Getting Bigger With F.A.T. (Part 4)

We didn’t hear it at first–both of us were a bit busy eating. I think I was the first one, and I nudged Jay to go see who it was. It was his house, after all. Mostly I just wanted a chance to stuff my face on my own for a moment–I had to try and get every advantage, if I wanted to be as large as Jay, right? Jay, I think, was just hoping that whoever it was would just go away, but they just kept knocking, and finally he was aggravated by it that he went to the door to at least tell them to go away. I heard the door open, and Jay gave a strange cry–I left the food and went after him to see what the matter was.

I found Jay at the door with a strange man–a sexy man, don’t get me wrong, he was beautiful. At least as large as Jay was at this point, he was wearing a black t-shirt with the words “Fat Action Team” down the front. He was smoking a cigar and had a big beard all over his face–and he was showing Jay something on his phone. I recognized it immediately–Jay was in one of those trances, like I’d seen him in before we’d started training together–his eyes and mouth slack, arms hanging at his sides as best they could, since his fat rolls wouldn’t let them hang straight any longer.

I asked the man what was going on. He told me to not worry–that he was simply a representative of the Fat Action Team, and had come by in order to give us a preliminary examination, and to prepare us for the next stages in our training. Before I could ask him what he meant by that, however, he’d swung the phone around, and the prismatic spiral there simply…wiped away my awareness. I don’t know how long he was there with us, but I think it was a few days, at least. I…recall surfacing on occasion, but it wasn’t very often. It was always…he kept trying to…to force me to do something I didn’t want to do, and…and I’d fight him. I remember looking at him, like he was seeing just how hard I was willing to push, how much fight I had in me. I mean, I always gave in eventually, there wasn’t…there wasn’t anything I could do, not really, but I tried all the same.

When he left us there, neither of us knew what to think about what had just happened to us, and we were exhausted, like neither of us had slept in days. We immediately went to bed, and curled up together, just enjoying the sensation of our fat pressed together, of the bed sagging under our combined weight, and when we woke up the next morning, each of us discovered that FAT had sent us a new training file, and even though neither of us really wanted to, were were helpless as we loaded the files up, and gave them a listen.

I was out for a few hours. When the file finally ended, I remember I was no longer by the computer, but sitting in an armchair in the living room, smoking a cigar and jacking my cock as I did, savoring the smoke like I’d been doing it all my life. I…I told myself that I hated smokers, that I’d always hated them, but I now felt like that was just a lie. I needed smoke as much as I needed food–I’d never be able to get enough of it. Jay was nowhere to be seen–I got up and found him in the kitchen, stuffing his face, but where before he’d always had a look of supreme joy on his face while he was eating, now he seemed…terrified.

“Please, I can’t stop, I’m so hungry, I didn’t know I could be this hungry,” he said in between mouthfuls, “Help me…”

So I helped him. I stuffed food into his mouth as fast as I could, making him eat it, and…and fuck, it felt good, force feeding him like that. Being in control of him like that. It felt so good that I had to stop, shove him down onto his hands and knees and plow his hole, smoke billowing from my nose as I came deep in his fat ass with a growl, and then we kept stuffing him silly.

That…that was years ago now, though. After I completed that next training, FAT was more than happy to hire me on as a compliance agent. Now, it’s my job to go to FAT members who are resisting their programming, and I…encourage them for a while, to make sure they meet their goals of getting bigger. I’ve gotten bigger myself, of course–I just passed 500 pounds a while back, and FAT, to celebrate, has given me a free pass to one of their legendary retreats next month. I’d take Jay along with me, of course…but Jay can’t go anywhere.

I can’t believe how quickly he grew, after that training. Thankfully FAT agreed to supply us with food in exchange for filling the house with webcams, so people online could watch his progress–but he’s already 850 pounds, and isn’t showing any sign of stopping. He’s bedridden at this point, and I spend pretty much all day stuffing his face with food, making sure his enormous hunger is sated, and that he keeps on growing like a good pig. Still, after that tumble, when he broke his legs, FAT decided it would be better to just amputate–he’s bedridden for life, now, and he couldn’t be happier. I…I’m happy too, I think. At least, FAT tells me I’m just a bit stressed, and that this retreat will help me refocus on my real priorities. I…I don’t know what priorities they mean; they’re really vague sometimes. Still, FAT has given me all this, so I can trust them, right?

The Trophy (Part 3)

***WARNING*** Extreme abuse, rape, body modification, mutilation, and snuff ahead. Read at your own risk.

Once a man is broken, you’ve won. They don’t always realize it right away, and so, it’s best to start them off small. I forced him to shave his head every day from then on, and then, after he did that without complaint, he graduated to shaving his face and body as well. At this point, I also faced a decision of my own–now that he’d been broken down, what should I do with him? I had enjoyed taking his fingers, to be honest–I hadn’t done anything like that in ages–so why not go a bit further?

I began by getting him adjusted to bondage, immobility and darkness. I would keep him bound, first for hours, then days and then eventually for a week at a time. In his bondage, I would have men arrive and abuse him as they saw fit, or I would simply have them use him as a dump or urinal. At this point, I had treated him with products designed to remove his hair permanently–no more shaving would be required, ever. And then, I began the modifications. with the help of a dentist friend, I removed his teeth and tongue, and then together dropped his jaw, opening his mouth impossibly wide, and we crafted a new mouth with latex putty–soft, tight and inviting–a mouth pussy, as I called it. It got rave reviews from all the men who used it, and so I began crafting various attachments that could be inserted, in order to give different sensations and textures, different degrees of tightness.

Since he was no longer able to eat like a man, I fed him by tube–and soon he realized that he was becoming fat, his lithe body from before slowly expanding with mass, first a small gut and moobs, but as the drug cocktail broke down his metabolic rate, he expanded faster and faster–in six months, he had ballooned up to four hundred and fifty pounds, with no sign of stopping. The only thing clothing he wore now were full body rubber suits designed to deprive him of his senses. His eyes and ears were covered nearly all the time–he was only really aware of himself by feel and heft, rather than by sight or sound. When I took his eyes and ears, I don’t think he even noticed a thing aside from the pain–not that he could have registered disapproval with his mouth pussy anyway.

At about eight hundred pounds, when he was no longer able to move much at all, I decided it was time for permanent installation in my dungeon–we removed his cock and balls, his arms and legs, anchored him on a concrete block, and kept him growing, kept him alive, so he could feel what we were doing to him, carving out chunks of his fat, and installing latex holes for men to fuck, turning him into a jiggly fuckcushion for men to pin. I wonder what it felt like, to him, to have men fucking him in every direction, caught in the middle of their orgy. The rubber holes all over his body all drained out, along with his bodily fluids, into the sewer below the concrete slab–I would rinse him out once a week or so, to keep the pincushion from stinking up the room too much.

Alas, a little after one thousand pounds, he finally expired. I didn’t get rid of him, of course–he was mostly rubber at this point anyway. With the help of a taxidermist I knew from previous catches, we got rid of the flesh and stuffed what remained with rubber filling, preserving it’s squishy, fleshy feel, and it lives on in my dungeon, though I often rent it out to parties and local clubs as a fucktoy statement piece. I often have people ask me how, exactly, I made the thing, what had inspired me to create something like that, but I usually just remain silent. “I like my projects,” I say sometimes, happy with the double meaning.

You probably think I’m mad, don’t you? But how different is it, really, from a hunter keeping their trophies in the living room? That massive bear looming over them in the armchair, stuffed with fluff? I caught him–this is my token, my own personal trophy for my kill. Still, I’m getting the hankering for another project here soon–maybe not something quite so massive. Maybe I’ll make a pup for myself, or for a friend–I haven’t done one of those in ages. In fact, I’ve heard some rumours of an illegal dog fighting ring around town, and I bet I could extract an invite from one of my contacts–hell, maybe I’ll just run a kennel for a while? Pups are fairly easy, after all, I can make a few. After all, the only cruelty towards an animal I can condone is against a fellow human, you know?

