Tag: castration

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.

Blank Skin

Everyone wanted to know about the shaved head, and his missing beard. Wasn’t the cue ball look a bit too radical, for someone like him? A wealthy, older man like him in his fifties, who dressed in fancy suits tailored to his large gut? He told them he’d wanted a change, and they all just passed it off as a mid life crisis. He couldn’t tell any of them the truth, he wasn’t allowed to, and it was frustrating, so frustrating. He acted a bit strange all day long, in his meetings. It seemed to his co-worker’s like it was hard for him to get comfortable–he kept fidgeting in his seat, and glancing to the clock, like he had somewhere else that he needed to be. A man who was known for short, practical lunches rescheduled meetings and was gone for an hour and a half so he go to some all you can eat buffet nearby. However, other than those relatively minor oddities, he played his role, as usual, leading the team, directing their focus, but when five o’clock struck, a man who rarely left earlier than seven or eight instead grabbed his briefcase and rushed out of the office as quickly as he could. He knew something none of them knew, he knew a secret he couldn’t tell anyone. The secret was, that Mitchell Pratten wasn’t a person anymore–Mitchell Pratten was just a hog in a fancy suit.

That Friday, he’d left later than usual, and the subway had been empty, aside from a rough looking, burly skinhead, face full of piercings, arms coated with tattoos, carrying a backpack. Mitchell had been wary, but unprepared for the man to spring at him and shove a needle in his neck–but after they’d had a chat, everything had been sorted out, and he’d let the skinhead follow him home and into his apartment.

But he was almost back now, he was so eager to get out of these clothes. It was stifling him, the real him. He couldn’t be himself in it, he had to be “Mitchell Pratten” and do “Mitchell Pratten” things, like read the paper and scowl at young punks when what he really wanted to do was crawl over and beg the young men to fist his ass with their big hands. He reached his stop, and he hurried to his building, taking the elevator up to his condo, where he opened the door with shaking hands, and stepped inside, immediately ripping at the suit, tearing it away from his body, so he could be rid of this horrid fabric skin.

Master had taught him so many important things, on Friday night, in his condo. He’d taught him that he wasn’t a person at all, that once you stripped away the clothes, that once you stripped away the hair and the beard and the fur coating his body, he wasn’t anything at all–just a blank page. And blank pages needed to be written on, right? And so master had written on him, had taken the tattoo gun he’d brought along in his backpack and helped fill in all the gaps. He wasn’t blank anymore, as he stood at the door, free of “Mitchell Pratten” for the day, his entire arms and chest were covered with crudely drawn words and pictures, all of them marking him for what he was. A whore. A hog. A pervert. A masochist. A hole. A slave for his master. He rubbed his smooth skin, still sore from Master’s work, and let out a snort of pleasure, before getting down on all fours and crawling where his master was sitting, and began licking his boots. He served him for the evening, licking his body clean of any sort of filth, before Master finally allowed him to eat, setting a huge steel bowl on the floor, watching as his pig shoved his face into the slop and devoured it hungrily. He was a glutton now. He was gluttonous pig, and Master liked his pigs fat, so very fat. The fatter he was, after all, the more skin he had, and the more Master could fill him in. That was why Master had insisted on cutting off his balls this weekend–hogs grew fatter much faster than boars, after all. It had hurt, but he’d already noticed the difference. He was calmer, more focused. His pleasure didn’t matter–the only thing that mattered was pleasing his master. Master told him that once that wound had healed, he’d remove his cock as well–after all, he didn’t need it, right? Right–the hog would be more than happy for it to be gone as well.

He emptied the huge bowl four times–only then did Master help wipe his face clean with a rag, and afterwards, Master told him that it was time for him to fill in more of the hog’s body, and he grew excited. He loved having his master fill him up, he loved everything his master did to him. It hurt as he tattooed him, working on his back, and as he did, Master told him what he was writing. That this hog was not only a cumdump and a fisthole, but a urinal too. This hog craved the taste of piss, and would drink whenever he could, fresh or old, and when his Master fed his his first load, he knew it was true, that he’d spend the rest of his life drinking piss and getting pissed on by his Master and any other man. But by that time, it was very late, and they were both exhausted. Master climbed into his large bed, and Hog curled up on the floor next to him, already dreading the morning.

He would have to be Mitchell Pratten again, for the day. He’d have to be Mitchell Pratten for ten or eleven long hours. Master told him he’d have to play the role for quite a while, that a good hog would want to make lots of money for his master, and Mitch did make lots, and lots of money. But the hog wasn’t happy. The hog didn’t like meetings and suits. He didn’t want to discuss business strategies–he wanted to suck his coworker’s cocks and drink their piss. At least Master had ordered him to stuff himself silly during Mitchell’s lunches–that was the one moment when he’d felt the most free. Still, he was just a hog–he didn’t get to choose, he could only obey. Just a hog–something gussied up in a suit–but at the end of the day a hog through and through.

Make Up (Part 3)

“…Ten. Wakey, Wakey.”

It was hard, hard being awake. It felt like he was trying to make his head do things that it hadn’t had to do in ages. He could remember, remember Rudy, remember some…filthy video. Something…he’d done something to him, but the thoughts were all jumbled together, and sorting them apart was too hard. He fumbled for a cigar on the table next to him, lit it, and that helped–only then did he realize that the apartment was different.

It was bare.

It had been furnished before–sparsely sure–but furnished. But now everything was in boxes, the furniture gone aside from the couch he was sitting on and the table next to him, where his cigars and lighter had been sitting. He also saw that he was alone. But if he was alone, then who had woken him up?

“I’m sorry it had to be like this, I really did plan on being with you forever, Ned.”

The voice. It was his nephew Rudy’s voice. No, not…not nephew. Not really. He looked over and saw an old tape recorder running on the side table.

“But, well, people change, you know? I decided I couldn’t stay tethered to my past forever, you know? You were stifling me. And Richard…he’s good to me, you know? But I could never let him see you–I mean, if he knew about you, what would he think of me? I have to leave. You understand, right?”

He didn’t understand. He tried to sit up, but he was so heavy. How long had he been asleep this time? He had no way of knowing, all he knew was that he felt different. The tape kept playing, Rudy kept talking and he didn’t care, he hefted himself up and waddled to the bathroom to look at himself. Once he got there and looked, he screamed louder than he believed he could.

