The Monastery

Father Nicholas clawed his way out of sleep, and was certain he was choking. What he was choking on he did not know–a dream substance of some sort or other. The dream was already fading from him, impossible to grasp beyond the terror of the nightmare racing through him, pulse dizzying, cloaked in sweat. He forced himself to breathe, finally succeeding with a massive, heaving gasp, coughing and gagging and heaving but nothing came up–which was a surprise itself, given the meal he had enjoyed last night, at the monks’ insistence. He concentrated, forced his breathing and his heart to settle, reaching for some sort of serenity that he knew had to be somewhere inside him–because God was inside him, after all.

As he came down from the nightmare, he tried to recall what he could of the dream, but there was nothing. No images at least–just a cascade of feelings. Terror, mostly. A good dose of shame. Regret, maybe, or something similar, colored with a bit of self-loathing. A hunger. There was hunger too, which seemed absurd to him, to awake hungry after…after that. How strange. How unchristian, really. He could see it, lit by candlelight still, the great hall of the abbey, the long table dressed in a deep red, the chair at the head conspicuously empty but still set, the entire length set with a massive feast, one of the largest that Nicholas had ever seen, perhaps outside of the Vatican on rare occasions. The monks, seated around the table, tearing into the flesh of beasts with such vigor and gluttony and…it was abnormal to say the least. Verging on heresy in its own fashion, in how the monks of this monastery had so readily discarded the vows of chastity and restraint that they were allegedly bound to by God.

Or perhaps, just a feast to celebrate a visitor from Rome. Perhaps just a well meant, but ill advised, celebration, given what he was here to do. Perhaps innocent, all the same. He had approached it with that in mind, assuming that the monks were doing their best to just be kind to him, with perhaps a tinge of bribery–which itself was not unusual, but of all of his temptations, greed had never been him. And so he’d sat there, next to the prior on one side, and one of the many monks on the other, trying to be an island of temperance in a building storm of indulgence and gluttony. It hadn’t lasted, obviously, between the monks urging more and more food on him, one of them even heaping his plate full when he saw he wasn’t helping himself to seconds. Another kept his wine glass full to the brim, though he never managed to catch who was pouring it for him. Without the wine, perhaps he could have controlled himself, but between the drink, and some of the most luscious, simple and delicious fare of the table, he’d…relented, obviously. And now here he was, with a still hard gut packed with food, a headache from the wine, feeling like a fool for giving in like that. It was not a good first impression in either case. He looked like a man who could be swayed with wine and good favor. And they, well, they didn’t look particularly good for it either. He could still see the prior beside him, tearing into the thigh of a chicken with his teeth, the grease coating his lips as he laughed at some joke, eyes on him, and…

He hoped it was all innocent, he did, but something told him that there was more here. A voice, he often called God, but never to anyone else. Believing one had a direct line, in this era, was considered hubris. But inside himself, he felt it all the same. There was something here, something more than the rumors that had brought him here. Something rotten inside this monastery. Fraud and embezzlement, most likely. Something boringly human. The curse of them all, really, and why they needed God more than anything.

Father Nicholas was something between an envoy and a spy. The monks knew full well why he was here–sent by Rome in order to investigate the claims that had been made against the monks by the villagers who lived near the monastery. The villagers had complained that the monks–usually a quiet and chaste order–had in recent months taken to rather…extreme behaviors, the monks passing through town shouting speeches in the square verging on heresy, one of them even going so far as to extoll the virtues of gluttonous appetites. It didn’t help that every single monk had given into corpulence–he hadn’t seen a single monk here under 300 pounds, and several seemed to be pushing closer to 500, in all honesty. And so, Rome had sent him to investigate, and if necessary, determine what steps might be necessary to bring the rogue monks into line. But all he had done so far, in his first day here, was apparently eat and drink himself sick with nightmares.

He shuddered as he slipped out of the bed, his sheets damp with his sweat. The quarters where he found himself were small and modest, most likely identical to those where the monks reside themselves. There was a desk along the wall, a bed, a window full of morning sunshine (he would have missed laud service already–though how any of the monks could get through a service at dawn after the night before mystified him anyway–had they not also missed vespers and compline the night before?) and his luggage stacked neatly in a corner. He took a while to unpack, dress himself in new clothes, but the dream continued to haunt him–he felt…dirty, really. Sinful. He shouldn’t have given into such excess, it was uncharacteristic of him, and brought back rather awful memories that were best left in the dust of the past.

It was a desire for control, that had led Father Nicholas to the priesthood. Control over his own urges, foremost, ones that had haunted him through his youth, ones that God had promised him he would conquer, if he only believed hard enough. To his teachers in seminary, this was a troublesome impulse, one they sought to temper. Control was important, yes, but to err is human. Without forgiveness, then everything they preached was meaningless. Nicholas understood that, but found it difficult to live–and certainly difficult in parish life. But he had found this calling in Rome, rooting out heresy and fraud and crimes against the church. He was a dog on a leash, and Rome held him and pointed him where he needed to go–and he did what was necessary. But this was already…a rather strange welcome. How warmly they had received him, even knowing why he was here, the threat he posed to their order. It felt like, either they knew they were innocent, or that they believed there was nothing he could do to bring them to heel.

