Five Film Contract (1 of 2)

It was a bucket list thing, but Evan had always wanted to be in a porno. He certainly had the looks for it–he’d had some success as a model off and on, and had even landed a role in a few commercials for local companies, but when he heard through the grapevine that a new porn studio was opening up and looking for new actors, he did a bit of digging for the company around the internet, and sent in an audition tape of him masturbating, as requested.

He got a reply the very next day–apparently, the studio was more than willing to sign him, but the only catch was that he would have to sign a contract obligating him to do five films. They wouldn’t be sequels, apparently–the new business was just looking to film a bunch of these movies with cheap actors, and then release them slowly over the next year or so. Five films in five days–it sounded extreme, but also kind of enticing. Why not? He agreed, and went over to the office to sign his contract.

Filming wasn’t until the next month, and there, he met the various actors the company had hired, and he was surprised to find they had all stuck to a pretty specific type–like him. Model looks, trim, but not overly muscular. Young, in their early 30’s at most. All of them were just the kind of guys Evan liked to fuck–so this was going to be a pretty stellar week. The first day was spent doing an orientation and discussing the kinds of films the company was looking for. They wanted real sex–nothing too scripted. They wanted to see what kind of strange perversions lied beneath all of these pretty faces.

His first film wasn’t too strange. He was with another cute guy like him, and after making out for a bit, his partner wanted to fuck his ass–and Evan was willing to oblige. It didn’t seem strange in the moment, but Evan almost always topped–the guy slipped inside him however, and any desire to top fled his mind. It felt…amazing, to have cock in his ass. Soon he was begging the guy to fuck him harder, deeper, their talk turning kinkier and rougher until they both came–Evan without even touching his cock. He was amazed when the guy pulled out, and he saw his ten inch cock–it hadn’t been that big before, had it?

The night after, he couldn’t stop thinking about how good it had felt to get fucked. Each actor had their own room, at least, but he spent most of the night fingering himself, before he found a dildo in a drawer and fucking himself on that long enough to get himself to cum. He didn’t know what had gotten into him–getting fucked had never been like that before. Then, came the second film. His partner in this one wasn’t someone he’d seen at the meeting before, and he’d gotten a good look at everyone–no, he was a massive, muscular brute, with a full beard and cruel sneer.

“Um…he wasn’t one of the cast, was he?” he asked.

“Oh, Rick here had a very productive shoot at the gym yesterday, didn’t you?”

“Fuck yeah,” Rick said, flexing, “I’m a fucking beast!”

“We think you two are going to have some great chemistry. Your video yesterday, Evan, was good, but a bit…stale. We’d like to see the two of you up the ante a bit today.”

The second film…Evan had a hard time recalling what happened, exactly. Rick skullfucked him first, getting Evan used to his musk, and then shaved his hair off…and Evan let him do it, no, begged him to do it. Then, after forcing him into one of Rick’s filthy jocks, he shoved his fist into Evan’s ass all the way up to the forearm, and only after Evan had shot, screaming in pain, did Rick fuck him rough and cum as well.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about!” The director shouted, “Much better–Just you wait Evan, we’ve only just begun to tap into that filthy, whorish mind of yours.”

Source: sluttyfathers

The Facility (Part 2)

He wasn’t certain how much time had passed, when he came awake again. He ached, from head to toe, and he was lying somewhere, and that somewhere wasn’t particularly comfortable. He let out a groan and opened his eyes, looking around at the sterile room he was lying in, trying to piece together what he could remember. The generators. The robot. Something about test subjects. What in the world had the company been doing in this place? He was lying on a bed with just a sheet and a hard mattress, and he felt sick. He assumed that was just the sedative wearing off of him, but the more conscious he became, the worse he felt. It was a difficult sensation to describe–at some moments it felt like pins and needles all over his skin–and also inside his skin, somehow, like they were trying to poke their way out of him. Other places was a deep ache, centered in his bones, a pain he’d never experienced anything like before, and which mostly made him nauseous. He couldn’t see very clearly–the entire room seemed…muted, somehow. Like someone had sucked the color out of the room, leaving it a dingy grey, with bits of green and blue. He could make out the robot against the wall, but it appeared to be off, at least. Carefully, keeping his eyes on the thing which had dragged him down here, he pulled the sheet off his body, tried to swing his body up and off the bed as quietly as he could, but his body wasn’t working like he was used to, and he crashed to the floor instead.

