Oscar’s New Thug Slut

“I really appreciate you being so understanding about this Oscar,” Mr. Williams said, “I just never knew that our son was such a thug slut, or we would have done something about it sooner.”

“I know!” Mrs. Williams added, “I mean, I always thought he was such a nice boy, but if I had known…” she gave a little shudder before continuing, “Well, let’s just say that it was lucky you were here, so you could spot the warning signs! I mean, if we would have sent him off to college, it would have been a disaster.”

“A real disaster–could you imagine wasting all those college savings on a thug slut like Quint?”

The two of them laughed, but Oscar just smirked, “Yeah, it would have been bad, I’ll tell you that much. But don’t you two worry, I’ll take good care of Quint, and make sure he grows up into the proper thug slut we all know he is.”

The front door to the duplex opened, and Quint trundled in, carrying a small box. “Here’s all of the stuff you said to bring, Master–I loaded the rest of my things into the back of my dad’s truck, like you told me to.”

“That’s a good job thug slut,” Oscar said, and gave him a smack on the back, making Quint wince. He still hadn’t taken the large bandage off the back of his neck and shoulders yet, from the tattooists yesterday. He was so happy Oscar had shown him what a thug slut he was–his life is going to be so much better now, that he doesn’t have to worry about college, or reading, or thinking for that matter. From here on out, all he would be doing with his life is working out, sucking cock, and whatever else his thug master wants him to do. “Mr. Williams–you’ll be a good man and take the thug slut’s things to the dump, won’t you? I’m going to be busy this weekend.”

“Oh, of course! Of course–I’d be happy to do that for you Oscar, you know we’ll do anything for you.”

“Yes, anything,” Mrs. Williams said, “all you have to do is ask.”

“Yep, just ask, and we’ll do it.”

“Sounds good,” Oscar said, “Fuck–slave, watching you cart all that shit around got me horny. Get down there and suck me off.”

“Yes sir!” Quint said, and got down on his knees, taking Oscar’s thick meat down his throat in a single thrust.

“Aw yeah slut, that’s good, real good…” Oscar said, puffing heavily on his cigar, and Mr. and Mrs. Williams were looking increasingly uncomfortable.

“You know, why don’t we just leave you two to it?” Mrs. Williams said, “Come on dear.”

“No, you fucking cunt, stay.” Oscar spat, “And you too fucker. We were having a nice conversation, weren’t we? And he’s just a thug slut, there’s no need to worry about him.”

“Oh…oh I guess so…” Mrs. Williams said, and the three of them chatted awkwardly about the neighbors and the neighborhood while Oscar smoked and rammed his cock down their son’s throat in front of them, finally tensing up and cumming all over Quint’s face.

“Alright, that’s good thug slut–head upstairs to the bathroom and wait for me,” Oscar said, and Quint got up, cum still plastered across his face, and went upstairs. Oscar turned back to his parents and said, “Alright, you two should probably be on your way now.”

“Alright,” Mr. Williams said, “And again, Oscar, thank you for helping us out with our thug slut son, you’ve been a great help.”

“Yes, we don’t know what we would have done without you.”

The two excused themselves and left Oscar’s side of the duplex they were renting to him, and he shook his head, smiling, and then bounded up the stairs after his slave, who was standing in the bathroom, waiting patiently. “Alright bitch, I’ve been wanting to do this for fucking weeks. That mop of yours has got to go–we need you looking like a proper thug scumbag, right?”

“Yes sir, whatever you say sir,” Quint said.

Oscar sat him down on the toilet and grabbed his shaver, and started working his way over Quint’s scalp, cutting away all of his shoulder length hair in long strokes. “This, thung slave, this feels good, doesn’t it? Me cutting away all the weight from your shoulders–I’m freeing you, I’m letting you be who you really, are, just a fucking thug slut–right?”

“Yes sir, I’m a fucking thug slut.”

“No bitch,” Oscar said, pausing in his shaving long enough to take the cigar from his mouth and stick it in Quint’s, “You’re not just a thug slut–you’re my thug slut–never fucking forget that.”

“Yes sir,” I won’t sir–I’m your fucking thug slut–no one else’s,” Quint said, taking a deep inhale off the cigar, and exhaling with a moan, his cock hard in his pants.

“That’s right slut–and we’re gonna have you all thugged out here soon enough. All that time you used to spend reading? Studying? Forget that–the only thing you care about now is working out–you’re gonna be one muscled thug by the end of the year, I promise you that–especially after I get those steroids from my buddy Zach–everyone is gonna want a piece of your bubble butt by the time I’m done with you. And that’s not the least of it–a new tattoo every week, and we’re gonna get you pierced too, starting with a fucking big ass PA through that cock head of yours. How does that sound, slut?”

“It sounds so fucking hot sir…”

“Damn right it does,” Oscar said, rubbing his hand over Quint’s buzzed scalp, and then grabbed a razor and some shaving cream, smeared it all over his his slut’s head and started taking the hair down to the scalp. “You know slave, you’re gonna learn something real soon, you’re gonna learn how fucking vulnerable it feels to have not a lick of hair on your head. You’re gonna learn what it feels to have some butch motherfucker grab your smooth head in his hands, and ram his big cock down your throat. You’re gonna learn what it feels like to be a real bitch, and you’re gonna keep this dome smooth for me, right? You’re gonna love the feel of a hand on your scalp pushing you down onto your knees so much, that you’re never gonna grow your hair out again.”

Quint couldn’t reply. He’d tranced out completely off the smoke from Oscar’s cigar, that his eyes had sagged half closed, but he was listening to every word–Oscar could tell, because he could see his thug slut’s hard on through the jeans he had on. Those were gonna have to go, he figured–even though he hadn’t settled on a uniform for his slut yet. Jockstraps? Gym shorts? Shirtless was a give in, of course, but he just wasn’t sure about the lower half yet–still, he had months to settle on a good look for his new thug.

He stripped Quint down, took the cigar back, and then had him hose his head off in the shower–no soap though–thug sluts smell like sex and musk and sweat–Quint was going to have to get used to stinking like his master did. He climbed out, and Oscar decided it was time to take the bandage off, and take a look at his slut’s first tattoo of many. He pulled it off and smiled–it was perfect–”Property of Oscar” in big letters that Quint would never hide–not that he’d want to. He was proud to be a thug slut–Oscar had made sure of that, as he ran his fingers along the still sore back, feeling Quint stiffen–and Oscar’s cock was stiffening again too.

Oscar bent the still wet Quint over the counter, one hand on his newly shaven head, and he worked his cock into Quint’s hole. the bathroom filling up with smoke–Quint roaring in pain at first, but he loosened up soon enough, and started moaning in pleasure. His master was right, the sensation, the vulnerability of that hand on his smooth head–it felt like his master could crush his skull in his hand, or palm it like a basketball–he could do anything he wanted with him, and Quint would accept it, would beg for it–he needed his master so bad–he’d do anything for him.

Oscar, grunting and snorting, started pounding his cock in as hard as he could, and then unloaded deep in the slut’s hole, both of them wet now, and he pulled Quint close–you’re mine bitch–mine for as long as I want.”

“Keep me forever sir, please–I’m yours,” Quint said, but Oscar pulled out his cock, keeping his distance. After all, he can’t get too attached to a thug slut–he’ll get sold off eventually anyway, after his hole can’t get tight anymore. Some whore house will end up with him, usually down in Mexico–if he got close to a thug slut, he might actually start feeling bad about it.

“Come on bitch, let’s get you started on a workout,” he said, and the rest of the afternoon was spent getting Quint up to speed on the workout equipment that dominated the living room in Oscar’s place. After a massive protein heavy dinner, it was back to working out, and Quint could almost feel his head draining, his thoughts moving slower, but maybe it was just his master talking to him the whole time, telling him how stupid he was, how he can’t even read, how he flunked out of middle school, how he can’t even remember where he lives–how he depends on his master for everything, how his master is everything to him–he couldn’t live without him.

It was around eleven at night when there was a knock at the door, and Oscar went over and answered it–it was Mr. Williams. “Hey…uh…the wife kind of gave me the cold shoulder tonight, and…well….I was wondering if–”

“Three hundred.”

“Three hundred? Isn’t–isn’t that a bit pricy?”

“Take it or leave it.”

Mr. Williams looked a bit annoyed, then pulled out a wad of cash, counted out Oscar’s money, and then walked over to where his son–no, where Oscar’s thug slut was working out. He wasn’t his son anymore–he didn’t have a son, Oscar had made that perfectly clear, that when Quint moved in with him, he’d have no relation to the Williams anymore.

“Hey Quint–you got a customer. Sit up and give him what he’s looking for.”

“Yes sir!” Quint said, sitting up from where he was pressing, and saw the man looming over him…he looked familiar, didn’t he? He tried to place the face for a moment, but his head just wasn’t working fast enough, and finally he forgot it, and started sucking his cock, listening to the older man moan. He didn’t last long–less than a minute, and then he came, Quint swallowed, and he left, giving Oscar a nod as he went, but Quint was already back down, returning to his bench press. He had to get big for his master. He was just a dumb thug slut after all–his hot body was the only thing he had going for him. Well, that and his hot mouth and ass. He was going to be a good thug slut for his master–the best thug slut Oscar had ever had.

The Hypnoslaver

The hypnotist walked through the house, having just finished breakfast, and he figured it was time to check up on each of his slaves in training, to see how they were doing today, and direct their morning training. He decided to start off with his cub, in the first room on the left. The three men had already been trained to wake at exactly six in the morning, and it was now a quarter after. He knocked, and then stepped in, finding Rick just about done getting dressed. The hypnotist had already convinced him that wearing anything other than leather and rubber was physically painful, and so when he stepped in, he found the young bear in his leather harness, pulling on some tight leather pants, but as soon as he saw the hypnotist, he fell to his knees, his head bowed, though the hypnotist could see he was still resisting his compulsions more than he would have liked.

“Good morning cub, how are you doing this morning?”

“I’m well…sir,” Rick said, fighting with the last word, but it slipped out anyway.

