Orcish Recon: 1.2.1.1 – An Inside Job

This is one ending of Avoy’s story! I hope you enjoyed the chapters. i’m still working on a little twine adventure based on this one, that I hope to release in a week or two, depending on how fast I can work, and how cooperative twine is. I wrote an alternate storyline as well for patrons, which I concluded yesterday–you can find that post here. I’ll see about getting another interactive started, or something else, next week!

It was the dagger. Avoy stared at it, lying there in the top of his pack, trying to recall how it had gotten in there. He couldn’t recall taking it–he’d…no, he had taken it, but then he’d gotten captured, and then…and then something else, something that was right on the tip of thought, about to crash over him–and he remembered the medallion.

That light, that sweet green light washing over him, over his mind, back when he’d been an orc–no, a half-orc…right? He…he hadn’t been an orc before, he’d been human.

No, this is a disguise–remember…

A disguise? He pulled out the mirror from his pack again and looked at himself. It wasn’t right. That wasn’t what he was supposed to look like, but what was he supposed to look like? Why had he lost his face?

Remember the sigils. They will give you back your true self.

Symbols swam to the front of his mind. He wasn’t sure what they meant, at first, until he looked down and saw the dagger in his hand–but he wasn’t changing. He had changed before, hadn’t he? He’d changed because he wasn’t an orc, but if he wasn’t changing now, that meant…

You are an orc. Meant to be an orc. An orc in disguise. Reveal yourself, destroy them all, as you know you can.

Avoy tried to stop himself, but the dagger traced it’s way along his flesh, digging in, the magic pouring into him. He could feel it warping him, re…returning him to his true form, yes, his rightful form. A trick! He was no human at all, the clever shaman, he was an orc, had always been an orc. He carved faster, marking the sigils on his skin, the marks of a great warrior, and he could feel the magic coursing through him. He finished, and collapsed onto the floor, wounds scarring over already, his body twisting and changing, Avoy knotting up his mouth to keep from screaming and alerting everyone in the monastery. He had to change. Return to himself–then…then one last thing, and he could…begin.

It was the dead of night when he felt the magic ease away, and Avoy stood up–he was back, a true orcish warrior, as he ought to be. Now, the attack, yet…yet there was something else. He picked up the dagger in his hand, and slammed it into the stone floor. The glass blade shattered into shards of crystal all over the surface–Avoy picked one up, pressed it to the skin of his scrotum, and slit it open. He pushed the crystal shard inside, feeling the magic heat up his massive orc sack, an aching horniness overwhelming him, shimmering green precum leaking from the tip of his cock. He dug in the pack and found the medallion there as well–now, it was time.

He found the abbot first, sleeping in his bed. Avoy raped the old man–he was far too weak to put up much of a fight, though he tried to scream and bite through Avoy’s massive paw as he held it over his mouth. He didn’t have to for long–as Avoy’s enchanted cum made it’s way into the abbot’s guts, he began to change, skin turning green, tusks growing from his mouth, and Avoy began swinging the medallion in front of his face, telling the old pig about his new position in the clan as the collective fuck pig for all of the warriors to use whenever they desired. By the time he finished, there was no one left aside from a mindfucked, fat, cockhungry orc, and together they made their way to the other monk’s bedrooms, corrupting them as they went.

A few days later, travelers came to the monastery, but found it empty of life. There were signs of a struggle, but not a single body found anywhere inside the building. It was considered a mystery–at least until the orc horde stormed down from the mountains a few months later, raiding settlements, turning unsuspecting men into new grunts for the massive army, and Avoy was among them, humanity long forgotten, happily raping and pillaging for the rest of his days.

Interactive: Orcish Recon – Thievery (Part 2)

When you work as a rogue, you pick up an eye for treasure, and as soon as Avoy laid eyes on that dagger, even at that distance, he knew he was looking at something that would fetch him a hefty price with the right buyer. It wasn’t like anything he had seen or heard of before, and working in this area, you came to be familiar with the kinds of magic that were around here. Sure, a decent enchanter could do help you out with a blade, but the kind of stuff he was watching–it took real emotion and purpose to imbue an item with that sort of power, whatever it might be doing. Sacrifice, even. A little theft would probably throw a wrench into the clan’s attack plans as well, since it seemed like the dagger was a key part of what they were doing. Losing it would buy the monastery some time–that, or the clan would ravage them looking for it, but with a token like that as a prize, he might not even go back to the monastery at all and just let the two sides duke it out.

