Orwell’s Demon (Part 10)

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Orwell’s Demon (Part 7)

“You know, I’m curious. What the fuck does it even taste like?” Officer Hurlbane said, sitting down again, sucking on the cigar still. Orwell could…see him changing, slowly. The demon was enjoying himself, enjoying taunting him. His clean shaven face was coated in stubble now, though it would be a full beard before too much longer. The uniform he was wearing was straining against his growing frame, as the officer packed on muscle. He wasn’t sure if it was the light, but the material seemed…strange. It wasn’t cotton, like it had been–it was darkening, and picking up a sheen, like leather or rubber–probably the former. “I mean, doing what I do, I’ve seen a lot of freaks, Orwell, but I gotta say, you’re the first fucker I’ve ever talked to who actually ate the stuff. So, what’s it taste like? And do you fucking smear that shit on you too? Cause you sure fucking smell like it.”

Since his encounter with the trucker, whom Orwell later learned was named Jonathan when the police questioned him about it–given the similar circumstances around the man’s disappearance as the Ray and Stewart–he’d discovered that normal food…he couldn’t keep it down. It tasted…vile, and if he managed to get any into his stomach, he’d just end up vomiting it up a few minutes later. In fact…the only thing he’d eaten, since that day, was shit. It was the only thing he could eat–the only thing he wanted to eat. But worst of all–he couldn’t even eat his own, because his ass, and his guts…they were different too. Nothing was connected. His ass, he realized, was designed to be fucked now–and all the shit he ate, and piss he drank, just sat in his guts, filling and expanding as he ate more and more, and slowly, his body would…process it, and leech it back out through his pores. It was vile. He was vile. He was a monster, and he hated it, but he couldn’t resist it–and somehow, when he was around, men would always forget to flush.

“What, scared that I know your disgusting fucking secret? Did Ray find out? Did Stewart? What the fuck did you do to these men? Where the fuck are they, you fucking freak!”

He had to tell him, he had to. He should have tried before, it might be too late, but he had to try. “It’s not me! It’s not me, it’s…honest to god, sir, I’m possessed. This fucking amulet,” Orwell pulled it out of his shirt, “there’s a demon inside, and he…he corrupts men, please, he’s corrupting you too! You have to get out of here, before it’s too late, before he controls you too.”

Officer Hurlbane just stared at him, not at all sure what to say. “If you think you’re going to be able to use an insanity defense with that story, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.”

“I’m serious! Look at you! You’re smoking, have you ever smoked before? Your clothe are changing, you have a beard–look in the fucking mirror!” Orwell said, pointing to the wall…but it was gone. The mirror, and the window, was gone. It was just concrete–the entire room was concrete, there wasn’t even a door left.

Now now, that’s a very naughty piggy, trying to tell the policeman about me. It’s much too late for that though, you know. He’s mine, just like they all are. Just like you could be too, Orwell, if you’d stop being so stubborn.

“No–No! I won’t I fucking won’t. I don’t want this, let him go!”

You do want this, Orwell, I can see in your heart, how hungry you are, how much you need to be smoked. Wouldn’t it feel good, Orwell? Wouldn’t you rather have the nice officer smoking you, instead of that big, fat cigar of his? Wouldn’t that make you feel good? I can make it happen, you just have to want it–oh who are we kidding, we both know what you want, piggy.

The officer was changing faster now, his uniform completely leather, His face covered in a thick beard, hiding his lecherous grin. “Yeah, you’ve been a very bad piggy, haven’t you Orwell? He’s…he’s telling me all about you now, I…Fuck, you nasty fucking piece of shit…”

“Don’t fucking listen to him! You have to fight this, please! You’re the last one!”

“Tell me, Orwell. Tell me what you did to your fucking neighbor. Tell me what happened, I want to fucking hear it from your shit eating mouth. Get me good and horny with a nice story, and then the two of us are going to have some fun. I know how to set a piggy like you straight–I know what you need, what you deserve. I know…everything.”

