Marv’s Doghouse (Part 2)

It was not a new doghouse by any means, in fact, it looked like it had housed quite a few pooches since it had been built, and it smelled like it too. The scent was strong enough, in fact, that when Marv threw off the tarp, it caught Ben off guard, making him sneeze.

“Finally got the last thing from my old place! Fucking moving company lost it, can you believe it? Offered to buy me a new one, but I made the fuckers hunt the thing down and it get to me. Some things can’t be replaced, you know?”

Ben did not know. As soon as something around his home began to show signs of wear, or no longer served its function, you just bought a new one. Isn’t that what normal people did? “It seems pretty old…”

“It’s been in my family for years, ever since my great uncle built it. Been wanting a new dog, but I’ve had to wait until I got the proper housing for it. Can’t have a proper dog without a proper doghouse.”

“Oh…do you have a breeder lined up yet?”

“Oh no, I only adopt.”

“Oh, well that’s good I suppose…so, do you need help lifting it?”

“That’s the idea! I could probably get it myself, but with the gate and all, it’s easier with a helper. You don’t mind, do you?”

It seemed like an easy enough task. Ben helped Marv get it to the edge of the truck bed, and then together, they hefted it up and carried it between the two of them over to the gate. Ben held it for a moment while Marv fished the latch open, and with his face pressed to the wood, he was again struck by the scent of the little dwelling. If the thing had been lost for so many months, then how in the world did the scent seem so…fresh? Ben had never been one to own a pet–especially a dog. It seemed like far too much effort on a thing that wouldn’t bring much reward–and if they smelled like this, then that gave him yet another reason to pass. But as they got it into the backyard, he reconsidered. It didn’t smell that bad, really. In fact, there was something about it that he almost…enjoyed? It was hard to explain what, exactly, he liked about it, but it was…comforting. They set it down in a corner of the yard, and Ben could finally take a look around the place–the closest he, or any of his other neighbors, had gotten to Marv’s house since he’d moved in. The backyard wasn’t much to look at, however–it had been as poorly maintained as the front was–though even more overgrown.

“You know, you can borrow my lawnmower anytime, Marv,” Ben said, kicking some of the ankle high grass.

The older fellow laughed, “Yeah, but why bother? It just keeps growing.”

“Yeah, that’s why you cut it.”

“No, you cut it to show everyone else that you cut it,” Marv said, with a wink. “Ya’ll do a lot of things so other people see you do them. Never been much interest to me–more interested in not being seen doing much.”

“It shows.”

“Yeah? Thanks! I’m pretty good at it.”

Ben wasn’t quite sure what to say to that–it wasn’t quite how he’d imagined the conversation might go, he supposed he should excuse himself and head back to his house, but something was making him linger. As overgrown and empty as the backyard was, just like the dog house next to him, there was something…comforting about it. Maybe…Maybe he was doing it wrong. It was a lot of work, after all (or rather, it would be without the help he hired to take care of it each week) and he didn’t know why, but this did seem easier. Like he could just settle down into the grass, next to the dog house, laze about all day…but that was silly, right? Very silly. He needed to get going, after all, there were things he had to do.

“Well, if that’s everything, I’ll probably head back.”

“Leaving already?” Marv said, “Stick around. There’s beer in the fridge, and I owe you a thank you drink at least, don’t I?”

It was a good offer, and the longer he stood there, the more he did, kind of, want to stay…and it was that sensation of comfort which he found himself distrusting more and more. Why did he want to be here, suddenly? He shouldn’t, right? The place looked like a dump, and even though all of the curtains were drawn, he had little doubt that inside would look much like the outside. “Katie is…expecting me actually, I should go–but maybe some other time.”

Before he could head to the gate, however, Marv was next to him, threw an arm around him, and a new scent hit him–it was Marv. The smell–it had the same…punch as the dog house and the yard did, but perhaps even stronger, and his legs went a bit weak. “Come on now, boy. You want to stay and have a drink with me.”

“Yeah…yeah, I do…” he muttered, and as he did, he felt…good. Good to agree with Marv, good to obey him. He felt good, and he also felt his cock stir in the front of the khakis he had on.

“Good boy,” Marv said, gave Ben a scritch behind the ears, and then headed for the house. Stay out here for a bit–I’ll just be a few minutes. You know how to stay, right boy?”

Marv’s Doghouse (Part 1)

It was a nice life–the sort of life Ben had always wanted. A nice job that he only hated some of the time, a house of his own on a quiet, suburban cul-de-sac, and last year he’d gotten married to a lovely woman, and they were planning on starting the rest of their family soon. He’d made it–from here on out, it would be smooth sailing, and maybe an early retirement. Boring, safe, pleasant and happy. That’s what he wanted. So when their new neighbor moved in–an older fellow by the name of Marv–he couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for him. He was probably twenty years older than Ben, but it was clear his life was not nearly as on track as his own. From the look of the truck he drove up, he worked in construction or something similar–no wife, no family. He was just…alone.

