Orwell’s Demon (Part 5)

Orwell still had a difficult time recognizing himself. He glanced over at the one way mirror, wondering if there was anyone back there who could help him, who could, maybe, save the detective. He knew, at this point, that is was much, much too late to save himself. The things he’d done to people, the person he’d become–the person the demon had turned him into, if he could even still count as a person. He didn’t feel very human anymore, really.

That’s because you aren’t human, are you? You’re a pig, Orwell. You’re my pig. Don’t you get that yet? Don’t you understand that? You’re mine, and all this fighting, all this denial, look where it’s gotten you, fucking look at yourself.

He did look over, at his reflection. Before this, before he’d found the amulet, he’d been 25, fresh out of school, slim and fit. Ray had ruined his body, but it was Stewart who had really destroyed him. His face was the worst. Looking at himself, how could anyone even bear to look at him? Everyone treated him like he was normal, all the same, with that short, pushed up nose, the small eyes, the crown devoid of hair, the bushy, wild beard he could never tame, or trim. The skin looked tough and flaky–and old. Everyone, after Stewart, had treated him like he was a man in his early fifties–even his driver’s license had  been changed, both photo and year of birth. The same skin on his face was everywhere–a tough hide, but under his clothes was worse. That’s where the tattoos were. Old and faded, they had come with the skin–humiliating pictures and words all over himself. He’d been forced into long sleeved shirts and high collars just to hide them, just to hide himself. Nothing felt right, either. Touching things–every texture was dull, but pain…oh, pain…

Hurlbane slapped him, hard across the face then, to get his attention, and when he did, Orwell let out a snort, and felt his cock jump and spurt a bit of cum into his pants. Why–why did it have to feel so fucking good?

“Are you still with me, Orwell? Have anything to say? Because this is looking like a pattern now. Two men, last seen with you, disappearing after school without a trace. Their cars abandoned. No one knows anything, and you are playing completely dumb, despite the fact that you had relationships with both of them.”

“Did you think that, maybe, they ran off together? Stewart was on the wrestling team.”

Hurlbane scoffed. “Yeah, I looked into that, but with as much pussy as both of them were getting, I doubt they had much time for each other. They weren’t faggots–not like you, Orwell.”

His cheeks flushed.

“Yeah, I know all about that. I’ve had someone trailing you for a few weeks now. All that sick shit you get into outside of town. What the fuck is wrong with you? I can’t fucking believe we let a nasty, disgusting pig like you around our fucking kids.”

Hurlbane didn’t seemed that disgusted–not judging by the size of the erection in his pants. The demon was in him, Orwell could tell–but he was toying with him. Toying with them both. “Detective…I know this is hard to believe, but this…you need to get out of here. You need to get away from me, please.”

“Why, Orwell? Are you going to try and make me disappear like Ray and Stewart? Like Jonathan Randolf?”

“I…I already told you, I don’t know anything about that.”

Another smack to the face, enough to make Orwell snort, smelling the detective’s smoke, smeling his…arousal. He licked his lips, wishing he wasn’t so…hungry.

“What did I just tell you, Orwell? I’ve had someone following you, I know where you go to get your fix. I know the kind of men you like. Your favorite spot? Grover Hill Rest Area, where Mr. Randolf’s truck was found, abandoned, with no sign of struggle, and no evidence of any kind. Just like Ray, and Stewart. It took some work, but I have a few truckers willing to testify that they’d seen you at the rest area before–doing that shit you do–and I have a good idea that on the night Jonathan was last seen, I know exactly where you were.

Orwell said nothing, but his guts gave a growl.

“What’s wrong, pig? Can’t talk on an empty stomach? Well don’t think you’re going to find a snack here, you sick fucking freak.”

He sounds pretty confident about that, Orwell–but you didn’t eat yet today. You must be very hungry. I could have him drop those pants, right here and now, and you can eat all you want. Would you like that, Orwell?

“No–no, please stop this, please, I can’t…do this anymore,” Orwell said, trying to keep from sobbing.

“Then tell me the fucking truth, Orwell–tell me what happened that night. You have no real alibi. We both know where you were, and who you were with. Just fucking admit it, like a good fucking pig, and we can move on to your punishment, like you really want,” Hurlbane said, hefted up a boot, and planted it right in Orwell’s crotch, pressing hard, his heel digging into Orwell’s balls, making him snort. “Yeah pig–you want to tell me. You want it off your chest. You’re proud of it. So fucking tell me. Tell me how you did it. Tell me, and I’ll give you what you fucking want.”

Orwell’s Demon (Part 4)

WARNING: Extreme violence, gore.

-Before-

It had been a week and a half since Ray Diamond’s disappearance. From one afternoon, after school, to the next morning, he was simply gone. He never arrived home that day, his car was still at the school, but there was no sign of a struggle, and so clue about where he could have possibly gone. The police were stumped, but the best the detective on the case, Officer Ed Hurlbane could guess, was that he must have simply run. It didn’t sit particularly well with him–in particular, people who ran tended to leave clues, at the very least–empty bank accounts, notes of apology–but there was simply nothing. Still, what else could it be? There was no body, there was no sign of a struggle. The coach had been one of the largest people on staff–if someone was going to take him down, it wouldn’t have been easy. But no one seemed to have a reason to hate him, either–according to the rest of the staff, he’d been a perfect colleague. So Hurlbane set it aside–unless something else came up, there was nothing to be done about it, and there were more serious cases that needed his attention.