Father’s Rules (Part 6)

***Warning*** Really dark. Physical and emotional abuse, extreme aging, amputation.

His father rarely brought home the same man more than once, and once he had Blake willing to do anything he wanted, he rarely brought home anyone at all. There were a few that came over regularly, but it was always focused on sex. But as soon as they stepped in the door, Blake could immediately sense something different between them. They came home, and his dad wasn’t drunk off his ass, and they were…laughing. He introduced Anthony to his filthy brother, but instead of using him…Saul told Blake that he should go spend a few hours at the gym–give them some privacy. A small part of Blake was relieved, but his new self was…hurt. Hurt that his brother didn’t want to use him, hurt when he saw the look of contempt and loathing in Anthony’s eyes. He worked out, but during his multiple breaks for a cigar outside, he fumed. What did that guy have that Blake didn’t? Sure, he was young, he was clean. He wasn’t obese, just chubby and soft in all the right places. But could he take two dicks in his ass at once? Could he drink a gallon of piss in one sitting? Did he have teeth you can take out, like Blake’s proper mouthhole? No! So why send him away? Why do all of this to him, if you didn’t want to use him?

Blake returned that night. Anthony was still there, sleeping with Saul in the bed, and Blake started a fight. He wanted to know why Saul had sent him away, why he couldn’t play with him. Anthony was disgusted, and told him so. Saul suggested he leave–that he needed to have some words with his brother. Saul finally confessed everything to him. He’d been dating Anthony for a few months now, behind Blake’s back. Blake wanted to know why, and Saul told him it was because he wanted someone in his life who wasn’t a pig. Who had some self-control, and some basic hygiene and who wasn’t in their sixties. Blake exploded. Saul stopped responding, marched over to the list, and scrawled a new rule:

My son has to move out out of the apartment.

Blake begged and pleaded. Where was he even supposed to go? Saul was uncaring, and shoved him out of the apartment and locked the door behind him; he searched his key ring for the key to the apartment but it had somehow disappeared, so he started banging and pounding on the door, screaming threats until the police arrived, cuffed him, and dragged him off.

Saul posted his bail, but said that was the last he wanted to see of him. He’d already talked to their boss and gotten him fired, and told him he’d have to find something else to do with his “retirement”. That if he ever came near him or Anthony again, there’d be hell to pay. With nothing else to do, he emptied his wallet at the bar, and decided he might as well use the only skill he had left, and started turning tricks with anyone desperate enough to fuck him, usually only asking for a bed or a couch and a meal for payment, instead of money. He knew enough perverts from his years living with his father that he was able to survive, at least–although now that he was at their disposal and rather helpless, he found himself at the mercy of each man’s own extreme natures. One man offered him a home in his basement, but only if he slept in a cage, and he suffered as the man’s old helpless pig for two month, until he too grew tired of him and kicked him out again. He met several men who would pay him to be in amateur porn flicks, and he found his sexual limits pushed in all sorts of strange–often painful–directions. Throughout, he would still see Saul and Anthony on occasion at various bars. The meetings were always coincidental–the list wouldn’t allow him to seek them out–and he would always leave as soon as he noticed them, but not without incurring another year or two of aging each time. Before too much longer, he was nearly eighty–his hair pure white, contrasting with his riot of tattoos. It was around then that he went home with someone too rough–someone who beat him senseless, shattering his arms and legs in multiple places, before dumping him at the hospital.

Blake woke up in a bed, his father looming over him. He tried to speak, he tried to yell, but his dad shushed him.

“Don’t worry dad,” Saul said to him, “I’m here for you.”

“But…but where am I?” Blake replied, “Where–did you say…dad?”

“Of course–you know me. It’s Saul, your son.”

Blake couldn’t speak, tears welling up in his eyes. He hurt all over, but he managed to look around the room. It was small, and looked like a hospital–some other old man was in a bed next to him, sleeping, some monitor beeping quietly. “Is this the hospital? Why…why can’t I feel my legs…”

“I’m…the doctors said you were too obese to save your legs–they had gone necrotic. I’m afraid that they had to amputate them, dad–after, you know, your fall? They saved your arms, but they say you won’t be able to use them very much in the future. ”

Blake refused to believe it. He started screaming, and an orderly came in, helping him calm down, before showing him his missing legs–one at the hip, and the other at the knee. His arms and hands were still in casts, but he could…feel the damage enough to know they weren’t lying. He was too terrified to do anything but cry, and his dad stroked his bald head gently.

“Don’t worry, I picked out this nursing home especially for you. You’ll be quite happy here, and I’ve made sure you’ll be well taken care of now, isn’t that right Mr. Allan?”

“Of course, Mr. Emerson–I’ll follow your instructions to the letter, I promise.”

“Good,” Saul said, “My father has a very particular set of needs, after all, and I’m sure you’re just the man to help him through these last years of his life.”

Blake tried to protest, but he was too tired to speak. Saul turned and left, leaving him with Mr. Allan. He was young–probably in his thirties and very muscular. He came around the side of the bed, unzipped his pants, and pulled out his cock. “Yeah, your dad’s told me that you need all sorts of special treatment to stay happy, and it just so happens this sort of thing is my specialty.”

Blake tried to resist, as the young man reached in his mouth and pulled out his dentures, but once the cock was in his mouth, he decided to just enjoy it–and he did enjoy it. He was especially thankful when Mr. Allan shot deep down his throat, and followed the cum with a load of piss–just how Blake liked it. After, he helped him into a wheelchair and pushed him outside, lighting a cigar for him and helping the old man smoke it, before reaching one hand under the blanket covering his stumps and jacking his old, soft cock until it leaked out a load of cum–and then wheeled him back inside, and lifting him into his bed–but only after hooking up a milker to his cock and a sliding a large vibrating dildo into his hole–to help keep him happy, Mr. Allan said.

Yeah, happy. This…this wasn’t so bad, was it? He told himself, as he spasmed and let loose another load into the milker. But then again, if this wasn’t so bad, why couldn’t he seem to stop himself from sobbing?

The Worst Luck – Part 2

***Warning*** Extreme violence, castration, torture, extreme body modification and amputation. Probably shouldn’t be read by anyone–I’m in a weird mood this month. 


Ivan awoke. He couldn’t quite be sure, but he thought he was probably somewhere else now. That said, he had only fuzzy memories of the night before, of being raped. He tried to move, but his arms and legs were secured, spread eagle on some hard, metal table. He could lift his head, however, to look around, and he noticed something terrifying. His cock. His balls. They were so blue that they almost looked black.He could see tight rubber bands around them, he could feel them cutting into his skin, but they must have been on so long he’d begun to go numb. He started shouting for help, desperate, muttering to himself in terror, and he heard a door open behind him–something heavy, a steel door scraping against concrete–more than one person entered, and the door shut again.

“You’re finally awake. Good, I was hoping you’d get to see this.”

It was the man’s voice, from the club. Master, or at least, that’s the only name Ivan had for him. He pleaded, but the man just talked over him.

“You know, I was only going to use you for a night, and then send you on your way. Just a bit of harmless fun had at your expense. But then you had to go and bite my fucking cock, you fucking bitch! You’re fucking lucky you didn’t do any real damage, but fuck you, I’m gonna fuck you up anyway. I didn’t really want another slave in my life, but I’d say that you fucking earned it.” He came around into Ivan’s field of vision, and there was a second man with him, a short, pudgy man in a polo shirt, glasses and a mustache. “This here is Trevor. He’s trained as a veterinarian, but that’s all the expertise we really need here, don’t you think? Now, how about one last shot of cum before we nut you for good?”