What had that fucker done to him? He was a freak! Before he’d been obese, but now he had to weigh at least five hundred pounds of nearly pure blubber, all of it falling off him in chubby rolls in every direction. He was either naked, or nearly naked–he couldn’t see what he might have on under his apron–but every inch of skin was covered with tattoos–even his face, with the word “Pig” in bold type across his now shaved skull, aside from his mutton chops, which were now dyed a bright red. Piercings too–everywhere. He looked like how a pin cushion must feel, but all of them looked well healed. He must have had them all for months at least, the tattoos too, and this much ink couldn’t have put on him in a short time. He must have been out for two years at least, or maybe even longer. He had to find Rudy. He had to fix this somehow, there had to be something he could do.

Back in the main room, the tape was still playing. “…proud of you, you know. I never imagined that you’d take your perversion so far. I still can’t believe you let your Master cut off your cock and balls, videotape it, and put it on the internet.”

He froze.

No.

He hefted up his fat and started feeling around. Sure enough, he was naked, but he couldn’t find his cock, because…because even before he felt the empty space, he knew didn’t have a cock. He eventually found his piss hole though, buried in his gunt. But he had balls, right? He could feel them swinging there, though they seemed kind of heavy. He reached down to find them swinging between his fat thighs, but instead of his balls, he found a sack stuffed with two huge steel balls instead.

“Anyway, now I’m just drawing this out. It’s over, Ned. Your Master will come pick you up and take you home with him for good. But I couldn’t bear the thought that you’d never be fully awake again, you know? To go through life like a zombie, never knowing what you’ve done to yourself? Never knowing proud you should be of what you’ve done? It would have been such a shame. But you’re awake now–awake for good, ready to live your sick and twisted life to the fullest, just like I have to go live mine too, you know? So this is goodbye. I did love you, and I did this all because I love you. But people change. I hope you understand.”

The tape kept running, but it was just silence.

“Mo…Mo! Mu Mucker!” He put his hands to his mouth, and realized that he had no teeth, and something was wrong with his tongue–it had been split in two. He didn’t know how to talk anymore. He didn’t know anything. What was he going to do now? He couldn’t leave like this, he was trapped–

There was a knock at the door. A very specific knock–three hard raps, evenly spaced. He immediately walked to the door, opened it, and kneeled to the side, allowing his master to step inside the apartment–all while trying to figure out what he was doing. It had just felt…instinctual.

“All set then, pig?” Master asked.

He nodded. He didn’t know this man, but his voice…he knew this voice. This voice was…important to him. Necessary. Master looked to be in his early fifties, and was very out of shape with a heavy gut, though nothing like his own massive flabby form. If he fought, he could probably overpower him, but he couldn’t do that. That was a bad thought. He shouldn’t have bad thoughts like that, he knew better, Pig knew better. Pig knew lots better.

He shook his head, trying to clear it. Master chuckled. “It’ll take some getting used to, Pig. But don’t worry–you’ll remember what to do. Hell, you’ve been my bitch for nearly seven years now–serving me’s like second nature to you, awake or not.”

Seven years? Seven fucking years? No, probably even longer than that, assuming they hadn’t met right away. Still, when Master presented his cock, he sucked it like he already knew precisely what his Master wanted, then swallowed his cum, and the full load of piss that chased it. Only then did Master give him a pair of leather shorts, and help his pig into them.

“Rudy said you’d best move in with me full time, now that he’s gone. You’re lucky you’re the best pig I’ve ever seen, or I’d probably just turn around and sell you off to these nasty, perverted bikers I’ve played with a few times. Still might do that, if you start to bore me.” He attached a leash to the thick chain collar around your neck, “Alright pig, I live across town. We’d better get going while the buses are still running. Rudy said he’ll take care of selling your shit for you. Say goodbye–you’re never gonna see this place again.”

Pig’s mind was still trying to process the fact that he was going to be seen in public like this, leashed with his Master, during the day. He couldn’t do this, this wasn’t him, this wasn’t his life. Rudy could just walk away from their history, but the past wasn’t something he could just leave. The past was scrawled all over him, the past was his fat body, his missing cock, his steel balls. And not even his past! Some other person’s past, he’d been asleep for all of it! Sleep. At least he could sleep again, perhaps. “Pleaz…pleaz Mhir, pleaz pu’ me back under, I’ll do anyming, pleaz…”

Master simply slapped him across the face. Hard, and without pity. “You know pigs don’t speak, bitch. And don’t think you’re going back under either. The only reason I agreed to this was if Rudy woke you up. Makes things more interesting for me–gotta have something to chase away the boredom. You know I hate being bored. Now come on, we can get home in an hour while the buses are running rush hour routes.”

Pig followed. Pig didn’t know how to do anything but follow his master. Out into the sunny afternoon, where everyone stared at him. He could hear them whispering. “Was this a new show?”-“A comedy sketch?”-“Is there a camera somewhere?” In Hollywood, there’s always a camera somewhere. But for the first time in his life, Pig didn’t want to exist in that lens–for the first time, he wanted to disappear, to be no one, but they could all see him. They could all see him, and their phones were taking pictures, and he was going to be a star–everyone would be talking about him, about the pig they saw. But what about him? What about the man behind the character? Who could see him? Who even cared that he existed? No one. A heart that he didn’t even know could break, broke, and he started sobbing, standing there on the bus.

“Definitely not boring,” Master said, smiling for a camera, and Pig had nowhere to look away.

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.

“Hang on, I just gotta take a quick piss,” Nick said to his friend Doug waiting by the truck, smoking a cigarette, heading home from their summer road trip. A biker smoking a cigar watched Nick head into the rest stop bathroom, and followed after him.

At the urinal, Nick felt a hand cup his ass suddenly, a plume of smoke blowing across his face. He looked up, still pissing and saw the biker staring at him. The hand slid up the butt of his jeans and down the back, the biker groping his ass. “Wanna be mine, boy?” the biker asked, leaning in close, “Could make this hole of yours happy as fuck.”

Nick was frozen in place, the man’s hand sliding down his crack, one finger at his hole, “Say it boy, all you have to do is say yes.”