Orwell, on the other hand, couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t stop…feeling Ray’s massive, yard long cock skewering him from ass to mouth. It was in his dreams, it was in his fantasies–it was all he could think about, and the voice in the amulet, the demon, was more than happy to keep inflaming those desires, telling Orwell that all he had to do was pick someone else, and he could feel that again, and so much more. He’d tried taking it off, but his hands refused to obey him. He hated it. He hated himself. He could barely even look himself in the mirror, at his fat, sagging frame…but the voice was right.

You want more, Orwell. If you didn’t want more, you could be done with me, but I know what’s in your heart. I know what you want. Let me give it to you, let me make you happy again.

Still, he carried on, pretended that everything was normal. But one afternoon, after school, he slipped. The teachers dealt with detention on a rotation–every teacher took a turn staying after school to observe the detention hall and the students there. It was generally boring, but provided a good chance to get some work done, but one student in particular had rankled Orwell that day–a student he’d sent to detention himself.

Stewart Riverdell was one of the star jocks at the school, and Orwell had caught him passing notes in class–notes which had been making fun of Orwell’s now fat, ugly body, calling him a pig and a fat ass. He was furious. He was furious because he hated himself too. He was furious because…because Stewart was right.

Of course he’s right. You are a pig. A pig hungry for cock. Hungry for cum. Hungry for abuse. It’s what you want Orwell, just admit it.

The voice spoke the entire hour of detention, and Orwell found his will breaking down. He couldn’t stop…staring at Stewart, barely able to glance away to the clock to see how much of the hour was left before he could be free. At last, the hour was up, and he raced to get his things together and be gone, but when he stood up, a hand shoved him back down into the chair, and there, standing in front of him, was Stewart, his eyes burning like coal, just as Ray’s had.

“Where do you think you’re going, Piggy?” Stewart said, “Aren’t you here for your punishment? Haven’t you been a very, naughty piggy? Trying to tell yourself that you’re something else, someone better than a cock hungry pigwhore?”

Stewart, and the demon inside him, began tearing at Orwell’s clothes, but he fought back, got up and rushed for the door, only for something to slip its way around his neck and pull tight, choking the air from his lungs. He gasped for air as Stewart walked up to him, holding the leash tight connected to the choke collar around Orwell’s neck, watching his fat face turn blue as he grasped for the door, watching it turn solid, becoming concrete, the entire room becoming a concrete cell with no way out.

“That’s a very bad piggy. I think we need to teach you a lesson, show you just what kind of pig you are. A pain pig, a pig who wants nothing more than to be punished at my hand–how does that sound? This young man–such vitality. I think we can keep you in here for days–isn’t that exciting?”

Orwell had no idea how long the demon kept him in that dungeon he’d created. He lost track of time rather quickly, as Stewart flayed his back apart, stripping the flesh from his back and thighs with whips and chains. He was certain he was going to die, certain that this, at least would be the end of him.

“Oh no, piggy. This isn’t the end. But we have to get rid of the old to bring in the new, don’t we?”

The demon flayed him, removing every patch of skin from his body. The pain was excruciating and indescribable. And then, when he was nothing more than a bloody mass of flesh, the demon began pressing something else onto him, a hide, the skin of another, pieced together. It was rough, and hairy, and stank, but this new skin–it was nothing like his own. Every lash across it brought a sigh of pleasure, every needle piercing into his flesh brought a massive gout of cum from his cock, dribbling from the heavy, overhanging foreskin he’d been given. Stewart saved Orwell’s new face for last, peeling his visage away, pinning it to the wall as a trophy, before giving him a few face, a face for a pig, a face that would insure that Orwell would never again question his place in the order of the world–and that no one else would either.

The next thing Orwell knew, he was on the floor of the classroom, soaked in sweat, heaving and trembling in pain and pleasure. The same ash floated down around him, the last remaining chunks of Stewart drifting about in the air and dissolving away to dust. Orwell flung on his tattered clothes and fled the room, racing home, and only there did he stop and see what the demon had wrought upon him.

Orwell’s Demon (Part 3)

“I told you before, I left early that day,” Orwell said, “Ray was still at his desk when I last saw him.”

The detective nodded. “Yes, you did say that. But I went back and asked for a few more interviews, Orwell. I have two students who say they saw both of you, together, heading for the gyms–apparently holding hands.”

Orwell felt his face turn red, but he didn’t say anything.

Oh dear, always a few loose ends. Well, you always have one more, Orwell. Just think about. Think about him, we could have such fun with him, don’t you think?

He shook his head, and Hurlbane coked his head slightly. Orwell seemed…a bit off today. Granted, the teacher had always seemed a bit strange–stranger every time he’d encountered him, but today, in particular…there was something almost wrong about him, but he didn’t know what. A thought occurred to him, then, and he realized what he’d noticed, but hadn’t been able to put a finger on–he was weak. He was weak, and tired, and he wanted so desperately to give up–all he needed was a push, and a little voice in Hurlbane’s head was assuring him that he was just the sort of person who could give Orwell the push he so desperately needed.

“Still wanting to smoke, Orwell? Think a cigar might help you remember? I know I always think better with one,” Hurlbane said, reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a sizable cigar. Had…had that been in there? He wasn’t a smoker, was he? But he needed to do this–he could feel it. This was going to help Orwell break, it was going to drive him nuts. Of course…he really shouldn’t be smoking in the station, or in one of these rooms–they weren’t very well ventilated. He looked over to the mirror, but couldn’t see any hint of…displeasure, and then at the door. They’d stop him if he went too far, right?

“Don’t…I know he’s telling you that you should, but don’t. Don’t smoke it, don’t listen to it, just run.”

Orwell was looking at him now, trying to project confidence, but what could a puny, chubby, sad little faggot like that hope to accomplish? He wasn’t in charge here–no. Hurlbane knew who was calling the shots here. He locked eyes with Orwell, took out his butane lighter, bit off the cap, and lit up, seeing the desire–the need–flood across Orwell’s face as he drew the smoke in. It hurt his lungs a bit, and it seemed…hot. Too hot, but he could handle it.

