Family Portrait (Part 4)

WARNING: INCONTINENCE PLAY

In the end, the game was on, but none of the three of them were paying much attention to it. Marty was too busy making sure his new big brother Bob was well under the portrait’s influence—and making sure his brothers started getting along. Much of the first quarter was spent in what Marty thought of as the “kiss and make up” stage–he parked Keith and Bob on the couch next together, and pretty soon Bob’s tongue was happily buried down his little brother’s throat, and then, by the second quarter, he had his cock buried down it too, Keith happily sucking his big brother off like he’d been doing it his whole life, and it a way, he had. Marty had been working on him too, little by little, getting him adjusted to his new, adult, needs. Smoking cigars, guzzling beer, growing out his hair and beard good and long and filthy. By halftime, his brother Bob was looking like a fine new addition to the family–a big, bulging beer gut, beard down to his belly button, hair down to the middle of his back, stringy and unwashed, his whole body coated with hair. But this wasn’t enough for Marty–hell now, Bobby had given him too much of a hassle for this to be all he got, no, he deserved so much more. Now that Bob was well on his way to becoming a proper member of the family, it was time to push him fully into his new role.

“He’s a good boy, isn’t he, Bob?” Marty asked. He was behind the couch, looking over them both, Keith still eagerly sucking on Bob’s cock, “Makes you proud, doesn’t it?”

“Best…fucking cocksucker I know,” Bob said, taking a deep drag off his cigar.

“Well of course he is, you taught him everything you know, didn’t you?”

“I…I did?”

“Of course–you taught both your boys so well. Best fucking teacher we could’ve had,” Marty said, and then leaned in close, focusing hard, watching the portrait hanging over them all, “We couldn’t have asked for a better dad than you, you know.”

“But I’m not–”

“And you couldn’t have asked for better, sexier boys. You did everything you could to make sure we grew up just like you. Fat, stinking slobs. Cocksucking, buttfucking faggots. Lazy good-for-nothing, trailer trash. Yeah, you couldn’t be more proud of your family.”

Bob was still trying to fight it, but Marty could see him losing. His long hair receding slowly, exposing the crown of his head and then shifting back even farther, until all that remained as a horseshoe of thin, ragged grey hair, his beard making a similar color shift, followed by the rest of his hair all over his body. His face grew lined with wrinkles, his fat gut no longer firm but sagging down. He heaved a smoky sigh and settled in, the portrait coming into better focus, his blurry form now centered, standing behind his two sons in the middle.

“It was a hard life, I know, working in the factory, but now you’ve hit seventy, and you’ve retired, got that hefty pension and social security, so you can just relax all day long, living with your boys, keeping us happy. You do like seeing your boys happy, right? It’s what you’ve always lived for.”

“Y-Yeah, I got the best fuckin’ boys in the world.”

“You sure do, you love us more than anything–you live for your family.”

“Sure do, son.”

“Why don’t you show Keith how much you love him? How happy you want him to be? You live to make your boys happy, to serve them.”

Keith stood up, and his dad licked his lips before leaning forward, hefting up his low hanging apron and digging through his stinking gunt for his puny cock to suck.

“Too bad you’re past your prime at this point, body breaking down, aches and pains. Had to pull out all those teeth of yours last year, get you a set of dentures. Can’t get hard anymore, but you leak cum like a faucet. Can’t hold your piss in anymore either, haven’t been able to for a while. Your hole’s been fucked so loose you shit yourself too, so you gotta wear those diapers from now on. Still, it turns you on, doesn’t it? Lounging around the house in your own, stinking filth? It just makes you leak even more, and you wear the same diaper for days at a time, until it sags off your body, and you have to wear another one.”

Was it too much? Bob was fighting it, hard, but the portraits hold on him was too great now, Marty could sense it. He’d do anything he wanted. A set of dentures appeared on the coffee table–he knew his boys preferred his gummy mouth more anyway. A thick diaper appeared around Bob’s waist, and immediately the room was filled with the stench of piss and shit from it, but neither Marty nor Keith cared–they’d lived with their father’s filth long enough to barely even notice it anymore. Marty came around the couch, slipped a hand between his younger brother’s ass cheeks and started probing his hole, making him groan and finally orgasm down his father’s throat–Bob drank all of his son’s spunk down, licked his lips, and started on his older boy, Marty. He didn’t last long, and he felt the magic seal itself as he came, his new father’s image cemented in the portrait with their own, and his brand new, filthy father sat back on the couch, his own filth squelching around him in his diaper, and grinned toothlessly at his boys, the best boys in the world, and he couldn’t have been more happy.