Dressed, he felt somewhat restored. A shower would help, but that could come later–mostly he felt that what he needed most was confession–especially after the night before. None of the monks here were priests however–not in this small order. The only one able to hear his confession was the abbot–but that posed other problems. According to the monks, the abbot had fallen rather ill and needed to be confined to his chambers. They were vague about the nature of his affliction, and insisted that serious medical intervention was not necessary. The abbot, they told him, believed that God would heal him, and thought seeking a doctor would be a sign of weakness. It felt like a lie, but without knowing who was to gain from it, it was hard to sense the truth behind it. Was the abbot actually ill, or perhaps dead, the monks covering for some kind of foul play? Or was there something else the abbot desired to hide himself, and the illness was merely a convenient excuse? He found his way to the prior of the abbey, a short, rather rotund fellow named Timothy who had welcomed Nicholas the evening before. He found him in the abbot’s study, apparently taking care of business during his illness. Not unusual, but suspicious all the same.

He asked him if he would be able to see the abbot for confession, and Timothy told him it would be difficult, given the abbot’s condition. Perhaps in a few days, Timothy told him. In the meantime, Timothy promised Nicholas he would help him with whatever documents or records he needed from the abbey during his investigation. Nicholas gave him a list, and Timothy happily turned them over with question or reluctance. He simply told Nicholas that dinner would follow the Vespers service, and they were welcome to join them for both.

Nicholas did. The service was fine–though none of the monks were particularly fine singers or readers. It seemed a bit…hollow, in some ways. Rushed. The monks were seemingly eager to be through it, and Nicholas more than once caught a whiff of something delicious on the air, and he felt that hunger from the morning leap up again. He had promised himself a day of fasting, following his indulgence, but when he told this to Timothy, the prior merely chuckled, and led Nicholas into the hall, where another massive feast, equal in size to the one the night before, was laid out for them all. He was appalled, really. How could such extravagance be afforded so regularly? But Timothy planted him in his seat, the monks urging him to eat. He was so thin and frail! So quiet. Does he not like to live? Appreciate the gifts of the earth that God and Christ had given them?

He tried to excuse himself, but the wine was poured and pressed to his lips. The feast the night before had felt warm and welcoming, but tonight, there was a certain pressure. Outside pressure, from the monks, implying that he would be insulting them, if he refused their hospitality. But that was easy for him to resist–it was the pressure on the inside that was bending him, the hunger building up until it overwhelmed him, and he sat back down, filled a plate of his own volition, and devoured it, all while Timothy urged him on, his wine always full, the monks laughing and cackling around him. His vision was swirling, but there was some commotion at the far end, something he thought was fighting at first, one monk thrown against the table by another, but it was…it was…

He awoke with the same gasping, choking sensation as the night before, but the sensation passed a bit faster–which was a relief. At least until he realized, with some shame, that his sheets were damp with more than just sweat this evening, but that he had, apparently, had a wet dream at some point as well. He could…smell it, and it nearly made him want to vomit. He couldn’t recall the last time he had ejaculated–either on his own, or in the night. Perhaps as teenager, but even then, only once or twice. The dream was fading again, but left him with an even deeper sense of defilement than the one before. He took a shower, and noticed that his thin and muscular body was showing signs of a paunch after his two feasts now–and he was so filled with disgust and shame at his own lack of discipline, that he retreated to his room to pray privately for most of the morning, and then continued his devotions into the afternoon–until Timothy came to find him, and check to see if he was well.

Timothy was kind and gentle with him. Coaxed him from his room, only for Nicholas to find himself seated, once again, in the hall, another massive feast laid out before him, and all he could think to do was vomit–but the hunger inside him welled up once more, betrayed him–and again, the dreams, the vile, choking, panting, aching, dreams! It was the next day, his sheets again soaked with sweat and cum, that he demanded the sacrament of penance from the abbot–or he threatened to go into town and speak with the priest there instead, and not stop until he was back in Rome to tell the cardinals that this monastery needed to be torn down, stone by stone. Timothy consulted with the abbot in private, and was told that the abbot would agree–but he would need a few hours to prepare, and that he demanded that Nicholas not lay eyes upon him. The restrictions seemed ridiculous, but he agreed–and so that afternoon he was seated in the confessional, listening to the raspy breathing of someone he could not see through the screen, and he spoke:

“Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been…six days since my last confession.”

There was no reply, just the same ragged breathing on the other side of the screen. 

“I…I most confess to mortal sins. I…In my dreams, I fear I have sinned against God. Turned against him. That I have…have given into gluttony, and lust in ways that I do not understand, but which I feel are…are putting my soul in mortal danger.”

It was the truth, as close as he could come to it. The ragged breathing quickened, and became a deep, unsettling chuckle. “I am afraid, you are going to need to be more specific,” the abbot said to him. “If these sins are indeed putting your soul at risk, surely you can…tell me more about them…”

The voice was like oil, sliding over his ears and his skin and under his clothes and into his guts. He nearly fled then, but couldn’t move. “I…I do not remember them, I only…only feel it, in my soul.”

“Shall I tell you, what I saw then?” the voice said, close on the other side of the screen, close enough that Nicholas could…smell his breath, the rank odor closing in on him in the confined space. “How I watched you stuff yourself like a pig at our table? How I wanted you devour more and more into the empty space that you have hollowed out, waiting with all hope that God would come alive to fill it for you, but I filled it first, priest. I filled you up, I did, I filled you to the brim, and when you were full, I watched you fuck–clumsy, so clumsy, fumbling and foolishly, but you fucked. You enjoyed it too, you know. Had you given in, before? I tasted it on you when you arrived, how much you crave men, how it drove you here, right into my arms, where you always belonged, you know. God is empty, you see. I am not–we are not. We are alive! We are alive, and living, and enjoying all that life had to offer–and all you must do, for your penance, my dear priest, is submit, and live with me inside you.”