Of course, Ben didn’t really have much interest in his neighbors. He was pleasant, and he expected pleasantness in return, but beyond that, he preferred everyone else stayed out of his business. He especially felt that way about Marvin, though he found it difficult to explain why he felt uneasy around the older man. It was, perhaps, because despite the fact that his life seemed rather unfulfilled, he was, all the same, rather…happy. Or if he wasn’t happy, he could put on a very convincing happy face. And so, Ben found himself thinking and watching and wondering about Marv more than many of his other, much more normal neighbors. The others were like him, and in their normalcy, more transparent. He didn’t know the details–he could infer the rest from the jobs, the wives, the pets, the children. But over the next few months, as Marv settled into the cul-de-sac, it was clear that he was not cut from the same normal cloth as the rest of them.

The lawn was overgrown, and where everyone else conscientiously watered the grass all summer, he let his grow too long and it browned it several patches from the heat and sparse rain. The rest of the landscaping went unattended, and by early fall it was also overgrown and full of weeds. A few of the neighbors tried to mention it to him, and hint at the fact that his growing eyesore was possibly wounding their own property values, but as understanding as he would appear, nothing would change, and without as all powerful HOA there was little anything anyone could do but watch, and gossip, and wonder. No one could really know, what took place inside that house. There were no symbols of normalcy, no wife, no kids, and no conventional job, and so all that remained was speculation around the rotating neighborhood bar-be-ques, which Marv always courteously declined the attend.

“He’s a slob, and have you seen how many beer bottles are in the recycling?”

“”He probably works himself to the bone; I feel sorry for him. If I worked in construction the last thing I’d want to do is do a bunch of heavy lifting once I got home.”

“He seems so lonely–I don’t think he’s had anyone over since he moved in.”

“I wonder why he won’t come over? I’ve asked him to come by a few times, but he’s always said no. He seems like a snob to me.”

Ben could guess along, but none of his neighbor’s convictions seemed to move him. In all honesty, he had found himself reaching a space where he could stop caring. After all, he was much more focused on his wife, Katie, and trying to get her pregnant, to really worry about some strange, eccentric neighbor of his. The others could fret, and worry, and do their best to bring him into suburban line, but Ben had his path, and his plan, and he had no intention of letting anything upset it.

And so, when Marv waved to him across the cul-de-sac one September Saturday, Ben was confused. He hadn’t done anything to deserve a wave, had he? Picked up the mail? Dropped a newspaper at the porch? No–he’d simply resolved to let Marv have his strange life, a life Ben would never want to have a part of, and he assumed, in return, that Marv would show him no interest as well.

Still, he waved back. It’s what you did, after all. And instead of leaving at that, Marv smiled and walked across the street to where Ben was standing at the end of his driveway, wondering, what, in the world, the man could want.

“Hey there–it’s Ben, right?” Marv said as he came up. “Glad I could catch you–I was wondering if I could get your help with something real quick. You seem like the kind of fellow who isn’t afraid of a bit of heavy lifting.”

In fact, Ben was a bit of a scrawny fellow, and had never really been suited to much hard work. He generally hired help to do most of the heavy lifting around his house–and Marv…well, Marv seemed like he could tackle pretty much anything on his own. A few inches over six feet, broad in the shoulder, packed with muscle and a hefty gut–what could he possibly need anyone’s help with, much the less Ben’s? At the same time, you didn’t say no to a neighbor, either. Without asking for details, he said yes, and followed Marv back to his home, and around to the back of his truck. Inside, covered by a tarp which Marv unfurled, was a doghouse.

A Note on the Changes Coming to Patreon’s Payment System

wesleybracken:

As some of you have likely seen, going around on social media, Patreon has announced that starting December 18th, they are going to be changing how they collect payments and fees from creators and patrons. Previously, patrons pledged a particular amount to a creator, and from that amount, Patreon would assess fees, which were deducted from that total before being paid out to the creator. That is, all of the fees (credit card processing etc.) were assessed after a patron gave their pledge.

That is changing.

Now, instead, some of these fees will be charged directly to patrons themselves. That is, when you make a pledge, there will be a surcharge added for each contribution (.35 cents + 2.9% of your pledge) you are making to each creator on the site. So, if you are making a five dollar pledge to a creator, that $5 dollars is now going to be 5.00 + .35 + .15 = $5.50. A one dollar pledge will be $1.38, and a $10 pledge will become $10.64.

I don’t think this is a good idea, but I can also understand why the platform is making the change. It has been difficult at times, as a creator, to know exactly how much you will be receiving each month, because fees could vary widely depending on the number of supporters you have and the size of their contributions. This shift makes it much more clear–every creator is guaranteed to receive 95% of what their supporters contribute. This, actually, is a sizable raise in what I get from the site–essentially an additional $70 dollars a month–but that’s because the cost has, essentially, been shifted to the supporters, rather than coming from the contributions I’ve collecting after they’ve been made.

That said, I know that even a small additional charge is a burden, especially for those of you who are supporting multiple creators (I myself support several, and the fees can add up quickly) and I don’t think it is particularly fair for Patreon to force these fees onto supporters. That said, there’s very little I can do to alleviate this–there’s no way to opt out, as far as I can tell, but there is one thing I can do, at least.