That sent a long howl from his mouth–he’d tried to scream, but the sound he’d made hadn’t sounded like something that should–or even could–come from a human throat. His vision was blurry, but looking down at his hands, where he landed, something was wrong with them, or rather, one of them. They didn’t match. One, when he focused on it, looked…normal, he thought. But the other one didn’t…it didn’t even look human. He raised it closer to his face, trying to puzzle out what he was looking at. His eyes didn’t seem to have the detail they’d been capable of before, but he could see the hair, the back of his hand running up the arm, and when he flipped it over, his palm and even the underside of his fingers were covered with rough pads. With his other hand he felt them, and the dark claws at the tips of his fingers which had replaced his nails, but before he could do anything else, he felt something metallic wrap its way around his leg, rolling up his entire leg and yanking him backwards.

“Test Subject E1 has been displaced. E1 will be returned to bed and sedated.”

Kerry rolled over onto his back and saw that the robot had awakened. He tried to speak, tried to tell it to stop, but nothing close to human speech would come from his mouth. His head…ached. It didn’t feel right at all, and in a reflective cabinet along the wall, he could see why, as he fought with the robot. It was…the face of a dog, looking back at him. The face and head of a dog attached to his body somehow, or what was rapidly becoming not his body. One of his legs, the one the robot had wrapped up, had changed similarly to his arm, while his other leg was still human…but he could see the hair was thicker across the surface, his human foot…contorting somehow, that deep ache in his bones. He clawed and bit at the robot’s tendrils, but he was immobilized in a matter of moments, hefted up into the air, and put back on the bed. “Administering sedative,” the robot said, and again he felt the sharp pain of an injection, the same drowsiness flooding his system until he could barely move, the tendrils relaxing away from him, the robot retreating back to its corner as Kerry fought to remain awake. He heard a door open and then close nearby, but he couldn’t quite open his eyes to see who, or what, it was.

“How is the patient, X-9?” a male voice said, but there was something…strange in the words, like the mouth speaking wasn’t quite a human one, “I received an alert?”

“Good evening, Dr. Sondew,” the robot speaking, “There was a minor incident. The patient was displaced from his resting position. Cause was due to the subject regaining consciousness. The patient was returned to resting position and sedated again 98 seconds ago.”

“I see,” the voice said, and the sound of heavy footsteps coming closer. “Do try and relax, if you can still hear me. Trust me when I say that this is all for the greater good.” the footsteps receded, “How long until Serum A’s effects are complete?”

“Approximately seven hours and fifteen minutes.”

“Keep the subject sedated until then, but make a note that I will be present before and while serum B is administered. The poor thing should at least have the courtesy of someone explaining this to him, I think.”

“Noted.”

The voice spoke to the robot for a few more minutes, but Kerry had already stopped being able to understand their words, and had fallen back into a restless, aching sleep.

The Facility (Part 1)

“It has to be around here somewhere,” Kerry muttered to himself, lodging the flashlight in his mouth so he could get a better look at the blueprints he was using as a reference–but which must be wrong. The first couple of floors had been close enough to the paper, but down here in the basement–everything was all off. Had the company sent him a print of a different building’s basement or something? He took the flashlight back in his hand and shone it around the pitch black space surrounding him. They hadn’t told him, or the rest of his team, what was up with this facility–all they’d said was that they needed the power back online as soon as possible. The place seemed fairly new…but also neglected somehow, and in a few rooms, he’d nearly gagged at the strong scent of bleach hanging in the air. Someone had already come through the building, cleaning something–but what? Still, he might be the team leader, but he was still just some flunkie contractor as far as the company was concerned. Still–the blueprint might be wrong, but why wouldn’t the generators be down here somewhere? They certainly hadn’t been anywhere else he’d looked already.

He was alone inside–Quinn and Holden were outside, checking the ground lines together, while Kerry found the generators and saw if the problem was with them. He checked a few more rooms, occasionally checking back with the mostly wrong blueprint, but finally he found the generators. He poked around for a few minutes, and the problem was definitely internal–half of the control panel had been mashed to bits, with what looked like a club of some kind. That wasn’t too much of an issue, though. He found the system outputs and inputs, hooked them up to the laptop he’d brought along in his backpack, and he was able to run a basic system check if nothing else. He breathed a sigh of relief when he got the result back–there was nothing wrong them them physically, it seemed. Someone had just run an emergency shutdown, and then smashed the panel after the fact–but why?

The company had been tight lipped about the project, tighter than normal. They hadn’t even been told where they were going–just flown into some town, where the company had a small camp established, and then brought them here by truck to get their work done. He was a bit surprised he wasn’t under armed guard or anything, from the way they’d been acting, which was a bit of a relief–they wouldn’t let him in if there was anything to worry about, certainly. He got the system to reboot, and waited a few minutes, listening to the machinery around him start to come back to life, slowly. He expected a mechanical error or two, and sure enough, they were there–he went and fixed the relatively minor issues, and soon enough the place was humming back to life, lights on, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Last time he’d gone on one of these contracts, he’d had to spend months in the field, laying wire to fucking nowhere. It would take a few days to get a new control panel hooked in, but if there was nothing more than that, he’d be home in another couple of days.

