The Fall of Troy – Part 1

For the life of him, Troy could never figure out why his mother had decided to marry Leo. It wasn’t that he was bad at her for divorcing his dad–he’d been as lousy a father as he’d been a husband, fucking plenty of women behind her back. But why couldn’t she see that Leo was just as terrible a guy, if not worse? Hell, at least his real dad could hold down a job–Leo couldn’t even manage that. All he did was lounge around the house, usually shirtless, his big gut hanging out, eating snacks, drinking beer and watching TV. And his mom just…accepted it. She was even working overtime at the firm to make extra money to cover expenses…but it was so strange. He tried to talk to her about Leo, but every time he did, she just got this…glazed over look in her eyes, like she wasn’t even listening. And she’d even had the nerve to ask him to find a part-time job after school to help pay for expenses! He couldn’t wait to graduate and head for college, just to get out of this crazy house.

Then, out of the blue, she left for an entire three day weekend–a girl’s weekend in Vegas that she hadn’t even mentioned to Troy, leaving him alone with Leo. Upset beyond words, he holed himself up in his room in the basement all Friday afternoon, just avoiding Leo as best he could, when there was a knock on his door. He didn’t answer it. Leo just opened the door, and he sighed, “What, Leo.”

“We’ve talked about this, Troy. I’d really appreciate it if you’d call me dad.”

“You’re not my dad. What do you want?”

Leo sighed, “Look, I know you don’t like me, I get it. But look, can we just try to…at least live together? Why don’t you come up and watch a movie with me or something? You can even have a beer, if you want. I won’t tell your mom.”

Troy looked back at him, suspicious, “You’ve never wanted to do something like that with me before.”

“I know I’m not always the nicest guy, but least come hang out for a bit. Two hours, one movie, have a beer, and I won’t bug you for the rest of the weekend if you don’t want me to.”

“I have schoolwork to do.”

Leo gave a heavy sigh, “Look…I’m trying my best, you know? But if you can’t even meet me halfway…No, you know what? It’s fine, really.” He turned and left, plodding downstairs.

Troy was happy he was gone, but the guilt still ate away at him, and he couldn’t even concentrate on his school work. After a couple of minutes, he grumbled a quiet “Fine…” to himself, stood up, and followed his step dad upstairs. “Leo? Look, I’ll watch a movie with you, if it means that much…” but that was as far as he got before he rounded the corner, and locked eyes with his stepdad, who was standing behind the couch…but his eyes, they were…black. Pitch black. And he couldn’t look away, but he felt something in his mind, he felt something happening to him. But before he could quite figure out what, Leo blinked. His eyes were back to normal, and Troy was left trying to figure out what had just happened to him.

“You know, on second thought, why don’t you enjoy some alone time, eh Troy?” Leo said, and walked around the couch, to his stepson. Leo wanted to run, but not…not really. More than that, he wanted to…watch a movie and…and relax. Yeah, take a load off, relax. Drink a beer and just…just…be for a while. Leo stopped in front of him, smiling, “I left you some of your favorite things on the coffee table–make sure you play with them all, son.”

Troy nodded, and then he lumbered past Leo and plopped down on the couch. The movie was already playing, and for a few minutes he watched some massively fat man, covered with hair, being fucked roughly by some massive, muscular, hairy man. He let out a moan, and stripped off his shorts and shirt, and he looked at the favorite things of his Leo had left for him on the table: a twenty-four pack of beer; eight or nine short, fat cigars with a zippo lighter beside them; piles and piles of snacks and candy; and one, massive, flesh colored dildo.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to run out the front door. What he did instead was sit up, grab a beer from the case, pop it open, and chug it. Then, he took a moment to light a cigar for himself, sucking the smoke down like he’d been doing it for ages (then again…hadn’t he been smoking for ages?) before grabbing a second beer, opening it, setting the the largest bowl of snacks next to him on the couch, and leaned back with a sigh, watching the porn like he did this all the time.

After a few moments, he reached down and started tugging at his cock, but as he did, his hand ran over something else–a gut. He hadn’t had a gut earlier, had he? He’d been in great shape, he spent almost all of his time in high school playing sports…or…or did he? He let out a belch, grabbed another beer, easily juggling the can, his cigar, handfuls of snacks, and his cock all the while. This felt…more natural than sports. Didn’t he really spend most of his time on the couch, binge eating, drinking beer, and watching porn? Fuck, that fat chub sure could take cock like a pro. He wondered what it might be like to get fucked like that.

Hours passed. He had no idea how many times he’d cum, or how many pornos he’d watched, but his eyes just kept drifting to the dildo on the table. Fuck it. He didn’t have any lube, so he licked it like he’d watched that fat chub lick that bear’s cock, and then placed it at his asshole, rolling over onto his big belly, reaching around and pushing the dildo into his hole. His cock shot a massive load as he did. He groped for another beer, but couldn’t quite reach. More important to fuck his piggy hole anyway, right? At least he still had a cigar to smoke.

Leo came down to investigate a little later, once he heard loud snoring coming from the couch. There Troy was–his stepson, weighing probably over four hundred pounds, reeking of beer and cigar smoke, a thick beard coating his face and fat chins, the dildo still buried in his ass as he slept. Just like he’d wanted. He headed down the basement stairs and made his way to Troy’s room, and sure enough, it was completely different. Where before it had been the cleanest room in the house, now it was utterly filthy. All of his athletic equipment had disappeared, replaced by XXXL shirts and drawers full of lube and dildos, and there on the desk beside an ashtray heaped with cigar butts–the set of college acceptance letters had disappeared, and he had a feeling that the new Troy had probably already dropped out of school entirely at this point. Leo smiled–if anyone was going to drain his bitch mom’s money it was him, not some clean nosed son going to college. Still, he wasn’t quite done–Troy had so much further to fall, after all. And luckily, Leo had all weekend to do shove him down further and further, but first he had some preparations to make down here, and got to work on Troy’s private bathroom in the basement.