Starting December 18th (the day these changes take place) I’m going to be reducing the $5 and $10 tiers on my Patreon by one dollar each, to $4 and $9 respectively. I can’t do anything to help those of you at the $1 level, unfortunately, because I can’t reduce that pledge any lower, but for those of you who would be inclined to stop pledging, this will give me a way to shoulder that cost a bit. Most importantly, I urge you to keep supporting your creators! Patreon has made it possible for so many of us to help support ourselves with our art–unfair or no, I think it would be a tragedy if people pulled their support from artists, writers and musicians over the very poor choices of the platform. That said, if you are able and willing to take on these unfair fees, I salute you–I’ll be doing that for the creators I support, certainly, rather than pulling my contributions, and I would urge you all to do the same–but for those of you who can’t afford the fees, this will hopefully help a few of you manage.

Thanks again to all of you who support me, in means so much that I can write these crazy stories and also make a sizable income from it as well. If enough of you keep pledging at the current level, and push me over the $700 dollar tier, then starting in January I’ll be posting content seven days a week! What that will look like, will be five days of content like I’ve been providing, and two days a week I will do either a caption, or an interactive story of some sort, like I’ve done in the past! 

If that’s content you want to see, then I hope you’ll keep pledging, but if you can’t afford the changes, I fully understand, and thank you for your support up to now.

tl;dr – Patreon is shifting fees off of creators, and onto patrons, which means your pledges will be going up. For people who would find this extra cost prohibitive, I’m dropping two of my tiers (the $5 and $10 levels) by a dollar each on December 18th to help offset these fees for those who can’t afford them. That said, this change could push me over the $700 goal line, and if it does, I’ll start producing content seven days a week in January, as promised!

I just wanted to reblog this for people who may not have seen it, and I also wanted to include a couple of links.

First, here’s a blog post from Patreon describing the mechanics of their new fee structure, and why they implemented it.

Second, here’s a more robust FAQ for patrons, if you’d like more details.

Orwell’s Demon (Part 10)

WARNING: Scat, Abuse, Filth, & other strange stuff.

Orwell couldn’t stop himself from trembling as the demon approached him. How could he have fought him for so long? How could he have ever wanted to deny himself this moment of glory? The demon’s form was grotestque, twisted–but then, so was Orwell’s own–so were they all. He’d been seeing everything through human eyes, before, comparing himself to the normalcy of earth, but why? Why had he refused?

“Now, I believe that I promised you a cock, Orwell. Unfortunately, Hurlbane is making use of your old one already–so we’ll have to give you a new one. Luckily, I have one just perfect for a piggy like you.”

The demon pressed one burning palm to Orwell’s bare groin, and he felt something stir beneath it–something was…inside him, trying to force it’s way out. A moment later, a corkscrew shaped cock erupted from beneath his skin, forming a sheath running up under his gut, and then two massive balls descended into a new sack, each of them the size of a small melon. The demon took his hand away, but the burning didn’t stop. The corrupted boar cock and balls were flooding his body with lust, changing him more. His hands and feet twisted and hardened, becoming four trotters, barely capable of holding anything==but what did Orwell need to hold anymore, beyond a cock? His face was twisting as well, a short snout pushing out from his face, two thick, dirty tusks growing from his lower jaw. Six more nipples erupted from his body, all of them cigars like the first two, and with a snap of his fingers the demon set them all alight, Orwell snorting and grunting in beautiful pain, smoke streaming from his now porcine nose and mouth. His hair returned, but not human hair–it was rough boar bristle, covering his back, leaving his belly bare, the skin hardening into a proper hide, the filthy designs twisting and contorting, mutating constantly into any number of perverse and blasphemous imagery. A short, curly tail shoved its way free above his ass, and it was done. Orwell was no longer human–just a demonic boar, enthralled to his demonic master. He lunged for the demon’s cock, sucking at it, drool pouring from his chin as he pleased him, eager to thank him, eager to prove that the demon had chosen well, when he’d drawn Orwell’s hand to the amulet that day in the store.

Behind him, Ray came, pressing his massive cock to the entrance of Orwell’s hole. “It feels…so long since I was inside you, Piggy–I missed it so much, I’m so happy you joined us, I’m so happy I can impale you whenever I fucking want…” He pushed into him, filling his ass with his massive cock, distending his belly, and rotten shit pushed out of his guts and onto the demon’s cock, spilling from Orwell’s maw.

“Aww yeah, that’s my filthy pig,” Jonathan said, and got down with him, licking the filth from Orwell’s mouth and the ground below him, “Love the taste of yer fermented fuckin’ filth, fuck! Gonna be feeding ya a whole lot–I hope yer ready tah get stuffed, cause I ain’t shit in fuckin’ ages, piggy. Gonna fill ya so full ya ain’t gonna move fer a week!”