Master wrapped one gloved hand around Ivan’s cock, but much to his terror, he couldn’t feel him. He could see the hand moving up and down the stiff shaft, but it might as well have been a piece of literal wood–he had no sensation at all. He was sobbing now, and Master kept at it, taunting him.

“No? You don’t want to cum one last time? Are you sure? Or is it that you can’t? Trevor tells me that at some point there is simply too much nerve death for the penis to be stimulated enough for orgasm. If so, you must be one unlucky whore. Still, if you won’t cum, we might as well get on with it.”

There was no anesthesia. His nerves were dying, but not so dead that he couldn’t feel the scalpel cutting into his sack, his balls tugged out and cut away from his body, the excess sack skin trimmed away, and what remained was sewn up tight. Then the vet began on his cock, cutting through it at the base, saving a bit of skin as a graft. It would be like he’d never had a cock or balls at all, just a mutilated genital scar where his manhood had been. Master watched all this in a rather detached manner. As Trevor was finishing up, he finally spoke.

“Now, here is my offer, slave. You can either eat your own dead cock and balls, raw, in their entirety, or Trevor and I will extract every single one of your teeth, one by one.”

Ivan begged and pleaded. He denied it, he attempted to bargain. Master held the bloody head of his cooling cock to his lips, suggesting he give himself a blowjob, that if he thinks cocks are meant to be bitten, then he should bite his own to bits. He couldn’t do it. He wanted to, he tried, but he vomited to the side, gasping.

“Pity, I wanted to see you eat it so badly,” Master said. Trevor handed him a set of pliers. “If it’s any consolation at all, we were going to pull out your teeth no matter what.”

Trevor held Ivan’s screaming mouth wide, Master got a good grip on a tooth and yanked it free by the root, and then another, and another. When he grew tired, the two men switched positions. All Ivan could taste was blood. Finally, two hours later, their work was finished. Ivan was lightheaded from the blood he’d lost, and Trevor was hard at work stitching up the worst wounds in his mouth. Master leaned over him, speaking.

“Part of me wants to go further, you know. Take out your tongue. Snap off your fingers. Cut off your nipples. But I think I’m done for now. I feel…much better. But if you displease me, or any man I order you to serve, like Trevor here, who will be fucking that toothless maw of yours tonight I think, then know that the cost of disappointing me is losing yet another bit of your body–and they will be bits of body you will miss dearly.”

Ivan nodded eagerly. Master pulled on a rubber glove and adjusted his slave’s legs so that they were hauled up into the air.

“Now, since I can’t very well fuck you with five stitches in my cock, I suppose the only option I have left is to fist your hole, slave. Hole–heh, I like that. How about we make that your new name? Tomorrow I’ll have a tattooist friend of mine come over and etch it across your forehead.”

He didn’t use lube. The worst part, for Ivan, was that the act of having his hole abused was still intensely pleasurable, but now he had no outlet. He could feel his body trying to spasm some phantom cock, but with no hope of release, he only became hornier and hornier, ever more desperate for more of Master’s arm to be buried in his ass. Trevor eventually finished his stitches, and then he did, as Master had suggested, fuck his toothless mouth. He was gentle, to keep from ripping open the wounds he’d just closed, but he seemed to care little about what he’d just done. Truely, his luck had been terrible, but certainly it couldn’t be worse that this, right?

He was wrong. A year later, Master finally decided to sell him to a permanent home. Hole had had his eyes plucked out. His fingers, and then his hands, and then his arms up to his elbows had been removed. His legs had been lopped off at the knee. He hadn’t done anything wrong–Master had simple become obsessed with how much he could alter. He had no idea what his new Master looked like. He sounded old. His cock was thick, but short. He enjoyed Hole’s mouth more than his loose, well worn ass, but many of his friends preferred to fuck him, passing him around the room at the orgies he could hear but never see, just a toy for sexual perversion. And that was the worst luck, and woe to any man who is cursed by the wizard on Friday the Thirteenth.

Into the Night of God – Part 3

***WARNING***

If the first two parts of this were too much for you to handle, don’t read this one. Just don’t. Or rather, read it expecting a horror story–not erotica. Contains amputation, genital nullification, mental death, scat, and bestiality.

Commissioned by Anonymous

Part 3 – The Night

Bruin whines in his crate, but I don’t do anything with him yet. I’m not sure what to do with him yet, to be honest–I had apparently misjudged the weight of the connection they must have formed during the day in the hospital, to allow something like this to happen. Rather, that was a lie. I know what I have to do to him, but I would like there to be some other option. There isn’t though, and it’s all the damn doctor’s fault. I could have been merciful. He could have been happy here, serving and worshiping me, but he clung like a rat to a life that I’d forbidden. He defied me, with that damn journal of his–I should have burned it when I’d had the chance. Still,confidence breeds foolishness–I will be more careful when adding to my flock in the future.

I pour myself another shot of whisky, and take a drag off my smoke. My calm blend tonight, even though it makes my limbs heavy–I need to take the edge off my mind, and file off the anger for a moment. There will be other times for anger, but not now–I have to be calm for what’s coming, if I lose control…well, then I’ll be out a pig. This will require careful work, and I can’t let that fuck mess things up anymore than he has already. Still, he was quite the actor–looking through these new entries in his book, he’s been out from under my mental control for a little over a month now, regaining his thoughts bit by bit, pushing back against me. His mental fortitude is impressive–I introduced him to the donkey a few weeks ago, and Jack does not have a small dick. Still, maybe he really does like it? It doesn’t matter now, still, I find I’m curious anyway.

I pour another shot and flip through the diary again, looking at his thought process, at his plan. It could have worked, if he’d picked a better time, if he’d studied me better, but he’d panicked and run too soon. Grabbing Bruin and getting in the truck, planning on making a break for it–what a fool. Still, I’d stopped them easily enough, even if I’d had to shoot out two of my tires. I’m gonna have to fix those tomorrow–I hate car work. He’s just been one big headache since I’d met him, since that fucker had run over my last dog. I know I lost control, I know I went to far, burning him like that. Still, it hasn’t been a complete waste, even if it had taken me months to clean it all up. I can’t help that I lose control sometimes–I just can’t handle the extent of my wrath. Still, I’m feeling good and calm now. I’m under control, I’m feeling mellow, and I think it’s time.

I’ll deal with Bruin tomorrow and the rest of the week, while the pig heals. I’ll just have to destroy him, as much as I hate doing that. It makes for a dumb ass dog, but his loyalty–an animal is worthless without that. I can’t have him care for anyone else. I’m the important one, Me! I’m his master, how fucking dare he, feeling for anyone else, especially some fucking rich ass twinky doctor like that! I hate him, I’m gonna kill him, I’m gonna make him wish he’d never been born I’m–

Breathe. Deep breaths, keep calm, it will all be sorted out in time. I nearly lost it there, but I can’t postpone this any longer, he needs to be dealt with. He needs to learn his lesson, he needs to understand that I’m the one he has to answer to for his wrongs. That I’m God here, that it’s my judgement, my farm, my world that he’s in now, and my word is law.

I step out into the cold night–but Spring will be here before too long, I imagine. It has been a long winter, but Bruin and the Doc at least kept me busy, and I suppose the Doc will keep me busy this summer too. He’s in the barn, bound up on the cross I keep there for play when I want a change of setting. It’s even darker in there, and I turn on the lights, watch him blink awake, and he’s angry. He’s yelling, but I say nothing. I have to make this quick, before I lose it, before I just decide to just gut him and end it, but he deserves worse than that, he deserves true punishment, but it will be slow, and he will regret defying me.