Earl’s Truck Stop – Part 3 (Patreon Commission)

The room stank of cum–Paul had been busy. Earl noticed that he’d picked up some memories as well–he’d dug out the small trove of tapes in the dresser once the first video had finished, and had another one playing in the VCR while he stroked his cock on the bed–and what a cock! Paul was panting, stroking his ten inch cock from tip to the base of the shaft slick with the cum dribbling out in a constant stream. Still much, much too young though, for Earl’s personal tastes.

Paul looked up when Earl came in. One part of him wanted to be alarmed that Earl had just walked in unannounced, but why would he be concerned? He knew Earl…right? He had all of these…memories, suddenly, but none of them felt quite real enough to him.

“You’ve been busy,” Earl said.

“Fuck man, you know no one can soak a bed in cum like I can.”

Earl laughed, walked over to the TV, and gave it a smack on the top. The fuzzy VCR image turned to static, and after a moment, a perfectly clear image of a hotel room much like the one they were in flickered into view.

“What gives man? I was watchin’ that.”

“I got something better to watch–the show should be starting any moment now…”

Sure enough, on the screen they saw the door to the room open, and a massively fat man struggled into the motel room, and flopped down on the bed, heaving for breath. His shirt was covered with food stains, and he still had chocolate sauce smeared around his lips, that he licked at lazily. Paul looked over at Earl, wondering what the old fuck was pulling. A minute later, while the fat trucker was still lying on the bed, the door opened again, and a very drunk, hairy bear in ragged flannel and denim stumbled into the room, a lit cigar shoved in his mouth. Both looked at each other, surprised like they had expected to have the room to themselves, and then Earl hit the pause button on the VCR, and the image froze.

“How about we have some fun, eh Paul? I got these two guys here, and I know how much you like porn. What would you like to see them do, you fucking pervert?”

“I thought it was a video–what do you mean?”

“Tell me your fantasy, man,” Earl said, “Whatever you want to see, it’ll happen. Think of it as…as interactive porn!”

“You mean…anything I want to see?”

“Yep.”

Paul looked at the screen a moment, “I want the bear to strut over, fill that fat pig’s lungs with smoke, and knead his fat body with those big, rough hands of his.”

Earl smiled, hit play, and the two men on the screen started moving again. No longer surprised to see each other, the drunk bear walked over, taking a deep breath of smoke off his cigar, locked lips with the chub and filled him with his smoke, his spare hand groping one fat tit.

“Holy fuck, it actually happened?”

“That’s how it fuckin’ works,” Earl said, and paused the video again, “Now lets get a bit hardcore, eh? Let’s make ‘em get nasty.”

“Yeah, fuck!” Paul said, stroking his huge cock again, “That pig looks hungry, make him eat out that bear’s dirty hole!”

Earl hit play. They stripped off each other’s clothes, and the bear bent over the bed, legs spread wide, cigar in his mouth. The chub, licking his lips, got down behind him, gut resting on the ground, spread the bear’s ass, and dug in. Paul and Earl watched them for a couple minutes, and then Earl paused the video again. “Ya know? This is hot, but I just don’t feel like I know these two well enough. I gotta have a backstory, you know? Some history. Don’t those two look a bit too young to you?”

“Yeah, fuck–I love fuckin’ old fag truckers–they are truckers, right?”

“Of course they are, but what do you think about that pig? Let’s call him Matt.”

“Matt eh? I bet…I bet he’s a fuckin’ fat whore. The only thing he loves as much as food is drinkin’ cum, yeah, fuck. Glory holes, biker gangbangs. He’s been suckin’ cock across the country for forty years, the old fat fag. He’s so proud of his fat, he leaves his gut hanging out all the time, or he just goes shirtless, his ass crack showing, and all his clothes are stained with food and crusty with cum.”

As Paul spoke, Matt was shifting on the screen. His hair turned grey and started creeping back up over his scalp, and his clothes tightened up on his body, becoming a filthy, stained tank top and cargo shorts, both of which could barely contain his fat. “Now how about that bear? Let’s call him Jack.”

“Jack, fuck, I bet he’s a dirty fucker. Definitely a top, and a fucking rough one. I think he’s in his fifties, salt and pepper hair, loves getting into fights and fucking the men he roughs up. Yeah, he drives trucks now, but he was a biker back in the day, he’s still got the tatts, piercings and scars to show for it.”

On the bed, Jack started aging as well, his hair and beard shimmering with grey. Tattoos spread all over his arms, chest and back, and the clothes he’d thrown on the ground now included a pair of grungy, well worn leather chaps and a thirty year old vest still bearing the patches from his old gang. Now, still paused, Earl admired the ex-biker bent over the bed, in the middle of a moan as some fat pigwhore, buried his nose in his nasty hole. Fuckin’ beautiful.

“Now, I got a real surprise for you,” Earl said, walked over the the wall, next to the TV, gave a wave, and a hole appeared, large enough for an eye, or even a cock. “Get over here and have a peep.”

Paul did, and saw Matt and Jack, frozen stiff in room 103, and he let out a soft moan. A second later, time restarted, and he could hear Matt licking at Jack’s hairy hole, but Jack was ready for more. He rolled over, grabbed Matt’s fat, jowly face in his rough, scarred hands, and shoved his mouth onto his fat cock.