“There’s no one here but us, Orwell. Who are you talking about?”

“It’s…please, just leave.”

“I don’t think so Orwell, I think we still have more to discuss. Now, we were discussing Ray, weren’t we? Mr. Diamond? Like I said, two students I’ve interviewed in the last month put the two of you together after school, the day he disappeared. What were the two of you doing–especially holding hands?”

“I… I don’t remember that at all.”

“Convenient.”

“I’m…I’m sorry, I don’t know anything more than what I told you the first time.”

Hurlbane sat down across from him at the table, took a long drag off the cigar, and blew the smoke into Orwell’s face. He flinched, shuddered, and his head dropped towards his chest for a moment, his breathing deep..

“Smells good, doesn’t it?”

“Yes…”

“Yes…what?”

Orwell’s head snapped back up, he looked to the exit–should he run for it? No–if he ran…they’d lock him up in here, with him. He was already locked up in here with him. What could he do? Should…should he tell him? There was no way he’d believe him, and if he did tell him, his demon would just…just take him over anyway. No–the only way he could maybe save the detective was with silence.

“Come on Orwell, I know you want to tell me something. I’ve been doing this a very long time, and it’s all over your face. It’s heavy, isn’t it? The guilt?”

It was heavy, but it wasn’t his fault.

Now Orwell, we know the truth, don’t we? We know what a worm you are, what a pathetic little pig you turn into when you’re alone with a real man, when you’re alone with me. Why don’t you take your shirt and pants off for him? Show the nice officer what you really are, under those dirty rags of yours?

Orwell tugged down on the cuff of his shirt, sweating a bit.

If you show him, I might let him go. We can find someone nice in prison, don’t you think? Because that’s where you’re going, Orwell. That’s the only path I see, other than…you know…

“We can come back to Mr. Diamond, I suppose,” Hurlbane said, sitting back in the chair, cigar clamped in his jaw, chuffing smoke. “Let’s talk about Stewart. After all, we already know you were the last one to see him–you admitted that to us. He came to your class for detention, and then left–but his car was found in the parking lot–it hadn’t moved. So somehow, from leaving the classroom with you–and no one can confirm he even left the classroom, mind you–to his car, he simply vanished. How about that? Do you have any more you’d like to tell me about that?”

Orwell sat, silent.

Go on Orwell, take off that shirt. Show the officer what Stewart did to you. Show him what you deserve.

“S-Shut up…”

We know what you deserve, don’t we Orwell? You deserve to be punished.

November Bonus Story – Winston’s Stable Part 2 | Wesley Bracken on Patreon

This month’s bonus story is the sequel to Winston’s Stable! I posted the first part last month, which followed Mark, as his new Master used his warped science to turn him into his first beastly creation, Titpig. In the sequel,

Winston adds two new beats to his menagerie–Joey, who was Mark’s boyfriend in part one, as well as Joey’s current boyfriend Paul. Anyone giving at least $5 a month to my Patreon gets access to this story, as well as every other bonus story I’ve published–almost an entire year of extras at this point! 

Below is an excerpt from the sequel–we’ll return to Orwell’s Demon tomorrow, I promise!

“Winston’s Stable II – Excerpt”

There was a click in the room, and a Winston’s voice appeared over the speakers inside. “I’m afraid I never had a chance to introduce myself properly to you both, when Titpig and I can to visit. I’d give you my name, but I assure you both that you won’t be able to remember it soon enough, so you might as well get used to thinking of me as your master–it’ll help speed things up.”

“You fucking sick bastard!” Paul shouted into the room, “You can’t fucking keep us down here–people are going to look for us.”

Winston laughed into the speaker, “Oh, I assure you, people have been looking. You’ve been down here for almost a month, after all. However–if they haven’t found you by now, well…I doubt they will. In any case, Paul, why don’t you put that mouth of yours to better use. Paul, suck on Joey’s nipples, please.”

Paul had no intention of obeying the disembodied voice, but his body didn’t give him any other option. He walked over to Joey, leaned in and started sucking at his chest, Joey trying to push him off, but Paul couldn’t take no for an answer. “Paul–Paul! Get a hold of yourself!”

“Joey, stop fighting, and enjoy yourself,” Winston said, and saw Joey relax against the wall, Paul sucking harder. After a few moments, Joey felt something around his nipple, a slight…tingle, which became almost an uncomfortable burning and pulsing sensation. He fought against Winston’s order as hard as he could, but all he could do was moan, and let Paul switch to the other, allowing him a chance to look at the one Paul had been servicing, seeing that in a few minutes it had turned swollen and red. Winston allowed Paul about the same amount of time on the other nipple, and then leaned over the mic again, “That’s enough foreplay–Paul, go ahead and suck on Joey’s dick, please, and make sure you get plenty of your special spit all over his balls too.”

Joey begged and pleaded with him, but Paul dropped to his knees with a whimper, and started slobbering all over Joey’s cock and balls, soaking them in his spit, and the same tingling, burning sensation spread over them as well. Joey had expected it to hurt, but instead it was turning him on more, and he barely heard Winston tell him to start toying with his now meatier nipples, letting his boyfriend suck him off, the burning sensation growing more intense as he grew closer, and when he came–the load was massive. He could…feel the force of his balls pumping cum out of him, it was so powerful that it actually hurt. Paul swallowed the entire load down, and when the flow stopped, he stumbled up…and Joey could see that something was wrong with him.