When the ritual was complete, he tracked the dagger as best he could. It stayed with the shaman, who went into a smaller tent–probably his living quarters–and when he came out, the sheathed knife was gone from his waist, and he headed towards a large tent where the chieftain had gone, probably to strategize. This was his chance–and he’d have to be quick.

He scampered down the side of the outcropping where he’d been perched, a bit too quickly to be quiet or careful, but he managed to survive with just a couple of scrapes. He hadn’t bothered to memorize the patrols, but orcs weren’t exactly known for their guard prowess–he slipped through without too much trouble, and headed for the tent where he figured the dagger had to be.

He found it, and thankfully it was both unguarded and empty. That alone had Avoy doubting himself–if the thing was as powerful as he thought it might be, then why would they risk leaving it unprotected like this? He pulled a ward stone from his back, but it remained dull when he held it around the small tent–there were no traps that he could see, magic or otherwise. Perhaps he was just lucky? Best to be careful in any case. He poked around, and it wasn’t long before he found the sheathed dagger resting on a weapon mount beside the bed, reeking of orcish sweat and musk–enough to turn his stomach a bit. He picked it up, carefully, and pulled the dagger from the sheath a couple of inches just to make sure he had what he thought he had–and the light–this close to it, it felt like it was scorching his eyes. He slammed the dagger back into the sheath, but it was too late–he could…feel something in his head, a voice almost. Something raging around. Was it a curse? He didn’t know, but he’d come too far to second guess his decision now. He put the dagger in his pack and bolted out the tent and escaped the camp as quickly as possible. He’d just passed the outer line of guards when the horn sounded–his thievery had been discovered, and he didn’t have quite the head start he would have liked.

But something was wrong with him, he could tell now. He felt clumsy, legs and feet louder and heavier than they should have been. His clothes were hot and tight. His teeth hurt, his muscles ached–whatever this curse was, it was acting fast. Perhaps he should head towards the monastery after all–they would be a good bet to figure out what had happened to him and fix him. He didn’t make it that far, however.

He made it down the mountains and back into the thick forest between the camp and the monastery in the foothills, but the chills and aches were getting worse and worse. He slipped down a bank and tumbled down into a muddy rut, and he didn’t have the strength to climb back up–all he could do was huddle there, a voice still raging inside him, screaming really. It wasn’t his voice, it couldn’t be, but why did it seem familiar?

He awoke sometime the next morning–not too late that the morning chill had burnt off, but late enough that he could see well enough around him. It took him a moment to scrape the mud off and realize that something was wrong with his skin–it wasn’t the pale pink from before–instead, it was almost green-grey. He’d seen skin like that before in only one place–on the hides of half orcs.

He sat up, looked at the rest of himself, and in the course of the night, he had literally burst out of his clothes. He was close to six and a half feet tall, packed with muscle, small tusks threatening to push their way out of his mouth–whatever that dagger had done to him, it had turned him into a fucking half-orc! It wasn’t a simple polymorph either–those you could…feel your old body pushing back underneath it, looking for a weak point in the magic to break back out. This felt…normal. Like this is what his body had always been.

He gathered up the stuff that had fallen from his pack, including the sheathed dagger, and sat for a moment on the slope above the mud, and tried to figure out what to do next. The monastery might help him…but the monks had strict laws about allowing anyone with orcish blood into the place, which made sense given the animosity. Perhaps heading back to the camp would give him an answer–but they wouldn’t be happy to see him, and he wasn’t changed enough to pass as one of them. The question was answered for him, when he heard a rustle and a shout–someone had spotted him from above, and had their bows trained on him–but who?

Here’s the next poll! Patrons of course have their own bonus entry to read, and their own poll that they can vote in, to see what happens along the alternate course of the story.

