Marv’s Doghouse (Part 4)

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, boy?”

His heart froze, and he looked over his shoulder at Marv, who had returned to the patio carrying…a metal dog bowl.

“What the fuck did I say? I told you to sit, and stay, isn’t that right?”

The shame that welled up in Ben’s was as inexplicable as it was powerful, but he had to get out, he had to get help. He kept batting at the latch, close to getting it open, so close.

“Stop that, and come here.”

Ben’s body froze. He fought it, he fought it as hard as he could, but there was nothing he could do. He fell back down onto his hands and knees, head down, and crawled back over to the patio, where he saw Marv had come back out with another can of beer–and a dog bowl. “That’s a bad dog–a very bad dog!” he said, scolding Ben, and the shame ripped through him. Why had he done that? He should have never done that, he shouldn’t have even thought about it! What was wrong with him? He looked up at Marv and heard himself let off a pitiful whine of apology, tried to say something else, but his mouth…he couldn’t quite get it to work right. What came out of his mouth…it didn’t sound like words at all. “Now, drink your beer, boy,” Marv said, set the bowl down and poured the can into it, “While I get those stupid clothes off of you–I don’t think you’ll be needing them anymore, do you?”

Ben stared down at the bowl, confused, and went to try and pick it up with one of his hands…only to realize that what he still considered to be a hand wasn’t one–not anymore. The fingers had shrunken down considerably, and his thumb had pulled away from the rest of his fingers, higher up on his wrist. The nails on each finger had grown, and were all turning black, like…claws. He took one paw and brought it to his face as best he could and felt it–the snout pushing out from his smaller head, the hair growing in all over. He…he was turning into a dog.

“Go on boy, drink already.”

Ben instinctively pushed his head to the surface of the beer, and started lapping it up. He didn’t know how he knew to do it, he just…knew. Just like how he knew Marv was…his Master, and that this backyard was his home, and that…and that he was a dog. He pushed back against that, as hard as he could. He wasn’t a dog, he was a person! A human! His name was Ben, and he wasn’t some mutt, he was Marv’s neighbor, and he had to get out of here, somehow. Marv, meanwhile, had taken out a knife and started cutting away Ben’s clothes from work, tearing them off his body, and he could see that the changes, which had begun slowly, were now accelerating. Ben’s back legs were narrowing and growing shorter–without realizing it, Ben had gone from being on his hands and knees, to being on his front and back paws–all four legs now fully raised. “Yeah, now that’s a handsome lookin’ pup right there. I’ve really missing having one around, you know, but no normal dog is really satisfying, once you’ve had a special one in your life, like my uncle made. Smarter than any normal mutt, loyal, completely obedient, and willing to do anything–absolutely anything for their master’s pleasure, right boy?”

He felt Marv grab…something. Something attached to him, right above his ass. It took him a moment to realize it was his fledgling tail, just starting to grow in–now a few inches long, mostly nude, but with hair rapidly filling in. He gave a yelp, when he felt a finger probe into his ass, and tried to pull away, but Marv wrapped his other arm around his hips, and hauled him back.

“Now now, boy–you want this as much as I do. This is a mutt’s ultimate service for their master–now hold still!”

Ben heard Marv unzip the fly of his jeans, and a moment later something much larger than a finger pressed against his hole–it was Marv’s cock. But while the disgust was still there, it was quickly eclipsed by something else…he was happy. Thrilled, really. Eager. His master slid into his tail hole, and Ben gave a yip, eager for his Master to fill him up, eager to serve him.

“Yeah, that’s a good boy–you’re a good boy, aren’t you? You won’t be trying to escape ever again, I can promise you that–you’re going to be on a very tight leash, not that you’d want it any other way, right mutt?”

The hair was spreading faster now, filling in all over Ben’s body. On his front legs (his arms he tried to tell himself, but that wasn’t right! They were legs, weren’t they?) the hair was a light golden tan, all the way down to his new paws, and looking back, looking up at his master, his handsome master fucking his tail hole, he could see that over his back, in a saddle, the fur was black. He’d seen dogs like this, like him, before–one of his next door neighbors when he was a kid, who’d been a police officer, had had one. He was becoming a german shepherd. His tail kept growing longer, the hair on it filling out and turning bushy. Marv…Master…he was close. Ben could sense it, and it was getting him excited as well, the heat in his own crotch increasing as his cock, the last human part of him, began to shift. The skin turned into a bright red, and it shrank somewhat–the head becoming narrow and flared, a furry sheath growing up over his balls and the shaft, though he was much, much too horny for it to slide in at the moment. His master–his master was fucking him, and he loved it when his Master fucked him, it was the greatest feeling a pup like him could feel, and he loved it.

How did you learn how to create an image in your writing?

Becoming a better writer, no matter what you’re trying to get better at, eventually comes down to two things.

1) Read a lot of stuff, and when you read it, don’t read passively. Stop and think about why it works, and how it works.

2) Practice. Write a lot, as much as you can.