Stewart came up next, and brought a chain whip down hard across Orwell’s back, making him squeal. Aaron came beside him, sharing smoky kisses with Officer Hurlbane, stroking both of his cocks before forcing the officer down, making him wrap his lips around his cigarcock and smoke him beside the demon skullfucking his newest pig.

“Are you ready, piggy? Spill your seed, and join us here forever. Spill it on the rocky ground, and know that you’re cursed. Give up your rationality, your will. Give me your humanity, and in return, I will give you eternal pleasure, and all of the perversity that you can possibly desire. Become mine, and you will know pleasure the likes of which mortals have never known. The demon pulled out, and forced Jonathan to turn around, so his hole was facing Orwell. Go on–give him a taste, and then fuck his disgusting hole–that’s what a dirty pig like you wants, right?”

Orwell did as the demon commanded, diving into the crack, licking at it, snorting down the disgusting trucker slob’s farts, eating the logs of shit pouring from the hole, feeling his gut distend even further as Ray fucked deeper and deeper into his ass. Unable to resist anymore, he mounted him, sliding his new boar cock into his greasy hole and began to rut, Stewart raining blows down across the boar’s hairy back, driving him to new heights of pleasure, until with a squeal loud enough to shake the cavern around them, he came. He flooded the hole with his corrupted cum, pleasure blooming within him, pushing out everything else–his memories, his human desires, his will, all rational thought. Orwell was no more–he was just a pig, just a demon, just a filthy, perverse toy for his master–just like they all were, and just like they would all be forever more.

A Note on the Changes Coming to Patreon’s Payment System

As some of you have likely seen, going around on social media, Patreon has announced that starting December 18th, they are going to be changing how they collect payments and fees from creators and patrons. Previously, patrons pledged a particular amount to a creator, and from that amount, Patreon would assess fees, which were deducted from that total before being paid out to the creator. That is, all of the fees (credit card processing etc.) were assessed after a patron gave their pledge.

That is changing.

Now, instead, some of these fees will be charged directly to patrons themselves. That is, when you make a pledge, there will be a surcharge added for each contribution (.35 cents + 2.9% of your pledge) you are making to each creator on the site. So, if you are making a five dollar pledge to a creator, that $5 dollars is now going to be 5.00 + .35 + .15 = $5.50. A one dollar pledge will be $1.38, and a $10 pledge will become $10.64.

I don’t think this is a good idea, but I can also understand why the platform is making the change. It has been difficult at times, as a creator, to know exactly how much you will be receiving each month, because fees could vary widely depending on the number of supporters you have and the size of their contributions. This shift makes it much more clear–every creator is guaranteed to receive 95% of what their supporters contribute. This, actually, is a sizable raise in what I get from the site–essentially an additional $70 dollars a month–but that’s because the cost has, essentially, been shifted to the supporters, rather than coming from the contributions I’ve collecting after they’ve been made.

That said, I know that even a small additional charge is a burden, especially for those of you who are supporting multiple creators (I myself support several, and the fees can add up quickly) and I don’t think it is particularly fair for Patreon to force these fees onto supporters. That said, there’s very little I can do to alleviate this–there’s no way to opt out, as far as I can tell, but there is one thing I can do, at least.

Starting December 18th (the day these changes take place) I’m going to be reducing the $5 and $10 tiers on my Patreon by one dollar each, to $4 and $9 respectively. I can’t do anything to help those of you at the $1 level, unfortunately, because I can’t reduce that pledge any lower, but for those of you who would be inclined to stop pledging, this will give me a way to shoulder that cost a bit. Most importantly, I urge you to keep supporting your creators! Patreon has made it possible for so many of us to help support ourselves with our art–unfair or no, I think it would be a tragedy if people pulled their support from artists, writers and musicians over the very poor choices of the platform. That said, if you are able and willing to take on these unfair fees, I salute you–I’ll be doing that for the creators I support, certainly, rather than pulling my contributions, and I would urge you all to do the same–but for those of you who can’t afford the fees, this will hopefully help a few of you manage.

Thanks again to all of you who support me, in means so much that I can write these crazy stories and also make a sizable income from it as well. If enough of you keep pledging at the current level, and push me over the $700 dollar tier, then starting in January I’ll be posting content seven days a week! What that will look like, will be five days of content like I’ve been providing, and two days a week I will do either a caption, or an interactive story of some sort, like I’ve done in the past! 

If that’s content you want to see, then I hope you’ll keep pledging, but if you can’t afford the changes, I fully understand, and thank you for your support up to now.

tl;dr – Patreon is shifting fees off of creators, and onto patrons, which means your pledges will be going up. For people who would find this extra cost prohibitive, I’m dropping two of my tiers (the $5 and $10 levels) by a dollar each on December 18th to help offset these fees for those who can’t afford them. That said, this change could push me over the $700 goal line, and if it does, I’ll start producing content seven days a week in January, as promised!

