In The Doghouse (Part 3)

CW: Slob, Trash Eating, Light Scat

Carson didn’t sleep well, hunger and thirst gnawing at him all night long. The two bowls had a bit of rainwater in them, so he had a bit to drink, but it was the hunger that was worse. The floor of the doghouse was bare wood, and very uncomfortable. His new coat of fur was itchy, forcing him to figure out how to use his four new paws in odd ways to itch everywhere he could reach. But mostly, he was terrified. Would someone find him? He hadn’t told anyone where he was going–why would he? His phone was inside, but if Gage could literally turn him into a dog…then who knew what else he was capable of. If he was going to get out, he was going to have to be patient, and wait for an opportunity to present itself.

Still, eventually he did sleep, because he was roused by the sound of Gage opening the gate, and ordering Carson out of the doghouse. The morning light was bright–it was probably ten or eleven, and it looked like Gage had just woken up, from the bleary look in his eyes. “Saved it fer ya boy–gotta fill the bowl, right?” He hauled out his cock and pissed in one of the bowls–a long piss, filling it over half full, and Carson just stared at it, whining. When he finished, Carson saw him take a cup and dump some dark glop into the bowl as well, and he gave it a shake–it was a cup of tobacco spit, he realized.

“Best get used tah it, faggot–it’s what filthy dogboys like you love anyway–go on, give it a taste.”

He wanted to refuse, but the collar tugged him forward all the same. He lapped at the piss and spit, and was rewarded with a sickening pleasure in his cock. It didn’t taste good–it tasted like beer and cigarette butts from a urinal–but drinking it felt so…wrong, that he couldn’t help but find it arousing.

“See mutt? That cock of yers is hard already–go on now, piss in yer bowl like a good boy. Ya gotta piss, right?”

He did have to, but pissing in a bowl was a bit harder than he thought. He ended up getting most of it on the ground around the bowl, and Gage just laughed and heckled him for being so useless, and made him drink some more. Carson was a bit surprised that when he tasted the piss again–the taste hadn’t changed at all, but he enjoyed it, and he licked his chops when he was finished.

“Alright boy–time fer breakfast. Come on inside.”

If piss was his water, Carson didn’t have high hopes for what he might get for food–probably kibble, if anything. But in the kitchen, he didn’t even see a dog bowl for him or anything.

“Sorry, I didn’t get ya any food yet–but yer a dirty mutt, right? I bet you can find some stuff around here to eat. In fact, I bet a fat dogboi like you likes pretty much everything,” Gage said, and booped Carson on the nose with a finger, and when he did, the whole house lit up with smells, and his gut rumbled.

Unable to hold back, Carson crawled over to a pile of pizza boxes and started rooting through them with his nose, until he found the remains of a half eaten pie, and started chowing down, tearing into it with his new teeth.

“Good boy! Don’t worry–ya gots an iron stomach now, ya can eat pretty much anythin’, no matter how disgustin’. We’ll have some more fun when ya git in better shape, faggot.” Gage parked himself in the recliner and turned on the TV, but spent most of his time laughing and mocking Carson as he stuffed himself with whatever trash his nose scrounged up around the room. He did his best to fight it–he knew that he shouldn’t be doing this, but again, the worst part was that the more he ate…the more he liked it. And the more he liked it, the harder his dog cock got–something Gage never ceased reminding him of either. His hunger never abated, no matter how full he got–but it wasn’t until a couple of hours later that Carson noticed the effect the filth he was gorging on was having on his body. His small gut had ballooned in size, hanging heavy as he walked on all fours, his thighs rubbing against one another, a second chin forming underneath his muzzle. “Heh, maybe I should have made you a pig, the way you’re chowing down on all that trash, mutt,” Gage said, and then called Carson over, “I think that’s enough for now, Faggot–yer Master needs some lovin’ now.”

Carson had purposefully avoided getting too close to his Master all morning, mostly because every time he did, he caught another whiff of his musk, and he wanted to smell more of it. Now, however, he had no choice. He walked over to where Gage was sitting, feet up in his recliner, and the smell of him had his mouth drooling in a matter of seconds.

