A commissioner requested an additional chapter to this story from earlier this year. Here’s where you can find part’s one, two, and three. Also, this chapter’s a bit out there–animal hybrids, and castration.
“I’m very disappointed, Mr. Grant. I’ve made you a very comfortable home here, you know. To have my generosity thrown back at me in my face, well…what do they say about the hand that feeds you?”
“Fuck you, you fucking piece of shit!”
“Now, I don’t know quite how you managed to untwist your way out of my programming, but I am still the master of this house, and you will still treat me with the respect I require.”
“I’m not treating you for shit! You fucked me up! I’m some old fucking man, and that…that thing fucks me fucking twice a day! No, I’m going to get out of here, and I’m going to expose you, and you’re going to fucking jail.”
“Do you honestly believe that you’re the first one of my staff to have gotten their wits about and run off to your holy ‘authorities’? Please, I have an excellent relationship with the entire local government. I can assure you. even if you had gotten away without being caught, your feat would have amounted to nothing.”
“Silence? Fine. Still, we will have to punish you, I can assure you.”
“Edufuck me all you fucking want, I’ll just beat it again.”
“Oh, edification will be necessary, yes, but I think this situation calls for more…extreme measures. No, good night, Mr. Grant. I’ll see you in a few days.”
Mr. Grant smelled manure. It was a scent he’d grown accustomed to over the last few months, since when he first displeased the Master of Fitzroy Abbey, but not one he’d ever learned to enjoy. No, he hated it more with each day. But now, waking up slowly, it…comforted him. It smelled like home, somehow.
He was lying on straw, but why was he sleeping in the stable? Had he passed out? Slipped away for a nap? Master would be very unhappy with either possibility, and he didn’t want to upset master, no, not that–
He shook his head, trying to clear it, but it felt so…thick, all of a sudden. It wasn’t like Mr. Grant had ever been the smartest person, but before he’d been able to manage. Now, it felt like his thoughts were running through molasses. Had…had something happened to him again? He could remember a conversation, dimly. Master had been angry. He’d been angry too, but also…terrified. But what he’d done, he couldn’t recall at all. He opened his eyes, and where he was propped against the side of the stable, he had a clear view of his body, and that was what caused the scream which echoed across the grounds of the entire Abbey gardens.
His legs, what the fuck had happened to his legs! The terror cut through the static clogging his mind, and he ran his old hands over the furry flanks his ass and thighs had become, then down further, to his knee, the slender leg ending in a thick, solid brown hoof. He felt the whole thing with his hands, unable to believe it, but it was him, his body. The static was returning, and as it did, some of his shock and surprise faded as well. Had things been different? He couldn’t actually remember being different, so it was possible he’d always been this way, right? The one thing he definitely appreciated was his cock, the sheath running from the base of his heavy balls all the way up his slightly elongated torso, where the head of his cock began to emerge. He forced himself upright, finding it relatively easy to balance on the wide hooves, and with his hands, felt the shaft. He had to piss–and as soon as he’d thought it, the urine poured out of him in a torrent with no control at all–he barely managed to aim it at a corner, away from the straw where he’d been laying. The scent was strong, but not at all unpleasant, similar to the manure. He…liked it here actually…but didn’t he have work to do? Hadn’t he been…trying to get somewhere? The thoughts didn’t seem to connect up to anything, but he pushed open the door to the stable, and walked out, smelling the air. Something…else was in his nose, something…wonderful. Chopper. Chopper, he definitely knew, his new horse tail flicking at the thought, ass clenching.
Whistling a little tune, he took off, following the scent of his favorite horse. He smelled something else, but realized what–or rather, who–it was, too late. Master was waiting for him as well, with two burly servants of the house.
“Ah, Mr. Grant. I trust you’ve found your new accommodations acceptable? You’ll be staying here with the horses from now on, considering you’re mostly horse yourself now. You’re usual duties will be the same, though with that new brain of yours, I doubt you’ll have much time to think of escaping again. Still, there is one last thing I’d like to take care of. I did so love that tiny cock of yours, but gene manipulation…we can’t always have everything we want. Still, I think having you as a gelding will work out fine–calm you down a bit, make you more…pliable.”