Right hand first, with the hedge clippers. Thumb, and every finger cut off at the root. He screams, understanding–or beginning to–what he’s done to himself. Then the second hand like the first. I could take the whole hand as punishment for theft, but I take both his feet instead, saw them off below the ankle. He’s begging now–pleading with me, the fool. God’s don’t respond to the pleas of mortals, God’s don’t care about their subjects. What a delusional fuck.

Two more operations. I dig into his mouth with a bloody hand, drag out his tongue and snip off half, stopping the bleeding as quick as I can, and then the final cut, I remove his balls and cock with a single snip, and then tend to his bleeding and wounds. I wonder if I should just let him die, but that’s too easy for him, for the defyer, for the pig. He’s sobbing now, he’s already hopeless. Good, but as a final measure, I douse his cock and balls on the ground where they lay in gasoline and light them on fire, before leaving, shutting out the lights, the flame his only light–for the moment. Now, I must let him heal before we continue.

I focus on Bruin for the next few days as I planned, and it is good practice for what I will eventually do to the pig as well. It is a hybrid I have rarely used because it is exceptionally strong–it destroys the mind, rather than enhancing it. For the tribes, any who used it were generally left as nothing more than drooling fools, rendered more like animals than anything else. It was supposed that strong spirits dwelt in these particular leaves, the spirits of animals, and that they would overwhelm anyone with a weak spirit. In fact, they simply degrade an individual’s mental faculties so far that they can barely reason, behaving more on instinct than anything, but the hypnotic state that it induces is strong enough that it can overcome anything, even love.

I administer it to Bruin through the gasmask. His remaining humanity disappears quickly, and before I realize my object, I begin to replace it with anger and hatred. I pour my own dire emotions into him, I make him hate the pig, I make Bruin loathe him, I make him trust only me, his Master, his God, the Divine. I stop before I lose too much of his mind, but he’s far stupider–just an angry brute, a guard dog, a hunting dog. When I let him loose in the fields after this, I often find him later in the day, his mouth caked in the blood of some rabbit he chased and disemboweled during the day. He makes me so proud. I love that beast, and he now, truly, only loves me.

I bring this new Bruin before the pig as he heals, as well. I show him what he made me do to our pup–my pup. I show him how Bruin hates him. In the barn Bruin leaps at him, leash taut, leaping for his throat, ready to kill him should I release the lead. The look on the pig’s face–terror, but also regret and sorrow. He understands. He understands that this was his fault, that he made me do this, that this is all part of his punishment, in the end. He is healing well, though. My healing blends have closed his wounds, and they are scarring well. I mind his crotch–well, it’s crotch, now. I mind it to make sure it can still piss through a small hole, but otherwise it is just a flat, round scar–nothing left of it’s manhood, as it should be.

I fuck and fist it, and it still finds it pleasurable. It still realizes it belongs to me, that I control it. I love knowing that the act of pleasing me still brings a stupid grin to its face. On occasion, I regret what I have done, but I must remain steadfast. It had to be done, it had to be punished, I cannot allow myself to be defied. There is more to be done, more work to do, and it will begin soon. I start him with the smoke. The pig’s mind is far, far sharper than Bruin’s, it will take much longer to unravel, but I will enjoy watching it happen. It struggles against the gasmask at first, coughs from the smoke, but as soon as he has sucked it all down and gone limp, I pull it away and begin introducing it’s new habits and desires. Especially it’s hunger. It will be central to him, his stomach his new mind. The next day, I test him, and put him in a stall with a trough, and begin pouring in the slop.

The pig fights it for a few moments, but cannot resist for long. It devours as much as it can, and quickly, it realizes that he cannot stop. The trough never empties, I make sure of that, and even though the pig grows fuller than it has ever been before, it continues eating non-stop, until it collapses from exhaustion and faints. I wait until it wakes again after close to an hour, and sure enough, it continues eating–the compulsion is far too strong for it to fight. I have already won, and he doesn’t even realize it. He still fights the compulsion, still believes it has will, that it can defy it’s Lord God.

I clean up after the pig for now. I want it to grow accustomed to its new appetite. At first, it can only eat in two hour blocks, but soon its stomach has stretched large enough that it can continue eating for nearly three times as long. It no longer fights against the compulsion, the hunger has only grown stronger. I have smoked him two more times, reinforcing it’s need to eat, but I hold back. I don’t want to destroy it’s mind entirely, not yet, I want it to realize what it will become, I want it to accept it, to accept it’s complete submission to my will.

I’ve been taking care of the pig’s waste so far, scooping it out along with the rest of the hog manure, but I decide it’s time the pig starts managing it’s own matters. I smoke it again, and this time, the hunger becomes paired with a need for filth. I expect this one will take more work to ingrain within his psyche, but that’s alright–I have all the time in the world. Spring is now nearly giving way to summer, and I’m minding the pig less. I’m working on several new hybridizations, and I have my own crops to maintain. Bruin is as good a guard dog as any, and only grows more loyal to me by the day. Still, one day he got into the barn by accident, and I had to drag him off the pig before he killed it–still, it gave the hog a much needed, and much enjoyed–fright, for me at least.

The pig doesn’t want me to know what it’s been doing, I can tell. It’s doing it’s best to hide it, but I can see–the streaks of shit across it’s growing body, and finally I catch it in the act. I look in the stall, and there it is, rolling in it’s own massive pile of filth, grunting and snorting as it does, and before it can do anything about it, I’m straddling it, my cock down it’s throat, and I piss gallons into it’s guts, and it loves it. I can tell. It gives me a chance to see it’s growth too. As much as I detest chemicals, the additives and hormones in the slop have been working marvelously. The pig’s muscles have withered, and it’s packing on fat faster than anything I’ve seen. I fist it’s filthy hole next, and then force it to lick it the filth off my arm. I want it to realize that I did this. That I’ve known what it’s been doing all along, that it has no secrets from me, not anymore. The last place it can hide, it’s mind–not even that will last, but it doesn’t realize that yet. It will soon though.

The need and compulsion for filth grows, as I increase the frequency of it’s smoke sessions. The first signs of mental loss are showing–the pig will “blank out” as I call it, and run on instinct alone for minutes at a time. It’s new obsessions dominate it, and I watch it wake up from these mental time gaps, it’s face in a pile of hog manure from the pig in the next stall, and it’s horrified, but it can’t stop. Before long, I don’t even have to clean up after the pigs–the hog does all the work for me before I can get to it. Still though, it eats. I feed it too, my own shit. It fought the first time, but now it’s excited–it craves it. I bring it Bruin’s as well, and make sure it knows where it came from as it chews it down.

I begin pressing deeper into the pig’s mind, destroying it forcefully. I remove its memories–its past. It can no longer remember a time when it wasn’t a pig on my farm, when I didn’t own it, mind, body and soul. The blanks last longer now–hours at a time. But he is fighting me still. He still believes he can win if he tries hard enough. But you can’t win against God, you can’t defy me and expect a chance to defy me again. Still, I taunt it, on occasion. I bring it out of the barn. I leave it by the side of the road, and I step back. I give it the choice, I give it the chance to leave. I tell it that I won’t follow, that it can crawl into town if it wants, or wait for some passerby to find it and rescue it. I know that my commandments are too strong for such a weak pig to resist them, but it fights them anyway. It gets a few hundred yards down the road before it’s fat body, too tired and exhausted to make the trek, overloads its feeble mind. It blanks, and the pig inside draws it back to the barn to feed, to degrade itself for my pleasure.