Nick’s breath was quick and shallow, and all he could get out was a stammered, weak “No.”

Still, the biker, chuckling, slid his hand back out, sniffed his hand, and clomped out of the restroom. “Suit yourself. I always get what I want though.”

Alone again, Nick collapsed against the urinal, nearly crying. What in the hell had just happened? A couple of minutes later, Doug popped his head in. “Are you still pissing? Come on, let’s get home before dark.

On the ride home, Nick was silent, and Doug could sense something was wrong, but couldn’t drag it out of him. How could Nick tell him he’d just been molested by an old biker in the middle of his piss? Doug hated faggots—and he didn’t want his friend to think he was a faggot.

Doug dropped him off at his dad’s doublewide and drove off. Nick did his best to forget that anything had even happened, and went inside, told his dad he was tuckered, and went to bed without dinner. Down the block, a motorcycle idled, and the butt of a cigar burned in the dark.

***

It was a couple of days later that Nick came home from hanging out with Doug, and found his dad on the couch, home from work, smoking a pipe. Nick found this odd–his father always preferred to chew, and when Nick asked him about it, his dad didn’t seem quite able to tell him where the pipe had come from, or why he was smoking it. The smoke smelled familiar, and Nick was uneasy all evening until he finally realized it had the same stink as that biker’s from the restroom. Still, it was probably just tobacco from the same brand, right?

His dad was acting strange. He kept…staring at Nick, and not in a normal way. In a…hungry way. When he thought Nick was out of the room, he kept seeing his dad grope himself in his camo pants, but never when Nick was around. His dad broke out the whisky early, and was out on the couch by midnight when Nick went to bed himself. It was several hours later that the door to his room opened, and his dad staggered in, pipe lit, cock hanging out the fly of his pants. He threw the covers off Nick, waking him up, but forced Nick onto his stomach and climbed on top of him. Nick tried to scream, but his father shoved his face into the pillow as he rammed his cock into his hole raw and unlubed. It was quick–four thrusts, and his father exploded in his ass, before collapsing on him, breathing hot smoke and whisky breath onto his son’s neck. Without speaking, he got up and stumbled back to his room.

Nick couldn’t move. At first, he thought he just didn’t want to move, but then he realized, he actually couldn’t move. Another man was in the doorway–the biker, his room full of smoke, but he didn’t say anything. The room was full of smoke now, and Nick realized he must be dreaming. Not all of it was a dream. He woke up, feeling his father’s cum dried down the crack of his ass, but that was normal, right? His dad always liked fucking his hole when he got too drunk. Nick stopped, realizing what he’d just thought. His dad had never done anything like that to him before–so why in the hell had he thought…

The door opened, and it was his dad, morning wood jutting straight out. Nick lipped his lips as his father climbed on him and skullfucked him, blowing his load across his son’s face before getting dressed in his workgear and heading to the construction site. Nick got cleaned up, everything feeling more normal suddenly, and then left and started walking to Doug’s house, when a motorcycle pulled up next to him, the biker smirking at him.

Nick went to run, but the biker grabbed him and pulled him close, one hand twisting Nick’s nipple. “How about now, boy? You’d rather have your hole fucked by your dad, or by me? How about a nice ‘yes’?”

Nick was frozen, but again said no. The biker released him, and drove off, saying once again, “I always get what I want boy!”

***

Nick arrived at Doug’s place, knocked on the door, and was his friend opened it, cigar planted in the corner of his mouth. Nick just stared at him, and asked him where the cigar had come from. Doug told him he always smoked cigars, and pulled him inside. Doug suggested that they take a walk in the woods, but when Nick told him he just wanted to stay in today, Doug instead insisted. His friend had never been so forceful before, and something in Nick…something made him feel compelled to obey.

They hiked out into the woods, and Nick swore that as Doug smoked, something was happening to him. He was getting…bigger. In fact, by the time they reached the river, his friend, who had been an inch or two shorter, was now six inches taller, his body filled out with muscle, and his eyes. His eyes were cruel. They reached the river, and Doug turned to him, “Kids at school–you know, they’re saying your dad’s a faggot.”

“He’s…he’s not a faggot,” Nick said.

“They say he’s a faggot, and they say you’re a faggot too. That you let your dad fuck your ass, that you want him to fuck you.”

“That’s not fucking true!” Nick shouted, but Doug grabbed Nick’s groin in a huge hand and squeezed it until Nick let out a groan.

“Not true? Then I suppose that the thought of your dad’s old cock won’t get you hard eh? I suppose that the thought of him coming in your room doesn’t get you all excited, that you don;t get hard at the thought of sucking his scummy cock? Of taking a load of his in your asshole? I bet you started it. I bet you’re the one who begged him to fuck you, you made your dad into a fucking faggot for your hole.”

Nick was listening, but there, across the river, was the biker. The smoke was flowing over the water like a fog, about to envelop them. He was hard. He was hard, thinking about his dad’s cock, thinking about how he’d gotten his dad drunk and sucked him off that first time, how his dad hadn’t wanted to, but Nick was so fucking horny, he was such a fucking faggot for nasty cock…

“It..it’s true…”

“No shit–I’ve been friends with a faggot this whole fucking time.”

Nick nodded, and was unprepared for Doug’s fist to slam into the side of his face. There was so much smoke, and yet his view of Doug was perfectly clear, the biggest guy at school, he’d wanted his cock forever. He could see the bulge, probably close to nine inches–how would that feel buried in his ass?

“Please…please, I just want…I just want to serve you, please…”

The words were him, but he couldn’t imagine himself saying them.

“Clean my fucking boot, faggot.”

Doug smashed his boot onto Nick’s face, and he licked at the dusty tread, anything for his friend’s cock, anything, he was just a worthless faggot for cock. He licked both boots clean, and only then did Doug reward him, shoving his giant cock deep into his hole, making Nick scream, but it felt so fucking good. Doug came in his ass and tromped off into the forest, telling him he never wanted to see the faggot again, and Nick looked down between his legs, and saw that he’d shot his own load on the dirt trail.

The smoke had cleared. He stood up, and started out of the woods, pleased with himself. Sure, Doug would tell everyone at school he was a stupid faggot, but he’d finally got that massive cock in him. It was worth it. Besides, he was just a worthless faggot, after all, right?