The two men tackled Mr. Grant to the grubby floor of the stable, holding him down, allowing the master of the abbey to first, bind his huge balls with a series of bands, and once they’d turned a deep, blackish blue, to cut open the sack and extract both of his testicles, before sewing up the incision. Mr. Grant just stared, dumbfounded, but once they were gone he…felt better. Calmer. The panic in him died back a bit, and he got a stupid grin on his face. He was all too happy to let Chopper fuck his new hole–a wonderful new experience, since his wider frame could better take the huge shaft, and from them on, Mr. Grant settled into his new life, that of a grubby stable man gelding–and always ready for any of the stallions to mount him, if need be.
***WARNING*** Extreme abuse, rape, body modification, mutilation, and snuff ahead. Read at your own risk.
Once a man is broken, you’ve won. They don’t always realize it right away, and so, it’s best to start them off small. I forced him to shave his head every day from then on, and then, after he did that without complaint, he graduated to shaving his face and body as well. At this point, I also faced a decision of my own–now that he’d been broken down, what should I do with him? I had enjoyed taking his fingers, to be honest–I hadn’t done anything like that in ages–so why not go a bit further?
I began by getting him adjusted to bondage, immobility and darkness. I would keep him bound, first for hours, then days and then eventually for a week at a time. In his bondage, I would have men arrive and abuse him as they saw fit, or I would simply have them use him as a dump or urinal. At this point, I had treated him with products designed to remove his hair permanently–no more shaving would be required, ever. And then, I began the modifications. with the help of a dentist friend, I removed his teeth and tongue, and then together dropped his jaw, opening his mouth impossibly wide, and we crafted a new mouth with latex putty–soft, tight and inviting–a mouth pussy, as I called it. It got rave reviews from all the men who used it, and so I began crafting various attachments that could be inserted, in order to give different sensations and textures, different degrees of tightness.
Since he was no longer able to eat like a man, I fed him by tube–and soon he realized that he was becoming fat, his lithe body from before slowly expanding with mass, first a small gut and moobs, but as the drug cocktail broke down his metabolic rate, he expanded faster and faster–in six months, he had ballooned up to four hundred and fifty pounds, with no sign of stopping. The only thing clothing he wore now were full body rubber suits designed to deprive him of his senses. His eyes and ears were covered nearly all the time–he was only really aware of himself by feel and heft, rather than by sight or sound. When I took his eyes and ears, I don’t think he even noticed a thing aside from the pain–not that he could have registered disapproval with his mouth pussy anyway.
At about eight hundred pounds, when he was no longer able to move much at all, I decided it was time for permanent installation in my dungeon–we removed his cock and balls, his arms and legs, anchored him on a concrete block, and kept him growing, kept him alive, so he could feel what we were doing to him, carving out chunks of his fat, and installing latex holes for men to fuck, turning him into a jiggly fuckcushion for men to pin. I wonder what it felt like, to him, to have men fucking him in every direction, caught in the middle of their orgy. The rubber holes all over his body all drained out, along with his bodily fluids, into the sewer below the concrete slab–I would rinse him out once a week or so, to keep the pincushion from stinking up the room too much.
Alas, a little after one thousand pounds, he finally expired. I didn’t get rid of him, of course–he was mostly rubber at this point anyway. With the help of a taxidermist I knew from previous catches, we got rid of the flesh and stuffed what remained with rubber filling, preserving it’s squishy, fleshy feel, and it lives on in my dungeon, though I often rent it out to parties and local clubs as a fucktoy statement piece. I often have people ask me how, exactly, I made the thing, what had inspired me to create something like that, but I usually just remain silent. “I like my projects,” I say sometimes, happy with the double meaning.
You probably think I’m mad, don’t you? But how different is it, really, from a hunter keeping their trophies in the living room? That massive bear looming over them in the armchair, stuffed with fluff? I caught him–this is my token, my own personal trophy for my kill. Still, I’m getting the hankering for another project here soon–maybe not something quite so massive. Maybe I’ll make a pup for myself, or for a friend–I haven’t done one of those in ages. In fact, I’ve heard some rumours of an illegal dog fighting ring around town, and I bet I could extract an invite from one of my contacts–hell, maybe I’ll just run a kennel for a while? Pups are fairly easy, after all, I can make a few. After all, the only cruelty towards an animal I can condone is against a fellow human, you know?
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.
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.
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 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.
***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…
“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?”
“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.