Orwell’s Demon (Part 9)

WARNING: Castration

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Orwell’s Demon (Part 8)

-Before-

Orwell could feel it building again. He’d managed to hold the demon off for a month or so, longer than his gap between Stewart and that trucker, but it was growing…impatient. Orwell, on the other hand, had been adjusting to his new life, and his new physiology. He let off a belch, something he had to do much, much more often as the filth in his guts slowly rotted away, the acrid gas triggering the first hunger pang–but he didn’t want to face that yet. He hated eating, because he had to leave the house, and when he left the house, he had to…risk the demon getting hold of someone else. He’d put in for an extended leave with the school–he couldn’t bear the thought of ruining another student, like he had with Stewart. He…couldn’t risk it. Instead, he sat around his house, fucking himself with some dildos he purchased online, and slipping out each night to stuff himself with shit before retreating back home to sleep. Still–it was working. The demon hadn’t managed to ensnare anyone else, at least until he stepped outside for a bit of fresh air, and caught a whiff of something else instead.

It was smoke–but not from a barbeque or anything. It was sweet, and sharp, and as soon as he smelled it, he wanted to know what it was. He had to peek through the fence, where he saw his neighbor, Aaron Piper, smoking a short cigar out back behind his house. Mr. Piper was a nice, if boring fellow–middle aged, a nice wife, a teenaged daughter. Aaron was on the phone, and Orwell could eavesdrop–he was planning a poker night with a few buddies from work that evening, because his wife was out of town with his daughter.

That sounds like fun–maybe we should crash it?

Hearing that voice in his head, Orwell fled back inside, and did his best to put the entire incident out of his mind. Later, the hunger was growing worse, and he was getting ready to go out and eat, when his phone rang. Orwell had no idea who it could be at this hour, but he answered it, and the voice on the other side sent a chill through him.

“I sent the boys home early, Orwell. Told them I wasn’t feelin’ too good. Really, I just wanna play with the neighborhood piggy. Get your ass over here, pronto.”

There was a click, and the line went dead. It was Aaron–but not just Aaron. It was the demon. Orwell knew he should run, he knew he should, but instead, his legs walked him out the front door of his house, down the driveway, over to Aaron’s house, where he walked up, opened the front door, and stepped inside, expecting the worst.

What he found was a house so thick with smoke, he assumed something must have caught on fire. In fact, it was just Aaron, sitting in his armchair, with a massive cigar in his mouth, almost as big as a forearm. He was naked otherwise, covered in hair, grinning at Orwell in the doorway. “There ya are. Get on over here, piggy. I’m…tired of cigars. I wanna know what it’s like to smoke a pig.”

He had to run, he couldn’t let this happen, not again, not to someone this close to him! The smoke, however, was clouding his mind, drawing him closer to where Aaron was sitting, his clothes falling away, revealing his fat body, stinking of shit, covered in a riot of tattoos. As he came closer, Aaron picked up a butane cigar lighter from the table beside him, wrapped his other hand around Orwell’s back, and pulled him close, between his legs. Orwell felt something…rough against his cock, looked down, and saw that between Aaron’s legs wasn’t a cock–but another cigar, even more massive than the one he’d set aside in the ashtray beside him. “Don’t worry pig, you’ll get to smoke him too, I promise–but first, let’s light you up.”

He watched, frozen, as Aaron took the lighter and brought the bright blue flame to his left nipple, the pain searing through him, his cock pumping out cum as he shuddered. He opened his mouth to scream, but Aaron leaned over, locked lips with him, and inhaled. Orwell felt the heat on his nipple intensify, his mouth flooded with smoke, and when Aaron pulled away, a thick cloud of dark, sooty smoke between them, he looked down and saw that his left nipple had become a cinder, red with heat–just like a cigar. Aaron repeated the process with his right nipple, and locked lips with him again, more smoke pouring out of him, Aaron sucking it down, the heat unbearable on his chest, and yet, so…erotic.

“Yeah, that’s a hot smoke pig–now get down there, and let’s smoke your neighbor down, eh?”

Aaron shoved Orwell to his knees, and he took the end of his cigar cock in his mouth, while Aaron lit his own nipples as he had Orwell’s, ordering him to draw hard on the cigarcock, pull the smoke into him, and he did as he was ordered, head swimming with smoke, guts churning, certain that if everything in his guts had still been hooked up correctly, he would throw up from it. Aaron let Orwell smoke his cock for a few minutes, enjoying the hot smoke from Orwell’s body on his own cigar, and then shoved Orwell over and fucked him, the leaf rough on his hole, but thrilling all the same, smoke billowing from both of their bodies until with a loud moan, Aaron came, in huge gouts of smoke, filling Orwell’s hole with it, his body crumpling and turning to ash in the middle of his living room floor, leaving Orwell alone, naked, and with two still smouldering tits.

Orwell’s Demon (Part 7)

“You know, I’m curious. What the fuck does it even taste like?” Officer Hurlbane said, sitting down again, sucking on the cigar still. Orwell could…see him changing, slowly. The demon was enjoying himself, enjoying taunting him. His clean shaven face was coated in stubble now, though it would be a full beard before too much longer. The uniform he was wearing was straining against his growing frame, as the officer packed on muscle. He wasn’t sure if it was the light, but the material seemed…strange. It wasn’t cotton, like it had been–it was darkening, and picking up a sheen, like leather or rubber–probably the former. “I mean, doing what I do, I’ve seen a lot of freaks, Orwell, but I gotta say, you’re the first fucker I’ve ever talked to who actually ate the stuff. So, what’s it taste like? And do you fucking smear that shit on you too? Cause you sure fucking smell like it.”

