Mr. Lear’s Buddy (Part 2)

***Warning*** This is a bit graphic with a tale auto-erotic asphyxiation, but it’s almost Halloween, what do you really expect from me?


There was a rumor, at the time, going around the school, that something had happened to the school’s janitor, Mr. Lear, over the summer. Of course, everyone at the school knew he’d died; the administration had announced that at the opening assembly. Everyone had liked Mr. Lear–sure he was a old fart, but he’d been silly and made friends with any number of students during his many years working at the school, and it had been a blow to the community. The old man had  always claimed to be a magician, but all of tricks were just sleight of hand–although none of the students had ever been able to catch him at it, in all of these years. He’d also been…accused of some odd things over the years, but no one seemed to care much, and they were generally forgotten quickly. That said, his death over the summer was the greatest mystery of all.

The official story was a heart attack at home, and no one had any evidence that that wasn’t the case, but the rumor going around was that Mr. Lear had, in fact, died in the school itself. The more scandalous versions alleged that he’d hanged himself in the gym locker room–and the version students only dared whisper was that he’d died with his hand around his cock, jacking off–just like some people had heard this senior, Terry Winters, had done at home two years earlier. Such a nasty rumor would only get a foothold, of course, if it hadn’t been at least…a little plausible. Mr. Lear had been a nice guy, but he’d also been a bit of a creep at times. The school administration tried to tamp down the story, which only made it spread faster.

Buddy had heard some of this, but he hadn’t thought much of it–he didn’t think much of anything, really. He sat the rest of the game out on the sidelines, trying to not rub his cock through his uniform pants. All he wanted was for the thoughts to stop, but being away from the game only made it harder to think about something else–because usually, Buddy wasn’t thinking about anything at all. The game finished–his team won, no thanks to him, and he got changed as quick as he could, and got home, the thoughts dimming slightly as he got away from the school, but didn’t leave entirely.

His dad was angry at him for his poor performance, and yelled and berated him for being such a terrible waste of manhood. Buddy, feeling terrible, went to bed, but didn’t dare cry. What if he wasn’t only a bad football player, and a bad man, but a faggot too? What then? It took several hours, but he eventually fell into a fitful sleep…and dreamed.

He never dreamed anything much–the few he remembered were mostly odd colors and patterns, not stories. But this–this was vivid, solid. He was standing in the boy’s locker room of the high school, by himself…or was he? There was…someone else here, someone watching him. He ran to the door, but it refused to open, and when he turned around–there, in the middle of the locker room, naked aside from a filthy jockstrap and a rope noose pulled tight around his neck, was Mr. Lear.

“Buddy?…Buddy! So you’re the one! You have no idea how glad I am to see you–to have found you,” the old man said, walking closer to him. There was something…wrong about him, something terribly wrong, with how blue his skin was, how…cold he seemed, the incredibly bloodshot eyes. “You make me feel…young again.”

“Wake…wake up. I gotta wake up!” Buddy said to himself, pinching his arm, but nothing happened.

“Oh Buddy–you aren’t in your dreams anymore–you’re in mine! And the best thing about dreams? They can last a very, very long time, you know. Why, it can feel like…years have passed, and you wake up the next morning, and it’s just hours. Isn’t the mind amazing? The spirit?”

“No–No! Don’t touch me, don’t touch me!” he screamed, the bony old hand reaching down, grabbing his arm, and Mr. Lear tugged him into an icy hug, his mind…filling with…thoughts and desires, ideas and fantasies he had never imagined. Mr. Lear pushed him down onto his knees, where Buddy pressed his face to the nasty jockstrap he had on, grinding his face into the dry, crispy fabric, his hands wrapping around his own cock, jacking it slowly.