He spent a few minutes with the system, making sure everything was running smoothly, helping it get back to it’s proper capacity. He’d have to leave the laptop down here for the meantime, but he plugged it into a nearby socket–and he heard the noises for the first time. A hiss of hydraulics, the odd clank of metal on metal–but it was distant and muffled by the sound of the turbines beside him–he just assumed it was the system, and hoped it wasn’t a major issue he’d have to fix. Still, he should radio in and let them know things were working. “Ground crew, this is Generator,” he said into his walkie talkie, “Got the place lit up again–obviously not a cable. Come on–” but that was as far as he got, before the radio squealed back at him, unleashed a burst of static and went silent as it landed on the floor, and he backed away from it.

The noise again, except this time, he heard it clearer, both because he was away from the generator, and because it was coming closer. He looked back towards the door, and through it came some odd, squat robot. It had a wide flat head with a few sensors, and it stood on three jointed legs which met at a small body below the head. It swiveled towards him, and a dull voice said, “Unknown personnel. Scanning. Unauthorized entry. Secure and sedate.”

The thing started towards him, and Kerry ran towards it, planning to shove it over and run past, but three tendrils shot out as he got close, wrapping their way around his body and neck, one puncturing right into his vein and administering a shot which made him feel almost instantly woozy. He fought for a moment, but the thing was holding him much too tight, and he started to droop, holding onto consciousness as best he could. The thing wrapped him up further and then lifted him off the ground, carrying him horizontally off the ground, and backtracked out of the doorway and headed down the hall–until it stopped and froze in place for a few, long, seconds.

Kerry didn’t know what to make of it’s sudden hesitation, but it hadn’t loosened it’s grip on him in anyway. His vision was beginning to tunnel too, and it was too much effort to even hold up his head. “Unauthorized personnel has been reclassified as test subject Eta One. Will proceed to testing level, and continue with testing.”

It turned around and went back the other direction, heading for a working elevator against one wall, and stepping inside. Kerry couldn’t…see anymore. His eyes wouldn’t open. He expected to go up–but instead, his gut shifted uncomfortably and they dropped. The blueprint hadn’t mentioned a sub basement. Make that, sub basements, as they descended even further, and Kerry passed out as he sank into the earth.

“Hello sir, I’m a representative from Arctos Outfitters. I was wondering if you’d like to try a sample of one of our specialty line of soaps in the showers today,” the young man said, as Rudy approached the gym showers with his towel wrapped around his waist.

“E-Excuse me?” he said, looking around and a bit confused. The man was young, but had a nicely trimmed beard, and a bit of a paunch–but it looked good on him somehow, even if Rudy would never in his life let himself get that heavy. He was also completely naked, which even in this locker room was…fairly brazen.

“Just a sample is all. It’s completely free.”

“Yeah, but…here?” Rudy asked.

“Well, it makes sense doesn’t it? Why wouldn’t you hand out soap at the showers?” the young man said, grinning from cheek to cheek. “No one needs a sample of soap on the street corner.

Wanting to avoid an argument, he just took the little bar of soap the man handed him, wrapped in a little paper wrapper-like a hotel soap. He looked at the label, and it said it was called “Cubble.”

“Oh, that’s my favorite–I use it every day!” the young man said, giggling a bit, “Enjoy your shower!”

He went into the room, surprised to find a few other showers running, and the room quite steamy–so much so it was a bit difficult to see through the room. He went to a showerhead and turned it on, waited for the temperature to stabilize, and then lathered up with the sample of soap. True to it’s name, it was…quite foamy, so much so that it was even a bit…tingly, making him chuckle, and then giggle–a sound which made him rather embarrassed to come out of his usually mature, deep voiced throat. Still, the soap did feel good. He ran it down over his abs again…only to discover they weren’t abs anymore–he had a small round gut, not unlike the young man who’d give him the soap. He dropped it in surprise, and gripped his chubby midsection in surprise.

“Looks like you dropped something boy, let me get that for you,” a voice said beside him, and a massive, older…daddy knelt down beside him and picked up the bar. “You still have about half left–let daddy help you out, get those…hard to reach spots.”

Rudy was helpless as the man scrubbed him down, moaning and giggling as the man washed him, paying extra attention to his cock and balls, before shoving Rudy up against the wall of the shower and sliding his cock into the new cub’s soap slick crack. “Think you ‘n I are gonna pay that Arctos shop a visit tonight boy–we’re gonna need some more soap, and a whole lot of things to get dirty with in between.”