How must it feel, when it loses consciousness on the road, and winds up back in it’s stall, eating, or licking the holes of it’s fellow pigs? I’m sure it’s beginning to realize what’s happening to its mind. It probably assumes that I bring it back though, that I stop it. I wonder when it will see the truth–that deep down, it wants to be here. That the animal I’ve crafted within it is winning. That before long, there will be no doctor–just a pig. A fat fucking pig covered in filth, devouring shit and piss, desperate to be fucked and fisted by me, it’s Lord and Master–it’s God. Sometimes, when it collapses, exhausted from eating, I listen to it sob. That’s how I know he’s still in there, how I know he’s losing, but hasn’t lost yet. Still, I should make it more tempting, I should corrupt it even further now.

Another session of smoke, but this time–pleasure. How much pleasure it gets from it’s filthy life. How content it is here. Now, when it devours the pig’s manure, I watch it shudder with delight. It can no longer cum, certainly, but it can orgasm. I watch as the pleasure overwhelms his disgust, I watch the doctor begin to rationalize its own descent into darkness. “This isn’t so bad,” it is thinking, “I am fed, I am cared for, I am happy. It could be worse.” But could it? Could it really be worse? Have I not been creative enough? Have I not punished it enough? The pig has fallen so far that he can no longer recall what he was, what it’s life could have been. His world is shrinking. I define the world, and the pig’s place within it, and he can do nothing but nod gleefully and accept it. Then, I give him pleasure for his service and piety. A pig’s pleasure, but pleasure all the same, to him.

I smoke him every day now, he is getting close to the final night of the mind. He struggles to understand me now. I speak to him often, but he usually just stares at me blankly, unable to comprehend language and words that should be familiar to him. He tries so hard though, to understand me, to comprehend the word of the Lord, but his brain can no longer grasp it, and he will inevitably blank out, and wander off to search out whatever filth it can find to satiate it’s never ending hunger. How must it think, when it is aware of itself? In images? In feelings? It’s language is disappearing, things must seem so simple now. Eat. Filth. Fist. Piss. Happy. Sad. Pain. Nothing else, anymore, aside from a few stubborn remnants.

It spends entire days, now, in the instinctual darkness. My mindless pig, obsessed with filth and devouring anything in front of it. It is clear that in it’s rare moments of relative lucidity, it struggles to piece together anything like a rational thought. I wonder if it still has any capacity to hate it’s life? It doesn’t seem to. At this point, it’s thoughts must be of how lucky it is to have a life which gives it so much pleasure. That, or simply confusion. Its mind struggling to do something–anything–with these higher order thoughts which were once so second nature, but which serve no purpose in the world I have made for it to exist in. I am with it nearly constantly now. I want to see it, that moment when the light goes out forever, when it’s mind finally shuts off, when it can no longer recognize itself as a self. I decide, finally, that I will give it a moment so pleasurable, so full of instinctual bliss, that it will give me the moment I have been waiting for for so long now.

I give it a pile of fresh sludge and slop, and it squeals with delight, hurling itself into it, eating it, covering itself with it, and then in comes the stallion. It has never ridden a cock this large, but it is eager to try, and It is soon impaled on it, the horse thrusting it into the pile of muck, and I can see the massive waves of pleasure rippling through it’s obese body, but the eyes, I watch the eyes. In them, there is a flame, it flares wildly. It can’t comprehend this situation, it has discovered bliss, it has witnessed the divine in it’s pleasure, has entered heaven, and then it dies. The pig continues, but it is an empty vessel now. It has known my wrath, and it has known my bliss. Night has fallen, and dawn will never come.

Into the Night of God – Part 2

Commissioned by Anonymous

Part 2 – The Homecoming

The sun broke past the far side of Bruin’s window, the light slanting into his eye from the low-slung sun, signalling that the chilly winter afternoon was now dusk, and night would arrive soon enough. The knot of anxiety tightened in his gut, and he let out a soft whine. He was going home tonight–that’s what Master had told him. He’d been a good pup, he’d passed all of his obedience tests, and he could walk all on his own on his new legs, and so Master said tonight would be the night. Why then, wasn’t he happier?

The sun pushed it’s way into the window proper and Bruin turned his head away from the glare. Night came so quickly this time of year, it felt like Master had just left a few hours ago, and already he would be coming back soon. It would go behind some trees in a few minutes, and after a little while longer, it would drop past the horizon, and after that, the smoke-smell, and then Master would come and take him home. He should be happier about that–Master had told him to be happy, but then why wasn’t he happy? Maybe because of the dark–he doesn’t like the dark, he doesn’t like what happens when Master comes in the dark. Still, things are better than they were, right? He shook his head side to side, trying to clear the unease, but he caught sight of the sun, and it was the same way the sun had looked when he’d been driving, when he’d crested that hill and the sun had blinded him, and–

–a flash of light over the hill–the setting sun shot into my eyes, and I shielded them with one arm when I should have just slowed down, I should have slowed down, and then there was the thunk, and I slammed into the steering wheel. I hit something, but what did I hit? I can’t remember, I got out of the car, I got out and I ran around to the front. The impact had sent the thing flying ahead of me, there was a smear of blood across the pavement where it had slid to stop several yards away, and it was a person, wasn’t it? I walked over and it was…it was a dog, it was a dog like me, me there, lying there looking up at the truck that hit me? Master was there–he was there and he grabbed the bad man the man who hit me and he was so angry and Master dragged me off and knocked me out and I was dying, I was dying on the road and he left me? Why did he leave me why–

Bruin was trying to grip the sheets with his paws, but he didn’t have paws anymore, but they still hurt. They hurt all the time now, but more when he thought about that stuff, but it was never quite right, he could never piece it all together. There were his memories, and then what his Master had told him, and then what Doctor had said, and none of those things lined up. Which was the right one?

He realized he was huffing and wheezing, but since that awful nurse had stabbed him he couldn’t make much noise, aside from a soft whine and a quiet bark. Still, Master liked having quiet dogs, he didn’t like dogs that drew attention to themselves, and Bruin wanted to be a good dog for Master. The sun finally started moving behind the grove of trees, and Bruin felt most of him relax. His paws still hurt, even though they weren’t there, but now that he was calm, he was able to work through some of the exercises Doctor had given him, how he could imagine opening his paws, and that sometimes helped a bit. He took a few deep breaths, and wished his master could leave his paws on. He liked having them on at nights, he liked practicing with them. It helped him feel more normal, more like how he had been, when he could actually walk, even if he wasn’t very good at it. Still, he could do well enough, and Master said that soon enough he’d be jumping and running around the farm just like he’d used to, before the accident.

Now that his room was darkening though, the fear that memory had put in him wouldn’t quite dissipate. It hung in his quiet throat now, right below the scar, and he started to whine as he watched the sun slowly sink lower and lower behind the trees. He’d never seen Master during the daytime, he realized–he’d only ever come at night. What would it be like to be around him during the day? Could…did he even exist in the day? What if he took Bruin to a place where there was only night? Here, in the bed, people fed him and took care of him and Doctor came sometimes to talk to him, even though Bruin couldn’t say anything back. He’d felt safe with Doctor there, for some reason, he could tell he was a good man. Master was…he was important, he was God but he wasn’t a good man, he was a dangerous man, a wrathful lord, but he should be afraid of Master. That’s what made him a good master after all. If Bruin didn’t fear him, if he wasn’t afraid, then that meant Master couldn’t control him, but thinking about what had happened, what Master had done those first nights–

–Suck it, you fucking bitch, open your mouth and suck it!”

It had been so difficult, but Bruin had made it difficult and painful, if he’d just done what Master had said, if he’d just obeyed from the beginning.