Since his encounter with the trucker, whom Orwell later learned was named Jonathan when the police questioned him about it–given the similar circumstances around the man’s disappearance as the Ray and Stewart–he’d discovered that normal food…he couldn’t keep it down. It tasted…vile, and if he managed to get any into his stomach, he’d just end up vomiting it up a few minutes later. In fact…the only thing he’d eaten, since that day, was shit. It was the only thing he could eat–the only thing he wanted to eat. But worst of all–he couldn’t even eat his own, because his ass, and his guts…they were different too. Nothing was connected. His ass, he realized, was designed to be fucked now–and all the shit he ate, and piss he drank, just sat in his guts, filling and expanding as he ate more and more, and slowly, his body would…process it, and leech it back out through his pores. It was vile. He was vile. He was a monster, and he hated it, but he couldn’t resist it–and somehow, when he was around, men would always forget to flush.

“What, scared that I know your disgusting fucking secret? Did Ray find out? Did Stewart? What the fuck did you do to these men? Where the fuck are they, you fucking freak!”

He had to tell him, he had to. He should have tried before, it might be too late, but he had to try. “It’s not me! It’s not me, it’s…honest to god, sir, I’m possessed. This fucking amulet,” Orwell pulled it out of his shirt, “there’s a demon inside, and he…he corrupts men, please, he’s corrupting you too! You have to get out of here, before it’s too late, before he controls you too.”

Officer Hurlbane just stared at him, not at all sure what to say. “If you think you’re going to be able to use an insanity defense with that story, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.”

“I’m serious! Look at you! You’re smoking, have you ever smoked before? Your clothe are changing, you have a beard–look in the fucking mirror!” Orwell said, pointing to the wall…but it was gone. The mirror, and the window, was gone. It was just concrete–the entire room was concrete, there wasn’t even a door left.

Now now, that’s a very naughty piggy, trying to tell the policeman about me. It’s much too late for that though, you know. He’s mine, just like they all are. Just like you could be too, Orwell, if you’d stop being so stubborn.

“No–No! I won’t I fucking won’t. I don’t want this, let him go!”

You do want this, Orwell, I can see in your heart, how hungry you are, how much you need to be smoked. Wouldn’t it feel good, Orwell? Wouldn’t you rather have the nice officer smoking you, instead of that big, fat cigar of his? Wouldn’t that make you feel good? I can make it happen, you just have to want it–oh who are we kidding, we both know what you want, piggy.

The officer was changing faster now, his uniform completely leather, His face covered in a thick beard, hiding his lecherous grin. “Yeah, you’ve been a very bad piggy, haven’t you Orwell? He’s…he’s telling me all about you now, I…Fuck, you nasty fucking piece of shit…”

“Don’t fucking listen to him! You have to fight this, please! You’re the last one!”

“Tell me, Orwell. Tell me what you did to your fucking neighbor. Tell me what happened, I want to fucking hear it from your shit eating mouth. Get me good and horny with a nice story, and then the two of us are going to have some fun. I know how to set a piggy like you straight–I know what you need, what you deserve. I know…everything.”

“I can’t, please…”

“Fucking say it!” Hurlbane shouted at him, “Fucking tell me, you fucking pig!” He stood up, turned around, and dropped his leather pants, showing off his meaty ass. “Tell me what you did, or I won’t feed you this thick log of shit I have up here, waiting for your hungry lips. You want that, don’t you? You nasty, hungry, shitpig?”

Go on Orwell–tell him. He wants to know, he wants to know all about you. Tell him what you did to nice Mr. Piper the other night. Tell the officer what you saw that afternoon, what we did to him that night…

Orwell’s Demon (Part 5)

Orwell still had a difficult time recognizing himself. He glanced over at the one way mirror, wondering if there was anyone back there who could help him, who could, maybe, save the detective. He knew, at this point, that is was much, much too late to save himself. The things he’d done to people, the person he’d become–the person the demon had turned him into, if he could even still count as a person. He didn’t feel very human anymore, really.

That’s because you aren’t human, are you? You’re a pig, Orwell. You’re my pig. Don’t you get that yet? Don’t you understand that? You’re mine, and all this fighting, all this denial, look where it’s gotten you, fucking look at yourself.

He did look over, at his reflection. Before this, before he’d found the amulet, he’d been 25, fresh out of school, slim and fit. Ray had ruined his body, but it was Stewart who had really destroyed him. His face was the worst. Looking at himself, how could anyone even bear to look at him? Everyone treated him like he was normal, all the same, with that short, pushed up nose, the small eyes, the crown devoid of hair, the bushy, wild beard he could never tame, or trim. The skin looked tough and flaky–and old. Everyone, after Stewart, had treated him like he was a man in his early fifties–even his driver’s license had been changed, both photo and year of birth. The same skin on his face was everywhere–a tough hide, but under his clothes was worse. That’s where the tattoos were. Old and faded, they had come with the skin–humiliating pictures and words all over himself. He’d been forced into long sleeved shirts and high collars just to hide them, just to hide himself. Nothing felt right, either. Touching things–every texture was dull, but pain…oh, pain…

Hurlbane slapped him, hard across the face then, to get his attention, and when he did, Orwell let out a snort, and felt his cock jump and spurt a bit of cum into his pants. Why–why did it have to feel so fucking good?

“Are you still with me, Orwell? Have anything to say? Because this is looking like a pattern now. Two men, last seen with you, disappearing after school without a trace. Their cars abandoned. No one knows anything, and you are playing completely dumb, despite the fact that you had relationships with both of them.”

“Did you think that, maybe, they ran off together? Stewart was on the wrestling team.”

Hurlbane scoffed. “Yeah, I looked into that, but with as much pussy as both of them were getting, I doubt they had much time for each other. They weren’t faggots–not like you, Orwell.”

His cheeks flushed.

“Yeah, I know all about that. I’ve had someone trailing you for a few weeks now. All that sick shit you get into outside of town. What the fuck is wrong with you? I can’t fucking believe we let a nasty, disgusting pig like you around our fucking kids.”