“Feeling a bit resistant this morning, I sense?”

“I’m…I’m not going to, I’m going to get out of here, I will, just you fucking…fucking wait…sir…” Rick sputtered, and he tried to get up from where he was kneeling, but couldn’t.

“It seems like the head says no, but the body says yes,” the hypnotist said, “Hmmm…well that’s too bad–I know how you get when you don’t have your morning cum, the withdrawal is just awful. But since you’re obviously not in the mood, I suppose I’ll leave you to stew for a bit.”

“No!” Rick shouted, “No–no, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t please, no I need it, don’t leave, sir.”

The hypnotist sized him up, the fear in his eyes delightful. The cum addiction was well in place at least–if he didn’t swallow at least three loads a day, Rick could barely function. For him, quitting cum was akin to quitting heroin. But still, the cub needed to be taught some sort of lesson for his insubordination. “Leathercub, sleep,” he said, and Rick’s eyes went blank, his body going a bit limp, but he remained on his knees. “Slave, can you hear me?”

“Yes sir, what do you desire, sir?”

“Rick is acting up again, isn’t he?”

“Yes sir, he is angry today, sir. He’s scared, because he’s losing the desire to fight back. He’s starting to like being here–he’s starting to like being your leathercub, sir.”

“I see…well, I suppose we’ll have to punish Rick for his disobedience, won’t we?”

“If that is what you wish, sir.”

“Alright. From now to the time I release you, whenever Rick tries to resist you, I give you leave to whip him into shape–literally. Ten lashes across the back, but instead of pain, both of you will instead feel the strikes as intense, sexual pleasure, and on the tenth lash, you will cum spontaneously, understand?”

“Yes sir, I understand and obey.”

“Good. Leathercub, awake.”

Rick shook his head, a bit dazed, and refocused on the hypnotist above him, and he said, “Very well Rick, I will give you my cum, if you lick my boots clean first.

“No, no I’m…” Rick said, but as soon as he did, he stood up, walked over to the wall where the whip hung, knelt back down and started raining blows on his back, but instead of screaming, each lash brought out moans and groans of pleasure, until on the tenth blow, he came forcefully all over the floor, panting, his back aching, and unable to stop himself, Rick got down and licked up the cum as he had been trained. It took two more series of lashings before Rick relented, and licked the hypnotist’s boots clean, and by then, the master was so turned on by Rick’s self-abuse that he came in less than a minute.

“Very good slave, though you’re a bit slow. Spend the morning thinking about your enslavement, and how much pleasure it gives you to submit to me.”

“Yes…sir…” Rick said, and the hypnotist left, checking the clock. It was now almost seven–he was behind schedule. Hugo, or rather, Helen, would be best to check in on next, he decided, and stopped at her door, giving a knock as usual, before stepping in. The room was frilly and pink, decorated for a girl, but Hugo was on the bed, crying his eyes out, and when he saw the hypnotist enter, he let out a girlish cry, and backed up in fear. “Please no more, sir…please, I can’t take it. I don’t want to be a girl, I don’t! I don’t!”

The hypnotist sighed–still no progress. He’d been doing well with Hugo, but a few days ago he came across a mental block of some kind that he just hadn’t been able to work around. It was going to take some work this one, but he knew he was close. “Sleep, Helen,” he said, and Hugo stopped crying, and went limp. “Are you there Helen? Tell me, what’s the matter with Hugo?”

“Hello sir,” a girlish voice said, “Hugo’s scared, sir.”

“Well I know that Helen, but what is he scared of? Is it me? You couldn’t tell me last time, but you said you’d talk to him about it.”

Hugo shook his head, “No, he’s not scared of you, he scared of…of his dad, I think. Of what his dad would think of him. He’s scared of being a disappointment.”

Hugo had kind of expected it to be a family matter, and he had an idea he wanted to try out, that might help. “Alright Helen, here’s what I want you to do. I want you and Hugo to go to sleep now, as I count backwards from five. Five…you’re feeling very tired…four…you’re drifting off now, you’re losing grip on the world…three…you’re asleep now, but falling deeper…two…so deep now, and you can feel yourself entering a dream…one…you’re deeply asleep, but dreaming, and you’re lying awake in Hugo’s bed, alright?”

“Yes…sir…” Hugo muttered.

“Now, here’s what I want you to dream. I want you to dream that Hugo’s father comes into his room, and admits to him that he never wanted a son–but that he wanted a daughter. And as he admits that, Hugo finds himself changing, becoming more womanly, and he starts making love to his father, sucking his cock, and then begging his father to fuck him like a slut, and when his father cums, you will cum in real life as well, and then I want you to dream the same thing all over again. This dream is going to feel so real, that when he wakes up, it will feel like it had actually happened to him in real life, understand?”

“Yes…sir…” Hugo muttered again, and then said, “Dad…what?…Really? Oh…oh daddy…”

The hypnotist watched Hugo start grinding his cock into the pink sheets of his bed. The dream probably wouldn’t be enough, but it would help break down the wall. The hypnotist didn’t think Hugo would be able to get past it this way though, and sighing, he figured he would probably have to make Hugo believe that the hypnotist was actually his father. Not that he minded–it was just more work than he’d really wanted to do. For now though, he could dream for the rest of the day–and he could go check up on Gary. First though, he had to go get the equipment that had arrived the day before–some new workout equipment for his muscleslut.

He went downstairs, returning with a large box which he carted down the hall to Gary’s room, gave a knock, and stepped inside, bringing to box with him. The smell of sweat and musk was already heavy in the room, as Gary pressed his weights. Of all three, he was the easiest to deal with, actually–he barely resisted his workouts anymore, and the vanity and mental drain was taking hold rather well. He let Gary work a bit longer, the hypnotist admiring his smooth body. He was happy he’d decided to take the tanning slowly–he was developing a nice, bronze color, but didn’t look fake at all, and with all the hair permanently removed from his body, he looked like a statue, almost.

“Gary, take a break–I have a gift for you.”

Gary finished his set first, the hypnotist waiting patiently, and then he hefted himself up off the bench and lumbered over, a stupid grin spread across his face, “Mornin’ sir–How’s you today?”

“I’m good Gary. I have a new piece of equipment for you that I think you’re going to love.”

Gary grinned wider, and the hypnotist watched him open the box and pull out a low step, on which a massive dildo had been attached, big as a man’s forearm, and Gary just blinked at it. “What I supposed to do with it…sir?”

“It’s for when you do squats, Gary. Here, set it on the ground, and I’ll help you with it.” Gary put it down, and the hypnotist lubed up the dildo, before walking Gary through the exercise, how he needed to squat down and take as much of the dildo as he could, before standing back up, and that was a single rep. It didn’t take long for Gary to get used to the rhythm, and he was happily squatting up and down on the massive dildo, a big grin plastered across his face, his four inch cock rock hard from the stimulation, but Gary didn’t even notice. He’d completely forgotten that he had a cock–all he cared about now was getting bigger, and pleasing his master, though feeling the dildo ram into his prostate over and over did feel good, and with a grunt, his cock spurted a load of cum out onto the floor, and satisfied, the hypnotist left him to the rest of his workout. It was going to be a lot of work still, but by the end of the year he was going to have three wonderful hypnoslaves in tip top shape for the convention. The other hypnomasters were going to be so jealous! He couldn’t wait.

The Silent Auction

***Plenty of extreme stuff in this one, I don’t really want to bother listing it. Just consider yourself warned. Check the tags if you’re curious.***

Mitch didn’t know what they were doing to him, the men who’d grabbed him as soon as he’d stepped into the warehouse, throwing a bag over his head and dragging him away, kicking and shouting, but he’d come alone, like the message had said–he hadn’t exactly had much of a choice. But still, he was the god-damn chief of police, and he should have known that this was a trap. The men stripped him down suddenly, cutting the clothes off of him before fastening heavy iron shackles around his wrists and ankles, and shoving him up some stairs and ripping the hood away as they did, but before he could turn around, they’d shut a door, trapping him in a small glass box, barely larger than a coffin, with a bright light in the top casting a harsh light down on his pudgy, old body.

He threw himself at the glass walls, but they weren’t glass at all–just very hard plastic–and even if it had been breakable, he would never have been able to build up the momentum to break it. Instead, he directed his attention to his surroundings, and saw that his wasn’t the only box in the room–there were four others. One was still empty, but in the other three, he saw other men whom he recognized. Sam Raymond, the mayor. Rudy Garrison and Jack Duggery, both members of the city council. He turned to the empty box and saw two men clad in leather police officers disrobing another hooded figure and pushing him into the last box, and he saw Peter McJenson, one of the city’s judges. And him, Mitch Lundon–the chief of police.

“Well well, I see that you all came as I requested,” a voice said, and a small, but beefy figure came out of the darkness, rubbing his gloved hands together, looking at the five men locked in their respective boxes, Amazing how all of you jump when the teats you’ve all been sucking at our threatened.”

The kidnappings, Mitch thought. He’d done his best to keep them under wrap. Five of the most prominent businessmen had been kidnapped two days ago, and the bandit–the man addressing them now, he assumed, had claimed responsibility. Mitch had been furious, to say the least–after nearly a year of no activity, the man he’s sworn to hunt down, after robbing ten banks in half as many months, and costing him twenty of his best detectives, had struck again, and right at the heart of the city’s business community.

The bandit–he was practically legend at this point, a modern robin hood, stealing from the rich and passing on the wealth to the poor faster than the rich could scoop it all back up. The bandit who’d made no attempt to hide his activity or his face, but was still utterly anonymous to him and every other law enforcement body in the country. The bandit who’d…changed every officer who’d ever pursued him. Mitch recognized a few of them now, actually, as some of his most trusted officers just a year ago, before they’d all had their own run-ins with the bandit. In fact, these were the one’s who’d gotten off lucky–others had had their heads so twisted that…well…the sights hadn’t been pretty. And now, seeing what the bandit had managed, well…Mitch was scared to death. He’d only been thinking of himself, when he’d gotten the message from the bandit, telling him to come here, alone, or he’d air out the fact that Mitch had been lining his pockets with personal bribes from every one of the business men that had been kidnapped–apparently the other four had received similar threats.

