Orwell’s Demon (Part 9)

WARNING: Castration

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Use It or Lose It (Part 12)

He went home after work, horny but so excited at the same time. Part of him could barely believe that he was preparing to actively lose another inch of his cock, but that old part of him was so far away and so small now that it was easy to ignore. He’d cum once on the bus, just from the vibration of the engine, but he went into his bedroom, laid down on his cum crusted sheets, and kept still, feeling the need and desire rising within him. He was impatient and growing desperate, but he made himself lie there for two hours–long enough to feel the curse kick into high gear. Then he got up, shoved one of his favorite rubber fists into his hole, and started fucking himself, expecting to cum in a few minutes–but while his cock quickly reached the edge, it stubbornly refused to shoot. Twenty minutes later, he collapsed back on the bed, drenched with sweat, cock and balls aching to release and yet unable to do so.

He waited fifteen minutes, until he had his breath back, and tried again, but like before it refused to cooperate. Like the last time, he had a distinct sensation that his cock was somehow resisting him. It didn’t want to shrink any further, it wanted to grow again–but he couldn’t let that happen. He wasn’t going back to that old life, he wasn’t going to be some stupid Christian breeder. He was a pig now, a filthy perverted sex pig, and he had no intention of ever being anything else for the rest of his life. Still, after four or five sessions, he still had no luck, and his hunger was increasing. He decided it might be best to take a break, have some dinner, and then see if he could find someone willing to help him out.

Most of his contacts weren’t available–generally everyone had something more important to be doing on a Monday night other than abusing a pig, but Randal was becoming more and more desperate. He had to go to his B-list before he finally found someone willing to come over–a fat, greasy skinhead sadist he’d played with a couple of times, but who was always…too rough for Randal’s tastes. Still, it would work, wouldn’t it? The man wasn’t willing to come over, but he gave Randal his address, and told him to wear nothing other than leather and rubber. He got dressed and set out for the man’s place at around ten in the evening, not even embarrassed that other people were staring at him in his fetish gear–it was more important to get off.

The ride over on the bus only made him hornier–as soon as the skin opened the door, smoking a cigarette in his bleached jeans and rubber vest, Randal was on his knees, begging him for release, that the man could do whatever he wanted to Randal, just as long as Randal came. The master chuckled, and dragged the pig in by the collar, making him service his rangers before getting to work on the pig’s hole.

With two hands buried in up to the elbow, Randal finally came. It felt like a torrent, but Master said, afterwards, that it had only been a few pitiful spurts. Still, the pleasure blooming inside him was so powerful, and Randal was so thankful for the man who’d given it to him. He looked back at the chubby man, and he’d never seen anyone more beautiful in his life than his Master, not noticing the scars appearing across his back from whips and chains, the shaved scalp he now had, the tattoos running up and down his arms marking him as a skinpig and slave. He was close now–so close, and after Master had his pleasure, Randal begged him for one last scene–tie the pig down for two hours, make him completely immobile, and then make him cum through any means possible. Do that, Randal said, and he’d be his slave forever.

The man didn’t need much convincing–he forced the pig into a rubber suit and bound him tight for three hours, watching the pig squirm and beg to be released, slowly working his cock while he did, and when he let him free, the pig’s appetite was insatiable. It took hours of abuse before the pig finally came, and when he did, Randal felt his cock squirm and fight, but there was nothing it could do. He’d won. He’d beaten it, finally. He didn’t deserve a cock, he didn’t deserve anything. He was nothing.

When he inspected the area later, while cleaning his wounds, all he found at his crotch now was an old scar. He didn’t remember what it was from, at first, but he recalled in time. His master had always hated how often Randal had jacked off, and so one night, he’d drugged him and while he was asleep, had castrated him and removed his entire cock. He’d protested at the time, but he’d learned soon enough that this was a change for the better. Now, without his own cock as a distraction, all of his energy could be focused on making his Master, and any other man, really, happy. And of course, making them happy was about them abusing the pig in whatever vile, ways they could imagine. He wasn’t a person, not anymore. He wasn’t a pig, either, even if that was his official title. He was an object and a tool. Something men could use to masturbate. That’s what made him happy now, and within a week, the new skinpig couldn’t even remember a life before this one, or having ever been as happy as he was now.

Arctos Audio 2: True Story (Part 7)

WARNING: Scat, castration, strange stuff, etc.