Orwell’s Demon (Part 9)

WARNING: Castration

“They…they keep growing,” Orwell said, to Hurlbane. As he’d been telling him about Mr. Piper, Hurlbane had demanded that he take off his shirt, that he prove he was telling the truth, that where his nipple had been a few days before, there were now two cinders. In fact, at that moment, they weren’t cinders–instead, what looked like two cigars were growing out of his chest, now almost two inches long, the ends charred from his last smoke. “I have to smoke them, twice a day, so no one can see them. Now do you believe me? Do you get it? Please, you have to fight it. I know it’s hard, but I…I don’t know what will happen after the last person, I don’t know what the demon is going to do to me.”

Do to you? Oh Orwell, after this one, I won’t do anything else to you, unless you want to stay with me, give me your soul. I can tell you still don’t want that, not yet…but I think me and the detective here have a good shot at changing your mind, still.

The detective shuddered, and when he opened his eyes again, the clear blue was gone–instead, in was just the deep red of the demon. It was too late–it had probably always been too late. “Well, with a confession like that, piggy, I don’t think we need a trial at all–I think we can move right to your punishment, don’t you?”

Orwell got up from the chair he’d been sitting, looking around for any escape, but before he could do anything, Hurlbane body slammed him up against the wall, pinning him there with his bulk, the cigar burning a inch from his face. “Please…please, not again…”

“See Orwell, I know what’s getting you in trouble. It’s this–don’t you think?” Hurlbane said, reaching down and groping Orwell’s cock and balls through his pants, before ripping the front apart, and letting them out. “Yeah, if you don’t want to be with me Orwell, then how about we make sure you don’t want anything ever again? How about we just take the problem out by the root?”

Hurlbane pulled out his own cock–it wasn’t particularly sizable, but it had a massive, heavy foreskin, hanging several inches over the head. Like a snake, the foreskin wormed out, found it’s way to Orwell’s cock, and swallowed it down–and Orwell felt it begin to suck. It hurt–he could feel the suction all the way through his cock, and even in his balls, pulling at them, and with a scream, he felt first one, and then the other, sucked up from his sack, and drawn through his cock and into Hurlbane, where each of Orwell’s balls came to rest in his own ball sack–leaving Orwell with none. Hurlbane groaned, and his four balls began to churn and grow, pumping testosterone into his body, and he grew even larger, bones and muscle inflating to new maximums, his face growing more angular, beard thicker and longer even as the hair on his head began to bald back. Still, the foreskin kept sucking, tugging at Orwell’s cock with greater and greater force, until with a gut wrenching tear, it came away from his body, swallowed down by Hurlbane’s own cock, leaving Orwell with simply nothing.

Hurlbane stepped back them, allowing Orwell to look down, and feel–there was nothing, just a hairy patch of skin where his cock and balls had once been–except as he brushed his hand against it, the hair all fell out. The rest of his hair followed suit–leaving him entirely bald in a matter of moments, the rest of his body softening, losing muscle–losing desire. He didn’t…want Hurlbane anymore. Orwell didn’t know what he wanted, really, beyond…to be used. Yes, that’s what he wanted. He wanted to be used. Used and abused by men, as many men as possible. To serve as their toilet, as their pain pig, as their cigar. Hurlbane spun him around, shoved him up against the wall, and pushed his cock into Orwell’s ass, making the hog moan loudly.

“This is it, Orwell. This is our last fuck. If the detective here cums inside you, and you don’t agree to come with me, then I will leave you–forever. But this body of yours? This is you now, and all you will ever be. A freak, lost in the world, searching for any man who will be willing to use you–but no man is going to desire you–no man can desire you like I do, because you’re mine. Because I made you to serve me, Orwell. To serve all of us. Not just me. Not just the other denizens of my realm. But us–Mr. Diamond. Stewart. Jonathan. Mr. Piper. They’re all down here. They’re all waiting for you. They want to use you, and I know how much you want them to use you too, Orwell. Don’t you want to see them again? Don’t you want to serve us all forever?”

Orwell didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know…anything anymore, beside how good it felt to have Hurlbane fucking him with his massive cock, his huge sack with four, fist sized balls swinging between their legs as he pumped into him.

“I’ll throw in something else, Orwell. I’ll give you a cock again. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Up here, you’ll never be a man again, just a thing. But down there…down with me, Orwell, you can be so much more than a man. You’ll never want for anything ever again. So say it. Say it Orwell. Say yes. Say that you want me!”

Orwell could feel it, feel Hurlbane coming close to his orgasm, pumping harder, slamming into his guts, full of shit and piss. But he knew, now, what he wanted. What he might have always wanted. “Yes…Yes! Yes, take me! Take me, please, I’m yours…”

Hurlbane came with a roar–a powerful roar, an inhuman sound reverberating through the room…but he didn’t disappear. No, the cock was still inside Orwell, but Orwell–the wall had turned rough, like stone. Hurlbane pulled free of his with a grunt and stepped back, allowing Orwell to slump to the stony ground and roll over, and behind him–they were all there. Ray, his meter long cock grazing against the stone. Stewart, muscled and tall and cruel, wrapped in chains and metal razor. Jonathan, his stench rolling off him in visible clouds. Aaron, his nipples smoldering, cigar cock jutting out from his groin. And with them now, Officer Hurlbane–hulking, hairy, more massive than them all, his huge sack of four balls hanging low below two huge, uncut cocks. But behind them all–the demon stood. Massive, horned, with the legs of a goat and the torso of a man. “Welcome, Orwell, to my domain,” he said, “Now–why don’t we all get you feeling more like yourself?”