“Yeah, look at what you did,” Earl said, getting down next to Paul, who was still jacking off his huge cock, “But you know, I think the one person here who still sticks out like a sore thumb here is you, Paul. How about we give you a new life to match that nasty head and big cock of yours, eh? An old pervert, I think. What are you–70 and still driving around the country? Sure, you could retire, but with stamina like yours, you can keep going for a few more years, drillin’ glory holes in motels and rest area bathrooms, jacking off in your cab as you drive, talking filthy with other roadfags over the CB. Your old, saggy, pale, hairy body might not be much to look at anymore, but that ten inch cock of yours is fucking legend around here, right? Go on, blow that load you old faggot, blow it!

Paul shot his largest load so far, and as he did, he could feel his youth sapping away, his young body growing wrinkled and old, his saggy paunch and thin arms and legs, a full, dingy white beard. He suddenly couldn’t see as well what was happening in the other room, but he didn’t really care. He could imagine what was happening, in his mind eye, Jack pushing himself up, shoving Matt onto his knees, slamming his cock down his throat. He watched the two of them fuck for hours, not even noticing when Earl got up and left after shooting his own load next to him. The next morning, Earl couldn’t have been happier, watching all three proper truckers getting back on the road. He’d have another three or four in about two weeks, he couldn’t quite tell yet, but one thing he knew for certain–only certain men were made to be truckers, and Earl wasn’t about to lower his standards anytime soon.

Earl’s Truck Stop – Part 2 (Patreon Commission)

After watching Paul for a couple of minutes, long enough to make sure the spell had settled in well–and long enough to shoot a load of his own against the outside wall–he headed back to the counter, and asked one of his employees to mind it for him. He had some customers to chat with for a while. He found Matt in the diner, a heaping helping of chicken fried steak and potatoes drowning in gravy before him, and a pile of wide plates stacking up beside him, evidence that he’d been very busy for the last several hours. The young man’s face was one of disgust, confusion, and helplessness. Nothing much about him had changed–he was still his muscular self, but his stomach was taut with food. He wasn’t sure how he was even still eating. He felt sick with food and shame. Why was he even doing this to himself?

Earl settled into the seat across from him, smiling. “How are doing, Matt? Enjoying your meal?”

Matt struggled to choke down a mouthful, but before he could say anything, his hand shoved another chunk of steak into his mouth. Earl waited patiently until Matt finally gave in and just started talking a garbled sentence with his mouth full.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

Matt tried again, and this time managed to make himself understandable. “Please, there’s something wrong with me, I can’t stop eating.”

“There’s nothing ‘wrong’ with you Matt, you’re just stuffing yourself like a fat pig because I wanted you to.”

Matt looked shocked, but kept eating. Earl had done this to him? He recalled his earlier confusion, and tried to piece together their previous conversation as he chewed. “You…you did this?”

“Oh yes, I certainly did,” Earl said, “But you like it, don’t you? You like the feeling of having your gut stuffed. You like how everyone here has been staring at you with disgust, while you stuff your face. Stuffing your face has your cock harder than it’s ever been in your life. You can jack off, if you want. Everyone will understand–we all know pigs like you have a hard time controlling yourselves.”

Matt’s eyes went wide, but just like before, he felt his mind shifting underneath his feet. He…did like it. He liked it a lot. The feeling of his bulging gut, his hard cock. He tried to fight it, but while one hand kept shoveling food into his mouth, the other reached down and started groping at his bulge. The button on his jeans released happily, the zipper dropping all on it’s own by the force of his gut. Fuck, he’s such a horny pig.

Earl got up and came around to his side, running his hands over Matt’s body. “This body doesn’t feel right, does it? No, you should be one big mass of fat. Go on, think about it. Think about yourself. Think about how you’ve spent every spare moment of your life up to this point eating. Think about your apron, your fat man tits, your triple chins, how you wheeze as you eat, how hard it is to walk, and how you love all of it.”

With a shudder, Matt came, spraying cum under the table, and as he did, his body began expanding, muscles atrophying as they were encased in fat. The table squealed as his huge gut shoved it away from him, Matt could barely keep his chubby hand on his cock. It was gone. His body was gone, but his past too. All he could remember now was eating–it was all he did, and he fucking loved it. He finished off his plate, mopping up gravy with a biscuit, grinning, chins jiggling as he gulped his meal down.

“That;s better,” Earl said, “Now, how about dessert? I’m thinking one of everything on the menu, and then you should get to bed, I think.”

Matt didn’t want to be this excited…but he couldn’t quite figure out where his reluctance was coming from. He loved dessert, after all…right?

Earl found Jack holding down the bar by himself. The ashtray beside him was already full, and the bartender had finally just left him a fifth of cheap whiskey which was already nearly empty. Earl took the stool next to him, and an old fashioned appeared in his hand along with a lit cigar, which he sipped. “How are you doin’, Jack?”

“Fuck…I fucked up…” he groaned back, “What the fuck am I doin’?”

“Looks like you’re enjoyin’ yourself to me,” Earl said.

“No…I don’t fuckin’ smoke. I don’t drink. What the hell am I doing here?” Jack looked up, took a long, deep drag off his cigar, and sighed, “Fuck I’m drunk, what was I saying?”

“You know what, Jack? You’re just too fucking uptight, that’s your problem. Don’t you know how to relax? Come on, admit it. This is kind of nice, isn’t it?”

Jack didn’t say anything, but he knocked back the rest of the whiskey in his glass–Earl poured him some more, and he didn’t object. After a moment, he said, out of the blue, “Fuck, why am I so fuckin’ horny?”

“There’s just something about smoke and drink that makes your cock hard, I bet.”

