The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 6 (Part 2)

It slid onto me, and I tried to see it as my uniform, tried to find the creases and patches, the buttons and seams, but the surface was alien to me, and as it conformed to my flesh, it began to shift and change further. My skin…like a bruise, all over, until it was no longer a pink, or the dark navy of the cured skin, but rather something purple and red, the hairs pushing their ways through, my hands still black, but the fingers too long, the nails nearly claws. I could feel it climbing up my neck towards my face, but it stopped before overtaking me entirely. Instead, I could see dark veins running up into my cheeks and neck, like an infection, but I felt stronger than I had earlier in the restaurant, I felt complete. That, and my eyes. They were black–entirely black, and yet I felt like I could see everything.

All my life, ever since I was a child, I had felt…two things, but I had never understood them as things until that moment. On one hand, a darkness. It had clung to me for as long as I could remember. At times, it manifested as someone else. An imaginary friend, or someone I saw in dreams. I was convinced it couldn’t exist, and so, it didn’t, but it had clung to me all the same. Tied to that darkness, was an anger, or a longing, or a hole I longed to fill, but not a hole in me, but holes in the world around me. People…doing wrong, doing ill. Or at least, it was tied to right and wrong in me, but now I see that was far too simplistic of a notion. It wasn’t morality that I wanted to fix, it was them! It was them that was wrong! There were rules, and laws…my rules and laws, they ought to have obeyed me, all of them, always, and if I had just listened earlier, if I had just listened.

I don’t look human, anymore. I think…I could, if I tried, if I…focused, but it feels too good, being together again, that I don’t want to, not yet. It feels better to be me at last, to remember everything that I am, and everything that I can do, to be able to hear myself fully at long last, to hear the law, feel it thrumming inside me. It was then, with my skin on, that I felt confident enough to confront whoever it was who had invaded my house. I checked the upper floors first, but nothing seemed to be missing or out of place. The same with the ground floor–though when Jules saw me, in the kitchen…he began to scream through the leather gag I had forced around his mouth. I ignored him–I’d brought him back to get information from him, to try and find the rapist, but I realized, with my skin on…that I could feel him, because we were the same. The same kind.

But he had claimed Jules, or rather, Jules had been claimed by one of his disciples, and so he wasn’t mine to have…though I could imagine plenty that I could do him. Still, any information he would have was rather unimportant–there were bigger questions I needed answers to now, and I imagined it was time to get them from the one person I knew who had them.

At the basement steps, I heard the moans coming from below, and realized what must have happened. My prisoner must have taken care of the intruder on his own. I stepped down into the basement, and saw what I began with–Marcus, on his knees in front of Cumster, licking at the biker’s cock where he was still handcuffed to the pipe on the wall, naked. Marcus’s balls were…engorged, much as mine had become, but then, that was what Cumster did, and he did it well. Such…a simple creature. I could see now, deeper inside him, how that singular drive had been nurtured and grown to eclipse all else inside him, like ivy choking out a tree until all you could see were vines. Overgrown, though. In need of a pruning, and a shaping. In need of law.

Marcus, I could understand him better as well, and Bernard too–what kind they were. The drive was there, but the material was lacking. A brick of clay that desired to become a sword. There was no helping men like this–they couldn’t sustain the form of what they most desired, and so there was nothing the bruiser could do for them. They lacked a solid will, and with no where for it to live, no law could shape them, and so there was little that I could do either. This, in some ways, was the closest they could get–well, there were things I could do to alleviate the misery, I realized, and perhaps it would be a kindness, in the end. After all, what kind of life could there be, knowing you had been rejected by us? Finding out that, after all of your searching and desperation, that your nature was such that you had failed before you had even begun to live? It was no wonder, they searched for him after he abandoned them (I don’t blame him for abandoning them, for no amount of explaining, no words can really articulate the loss, and the sorrow we feel as well) because how could you get so close, how could you think you had finally found your salvation, the hammer to shape you on the anvil of punishment, only to be tossed away for imperfections you couldn’t help? I do hope Bernard found some solace in a Master, somewhere. Marcus, in the end, had to be helped in other ways.