Source: thatonebigchub

Metawriting – Chronological Focus

This post was precipitated by a conversation I was having with @mcbaer about some of the differences in our two styles of writing. In particular, I told him that I appreciated his stories and the style of his writing because the choices he makes about where (and more importantly when) he focuses lead to quite different stories than I would have written, given the overarching narrative and plot. He wanted me to elaborate on that, but I was heading to bed, and now that it’s a new day, I realized it was going to take a bit of extra space to explain what exactly I was talking about, so I thought I would expound a bit on the concept of chronological focus, and it’s role in determining what sorts of stories we tell.

First, let me explain what I mean by the term chronological focus. To help explain what I mean, we’re going to use some diagrams of a possible narrative, let’s all it Narrative X. We might represent this narrative like so:

Narrative X involves a few plot points we’re all familiar with. There are two characters at the start. At point A, the two characters encounter a MacGuffin with some power to change or control the two characters. At point B, the two characters interact with the MacGuffin and become new, sexier, men. And finally, at point C, the two characters are in a new, sexual relationship of some kind–a new status quo different from the start.

Narrative X is very generalized–a good chunk of my stories, as well as the ones written by a fair number of other authors, can be said to be various versions of Narrative X. Often, what differentiates these stories from one another is content–in one version, the two characters might become a muscle bears thanks to magic gym equipment. In another, a magic cigar might turn one character into a leather bear dom, and the other into his submissive fat pig. I want to set these various content differences aside for the moment, however, and instead discuss the ways in which we can get different stories out of Narrative X not by applying different content, but by varying structure instead.

Before getting into the meat of this, however, I want to clarify one more distinction which will be important here. I’m going to be using the words “narrative” and “story” distinctly here, such that “stories” are defined as different versions of a more general “narrative”. The former are more specific than the latter. If you don’t keep this in mind, what I’m about to discuss will seem very confusing, and I will do my very best to be precise.

We have established already that two stories of the same narrative can look very different because of content–but structure plays just as important a role, and generally, this structure has to do with what point of the narrative we focus on within the story. That is, not every story is going to traverse the narrative from “start” to “end”. Instead, we can imagine, say, three different stories–Red, Green, and Blue–which all traverse different portions of the narrative–that is, each of these stories will possess a different chronological focus. Those three distinct stories might look something like this, when laid over our previous diagram of narrative X:

All three of those stories focus on different chunks of the narrative timeline. Let’s say, for a moment, that all three stories draw from the same narrative content–the characters are two friends in college, and one friend finds a smoking pipe in a thrift store–this would be point A to point B. He smokes the pipe, and becomes a older daddy bear, and when his friend arrives, he becomes his younger cub son–this would be the space from B to C. Lastly, reality shifts around them giving them new lives as a wealthy gentleman, and his obedient, horny cub slave–From C to the end. Now, given how the three story bars are structured, each story is going to end up omitting some of this content. The green bar, in the middle, would cover most of it–say, from the point of discovering the pipe, and ends around the point of reality changing for them both. The red story, on the other hand, spends more time developing the characters at the beginning, and stops right after the changes have begun, leaving everything which is to come up to the reader’s imagination, with help from the author by way of foreshadowing. The blue story is the opposite–it focuses after the change, as the two characters adjust to their new reality and forget their old lives. It’s all the same *narrative* but each *story* would be wildly different, with their own distinct climaxes and conflicts.

The choices an author makes, about where to start and where to finish their story–within the broader context of the narrative–is one of the more important things we need to consider. Do I want to focus mostly on the transformation? Then I’m going to go with something like the green story, but perhaps shrink it at each end even further. Do I like the idea of watching these two students find their minds overwritten by personalities which aren’t their own? That would be more along the lines of the blue story. Do I want to tease the reader a bit, setting up conflict and characters and then providing them something which stimulates their imagination? Then I’d go closer to the red story.

Of course, not every story is linear, either! You can imagine a completely different story in the narrative being told backward, in chunks. You begin with the older gentleman and his slave cub for a while, examining their life. You back up to the midst of their change, looking at them struggle. And then back up once more, showing how they arrived at such a predicament. The length of time you’re covering in the narrative also has no bearing on length of story. In the diagram above, it’s perfectly conceivable that the green story could be covered in fewer than a 1000 words, while the blue story span the length of a short novel. There are an infinite number of ways to cut up and tell a narrative structurally, and each one yields a unique story. The challenge as an author, is in figuring out what you want the story to *do* and then selecting a chronological focus which best accomplishes your goal.