Interactive: Orcish Recon (Part 1)

Sorry it’s been a while since I did one of these, the last few months have been, well, a mess as you can all probably imagine. Writing has been a bit of struggle, but I’m doing my best to get done what I can, and have been focusing on commissions for the last while to keep my head above water. I thought I would try something new with this interactive, and maybe a few after it, so we’ll see how it goes. Welcome to the land of Horalon–a fantastical realm full of magical creatures of all sorts, where fantastic machines, strange spells, and disturbing urges collide on a regular basis. For the next couple of interactives, I think it might be fun to toy around with a fantasy setting, since I don’t write in that sort of genre very often. These are going to be more narrative adventures than anything else–and depending on time and energy I might flesh some out into small twine interactives. Anyway, without further ado, I present Tales of Horalon #1 – An Orcish Reconnaissance.

Avoy cursed as he slid back on the rocks a bit, and listened in the darkness for any sign that someone had heard him. If ever there was a time to have invested in some climbing gear, it would have been now, but why had the whores back in Hilveride had to be so beautiful and so expensive at the same time? He checked his footing, and kept climbing–not too much farther now, and he thought he had enough grip strength to get to the top of the ridge, which ought to give him a good vantage on the orc camp below.

Avoy had been hired by a monastery in the foothills of these mountains, which had always had an uneasy relationship with the orcish tribes that lived higher up. Generally, the two groups managed an uneasy peace, but depending on chieftains, and depending on which monastery guards had the ear of the head monk, various disputes flared up from time to time. It appeared that a new something was brewing in the region–there had been a succession dispute among the orcs, resulting in rather new blood taking leadership, with a need to prove strength. Lately, some knights on patrol had failed to return to the monastery, and a few days prior, right before Avoy arrived to accept the task, a monk had been swiped by a roving patrol of scouting orcs–as close to a declaration of war as there was likely to be. Yet kidnappings were new–usually, the orcs would slaughter knights and monks found on their patrols and leave their corpses where they would be found later, as warnings–the change in tactics had the whole monastery on edge. So the head monk had sent Avoy to do some reconnaissance–figure out what the orcs were planning, so the monks and their knights could be ready when the time came to battle.

He hauled himself up onto the ridge, found a mostly sturdy position, pulled out a spyglass and began getting his bearings of the camp below. A basic count put the number of orcs around 500–the monastery had a reserve of nearly a thousand knights–but even in small numbers, orcs were ferocious opponents. They seemed better organized than most orcish camps he had laid eyes on before–guards posted and mostly doing the work of guarding, instead of napping or eating or fucking, as was more common. This looked to be a temporary camp of some sort, because as far as he could see, there were no women–odd really, because orcs generally didn’t discriminate when it came to battle. As he was observing, a horn blew, and the orcs not on patrol or on guard duty headed towards the center of the compound–a large open arena-like space that Avoy had a decent enough sight line on–though he couldn’t hear anything over the wind.

But what he witnessed was enough to chill him to the bone. Drums pounded first, as was common during these sorts of ceremonies–loud enough that Avoy could hear them quite well. The warriors danced and wrestled as the drums grew louder and faster. Then the drums ceased a moment, and two warriors hauled the kidnapped monk forward into the center of the ring, while the orcs hollered and screeched around him–apparently, he had been taken as a sacrifice. A shaman stepped down from a raised dais, where the chieftain was also seated, and the warriors held the monk down on a slab of rock in the middle of the space. The shaman pulled forth a knife–even from high above, Avoy could see that the blade was glowing a steady green, not dissimilar from the skin of the orcs around it–and the shaman began to carve.

Silence, aside from the monk’s screams of pain then. The orcs were silent and still while the shaman cut long, shallow wounds all over the front of the monks body. The lines were jagged and sharp, running the length of the monk’s body, the slab soaked with blood–though not as much as he might have expected. Avoy anticipated the killing blow at any time, but much to his surprise, the shaman ceased his work, the orcs cheered and rioted around him, returning to their fighting (and even a few instances of fucking, that Avoy looked away from quickly) while the guards dragged the unconscious, but allegedly alive, monk away in the direction they had come, leaving Avoy to contemplate what he’d just witnessed.