The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 6 (Part 1)

I…stepped down into the basement, where Marcus and Cumster were, and I saw their eyes when they saw me, when they saw the law coming for them, and…

No–I want to get to the basement, because what happened down there eclipsed everything else that had happened to me so far, but that didn’t happen yet. But everything is too hard to recall now, because time…time is so slippery now? It didn’t feel like that before, but now everything around me is sliding about, and all I want to do is anchor, strap it down, pin it like some butterfly in a display case. I’ve been missing for so long, I’ve allowed so much chaos out into the world, and nothing is ordered. The law has been forgotten by these mortals, if they ever knew it, if they ever could have abided it. I was so much more than I ever thought I could be, I was so blind.

So yes, the basement happened, but not first. First, the house was broken into, I didn’t know by who then. The fear I felt…I couldn’t name it. I had just done some strange, indescribable battle with some nightmarish beast, but never had I felt fear then. But knowing that my house had been violated, and that my skin had been there, unguarded–skin, that’s what it is now, not what it was, or it was, but I didn’t know how to wear it. My uniform was there, the uniform I had peeled away after my night with Cumster in the basement, after I had begun to stir at last, after so long, and I’d not even known what it was! My own skin!

I remember binding Jules in the kitchen, and then didn’t spare him another thought, as I raced up to my room, throwing open my closet, and I don’t think I breathed until I saw in hanging there, where I had left it like some fucking fool, and I knew that before anything else, before finding the person who had violated my home, I need it on me, the uniform, though it didn’t even look like a uniform anymore, not really.

The navy had darkened–not to black, but to some bottomless blue, the ocean so deep down it gets only scraps of light. I touched it with my gloved hands, felt the rubber like texture, but what sent a shiver up my arms was realizing that it was warm. It was…alive, it was a skin. My skin. My true skin, the skin of the thing inside me, the thing that had been sleeping, that is, me. It can’t be written, what we are. What we always have been. Maybe before, I could have described it, but I’m too close to it now, I can’t get the distance I would need to distinguish us.

I tore off the clothes I was wearing. Tore them–I didn’t bother undressing myself, I knew I would never need them again–and only left on my boots and my gloves, which I couldn’t have taken off, even had I wanted to. They are my skin too–I could see how, after wearing them for just a few hours, they had already begun to fuse into the other flesh below. It was why I could…feel everything through the palm of my gloves, like there was no barrier at all–because now there truly isn’t one. I tried to pull the shirt and pants apart, but they refused to part–in the closet, they had joined together into a single piece of skin, but the chest was still undone, allowing me to step into the legs and pulling everything else up around me as a single piece. The fit was tight, but not uncomfortable–rather, as soon as it was on me, I found it hard to believe I had ever even removed it. The idea of ever taking my skin off just seemed incomprehensible, and the fact that I was already thinking of the uniform as a skin disturbed me, because I was still, am still, I suppose, trying to fight this.

I kept it at bay for so long, inside me. I don’t know how I did it, how I quelled it. The Bruiser couldn’t keep it in, obviously–now that I know, now that it’s out and a part of me, I understand all of it better, I suppose, but it took Cumster to fill in the rest of the gaps–once he understood who I was, exactly…because my fellow had not been entirely honest with him, about whose den he was walking into. I was gentle though–I can be, at times. The law is firm, but obeying it need not be arduous, if you only live it inside you.

Live it inside you, what sense is that even? You reading this will never understand it in full, but I write it anyway. Find me, if you want to know, really know, what this is. If this tale fills you with a quaking need for me, if you know something inside you is…twisted, you know what I mean, if this is you. I can right you, I can order everything about you, all of your life will feel purpose driving you to the fate you should have had. He frees, that is all he knows how to do. Sees the desires inside you, the ones you can’t bare to follow, and unshackles you from your own doubt and terror. I’m different. We are all different, in our own ways. Choice is meaningless, when one has the law inside you. My law is strict, but living it feels like the most natural state in the world, once it has settled in your guts.