His eyes were glazed, and he clutched his gut, which gurgled loud enough that Joey could hear it beside him. “Fuck…I don’t…feel so fucking good…”

“You know what will make you feel better, Paul? Fucking Joey’s tight ass. You want your boyfriend to fuck you, don’t you Joey?”

In fact, it was the furthest thing from his mind, but Joey bent over the side of the bed, and Paul stumbled over, cock hard as a rock, and without even bothering to lube up, he worked the head into the hole–but to their surprise, his cock slipped in easily. In fact, Joey’s hole almost seemed…wet, almost as wet as Paul’s mouth had become, and still was–the drool flowing out of his mouth and down his chin as he fucked. Joey had liked the fact that Paul was a gentle lover, but this was different–this was rough and forceful and brutal, and it seemed like every thrust drove a bit deeper into Joey’s hole–and the deeper Paul went, the better it felt. He fucked him long enough for them both to work up a sweat, and finally he came, planting his load deep in Joey’s ass, and Joey felt it, the hot seed filling him up, that same burning sensation infusing his guts and spreading out to the rest of his body, leaving him groaning and writhing on the bed until the feeling subsided after a few minutes, and he could roll over and sit up and see Paul standing there in the room…and it was clear that something was different.

He still looked like Paul, mostly. But his body hair seemed a bit thicker, and his muscles looked a bit inflamed–not to mention his cock, was was either still mostly hard, or else was in fact larger, his balls hanging a bit lower. He was panting, drool still flowing from his mouth, and it seemed like he literally couldn’t make it stop, even as he licked his lips to try and keep it in. “Joey…are you ok?” Paul asked.

“I…I think so…”

“I…I think my cum…did something to you…”

Joey looked down at himself, and realized Paul wasn’t the only one who had changed–his slender frame looked slightly softer than before, and with a pinch of his belly, he realized he’d grown a slight paunch. Beyond his puffy, sensitive nipples, his cock was still tingling from Paul’s blowjob, but as the tingling faded, what remained was almost a numbness. He reached down and felt his cock, and was surprised to find…less than he was expecting. It was about half an inch shorter, his balls were smaller, and touching it…didn’t excite him much at all.

“That should be enough to get the two of you started,” Winston said, “Now be sure to enjoy yourselves, and each other.” He leaned back in his chair, pleased with his tests–everything was working perfect, now all he had to do was let his two pets have their way with each other for a few days, and they would be perfect before too long.

Inside the room, Paul threw his weight against the door again, and again…but Joey was finding it hard to care. He felt…dull all of a sudden. Relaxed and at ease, were perhaps better terms. He laid back on the bed, running his hands over his body, enjoying the feel of his slightly softer body and the gentle afterglow of Paul’s load. His hands eventually found their way to his nipples, and he gave them a twist and gasped–his cock might not be feeling much, but his nipples were much, much more sensitive than they’d ever been before. His chest seemed to have inflated a bit more than the rest of him, in fact, and with another couple of tugs, he noticed that his fingers were suddenly wet.

November Bonus Story – Winston’s Stable Part 2 | Wesley Bracken on Patreon

Orwell’s Demon (Part 2)

-Before-

Orwell was at his desk, distracted again, but then again, he was usually distracted these afternoons, ever since the wrestling coach, Mr. Diamond, had moved his office into the open office space as Orwell’s. He wasn’t the only one afflicted by any means–several of the young women teachers around the school would stop by periodically to say hi, though their eyes were glued to the young hunk everyone was talking about. Still, as good a guy as Ray Diamond was, Orwell knew he would never have a chance with him–he was hopelessly straight, or else so deep in the closet no one would ever find him.

He looked back at his computer and tried to focus on entering grades, but there was something else bothering him. The amulet he was wearing–the thing he’d bought on a whim at a little thrift shop downtown a few days prior, which he’d been wearing since, was…warm. Not just warm, actually, but hot against his skin.

He could be yours, you know.

It was a voice. A voice in his head, but it wasn’t…his voice. He looked around, just in case, but no one around Orwell had spoken.

I know you want him. I know everything that you want, Orwell. You want so many things, so many men. It’s beautiful, but so many of them don’t want you back. So much…unrequited desire built up in you, with nowhere to go.

The heat welled up somewhere new now–in Orwell’s crotch. His cock was rock hard, suddenly, throbbing with need. The voice was right, to some extent. Orwell was gay, but he wasn’t lacking for sex. He was twenty-six, had a decent body (though not as nice as Ray Diamond had) and was by no means a virgin…but he did have a habit for falling head over heels in lust with the straightest of men–men like Mr. Diamond.

He was certain his cock was going to explode, but it didn’t–as rapidly as the heat, and the voice, had come–they disappeared, leaving Orwell to heave a sigh of relief. A couple desks away, Ray Diamond shuddered, and then stood up from his desk, adjusted his crotch, and walked over to where Orwell was sitting. Orwell could…sense something was off about him. His eyes…had a tinge of red, and his mouth was curled in a snarl that he’d never seen on the coach’s face before. “Well Orwell?” Ray said–and it was the voice. The voice from his head, speaking through Ray’s mouth, “Do you want me or not? Come on and let’s have some fun.”

Orwell didn’t know what to do…but when Mr. Diamond grabbed his hand and hauled him out of the office chair and pulled him down the hall, towards the gyms on the other side of the building, Orwell’s heart did a little flutter. “A-Are you sure, Ray? I mean…at school?”

“Please–what Ray wants doesn’t matter anymore. The only person I aim to please, is you.”

“But…who are you?”

Ray turned around, and the flicker of red around his eyes Orwell had seen earlier had grown more pronounced, the hand round his own was hotter, and the grip was tight. “You’ll see…Now come on. Ray knows just the place.”