“I can’t, please…”

“Fucking say it!” Hurlbane shouted at him, “Fucking tell me, you fucking pig!” He stood up, turned around, and dropped his leather pants, showing off his meaty ass. “Tell me what you did, or I won’t feed you this thick log of shit I have up here, waiting for your hungry lips. You want that, don’t you? You nasty, hungry, shitpig?”

Go on Orwell–tell him. He wants to know, he wants to know all about you. Tell him what you did to nice Mr. Piper the other night. Tell the officer what you saw that afternoon, what we did to him that night…

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.

Spray 

WARNING: FILTH AND SCAT AHEAD!


The bathhouse wasn’t a place you went often. Only when you got…particularly horny, and were craving something a bit more crazy. Not too crazy, mind you–you’d seen some of the things the men there got into, especially down in the basement. That wasn’t for you, you told yourself. You liked things clear, though you liked a little rough on occasion. But that night, something went askew, didn’t it?

You’d liked him, as soon as you’d seen him. A bit grungy, a bit of a rebel. That mohawk, that…dirty jock he was wearing. He was willing to throw you around, push you up against walls, willing to take it from you too. The two of you wrestling around on the concrete, a few other men watching the scene, curious if there was a chance of joining in. He got you on your knees, and you were expecting to suck cock–instead, he slipped his cock free of his jock, aimed, and sprayed you with a blast of piss. The force of it stunned you–like someone with their thumb over a garden hose. You were soaked in a second. You couldn’t escape the smell, the taste, the thrill of it. You’d never once imagined you might enjoy a scene like this, but as the men circled around you and hoed you down, you found your…mind shifting.

You swore to yourself it was a one time thing, as you walked home in street clothes, your skin still damp and reeking. You didn’t shower when you got home however–you laid down in the tub and jacked off to your stench, and then pissed all over yourself for good measure. After that, the bathhouse became a…regular activity for you, didn’t it? You just couldn’t quite find anywhere else that made you feel the same. You tried to keep away from watersports at first, but as soon as anyone caught a whiff of you, they knew what you really wanted. You felt so…ashamed, walking home, dripping with piss. Knowing that everyone who passed by could tell what you wanted, what you were. But while the shame never faded, you found yourself…enjoying it. You wanted people to know what you were, it made you harder than a gut full of secondhand beer.

You didn’t see him for almost a year. You never even realized you were looking for him, until you saw him again. The lump in your throat–was it fear, or thrill? It was too late to move to another room, he’d already seem you there, in the basement corner–what had come to be known as your “spot” when you were there. You sucked him off for a bit, drank his piss down too, but you could…sense something coming. He spun around, bent over, and before you could do much more than blink, he sprayed the contents of his ass all over your face and chest–and like the piss before…it was more than you could take, more than your mind could possibly handle, and remain whole.

Now here you are, in your corner. You almost never leave the building now–most men only see you as an it, a thing, a toilet, a trashcan, a repository for their shame. He’s over there, your creator. Some man is desperate to fuck his hole–a new top, apparently. Were you unlucky, to have been made into this thing? Could you have been fated to be something else? The man’s in balls deep now, and you’re licking your scummy lips. He’ll feed you, after this–he’ll want you to taste his new creation, right from his own ass. You wish you weren’t hard, you wish you weren’t cumming at the thought of the frothy, cummy shit you’d be feasting on soon, but that you is long gone now, and won’t ever be coming back, not after your taste of this life.

Five Film Contract (2 of 2) WARNING: FILTH, BESTIALITY


Just one more, Evan was telling himself. Just one more film, and he’d be done. The contract would be over. He could…be normal again, himself again. He wouldn’t have to keep doing this, why was he still doing this?