The Unholy Trinity (Sketch)

Warning: Satanic references and scat, if that bothers you.

Do you wish to be cured of your sinful weakness?

He did. God, did he. Neville wanted to be good, had always done his hardest to be good in all things. To be christ-like, to be worthy of God, but the struggle–it was so hard now, at college, away from his family. Even at this Christian school, they were still here, he was certain of it. Faggots of all descriptions, looking at him, wanting him (or was it just him, wanting them? Seeing his own gaze reflected in their glances at him?) and he…he was too close to succumbing to temptation, closer than he’d ever been, even when he’d snuck a kiss from Tanner Abrahms in the woods, which had gotten him a summer long stay at the conversion camp. It was all he could think about. He was weak…and he was willing to try anything to be free of this sin.

So he’d found this website. A website claiming it could cure him of all the desires that ailed him, if he would just put his full faith in the Trinity. Idolatry, really, he knew that. No website could do what God alone was capable of, but maybe, at least, it would make him feel better. He hovered the cursor over the yes button, clicked it, and the screen loaded with a strange, undulating spiral, and the words:

As Christ worshiped the feet of men, so you too, worship the feet of all men, the first of the trinity.

What happened next, he couldn’t describe. It was a vision, yes, but also a memory, and a desire–so many things all at once, he didn’t know how to describe it–all he could do was experience it, helplessly.

“That’s good pig–you like the taste of that filth?”

“Yes sir, thank you sir,” he said, running his tongue along the sole, tasting the filth the man had been building up. He claimed he hadn’t changed his socks in days, and Neville believed it as he licked, stroking his own cock, feeling a load building in his balls.

“Never known a faggot who got off more on a rank foot than a nice cock–good thing I got both for ya, whenever ya need ‘em.” He took one foot and kicked Neville’s hand away, grinding it against his cock and balls, and it was too much–he exploded all over the man’s foot, and then licked his own cum off it, thanking him for allowing him to serve him as a foot pig.

Then, it was gone–well, hardly gone. It was seared into his soul. It had happened, it, and so much more. He looked over and could see the collection of shoes he’d bought off filthy men he’d met, how he knew their smells so personally–and quickly, he tried to shut to window on the computer, but it refused. The screen simply faded to black, and a new spiral appeared, and a new phrase below:

Baptized in the piss of our lord, drinking of his waters and allowing his perversion to root out the weakness inside you.

Neville tried to tug his eyes away from the spiral, but already, he could feel a second vision overwhelming him.

It was warm. He stuck out his tongue, and the man directed his stream onto it, and as soon as he tasted it…he knew he would need more.

“That’s a good fucker, drink it all down. You wanna smell like my piss, don’t you?”

He nodded, and looked up at him. It was the same man as before–older, chubby, and while a name didn’t come to him, Neville knew he always called him Daddy, his…Father. Not his real father, but that seemed…so far away now. This was the man who cared for him, who nurtured him, who taught him the ways of the true Lord.

He pulled out his own cock, pointed it up, and started pissing on himself, as Daddy directed hos own stream onto the filthy shirt he was wearing. “A fuckin’ natural–they’re gonna love ya, fuck.”

The vision left him again, but the smell didn’t. The sensation of dampness. He reeked of urinals, he could taste piss on his tongue, and it was divine. He couldn’t help himself–he hauled his cock free of the yellow briefs he had on and started jacking off as the second spiral disappeared, and a third came into focus:

You feast of the shit of men, and it shall sustain you in ways the body never could. The lord provides, and you shall be a true servant of the unholy trinity.

He tired to resist it. He knew he should be able to resist it…but his faith had been weak. He had been tempted, and now, he could feel himself falling into the clutches of Satan, a third and final vision overwhelming him.

“Tell me what you want, slave,” Daddy said.

“I want your shit, sir.”

“You wanna be daddy’s toilet pig? If you start–I ain’t gonna be usin’ that toilet much anymore. It’s all gonna go down that nasty throat of yours.”

