Orwell’s Demon (Part 5)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His cheeks flushed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Orwell said nothing, but his guts gave a growl.

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

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

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

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

Orwell’s Demon (Part 4)

WARNING: Extreme violence, gore.

-Before-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Orwell’s Demon (Part 3)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s…please, just leave.”

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

“I… I don’t remember that at all.”

“Convenient.”

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

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

“Smells good, doesn’t it?”

“Yes…”

“Yes…what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Orwell sat, silent.

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

“S-Shut up…”

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

Orwell’s Demon (Part 2)

-Before-

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

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

He could be yours, you know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But…who are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Orwell’s Demon (Part 1)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I only do it outside.”

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

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

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

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

Warren’s Demons (Patreon Suggestion)

Each month, I’m going to be taking suggestions from people supporting my writing on Patreon, and turn those suggestions into stories! I might publish one or two here, but if you want to read the other ones, you can go here. Anyone giving at least a dollar can give suggestions, and see the resulting stories, and pledging $5 or $10 gets you even more exclusive content! Find out more on my page here.

I bet he won’t even recognize you, you fucking pig.

Warren got off the train, feeling his body shaking and quaking with each step down to the platform–and all he wished was that it didn’t feel…so fucking good, all of the time.

You love it piggy, you can admit it. You couldn’t stop now, even if I hadn’t made myself such a cozy nest in your little soul.

His cock had been rock hard the entire train ride, just from squeezing into the small seat with the older man beside him, knowing he was taking up too much room, that the man was disgusted by him–all he’d been able to do, or all the demon had allowed him to do, was take six trips to the bistro car, where he’d stuff himself, and then go to the bathroom to jack his cock, before returning to his seat, sweatier and heaving for breath, before the whole cycle would repeat itself. It was a nightmare, but it was no longer anything new for him.

He hadn’t always been this large–375 pounds when he’d last weighed himself, or when he’d last been forced to weigh himself. He could barely believe that just four months earlier, he’d been 160 pounds, a normal, healthy college student. He still didn’t know how it had happened, but one morning a few months before, he’d woken up in his dorm room, as usual, and there…had been a voice in his head. He’d known that it wasn’t his own, but he found himself helpless against it–if the voice told him to do something, then he would obey–and from that day forth, all the voice wanted him to do was eat. At first, if he fought, he’d be able to resist and go to class or go to the gym, but as the voice promised, these moments of rebellion were always repaid with substantial punishment. Warren, who had always been straight, found himself hungry for cock as much as he was for food. He was forced into humiliatingly ill-fitting clothes, his growing gut dropping lower and lower below the bottom of his shirt–for he was packing on pounds faster than should be humanly possible.

But now, the moment he’d been dreading most was here–he was home for the summer, where he’d be living with his dad for the next three months, and if there was one thing his father had always hated, it was fat fucks like his son had become.

I bet, when he finally does recognize you, he’s going to hate you so much. He’s going to be so disgusted by you, you won’t even be able to stop yourself from cumming in the front of those tight shorts you’re wearing…and you’re going to make sure he knows what his piggy son just did, too, aren’t you?

It wasn’t even speaking in orders or demands anymore–just the mere suggestion was enough to fill Warren’s mind with the most perverse of fantasies. Sure enough, once he’d gotten into the station with his bag, he’d seen his muscular father waiting for his slim, handsome son. Warren walked right in front of him, and he didn’t give him a second look. “Hey dad, ready to get going?” he asked, mouth a bit dry in anticipation.

The look of horror on his father’s face, at seeing his son was now over twice the size he should have been, was–true to the demon’s word–humiliating, and yet so satisfying. With a nice, loud groan, he shot a load of cum into his shorts, and then pulled his father into a hug, grinding his soft groin against him, until his father’s recoiled away from him, unable to even form words.

Needless to say, his father was furious, yelling and shouting at him the whole way home, the demon chuckling in Warren’s mind the whole time. His father told him he was utterly disgusting, that he was a shameless display of gluttony. Warren very nearly started jacking off right there, the demon urging him gently, but only the sheer horror at his father seeing him do such a thing stayed his desperate hand. His father told him Warren was going on a diet, his father was going to be supervising every meal, and he would have his son back in shape in no time–the demon just laughed, and laughed, and laughed, because the demon had other plans, that night.

Warren, awoke shortly after midnight, feeling like he was either sleepwalking or dreaming. He’d become somewhat used to this sensation–it occurred whenever the demon took full control of his body and mind, forcing Warren to become little more than a passenger in his own flesh. It happened rarely now, usually only when Warren needed severe punishment, and he began to worry.