They ended up in a storage room inside one of the gyms, and among the spare jerseys, balls, and other gym equipment, Ray tore at Orwell’s clothes, ripping them away, even as his own seemed to simply…disappear. No–not disappear. They were burning up. In the dim light, Orwell could see the fabric simply burning up, like paper turning to ash. The coach’s skin underneath was red and inflamed, almost too hot to the touch–but the hottest part of him was, by far, his cock. If Ray had been that endowed before, Orwell was sure he would have noticed–it had to be at least ten inches long, and as thick as a beer can. He started to get on his knees, but Ray had other ideas–he shoved Orwell down and started running the massive member up and down his crack.

“I don’t think–it’s so big…” Orwell said.

“I know,” Ray said, and shoved the head into Orwell’s ass, unlubed, making him scream in pain, the coach driving his cock in deeper and deeper–but there didn’t seem to be an end to it. Orwell had never felt someone go this deep inside him before, his guts churning and coiling and burning with every thrust. “But it’s what you want, Orwell–I promise to always give you what you want.”

It felt like hours, the cock driving into him deeper and deeper, Orwell losing track of how many times he came. Then, suddenly, he felt the urge to gag, and then something forced his jaw wide, and with one mighty heave, Ray forced the head of his cock out through Orwell’s mouth, leaving him groaning and muttering in panic. “Like a pig on a spit,” the voice said, and Orwell felt himself…lifted from the ground, impaled on the bestial cock his fellow teacher had grown–or who he assumed was his fellow teacher. Claws dug into his skin and twisted him around on the shaft until he could see the thing which was now fucking him–and found himself staring at what he could only call a demon. “How does the little piggy feel?” the thing asked, licking his lips, “Does it feel good? I am yours, five times, but give in, and you can be mine for all eternity. Say yes, pig. Say yes–I will give you such glorious pleasure, I promise.”

Orwell just screamed, trying to haul himself free of the demon’s massive cock.

“A ‘no’ then. Four more, piggy. Four more,” the demon said, gripped Orwell’s sides, and began fucking him on the massive shaft, the head thrusting up and down Orwell’s throat until the demon gave a long roar, tugged Orwell up so the head slipped back into his stomach, and he came. Orwell felt the cum flooding his guts, flooding his body, and as it did…he could see his body changing, sagging, filling up with fat–enough fat that he dragged the demon’s dick down and he landed with the thud, the dick snapping off and turning to ash. The air around him was full of ash too–the remains of Ray’s body fluttering down around him, and his now obese body, hole gaping, as he hauled on his clothing (clothing which had somehow adjusted to his now flabby frame) and fled the scene as fast as he could, trying to ignore the laugh dogging him in the back of his mind the entire way home.

Orwell’s Demon (Part 1)

Alright, here’s the expanded version of Orwell’s Demon! I should also mention that several aspects of this story have been…somewhat inspired by the work of Major, over on Gay Spiral Stories, and if you’re familiar with his stuff…it can get pretty extreme. Consider yourself warned.

The room is chilly, and yet, Orwell’s shirt is sticking to his back when he sits forward in the plastic chair, trying to get comfortable, looking around again for a clock, but knowing he won’t find one. How long has he been in here, now? Probably not as long as he thinks he has, probably not even an hour, but waiting feels…excruciating. To his right, there’s a mirror stretching the length of the wall–one way, he assumes. In the TV shows, they’re always one way, at least.

They’re over there, they’re talking about you, about how weak you look, about how it couldn’t possibly be you, Orwell.

Orwell shook his head, and glances at the mirror–he sees something, and the camera in the room flickers for a moment, like a shadow gathering at the edges of the lens, and he yanks his eyes away, back down to his lap. He came here of his own will. That would count for something. Besides, if they knew it was him, they would have arrested him already, before things…had gotten more and more out of his control. He clutched at something under his shirt for a moment, and then let it go, leaning forward, like he was trying to keep something under there from touching his skin, and tried to relax.

On the other side of the glass, was Detective Hurlbane of the city police department, who had been investigating the series of disappearances which had occurred over the last several months. No trace of the men who’d disappeared–four in total–and no bodies or trace of the men had been found. The one connection between them all was the man sitting in the chair–Orwell Englewood. An unassuming teacher of English at a local high school. He was, maybe, five foot four, and weighed close to 350 pounds. He had no prior record, and everyone who knew him had assured Hurlbane that Orwell was a kind, generous fellow–even if he’d seemed a bit odd over the last few months. Then again, anyone who found themselves as the prime suspect in a series of mysterious disappearances would behave a bit oddly.

Hurlbane decided Orwell had stewed enough, and he walked around to the door, and stepped inside. “Afternoon, Orwell. Thank you again for volunteering to come down to the station today and answer some questions about Mr. Piper.”

Mr. Piper, the fourth man to disappear, was Orwell’s next door neighbor. He’d hosted a poker night with some of his friends last Tuesday, while his wife was out with her own friends. His poker buddies had left early, around nine, and when his wife had arrived home at midnight, he was gone–no sign of forced entry or foul play–and he hadn’t been seen since. Orwell hadn’t been at the party, but he had been home, next door. He claimed he hadn’t noticed anything odd during those three hours, but he had no alibi. Hurlbane had a difficult time imagining this short, chubby fellow overpowering anyone…but at some point the coincidences had added up–what he needed was a confession, and he was going to get one.

“Anything I can do to help, although…I don’t know how much help I can be. Like I told you on the phone, I went to bed early that night, and I didn’t hear…anything suspicious.”

“Did you have much of a relationship with Mr. Piper? It seems odd that you’d be his neighbor and not get invited over for a poker night.”