He pushed his ass back, into Neville’s face, and let loose a wet fart. He snorted the stench down, his already rock hard cock throbbing. He’d eaten Daddy’s nasty crack plenty of times before, and he…he was ready. He wanted this, he wanted to be this…this pig, forever. Daddy grunted and bore down, and Neville ate–and as he ate, he felt the shame, the horror–all of it curdled into a single ball of lust. Lust like he’d never known before, and he devoured it all, licking his lips after Daddy helped him wash down the last of it with his piss, and then jacked Neville off with his foot. “Your mine now, boy. Mine forever. You’re Satan’s Pig–and your name is now–”

“Ville!” he screamed in his room as he came, cum exploding all over his nasty underwear he wore when he was at home, reeking of sex and musk, just how he liked them. Neville was gone–he could feel that weak thing falling down into the darkness, lost to the fires of hell and damnation–right where it belonged. Ville was free now–free, and with a new mission, to serve his own, unholy trinity for the rest of his life.

He got dressed in his favorite gear, making sure everyone could see looking at him what kind of pig he was, and lit a red as he hit the pavement. He was a missionary now–a disciple, and he would find someone to share the gospel of the unholy trinity with before the night was through–or hell, maybe two, he thought, seeing two cute college students pass him by, catch a whiff of his filthy body, and freeze. “Hey boys,” he said, putting an arm around each of their shoulders, “Why don’t you two come back to my place? We can have some real fun together, I bet.”

Winter Vacation [Interactive] – Part 9

It was clear that there was something inside the cocoon, as it roiled, but what it was exactly was difficult to determine. At one moment, something would push from it, reaching out, almost like a hand, only to draw back. Other moments it seemed to bubble and pulse, like it was more liquid than solid. It was waste, really. The waste of the men above–combined with the magical runoff from the shower Maury had the week past–the only time the shower had been used, in fact, in the whole week the men had been there. That–and the demon’s own seed, melding with it, and giving it life, of a sort. Purpose, perhaps, would have been a better word.

The demon walked up to it, ran a hand over the surface, feeling it shudder beneath his touch. It was wet, and his hand came away black and tacky. With his sharp claw, he severed the seams holding the arms to the sides of the body, and as well as the seam connecting the legs, and they flung apart, splattering black goo as they did, the cocoon now resembling a body more than anything else, but a body with no real features to be seen.

He laid his hand back on the thing, focusing, and found its mind. It didn’t have a brain, exactly–but it did think. It was confused. The spirit that had bound it all together was gone, and now it was searching for an outlet. It was meant to be drained away–it wasn’t supposed to be here, was it? The demon calmed it, and the filth inside began to rest and congeal, slowly, the body now undulating rather than rippling, almost…happy under the hand of its master, if such a thing could really understand happiness.

“You’re filth, yes” the demon said, “but not without worth. Let me give you shape.”

The thing felt it’s master push its well into it, infusing it, and it relented. It would be what the Master desired–that was the only purpose it could possibly have. The much inside congealed further, and finally solidified–not quite as solid as flesh might feel, under a rubber skin, but solid enough to be worked. It stood, shuddering a bit, almost like gelatin, and looked down at its master, wanting to know more, wanting to know what it was–and the master showed it the way. Bumps formed along the things arms and legs–awkward and uneven at first, but soon they shuffled about until the appeared to be muscle, the body still holding much of its mass collected in a round, sagging gut, heaving over its crotch. The legs, too, widened and thickened, solidifying until they were a sturdy base, the feet wide, with small claws at the end of sharp black plastic–harmless, one might think, but it could cut someone unprepared to the bone. Below the gut, something else was forming–cock like, but much thinner and prehensile, more like a hose. It sensed that it could be emptied that way–perhaps entirely, should Master desire it, but it hoped now. It was…enjoying this. It clenched a fist, feeling the sharp claws forming there as well, flesh becoming firmer still, its head beginning to take shape, a second hose–probiscus like–unfurling from it’s mouth and nose into a long snout a couple of feet long.