“Ya look excited Faggot–take off mah socks, ‘n clean mah feet. Do a good job, ‘n ya might get a bone…”

With his teeth, he gripped Gage’s rank socks and tugged them off one at a time, and then licked the bottoms of his feet, trying not to enjoy himself as he did, but he couldn’t help it. He knew it was disgusting, he knew it should terrify him, but every taste–it sent a blast of pleasure right to his brain and his cock. It was even better when Gage drooled tobacco spit into his palm and smeared it on his body–he licked the rank spit up even more eagerly than everything else. Gage told him he was being a good boy, and let him lick a bit further up, cleaning his hairy thighs and calves, when Gage gave a grunt and let off a long fart a few inches from Carson’s face. Before he could pull away, Gage grabbed the back of Carson’s head and shoved his muzzle between his thighs, the stench making his eyes water even as his cock started leaking cum, and horrified, his body humped against his Master’s leg.

“Fuck Faggot! I know ya like mah stink, but ya fuckin’ know better!” Gage said, and gave Carson a kick in his balls, making him yelp, but held his face down as he released another fart. Carson managed to control himself this time, but the stench…he was drooling all over Gage’s thighs, panting and horny, and when Gage pushed his cock against Carson’s muzzle, he licked at it eagerly, no longer caring about whether he should feel this good–and just let it happen.

Jeremiah’s Biggest Fan (Part 4)

How much did Terrance like football? Not at all. In fact, Terrance hated football. He hated most sports, in fact. But within a moment after Jeremiah pressing a button on the Chronivac, all of that changed. Now, he didn’t just love football–it was his life. He watched as much of it as he could, all the time, followed both the pro leagues and the college teams, and so much in his head was pushed out to make room for what he would have thought of as useless stats and figures before, but now…now football seemed like the only thing that mattered to him.

“Fuck, you’re going to make me a fucking football player?”

“No Tubbs–don’t worry about that. Someone with your physique? You’re too big to even be a defensive lineman. Sure, you might have played football back in high school,” he pressed another button, “but you were much too stupid to get into college, even on an athletic scholarship, if you’d been a good enough player to get one,” he hit another slider, “Now, all you are is just a middle aged loser, a pathetic worthless slob who obsesses on football because that’s the only thing in his life that has ever given him any meaning.”

Terrance did his best to fight it, the sensation of his entire history shifting away underneath him. Some of the details were the same as before–growing up gay in a small town–but most of it began twisting into something entirely new. Jeremiah saw him begin to shift again, though more subtly than before. His eyes lost a bit of their intelligence and dimmed, a thick layer of stubble filling in across his flabby face as his hairline began to recede. His body began to smell from a lack of care and washing, and he grew even a bit larger. In thirty seconds, Terrance was essentially gone–now there was just Tubbs, a thirty-five year old faggot pig, who spent his days working a shitty job delivering pizzas, and every second of his free time was devoted to his one true love: football.

Still, it wasn’t quite enough to satisfy Jeremiah. After all, even Tubbs could figure out that knowing a secret like this of a local college football star could be…rather worthwhile to the right ears. No–what he needed was a much more personal loyalty. “Tell me Tubbs,” he asked, typing in a new specification, “Who’s your favorite football player? The one you idolize over everyone else?”

“Aww fuck man! It’s fuckin’ you!” Tubbs gushed, his voice picking up the long drawl of the rest of the hick locals around here. “First time I saw ya play last year man, I knew I was lookin’ at someone special. I…I dreamed about you man, I know you’re gonna be pro, you’re gonna take a damn lucky team to the superbowl one day! I…fuck man, and…and I…” he got off the bed and onto his knees in front of Jeremiah, looking up at him with an almost childlike adoration, “I…anything I can do for you sir. Use me, my holes–I…You’re the sexiest man I’ve ever seen on a field, and if I can do this for you, if I can make you happy, fuck man it would be such a fucking honor. I know…I’m not much to look at, hell, I’m a dumbfuckin’ loser, I know it, but my ass is a good fuck, and its always open, whenever ya need it.”

“What I need right now, pig, is someone to clean my filthy fucking feet.”

“Oh fuck…Fuck *snort* fuck sir, yes sir!” Tubbs got down and started licking at Jeremiah’s foot, grunting and moaning, supporting himself with one hand while the other fucked himself with the dildo he had in his hole nearly all the time. Yeah–now this is something he could get used to, Jeremiah thought, hopped up on the desk behind him and started shoving his foot into Tubb’s fat mouth, jacking his cock while he watched the pig humiliate himself in front of his young football idol.

“You like those nasty feet pig?”