“You see, I’d been waiting for so long, Buddy, trapped in that school, just a shadow of myself, unable to move on. I’ve been trying to get into the others, but I was so weak, it took so much magic to just keep from moving on! But you–you’re so…empty, so perfect. Dumb, empty, with no real will of your own. But I can help you, Buddy. I can give you what you’ve always been missing! Desire! Purpose! You’re head’s so empty, why, there’s plenty of room for me to make myself at home, right?”

Buddy found himself nodding. Bony fingers with long, chipped nails slipped the jockstrap down, revealing a cock, perpetually hard, blue with desperation.

“I was almost there, right on the edge. I knew I needed to stop, but it feels so good, that explosion! And magic is cheating of course–you have to…to know that death is seconds away for it to really count. But I didn’t even get there, stuck on the edge in…so many ways. I want…I want to feel it again, Buddy. I want to feel what it’s like to cum again. To fuck again, to smell a filthy jock, to seduce men and have my way with them. My magic kept me tethered to the world, but if you become my vessel, it will become yours, you know. The power to bend wills, to change minds…we can have so much fun together, you and I.”

“No…No, please…” Buddy muttered, feeling his mouth open anyway, tongue extending to taste that bulging, dead cock inches from his mouth.

“I expected you to say that, at first. But we have ages in our dreams, you know. I can show you how wonderful it can be, to say yes. I can show you so many things tonight, so many wonderful things! Come morning, we’ll be a new man together, I promise.”

Buddy screamed, mouth wide, but Mr. Lear gagged him quiet, thrusting his cock straight down the boy’s throat. He’d learn, oh he’d learn–and he had he had all the time to teach him to be the best, most perverse vessel he could possibly be.

Our Demons (Part 3)

“Swallow it,” the voice said, the first he’d heard in hours, and without questioning it, he started chewing the butt into a paste and swallowed it down. “This one too,” the voice said, and a second hot butt dropped into his mouth. A bit bigger, and he had a harder time choking it down. There was a pressure on his chest, his master straddling him again, and a hot, bitter liquid started flowing into his mouth. “Drink it all.” He did, and it helped wash down the butt as well. A few gulps in, he realized it must be master’s piss, but he couldn’t stop now, he couldn’t stop ever. As soon as he’d swallowed it all, another cigar was shoved into the mouth ring, but Rich didn’t need orders this time–he craved it already. Needed it. It was wrong, and yet already he knew he’d lost. What was he becoming? He realized he couldn’t quite bring himself to care–and when master went back to stretching his pig hole, all the concerns melted away all over again.

“Don’t resist. Move only how I direct you to move.”

He felt the restraints on his arms and legs being removed, and then two hands helped him roll over onto his back. Every order gave him another surge of pleasure–it was hard to keep himself focused on the fact that he shouldn’t be obeying, that he should try to get away. But get away how? He couldn’t see. He couldn’t hear. He didn’t know where to go. It was easier to just obey. So much easier to obey everything Master said.

His arms were again pulled up and secured to the top of the bed, but his legs were stretched up to the ceiling in wide split, his ass exposed and hanging slightly off the edge of the bed. He could feel that the rubber had covered his entire ass, however–did that mean he was going to be spared his fisting? Then he realized that the fist shaped dildo was still lodged in his ass, sealed in by the rubber, and he started to squirm.

“Calm down.”

He did. Nothing happened for a few moments, or rather, he wasn’t aware of anything happening. He still couldn’t see or hear, all he could do was breathe through his mouth, and lie there on the bed, legs thrown up in the air. Then, he felt something shove it’s way into the hole. It wasn’t a gag–if anything, the end felt dry and tasted somewhat bitter on his tongue. Breathing was suddenly like trying to get all of his air through a straw–possible, but it took much more effort than he would have liked.

He felt something by the side of his head, and he could hear again, but only on one side. It spoke to him again, “There, isn’t that better for all of us? I’m sure you’ll be much more agreeable from now on, in that nice suit of yours. And I haven’t forgotten my promise earlier, but before I start fisting your ass into a crater, how about we light you up, piggy?” Rich heard a lighter flick to life, and suddenly he was inhaling smoke. He tried to cough, but with no where for the air to go, he found himself choking in the rubber. “Calm down,” it said, “Inhale. Breathe in deep, and it’ll be just like breathing air for you soon enough.”