“Fuck.”

“Go on, let loose. Let’s see that drunk cock of yours.”

Jack just stared at Earl, unable to believe what he’d just heard, unable to believe he was actually considering it, unable to believe that, without even making up his mind, he was already unzipping his fly, pulling out his cock, stroking it nice and slow.

“I love dumb bear’s like you, Jack. You love simple pleasures–nothing gets you harder than a little smoke and a little drink, right? Laid back and easy-going as fuck. Who cares when you had a shower last por changed your clothes? Who cares when you last got your hair or beard cut? You sure don’t. But more than that, you’re simple minded too, right? Not too smart at all, but that doesn’t bother you. Crude, nasty, and a horny hairy bear of a man. Nothin’ bothers you, except when you run out of cigars and drink, right?”

“F–Fuckin’ right…” Jack grunted, “Gonna, fuckin’ blow…” With a loud snort, he shot several ropes of cum all over the underside of the bar. The smell of booze and smoke intensified around him along with a heavy pang of BO ground into his clothes, which were growing older, tattered and dirty. Jack scratched his face, feeling a beard sprout and grow long and tangled down to his chest, his hair growing out as well, caught in a lazy ponytail. His body softened and expanded, a thick gut pushing his shirt out, ass filling out the back of his jeans, but plenty of muscle too. You had to be strong to survive on the road, had to be strong to…to fucking fuck, yeah…fuck. “Fuck, what was I doin’? Fuckin’ forgot.”

“Don’t worry about it, Jack.”

“Heh, I don’t worry ‘bout shit, Earl, you know that.”

“How about you finish off that cigar and whiskey there, and head for bed.”

Jack shrugged, Earl finished his drink and left the building, pulled the second key to room 102 from his jeans, and figured it was time to check up on Paul.

Earl’s Truck Stop – Part 1 (Patreon Commission)

The first of the expected three came in a little after five in the afternoon. The pump outside was having a problem processing his company card–Earl was more than happy to run it for him on the machine inside. Perhaps he was just old fashioned, or maybe he was just a pervert with particular tastes, but the young man looked nothing like Earl thought a trucker should look. Way too uptight, in a shirt buttoned all the way up to the collar. Clean shaven, hair combed, smelling like some girl’s prissy perfume shit. Earl made sure the machine inside took had some trouble as well, and struck up some conversation.

“I haven’t seen you come through here before. The name’s Earl–Owner of the Flying G here.”

“Yeah, this is a new route for me,” the young trucker said, “Did the card work?”

“It’s still processing.”

Silence. Maybe he’d have to bend him a little. A touch of power in the air and…

“You know, I’ve had a long day so far…it says you have an inn here?”

“Sure do. You wanna call it a night already?”

“I can get back on the road early tomorrow.”

“Sure thing. Can I just bill it on the card?”

“Why not.”

“The card says your name’s Jack?”

“Yep.”

“Alright Jack–I’ll put you up in room 103.”

“That’s a non-smoking room right?”

“You said you needed some cigars too, right?”

Jack just stared at him, thinking hard. Earl got him to nod.

“Any brand? Nah, you know what? Let’s go with cheap and rough. I doubt you could afford anything pricey, right?”

Jack still couldn’t find anything to say for some reason, but he handed Earl cash, took the cellophane wrapped cigars from him.

“You can still smoke in the bar too, you know. Why don’t you go take a load off and have a few drinks, before bed?”

Jack didn’t drink, but something had him walking through the restaurant proper and into the smoky bar behind it, lighting up a cigar, and then having the bartender pour him a whiskey double, straight, cheapest he got, and he pounded it back, and waited for the next one.

Half an hour later, Earl felt the second of three walk in. Just like the first, he looked nothing like a trucker–just another one looking to make some money and then get off the road as quick as he could. Where Jack was slender and uptight, the second looked like he spent his spare time on the road with a set of weights. Earl rolled his eyes.

He was also having trouble with his card. After a short conversation, it turned out that he, too, could use a room. Earl thought for a moment, and then gave him the second key to room 103.

“Anything else I can help you with, Matt?” Earl asked.

“Actually, yeah. It’s probably a stretch, but have you got a gym here, or even just a workout room of some kind? Most of these places don’t, and I doubt they get much use, judging by how fat most of these fuckers are, right?”

Earl bristled. “Actually, you’re hungry.”

“Wait, how did you know?”

“Why don’t you go have a seat in the diner, I’ll let the cook know you want the all you can eat special.”

Without really understanding his own change of heart, Matt walked over to the attached restaurant and sat down at a booth–a young, chubby waited immediately came and set down a soda and a full plate of food. That ought to keep the asshole occupied, Earl thought.

It was an hour later when the third expected guest arrived. Unlike the first two, Earl didn’t need to work to get him a room–he already looked exhausted.

“This fucking company has had me on the road for eighteen hours straight, they can fucking pay for a good bed, you know?”

Earl nodded, and handed Paul a key to room 102.

“I just don’t think I can handle it for much longer.”

Earl had driven a truck for fifty years. These young upstarts had no fucking stamina. He said nothing, but scowled slightly.

“Thanks for the room, I think I’ll turn in for the night.”

Earl watched him leave the office, and kept watching through the window until he saw him climb up into his truck, grab a small overnight bag, and carry it over to the inn across the parking lot. Once Paul had gone inside, he waited five minutes, and then picked up the phone and dialed room 102.

