Rudy shut the door of his truck, and heaved a sigh. Another day at the site, and he was exhausted. He kicked his boots off on the steps next to the garage and walked inside the house. “Garth? You home?” he shouted for his son.
Enough lights were on that Rudy assumed he was, but with his son, he never really knew. Things had…spiraled a bit out of control, over the last couple of years, since Garth’s mom had passed. Rudy was having a difficult time with it himself, and before he’d even really realized it, his son had started having issues. They would have screaming fights, he would skip school, some nights he wouldn’t even come home, spending it who knew where. Rudy did his best to talk to him about it, but Garth wouldn’t open up to him about anything. He got no reply from his son, so he was either sulking in his room or gone–in either case, Rudy was too tired to cook anything, and so he headed into the kitchen to phone for some pizza, stripping off his shirt and pants as he did–but as he entered the den, he stopped short.
Someone was sitting there, on the couch, reading a book. Similar in age to Rudy, but quite chubby, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt. He looked up and smiled. “Ah! Rudy, I presume. Garth told me to expect you home around now.”
“I’m sorry…who are you?” Rudy said, “And what are you doing in my house?”
“Oh goodness, I suppose Garth probably hasn’t mentioned me. I’m Mr. Emory, the school psychologist. Garth was exhibiting some…rather distressing behavior at school, and he was referred to me for counseling, after his mother’s sudden passing. He’d been showing such good progress…but I’m afraid I just can’t allow him to attend school, not in his current emotional state.”
“Are…are you telling me my son got expelled?”
“Oh no–I’ve merely recommended him for a homeschooling program. I will be your liason, and provide all the lesson plans and things of that sort, but I think he will respond best to an…authority figure he’s familiar with.”
“I…I can’t homeschool him,” Rudy said. “I don’t have time. I work six days a week as it is, and my mortgage–”
“Hush now. Everything will be taken care of. This program comes with a sizable grant attached, which will provide you plenty of income for the duration of the program. Now come on over here and have a seat, Rudy. We should…chat about some of the things Garth has told me about you.”
Rudy didn’t know what to do, but he was feeling…rather strange, and lightheaded. He stepped forward and sat down on the couch beside Mr. Emory, who slid over closer, and wrapped an arm around Rudy’s shoulders, pulling him closer, watching the older man’s eyes do a bit distant. Mr. Emory had that effect on people, you see, and they began their conversation.
Rudy had never really opened up with anyone about his wife’s death to anyone, not even his close friends at work–certainly never to a therapist, but to his own surprise, he started…pouring everything out to Mr. Emory. How he felt like he’d lost control of his life. How…angry he was, at himself, at the world, for letting it happen.
“Yes, that’s good, Rudy, you should be angry,” Mr. Emory said.
“I…don’t wanna be angry…tho…” he muttered.
“Yes, but you are angry. You can’t help it. You have more anger in you than you know, but it won’t go away until we…channel it. Until we show you how you can direct it where it belongs,” he leaned in closer, lips almost pressed to Rudy’s ear, “Garth, your boy, he…craves control. He feels so adrift, now, and you–you’ve been abandoning him, Rudy.”
“What?”
“Your boy needs a firm hand, someone to control him, someone to shape him, help him channel his grief. You’ve been so focused on your anger, on yourself–but he can help you Rudy. Your boy is upstairs, right now, and he wants to help his daddy deal with his anger.”
Mr. Emory stood up, and Rudy stood as well, and followed him upstairs, like a zombie. In his son’s room, they found Garth, wearing an assless rubber singlet, on his elbows and knees on his bed, eyes vacant, mouth drooling…just waiting. “Time for your first lesson, Rudy. Your boy’s hole is very tight, but he needs to loosen up and learn to relax,” he said, as he pulled down Rudy’s underwear, and slid a rubber glove over his hand, “You can help, can’t you? Think about how good it’ll feel, taking out your anger on your boy’s hole. Think how good he’ll feel, under your control. It’s what you both need, Rudy–now let’s get started.”