Orwell shrugged. “We…didn’t share much interests I guess. I’d rather sit at home with a good book, than play poker.”

Hurlbane sat down in the chair across from Orwell, and leaned over the table. Orwell avoided his eyes, and seemed…nervous. “That seems understandable. But for someone who likes to sit at home, you have to admit it’s suspicious.”

Orwell didn’t say anything, or take the bait.

“It’s suspicious that of all the men who have disappeared, you’re the only person in the city who knows all of them.”

Orwell shook his head, “No–I didn’t…I told you, I have no idea what that whole…rest area thing was about.”

Hurlbane nodded, “Yes, of course. My apologies. Three out of four then. I just have a hard time imagining that you wouldn’t know something–especially since you were the last one to see one, or possibly two, of these missing men alive and well.”

“I’ve told you everything I know, Detective, I really have.”

Liar. If only he knew the truth. Think he’d like to find out for himself, Orwell?

Hurlbane saw Orwell grip at something by his chest, and wince, as if he were in pain. “Are you alright Orwell?”

He nodded, but the detective could see something had changed about him. He looked…pale, and was sweating even more. “I could just…use a smoke is all.”

“I didn’t know you smoked–there were no ashtrays in your house when we searched it.”

“I only do it outside.”

Hurlbane sat back, a bit confused–but it wasn’t important. If anything, needing to smoke would make him more likely to slip up. “Well, before we talk about Mr. Piper, Orwell, I’d like to review some of the facts of the other men we’ve discussed anyway, just in case you’ve remembered anything else that might be helpful to the investigation.”

“Is that really necessary? I think…I should go, I really need to go, actually.”

Orwell started to get up, but Hurlbane was faster, and blocked him in. “It won’t take long, Orwell. I promise. Now–can we start with Mr. Diamond? The gym teacher. He was the first one to go missing as you know, and your desks weren’t too far apart. In fact, some of the other teachers said the two of you were rather friendly with one another–but you said you can’t recall even one conversation with him.”

I can remember a few conversations with him–and a few other things too. Come on Orwell, you had a good time, didn’t you? With Mr. Diamond and his cock?

Daddy’s Little Man (Part 4)

WARNING: Scat, Diapers, Extreme Mental Regression, etc. 

From the way his legs were swinging without even touching the ground, James realized he must have shrunk again as well, but with no way of measuring, all he knew was that his daddy absolutely dwarfed him…and yet he felt a strange sense of comfort in that. “Alright, come here little man, it’s alright,” Mr. Rawlins said, pulling James into a hug, and he melted into the older man’s chest, the sense of comfort and security which washed over him drove his earlier terror from his mind. He was on his daddy’s lap now–everything would be alright. Mr. Rawlins started rubbing one of hands up and down his big belly, and his peepee did that funny thing again, getting kind of stiff in his diaper, and James sucked harder on the rubber cock in his mouth. “Yeah, that’s my good little man. Still, since you’re being such a pain, I think we need to do something about that head of yours, don’t we? We need to make sure you stay occupied, so you don’t get any ideas about running away from me ever again. So how about this, how about we make you a naughty baby? A stupid, dirty, naughty little man? How does that sound? Would you like that? I know I would–I’d like that a lot,” Mr. Rawlins said, massaging his own cock through his suit pants.

Some distant part of James, something small told him he needed to get away, that he needed to fight against his daddy, but he was so big, and so…so important, and so nice…he couldn’t do that. He wanted to be whatever his daddy wanted him to be. As he sat there on his daddy’s lap, wreathed in pipe smoke, he suddenly felt his bladder release again, but this time it was different. It wasn’t just piss flowing out of him, it was his brain, his knowledge, his thoughts. It was like a drain had been opened at the base of his brain and it was all flowing out through his cock and into his diaper. It was so hard to think, and he didn’t have many words to use to do so, his eyes growing dull and vacant as a bit of drool seeped out around his pacifier. He was running on instinct more than anything now. He sucked harder on the rubber pacifier, feeling his peepee tingle in anticipation–but what he was anticipating he didn’t really know.

“Yeah, that’s much better. Look at those eyes of yours now–so innocent, so loving, so dull. You’re daddy’s little man, aren’t you? Aren’t you?” Mr. Rawlin’s said, tickling James massive gut and making him giggle around his pacifier. “Yeah, you won’t be able even think of running away anymore, will you? Still, I think we need to find something else to occupy your attention, just to make sure you don’t get any ideas. Daddies hate it when their little men get ideas.”

James felt his asshole release then, and a massive flood of shit filled the back of his diaper, and while the smell was horrendous, it also made his peepee tingle even more, especially when the shit started working its way around between his thick thighs and under his balls. Happy in his shitty diaper, James started rocking back and forth on his daddy’s knee, spreading it around as much as he could, wanting to get dirtier, filthier, a nasty, gross baby for his daddy, just like he wanted him to be. His peepee was tingling so much, and it felt so good, he could barely stand it, and he started humping his diaper, feeling his peepee rub up against the fabric as well as his fat.

“Yeah, what a disgusting little man. You enjoy that? You like having a filthy diaper? Just you wait–I don’t think I’ll change you for days–I want to see how full it can get. Still, I don’t think you’re quite naughty enough yet. How about we make that peepee of yours your new brain?”

The tingle in his peepee was suddenly ten times more powerful, and James weak thrusts sped up, the diapered man turning a bit so he could hump his full diaper against his daddy’s suit, and after a few moments he was rewarded with the most wonderful sensation, kind of like he was peeing again, but ten times better. He let out a groan, the pacifier dropping from his mouth, and his daddy bent over, giving him a deep kiss, toying with his little man’s nipples, and suddenly James was cumming again, unable to help himself, messily making out with his daddy, a small dark spot forming on the front of Mr. Rawlins’ pants as well.