Waiting for him at the head of the trail, he found the biker, cigar burning. Nick approached him, hesitantly, felt the leather jacket–it was too cold compared to the summer air. “What do you say now, boy? You want to be mine? Be my little cubby faggot?”

Nick reached down and felt the biker’s cock through his jeans. Big, but not as big as Doug’s. And he liked his dad. He liked getting fucked by him. And maybe…maybe more guys at school would want to fuck him now. And he knew Doug would want to fuck him again, sometime. No one could resist his faggot ass. “No, no, I don’t think so,” Nick said, and walked on. The biker looking at him as he left, a bit perturbed, but he got on his bike and drove off.

***

Nick found his dad’s truck in the driveway when he got home, and was excited for an afternoon fuck. He went inside, but the father on the couch was not the one who had left home that morning. The pipe…it was much bigger now, as was his father. Sometime during the day, he’d packed on close to three hundred pounds, and now, heaps of blubber cascaded off of him. Nick could smell him from across the room, the stench of cum and sweat and…piss? He stood in the doorway, not noticing the tendril of smoke curling in from the kitchen.

“What the fuck are you waiting for, faggot? Get over here and suck daddy’s cock.”

Nick wanted to ask what had happened, he wanted to resist. He didn’t want to serve this fat, disgusting man, but the smoke curled around his feet and drew him closer. He knelt down, feeling the smoke wrap around his body, dissolving his clothes, leaving him naked aside from a set of manacles on his wrists and feet, chained together so he couldn’t walk upright, only crawl. He shoved his face under his father’s apron, searching until he found his short, three inch cock, and started sucking. He hated his father’s cock–mostly because it meant on fuck was satisfying, and his father said his slave’s ass was reserved for him alone. Most fucks were just his father grunting and grinding his tiny cock up Nick’s ass crack until he came–it was miserable. It was difficult breathing as he sucked, but he’d learned some tricks in his years of service, ever since his father had enslaved him. It took some work, but he managed to suck out a load of cum, but he remained, waiting for…something. He didn’t remember until his father released a load of piss for him to swallow; only after could Nick extract himself.

“Footrest,” his father said.

Nick crawled over dutifully and allowed his father to set his booted feet on his hunched back. He remained perfectly still for hours, eventually cramping in his tight position, but he didn’t dare move. Eventually, he heard the grumble of a truck outside; it was Doug’s. What would his friend think if he saw him like this?

That thought struck him as strange. Doug was no longer his friend….Doug was….something else to him.

“Sounds like your trainer’s here,” his dad said, and removed his feet, allowing Nick to uncurl slightly. “Gonna work on your pain tolerance tonight, he said. I do love hearin’ my bitch scream, so be good and loud tonight.”

Doug tromped up and let himself in–now even larger, his body packed with hair and muscle, wearing leather pants and a vest, tattoos covering his body. “Into the dungeon, slave.”

Nick crawled after Doug into the room which had been his, but which now contained a large selection of dungeon gear. He was paddled and whipped until he bled and sobbed. His balls and nipples were stretched, Doug telling him how, soon, his father might let Doug castrate him, and replace his balls with a couple of heavy, iron eggs instead. Doug taunted him with his ten inch cock, telling him he’d never let a slave as worthless as Nick serve it. How Doug would only be serviced by real men, not faggots like Nick.

The room was filled with a haze of smoke, and in the doorway, the biker.  Nick pleaded with him silently, begging him to be merciful. The biker simply regarded the scene in silence, until Doug finished training and left, leaving Nick restrained on the table, balls stretched out to the wall, nipples dragged up to the ceiling. Only then, did the biker approach.

“I think…I think I will only ask one more time. Would you rather this be your life? A worthless, castrated pig for your father and his sadistic friend’s twisted pleasures? Or would you rather be my cub? What do you say boy, can I have a yes?”

Nick nodded.

“I need to hear you say it.”

“Y–yes. Yes, please.”

***

Nick blinked, and when he opened them again, he was back in the rest area bathroom. But now…now things were different. His master leaned over, watching his leather biker cub piss in the urinal.

“I like the look of that PA, cub. Makes you even sexier than you already are.”

“Thank you sir,” Nick said, looking down at the thick ring in the head of his cock, the piss spraying out around it, some of it splattering against the leg of his leather chaps. He took a drag off his cigar–and shared the smoke with his master as he shook piss off the head, and then the biker grabbed his boy by the thick chain collar he wore, dragged him into the stall, and fucked his hole.

Outside, Doug finished his smoke, and felt like he was forgetting something. With a shrug, he climbed back into his truck and started home, but saw a biker and some disgusting fag leave the restroom together. He rolled down the window and shouted, “Faggots!” as he rolled past.

The biker smirked, “Nice friend of yours.”

Nick looked over at him, confused, “I don’t know him, sir.”

“Well, what do you say we follow him, and when he stops next, we turn him into a nasty trucker, who cruises for piss as truck stops?”

“Only if I can make him four hundred pounds with a tiny cock and a hungry hole I can fuck,” Nick said smiling, and they climbed on their bikes, smoke trailing behind them as they drove off down the highway after Doug.

Rick took another drag off his cigarette in the alley behind the club. Tuesday, and a slow night even for a Tuesday, and another three hours before his shift was over. Hopefully someone in there would get drunk and rowdy, give him something to do. As boring as bouncing could be, when it was fun–well, it was fun. He thought about his little pet project back at home that he’d been working on for a couple of weeks now, and massaged his half hard cock through the denim of his jeans, when he heard some voices coming down the alley towards him.

“Dude, this is a gay bar though!”

“I fucking know that, but this is where he’s been going.”

“So wait, Max–big butch defensive line Max has been a closet fag this whole fuckin’ time?”

“Look, let’s just try and find him, alright?”

Rick watched the two kids from the local college some down the alley towards him. They were well built. Probably athletes, and at this time of year, most likely football. They were probably looking for his project. “Something I can help you boys with?” he said, “The alley’s off limits.”

The two football players were big–but neither of them were a match for Rick as he stood up from the steps, all six foot five and two hundred and seventy five pounds of muscle staring down at them both.