No One Else Will Want You Now (Part 9)


Waste was surprised that he was still alive. In a sense, he knew that he wasn’t, not alive in the same sense as before, certainly not alive as the same person. He uncurled himself slowly from the ball he crumpled into on the floor, before pushing himself up on shaking legs so he could see himself in the mirror.

What had happened to him? It was like every muscle in his body had been dehydrated and shrunk to a single wire connecting each of his joints. Just from looking at himself, he couldn’t weigh much more than a hundred pounds–the curse had left him as skin and bones. His height only served to exaggerate his new physique, but the loss of muscles wasn’t the most disturbing parts–it was the concave belly with his ribs clearly defined against the skin of his chest. Somehow, the skin seemed both impossibly tight, and also loose and sagging, depending on the angle one looked at. His eyes climbed higher, to his neck, every tendon and vein visible through his much paler skin, and his gaunt face. He looked…old. So much older than he had been, with his now snow white beard growing out in wisps to his chest, his head bald aside from a few errant strands of fine hair that remained. To steady himself, he took a drag off his cigar, able to see his chest inflating with smoke, and then exhaled through his yellowed, crooked teeth, lined with gaps. Cheeks shallow and gaunt, eyes sunken deep. His eyes–he could see clearly, but they were cloudy–eerily so, and he could barely make eye contact with himself for five or ten seconds, before having to look away, but there was nowhere to look that didn’t horrify him. The only part of him that seemed to have any life left was his cock–he gripped it with a bony hand, feeling it’s warmth, feeling alive in some small way, through his shaft.

Waste. The curse had named him Waste, and now he understood. Wasting away, but also discarded by the world. Refuse. That old him, Walter, he was fading faster now, he was dying in the sandstorm, but the curse had saved him from that fate, because he could still be useful. If he didn’t want to suffer the same end, then Waste knew what he had to do, knew who he had to become.

“Sorry about that, Fuglet,” he said, looking over at his slave. His voice was dry, cracking, desperate for water. The shiver that ran down Fuglet’s back was similar to a knife running down a pane of glass. “I got…distracted. You’ve met all my conditions, slave. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? You’re mine now–all mine, forever.”

Fuglet didn’t like this Master. Fuglet liked the old one, the one who he could tell still cared about him, but in those skeletal, cloudy eyes, he only saw hatred.

“Get on the bed–Master wants to use that hole of yours.”

He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t disobey. He got on the bed and let his jeans slip from his ass and around his knees, his master coming over, running sharp, claw like nails along his filthy skin, pressing hard enough to leave a red mark, but not a true scratch. His cock was hungry–it was the only part of him that needed anything anymore. As long as he kept his cock happy, as long as that didn’t shrivel away as well, then he wouldn’t have to worry. The curse would be happy, and Waste wouldn’t have to die too.

He raped his Fuglet for hours. When he grew tired of one hole, he would switch to another. If his slave displeased him for some reason, he would take a moment to punish him–sometimes quickly, with a sharp burn from the end of his cigar, or other times longer, with a prolonged paddling. The whole time, he could see his cock and balls swelling larger, feeding on Fuglet’s pain and humiliation until it was over a foot long and as thick as a two liter bottle, ramming deep into his ass as he screamed with each invasion. When he finally finished, and came–filling Fuglet’s ass with a massive load of cum, Waste finally looked around and realized the apartment had completely shifted around them as well, their new life becoming…clearer.

Fuglet worked in construction during the day–it was one of the few jobs someone as stupid and ugly as he was could still manage to do a decent job and not get fired in the first week. Everyone on his crew hated him, of course. Everyone in the world despised him as soon as they met him. They just…something about him, it was clear that he wasn’t right. He had no friends, he had no family. No one knew about his master waiting back at home. No one who noticed his collar had any desire to know the details or story behind it. Still, he did his menial tasks competently, he stayed out of everyone’s way, and that was acceptable. Then, when the day was done, he went home, where Waste was waiting.

Waste never left the apartment. It wasn’t clear that Waste even could leave the apartment. It wasn’t clear what, exactly, waste was, but Fuglet was fairly certain he wasn’t entirely human, even if he had been at some point. He never ate, he only slept a few hours a night. He would abuse Fuglet until he passed out, and when he awoke, Waste would still be fucking him. As gaunt and sickly as he appeared, he was stronger than any man Fuglet had met on any crew. Waste was his curse to bear, he supposed, for some sins in some past life, and he bore him willingly. At least it was someone. At least he wasn’t entirely alone. At least there was something in the world that needed him, even if it only needed him to suffer.