He’d certainly never seen a ritual like it before. He’d also never seen anything like that dagger wielded by the shaman. He put his spyglass away, and pondered his next move. Night would fall soon–he’d learned some, but everything he’d seen raised more questions than answers. He would have to go down, into the camp, and see what he could find out there. But what should he target? Rescuing the monk would certainly be a victory, though very risky, especially as wounded as he was now. He could investigate the shaman’s quarters, and see if he could get his hands on that knife. There was something special about it–but he wouldn’t know what until the monks at the monastery could examine it. Lastly, he could try spying on the chieftain. Orcs weren’t known to keep great written records of their plans, but Avoy knew enough of the tongue that he could catch the important bits, if he overheard them. That might be enough to give the monks an advantage.

So, what does our rogue decide to do?

Here’s the poll! Patrons have their own bonus poll as well, like usual. However! There’s a new twist to this–since I’m thinking about fleshing these out anyway, I’m going to be posting exclusive, alternate entries over on my Patreon, depending on what they want to see most–so if you’re a patron, you’ll get other branches that you won’t find here. These alternate chunks will be available to anyone supporting me with at least $1. You can find the bonus poll over here. The public poll is below:

The Hog King

A gift for a certain someone’s birthday.

Warning!: This story has some weird stuff in it. Cockvore, cock to pussy tf, mpreg. Read at your own risk!

It had been three years since the Emperor–as the leader of the rebellion had called himself–had emerged to challenge the King’s rule. Laughable, really–no one had even understood what the rebels had wanted. The realm was prosperous, at least for the wealthy, but who cared about the peasants really, so long as they were contained–and the King contained them well. It was assumed that the local levy would be enough to contain the initial uprising–but then it spread, and with it, came the first of the rumors of this so-called Emperor.

A giant, they said. Ten feet tall, packed with muscle, massive beard and hair in thick braids, swinging a monsterous axe. Powers–impossible powers. Controlling minds, swallowing men whole. A cannibal, a wizard, a monster. The King was undaunted, of course. These were just rumors–effective ones against the local dukes and counts, who were coming to pester him more and more for aid and assistance, telling him that he simply didn’t understand the threat. The Emperor–he was doing something to the people. Changing them. He could take anyone, no matter how feeble and weak, and turn them into violent brutes seemingly overnight, willing to do and sacrifice anything for their new Emperor.

Did he want treasure? Prestige? A title of his own? When it became clear that the rebellion would soon spark a proper civil war, the King called for parlay, and sent a team of diplomats in good faith, to determine what this so called Emperor desired–but the men who returned, claiming that they were the same men the King had sent…it couldn’t be true. They were twisted somehow, corrupted. One had grown massively obese, and was carried back on a palanquin by the guard, no longer able to stand. One had become some inhuman beast, caged. Another, so old he seemed to be in his 90’s, barely able to speak. With them, an Emissary of the Emperor himself, with a simple message. Bend the knee. Submit to the Emperor, and he will give you mercy. Or else, you will become a toy, like these.

He ordered the Emissary jailed, but he escaped the dungeons–leading the King to believe there were already traitors in his midst. Seeing no other option, he rallied all of his troops, hired in several bands of mercenaries from neighboring kingdoms, and set out to crush the revolt once and for all–but things did not go as planned. The army he faced was vast–like every peasant in the land had become a soldier in the army itself. Their morale was great–every single soldier fought with a single minded devotion to the Emperor that the King’s trove of gold could never hope to inspire in his own army. The Emperor did not even enter the field–there was no need. The King’s armies were shattered, and the King himself sent scurrying away–but his castle had fallen as well, while he was away. His heirs were hidden, sent to other kingdoms, and the King was reduced to a mere scoundrel, hiding as the monstrous army pursued him–but even that had come to an end now. Betrayed once more, he was now here. Back in his own castle, in the dungeons, with his own King’s guard imprisoned with him. His luxurious garments gone, now clothed only in rags. He had been crushed, and today, he had been told, the emperor would crown him with his fate.

He did not know what that meant. Execution, most likely. It’s what he would do, what he would have done to the Emperor had he emerged victorious. Now here he was, 33 years old, a thriving and prosperous reign brought to an end by some violent sorcerer’s ego and lust for power. He had been a good king, he told himself. And if he was to die today, so be it–at least he never beant the knee to the cretin. They were men–him and his guard. They would die like men too.