“Yes sir!”

What do you say pig, when your idol–when your fucking god is nice enough to let you lick your feet?”

“Thank you sir, *grunt* Thank you!”

“That’s right pig–you’ll take anything from me, won’t you, and you’ll thank me afterwards–isn’t that right?”

“Anything sir, I’m your fucking pig sir, anything, please, I’d be honored.”

“Get back on the bed pig, I got one last load of cum for you, and then you’d better get going, or you’ll be late to work.”

Twenty minutes later, Tubbs left the dorm room, adjusting his too small uniform from the local pizza delivery joint where he’d worked since he was a teenager. The front was stained and grubby, but he didn’t care–he had the best football player’s cum leaking out of his hole right this very second, and the world couldn’t get any fucking better than this.

Inside the room, laughing, unable to believe what had just happened, Jeremiah picked up the Chronivac, stepped out the dorm room, and triggered reality to alter and adjust for all of the previous changes he’d made. The room he’d just left was suddenly occupied by a completely different student, and Terrance–investigative journalist and notorious queer–ceased to exist for anyone other than Jeremiah. Later that night, he ordered a bunch of pizzas for the frat house for fun, and sure enough, Tubbs pulled up in his pickup truck, hauled out the six pizzas and took them to the door, gushing over the football players inside, who were a bit…put off that the filthy slob knew their own stats better than they did. But Jeremiah gave him a wink, and that alone had Tubbs fucking himself with his special, Jeremiah shaped dildo in a parking lot until he came in the front of his work uniform, looking forward to the next time he’d have the honor of serving his idol–which he’d have the opportunity to do many times over the next few years, until–as everyone knew would happen–Jeremiah graduated and got drafted immediately by a pro team across the country, and he was gone.

Still, Tubbs didn’t resent him–how could he? He’d settled into his life well–packing on another hundred of pounds thanks to drinking problem and binge eating Jeremiah had helped nurture in the pig. He liked to think that, maybe, he’d helped him a little. That with his sorry life, he’d done something for the one person in the world who really mattered. He watched every game that Jeremiah’s team played, lounging on his couch, drunk, one of his idol’s dirty jockstraps or jerseys from his private collection pressed to his face, bouncing on his dildo, wishing for at least one more fuck from him–and at the end of the season, he got a package that had his squealing with joy. Jeremiah remembered him, and liked him enough to send the pig a ticket to the superbowl–and after winning his first ring of what would be many, Jeremiah gave that pig a night long pounding he was certain would last Tubbs a good long while. After all, loyalty and silence had to have its rewards, right?

No One Else Will Want You Now (Part 4)

It took Donny close to an hour to clean both boots to Walter’s satisfaction, from top to sole. Walter found himself transfixed, watching his boyfriend debase himself before him, how his initial disgust at his own humiliation had given way to the simple durdergy of the act, to a certain…pleasure, or perhaps pride and pleasure in his work. Once the muck had been removed, he shined them diligently with his tongue, his eyes slipping away from his task up to where Walter was looming over him, his heart fluttering, He’d always found his older partner so dull, both in the sack and out. He was always looking for an emotional connection which Donny found childish and idealistic. It was the material that mattered–your body, your style, your wealth. Walter had the last, and after a few years he’d increased his hold on the first two, but Donny always longed to slip away from the emotional wet blanket and just fuck someone like a beast for an hour. He’d always feared, irrationally, that if Walter had gotten an emotional grip on him, that Donny would find himself disappearing–physically, mentally, and spiritually. His cheating was a sword he used to sever that emotional tie before it could become too rooted in his guts, but here, kneeling on the floor, he could sense that his deepest fears had, in fact, been true. This wasn’t him. He could feel himself dying away, some other terrible version of him filling in his place.

“Put your head on the floor, arch your back,” Walter said. Donny took the position he thought was implied by the order, placing his head to the floor and curling into a ball. It must have been sufficient–Walter set his boots on his back–Donny could feel they still wet with his own spit–and Walter inspected them in the light, checking their shine. They could use a proper shining, certainly, but he’d done a sufficient job. “If you really want to stay here, with me, I’m only going to allow it under certain conditions. You realize that, right?”