It had no eyes, but it could sense the things around it–and beside it, it’s Master pulsed with the most deliciously radiant force and power it had ever known. It got down on one knee, bowing its head, thankful to the beast which had given it life, purpose, and form–the demon grabbed the snout of the thing, slid the head of his cock into it, and pissed, watching the rubber drone shudder in delight as it took the demon’s filth into itself, storing it away, feeling its power and size grow.

“Yes, I think you will do nicely. Now–you know your place, don’t you?”

The drone stood back up and went to the wall where it had rested for the last week, and stood at attention. The master took it’s snout and connected it back to the plumbing of the house, feeling it shudder in delight, eager to feed more on the waste of the men above–and of its master.

“Don’t worry, I may allow you upstairs on occasion, but it would be best not to frighten the rest from their stupor just yet. But they will all have a chance to taste of you soon, I think–I’m excited to see just how potent that filth of yours has become.”

The drone nodded, eager to obey, and then went still, a statue against the wall. In the dark, it was almost easy to miss the hulking thing, unless you knew to look for it. The demon turned out the light and slipped back up into the house proper, enjoying the sense of freedom he had, now that the coach’s vessel was well and truly his.

The mortal plane–what a joy it was! And three souls here, ready and aching to be twisted and warped to his own ends. They wouldn’t be cast back to hell like Rich’s–no, that would not be nearly so satisfying. They would be his own twisted family here, slaves to their wicked vices–and to the demon’s sick desires, warped until they didn’t even recognize their own humanity. Three would be a good start, but more would come to him–willing or not. He had always desired a harem of mortals, and he was excited to sample the men they’d become, since unleashing them in this house of temptation and vice.

He wandered into the TV room nearby, drawn by the stores of Maury. He was on the couch–the place where he hadn’t left in several days, judging by the smell in the air. He was quite a bit larger at this point–nearly 700 pounds of flab, heaving for breath, covered in hair, drenched in sweat, mind rotted away by the static of the TV he couldn’t seem to stop staring at. Certainly a beautiful image of gluttony–but he could be so, so much more, couldn’t he?

So what’s gonna be Maury’s fate at the hands of the demon?

He’s as furry as an animal–perhaps he should become the house pigman.
He merges with the couch, and becomes living furniture.
Call up the filth drone, and see how he likes a taste of its waste.
Rewrite that empty brain, and make him the merciless sadist daddy of the house.

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Winter Vacation [Interactive] (Part 8)

The car pulled up the driveway late at night, while the daddy and the two boys were deep asleep. The coach stepped out of the car and stretched with a groan, the soft snow falling hitting his skin where it melted instantly and turned to steam, shrouding him in a thin mist as he surveyed the house.

Of course, the coach didn’t have much of the coach left inside his body anymore. It had been a long process, since the summer, when a chance encounter with an odd amulet in a curio shop which housed a rather powerful demon of lust, gluttony, sloth, pride–well, it did love to indulge in every vice imaginable, really. The coach had fought as best he could, but by the time college had entered session, he had been losing, lost in the…fantasies the demon was promising him, no longer ever sure if they were his own or not. Lusting after the young men on the team, and the demon–the demon could give him any of them. The first time he’d put Rich into that trance and fucked the star player in his office–he’d known there was no going back from that, and so, he’d given in–without really understanding what, exactly, that meant.

The coach didn’t really exist on the mortal plane, anymore. He could observe, at times, what was going around his body, but his spirit was lost to that world, and now existed only in the demons realm, twisted and warped by the nightmarish pleasure and vices of the place until he could no longer even recognize himself. Part of him–a small part now, the last bit of his humanity, knew he’d consigned these four young men to a fate worse than death, but the new him, the warped, nightmarish thing he’d become in the darkness here, it watched eagerly to see what the demon, what his master, would do to the four of them next.

The first step, after all, was temptation. The four of them had succumbed to that step rather easily, though they had all been well primed by the demon over the last semester to be prepared for that step. Twisting their little minds had been such a joy, there in the locker room. Deceiving them, planting the idea in Rich’s mind to take the four of them on this secluded vacation deep into the mountains without telling anyone where they were going. Now they had wallowed in their vices for days, losing themselves, their connection to reality. None of them would be able to fight him now, though they may try.