Paul just kept encouraging him, telling him was a good piggy he’s being, that he’s gonna enjoy having a toilet pig around the farm, and soon, Nate started to feel full, but shit just kept coming anyway. It was backing up his throat, and he couldn’t breathe–the panic was momentary, however, as he quickly found that he didn’t…need to breathe. In a few minutes, his throat was packed up to his snout, and try as he might, he couldn’t take anymore. Thankfully, Paul finished up soon after, and stood back up, not minding the shit coating his ass, turned around, and looked at the rubber pig on hands and knees, and grinned.

His massive load of shit sure had done the trick. The suit which had been hanging off the pig’s body before was now stretched tight–and the pig had probably doubled in size, it’s massive gut nearly dragging along the ground as it felt it’s stuffed snout with one trotter, trying to figure out what to do about it’s predicament. “Here piggy, I can help ya wit that,” Paul said, and shoved his rock hard cock into the packed snout and began forcing the shit down into the pig’s throat roughly. It worked–Paul could feel it working it’s way deeper into him, and the taste of Paul’s nasty cock was enhanced by the shit covering it. It was even better when he let loose a load of piss, helping to liquify a bit of the mass and wash it down. After a couple of minutes he pulled out, huffing a bit, leaking precum, and Nate could lick his snout clean, and tentatively, he got his strange legs underneath his huge frame, and he stood upright.

He was nowhere near the height he’d been before–with his much shorter legs, he was probably barely five feet tall, but with the massive gain in weight, he was easily 500 pounds, if not even larger. His arms were shorter as well, and could barely reach his face, much less the rest of his body. They felt useless. Still, he pressed on his body with them, and he felt the mass of filth inside him shift around slightly. How in the world was he holding all of it? Was there…even a flesh body left inside of him? He recalled how he hadn’t needed to even breathe, when the shit had filled him up, and he concluded that his body…wasn’t really a body anymore–it was just a cavity, a vessel designed to store filth. He could feel his piggy cock hardening at the thought, and pressing through…something against his body, hugging it, and realized the suit had formed a sheath around it–the only bit of his old body still hanging free, and touching the air, were his balls.

Paul hefted up Nate’s gut and looked under it, at them hanging there, and grinned. “Guess we only gots one thing left tah do, right piggy?”

He backed up, unsteady on his feet, turned and started to waddle away, but Paul tackled him to the ground, compressing him slightly, and he felt shit push back up his throat and into his mouth, as well as squeeze out his ass.

“Now, now, if ya wanna make yer farmer happy–ya should know I only wanna fuck hogs. The sooner it’s over with, the better ya will feel–I promise.”

He grabbed hold of Nate’s sack and pulled it tight, before stretching the rubber ring from the package out and looping it around them. He let it go, and it snapped tight–very tight–and merged with the suit, trapping his nuts on the outside, as the rubber squeezed every blood vessel shut. It hurt, and he squealed and groaned, but there was nothing he could do as Paul forced him to roll over onto his back, arms and legs flailing in the air, and he stroked Nate’s pig cock. “One last load for you, piggy,” he said, and Nate could feel it building. With a painful squeal, he came, spurting cum all over his belly, and Paul took out his knife and cut off the entire sack, now dark blue, and a moment later the rubber closed up, sealing smooth like there had never been a break at all.

He expected to feel fear, and anger, and sadness–but instead, all the hog felt was calm. A deep, complete calm, a kind of peace that can only come from a complete loss of self, and identity. He wasn’t a man anymore. He wasn’t even a pig. No–no, he was a hog. A hog for filth. A hog for fucking. A rubber hog to be abused and roughed up and toyed with. A hog who could take anything and then squeal for more. Crave more. The hog rolled over onto it’s gut, feeling more shit squish out of it’s ass, and it wiggled its tail, letting the farmer know what it needed–and Paul was only too happy to give it to the beast. He rammed in deep, pushing through a short rubber canal and meeting the warm shit filling the hog to capacity, and shuddered.

“Awww fuck yeah, I’s a proud fuckin’ hog fucker, yes I fuckin’ is!” he shouted, whooped, and slammed in again, the last remnants of the hog’s human mind disappearing, leaving only the simplest of desires. A need for filth, a need to obey its owner, and a deep aching desire to be filled at all times. Still, its story had ended well–it was going to be very happy, it was certain. Paul came after a while, pulled his shit coated cock out and the hog cleaned it up, mostly–then it followed his master out, waddling on its hind legs. Together they managed to get its huge frame into the bed of the truck, and it settled down for the long ride to Master’s farm–happier now that it was truly a hog, happy that at least some horror stories could have a happy ending.