There came a sound from the stairs, and a sizable regiment of the Emperor’s troops came to the dungeons. These ones seemed…mostly normal. As normal as any of the Emperor’s minions seemed. Still human, at least. Some of the beasts on the battlefields…Men with the heads of boars, and the claws of bears. Small dog men speeding through the ranks, tearing at flesh with razor sharp fangs. It was impossible. A nightmare. These guards, though hairy, and naked, each with a cock at least a foot long, stinking of blood and sex…this was easy to comprehend, compared to some of what the King had now seen. To think, he had imagined them rumors. Still, though, he had not once laid eyes on the Emperor himself–and over these three years, the rumors of him had grown only more and more monstrous. Who knew what awaited him in his own throne room, even now?

The guards hauled the King and his guard from their cells, shackled them together in a line, and marched them up from the depths, for their audience with the Emperor. The halls had been stripped bare for the most part, and every part of the castle was packed with heathens and warriors–and more than once, the King saw them fucking one another, in twos, and threes, the most despicable, blasphemous acts…what was to become of his noble kingdom, under the rule of this perverse tyrant? He felt despair, thinking of his court, of the noble houses, most of them now doomed to end. He doubted the Emperor would stop at his own kingdom–and if he could do this here, he could anywhere. What could possibly stop him?

They came to the throne room doors, and even the King could not stop a shudder from running through him–though he did his best to keep his men from seeing it. He held his head high–ready to face him. The guards opened the doors, marched them inside, and the King gazed upon him for the first time…and he could not help but gasp.

He had heard rumors, so many rumors, but nothing compared to the man he now laid eyes on, if man was even the term anymore. The throne had been removed–the Emperor could have never fit upon it anyway, and he now merely sat at the top of the steps, a 25 foot giant. How had he even entered here, the King wondered? He looked, and saw one wall of the room had been demolished, a ramp constructed up the side–most likely just for him. Just the sight of a man so impossibly large was enough to make some of the men in the group pause, and one of them fell to his knees, astounded that this–this is who they had been fighting. How could they have ever hoped to win against something such as this?

The guards forced them all upright and into motion again. The King did his best to reclaim his calm–but he was shaken. How could he not be? A lion, the men fleeing the battlefield had called him. Now he saw that the metaphor was more apt than he could have imagined. Human, yes, but the Emperor’s hair was long, and impossibly thick, streaming around his face in a mane. In the dark room, it was…well, it was difficult to know what color it was. It seemed to shift, depending on how far away he was, and how much light shone on him–deep auburn, fiery red, golden blonde. The mane was perfectly braided, and each braid cascaded down the whole length of his person, pooling around him in massive coils, all the way to his bare feet. The rest of his body was hairy–but enough that skin could be seen in most places. Bristly hair, almost like a boar.

Closer still, more fine details appeared to him. The massive hands capped not with nails, but with claws–long, black claws manicured perfectly–enough that the hand was still usable, but plenty deadly to a challenger. The same was true of his feet as well. What he had first thought mere flesh between the Emperor’s legs became apparent as his cock–but it seemed impossible too. The thing was huge–nearly as thick as an entire man, and easily six or eight feet long. Then there were the eyes. The King could only hold the Emperor’s gaze for a moment, before he would look away, head swimming, What were the eyes, even? There was something there, something else, something deep, and ancient, and horrifying. Something older than humanity. He looked again, struggling to hold his eyes there, showing that he would not be bent, and the irises, like the hair, were constantly shifting in color, and…and it was beautiful.

The Emperor was beautiful. He was a monster, but looking at him there, he was regal. He was an animal, but one conscious of his own nature, one capable of presenting himself as civilized. Had he been a man before this, or was he some beast, raised up by sorcery? He trembled then, and did not feel the tears running down his face, before he finally looked back away, and nearly fell. The Emperor had seen inside him, he could feel it. Had been pawing and clawing across his mind, in that moment they had shared that gaze. The King had barely scratched the surface, but he was sure the Emperor already knew more about him than his closest advisors.