With the coach’s spirit dispatched, he had gained free reign of the man’s mortal frame, and warped it to become more…familiar to his demonic tastes. Six and a half feet tall, weighing over four hundred pounds of muscle and fat, coated in hair, cock hanging to his knees, short horns pushing from his forehead. He stepped up the porch and into the house, moving with incredible silence for his massive frame. He could hear the three men snoring loudly in the three corners of the house, but his business with them could wait. No–first to the basement, to check on Rich, or at least, what remained of him.

Down the stairs he went, and he could smell him even before he hit the floor, the stench of waste, filth, and rubber. It filled him with such…delight, and his cock began to harden, growing to a foot in length, the head oddly barbed, and dribbling an steaming, dark grey cum onto the concrete floor. There he was–in his cocoon, lying against the wall there. It no longer appeared to hold a body at all, it had become so bloated and misshapen over the last week, ingesting the piss and waste of the men above him. It had been necessary, to deal with him in such a way, to corrupt him so completely. The others all showed such lust and hunger for vice and evil, but Rich–he had been the one to show the most resistance. The demon walked to the rubber cocoon and grazed it with one sharp nail, feeling the thing inside shiver with delight. Yes–it was ready for the final stage now, most certainly.

He detached the hose from the mask, leaving just a sizable hole where Rich’s mouth should have been, but it was difficult to see what, exactly was inside. It was a hole, in any case–and the demon guided the head of it to the head of his cock, sliding it into the slimy throat, feeling how…hungry it was. He probed the mind left inside the rubber, and found only the simplest of thoughts–and a great, mindless, obsessive hunger. Well, it would have plenty to eat, soon enough. He fed it lovingly, savoring the moment, sliding in deep, feeling the thing pulsing and twitching around his cock. It lacked form and substance. It could be anything. It would be anything, anything the demon wanted it to become, and he had just the thing in mind. The soul would not stay, however–no, that was still too much of a risk. Besides, he had a promise to keep, with the coach, one final deal to satisfy, to ensure his place here in the mortal realm was secure. He came, and as Rich’s form accepted the demon’s seed, Rich felt himself sinking away into some strange, new darkness.

He was himself–his body was his again. He looked around, and cried out for help–but there, waiting for him, was the coach, or at least, what remained of the coach’s soul. The beast charged him, impaling him on his monstrous cock, delighted with the demon’s gift, and the mental link between them closed–the coach now lost to hell with, Rich, who would become his own twisted mate in time.

Meanwhile, the demon watched the cocoon begin to convulse and warp, reacting to both his seed, and his will. But what, exactly, did it become?

Alright, what’s it going to be?

It becomes a part of the house, ready to further corrupt the men above.
It bursts, releasing a fellow demon from hell eager for some fun.
It reforms into a mindless rubber slave drone, ready to serve.
The demon absorbs it, making him more powerful than before.

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Orwell’s Demon (Part 10)

WARNING: Scat, Abuse, Filth, & other strange stuff.

Orwell couldn’t stop himself from trembling as the demon approached him. How could he have fought him for so long? How could he have ever wanted to deny himself this moment of glory? The demon’s form was grotestque, twisted–but then, so was Orwell’s own–so were they all. He’d been seeing everything through human eyes, before, comparing himself to the normalcy of earth, but why? Why had he refused?

“Now, I believe that I promised you a cock, Orwell. Unfortunately, Hurlbane is making use of your old one already–so we’ll have to give you a new one. Luckily, I have one just perfect for a piggy like you.”