“Yes sir,” Donny said. Walter crossed his feet, one heel digging in between ribs on his back, but he suppressed a flinch of discomfort. “I…Please sir, I’ll do anything. I fucked up, I ruined everything, I know that. I deserve this, I deserve…anything you think…” he swallowed, hard, trying to choke back his own, miserable words, but his mouth continued, that other him continued, without his consent, “anything, sir. I’ll accept anything. I don’t…deserve you, but I’m honored that you would consider keeping me somewhere in your life, even after my failure.”

Walter dug his heel in a bit further, but not as hard as he could have–implying that the begging was appreciated, but did nothing to ease the punishment that Donny was about to receive. “This is your last chance. Crawl out of here, if you want, but if you stay, you will accept all of these conditions.”

“What…are the conditions, sir?”

“That shouldn’t matter, should it?” Walter rocked his heel back and forth, “If you’re truly sorry, if you truly want to stay, then you should be willing to accept any condition that I put forth.”

Donny knew he was right. He fought–he tried to crawl out from under that heel as hard as he could. He shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t be surrendering like this. Walter was the one who needed him, not the other way around! But that new him, the one who was meekly groveling under this fucker’s boot didn’t see it that way. He couldn’t see any way forward that didn’t have him at Walter’s side, no matter what that might mean. “You’re…right. I’m sorry sir, for asking. I’ll stay, and submit to any conditions you demand.”

He wanted to scream, he wanted to stand up and clock Walter in the face, he wanted to sob, but all he did was stay there in that position, while Walter smoked his cigar, pleased with himself, pleased with this curse, pleased with his newfound power. “As you can imagine, your actions have made it perfectly clear that going forward, our relationship can never take the form of equals, you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what does that make you?”


“Slave, I feel, is the wrong word. But I’m not sure I have a word that adequately communicates my utter disdain and disgust at your existence, but yes. As far as things are concerned, from this point forward, you are going to be my slave. That’s condition number one.”

There was a sudden constriction around Donny’s neck, something cutting off his airway for a moment, before it loosened–thought not all that far. With one hand he felt the steel collar secured there, tight enough against his skin to cause constant discomfort. There was a padlock securing it in front–a heavy one, but with his hands…he felt no lock. No keyhole, no combination. It was just a solid hunk of metal securing him to his new role. He yelped, as a sharp sting across his ass followed. At first, he thought Master had flogged him with something (no, not Master, he’s not my fucking master!) but something else was forming in his mind. A collecting of memories, of being taken to the tattoo shop, being marked, permanently, as property of his master, but that hadn’t happened, that had never happened! But if it hadn’t then how could he remember it so clearly? How the artist had laughed at him the entire time, his master leaning against the wall, watching his every move for one punishable offense. How he’d had to thank the man for marking him, how he’d had to offer to service the man as a tip, and he’d just looked at him…utterly disgusted at the sight of him begging in front of him…but this wasn’t him, it wasn’t him!

Walter removed his boots from his slave’s back, planted one foot on the back of his head facing him, and shoved him, rolling Donny over onto his back. “That’s the easy one, slave. Now we need to figure out what we should do with these,” he said, standing up from his chair, and nudging Donny’s balls with the toe of his boot.

Why the fuck was he doing this, Hugh screamed in his head as he shoved his nose deeper into the stinking boot, snorting up as much of his neighbor’s musk as he possible could, his cock hard and leaking in his jeans. He’d always considered himself an alpha, a true man–and an alpha most certainly did not helplessly sniff a fat fuck’s nasty work boots, and get hard while he did it.

“See? I told ya,” his neighbor, Clark, said. He sat forward so he could pull out the can of chaw from the back pocket of his grungy coveralls he always wore, take out a wad, and tuck it in his lip–but his beard was so thick you couldn’t even see the bulge. “Knew a fuck like ya wouldn’ be able tah help yerself.”

They were in Hugh’s garage, where Hugh spent most of his free time working on his trucks. Clark had been passing by on the way to the mailbox when the two of them had gotten into a bit of an argument–and Clark had ended up taking off his ripe boots…and as soon as Hugh had smelt them, he’d been unable to resist them. Hugh managed to haul his face free for a moment, drool running down his chin, but he just fell back in, pushing his face in even deeper.

“Don’ feel too bad that ya lost–ya ain’t the first, ya won’ be the last.”

“Please, let me stop!” Hugh shouted into the boot.