Paul had gotten into the room, and without doing anything else, had dropped his bag by the door, and slumped on the bed. Tired. He’d known trucking was going to be rough, but he’d needed the job. This, though, was ridiculous. Maybe he just needed to try a different company, but from what he’d gathered from other truckers he’d talked to, the pressure to just keep driving was everywhere. Just a bed was a relief after a week in his sleeper. He was already drifting off when he heard the phone on the nightstand start ringing.

“Just fuckin’ let it ring,” he mumbled to himself, but he was already rolling up, and picking up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hey Paul, forgot to tell you. I left you something in the VCR. It’s right up your alley you nasty pervert. Enjoy yourself, and those sheets better be crusty by the time I get there.”

The phone went dead. That had sounded like that old dude from the front desk–what was he even talking about? Had he called the wrong room or something? Curiosity got the better of him, and Paul heaved his tired body up from the bed, walked over to the small TV, hit eject, and an unmarked tape popped out. He pushed it back in, turned on the screen, and after a few moments, a video started. The picture was tracking poorly–it took him a moment to figure out that he was looking at two fat, hairy truckers making out in a communal shower–fuck, he hadn’t seen a shower like that in ages! Now that was a great place to fuckin’ peep.

Paul shook his head, trying to figure out where that thought had come from. And why did he have his cock out of his jeans? And why was he stroking it? And why was he still looking at these two sexy bears get ready to fuck each other’s brains out? Didn’t see men like that out on the road much anymore. They were a dyin’ breed, and that was a fuckin’ shame. Where had Earl even gotten this? It sure as hell looked vintage, probably from the eighties, judging by that mullet. Hell, he’d known a guy on the road back then with that same fuckin’ hair, huge beast of a cock. Just thinkin’ about that cock, fuck…

Paul shot his load all over the dresser, panting a bit. What in the hell was he doing? He always shot his fuckin’ cum on the sheets, had to get them smelling good and rank for whoever came next, right? Or maybe for…for Earl, yeah. When Earl got here later. He kept watching the video on the bed, milking his young cock onto the sheets beneath him, and outside the room Earl was watching the young man jack off through the blinds, grinning wide.

Good Things – Part 3 (Patreon Commission)

Just how much was too much anyway?

Eddie was in the bathroom again, leaning on the counter, his gut pressing against the lip, looking at himself in the mirror. His coveralls were unzipped down to his belly button, and he ran one hand across his hairy chest, over to one fat nipple and gave it a tweak, feel his cock pulse and leak. He couldn’t fucking stop himself. He just couldn’t. But he knew this was too much, that this had simply gone too fucking far now. I mean look at him! Look at him, yeah, fuck, look at how fucking sexy he’d become.

His driver license said he was sixty, and fuck, he felt sixty when he was on his knees in the garage, sucking his fellow mechanic’s cocks. He’d been good with cars when he was younger, sure, but he was just a bit too slow now. It was easier just to…to hang around the bathrooms, yeah. Hang around sucking all the cock he could get, begging anyone who came in to fuck him. Oddly, no one ever seemed to turn him down, not that he minded, he could never have too much cum in his belly or up his ass. Cum was such a good thing.

His hand had migrated down to his crotch and was milking his cock; he yanked it away, and rubbed his eyes, smacking his face, stroking his massive beard crusty with cum. He had to focus. What had he even come in here for? He couldn’t fucking remember. God he was fucking stupid now. He’d never been this dumb, but now it was becoming a struggle to just string together a sentence, and his memory was shot. He’d come in to jack off right? He always came in here to jack off, but there’d been something else…something…

He focused on stroking his cock some more, figuring he might remember after he shot a load. Two loads later, he remembered. He’d come in for…for piss? No, he’d come in…to piss, right? His head didn’t seem to be thinking straight, he was pointing his cock up towards his mouth, shooting off a blast of piss, and he drank down as much as he can, though it was hard arcing the stream up over his belly. He ended up soaking himself in more piss than he drank, and just stared at himself, reeking, unable to believe he’d just done that…and that he had never done that before. It tasted so good! So good he…he just had to jack off some more. Three loads of cum later, Big Red came in–now nearly as big as he was red–and Eddie dropped to his knees, ready to drink. Piss was almost as good as cum after all, and he could never have too many good things…right?

Eddie groaned, and opened his eyes a bit. Fucking hangovers. He reached out to the table next to him, trying to find a cigar, but something kept shaking his arm, making it harder for him to grab anything at all–and he realized he was in the middle of being fucked. Big Red was behind him, already awake, and in the middle of his morning fuck–Eddie hadn’t even woken up when he rolled him over onto his fat belly, and plowed his massive cock into his loose asshole. He grabbed his lighter, but couldn’t find a cigar; he looked over his shoulder and saw Big Red was smoking. “Gimmie some a that ‘gar, man…” he said.

Big Red took a deep suck, and then handed it to Eddie, who clamped down on it and let Big Red go to town on his hole. The bed beneath him was cold and clammy–he must have wet it again. That was getting to be a fuckin’ habit–he’d pissed himself twice at work yesterday. Luckily it had been in the bathroom (granted, he spent almost all day in the bathroom, sucking cock and drinking piss) so he just cleaned it up off the floor with his tongue, but he’d been wetting the bed every night lately. Heh, Big Red was threatening to force him to wear fucking diapers, the shit head. He’d never follow through–Big Red loved the stench of piss almost as much as Eddie did.

Fuck, last night though, what had that even been? He’d come home with Big Red like always, they started fucking like always, and for the first time in a long while, Eddie had shot a big load of cum out of his cock. Just like that, his usual raging horniness had disappeared, and he’d been in this weird fuckin’ mood, talkin’ about how he’d been cursed or something, how he needed to get to a computer. Fuck, Eddie didn’t even know how to fuckin’ use a computer, he’d been talkin’ so damn crazy. Thankfully Big Red had fucked him straight in the head again, got him all horned up with a few loads of piss and cum.