He’d gone back to his room after the second film, stunned, unable to look at his reflection in the mirror, at his shaved head. He could still smell Rick on him, and he liked it. He’d left the set still wearing that dirty jock, and he’d jacked it, trying to find a dildo large enough to make his ass happy, disgusted with himself, but more turned on than he’d been in his life, and terrified that he still had three more films to go, that…that he might lose control of himself like that, again. That, even worse, he might lose control of himself like Rick. After their film together, he’d been even larger, with huge, meaty forearms–one of them marked like a ruler, lumbering off to his own room. He didn’t want to be like that…but he could tell, the directors had something else in mind for him.

The third film he’d done better, he’d kept his head around him. He’d taken every toy the other two actors had used on him and loved every second of it, watching the two of them…shift. The rubber, the tattoos, the piercings, the dullness in their eyes, but he’d fought off the worst of it. Sure, he couldn’t…quite bring himself to take off the rubber when he got back to his room, and the rings in his nipples did feel good, but he hadn’t given in like they had. That had been a victory–he could see the frustration in the director’s eyes. But the fourth film, yesterday…

The piss…the filth…he’d lost himself in it, and they’d caught every second of his debauchery on film. He still reeked of piss and shit now, the next morning. He’d tried to sleep, but he hadn’t been able to–he’d been too…wired, looking at himself in the mirror, at his new body. His missing muscles, his paunch, how he’d aged into at least his early forties. Now he was pissing into condoms to drink later–he…he liked it cold–and working his fist back into his ass at the same time, losing himself, whatever bit of himself there still was…but there was just one more film. He could make it through one more, right?

He left his room, but instead of going to a set, he was led to a car–rubber sheet placed over the backseat–and driven out of town. “We have a special final set for you all prepared, Evan,” the director said, “everyone is going to love this, watching you collapse. You’re going to be a star after this, just you wait.”

It was a farm. He wasn’t shooting with any of his other actors–no, Evan was tied down in the muck and manure, the cameras rolling as animal after animal fucked his hole–a dog, a boar, a cow, a donkey, and finally, a horse. He lost himself in it, he felt his very humanity draining away into the mud. When they finally untied him, all he could do was grunt and crawl through the mud, rubbing his cock raw. But he was a star, when his series premiered on the internet. Most people thought it was a hoax, that he was just a paid actor, but Evan could have confirmed it, if Evan still existed. Now he was just the director’s personal pet–but rumor has it there’s a reunion special coming up–Evan and Rick, together again for one evening–the two nasty beasts rutting in the mud and filth. You should see the preorders–it’s going to make bank.

The Fall of Troy – Part 3

***Warning*** It starts getting a bit messy here, including some light scat. 


Troy opened the door to the bathroom, and it was the stench that caught him first, and he had to suppress his gag reflex. Its true that he wasn’t exactly the cleanest guy, but even that was a bit more than he could handle. The floor was littered with dirty laundry–a large amount of it underwear, the toilet looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in ages, and the sink was clogged with hair. The cleanest part of the room was probably the shower, which was missing a curtain…and also a shower head, meaning it probably hadn’t been used in quite a while. Still, how did it look this bad? He was pretty much the only person who used the room, since Leo and his mom shared the master bath upstairs.

“What’s wrong, son?” Troy looked over his shoulder, right into Leo’s pitch black eyes, eyes he’d seen the night before. He could almost…remember, but his mind, Leo was inside him again, messing with him again, and he couldn’t do anything but stand there, drooling dumbly as Leo mindfucked him once again. “Now, son, I know how important your private bathroom time is for you, so why don’t you go ahead and enjoy yourself for a while, eh?”

Troy nodded slowly, and then stepped into the bathroom, allowing Leo to shut the door on him, and it was like he’d woken up in a dream. This couldn’t be real, none of this could possibly be happening. He took a few deep breaths of the stinking, stale air, and felt himself calm down a bit. He always felt better surrounded by his own filth, right? He looked at himself in the grimy mirror through an additional haze of smoke from his cigar, and had a hard time recognizing himself. The beard he’d grown the night before was even longer now, very curly and bushy, looking like his face was coated with a pubic bush. His hair had grown out as well, and it shone with grease. The rest of his body was similarly hairy, and he ran his filthy hands over his gut, feeling the fur, before lifting an arm to sniff at his massive, stinking pitbush. It was rank. He was rank. Then again, when you hadn’t taken a shower in months that’s what happens, not that he minded. He felt a gurgle in his gut, and let loose a long, wet fart–probably time to get down to business.