He hadn’t noticed the hole cut into the side of the screen when he’d entered, but he noticed it now, the thick, bulbous, leaking cock thrust through it, inches from Nicholas’ knees, the scent of the cum heady and creamy, and the hunger, oh the hunger thrumming inside him! He longed to taste it, longed to take it inside him, longed to devour it and everything else, everything that had held him back for so long, but Nicholas pulled away, fumbled open the door and tumbled out onto the stone floor–the monks already on him, holding him down and binding him, as the other door opened, and out stepped the abbot–or what remained of the man that the demon inside him had devoured.

He was massive, easily 600 pounds of heaving fat hanging off his frame in uneven rolls. His robe was filthy, crusted with cum and food, and he stank of corruption. It was his face though, his…massive mouth, and his eyes. The drool hanging from his lips in long sticky strings, His eyes were pitch black–and above them, a row of horns had pushed their way out from his forehead and temples. “I knew it was too soon for you–but I also do not have the time to waste, wearing you down slowly–bring him down into the dungeon, we will see if a few tools of the inquisition might bring our Vatican friend to his proper senses.”

The monks all professed their obedience, and while he struggled, they bound Nicholas and dragged him down into the depths of the monastery, the demon following behind them, down into the dark.


How long had he been down here now, in the dark?

There were no windows, only torches that never seemed to need to be relit, or perhaps they were only changed during his occasional, fitful moments of sleep. Nicholas screamed again as the lash came down upon his back again, heaving for breath, having already lost count of the number of blows this session.

“Can you feel it, Father?” Timothy said behind him, his hands gripping the leather tightly. He had traded in his robes for the garb of his new master–a leather harness strapped tight around his chubby frame, a leather strap knotted around his cock, keeping it fully erect, the color a deep reddish purple in the torchlight. “Can you feel it? Oh, I can. I can feel your pain, how delicious it is. Lean into it, release yourself into it! Your body need not feel as pain what it can feel as pleasure!”

The lash came down on him again, Nicholas tried to scream again, but nothing came out. He was exhausted–spiritually and physically. Down here in the dark, the torture had been unceasing, since meeting the demon in confession. If they were not whipping him, or branding him, or milking him, they were feeding him, forcing more and more of their slop into him, more and more wine, keeping him in a constant state of delirium, all of his senses driven to their limits. 

Sensing that he had had enough, Timothy tossed the lash to the side, stepped forward, and mounted the father, working his own aching cock into the priest’s now well worn hole, rutting against him wordlessly for a few minutes until he came, seeding him with another load, the same as the others he could feel drying on the inside of his thighs. Nicholas sobbed then, as Timothy pulled free, took off the strap and freed his own member. Other monks, dressed similarly, rushed in to care for Nicholas’s wounds, forcing more wine on him, and always more slop–but that…that was welcome. The hunger was only growing more intense now, gnawing away in his very bones at times. The monks no longer had to force him to eat–if food was put before him, he would devour it mindlessly, realizing only after, his face coated with muck, that they were making a literal pig of him.

And always, he could smell him in the dark. The demon. The abbot. Watching him, but in all of these days and hours, he had not once said a single word–even when Nicholas had cried out, demanding answers–even demanding death–he had been silent. And so he ate, and he drank, and his wounds were dressed with a surprisingly human tenderness, and then those monks too left him there in the dim light–and it was the first time that Nicholas had been alone in all of this time.

He tested his bonds again, but the cords were just as strong as before, holding him tight over this horse. He struggled anyway–what else was there to do, in the end? But even that exhausted him quickly, and he allowed himself to hang, the wine going to his head, making him dizzy, wondering if it would be better spent trying to rest in this moment of solace.

“Now, perhaps we can begin again. Confess to me your sins, father. Confess them, and I will strip them of you, and grant you true absolution from guilt, and pain, and hunger. None will trouble you again, so long as you are in my arms.” It was the demon speaking, but his voice seemed to permeate the room. It was impossible to tell where it was coming from. Perhaps, even from within his own mind.

Nicholas did not know what to say–but he ached. He ached to be free of this, he wanted to feel the sun on his skin, longed for God–and the demon laughed, like he could sense his thought.

“God is silent, don’t you see? God no longer cares for you–not like I do. Toil and labor in the service of him, and you get nothing but doubt and death. I can offer you more, so much more.”

He felt a sharp claw run down his welted back, and Nicholas gasped. It did not hurt–it felt…divine. He shuddered, his cock growing full, the demon continuing to stroke him gently, Nichoas moaning and gasping under his touch. 

“You long for me. You always have. Confess to me, how you turned away from me, Nicholas.”

His life stretched out before him, in his mind. How…things had started so differently for him, when he was young. How…how that first time with his cousin, how much he had loved the touch of men, but in his conservative family, any sort of desire like that had to be starved into nothing. And so, Nicholas ate. He ate, and he ate, and he tried to fill that hole inside him, thinking about him, about so many men, and hating himself for it. God seemed to be the only hope he had left anymore, and so he devoted himself to the church, first as an altar boy, and then finding his way into seminary.