There’s no real shortcut, especially when you’re asking about a massive topic like creating imagery.

will you do your chrismas Stories agian this year? will youh have more too good boy being turned into filthy bodybuilders or dirty rednecks?

I might take the year off from doing anything Christmas themed–I have some other stuff I’m working on at the moment that has my attention. That said, I’m planning on doing some Christmas themed shorts this month for people supporting me on Patreon, so keep your eyes peeled for that, if you want.

Marv’s Doghouse (Part 3)

Ben nodded, and Marv slipped into the house, leaving Ben alone in the grass. He eyed the gate, knowing he should leave, that something about this man, and this house, and this yard, was very strange, and somehow very wrong…but he’d been told to stay. He’d been told to stay, and so he had to stay. Still, he didn’t have to stay exactly here, right? He looked at the patio, and the only feature was a dirty table and a couple of chairs, and he walked over to take a seat…but as he did, he noticed that, for some reason, his feet were hurting in his shoes. He sat down and tried to ignore it, but the ache was there even without putting any pressure on him–and his hands hurt too, oddly enough. Was it from carrying the doghouse? It had been awkward more than heavy, but maybe he was more out of shape than he thought.

Marv returned after a couple of minutes with two cans of beer in hand. He set one down in front of Ben, and then sat down at the table across from him in the other chair with a grunt. Ben grabbed the can, but the pain in his hand was intensifying, and he found it a bit…difficult to grip it, and when he brought it to his mouth to take a drink, the cold liquid made his teeth ache as well–and that ache didn’t fade after he’d swallowed. “You know…I’m not…feeling very good,” Ben said, “I think I might be coming down with something. I should probably go.”

“No Ben–you’re going to sit, stay and drink your beer,” Marv said, that grin on his face a bit wider. “That would make you feel good, right?”

“Yeah, but…”

“Don’t worry about the rest, Ben. Just relax.”

“A-Alright…” he said, still feeling confused, and took another sip of beer from the can, feeling a bit of it run down his chin and onto his shirt, which was awkward, but if Marv noticed, he didn’t seem to be bothered by it–he was too busy filling the silence, with nothing in particular–talking about the dog house for a bit, about how much it meant to finally have it back. Pontificating about sports for a while, about how much better the teams were back where he’d grown up, and Ben–despite being a local fan–found it hard to get a word in edgewise. His mouth…didn’t quite seem to work right, and his tongue would get in the way. He checked the can to see what the alcohol level was, but it wasn’t particularly strong, but even then, his vision seemed a bit…off. Words were a bit blurry, and everything seemed less…vibrant, like the color was slowly draining from everything around him, particularly the red hues of Marv’s shirt.

Still, he had to sit, and stay, and finish the beer, right? But that was proving harder than he’d expected for some reason, because after sitting with Marv and listening to him for fifteen minutes or so…he found it surprisingly difficult to pick up the can of beer in front of him. His hands were cramping badly now, the pain growing, and he couldn’t get his fingers to wrap around the can, and his thumb was refusing to work. With a growl, growing frustrated, he gave the can a bat, tipping it over and spilling beer all over the table.

“Having some trouble man?” Marv asked.

“I…I ‘eally don’ heel good…” Ben said, “I can’ pic ap the ‘an.”

“Yeah, I can see you having a bit of trouble there, boy,” Marv said, and hefted himself up out of his chair. “Let me get you something else–I’ll just be a second.”

Ben tried to object, hoping Marv would actually understand his distress, but the words wouldn’t quite come to his mouth. All he managed in the end, after Marv had shut the door, was a high pitched whine. What in the world was wrong with him? He looked down at his hands, and they didn’t…look right. His fingers seemed a bit too short–especially his thumbs, and they had somehow slid down his hand, closer to his wrist. Had…had he somehow broken his hands, without even realizing it? He needed to get out of here–he had to get help, since it was clear that Marv wasn’t going to do anything for him. He steeled himself, and stood up, feeling…a wave of dread and horror wash through him for standing up and disobeying Marv’s order to sit, but he did it. He was wobbly, and felt almost drunk, and for some reason he couldn’t…drop his heels to the ground, leaving him stuck standing on the balls of his feet. When he tried, the tendons at the back of his legs screamed in pain–he’d just have to balance as best he could. He pushed back the chair and nearly fell over, tried to take a step, and his foot slipped right out of his shoe. He looked down at his foot–and through the sock, it looked…even more deformed than his hands did. He looked at the shoe, abandoned under the table, but there was no way he’d be able to bend down and pick it up with his hands contorted like they were–he’d have to abandon them. He stepped out of his other shoe, and started across the yard, shaking and unsteady for a few steps, until he lost balance and fell into the grass on hands and knees.

Fine–he’d just crawl, he told himself. It seemed a bit easier actually, than walking had been, and he moved through the tall grass to the gate, looked up, and saw the latch. He tried to get his knees underneath him, so he could stand back up, but like his heels, the tendons and muscles of his body were screaming at him, refusing to move in any normal direction. Unable to get onto his knees, he had to try and reach up with his hands, crawling up the side of the gate, but even when he got high enough to touch the latch, his paralyzed hands were worthless.