Arctos Audio 2: True Story (Part 5)

WARNING: Scat, bestiality, castration

Nate stopped in front of the door to catch his breath–how out of shape was he, that fifteen steps to the front door had him out of breath? He hauled his keys out of the pocket of his overalls and found the house key, went to unlock it, and found a sizable package sitting on the stoop. Curious, he bent down and picked it up–it wasn’t too heavy, but he hadn’t ordered anything recently, had he? Maybe it was for Nate. He checked the address label, but the shipping address didn’t have a name, instead, it read, “The Filthy Pig, C/O Its Farmer Master.”

He didn’t know what that meant, but fuck, that kind of turned him on. If it wasn’t meant for him…maybe he could still take a peek inside, just out of curiosity. He held the package against his gut and unlocked the door, pushing it open and lumbering in, setting the box on a table in the hall and shutting it behind him. “Hey Nate! Ya home? Hey, I’s…got some stuff I wanna dis–disca–some stuff tah talk ‘bout wit’ ya.”

Nate didn’t reply, but Paul heard someone was in the house. There were noises coming from the kitchen, but it didn’t exactly sound human to him–it reminded him more of an animal, like a raccoon he’d startled while it was rummaging in the trash. “If some fuckin’ pest gots its way in here, gonna have tah git mah shotgun,” he grumbled and headed for the kitchen, paying no mind to the mud he was tracking into the house from the bottom and sides of the knee high waders he was wearing. He rounded the corner, and there, facing away from him, was the widest, cutest, prettiest little piggy rump he’d seen a long time, with a little black rubber tail swishing to and fro above a crack caked with manure. “Well cross my eyes backwards! Somebody let a sexy little hog loose in mah fuckin’ house.”

Nate lifted his head up from the food he was scarfing down and looked behind him, eyes wide at the sight of Paul–or at least a man he could barely recognize as Paul. His slim, well dressed husband had left this morning in pristine condition as always, and had returned home looking like he belonged in the middle of Iowa. As horrified as Nate was at what had happened to him, and as hopeful as he was that his husband might be able to help him escape this nightmare, the pig inside him, the pig growing stronger by the second, saw the massive redneck in the doorway, and all it could think about was how fucking sexy Paul looked, and how much it wanted that redneck cock buried deep in his piggy hole.

“Sooey! Come here sweet little thing–I was just thinkin’ ‘bout how much I been missin’ havin’ a hoghole tah fuck, ‘n looky here! Just like Pa said, ya ain’t never gonna know where ‘r when yer prayers ‘r gonna be answered.” He stepped forward, and it took him a moment to realize that the animal he was looking at wasn’t in fact a pig. When he actually noticed the human hands and feet, his heart sank a bit. “Wait…this a fuckin’ trick? Ya ain’t even a real piggy!”

“It’s me! It’s Nate!” he tried to say, but the mask refused to let the words come out right, and Paul had no idea what the pigman had tried to say. Paul looked closer, certain he should recognize the person under that pig mask, but his head just wasn’t quite as agile as it had been in his youth–not that it had been particularly quick then, either. Then he remembered the package he’d found on the step. “Wait a god damn minute–a package fer a filthy pig, care of a Farmer Master! That’s me, ain’t it! ‘N that’s you, ya dirty piggy.”

Paul retreated back to the entry way to get the box, pulling a slender knife from a holster hanging from his pocket and using it to cut the tape. The pig in his head gave a few grunts, and decided it had had enough food for the moment–what it needed now, more than anything, was a good rough fuck, but that sexy redneck didn’t seem that interested. Nate was fighting it as hard as he could, trying to stay in control, because he was realizing that what he’d thought was a story all this time might have actually been something more like a prophecy.

The boy had taken the carcass and sewn the head, cock, and tail to his body, and after he’d done that…thanks to a twisted fairy, the dead flesh had come alive again, granting the boy his disgusting wish, but with a cost. His human mind began to wither, and the new piggish instincts began to take control. The boy, a pariah and monster, had hidden on a pig farm and emerged only at night, helping himself to the slop the farmer left for his pigs, until one night he’d been discovered.

What the boy hadn’t known, was that this farmer had always held a deep, perverse love for his pigs–especially the castrated hogs he raised for slaughter. In fact, it a twist of fate, it had been one of his hogs’ carcasses the boy had stolen from the butcher, and the man recognized the hog’s face–it had been one of his favorite lovers. It had broken his heart to send it to the butcher, but now it had come back to him–though it was incomplete. Still, the fairy had whispered to him, he could fix that, couldn’t he?