Orwell’s Demon (Part 8)

-Before-

Orwell could feel it building again. He’d managed to hold the demon off for a month or so, longer than his gap between Stewart and that trucker, but it was growing…impatient. Orwell, on the other hand, had been adjusting to his new life, and his new physiology. He let off a belch, something he had to do much, much more often as the filth in his guts slowly rotted away, the acrid gas triggering the first hunger pang–but he didn’t want to face that yet. He hated eating, because he had to leave the house, and when he left the house, he had to…risk the demon getting hold of someone else. He’d put in for an extended leave with the school–he couldn’t bear the thought of ruining another student, like he had with Stewart. He…couldn’t risk it. Instead, he sat around his house, fucking himself with some dildos he purchased online, and slipping out each night to stuff himself with shit before retreating back home to sleep. Still–it was working. The demon hadn’t managed to ensnare anyone else, at least until he stepped outside for a bit of fresh air, and caught a whiff of something else instead.

It was smoke–but not from a barbeque or anything. It was sweet, and sharp, and as soon as he smelled it, he wanted to know what it was. He had to peek through the fence, where he saw his neighbor, Aaron Piper, smoking a short cigar out back behind his house. Mr. Piper was a nice, if boring fellow–middle aged, a nice wife, a teenaged daughter. Aaron was on the phone, and Orwell could eavesdrop–he was planning a poker night with a few buddies from work that evening, because his wife was out of town with his daughter.

That sounds like fun–maybe we should crash it?

Hearing that voice in his head, Orwell fled back inside, and did his best to put the entire incident out of his mind. Later, the hunger was growing worse, and he was getting ready to go out and eat, when his phone rang. Orwell had no idea who it could be at this hour, but he answered it, and the voice on the other side sent a chill through him.

“I sent the boys home early, Orwell. Told them I wasn’t feelin’ too good. Really, I just wanna play with the neighborhood piggy. Get your ass over here, pronto.”

There was a click, and the line went dead. It was Aaron–but not just Aaron. It was the demon. Orwell knew he should run, he knew he should, but instead, his legs walked him out the front door of his house, down the driveway, over to Aaron’s house, where he walked up, opened the front door, and stepped inside, expecting the worst.

What he found was a house so thick with smoke, he assumed something must have caught on fire. In fact, it was just Aaron, sitting in his armchair, with a massive cigar in his mouth, almost as big as a forearm. He was naked otherwise, covered in hair, grinning at Orwell in the doorway. “There ya are. Get on over here, piggy. I’m…tired of cigars. I wanna know what it’s like to smoke a pig.”

He had to run, he couldn’t let this happen, not again, not to someone this close to him! The smoke, however, was clouding his mind, drawing him closer to where Aaron was sitting, his clothes falling away, revealing his fat body, stinking of shit, covered in a riot of tattoos. As he came closer, Aaron picked up a butane cigar lighter from the table beside him, wrapped his other hand around Orwell’s back, and pulled him close, between his legs. Orwell felt something…rough against his cock, looked down, and saw that between Aaron’s legs wasn’t a cock–but another cigar, even more massive than the one he’d set aside in the ashtray beside him. “Don’t worry pig, you’ll get to smoke him too, I promise–but first, let’s light you up.”

He watched, frozen, as Aaron took the lighter and brought the bright blue flame to his left nipple, the pain searing through him, his cock pumping out cum as he shuddered. He opened his mouth to scream, but Aaron leaned over, locked lips with him, and inhaled. Orwell felt the heat on his nipple intensify, his mouth flooded with smoke, and when Aaron pulled away, a thick cloud of dark, sooty smoke between them, he looked down and saw that his left nipple had become a cinder, red with heat–just like a cigar. Aaron repeated the process with his right nipple, and locked lips with him again, more smoke pouring out of him, Aaron sucking it down, the heat unbearable on his chest, and yet, so…erotic.

“Yeah, that’s a hot smoke pig–now get down there, and let’s smoke your neighbor down, eh?”

Aaron shoved Orwell to his knees, and he took the end of his cigar cock in his mouth, while Aaron lit his own nipples as he had Orwell’s, ordering him to draw hard on the cigarcock, pull the smoke into him, and he did as he was ordered, head swimming with smoke, guts churning, certain that if everything in his guts had still been hooked up correctly, he would throw up from it. Aaron let Orwell smoke his cock for a few minutes, enjoying the hot smoke from Orwell’s body on his own cigar, and then shoved Orwell over and fucked him, the leaf rough on his hole, but thrilling all the same, smoke billowing from both of their bodies until with a loud moan, Aaron came, in huge gouts of smoke, filling Orwell’s hole with it, his body crumpling and turning to ash in the middle of his living room floor, leaving Orwell alone, naked, and with two still smouldering tits.