“There you are, My King!” the Emperor said, and laughed, a great booming laugh that sent the stone walls and floors shuddering. “So generous of you to finally grace me with your presence and full attention after all of these years. I have been looking forward to this moment for so very long, I assure you.” The Emperor bared his teeth in a smile–the fangs were sharp, and glistened with drool, the mouth…too wide, somehow, more like the jaws of some unseen beast.

“I know not what you wish from me,” The King said, doing everything he could to keep his posture upright, and still, “But spare my men–I will accept whatever punishment you wish. Have mercy on them, and the rest of the kingdom.”

The emperor just laughed some more, and the beasts in the room laughed with him. The calmest was the Emissary, who simply smiled in his cloak off to the side. “Nonsense King! You think I have brought you here to punish you? This is your coronation!”

The Emissary pulled something out from behind the massive Emperor then, and the King saw that the vault had been raided–there, in the Emissary’s hands, was his crown–apparently untouched. Every jewel still in place. What sort of game was this? It did not make any sense to him. Why not take the jewels? Melt the gold? The Emissary came forward, crown held gently between his hands. The King tried to make sense of him–as far as he could tell, he was fully human–so why side with these beasts?

“Now, King–kneel, and allow me to crown you once again–and you can assume your rightful place in my empire.”

He did not move. This was a trap–he could sense it. Two guards grabbed him however, and unchained him from the rest of his men. He struggled, but they were two strong–the two stinking brutes dragged him forward, and forced him to his knees before the Emissary–who gently–ever so gently, set the King’s crown upon his head–and it began to glow with a slight, golden light–and the King felt a filthy, corruption spread down through his head and into his body.

The King gave a grunt, and collapsed to his hands and knees, but forced his head up to look at the Emperor, determined to remain steadfast against the corruption suffusing him–but there was no amount of willpower that could stop what was to come. He felt his body churning, his gut grumbling, and it began to expand, his young muscles withering away as his body filled with fat. He tried to push it in with his hands, but there was nothing he could do as he swelled–another hundred pounds, and then another–fatter than any man the King had ever laid eyes on–other than his one-time diplomat, he supposed. His rags fought as hard as they could, but they shredded away in moments, leaving him naked on the ground before everyone, grunting and wheezing, feeling his vitality, too, begin to sap away.

He was getting older. His hair growing longer and receding, leaving a thin horseshoe of long, greying locks around the back of his head. He reached up to his face, feeling his sagging jowls, a beard pushing through as well, growing just as long and knotted down in front of him. He could smell himself now–the corruption seeping out from his very pores, and as much as he wanted to be disgusted at himself…he found himself relishing it. Groping his fat body, smelling the stink rising from his unwashed fat. More grey, bristly hair erupted from his skin–mostly down his back, his skin toughening into a leathery hide. His hands and feet felt like they were in a vice–fingers crushing down into hard, clumsy trotters–the same with his feet–and lastly, his face began to push out into a short, pig’s snout–though anyone would have been able to recognize him for who he’d been–as the king. The magic seered through the crown, and it began to melt and warp around the King’s fat head, now just a mass of golden, tarnished metal and dull jewels–it was far too warped for it ever to be removed–but then why would he want to remove it! He was the King! The Hog King!

The Emperor, seeing that the transformation of his rival was coming to an end, took a deep breath from his massive pipe, and pushed out two massive streams of smoke from his nose. They wound towards the King, wrapping around his arms and legs, lifting him into the air, and solidifying into a sling made of solid smoke–the changed King now facing his own men–and they gasped at the sight. Where the King’s cock had been moments ago, there was now a massive set of labia, drooling on the floor under him, the King reaching down with one trottered hand to push inside it, squealing as he did in filthy, forbidden pleasure.

The new Hog King saw his men there, saw the horror on their faces, but why were they so horrified? Could they not see him in all of his glory? Crowned again, victorious at last! They…they would serve him–yes, serve him in all of his needs! “Fuck me!” he squealed, “Fuck your Hog King, men! Shove your cocks in my dirty pussy, I command it!”

All they could do was stare. One man, shuddered and turned away, unable to bear the sight of his King, the man he had fought beside for years, reduced…to this monstrosity. None of them stepped forward to obey him, and the King grew enraged, grunting and snorting in his sling, unable to get out, shouting for them to fuck him, to fuck him rough, to service him as he demanded!