“But ya don’ wanna stop, do ya? Ya can’t have those one though, I ain’t done wit’ ‘em. Got lots a other stuff back home ya can keep though–trust me, once ya gots a taste…ya ain’t gonna be able tah stop. Just wait til ya gets a sniff a mah jock–yer gonna be a brand new man–in fact, git over here.”

Thankfully, Hugh could take his head out of the boot, but he found himself crawling towards his fat, smelly neighbor, watching him zip his coverall down to his crotch and part the sides of the suit, revealing the filthiest pouch of a jock Hugh had ever seen…but he couldn’t stop himself from shoving his face in, huffing his neighbor’s fumes–no…no, his Master’s stink, yeah, his Master.

Hugh wasn’t quite himself from that day forward, but he didn’t mind. Instead of working on his trucks, he spent most of his downtime over at his Master’s house–along with most of the other men from the neighborhood. But what choice did he have? He needed to smell his Master, right? He needed to smell a real man, to remind him of his proper place in the world–at that man’s feet.

Making Pigs (Part 3)

Officer Vernon knew this wasn’t what he should be doing.

He’d received multiple calls about a couple of guys having sex on the side of the freeway, in open view, and he’d been tasked with getting them to stop and arresting them for gross indecency. But he’d gotten off his motorcycle, walked over towards them, and then…and then here he’d been standing for a few minutes, just watching them fuck, his cock out of his uniform pants, stroking himself off, unable to look away.

“That’s good pig, just keep stroking that big, thick shaft of yours. Just keep watching me pound Porgy’s front hole. You like watching men fuck, don’t you? In fact, whenever you see men fucking, it’s like every other thought flies straight out of your brain, and it’s all you can think about.”

Yeah…yeah, he did have a hard time focusing on anything where guys were fucking in front of him, especially when one of them was a sexy pig like Porgy…fuck, watching that perfectly smooth fat jiggle, the fucker’s triple chins wobbling as the man plowed that pig’s cockhole deeper and deeper…What had he been thinking about again? It…it probably wasn’t that important really. His cock was important. He looked down at it, at the fifteen inch long monstrosity in his hands, and could barely believe the size of it. It hadn’t been that big before, had it? Who cares? It felt fucking good in his hands as he milked it, angling himself so he could show it off to the car’s driving by.

“Yeah pig, that’s right. You like showing off, don’t you? Why don’t you take that shirt off, show everyone that firm gut of yours and piggy pecs, those fat, inch long nipples you have studded on your chest. Go on, give them a twist, I bet they’re sensitive as hell, right? Almost enough to make you cum, just playing with those by themselves. And those fucking meaty thighs, packed with as much fat as muscle I bet.”

The buttons popped off as he tried to get his shirt off, and he ended up just tearing his way out of it, hearing the seams of his pants ripping apart at the same time. After a moment, he too was naked, aside from his boots which were bulging around his enlarging feet, stroking his massive cock with one hand, twisting his huge nipples with the other, eyes empty, drool leaking out one corner of his mouth, lost in the pleasure of his own changing body.

“Hairy beast too, a proper boar. Stupid as fuck though. Bet you can’t even talk. Still, those hands and feet of those are as massive as your cock–guess it’s true what they say. Damn short though–what are you, just a little over five feet? Damn pig, that cock of yours almost hits your fucking knees. Yeah, fucking look at you, Can’t believe I caught myself two today, gonna fuckin’–”

He watched the man start huffing and fucking Porgy deeper now, and with a cry, he shot his own load deep in Porgy’s front cunt, the pig letting out a squeal of his own, cumming for the fourth or fifth time.

“Get over here, come clean out Porgy’s holes like I know you want to. Cum hungry slut, covered with fucking hair. No thought in your heads except about fucking and stroking that big cock. Need a name too though–how about Boaris, eh?”

Boaris snorted his approval, and tried to walk over, bursting from the remains of the boots as he did, and got down in front of Porgy, hefted up the fat apron and shoved his lips to the pig’s gunt, sucking out all the cum he could, licking it up, digging his tongue in deep. The man came up behind him, running his hands through the thick, furry pelt that had grown in over Boaris’ whole body, from the tops of his size twenty feet to the backs of his palms to the huge curly beard swallowing his face.

“Porgy, clean yourself out, and give Boaris a treat–eh?”

Porgy somehow knew what the man meant, and he let loose his bladder, sending a flood of piss out his hole which Boaris tried to drink up, but a good bit of it just ran down the front of his body, soaking into his hair, running down over his pecs and the curve of his muscular gut.