Rich didn’t exactly have much of a choice, but he did as the voice said, and did his best to breathe normally. After a minute, he was feeling a bit lightheaded, but otherwise it seemed normal–and that worried him more than anything else.

“Good job little pig. We’re gonna fill you up with so much smoke that you won’t even recognize yourself pretty soon. But don’t worry, I’m not gonna fuck around with that little head of yours just yet. Derrick’s already dying off you know. Pretty soon it’ll just be the two of us. Think of all the fucking fun we’re gonna have, pig! Now I’m gonna close your ear back up–all I want you to focus on is smoking that fat cigar, and how good it’s gonna feel having my forearm buried in that fat ass of yours.”

He felt the rubber seal itself up again, and once more, there was silence. He tried to force the cigar out of his mouth, but it had been lodged in so tight he couldn’t budge it. Besides, that would be bad. Master had wanted him to smoke it. Focus on smoking and how good it’s gonna feel to be fisted. The rubber parted down his ass crack–he could feel the air on his sweaty crack–and the dildo slid out of his hole easily, and almost immediately, he felt three or four fingers worm his way into his ass. He was feeling so hot, all of a sudden, and he could feel himself sweating inside the suit. Hot and…and horny. The smoke was getting to his head, he couldn’t quite get enough air. In the darkness, he felt his head spinning from the lack of oxygen, but Derrick’s fist breaking past his sphincter refocused him and…and it felt good. It felt so fucking good. He moaned around the cigar in his mouth, and Master must have heard him, because he shoved his hand in deeper.

Rich tried to tell himself that this was all wrong, tried to fight past the sensation and the orders and the sheer pleasure he was feeling, but after a few minutes he relaxed back, and just let Master pummel his hole. The first orgasm came over him like a soft wave, the rubber sucking the cum from him, and minutes later, there was another one just as intense. Master had grown bored, or simply satisfied with how loose the pig’s hole had become, and started punch fucking him, and then worked both fists in. Rich suddenly felt the cigar butt give way into cinders–he had smoked it to the root. It was hot and burned his tongue, but he couldn’t get it out–he doused it with saliva, cooling it as quickly as he could.

“Swallow it,” the voice said, the first he’d heard in hours, and without questioning it, he started chewing the butt into a paste and swallowed it down. “This one too,” the voice said, and a second hot butt dropped into his mouth. A bit bigger, and he had a harder time choking it down. There was a pressure on his chest, his master straddling him again, and a hot, bitter liquid started flowing into his mouth. “Drink it all.” He did, and it helped wash down the butt as well. A few gulps in, he realized it must be master’s piss, but he couldn’t stop now, he couldn’t stop ever. As soon as he’d swallowed it all, another cigar was shoved into the mouth ring, but Rich didn’t need orders this time–he craved it already. Needed it. It was wrong, and yet already he knew he’d lost. What was he becoming? He realized he couldn’t quite bring himself to care–and when master went back to stretching his pig hole, all the concerns melted away all over again.

Our Demons (Part 2)

“Look, I’ll just be gone for a few hours, nothing to worry about, really.”

“Please, just untie me, just let me go.”

Derrick looked at Rich with a bit of pity, but also fear, “I would, but it wouldn’t want me to. Besides, you’re helping me out so much! Really, you are.”

“Derrick, this isn’t you, you have to stop smoking those things. Can’t you see what they’re doing to you? You’re becoming a freak, man? A fucking faggot.”

“I’m not a fucking faggot!” Derrick yelled, “You’re the fucking faggot here, you fucking bitch, just for that, when I get back, I’m gonna shove my whole fucking fist in that hole of yours, got it? I’m gonna make you scream like a fucking whore.”