He walked over to the toilet to take a seat, and saw that the bowl was already filled with at least two loads of shit, and who knew how much piss. No wonder it smelled so fucking foul in here, and his smoke wasn’t helping either. He was starting to feel a bit lightheaded, though he wasn’t sure if it was the air, or just how fucking excited he was. A part of him, a small part growing smaller, tried to reach for the handle to flush it, but he pulled his hand back. It wasn’t time to flush it, not yet. He’d been saving it…right? Saving it for…for his private time. He was getting hard again–he pulled out his dildo and set it on the counter next to the toilet seeing the fleshy head coated with his shit (later–later) before plopping his fat ass down on the seat, and he let off a long, loud fart as he did. “Awww, fuck yeah…” he groaned, sniffing the fresh funk on the air for a moment, giving his fat nipples a twist. Still, he could shit in a moment–his bladder was calling.

Too bad he was too fat to piss on himself like before, still, he’d managed to devise a system that was almost as good. He fished around in the piles of his filthy clothes for a pair of briefs, well worn and stretched, stained a light yellow brown with a prominent shitstripe up the ass, positioned it under his cock, and started pissing on it, soaking it well, and then he stopped himself, took the soggy underwear and started sponging his fat body with his own piss, taking a moment every once in a while to suck as much as he could from the fabric with his mouth in between deep drags off his cigar, and once the briefs were no longer wet enough, he repeated the process with an equally filthy XXXL wifebeater, which he soaked through, wiped all over his body, and then pulled it on. His cigar was finished; he dropped the butt into the sink, and turned on a tap. He released the rest of his piss into the toilet, and then bore down, piling even more shit on top, his cock hardening, he he started working it slowly, taking long, snorting inhales of the filthy air, yanking up the filthy wifebeater to his nose and mouth, sucking at it, and when he was close, getting close, he fumbled for the filthy dildo next to him, shoved the nasty shit coated head in his mouth, and started sucking.

His cock exploded, spraying the toilet bowl, the wall across from him, the clothes in front of him. He worked the dildo deeper into his mouth, he kept milking his cock, horny as ever. With the dildo slick with spit again, he hefted himself up from the toilet, turned around, and got down on his knees in front of the full bowl, pushing the dildo back inside himself to the hilt, face to face with his own mess, and he fucked himself, taking long, deep breaths of his stink, until he came again across the base of the toilet.

Exhausted, coated with a foul mix of sweat and piss, surrounded by his filthy clothes, he started to calm down. He knew he should feel ashamed of himself, but it was like that part of his mind had shut off entirely. Instead he felt…proud. Excited. Happier than he could remember being in recent memory. He stared at the massive pile of shit in the toilet. He should flush it–or at least try to flush it, or…or he could just leave it. Just imagine what it might smell like in a few hours, if he did. Smirking, shit still smeared on his lips, he pushed himself back up. He found the briefs he’d soaked in piss and pulled them on, making sure to floss the ass deep into his nasty crack, and let out a belch. Fuck, he was hungry again already, maybe his dad had something cooking in the kitchen for them. He lumbered upstairs, and went to look for Leo.

Commission: Twenty Years Delayed

CAUTION: This is a nasty one.

“His name is Blake Kingston, bitch! He has to be here, you’re just not looking hard enough, ya dumb cunt!” Freddie said, leaning across the folding table and glaring at the middle aged woman seated in front of a pile of name tags. Above the table at the entrance of the high school gym was a banner that read “Treston High School Class of 1994 Reunion.” He leaned closer; she squirmed away from him as gracefully as she could, but couldn’t avoid the cloud of breath which seemed to be some horrid combination of toilet and ashtray.

