We met through a cigar group. I was new–he was a founding member. My relationship with cigars, at that point, was little more than curiosity backed by fascination–the sexuality of it too, I guess. I had smoked them a few times, always jacking off while I did, but I knew next to nothing about them, or what to smoke. A few guys I chatted with online recommended the group to me, and I figured I might as well go to one. I was hardly someone to be as nervous as I was then–muscled, young, gay but passing–I could have anyone I wanted, and usually that translated into cockiness, but plunged into a group of cigar smokers while knowing next to nothing, I was a bit intimidated. If Nate hadn’t been so welcoming and jovial, I probably wouldn’t have gone back for a second outing.

I usually hated chubby guys. I mean, they’re just slobs at heart, they don’t care about themselves, about their bodies, about their health. So I tolerated Nate, I guess, since he was in charge. Actually it was hard to get a word in–he dominated the conversations like he dominated the space with his huge frame. It was a turn off, to say the least…and yet…maybe even then, I was just deluding myself about that, like I was about everything else. He was certainly interested in me, and made no attempt to hide it. In fact, I became a sexual joke for him–he would go into these strange scenarios with the two of us, ask me to take our shirts off so we could compare, apron to abs. He was more articulate than I was, smarter too, more knowledgable. Anything I could talk about, he could too, but better, with more humor, with more interest. And so I listened instead, trying to figure out why this huge, obese man fascinated me as much as the cigars we smoked together, when every other fat man I’d ever met was so easily dismissible before this one.

He showered me with favors, bought me expensive cigars at group outings to cigar shops. The tobacco was fabulous, and after the fourth or fifth meeting, he invited me back to his home for a tour of his humidor, with plenty of innuendo. I…I was curious. I was curious about my own budding attraction to him. I thought that, maybe, if we could just have sex, or if I could just see his (hopefully disgusting) body without clothes, I could maybe shed this growing desire. His humidor was massive–a small climate controlled room in his massive house. Wealthy, rich as fuck. The money he has, I had no idea what I’d do with it. It’s no wonder he succumbs to food–as rich as he is, he can afford to become obsessed. He was overly generous. The cigars he offered gave me a high closer to strong pot than tobacco. I was out of it; he stripped off my shirt and felt my body. I kept trying to take off his clothes, trying to take back some kind of control, but he remained stubbornly clothed. Soon, I was naked, he was not. He touched me everywhere, and I let him. I expected him to suck me off–I expected him to want to consume me, like a cigar, but instead he pushed me to my knees, and fucked my face, came, made me jack off while he watched, and then we shared a glass of bourbon. He kept me naked the whole time, I let him stare at me, and then went home, somewhat disgusted, but more aroused than anything I had experienced.

I went over to his house more often after that. I found myself unable, or unwilling, to turn down any invitation. It was months before I saw him naked, but by that point any possibility that he could disgust me enough to abandon sex was out of the question. I was attracted to him. When he fucked, it was like nothing else–I was strong, and yet he could (and often did) crush the breath out of me. He made me feed him. He made me clean every sweaty fold of his flabby body. I was the one devouring him. I was the one with the addiction. I soon stopped smoking cigars, and stopped attending group meetings. He was the new object of my fetish–the smoke he fed me in our kisses was far more powerful than anything else I’d ever tasted.

He grew more demanding, and I accommodated him. I shaved my body smooth, from head to toe. I started practicing with dildos at home, so I could take his cock without resistance. I learned how to cook, and the weekends I spent at his home would often be consumed with feeding his hunger more than fucking my holes. He sent me a particularly exhausting exercise routine, and I followed it religiously. he introduced me to his dungeon soon after that. I had noticed the stairs down into the basement before, but when he led me down into the space filled with all manner of bondage and pain equipment…I was eager. I asked him to show me everything, to use it on me. He was more than happy to do so, and then he showed me to small room off to the side–a windowless cubby barely large enough to fit a cot and a small chest. He told me I would move in with him–that I could bring only enough that might fit in the chest, and everything else would be sold off. I told him no, that I couldn’t–so he beat me until I came twice over and asked again. I agreed.

My new life revolved around him. The demands of my body became more extreme. Every week, a new tattoo or piercing. Soon, I could barely even recognize myself. I worked out more than ever, I cooked all of his meals, he paid me in fucks, pain, bondage, and smoke. For two years, I haven’t left this mansion. It is my home, my prison and my sanctuary. In my chest, I have a small collection of photos I printed out to keep, and I compare my selves. Who was I? This freak with the tattooed face and head, with padlocks hanging from my nipples, with my balls weighted down six inches? I have never been happier, but…

I can’t finish the thought in any manner that rings true. I lock up my photos. It’s time to start cooking dinner anyway.

~~~

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Look, I’ll be the first one to admit, that I kind of fucked up the whole fatherhood thing. But hell, getting laid-off from the job you’ve had for thirty years…I never thought I’d end up working for some construction company, but that’s what happened. The marriage slipped around then too. I was just so tired of pretending, you know? Pretending to love her, pretending to want to fuck her, it just…it was impossible. Jack got kind of shoved to the side, I admit. I wasn’t always there for him. I was off being single again, I was partying and fucking, so what if I…I should have been there, I know, but how in the hell do you try and bridge that gap, you know? He fuckin’ hated me, and I never saw him until the state dumped him on me, after his mom ended up in prison for drug possession. It wasn’t what either of us wanted, believe me, but I tried my best. I got him to school every day, I tried to make sure he had dinner. I sacrificed, I didn’t fuck nearly as many men as I wanted to, I had to resort mostly to blowing and getting blown on the construction site with the rest of the guys, with the occasional quiet fuck back at home. Well, they were never that quiet, I guess, but I scream when I cum, I can’t fuckin’ help it!

When I tried to talk to him, he’d just bottle up, or we’d fight. “You’ve changed!” he’d say. Well yeah, so fucking what! It fucking happens, I’d tell him. I told him he’d change too. That one day he’d look at himself in the mirror and not recognize himself either. It’s called growing up, and being a fucking man. Did I think I’d be this slobby muscle bear chain smoking cigars back in my twenties? Freshly married, with an office job, and a kid on the way? Fuck no. You never think you’re gonna change, and then you fucking do. Because you have to. Because you want to. He was always so insistent. He had this fuckin’ image of me, from when he was kid. Like I wasn’t allowed to be who I wanted to be, if he didn’t like it. Well fuck him, I’d say, and then call a guy up and fuck his brains out against our shared wall, ramming the dude in to it, making the fuckin’ plaster shake. Heh, Jack fuckin’ hated that, good fuckin’ times. There’s no better fuck than an angry fuck, you know?

Anyway, he wanted to go to college, but I had no money to send him there, and I was still paying off my own loans nearly twenty years later. What had college gotten me anyway? Almost none of the guys I worked with had gone to college and they were all doing just fine. I was venting to Foreman about it one night, when he’d invited me to stick around and suck his cock for a while, and he was the one with the idea. Why not bring Jack to work with me for a week? Let him see what I did, and how much I liked it. It was a great idea, but then Foreman always has great ideas, so I wasn’t surprised. Jack hated the idea, but I made it conditional. He had to come work with me for a week, and if he could handle it, then I’d cosign his college loans if he still wanted to go. His eyes lit up at that–selfish fucker. Don’t blame him though, he got it from that bitch.

Heh, that first day he stuck out like a sore thumb. I introduced him to the crew, all of us hulking, hairy, filthy roughnecks stinkin’ of beer and cigar smoke, and he’s this chubby eighteen year old kid–fuck. Foreman though, he put on the charm, and put Jack right at ease with a few jokes, and led him off to his trailer to complete some paperwork. I lost track of him that first day–I was workin’ with Max on some stuff, but we got so horny we ended up fuckin’ on a pile of bricks all through lunch. That afternoon, I saw Jack working with Carlos, mixing cement, and something about my boy workin’ with his hands made me so damn proud. Goin home that night, he even admitted to enjoying his day somewhat, but he kept lookin’ at me a bit odd–or rather, at my cigar. He’d never been curious about my smoking–he’d ridiculed me for it from the day he’d started living with me, but that night he asked if he could have one. I was only too happy to help him out, and we shared a stogie and a few beers, stayed up to late, and were both a bit hungover the next day at work.