TO BE CONTINUED?

Family Portrait (Part 3)

When reality snapped back to order, the effects were seen far beyond the trailer park where Keith now lived with his older brother–his now ex-wife and sons were forced into new realities as well. The two older sons, David and Terrance, were living out on their own, working and renting an apartment together while they attended the local community college, trying to make the leap to a four year college when they could afford it, and both of them avoided their father like the plague. His youngest son, Bobby, split his time between his mother’s house and his father’s house, but only because he was still seventeen for a few more months. In all honesty, he hated every second he had to spend with his filthy uncle and father–he was ashamed to even be related to them. His mother understood, but there was nothing she could do, until he reached eighteen and could legally decide for himself. And so, Marty decided that the next easiest target would be Bobby, when he arrived to stay with his dad and uncle the next week.

That gave him plenty of time to get adjusted to life with his new stupid, lazy younger brother, and he loved every second of it. While he couldn’t make any massive changes to him, now that the picture had become static again, just like his wizard friend had said, he could continue making small changes and suggestions for another few days, all of which Keith was more than happy to obey, and by the end of the week, he reeked of cum and sweat, he hadn’t had a shower in months, and he spent all day and night drunk, passing out on the couch with the TV on every night, when he wasn’t busy in his brother’s bed, servicing his every sexual desire. Still, they both knew that as soon as Bobby arrived for his week of custody they would have to control themselves…for a little while. Marty didn’t think Bobby would be returning to his mother’s house anytime soon, that was for sure. All he’d have to do is get the young man relaxed and focused on the portrait, and everything would be perfect.

However, from the day Bobby arrived, it became clear it wasn’t going to be nearly as easy as Marty had thought. The boy had some…problems with authority, especially parental authority. He spent almost all of his time in his room, giving his uncle no real chances to exert much influence on him in any way. Marty thought he had him the second night, when he managed to successfully enchant Booby with the portrait, causing a third blurry figure to appear beside the images of his father and uncle, but when he tried to influence the boy, and turn him into a chubby, submissive cub for them both to use, nothing seemed to work–Bobby fought his suggestions, and after an hour, the image of him had faded from the picture entirely.

Angry and frustrated, Marty called his wizard friend, demanding to know what was wrong–the wizard was a bit flummoxed, but said that the reason for Bobby’s resistance probably had to do with his perceived relationship to his family–that is, he didn’t want to perceive himself as Keith’s son, but he didn’t have an easy solution for him. Marty’s mood stayed sour for a few days, until he overheard a fight between Bobby and his father one night. Bobby told him that Keith had never been his father, that Bobby was the only person in the room who could act like an adult–and that gave Marty an idea: if Marty thought he was the adult in the room…well, why not make him one?

The fight ended, Bobby stormed off to his room. Marty waited for half an hour, and then knocked on the door, letting himself in–the portrait had appeared on the wall of Bobby’s room, looming over him. “Bobby, I know you aren’t a fan of us, but you need to accept the fact that we’re you’re family, and there isn’t anything that can change that,” he said, and pointed at the picture, “Look at us up there, wasn’t that a good day?” Bobby looked at the swirling paint, his eyes drawn in immediately, a fleshy blob appearing in the picture, but Marty could see him fight, see him resist his placement between them, where a son belonged. So Marty tried something different, “But you’re a man now, you know? And you know, we don’t treat you like that enough. You aren’t a boy anymore, Bobby–no, not Bobby–Bob. You’ve grown into a fine young man, haven’t you?”

Bobby resisted for a moment more, but then visibly relaxed where he was sitting on the side of the bed. Marty could see his body changing, hair growing up his forearms, thick like theirs, his body bulking, as he grew older, into his mid 20’s. Finally, finally he had him, and Marty knew exactly what this young prick needed–if he wanted to be an adult, then fine, let him.

“You know Bob, I’ve always admired you. I’ve never seen you as a nephew, not really. I’ve always thought of you as a real brother to me. And I know Keith get’s on your nerves, but he’s, well, he’s younger than us, right? He’s always going to be a bit immature.”