Rudy knew this was wrong, and he fought…but Mr. Emory was right. He was trying to think too hard, but he wasn’t really someone who should be doing much thinking, was he? No–he was just a stupid, high school dropout–what did he even know about anything? Mr. Emory knew lots of things–it was important that Rudy listen to him, and obey him without question. After a couple of hours, he understood what Mr. Emory meant–how good it felt to have his whole fist buried in his son’s hole, listening to him moan, his own cock drooling, thinking about when he gets to fuck his boy for the first time, Mr. Emory naked now too, sitting in his seat, and edging his own cock while he directs the action, recording everything for review, later.
The next day, Rudy called in and told his foreman he would be quitting, effective immediately, His son, you see, was having disciplinary issues–very bad ones–and Rudy was going to be homeschooling him for the foreseeable future. Mr. Emory praised him, when he hung up, and rewarded Rudy by allowing him to suck his cock like the dumb brute he was, Garth riding a thick toy for the camera, watching it all with his dazed look, so happy to be learning so much, from his daddy, and his master.
“Sure you don’t want to come? Rides like this are always better with a buddy,” Colt said, as he washed his Harley, while Neil watched from his own driveway next door.
“I don’t even have a bike, Colt.”
“That’s not a problem. I can find you a loaner.”
Neil shook his head, a bit confused why his neighbor was even offering. Well, a bit put off, really. He was pretty sure Colt was gay…and inviting him on a two week cross country bike ride? That seemed a bit…sketchy. “Hope you have a good time, Colt,” he said, and went into his house.
Colt chuckled–he was going to get one of his sexy daddy neighbors to ride with him, whether they wanted to or not. He rinsed off his bike, and then went into his house, found his special pipe and tobacco blend, and lit it.
Then, he went back out onto the porch, sat in his chair, and let the smoke waft away through the neighborhood, waiting for anyone to take the bait.
“Gah, fuck!” Neil said, standing at his desk where he’d been doing some work with the window open, looking down at the massive wad he’d just shot all over the papers laid out in front of him.
He’d been working just fine, and then…he’d smelled that…whatever that scent was, and he’d just…he’d never thought about anything like that before, on his knees in front of Colt, wearing biker leathers, begging him for his cock. Something…something was tugging at him, telling him to go back down and outside, but he resisted, got his clothes back on and sat back down, trying to make sense of the odd event. He could still…smell that odor, whatever it was. Was it smoke? He got up and went to the window to shut it, but froze, looking down at what was happening in Colt’s driveway.
On the other side of Colt’s house, that was where Blake lived. They weren’t close–he was another corporate fellow, working at another company in town, but they were good acquaintances. There in the driveway, however…was Blake and Colt. Colt was in his full leather gear, like Neil had seen in his fantasy, and Blake was on his hands and knees next to the bike, one hand under Colt’s boot, and his tongue making long, sweeping licks across the tire of Colt’s motorcycle.
He was horrified, yes, but more than that–he was jealous. Before he could really think about why, he bolted from his office and down to the front of his house, hurrying over to where Colt and Blake were on the driveway. “Wait…wait…I…I do have some vacation time, Colt, I could go!”
Colt just smiled around his pipe. “Thanks, but Blake’s going with me, right Blake? He’s been telling me how eager he is to get a taste of life on the road.”
Blake nodded, and looking at him, Neil noticed that Blake…looked different. A thin beard on his face, his body filling out slightly, a leather vest appearing over his shoulders from one moment to the next. Was…was it really too late? No–no, he wanted to go. He wanted to taste it, just once. He hurried over, hands shaking, dropped to his knees and started fighting with the zipper on Colt’s leather pants. He would show him. He’d show him how much he wanted this–but Colt pushed him back onto his ass with one gloved hand. “Pig, what makes you think you have permission to suck my cock?”
Neil gave a snort. Pig. Was…was he a pig? He didn’t care–as long as Colt was looking at him, as long as he could smell that sweet smoke. “Please sir, please let his pig suck your cock, let me show you I’m worthy, please…”
Colt grinned, squatted down, took a long draw off his pipe, and blew the smoke into Neil’s face, watching it go slack, the front of his pants darkening as he pissed himself, snorting and grunting in sudden excitement. “I suppose you can come too–but since I already have myself a roadboy–you’re going to have to settle for the role of filthy biker pig.”