Oh Piggy, you still think this is about you, don’t you? No–you have your father to blame for this. All of it. You were merely the first piece of a larger puzzle. Don’t worry, you’ll very much enjoy what comes next. This is going to be the summer of your piggy dreams.

The demon guided his body into his father’s room, far more stealthily and gently than his massive frame should have been capable of, and…he didn’t remember the details of what came next. He spoke these strange words in a language that seemed…impossibly complex, the words so hot they singed his lips. He swore he saw…something slip into his father’s body, causing him to stir–and then his dad got up from his bed, gave Warren a wink, got dressed and left the house, driving away in the middle of the night. Whatever it was, the demon was happy–he allowed Warren to gorge himself on whatever he could find in the house, and then Warren passed out on the couch, snoring away, until the slamming of a door, woke him with a start.

“SSoooeeeyy! Where’s my little piggy boy?”

It was his father’s voice, but it was not his father speaking. Warren only had time to heave himself up from the couch, before his father was in the room, bearing a pile of pizzas and at least ten bags from fast food joints around the city. That wasn’t the only thing different, either. He’d left the house in fairly normal clothes, but was now dressed head to toe in leather, his hair cropped short, stubble across his face, his eyes both excited and terrified. He knew that look–he’d seen it in his own eyes many times in the last few months. His father was possessed, just like him.

Yes, the deal required a friend of mine from far below. Quite sadistic and lustful, but with a gluttonous side as well. You’ll be enjoying him a lot, I promise.

His father dropped the food onto the coffee table, shoved Warren back onto the couch, and started ripping and tearing off his tight clothes until his son was naked, and then his possessed father began making out with him–kissing him, worshiping his fat body.

Yeah, look at that sick fuck–look how much he loves you now. How much he needs your fat by him. Piggy–your new daddy here is going to make sure you have everything you need from now on. Plenty of rough fucks and long feeding sessions, and loads and loads of cum for your thirsty piggy throat. We’ll feed him too–you’ll like that, won’t you? Stuffing your skinny father’s face until he’s the size you are now? Of course, by then, you’ll be well on your way to at least 700–but that excites you, doesn’t it? It’s probably all you want at this point–to be massively obese, and get fucked every day by your daddy’s big cock.

Warren had already lunged for the food, taking a hamburger for himself first, and then taking a second and shoving it in his father’s face, watching his eyes roll back in pleasure from the taste.

And when you’re both well past the point of no return? Well, then we’ll have fulfilled our bargain. And you’ll never hear from me again. You won’t be able to stop, of course, so don’t imagine you could ever get your body back. But most importantly, I don’t think your father will be bothering anyone about their weight again, any time soon, do you?

Officer Wetzel Meets a Demon (Part 5)

Where was he? What was he? It was hot, sweltering, wherever he was, and as uncomfortable as it was, it also felt…pleasant, in other ways. It was dark, wherever and whatever he was. Dark, and he’d sweat so much, it felt like he was surrounded by some liquid too thick and oily to be water. For a long time, he’d been too weak to fight, too weak to resist whatever he was in, but now, he’d started to feel…a kind of life returning to his body. He would press against the thing encasing him, feel it resist, and he’d relax again, building strength, drawing in the heat suffusing him, letting it fill him up, and when he was full enough, he’d be able to be free again. He’d be free…and he’d be…someone, or something, but he’d be free.

Few people had noticed the strange, black cocoon stuck to the floor of the alley, not even when they were fucking one another five feet away behind the dumpsters deeper in the alley. Most who did notice it just thought it was some kink artifact, but rarely touched it. Just…seeing it was enough to make them feel strange–horny, but also terrified in some deep mortal sense, and usually they would retreat down the alley, hungry for a fuck to remind them that they were alive, that they were still human. A few braver ones would touch it, feel it’s heat touch some darkness inside them, odd, disturbing thoughts occurring to them suddenly, which they found themselves unable to resist fulfilling–craving the sensation of a fist pummelling their guts, a sudden hunger for shit and piss, the need to feel as much pain as they might experience without passing out or dying. In any case, the cocoon remained undisturbed into the evening, until it began twitching and wiggling every few minutes. The activity increased, and became more violent until it was clear that someone was inside the cocoon, and that they were desperately trying to escape it. The skin of the shell had handened and turned brittle, allowing, at last, a fist to burst through, two hands coated in some black, oily goo ripping at the hole, enlarging it, until a head burst forth gasping for air.