“Alright you pigs, that’s enough get in the back–we have an auction to get to, and a long drive to get there.”

The two pigs, their past lives now well forgotten, hauled themselves into the bed of the truck–Boaris helping the massive Porgy in first, before hauling himself up after. The man climbed in the cab, started the engine, and drove off. It wasn’t a mile down the road that he felt the truck start bouncing–sure enough, Porgy was flat in the bed and Boaris was mounting him at eighty miles an hour down the highway. Yeah, these two were going to fetch a damn good price at the hog auction today, he could just tell. And with all the attention they were getting, it was a good chance they’d pick up a third or fourth pig on the way too. The man smiled and took a long drag off his cigarette–the pigs never see it coming, but somehow it never gets old.

Coach’s Summer Training – Part 3

Jerry Hudson was my final student of the summer, and I had quite the project in mind for him, a transformation I had never attempted before. He was a rugby player at a local college, and his coach was a good friend of mine–he had a special commission and challenge for me, he said. Jerry was a bit of a loudmouth and a braggart, and I could only take it for about ten minutes before finally pushing him to the ground and shoving my foot in his mouth. Much to his surprise, and then his terror, my foot slid in effortlessly to the ankle–he tried to fight me, but for some reason his hands and arms just flopped against my leg like fabric. With my foothold secured, I took a moment to cut away his clothes, and then reached down, grabbed his hips, and twisted his lower body around. Had he still had any bones at all, his spine would have broken–instead, he just laid there, and watched me put my other foot right in his ass.

Now came the real challenge. I concentrated on him, and started making him smaller, watching the twist grow tighter and tighter at his middle. I’d certain turned someone into a sock before–but I’d never tried making one person into a pair of socks. It was obvious from the way what remained of his face was contorting that it must have hurt something terrible, but finally, with a loud rip, he came apart at the middle, and formed into two thick, black, identical calf length socks on my feet. I surveyed the damage. My right foot, which had been shoved in Jerry’s mouth, was screaming–as usual. But the sock on my left foot was saying nothing–no mind at all, aside from a dim instinctual desire to fuck. That was no good–I couldn’t have one sock brainless, so I pressed my feet together, knit the fabric again, and concentrated, forcing Jerry’s consciousness to spread out across both socks, and then, once it was more or less centered and even, I ripped them apart. Even I screamed at that, listening to the pain the two of them felt as I did that, but it did work–Two Jerrys, one on each foot, thinking independently of one another.

Now the coach who had offered this challenge, we’d met quite a few years ago at a leather club one night. I could tell he was a man like me–musky, leathery, willing to inflict pain on other people for fun. I’d thought about wearing him, but how could I make him better? Instead, I started making things for him to wear–for a hefty price, of course. What he wanted was a pair of devoted boot slaves–and so I went to work. Luckily we had similar shoe sizes, so I could wear his boots, conditioning both Jerrys to relish and appreciate the smell of their future master’s feet. I shined the boots twice a day with the socks, getting them used to appreciating the taste of boot black, and the importance of serving boots and feet. Still, with the initial challenge over, I grew a bit bored–why not have a bit more fun with both of them? I knew what their coach liked, after all–and with two slaves, that gives you some room for, shall we say, specialization.

The right one became my newest cum rag, and once he grew more used to absorbing filth, I started branching him out–submerging him in jars of my piss, forcing him to drink all of it into himself. He also worked as my toilet paper, and grew to appreciate the taste of shit along with everything else. After a week, he was crusty and filthy, but he loved it, and was begging me for more filth to eat. Meanwhile, I put the left sock through other exercises–stretching him out, forcing him to fit over my entire fist and arm up past my elbow, decorating him with rings and studs and metal spikes. By the end, the two socks looked strikingly different–and I told my friend to come over, because we would have to finish the work with him present as well.

He was ecstatic, when he saw what I had done, and couldn’t wait to put them on. He did, and I started working the slaves together, telling them that this was the moment they’d been waiting for, that this was their master, their owner, and I started shifting them back. Soon, two young men were kneeling before him, worshiping his feet hungrily–obviously identical twins, and yet they couldn’t have been more different in their appetites. The one serving his right foot was a filthy mess, caked with cum, piss and shit–the other was cleaner, but his entire body was a riot of piercings, and desperate to feel his master’s fist buried in his asshole. The mental split had left both Jerrys much, much dumber–after all, when you only started with one brain, there wasn’t much hope for intellect, but each served his master well for many years to come. But that, alas, was the end of my summer. Still, I’ll have a whole new set of men to train next year, so who knows what might happen then?