Orwell’s Demon (Part 7)

“You know, I’m curious. What the fuck does it even taste like?” Officer Hurlbane said, sitting down again, sucking on the cigar still. Orwell could…see him changing, slowly. The demon was enjoying himself, enjoying taunting him. His clean shaven face was coated in stubble now, though it would be a full beard before too much longer. The uniform he was wearing was straining against his growing frame, as the officer packed on muscle. He wasn’t sure if it was the light, but the material seemed…strange. It wasn’t cotton, like it had been–it was darkening, and picking up a sheen, like leather or rubber–probably the former. “I mean, doing what I do, I’ve seen a lot of freaks, Orwell, but I gotta say, you’re the first fucker I’ve ever talked to who actually ate the stuff. So, what’s it taste like? And do you fucking smear that shit on you too? Cause you sure fucking smell like it.”

Since his encounter with the trucker, whom Orwell later learned was named Jonathan when the police questioned him about it–given the similar circumstances around the man’s disappearance as the Ray and Stewart–he’d discovered that normal food…he couldn’t keep it down. It tasted…vile, and if he managed to get any into his stomach, he’d just end up vomiting it up a few minutes later. In fact…the only thing he’d eaten, since that day, was shit. It was the only thing he could eat–the only thing he wanted to eat. But worst of all–he couldn’t even eat his own, because his ass, and his guts…they were different too. Nothing was connected. His ass, he realized, was designed to be fucked now–and all the shit he ate, and piss he drank, just sat in his guts, filling and expanding as he ate more and more, and slowly, his body would…process it, and leech it back out through his pores. It was vile. He was vile. He was a monster, and he hated it, but he couldn’t resist it–and somehow, when he was around, men would always forget to flush.

“What, scared that I know your disgusting fucking secret? Did Ray find out? Did Stewart? What the fuck did you do to these men? Where the fuck are they, you fucking freak!”

He had to tell him, he had to. He should have tried before, it might be too late, but he had to try. “It’s not me! It’s not me, it’s…honest to god, sir, I’m possessed. This fucking amulet,” Orwell pulled it out of his shirt, “there’s a demon inside, and he…he corrupts men, please, he’s corrupting you too! You have to get out of here, before it’s too late, before he controls you too.”

Officer Hurlbane just stared at him, not at all sure what to say. “If you think you’re going to be able to use an insanity defense with that story, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.”

“I’m serious! Look at you! You’re smoking, have you ever smoked before? Your clothe are changing, you have a beard–look in the fucking mirror!” Orwell said, pointing to the wall…but it was gone. The mirror, and the window, was gone. It was just concrete–the entire room was concrete, there wasn’t even a door left.

Now now, that’s a very naughty piggy, trying to tell the policeman about me. It’s much too late for that though, you know. He’s mine, just like they all are. Just like you could be too, Orwell, if you’d stop being so stubborn.

“No–No! I won’t I fucking won’t. I don’t want this, let him go!”

You do want this, Orwell, I can see in your heart, how hungry you are, how much you need to be smoked. Wouldn’t it feel good, Orwell? Wouldn’t you rather have the nice officer smoking you, instead of that big, fat cigar of his? Wouldn’t that make you feel good? I can make it happen, you just have to want it–oh who are we kidding, we both know what you want, piggy.

The officer was changing faster now, his uniform completely leather, His face covered in a thick beard, hiding his lecherous grin. “Yeah, you’ve been a very bad piggy, haven’t you Orwell? He’s…he’s telling me all about you now, I…Fuck, you nasty fucking piece of shit…”

“Don’t fucking listen to him! You have to fight this, please! You’re the last one!”

“Tell me, Orwell. Tell me what you did to your fucking neighbor. Tell me what happened, I want to fucking hear it from your shit eating mouth. Get me good and horny with a nice story, and then the two of us are going to have some fun. I know how to set a piggy like you straight–I know what you need, what you deserve. I know…everything.”

“I can’t, please…”

“Fucking say it!” Hurlbane shouted at him, “Fucking tell me, you fucking pig!” He stood up, turned around, and dropped his leather pants, showing off his meaty ass. “Tell me what you did, or I won’t feed you this thick log of shit I have up here, waiting for your hungry lips. You want that, don’t you? You nasty, hungry, shitpig?”

Go on Orwell–tell him. He wants to know, he wants to know all about you. Tell him what you did to nice Mr. Piper the other night. Tell the officer what you saw that afternoon, what we did to him that night…

December Suggestion Box OPEN! | Wesley Bracken on Patreon

Hey everybody! It’s the start of a new month, and that means you all have a chance to suggest ideas for stories that you’d like to see me write! All it takes is one dollar put towards my Patreon, and then you can get the ability to suggest ideas, and also read the completed short stories once I finish them towards the end of the month. Of course, since it’s December, holiday suggestions are much appreciated! I don’t think I’ll be doing any holiday oriented stories beyond these ones this year (I generally consider the whole Christmas saga I’ve been writing to be finished after the fourth installment from last year) so if there’s something Santa focused you want to read, this is the best way to get it!