“Well, your King has given you an order–do you not obey him? Have you not each sworn an oath to him? I have heard from other knights, that your oaths are all that separate you from the beasts of the land who prey on the innocent–are you all so easily convinced to cast them aside?” the Emperor said.

“You vile, horrific abomination!” One of the knights spit at him, “I will not let you taunt us with this thing, with this cursed beast. He is not out King, and you will never rule us either!”

The room fell quiet, and the Emperor considered the man carefully for a moment, and then one of the Emperor’s long braids shot out, coiled itself around the outspoken knight, and hoisted him into the air, drawing him across the throne room to where the Emperor reclined. “Ah–if you will not obey your king then, I suppose that is treason against the crown–isn’t that right, my King Hog?”

The King snorted in agreement, and again demanded the remaining knights fuck him–but they all stood there, watching the knight struggle against the coils, his face turning slightly blue, as the Emperor’s cock began to writhe on the ground, the head rearing up like some nightmarish worm. “Well, I suppose my cock is a bit peckish–I knew one of you would have to be an example in any case–so I skipped breakfast.”

The knight tried to scream, but could not find the air, as the head of the Emperor’s cock surged up, and swallowed his feet down into the maw. The Emperor took his time, and the only sound in the room was the King’s squeals and petulant demands, as the knight slowly disappeared down the Emperor’s urethra, his legs, then his torso, until just his head remained free from the neck up–and then even that was swallowed up. The knights watched as he struggled in the shaft for a minute, and then went quiet–just a bulge in the middle of the Emperor’s massive cock, that was pulled a few feet further towards the root every few moments, until it was gone all together–and then they saw the King’s balls swell, and a trickle of precum began to flow from the head of his cock onto the floor of the room.

“Yes–that’s much better. I only have room for a few of you in here though,” he said to the knights, “The rest, I think, I will slide into my ass–I do love feeling you squirm and thrash inside there. Now–obey your king, or you know what fate your Emperor has in store for you now.”

The knights were pale, and quiet. Finally, one of them stepped forward, up to the King, and pulled out his cock. This close, the man could smell the King’s pussy, the corruption flowing from it, and his cock stiffened immediately, and he forced it inside, losing control of himself almost immediately as the King urged him to fuck harder, and deeper–and the knight, too, began to change. Back broadening as he grew taller, packing on fat and muscle, face contorting into a bestial caricature of his former self. He fucked harder and harder, spewing precum into the King’s pussy, his brains draining, until with a final roar, he came after a few minutes–fully changed into one of the Emperor’s elite warriors. He pulled free, his cock now fully porcine, and went to stand with his fellow men.

One by one, the knights all accepted their fate, fucked their king, and became one more soldier in the Emperor’s massive army. No where near sated, the King began demanding more–cum dribbling from his pussy down onto the floor below him, but the Emperor silenced him with a word. “Take the King down into the courtyard. He will be displayed and made available to all the men for the next week–you of his former guard will see to his other needs of course, keep him fed and well watered. After seven days, the king shall take his place in the harem, with the other breeders–I’m sure he will have a load of piglets brewing by then.”

The warriors all hurried to obey their Emperor’s orders, and he relaxed–knowing that the war was now won. All that remained was to hunt down the King’s heirs and bring them here–but that task was already underway. They would be brought unchanged, just as their father had been–but they would see him–the new Hog King he had become, and then they, too, would likely join him in the Emperor’s breeding stock. After all, royal lineage had power–and he would need power, for his plans to come.

House of Marvels – Episode 1 (Part 1)

“I saw it in the window, and I couldn’t resist,” Jamie said, as he handed him the little gift wrapped in newspaper he’d purchased for his friend, Eric. “I know your birthday isn’t for a few days, but I can’t make it to the game this week since I have to go see my sister get married this weekend, and I wanted to get it to you before at least.”

Eric took it, turning it over in his hands, and trying to imagine what could account for the odd shape of the package, tapered at one end, and round at the other. He found the bit of tape holding the wrapping together, tore it off, and unrolled it until the contents rolled out into his hand, and he found himself looking down at an old smoking pipe, the bowl and stem carved on one side into the image of a roaring dragon. He grinned, “Dang, that’s really cool!”