Nate rounded the corner, in time to see Paul reach into the box and start hauling out the contents from the box–but in his heart, he already knew what it was going to be. First, the skin–a full body, black rubber suit, with the word HOG on the back in light brown. Next, the trotters–two gloves and two boots, all four with solid rubber trotters where the hands and feet should be. And lastly, a ball stretcher–and it was the last item that filled Nate with the most terror. After all, he was still a pig, for the moment. But the story wasn’t called “To be a Boar,” now was it?

House Arrest (Part 4)

Zack knew, from his time dealing with the criminal justice system, that the most important thing you can do, especially in a system of solitary confinement, in create a routine for yourself, and stick to it. First things first, he smashed the TV as soon as the DVD had finished playing, and then set out to explore the house a bit further, making sure he hadn’t missed anything he might be able to use as leverage, or a weapon. The kitchen was more empty than he’d first imagined, lacking even basic appliances, or a set of knives. The closest he had to a weapon was a plastic butter knife. His exploration eventually brought him back to the living room, where he discovered that both the vase he’d smashed, and the TV, had miraculously righted and repaired themselves. The vase even had sitting in it the flowers he’d been given, and water had been added.

“Hello?” he called out, certain there had to have been someone in the house with him for something like this to occur, and he started turning the place upside down, looking for any sort of clue, but each time he ransacked a room, left, and returned, it had been put back into order. He kept this up for a while, but then gave up–either someone was here he wouldn’t be able to find, or this was some other power of that strange program Sidney had at his disposal. Still, he wouldn’t watch the TV, he had no interest in knowing what was happening to his son, he wouldn’t fall for that bait. Instead, he found one of the bare rooms and started working out, running through a calisthenics routine he’d kept when he was younger and in better shape than his current, middle aged self. Still, the day was beginning to turn to evening, and he was getting a bit hungry, when the doorbell rang again.

He went down and answered the door, to find the same young man as before with a cart laden with groceries. “Here you are, sir,” he said, and pushed the cart inside, “I’ll be back tomorrow with another load for you. Is there anything else I can do for you today? Do you require some company?”

Zack didn’t engage with him; he just accepted the groceries and shut the door in the young man’s face. In the kitchen, the hunger was becoming substantial, but as he dug through the bags, all he could find in them was candy, junk food, a twelve pack of beer and frozen meals for the microwave–hardly the sort of food he usually ate, but his stomach told him otherwise. He started stuffing himself, disturbed at his own behavior and hunger, but unable to quite get a handle on it. Was he really back to normal? Was Sidney still fucking with him somehow?

The food arrived every day, and no matter how much arrived, Zack would have eaten all of it by the time the young man arrived with the next load. He would try to resist the hunger and focus on exercising instead, but it was difficult to manage, especially after drinking twelve beers a day for a week straight. Drunk and full and depressed, he more than once found himself on the couch, watching Sidney have sex with his son in one body or another…masturbating.

The next weekend with his son arrived, and he was dreading it–he went to sleep Thursday, only to wake up in a dog house in Sidney’s backyard, naked, covered with fur from head to toe but still human–aside from his cock, which had become fully canine, and his missing balls. He spent the weekend as his son’s loyal pet, unable to disobey him, unable to not enjoy the feeling of his son fucking his doggy hole, while Sidney fucked his snout. Still…it was a relief to simply be…with people. He’d never really realized how terrible loneliness could be, and when he woke up back in the house next door on Monday, he was relieved to be back in his own body, but he couldn’t bare to think that this was all his life would be for the foreseeable future.

It was difficult to pinpoint when, exactly, Zack broke. It didn’t help when, after a couple of months in the house, cigars started appearing with his daily load of groceries, and like everything else, he found himself compelled to consume those as well. His realization, the week after, of how much his body had changed living here drove him deeper into depression–his muscles now well hidden beneath a flabby body, his face shrouded in a scruffy beard and his hair growing out with a massive bald patch for the first time in years. His hair shouldn’t have been able to grow that fast, but he also shouldn’t have gained close to 100 pounds in two months. Obviously, Sidney was still manipulating him from afar. He spent all day drunk, lying on the couch, smoking, jacking off, watching Sidney and his son fuck each other’s brains out…wishing…wishing he had someone, wishing he wasn’t so alone.

“Would you…stay with me for a bit?” he finally asked the young man who delivered his food to him each day. “I’m lonely.”

“I’d be happy to!” the young man said, “The only thing we’ll have to discuss is payment.”

“I don’t have any money.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Master has already created a payment system for you to use. It’s simple, really. Each time you use me, then Master gets to change something about your past, and your reality, permanently.”