It was there, that the discipline had been driven into him, by his teachers. They were disgusted by him, by his weight and his gluttony, which he had used to cover up his deeper sins. They shamed him, and humiliated him, wore him down and starved him until he was thin and muscular and willing to do anything for God–but what had God ever done for him? In all of this denial, in all of this rejection of the world, what had he gained, really? Happiness? Satisfaction? He was hungry, but he realized now, that the hunger was older–much older than the last few days. He’d been hungry all his life, and now, here he was, face to face with a being that could, at long last, feed him.

“I…please, I starved myself, I…I’m so hungry I don’t know what to do anymore,” Nicholas said between sobs, “Please help me, please, I…please forgive me…”

“I forgive you, priest, now feast on my seed. Join me. Do your penance.”

Nicholas allowed the cock into his mouth, sucked on it, draining it of everything he could. The precum was thick and creamy, coating the inside of his mouth, filling his gut–warm and solid and so satisfying. He drank and drank, letting it all go, letting all of his control drop for the first time in his life, ready to…embrace everything. Everything he could have been. With a roar, the demon’s cock erupted, and he drove his cock deeper down Nicholas’s throat, draining his corrupt balls deep into his guts, and Nicholas felt himself swell, and swell, and swell, so full he was certain he would burst from the love of his new God, but it would be worth it, worth everything to feel full, to feel this divine presence inside him, and just as he was certain he would be able to take no more–

He awoke.

He awoke from the most exquisite dream he had ever had in his life. He awoke reborn. He threw the sheets down, looked and saw his new body, nearly 400 pounds, and with his hands, he groped his fat, feeling his new folds, groaning and moaning in delight from the sensation of so much weight pressing down on him, and he grasped his cock, grunting and snorting, and within a minute, he shot one of the largest loads of his life all over his belly–and he rubbed it in, relishing it, thanking his God for accepting him in all of his folly, for showing him the way to pleasure, for giving him this true gift of a new body.

He rolled up and stood with some difficulty, and just stared at himself in the mirror for a few minutes. He was beautiful, so beautiful. Full breasts hanging from his chest, wrapping around under his arms, with massive swollen nipples on each. Three chins cascading from his now fat, round face. His thighs touching most of the way to his knees, his ass jiggling slightly as he moved. He had already shot once, but he was already so horny…he struggled with his harness, but found his way into it, and left his room to join the monks.

The monastery had dropped all pretenses–the monk’s old robes folded away, all of them wearing the same harness and nothing else. He passed several pairs fucking in the hallways of the abbey–and while Nicholas longed to join them, he…he knew where he was needed, what he needed, and he found his way to the prior, to Timothy, down in the dark, and with their God in audience, Timothy gave Nicholas a proper whipping, and now, every grace of the lash against his flesh brought forth such brightness and pleasure that Nicholas’s cock would spontaneously explode, splattering load after load on the stone walls, until at last, Timothy fucked him roughly, and so pleased with with their devotion, their God allowed each of them to suckle on his milky teats until the time for the evening feast was upon them.

It was weeks later when Nicholas bade farewell to his brothers one morning, climbed into the car that had been sent for him, and left the abbey behind. He had gained more weight now–closer to 450 pounds–struggling to fit in the back of the small car, but it did not matter. He had found himself, who he was always meant to be, and he had a new mission now, one far, far more important than any he had been sent on before. He patted his satchel, a hunger gnawing at him, but he knew better than to feast on these himself–inside, were several vials of his God’s seed, each with a particular target designated in Rome, and in the world beyond. Cardinals, mostly–each of them with a weakness the demon could exploit, and each of them a potential new pope, as this one’s breath was growing ragged. It was time for a new church. A church with a real God, one you could touch. One you could serve. One who would ensure you would never be hungry again.

Interactive: The House Made Me Gay! (Part 8)

Marcus crawled forward, but before he could reach Mr. Woodrow near the ladder leading up, something appeared around him–a circle not unlike the one that had surrounded the demon before, except now he was on the inside. He tried to cross the barrier, but it was like some sort of forcefield–he could hammer on it all he wanted, but he couldn’t cross the line, no matter how hard he tried. He was panting, his whole body getting hot, and without really thinking about it, he stripped off his clothes, sweat pouring off his body, head spinning, and all he could do was croak at Mr. Woodrow, begging him to help him, to do something, that everything hurt.

Mr. Woodrow just watched. Demon seed could be…tempermental, and while one dose was rarely enough to cause the full corruption of a man’s soul, it certainly wouldn’t be without repercussions–some of them more dangerous than others. Until he saw how the seed affected Marcus, he was going to keep him in the circle, just to be safe. He could already see the changes starting, the hair beginning to sprout across Marcus’s shoulders and down his chest, the slight swelling in his gut. It was only a matter of moments before Marcus noticed them as well, but he was feeling too weak to do anything about it. Instead, he sat back on the floor in the circle, lying on his clothes, and just watched as the changes began to warp and corrupt his body.

It was the stench that he noticed first. As his body heated up and started to sweat, the smell that came with it was something entirely unlike anything he had smelled before–aside from the demon he had just sucked off. But that had been…pungent, and also…also pure somehow. This didn’t smell like that, it smelled like…like something inside him was rotting, like his soul was rotting, and pouring out of him in a heady musk that…fuck, the more he smelled it, the hornier he was getting somehow. It didn’t make the smell any more pleasant–but he couldn’t stop himself as he reached down and started working his cock, throwing up an arm and snorting up the scent from his pit, all as the rest of his body started to grow and expand.