Bob kept growing older, his face growing a bit more lined, hair receding back past the crown of his head, becoming flecked with gray, and he chuckled, “More like a fuckin’ baby–we should just put him in diapers, right?” he laughed harder, but something about the way he’d said it…it just made Marty angry. Still, Bob was under his thumb now, right where he needed to be.

“Look, come on back out, the game’s almost on. I know you wouldn’t want to miss a good football game over a stupid fight with your little brother.”

“Yeah…yeah, you’re right Marty–you always have a way of…of making so much sense, you know?”

“Yeah, I know, now come on, I have a feeling it’ll be a game to remember, big bro.”

It was getting harder and harder to remember I’d asked him to come over so he could help me, and not so I could make him like me. Maybe…maybe the former was just a lie I’d told myself. When I picked up my phone to text him, hands shaking, the cigar still between my fingers where I couldn’t release it, had my cock been hard? Had it…wanted me to bring someone over? Had it wanted me to try to escape?

It doesn’t matter now of course. There is no escape. When I’d called, I’d had a hairy ballgut covered with hair. I could have passed for a man in his fourties. Now, I’d be lucky to be in my sixties. I hadn’t grown much larger, but I can grown weaker, my muscles weakening and dying , making it…so much easier to just sit here in my chair (my chair–this chair? Its chair? Our chair?) and smoke this endless cigar, and drink this endles bourbon that appeared not too long before, and watch him lap at my cock.

He was about where I’d been, when I’d called him. He hadn’t believed me, when I tried to tell him who I was, his best friend, and before he could get out, his eyes had glazed slightly, and I’d had all these…ideas suddenly. They were in him too, I knew, because he’s the one who got down on his knees and started sucking at my cock–now shorter and thicker than before, and we’d moved here, to the chair.

I don’t know how many loads I’ve fed him at this point. I don’t know what time it is, it’s stopped all the clocks. Its timeless. We’re timeless. Almost like we’re caught in a loop, changing a bit more each time we go around. My hairline still creeping back. I didn’t have these glasses earlier, I’m certain. He’s only getting larger and fatter, chins jiggling around my shaft, hair sprouting everywhere, even as his head balds messily. Maybe it will let us go, eventually, but will we want to leave? Will there even be anything out there for us? Maybe we should just stay–that would be easier, wouldn’t it?

The surfer had always heard tales of the dunes around that beach, nervous stories by young, muscular men who, he thought, had no reason to be so terrified of a bunch of old faggots, fucking in the sand. They insisted, however, that any surfer who’d gone there had never returned, or if they had, they were always…different. No one would give him more details than that, and the surfer wasn’t about to pass up the amazing waves he’d glimpsed rolling up on that shore. If anything, the strange stories would keep people away–he wouldn’t have to worry about other people getting in his way. Besides, why not give the old faggots something nice to look at for a change?

He got to the beach, and sure enough, it was everything he’d expected. Clothing optional, a bunch of fat, old, overweight fags tanning and eyeing one another, slipping away into the dunes. What the surfer hadn’t expected was that no one was giving him a single look. They all seemed utterly uninterested in him and his muscular body., He wasn’t someone who was used to being ignored, and as much as he might hate fags, he also wasn’t someone who objected to their lust for him.

Instead, what he found, was that he was the one staring at them…admiring them. He gave up surfing early, and spent the day watching the old men masturbate, following them up into the dunes so he could watch them fuck, stroking his cock, wondering why none of them were interested in him at all.

Once he was back in town, he was appalled with what he’d been doing all day. Guys asked him how the surfing had been, if he’d seen anything, and he refused to talk about it, and told himself he wouldn’t be going back…but the next day he found himself needing to go, needing to watch them. All day he was there, and the next day too. Slowly, he noticed men started to take notice of him–just glances at first, but more and more, they were accepting him.

And why not accept him? He was a hot fucker in his 70′s, a bit of a gut sure, but he could get fatter, once he lost more of this muscle. His beard though, grayed and yellowed from the cigars he’d started smoking, his hair balding severely, but not far enough that he felt comfortable showing his crown off without a cap on. His cock had started shriveling, his balls too. He hoped they’d be puny, he…he didn’t need them anymore. His teeth were getting loose; soon he wouldn’t have to worry about grazing them against a cock, when a guy fucked his throat, and they all wanted to fuck his throat now, and he wanted as much cum as they would feed him. Soon, he was just another name in the tales whispered around the tables of surfers, and he’d forgotten all about his past–why else did he need, if he had the beach, and all the cum he’d ever wanted?