“So,” the bandit continued, “I suppose you’re all wondering why I asked you all here, and what this has to do with the five upstanding businessmen who agreed to come stay with me for the past couple of days. Yes, I know you thought they had been kidnapped, but I assure you that they all came of their own free will. And now, I’ve invited them all here for a small, private charity auction. Shall I introduce you to them now? How about we bring Ronald out here first.”

The five men all knew him when he came out, Ronald Stein, one of the biggest real estate developers in the city. He was older, but had always tried to look young, but he came out looking absolutely disgusting, clad in a wife beater and boxers, his toupee gone revealing his greying horseshoe of hair. “Say hello to Ronald everyone. In addition to the sweetheart development deals many of you helped him get, Ronald here has also been secretly spying on many of his own tenets. But we’ve helped you out with that, haven’t we Ronald?”

“Oh yes sir,” Ronald said, “I’m not going to spy on anyone anymore, now I just want to watch men strip for me.”

“That’s true–you are quite the voyeur. Now, who’s next? Morgan, come out here.”

Morgan Pullman, the CEO of one of the city’s largest banks, emerged looking very different from his usual self. He’d packed on muscle, for one thing–lots of muscle. And instead of his usual suit, he was wearing leather chaps and a harness, with a whip and paddle hanging from his waist. “Morgan here thought that poor people ought to suffer, but he knows better now, right Morgan?”

“Oh yeah, Mr. Bandit,” the muscular man said, “The real men who need to suffer are corrupt government officials, and goodness, am I going to work them over good…”

“I’m sure you will. Now, Berlin, come here my boy.”

Berlin Hamilton was the son of one of the richest men in the world, and had proceeded to do absolutely nothing with the fame and fortune he’d received. At twenty-five, he’d had plenty of time to waste, but not anymore. He emerged triple his previous age–seventy-five–and hobbled over to the bandit. “I suppose youth is wasted on the young, eh?”

“Oh yes, but the younger the better,” Berlin said, shooting the men in their cases a lecherous glance, before shuffling over to join the other two.

“Younger indeed. Now, who’s left…Madison for one, come out here.

Madison Benoit, the investment broker whom the judge in the room had let off scot free on a technicality, after losing millions for his customers in the stock market crash, had a second, darker side that the five men knew about–he was a white supremacist. He’d done a good job hiding it behind his social darwinism and southern roots before, but when he walked out, that wasn’t going to fly any longer, looking like a roided up skinhead, swastikas tattooed on his neck and permanently bald head, wearing bleached jeans, doc martins and a cruel scowl. “No need to hide those feelings anymore, eh, Madison?”

“Fuck no, mate,” Madison said, “Now you promised me a slave, when ‘em I gettin’ my own personal nigger?”

“Soon enough, just be patient–we have one more man to introduce after all. Roger Merdon, our final bidder, everyone.”

Roger Merdon was the wealthiest media magnate in the city, but the obese slob clad in nothing but overalls who stumbled out, apparently drunk, bore almost no resemblance to the smartly dressed man he’d been before. The bandit caught the man as he stumbled, and helped him over to the rest of the group. “Well, I guess he’s just as filthy now as the shit he has his ‘news’ channels shoot out every day, right?” Roger gave a healthy laugh, followed by a long belch, and joined his fellows, Roger walking up to the glass cases.

“What’s this all about, Bandit?” the mayor asked.

“Yeah, you’re never going to get away with this,” Mitch added.

Oh, now this is a silent auction, gentleman, so no comments from the peanut gallery until after the bidding is complete. Now, gentlemen,” the bandit said, directing his attention back to his group of twisted magnates, “You all remember how this works, right? There’s a minimum bid on all these men of…let’s say, fifty million dollars? Just make your bid on each man, and the top bidder on each will get his prize. If you win on two, you only get the one you bid the most on. Still, you’re used to paying for government officials, so I’m sure this will come perfectly natural to all of you. However, I urge you all to be generous, because the person with the lowest bid…well, let’s just say they’ll regret having been so stingy, eh? Now, let’s say, fifteen minutes to place your bids? Starting…now! And remember–silence please, from everyone.”

Apparently, when the bandit said silence, he meant silence. The room was quiet, aside from the occasional hmm or haa from the five bidders, as the men in the cases desperately tried to get their old friends to let them out and escape–but the bandit had apparently been working them over for too long for them to feel any sympathy. Finally, the five of them finished their bids as the clock ran down, and the bandit took a moment to examine the results.

“Alright, it looks like we have our pairings. So, shall we go from highest to lowest? And goodness, what a high bid–I’m impressed. With a winning bid of five hundred million dollars, we have Berlin Hamilton who has purchased the mayor of our fine city as his personal bitch.

The old man grinned, one hand going down and rubbing his cock through his suit pants, as two leather clad officers opened the glass case and dragged the still shackled mayor over to the bandit. “Now now, quit fighting it–you had no problem with these men buying you before, after all. Now, as far as Berlin is concerned, you’re quite simply far too old for him at the moment–he likes his men much younger now. But don’t worry, at eighteen, everything you two will be doing together will be plenty legal.”

As they all watched, the mayor, who’d been in his mid fifties, started regressing rapidly, until he was in his late teens, but his body was so slender and underdeveloped that he probably could have passed as someone younger. Berlin’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head when he saw his new toy, and he let out a groan.

“Oh, he’s so beautiful, thank you bandit.”

“Oh, I’m not done yet–I know what you like,” the bandit said, and pulled the slender mayor closer, who was still trying to grapple with his own transformation. “Now, Sammy, I have a few things to tell you. You see, your last name isn’t Raymond anymore–It’s Hamilton, and that nasty old man over there is your grandfather, the grandfather whom you want to use you as a sexual toy for the rest of your life. Now, you know what your grandfather likes? He likes little boys, right? So you’re going to have to pretend to be even littler, alright?”

Sammy nodded quickly, falling into his new character, as a tight fitting pokemon shirt appeared on his torso, and around his waist appeared a diaper. He started sucking his thumb, and waddled over to his lecherous grandfather, kissing his deeply, the bandit leaving them to their new roleplay.

“Now, who’s next? Our second largest bid was not nearly so large–just two hundred million, though not a sum to be laughed at. Ronald Stein, please come collect your new toy, Councilman Jack Duggery.” The underwear clad real estate developer smirked, as the officers pulled Jack from his case, and pulled his down to where the bandit stood. “Now, Ronald, what’s your favorite type of man?”

“Oh, I like looking at them all, trust me, but I do love those muscular strippers at all the bars. Just, make him manly–no real twinks, and no body builders either, just, lean and handsome and an unabashed exhibitionist. Oh, and a real big dick.”

“You heard the man,” the bandit said,and Jack felt his body start to contort and grow, packing on muscle, his fat melting away until he could have graced the cover of a muscle magazine, a light treasure trail running up his chest. A short beard covered his chiseled jawline now, and something…a beat inside him…he felt his hips start gyrating, as a pair of extremely tight cut off shorts barely able to contain his nine inch cock appeared around his waist. He looked up and saw Ronald staring at him, and the old man made him feel so dirty, but so horny at the same time, he started grinding his body up against him, making out with him, hungry for his attention and praise, leaving the bandit to tally the next winning bid. “Oh, this is a good one,” the bandit said, “With a bid of 175 million, Madison Benoit has purchased as his new slave the honorable judge Peter McJenson!”

The skinhead stepped forward, and the officers dragged the screaming and struggling judge out of his box and out to the bandit. “No! No please, please don’t do this, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”

“Oh, I sense your sincerity, but alas, it is too late for apologies, I think,” the bandit said, “Still, considering how many young black men you put behind bars, I think your new color will suit you just fine.” The judge whimpered, and looked down at himself, as his skin began to darken to a near pitch black, and he fell to his knees where he continued to beg and plead and grovel, until Madison delivered a firm kick right into the judge’s mouth.

“Fuckin’ niggers. Get rid of that tongue–I don’t ever want to hear another word out of it’s mouth. And it’s balls too. And make it dumb as shit–I don’t need it thinking about questioning my orders. And bigger, a real beast of burden for me and my mates that can take plenty of abuse.”

On his knees, the judge started to grow, packing on pound after pound of muscle as he felt his head empty out, and on his knees, looking up at Madison–no, up at Master, all he felt was fear–primal, terrible fear, and he got down, kissing the toes of his boots, silently begging for forgiveness. It was enough to assuage Madison for the moment, and he dragged his slave away by the chain collar it now wore, where he took his new slave’s cherry.

“Goodness, only two left. Let’s see who our last lucky winner is–Roger Merdon, with a bid of 100 million, has purchased Councilman Rudy Genson. Congratulations.”

The officers hauled out the second councilman and hauled him up front, while the filthy redneck waddled up as well. “So, Mr. Merdon, what would you like?”

“Well, I’d sure as hell love someone tah clean me up a bit–think I sharted a bit sittin’ o’er there jus’ now. Yeah, a nice fat piggy willin’ tah get a little dirty, an’ willin’ tah be mah toilet, I think–that’d save me a lot a trips tah the bathroom.”

“Oh fuck no, you can’t be serious, you *grunt* no, please–*snort*” Rudy said, as he started fattening up, topping 400 pounds before he finally stopped growing, and unable to balance on his feet anymore, he fell forward onto his hands and knees, where he smelled it. Something so filthy and nasty and delicious, he snuffled over to his master and nosed at the back of his overalls. It was in there, it was in there and he needed it, when Master dropped the overalls down, revealing his shitty ass crack he let out a squeal of delight and started licking it all clean, his Master moaning in pleasure as he did, the Bandit walking away and over to where Mitch stood, alone, in his glass case.