Beau fought his way forth, coughing and gagging up the filth he’d swallowed, which had settled into his lungs, which rasped with each breath. The goo hardened once it touched air, and he began scraping it off his body–first in latex like sheets, and then flakes, and then like brittle sugarwork dusting his skin. As he did, he began to realize that the body he was in was not quite the same as the one he’d had earlier–it seemed so long ago, now that he had a moment to think about it, but…what had he looked like, exactly? Older. A bit of a potbelly which had earned him a good amount of ribbing from other…guys on the force. He could see them, he could remember them, but it felt once removed. Like the memories weren’t really his, but somehow leftovers. Like a movie he’d found abandoned in an old VCR at a stranger’s home. It wasn’t…him. It wasn’t him, but that didn’t mean he knew who he was.

What was he? He seemed to be human, still. Two legs, two arms, toes and fingers. Hairier than before. More muscular than before. Younger than before? That seemed…difficult to pin down. Thinking about time, it felt like a part of him stretched back…further than he could even comprehend. Time was relative. Time was infinite. He was impossibly young and also eternal. H tried not to think about it, he tried not to think about any of it. Don’t think about who you are–what do you want, he asked himself.

Want. That was simpler. Immediate. He wanted pleasure. He wanted…he wanted sex. He wanted men. He could smell them, all around him in the night, the musk, the smoke, the cum, the piss. He was about to go out and find someone–anyone–to distract him from his terror, when two figures rounded the corner. One was familiar, and the other…he didn’t know how to describe the other at all. It wasn’t…human, was it? It looked like someone who had had grown so fat, his limbs so weak, it had simply become a blob dragging itself over the ground. “Out already? I thought you’d need a bit more time to develop, but you turned out…beautifully, son.”

Son? This person was…his father? As far as age was concerned, it seemed impossible, but time no longer seemed…stable. More importantly, he knew him. He wanted him, wanted to serve him, wanted to be his, somehow. Just standing there close to him, looking at him…the man claiming paternity sent a freakish level of pleasure through his guts and cock, making Beau grin wide. He stepped forward and kissed his father, his maker, the thing oozing between them, sucking and milking their cocks with it’s…mouths? Holes? It felt good in either case, and pleasure was all that really mattered to him at the moment. He pulled away after a few minutes, breathless but thrilled all the same, and wiped some of his father’s spit from his lips. “I don’t…understand. What happened to me? What am I?”

“You’ll learn in time. For now–you know what you need to do. I would join you, but this piece of filth needs to be taken below and stored away with our master. Enjoy yourself. Please yourself and others, and I will be happy when I see you again soon.”

There was a deep shadow, like a sudden blotting of every light at once, and they were gone. Beau was still there, but alone now. Dressed in leather gear–his gear, a hunger growing in his guts and his cock, and he set out into the night to feed, to fuck, to give pleasure–but most of all, to corrupt.

Officer Wetzel Meets a Demon (Part 4)

“Bless me father, for I have sinned.”

“How long since your last confession, my son?”

“One week,” the demon lied.

“Tell me your sins. Are you still suffering from that…overwhelming lust, you were describing to me, last time?”

“Yes father–it’s become…insatiable,” the demon let off a vulnerable moan, rubbing his uniform pants, “Today…in particular. This weekend–the faggots are out in force, Father. They gather here for three days, parading around in their filth–their leather, their rubber, flaunting their bodies and having sex in the street–such open and shameless in their displays.”

“I’m sure that must have been disgusting,” the priest said, but his eyes were glimmering and he had begun stroking his own cock openly, leaning closer to the screen separating them. “Have you been…tempted?”

“Yes father, but I have remained strong. God’s love…is stronger than the pleasures of the flesh–no matter how…thrilling they might be. But father–I…” he hesitated, and looked away. “I did…give in. None of them touched me, but I did…abuse myself–on my break, in a bathroom.”

“That is…a grave sin, my son, but given the temptation, it is admirable that you didn’t allow yourself to be pulled into their depravity further.” The priest shuffled forward on the bench, and leaned closer to the screen. The demon leaned in closer, looking at the older priest’s jowls covered with stubble, small eyes, balding hair, and that leer.

“There’s…more, father.”

“Oh?”