–Go on boy, lick it up–you love how your Master tastes, you crave it. You want to drink as much of it as you can, you love how I smell, how I taste, how I look, everything about me. I am your Master, your Lord, your God. The thought of being away from me makes you anxious, the thought of never seeing me again scares you more than anything else in the world.”

Bruin was whining again, and he couldn’t tell now if the fear was because Master was going to come, or because Master might not come. What if this was just his last night with the Master? What if someone else was coming to take him away? He hadn’t thought about that, and these last thoughts felt like some kind of trespass–a violation of what Master would approve of him thinking–and he tried to bury them back down. He was a good dog–Master told him he was, so that had to be true. He wouldn’t abandon him–he was cruel, sure, but not cruel like that, and Bruin…Bruin didn’t know what would happen if Master and Doctor both left him.

He hadn’t seen Doctor in weeks now–in fact, he was beginning to wonder whether he had ever been real. No one talked about him, no one mentioned him, it was like he didn’t exist. It was all nurses now, and they never spoke to him, and they all smelled like Master, all had that same glazed look in their eyes as they fed and cleaned him, but they never said a word. Doctor had at least tried to talk to him. Doctor had treated him like…like an equal, like a person, like more than the dog he was.

“It’ll be ok Bruin, I promise.”

He missed his voice.

“I’ll protect you, you won’t have to worry about the Night Man, I swear.”

He missed him, but he’d lied. He hadn’t protected him–Master had come every night without fail, and it was Doctor who’d abandoned him, who no longer came, and he always smelled like Master. More than once, he’d wondered if they were actually the same person, if they were just tricking him. He’d thought that at first, because of the smell, but he knew it wasn’t true, but the doubts were always there, and Master didn’t care about protecting him, Master would hurt him, Master would do anything he wanted to him, but he was just the puppy, right? He was just a dog, just an animal, just his Master’s property, just something for his amusement and enjoyment, and that was good. Bruin liked that, he liked making his Master happy, he really did, but still, his Master didn’t love him, not really. Not really at all–in fact, he sometimes thought his Master hated him.

Bruin looked out the window again. The sun was now fully behind the trees, and the room was darkening quickly around him. Soon, he’d be here soon. The realization that he wouldn’t be in this room the next day washed over him, and he felt fearful again. He was helpless, really, without Master–Master could do anything with him, and Bruin wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. He focused on trying to ease some of the pain in his imaginary paws for a few minutes, until he smelled it–Master’s smoke. Less than a minute now. And then the sound of his boots on the tile, and Bruin’s cock was so hard, so excited, and he just watched the doorway until his Master’s silhouette filled it up.

“Evening, Bruin–you ready to get out of here and come home with me, boy?”

Bruin barked softly–his voice could barely raise above a whisper now, but that was enough for his Master to know he was excited. He was, too. At least he wouldn’t be here anymore. At least he wouldn’t be stuck with this endless cycle, the days spent worrying and the nights spent training with Master. It was exhausting. As scared as he was, it was a change, and one he was ready for. His master set down the duffel bag he’d brought along with him and pulled out Bruin’s real paws–four specially designed artificial limbs especially for Bruin. The two front paws were shorter, and Bruin’s forearms slipped into them easily enough. The fiberglass curved down to the point where it terminated in a realistic dog paw, with small enamel claws and everything. His back paws were similar, but much longer, connecting at his disarticulated knee, they curved back, and then forward to paws of their own. It had been months of practice now, every night, but Bruin could finally manage to walk on his own without falling. It still didn’t feel very natural, but Master told him that now that he didn’t have to stay in bed all the time, he’d be getting much more practice, and that he’d be running around the farm like nothing had happened at all, before long.

When all four paws were secured, Master helped Bruin out of the bed and set him down, where he padded around a bit on his paws, getting used to them again. He was still a little unsteady, but he was more confident in them than he had been before, and he did love his paws. They made him feel like a real dog, like all the dogs he could remember seeing, like how he’d been before the accident…right? But…Bruin shook his head, that was too hard to think about, and he realized he hadn’t thanked his Master for his paws today, and he pawed over and nuzzled the crotch of Master’s jeans, knowing what was expected of him.

“In a moment, Bruin–we have to put the rest of your gear on though–we can’t have you going around without your muzzle and tail after all.”

Master pulled both out of his bag, and strapped the muzzle on around Bruin’s face first, and then strapped the rubber tail on above Bruin’s asscrack, where he gave it a wag or two in thanks, and then nuzzled Master’s crotch again.

“Well, someone’s eager tonight,” Master said, and unzipped his jeans, before pulling out his cock, “Well I suppose you can have your bone early. I was going to wait until we got home, but seeing you all geared up–fuck, you’re one sexy pup, you know that?”

Master slipped his cock into the front of Bruin’s muzzle–it was short enough that he could take most of Master’s cock in his mouth even with it on. Of course, it helped his Master had a nine inch cock–and Bruin still preferred sucking on it than having Master fuck him with it. He was too rough, and usually it just hurt. Still, it made Master happy, so he didn’t resist, and besides, he remembered when he had resisted–

Bad dog! Bad dog, you know what happens to bad dogs? Bad dogs get their nuts cut off! Do you want to lose your nuts? Do you?

Bruin shivered at the remembered threat, and focused on sucking Master off like a good dog, like a good pup, like a good slave. He was all those things, after all, and he wanted Master to be happy, that was most important. If Master was happy, he didn’t get punished, and if Bruin wasn’t punished, he could be happy too…mostly. No, more than mostly, he did like his life, with Master, and he was excited to be away from this hospital, away from these people with their blank stares, just…home. He wanted to be home, he’d been going home before the accident, right? But then why had he been in the road? It was so confusing, like two pieces of a puzzle he kept trying to fit together even though their edges didn’t match up at all.

Master grabbed the back of his head and rammed his cock down Bruin’s throat, mashing the leather muzzle against his face as he came, and Bruin swallowed it all down and licked the head clean before Master pulled it out, and then he received a pat on the head, and le licked his Master’s gloved hand, thanking him for allowing Bruin to serve him, and gave his tail a wag without thinking about it. “Well, shall we get going, Bruin? I bet you’re excited to finally be out of here–I know I am. It’s been too long since I had a dog on the farm–besides, I have someone I want you to meet. I think you two will get along great.”

Bruin wasn’t sure what Master meant by all that, but he didn’t care. He saw Master pull out the leash and his heart leapt–he was going, he was really going! Master clipped the leash to the collar Bruin wore, and then they left, Bruin doing his best to avoid slipping on the tile floor with his paws, still, he was doing much better than the first time he’d tried walking in them. It had taken all night just for Master to show him how to balance on all four, and two more nights before he could take a step or two without falling. Oddly enough, everyone they passed seemed to not notice them at all, even though the sight of the two of them walking down the hospital’s hallways would have probably been quite the shock. Master led Bruin down to a side emergency exit which had been propped open, and then they walked to a pickup truck parked around back, the chilly air strange against Bruin’s skin.

“Alright Bruin–we’re gonna have to put you in the kennel for now. I don’t want anyone seeing you, after all, and I wouldn’t want you falling out, right? We can’t have you hurt yourself, and put you back in the hospital again.”

Master grabbed Bruin around the waist and hefted him up onto the tailgate of the truck, and Bruin saw a plastic kennel a bit too small for him tethered to the bed. He didn’t like it, and he started to whine a bit. Something about the tight space, he didn’t want to go in there.

“Now Bruin, don’t make me start punishing you again–you’ve been doing such a good job, boy, and I’d hate for you to backslide. Now get in the kennel.”