Fuck, if only he could be horny all the time, right? Who in the hell could have too much fuckin’ horniness? As he thought it, it was like something around him started turning again, something which had paused. His balls were churning, he was getting close to cumming. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cum so much…and yet, some part of him told him to stop. To resist. To keep it from happening. He was caught in the middle of it–it felt so good getting fucked, but…but what? With a groan, he felt Big Red spasm, filling him up with his cum. “Got…somethin’ else for this filthy hole this mornin’,” he said, and a second later, Eddie felt something else warm his ass.

Piss. Big Red was pissing in his ass, like he was a fuckin’ urinal. By then it was too late–he was cumming, and cumming hard, and there was something…cold around his cock, something a bit painful. With one hand he reached down to feel what it was…and felt the chastity cage that had locked itself around his cock…but that wasn’t odd. He’d…he’d had that thing on for…for years…right? Big Red had locked him up one night for fun, but then they’d lost the key in the mess that was their single wide trailer. He hadn’t…cum since, except for painful, unsatisfying milkings that only made him hornier than ever.

It was like he was drowning in desire. He’d just shot his load…hadn’t he? No, he couldn’t have, right? All those doubts he’d felt, they just washed away. All that mattered was fucking. All that mattered was making himself even hornier. He didn’t care if he ever came again, so long as he could be this horny for the rest of his old, fat, stinking life. Being horny was so fucking good, and who’d ever said you could have too much of a good thing? And Eddie had so many good things, he could never wish for anything else.

Good Things – Part 2 (Patreon Commission)

Eddie found that his days at work were increasingly interrupted by a constant need to excuse himself to the bathroom in order to jack off. He knew, in his head, that he should try to moderate, that these changes were eventually going to cascade out of control, but it was so much easier to lock himself in a stall, whip out his cock, and blow a load, or two…or three. The changes tended to come in spurts–sometimes nothing would change at all. It was a few days since he’d bought the curse, and things had settled into something like a new normal–he loved his muscular physique. Every cum seemed to make him bigger, manlier, and hairier, and he relished it. He relished it so much in fact, sitting here on the toilet, that he might cum four times in a row this time.

He heard the door open, and he stifled his groans. Through the crack in the stall door, he saw that the person who’d come in was none other than Mr. Greely himself. He’d softened up to Eddie since the changes had begun, and was no longer threatening to fire him over his sales numbers, but Eddie still hated him. Hated him so much, he could just…just suck his cock. Fuck yeah, he could suck his fucking cock so fucking hard. With a shudder, he shot another load, this one splattering against the door, where his eye was pressed to the crack. Something had changed in the air, he could sense it.

“I can hear you in there, Eddie. If you want my cock, faggot, come on out, and you can get it.”

Was…was this really happening? Eddie tried to stop himself, but he flew out of the stall, his dress pants still around his ankles, and licked his lips. Mr. Greely shoved his cock down his throat, and came in less than a minute, Eddie somehow managing to shoot on the floor twice in the meantime. Mr. Greely tsked him, “You’re such a slob, Eddie. At least clean up after yourself.”

Eddie’s first thought was to just get down and lick it up, but he fought that desire off and grabbed some paper towels instead, while Mr. Greely left the room. In the mirror, he noticed that his hairline had started receding a bit…and was his body looking a bit softer? Fatter? He shook his head–it still wasn’t too much of a good thing.

By next week, Eddie had taken to eating his lunches in his truck. He didn’t remember when his car had turned into a truck, but he appreciated the fact that it offered a bit more room for him to spread out in. He’d tried eating at his desk, like usual, but lately he’d just spent his entire lunch hour in the bathroom gloryhole he’d drilled a few days earlier, sucking cock, that eating out here in the parking lot was easier. Besides, he was fucking hungry today–hell, he’d been fucking hungry all week.

He let out a belch, unwrapped another hamburger from the sack in the passenger seat, and went back to stroking his cock with this other hand, not noticing he’d smeared the shaft with grease and a bit of ketchup. It was a bit harder to jack off, with this new gut of his, but he kind of liked it. It made him look older, more mature and refined. Being a muscle bear had been nice, but now he really did look like a true man. The receding hairline had bothered him at first too, but once it had pushed back past the crown, it actually looked kind of good. The same thing with the beard, which had grown long enough to brush his fat chest, and was streaked with a bit of grey. It all just looked…good to him. Almost as good as the mechanics he was watching from his parking spot.

He fucking loved them–he could always tell when he was sucking a mechanic off in the bathroom, because they stank of sweat and grease. He’d usually blow a few loads by the time they came, which he’d lick up off the floor and stall wall, as he waited for the next person to come in for a blow job. He downed the hamburger in three huge bites, belched again, chased it with the rest of the cheap beer he’d bought, and then reached for another burger, but found the bag empty. He was still hungry, but that would keep him satisfied for a bit. He took a moment to light one of his fat cigars–he didn’t miss the cigarettes at all–and then rubbed his gut, smearing his grubby dress shirt with grease, enjoying the taut sphere jutting out in front of him, and saw Big Red slide out from under a car.

He came once just at the sight, and then kept stroking, getting ready to shoot again. No one called him Big Red but him–in fact, he was the shortest mechanic at the dealership–but his cock, fuck, it was fucking huge, and thick, with a tangled red bush. He shot again, and saw Big Red turn and stare right at him, lick his lips, and then grab the bulge in his coveralls. Nearly tripping over himself, Eddie got out of his truck, nearly forgetting to hike up his pants and zip himself up. Sure, he was a mess, but he had a date with a big red cock in the bathroom–he could never have too much of a good thing like that.