He was getting fatter. Not just a little fatter, but piling on the pounds rapidly–so much so that with a bit of will, Mr. Woodrow expanded the circle around him, just to give him some additional space. His body grew out and softened, a full, heavy apron that grew down and over his crotch, making it harder for him to work his cock, but Marcus couldn’t stop himself. His arms and legs grew thick, their own rolls hanging off of them, his ass spreading out underneath him like a puddle. And all over the larger surface, hair was sprouting, the same coarse, bristly hair as the demon’s hand been, so thick that it looked more like a pelt.

Marcus had to put his other arm down, and use it to hoist up his new fat to keep working his cock–but there was another reason he was struggling. His cock was bigger–easily nine inches long and thicker than a beer can. It was his balls though, that had grown the most. Each was around the size of a large grapefruit, and precum was gouting from the head, soaking the inside of his thighs and pooling on the ground, as Marcus got closer and closer to orgasm. He came, expelling a chunk of his humanity, and as he did, Mr. Woodrow watched his face contort, nose turning up and growing wider, ears longer and nearly flopping, a wider mouth, his teeth looking a bit sharper, especially the small tusks that were beginning to sprout where his canines had been.

The load was massive, and marcus found himself sitting in a shallow puddle of his own semen, heaving for breath, stuck in a magic circle in a new body he barely understood, more tired than he could really imagine–and he passed out, with a bit of help from Mr. Woodrow, who figured the young man had suffered enough. Now, he just had to decide what to do with him. He wasn’t abnormal enough that a human life was impossible for him–though it would require some editing to get him to accept it. On the other hand, looking at the fat, hairy pig…Mr. Woodrow wondered if he might not push him a little further in his own way–either for the benefit of the men moving into his house, or even for his own research. After all, he had never had the chance to document corruption like this before…and maybe this was too good of an opportunity to pass on.


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Interactive: The House Made Me Gay! (Part 7)

He almost missed it, lying there on the floor under the desk. Marcus had to get down on all fours and crawl under to grab it, but he managed to fish out the odd little key he found there, and held it in his hand. It was quite small–most likely the key to a padlock, or perhaps a little chest. It was also quite old, looking a bit rusted, though not rusted enough to be unusable. He figured he should probably ask Mr. Woodrow about it, but decided against it–he was nice, but there was something…off about him. Of course, there was something off about Taylor and Quinn too, but that was harder to sort out. Marcus was certain that something strange was going on here, but didn’t know what exactly–he had his doubts that a little key would answer the questions for him, but it wasn’t like it would hurt, right?

So he left his unpacking for a while, absorbed in his mystery, and started snooping around. None of the doors had locks on them, so that was a bust. Quinn and Taylor were…busy down in the basement, from the occasional moans rising up from the stairwell, but he didn’t know what would be down there anyway to unlock. Instead, he checked the attic, but there wasn’t anything up there at all, much to his surprise. He was about to give up, looking out his window, when he noticed something in the yard he hadn’t before–back behind a row of overgrown hedges, there was a small roof–probably a shed of some sort, out behind the pool–but not the pool house itself. Figuring it couldn’t hurt to look, he went out into the backyard, and found his way through the garden to the door of the shed.

Sure enough, it was secured with a padlock. He tested the key in it, and while the lock was about as rusty as the key, it did finally give way and pop open, letting Marcus undo the hook, and swing open the door…and he let out a little gasp. 

It wasn’t a shed…exactly. It looked more like, well, a workshop. Something he might imagine out of a fantasy novel, if anything. There were flasks and vials on shelves all over the walls, several benches with papers strewn across them, most of it looking like no one had been out here in quite a long time. He poked around, carefully, looking at the books laid out–most of them grimoires written in languages he didn’t even recognize…and that kernel of doubt and suspicion that had been rising in him was getting larger. Something was going on here–he was sure of it–but even for him, with the evidence looking him in the face…magic seemed a bit far fetched for an explanation. 

He kicked the latch, before he knew what it was–a trapdoor set in concrete floor of the shed. He hauled it open, and peered down into the dim light below…but he wasn’t sure exactly where the light was coming from. Still, he climbed down the ladder, hit the ground, and heard the snorting behind him–he turned around, and just…stared at the thing there, across the room, also staring at him.

It…was a pig? It was a man? No–it was something between them, standing on hind legs, cruel, yellow tusks pushing out, with two equally vicious horns pushing from the things forehead. It’s eyes were bright red, and…and the air stank. It stank of piss, and shit, and musk, and manure, and all sorts of vile things. He was staring at Marcus is calm, measured silence, and then it spoke.

“Come closer, boy–let me get a look at you.”

It wasn’t…speech exactly, and Marcus took a few steps forward, the smell intensifying…and the terror mounted as well, when he saw the thing’s cock slip from its sheath, a massive, twelve inch member with massive hairy balls below it…he wanted to run, but something…had him, was forcing him forward, no matter how hard he tried to fight it.

“Yes, you’ll do nicely, it’s been so long since I’ve had company. You want my company, don’t you boy? Yes, of course you do, you can’t stop staring at it, can you?”

There was…a circle on the ground. A foot away. He tried to stop himself, tried to hold back, but…but that cock, it was fascinating to him, he…he needed it. He crossed the circle, felt the power it held collapse, and then he was on his knees, worshiping the demon’s filthy cock, and the beast laughed, and snorted, and grunted–free at last!