December Suggestion Box OPEN! | Wesley Bracken on Patreon

Orwell’s Demon (Part 6)

WARNING: Scat, General Filth

-Before-

Orwell did his best to lay low, after what had happened to Stewart, and Ray before that. With a new disappearance, Detective Hurlbane had started sniffing around more, and questioned Orwell, and a few other teachers, about the two disappearances. He’d seemed very suspicious about Orwell, but without a body, and without any real evidence or clear motive, what could he say? Orwell cooperated as best he could, in the ways he knew would pose no risk to him. He allowed the detective to search his house, before he could go to a judge for a warrant, and he found nothing. What, after all, was there to find? They were just…dust now. The demon said more, though…and on occasion, the demon used their voices, taunting him, urging him to give in, saying that they were waiting for him to join them, that they missed him.

Still, the heat relented, soon enough. Hurlbane backed off, and started pursuing other possible leads, and Orwell turned to other, more pressing matters–his new body. It had…needs, and desires his old one had never had before. He was perpetually horny, and his hands, if he didn’t keep them in check, would slip down the front of his pants to jack off, at any time of day, in front of whoever may be watching. The only two ways he could keep control of himself, were whipping himself at night until he bled, load after load of cum across the floor in front of him after each session, his back magically healed each morning–and by guzzling as much cum as he could possibly find.

But that, he couldn’t get from the school. No, he needed to get as far away from his normal life as he could, where, if the demon got a hold on someone else, he wouldn’t attract any suspicion. And so, Orwell became a regular at several rest areas outside of the city. The demon in his mind enjoyed it, enjoyed watching him debase himself for the truckers and travellers–and if a few fagbashers decided he needed a good working over? He’d more than happily take his beating too–although more than a few lost their interest once they discovered just how much Orwell enjoyed the punishment. But it was slim pickings at times, and it was on those nights that Orwell had the hardest time, coping with the demon inside him, taunting him, telling him that he could have any man he wanted in the parking lot, that all he had to do was ask. Still, Orwell kept his guard up–until one frustrating evening, when a trucker who we was certain would let him suck down a load had hauled off and punched him right in the face instead.

He was hungry. He was hungry, and he was angry, and before he even knew he’d done it, the trucker turned back around, and Orwell could see the red in his eyes. “Is this what you wanted Orwell? All he wanted was a chance to take a piss and a shit without being bothered–do you really think that was too much to ask?”

It was the smell that caught him next–a putrid, vile scent, like the worst body odor he’d ever imagined, rolling off the trucker’s body in waves. It singed and scared the inside of his mouth and nose, his mind roiling in the acid of it as he inhaled it, collapsing to the ground, and there, he saw that he wasn’t the only thing in the bathroom affected. The walls of the stalls…they were melting. The tile peeling under him, the porcelain of the sinks cracking and shattering behind him, and he watched as the clothes both he and the trucker were wearing dissolved away to nothing.

“Yeah, that’s more like it!” the trucker exclaimed, taking a long whiff of himself, and Orwell could see him growing, packing on fat, his skin covered in sores and lesions, thick hair filling in everywhere else. He lumbered over to a dissolving partition and looked over it, sighing, “Toilets are all busted–’n I can’t bust no load without droppin’ mah other loads. Guess that means yer gonna have tah do double duty, eh pig?”

Orwell tried to get up, tried to run, but something was wrong with him. His body–it too was melting and dissolving…somewhat. His arms and legs had withered, even as his guts had grown and sagged out into a heaving mass. The trucker picked him up, and carried him to the pipe where the toilet had sat, and shoved him onto it, Orwell feeling the cold metal slide in side his gelatinous form, and then the man turned around, shoved the ring of his hole against Orwell’s mouth, and let loose a long, noxious fart right into his mouth. He…swore he felt his teeth and jaw dissolve away, mouth hanging open, limp, as the shit began to pour from the man’s hole–more shit than Orwell had imagined possible, and all of it sliding down his tongue and throat, into his heaving body. He could…feel it in there, just resting inside of him, mounding up…and it felt good. He felt good. Lazy. Simple. Dumb. The man turned around, when he’d finished, pushed his thick cock into the shit covered toilet mouth, and let loose his piss, flooding Orwell’s body again, watching him writhe in pleasure and excitement, thrusting into the loose tunnel his throat had become until he added a load of stinking cum as well…the stink intensifying, and Orwell watched the man dissolve away into ash, leaving him alone, and trapped, in the rest are bathroom.

The scenery returned to normal, slowly, as the air cleared. Orwell’s arms and legs solidified again, allowing him to haul his way free of the pipe he’d been sitting on…but even outside, in the fresh air, he didn’t feel right. He could still…feel it, inside him. The shit and piss. He could smell it too. To his horror, as he drove home, he realized he could smell it on him–it was leeching out of him, through his skin, coating him…and the smell of it, as putrid as it was…it only was making him hungry all over again.