Rich just shook his head, but Derrick grabbed the cock shaped gag on the bed pillow, shoved it back in his mouth, and strapped it around the back of his head. After fucking his face for what felt like hours on the couch, Derrick had dragged Rich into the bedroom, and bound him belly down and spread eagled on the bed. He went over, grabbed the biggest dildo from the collection that had appeared on the dresser.  It was shaped like a fist, not a cock, and Rich pleaded with him through the gag.

“Sorry, I’m sorry, but it’ll help. I’m gonna fist you when I get back, and this will get you a bit looser,” Derrick said, and then his voice hardened, “No lube though–I’m gonna shove it in raw, so you can get used to the pain, piggy.” Derrick had already spent most of the afternoon fucking him repeatedly, but the fist was something else. He screamed into the gag, but as soon as he did, he felt a searing pain in the small of his back, as Derrick smashed the butt of his burning cigar into his flesh, “You know how I feel about screaming, fucker! Shut your fucking trap.” Rich bit down and sucked on the gag in his mouth, anything to distract from the pain of his stretched hole, and then Derrick stood back up. “You should make sure that stays in there. I don’t know what it might do to you if it falls out by the time I get back. I’ll try to hurry, I promise. I just gotta get some more cigars, and maybe…maybe some other stuff, is all. I’ll be back soon.”

Soon ended up being four hours later. Thankfully, Rich got used to the pain rather quickly, but the sheer boredom of his position wore on him more than anything. He tried calling for help, he tried wrenching at the handcuffs holding him to the bed, but nothing budged. Instead, all he could do was think about what in the world was happening to Derrick. He’d already been trapped here for over a day–no one had heard them, no one had come to check on them. Rich lived alone and worked from home–it would be days before anyone realized he was missing, and who knew what might happen before then? At first, he just thought Derrick was going crazy–he kept referring to an “it,” like there was something else inside of him–but as the day had worn on, he was growing more and more sure it was those new cigars of his. Rich thought it was that other voice, the cruel voice, the abuser. Whatever it was, it scared Rich to death–and Derrick was scared of it too. He tried to sleep for a bit, but whenever he did, he could feel his body start pushing the dildo out, so he stayed awake, forcing himself to clench his ass down on the dildo–or clench it as best he could. As terrified as he was of whatever might come next, he was still happy to hear the door open, and the heavy trod of Derrick’s boots.

“Hey, piggy,” he said when he came into the bedroom–but this was a new voice. It was closer to Derrick’s, but tough, raspier, “Fuck, I needed that. I feel so much fucking better, you know? Turns out, those first cigars were just meant to get me started. The guy gave me these new ones, and fuck! They pack such a kick. I can’t wait to get my fist in that hole of yours, it’s gonna be fucking amazing. You’re such a good piggy friend, you know that? What the fuck would I do without you?” Derrick sat down on the bed looking down at Rich’s spread eagle body. “I told him about you, you know? He thinks you’re such a good friend, helping me out like this, that he had a present for you. You see, I told him that you’re still fighting a bit, and he suggested that what I really needed was a better way to keep you under control, and I fucking agreed, you know? If you just did what I fucking told you, then all this would go so much smoother. Thankfully, he had just the fucking thing for you. But here’s the thing. I have to take out your gag, so remember,” and here his voice shifted, and it came back, that deep snarl, “If you scream or shout, I will choke the fucking life from your lungs.”

Derrick pulled something black from the bag–Rich had no idea what it was. He unlatched the gag from his head and pulled it out. To scream or not to scream? He was caught in a moment of indecision, while Derrick fiddled with the black object. A mask? A hood? Before he could get anything out, his friend pulled the hood over his head. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t breathe. The rubber pressed against his nose and mouth, tight, as he sucked against it, trying to get air, and just when he thought he might faint, the rubber opened up, pushed into his mouth, and hardened, forcing him to keep his jaw wide spread. He felt it with his tongue–a hard, inch wide, rubber ring had appeared out of nowhere, then he noticed something else–he could feel something running down his neck and onto his chest. He wanted to see what was happening, but he couldn’t see anything. He realized he couldn’t hear anything either, until Derrick spoke. The voice was almost too loud–like it was coming from inside his own head.