Over the rest of the week, Jack spent most of his time in the morning with Foreman, and then worked with the rest of us in the afternoons. On Wednesday, Foreman and I had a long chat while he fucked my ass over his desk, and he suggested that Jack and I leave work early, and go take him to the barber and to get some real clothes for the worksite. Another great idea–Foreman is just fuckin’ full of them. When I left to go find my son, I found him on his knees in front of Luis, sucking his cock! Fuck, I was kind of freaked out, but I hid and watched, and damn my boy could work that shaft, it was makin’ me jealous. I didn’t say anything. I waited until they were finished, before walkin’ over.

We got him a fauxhawk, some workwear and boots, and on a whim, we decided to get our nipples pierced. At home, we had cigars and beer to celebrate, and I got him plastered. He couldn’t resist, I had his mouth around my cock, fuck, he was hungry for it. He must have wanted me for so long–guess that means this gay shit’s genetic right? Turns out Jack was a raging fag just like me. By Friday, he was just one more guy on the site, like the rest of us. Bullshittin’, smokin’, drinkin’, fuckin’. He fucked me while everybody watched before we all went out for Friday night beers (and bears) at the Eagle, fuck, I was so proud of him. Needless to say, he decided college wasn’t for him–he dropped out of school and came to work with us. We still live together, ‘n we couldn’t be happier. See? Things always change, and you never know when they might change for the better.

***

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It was just one of those chat services–one of those fads that was a flash in the pan a few years ago–but Derek had always found them a bit fascinating. Sure, most of the time it was just dudes jacking off, but if you just kept at it, sometimes you stumbled on someone interesting. He’d made a number of good friends this way, all over the world–it was a good way of getting out of this small college town he lived in. Aside from the college, it was just a blue collar place full of grubby workers employed at the various factories outside of town, and he couldn’t wait to graduate and get the hell out for good.

It had been a mistake to stay here for the summer, because once the college cleared out, he was all alone, and so his internet contacts had proved more important than usual. But he’d found an apartment he’d liked, and without a subletter, his choice was to either find something in the fall when class started, or stick it out. At least his job bar-backing at a local pup paid the bills, but it was his night off and with nothing to do, he was jumping through various cock jackers online, until the “Next” button suddenly stopped functioning.

He was trapped looking at some nasty fucker, shaved head, wearing some grubby coveralls, groping his cock and smoking a cigar, nose billowing out smoke. Without seeing him type anything on the keyboard behind him, a cryptic message appeared in the chat box, followed by two more.

>> Do’t fthen hems fr y

>> Y’reon kn it,prmis

>> Ben pigste bs

And then, the screen went blank, and the feed moved onto the next cock, but Derek was so weirded out he closed the window and just tried his best to forget about what he’d seen, and go to bed. Out his bedroom window, however, he thought he saw someone across the street, just outside the street lamp light, but when he got a better look, all he saw was a dissipating haze of smoke.

***

For the next few days, Derek was certain he was being followed. He hadn’t gone on the chat site since, but every time he walked to and from work, especially coming home in the early hours of the night, he would walk as fast as he could, sometimes breaking into a jog, just to avoid his imagination.

The bar he worked at disregarded the state’s no smoking policy–and so it was a common hang out for various roughnecks, many of whom smoked cigars there. They had all largely ignored him, but now he kept noticing them staring at him, often unabashedly. Some even looked at him…like they wanted to fuck him. He’d had a suspicion that the bar catered to the small gay population of the town, but that was the first time he’d felt uncomfortable. Even the bartender–a smoker himself–was treating him different, but when Derek confronted him, he gave a series of excuses and hurried off to do something else.

Before long, he was certain that someone was tailing him everywhere he went. In the bar, he would see glimpses of a man in the shadows, smoking a cigar, face invisible through the haze, but by the time Derek had noticed, the space was suddenly empty. The man appeared in alleys as he walked home, follow him down the streets during the day. He called the police, but not only did they refuse to do anything about it, as soon as he’d told them what was happening, they simply ignored him when he called about the man. He became paranoid, quit his job, and locked himself in his apartment, and his attention turned to conspiracy.

In the chatlog of the site, he’d managed to retrieve the three strange messages the figure had sent him at the beginning of all of this insanity, and he began running them through every translation filter he could find. He asked paranormal experts, he posted on forums big and small, but no one could help him, get any traction of what was happening to him. And then, after a week of isolation, he smelled the smoke coming from his bedroom closet.

The man stepped out before Derek could bar him inside. He said nothing, grabbed Derek by the face and exhaled a huge amount of smoke directly into his lungs. Derek stumbled back, but his body suddenly was numb, and wouldn’t work properly. Paralyzed, he tumbled to the ground on his back, frozen, struggling for breath.

The man came over, holding his cigar in one hand, and he slipped it between Derek’s lips. Suddenly, he could breathe again, but it was the smoke he needed, not air. He needed the smoke in him, craved it, lived on it. His body was still frozen, but the man got down on his knees by his head, and they shared a long series of smoky kisses, passing it back and forth between them for hours, Derek’s terror slowly replaced by lust, and then even hints of love.

The man stayed with him for several weeks, and neither of them left the apartment. They had work to do, work to do with smoke, work to do on Derek. Pig work. Learning how to suck cock and take dick up his ass. Learning how good piss tasted. Learning to be a slob, ruining his body, giving him a heavy gut and aging him into his fifties, where he should be, who he wanted to be. There was a hole in Derek’s life when the man left, almost like he’d never even been there. The college’s new semester started up, but Derek was now a machinist at a factory outside of town, hanging out at the bar, sucking dick in the dim corners of the back rooms, occasionally certain he’d seen his master, the man he loved, the man the whole town loved, in the darkness, but all he ever found was wisps of sweet smoke he’d drink in hungrily.

He still loved his chat sites, but now he was just another masturbating pervert. He loved seeing people disgusted at him, at his body, at his thick, ugly cigars. He loved chatting with other filthy fuckers, bringing them to orgasm, talking about their favorite hook ups. He built a whole new circle of friends, sex addicts like him, until one day his computer froze, and a man appeared on the screen like a dim, fuzzy memory. He started typing:

>> Don’t fight, when he comes for you

>> You’re gonna fuckin love it, promise

>> Being a pigs the best

Commission: Making a Happy Pig

Commissioned by Anonymous

**Friday**

“Pipe or Cigar?”

Axel had one in each hand. Both of them were far larger than Rusty had been expecting for his first time. The cigar was at least a 60 gauge, and the pipe bowl looked large enough to hold a baby’s fist with wiggle room. “Those…those are both really big.”

“Smallest I got. Even if I had smaller, you wouldn’t be using them. Now choose, or I choose for you.”

Rusty looked from one to the other, and after a moment, took the pipe from Axel’s hand.

“Good boy, now let me show you how to get it lit. They’re a bit complicated, but it’ll feel perfectly natural for you soon enough.” Axel sat Rusty down on the couch, and they spent a few minutes talking about how to light a pipe. After a few false starts, Rusty finally managed to get it lit, though it almost went out after his first fit of coughing.

“Shit’s strong.”

“You’ll get used to it. Take less in, and don’t breathe too deep. I’ll be back.”

Axel went into the kitchen, and emerged after a few minutes with a case of cheap beer under one arm, which he set down on the table. He ripped open the cardboard and took a can out, popped the tab, and handed it to Rusty.

“Chug it.”

Rusty looked at the can. “Seriously?”

“Chug it, or leave. You asked for this, don’t forget.”