Hurlbane didn’t seemed that disgusted–not judging by the size of the erection in his pants. The demon was in him, Orwell could tell–but he was toying with him. Toying with them both. “Detective…I know this is hard to believe, but this…you need to get out of here. You need to get away from me, please.”

“Why, Orwell? Are you going to try and make me disappear like Ray and Stewart? Like Jonathan Randolf?”

“I…I already told you, I don’t know anything about that.”

Another smack to the face, enough to make Orwell snort, smelling the detective’s smoke, smeling his…arousal. He licked his lips, wishing he wasn’t so…hungry.

“What did I just tell you, Orwell? I’ve had someone following you, I know where you go to get your fix. I know the kind of men you like. Your favorite spot? Grover Hill Rest Area, where Mr. Randolf’s truck was found, abandoned, with no sign of struggle, and no evidence of any kind. Just like Ray, and Stewart. It took some work, but I have a few truckers willing to testify that they’d seen you at the rest area before–doing that shit you do–and I have a good idea that on the night Jonathan was last seen, I know exactly where you were.

Orwell said nothing, but his guts gave a growl.

“What’s wrong, pig? Can’t talk on an empty stomach? Well don’t think you’re going to find a snack here, you sick fucking freak.”

He sounds pretty confident about that, Orwell–but you didn’t eat yet today. You must be very hungry. I could have him drop those pants, right here and now, and you can eat all you want. Would you like that, Orwell?

“No–no, please stop this, please, I can’t…do this anymore,” Orwell said, trying to keep from sobbing.

“Then tell me the fucking truth, Orwell–tell me what happened that night. You have no real alibi. We both know where you were, and who you were with. Just fucking admit it, like a good fucking pig, and we can move on to your punishment, like you really want,” Hurlbane said, hefted up a boot, and planted it right in Orwell’s crotch, pressing hard, his heel digging into Orwell’s balls, making him snort. “Yeah pig–you want to tell me. You want it off your chest. You’re proud of it. So fucking tell me. Tell me how you did it. Tell me, and I’ll give you what you fucking want.”

Orwell’s Demon (Part 4)

WARNING: Extreme violence, gore.

-Before-

It had been a week and a half since Ray Diamond’s disappearance. From one afternoon, after school, to the next morning, he was simply gone. He never arrived home that day, his car was still at the school, but there was no sign of a struggle, and so clue about where he could have possibly gone. The police were stumped, but the best the detective on the case, Officer Ed Hurlbane could guess, was that he must have simply run. It didn’t sit particularly well with him–in particular, people who ran tended to leave clues, at the very least–empty bank accounts, notes of apology–but there was simply nothing. Still, what else could it be? There was no body, there was no sign of a struggle. The coach had been one of the largest people on staff–if someone was going to take him down, it wouldn’t have been easy. But no one seemed to have a reason to hate him, either–according to the rest of the staff, he’d been a perfect colleague. So Hurlbane set it aside–unless something else came up, there was nothing to be done about it, and there were more serious cases that needed his attention.

Orwell, on the other hand, couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t stop…feeling Ray’s massive, yard long cock skewering him from ass to mouth. It was in his dreams, it was in his fantasies–it was all he could think about, and the voice in the amulet, the demon, was more than happy to keep inflaming those desires, telling Orwell that all he had to do was pick someone else, and he could feel that again, and so much more. He’d tried taking it off, but his hands refused to obey him. He hated it. He hated himself. He could barely even look himself in the mirror, at his fat, sagging frame…but the voice was right.

You want more, Orwell. If you didn’t want more, you could be done with me, but I know what’s in your heart. I know what you want. Let me give it to you, let me make you happy again.

Still, he carried on, pretended that everything was normal. But one afternoon, after school, he slipped. The teachers dealt with detention on a rotation–every teacher took a turn staying after school to observe the detention hall and the students there. It was generally boring, but provided a good chance to get some work done, but one student in particular had rankled Orwell that day–a student he’d sent to detention himself.

Stewart Riverdell was one of the star jocks at the school, and Orwell had caught him passing notes in class–notes which had been making fun of Orwell’s now fat, ugly body, calling him a pig and a fat ass. He was furious. He was furious because he hated himself too. He was furious because…because Stewart was right.

Of course he’s right. You are a pig. A pig hungry for cock. Hungry for cum. Hungry for abuse. It’s what you want Orwell, just admit it.

The voice spoke the entire hour of detention, and Orwell found his will breaking down. He couldn’t stop…staring at Stewart, barely able to glance away to the clock to see how much of the hour was left before he could be free. At last, the hour was up, and he raced to get his things together and be gone, but when he stood up, a hand shoved him back down into the chair, and there, standing in front of him, was Stewart, his eyes burning like coal, just as Ray’s had.

“Where do you think you’re going, Piggy?” Stewart said, “Aren’t you here for your punishment? Haven’t you been a very, naughty piggy? Trying to tell yourself that you’re something else, someone better than a cock hungry pigwhore?”

Stewart, and the demon inside him, began tearing at Orwell’s clothes, but he fought back, got up and rushed for the door, only for something to slip its way around his neck and pull tight, choking the air from his lungs. He gasped for air as Stewart walked up to him, holding the leash tight connected to the choke collar around Orwell’s neck, watching his fat face turn blue as he grasped for the door, watching it turn solid, becoming concrete, the entire room becoming a concrete cell with no way out.

“That’s a very bad piggy. I think we need to teach you a lesson, show you just what kind of pig you are. A pain pig, a pig who wants nothing more than to be punished at my hand–how does that sound? This young man–such vitality. I think we can keep you in here for days–isn’t that exciting?”