“Just relax. Let the rubber cover you.”

He felt his body slump down into the bed. It was rubber then. He could feel it running up his arms now, reaching his hands, but instead of forming gloves, the rubber massed around his hands, forcing them to form fists that he couldn’t open no matter how hard he tried. The rubber kept going down his body, covered his cock and balls in a mass of rubber so thick he didn’t think he’d be able to feel anything, and then down his legs to his feet, which formed into thick, rubber soled boots. He felt two fingers shove their way into his mouth, followed by a single word in his mind, “Lick.” He did, unable to stop himself, and felt the area around his cock start pulsing and sucking on his cock and balls, sending bolts of pleasure through him. Then a cock, another brutal face fuck, and now there was nothing Rich could do. He’d been turned into a hole. He hadn’t imagined that this could get any worse–but now he realized that this might just be only the beginning.

Our Demons (Pt. 1)

“I’m sorry, I know…I know I shouldn’t have done that.”

Rich groaned again, trying to blink the haze from his head. He could remember Derrick calling him. He’d sounded like he was in trouble, and of course Rich was willing to help, but when he’d arrived, Derrick hadn’t answered his knocks, but the door was unlocked. He opened it and stepped inside, when someone had slammed him up against the wall, hands wrapped around his neck, and he’d passed out.

“I just…You see, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you today, and I knew you were at the gym, and just, fuck, I have to stop, I have to stop smoking this but it tastes so fucking good, you don’t understand.”

Rich tried to move, but his hands had been tied together, his feet as well. He was lying on the couch in Derrick’s apartment, gagged, and there was something around his neck, something tight like a collar. He tried to speak, but there was a length of rope wrapped around his head several times, forming a rather effective gag.

“I know that this probably isn’t very comfortable. I just had to use what I had on hand, I mean, I…but fuck, you look hot, tied up. Hell, you look hot anyway, you always look hot, fuck. And you smell…fuck, you smell so good after a workout—did you know that? I’d…I’d smelled you before, but not like this, fuck, not like this.”

Rich looked over and saw his friend had the jock he had worn to the gym in his hand. Looking down, he realized that he had been stripped of his shorts, and was naked aside from his tight, spandex shirt. Derrick took the cigar he was smoking from his mouth and pressed Rich’s jock to his nose, taking a deep, snorting grunt, pawing at his crotch as he did. He realized then that his friend wasn’t looking quite like he usually looked. He had a thick, bushy goatee for one thing, and he was dressed head to toe in leather. Derrick had hated leather—what in the hell was he doing wearing all this shit now?

“I…I do need your help though, man. I really do. I just…I just had to tie you up to make sure you listened to the whole story, alright? Yeah…yeah, that’s…all, really.” Derrick looked away and took a long drag off his cigar, the jock still balled up in his other hand. “I did a stupid thing, you know? I guess it didn’t seem stupid at the time. I went into this smoke shop, for a new bong, right? I broke mine last weekend, whatever. But instead of a pipe, I let this guy sell me these cigars. And I can’t stop smoking them, but they’re changing me, Rich, I think they’re turning me into some kind of faggot. All this leather gear replaced all my clothes, and I’m so fucking furry. I’m older too! It’s some freaky shit. You gotta help me. I think…I think if I just…just get it out of my system, it’ll all be fine, right? That’s how it works, I think. And I’m just curious, so…so…”

He gripped the jock nervously, and then got down on his knees next to Rich’s head, who shook his head no, but Derrick was just staring at him.