Rusty held the pipe in one hand, and chugged the beer slowly, Axel urging him on, getting a bit hard as he watched some run from the corner’s of Rusty’s lips down his chin and neck. Rusty wanted to be a pig, but he was only really husky at the moment. Axel, his friend, had offered to help him go all the way. Now, however, Rusty was starting to have second thoughts. After chugging five more beers, however, all he was really feeling was a heavy buzz. Once Axel stripped off his shirt, letting Rusty run his hands over his friend’s big, furry gut, he felt less nervous and more horny. The smoke had him giddy as well–he finished the first bowl and then packed a second on his own with Axel watching, puffing on a massive cigar. Naked together on the couch, they swapped smoke and finished the entire case of beer, before Axel helped Rusty stumble into the bedroom. He was too drunk to remember much of what happened. Axel made him keep smoking, as he fucked him doggy style on the bed, and then, when he’d finished, he sat Rusty up and started rubbing his cock. He was so drunk, it took Axel a while to get Rusty off, but he didn’t mind, he spent several minutes telling him how hot he looked with that pipe in his mouth, reeking of beer. Rusty finally let out a loud moan and shot his load, but as he did, he was struck by an odd sensation, like his head was caught in a vice for a moment, his vision squashed and then expansive, but then everything came clear again. He was too drunk, is all–he needed to sleep it off. Axel took the pipe from his slack mouth and tapped the ash out into the ashtray on the side table, and then helped Rusty under the covers for the night.

**Saturday**

Rusty had never felt so hungover in his entire life. Still unsure of where he was, he rolled over, away from the morning light (or afternoon? He wasn’t sure at all) in the window towards the night stand. There was a beer can there–thankfully is was half full. Even warm and flat, it felt good when it hit his gut. Eyes shut, he rolled up on the edge of the bed, and got his pipe going by feel. It felt so familiar to him, which was strange. After all, he’d only learned how to smoke one the night before, but it ended up perfectly tamped with a flame and draw far more even than he’d managed the night before–at least he was starting to feel human again. He gave his gut a rub, feeling his cock jump at the sensation, and realized there was much more mass there than there should be.

He looked down, and saw that a bulbous beer gut had sprouted out from his midsection. It was tight and full, and the rest of him seemed to have filled out somewhat, but this wasn’t right. What in the hell had Axel done to him? He got up unsteadily. He might be sober but he felt drunk still. There was another can on the dresser with some beer in it; he guzzled that down too and let off a deep belch, before wandering down the hall towards the sounds of a busy kitchen.

Judging by the spread, it was brunch time. On the table were heaping mounds of eggs, pancakes, thick slabs of ham, a pile of bacon, but also fried chicken and steak, massive biscuits, and a thick white gravy for everything. There was only one chair, with a bucket beside it filled with ice and cans of beer.

“About time you got up,” Axel said from the stove. He was cooking naked, and Rusty just stared at his fat friend for a moment, admiring him. “Get eating–we don’t have all day to fill you up.”

“Wait though.” Rusty said, “Something…something’s different. Different than yesterday. I…my gut is bigger, and…I know how to smoke a pipe now.”

“I showed you how to smoke yesterday.”

“I know–that’s my point. I shouldn’t…know how to do it, from one day, right?”

Axel didn’t answer. He walked over to Rusty, grabbed his hand and pulled him over to the table, sat him down, popped open a beer and handed it to him. “Drink it.”

Rusty didn’t feel very comfortable drinking before noon, but found himself guzzling it back anyway. Axel opened a second, and then a third–he drank those down too. He was feeling better now, actually. He’d just needed his morning beers is all.

“Now, tuck in like a good pig,” Axel said, and started piling food on Rusty’s plate. He was famished–had they even eaten anything yesterday? It was all a blur of smoke and beer and fucking. He cleaned the first plate and filled up a second without needing to be told. Axel finished cooking the last of the meal, brought over a few sweet desserts, and then started toying with Rusty as he ate, telling him how good it feels to stuff himself, how much he liked being a fat pig, plying him with more and more beer. Whenever Rusty tried to stop, saying he was too full, Axel would encourage him to smoke and play with his gut and tits and trade smoke with him. After a few minutes later, Rusty would have find room for more. Rusty’s head was reeling. He was too drunk, he’d had too much to smoke. He couldn’t keep a handle on what was happening. Axel brought forward the cake he’d made, threw the silverware in the sink; Rusty dug in with his hands while Axel reached under his taut gut and started jacking his cock, urging him onward. Halfway through, he gave a spasm–shooting his load across the seat and onto the floor under the table. The world crunched together and apart again, but when his vision cleared, he was hungry again. With a final burst, he devoured the rest of the cake and only then sat back in the chair, smoking his pipe, drinking a victory beer, Axel rubbing and kneading his huge gut and man boobs which he had suddenly grown.

Rusty stared down at himself for several minutes, trying to piece what he was seeing together with his drunk mind, while Axel got a towel and wiped food off his huge body. He couldn’t be that big. It was impossible. He was too drunk, he was hallucinating, he was imagining it. But as he explored the soft flab with his own hands, he became increasingly convinced. It was real. It hadn’t been there when he’d sat down, but it was there now. Axel was telling him how hot he looked, how sexy his huge body was, but Rusty was disgusted with himself. He’d wanted to be bigger. He’d told Axel he’d wanted to be bigger, but this was too much, this was out of control. He stumbled up and pushed Axel away.

“No…no, I don’t know what’s going on, but this is fucked up, what are you doin’ to me?” he was slurring his words. His car was outside, but he couldn’t drive like this. Still, he had to get out, he had to get away. He stumbled towards the hallway, but Axel blocked him, and pushed him up against the wall, gut to gut, holding him there.

“Calm down man, it’s all fine. It really is.”

“This? This isn’t fine, this is crazy.”

“I know it’s fast, but you love it, I know you do. Just fuckin’ relax man, you’re too uptight.”

Rusty was mumbling panicked nonsense. Axel started rubbing his huge body, and he let out a sigh, feeling his cock start hardening again. After a minute, he was grinding back against Axel, unable to stop himself.

“See? I know you want this. You’re just too smart for your own good. You need to think less. Let me worry about things–all you need to think about is getting bigger, getting drunker, and doing everything I tell you to do.”

Rusty tried to protest, but couldn’t make his words say what he was thinking. Axel had his hand around his cock, and was milking him again, whispering things to him, telling him he was a good pig, but he’d be so much happier if he was dumb. Dumb and obedient and carefree. Too close, he was cumming again, the world spinning around him, his head in a vice. When he finally stopped spasming, his head felt so much thicker. He let off a loud belch, and laughed at himself. He looked at Axel, a bit confused.

‘What…what was I doin’ again? I forgot.”

“You were gonna blow me, you fat pig.”

That didn’t seem quite right, but Rusty got down on his knees, feeling his huge gut resting on the tile floor, and took Axel’s cock to the hilt, sucking on him for a few minutes until he came, and he drank down all the cum like a good pig. Yeah, he was a good pig, a happy pig.

Axel helped him up and pulled him into the living room, and sat him down on the couch. The sensation of all of his flab spilling out around him was both somehow very new, but also so familiar, like he’d been this way forever, but had simply forgotten.

“Now, I have a few scenes from my favorite videos I’d like us to watch, pig,” Axel said, and put in the DVD. “I think they’re going to clear some things up for you.”

The first porno scene started, every scene revolved around this fat pig being used by a variety of bears. He was tattooed everywhere, and Axel told Rusty how hot he’d be if he was a slut like that chub. If he too had tattoos all over his body, even had them in places where he’d never be able to hide them in public–graphic, sexual, humiliating tattoos that would show everyone that he was a complete pig at a single glance. The next scene had another fat bear, but this one had a body completely covered with fur, with a beard that reached down to the top of his massive apron. He was decked out in leather gear, and several bears took turns plowing his ass and mouth while the pig laid back in a sling. The third clip had a filthy looking fat chub sitting in a bathtub, while a long series of men pissed and came on him, the man rubbing it into his hairy body, revelling in the men’s filth. More clips came, and Rusty couldn’t tear his eyes away. When Axel wasn’t narrating them, he was taking trips to the kitchen, bringing Rusty more beer and snacks, filling his pipe, feeding him smoke from his own cigars, and making certain that Rusty came at least once during every single clip that came on the TV.

Hours passed, and by the end of the video, which had looped several times, Rusty was so drunk that he couldn’t stand up, and he was too heavy for Axel to lift. He’d passed out during the final clip, and was snoring heavily. Axel examined his work, and satisfied with the progress, went to bed–certain that he’d be up before the pig on Sunday morning, when they could seal the deal together.