Orwell had no idea how long the demon kept him in that dungeon he’d created. He lost track of time rather quickly, as Stewart flayed his back apart, stripping the flesh from his back and thighs with whips and chains. He was certain he was going to die, certain that this, at least would be the end of him.

“Oh no, piggy. This isn’t the end. But we have to get rid of the old to bring in the new, don’t we?”

The demon flayed him, removing every patch of skin from his body. The pain was excruciating and indescribable. And then, when he was nothing more than a bloody mass of flesh, the demon began pressing something else onto him, a hide, the skin of another, pieced together. It was rough, and hairy, and stank, but this new skin–it was nothing like his own. Every lash across it brought a sigh of pleasure, every needle piercing into his flesh brought a massive gout of cum from his cock, dribbling from the heavy, overhanging foreskin he’d been given. Stewart saved Orwell’s new face for last, peeling his visage away, pinning it to the wall as a trophy, before giving him a few face, a face for a pig, a face that would insure that Orwell would never again question his place in the order of the world–and that no one else would either.

The next thing Orwell knew, he was on the floor of the classroom, soaked in sweat, heaving and trembling in pain and pleasure. The same ash floated down around him, the last remaining chunks of Stewart drifting about in the air and dissolving away to dust. Orwell flung on his tattered clothes and fled the room, racing home, and only there did he stop and see what the demon had wrought upon him.

Orwell’s Demon (Part 3)

“I told you before, I left early that day,” Orwell said, “Ray was still at his desk when I last saw him.”

The detective nodded. “Yes, you did say that. But I went back and asked for a few more interviews, Orwell. I have two students who say they saw both of you, together, heading for the gyms–apparently holding hands.”

Orwell felt his face turn red, but he didn’t say anything.

Oh dear, always a few loose ends. Well, you always have one more, Orwell. Just think about. Think about him, we could have such fun with him, don’t you think?

He shook his head, and Hurlbane coked his head slightly. Orwell seemed…a bit off today. Granted, the teacher had always seemed a bit strange–stranger every time he’d encountered him, but today, in particular…there was something almost wrong about him, but he didn’t know what. A thought occurred to him, then, and he realized what he’d noticed, but hadn’t been able to put a finger on–he was weak. He was weak, and tired, and he wanted so desperately to give up–all he needed was a push, and a little voice in Hurlbane’s head was assuring him that he was just the sort of person who could give Orwell the push he so desperately needed.

“Still wanting to smoke, Orwell? Think a cigar might help you remember? I know I always think better with one,” Hurlbane said, reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a sizable cigar. Had…had that been in there? He wasn’t a smoker, was he? But he needed to do this–he could feel it. This was going to help Orwell break, it was going to drive him nuts. Of course…he really shouldn’t be smoking in the station, or in one of these rooms–they weren’t very well ventilated. He looked over to the mirror, but couldn’t see any hint of…displeasure, and then at the door. They’d stop him if he went too far, right?

“Don’t…I know he’s telling you that you should, but don’t. Don’t smoke it, don’t listen to it, just run.”

Orwell was looking at him now, trying to project confidence, but what could a puny, chubby, sad little faggot like that hope to accomplish? He wasn’t in charge here–no. Hurlbane knew who was calling the shots here. He locked eyes with Orwell, took out his butane lighter, bit off the cap, and lit up, seeing the desire–the need–flood across Orwell’s face as he drew the smoke in. It hurt his lungs a bit, and it seemed…hot. Too hot, but he could handle it.

“There’s no one here but us, Orwell. Who are you talking about?”

“It’s…please, just leave.”

“I don’t think so Orwell, I think we still have more to discuss. Now, we were discussing Ray, weren’t we? Mr. Diamond? Like I said, two students I’ve interviewed in the last month put the two of you together after school, the day he disappeared. What were the two of you doing–especially holding hands?”

“I… I don’t remember that at all.”

“Convenient.”

“I’m…I’m sorry, I don’t know anything more than what I told you the first time.”

Hurlbane sat down across from him at the table, took a long drag off the cigar, and blew the smoke into Orwell’s face. He flinched, shuddered, and his head dropped towards his chest for a moment, his breathing deep..

“Smells good, doesn’t it?”

“Yes…”

“Yes…what?”

Orwell’s head snapped back up, he looked to the exit–should he run for it? No–if he ran…they’d lock him up in here, with him. He was already locked up in here with him. What could he do? Should…should he tell him? There was no way he’d believe him, and if he did tell him, his demon would just…just take him over anyway. No–the only way he could maybe save the detective was with silence.

“Come on Orwell, I know you want to tell me something. I’ve been doing this a very long time, and it’s all over your face. It’s heavy, isn’t it? The guilt?”

It was heavy, but it wasn’t his fault.

Now Orwell, we know the truth, don’t we? We know what a worm you are, what a pathetic little pig you turn into when you’re alone with a real man, when you’re alone with me. Why don’t you take your shirt and pants off for him? Show the nice officer what you really are, under those dirty rags of yours?

Orwell tugged down on the cuff of his shirt, sweating a bit.

If you show him, I might let him go. We can find someone nice in prison, don’t you think? Because that’s where you’re going, Orwell. That’s the only path I see, other than…you know…

“We can come back to Mr. Diamond, I suppose,” Hurlbane said, sitting back in the chair, cigar clamped in his jaw, chuffing smoke. “Let’s talk about Stewart. After all, we already know you were the last one to see him–you admitted that to us. He came to your class for detention, and then left–but his car was found in the parking lot–it hadn’t moved. So somehow, from leaving the classroom with you–and no one can confirm he even left the classroom, mind you–to his car, he simply vanished. How about that? Do you have any more you’d like to tell me about that?”

Orwell sat, silent.

Go on Orwell, take off that shirt. Show the officer what Stewart did to you. Show him what you deserve.