The demon pressed one burning palm to Orwell’s bare groin, and he felt something stir beneath it–something was…inside him, trying to force it’s way out. A moment later, a corkscrew shaped cock erupted from beneath his skin, forming a sheath running up under his gut, and then two massive balls descended into a new sack, each of them the size of a small melon. The demon took his hand away, but the burning didn’t stop. The corrupted boar cock and balls were flooding his body with lust, changing him more. His hands and feet twisted and hardened, becoming four trotters, barely capable of holding anything==but what did Orwell need to hold anymore, beyond a cock? His face was twisting as well, a short snout pushing out from his face, two thick, dirty tusks growing from his lower jaw. Six more nipples erupted from his body, all of them cigars like the first two, and with a snap of his fingers the demon set them all alight, Orwell snorting and grunting in beautiful pain, smoke streaming from his now porcine nose and mouth. His hair returned, but not human hair–it was rough boar bristle, covering his back, leaving his belly bare, the skin hardening into a proper hide, the filthy designs twisting and contorting, mutating constantly into any number of perverse and blasphemous imagery. A short, curly tail shoved its way free above his ass, and it was done. Orwell was no longer human–just a demonic boar, enthralled to his demonic master. He lunged for the demon’s cock, sucking at it, drool pouring from his chin as he pleased him, eager to thank him, eager to prove that the demon had chosen well, when he’d drawn Orwell’s hand to the amulet that day in the store.

Behind him, Ray came, pressing his massive cock to the entrance of Orwell’s hole. “It feels…so long since I was inside you, Piggy–I missed it so much, I’m so happy you joined us, I’m so happy I can impale you whenever I fucking want…” He pushed into him, filling his ass with his massive cock, distending his belly, and rotten shit pushed out of his guts and onto the demon’s cock, spilling from Orwell’s maw.

“Aww yeah, that’s my filthy pig,” Jonathan said, and got down with him, licking the filth from Orwell’s mouth and the ground below him, “Love the taste of yer fermented fuckin’ filth, fuck! Gonna be feeding ya a whole lot–I hope yer ready tah get stuffed, cause I ain’t shit in fuckin’ ages, piggy. Gonna fill ya so full ya ain’t gonna move fer a week!”

Stewart came up next, and brought a chain whip down hard across Orwell’s back, making him squeal. Aaron came beside him, sharing smoky kisses with Officer Hurlbane, stroking both of his cocks before forcing the officer down, making him wrap his lips around his cigarcock and smoke him beside the demon skullfucking his newest pig.

“Are you ready, piggy? Spill your seed, and join us here forever. Spill it on the rocky ground, and know that you’re cursed. Give up your rationality, your will. Give me your humanity, and in return, I will give you eternal pleasure, and all of the perversity that you can possibly desire. Become mine, and you will know pleasure the likes of which mortals have never known. The demon pulled out, and forced Jonathan to turn around, so his hole was facing Orwell. Go on–give him a taste, and then fuck his disgusting hole–that’s what a dirty pig like you wants, right?”

Orwell did as the demon commanded, diving into the crack, licking at it, snorting down the disgusting trucker slob’s farts, eating the logs of shit pouring from the hole, feeling his gut distend even further as Ray fucked deeper and deeper into his ass. Unable to resist anymore, he mounted him, sliding his new boar cock into his greasy hole and began to rut, Stewart raining blows down across the boar’s hairy back, driving him to new heights of pleasure, until with a squeal loud enough to shake the cavern around them, he came. He flooded the hole with his corrupted cum, pleasure blooming within him, pushing out everything else–his memories, his human desires, his will, all rational thought. Orwell was no more–he was just a pig, just a demon, just a filthy, perverse toy for his master–just like they all were, and just like they would all be forever more.

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 6)

WARNING: Scat, General Filth

-Before-

Orwell did his best to lay low, after what had happened to Stewart, and Ray before that. With a new disappearance, Detective Hurlbane had started sniffing around more, and questioned Orwell, and a few other teachers, about the two disappearances. He’d seemed very suspicious about Orwell, but without a body, and without any real evidence or clear motive, what could he say? Orwell cooperated as best he could, in the ways he knew would pose no risk to him. He allowed the detective to search his house, before he could go to a judge for a warrant, and he found nothing. What, after all, was there to find? They were just…dust now. The demon said more, though…and on occasion, the demon used their voices, taunting him, urging him to give in, saying that they were waiting for him to join them, that they missed him.