Pigtail (2 of 2)

The physical changes were relatively minor, in the end–the most obvious was the weight gain and your new tail, as well as a few other details–a slight upturn in your nose, a propensity for snorting with little provocation…and a raging horniness which wouldn’t abate for anything, no matter how many times you masturbated. You went back on the website, desperate to find out what had happened to you, but found nothing much, beyond the fact that, apparently, this is what asslickers were designed to do. He discovered that the more pigtails he used…the more piggish he’d become, and the rush of excitement which hit at that thought…was upsetting, to say the least.

But beyond the physical changes, it was the mental shift which caught you off guard the most. Over the next week, you found yourself changing your entire wardrobe, preferring tight rubber and spandex which would show off your chubby thighs and big gut, your tail always sticking out the back. You found yourself unable to say no to any man who wanted to fuck you…and most any man who saw your tail ended up with his cock in one, or more, of your holes.

You also had a harder time controlling your impulses, which you’d always managed to keep under firm handle. You got your cock and septum pierced after a few days–you’d always wanted to, and you no longer had the willpower to resist that simple desire to debase yourself. You grew a beard, finally…and took up cigar smoking after a rather…intense night with a cigar bear you met through one of Arctos’s hookup sites. But every night, you’d look at that three pack of Pigtails on the Arctos website, thinking about it, fantasizing about it…but always fighting back the desire, too afraid to lose even more of yourself, but that resistance is fading now, isn’t it?

Everyone loves your cam shows. Everyone wants to see you humiliate yourself. Everyone wants to see you be a pig. More than one man has simply offered to buy the three pack for you, and finally…you give in. You’re going to do a three video series next week, one Pigtail a day. You don’t know what you’ll be when you finish…but you know you’re going to finally be the pig of your dreams, and you’re going to love every second of it.

Pigtail (1 of 2) – A short variation to “Asslickers” from a month or two ago.

You’re not opposed to a bit of kink. Besides, it’s a just a dildo–no one was going to see it besides you, unless you wanted them to. You’d seen the Arctos label going around, and you’d heard some crazy stories about their stuff before, but it was all just marketing hype, you were sure. Still, something about that just…called to you. It was part of a new line of dildos and buttplugs they were rolling out called Asslickers–and the one you purchased was a six inch, moderately thick pink shaft, with a curly cue tail sticking out the end. You don’t have a pig’s physique, really, but something about being called a pig had always turned you on, for reasons you’d never been able to explain well. Now, in private, you could look a bit more like you you thought, with a laugh.

It arrived a week later, and you’d almost forgotten you’d bought it. You had a free evening when it showed up on your doorstep, so you decided to give it a test drive. You took it out of it’s wrapped, and noticed that the surface didn’t feel like rubber–instead, it was hard and stiff with almost no give. Even the curly tail didn’t wiggle at all, which seemed to defy its purpose. Still, it seems like a waste to spend that money and not at least try it. So you get undressed, hop on your bed, lube it up and work it inside you. There’s a mirror to one side of you, and you can see that pig tail sticking out of your ass, and fuck, you feel sexy seeing that. Then you notice an odd taste in your mouth–or tastes, rather–and your body starts feeling…strange.

Your skin is hot all of a sudden, your gut gurgling. You think about pulling the dildo out, but a sudden horniness catches you off guard, and you helplessly reach back and start fucking yourself harder with the dildo. It’s odd–it almost feels…smaller in your ass, all of a sudden. You look back over in the mirror, and grunt in surprise–you’re…fatter. Not massively so, but you have a soft gut, your ass is thicker, your arms thick. You start grunting more, almost oinking and squealing at times, bucking your ass back…and you can feel you hold doing something…strange. It’s almost like it’s pulling the dildo in all by itself, swallowing it down…and sure enough, in a minute, you see that curly corkscrew slide inside your guts–and the dildo is gone. You never see it again, but you shoot one of the largest loads of your life as something presses it’s way back out of your body. You think it’s the dildo for a moment, but reaching back, nothing came out of your ass–no, a curly pink tail pushed it’s way out above your crack, and is wiggling with glee instead. 

Source: thatonebigchub

No One Else Will Want You Now (Part 8)

“Are…y-ya fuckin’ h-h-happy now, s-s-sir?” Donny stammered out, staring at himself. “Ain’t no one g-g-onna want me now.”

“No–No, fuck you, no we’re not finished.”

Donny flinched at the edge in Walter’s voice. It hadn’t been there before–and neither had those steel grey eyes he was looking at him with. Appraising him with, like an object. Like an object, trying to figure out what part of it he hadn’t quite vandalized completely.

“That face,” Walter said, “I still see you in that fucking face.”

With a cry of pain, Donny’s facial features began rearranging themselves. His mouth grew wider and his lips thinned, his nose growing out, the point turning up and flattening, nostrils flaring wide to either side. His brow thickened considerably, hiding his now beady eyes in shadow, even as his forehead grew shorter. His ears flapped out to either side, one noticeably larger than the other.