“I…I abused myself in the bathroom. It was…public, and I…I wasn’t alone. There were other men in there, and they were…I could…hear them, Father. I don’t know if they heard me or not. I knew I should arrest them for being indecent, for their perversion, but I did nothing, and I…pleasured myself, listening to them…and then…I…”

The priest was actively masturbating now, jaw hanging open, tongue half out of his mouth, a bit of drool. “Then what, my son, you…you can tell me,” he huffed.

The demon smiled, seeing how much the priest was enjoying his fabrication, but turned serious, masturbating harder himself, bringing himself closer to the edge. “I…came, father. I came into my hand, and without…really thinking about it, I…I licked it from my palm, and it…it tasted so…oh father!” he cried softly, and shot his wad of demonic seed into his hand, feeling the unnatural heat of it, burning into the skin of the officer’s hand. “It tasted so…good…but I can’t! Please father, take my sin from me, I can’t bear it anymore,” the demon said, and wiped the cum on the screen, smearing it inches from the priest’s flabby face, the man’s eyes twinkling, and like the pervert he was, he leaned in and licked it from the barrier between them, moaning, close to cumming himself as he unknowingly ate the demon’s cum, his face flushing, his desire…raging suddenly, and he began to lick more forcefully, desperate to taste more, desperate to eat more, but…but he couldn’t get enough of it into his mouth, his cock stubbornly refusing to shoot, leaving him…whimpering. “You understand, don’t you priest? Do you understand my need? Your need?”

The screen had begun to dissolve as the priest kept licking it, turning to ash and sulfur in his mouth. “You…you’re not Beau–what are you?”

“Let’s just say, that our friend Beau couldn’t quite resist the temptation today–and neither could you, father.”

“Begone beast! Leave that man alone, this is the house of the lord!”

“You have no power over me, priest–not after taking my seed willingly. No–the one who has the power here, now, is me.” the demon peeled away a finger from the officer’s decaying skin, and used the sharp point to cut around the base of skin around his cock, sliding it off like a condom and discarding it on the floor, allowing his true, thirteen inch, bright red cock to dribble steaming cum onto the floor. “Oh dear–I seem to be desecrating this house of worship, Father! Perhaps you could find a better…repository for my seed?”

The priest was sweating and gagging, the confession was sweltering and he tugged at his robes, desperate to be free of them, like they were burning his skin, hurling his cross last to the floor, looking at the scar it had left on his hand where he’d grasped it. “No–No, I won’t be corrupted. I won’t!”

“Priest, you’ve already corrupted yourself! You don’t believe you were really going to heaven, do you? No–your place is with us–it’s been with us every since that first man you fucked back in seminary. But don’t worry, we take all kinds, willingly or not. Now, it’s time to take what you want priest–what you need. Don’t worry–I have plenty for you. The more you drink, the better you’ll feel–I promise.”

The screen had caught fire, burning away in a moment, and then the flames had spread further, removing the entire wall between them. The priest gave a great hacking cough in the billow of smoke, like something was stuck in his throat–or maybe…maybe he was just…parched. Why had he deprived himself of pleasure for so long–only engaging in these little games with men as deeply closeted as him, terrified that if he felt…anything, his entire life might just crumble away. He took the head in his mouth and began gulping down the demon’s precum. It was so hot it burnt his throat, blisters appearing on his lips and tongue, swelling and bursting within moments, but that didn’t matter. Pain wasn’t important–his thirst was all that mattered. He only stopped for a few moments, to hack some hard, solid rock up out of his throat onto the floor of the confessional, and then resumed drinking–the demon switching to acrid, foul smelling piss–but the priest barely noticed. The rest of the officer’s purity had since burnt off, leaving the demon with the priest, lost in depravity, holding the stone which the priest had coughed up in his hand. His master would reward him well for this one.

They remained in the booth until dark fell, and then the demon stood up, holding the stone as a barrier against the premises, and walked away. The priest garbled some noise, and started after him–not quite able to walk for some strange reason, but he could crawl, mewling and begging for more filth–but the officer would be emerging soon, and the demon didn’t want him coming out without a welcoming party.

Officer Wetzel Meets a Demon (Part 3)

Finally got this story finished. If you need a refresher, here was Part 1 and Part 2.

“What did you…do to me?” Officer Wetzel said, groaning, something deep inside his guts twisting, and he found himself gagging, and then vomiting black bile at the wall in front of him in a great gush. It tasted vile, but no sooner had he wiped his chin with one sleeve of his uniform, than a second surge hit him. Something was caught in his throat, something sharp–he hurled again and felt it dislodge and fly out of his mouth–it hit the brick wall with a soft tink, and then landed in the puddle of filth. The demon bent down and picked up the small, gleaming thing between two fingers, and examined it. “That’s…that’s mine,” he croaked. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew, somehow, that it belonged to him.