Bruin knew that he would end up in the crate on way or the other, either without being punished, or after being punished, and so he took a few tentative steps forward, sniffing the crate as he went in, and as soon as he could, Master closed the grated door, and then the realization that he was trapped shook Bruin to the core. Trapped, he was trapped, there was no way out–

Why can’t I move? Why can’t I move, and he’s there, he’s just watching me, looking at me, can’t he see the truck is on fire? Can’t he see that it’s burning? I didn’t mean to hit the dog, I didn’t, it was an accident, just an accident, please! Please! I can’t speak, if I could just speak, if I could just tell him how sorry I am, I can feel it, it’s almost to me, and I can’t move an inch. What did he do to me? There was that smoke, and now I can’t move a muscle, and it’s on me! I’m on fire, I’m on fire somebody help me, somebody–

“Bruin!” Master shouted, “Get a hold of yourself,” and slapped the dog across the face, bringing him back to the moment. He didn’t know what he’d just seen, but Master looked angry and scared. Bruin shrunk down, embarrassed at having lost control like that, but what he remembered hadn’t made any sense. He’d been in the cab of a truck, and he’d had hands, not paws, and it had been on fire, and he hadn’t been able to move, and Master was there watching him, watching the fire burn him, but why?

Then Master shoved Bruin back into the crate and locked the door again, and Bruin started to panic, but he didn’t have another flashback like before. He just whined and pawed at the grated door, but Master had already climbed into the cab of the truck and started the engine. The drive lasted close to an hour, and the entire time, Bruin did his best to keep calm. The terror would come in waves, usually with a sudden bump, and then he would be trying to force himself out of the kennel until he calmed down enough to breathe and stay put. However, as the drive wore on, and twilight grew even darker, his paws–the ones that hurt but that he couldn’t see–they starting itching, and then heating up until he was certain that the leather and fiberglass paws he now had would burst into flame right before his eyes. It hurt–it hurt more than anything he’d experienced, but he pushed through, keeping as calm as he could, until the truck took a sharp left off the road, and he heard gravel crunch under the tires, meaning that they were home on the farm–or at least that’s what Bruin hoped.

The truck rolled to a stop, and he heard the door to the cab open. He had a moment of terror, when he thought that Master might leave him in the kennel, and that he might freeze to death in the harsh night, but he came around the back and let Bruin out of the cage, and he couldn’t scramble out of it fast enough. “Gonna have to work with you on that, I suppose,” Master said, “Can’t have a dog who hates being crated. Still, we can worry about that later.”

He picked Bruin up and set him down on the gravel, and it took Bruin a few steps to adjust to walking on something that wasn’t hospital tile or carpet. Master didn’t bother lashing him, and Bruin followed him up onto the porch–struggling a bit on the stairs–but Master pushed open the screen, and looking in, Bruin saw Doctor there in the living room, and he couldn’t help but wag his tail and try to bark. Doctor! He missed him–now he knew why he’d gone missing, he must live with Master too…but if he lived with Master, did that mean…could he trust him?

“Bruin!” Doctor shouted, and a silly grin spread across his face as he ran over and wrapped his arms around the big dog, “I missed you so much Bruin, but Master needed me here, working and stuff so I couldn’t come see you. But you’re home now Bruin, isn’t that neat? I missed you tons, though…”

“That’s enough, faggot,” Master said, and shoved Doctor away, “Why don’t you do something useful, and give Bruin here something to fuck? I bet our new dog is horny, right boy?”

“Yes sir!” Doctor said, and got down on his elbows and knees, ass up, and Master walked over and pulled out the big plug from his ass.

“Well Bruin, make sure you give it a sniff and a lick first, like a good boy, and then I want to see you fuck the bitch like a good boy.”

Bruin wasn’t too sure about this, really, but his cock was hard, and he had always…sort of liked the Doctor. Still, it felt wrong for some reason–but an order was an order. He padded over and sniffed at Doctor’s hole, before giving the crack a few licks through the muzzle, and then he mounted him–with a bit of help from his Master–and he had to admit, it felt good. It felt good topping the bitch, it felt good asserting his dominance, and listening to the bitch moan like a whore beneath him, begging him to fuck harder. Bruin didn’t last very long–and he unloaded his cum into the bitch’s pussy where it belonged, and then his Master shoved him off and took his place, ramming his own cock in a moment later, making the whore moan louder.

“Bruin,” Master said, “Get over here, and I want you licking my shaft as I fuck this cunt.”

It took a bit of maneuvering, but Bruin managed to get his muzzle against the base of the Doctor’s hole, between Master’s legs, so he could lap at his cock while he fucked Doctor good and hard. He could taste his own cum as he licked, and when his Master shot his own load up there and pulled out, he kept licking the crack as cum leaked out of Doctor’s hole, the Master telling him he was a good dog for cleaning up the whore’s hole after they’d finished using it, and he felt good. This felt good, it felt right. He was home–this was home, this was his life, his Master, the Doctor, and their dog.

However, one thing stuck with him, before Master got him ready to sleep in the doghouse out in the back, putting on Bruin’s thick fur coat to keep him warm in the winter night, before locking him in the roomier kennel. It was when Doctor pulled him close for a moment, after Master finished fucking him, and Doctor whispered into his ear, “Don’t worry Bruin–I’ll protect you. No matter what. I promise.” It kept Bruin awake most of the night, thinking about that, about what Doctor had said before too, but he couldn’t protect him from Master. Couldn’t protect him from the night. It had caught them both he realized, and there was no way out for either of them, and he shivered in the cold cage, and gave a silent howl to the rising moon.

Living Latex

“You can’t be serious,” Ken said, looking at the thing Yosuke had handed him, “I’m not wearing this.”

Oh come on, it’ll be fun!” The slender twink said, “Look, I love having you fuck me, don’t get me wrong, but well…you’re just a little small is all, and trust me, I can take a lot. Come on, just trust me.” He ran his hand along Ken’s ridged abs, up to his thick, solid pecs. The big muscular guy was close to six and a half feet tall, massively built, and a definite top–but Yosuke was right–his four inch cock just wasn’t going to cut it when it came to a power bottom like him. The two of them had been hooking up off and on for a couple of months now, and Ken did love the slender Asian’s hole…but really? A strap on? “Come on,” Yosuke added, “It’ll just make your cock as impressive as the rest of you.”

Ken looked at the massive, flesh colored dildo in Yosuke’s hand, and felt…kind of angry. Sure, he was small, but he sure as hell didn’t like being reminded of it. But more than that, the strap on was…well…huge. As thick as a beer can, and over a foot long. If Ken did use it–and he wasn’t even sure he’d be able to use it at all–it just made him feel even more…inadequate. “Are you sure I can’t just fist you again? Come on, I know you like that too.”

“I do,” he said, “but I really want to feel a massive cock in me, you know? It’s just different. Please? Just once, and if you never want to do it again, then we won’t have to.”

Ken rolled his eyes, but took the strap-on back and looked at it, trying to figure out how to put it on. The entire contraption was actually made out of a single piece of rubber–he had to put in on like a jockstrap, and as soon as it was on, he noticed that the straps almost appeared translucent, and it was hard to figure out where the rubber ended and his skin began. Still, the other strange thing was that the strap on was so wide, that the fake cock actually had space inside for his balls as well as his own small member–so when it was fully on and he looked at it in the mirror, it was just this massive cock with no balls beneath–it looked ridiculous.

The fuck that came after wasn’t strange though–just boring as hell. Still, Yosuke seemed to enjoy it. As it wore on, Ken started being rougher and rougher–if the fucking twink wanted it big and massive, then he might as well abuse his hole good and bad while he had the chance–but Yosuke ate it all up–literally. Nothing was too rough, nothing was too deep, and after close to an hour of nonstop pummelling, Yosuke arched his back and shot his own load out of his cock, without either of them touching it once.