**Sunday**

Rusty woke up slowly, his head pounding. Fuck, he needed a beer, and he needed one now. He fumbled around next to him, feeling a pile of cans there, but none had anything in them. A smoke then. His pipe he could reach, and he filled it as quick as he could, taking a deep breath of harsh smoke, feeling it push the headache back a bit. He sat there for a few minutes, trying to figure out where he was and what was going on, but his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. All he really wanted was food, a fuck, and a beer. Then he finally managed to open his eyes, look down at his hairy, stinking, tattooed body, and let out a scream.

Axel stuck his head in from the kitchen, and saw Rusty was trying to claw his way out of his own body. He grabbed a beer, pushed it into the pig’s hand, and he drank it all back in a single gulp without even thinking about it. With the edge of terror blunted, he heaved himself up, pushing Axel away when he tried to help, and stumbled into the bathroom, flipping on the light so he could get a better look at himself.

He was huge. He must be topping 400 pounds, and every inch of his body, from the neck down, was covered in ink, all of it having something to do with sex. His head was shaved, but he’d grown in a beard which, if it wasn’t a filthy tangled mass clustered around his three chins, probably could have reached his belly button–or it could have, if his belly button wasn’t somewhere around his groin. He was taking in so much smoke he was getting light headed. Axel came in and told him to calm down–his presence was reassuring, and Rusty managed to keep a hold of himself, but barely.

“What…what have you done to me?”

“This is what you wanted, and you know it.”

“I…I didn’t…I mean…”

Axel turned Rusty’s head to the side, and gave him a long, smoky kiss.

“This is what you wanted, try not to worry about whether or not you should want it, and just enjoy yourself.”

Axel reached around and started probing Rusty’s ass with a couple of fingers, listening to him moan. He leaned over the counter and spread his fat, inked legs wide, letting Axel slide his dick into him. It fit perfectly inside him, and Rusty’s cock started leaking immediately.

“You’re mine, you know,” Axel said as he fucked the pig.

“Y–Yeah…yeah, I am, aren’t I?”

“You like being my slave–it’s all a fat, nasty pig like you could have ever wanted.”

“Fuck–fuck yeah, fuck me…fuck me, sir.”

“That’s right pig, I’m your sir.”

“Yes sir, oh fuck, yes sir!”

He was cumming. He was cumming, and when he looked at himself in the mirror, he saw a wide leather collar had appeared around his neck, and his worries had all disappeared with it. He was Axel’s pig–his master would take care of him. He didn’t have to worry about a thing. His master shot a load up his ass, and made him lick up the cum he’d shot across the front of the counter. While he was down there, his master fed him the morning piss he’d saved up as well, and then they went into the kitchen for breakfast. As he stuffed his face, a realization dawned to Rusty–he was happy. Truly happy, perhaps for the first time in his life. Axel saw the happiness on his pig’s bearded face, and smiled too.

Commission: Portrait of a Happy Family

Commissioned by Scot158

Harvey gave a grumble, rolled over, and checked the clock. Ten in the morning–at least it was Saturday and he could sleep in. His friend Jack was going to come over around noon–apparently he had something he was desperate to show him on his computer or something, but fuck, why did he have such a headache this morning?

A cigar, he needed a cigar, of course. But he didn’t smoke cigars, what in the world was he thinking of that for? He sat up on the edge of the bed, pawed open the humidor on his bedside table with a hand that seemed far too large, fished out a cigar, fumbled with his zippo and got it lit, taking his first deep lungful of smoke for the weekend ahead. His head cleared quickly, and his earlier confusion about the cigar seemed misplaced. Hell, his dad had given him his first cigar when he’d grown his first pubic hair at the age of seven–he’d been an avid smoker for a decade now. He got up, wedged himself through the doorway of his room that seemed much too narrow (or was he too wide?) and headed for the bathroom for his morning piss. He couldn’t see his soft cock past his big, extremely hairy gut, but that changed when he got hard–all ten inches, fuck.

He started stroking himself over the toilet, reached up and started tugging on the thick ring piercing one of his nipples. His dad had given him a new ring each birthday, and last year had even let him get his first tattoo along with a heavy gauge PA. Oh man, his dad was so proud of him as he’d stroked his son’s pierced cock for the first time in the shop, leaned in and kissed him, their beards tangling, his dad feeding him his tobacco black spit as the artist watched them, stroking his own cock that Harvey would suck later on…

Harvey grunted and shot his load across the entire toilet. wondering what in the hell he’d just remembered. That hadn’t happened, had it? And yet, everything told him it was real, and why…why shouldn’t it be? He was probably just hungry. He flushed the toilet and headed downstairs, naked, to go eat some cereal. He poured himself one heaping bowl, devoured it, and with milk still in his beard, got up and made himself a second, and then a third, finishing off an entire box. Still hungry, he pawed through the kitchen, cracked half a dozen eggs in a bowl and started whipping them together for an omelette, when he heard the first thump on the stairs.

“What the hell was that?” was his first thought, but by the time the second thump hit, he remembered it was just his dad tromping down the stairs. But that couldn’t be his dad, could it? Those footsteps sounded like they belonged to a monster. He turned to the doorway by the stairs, waiting to see if his memories could be lying, but they weren’t. His father hit the first floor, ducked his way under the seven foot doorway, naked, but so covered with hair Harvey could only see the skin of his thirteen inch cock swinging between his legs. “Mornin’ son,” he said, scratching his balls.

“M–Mornin’ Pa…” Harvey said. Why was he breathing so shallow? His dad dribbled some black tobacco spit from his mouth, and he watched it run down into his black beard. Had he just licked his lips? Why had he done that?

“Saw what you did over the toilet, boy.”

Oh shit, had he forgotten to clean that up?

“I had to lick it up for you, not that I mind…” He tromped closer. Harvey could feel the floor shake with each step of his dad’s huge, wide feet. “Tasted good, but it got me all horny for my boy this morning…”

His dad came close, and suddenly Harvey could smell him. He was rank, as rank as he was. They smelled the same, fuck, they smelled so hot together. His dad leaned in, taking the cigar from his son’s mouth and kissed him, pushing tobacco spit into his son’s thirsty mouth, twisting each other’s nipples, their cocks growing stiff, jutting up between their bellies. With a growl, his dad spun Harvey around, bent him over the counter, lubed his cock up with some spit, and drove it into his son’s ass.

“Oh fuck, Pa…”

“Yeah, that’s my boy’s hot asshole, fuck…”

His dad’s huge hands wrapped around his hips, gripping him tightly, and he started driving all thirteen inches deep inside him. Harvey reached out and retrieved his cigar and kept smoking, reaching under, his cock hard again already, and started stroking. The doorbell rang.

“Oh fuck, that’s Jack…I gotta get that,” Harvey said, but his dad held him in place.

“I’m almost fuckin’ finished boy, hold on, and tighten down on your Pa’s fuckstick, aww fuck yeah, here it fuckin’ comes…”

His dad drove his cock in as deep as he could. Harvey could feel his dad pumping cum deep into his hole. The doorbell rang again, but his dad held him in place until the last few spasms finished, and then pulled out. “Alright, go get the door, son.”

Slightly embarrassed, but without really knowing why he felt that way (after all, his dad fucked him all the time–why would he be embarrassed about that?) he went to the front door, only realizing when it was open and he was staring at Jack in the doorway that he was still completely naked, his cock still hard and jutting out across the empty space between them. Jack’s jaw dropped when he saw it…but he’d seen it before, hadn’t he? Harvey and his dad were always naked in the house–Jack knew that. “Hey man, sorry it took me a sec to get the door, I was, uh…busy.”

“It actually worked, I can’t believe it!” Jack said, and pushed his way past Harvey, grabbed his hand, and dragged him to the stairs, and up to Harvey’s room, he pulled out his laptop and opened it up, revealing a strange screen which looked like some cross between a character generator and a 3D modelling program, and started explaining what it was. Harvey listened, but couldn’t believe it. A computer program that could alter reality? That wasn’t possible…was it? He had felt kind of strange all morning, but now that he thought about it, he was feeling less strange now than before. When he mentioned this to Jack, his friend showed him a timer counting down in the bottom corner, which had about half an hour left.