“S-Shut up…”

We know what you deserve, don’t we Orwell? You deserve to be punished.

Orwell’s Demon (Part 2)

-Before-

Orwell was at his desk, distracted again, but then again, he was usually distracted these afternoons, ever since the wrestling coach, Mr. Diamond, had moved his office into the open office space as Orwell’s. He wasn’t the only one afflicted by any means–several of the young women teachers around the school would stop by periodically to say hi, though their eyes were glued to the young hunk everyone was talking about. Still, as good a guy as Ray Diamond was, Orwell knew he would never have a chance with him–he was hopelessly straight, or else so deep in the closet no one would ever find him.

He looked back at his computer and tried to focus on entering grades, but there was something else bothering him. The amulet he was wearing–the thing he’d bought on a whim at a little thrift shop downtown a few days prior, which he’d been wearing since, was…warm. Not just warm, actually, but hot against his skin.

He could be yours, you know.

It was a voice. A voice in his head, but it wasn’t…his voice. He looked around, just in case, but no one around Orwell had spoken.

I know you want him. I know everything that you want, Orwell. You want so many things, so many men. It’s beautiful, but so many of them don’t want you back. So much…unrequited desire built up in you, with nowhere to go.

The heat welled up somewhere new now–in Orwell’s crotch. His cock was rock hard, suddenly, throbbing with need. The voice was right, to some extent. Orwell was gay, but he wasn’t lacking for sex. He was twenty-six, had a decent body (though not as nice as Ray Diamond had) and was by no means a virgin…but he did have a habit for falling head over heels in lust with the straightest of men–men like Mr. Diamond.

He was certain his cock was going to explode, but it didn’t–as rapidly as the heat, and the voice, had come–they disappeared, leaving Orwell to heave a sigh of relief. A couple desks away, Ray Diamond shuddered, and then stood up from his desk, adjusted his crotch, and walked over to where Orwell was sitting. Orwell could…sense something was off about him. His eyes…had a tinge of red, and his mouth was curled in a snarl that he’d never seen on the coach’s face before. “Well Orwell?” Ray said–and it was the voice. The voice from his head, speaking through Ray’s mouth, “Do you want me or not? Come on and let’s have some fun.”

Orwell didn’t know what to do…but when Mr. Diamond grabbed his hand and hauled him out of the office chair and pulled him down the hall, towards the gyms on the other side of the building, Orwell’s heart did a little flutter. “A-Are you sure, Ray? I mean…at school?”

“Please–what Ray wants doesn’t matter anymore. The only person I aim to please, is you.”

“But…who are you?”

Ray turned around, and the flicker of red around his eyes Orwell had seen earlier had grown more pronounced, the hand round his own was hotter, and the grip was tight. “You’ll see…Now come on. Ray knows just the place.”

They ended up in a storage room inside one of the gyms, and among the spare jerseys, balls, and other gym equipment, Ray tore at Orwell’s clothes, ripping them away, even as his own seemed to simply…disappear. No–not disappear. They were burning up. In the dim light, Orwell could see the fabric simply burning up, like paper turning to ash. The coach’s skin underneath was red and inflamed, almost too hot to the touch–but the hottest part of him was, by far, his cock. If Ray had been that endowed before, Orwell was sure he would have noticed–it had to be at least ten inches long, and as thick as a beer can. He started to get on his knees, but Ray had other ideas–he shoved Orwell down and started running the massive member up and down his crack.

“I don’t think–it’s so big…” Orwell said.

“I know,” Ray said, and shoved the head into Orwell’s ass, unlubed, making him scream in pain, the coach driving his cock in deeper and deeper–but there didn’t seem to be an end to it. Orwell had never felt someone go this deep inside him before, his guts churning and coiling and burning with every thrust. “But it’s what you want, Orwell–I promise to always give you what you want.”

It felt like hours, the cock driving into him deeper and deeper, Orwell losing track of how many times he came. Then, suddenly, he felt the urge to gag, and then something forced his jaw wide, and with one mighty heave, Ray forced the head of his cock out through Orwell’s mouth, leaving him groaning and muttering in panic. “Like a pig on a spit,” the voice said, and Orwell felt himself…lifted from the ground, impaled on the bestial cock his fellow teacher had grown–or who he assumed was his fellow teacher. Claws dug into his skin and twisted him around on the shaft until he could see the thing which was now fucking him–and found himself staring at what he could only call a demon. “How does the little piggy feel?” the thing asked, licking his lips, “Does it feel good? I am yours, five times, but give in, and you can be mine for all eternity. Say yes, pig. Say yes–I will give you such glorious pleasure, I promise.”

Orwell just screamed, trying to haul himself free of the demon’s massive cock.

“A ‘no’ then. Four more, piggy. Four more,” the demon said, gripped Orwell’s sides, and began fucking him on the massive shaft, the head thrusting up and down Orwell’s throat until the demon gave a long roar, tugged Orwell up so the head slipped back into his stomach, and he came. Orwell felt the cum flooding his guts, flooding his body, and as it did…he could see his body changing, sagging, filling up with fat–enough fat that he dragged the demon’s dick down and he landed with the thud, the dick snapping off and turning to ash. The air around him was full of ash too–the remains of Ray’s body fluttering down around him, and his now obese body, hole gaping, as he hauled on his clothing (clothing which had somehow adjusted to his now flabby frame) and fled the scene as fast as he could, trying to ignore the laugh dogging him in the back of his mind the entire way home.

Orwell’s Demon (Part 1)

Alright, here’s the expanded version of Orwell’s Demon! I should also mention that several aspects of this story have been…somewhat inspired by the work of Major, over on Gay Spiral Stories, and if you’re familiar with his stuff…it can get pretty extreme. Consider yourself warned.