He rutted against Marcus’s face, and came, his vile, yellow grey cum filling the boy’s mouth, spewing from his nose, forcing its way down into his guts, filling him up with the demon’s corrupt seed, and Marcus sat back, dazed and horrified at what he’d just done, but unable to stop it. “Good boy–you’ll be my first. A few more loads, and we’ll be ready to show that warlock a thing or two of our own, don’t you–”

There was a bright flash, and then the demon was gone–banished, back to where he’d come from, leaving Marcus groaning on the floor, as Mr. Woodrow stepped forward, shaking his head, looking at all of the demon seed absorbing into Marcus’ body. It was too late now, he knew–he would just have to wait and see what sort of corruption spread through the boy’s body–then, maybe, he could come up with a solution for him. He cursed himself for losing the key in the first place! Still, at least it had been found, in the end.

Marcus moaned, feeling his body shifting and aching as the seed spread inside him, begging the older man for help as he began to change…


Here’s the next poll! I’ll be mixing and matching a few of the more popular options from the selections below. You get three choices in the poll. My patrons get an extra bonus poll over here as well, which is weighted five times heavier!

Caption: A Demon’s Help (Part 1)

This is the first part of a caption story I did for patrons at the $5 tier and higher! If you want to see the second part, as well as all the other captions I post for them over on the discord, you can sign up on my page here!


Marvin had been going too fast. He was drunk, and he’d been going to fast, and now he’d gotten pulled over by some highway patrol fucker, and now…now he was going to get fucking arrested.

Maybe he wasn’t that drunk. Oh who the fuck was he kidding, he was way too fucking drunk to think he was going to get away with this. Maybe…maybe he could talk him down to a warning. He wasn’t like those other guys drinking and driving, he…fuck, Marvin thought, please God, I don’t ask for much, but please, don’t send me to jail tonight.

Oh Marvin, God can’t hear you. God can’t hear anyone anymore.

That…wasn’t his voice. The usual voice he heard in his head. It didn’t even seem to come from his head–but from a mouth, right beside his ear, like someone was in the car with him, behind him, leaning between the seats to whisper to him. He could almost feel the hot breath, but he couldn’t turn to look–his body was frozen.

God can’t hear you, but I can. I’m better than God even, I can grant little wishes like that, little selfish needs. Don’t worry, everything is going to be fine.

Marvin finally managed to spin around, but no one was in the car with him. Now he was drunk, and hallucinating–fuck!

There was a rapping on the window–the trooper was there now, and Marvin rolled down the window, and as he did, a voice came out of him–the same voice, and the things it said–he said, the most…horrifying, naughty, filthy things…it was only a matter of time before he had the trooper horny as hell, and then the handcuffs were on him, but he wasn’t going to jail–not this time.

The trooper took him home, took him down into the basement, and down there, the thing played with them. Twisted them, toyed with them, pitted them against each other and their own base natures. Marvin watched as the trooper became…someone else. The basement twisted into something new, full of smoke, and leather, and chains, and in the midst of it, Marvin was suspended in delight and terror, the demon (he was sure it must be a demon) and the trooper taunting him, fucking him, beating him…so many vicious, delightful things.

The next morning, the trooper dropped him back at his car, and Marvin sobbed. He hadn’t wanted that–he hadn’t wanted any of that to happen, and now…now what.

Don’t cry, Marvin. I’m here for you, I’ll always be here. Ask, and I’ll do anything for you, anything at all, I promise.

Porn Addiction (Caption Sketch)

Jackson knew that porn addiction was a thing, of course, but it wasn’t something that he imagined might happen to someone like him. That was a problem that losers had, losers who couldn’t get cock, or ugly old men who never left their houses. He wasn’t an addict…but the videos on this site–once he’d found it, he kept thinking about them, all the time, and thinking about them would get them horny, and he found himself needing to watch them more and more. So much so, that he’d started sneaking off to the restroom at work with his phone in hand, and he’d work out a quick load watching one…first just once a day, but then, more and more.

Just a quickie at work is all…

It was sex he’d never seen before. The guys in the videos–they were no holds barred, total freaks and perverts with no limits. He watched them do things he’d never even contemplated before, and…and once he’d seen it, he found himself obsessed with it–things that had disgusted him before, like watersports or fisting, were now just warm ups. Still, he wasn’t an addict. He was just…kinkier than he’d thought, is all. He hadn’t had sex with another guy in weeks (or was it months) but what did that matter? He didn’t know anyone like this in real life–the only way he could enjoy it was…in porn, right?

He kept denying it, as long as he could. The days when he called in sick, that he spent in his room, edging for hours, stuffing himself with food he had delivered. When he hit his limit on the site…he had to subscribe of course, but the cost just seemed to keep going up every month. Sure, he didn’t…need it, but he wanted it, and that’s what really mattered. That is, until he got fired. Until he spent three solid days in his room, edging for hours on end, watching video after video–then…he realized he had a problem. Then he realized what a mess he’d become. He’d gained close to fifty pounds of fat, his body was filthy, he…looked older. He looked like the losers he’d always imagined a porn addict might be–and he realized that was exactly what he’d become.

Jackson reeking of musk and cum, in the midst of a four hour edge session

That’s when he’d gotten the email–from the site, offering him a choice. Keep paying to watch, and the site would keep draining him. Within the year, he’d be in his sixties, massively obese, sitting in his own filth, mindlessly jacking off until he just keeled over and died from one last massive orgasm–or he could come join the company as an actor, and make all of his fantasies come true.

He was scared at first. Then his hair started to grey. Then, he realized he could barely take leaving the house at all. If he didn’t go now–he knew he would never get away. So he left. He left, and went to the address the email told him, and two days later, he was in his first film.