“It’s still processing the reality change. Hell, I can’t even remember what you looked like before anymore. When the timer finishes, this reality will be completely real to everyone, even you and me.”

“What?” Harvey said, “Well change me back!”

Jack furrowed his brow, “but this is what you wanted–you told me you’d had this fantasy forever.”

Harvey stared at him. Would Jack be lying to him? Hell, Jack could have just made all of that up. For all he knew, Jack might not have even been his friend before this morning, but that was paranoid, right? “Still…still, you should have asked me.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise, is all.”

Harvey looked at himself in the mirror on the wall. How could he have looked entirely different just the day before? It couldn’t be possible. Still…Jack seemed convinced. He was a bit angry though. It felt like he’d been a bit violated. He looked over at Jack, and wondered how he’d like it, to suddenly end up in some big bear body, smoking cigars all day long, covered…covered with fur…Harvey realized his cock was getting hard, and that gave him an idea…

“Give me the computer,” Harvey said.

“What?”

“You changed me. It’s only fair that I get to change you back.”

“Hey, come on, that’s not–”

Harvey stepped up, and blew a thick cloud of smoke in Jack’s face, the head of his cock drooling precum on Jack’s pant leg. “I could always just take it from you, you know. I’m much, much bigger than you.”

“Look man, I’m sorry I didn’t ask–”

Harvey could sense Jack’s nervousness, and he could also see the tent growing in his friend’s pants. He liked how Harvey looked now, but Jack could still use some improvement. He eventually relented to the pressure, and let his friend look over the program, Harvey sat at the desk, the screen away from Jack so he couldn’t see what he was doing, and worked quickly. When he was satisfied, he gave everything a second look, and then hit submit. The change was instantaneous. One moment, Jack was on sitting on the edge of the bed, twiddling his thumbs, the next, Harvey’s obese big brother Jack was sitting there naked, body covered with fur, an unruly beard reaching down to his deep belly button, a cheek suddenly bulging out with a huge wad of chewing tobacco. Jack let out a belch as he sat there, and gave his huge gut a scratch. “You done yet, bro?”

He didn’t even realize anything had changed! Harvey looked down at the timer, and saw it had two hours to count down. Apparently, the program found this change a bit easier to process than changing him and his father had been. Well, their father now. He grinned. “Almost done…I gotta piss though.”

“Aww, I can take care of that bro,” Jack said, rubbing his gut, “Fuckin’ thirsty myself.”

Harvey got up from the chair, and realized he could smell the stench wafting off his slovenly brother. He never showered, and he stank of piss and sweat. He smelled…he smelled damn sexy actually. Harvey shook his head–he wasn’t supposed to think that, was he? He walked over, pointed his cock up at his big brother’s bearded mouth, and started pissing, arcing the piss up, soaking Jack’s face before pointing the stream into his mouth and watching him swallow it down. Fuck, he was so fucking sexy, he hoped he could be as nasty as his big brother some day.

Harvey shook his head again. He didn’t want to be like Jack! Jack was a slob–he was supposed to be…to be…He couldn’t remember. He finished pissing, and Jack licked his lips. “Thanks bro, your piss is fantastic.”

Harvey grinned, happy that his big brother was happy, stepped closer and gave Jack a hug, and started sucking the piss from his brother’s beard, and unable to stop himself, he started licking his big brother’s body clean. That was one of his favorite jobs, actually, keeping his brother and father clean. Who needs to shower when Harvey is so horny for their sweat and stink that he’ll lick them both clean every day?

Something was wrong with this. The program was changing him too, not just Jack, but it was happening too fast for him to do anything about it, and…and he didn’t really want to do anything about it. He kept licking, and when he finished Jack’s chest and gut, his brother laid down on the bed belly down, and let Harvey spread his fat ass and start licking out his nasty crack, drilling his tongue into his brother’s hole. Fuck, the taste of Jack’s ass got him so horny–he had to stop mid-cleaning to crawl forward, line his cock up with Jack’s hole and work it in for a fuck.

Jack gave a loud groan of pleasure as Harvey fucked him on their bed. Jack raised up, in the middle of the fuck, and looked at Harvey over his shoulder. “W–wait a minute…you already changed me, you fucker!”

“Oh shut up, and enjoy it,” Harvey said, and drove his dick as deep as it could go, “You love being a slob, just go with it.”

“Fuck, I fuckin’ reek.”

“You reek so fuckin’ good bro, don’t even worry about it–I’ll keep you clean.”

“You’re fuckin’ nasty.”

“Heh, not as nasty as you are.”

Jack let off another belch and a groan, pushing back to meet his little brother’s thrusts. Harvey finally shot his load, and then got down and started sucking the cum from his brother’s ass, before he licked the rest of it clean. When he finished, Jack rolled back over, and his own twelve inch cock was thrusting up against his belly. “Well, start sucking bro, don’t just stare at it.”

Harvey had long since lost his gag reflex, and he could take both his brother’s and his father’s cocks to the hilt. Jack didn’t last long, and he came a with a series of shudders that made his flabby body shake wildly. He laid there, enjoying the afterglow, while his little brother got down and started licking his feet clean. They were so big! Definitely as big as their dad’s. Harvey got another cigar lit and toyed with the heat on Jack’s feet–the two hour timer passed, and neither of them noticed a thing, until Jack’s stomach gave a growl. “Fuck, I’m hungry.”

“You’re always hungry,” Harvey said, and dodged his brother’s kick, laughing.

“Fuck you, I’m gonna go eat something. You coming?”

“I’ll come downstairs–I need to see if dad needs anything cleaned.”

“You’re such a fuckin’ slut, Harvey.”

Harvey stuck his tongue out at his big brother, “I learned from the best.”

Jack went down and assembled a platter of food for himself, while Harvey went to where his father was sitting on the couch, and started licking him clean too. Jack thought about watching his father and brother fuck, but then he remembered the computer upstairs, and with a grin, he crept upstairs, snacking all the way.

He came back downstairs an hour later, no longer naked. Instead, he had on a wide strap leather harness and some heavy biker boots, and a collar with a tag that read “Alpha” on it. Curious to see what his dad and brother might be up to, he found the living room empty. That made sense though–dad preferred to work in the dungeon, the sprawling basement beneath the house where the family spent most of their quality time.

Downstairs, his father–and his master–was standing behind Harvey, who was tied down on a wooden horse. His little brother was now quite a bit more muscled–his dad kept him on a strict diet and exercise regimen, to keep his slave son in peak physical shape for constant abuse. He was also covered head to toe in tattoos, his face and body riddled with piercings. Master was decked out in rubber today, and he had one gloved fist buried elbow deep in his youngest son’s ass. There was a puddle of cum underneath the horse–obviously the pressure on Harvey’ prostate had made him cum at least twice already.

“Do you need any help, sir?” Jack asked, and his dad looked over at him and smiled.

“Sure Jack–put a glove on. Daddy’s horny for this slave’s mouth, but I want to keep stretching his hole. Take over for me, would you?”

Jack was only too happy to pull on a rubber glove, lube it up, and slide it into his little brother’s wide open asshole. His dad stripped off his own gloves, and went around, pulling the gag from Harvey’s mouth and replacing it with his own huge cock. Harvey realized something else had changed, but he couldn’t quite pin down what it was, and by the time the family was through with their afternoon play session, the timer had expired, and none of them could remember anything ever being different at all. Of course, those were far from the last changes for the happy family of bears, but those will have to wait for another time.

Finally gonna get some motherfuckin’ answers from this motherfucker. What the fuck is going on with my son? First those fucking cigars, and now tattoos? And he’s dropping out of college? Apartment 305…305, here it is, bang on the door, let him know I mean business.

Naturally, the fucker doesn’t have the balls to answer. I’ll just fucking wait for him. Wait–the door’s unlocked? Good enough for me, let’s find this fucker. Living room’s empty, not in the kitchen, try the bedroom…what the hell? He’s just laying there, groping himself…staring at me. I yell, he doesn’t do anything, just keeps staring at me, stroking himself, so fucking rhythmic…

Fuck…how long…how long have I been watching him? He hasn’t stopped once. I just…I just got here right? I can’t take my eyes away, what the hell is he doing to me? What the fuck is wrong with…with…

When did it get so hot in here, better…better take my shirt off…pants…pants too. Don’t look away though…keep watching him, keep staring, gotta keep staring at him…

Yeah, groping my cock now, like him. So fuckin’ horny. Can’t…didn’t I…come here to ask about…about something? My head feels so fuckin’ empty all of a sudden. Damn, his bulge is big, bigger than mine. He must have a huge cock, I wonder how big it is?

