry about, hefting around that big, hairy gut of yours all day long, right, old man?”

What the hell was he talking about? He didn’t have a gut, and he certainly wasn’t old. Seeing the confusion on Ethan’s face, Max swung his cape over, and a large mirror manifested beside him, where nothing had been, moments before. There he could see exactly what Max had been talking about. Where before had been his slim, twinkish figure, smooth and somewhat muscled, he now had a massive, firm gut stretching out the singlet he had on. He grabbed it with his hands and shook it–it heaved around as a single, hard mass, like a massive ball he’d swallowed. On his much shorter frame, he looked like a ball, in fact–a very hairy ball. His hairless body was covered with fur now, bursting from the singlet at every chance it got. The only parts of him that were smooth were his face (aside from the mustache and a generous shadow of stubble) and much of his head, where his hairline had receded substantially, leaving him with a light dusting of grey hair in a horseshoe fringe.

“Let’s all give a big thank you to Ethan, for being our first volunteer of the evening!” Max said behind him, and gave him a shove. He had to struggle to stay upright, leaning back to counter the weight of his gut, “Now let’s see if we can find someone who might be able to get this barbell off the floor! We can’t just leave it here, after all.”

Ethan just tried to process what had happened to him…what he…thought had happened to him? It was suddenly a bit hazy, and hard to hold onto in his head. He’d been different, hadn’t he? He watched the rest of the show like it was a dream–but he had to talk to that magician again–he had to figure out how to get his body back.

Case Closed (Part 5)

He tried to protest, tried to just get us to let him go, but no–I was tired of his fucking shit, and I knew what he really wanted. I dragged him across the precinct, Walker laughing the whole way, and shoved him into the drunk tank. It was still early evening on Saturday, but we had a few visitors already–it was always pretty busy in here after Friday nights, and a lot of them might not get processed until Monday morning, so the cell was only going to get more crowded. He begged us, through the bars, to let him out. That he couldn’t stay in here, to have some fucking mercy. Well fuck that–we’d be back to get him on Monday. Still, it was another cased closed. Walker suggested we go get some drinks, something which I was more than happy to do, because fucking Dick had only gotten me revved up for more.

Fuck–that was one of the best weekends we’d shared in a long while. Fuck, I actually couldn’t remember the last time we went as wild as we did, though we do it all the time, now. The two of us were already dressed to go out, of course–since our work clothes doubled as our club clothes–the immaculate leather uniforms we both wore fit right in down at the leather bar where the two of us hung out. It was funny though–the club seemed a bit busier than usual–in particular, it seemed like the entire college football team had come out that night, and all of them were poaching our usual hunting grounds, so we decided on a change of plans, and found two young freshman who shouldn’t have even been in there–and gave them a choice. Come back with us for the rest of the weekend, or kiss their fucking scholarships goodbye after they get an arrest record. Needless to say, neither one of them was very happy about it, but we cuffed them anyway, and dragged them home with us.

It’s funny…I didn’t remember Walker and I living together, but…I mean, I guess it makes sense, right? Two top cops? Two burly, leathered up fuckers like us? Why the fuck wouldn’t we live together? I won’t go into details, but let’s just say that those two football frat fuckers were singing a different tune by Sunday evening, begging us for our cocks, our fists, our piss. We did let them go, of course–but put them on chastity probation–locking them both up, and requiring them both to come over for regular check ins and training. Heh, Justin–that’s one of them, this big old linebacker–he’s graduated at this point, and became a full time slave for a friend of mine, this old biker–fucking rough man, but I’ve never met a guy who loves getting beaten up like Justin does. The other, Harry, he’s a fancy businessman now, but I still have his key–he hasn’t had his cock out in over a year, but he doesn’t fucking care–he gets more pleasure out of drinking down some stranger’s cum in a bathhouse than he ever did shooting himself. Still, I suppose I’ve gotten a bit off topic, now haven’t I? I’m still talking at all, of course, because the strangest thing about the case, about Dick, I should say, only happened after that weekend, when the two of us, still reeking of sex, still in our leathers, showed back up at the precinct, nursing a couple of light hangovers, and found ourselves with quite a mess in the drunk tank where we’d abandoned Dick on Saturday night.

Now, this is easily the busiest precinct for drunks in the city, since it’s so close to the nightlife district, but it wasn’t the number of people in there that was surprising–it was what they were doing, or rather, who they were doing. In the middle of the, at this point, rather sleepy throng was Dick–which shouldn’t have been surprising, I suppose, considering how eager that guy was for a load of cum. No, what was strange was Dick himself. When we’d left, he’d been a middle aged slob, sure, but not..this. He’d packed on close to two hundred more pounds, his bare belly scraping the concrete floor of the cell, his several chins disguised by a massive, grey beard I couldn’t recall him having before. He was no longer middle aged, but seemed closer to seventy–his teeth all missing aside from a few barely hanging by the root, his body coated in filth, clothes unwashed, as he begged another man for a load of cum. But maybe I was just remembering things wrong. It seemed like I’d been remembering a lot wrong, lately. Still, we figured we should give the guys in the cell a break, and we took a final turn with the disgusting pig in the interrogation room, feeding him our loads of cum and piss before kicking him back out onto the street. We didn’t mind giving Dick a place to stay on occasion, but he couldn’t very well live here, right?