“Oh…fuck. Sorry man, it’s just…we got a bit turned around, and–hey…uh…do you work here? In the bar?”

“I’m a bouncer–why?”

“Well…a teammate of ours. His name’s Max. He was coming here off and on, and well, we haven’t seen him for a couple of weeks. Coach said he dropped out of college, but…well, he won’t even answer his phone, and his parents think he’s still at school. We’re worried something happened to him.”

The bouncer slipped a hand into his pocket where his phone was. “Huh…well, what’s the guy look like?”

“Well, he’s on the defensive line, so he’s kind of chubby. Redhead. Bushy beard.”

“He’s really loud, and he can get pretty rowdy when he gets drunk.”

Rick thought for a moment, and then shook his head, “Nope, can’t say I’ve seen anyone like that…hey, hold on, I’m getting a phone call.”

Rick pulled his phone out of his pocket, and the speaker was emitting a high pitched whine. The two students winced at the sound, but within thirty seconds, their eyes had gone blank, and both of them were swaying where they stood. “Now boys–what’s your names?”

“Alex.”

“Trevor.”

“Alright Alex and Trevor. Here’s what I want you to do. I want you to forget all about Max–he did drop out. In fact, you both talked to him last week, and remember him telling you that, don’t you?”

Alex and Trevor nodded.

“Good. Now, I’d like both of you to give me your phone numbers please, so I can call you if I need anything.”

He entered their numbers into his phone, and then turned off the noise his phone was making. Both of the students shook their heads like they were waking up, Rick finished a fake phone call and hung up the phone. “Now, you boys wanted to know something?”

Alex and Trevor looked at each other, neither of them sure what they were doing in this alley with the huge bouncer, shook their heads and retreated, trying to figure out what had just happened. Rick chuckled–the meatheads were always so easy to fuck around with. His break was over, so he stamped out his cigarette and headed back into the club to finish his shift. It was as boring as he’d hoped it wouldn’t be. Finally, the club closed for the night, Rick climbed into his truck, stopped by the local pizza shop (it stayed open late just for him) picked up his five pizza standing order, and headed home.

He let himself in, setting down the pizzas by the door, and walked over to where Max was tied to a chair, eyes blank, earbuds stuffed in each ear, playing a loop of Rick’s homemade hypnosis tracks and subliminals, but he took a moment to admire his handy work, especially after seeing Alex and Trevor earlier. One of his first tasks had been to get rid of all the fucking hair on Max’s body–and now, after some special treatments, his body would be completely smooth for the rest of his life. Tonight was going to be special though–the mix he’d put on for Max to listen to had a new track he was excited to test out–finally, he pulled out the earbuds, and after a couple of minutes, Max shook his head in a daze, and looked up at Rick. The look was dread. Week one had been anger. Week two had been fear. But now, Max was learning to dread. Rick always liked that look–but he really liked what would happen in a few more weeks, when Max would start to enjoy it. When he’d look up at him eagerly, excited to find out how Rick had chosen to twist and warp his mind that day.

“How are you doing, slave? Hungry?” Rick asked.

“Yes–S–sir…”

“Still fighting that one, eh?”

“N–No sir, sorry sir…I’m not fighting anything sir.” Max had learned that resisting the hypnosis would only lead Rick to entrance him further, usually with some extra suggestion as punishment. Max had fought calling him Sir and Master at first–and so, as extra incentive, Rick had hypnotized him to feel someone squeeze down on his balls everytime he forgot. He’d figured it out pretty quickly after that.

“Well, I have dinner for you, pig, but first, I want to see how today’s files worked out. See, I thought of something special to do to you today, and I’m curious to see how it worked. So, shall we?” Rick reached down and grabbed a hold of Max’s limp cock, and Max got an odd look on his face, and then just stared at Rick.

“Well? How does it feel, pig?”

“I can’t…I don’t…what did you do to me sir? I can’t…it’s just…numb.”

“So, if I start stroking it, you mean you can’t feel any of this?” Rick said, as he toyed and stroked Max’s cock, but it stayed perfectly limp the entire time. “That’s good–very good. Just what I wanted.”

Max sniffled, holding back tears, unable to believe it. He couldn’t feel his cock at all–as far as he could tell, it’s like he didn’t even have one.

“Don’t worry pig, it’s not that I don’t want you to feel anything–I just want your attention focused somewhere else, is all,” Rick said, then reached up and ran his finger over Max’s nipple. It immediately hardened, and Max let out a sigh of pleasure. “See? A nipple pig–well, nipples and something else too.” Rick wormed a hand between the chair and Max’s ass, a finger sliding against his hole, and again Max gasped in pleasure. “Very nice, very nice indeed. I’m very happy.”

“Please…please sir, just let me go, I’m sorry…”

“Oh piggy,” Rick said, and set his hand on Max’ shaved head. Max shivered and groaned, feeling immediately submissive, his thoughts suddenly overwhelmed by a desire to serve his master. Rick unzipped his fly with his other hand, letting out his hard cock, and allowed Max to suck it. “Oh piggy, I will let you go, eventually. You’ll be your own man, although very different from the man you were. But that old, closeted Max will be gone, and instead you’ll be a horny, kinky pig bitch, begging for cock, happily tugging on your nipples all the time. But I have some news to share, pig. It’s my day off tomorrow, you know, so guess what? We’re going out on the town–you’re gonna be getting your first tattoos. Isn’t that exciting?”

Max wasn’t really listening. He was too focused on sucking his master’s cock, on serving him. The sensation of a hand on his shaved scalp–something about it made him so docile. He couldn’t help but obey whoever was palming his skull.

“But here’s what I’m really excited for. See, I’m so happy that file worked as well as it did, because I have plans for that cock of yours, pig. I’ve already made an appointment with the plastic surgeon even–we’re gonna cut this cock of yours down to size–by the time we’re done, it’s gonna be a one inch nub, permanently soft and numb. Not even a clit–cause you aren’t going to be feeling anything down there.”

Max could sense Master was getting close. His own cock was soft though–still, that didn’t matter. His cock was worthless after all. Why, he didn’t even need a cock, really. What good was a cock that couldn’t feel anything?