“This was a bad idea. You…you shouldn’t have come over.”

Rich tried to pull away, but his friend hooked two fingers in the already tight collar and pulled him closer. He was sniffing the air, and then he took out the cigar, leaned in, and licked the side of Rich’s face. A long lick, from jaw to scalp.

“I just…gotta get it over with.”

He put the cigar back in his mouth, and started running his hands over his friend’s chest and stomach. Rich tried to pull away, tried to block him with his bound fists, but Derrick just worked around his protests.

“I knew it had to be you, it just had to.”

He yanked at the spandex a couple times, until it ripped, and then he tore the shirt off Rich’s body in tatters.

“I knew it, I didn’t want to admit it but fuck, look at you. Fucking smell you.”

Rich tried to scream when Derrick started twisting his nipples.

“Shut the fuck up! Shut your fucking mouth, you fucking slut, or I’ll give you something to scream about!”

They both froze. That voice wasn’t Derrick’s, and they both knew it. Derrick let go and fled into the kitchen, Rich could hear him pacing the length in his leather boots, smoking his cigar. He looked around for some way to escape, some way to free himself, but before anything came to him, Derrick emerged.

“I’m sorry man, I’m sorry. I lost…control for a second. But everythings alright, I got this, I got this all under control.” then, immediately that same deep, powerful voice from before, “Yeah pig, I got you right where I fucking want you.”

Rich tried to roll off the couch, but Derrick caught him and pushed him back into the crack, and then climbed on him, straddling him in his leather pants. He unzipped the fly, and pulled his cock out. “Look man, look…just…just suck me off. Just do it. Do it, and…and I’ll let you go.”

Rich shook his head, sobbing now.

“No no no! Really! Really really, I promise, just suck my cock. Please, before it comes back, it’s always worse when I’m horny, just suck me off, and I’ll untie you, and we’ll forget any of this ever happened.”

He reached up and untied the knot, unravelling the rope gag. When Rich could speak again, he screamed. “I’m not going to suck you fucking cock! Help! Help, somebody—”

Derricks hands grabbed his throat and crossed thumbs over his windpipe. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe at all, he couldn’t—

“Listen pig,” that deep, terrifying voice, “Listen good. You scream again? I’ll choke the life out of you. If I feel any fucking teeth? I’ll pull them all out. Here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna choke on my fucking cock. You’re gonna gag on this motherfucker, I’m gonna fuck your motherfucking face with it, and there ain’t shit that you can do about it, because I will kill you. I’ve never fucked a corpse before—but if you wanna be my first, then fucking fine by me.”

The hands loosened enough that he could gasp, and then he nodded, still sobbing. 

Derrick sat back, blinking, not entirely sure what had just happened, but Rich was nodding, and so he scooted up, straddling his friend’s neck, and Rich let him slide his cock into his mouth. He lost track of himself after that, he just had to fuck, and fuck rough. He could hear Rich choking and gagging underneath him, but it probably wasn’t anything to worry about, right? Rich was such a good friend, helping him out like this. Maybe once he came, he’d be willing to help him out with a few other…things he’d been thinking about lately.

Mitchell Davis had been an eccentric. Rich as the rest of the neighborhood, certainly, and yet, nothing was ever simple with him. Single, for one thing–gay for another. He could have been tolerated if only he’d fallen into the straight white patterns of the wealthy around him. Instead, he’d holed himself up in the large mansion and become a recluse, until his death. Rumors had circulated quickly, how he’d been found down in the basement, a…gas mask over his head, naked, the other end attached to a large balloon. Self-asphyxiation? suicide? That’s what the neighborhood called it, preferring the easy story.

For Howard Margus, he saw the death as an opportunity. He had, once, before Mitchell’s eccentricities had cloistered him entirely within the mansion, been inside and seen the rarities within: priceless art, antique furniture, an entire library of first editions, a life’s dividends he’d coveted for years now. When it came time for the estate sale, he wrote a check for everything within the house. The neighbors thought he was insane, but indeed, the house was a treasure trove, and he had six months to pick it clean and sell the remainder before it had to be emptied and sold on the market.