What…how did…I’m closer now, on my knees in front of him, just staring, his groin right there, fuckin’…a foot away, and he’s just rubbing himself. He…he should let me do that for him. He should let me please him…let me…serve him, yeah, serve him. He should let me serve him like…like a slave…

Why won’t he let me help him! He just keeps teasing me. Doesn’t he know how much this hurts? How much it hurts that he won’t let me please him? I’m just a fuckin’ slave, I don’t have any other purpose, I’m just a worthless old faggot, but he just keeps staring at me, gloating, he’s not going to let me have it, is he? I have…I have to…to earn it…Show him…show him how much of a faggot I am. There’s…there’s something in the other room, something I should put on…I don’t want to stop watching, but…

Not enough, I’m all dressed, but he still won’t let me please him…I’ll…I need his body. Wait, something, he’s moving his foot, yes, please let me serve you sir, let me…oh fuck, his socks reek, so fucking disgusting, gotta suck the sweat out of them, fuck! Gotta be a good slave, gotta show him what a good slave I am, what a worthless faggot I am, if I want to serve him properly. Take the sock off with my teeth, yeah, pull it off, tongue between his nasty toes, lick him clean, lick his feet clean, fuck…

Finally! Finally his cock, finally what I came for, finally I can serve him. Oh fuck, it tastes so good, just how I always imagined. I’m such a good slave, just a worthless slave for cock, for my master, I promise I’ll serve you forever, I’ll do anything you say, anything you want for the rest of my life.

*****

Hank, Tim’s father, had left to confront Julian the afternoon on the eighth, and his car didn’t pull back into the driveway until over twenty-four hours later, with the sun starting to set. He parked his car and swung both his feet out–it had been hard to work the pedals with his feet chained together, but he had to be a good slave, had to be a proper slave for master. His body was sweating in the rubber suit, especially under the summer sun, but he stood up, hair drenched with sweat, as Julian got out of the passenger seat and stretched.

Across the street, Mr. Clark was washing his truck, and his jaw dropped when he saw Hank in the driveway. Hank gave a wave and a big smile, his eyes oddly empty, and then he shuffled his way up the walk to the front door, opened the door, but waited for Julian to enter before following in after him.

Tim was sitting in a chair, smoking a cigar, and he looked up and saw Julian enter the front door. “Fuck, what the hell took you so long?”

Julian laughed, stepped to the side and let Tim get a look at his rubber clad father, grinning stupidly at them both, waiting for orders.

Tim broke out in laughter, “Holy shit! What the fuck did you do to him?”

“He’s our new rubber slave–it just took some work breaking his mind to bits is all. Slave, get down there and suck your son’s cock.”

“Yes sir,” Hank said, shuffled over with his chains scraping across the floor, got down on his knees and started sucking Tim’s cock.

“Fuck man, he’s better at it than I would have thought.”

“He had some practice already. So what do you say? Do you like your gift?”

“Fuck man,” Tim said, “I fuckin’ love it. He’s been driving me crazy lately.”

“Heh, I bet. Still, I have a few more ideas on how I could improve your relationship together, eh?” Julian said, and started massaging his crotch. While Hank kept sucking, Tim found his mind go deliciously blank, staring at Julian’s crotch, feeling all sorts of new, perverse thoughts flow into him, humiliating ideas, cruel ideas, things he would have never imagined.

“Yeah, you’re going to be one cruel master for this rubber pig, eh man?” Julian said, and stopped groping himself.

Tim sneered down at his slave, pulled his cock out and said, “Open wide, bitch,” and when his father’s mouth was open, he tapped the hot ashes from his cigar into his mouth, “Swallow.” Hank did as he was told, choking down the hot, dry dust. “Good pig,” Tim added, and grabbed the back of his father’s head, skull fucking him like a proper thug.

“Fuckin’ hot,” Julian said, came up to him, opened the fly of his jeans and let Tim suck his cock while his father blew him.

“Look, this is ridiculous, even if…I mean.”

“All it costs is one blowjob, and I’ve seen you staring at my crotch all night. Boys like you, only one reason they come here. The rest of it…well, I can tell just by looking at you. I’ve seen you two around town, seen how you look at him. This could help.” The older man turned the cigar over in his hands, “but, if you just want to follow him around, be the best man at his wedding to some fat skank, suck him off once, and only when he’s drunk as hell, then that’s your choice.”

The older man was hardly a looker. Probably from somewhere out in the sticks, missing teeth, big gut, stinking of cheap beer and stale smoke, grey beard to his chest. Still, he was kind of Ben’s type–though he wasn’t really a fan of sucking…This was probably how the guy always got laid though. Magic cigars? Control anyone who you smoke around? Still, for a bunch of closeted queers, lusting after their straight friends…it was tempting. Ben bargained him up, the man promising him a blow job too, and he followed him out to the man’s truck, where they blew each other in the parking lot, and then Ben left, cigar in his pocket, still feeling like he’d been a bit cheated.

Chet was his one weakness. Friends since they were babes, Ben had been lusting after his friend for so long, but he was as straight as could be, and was a big fan of bashing queers. Chet was also an alpha through and through, and as much as Ben chafed at submitting to anyone, he’d learned to let Chet get his way to keep the friendship going. But now…well, now nothing was going to change, but at least it was a nice cigar. He usually stuck to cigarettes, while Chet preferred chewing, but he’d bought a cigar now and then for fun. An opportunity to light up didn’t come for a few days, when he and Chet were hanging out at his little trailer, watching B movies. Heart beating fast, he lit up the cigar, blowing it off in Chet’s direction, watching as he inhaled the first couple whiffs. He sneezed, and rubbed his nose, eyes a bit bleary. “Dang man! That cigar’s strong as fuck. Where the fuck’d you get it?”

“Strong? Nah, this…this is pretty smooth. In fact…” did he dare? “In fact, I don’t think the smoke really bothers you at all. I think you like how it smells.”

“No way, I mean…sure, it’s not botherin’ me as much…” Chet said, fidgeting. He always fidgeted when he lied.

Had it actually worked? How in the hell could he really know? Then again, the man had said it gave him complete control, body and mind. He muttered something under his breath, quietly so Chet couldn’t hear, and a few seconds later, a thick beard sprouted across Chet’s stubbly face. He just gawked for a moment, and Chet reached up to feel it, and yanked his hand away. “What the fuck!”

“Hang on Chet! Calm down…”

Chet grabbed the side of the chair, and his breath slowed down.

“Fuck, it actually works…”

“What fucking works? What…what’s going on?”

He’d never heard Chet scared before. He liked how that sounded, actually. His cock was getting a bit hard, in fact. “Looks good on you, but you know? I just think you’re a bit too young to pull it off. Now, how about we age you up a bit? Say…fifty? Yeah, make you a sexy, submissive, chubby, daddy bear.”

Chet stood up calmly, but the changes were already starting. He watched his smooth stomach balloon outward into a gut, hair filling in across his arms and under his shirt, speckled with grey. “How in the fuck!” he wheeled towards Ben, and blinked. Fuck…fuck, his friend was one…sexy cub. He licked his lips, feeling his tongue brush through his new beard. Ben undid the fly of his pants and let out his cock. “See something you like, Chet?”

“Fuck…fuck you. Fuckin’ faggot. You did…something to me.”

“You’re right Chet…you’re right, I am a faggot. Been one as long as I can remember. And you know what? I’m fuckin’ sick of ya bashin’ us, and I’m fuckin’ sick a yer fuckin’ jokes. Now get the fuck down here and use that nasty mouth of yours for something useful, bitch!”