Happy Labor Day

Why work? That was the question Jack had asked himself one day, and he’d realized that he didn’t have a good answer. And so, he decided to just not work. Well, he had been working in one fashion–figuring out every way he could to get money from the government. Hell, he’d even pretended to have a pregnant girlfriend to pick up an extra 200 a month. For years now, he’d been living alone in the old single wide his uncle had died in, where Jack had just started squatting while the rest of the family didn’t actually care. He’d even kept collecting his uncle’s social security–since no one had bothered to let the government know he was dead. It wasn’t a comfortable life, but he didn’t have to work. He could set his own schedule, drink beer, smoke, and watch TV, which is everything that made him happy anyway. Still, he always figured that one day people would catch on–it just didn’t quite lead to the result he was expecting.

One day, instead of his usual check from welfare, he received a large package on the doorstep. Inside, he found a letter:

Congratulations! You have been selected as a candidate for our new Eager-to-Work! Program. This pilot program is tailored to those members of the long-term unemployed who have shown a reluctance to find work for themselves. As part of this program, you have already been accepted to work at a local small business in need of labor. Inside this package, you will find your uniform for your new job…

The rest of the letter had information about where he would be working, and said he would be starting the following Monday after the weekend. Of course, he had absolutely no intention of starting any kind of job. Besides, he was “disabled” anyway. Couldn’t these organizations figure their shit out for once? He got on the phone with the welfare office, but the woman he spoke to, while very congenial and apologetic, informed him that for as long as he was a member of this pilot program, he would be ineligible for other forms of public assistance. Furious, he hung up, and decided that he just wouldn’t go at all. No one was going to make him work, especially not after this long. He went to throw out the package, but decided to take a look at what the office had sent him for a “uniform.” Nothing in there was at all clean, and along with a set of grubby red coveralls, there were even socks, some boots, and even a grey stinking jockstrap. Really stinking, actually. He put the jock to his nose and took a deep breath of the fabric, smelling the sweat imbedded in it.

He stripped off his boxers and pulled the jock on instead. After a moment’s hesitation, he went and pulled on the rest of the gear as well, and when he was done, the grungy, sweaty smell had his cock rock hard in the jock, and he couldn’t stop himself from jacking off. In fact, that was all he could do all weekend long. He never once removed any part of the uniform, even sleeping with the boots on. As the weekend passed, he found himself imagining all sorts of new fantasies. How he could be working for eight hours, come home all sweaty, smelling absolutely disgusting. Fuck, it would be amazing. He still remembered his sworn promise to never work another day in his life, but for the first time he actually found himself regretting it, and wondering if he’d made the right choice. The idea that he might actually enjoy working scared him–and on Sunday he took off the uniform, but before he could throw it away, he felt something strange happening to his body. In the mirror, he noticed that his hair was suddenly starting to recede and turn grey, his goatee turning grey as well, as his body softened and began fattening up. In a panic, he threw the uniform back on, which halted the aging, but back in the stinking sweat, he found he actually kind of liked how he looked. Older, a bit weathered–like a man who’d spent his life working rough, sweaty jobs.

He was back on his bed then, jacking off, smelling his pits, wishing they were even nastier. Hopefully the job would be one where he could work up a good sweat every day–then he could spend his whole weekend smelling himself and jacking off, before doing it all over the next week. He shot his load up onto his stomach and rubbed it in there, feeling a bit of clarity well up in him. This was insane. This couldn’t possibly be legal, but he knew that if he kept this up, he would definitely be going to work tomorrow. Then, he realized that he still didn’t know where he was even going to be working! Sensing an opportunity, he rummaged around in the clutter until he found the sheet from Eager-to-Work! and burnt it to ashes with his lighter before he could see his new place of employment.