Zack hauled the groceries inside and slammed the door in the young man’s face, but he honestly didn’t know how long he’d be able to hold out on his own like this. He opened the door a minute later, and the young man was still on the doorstep, looking smug. “Shall I come in, and we can discuss your payment options?”

The End for now, but we might follow Zack, Sidney and Evan a bit more in the future.

Cabin Pressure (Part 5)

WARNING: Extreme Modification, Castration

Darkness. The same smell as before, but damp, mildew. He couldn’t see any detail around him, but he was confined in a tight space, something that could barely confine him, crouching on a hard surface. He kept expecting something to emerge from the black surrounding him, but all it did was press into him, fill him with a deep sense of unease and disgust. Why was he here? Who had put him here?

He felt woozy and sick. He couldn’t focus, and he felt a sudden sense of vertigo–like he’d fallen and remained upright at the same time. Something was in the darkness–a person? No, it didn’t feel like a person, but it was around him, inside him. He could see…flashes of memory, but nothing was clear, nothing that he could remember beyond broad strokes. Pain. Abuse. Humiliation. Screaming, his own screaming, so much screaming. He tried to put his hands over his ears, but he couldn’t stop hearing himself, his throat raw, his skin feeling like ants were crawling all over him, a dull ache in his crotch.

The dull ache drew his attention, even as he tried to ignore it. He’d…wanted it, as long as he could remember. His father had told him he’d never be a man, even as he’d raped him. The boys at school, calling him a sissy and a bitch. He didn’t know what he was, but he wasn’t a man, he didn’t want to be a man, he didn’t deserve to be a man, and…and so when he finally had…had the chance…

He’d done it before he’d drugged him, without anesthesia. It had hurt so much, he hadn’t believed anything could feel so gut wrenchingly terrible, but it was done, and the ache was easing already, several months later. He felt so much better, now…now that he wasn’t a man. He’d never been a man, of course, but now–now he was exactly as worthless as he’d always known he was. But everything else was a blur, a terrible, painful blur. Three months of his life, total freedom with his body, that was the price. Was it worth it?

Voices from the dark. It didn’t matter what he wanted. Master had wanted it as much as he had. Master, his master. He felt terror, a desire to serve, but couldn’t…remember him clearly. Who was his master, why couldn’t he see him? Why didn’t he know his name at least, why didn’t–

It was jostled awake by the plane coming to a rough landing, not that it could move much, hemmed in as it was, between hits own flabby body–500 pounds now–and Master Brian leaning on him. Home. It was home, finally. It had been named Jeff before this, but it didn’t have a new name yet–his Master had promised one when it had returned from it’s vacation. Seeing that it was awake, Brian tugged the chain connected to the thick leather collar around the thing’s fleshy neck and the thick gauge ring pierced through it’s septum, hauled him close and mauled his mouth, exploring its cavity like mouth.  It had woken in the dungeon from his drugged state, and discovered it had lost not only its teeth, but its tongue had been split down the center, and pierced in several places–the better for pleasuring cocks, it had been assured. It would have to be fed by a tube from now on, which he was rather used to anyway, with its master at home. So far it had only been fully conscious again for a day, and still hadn’t quite come to grips with the body it now had–a hundred pounds heavier, missing its balls–and its cock, which had been taken without his permission, since it was so small anyway. The man had rerouted his urethra between his taint, allowing it to piss while sitting down.

Master Brian made it wait until everyone else had exited the plane, so they’d have more room to move. It was thankful–it hadn’t gotten used to all of the stares it was getting…now that it was awake. Then again, it was hard not to stare, at the tattoos all over it’s body and face, the piercings, the foot long, unwashed beard, the huge body barely contained by the wife beater and shorts it was permitted to wear out in the world, showing off the cruder tattoos which covered its body proper. Master Brian was its escort for the trip home–it had been escorted by someone else on the way there.

They lined up for passport control. No one could believe he was the same person as the man in the photo–he was interrogated for an hour, but eventually released, after Brian muscled his way in, and suggested the officers might just think of it as an object, abuse it for a bit, and then let him take it with him. Brian collected his luggage, and it wanted to disappear–so many people…just staring at it. Was it really worth it? But everything was worth it, if its master wanted it–his…master. It still couldn’t remember him, but it didn’t matter. Master Brian would escort him home, and it would be back with it’s master, and everything would be alright.

Once they were out in the airport proper, Master Brian made good on his promise, dragged the thing into the bathroom and fucked it’s loose hole, making it beg loudly, making sure people knew what they were doing, that it didn’t care, that it wanted them to know, that it anyone wanted it’s hole, it would give it to them without question. After its escort master had cum, they caught an Uber. The thing gave the disturbed young man it’s address. Master…Kevin, he had said? It sounded like it could be right. Once it had it’s master, once it had it’s new name, everything would be fine, ancd maybe, finally, he would stop feeling like he was under so much…pressure.