If Howard had one vice, it was for pipes. He’d always regarded them as a sign of his wealth, and when he discovered that Mitchell had collected several scores of them, he decided to sample each of them, to decide which ones he might like for himself. It was the forty-fifth piped he smoked, which had been the one found between the legs of the dead Mitchell Davis in the basement dungeon, and when Mitchell lit the pipe, he choked on the smoke. He’d put in his favorite tobacco, so why did it taste so rough? It was like the tobacco he’d smoked before he’d known better, it was like rubbing your tongue up the backside of some hairy beast of a man, before you get down and start licking and sucking at his rancid hole, getting ready to fuck, getting ready to rut.

He stumbled into the wall, his clothing so tight, so…conservative? Prudish? He shouldn’t be wearing this, he should…he should be wearing leather…leather and rubber and fucking yes fucking he should be fucking! He ripped his way into his slacks and began jacking his cock, shooting the first load into his underwear. Stripping the rest of the way, he sucked his own cum from the fabric, snorting and grunting, sucking down the smoke greedily until the bowl burned to ash, and the urges dissipated.

Unable to believe what he’d just done, and thankful he’d been alone at the time–the workers he’d hired to sort through Mitchell Davis’ collection were scattered through the mansion at the moment. But the pipe…the pipe was…could he hear it? He could hear something. He threw the pipe across the room, but he could still hear it, it was inside him, something had crawled inside of him, into his head, and it was getting louder. He shut it out for the rest of the afternoon, but after the worker’s had left for the day, he stumbled upon a massive closet filled with leather and rubber, and the voice surged back. Somehow…somehow the pipe was back in his mouth. He was naked, but the leather against his bare skin, it was so fucking–! He could no longer provide words for the sensations ripping through him at the level of pure instinct. The voice was so loud now, and he could feel something happening to him, something in his body, but it didn’t matter, what mattered was perversion. What mattered was fucking, but he had no one to fuck! He had to settle for a night of constant masturbation, the pipe remaining lit the entire night, until Howard woke the next morning, collapsed in the basement dungeon, wearing grimy, cum soaked leathers, padlocks pierced through his nipples with no key in sight, a collar and chain wrapped tightly around his neck (he could feel the bruises but why did he want more of them?) and tattoos? He’d never had tattoos!

The voice told him that of course he’d had tattoos. A filthy, perverse pig like him has to have tattoos. He ran a hand through his beard, now three inches long, coarse and wiry, and the glove against his face…his gloves against his body, tugging on his fucking nipples, stretching his sack. He’d seen a ball stretcher down here somewhere, he needed these fuckers hanging to his knees! The pipe had lit again, pouring out smoke, a sharp pain in the head of his cock, and he yanked on the PA, huffing and panting and so close to cumming.

“Mr. Margus?” a voice called. The voice of someone to fuck! Oh, he was going to fuck so hard, fuck another pig, make a pig, a pig for him! “Are you down there? The guys are here–so we’re just going to get started, alright?”

“S–Sure, *snort* Fuck!” Howard cried.

“Are you alright, sir?”

“Yeah, sir, fuck yeah, fuckin’ Sir to you, fuck…” Howard muttered, “Get…get down here, I need some help with something.”

The man started down the stairs, and caught the first whiff of smoke as he descended. His cock was hard by the time he hit the concrete floor, but then the leather hood was shoved over his head, across his face. He couldn’t breathe! He fought, and felt Howard’s hard cock thrusting against his jeans. How was the old fucker so strong? He collapsed, and Howard pulled the hood away, checking to make sure he was unconscious, but not dead. Just how he wanted him! He wanted to fuck but work to do first. Work to get the pig ready, work for pigs to do today–lots of work indeed.