Here at R.V. Wink’s Furniture Outlet, we pride ourselves on having not only great deals, but the most comfy sofas, loveseats, armchairs and beds in town! Goodness, they’re so comfortable, almost everyone who sits or lays on one finds themselves losing the will to get out, and not too long after that, they tend to drift off. Almost everyday, it seems like the most common sound on the sales floor is the snores! But I do love helping out my customers, why, just take a look at him.

He’d come in here this morning, some wealthy college kid looking to furnish his new condo his parents are renting while he’s going to school. He kept sneering at my wares as I led him around the floor, telling me that my furniture was decades out of style, and not in a classy, retro way. I did eventually cajole him into an armchair, and he’s been snoozing his life away for hours now. What do you think he is, 40? 50? At least. Well, he’s still probably a bit older than you are now. I see that you’re gotten used to that big gut of yours now. How does it feel, when I rub it like that? Yeah, that’s good, moan for me gramps, you fucking love it, just like I knew you would.

Still, I think it’s time for an afternoon nap, don’t you?

Oh don’t shake your head at me, your eyes are drooping at the mere thought. There’s a king size bed right over here, why don’t you lay down for a bit? Take off those clothes of yours, they’ll just make you uncomfortable–that’s it, doesn’t that feel so soft? So relaxing? Now hold on, I’m sure you’d rather have a teddy bear to snooze with right? Let me just get him out of the chair…

Oh look at you, already slipping off to sleep again. Now you too–go crawl in with your husbear–don’t be silly, of course you have a husbear? Cuddle up close now, give him a big hug–feel how good that gut of his feels? By the time you wake up, you’ll have one yourself. A couple adorable grandbears–my favorite kind of customer. Now close those eyes and have another nap–when you wake up, I’m sure you’ll find the furniture more you’re style, don’t you?

Requested by @coltenjohnandgabriel

Chef Michael Dover ran one of several restaurants at the resort, but his was by far the most popular. People who went there, almost always, said that while the atmosphere was iffy, and the service a bit slow, the food was always magical. It helped, of course, that the chef was a wizard–and if he made people a little addicted to his food, what was the harm, really? He was just helping the resort become one of the most popular destinations in Florida, despite it’s lackluster accommodations, and everything else about it. The one time he wished it was less popular was Spring Break–but he would ways to occupy his time.

This year, it was Jeremy. He’d shown up at the resort early, and gotten some food at Michael’s restaurant, and had the gall to be rude to the waiter. So, as an olive branch, the chef had comped Jeremy a dessert–a huge slice of chocolate cake which, to quote Jeremy, was so good that he might have to break his no cake rule in the future. See, Jeremy was a jock–one of those ripped guys who thinks they’re better than everyone just because of how they look. He was in Florida to bang some chicks and catch some sun…but he also found himself unable to resist eating every meal at the Michael’s restaurant.

It was strange too. He always had a table reserved for him, even when there was a line out the door. He no longer ordered from a menu, the waiter would simply seat him, and then food would appear instantly, like magic, and he’d eat it all. The rest of his Spring Break was a bit of a flop. He did manage to catch some sun and swim in the pool, but every girl he hit on just seemed to laugh in his face, call him a pig, and walk off. He chalked it up to feminism, but Jeremy’s problem was that Michael had enchanted him to be unable to see the changes to his own body. Even now the week was ending, he was taking one last dip in the pool, surprised at how hard it was to haul himself up with the ladder, and on his way to one last dinner–or at least, he thought it would be his last one. Instead, he discovered he’d been chosen at random to receive another week at the resort, complementary of the restaurant, and he couldn’t have been happier–Michael too, was happy–he had so many more plans for his pig, that one week just hadn’t been enough time.

After all, he still had to make him gay, and crave cum as much as he needed food. That last dinner had aged Jeremy into his late thirties, but the chef had always had a soft spot for silver daddies, big beards, over five hundred pounds, and desperate to do anything you wanted them to do. And the big reveal, of course! He couldn’t want until he could show Jeremy the end product, at long last, shattering the illusion of his young hot body with his new reality. In fact, he had a feeling Michael probably wouldn’t be leaving the resort, even after this next week–no, he needed a new front of house, and a new personal pig slave, and by the end of the next week, Jeremy was going to be a perfect fit for both positions.