“Yes, I think you’ll do nicely, little man,” Mr. Rawlins said, putting James down on the ground, where the massively obese adult baby gaped around with empty eyes while he rubbed the front of his pants with one of his hands, making his peepee happy and his daddy happy all at the same time, squishing his nasty shit around in his diaper. “Still, I had hoped you would be ready for school–I love a good school boy. I think I did a little too much damage for that though…let’s see then–we can’t have you wandering around in just a diaper after all. Still, I think I know just the look for a dumb, nasty and naughty baby like you.”

Mr. Rawlins wreathed his new little man in another cloud of smoke, and when it cleared, a new outfit was adorning his body–a tight fitting white sailor suit, or at least, mostly white. The crotch was stained a light yellow and the ass had brown streaks from where his diapers routinely overflowed, but James didn’t mind, clapping his hands with joy as he looked down at himself, letting loose a wet, shitty fart as he did, and looking up to his daddy for approval. He wanted his daddy to be happy–after all, his daddy could do anything he wanted.

“Ha, look at you–so handsome. You know, I was going to wait until we got home to introduce you to my special pacifier, but I…I don’t think I can wait, little man,” Mr. Rawlins said, and unzipped his pants, “Open up–daddy’s got something big for you to suck on.”

James didn’t need any more encouragement, and drooling a bit, he took the cock in his mouth and started sucking on it, feeling his pee pee start tingling again, and with one of his hands, he rubbed the front, feeling himself cum again like before, when he’d made his daddy happy. He loved making his daddy happy after all–and when the big man tensed up and unloaded his seed down his little man’s throat, James knew he’d made him very happy indeed.

Daddy’s Little Man (Part 3)

Who had he been? He’d been a university student…in a way, he supposed he still was. After all, he hadn’t actually decreased in age at all–sure, he looked young, but he didn’t think he actually was younger, and yet…in his head, when he’d been around da–no, Mr. Rawlins–it had been like he’d been a kid again. No knowledge, no common sense, no…no nothing. He could hear the help running around, and Mr. Rawlins was barking orders all around the store, all of them searching for him. Why him? What had he done to deserve this sadistic treatment? He had to get out, he had to find someone who could help him.

After a few minutes, the shopkeepers quit their frantic searching and went back to their jobs. Maybe he’d given up on finding him. If he could just wait for a couple more minutes, maybe he could sneak out the side door a little ways away. However, before he could build up the gut to make a run for it, James noticed something else. The smell–the smoke was back. Mr. Rawlins must be close by. James did his best to hold his breath, taking in as little as possible, but the lack of air was making it his head swim–making it hard to think. Maybe he should just end this game of hide and seek. He was tired–maybe Mr. Rawlins…maybe daddy and him could go home, and he could have a nap. He was feeling kind of sleepy, and relaxed.

He let out a little sigh, and then he smelled something–and felt something. His crotch was warm, and did he smell…piss? Looking down, he saw that the front of his shorts had a growing dark patch, and a moment later, his piss started to seep through the fabric and patter onto the floor. He froze there, unable to believe this was happening, but try as he might, he couldn’t stop the flow–he’d lost all control of himself, and the tears welled up, and then he was bawling like a baby.

A moment later, a hand shot through the clothes surrounding him, grabbed his arm and yanked him from his hiding place–Mr. Rawlins still smoking his pipe and glaring down at James. The guilt–oh the guilt that crashed down on him, when he saw how disappointed and hurt his daddy was that James had run away from him. He felt terrible–why had he ever done such a horrible thing? “I’m–I’m sorry daddy, I don’t know–I just…” he said, but could barely get any words out past the tears.

“Such a naughty boy I have here,” Mr. Rawlins said, “running off, and unable to control himself? I think someone needs a spanking.”

“No daddy–no!” James shouted, but the bigger man easily dragged him over to a chair by the dressing rooms, yanked down James pants and underwear to his ankles, bent him over on his lap and started smacking his bottom–hard.

“Yeah…that’s it–such a naughty little man, yes you are, such a–fuck…” Mr. Rawlins said, glee in his eyes, and pushing up against his gut, James could feel Mr. Rawlins penis hard as a rock, and as much as it hurt to get spanked, it also felt…a little good. James could feel his own pee pee start hardening–it felt strange again, like when he’d kissed his daddy earlier, but a good kind of strange. He did deserve to be spanked though, he had to admit that. He’d been a very bad boy to run off like that earlier. He deserved to be punished. After twenty pounding slaps, all of his cheeks red as could be, Mr. Rawlins let him stand up again. “Now, you naughty boy, what do you say?”

“Sorry daddy…I’m sorry…” James said.

“That’s better. Now, it seems like you’re a littler man than I’d thought, since you can’t even keep from pissing yourself. Let’s see what we can do about that,” Mr. Rawlins said, took a deep draw off his pipe and exhaled a thick plume of smoke so massive it enveloped James entire body. Coughing and eyes burning, he waved away the thick cloud as best he could, but it clung to him for a few moments before dispersing, and james shivered a bit, feeling somewhat exposed all of a sudden–and for good reason. His school uniform had disappeared and been replaced by nothing beyond a thick diaper around his groin. James tried to speak and protest, but for some reason all of the words in his head were getting jumbled up and coming out as nonsense, and when he tried to stumble away, his legs couldn’t seem to balance right, and he fell down onto his padded ass, and frustrated, he started to wail.

“Aww, calm down little man, here, daddy has your pacifier here–this will make you feel better.”