Medical Trials (Part 4)

~~~A Few Months Later~~~

Evan pushed the janitorial cart down the hall, and into the last cell on the hallway. The room was filthy, but he knew better than to ask questions about what might have happened in there–he could smell some cum, shit and piss, but there was more blood than anything else. He stripped the bed and shoved the still damp, but cool sheets into the laundry bag, and then started cleaning up the walls.

He’d been working in the Trinq labs as a janitor for…for as long as he could remember, which wasn’t really that long. He wasn’t exactly smart, and most everything failed to keep his interest, unless it had to do with his job, cum, or his boyfriend. He wiped down the mirror, looking at his face with disinterest. It still wasn’t quite…familiar to him, but that didn’t really matter. It was his face. How he felt about the face wasn’t important. How he felt wasn’t important. Feelings weren’t really…possible anymore anyway; all he ever really felt was calm detachment. It didn’t matter how he felt, all that mattered was that he did what he was told. He looked at himself anyway, through the red streaks. His head was perfectly smooth, just like the rest of his body. His hair had all fallen out–even his eyebrows–and none of it had grown back, not even months after his final injection. No longer strong and angular, his face was round and soft, cheeks puffed out and drooping, chins and jowls like pliable wax, eyes distant.

The rest of his body was similar. He’d shrunk substantially in the final round of tests, dropping from six foot three down to about five feet tall, even as he’d packed on fat. His weight had stabilized at 325 pounds, now that he was no longer receiving injections, but it hung off him in flaps and rolls, his grimy coveralls, grey with the Trinq logo on the breast, bulging and heaving with each movement. His balls were gone. They’d shrunk smaller and smaller until they simply ceased to exist, and his cock was less than an inch long, and completely numb to all sensation. He no longer felt like a man, really. He felt like something else entirely–genderless, perhaps, but not a woman either. Just a drone, or an object. Something unimportant. Something that existed to be used, like a tool.

He cleaned the room, hoping there might be a bit of cum he could eat, but while he could smell it, the blood was everywhere, leaving him disappointed and hungry. The room was clean in a few hours, and he checked his watch–his shift had ended fifteen minutes ago, so he wheeled the cart back to the janitorial area, threw the bloody sheets down the chute to the incinerator, got out of his jumpsuit and burned that as well, and back into his street clothes, before clocking out.

He left Trinq’s building, and walked to the bus stop. He’d grown used to the stares by now–everyone he passed could tell there was something wrong with him, that he wasn’t supposed to exist, that he didn’t fit into their usual categories. More than once, he’d been cornered by men and pummelled in alleys on the way home, but he didn’t mind that much. The longer men were around him, after all, the more likely they would feed him their cum. That was something he’d learned rather quickly–that something about him, either how he looked, or how he smelled, made men want to use him as a cumdump. He could imagine that might make a normal person feel humiliated, but Evan just felt something resembling gratitude. He liked being something that had a purpose–he liked being used.

There was no incident like that this evening, though he sat next to an older business man on the bus, and after a few minutes, the man pulled out his cock, and ordered Evan to suck it–he was happy to have a snack, at least. He got off at his stop, and walked the few blocks to where he lived with his boyfriend, Adam. But Adam wasn’t really a boyfriend, in the same way Evan wasn’t really a man any longer.

Adam worked as a police detective–in particular, he’d taken over the caseload of a certain Evan Timmons, who’d committed suicide earlier that year. He didn’t really work for the police, however. Or rather, he worked for the police, but he also worked for Trinq Inc.–burying cases, funnelling prisoners and inconvenient witnesses into experimental drug programs, destroying evidence. In return, Adam had been receiving samples of several new drug therapies from the company. He was already home when Evan arrived–he could smell him in the second bedroom of the apartment, which was where Evan slept in a cage, and where Adam worked out. Evan stripped out of his clothes and went and found his master, smelling him, hungry for his cum. Adam was naked as well, his extremely hirsute body matted with sweat, foot long cock half hard and leaking on the floor. Evan got down and began cleaning up–sweat, cum, piss, anything his master left behind as he continued his workout, not paying any attention to the thing following him around the room. Adam might have felt a twinge of guilt, at one point, but power and strength was more important to him now. In truth, Evan disgusted him, but also terrified him. Trinq’s executives had made it perfectly clear to him who Evan actually was–and that if Adam ever betrayed them, that he would suffer an even worse fate at their hands than the blob Officer Timmon’s had become. Trinq wasn’t about to let anyone stand in their way of power either, after all. They were going to change the world, whether people wanted them to, or not.