Requested by Anonymous

These fucking kink festivals these faggots throw, fuck it’s disgusting, but hey, it’s a fun way of ruining a few faggots lives at least. You know, get a few pictures of some of them, and all it takes is some sleuthing on the internet, figure out their day job, and ruin their careers with a bit of blackmail. Heh, there’s one now–look at that old fuck, like anyone wants to see that disgusting body out in the sun. Gotta get a picture of that shit.

*CLICK*

Yeah, sexy old fuck like that, damn–not that I’m much younger than he his. No, wait, what the hell am I even saying? Look, whatever. I’ll just focus on some of these other fags–fuck, look at that one! Parading around in fucking panties, it’s like they’re fucking asking for me to ruin them!

*CLICK*

Yeah, I know how he feels, they’re so fucking sexy, and the way guys look at me like I’m some fuckin’ fairy makes me so damn hard. I…I love coming down here, really feels like I can be myself, let the freak out a bit, you know? Fuck, look that that sexy fucker! Big old gut, hot goatee, smoking that cigar in that leather gear of his! Gotta get a picture of that.

*CLICK*

Fuck yeah, got my old cock so fuckin’ hard, gonna love jacking off to these pictures for the rest of the year! Not like many guys wanna get with a pansy old fat fuck like me, but I’d rather watch and look at pics anyway! Think I might go smoke my cigar and look at these pics for a bit, blow a wad in my panties, and then see if I can find a few more sexy fucks for my photo collection!

I was just a teenager looking to earn a little extra cash, so when my neighbor, Mr. Junkett, told me he would pay me fifty bucks a day to help him with some home improvement work, I jumped at the chance, even though I didn’t really know anything about it. I assumed it would just be some painting or something, but I found out on the first day that he was putting in an entire new wing of his house! Still, I’d agreed to help, and it was good money, and I knew I’d learn a lot from him.

I don’t know when I noticed the first changes, how I was becoming more muscular, my gut filling out, picked up a couple of tattoos even though I couldn’t remember how I’d gotten them, and I’d started smoking cigarettes just like Mr. Junkett. This photo was taken about a month after we’d gotten started…and I remember looking at myself, not even sure it was me.

I started spending more and more time with him, working, and soon I was there constantly, sleeping on his couch after he fed me huge meals and encouraged me to drink beer after beer…and then I was sleeping in his bed, waking up with his arms around me, his…cock still lodged in my ass. I knew it was wrong, but I liked it–pretty soon he was fucking me all the time, and I was begging him for it–just the scent off his musky pits was enough to have me bent over, pants down, begging for a rough fuck.

That old me has started to fade though. I’m not as smart as I was, and I don’t think I even finished high school. I’m in my forties with a mullet and a thick beard–my parents don’t even recognize me as their son, and…I live with Gary Junkett, my partner in public, and my master in private. Still, I can’t wait to see our new sex dungeon when it’s finished in a few more days. Master tells me we’re going to have a big party to celebrate, and my holes are going to be the main attractions.

Source: redneckindeed

Magic Show (Part 1)

It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now that he was here…Ethan was no longer so sure. He stood off to the side of the bar, trying to figure out how to feel less awkward. It was Halloween–there was no reason to be this awkward on Halloween! But this…it was different. He’d always wanted to come here–ever since he’d started college in this city a few years back–because even though he was a bit of a twink, he’d always had a thing for…Bears. Daddies. Chubs. He’d hooked up a few times before, but something about going to the bar, it had always felt a bit off limits for him, because he was so young, and thin, and hairless.

His choice of costume for the night wasn’t helping matters, he supposed. He’d decided to go as a strongman–wearing a striped singlet he’d found online, some bright red boots and a handlebar mustache he’d stuck on with spirit gum, along with a fake barbell he’d made out of styrofoam and cardboard. He wasn’t the only one dressed up by any means, and he certainly wasn’t showing the most skin, but he couldn’t help but feel…out of place, even though plenty of guys were smiling and complimenting and…and why couldn’t he just feel normal! He thought about getting a few more drinks, but he had to drive back to school. He sighed, and caught someone across the room staring at him. He was an older gentleman with a sizable gut, dressed in a tuxedo and a cape, with a large top hat on his head. He threw Ethan a wink, and then slipped away into the crowd–strange, but Ethan forgot it quickly in his pouting.