Ken figured they were done, and so he pulled out the strap-on from the twink’s hole and started fiddling with it, eager to get it off so he could get off too.

“Oh fuck,” Yosuke moaned on the bed, rolling over and relishing his afterglow, “We’re definitely going to have to do that again soon–like, all the time.”

“Fat chance,” Ken said, as he searched for the straps, “That was boring as hell–I couldn’t even feel anything the whole time. What the hell? Why can’t I find the straps?” Ken had run his fingers where the rubber straps had been, and while he could feel the transition from rubber to skin, he couldn’t for the life of him get a hold of the straps. It was like they had sealed themselves to him while he was fucking. Instead, he tried to pull the strap-on itself off, but as soon as he gave it a yank, he let out a cry of pain. “What the…is there fucking glue in this thing or something?” Ken gave it a few more cursory tugs, but it really did feel like it had adhered to his body while he was fucking the twink. In fact, when he inspected the seal–he couldn’t even tell where the rubber ended and the rest of his crotch began. In fact, if he hadn’t put it on himself, he would have actually thought the dildo was a part of his body.

“Yosuke…Yosuke, what the fuck is up with this? Why can’t I take this off?” Ken said, now a bit afraid, but the Asian was sitting on the bed now, looking a little guilty…and Ken just stared at him until he spoke.

“Do…Do you promise you won’t get mad?”

“What the fuck did you do?”

“Look, one of my friends used it, it’s a line of gear called Living Latex. I really like you Ken, but god, you’re a horrible top. I just wanted to, you know, make you better is all. And it worked, too–fuck! Come on, pound me again, I can take it!”

“You’re fucking crazy! Get this thing off of me!”

“Fuck me with it again, and I’ll take it off.”

“No, fucking take it off!” Ken shouted, pulling at it again, “I can’t feel my balls, man! What if it eats my fucking balls?”

“Who the fuck needs balls? I don’t want you cumming, I want you fucking!” Yosuke said, and got up off the bed, leering at Ken and stalking closer to him. He started backing up, but in the tight apartment, didn’t quite have room to maneuver. He got out of the bedroom and into the living room, where he tripped over an ottoman and fell–his head smacking into the coffee table, and he was out.

***

“Mmmm, oh fuck yeah, you’re so fucking big, I can’t fucking stand it!”

Ken felt his head start clearing up, a bit, enough to feel something bouncing up and down on his face.

“Fuck yeah, such a big fucking cock, stretching me to the fucking limit–feels fucking great!”

He opened his eyes and saw that the thing bouncing up and down was an ass…and the thing it was bouncing up and down on was…a dildo. A massive fucking dildo, even bigger than the one which had swallowed his cock and balls before, and he tried to squirm away and shout–but he couldn’t get a sound out aside from a muffled noise from his nose, which was pressed up against the rubber.

His mouth, his tongue, his teeth, all of it, he couldn’t feel a thing. It was all numb, and he knew–he knew, in his heart that they were gone. Gone like his fucking cock and balls, gone for fucking ever, and in a panic he tried to turn away, but Yosuke just sat all the way down on the cock, planting his hole at the very base, and then spun around so his head was looming over Ken’s face, leering down. “Oh good, you’re awake! You knocked yourself out, so I didn’t think you’d mind if I put a few more things on you. Do you like it? You were always so bad at talking dirty–I think having another cock here is a much better choice, don’t you think? And just wait until you see the rest of it! I love how it turned out. Just hold on a second, I’m almost done.”

Yosuke started fucking himself on Ken’s new rubber cock again, the muscular man trying to fight him off. He wanted to raise his hands and just push the lighter man away, but they just wouldn’t do what he wanted them to do–his legs too–it was like he was paralyzed or something, and with Yosuke’s ass in the way, he couldn’t look down at what had happened to him. It took Yosuke longer than a second–after another fifteen minutes of very vocal fucking, often grinding his tight ball sack against Ken’s nose, he finally shot a load which dribbled out of his cock onto Ken’s face, and he shut his eyes to avoid it. Finished, Yosuke picked himself up off of Ken and licked his cum away, something that disgusted him, but which he was still kind of thankful for in the end. “Alright, you ready? Let me show you.”

And then, Yosuke picked him up.

The little slender twink just reached down grabbed him around the waist, and hefted him up like he was almost nothing, and Ken squirmed a bit, not entirely sure what to make of it. He’d been 250 pounds before of almost all muscle. How could the little squirt haul him around like that? He noticed that they were back in the bedroom, and Yosuke spun him right side up and held him up in front of the mirror–and if Ken had had a mouth any more, he would have screamed.

His arms and legs–they were gone. Instead, massive dildos, just as big as his new cock and mouth, jutted out, rubbery and bobbling. No wonder he was so light–most of his body had been replaced with rubber. “Do you like it? I think it’s super hot myself. Still, I have to get to work. Did you know that you’ve been out for the entire night? Oh well, into the closet you go.” Ken fought, squirming around as best he could, but Yosuke just shoved him into the closet and closed the door. “Don’t worry, we’ll play more tonight–and I even have some friends coming over too–and I bet you’re going to be good and hungry by then.”

Hungry? Friends? Ken didn’t know what to make of it, but he gave up soon enough of trying to get out. His body was useless–he couldn’t move or crawl or anything–just sit in the dark closet, waiting for the hours to wear away…and as they did, he started to understand what Yosuke had meant by hunger. Now, he wasn’t hungry, perse–he didn’t want food, or even water. No, the need that started building up in him was different, it was the rubber in him…crying out to be used. They wanted to fuck, they wanted to fuck bad, they wanted men to use them over and over all the time, and Ken couldn’t fight it off. Did…did he want to be used too? Yeah, yeah, he wanted men to use him, to fuck themselves on his big rubber cocks. He was so eager for it, he was so hungry. Just an object, a bunch of fucking dildos, that was all he was good for–all that fucking mattered anymore in his rubbery mind. By the time Yosuke took him out that evening and brought him into the living room, his muffled cried of anger had become the mewlings of need..and when he saw the five other twinks he’d fucked at one time or another in the living room, naked and waiting, he sighed with relief and shivered with anticipation.

First, four of them took his arms and legs, so he was suspended between them, and then Yosuke took his mouth while another took his cock, and they all rode him together–Ken was in heaven. He was needed, he was being used–and he was a way better fucker than he’d ever been before. That was some consolation at least…right?

“It’s called Living Latex, isn’t it wonderful? I was getting so tired of your screams and pleas for mercy, but the hiss of your breath now, oh fuck, it’s making me so hard, even if it means I can’t rape that nice mouth of yours anymore. Still, I do have your ass at least, let’s bend you over…yes, that’s it, now let’s get it nice and wet for my cock, oh but first, I think I should put the hood on you, yes, that’ll be nice.

"Now stop squirming…just a little further, and pull it down over those new mouths of yours, yes, there we are! Nice and snug. Look at that head of yours, so nice and smooth now—you aren’t going to need those eyes or ears anyway, and just the hint of a nose…oh fuck, that new face of yours is going to be so hot…

"Yeah, fuck yeah, take my cock, the edges are sealed now, it’s never coming off, but you probably can’t even hear me as well, can you? Well, before you can’t hear at all, I might as well tell you what’s going to happen. The body piece, I’ll do that next, you’re going to have a big old bladder where that smooth six pack is now, and you’re going to be storing all my piss and cum in that. And say goodbye to your arms, they’re going to be bound to your sides, absorbed right into your body, and your legs will be bound up too. You’ll just be a solid piece of living rubber soon, slave, just an asshole, and a faucet where your cock is, so my other slaves can get a drink whenever they need it. A piss and cum fountain—fuck, I can’t wait.