Our Demons (Part 4)

He wiggled his toes. He hadn’t been able to do that in a while. His finger uncurled from their fists reluctantly, trying to remember how to work. They felt strange, like they had too much weight to them. The rubber pulled back further, along his arms and legs, and there were some sensations Rich was expecting, but that didn’t happen. He…couldn’t feel any air against his cock, even though the rubber was no longer covering it. It was still buried in…something warm and soft. Without the rubber holding it back, he felt his gut spill out, followed by his chest. He must be fatter, but how much fatter? He wanted to touch himself, he wanted to feel himself, but Master had ordered him to stay still, sitting back on his knees, hands on the floor. Now only the hood was left. Two rough hands…rough. How long since he’d felt skin against his skin? Skin besides the feeling of a hand or a foot in his ass, besides a cock down his throat, or a filthy ass puckered against his tongue? He shivered. His skin got chills after being trapped in the suit for so long, and his entire body felt slimy and clammy with sweat.

The hands pulled the hood free in one movement, and the light was blinding. He hadn’t seen anything since the hood had gone on…days ago? Weeks? He’d been unable to keep track of time. He’d tried to count cigars, he’d tried to count fucks and loads and so many other things to keep his mind busy, but he’d just…sunk in. Accepted it, enjoyed it even. He blinked a few times, and realized he was kneeling in front of a mirror. There was some kind of white blob in the reflection–was that him?

It was him. What in the world was he, even? Fat. He was fat. No wonder he couldn’t feel his cock–it was buried beneath his huge fat apron, between two thighs larger than anything he’d ever seen before. He couldn’t look at it. It was disgusting. He looked up, and caught his own eyes, but his face, even his face was wrong. His mouth seemed too wide, the nose too big, eyes too small. He no longer had anything resembling a neck–his head just dissolved into folds of fatty jowls and chins which cascaded down onto his chest, where two huge moobs shook with every labored breath. His hair was gone–all of it. His entire body was completely smooth, his head, his face, his belly. His skin had lightened to a ghostly, sickly white, and the sheen of sweat all over him only made it worse.

He looked away. He couldn’t look at that. He looked over and down and saw a pair of leather boots, followed them up, and found a massive, six and a half foot tall brute looming over him. Derrick–no, not Derrick was gone, or dead. This no longer even looked like him. His entire body was covered with leather, a crisp, shiny uniform, up to his neck. The face, though. Beneath the thick beard he could see a sharp jawline too angled to be human. In fact, the entire face looked like a crystal with flesh stretched so tight over it it might rip at any moment. He was smiling. He was smiling, and it’s eyes were red, and it’s teeth were sharp, and there were bones pushing through the skin above his eyebrows, blood dribbling from two of the wounds, unnoticed by it.

He needed a cigar. He couldn’t think about any of this. Almost as if he was anticipating him, the brute, the demon, took a thick cigar down, shoved it in Rich’s mouth, and lit it to life. He sucked in the smoke…and realized too late that he had made the final mistake. There was something else in this cigar, something…another it. Another thing like whatever it was in Derrick’s body. He coughed and hacked, trying to force it from his lungs, but his body felt so…heavy all of a sudden. Leaden. It was just so much effort. He slumped to one side, tried to catch himself, but ended up crashing to the floor on his fat side, wheezing.

“Oh Rich, I think you dropped something,” it said, bent down and picked up the cigar and this time jammed it so far down his throat where he lay that he knew he had no choice but to inhale. “Oh Sloth, Mr. Sloth. Do come play with me. I’ve enjoyed the mortal, I truly have, but oh how I long for a filthy, filthy Sloth…”

Rich was trying to fight, trying to rationalize with whatever it was inside of him, but while Derrick had at least been able to reason with the Wrath now inhabiting him, Sloth was unreason. Rich would plead, but pleading was too much effort, wasn’t it? In fact, why think at all? Why bother with a mind? It was mindless, it was acidic. Every effort he made against it simply dissolved. It was irrelevant. Useless. The ego is useless. He was useless. Yes…why even exist at all? That was the question he suddenly had to face. Why exist?

Rich was too exhausted to answer. There was no answer, really. He could see that now. It would be easier, really. So much easier to just stop fighting. He sighed, and let the demon inside of him run amok. His memories dissolved, his desires fled. What was he even? A voice? A will? What was a will in the face of utter sloth?

Wrath watched eagerly, as the cigar burnt down. He could see the light in Rich’s eyes dimming, the iris’ and whites dimming to greys and then to deep tar black, without any reflection at all. The cigar burned to ash, and the mouth hungrily chomped it to bits and swallowed it down. “Wrath….Wrath……Fuck…hole…….” the blob managed to say, with a voice something between a whisper and a gargle.

“Oh you piece of filth, I know what you want,” Wrath said, and rolled it over. It was so heavy suddenly! But he found the hole, sucking and hungry at the rear, drooling some foul smelling filth down the crack, and shoved his fist in as deep as he could with a deep howl.

Our Demons (Part 3)

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

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

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

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

“Calm down.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our Demons (Pt. 1)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I just…gotta get it over with.”

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

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

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

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

Rich tried to scream when Derrick started twisting his nipples.

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

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

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

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

Rich shook his head, sobbing now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Garrison’s Physical

by Wesley Bracken

What kind of doctor’s office even was this?