“So, Mitch Lundon, it looks like you’re the last one. Well, you and Mr. Thrifty over there,” he said, looking at Morgan Pullman in his leather gear. “Get over here Mr. Pullman.” He tried to resist the command, but there was nothing he could do, and so he walked over and joined him. “So, Mr. Cheapskate, you couldn’t even bring yourself to spend over a hundred million?”

“Well, I didn’t expect everyone else to bid so much–I can pay more, if you want, I have–”

“Oh shut up–I told you before, that the least generous among the bidders was going to get…a less than pleasant surprise, didn’t I? But Mr. Lundon, don’t think that I’m letting you off the hook–why don’t the two of you share the same fate? Take him out boys.”

The two cops pulled Mitch out of his case, and two more grabbed Peter before he could try and run. “Now, I’m thinking twins, and I do love the leather. How about a couple of cute cubs, just desperate for a master?”

As Peter and Mitch looked at each other, they saw that they were both transforming in front of their eyes, shrinking to about five and a half feet, and pudging up, their hair shifting to deep red and shortening, full round goatees accentuating the roundness of their faces. When they were perfectly identical, matching leather harnesses and jocks appeared on their bodies, along with two massive dildos shoved up their holes, and both of them looked at the bandit with unbridled lust.

“So, is there anything me and my brother can do for you?” Mitch said, running his hand into the bandit’s pants and massaging his cock.

“Yeah, the two of us have been looking for a big, strapping master like you who can keep all of our holes satisfied,” Peter added coming in close as well.

“Ha, well, I don’t know about keeping you, but I’d be happy to keep you both well plowed tonight,” the bandit said, leading the twin cubs to his room, and leaving the rest of the men to their pleasures, wiring the millions he’d just made from the auction to the charities he’d chosen earlier. They might all have been selfish whores before, but at least now no one would mistake them for what they really were–and if he could help people in the city, then all the better.

Yeah, that’s Buck–ain’t he a beauty? He’s my most recent subject, and definitely my most successful. Eight and a half feet tall, four hundred pounds, and perfectly compliant–he’ll do anything I tell him to do, and for 1000 dollars an hour, anything you tell him to do as well.

Yeah, imagine, this little guy, barely five foot three, slender as a rail, sees the flyer and comes in to meet with me? Lucky for him, he had just the sort of reaction to the drugs I’ve been looking for. Usually after this long the subjects start devolving, going all gorilla on me, but he for some reason metabolizes it perfectly. Of course, there’s wasn’t even much cognitive loss, though the programming has dulled his mind a bit. He smells fantastic too–ha, look at that guy, can’t rip himself away from Buck’s pit, and Buck hasn’t even noticed. So, you interested? I have an opening two months out, if you’d like, but if you don’t book now, I might not have anything available until next year.

Source: coiledfist.org

Man? Dog? Slave? Spike didn’t even know anymore. How much time had passed in these labs, with these drugs and suits and videos? He couldn’t figure out any of it anymore, sure, he looked like a pup, didn’t he? It was just a mask, a voice in his head kept saying, just a rubber suit the doctors made him wear, but it…he couldn’t remember having any other face, and if it was a mask, shouldn’t there be a face underneath it?

And he couldn’t walk on two legs anymore–how could he be a man, and not walk upright? He tried, god, he tried every night in his kennel, but he just couldn’t balance. It felt so much more natural on his hands and knees, so much more comfortable, wagging the tail stuck in his ass, licking the doctors’ hard cocks, smelling their piss when they marked him as their property.

And now…well, he could barely understand them anymore, they were just talking gibberish. Sure, he knew his name, ‘Spike’, and ‘sit’, ‘stay’, ‘suck’, ‘fetch’, ‘dildo’, all the normal words like that, but nothing else. Maybe…maybe he was just a puppy. Yeah, just a rubber puppy, a happy horny, rubber puppy slave, happy horny rubber puppy slave happy horny rubber puppy slave happy horny rubber…

Continued from here.

Yeah, the trucker was a bit ridiculous, with that ratty “Bubba” hat he wore all the time–even to bed, and his deep southern drawl, but he’d seemed nice enough to Jimmy, and considering they were both headed the same way, he figured it couldn’t hurt to ride with him for as long as the big redneck might have him. However, after a couple of days on the road together, he’d found the trucker was…well, bonding a little too close for his comfort. Sure, Jimmy was a nice guy, but he sure as hell wasn’t a fag, and even if he had been, “Bubba” sure as hell wasn’t his type. Still, they were close to his destination–one more night of unrequited love could be tolerated, right?

He shouldn’t have gotten drunk–that was his first mistake. He’d woken up from a way-too-many black out to find himself tied up in the sleeper cab of the truck, which was parked in the corner of some rarely traveled rest stop. Bubba was up front, saw that he was awake, and grinned. “Good–yer up,” he said, “God damn, I forgot how lonely it gits out on the road, though I’ve been thinkin’ that ya might be just the solution, eh farm boy?” he said, holding up a baseball cap with those words embroidered on it, and putting it on Jimmy’s head.

The effect was immediate. One moment, he was looking at his normal body, and the next, he was someone entirely different–a bit shorter, much stockier and chubby, with a good amount of body hair, wearing a flannel shirt with the arms ripped off, and mud caked jeans. “What the fuck ya do tah me?” he shouted, unprepared for the drawl that came out unbidden.

Bubba just laughed, and then started kneading Jimmy’s body, tweaking his nipples, and unable to help it, Jimmy let out a moan, and his cock hardened against the dirty denim. Bubba edged him for hours–all day and long into the night, talking to him almost constantly, telling him about how he was going to be his boy, his cub, his lover.

The hat was doing something to his mind, he realized. It was becoming harder to separate out what was real from what wasn’t. His mind was dulling, and he realized that now, he hadn’t even graduated high school, working full time on his family’s farm instead. Now though, he rode around with Bubba, his daddy, trucking across the states–but that couldn’t be right, could it?

It was right enough–Farm Boy, even dumber than Bubba was, wasn’t equipped to challenge the hat, or Bubba’s indoctrination. By morning, he was just a dumb, horny bottom cub, just what Bubba had always wanted.

“Yeah, who’s my big bear?”

“I’m *hic* yer big bear…”

“You sure are, god, look how fast you’re growing, love those fucking stretch marks. Probably can’t even zip up these coveralls of yours, but you like showing off your belly don’t you?”

“Yeah, fuckin’ love it, love my belly…”

“Gonna make ya even bigger when I take you home. Got more of my special brew, I’m gonna feed you a whole keg of it, make you so fuckin’ fat you won’t be able to move, so fucking dumb you won’t be able to think about anything beyond eating, drinking and sucking my cock.”

“Fuck.”

“Gonna whore you out too. Gonna throw house parties, gonna let my friends use you as their personal cumdump. Would you like that, slut?”

“I’d…I’d *hic* I’d do anythin’ fer ya, Mikey. I love you.”

“Fucking pig, god you were so fucking easy. Gonna love breaking in that hole of yours tonight.”

“I’m so horny Mikey, I…yeah, take me home, fuck me. Fuck me hard.”

Let’s get home then, pig, and the real fun’ll start.“

Eugenics

Commissioned by Anonymous

“You ready yet?”

“Not yet, hold on…now…what’s this doing here–that shouldn’t, I don’t think…”

James sighed–this was taking forever. Harry might be a nice guy, but he wasn’t exactly the brightest bulb in the room. He was better with the more routine maintenance, but Rick was out sick this week, and when you ended up working late, you took what you could get. At this point, the rest of the staff had pretty much cleared out of the building–James figured that the two of them were the last people left on the floor, if not entirely. He sighed, and looked around the laboratory. He was a genetics researcher investigating the causes and symptoms of aging, and in his thirties, he was just starting to feel some of the effects he’d spent his time studying. Harry, on the other hand, was quite a bit older than him, and had worked for the company longer than James had been alive. James kept wondering why the old guy didn’t just retire–hell, he probably had enough in his pension and 401(k) by now, but maybe the old guy just liked working.

“Al…alright, that should do it,” Harry said, closing the side of the centrifuge, “Let’s see if this thing works now,” and he hit the power button.

Hey, wait, shouldn’t we unload it first–” James said, but it was too late, the device was already spinning–and spinning, and dang, he’d never seen it go that fast before. Harry, equally worried, tried to power it down, but the device wouldn’t stop, or even slow, and before he could pull the plug, the vials in the device started flinging away from the machine, bursting against the walls but also against the two men, who did their best to cover their faces as vial after vial of experimental serums slammed into them and the walls around them. James wasn’t quite quick enough though, one of the vials slamming into his face, sending him reeling backward and crashing to the floor of the lab, stunned, a gash on his cheek, and the serum burning into his face, making him cry out in pain.

Harry, his glasses broken by a stray vial, managed to grope around and find the plug to the centrifuge, finally cutting off the power, and then he sat back, stunned, while James struggled up and over to the emergency shower station, pulling the handle down, the cold water drenching him in seconds, and he could feel the burning serum run down under his clothes, spreading the burning sensation all over before it finally subsided. “Harry,” James said, “Harry get over here and shower off, who knows what just got all over you–you need to shower off.”

“Oh don’t worry about me,” Harry said, “I feel fine.”

“Come on, just do it.”

In truth, Harry didn’t feel fine at all, but he honestly couldn’t see anything without his glasses and was afraid to move, less he mess something else up, but still, he pushed himself up and followed the sound of James’ voice over to the shower, who helped him under the water, and James stepped out away from the water, the burning gone, but he still felt…strange. Tired, and a little worn out, like he’d just gone for a run after being out of shape, but he just chalked it up to the aftereffects of his adrenaline rush. Harry rinsed himself off for a few minutes, and then stepped out from the shower, blinking a bit and trying to focus on his surroundings, but mostly wishing he had his glasses. However, looking over at James, he blinked a couple of times. He couldn’t be sure, given how blurry the image was, but he just didn’t look…well, right.