He thought about leaving but didn’t. The party grew rowdier, until the music died and the dance floor cleared. Curious, Ethan came to the back of the crowd to see what was happening. There, in the middle, was the man in the tuxedo he’d glimpsed–apparently calling himself Magic Max, with a magic show planned for the evening. Ethan thought it was silly, but everyone else seemed excited–he didn’t expect much until the magician boomed out his own name, Ethan Gallanger, as his first volunteer.

He didn’t believe it–how could the guy know his name? He wanted to shrink away, but his feet marched him forward instead, out onto the empty dance floor. “There you are Ethan! So glad you could join me for a bit of fun this year.”

The crowd clapped and cheered, Ethan went red in the face.

“I must say, I saw your costume earlier, and I was simply enthralled by your commitment to realism! That mustache in particular–it must have taken you months to grow it out like that.”

“I…actually, it’s…fake…” Ethan stammered, his voice amplified somehow, even though he couldn’t see a microphone anywhere.

“Oh nonsense, let me see that!” Magic Max said, and before Ethan could stop him, he grabbed the end of his mustache, yanked hard, and Ethan yelped in pain, feeling the hairs pulling at his skin, refusing to come away. “Looks real enough to me, now!”

Cheers and laughter erupted around him, but all Ethan could do was drop his fake barbell to the floor, and feel the mustache–his mustache–with both hands. Real…it was real! He looked at the magician, his jaw dropped low. “How…how did you do that?”

“A magician never reveals his tricks, Ethan. I think you dropped your weight there! Why don’t you pick it up–show us how strong you are. After all, you look a bit thin and scrawny for a strongman.”

Laughter again. Blushing, Ethan bent down, grabbed the barbell and went to lift it, but it wouldn’t budge. It felt like someone had glued it to the floor, and the laughter only got louder as they watched him struggle with it. But something else was happening, every time he tried to lift it up. He would yank on it, and the barbell seemed to yank back, pulling him lower and lower each time, until he finally gave up, unbent, and discovered that he’d shrunk.

He’d already been rather short at five foot seven, but after his struggle he couldn’t have been much taller than four feet, barely coming to eye level with the top of Magic Max’s full, round belly. The rest of him had grown smaller as well, making him look even weaker, even as the barbell had grown larger, now nearly twice as large as he could remember it being.

Max held up his hands for quiet, and the crowd obliged. “I’m sorry Max, but you gave it a good try–I know your lifting days are well behind you at this point. Hell, you have enough to worry about, hefting around that big, hairy gut of yours all day long, right, old man?”

What the hell was he talking about? He didn’t have a gut, and he certainly wasn’t old. Seeing the confusion on Ethan’s face, Max swung his cape over, and a large mirror manifested beside him, where nothing had been, moments before. There he could see exactly what Max had been talking about. Where before had been his slim, twinkish figure, smooth and somewhat muscled, he now had a massive, firm gut stretching out the singlet he had on. He grabbed it with his hands and shook it–it heaved around as a single, hard mass, like a massive ball he’d swallowed. On his much shorter frame, he looked like a ball, in fact–a very hairy ball. His hairless body was covered with fur now, bursting from the singlet at every chance it got. The only parts of him that were smooth were his face (aside from the mustache and a generous shadow of stubble) and much of his head, where his hairline had receded substantially, leaving him with a light dusting of grey hair in a horseshoe fringe.

“Let’s all give a big thank you to Ethan, for being our first volunteer of the evening!” Max said behind him, and gave him a shove. He had to struggle to stay upright, leaning back to counter the weight of his gut, “Now let’s see if we can find someone who might be able to get this barbell off the floor! We can’t just leave it here, after all.”

Ethan just tried to process what had happened to him…what he…thought had happened to him? It was suddenly a bit hazy, and hard to hold onto in his head. He’d been different, hadn’t he? He watched the rest of the show like it was a dream–but he had to talk to that magician again–he had to figure out how to get his body back.

Case Closed (Part 5)

He tried to protest, tried to just get us to let him go, but no–I was tired of his fucking shit, and I knew what he really wanted. I dragged him across the precinct, Walker laughing the whole way, and shoved him into the drunk tank. It was still early evening on Saturday, but we had a few visitors already–it was always pretty busy in here after Friday nights, and a lot of them might not get processed until Monday morning, so the cell was only going to get more crowded. He begged us, through the bars, to let him out. That he couldn’t stay in here, to have some fucking mercy. Well fuck that–we’d be back to get him on Monday. Still, it was another cased closed. Walker suggested we go get some drinks, something which I was more than happy to do, because fucking Dick had only gotten me revved up for more.