“And when we get to the office, if you ask me real nicely, I might ask the surgeon to go ahead and throw in a castration, turn you into a proper hog. Maybe put some steel balls in there instead to weigh down that sack of yours, keep you weak and docile for the rest of your life. Oh fuck yeah–you’re gonna fuckin’ beg me to take your balls–that’s gonna be so fuckin’ hot!”

Master was cumming, and Max sucked it all down. He was starving–he hadn’t eaten all day. Between his master’s hypnosis and his nightly binging, he was already packing on the pounds. Rick removed his hand, and Max felt some semblance of freedom return to him, but it was too late to spit out Master’s cum–not that he wanted to anyway…right? He…liked how cum tasted.

Rick stripped down to his underwear, and then pulled a chair over beside Max, and fed him all five pizzas, slice by slice, and as he did, he told Max about Alex and Trevor, and how they’d been looking for him in the alley. He wasn’t sure which one he’d start with once he was finished with Max–in fact, he might do them both together. He hadn’t made many tops lately–he kind of liked the idea of turning them into identical muscle twins. But before that, he’d be sure to invite them both over a few times so they can fuck Max at both ends for fun. Max didn’t want to think that was hot, but he did anyway.

Finally, the pizzas were gone, and Rick yawned. “Alright pig, it’s time for me to go to bed, and for you to listen some more. I have another new track for you tonight–I hope you’ll like it. I’m very excited to see how it works in the morning.”

Max begged him to not do it, but both of the earbuds were back in his ears, and in less then a minute, the pig was zoned out, listening to his master’s voice. Rick went over to his computer and adjusted the playlist, and then went to bed. He was going to have a nice day tomorrow, at least–he always liked giving these pigs their first tattoos. And with Max suddenly feeling pain as pleasure–he had a feeling Max would enjoy it quite a bit too.

***This caption uses a picture and some ideas submitted by Changemechainme***

“What do you think–is he ready?”

The two men stand towering over you, but you can’t even muster the energy to look up at them anymore. The chain around your neck has been draining the life out of your for days now–maybe even weeks. You’ve lost track of time in this room. The men have been checking up on you more frequently now, checking your shrinking cock, now less than an inch long, guessing at your age, talking to you on occasion, but you can’t even speak any more. You aren’t sure if that’s because your voice is literally gone, or because you simply don’t have the energy to fight back. In your heart, though, you sense that no words will cross your lips ever again. They have your current age pinned down somewhere between seventy and eighty. You were twenty-nine when they locked you up–how did they do this to you?

“I think this is the best we’re gonna get. His sack is finally big enough for what the guy wanted at least–that took longer than I’d expected. I think the guy will be satisfied. Still a lot of work to do, we’d better get going.”

They unlock the chain from around your neck–the burden is gone, finally. You’d hoped that you would feel better, that energy would come back to you, but it doesn’t. You feel the same, and when the first man puts a collar on your neck with a lead attached, all you can do is crawl after him, into the fluorescent white corridor beyond the door of your cell, and down the hall to a white, sterile room.

The modifications all take place there. They begin with the difficult changes first–prying your teeth from your head one by one while a surgeon severs your Achilles’ tendons, ensuring you will never walk upright again. Then, after spreading your legs apart, they examine your massive ball sack–the surgeon cuts into it, removing your balls, and fills it back up with four, two inch diameter metal spheres before sewing it back up. Then they permanently remove all of the hair from your body, your face and your head, and begin the process of tattooing and piercing your body to the specifications of the man who purchased you. The entire time, in your mind, you’re trying to scream at them to stop, begging them to let you go, but your voice–you have no voice anymore. You remain perfectly silent and unresisting as they modify you beyond any sort of recognition.

You heal, and then are given to your new master, and you discover why he wanted your mind to remain as it was–it was because he wanted to watch it wither as he trained you himself. He wanted to see you struggle and fight as the hypnosis whittled away at the will that remained, and you did fight. You fought hard, but it was no real contest. You accepted your fate, eventually, and now you enjoy being his slave. His old, voiceless, castrated cumdump, and there’s nothing in the world you’d rather be.

***

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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.

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?

The Silent Auction

***Plenty of extreme stuff in this one, I don’t really want to bother listing it. Just consider yourself warned. Check the tags if you’re curious.***

Mitch didn’t know what they were doing to him, the men who’d grabbed him as soon as he’d stepped into the warehouse, throwing a bag over his head and dragging him away, kicking and shouting, but he’d come alone, like the message had said–he hadn’t exactly had much of a choice. But still, he was the god-damn chief of police, and he should have known that this was a trap. The men stripped him down suddenly, cutting the clothes off of him before fastening heavy iron shackles around his wrists and ankles, and shoving him up some stairs and ripping the hood away as they did, but before he could turn around, they’d shut a door, trapping him in a small glass box, barely larger than a coffin, with a bright light in the top casting a harsh light down on his pudgy, old body.

He threw himself at the glass walls, but they weren’t glass at all–just very hard plastic–and even if it had been breakable, he would never have been able to build up the momentum to break it. Instead, he directed his attention to his surroundings, and saw that his wasn’t the only box in the room–there were four others. One was still empty, but in the other three, he saw other men whom he recognized. Sam Raymond, the mayor. Rudy Garrison and Jack Duggery, both members of the city council. He turned to the empty box and saw two men clad in leather police officers disrobing another hooded figure and pushing him into the last box, and he saw Peter McJenson, one of the city’s judges. And him, Mitch Lundon–the chief of police.

“Well well, I see that you all came as I requested,” a voice said, and a small, but beefy figure came out of the darkness, rubbing his gloved hands together, looking at the five men locked in their respective boxes, Amazing how all of you jump when the teats you’ve all been sucking at our threatened.”

The kidnappings, Mitch thought. He’d done his best to keep them under wrap. Five of the most prominent businessmen had been kidnapped two days ago, and the bandit–the man addressing them now, he assumed, had claimed responsibility. Mitch had been furious, to say the least–after nearly a year of no activity, the man he’s sworn to hunt down, after robbing ten banks in half as many months, and costing him twenty of his best detectives, had struck again, and right at the heart of the city’s business community.