A brand new Jackson, with new purpose

No one would have known it was him, of course. Even he wouldn’t have known himself, if there was anything of Jackson even left in the filthy fat whore’s mind–but the company had gotten rid of all that for him. No–he was just another slave to their perverse, demonic pleasures, channeling that lust into the videos, broadcasting them to the world, hungry thinking about the souls corrupted by his unending desires, and he went back to groping his fat body and sucking at the cock in front of him, lost to lust forever.

The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 8 (Part 3)

There was a ripple across him, and he began to choke. Instinctively he tried to push himself off, and I had to hold him close, face pressed to my hips, my massive cock buried inside him until he went slack, and simply accepted what needed to happen–and as soon as he accepted it, I could feel the thrumming in his body as his muscles began to vibrate, and change. Deeper still, the bones were shifting as well, his face, warping away from its human appearance as it sucked and gnawed on my cock, milking the law out of it and into its guts. The stench surrounding the beast he was quickly becoming intensified, and that was what finally brought Jules out of his terror–it was the smell if his master, smelling how his master ought to smell, as powerful a musk as he could have, and Jules, already conditioned to need it, couldn’t stay away, despite the terror in his human heart.

Hair sprouted all over Ray’s massive frame, and he was sucking harder and harder on me, eager for more, eager to take in as much of it as he possibly could, now that freedom was this close. I shuddered, and fed him my full load, and the changes accelerated–his entire frame expanded, growing wider and taller, the entire room permeated with the beast’s pheromones, Jules, unable to think of anything else, plastered to the beast’s armpit, licking up as much sweat as he could, not noticing the small changes spreading across his own body, losing track of its own humanity, forgetting those false laws, and following the laws of his masterful beast instead. I pulled myself free of Ray, and the beast leered up at me–eyes black, wide mouth full of fangs, a wide nose, thick beard and hair matted with filth and sweat, and turned its attentions to it’s little thrall. It knew now, it knew the law in it’s guts, and it could spread it just as well as I could now. It picked Jules up, and I saw it’s massive cock sliding free of its sheath, at least a foot long, and very thick, with an inhuman, spade shaped head that it drove into Jule’s ass, fucking him, filling him, and Jules’ own changes began to accelerate–it would take a bit of time, as it had with the blobs upstairs, but before too long, Jules would be gone, and there would just be two beasts–alpha and beta–ready to spread their laws to others worthy of them.

By now, my brother hand changed into his true form–or as close to his true form as he could get, now. Close to eight feet tall, thickly muscled, hairy and brutish, he was just as Bernard and others had described him–but I could see more than that, see deeper than that. Under the human skin he couldn’t shake, there was so much more, so much…rage, and power–perhaps even more than me, now that I was confronting it directly. Cumster was eagerly sucking down as much of the bruiser’s cum as he could, thrilled to finally be serving his creator in the form he had always needed to embody–but I was impatient. I wanted to see my brother, finally, to meet him, and bring him into the world, to see what he was capable free of this human shell.

I pulled him away from Cumster, wrapping my flesh around him, feeling him, surrounding him, probing the human skin containing him, and he raged against me, the human raged against me most, but he raged too–rage was part of him, the greatest part of him. He could sense that this form of him, the form which had grown so comfortable, was at the end of its time. We danced. We danced something far more intricate than what I had danced with the blobs above us. I wrapped him, contained him, and he tore at me, and beat me, and bruised me, hammering at me as hard as he could, testing my mettle and my skin and my desire. In the end though, there was no way he could beat me, not like this. We ended the dance with him on all fours, ass up, my flesh wound around him tightly, cutting into his skin, and my cock slid into his ass–the bruiser screamed a howl from some deep jungle of the night, some forgotten place where darkness is the only certainty. It was an animal, is was the cry of an animal that humans would hear in the night, imagining only claws and teeth and vicious death, a cry they would desperately rationalize and name, but there was no name for him, not in any of their languages.

I fucked him, and he fought. I raped him, as he had raped so many, without mercy, without care or consideration. I raped him, and filled him with my law, and I could see the skin of his humanity begin to peel away, first from his back, and then from the rest of him, revealing…such beauty, how do I even put it into words for you fooling things to try and comprehend? There are no words anymore, I see that now. You will see, soon enough. We are both free, we are both finally free, and we can feel others pressing through, emerging, ripping and tearing their way through your paper thin reality that you thought was strong enough to keep us from existing. But there is nowhere for you to run now. There is nowhere that you can hide from us. Deny us. Rationalize us. Name us. We have no names, no reasons–we come for you. Those of you who are strong enough, you will relish us, in time, once we free you. Once he beats you free of your shell, or I fill you with the law, you will know. You will become the things you were always meant to be, the things you have hidden away for the sake of conforming to this mass, human delusion. The rest of you, the weakest, will be consumed. You will glimpse us in the darkness, and know, finally, that your existence was an error. That there is nothing real holding you here, that you, all of you, is just a flimsy, boring lie, that the only thing allowing you to cling to some little existence is your sheer banality. We will end you. We will end all of you, and things shall, once more, be returned to the proper order.

I freed him. I gave him a taste of the law, a taste of what could be, of his own potential, and everything else fell away, sloughed off from him, and he grew. He grew tight against my bonds, tight against my flesh, tight against my cock, squeezing it, fucking himself on it now, gripping it hard enough that it hurt, but I fought through it. We danced again, then. We dance each day, we dance each moment, together. We will dance, and dance, and dance, and crush this world under our boot and claw, we will dance, oh will we dance! We will dance with each of you, in turn, and the world will be like nothing any of you have ever seen.