“James…are you…are you feeling alright? You don’t…I mean, I don’t know. I need to find my spare glasses…” he said, but James wasn’t feeling right at all. The feeling of strangeness had begun culminating in a sudden bout of nausea, and he sprinted from the room, dizzy and reeling, forcing his way into the bathroom where he vomited into the toilet. After a minute or two, his stomach seemed to settle back down, and he got up, walked over to the sink, and splashed some water on his face, before looking at himself to see if he had any bad cuts from where the vial had hit him, and gasped.

His face–it was his, and yet…his hair, and his goatee. His hairline had receded a bit back up his scalp, and he could see a smattering of grey hairs in and amongst the young brown, and almost as he watched, he could see it turning greyer. Wrinkles were deepening on his forehead and around his eyes, and he looked more like he was in his late fifties than in his thirties. He was feeling sick again, his body weak, and looking down, he realized why. His still sopping wet clothes were clinging to his body, but from the way they were hanging, it looked like he was losing muscle mass, his arms and legs thinning up, leaving him with a substantial gut around his middle, and leaving him feeling even weaker than before. He vomited again into the sink, the room spinning around and he fell to the floor, exhausted.

Meanwhile, Harry had grown worried and didn’t like waiting by himself in the laboratory, worrying that something might be seriously wrong with James, from what he’d thought he’d seen, and from the way James had rushed off. Slowly, he made his way out of the lab and down the hall, guiding himself more by memory than by sight, and towards the bathrooms, opened the door and called out, “James? James, are you alright?”

“Help, I’m…I’m…” he heard a voice call out from the floor, and he could see a figure crumpled over on the blurry tile.

“James? James, are you alright?” Harry said, stumbling over and getting down next to the blurry figure.

“Harry, call the hospital, I don’t…something’s wrong with me…I don’t…I’m older…”

Harry didn’t really know what James was talking about, but even worse, if he couldn’t see, he wasn’t even sure he could use a phone. He found James’ hand and gave it a squeeze, hoping to give the man some comfort, and wished he didn’t have this horrible eyesight–and then…well, he could…feel it. Feel something, racing through James and him, and he could almost see a code ripping through him, between them, and then, his sight–it slowly came into focus, and Harry blinked a couple of times, wondering if it was a miracle, and then when he looked down and actually saw what had happened to James, he gasped.

He was still aging on the floor, his hair now even whiter, though it hadn’t receded very far, and he was exhausted and weak from the rapid change. “Harry…Harry, is that you? I can’t…I can’t see, why is everything so…so blurry?” James asked, squinting his eyes and bringing out more wrinkles.

It couldn’t be…but, then how else could he explain it? Harry had somehow managed to switch their genetic code–giving James his horrible eyesight, and Harry taking his 20/20 vision as his own. Shaking a bit, Harry reached out and laid his hand down on James’ once more…and just concentrated. Sure enough, it was all laid out before him, he could sense everything. All of his own genetic deficiencies, and they were just calling out to him, telling Harry to cast them aside, and replace them with James’ far superior genetic material. Telling Harry to make himself perfect, to make James the inferior one, but he yanked his hand back. It was tempting–oh so tempting, but he had to call for help, he had to get them both help…right?

Then again, Harry didn’t really need help–he was fine. Hell, he was better than fine, he felt great. Besides, if he went to the hospital, if he reported the accident, they’d probably just lock him away–hell, lock them both away–and do all sorts of experiments on them. He didn’t want to be a lab rat–no way…and he couldn’t just leave James here, right? No, of course not, he had to make sure he was safe too…or at least, that’s what Harry was telling himself. He could still feel the power calling out to him, tempting him, and when he helped James up, he was careful not to touch his skin. Still, he’d make sure they were both safe. He helped the researcher down the stairs, out of the building and into his truck, and drove them both to his small apartment, where they could figure out what they were going to do about this.

***

James woke slowly, and feeling like he had been run down by a truck, refrained from moving for as long as he could, even though he was certain that moving was probably the right thing to be doing. He prayed it had been a dream, and yet, from the way he was feeling, he could tell that it hadn’t been. He felt old. He felt how he’d always imagined waking up old must feel–sore joints, aching back, just a tired body more prone to inertia than anything else. Bed, though. Who’s bed? A hospital bed? He opened his eyes, and to his surprise he, quite simply, couldn’t see. Having had perfect vision all of his life, being confronted by something as simple as blurry vision was, well, terrifying, and a good enough excuse to not move, in his opinion, but he didn’t…it didn’t look like he was in a hospital…and that concerned him enough to sit up and try and look around.

“H–Hello?’ he called out, “Is anyone there?” he said, feeling a bit silly for doing so, but, well, someone had to have brought him here. Could it have been…Harry? Why would he have taken him anywhere other than a hospital, though? He rubbed his eyes and blinked a bit, but he still couldn’t see anything, and he was afraid to stand up without knowing what he might find or run into. He heard someone coming, though–so at least he wasn’t alone.

“James? Are you awake?” Harry said, “how are you feeling?”

“Harry? Why in the hell didn’t you take me to a hospital?”

Harry was quiet. He’d already rehearsed this conversation in his head, but he hadn’t expected that to be the opening remark. “Well…it’s…complicated.”

“No it’s not. There was an accident–I’m fucking old. I need to go to a hospital so they can figure out what happened, and who knows what might have happened to you!”

“But I feel fine.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. Who knows what sort of delayed effects there might be. Come on, we have to go to the hospital…do you, I mean, I can’t, well, see very well now. Do you have anything that might help? Some glasses? You wear, glasses, right?”

Harry didn’t say anything for a moment, before answering, “Yeah…yeah, I have glasses…hold on.”

He picked up his spare set from the top of the dresser and handed them to James, who put them on, and the entire world came into relieving focus. “Dang, what are the chances,” James said, “that I’d need to same prescription as you.”

“Ha, yeah…the chances…”

James started to sense that there was something else going on here, and some other reason Harry hadn’t taken him to the hospital. He also remembered that his vision had been fine after he’d changed in the lab…but had only gone blurry later, when Harry had come into the bathroom to find him. Looking over, he saw that Harry wasn’t wearing his glasses at all–did…what was going on? “Funny,” James said, “That you aren’t wearing glasses, now.”

Harry said nothing.

“And funny that your old glasses seem perfect for my eyes now.”

Still, silence.

“What happened, Harry. Something obviously happened to you, something you don’t want a doctor to see, or you wouldn’t have brought me here. What is it–just tell me, maybe I can help.”

“I don’t need help–I said, I’m fine.”

“Why do I have your eyes, Harry? What the fuck is going on?” James said, a bit agitated, and a little scared.

Harry paced a bit, not saying anything for a moment, before saying, “Look, I’m sorry, alright? I didn’t even know what I was doing, and I couldn’t stop myself when it happened. I don’t even know if I can do it again, but in the bathroom…in the bathroom when you collapsed, I touched your hand, and when I thought about my eyes, and how I wanted to see better, because my glasses had broken, I…I somehow…switched them, or switched our genetics, or something…I don’t know really, that’s the best I can describe it.”

James didn’t say anything immediately, just thought about what Harry had said. His first reaction, that what he’d said was impossible, was pretty much refuted soundly by the evidence at hand. He could remember his sight being fine, up until Harry had touched him. Now, Harry’s glasses worked perfectly for him…and Harry didn’t need them. But swapping genetic code? How did that even make sense? What sort of serum could have done something like that? “Look…Harry, I know you’re probably scared, but if we don’t go to a hospital–”

“If I go to a hospital, they’ll never let me go.”

“You don’t know that, look, we need to know what happened to us, alright? I need to know what happened to me. At least take me, I need help, Harry, I mean, look at me.”

Harry looked, and he saw James, older, and yet, the power in him, the genetic knowledge he’d glimpsed when he’d touched James before…he saw something else. Yes, James was old, his hair was greying, he had a bit of a sagging gut, and yet, even with all of that, he was still…genetically superior. It was difficult to parse it any other way in his head–James was simply better than him, better equipped it most every genetic way, and this voice, a voice growing louder, was telling Harry to take it as his own. Even at what, his now late fifties, and James still had a nearly full head of hair–how fair was that? Harry had started balding in his mid-twenties, and he’d never stopped resenting it. Still, James was right. He needed help, but could he trust him not to say anything about his new power? Harry had no interest in being locked up in some government facility, in being some test subject, and he firmly believed that’s what would happen to him.

“Please, Harry–please.”

It was the right thing to do. It really was, and Harry couldn’t keep telling himself it wasn’t. “Al–Alright. I’ll take you, but you don’t say a word about me to them–nothing–understand?”

“Sure…of course. Thank you,” James said, and swung his legs off the side of the bed, tried to stand, and immediately wobbled and started to fall over. Instinctively, Harry reached out and caught him, and the moment their skin touched, he felt it again. He’d been careful not to let their skin touch since the accident, but the rush of it, the knowledge pouring into him overwhelmed his better judgement, the voice, the selfish voice latching onto his bald resentment, twisting and adjusting their genetics in the moment it took James to wrench away from Harry’s grasp. James felt it too, though not as clearly as Harry did, and where the maintenance man felt a rush of power and authority, James simply felt violated, and it didn’t help when he noticed a cascade of hairs fall down his face, as his hair rapidly thinned out. He ran his hand over his head, knocking off even more hair, feeling his scalp with only a bare horseshoe left, and he looked over at Harry, who had run over to a mirror on the wall, watching his own hair grow back in, thick and full.

“Fuck, I haven’t–damn, that looks good,” Harry said, grinning at his reflection.

“Can’t you control that or something?” James said, “What in the hell is wrong with you?”

Harry didn’t know what was wrong with him…or even if it was wrong. It felt so good, how could it be wrong? And he could feel everything else of James’ code that he wanted, and all he had to do was reach out and touch him. He shook his head, resisting. That wasn’t right, it wasn’t right, no matter how it felt, no matter what the voice said. “I’m–I’m sorry. I just, it’s hard to resist, I guess. It’s hard to explain.”

“Well can you at least give me my hair back?” James asked, “You know, and my eyes? I’d like to not need glasses again.”

“No,” Harry said, without thinking about it.

“No?” James said, “No? What the hell? Those are my eyes, fucker–and my hair!”