The bandit–he was practically legend at this point, a modern robin hood, stealing from the rich and passing on the wealth to the poor faster than the rich could scoop it all back up. The bandit who’d made no attempt to hide his activity or his face, but was still utterly anonymous to him and every other law enforcement body in the country. The bandit who’d…changed every officer who’d ever pursued him. Mitch recognized a few of them now, actually, as some of his most trusted officers just a year ago, before they’d all had their own run-ins with the bandit. In fact, these were the one’s who’d gotten off lucky–others had had their heads so twisted that…well…the sights hadn’t been pretty. And now, seeing what the bandit had managed, well…Mitch was scared to death. He’d only been thinking of himself, when he’d gotten the message from the bandit, telling him to come here, alone, or he’d air out the fact that Mitch had been lining his pockets with personal bribes from every one of the business men that had been kidnapped–apparently the other four had received similar threats.

“So,” the bandit continued, “I suppose you’re all wondering why I asked you all here, and what this has to do with the five upstanding businessmen who agreed to come stay with me for the past couple of days. Yes, I know you thought they had been kidnapped, but I assure you that they all came of their own free will. And now, I’ve invited them all here for a small, private charity auction. Shall I introduce you to them now? How about we bring Ronald out here first.”

The five men all knew him when he came out, Ronald Stein, one of the biggest real estate developers in the city. He was older, but had always tried to look young, but he came out looking absolutely disgusting, clad in a wife beater and boxers, his toupee gone revealing his greying horseshoe of hair. “Say hello to Ronald everyone. In addition to the sweetheart development deals many of you helped him get, Ronald here has also been secretly spying on many of his own tenets. But we’ve helped you out with that, haven’t we Ronald?”

“Oh yes sir,” Ronald said, “I’m not going to spy on anyone anymore, now I just want to watch men strip for me.”

“That’s true–you are quite the voyeur. Now, who’s next? Morgan, come out here.”

Morgan Pullman, the CEO of one of the city’s largest banks, emerged looking very different from his usual self. He’d packed on muscle, for one thing–lots of muscle. And instead of his usual suit, he was wearing leather chaps and a harness, with a whip and paddle hanging from his waist. “Morgan here thought that poor people ought to suffer, but he knows better now, right Morgan?”

“Oh yeah, Mr. Bandit,” the muscular man said, “The real men who need to suffer are corrupt government officials, and goodness, am I going to work them over good…”

“I’m sure you will. Now, Berlin, come here my boy.”

Berlin Hamilton was the son of one of the richest men in the world, and had proceeded to do absolutely nothing with the fame and fortune he’d received. At twenty-five, he’d had plenty of time to waste, but not anymore. He emerged triple his previous age–seventy-five–and hobbled over to the bandit. “I suppose youth is wasted on the young, eh?”

“Oh yes, but the younger the better,” Berlin said, shooting the men in their cases a lecherous glance, before shuffling over to join the other two.

“Younger indeed. Now, who’s left…Madison for one, come out here.

Madison Benoit, the investment broker whom the judge in the room had let off scot free on a technicality, after losing millions for his customers in the stock market crash, had a second, darker side that the five men knew about–he was a white supremacist. He’d done a good job hiding it behind his social darwinism and southern roots before, but when he walked out, that wasn’t going to fly any longer, looking like a roided up skinhead, swastikas tattooed on his neck and permanently bald head, wearing bleached jeans, doc martins and a cruel scowl. “No need to hide those feelings anymore, eh, Madison?”

“Fuck no, mate,” Madison said, “Now you promised me a slave, when ‘em I gettin’ my own personal nigger?”

“Soon enough, just be patient–we have one more man to introduce after all. Roger Merdon, our final bidder, everyone.”

Roger Merdon was the wealthiest media magnate in the city, but the obese slob clad in nothing but overalls who stumbled out, apparently drunk, bore almost no resemblance to the smartly dressed man he’d been before. The bandit caught the man as he stumbled, and helped him over to the rest of the group. “Well, I guess he’s just as filthy now as the shit he has his ‘news’ channels shoot out every day, right?” Roger gave a healthy laugh, followed by a long belch, and joined his fellows, Roger walking up to the glass cases.

“What’s this all about, Bandit?” the mayor asked.

“Yeah, you’re never going to get away with this,” Mitch added.

Oh, now this is a silent auction, gentleman, so no comments from the peanut gallery until after the bidding is complete. Now, gentlemen,” the bandit said, directing his attention back to his group of twisted magnates, “You all remember how this works, right? There’s a minimum bid on all these men of…let’s say, fifty million dollars? Just make your bid on each man, and the top bidder on each will get his prize. If you win on two, you only get the one you bid the most on. Still, you’re used to paying for government officials, so I’m sure this will come perfectly natural to all of you. However, I urge you all to be generous, because the person with the lowest bid…well, let’s just say they’ll regret having been so stingy, eh? Now, let’s say, fifteen minutes to place your bids? Starting…now! And remember–silence please, from everyone.”

Apparently, when the bandit said silence, he meant silence. The room was quiet, aside from the occasional hmm or haa from the five bidders, as the men in the cases desperately tried to get their old friends to let them out and escape–but the bandit had apparently been working them over for too long for them to feel any sympathy. Finally, the five of them finished their bids as the clock ran down, and the bandit took a moment to examine the results.

“Alright, it looks like we have our pairings. So, shall we go from highest to lowest? And goodness, what a high bid–I’m impressed. With a winning bid of five hundred million dollars, we have Berlin Hamilton who has purchased the mayor of our fine city as his personal bitch.

The old man grinned, one hand going down and rubbing his cock through his suit pants, as two leather clad officers opened the glass case and dragged the still shackled mayor over to the bandit. “Now now, quit fighting it–you had no problem with these men buying you before, after all. Now, as far as Berlin is concerned, you’re quite simply far too old for him at the moment–he likes his men much younger now. But don’t worry, at eighteen, everything you two will be doing together will be plenty legal.”

As they all watched, the mayor, who’d been in his mid fifties, started regressing rapidly, until he was in his late teens, but his body was so slender and underdeveloped that he probably could have passed as someone younger. Berlin’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head when he saw his new toy, and he let out a groan.

“Oh, he’s so beautiful, thank you bandit.”