But the oddest thing? The two of us got to work processing the guys in the drunk tank after we finished with Dick…but none of the fuckers’ intake information matched anything close to who we were looking at in front of us. Like, some of the paperwork told us to expect a couple of young hicks who’d gotten pulled in on a drunk driving charge, but who we found looking at us were a couple of middle aged, pot bellied bikers, covered with tattoos and reeking of piss and cigars. A couple of businessmen charged with harassing a woman in a bar, were now a couple of young skinheads, dressed in camo and rubber, and much more interested in making out with each other than answering any of our questions. Just one fucking screw up after another, and we had no clue what to make of it. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder about Dick, in all of this for some reason. He still comes by, on occasion, ends up in the tank for a night, and everytime the same fucking thing happens. It’s a fucking mystery, you know? But hey, not every case wraps up nice and neat, but that’s the job–now if you’ll excuse me, it looks like Walker’s collared someone over by the dance floor, and he might need some backup.

Case Closed (Part 4)

He yanked him off his cock by his hair, and Richard nodded. “Yes…sir. I…I wasn’t…telling the truth.”

“Yeah, now why don’t you go ahead and tell Bailey here what really happened last night?”

“I…It was me, sir. I begged them all to fuck me. At…at first they wouldn’t because they were all straight, but I had to get…get down on my knees and…and beg. Beg, and…and plead. And finally they gave…gave me their cocks, sir. That’s…what happened. I was lying before. I’m…I’m sorry.” The last syllable was cut off, by Walker impaling his mouth on his cock again.

The thing is, it didn’t sound like he was telling the truth, but now that I was in here again, my earlier convictions were fading. It really did seem, then, that the fucker had been lying to us, and that meant, that if it wasn’t the second, then it had to be the first. “So what then, Richard? Why go to all this fucking trouble then?” I said, and then squatted down next to him, watching him suck my partner’s cock, “You see, I was doing some thinking, while I was out getting some cigars for me and my partner. I think, the reason you did all this? The reason you had to make up this whole fuckin’ story? Because you need attention. Because you need fuckers like us to feel sorry for you, so we’ll give you a pity fuck, is that it? Did you think that, if you just told us some sob story, about getting raped, that we’d just let you suck our cocks, just like that? You fucking pig, you fucking disgust me.”

“Yeah, you’re gonna have to get up pretty early in the morning to fool me and my partner, you fucker,” Walker said, “Bailey, I think we should do a contraband search on this fucker, what do you say?”

“I think it might be good to check him out, fuck yeah.”

Walker uncuffed him, and together we hauled him up and started stripping him out of his clothes, poking fun at his fat body, twisting his nipples jiggling his fat, stroking his big cock, telling him that if he didn’t want this, then why in the hell was he so fucking hard? He wasn’t even fighting us at this point, the pig knew we’d caught him, and good too. Still, when Walker bent him over the table, holding him down while I gloved up, making sure my sleeves were rolled up well past my elbow, he started protesting again, begging me to not make him do this, to just let him go, but I gave his fat ass a few smacks, and that got him settled down, before I lubed up and slipped my fingers in his ass, listening to him moan.

“Listen to this fucker–I bet he hid something up there just so we’d have to find it.”

“Yeah, why else would the pig be moaning like this?” I said, but I didn’t feel anything near the entrance. I pushed in deeper, widening the hole, but it was so damn tight. If the pig had been fucked by an entire frat house the night before, it sure didn’t feel like it–no, it felt fucking amazing. At some point I must have undone the front of my pants, my free hand stroking my cock as I thrust my fingers deeper and deeper into the pig’s hole. It was…fuck, it was big! All of me looked big, all of a sudden, though. Walker walked around to the other side of the table, which Richard’s head was sticking off of, and started fucking his throat again, and before too long I had my whole fist buried in the pig’s ass. “Fuck, this pig’s so tight, man.”

“Heh, probably didn’t even get fucked at all last night–that’s probably why he’s so desperate. He sure doesn’t look like he goes to fucking college either–heh, maybe a decade ago, eh Richard?”

“Is that what you do, Richard? Nah, not Richard, I bet everyone calls you Dick, don’t they? You’re so fat, so ugly, so old, that the only way you can get someone to pay any attention to you, is if you beg cops like us for fucks, is that it? Well fucking fine pig, have it your way!” I shoved in deeper, feeling him squirm and groan in pain, but as he did, his body started spasming and his cock started spraying cum under the table…and shrinking. It had been fairly sizable before, not that I’d gotten a good look at it, but almost as it shot, it seemed to dwindle, until it was only about three inches long. I looked elsewhere, and the rest of his body was also changing, right in front of my eyes, or at least, that’s what it seemed like at the time. Shit like that can’t really happen, right? He was getting older, his hair turning grey and balding, leaving him with a mostly bald scalp and some stringy hair around it. His body got fatter too, spreading out on the table around him, but I recognized him now–Dick. Fucker’s a regular here, always coming in, claiming he’s been raped and abused, but it’s just a fucking game to this pig, getting the two of us all hot and bothered until we give him a good working over. And fuck if it doesn’t work everytime, but then again, it doesn’t take much for Walker and I to get revved up–the two of us are always fucking horny, and usually always fucking–each other, or tag teaming some pig we pulled off the street and into an alley.

His pig’s tight hole was finally starting to loosen up a bit–I hauled out my arm and slid my big cock inside him and pounded it in up to the hilt over and over, and table screeching across the floor a bit each time from the impact, shoving his throat deeper onto Walker’s cock each time. Finally, the two of us came–I don’t remember who first, but it was close enough together that it didn’t really matter, and we each pulled free. I made Dick get down and lick up the load of cum he’d shot all over the floor, the two of us watching and smoking, making sure he got every drop, and only then did we let the old fag get dressed again in those grungy, stained clothes he’s always wearing. He didn’t look very happy, and he tried to just leave! Well I wasn’t going to have any of that–fuck no. I shoved him up against the wall, and cuffed him for filing a false report.