The room is chilly, and yet, Orwell’s shirt is sticking to his back when he sits forward in the plastic chair, trying to get comfortable, looking around again for a clock, but knowing he won’t find one. How long has he been in here, now? Probably not as long as he thinks he has, probably not even an hour, but waiting feels…excruciating. To his right, there’s a mirror stretching the length of the wall–one way, he assumes. In the TV shows, they’re always one way, at least.

They’re over there, they’re talking about you, about how weak you look, about how it couldn’t possibly be you, Orwell.

Orwell shook his head, and glances at the mirror–he sees something, and the camera in the room flickers for a moment, like a shadow gathering at the edges of the lens, and he yanks his eyes away, back down to his lap. He came here of his own will. That would count for something. Besides, if they knew it was him, they would have arrested him already, before things…had gotten more and more out of his control. He clutched at something under his shirt for a moment, and then let it go, leaning forward, like he was trying to keep something under there from touching his skin, and tried to relax.

On the other side of the glass, was Detective Hurlbane of the city police department, who had been investigating the series of disappearances which had occurred over the last several months. No trace of the men who’d disappeared–four in total–and no bodies or trace of the men had been found. The one connection between them all was the man sitting in the chair–Orwell Englewood. An unassuming teacher of English at a local high school. He was, maybe, five foot four, and weighed close to 350 pounds. He had no prior record, and everyone who knew him had assured Hurlbane that Orwell was a kind, generous fellow–even if he’d seemed a bit odd over the last few months. Then again, anyone who found themselves as the prime suspect in a series of mysterious disappearances would behave a bit oddly.

Hurlbane decided Orwell had stewed enough, and he walked around to the door, and stepped inside. “Afternoon, Orwell. Thank you again for volunteering to come down to the station today and answer some questions about Mr. Piper.”

Mr. Piper, the fourth man to disappear, was Orwell’s next door neighbor. He’d hosted a poker night with some of his friends last Tuesday, while his wife was out with her own friends. His poker buddies had left early, around nine, and when his wife had arrived home at midnight, he was gone–no sign of forced entry or foul play–and he hadn’t been seen since. Orwell hadn’t been at the party, but he had been home, next door. He claimed he hadn’t noticed anything odd during those three hours, but he had no alibi. Hurlbane had a difficult time imagining this short, chubby fellow overpowering anyone…but at some point the coincidences had added up–what he needed was a confession, and he was going to get one.

“Anything I can do to help, although…I don’t know how much help I can be. Like I told you on the phone, I went to bed early that night, and I didn’t hear…anything suspicious.”

“Did you have much of a relationship with Mr. Piper? It seems odd that you’d be his neighbor and not get invited over for a poker night.”

Orwell shrugged. “We…didn’t share much interests I guess. I’d rather sit at home with a good book, than play poker.”

Hurlbane sat down in the chair across from Orwell, and leaned over the table. Orwell avoided his eyes, and seemed…nervous. “That seems understandable. But for someone who likes to sit at home, you have to admit it’s suspicious.”

Orwell didn’t say anything, or take the bait.

“It’s suspicious that of all the men who have disappeared, you’re the only person in the city who knows all of them.”

Orwell shook his head, “No–I didn’t…I told you, I have no idea what that whole…rest area thing was about.”

Hurlbane nodded, “Yes, of course. My apologies. Three out of four then. I just have a hard time imagining that you wouldn’t know something–especially since you were the last one to see one, or possibly two, of these missing men alive and well.”

“I’ve told you everything I know, Detective, I really have.”

Liar. If only he knew the truth. Think he’d like to find out for himself, Orwell?

Hurlbane saw Orwell grip at something by his chest, and wince, as if he were in pain. “Are you alright Orwell?”

He nodded, but the detective could see something had changed about him. He looked…pale, and was sweating even more. “I could just…use a smoke is all.”

“I didn’t know you smoked–there were no ashtrays in your house when we searched it.”

“I only do it outside.”

Hurlbane sat back, a bit confused–but it wasn’t important. If anything, needing to smoke would make him more likely to slip up. “Well, before we talk about Mr. Piper, Orwell, I’d like to review some of the facts of the other men we’ve discussed anyway, just in case you’ve remembered anything else that might be helpful to the investigation.”

“Is that really necessary? I think…I should go, I really need to go, actually.”

Orwell started to get up, but Hurlbane was faster, and blocked him in. “It won’t take long, Orwell. I promise. Now–can we start with Mr. Diamond? The gym teacher. He was the first one to go missing as you know, and your desks weren’t too far apart. In fact, some of the other teachers said the two of you were rather friendly with one another–but you said you can’t recall even one conversation with him.”

I can remember a few conversations with him–and a few other things too. Come on Orwell, you had a good time, didn’t you? With Mr. Diamond and his cock?

In the Doghouse (Part 4)

CW: Scat, Filth, etc. Read at your own risk.

“Yeah, that’s the kinda Faggot I wanna see, good fuckin’ Faggot…” Gage said, petting Carson’s head, and the pride he felt sickened him, but he didn’t stop. After a couple of minutes, he pushed Gage off, and heaved himself up from the recliner, dropped his filthy briefs and bent over the side, still stroking his cock, “Come on ya fuckin’ dogboi–time tah earn yer fuckin’ keep. All dogs love sniffin’ ass, ‘n yer no fuckin’ exception–’n yer Master loves cummin’ with a tonuge in his hole.”