That Monday, he soon realized that there were other good reasons for him to go to work. All day, he had so much energy he was practically bouncing off the walls, but the one thing that wouldn’t cooperate was his cock. It was completely soft, and wouldn’t get hard for anything, even as he grew increasingly horny. Tuesday was even worse, but he refused to give in and call the unemployment office to get the information from them. It was Wednesday that a new package arrived, unbidden, along with another letter:

Due to your continued attempts at unemployment, you have been selected for Eager-to-Work!’s mentorship program! Included in the package are some things that will help you get to know your mentor a little better, before he arrives for your first meeting Wednesday afternoon at 4 pm at the following location.

All that was in the package, however, was another pair of boots and a jockstrap. But these…as soon as he smelled them, he knew that they weren’t his. and yet…he picked up the jock, and he could smell the cum soaked into it, and his cock was hard again, and he was jacking off, unable to even help himself. Then, he started smelling the boots, and he nearly retched, but he could handle it, he could take it all in. The feet that were in those boots, fuck! They must be huge, and stinking, and he could just image them smashed against his face, against his cock, shoved in his mouth sucking on their toes. He came three times on the floor by the door, the jock stuffed in a boot covering his nose and mouth, while he shot multiple loads across the other boot’s toe and laces, which he then licked off, tasting the dirt and grime of work. Yes, this was a man who worked! This was a man who worked like he could work, if he could just stop being such a lazy dumbass! He had to meet this man, he had to, he could help him be a good worker.

The clock moved so slowly, but finally it was time to leave. He drove to a small house not too far from the trailer park where he lived, and he found the garage door open, a squat man sitting in the back of his pickup. “You must be Jack,” he said, “Come on in here–I’m gonna be your mentor.”

Jack couldn’t get into the garage fast enough, the door closing down behind him as he hopped up into the bed of the truck, and found himself face to face with his mentor’s huge feet. He started slobbering all over them, wildly jerking his cock, and listened to everything his mentor had to say about the thrill of work, about how hot it was getting dirty and grungy with other men, smelling them on the worksite, begging them to let him lick them clean and suck their cocks and massage their feet. Jack promised his mentor that he would go to work tomorrow like a good man, and once the mentor was satisfied that Jack was telling the truth, he finally let Jack suck the cum from this thick cock, before sending him on his way.

Jack discovered that he was going to be working for a construction company, and it was everything he could have hoped it would be. Sweaty, hard work with a bunch of other men who had been selected for the Eager-to-Work! program like him. It was hard containing themselves for eight hours of hard work, but it was all worth it after closing time, when Jack and the rest of his co-workers would all stick around and fuck each other’s lights out for several hours. Jack would still have doubts on occasion, but at his bi-weekly fuck sessions with his mentor, there was nothing he couldn’t get past. Soon, he was just another happy worker, wearing his stinking coveralls day and night, eight hours of work, eight hours of rest, and eight hours of fucking.

Jake and Mitch were chatting behind the counter in the army surplus store, when a young man standing over by the boots said to the roughnecks, “I was wondering if you guys could help me figure out what boots size I should wear.”

“It’s usually the same as your shoe size,” Mitch said.

“Well, I have weird feet.”

With a sigh, Mitch went over, and saw that the kid had already kicked his shoes off, and then the stench hit him. His brain blew a few circuits, and drooling, he got down on his hands and knees, taking as much of the kid’s socked foot in his mouth as he could. Jake rushed over to see what was going on, and a moment later, he too had succumbed to the smell, and each taking a foot, the two roughnecks worshiped the kids feet, obeying his every order without a second–or even a first–thought. 

When he left, it was with a pair of free boots, and the promise of his two new slaves that they would come see him after their shifts–and not take off the filthy socks pulled over their rock hard cocks until then.

Yeah, that’s it, lick my boot faggot. I told told you those cuffs were magic–the cop whose uniform I swiped didn’t believe me either, but he’s too busy suckin’ cock at the rest area to do anything now. Yeah, that’s right, that guy whose face you fucked? He was a cop–now he’s mine, and you’re mine too. The question, though, is what kind of faggot you’re gonna be?

Well, you sure do love that boot, so how about we make you a foot faggot? Yeah, you’re gonna love it, cleaning and shining men’s boots with your tongue, licking the sweat and grime from between their toes, sucking their filthy socks, and the only time you’ll cum is with a foot up your ass–how does that sound?

…Why am I doing this? Because I hate faggots, but if you’re here, then you might as well be useful. All my buddies are gonna know you’re here, ready to shine their shoes and clean their feet whenever they want. Now get that boot off and suck my sock–I haven’t got all night to get you trained.