Chet tried to resist, but all he could do was get down, suck his faggot friend’s cock, and listen to Ben describe their new life together. Ben, the master, and Chet the useless, small cocked, bear slave. Incredibly turned on by pain and humiliation, he started leaking when Ben ground the toe of his boot into his tiny balls. The cigar burnt out, and exhausted, Ben led the collared and harnessed Chet to his cage for the night, and filled his slave bowl with his piss. Chet thanked his master and lapped it up obediently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

“He’s…he’s not a faggot,” Nick said.

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

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

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

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

“It..it’s true…”

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

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

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

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

“Clean my fucking boot, faggot.”

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

“Footrest,” his father said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nick nodded.

“I need to hear you say it.”

“Y–yes. Yes, please.”

***

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

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

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

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

The biker smirked, “Nice friend of yours.”

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

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

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

The Smoker Tapes (Part 3)

[Pictured: Max, in the process of being changed by the Smoker, and his final form.]

Eric: When is your friend supposed to come back?

The Smoker: Don’t know. Kind of depends.

Eric: And you were drawn to him already? But he hasn’t given you consent yet?

The Smoker: No. We’ve talked a bit about it, but he doesn’t quite know what I could offer him yet.

Eric: Do you, well, do you have any problems with the ethics of your work? After all, smoking kills many people every year, and here you are, turning men into heavy smokers. Does that ever bother you?

The Smoker: No, it doesn’t. In fact, I don’t see it as unethical at all.

Eric: Really?

The Smoker: People do dangerous things with and to their bodies every day. Smoking is just a risk, and it isn’t like the men I change don’t choose to partake.

Eric: True, but you’re vastly shortening their lifespan.

The Smoker: <Chuckling.> You’ve smoked before, I assume? Most everyone has at some point.

Eric: A few times.

The Smoker: And you knew the risks.

Eric: Of course, but smoking a cigar or some cigarettes is different from completely changing someone body and mind.

The Smoker: So, your concern isn’t really about the smoking, is it? It’s about the change itself.

Eric: I’m concerned about all of it. I don’t think this is a concern that can just be waved away with an appeal to ‘consent’.

The Smoker: Maybe not. It’s true that not everyone I help has a full knowledge of what they’re losing. But often they don’t really want to know–they just want help. And if they’re happier people when I’m finished with them, if I can make them happier…isn’t ten years of being happy better than fifty years of mild misery, boredom and frustration?

Eric: I don’t think that’s fair.

The Smoker: Back in the eighties, when I was still fairly new at this–still figuring out techniques, still sorting out what these men wanted from me…well, I made some mistakes, I suppose. I misjudged what people wanted. That’s where some of the rumors started. I remember one in particular, let’s call him Max, he was another tough case, but what he wanted was pretty simple. A big man, cigar smoker, a tough guy. Masculine and a cowboy. The Marlboro men were still around then, still seen, especially in gay circles, as these…paragons of masculinity.
Max consented. I was still new at this, and it took me longer, back then, to get things right. I kept him down in my basement, bound up, gasmask on, and I fed him smoke for days on end. It was like I was inflating him, watching the fat and muscle bulk up on his frame–fuck, it was sexy as all get out. But something I didn’t know about was happening too–he was getting older. In fact, he started out in his mid-twenties, and when I was finished, he was a six foot three, three hundred pound, middle aged cowboy, deep raspy smoker’s voice. He wasn’t happy to have lost thirty years of his life, but he settled into it, eventually. He grew to like it, the maturity.

Eric: What?

The Smoker: You know, some people actually like the idea of being older. It isn’t something to be terrified of after all. It happens to everyone at some point, and they can be the best years of your life. Why begrudge someone if that’s what they want? Max ended up wanting it–he just didn’t know that he wanted it. I could sense that he wanted it, and I gave it to him without knowing that’s what I was really doing. It all works out for the best in the end.
That said, the reason I was laughing is that Max’s story is that the first one that turned you on, judging by the hardon in those khakis you’re trying to pretend isn’t there.

Eric: It didn’t turn me on!

The Smoker: It’s ok to admit it. I already know.

Eric: I’m not, I mean…fuck, it’s so fucking hazy in here, could you put out that cigar for a bit?

The Smoker: I’d rather not, and I don’t think you actually want me to, either. Come on, you seem like the kind of guy who’s willing to light one up, probably around the poker table with a bunch of other guys from work, all of you trying to look more manly than you really are.

Eric: I mean, yeah, but that’s different, that’s–

The Smoker: Not that different. You’ve always smoked to seem older. Out behind the convenience store, with your brother’s friends, just twelve but wanting to be so much older, looking at them, turned on my their smoke before you even knew what being turned on was.

Eric:…How…How do you know about that?

<Silence.>

Eric: How in the fuck do you know about that!

The Smoker: How do you think I know about that, Eric?

Eric: I don’t–I mean…

The Smoker: Do you mind if I ask you something though? Tell me, why have you never tried smoking a pipe? That’s what always catches your eyes and nose right? That sweet pipe smoke, you love it, but you’ve never tried it. Every time you pick up cigars for those poker nights–you always bring them, after all, as an excuse to smoke yourself–and you’ve looked at the pipes countless times. Why haven’t you ever bought one? Or even tried one?

Eric: I’m not going to talk to you about this.

The Smoker: Come on, I’m just curious.

Eric: How do you even know all of this about me?

Eric: Please, I just…I don’t understand…

The Smoker: I’ll tell you, but first answer my question. Why never a pipe?

Eric: ….Because….they just always seemed like something, someone older than me would smoke, but I don’t understand what that has to do with anything. But how do you know any of this? Did you investigate me or something?

The Smoker: Why were you looking for me, Eric?

Eric: That’s just another question, you said you’d answer.

The Smoker: Why my story though? Why this urban legend? Why are you looking for me?

Eric: I’m–I’m done with this, I’m getting out of here.

The Smoker: They always do this, this mock outrage. Storm off, pretend this isn’t what they want, but like Eric here? He just left all of his stuff. See, when they do that, it means that they only want to seem scared. They only want to seem uninterested in what I can offer them. It’s a show and a performance. After all, no one is supposed to want what I offer. Not really. Maybe as a fantasy, maybe as something thought of in the dead of night, as nightmare.
Just between you and me though, whoever might be listening to this down the line, I don’t have any regrets about this, about any of this. I mean, sure, I made a deal with the devil, I know that. I’ve ruined people’s lives–I mean, they wanted me to ruin them, but that’s no excuse, not in the long run. I can’t excuse that, I suppose.
But what about you, in there, on the other side, all those years later? What do you want? Are you looking for me? I’m not planning on quitting any time soon, just so you know. All those stories you’re hearing? All those rumors, old and new? Chances are they’re all true. Come and find me, if that’s what you want. I’m right here. I’ll be here for years to come.
Think it over. I have to get some things ready for when Eric comes back up here in a few minutes, once he’s done pouting, and pretending he didn’t make up his mind an hour ago.

The Smoker: Welcome back, Eric.

The Smoker Tapes (Part 1)

[Pictured: Hunter, before and after his meeting with The Smoker.]

Report 1927-01 of the Special Investigations Bureau

A number of cassette tapes, CD’s, and MP3 files have been discovered which have been colloquially termed The Smoker Tapes. All of them were presumably recorded between 2003 and today, and they catalogue conversations between Person of Interest “The Smoker” (see case file P001927) and a number of his victims around the country. SIB classifies these recordings as class B mental influencers, requiring security clearance level two and a psychological assessment before any agent can listen to them. The transcripts, however, are accessible by anyone with security level five or below. These recordings, it is assumed, are one of The Smoker’s primary recruitment techniques, and new copies are found daily as tapes and CD’s in adult bookstores and bathhouses, as well as online, most commonly circulated in the deep web.

This recording is generally considered to be the first attack of “The Smoker” that was recorded, between him and a reporter known only on the tape as Eric. All attempts to identify and track Eric, both before and after the attack, can be found in report 1927-54. Unlike the others, where “The Smoker” himself is recording the attack, this first was instigated by the reporter, as a means of documenting his interview with “The Smoker”. The other transcribed tapes can be found in reports 1927-02 through 1927-34.