One week into their trip, and they’d reached their destination. To Squeal–it was fucking heaven. Nothing but filthy bikers as far as the eye could see. Colt and his roadboy, Flake, were off introducing themselves, Colt smoking his pipe, the bikers around them pawing at his boy, before bending him over one of the hogs nearby and plugging him at both ends. Squeal…couldn’t help but feel a bit jealous. Flake got so many good fucks, and as horny as Squeal was, he knew he was only ever going to get the leftovers–sometimes literally.
He’d been packing on weight ever since they’d left, and Colt had told him, while Squeal was eagerly eating out his crusty asshole one night, that by the time they got home, he was going to have Squeal so fat he’d be too big of a pig to ride ever again. As horrified as that made him, it also…fuck, thinking of being that big was making him horny, and hungry. He let off a long fart, and felt a little wetness in the back of his stinking, piss soaked underwear…and he knew he needed a fuck quick. A short distance away were a couple of fat, ugly pig bikers–but he bet they’d know how to treat him just right.
Maury looked at himself in the mirror, and realized he was a complete mess. The last few days had been spent in a food focused haze, and he’d smeared himself with more food than he could even remember eating, encouraging his two boys to eat it off their daddy’s flabby body. He…loved how their tongues felt, worshiping and digging into his fatty rolls. They might have to skip the table for breakfast, and just use their daddy instead. Still, it would be good to get a bit cleaned up, because…well, just because! It was the right thing to do, something was telling him, and so he turned on the shower in the tub and let the water heat up, watching the water swirl away down the drain for a moment, until it was at a comfortable temperature.
It took a bit of effort to get into the tub, with his size, but it was at least spacious enough to be comfortable. It was only after getting himself good and wet that he realized he’d forgotten his toiletries in his bag–but thankfully, there was a bottle of shampoo and a bar of soap already in the shower, which must have been left there by Rich’s uncle. It was funny, Maury realized, in all the years he’d known Rich, never once had he even mentioned having an uncle, until the topic of this cabin came up. Still, that wasn’t really something he needed to worry about, was it?
He grabbed the bottle of shampoo and squeezed it out into his hand–it came out in a thick glob, and as he lathered it into his short hair, it began to foam and lather–so much so that it was running down the rest of his body, until he was coated head to toe in white foam. It smelled nice though, and did have a soothing feel to it. He massaged it into his scalp, not really noticing that, as he did, the hair on his head was beginning to grow. He began working the shampoo in elsewhere–focusing particularly on his face, where his stubble began to grow as well, filling out into a full beard, as he moved down lower, working the shampoo into his armpits, down his flabby chest and huge gut, and then used a brush hanging in the shower to scrub it into his back, the crack of his ass, and all the way down his legs to his feet.
He…didn’t really know why he was being so vigorous with the shampoo, but as he rinsed off, it began to make a bit more sense. He was…an extremely hirsute fellow, after all. His hair had grown out into a shaggy mane hanging down past his shoulders, and his beard was now long and wild, extending down to his chest. All over the rest of his body, Maury’s relatively hairless frame was now packed with fur–especially all over his chest and back, curls erupting from between the cheeks of his ass, and tufts on the tops of his feet. Without giving it much more thought, he grabbed the bar of soap and started working a lather out of it, but the smell of the bar was much, much more pungent.
It reminded him of the locker room after practice, at first. He…thought about gagging, but the more he smelled it, the less he minded it. And as he rubbed it into his pits, into the fold of his sagging apron of fat, deep into his crotch and between his things, around to his ass, and again, all over his feet. He went from being put-off, to indifferent, to actually enjoying it, to…finding it arousing. It took some work, but while he let the soap work on his skin, he reached under his gut to jack off, shooting a sizable load of cum which ran down the drain, along with the rest of the runoff soap as he rinsed off. Finished, and feeling refreshed, he stepped out and toweled himself down.