The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 8 (Part 2)

I went down into the basement, and the three of them followed me. Cumster was there, still bound on his knees, but it was clear that what I had fed him earlier was having an affect. HE looked ill. He looked inhuman, already, in fact, but he raised his head when I came down the stairs, and the eagerness I saw when he saw me–he knew. He understood that what I was giving him, the law, was a death, sure, but it was so much more than that. He could feel the power beyond this world’s laws that was waiting for him, and he craved it, as Cumster had craved everything in his life. Marcus, also still bound in the basement, was is a different state altogether. The terror had ebbed, but it was clear that all of this had moved well beyond the extent of his imagination. Where had he thought this would end? I don’t know–perhaps with him at the feat of the rapist, begging for a second chance, begging for truth he couldn’t understand or sustain. There was also jealousy. Jealousy that I had fed Cumster something which was clearly changing him…but which I hadn’t given to Marcus. The jealousy had grown, and eclipsed the fear at this point–he was realizing that if he couldn’t get what he wanted from the rapist, perhaps I could provide it. I couldn’t, but I freed him as best I could.

Cumster was aching for me, and without any real explanation, I let my cock slide from my sheath, and pressed it to Cumster’s lips, watching him suck it down as quickly as he could, swallowing the cum that began to flow immediately, that cold, chilly death filling his guts again, but so much more than that as well. The bonds were no longer necessary, and so I allowed them to fall away, giving everyone a clearer look at his warping and shifting body. He was growing fatter, but not fat in the same, soft way as the men had in the warehouse earlier. Cumster’s gut expanded, but grew firm, his flesh losing it’s color until it was more grey than pink, the same washed out color as cum, really–it even picked up a bit of translucence. The pores in his skin turned on, and a sheen of something appeared all over his body–and when the smell hit everyone, they realized it was cum.

Cumster would no longer sweat–not as a human did, at least. He would sweat cum continuously, always coated in a slimy layer of his own semen, dripping off him as he knelt, a continuous, but weak, orgasm coursing through him constantly. It was no longer blood pumping through him, but cum. Everything inside him, everything that could become it, was just semen–it was what he was meant to be, he realized this now, and he would have to keep himself supplied with a near constant amount from now on. The hair on his body thinned out, falling away from the top his head, his beard growing wiry, looking more like pubes than anything else. Still, it was finished–I retracted my cock from his gullet, and watched him lick his lips with a long, narrow tongue, his pale eyes gleaming up at me–and I turned towards Marcus, undoing enough of his bonds that his cock was free–as well as the sizable balls Cumster had given him earlier.

Making a gurgling noise I supposed was speech of a kind, Cumster sagged his way over to him, his movements more like those of a half filled water balloon than anything human,and attached himself to Marcus’ cock–and began to suck. Marcus groaned in pleasure as the first orgasm ripped through him, but it wasn’t long before he realized something was wrong. Marcus could…feel Cumster’s will trying to shape him, but Marcus’ body wasn’t strong enough. Instead, he was shrinking, and dissolving. The orgasms ripping through him grew in intensity, and his protests turned to begging, and turned to whimpering, as Cumster kept sucking, and sucking, until he’d converted Marcus’ entire body into cum, and slurped it all down into his gut.

The process only took fifteen minutes or so, and the four of us–me and my brother, and Jules and Ray–stood there in rapt fascination until Cumster had sat up, Marcus’ hefty balls in his hands, and swallowed them whole with a loud belch that sounded more like a swamp bubble than anything else, and looked up at me, greatly satisfied.

I could almost hear the gears in my brother’s head clicking together. Everything that had always confused him about Cumster, everything that had kept drawing him back to that man, when no one else he’d unleashed had ever held his interest, suddenly made more sense–because this was what he’d always been meant to be. Beyond this false reality, this was the thing that Cumster was, stripped of his humanity, stripped of these artificial laws, this was what his true self was. The bruiser had been able to sense it, but hadn’t understood what it meant–at least until now. He walked over to Cumster and touched him, feeling the ooze on his flesh, Cumster leaning in, sniffing for his cock, and the rapist…began to grow before my eyes, physique expanding into something massive, and not quite human but also not quite true yet, as he fucked Cumster’s face, ready to feed the dump another load–and I turned away towards Ray and Jules.

Well, Ray, really. Jules was simply horrified, and that didn’t surprise me in the least. Certainly Ray had changed him, but Jules had wanted what was happening to him, I could smell that now. Given what I had known about Jules before this, about his working out in the gym, his past as a jock, it shouldn’t have surprised me so much at the time that he would have felt drawn to Ray. I’m sure that, if he had found the rapist (or if the rapist had found him) he would have become something similar to Ray, at the end of his unleashing. But he wasn’t far enough along to understand any of this, and his brain could only understand what he was seeing as some living nightmare. He would understand soon enough though. Ray, on the other hand, was shaking–but not in fear, only in anticipation. He fell to his knees in front of me, knowing what was coming next, knowing why he had been so attracted to me before, but why he had…also been afraid of me, in the cop car, though he hadn’t let the fear show. I was more than him. I was more than him, and I was also the only one who could free him. He hefted up my cock with both of his hands, pressed it to his lips, and began to swallow–and I slid into him, gently, curling up deep within him, allowing the law to flow.