“Too young too. You don’t fucking deserve youth. No–there’s nothing uglier than awkward middle age.”

His hairline receded, but left a noticeable tuft of hair behind offset to one side, and a few strands of grey appeared in his hair and sideburns–not enough to form a pattern, but enough to be apparent. His gut and moobs sagged a bit further, his skin growing cracked, dry and weathered, spotted with moles and freckles. Donny no longer recognized himself in any part of his body, and yet, looking at his own reflection…he knew this life of his intimately. No one had ever loved him. No one had ever touched him without also wanting to hurt him.

“Fuckin’ ugly pig,” Walter said, giggling for some reason, feeling unhinged in his own mind. What a name for you! Fuglet! The fuckin’ ugly piglet. What’s your name, slave? I want to hear you say it.”

“It’s…Fuglet s-s-sir,” Donny said…and it was true. Somehow, that nickname had followed him his entire life. He’d forgotten his real name often enough, and it was easier just to introduce himself as that–it got the messy business over faster…sometimes.

“Fugglet, oh my fucking christ, what the fuck have I done!” Walter said, still giggling. “I…I knew this was going to…to be rough, but fuck, I can’t even look at you.”

“I k-k-know sir, I’m g-g-g…” he tried to say, but couldn’t get anything past his lips.

“I fucking did this, fuck, I have to get the fuck out of here, I need some fucking air,” Walter said, and stumbled for the apartment door, intending to run and never come back. He’d done what the curse had wanted, hadn’t he? It didn’t need him anymore. He couldn’t stay here, he couldn’t stare that thing in the face everyday and…and not see himself reflected in it. He grabbed the door handle and hauled the door open six inches, but the door slammed against some immovable and invisible force, which slammed it back shut. It was in him. It was in him, the curse was in him, and it was angry. Now he knew what Jack had meant, when he’d told him not to resist, that the curse only wanted to use him. In the end, he hadn’t been the right tool, even if he’d been close. The curse was realizing this now, and decided to fashion him into something which would better suit its needs.

“You have to stay.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll stay, I’ll be your tool!” he shouted into the room, but he could tell the curse was rather unimpressed, and it was right. He couldn’t do this. He hadn’t imagined it might be this intense, this terrible, watching the man he loved…destroyed like this. This wasn’t what he’d wanted, not really, but it was the curse calling the shots. It was the curse which had seen this in him, deep inside him, and called it forth. This had come from him, but he’d never had to stomach to grapple with it–that the only way he could know–truly know–that someone was his, was to make sure no one would ever desire them.

“You cannot leave. You won’t leave. You don’t want to leave.”

The curse was pulling him away from the door, dragging him back towards the room, back towards Fuglet, back towards the mirror.

“Fuglet needs to be punished.”

“Please, I know, I’ll do it.”

“You both need to be punished.”

“No…no…” he whined, but he could already feel it, his body changing in ways he could barely understand.

“You hate. You hate, it is what you do. You hate, you wound. You are cruel. You are waste. You are wasting. No one would ever submit themselves to someone like you, no one other than someone who no one would want to dominate. You will both be cursed to have no one but one another.”

Thinking back on the moment–often after waking up from nightmares in the middle of the night, trying to scream through a dry, empty throat–it was like he had been set on his knees in a sandstorm, being buffeted by the wind and thousands of sharp, cutting grains of glass. Every cut removed a piece of him–thoughts from his mind, strength from his body, kindness from his soul. He would imagine being buried, but they were simply stripping everything away from him that was no longer necessary. The best tools, after all, were lean and efficient, honed for a single purpose, and obvious in intent. The storm disappeared, leaving him curled up in a ball on the floor, Fuglet backed up against the wall, unable to understand what had just happened, but terrified all the same. He just stared at his Master, wondering if he was dead. It looked like it could be dead, and then there was a rasping breath, and his Master uncurled himself with a groan.

No One Else Will Want You Now (Part 7)

“Get dressed, you dumb fuck–I want you to see what a stupid faggot you are,” Walter said, and he pitched a grungy wifebeater at Donny’s chest. He shrugged it on, the fabric gritty to the touch from the sand and mud ground into it–it lined up perfectly with his tan lines, which only made everything seem so much more…real. He got off the bed, grabbed the first pair of jeans he found on the filthy floor–it didn’t occur to him to find any underwear, since he never wore any–and pulled them on too. Now that he was standing, he realized how ill-fitting both things were–they seemed too big for him, and even when he cinched up the belt he’d left in the jeans, they still sagged around his thighs, but were too short for his legs, only coming to his upper ankle. “Shit don’t even f-f-fit,” he muttered.