“Sir, please don’t yell at me, I still have his nametag here. If he’s arrived already, he hasn’t picked it up. Now…if I can get your name, I can get your registration taken care of…and…and you can’t smoke in here.”

Freddie clenched his teeth down harder on his cigar. “You gonna take it from me?”

She made no further mention of it. He gave her his name when she asked again, and she startled, looked up at him. Freddie Williams? Sweet little shy chubby Freddie? She’d seen him at the last reunion, and he’d been so…normal. Still, she could recognize his eyes, through the plume of smoke, and wondered what in the hell had happened to turn him into…this thing. This leather clad, foul smelling, crude, hairy beast of a biker. Happy that she could feel pity instead of anger, she handed him his name tag with a smile, and waved him into the gym. Suspicious, Freddie took it and clipped it to his ratty leather vest, and lumbered into the gym he barely recognized. The school had been through a remodel in the last few years, and he felt almost no connection to the place anymore. He was only here to see Blake anyway–he’d promised he’d be here. Still, maybe Freddie had just arrived first. He hung around by the door, checking out everyone who came in. But the attendees stopped arriving at around seven, and angry that he’d been stood up, he scarfed down as much as he could from the buffet before someone told him to stop, and then started cruising his middle aged classmates.

Many of them, now almost in their forties, had started to fill out. More than a few had grown in beards. Unfortunately, most had wives and girlfriends in tow. Still, that didn’t mean much, right? Hell, he’d thought he was straight too, before he’d met Blake–both times, in fact. He’d taught him how to please a cock back in high school, and shown him again at the last reunion ten years later. He set his eyes on a few men who didn’t seem entirely disgusted by him. By this point, Freddie was good and drunk–the two drink limit didn’t apply when you had a flask of cheap whisky in your vest. He struck up conversations with a few guys, and eventually followed one of them to the bathroom.

Unfortunately, what drunken Freddie had taken to be sexual arousal was simply an attempt at being polite. In fact, the man had excused himself to the bathroom in an attempt to avoid further conversation. When Freddie clomped into the bathroom, came up to the man at the urinal and grabbed his cock from behind, he was less than pleased.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Come on man, I know yer fuckin’ horny. I got stood up tonight, at least give me a load a cum for the ride home, I’m fuckin’ thirsty.”

“You’re fucking disgusting.”

“Hell yeah I am,” Freddie leaned in closer, “I’ll be as disgusting as ya want. Drink yer piss, hell I even eat shit. Go on, take a shit, I’ll eat it out a the bowl while ya fuck my nasty asshole.”

“You’re fucking insane!” the man said, tried to get away, but Freddie pinned him up against the outside wall of the stall with his massively fat, four hundred pound body.

“Fuck you man, fuck you ‘n your fuckin’ attitude. I came in here for some fuckin’ cum, ‘n I’m not leavin’ without you fuckin’ one of my holes. So pick one, and feed this pig.”

The man tried to hit Freddie, but his fist just sank into Freddie’s fat body. When Freddie countered with a slap of his leather gloved hand, the man stood there, shocked, giving Freddie the opportunity to drop the man’s slacks, get down on his knees, and start sucking on his soft cock. Much to the man’s embarrassment, it didn’t stay soft for long, and he let off a moan. As disgusting as Freddie was, he knew what to do with his mouth. Figuring it would be better to just let the brute have his way, the man tried to cum as quickly as possible, shot a load down Freddie’s throat, and then zipped up and fled as quick as he could. Freddie savored the taste for a moment, gave a great big belch, and headed back to the gym. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be a complete waste after all.

He scanned the crowd–still no sign of Blake. Where the fuck was he? Freddie heaved a sigh, and noticed someone across the floor staring at him, someone he hadn’t noticed earlier. He was too old to be a member of his class–short, with a round gut, bushy white beard and wire rimmed glasses, he had to be at least sixty, if not seventy. And something about him seemed…oddly familiar. Still, he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would be interested in a guy like him, so he steered clear, but as he hunted for another cock to suck, he realized the older man was never too far away, and being more than a little creepy. Still, what could a fat old man do to a pig like him? Freddie managed to scare another ex-jock classmate into a trip to the bathroom, and licking his lips, followed after a minute later. The older man waited a couple more, and then set off down the hall after them both.