“Well they’re mine now, so fuck that!” Harry snapped back, “I’ve had fucking glasses all my goddamn life, and I went bald at thirty, and fuck no, I’m not going to go back to what I was, fuck that,” Harry grinned at his reflection, and then stared at James by the bed. The voice was telling him to take more, to make himself perfect, to take and take and take, and then…and then sow. Yeah, he needed to fuck, he needed to fuck women, he needed to make children, and spread his own superior genetics into the world, or at least, what would be his superior genetics, once he was done with James…”No, no, I’m sorry–you’re right,” Harry said, “I’m being…selfish, here, I can put this right, just let me, here.” Harry came over to where James was wobbling, and reluctantly James allowed him to lay his hands on him, and that same rush, that same violation swept through him…but it was different–he could tell that Harry wasn’t fixing this–he was taking more, changing more. He tried to wrench away, but Harry gripped him tighter, leering now, eyes wide and mad with the rush of power, and he pushed James back onto the bed, holding him down. “Fuck that, and fuck you–I’m not going to be a piece of genetic waste anymore–you are! I’m going to be perfect!”

It took all of his strength, all of his will to put his feet against Harry’s chest and kick him, off, finally breaking their physical contact, and James started panting, his throat closing up on him. Asthma? He’d never been an asthmatic before, but gasping for breath, he figured that was just one of many new things he might have to live with. Looking down, he saw chest hair start filling in across his chest and gut, climbing up onto his shoulders and back down his back. His metabolism slowed to a crawl, his body converting more and more energy to fat, his gut bulging out, even as his chest expanded into a set of moobs, his face developing a second chin. He looked up at where Harry had been pushed back against the wall, and watched as the older man’s frame started melting away his fat and building muscle right before his eyes, his body buff but not overly muscular–mostly just–healthy. Then, Harry grinned and unzipped the fly of his pants, pushed down his underwear, and hauled out a thick, seven inch cock already drooling precum–a dick James readily recognized as his own. Gulping, and still not able to breathe very well, he reached down to his crotch, already humiliated, and felt his now shriveled tool, barely two inches long, and he could tell, instinctively, that at best it could reach half mast. “You–you took my cock?” James asked.

“Of course–the women are gonna love this thing when I ram it up their cunts,” Harry said, flexing his new muscular frame, “See, because this is where we’re different James, see, I saw in you, I saw your biggest flaw–you’re a fucking faggot.”

“But–”

“Don’t try to deny it, I can see all of your fucking flaws, you fucking worthless piece of shit,” Harry spat, “See, I’m genetically superior–no, soon, I’ll be perfect, and women will be begging me to fuck them, and seed them and oh the fucking children I’ll have–they’ll be amazing. But you, you’re fucking worthless, so why in the hell shouldn’t you just be a storehouse for all the failed genetic mishaps of the human race?”

“Harry, listen to yourself, this is fucking crazy, and you know it.”

“No, what’s crazy–what’s crazy, is that someone like you should have been given these genetics, when you don’t even give a flying fuck about passing them on–that’s fucked up. That’s against nature, right there. Well, I’m putting it right. I’ll breed all the children you should have had, because you were too weak to do it.”

He was mad–Harry had gone completely mad, and James looked around for something, anything he could use to, knock him out or fight him off–something so he could call the police and tell them what had happened–what Harry was capable of, but Harry saw what he was doing, and laughed.

“You can’t fucking beat me,” Harry said, “I’m better than you in every way–well, almost every way. You see, you do still have that nice mind of yours, but I don’t think genetic trash like you even needs much in the way of brains, right? How about I take those for my kids, too?”

Harry charged towards him, and James crawled back across the bed, trying to keep out of the reach of Harry’s hands, but lost his balance and fell off the other side, smacking his head on the nightstand as he fell, his glasses askew, and he tried to recover from the fall and get away, but he was having such a hard time putting his thoughts together in any way that made the least bit of sense. He must have hit his head a bit harder than he’d thought, or that’s what he thought at first, until he recognized the blurry form of Harry lying across the bed, his hand wrapped around his ankle, feeling the natural folds and creases of his brain start to soften as he lost his natural curiosity and cleverness–but other traits as well. His assertive personality, his independent thinking, all gone, absorbed by Harry and replaced with a natural desire to please and agree with others–after all, he wasn’t smart enough to form thoughts on his own anymore, and he certainly didn’t dare trust his own judgement.

“You alright Jim?” Harry said, letting go of the older man’s ankle, watching him adjust his glasses and blink dully up at him, “That was a bit of a fall you had there.”

“It–it was?” he said, “And…and isn’t my name…James?”

“No, you don’t go by James, you go by Jim. James doesn’t sound like the name a dimwitted old impotent faggot would use, now does it? Especially not one who can barely land a job as a janitor.”

“You–you don’t have to be so–so mean about it…” Jim said, sitting up and rubbing his head where he’d hit it on the night stand. He’d been trying to get away from Harry…hadn’t he? But why? His head felt so thick, like swimming through foam, threatening to solidify forever if he stopped struggling through it. Harry climbed after him and stood in front of Jim on the ground, and he felt understandably intimidated. While only a bit younger than he was–his firm, muscular body, his confidence and intellect, not to mention his thick cock, all served to intimidate Jim even further…and even turn him on a bit. His eyes were locked on Harry’s cock now, and he licked his lips. He could…smell him. Harry’s musk, so forceful and commanding–a real man, and…a little familiar. He was smelling himself, in a way, augmented by Harry, yes, but the familiarity of it was strange, like coming home after a long time.

“Aww, I’m sorry faggot–I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. How about I let you suck me off–would that make you feel better?” Harry said, pushing the tip of his cock against Jim’s lips, and he couldn’t resist, parting his lips and letting Harry take control, ramming the cock down his throat as far as it could go, hanging onto his head with his big hands, and Jim held his own up, looking at his short, clumsy fingers. They weren’t his, or they hadn’t been his—had they? He seemed to remember…something else, but his head, it was hardening, clinging to the simplest story and just accepting it as truth–it was easier than trying to understand how he could have been a young genetics researcher, and in the course of twenty-four hours, have been reduced to this old, weak, genetically inferior faggot. It was easier to focus on the cock being rammed down his throat. He ran his hands over his body, the sensation of body hair under his fingers strange and unnerving, the taut belly down to his measly cock, barely erect even though he’d never felt so turned on before. However, before he could suck Harry over the edge, the big man pulled his cock out and stepped back.

“Come on Harry–can’t I have your load?”

“Hell no–I can’t waste my seed on a faggot’s throat–I have babies to make. Still, thanks for the warm up. Now, I need to go out for a bit–I won’t be back tonight, I don’t think–too much fucking to do. Still, we need something to keep you occupied in the meanwhile–can’t have a faggot like you getting into any trouble, right? Get up.” Jim did as Harry ordered, and followed him out into the living room where an old computer sat whirrling away. “Here’s what you’re going to do. Go ahead and order yourself some pizza or something for dinner, and then you’re going to sit here and find pictures of men who are genetic superiors–it shouldn’t be hard, since you’re such a failure–and I want you to jack off, fantasizing about how you want to serve them, and worship them, and think about serving me, and worshiping me the most, got it?”

Jim nodded, and he didn’t notice Harry get dressed and head out for a bar–he was already absorbed in his porn search, one smattering of old cum already shot across his thigh as he fantasized about a thick body builder ramming his massive cock up his loose asshole. His head had fully hardened now, accepting this reality as truth. He was just an old faggot now, a genetic failure whose sole purpose was to serve those better than he was–but especially Harry. He owed Harry everything, and he would serve him for the rest of his life.

No, I don’t think the two of them are scared anymore. In fact, I don’t think the two of them are feeling, or thinking, much of anything anymore. What do you think, I would say they’re about 90% covered myself, and it while the spread has slowed, it won’t stop until they’re completely covered. I did both of them just last week–they were planning on getting married, and wanted each other’s names on their arms. Stupid. They’re much hotter, and kinkier, just pieces of meat now, like you’ll be.

Is it spreading? Of course it’s spreading you dipshit. And no, that raging hardon you’ve got isn’t going away, not now, not ever. Now go on, suck their cocks like a good tattoo bitch. See? You can’t even resist my orders. Pretty soon, you’re gonna be one more empty headed tatted whore for my collection. Still, I don’t much like your look–I don’t think I’ll keep you. I can probably get 10 million for you on the market though. You’d be amazed how much rich men will pay to have a punked out ass for them to play with whenever they want–just you wait and see.

Source: aboutalcholism

Releasing the Pig

Thanks again to the awesome guy who adopted this story! Also, commissions are still open for anyone looking for a personalized story of their own this holiday.

***

Dean looked at the post again, unable to believe he was actually thinking about doing this. Once again, he told himself that guys like him weren’t supposed to think about stuff like this. He was young, hot, popular–he should just be out partying, finding girls and fucking the daylights out of them, and sure, he’d done his fair share of all that.

But Dean was bi–not that he dared tell anyone ever. He’d hooked up with a few guys anonymously, doing his best to shield his identity, but the vanilla stuff was never enough for him–he wanted something else. Something a bit kinkier. He’d stumbled on the websites by accident at first–BDSM forums, collections of bondage photos, blogs about gear and techniques. All of it turned him on way more than any girl he’d ever met, and while he’d always hoped the desires would fade over time, they never did. Eventually, he’d decided that if he just tried it out once, then maybe his curiosity would be satisfied and he could get on with his life, but making that first step was difficult. He’d chatted with a few guys, but could never work up the courage to actually meet up, but now…

The post went up a few days ago, and ever since Dean had seen it, he hadn’t been able to avoid thinking about it. The poster, named Free_ThePig had posted an ad on a forum Dean frequented looking for hookups, and the post had seemed tailor-made for Dean’s predicament. Not only was he in his area, he was specifically looking for guys new to the bondage scene, promising that he would take a novice and turn them into a bondage veteran in just one night long session. However, what turned Dean on even more was the picture Free_ThePig had posted with the ad.