Master Fitzroy’s Stables (Part 4)

A commissioner requested an additional chapter to this story from earlier this year. Here’s where you can find part’s one, two, and three. Also, this chapter’s a bit out there–animal hybrids, and castration.

“I’m very disappointed, Mr. Grant. I’ve made you a very comfortable home here, you know. To have my generosity thrown back at me in my face, well…what do they say about the hand that feeds you?”

“Fuck you, you fucking piece of shit!”

“Now, I don’t know quite how you managed to untwist your way out of my programming, but I am still the master of this house, and you will still treat me with the respect I require.”

“I’m not treating you for shit! You fucked me up! I’m some old fucking man, and that…that thing fucks me fucking twice a day! No, I’m going to get out of here, and I’m going to expose you, and you’re going to fucking jail.”

“Do you honestly believe that you’re the first one of my staff to have gotten their wits about and run off to your holy ‘authorities’? Please, I have an excellent relationship with the entire local government. I can assure you. even if you had gotten away without being caught, your feat would have amounted to nothing.”


“Silence? Fine. Still, we will have to punish you, I can assure you.”

“Edufuck me all you fucking want, I’ll just beat it again.”

“Oh, edification will be necessary, yes, but I think this situation calls for more…extreme measures. No, good night, Mr. Grant. I’ll see you in a few days.”

Mr. Grant smelled manure. It was a scent he’d grown accustomed to over the last few months, since when he first displeased the Master of Fitzroy Abbey, but not one he’d ever learned to enjoy. No, he hated it more with each day. But now, waking up slowly, it…comforted him. It smelled like home, somehow.

He was lying on straw, but why was he sleeping in the stable? Had he passed out? Slipped away for a nap? Master would be very unhappy with either possibility, and he didn’t want to upset master, no, not that–

He shook his head, trying to clear it, but it felt so…thick, all of a sudden. It wasn’t like Mr. Grant had ever been the smartest person, but before he’d been able to manage. Now, it felt like his thoughts were running through molasses. Had…had something happened to him again? He could remember a conversation, dimly. Master had been angry. He’d been angry too, but also…terrified. But what he’d done, he couldn’t recall at all. He opened his eyes, and where he was propped against the side of the stable, he had a clear view of his body, and that was what caused the scream which echoed across the grounds of the entire Abbey gardens.

His legs, what the fuck had happened to his legs! The terror cut through the static clogging his mind, and he ran his old hands over the furry flanks his ass and thighs had become, then down further, to his knee, the slender leg ending in a thick, solid brown hoof. He felt the whole thing with his hands, unable to believe it, but it was him, his body. The static was returning, and as it did, some of his shock and surprise faded as well. Had things been different? He couldn’t actually remember being different, so it was possible he’d always been this way, right? The one thing he definitely appreciated was his cock, the sheath running from the base of his heavy balls all the way up his slightly elongated torso, where the head of his cock began to emerge. He forced himself upright, finding it relatively easy to balance on the wide hooves, and with his hands, felt the shaft. He had to piss–and as soon as he’d thought it, the urine poured out of him in a torrent with no control at all–he barely managed to aim it at a corner, away from the straw where he’d been laying. The scent was strong, but not at all unpleasant, similar to the manure. He…liked it here actually…but didn’t he have work to do? Hadn’t he been…trying to get somewhere? The thoughts didn’t seem to connect up to anything, but he pushed open the door to the stable, and walked out, smelling the air. Something…else was in his nose, something…wonderful. Chopper. Chopper, he definitely knew, his new horse tail flicking at the thought, ass clenching.

Whistling a little tune, he took off, following the scent of his favorite horse. He smelled something else, but realized what–or rather, who–it was, too late. Master was waiting for him as well, with two burly servants of the house.

“Ah, Mr. Grant. I trust you’ve found your new accommodations acceptable? You’ll be staying here with the horses from now on, considering you’re mostly horse yourself now. You’re usual duties will be the same, though with that new brain of yours, I doubt you’ll have much time to think of escaping again. Still, there is one last thing I’d like to take care of. I did so love that tiny cock of yours, but gene manipulation…we can’t always have everything we want. Still, I think having you as a gelding will work out fine–calm you down a bit, make you more…pliable.”