Freddie was in the middle of trying to rip open the man’s pants when the older man stepped into the room, and said, “Nasty Slut Pig, trance out.”

Immediately, Freddie’s eyes glazed over, his limbs limp. The man stepped away, not at all sure what was happening, and ran out of the room as fast as he could.

The older man stepped up to Freddie and spoke to him for a couple of minutes. When Freddie shook himself awake, for some reason he couldn’t explain, he found himself compelled to leave the reunion with the older gentleman, and follow him on his hog back to the man’s house. None of this worried him in the least–and that worried him most of all.

***

“I know you don’t remember who I am,” the older man said as he handed Freddie a glass of bourbon, “Maybe in time, I can help you put some of those memories back together, but that will have to wait until I have you under better control. I’m happy the trigger worked for me as well as it works for Blake–hypnosis can be so…fickle at times.”

Freddie just stared at the bourbon, and knocked it back in a few chugs. He needed a drink badly. Why in the hell was he even here, and what did Blake have to do with this old man? “I don’t understand. Why am I here?”

“Because this is where you should have been, twenty years ago. You never showed up, and I never pursued you, because I was just happy you never reported me! Imagine my surprise when the issue was that you’d simply had that nasty concussion. Now, why don’t you go ahead and strip for me? I’ve only seen pictures, but Blake has been working so hard on you all these years now–I’d love to see the changes for myself.”

Before Freddie could process the request, his hands were already pulling off his clothes. Trying to catch up to himself, he found that he couldn’t quite control his body. A moment later, he was naked, his clothes strewn about, and the older man came up and started inspecting him. “Goodness, you are a fat pig, aren’t you? How much do you weigh now?”

“Uh…435, last I checked.”

“And your tattoos–absolutely filthy, I love them. Blake chose them well.”

Freddie stepped away from the man, “Alright, who the fuck are you, and how do you know Blake? This shit is gettin’ creepy.”

“Oh Freddie, the three of us have quite a bit of history together–it’s a shame you can’t remember the first part. I was your psychology teacher, Mr. Weylan. You and Blake were…well, you were an experiment–and a very successful one at that.”

The name rang a bell, but it wasn’t tied to any memories–his head started hurting, like it always did when he tried to think of the time before he got that concussion in that car accident just before graduation. He’d been lucky that all he’d suffered was some amnesia. But none of this made any sense at all. “I don’t…I don’t understand.”

“That’s quite alright–you’re just a dumb pig anyway, no reason for you to trouble yourself. But Blake, well, Blake has been a very naughty slave, trying to keep you a secret from me, and he really must be punished for it. Luckily you’re here now, and you can help me out. Why don’t you come downstairs and into the dungeon with me, and we can see how Blake is coming along.”

Fighting himself the whole way, Blake calmly followed Mr. Weylan down into the basement, where he saw Blake strapped into a chair against the wall, some strange helmet covering his face, pads on his nipples and his cock. Cum was splattered all over the floor in front of him. He was even larger than Freddie remembered–at the ten year reunion a decade earlier, Blake had strutted into the gym, muscle bound, wearing nothing but leather, reeking of sweat and cum. He remembered talking to Blake a lot, but couldn’t much of the conversation. In fact, he’d done a lot of listening, now that he thought about it.

Mr. Weylan walked up to a computer next to the chair, and examined it. “It looks like somewhere between ninety and ninety-five percent trained–certainly enough for a test drive, eh Freddie?”

Before Freddie could ask for an explanation, Mr. Weylan had shut down the program and pulled the helmet from Blake’s head. His friend looked around, trying to process the thoughts streaming through his mind, nostrils flaring, and he dove from the chair to his hands and knees, licking up all of his cum from the cement floor.