He…stank, he realized. In fact, he smelled worse now that he was out of the shower, than he had before…but it was a good stink. It was his stink. He took a long whiff of his pits, feeling his cock shudder in his fat, but saved it. His boys would enjoy it too, after all. He gave his hair and beard a shake, and then stepped back out, and headed for the kitchen, where his boys were just finishing up the meal. The sight, and smell, of their daddy alarmed them at first, but once he had each of them tucked under an armpit for a moment, they were happy to sniff and lick at them while he ate–Brett ending up under the table to clean off daddy’s nasty feet, while Nate cleaned out his stinking fat rolls, Maury feeding them more as they pleased him.
Meanwhile, the drain fed the shower’s grey water down into the basement, where the filter was chugging away, and Rich, still encased in rubber, found himself gulping down…something new. For the longest time, it had just been this…foul liquid flooding into his mouth, a taste he had learned to enjoy, at this point, but this was different. It was…less concentrated, but there was more off it, tasting like wet dog and dirty jockstraps, and as he drank it, he felt his own body…begin to sweat, and shift around uncomfortably in the rubber body suit. It was good though–this was right. He felt like his mind had slowed down, his thoughts caught in a rubber prison, his mind mostly empty, unless he was consuming the liquid pouring into him. He wasn’t finished yet, though–he could tell. Soon, hopefully, but he didn’t know for certain.
Upstairs, the three men lounged about, bellies full, the boys reveling in their daddy’s powerful musk, and enjoying his furry body. They…knew something had changed, but couldn’t quite figure out what, exactly. “Alright boys, daddy is going to watch some TV for a bit. Why don’t the two of you go play in your rooms until dinner?” They nod, not quite sure where they’re going, but they know they’ll figure it out as they leave the kitchen. Alone again, Maury heaves himself up from the chair and goes back into the TV room, where it sits back down on the couch, turns on the TV, and before long is staring at the static, eyes glazed over, drool running down his chins, and learning so…so much he never knew about being a proper daddy.
This poll will be a bit different! The top two answers on this poll will be used for inspiration in the next two chapters, one posted on Saturday and the next (ideally) on Sunday, but early next week in any case. So, each boy has a room with a special theme–what should the themes be?
A room that looks suspiciously like a nursery.
A room adjacent to the garage, full of biker and redneck gear.
A room full of dirty laundry and porn that reeks of cum.
A shack outside, that smells of odd musk and smoke.
He looked like a monster–what in the world had Dick and Ash done to him? No–he could imagine what they did, well enough, even if he’d never seen the dummy itself, after the work. The floppy ears raised a bit too high on his head, the short snout pushing out under his nose and mouth…he could see his face still sliding into place, his nostrils widening at the end of the snout, even as his mouth shifted underneath it. It hurt less, than when his face had first reattached, but it didn’t feel good, and he certainly didn’t like looking at it, either–even if he couldn’t tear his eyes away from himself, from the huge gut, from the stubby cock poking out of a sheath underneath it, and two massive balls swinging below, each the size of a small melon. They were…churning, and not in a sense he’d ever experienced. He felt something well up at the head of his cock, and a slimy tear of precum leaked from the slit, and drooled down to the floor, followed by a steady stream after that. Even his hands and feet were different–especially his feet. He’d assumed walking was difficult just because he was beginning to regain sensation–but he was surprised he could feel anything. His feet were…trotters–thick and wide, but completely inhuman, and his hands were reduced to three clumsy fingers, probably good for holding cocks and not much else.
“Yeah, look at you, you fucking beast. We’ll be goin’ back home together, and you’re gonna be my pet piggy, ain’t ya? You stupid piece of shit?”
Trey didn’t know what to do about his face and body–but he was plenty angry. He’d always been angry, but he’d never had the ability to do much to back it up. But now–sure, he was fat, but there was plenty of muscle packed onto this frame too. He could…fight. He clenched a fist, turned, and swung, slamming it right into Dick’s face, sending him stumbling back into a chair, and then onto the ground behind him. Yeah–that felt good, and he swung around to glower at Ash.
“Fix this,” he tried to say, but it didn’t come out right–which didn’t surprise him, he supposed, but Ash got the message in any case, and Trey stalked over towards him, ready to punch him as well, when he felt something slender wrap it’s way around his neck, tighten down on his windpipe, and bring him down to his knees.