“Pity–I was hoping it would be a bit larger. I certainly didn’t think you’d give it up so easily,” the demon said, and slipped it into his pocket. “And yes, it was yours–but that body of yours can’t hold something like this, not anymore. No–not even god will love you now. Be thankful the devil needed you at all, sinner.”

The officer grabbed for the demon, but he stepped back, watching the man crawl towards him. “I know I promised you a weekend, but I still have some pressing business I have to attend to–you’ll forgive me if I catch up with you a bit later. Do try and enjoy yourself–you’ve earned it. Still, I will need your clothes…”

Wetzel tried to find his feet, but his body was feverish, his vision blurry. He nearly tumbled into the street, but the demon managed to swerve him back onto the sidewalk, and into an alley out of the sun’s heat, where he forcefully disrobed him. Wetzel tried to fight back but his body was giving out–he slumped over, retching up another massive amount of bile, but this time it was thicker–instead of flying out of his mouth, it more…oozed forth, running down his chin and onto his chest, coating his body. He tried to wipe it off, but it just…smeared around–sticky and hot, more pouring from his mouth. He tried to speak, tried to beg for mercy, but he couldn’t speak through the flow–choking and gagging, he collapsed, the filth pouring out of him, coating his body until a few minutes later, none of his flesh was visible–all that remained was a black, rubbery cocoon anchored to the filthy concrete of the alley.

The demon squatted down, and rubbed spot where the officer’s head would have been, and then stood up, looking at the small amber gem which the officer had expelled–that small little chunk of authentic soul the man had still had within him. After all, the officer here hadn’t been his primary target–no, he had someone far worse in need of punishment. After all, if God wasn’t going to bother showing his face, that meant it was up to the devil, to enforce his own idea of law and order here on earth.

He licked his lips, placed the gem on his tongue, rolled it around his mouth, and then swallowed. Immediately, an uncomfortable grumble came from his guts, the purity of the gem rebelling against his demonic nature, seeking exit–but he bound it deep inside himself, corrupted it, and pulled the remnants of goodness forth. It’s human form began to shudder, and a few minutes later his body had become that of Officer Wetzel–fortyish, paunch covered in grey hair, a bushy mustache. He pulled on the officer’s uniform, checked on the cocoon one last time, and then set off down the street, whistling and twirling his baton, cruising the leather and rubber freaks as he went. As much as he might want to abuse the last vestiges of the Officer’s form with a bit more sex, the fact was he didn’t have much time to finish the job–a few hours at most. His demonic force would eat through this skin in that time, and he’d need it where he was heading.

The demon headed away from the revelrie, knowing he’d have a chance to enjoy himself more once his work was completed. The spire of the cathedral was visible, sticking out into the sky above the lower roofs around him, and after a few minutes, the skin already chafing slightly, he found himself at the entrance to the sanctuary, and gingerly placed his hand on the door, the skin insulating him from the holy energy thrumming through the structure. Had he not been shielded by the officer’s remaining piety, his mortal form would have been destroyed, and he would have been thrown back into the pits where he’d crawled from. Instead, he pulled opened the door with a gleeful chuckle, and slipped inside.

The space was obnoxiously pious. He walked through the sanctuary, where several people were praying, towards the back of the church, where the confessional booths were placed. Now here, he could taste something of his own nature, well cloaked and hidden within a false faith. He entered the booth and sat down, licking his lips, glancing at the priest through the screen–who was looking back at him, recognizing the officer’s face, even if…something seemed strange about him, at the moment. But there was an eagerness there as well, which didn’t care about those concerns, and one hand slipped to his crotch, rubbing his cock through his robes. This had become a…habit for them both, and as wrong as Father Nelson knew it was, he…he couldn’t bring himself to stop. “It’s late, Beau–I thought you might not come today.”

The demon resisted the urge to begin stroking himself as well, but he would wait. It would be better if he waited, to make sure the sinful priest was too deep to escape his grasp. When he was his, then he would have all the time to take his pleasure, and it would all the sweeter for his patience, as contrary to his nature as that might be.