Mr. Rawlins pulled something that looked a bit like a pacifier out of his pocket, but instead of a small bulb to suck on, it had a thick, three inch rubber cock which Mr. Rawlins shoved in his mouth. James started sucking immediately and felt so much calmer and happier with his pacifier in his mouth, but when Mr. Rawlins got down to see him, James still rolled over and started crawling away as fast as his short arms and legs could take him, gut dragging across the department store carpet.

“Goodness, you are a stubborn one, aren’t you?” Mr. Rawlins said, and now, as James was crawling away, he felt the weight start to pack on once again. The gut which had only been grazing the floor moments earlier was now dragging across it, forcing him to crawl even slower as his knees kept running into the apron trailing back between his legs. His face and chest packed on weight as well, making it hard to breathe, and just crawling ten feet left him completely winded. Mr. Rawlins walked over to where James was struggling for air, bent over and somehow…picked him up. James must have weighed over five hundred pounds by this point, and yet Mr. Rawlins hefted him up and brought him over to the chair he’d spanked James over moments earlier and sat down, putting the giant diapered man on his knee as though he weighed nothing at all.

Daddy’s Little Man (Part 2)

“Alright, and we can get your neck real quick…20 inches, alright. Shoulders…18 inches. And now your sleeve…28. Hmm…this is going to be a challenge. Alright young man, just two more. First, your trunk…let’s see…27”, and lastly your inseam…28”. Huh, would have expected you to be taller, like your daddy. Oh well, I suppose a little man like you still has some time to grow, right?” Howard said with a grin, and then turned to Mr. Rawlins. “Well sir, I can see why you brought him here, but I just don’t think–”

“Oh hush now Howard, you’ve been plenty helpful. Leave me with my boy, and we can sort the rest of it out.”

“Oh…uh, very well. Just call me if you need help.”

“I certainly will. Thanks much, Howard,” Mr. Rawlins said, dismissing the help and then coming close to James, who was still boggled by his reflection. He’d watched himself closely while Howard had taken those last measurements, and in each case, the man hadn’t pulled the tape tight to him…it was more like his body had changed to fill a certain dimension. His neck had thickened, double and triple chins descending to fill out the tape there. But most obvious had been his trunk and inseam, his body shortening from his six foot height with each one, until he was probably a foot shorter, maybe five foot two at max. “Well little man, what do you think?”

“You…How did…I don’t understand…” James started to say, but looking at his new form, he was simply at a loss for words. His clothing hadn’t grown with him at all, his t-shirt stretched to the limit, his jeans bursting at the seams, the collar nearly choking him, and turning his face a bit red. “Daddy…daddy what did you do to me?”

“What do you mean, boy? I didn’t do anything to you. We’re just getting you fitted for your new uniform. You start the third grade next week–aren’t you excited?”

James nodded his head, but hadn’t be been going to college? No, how could he go to college? He didn’t know much of anything–he could only read those small books daddy had for him in his room, and he wasn’t very good at math yet–he still had trouble adding sometimes. No way could he be ready for college. Looking at himself in the mirror, he did look rather…fresh faced. While he knew he was almost twenty, and he looked grown up, some part of him still looked…very young. He turned away, finding it uncanny, and found himself staring at Mr. Rawlins instead…and he felt, strange. This big, old man who had so disgusted him with his smoking earlier now seemed…safe. Fatherly. Someone he could trust…maybe even…love?

“Still, you have nothing to worry about. Doesn’t your new uniform fit nice? Doesn’t it make you look handsome?” Mr. Rawlins asked, and James turned to the mirror quickly enough to see his ill fitting clothes start to shift and squirm. the t-shirt which could barely stretch over his belly and chest expanded and split down the middle, becoming a light grey dress shirt tucked into a pair of dark shorts with a massive waistband but didn’t quite reach his knees. Below that, grey, woolen socks crawled up his thick calves, and the sneakers he was wearing darkened and shimmered into nicely shined dress shoes, and as a tie snaked its way around his collar, a vest and coat pulled themselves up over his body, before finally a smart looking cap popped into existence on his head. He looked like a young kid going to one of the fancy prep schools, and he did look rather handsome. “See, didn’t the nice men do a nice job on your uniform? You look rather dashing, wouldn’t you say, little man?”

He came up behind James, and what started as a pat on the back became something rather more intimate, as Mr. Rawlins explored James new body with his firm hands, running them up under his coat and around his belly, his beard grazing the back of his neck, and making James’ peepee tingle in the strangest way, and he blushed a bit in the mirror, being this close to his daddy. “Thank you daddy, it’s very nice,” James said, “I like it.”

“Well, if you really want to thank me, how about you give your daddy a kiss?” Mr. Rawlins said, spun James around and leaned down, pushing their lips together and shoving his tongue into James’ mouth. James wanted it to feel good–he really did. He wanted to enjoy the taste of tobacco on his daddy’s lips, and the feel of his rough beard on his soft cheeks, but it was wrong. All of this, all of it was just so wrong, and in a moment of muddled clarity, not even certain why he was doing it, he pushed Mr. Rawlin’s away and dashed off as fast as his short, chubby legs could carry him. “Boy, what do you think you are doing? Get back here this instant!” he heard his daddy should, and guilt–oh the guilt, but he had to get away. Daddy–no, Mr. Rawlins–he’d…he’d done something to him. He hadn’t been this dumb, or this fat, or dressed like this earlier, had he? The further from the smoke he got, the clearer it seemed he could think, but he couldn’t get out–all of the shopkeepers were on daddy’s side. He had to hide. He passed the children’s section and darted into the racks, eventually ducking under and hiding in the middle of a thickly stocked circular one, doing his best to keep his huffing breath quiet, and just think.