Carson whined and tried to fight it, tried to deny it, but he did as Gage ordered, walking behind him, giving his filthy crack a sniff, and then started licking it. It was filthy, and obviously Gage hadn’t wiped well, if at all, but to his tongue, the filthier it tasted, the more he wanted it–something Gage didn’t stop reminding him of, “Yeah, how’s it feel Faggot? Ya like bein’ trapped in that nasty fuckin’ dogboi body? Don’t worry–ya’ll break eventually. Won’t even have tah collar ya in a few months, ya’ll love what I do tah ya–all of it–ya’ll be beggin’ me fer more!” Gage laughed, bore down and let out another fart, but to their surprise, a bit of shit came with it, spattering Carson’s face. He gave a snort and shook his head, trying to get it off him, but Gage just laughed some more. “Git used tah it, ya dumb mutt! Lick it up, lick it up ‘n enjoy it–ya love yer master’s nasty shit. Git back in there ‘n dig deeper. Yer Master’s close, Faggot.”

Carson licked up the shit, trying not to think too hard about how he enjoyed the taste, and then dug in deeper, probing Gage’s hole with his tongue, muzzle open wide, and listening to him moan. The sooner Gage came, he told himself, the sooner this part would be over. He licked harder, and after a couple of minutes, Gage gave a few grunts and his cock exploded all over his hand and the side of the recliner in front of him, and he panted for a moment before hefting himself back up, and pulling up his briefs. “Clean it up, Faggot. Ya’ve earned it.”

Carson licked up the cum from Gage’s hand, and then cleaned up the side of the recliner, at least happy to not have his face buried in Gage’s ass for a moment…even if he had enjoyed it. No–he shook his head. It had felt good, but he hadn’t enjoyed it–he had to keep those things separate if he was going to stay sane.

“Woowee,” Gage said, “Tuckered me out a good bit. Think it’s time fer a nap,” he said. “Still, ya gotta git in yer pen for a while, Faggot. I don’t trust ya unsupervised ‘round the house just yet–pro’ly piss on the rug tah spite me.” Gage forced him back out into the dogrun, but before locking the gate, he filled up Carson’s bowl with another load of piss, hocked in some tobacco spit, and then returned to the house. Alone again, Carson paced the dogrun looking for a weak spot to try and escape, but saw nothing…and he was thirsty. Washing his mouth out with piss seemed the best option available, but in the end, it only made his whole mouth taste even worse. The sun was hot, and the only shade available was the doghouse, so he retreated, curled up, and fell asleep.

Carson woke up a couple hours later, and saw that from the light outside, it must be approaching evening. He crawled out and looked towards the house, but didn’t see any movement inside, and none of the lights were on–either Gage was still asleep, or he’d left to run errands. In any case, he needed to try and escape. More than anything else, though–Carson needed to shit, and quick. There was no easy place to do it, so he picked the corner furthest from the doghouse, humped up as best he could, and dropped a massive load of stinking shit next to the fence. He hated that he enjoyed the scent of it, but he ignored it and focused on trying to climb the fence instead. However, his body was still too unfamiliar to him to make it work–and the fact that he’d packed on close to a hundred pounds over the course of the morning didn’t help either. In the end, he was left panting, exhausted, and he walked over to the bowl, pissed into it with a bit better aim than before, and took a drink.

He hated that this seemed normal, after just a day. He hated that he was actually enjoying this. He sat down and rolled his back legs up, looking back at his cock where it had slipped out of his sheath, and realized that with his shifted body…he could lick it himself. He did, tasting it, and he kept licking it, enjoying the sensation as the first real pleasure he’d had since entering this house a day before, but he was interrupted by the sound of the back door opening and shutting. “Enjoying yerself Faggot? Like the taste a that dogcock?” Gage said, “Might have tah bring a few other mutts ‘round fer ya tah play with if ya do.” He quickly uncurled himself as Gage unlocked the dogrun. “Come on in mutt–time fer dinner.”

Carson followed him inside, and the smell of food on the air was heavenly. Gage must have been out shopping–he saw a whole chicken on the table, still steaming–probably from a supermarket deli. “Stop slobberin’ mutt–that ain’t fer ya, ‘n ya know it. “Besides, Master always eats first–but ya can make me happy while I do, right mutt?”

Carson spent the meal under the table, licking at Gage’s nasty feet and licking at his cock–whatever Gage wanted him to do, really, licking up the grease and spit that fell from his mouth as he ate onto his huge belly, sniffing the farts and belches Gage let off regularly. When he finished, Gage pushed back with a final belch, and hefted himself up. “Alright boy–time fer yer dinner,” he said, and walked over to a metal bowl on the floor, squatted over it, and with a few grunts, started dumping shit into the bowl right in front of Carson’s snout. “See mutt? Ya git all the tasty food too, ya just git it the second time ‘round. Still, we both know how the taste ‘n smell a Master’s shit makes ya hungry ‘n horny, right Faggot? Ya dirty fuckin’ dogboi?”

He fought–he fought hard. He’d done it earlier, but he hadn’t imagined that shit was going to be his main food from that point on. Still, his slobbering muzzle eventually found its way to the bowl, and he started scarfing down Gage’s shit, while the big man laughed beside him. “Fuck yeah, ya nasty faggot…” He got down behind Carson, and with a yelp, he felt Gage grab his hips and shove his hard cock into his ass, “Yeah, keep eatin’ ya fuckin’ mutt! I wanna fuck ya while I watch ya eat mah warm fuckin’ shit. Fuck, look at ya, ya fuckin’ shameless beast. I’m gonna love watchin’ ya fight, ‘n ya better fight hard, cause when ya finally give in, when ya finally accept the fact that yer nothin’ but a filthy, disgusting mutt–fuck, that’s gonna be a real sweet sight…”

Gage kept fucking him even after he’d finished his meal, but came soon after, filling his ass with a load of cum before pulling out, leaving Carson panting and whining, tears running down his face. “Aww, don’t cry boy, here, we can make ya feel better, right? Roll o’er boy.”