It was a picture ripped from Dean’s fantasies–an older daddy wrapping him up in leather, dominating him and leaving him hard in a position of total submission. He’d lost count of how many times he’d shot his load looking at the ad and picture. Still, it was starting to feel like he would never have to guts to actually follow up on the post, but he couldn’t live with this split persona anymore. He wouldn’t be able to take it for much longer, and he had to get on with his life. This would be his best chance to get it out of his system, so he sent the guy a private message, telling him he might be interested in meeting. Dean had expected at least a short conversation about what to expect, but all he’d gotten in return was an address, a date, and a time–a few days away–and that was all.

He replied, asking for details but got nothing. He told himself he wouldn’t go many, many times over the next few days. Then he looked up the address, but only because he was curious. He cancelled the plans he’d already made for the night, telling himself he was too tired to party, and then finally came clean with himself. Who was he kidding, he was going to go–he’d always planned on going, so he dressed simply–in jeans and a T-shirt–got in his car and swallowing his fear, drove out of town. The address which had been sent to him was quite a ways out of town, the suburbs slowly giving way to farms and vineyards, and when he pulled into the driveway, he found himself on a winding gravel road leading to a old but well cared for farmhouse. It looked so innocent–he wondered if he’d gotten the address wrong. He kind of hoped he had–it would be easier that way, giving himself an excuse to back out gracefully. He went up, knocked on the door, and he heard some heavy steps coming to the door, and then there he was, the man from the picture, dressed in well worn blue jeans, a leather vest, cowboy hat and boots and nothing else. “Yer late. Git in here, pig.”

The curtness of the man’s comment threw Dean for a bit of a loop, and he didn’t know how to respond. This isn’t what he’d wanted–he’d wanted someone safe, someone who would respect his limits, and this man…he could already sense that there were no limits in there. He took a step back, trying to find some excuse caught in his throat, when the man, demonstrating no patience, grabbed the front of Dean’s shirt and yanked him inside, tearing the fabric in the process and almost tripping him on the front step. “What gives, man?” Dean said, unable to quell the tremor of fear, and was shocked with the man slapped him across the face and then pinned him up against the wall, staring Dean in the face. Getting this close to the man, it felt like he was staring down into Dean’s soul–and he really didn’t want to know what the man was looking for. He noticed that he was chewing something in his mouth, and when the man was satisfied, he turned to the side and spit a stream of dark spit onto the filthy, stained floor, and Dean’s stomach churned. What was he chewing? Tobacco? Did people even do that anymore?

“Look, I think this was a mistake, I’m just gonna go–”

“Don’ speak. Strip. Ya don’ git clothes tahnight, pig,” the man said, shutting the door behind them.

“I’m not…I’m not a pig. Look this was a mistake, just let me go, alright?”

The man said nothing–just walked up, grabbed the tear in Dean’s shirt and ripped it right down the front, before grabbing a knife and cutting off his pants as well. Naked, Dean realized he wasn’t going anywhere, not anymore, and the realization he was trapped here with a crazy redneck bear suddenly set in, as the man brandished the knife at him. “I wasn’t plannin’ on any pain play wit ya, pig, but if ya don’ shape the fuck up, yer gonna go home bleedin’. That what ya want? Cause I can do that–ya’d look hot wit a few scars…” He said, stepping closer with the knife, and backing Dean into a corner. “So tell me–that what ya want?”

“N–No…”

“No what?” he said, pushing the knife up against Dean’s skin, making him flinch.

“No! No…Sir…” Dean whimpered. Looking down at the knife in terror…and also seeing his cock. His hard cock. He blushed, suddenly ashamed that this terror had him so horny. This shouldn’t be affecting him like this–breathing heavily, he noticed a scent on the air, something earthy and a bit dank, but as soon as he’d thought he’d noticed it, it was gone.

“Not the quickest learner, by a long shot,” the man said, mostly to himself. “Well, let’s git ya dressed like a real pig–that will do ya wonders. Follow me–head down. Say nothin’,” he said and walked off.

Dean glanced at the door, knowing he could get out–but then his feet were walking after the master. Why? Why was he doing this to himself? Curiosity? Lust? Something…something else? Still, he was walking into a small side room, decorated in wood and leather, where the bear hauled out some gear and started roughly dressing Dean in chaps, boots, fistmitts and a leather harness cinched tight against his chest. The smell was stronger in here, and the leather stank of it. Something about the smell was making his mind shift. He’d fantasized about something like this hundreds of times, and now that it was actually happening…maybe he should just let go, and enjoy himself. Revel in that side he’d never given himself permission to explore or experience. Without noticing, he gave a quiet snort, something which could have easily been mistaken for a sniffle or a sneeze, but the man–the Master–smiled slightly.

“Now,” the master said, “Here are the rules fer the evenin’. It’s obvious yer new tah this–I don’t care that ya are. Yer gonna to learn as we go, pig. Tonight, ya ain’t human. Tonight, yer a slave, a pig, somethin’ fer mah amusement and pleasure. Yer desires don’ matter. Ya do what I say, when I say it, no matter what. Ya understand, pig?”

“Yes…Yes sir.”

“Good–then let’s git started. First things first, let’s get ya restrained–can’t have a pig roamin’ round like a person now, can we?” the Master said, and quicker than Dean imagined, he’d hauled out a selection of leather bands and straps, and started binding together his limbs, arms strapped to his chest, legs bound together, and then he shoved Dean down onto his knees. The smell was stronger now, Dean taking in great, snorting, inhales through his nose, not even caring about the grunts he was making. He was right at the level of the Master’s cock, and he could see the outline of it in his jeans. He was hungry for it, so hungry.

“please sir, *grunt* can I suck it sir? Please?” he begged, but all he got was another slap to the face.

“Bad pig! What did I tell ya bout speaking? Gonna have tah fix that…” he said, and pulled a tin of Copenhagen out of his back pocket. He pulled out a big wad of tobacco with one hand, forced open Dean’s mouth with the other, and packed it in, following it up with a gag. “That’ll keep ya quieter, I bet.”

Dean started to whine, begging the master with his eyes to take it out, but the Master grabbed a hood and pulled it down over his head, cinching it tight, before shoving him down onto his face. “I think ya need some alone time tah think bout how yer gonna to be a good pig ‘n follow the rules. I’ll be back. If I hear any noise from this room, or find ya’ve moved an inch there’ll be fuckin’ hell tah pay, git it, pig?”

The Master didn’t wait for an answer, nor did he want one, nor could Dean make much noise at all with his face stuffed with tobacco. The door slammed shut, leaving him alone in the small room, the scent overwhelming him now, his cock hard as a rock against the leather. What was happening to him? Why was he doing this? Dean felt all of these desires and fantasies welling up inside of him, but it was more than that–deeper down in himself, like a second side of himself he’d never dared express which was forcing its way to the surface. He tried to tell himself it was harmless play, that come morning everything would be back to normal, but he sensed something changing, but also he felt just the same as ever. The darkness was unsettling, the inability to move terrifying, and yet, he also felt safer and more secure than ever before. The rush of the tobacco was surprising, even if it tasted foul. He quickly discovered that he couldn’t spit through the gag, so he swallowed the spit down. It was disgusting, but he didn’t mind it before long. He was happy to be of use, really. He could…he could be his master’s spittoon, maybe…yeah, that would be hot…wouldn’t it? He knew he should try to keep control of himself, but it was like the world had shrunk down around him. Even the small room around him no longer existed. It was just him, waiting. Waiting for the bear, for his master, to return and give Dean a chance to serve him, it was like nothing else mattered in the universe, like there was nothing else in the universe, even.

He heard the door open and the man say, “All right pig, how’re ya doin’? Ya’ve been marinatin’ in there fer a few hours–havin’ fun?” Hours? How could it have been hours? It felt like minutes, seconds, like nothing at all. He felt the master pull the gag free of his mouth, “Go on, git rid a that tobacco–I ain’t gonna make ya swallow the leaf jus’ yet.”

Dean was thankful for that kindness at least, and he pushed the tobacco from his mouth into the empty space in front of him. His first instinct was to speak–to thank him for coming back, for giving this pig another chance to serve him properly, but he checked himself. That would be against the rules–so he kept quiet, aside from a little whine of need. He did need…something. Needed to serve? To obey?

Good pig, I can tell yer learnin’. Now, tell me–ya wanna suck mah cock?”

“Oh…Oh yes sir, please. Please let me suck it, I’ll do a–” Dean said, begging, but the master slapped him across the face, silencing him.

“Trick question, bitch. I don’t give a fuck whether you want to suck my cock. I don’t give a shit about you. Period. You don’t tell me what you want. You should only care about what I want. So, how should you have answered that question, pig?”

Dean thought for a moment, in the dark of the hood, his mouth tingling from the tobacco, now hungry for Master’s cock. Where was it? Dean imagined it inches from his mouth, hard and dripping, ready to thrust in as soon as he said the right words. He leaned forward, desperate to taste it, but there was nothing, just empty air. What was he supposed to say? He whimpered a bit, thinking harder. He wanted the cock so bad…but that didn’t matter. He didn’t matter, not anymore. He…Master mattered. Dean was nothing. He was a pig, just an animal to be used for Master’s pleasure, if Master wanted to. “I…no, it…it doesn’t matter if I want to suck your cock, sir. Would…would you please fuck this pig’s face sir? I mean…I mean, only if–if you want, sir…”

“Fucking pitiful. Still, I do wanna piece a that pig mouth a yers,” the bear said, the derision obvious, but a moment later Dean got exactly what he wanted–a mouthful of his Master’s thick cock. He gagged, because even though he’d wanted it, the hood rendered it impossible to anticipate the thrust, and the Master was brutal, slamming it deep down Dean’s throat without any consideration for the pig’s comfort. He didn’t deserve any consideration after all and…was that turning him on? Dean realized, with some embarrassment, that it was. This base treatment, this was what he’d deserved all along, what he’d always…wanted? No, that couldn’t be right, he’d wanted more. He’d just been a little curious, this was going too far, and yet…his cock was so hard. It was hard, and he could even feel it getting close to orgasm, but he clamped down on that, knowing he didn’t want to cum without Master’s explicit permission. How mortifying–a pig like him cumming before his Master? He’d rather die.