“Right?” Jamie said, glad his friend liked it, “Not that you smoke of course, but it fits in your collection at least.”

Eric collected dragons–well, Eric collected lots of things really. Board games, collectible card games, figurines, action figures from his favorite shows–but his largest collection by far was his collection of dragon related things–most of it just odd and strange curios in the shape of a dragon, just like this pipe. It was kind of perfect, actually. “Where did you find it?”

“Some weird little shop downtown, called…House of Marvels or something? Had never seen it before, and honestly, it was a lot cheaper than I expected. It doesn’t have a signature though–my mom says that things like that that aren’t signed are usually made by a machine or something, so maybe it isn’t worth much. Still, it looks cool!”

Eric nodded, and then said goodbye to Jamie. They both had a bit too much homework to contend with, since their college midterms were right around the corner, so their usual afternoon of video games was just going to have to wait. Jamie headed down the stairs, said goodbye to Mr. Fields as he left, the old, retired widower that Eric rented from. Jamie was a bit jealous, actually–Mr. Fields let Jamie do pretty much anything he wanted in his house–he even let him host their weekly game nights on the weekend with their two other friends from college, and he didn’t complain a bit. He thought about asking Mr. Fields if he might have another room he could rent himself next year, but he’d wait and see.

Upstairs, Eric set the pipe with the rest of his collection on a shelf, but as he did, he caught an odd whiff of smoke. He leaned in closer and gave the bowl of the pipe another sniff, but he didn’t catch another smell–but it had smelled kind of good, though now that it was gone, he couldn’t quite described how it had smelled good, exactly. He went back to his desk and got back to the paper he was trying to write, but every time he got into a decent flow, that smell would catch his attention again, and he’d be back to smelling the pipe, and wondering where in the world it was coming from exactly. It was one of those moments, when he was holding the pipe, that Mr. Fields passed by his open door.

“Is that a pipe, young man?” he asked, “You know I don’t want any smoking in here, ever.”

“Of course Mr. Fields, it’s just decorative. I don’t even own any tobacco or anything. It’s just a gift Jamie got me, because it looks like a dragon.”

His landlord scowled at him, and then kept going towards his own room. Eric liked Mr. Fields, and he was generous–but he had a lot of rules, and he was a total homophobe. Eric was just lucky he’d figured that out before mistakenly coming out to him when he’d been looking at the apartment. He couldn’t have anyone in his room–hell, he couldn’t even have his door closed, or his landlord would knock and make sure nothing “disgusting” was happening between him and his hands. Still, the rent was cheap, and the room was large–and for whatever reason he didn’t object to Eric and his friends playing their games downstairs in the basement, so all in all, it was alright, he supposed.

Mr. Fields passed back by the other direction, coat and hat in hand. “Gonna run a few errands,” he said, and left through the garage, and Eric decided this was an opportunity to take a break from his paper and jack off–so he pulled up some of his favorite videos and started playing them. It was a bit funny, he supposed, that his landlord was exactly his type–big bellied, older, gruff, hairy–it was a bit of a perk in its own way, and he’d had to learn how to master his erections in front of his chubby daddy crush. Eric, on the other hand, was a twink–or he could be a twink, if that sort of thing interested him in the slightest. He didn’t really have time for other people, or relationships. He had his friends, and his collections, and his games, and that was more than enough to keep him occupied. He wasn’t a virgin by any means, but most of the sex he’d had was…uninteresting, mostly because he’d never been with a man he really found attractive, just other guys his age, and it had always been pretty disappointing.

The smell of smoke found its way to his nose again as he masturbated, but he didn’t really notice it this time–or it wasn’t noticeable enough for him to stop what he was doing and investigate it. It wasn’t a bad smell by any means–as far as smoke could smell, he supposed. It was a little sweet, and a little like roasting meat. He came into the cumrag he kept hidden next to the desk, and then closed everything up and got back to work on his paper. Mr. Fields was never gone long–usually just an hour or so, because he was quite a homebody. He was going to have to find somewhere else to live next year, he thought–the old man was nice, but he did want some privacy on occasion, and it would be nice if he would stop treating him like he was his son.