Carson rolled over, legs up, cock hard and slimy against his belly. “Yeah, I can make good dogboi’s like you feel real good…” Gage said, squatted down over him, and pressed his filthy ass to Carson’s muzzle. He licked up the shit caught in his cheeks, while Gage started tugging on his dog cock roughly, telling Carson what a treat it was to be jacked off by his Master, that it’s the only way a nasty dog like him can cum. With a yelp, his cock released a huge load of cum all over his belly, and Gage praised him, telling him he was a good shit eating mutt. “Yeah, yer gonna see, mutt. Yer gonna be real happy here ‘fore too long. Hungry all the time, beggin’ yer master fer shit–ya ain’t never gonna git enough, but that’s how I want ya–desperate, hungry, ‘n always horny fer yer Master.”

He made Carson clean up the floor, and then shooed him back out into the now dark yard for the night, locking him back up in the dogrun, and Carson…he was numb. He’d cum with his tongue deep in his Master’s hole, and worse…he wanted to do it again, so badly. Even worse than that…he was hungry again, and it was only getting worse. He caught a scent on the air, and saw his now cold shit in the corner of the dog run. Trying not to think about it, he walked over and ate it as quickly as he could…and only after did he realize he hadn’t heard Gage go back into the house.

He looked back over his shoulder, muzzle still covered in his own shit, and saw Gage leering at him on the steps. “Good boy,” Gage said, and went back inside.

He could still fight this, Carson told himself as he settled in for the night, a bit more comfortable than the night before with the extra padding of his new weight. He could fight him–he knew it. But he wasn’t sure he wanted to fight him, not really, and that, he realized, is why he was already lost.

Cleaning House (Part 8)

CW: Scat

~Daddy’s POV~

He’s my boy.

He’s dumb, filthy, nasty, fat, and a total pervert. He’s mine. He’s everything I wanted, and now, it’s all he wants too.

It’s difficult to explain what happened to me–honestly, even the experts are still puzzling it out. I saved the world, somehow, but I don’t remember a thing about it. They said I was a hero, but when I woke up that day, looking like this–fat, hairy, reeking, horny as can be–I had no memory of who I was. Still, the government sends me the fat checks, and want me living somewhere quiet–somewhere alone, and I could manage that for a while, but I’m…not alone in here, in my body. There’s something else inside me, a fragment of something, and it’s…so hungry.

I found out, by accident, what I could do. Hypnotize people, I guess. Change them, slowly, encourage them, make them lose themselves. I was caught between my desperate loneliness, and my own terror at what I wanted, what it wanted–what we wanted. So I placed the ad in the paper, and I chatted with him over the phone, got a feel for him, and I liked him a lot, the sound of him even. When he showed up at the cabin and saw the state of how I lived–fuck, I was so hungry for him, for that disgust on his face when he saw me. He tried to turn around and leave, but I had too many hooks in him from our phone chat–he marched right in, terrified out of his wits, and then we had our first chat, face to face.

Those first few months were tough. Controlling people is…exhausting, and I can only do it for so long–I have to convince them that they want to be controlled by me. I made him fantasize about me, long for me in all of my filth. I made him want to be my boy. I made him want to be bigger, and dirtier, and fatter, and hairier. He began to crack, after a few months, and I could start feeding him, and that night he gave in and masturbated for me–fuck! Then, I knew he was mine. Our boy.

I hired him as a cleaner at the beginning, but honestly, I love the filth. I kept up appearance for a little while, while I was cleaning out more and more of his mind, but now, with our second winter coming, the house is even more of a sty than it was when he first arrived, but he loves it even more than I do at this point. I honestly…I wasn’t going to push him this far, but when he left for that funeral–I can’t explain how I felt, when he was gone. I was terrified he wouldn’t come back, I was terrified I’d be alone again, but I couldn’t be alone, not with the voice. When he came back, sobbing in misery, horrified at himself–I was so angry. I started cleaning out even more of him, like he’d cleaned out my house, getting rid of everything that didn’t concern me, letting the sick, twisted loe he felt for me now grow larger and larger until it took up nearly everything inside him. Getting rid of his intelligence, of his shame, of his confidence, of his self-control. He can still talk, for now…but that’s a project for the winter, too, I think.

We’ll be alone here for months, with nothing but the snow for company. I’m going to scrub him out completely, and then I’m going to fill him back up again. He’s going to be my boy–my son–for real, or at least believe it with all of his heart. My stupid boy, with a vocabulary of 500 words, who usually just speaks in grunts. My perverse boy, with a cock that’s always hard, and two hands that can’t keep away from it for longer than a couple minutes. My nasty boy, pissing and shitting himself, unable to stop anything, unable to even feel shame as he drops load after load into the back of his underwear to eat later in front of me. My fat boy, pushing at least 600 pounds, but still able to work for me, for his daddy, the man he’ll do anything for.

I try to tell myself that it’ll be enough, if I finish the job, if I destroy him. I hate myself for doing it, but I can’t stop, it won’t let me stop, and I enjoy it too much, I’m so fucking ashamed of it. But one–one will be enough. One boy, one helpless boy for me is all I need. He can take it–he’ll have to, everything I can give him, because whatever is inside me…it wants out. It wants to grow, and consume, and destroy…everything, but I can’t let that happen. Whoever I was before, he died to stop that from happening, and I have to stop it too, I have to keep it from happening, and this…this is the only way I know how to do that, anymore.

He would understand, right? Who am I kidding, he wouldn’t understand it. At least…it’s what he wants now. He’d never be able to function without me anyway–he needs me now as much as I need him, to stay in control. He can take it–he’s a good boy. He wants to make sure Daddy is happy, he wants me to control him, and own him, and abuse him, and feed him–so I will. And after this, I’ll stop. The voice…it tells me that this won’t be enough, it laughs at me for lying to myself, but I know better. All I want his him. I can’t…explain how it makes me feel, when I see the love in his eyes, the complete devotion he has for me–what else could a Daddy possibly want? In any case…it will have to be good enough.