Garrison sat in the stiff, leather upholstered chair in the waiting room. The slender, heavily pierced receptionist had taken his name with a flourish; he was ninety percent sure he was a faggot. In fact, looking around, he was ninety percent sure that he was surrounded by faggots. They sat around the room, all in these strange leather chairs–two big hefty men in biker gear chuckling along the wall, a grimy, fat skinhead in coveralls fidgeting by the door, and him, in his suit, here for a company physical because he hadn’t been to the doctor in years, but he hated going to the doctor. He hated having some guy put his hands on him, all doctors were probably faggots anyway, and he was perfectly healthy regardless. But he’d needed to, they said, and so he’d picked a random doctor from the book and here he was. He would have gotten up and left in disgust already, if that strange smell in the air wasn’t so…

He’d kind of blanked out again there, that was the second time. Looking at the clock, only a couple of minutes had gone past–the skinhead had gone in, the bikers were staring at him, or more precisely, his crotch. Garrison grabbed a magazine and covered himself, staring them down, and they just stared back. A young man in black, shiny scrubs opened the door and called his name.

Height and weight. Blood pressure and body temperature. Any medications? Any reason you came to see us in particular? Did you fill out our new patient survey? No, we don’t send it to the government, it remains in our office, we merely like to–. Well that’s alright, the doctor will be in to see you shortly.

The smell was stronger here, and the black blinds and black paint and the lack of windows made him feel like hours had passed already. He pulled out his phone and tried to get some emails written, but he just couldn’t focus for some reason. He blanked out for a bit, breathing deep, staring at the wall and counting odd shapes in the spackle, when a loud groan of pleasure from somewhere close by startled him. This was definitely strange, he thought to himself, but still couldn’t quite manage to stand up and leave, and so he sat, and he sat, and he sat. He checked his phone, but it had to be wrong–he couldn’t have been in here for three hours already. It felt like thirty minutes at most, and didn’t most doctor’s offices close around six anyway? Why would he still be here at eight at night?

Finally there was a knock at the door, and the doctor entered the room. He wasn’t dressed like any doctor Garrison had ever seen, he could see the older man’s hairy ass through those rubber chaps he had on, and was he smoking a cigar? And wearing waders? This, he told himself, was wrong, and yet his body couldn’t seem to do anything about it. Somewhere along the line, he had relaxed so much that he simply seemed to be moving in slow motion, as he tried to protest and push past the doctor, who just shoved him back into his seat, talking to him like he hadn’t just tried to get away at all, and just kept talking for a while, his voice distant and muddled, until he told Garrison to go ahead and strip. He tried to leave his underwear on, but the doctor made him take those off too, gathered everything up, and handed it to a nurse out in the hall, before starting the physical.

It proceeded normally enough at first, the doctor working with his stethoscope, inspecting his body, asking him normal enough questions. The man’s smoking bothered him not because of the smoke–Garrison smoked cigars himself–but because the smoke was the same smell he’d been surrounded with all day in the office, but far stronger. He realized that the doctor had been talking this whole time, and he’d also been talking back to him–answering questions, agreeing with statements–but couldn’t remember anything either of them had said the entire time, until the question came, “When did you have your last prostate exam?”

Never. He’d never let some faggot touch his ass like that. That was what faggots did, that was ‘an exit, not an entrance,’ and yet he was lying on his back on a table, legs in the air, while the doctor slipped his rubber gloved fingers in one by one, and it felt good. It felt so good. It felt like those few times, drunk, that he’d taken the dildo one of his ex-girlfriends had left in his apartment and he’d…so fucking good, fuck. Too good. He couldn’t be feeling this, he shouldn’t be feeling this, but the words no couldn’t quite get out of his mouth, and then all of the fingers were in his hole, pushing in, making him cry out, and then the whole fist inside him, so fucking full.

“Good, it look’s great. You have a great hole.”

His cock was hard now, like it’d been those few times. He tried to not think about it, but then the doctor’s other hand wrapped around it and started massaging it, testing his reflexes, the doctor was making curious noises…or were they his noises? He was shooting suddenly, spraying cum up onto his chest.

“Perfectly natural, you’re doing just fine.”

Fine, he felt humiliated, and yet the fist drove in deeper still, and he wanted it in there, he was telling the doctor he wanted his fist inside him.

“Really? My, that seems serious. I’m afraid that you might be a fist pig, did you know that?”

He hadn’t known that.

“Yes, you see, fist pigs need constant anal stimulation, or they tend to develop depression, anxiety, and other problems. I think that we’re going to have to do something about that, don’t you? I’m sure that if you come in twice a week, we can have your ass properly stimulated in no time. A lot of the symptoms you’re seeing will clear up in a few weeks.”

Garrison thanked him. The doctor asked if he’d like to stop, and Garrison said he’d like to cum again, he’d feel a lot better if he shot, yeah, he begged the doctor for more, until he came screaming a second time, and the doctor allowed him to sit up, warned him that he’d have some residual pain and looseness, and that he should come by on Tuesdays and Fridays for his appointments. The doctor also wrote him a prescription–for a haircut, and for twenty sessions at a local tattoo parlour. To help boost his confidence.

Six months later, Garrison had never been happier. Sure, he’d had to quit his office job when he’d gotten his head and hands tattooed, but Grant–the filthy skin in coveralls he’d seen in the waiting room that first day–had gotten him a job at the garbage dump working in the office, so it was all ok. And Grant’s hands were fucking huge, he fucking loved taking that trashman’s arm up to the elbows. e had no idea why he’d waited so long to get a physical, he’d never been in better health in his whole life. Well, the doctor had started to worry about his gastro intestinal urinary imbalance, but that didn’t sound too serious, right?

***

I’m on Patreon! If you’d like to see more stories like this, help me out with a monthly pledge here, and gain instant access to a massive archive of unreleased stories.