The master’s facefuck continued, the intensity neither increasing nor decreasing. It reminded Dean of masturbation–he was nothing more than a tool for Master to get off into, not someone to please. He came without warning, just shoving it down Dean’s throat and pumping his cum right into his belly, Dean grunting and snorting in appreciation, thankful that he was at least worthy of being his Master’s cum dump. Master, breathing a bit heavy, pulled off Dean’s hood, letting him look up and him and down at himself…and Dean realized something was different.

Dean looked down at his hairy chest, his body bulging slightly with muscle and while he knew something was strange…he simply couldn’t figure out why. His body looked so wrong, and yet it felt comfortable. He was distracted from his self inspection by the Master coming close, bringing his own naked body near the pig’s face, Dean leaning in and snorting up as much of the older man’s musk as he could, the smell so familiar and exquisite. He started lapping at his abs, and seeing the Pig’s eagerness, the Master turned around and bent over, the bound pig digging his way into the bear’s ass, grunting and thrusting his tongue as deep as possible without any suggestion at all. Dean wanted to please him so much…and yet, something kept holding him back, keeping him from going deeper. Master stood back up after a few moments and turned around, looking at the bound up pig, but Dean wasn’t noticing. He’d fallen onto his stomach and was licking his master’s cowboy boots clean, relishing the taste of leather with the aftertaste of tobacco in his mouth.

“Hmm..good progress, but not great. I think someone needs better gear–I know ya can go further than this. Really unleash that pig inside you. Follow me,” the master said, undoing the straps binding Dean’s arms and legs. “We’re going down to the real dungeon.”

Dean didn’t even consider trying to get up on his feet, dutifully following on his hands and knees, carefully navigating the dark, narrow stairs down into Master’s basement. It was very dark–so dark he couldn’t even see how far the back the room went. For all he could tell, it might go on forever, an endless repetition of whatever erotic horrors Master could imagine…god that would be so hot. Caught up in the fantasy, Dean didn’t notice Master go over to another rack of bondage gear, pull down another hood and quickly yank it down over the pig’s head. This one was different–more like a mask. Dean could see, but his mouth was covered. More gear followed–including two strange contraptions on his nipples, making them feel like they were being sucked off his body, something strapped around his waist and between his legs, a dildo shoved up his ass without even the courtesy of lube forcing out an involuntary squeal, and a chastity device Master crudely shoved Dean’s semi-hard cock into, before padlocking it closed. Through all of this, Dean stood as still as he could, dimly aware of the shame he ought to feel at the treatment, but feeling only excitement. Master was dragging him even lower, reducing him in status, rendering him little more than an object, and always that smell. Inside the hood it was even stronger, so strong Dean couldn’t help but notice it. The final addition was something heavy and metallic draped around his neck, cinched tight and then clipped closed–a chain collar, he realised, and then there was a tug, and Master pulled him deeper into the darkness, Dean heeling obediently on all fours. They stopped after a short walk, and with a click, the harsh fluorescents in the ceiling flickered to life, forcing Dean to squint, but he could make out something in front of him…some figure– a real pig, a real boar in Master’s basement. Dean was confused what was Master doing now?

His eyes adjusted slowly, and he realized it wasn’t a real boar, it was his reflection. The mask he now wore was a flesh toned pig face, one of the most realistic he’d ever seen, more than adequate to fool a passive observer, and Dean crawled forward, captivated, turning to the side to see the rest of him, see his captive cock, the curly pig tail strapped on right above his fill asshole, the thick metal collar around his neck. The lights were anything but kind–it was ugly, it was something inhuman, something which would make a common person retch if they saw it coming towards them, and Dean realized that this…this thing had been inside him all along, that he’d been hiding it in him, and he wanted to put it back, bury it away, but he…he didn’t know if he could. He tried to look away, but Master yanked the leash around, forcing him to look.

“Damn yer ugly, ain’t ya? Disgustin’ fuckin’ pig,” Master said. “This is who ya are. This is how I see ya, how ya see yourself in those filthy fantasies a yers, ‘n now this is how everyone else is gonna see ya from now on. Ya know ya should hate it, ain’t that right? That ya should fear it. But ya don’t. I can see it in your eyes, ya know what ya should be thinkin’, what society has told ya tah think, but that’s not how ya really feel is it?” he paused for a moment, coming up behind the pig and kneading his ass, “To tell the truth, ya like it. Ya know yer ugly, but ya love it. You know yer just an animal, but ya revel in it. This is what ya are, ‘n what ya want. Let it out–cause it ain’t ever goin’ back in.”

Without ceremony, Master hauled out the dildo from the pig’s ass and replaced it with his cock, already recovered from the earlier blow job, and it started grunting and squealing with pleasure, it’s cock aching to harden inside it’s tight confines. It did want this. It didn’t want to go back to what it’d been, that simpering jock with the beautiful fake life, living a long string of lies. This was simple, this was pleasure for the sake of it’s betters, this is what it would be remade for. In the mirror, it could see it’s body changing again, it’s body bulking up with more muscle, the hair filling in, a few tattoos filling in on it’s shoulders. The bulk wasn’t beautiful–it was beastial. He was afraid still, though. He didn’t want to see what was happening under the hood, didn’t want to see it’s own face. Sensing it’s fear, Master hauled away the pig’s hood, showing it it’s own wild eyes, the nose and lips curled into sneers and it grunted and snorted beyond it’s own control. It was human…and yet…it had nothing human in it. Looking into it’s own feral eyes, the battle was finally lost. Dean disappeared–consumed by the pig inside him, who bucked back, no longer holding an ounce of will, begging without words to be seeded by it’s master, who didn’t disappoint. Master unloaded deep inside him, before replacing the dildo, sealing his essence inside the pig, who happily cleaned off his owner’s cock in thanks.

It was happy–so happy to finally be free. It had been trapped in that horrible boy for so long, only let out to play in his fantasies, but now the pig was free, and he owed it all to his one true master. The sheer love and devotion in his eyes told Master that the battle was over, and that it was time to finish the pig off. It fought a bit as he started removing the gear from the pig’s body, but he slapped it down, reminding it of it’s place. “Ya don’ have tah worry–the gear don’ matter, pig. Yer a pig with it or without it. Now hold still.” The fistmitts came off, the straps, the tail, nipple clamps and chastity device. the pig stood slowly, standing on two feet feeling supremely unnatural. It looked down it it’s body, seeing it’s puny cock and massive nipples, toying with them gently, amazed at their sensitivity.

The smell was still there, that musky, earthy scent, but now it knew the truth of it. It didn’t come from the house, or from the gear. It came from itself. It was it’s own scent, the scent of mud and filth and obedience at the feet of betters. It owned that now, taking a deep, snorting breath from it’s own pits, feeling it’s cock start to harden.

“That’s enough a that, pig,” Master said, “Follow.” Master went upstairs, into the rest of the house, the pig following behind, the surroundings, the mundanity of the farmhouse feeling inappropriate, like it was soiling the surfaces by merely coming close to them. The pig didn’t belong here, he belonged down in the basement, caged up, or outside, penned up in the mud. Why was Master bringing him up here? “Sit,” Master said, pulling out a chair at the kitchen table and the Pig didn’t budge. That was meant for people, not for something like itself. the Master sighed, seeing the pig’s reaction. He might have misjudged this one–he hadn’t seen a pig emerge this strong in a long while. He hoped it would still be capable of speaking, otherwise he’d have to find a very particular kind of home for it. “You have permission to speak. Can you still talk? Ya want some chaw?”

The confusion on the pig’s face grew deeper, but contorting it’s mouth, it could utter a few words. “Yes…sir. I speak, but…why? I serve, I no need…speak.” The voice was different than the confident voice of the jock who had come in, it was low, difficult to understand. However, when the master held out the tin of copenhagen, the pig didn’t hesitate, taking a thick wad and packing it’s lip, relaxing visibly.

“Well, listen then,” Master said, and then related his story. He was a trainer of sorts. He was a master of freeing bonds that held back the sexual beasts which resided in men, and then he released them back into the wild, to find master’s of their own. As Master spoke, fear started choking the pig. Master was going to force it to leave, was going to kick it out. He’d freed it, the Pig had devoted it’s life to him, and now…now, it had to leave? Find someone else to serve? He couldn’t, he wouldn’t!

“N–No!” the pig shouted out suddenly, before falling to it’s knees at Master’s feet, knowing it had to be punished for disobedience after speaking out of turn, but no slap came, and that was almost worse. He glanced up, seeing the shock on Master’s face, and decided it had better just speak it’s mind. “I…I stay. I here with you, sir. Please, sir. I…love sir. I no worthy, I know…but please, you has no…no pig. I be your pig, sir. Let me be yours, sir.”

The suddenness of the interjection caught Master off guard. The pigs were usually eager to leave and find master’s of their own, but this one…looking down at the kneeling pig, Master did feel a twinge of…something. He’d been releasing pigs for years, and yet something about this one was different. He wasn’t sure if it would be able to even survive if he threw it out the door into the world. No, that wasn’t it…the truth was that he liked this pig. It’s spunk, it’s eagerness, it’s holes. He’d long told himself that he couldn’t get attached, that this was just a job, but maybe…why couldn’t he have a pet of his own? The pig flinched when Master touched his face, expecting a slap, but the soft stroke both surprised and thrilled him. He looked up, seeing the softness in Master’s eyes, and felt hope.

“Alright…I guess if I’m gonna to keep ya, then ya need a name. How bout Spike? I think ya’d look pretty hot wit some metal studs comin’ out a that skull a yers.”

Spike didn’t care. He had a name–he had a master. He grunted and squealed with excitement. He’d found more than release here, he’d found a Master. His Master, the one he’d always wanted and needed, and he would serve him for the rest of his days, and be ever thankful for the opportunity.