***

Eric: Ok, it’s on–not sure where to put it…

Eric: This place is a mess. Do you live here?

The Smoker: No. It’s a friend’s place, and I figured we could use it for the interview.

Eric: One of your victims?

The Smoker: They aren’t victims.

Eric: The legend would say otherwise.

The Smoker: Legends are exaggerations. They’re just men I’ve helped out, when they needed it.

Eric: Well, have you helped your friend out yet, then?

The Smoker: No, not yet. He might be interested, but we haven’t discussed it yet.

Eric: Do you always discuss it with them?

The Smoker: Of course. I’m not the monster most people talk about, you know. I mean, look at me. five foot three, two hundred pounds, flabby. What exactly am I going to do to them? How could I force them? They all come to me, not the other way around.

Eric: Well, on the topic of rumor and legend, I’d like to start asking you about some of the mythos surrounding you as a figure. As you know, you’re quite the boogeyman on the streets, though–

The Smoker: Actually, before we begin, do you mind if I smoke?

Eric: Do you think I’m stupid? Of course I mind. You’ll do something to me.

The Smoker: It isn’t my smoke that does anything. Besides, I never do anything to someone without their consent. For someone interested in the truth, you seem very interested in upholding fictions about things you know nothing about.

Eric: Well, you can’t blame me for being cautious–

The Smoker: But if I’m not going to get a fair shake, or an even hand, I might as well just walk out right now.

Eric: There’s no need to get…now hold on, don’t–

The Smoker: There. See? No harm done. Now, you were going to ask me about the myth?

The Smoker: Are you holding your breath?…Oh for goodness sakes, if you’re that terrified of me, why did you agree to interview me in the first place?

The Smoker: I’m not putting it out. You can either breathe in, or leave. It’s up to you.

The Smoker: There, see? You’re fine.

Eric: How do I know–

The Smoker: You’ve already come to meet me, “The Smoker” of legend, in an unknown location, alone. It seems to be that caution is the last thing on your mind.

Eric: Those were your terms. I didn’t have much of a choice.

The Smoker: And you still agreed to meet me. Now, do you have some questions, or not?

Eric: I wanted to start with some of the aspects of the urban legend, to see if any of the stories are true. As you know, I’m sure, the legend of “The Smoker”, or also “The Smoking Man”, has been a staple of the gay subculture in this city for decades. You are, according to the stories, either a demon or a madman who kidnaps men and forces them to become smokers.

Eric: I assume you take issue with the stories?

The Smoker: Well, I don’t force anyone to do anything. All of the people I help consent to my services. I also don’t kidnap anyone, though sometimes my work requires them to take an extended stay with me at my home. I’ve never had an unsatisfied patron.

Eric: Well, then how do you think these stories started?

The Smoker: Like I said, I only change people who are willing. I have, in the past, misjudged people. I thought they wanted my help, when in fact they weren’t ready to admit that they needed it. How would you react to someone who just walked up to you, offering you the life you’d always wanted but that you were too terrified to ask for? People talked. Stories spread. I’ve gotten much more careful over time, though. I haven’t had anyone turn me down in quite a few years now.

Eric: The stories have been in circulation for quite a while. How long have you been changing men?

The Smoker: My first was back in 1976.

Eric: So, did this power manifest when you were, I’d guess, around twenty?

The Smoker: Oh no, I was fifty-six.

Eric: Uh…

Eric: I’m sorry, but that would mean that you were born in…in 1920? You don’t look to be in your nineties.

The Smoker: I’ve stayed healthy.

Eric: Is that related to your powers? Do you steal youth?

The Smoker: No, nothing so vampiric.

Eric: You must understand that this is hard to believe.

The Smoker: I have my birth certificate if you’d like me to furnish it as proof.

Eric: Well, assuming you are telling the truth, you’ve been changing people for close to forty years now, correct? How many men have you changed in that time?

The Smoker: One hundred and seven.

Eric: So you keep track of them all?

The Smoker: It’s impossible to forget any of them, actually.

Eric: So you must have celebrated your centennial recently, did you do anything special for you one hundredth…customer? I know you object to the word victim, but what do you call them?

The Smoker: Patrons. And my one hundredth wasn’t particularly unique or special. An older gentleman–let’s call him Hunter–was unhappy and looking for help. I provided it.

Eric: And what was his problem?

The Smoker: He had a very, very small dick.

<Laughter.>

The Smoker: Trust me when I say Hunter wouldn’t have found the humor in it.

Eric: I’m sorry, it just seems a little ludicrous. If that was the only issue, I’m sure half the guys in the city would be looking for your help.

The Smoker: How do you know half the men in the city don’t want my help?

Eric: So, how did you assist…Hunter, you said?

The Smoker: He was, rather desperate. And when I say small, I don’t mean a simple matter of overcompensation. His dick was a little less than an inch long, something Hunter had resented his whole life. The term ‘involuntary chastity’ comes to mind.

Eric: I can’t imagine many people would be very interested in that.

The Smoker: Well, some men find pleasure in minimal endowment. Hunter was just bitter and angry. He came home with me, rather reluctantly I might add, but he was much happier the next morning, leaving with a twelve inch cock and a grapefruit sized sack, stuffed in the front of his cum stiff jockstrap, unable to stop leaking as he chuffed on a thick ring cigar.

Eric: ….I see.

The Smoker: Did that make you uncomfortable?

Eric: I suppose I wasn’t expecting something quite so graphic.

The Smoker: Well, my trade is a graphic one. You are a reporter. I hadn’t expected the details to bother you so much.

Eric: That’s not really–

The Smoker: Some men, well, all they need is a taste of smoke and a bit of a push. They can take it from there all on their own. Others need more help, like Hunter. I started on his balls, taking big breaths of smoke and breathing it down his cock, inflating his balls with each exhale. I’ve been told that the heat of the smoke in the body can be painful, but from Hunter’s moans, he didn’t seem to mind.

Eric: Really, I don’t need–

The Smoker: I admit to getting a bit carried away. He seemed to enjoy it so much I kept going. Watching the testosterone flood his system, a thick white beard coating his face, hair sprouting up and down his chest. Muscle filled in as well–he was a sexy fuckin’ beast, I tell you.

Eric: This really isn’t relevant.

The Smoker: How would you know what’s relevant and what isn’t? Isn’t this why you agreed to interview me? To hear my story?

Eric: The graphic details–

The Smoker: This is my work. I hardly think leaving out the process itself would do a service to your readers. To continue, Hunter was finally ready for his own smoke. A large ring cigar, of course–a big tool makes a big tool. He smoked that down in near record time, and I nursed his cock all the while. I had to stop sucking once my jaw got stretched to the limit, but I couldn’t resist fucking myself on that huge cock. I mean, how often do you get a chance like that? Fuck, and when he came–filled me up, I could feel it in my guts–you ever felt anything like that, when someone fucked you?

Eric: I’m not–no, I mean, how do you know…

The Smoker: Know what, that you’re gay? No straight man would be interested in this story, legend or not. And no straight man would have an erection in their slacks after I tell that story. Good to know you don’t have Hunter’s problem, by the way.

Eric: I need…I think I’m going to take a break, I’ll be outside.

The Smoker: While he’s gone, I just want to introduce myself, properly. Many people know me as “The Smoker” but I’m more interested in who you might be, listening to this tape, listening to me and Eric have this nice chat. He’s scared you know, but being scared of the unknown is natural.

<Silence. The Smoker coughs.>

The Smoker: Whoever’s listening to this–it’s alright to be scared. But at some point, you have to stop being scared, and act. Act on what you want. Act on what you need, on who you want to be. You don’t want to be who you are forever, do you?

<Silence.>

The Smoker: I would be very interested to meet you, you know. I wonder if you’d be interested to meet yourself too? I could show that to you. Eric hasn’t met himself yet, not really. But I’ll be introducing him to himself before too long here. Perhaps you’d like your own introduction? Perhaps I’ll be able to make both of your acquaintances someday. I’d like that–and I’m sure you would too.