The two men tackled Mr. Grant to the grubby floor of the stable, holding him down, allowing the master of the abbey to first, bind his huge balls with a series of bands, and once they’d turned a deep, blackish blue, to cut open the sack and extract both of his testicles, before sewing up the incision. Mr. Grant just stared, dumbfounded, but once they were gone he…felt better. Calmer. The panic in him died back a bit, and he got a stupid grin on his face. He was all too happy to let Chopper fuck his new hole–a wonderful new experience, since his wider frame could better take the huge shaft, and from them on, Mr. Grant settled into his new life, that of a grubby stable man gelding–and always ready for any of the stallions to mount him, if need be.

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?

Magic Show (Part 3)

Snorting and grunting uncontrollably now, he walked–though it felt more like crawling now–back to the stall, wormed his fat, hairy body between the fucker’s legs and started sucking on the dribbling cock, sucking down his cum. Despite his inhuman appearance, neither one of them seemed shocked when they saw him–if anything they were happy for the company, as the top finished his fuck, the bottom came, and both of them left Ethan in the stall to lick cum from the toilet seat where it had dribbled earlier, his head clearing a bit. That fucking magician! He’d called him pigheaded, and now this? No, this was enough, that fucker was going to put everything right, or…well, Ethan didn’t really know what he’d do, but he’d figure out something.

He was nervous about leaving the bathroom, but no one else seemed disturbed by his new appearance in the least. He wandered the club on all fours–occasionally overwhelmed by his need for cum enough to suck a load from a stranger who offered him a cock. Hell, he soon discovered he couldn’t turn down a cock even if he wanted to, but he finally found Max the magician again, over in a booth, sitting with the same bear from before–but he could see things weren’t quite going how the magician had planned it, the bear, now wise to Max’s tricks, was trying his very best to resist the magician’s wiles–so Ethan got under the table without him noticing, and bit the magician’s ankle. He kicked him in the snout but lost his focus, the bear made a break for it, but Max was faster, getting out of the booth and finally forcing him under with a direct gaze, as Ethan wiggled his way out from under the booth, defiance his eyes and cum on his chin and mustache.

“You are just–you don’t know when to quit, do you? Fuck it, this one’s not even worth it anymore–it’s only fun when they don’t know what’s going on,” Max said, looking at the bear in front of him, “Still, I think we can find a mutual use for him, don’t you?” he said, and turned his gaze back to Ethan–freezing the pig in place. “I was only going to have the pig thing last for tonight, you know. You’re the only one who sees yourself like that–everyone else just sees a fat bear crawling around, begging and snorting for cum like a fool, but I don’t think we should stop at illusion with you. As for this fucker–well, what’s a pig without a farmer to own him, eh?”

The bear the magician had been pursuing had come dressed in leather gear, looking like a biker–but the leather began wriggling all over his body, fading into a blue, his gear becoming a set of overalls, his shiny boots a couple of muddy waders. His body followed suit, his muscle bull body, well honed at the gym, dissolving into a fat apron which pushed out the overalls, his hair turning grey and thinning out, his body sweaty and muddy, smelling like a field of manure.

“Still, a pig farmer can’t very well raise a pretend pig, can he?” Max said, turning back and looking down at Ethan, “So how about we make that a bit more physical?”

The pain that ripped across his body was horrendous, but he couldn’t scream, he couldn’t do anything. What he’d felt in the bathroom, that had only been a phantom of this agony. As he passed out, he felt something close around his neck, heard a cruel, deep laugh, and then everything went black.

He woke the next morning in his pen. Of course, he didn’t know it was his pen, or even where he was–he’d slept the whole ride out of town, his new farmer master following the magician’s directions to their new home out in the country, and as soon as he’d arrived he’d forgotten everything about his old life–and knew he’d never go near the city again. No, he was happiest here, on his small farm with his pigs–especially his prize hog, Ethan.

He brought out his slop. Ethan trying to talk, but his permanent snout was more interested in eating than resisting, and his farmer–his master, climbed into the muddy pen while his hog ate and fucked his hole with his big cock…and Ethan felt his mind start draining away, as his cock started leaking cum into the mud. He looked beneath, where he saw his still human cock and balls, but his sack was changing, shrinking. With one final orgasm, his balls disappeared entirely, and from that moment on, Ethan really was nothing more than a hog–though a bit of a strange one at that. In fact, some parts of him looked outright human–particularly his now permanently soft cock, the odd mustache that formed under his snout, and the fact that it’s favorite food in the whole world was cum straight from his master–or any other man who happened by. For some reason, something about how the hog smelled, no man could resist feeding him his cum, and something about eating cum made the hog gain weight like nothing else. By summer, Ethan was close to six hundred pounds–and happy as could be in his new prison.