“Bar policy,” a new voice said, “Pets gotta be kept on a leash at all times–for safety’s sake.”
Dick sat up, wiping blood from his nose, and saw the bartender had come around, and was holding the end of the leather leash, connected to the collar wrapped around Trey’s throat, who was pawing at with his useless hands. “Fuck man, thanks.”
“Yeah Rod, I owe you,” Ash said.
The bartender shrugged. “You’ve earned your place here, Ash,” he said, “And you–I like you. But don’t let this thing loose again, or I’ll have it dragging you around instead, got it?”
Rod handed Dick the end of the leash, and he gripped it tight. “No worries man–I won’t let him out of my hand.”
Rod nodded, and walked back behind the bar. Trey kept pawing at the collar for a moment, but couldn’t…quite tell what was wrong. The collar wasn’t choking him physically–if anything, it felt…comfortable, or even necessary. He was a beast after all. A monster. He had to be controlled, and chained, and…and dominated. Just a stupid, dull beast of burden, worthless for much of anything, only good for what it’s master wanted. The collar was choking out his mind, and Ash could see the intellect and fight draining from the pigman’s face, eyes going slack and dark, a line of drool hanging from the front of his snout.
“Better give it a name too–something for the tag,” Rod added, once he was back behind the bar, “How about Troff? Looks like that thing loves shoving its face in ‘em enough.”
“Ha! Yeah, sounds good to me!” Dick said, “How about it, Troff?”
Was…was that him? It sounded right. It sounded like a good name for a stupid, subservient beast like him. His master was standing beside him, and looked like he was hurt–and for some reason, Troff thought that he had done that…but that couldn’t be right. No, Troff would never hurt Master, never in a million years. He’d…hurt whoever did that to Master, is what he’d do.
Dick, through the leash, could sense Troff’s anger, and decided to let the pet off for this one. “Calm down now, pig–here, let’s give you a treat, eh?” Dick said, and pressed the head of his cock to Troff’s snout, and with a delighted grunt, it started sucking on Master’s cock, one thick hand massaging it’s nuts, feeling more and more precum puddle around his knees on the floor. Maybe master would let him lick it up, later–Troff was good at licking shit up, after all. After a moment, Dick got Troff repositioned, so Ash could fuck his ass, and together they brought to pig to a snorting, squealing orgasm, cum pouring from his cock onto the floor, which, like he’d hoped, Dick let the pig lick up after they were all finished.
Ash shook Dick’s hand, and wished him luck with his new life, and his new pig, and then turned to his two gimps, both of whom had watched the entire scene without moving–though with mixed, if limited, feelings. “Alright you two,” Ash said, “I think we’re calling it an early night, tonight, and heading back to my place. I think you’ve earned the privilege of getting your faces back–after we have a little fun with your bodies, eh?”
Here are the results from both polls! This was a close one, since the twitter poll ended up tied for first place, which means the Patreon votes played spoiler.
First, the public poll on twitter (which had 60 total votes):
(manly shower) 37% – 22 votes
(old fogey tobacco) 23% – 14 votes
(basement) 37% – 22 votes
(resist) 3% – 2 votes
Second, the private patron only poll on Patreon (which had 39 votes)
(manly shower) 41% – 16 votes
(old fogey tobacco) 28% – 11 votes
(basement) 26% – 10 votes
(resist) 5% – 2 votes
Here’s the total results, out of 99 votes!
(manly shower) 38% – 38 votes
(old fogey tobacco) 25% – 25 votes
(basement) 32% – 32 votes
(resist) 3% – 4 votes
It looks like Maury is going to be taking a shower with some special soaps on Wednesday! Since it was a close one, with Rich in the basement, I’m sure we’ll have to see how the…runoff into the drains is affecting the little rubber man down there as well.
“Would you relax? I’ve never done something like this before. I don’t even know if it’ll work. It might just fuck up everything–who knows if it’ll even fit right.”
“It stretches though.”
“Well yeah, it stretches, but–look, if shit goes screwy with this? It’s not my fucking fault, got it?”