“Oh, I’m not done yet–I know what you like,” the bandit said, and pulled the slender mayor closer, who was still trying to grapple with his own transformation. “Now, Sammy, I have a few things to tell you. You see, your last name isn’t Raymond anymore–It’s Hamilton, and that nasty old man over there is your grandfather, the grandfather whom you want to use you as a sexual toy for the rest of your life. Now, you know what your grandfather likes? He likes little boys, right? So you’re going to have to pretend to be even littler, alright?”

Sammy nodded quickly, falling into his new character, as a tight fitting pokemon shirt appeared on his torso, and around his waist appeared a diaper. He started sucking his thumb, and waddled over to his lecherous grandfather, kissing his deeply, the bandit leaving them to their new roleplay.

“Now, who’s next? Our second largest bid was not nearly so large–just two hundred million, though not a sum to be laughed at. Ronald Stein, please come collect your new toy, Councilman Jack Duggery.” The underwear clad real estate developer smirked, as the officers pulled Jack from his case, and pulled his down to where the bandit stood. “Now, Ronald, what’s your favorite type of man?”

“Oh, I like looking at them all, trust me, but I do love those muscular strippers at all the bars. Just, make him manly–no real twinks, and no body builders either, just, lean and handsome and an unabashed exhibitionist. Oh, and a real big dick.”

“You heard the man,” the bandit said,and Jack felt his body start to contort and grow, packing on muscle, his fat melting away until he could have graced the cover of a muscle magazine, a light treasure trail running up his chest. A short beard covered his chiseled jawline now, and something…a beat inside him…he felt his hips start gyrating, as a pair of extremely tight cut off shorts barely able to contain his nine inch cock appeared around his waist. He looked up and saw Ronald staring at him, and the old man made him feel so dirty, but so horny at the same time, he started grinding his body up against him, making out with him, hungry for his attention and praise, leaving the bandit to tally the next winning bid. “Oh, this is a good one,” the bandit said, “With a bid of 175 million, Madison Benoit has purchased as his new slave the honorable judge Peter McJenson!”

The skinhead stepped forward, and the officers dragged the screaming and struggling judge out of his box and out to the bandit. “No! No please, please don’t do this, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”

“Oh, I sense your sincerity, but alas, it is too late for apologies, I think,” the bandit said, “Still, considering how many young black men you put behind bars, I think your new color will suit you just fine.” The judge whimpered, and looked down at himself, as his skin began to darken to a near pitch black, and he fell to his knees where he continued to beg and plead and grovel, until Madison delivered a firm kick right into the judge’s mouth.

“Fuckin’ niggers. Get rid of that tongue–I don’t ever want to hear another word out of it’s mouth. And it’s balls too. And make it dumb as shit–I don’t need it thinking about questioning my orders. And bigger, a real beast of burden for me and my mates that can take plenty of abuse.”

On his knees, the judge started to grow, packing on pound after pound of muscle as he felt his head empty out, and on his knees, looking up at Madison–no, up at Master, all he felt was fear–primal, terrible fear, and he got down, kissing the toes of his boots, silently begging for forgiveness. It was enough to assuage Madison for the moment, and he dragged his slave away by the chain collar it now wore, where he took his new slave’s cherry.

“Goodness, only two left. Let’s see who our last lucky winner is–Roger Merdon, with a bid of 100 million, has purchased Councilman Rudy Genson. Congratulations.”

The officers hauled out the second councilman and hauled him up front, while the filthy redneck waddled up as well. “So, Mr. Merdon, what would you like?”

“Well, I’d sure as hell love someone tah clean me up a bit–think I sharted a bit sittin’ o’er there jus’ now. Yeah, a nice fat piggy willin’ tah get a little dirty, an’ willin’ tah be mah toilet, I think–that’d save me a lot a trips tah the bathroom.”

“Oh fuck no, you can’t be serious, you *grunt* no, please–*snort*” Rudy said, as he started fattening up, topping 400 pounds before he finally stopped growing, and unable to balance on his feet anymore, he fell forward onto his hands and knees, where he smelled it. Something so filthy and nasty and delicious, he snuffled over to his master and nosed at the back of his overalls. It was in there, it was in there and he needed it, when Master dropped the overalls down, revealing his shitty ass crack he let out a squeal of delight and started licking it all clean, his Master moaning in pleasure as he did, the Bandit walking away and over to where Mitch stood, alone, in his glass case.

“So, Mitch Lundon, it looks like you’re the last one. Well, you and Mr. Thrifty over there,” he said, looking at Morgan Pullman in his leather gear. “Get over here Mr. Pullman.” He tried to resist the command, but there was nothing he could do, and so he walked over and joined him. “So, Mr. Cheapskate, you couldn’t even bring yourself to spend over a hundred million?”

“Well, I didn’t expect everyone else to bid so much–I can pay more, if you want, I have–”

“Oh shut up–I told you before, that the least generous among the bidders was going to get…a less than pleasant surprise, didn’t I? But Mr. Lundon, don’t think that I’m letting you off the hook–why don’t the two of you share the same fate? Take him out boys.”

The two cops pulled Mitch out of his case, and two more grabbed Peter before he could try and run. “Now, I’m thinking twins, and I do love the leather. How about a couple of cute cubs, just desperate for a master?”

As Peter and Mitch looked at each other, they saw that they were both transforming in front of their eyes, shrinking to about five and a half feet, and pudging up, their hair shifting to deep red and shortening, full round goatees accentuating the roundness of their faces. When they were perfectly identical, matching leather harnesses and jocks appeared on their bodies, along with two massive dildos shoved up their holes, and both of them looked at the bandit with unbridled lust.

“So, is there anything me and my brother can do for you?” Mitch said, running his hand into the bandit’s pants and massaging his cock.

“Yeah, the two of us have been looking for a big, strapping master like you who can keep all of our holes satisfied,” Peter added coming in close as well.

“Ha, well, I don’t know about keeping you, but I’d be happy to keep you both well plowed tonight,” the bandit said, leading the twin cubs to his room, and leaving the rest of the men to their pleasures, wiring the millions he’d just made from the auction to the charities he’d chosen earlier. They might all have been selfish whores before, but at least now no one would mistake them for what they really were–and if he could help people in the city, then all the better.