“Oh yes, very good Blake, but don’t you see who’s here? It’s Freddie–why don’t you show him some of what you’ve been learning.”

The eyes that turned to Freddie were nearly feral with lust. Blake sprung up and charged at him, sending them both crashing to the ground, Blake burying his tongue and nose in every nasty flap and fold of the pig’s fat body. Freddie tried to push him off and get away, but Blake was on top and much stronger. Seeing him struggle, Mr. Weylan called out, “Nasty Slut Pig, freeze,” and all of Freddie’s muscles tensed in place, allowing Blake to focus on licking his friend’s filthy body clean.

“Goodness, he is an eager little filth slave, eh Freddie?” Mr Weylan said, standing over them both, “I know Blake intended for you to be his bottom. Can you imagine, the two of you running off together? I think this will be much more interesting. Still, I bet Blake is hungry and very thirsty–he’s been down here for almost two days straight! Go on, and piss yourself Freddie.”

The strong scent of his piss streaming from his cock, flowing out from his gunt, attracted Blake down to his crotch, where he lapped up as much as he could.

“Good, now go ahead and shit too–pump out all that nasty crap for Blake to eat, pig.”

Freddie felt his ass loosen beyond his control, his shit flowing out onto the ground beneath him, smearing across his ass. Blake forcefully rolled him over and dove headlong into his brown crack, eating as much as he could, Freddie still frozen in place. He could see Mr. Weylan looming over him, his cock out, jacking off.

“Oh yes, this is going to be a lot of fun, I think. I have so many techniques now! Blake has done a fine job with what he had access to, those subliminals and those skype chats of yours. But now we can continue what we started all those years ago! Why, before long, you’re going to be the nastiest fucker ever–pissing and shitting yourself uncontrollably, dominating Blake here, forcing him to fatten up like you. Maybe we’ll even castrate him together–how does that sound? Make him a real hog. It’s what he fucking deserves, for what he tried to do, the fucker–fuck!”

Mr. Weyland’s cock shot out a load of cum which landed across the back of Freddie’s shaven head. He was terrified, but without any control over himself, all he could do was shake with fear.

“Goodness, I got a bit carried away there, I think. Blake, hold off for a moment, let Freddie here stand up.”

Blake reluctantly crawled off Freddie, and he stood up. “Why? Why are you doing this?”

“Go sit in the chair, Freddie. I’ve got to get your program loaded up.”

Freddie went and sat down in the chair where Blake had been–the seat had an open bottom, and he could smell Blake’s piss and shit in the bucket under the hole. He was terrified, and yet more turned on than he could even fathom. Mr. Weylan worked at the computer for a moment, Blake dragging out the bucket and scarfing down the contents while their old teacher came over and tightened the straps on Freddie’s limbs.

“Don’t worry, when you wake up in a few days, everything will make much more sense, I promise.” He set the helmet over Freddie’s head, and said something he couldn’t quite make out. Then, the visor exploded in a shock of color, Freddie’s mouth went slack, and his training, twenty years delayed, resumed.

[The following is a letter found in the apartment of Mr. Reggie Cox on August 5th, 2014, written by him we presume shortly before his disappearance that day. With no sign of foul play or murder, Mr. Cox is presumed to be alive, although if his story is true, he may no longer be human. The Special Investigations Bureau team 9-543 is currently investigating his whereabouts–the locations indicated in the letter have been condemned and redacted from this file. Pending investigation and clearance, security clearance level two or above is required to access them.]

This will sound crazy, I know, but here’s the truth of it.

There are toilets that can talk.

I know that sounds like the words of a madman, or a schizophrenic, but I claim that I am perfectly sane…if, at the moment, no longer quite human. I am leaving this as a record of what has happened to me, since I first heard them whisper to me. I can hear the pipes calling to me now, it hurts so much, I’m so full–I have to go. But I will tell my story first, and hopefully others can use it to avoid the same fate as I have.