Still, the heat relented, soon enough. Hurlbane backed off, and started pursuing other possible leads, and Orwell turned to other, more pressing matters–his new body. It had…needs, and desires his old one had never had before. He was perpetually horny, and his hands, if he didn’t keep them in check, would slip down the front of his pants to jack off, at any time of day, in front of whoever may be watching. The only two ways he could keep control of himself, were whipping himself at night until he bled, load after load of cum across the floor in front of him after each session, his back magically healed each morning–and by guzzling as much cum as he could possibly find.

But that, he couldn’t get from the school. No, he needed to get as far away from his normal life as he could, where, if the demon got a hold on someone else, he wouldn’t attract any suspicion. And so, Orwell became a regular at several rest areas outside of the city. The demon in his mind enjoyed it, enjoyed watching him debase himself for the truckers and travellers–and if a few fagbashers decided he needed a good working over? He’d more than happily take his beating too–although more than a few lost their interest once they discovered just how much Orwell enjoyed the punishment. But it was slim pickings at times, and it was on those nights that Orwell had the hardest time, coping with the demon inside him, taunting him, telling him that he could have any man he wanted in the parking lot, that all he had to do was ask. Still, Orwell kept his guard up–until one frustrating evening, when a trucker who we was certain would let him suck down a load had hauled off and punched him right in the face instead.

He was hungry. He was hungry, and he was angry, and before he even knew he’d done it, the trucker turned back around, and Orwell could see the red in his eyes. “Is this what you wanted Orwell? All he wanted was a chance to take a piss and a shit without being bothered–do you really think that was too much to ask?”

It was the smell that caught him next–a putrid, vile scent, like the worst body odor he’d ever imagined, rolling off the trucker’s body in waves. It singed and scared the inside of his mouth and nose, his mind roiling in the acid of it as he inhaled it, collapsing to the ground, and there, he saw that he wasn’t the only thing in the bathroom affected. The walls of the stalls…they were melting. The tile peeling under him, the porcelain of the sinks cracking and shattering behind him, and he watched as the clothes both he and the trucker were wearing dissolved away to nothing.

“Yeah, that’s more like it!” the trucker exclaimed, taking a long whiff of himself, and Orwell could see him growing, packing on fat, his skin covered in sores and lesions, thick hair filling in everywhere else. He lumbered over to a dissolving partition and looked over it, sighing, “Toilets are all busted–’n I can’t bust no load without droppin’ mah other loads. Guess that means yer gonna have tah do double duty, eh pig?”

Orwell tried to get up, tried to run, but something was wrong with him. His body–it too was melting and dissolving…somewhat. His arms and legs had withered, even as his guts had grown and sagged out into a heaving mass. The trucker picked him up, and carried him to the pipe where the toilet had sat, and shoved him onto it, Orwell feeling the cold metal slide in side his gelatinous form, and then the man turned around, shoved the ring of his hole against Orwell’s mouth, and let loose a long, noxious fart right into his mouth. He…swore he felt his teeth and jaw dissolve away, mouth hanging open, limp, as the shit began to pour from the man’s hole–more shit than Orwell had imagined possible, and all of it sliding down his tongue and throat, into his heaving body. He could…feel it in there, just resting inside of him, mounding up…and it felt good. He felt good. Lazy. Simple. Dumb. The man turned around, when he’d finished, pushed his thick cock into the shit covered toilet mouth, and let loose his piss, flooding Orwell’s body again, watching him writhe in pleasure and excitement, thrusting into the loose tunnel his throat had become until he added a load of stinking cum as well…the stink intensifying, and Orwell watched the man dissolve away into ash, leaving him alone, and trapped, in the rest are bathroom.

The scenery returned to normal, slowly, as the air cleared. Orwell’s arms and legs solidified again, allowing him to haul his way free of the pipe he’d been sitting on…but even outside, in the fresh air, he didn’t feel right. He could still…feel it, inside him. The shit and piss. He could smell it too. To his horror, as he drove home, he realized he could smell it on him–it was leeching out of him, through his skin, coating him…and the smell of it, as putrid as it was…it only was making him hungry all over again.