Officer Wetzel Meets a Demon (Part 2)

It hurt. It was dry, and even though the baton was smooth, as Officer Wetzel tried to work it into his virgin asshole, it felt like he was ripping his ass apart. No one in the circle around him showed any sympathy to his situation. The man next to him, hand on his shoulder, was slowly unbuttoning his uniform shirt, sliding one hot hand beneath it, exploring the officer’s chest and gut. The man sucking him off was bringing him closer to orgasm, no matter how hard he fought–it simply felt too good, and the man whispering in his ear wasn’t helping him focus on who he knew he was. A good man. A christian man. A man who loved his wife. A man who’d never felt a single desire for a man before in his life–but that was a lie, and the man knew, he knew it. The officer could remember, unbidden, all those desires like they were new again. That time he’d jacked off with his patrol in boy scouts. The boy who’d blown him at that Christian retreat. That…desire he felt, eveny time he was alone with his priest, and he could always tell the man felt the same, but God kept them so far apart, so far–

His hand twisted the baton in deeper, and he cried up–something between a scream and a moan, and he came, the man drinking down his cum, the men around them urging them on, vying for position. Whether the man was manipulating them too, or whether this was simply their natural state, he didn’t know, but every single one of them saw him not as a person, but as a hunk of meat, an object, a tool.

“They seem excited, don’t you think? I really should give them what they want–anything else would be rather cruel. Don’t worry–they’ll get tired eventually, and leave you alone for a few hours, but I don’t think you’ll be able to keep up that whole…straight act, not after we’ve shown you what you’re missing. Do you think that hag of yours will really look as good after you’ve learned how good it feels to have a cock in your ass?” The man smiled, his smoky breath hot against the officer’s ear. He stepped away, letting go of him for the first time, but the heat in his chest kept him there, kept him pushing the baton in deeper, the faggots closing in tighter around him.

“Please, don’t…don’t do this. I’m sorry, please.” he said, as a man in rubber, hooded, an unknown, stepped up close, pulling his uniform shirt apart the rest of the way, toying with the officer’s tender nipples, pressing their cocks together.

“Oh? Does someone want to make a deal?” the man said, leaning against the wall out of reach, watching the freaks close in around him. “Well, I suppose you can have an evening with them, or a weekend with me. It’s up to you, which you’d rather suffer.”

The rubber freak had one gloved hand on the top of Wetzel’s head, applying pressure, his other hand gripping his cock, eight inches, pierced in more places that the officer imagined possible, someone coming around the side, taking over the baton. His knees were buckling, he was…he was going to suck the man off. Then the next man too. Other’s would fuck him, and he wanted them to fuck him, he’d always wanted to know, he always wanted to know what it would be like to have a man inside him, and he’d confessed, to his priest, how he’d played with his hole while his wife was away, listening to the priest jack off while he told him, jacking off himself–“No, not them, please, not this. You can do what you want with me.”

The ring of men was pushed back by some strange force, allowing Officer Wetzel to take a breath, but it was filled with smoke, sulfur, brimstone, as the man, the demon, locked lips with him, pushing the smoke in deep, feeling the officer’s body melt against him. He was hot, so hot it felt like his skin might burn. Everywhere he touched, his skin ached with lust, his uniform caught fire and burned away, and the man turned the officer around, allowed him to brace himself against the wall. He’d become bigger, hairier, skin no longer any human tone, but a deep red, cock even larger than the rubber freaks had been, but Wetzel wanted it, he was begging for it. The demon hauled the baton from the officer’s hole and flung it away, hauling apart his ass cheeks with two hands, fingers tipped with claws, precum steaming as it dribbled from the tip of his cock. With a voice, halfway to a growl, the beast said, “You know, all it takes is one for the infection to happen, right?”

Before Wetzel could doubt his decision, the demon’s cock had forced itself into him. It burned, it was rough as sandpaper. He needed it, needed it deep inside him all the same, and he was bucking back as the beast fucked him. He felt a fever building in him, a horrific heat burning away the false faith he’d used, in desperation, to bind himself. His true self. Was he even human anymore? He was something different, that much he knew. There would be no coming back from this, now that he’d been seeded, and everything felt so…strange. Wrong. Different. The demon was pounding harder, the men still surrounding them, urging them onward. Could they see it for what it was? Could they see him changing? Or were they just victims in all of this? Did they know what was walking among them? What was inside of him?

The demon came, and after that, for a time, nothing mattered. Nothing even seemed to exist. It was white, or so black he know longer knew what light was. He was aware of his body existing. He could feel the cock slide out of him, and the heat began to flow out of him, exhaustion replacing it, and he fell to his knees, facing the wall. Who was he? What was he? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answers to either.