“What, you were expecting them to come tailored? You buy whatever fits well enough at the thrift store–you know that, dumbass. Now get in front of the mirror–take a look at the new you. Tell me what your other boyfriend would think about you now.”

One hand keeping the pants up, Donny shuffled over to the mirror and looked at himself–his lank hair falling down in front of his eyes, his bushy mutton chops. The unwashed clothes, his unwashed body. He looked like a fucking loser. “F-F-fuck…” he said.

“Fuck?” Walter said, coming behind him, “As in what, slave? As in you’d fuck yourself? As in you think I should take a picture of you, send it to that boy of yours, and see if he’s still down to fuck?”

“N-No, as in I’m f-f-fuggin’ ugly, sir.”

“Yes, but are you ugly enough? See, I think the right person could still find you fuckable, don’t you? After all, you have your nice physique. If you bothered to brush that hair out of your way you still have a handsome face, even if it is greasy. This is all surface shit–we haven’t tackled anything foundational. We haven’t made you a freak. No-you’re going to be so repulsive, that for most people, the thought of having sex with you turns their damn stomach. Then I’ll be happy knowing no one is ever going to touch you again–no one except me, of course. Like that nice, clean skin of yours–how about we mark that up a bit?”

Donny felt the same, sharp sting as he had earlier, when that tattoo had appeared on his ass–although this time it was everywhere. Not enough to cover his entire body in any sort of understandable pattern–some places were blank, while others were covered. None of the tattoos made much sense, and all of them looked to have been crudely done on the cheap. Misspelled words were rampant, some shapes just looked like blurs. Over them, came an itching, as hair erupted from his body–but again, mostly in patches. His chest remained fairly light, but the hair was thick and long on his shoulders, running down his back. He could feel his ass clumping up with sweaty hair, and while his upper arms remained thinly covered, his forearms were coated down to the back of his hands and onto his fingers. Lastly, he noticed that his facial hair had thickened–his mutton chops growing higher on his cheeks, his eyebrows thickening into a single, heavy mass of hair over his eyes.

“We’ll have to do something about that physique as well, of course,” Walter said, running his gloved hand over Donny’s hairy shoulder, “and your proportions are just…too damn sexy as well. That silhouette could rouse some dirty thoughts if we don’t do something about it.”

This time, the ache was all inside of his body. His muscles felt like someone was twisting them, milking the strength from them, draining it from his body. As he watched, he…just began to deflate. His arms lost the most mass, he thought, as did his legs, looking more like toothpicks compared to what he’d had moments before. He lost all of his definition in his chest, and when the fat started to pile on, he ended up with two full mantits and a potbelly. Still–something else was off as well. His legs seemed too short, and were bowing outward. His arms hung down too low. His torso seemed scrunched, and his head sat right on his shoulders–barely enough neck for his collar to wrap around, if you could see it under his second chin. His face had puffed out with fat, making his head look even wider, his square jaw dissolving into a mass of indiscriminate flab. Other details were smaller–his feet were bigger–close to a size 18, which his hands seemed…way too small. His shoulders weren’t nearly as broad, giving him even more of a lumpy shape. His ass was flabby, but it sagged down in a rather disgusting fashion. His clothes fit even worse now–his gut poking out from his wifebeater, a crescent of tan indicating that he should get used to exposing it. His pants kept falling down even with a bigger waist because he had no ass–everytime he bent over he’d be showing off his hairy crack. At his shorter height, the pant legs were pooling around his feet…but his eyes kept being drawn back to his Master standing behind him, and the look of unexpected disgust across his face.

Indeed, even Walter was having a difficult time looking at what he’d done. There was simply something so…off about his body. Donny didn’t even seem human any more. He didn’t like it, and he didn’t want to be around it. He took a step back, but the curse redoubled inside him, sensing the resistance.

“Don’t lie to yourself, you enjoy this.”

“He’s disgusting.”

“He’s yours. That’s what you wanted. You don’t have to like looking at him. In fact, you don’t want to like looking at him, The more disgusting he is, the easier he is to hate. You hate him, you want to hate him.”

“This…I didn’t think–”

You hate him. You want to see that thing suffer. You want to make it suffer.”

The hatred which welled up in his chest–it wasn’t his. It felt like someone had taken his heart and dropped it into a bucket of freezing ice water. He didn’t want to be this person. He didn’t want to be enjoying this, but he was enjoying it. What use was there in fighting it? “I do hate him. I just…never realized how much.”

“Then finish it. Make him the embodiment of that hatred. Make him everything you hate, and then, you can be free.”