Fuck–that was one of the best weekends we’d shared in a long while. Fuck, I actually couldn’t remember the last time we went as wild as we did, though we do it all the time, now. The two of us were already dressed to go out, of course–since our work clothes doubled as our club clothes–the immaculate leather uniforms we both wore fit right in down at the leather bar where the two of us hung out. It was funny though–the club seemed a bit busier than usual–in particular, it seemed like the entire college football team had come out that night, and all of them were poaching our usual hunting grounds, so we decided on a change of plans, and found two young freshman who shouldn’t have even been in there–and gave them a choice. Come back with us for the rest of the weekend, or kiss their fucking scholarships goodbye after they get an arrest record. Needless to say, neither one of them was very happy about it, but we cuffed them anyway, and dragged them home with us.

It’s funny…I didn’t remember Walker and I living together, but…I mean, I guess it makes sense, right? Two top cops? Two burly, leathered up fuckers like us? Why the fuck wouldn’t we live together? I won’t go into details, but let’s just say that those two football frat fuckers were singing a different tune by Sunday evening, begging us for our cocks, our fists, our piss. We did let them go, of course–but put them on chastity probation–locking them both up, and requiring them both to come over for regular check ins and training. Heh, Justin–that’s one of them, this big old linebacker–he’s graduated at this point, and became a full time slave for a friend of mine, this old biker–fucking rough man, but I’ve never met a guy who loves getting beaten up like Justin does. The other, Harry, he’s a fancy businessman now, but I still have his key–he hasn’t had his cock out in over a year, but he doesn’t fucking care–he gets more pleasure out of drinking down some stranger’s cum in a bathhouse than he ever did shooting himself. Still, I suppose I’ve gotten a bit off topic, now haven’t I? I’m still talking at all, of course, because the strangest thing about the case, about Dick, I should say, only happened after that weekend, when the two of us, still reeking of sex, still in our leathers, showed back up at the precinct, nursing a couple of light hangovers, and found ourselves with quite a mess in the drunk tank where we’d abandoned Dick on Saturday night.

Now, this is easily the busiest precinct for drunks in the city, since it’s so close to the nightlife district, but it wasn’t the number of people in there that was surprising–it was what they were doing, or rather, who they were doing. In the middle of the, at this point, rather sleepy throng was Dick–which shouldn’t have been surprising, I suppose, considering how eager that guy was for a load of cum. No, what was strange was Dick himself. When we’d left, he’d been a middle aged slob, sure, but not..this. He’d packed on close to two hundred more pounds, his bare belly scraping the concrete floor of the cell, his several chins disguised by a massive, grey beard I couldn’t recall him having before. He was no longer middle aged, but seemed closer to seventy–his teeth all missing aside from a few barely hanging by the root, his body coated in filth, clothes unwashed, as he begged another man for a load of cum. But maybe I was just remembering things wrong. It seemed like I’d been remembering a lot wrong, lately. Still, we figured we should give the guys in the cell a break, and we took a final turn with the disgusting pig in the interrogation room, feeding him our loads of cum and piss before kicking him back out onto the street. We didn’t mind giving Dick a place to stay on occasion, but he couldn’t very well live here, right?

But the oddest thing? The two of us got to work processing the guys in the drunk tank after we finished with Dick…but none of the fuckers’ intake information matched anything close to who we were looking at in front of us. Like, some of the paperwork told us to expect a couple of young hicks who’d gotten pulled in on a drunk driving charge, but who we found looking at us were a couple of middle aged, pot bellied bikers, covered with tattoos and reeking of piss and cigars. A couple of businessmen charged with harassing a woman in a bar, were now a couple of young skinheads, dressed in camo and rubber, and much more interested in making out with each other than answering any of our questions. Just one fucking screw up after another, and we had no clue what to make of it. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder about Dick, in all of this for some reason. He still comes by, on occasion, ends up in the tank for a night, and everytime the same fucking thing happens. It’s a fucking mystery, you know? But hey, not every case wraps up nice and neat, but that’s the job–now if you’ll excuse me, it looks like Walker’s collared someone over by the dance floor, and he might need some backup.