“What’s the worst that could happen?”
Ash just shook his head, and focused on the dummy in front of him, adding the last few details.
“It looks fucking ready to me–I love the look of that sack on it. Gonna be real fun kickin’ that shit with my boots on.”
“Alright, I think we’re good–or at least, we should be good,” Ash stood up and admired his work–he was surprised he’d never thought of this before, actually…usually when he took a man’s face, they never did end up getting them back. He liked to keep them tucked away, a nice collection of limp masks to mock and tease, tell them where their bodies were, and what men were doing to them. On occasion, he gave a man or two their faces back, usually once their guts were brimming with cum and piss. He…loved the look of their faces turning green, as they felt their bellies sloshing–usually right before stealing their face back. However, he’d never altered the dummy like this before. If it worked…he looked over at the two gimps behind him, and thought of their stupid fucking faces, hanging from hooks in his room. If this worked, he’d have to experiment a bit. He went over to the table and picked up Trey, slipping his hands up inside his face, and testing how flexible he was. More than enough to make it work, he supposed–but whether everything would line up properly was another question altogether. He rolled it up from the neck, so he could be as accurate as possible, pressed the crown of the face to the dummy’s head, and felt it stick.
The ears were tricky, making sure the rubber molds of the dummy pushed out into the ears of the mask–but they did, and the result, as he pulled down the rest, was an odd mix between Trey’s original ears, and his new, floppier ones sitting a bit higher on his head. The same with the nose and mouth–It stretched out over the snout he’d crafted, and it ended up somewhat shorter than he’d made it, but once the mask slipped down to the neck and rejoined with the body, the oddly bulging snout split open, and Trey let out a growling, panting, snorting heave of pain.
Wrong–it was all wrong. Trey hadn’t been able to tell much of what was going on, from where he was lying on the table, but when he’d felt Ash putting his face back on his body, he’d been so thankful, but once he was back, he realized that his body was not quite the same as it had been, when Ash had taken him off. He tried to move his hands to feel what was wrong with it, and why it hurt so much, but he couldn’t. Even though his face was back on, the rest of his body was just numb–he couldn’t feel it, or move it…though there was some progress, actually. His neckline was tingling, and as it did, he could feel sensation spreading down slowly, and he looked down, where life was slowly returning to his dummy body–but what he saw made him groan in horror.
This wasn’t his body–what the fuck did that fucker do to him? His skinny frame was gone–instead, it looked like someone had attached a tire pump to his navel, and pumped him full of lard. He had two massive moobs and a huge gut hanging down, covered in wiry doll hair and swirls of color. Sensation crept down, and he saw the hair and skin turn to flesh, the swirls becoming tattoos embedded in his skin. He tried to speak and protest, turned to his uncle and plead…but that wasn’t his uncle, looming over him. It looked a bit like him, but those eyes, and that sneer–this was someone else entirely.
The words didn’t come out right–there was something very wrong with his mouth, but he didn’t know what, exactly. Dick took his fingers and shoved them into Trey’s mouth, feeling around, checking it out. “Feels right–looks like it figured out what we wanted.”
“Good, I was hoping it would work like that,” Ash said, “Gotta say, it’s pretty fucking sick, man. In a good way.”
“Hell yeah it’s fuckin’ sick! Nice ‘n wet too. Gonna feel pretty fuckin’ great on my cock.”
The sensation in Trey’s body was coming back faster now, and had almost reached his fingers. He just…had to wait a moment more, but when Dick rubbed the head of his cock against his…mouth or nose, or whatever was wrong with his face, he couldn’t let it happen. He shoved him away, the force of it sending him toppling backwards. He rolled over, tried to force himself up, but his legs weren’t cooperating yet. So he crawled away, as best he could, until he could force himself upright. There, standing a few feet away from the bar, he saw his reflection in the mirror behind the bartender, and froze. It…it couldn’t be right. It couldn’t be. That thing, it wasn’t him, it had to be wrong, some cheap trick.
Dick came up behind him, and caught him in a hug, grinding his cock against Trey’s ass. “What do you think pig? Suits you, don’t it?”
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