The first time I heard them was at [REDACTED]. I went in, and as I was pissing, I heard a voice in the room. It was very difficult to make out–I thought, perhaps, that it was coming from the vents, and I was eavesdropping on some conversation. Now, because this was a restaurant I frequented regularly for lunch, I thought nothing of it, but soon found, that each time I went to the restroom, the whisper was always there, and I quickly grew a bit curious as to what was being said.

I soon discovered it was not coming from the vents–it was loudest by the toilet, and the vent was on the other side of the room. Thinking it was perhaps coming through a pipe, I got down next to the toilet, and I discovered that the voice was somehow coming from the toilet itself! I was, naturally disturbed by this realization, and I fled quickly, abandoning my meal, and never returned their for lunch again.

Something happened in there, however. I quickly discovered the same whispers all over the city. Not every toilet spoke, perhaps one in every ten, urinals included. Now that I knew what it was, and where it was coming from, I found it very difficult to ignore, though I still found the whisper too quiet to really decipher many of the words, and yet, something was happening to me all the same. The dreams began around then. I would dream of men pissing on me, of drinking their piss. I would be trapped in complexes full of bathrooms, all of them speaking at me, demanding my attention. I would wake from these sweating and terrified, and yet incredibly horny at the same time. Occasionally I would wet the bed, and have to get up and change the sheets, unable to believe what I had done.

My curiosity was growing into an obsession. I began mapping where the toilets were that spoke, searching for some sort of pattern. I concocted government conspiracies, I questioned my sanity and went to therapists who were no help to me. Oh, it became so much easier when I finally stopped and listened!

I would only use toilets which were silent–their whispers terrified me, and yet, one day at [REDACTED], in the stall, I hastily chose a toilet without listening, and as I shat, the words…they became clearer to me. I don’t think my shitting had anything to do with the clarity–rather, it was like I was finally hearing them for the first time, or the first time I simply bothered to listen. And as soon as I could hear them, I couldn’t stop listening. It was close to half an hour later, when someone banged on the door to see if it was occupied, that I awoke from my trance, wiped and fled the bathroom.

By the time I returned home, the specific words the toilet had spoke had faded away. In fact, I don’t think they speak in words at all, more in…more in ideas, these images and tastes that linger in your mind. They speak as obsessions. That night, when I wet the bed, I no longer felt compelled to change the sheets. I mean, I did change them, but more out of habit, out of some sense of humanity, but it was only as I laid in that clean bed that I found I missed the stench of my piss. This disturbed me, and yet I couldn’t stop listening, from that moment onward, my ears were no longer shut to them.

I listened to urinals. I learned how wonderful piss smelled, I learned how wonderful it tasted. They urged me to lick them clean, to see for myself. I listened to toilets, how they loved the taste of shit, how good it felt to serve men, how worthless they were, how worthless I was, that I could hear them. They had so much to teach me. I learned, soon, how to go unnoticed. How to make myself invisible as a simple toilet. I remember one day, I visited one of my favorite toilets at [Redacted], a small private space where I could listen for hours uninterrupted. But that day, it told me to leave the door unlocked, and kneel in the filthy, piss sodden jock I had taken to wearing, and wait.

Men came and went, and never noticed me once. The toilet told me what a good job I was doing, acting just like a nasty, filthy urinal, and I could imagine myself as just a fixture in the room, stuck to the wall, and the more I imagined it, well, soon men were using me! They would stand at me, and they would piss right into my thirsty mouth, and I was so happy. I’m still happy, and after closing, I licked the toilet completely clean all night long, and left when the shop opened in the morning.

In return for what the toilets were teaching me, I thought what they wanted was for me to serve them. By now I had quit my job, and would seek out the filthiest, loudest ones, and I would clean them, and listen to the secrets they had to share with me. It was around then that I acquired an insatiable taste and hunger for men’s shit. When I wasn’t learning, I would often be found in a sling in the filthiest bathhouses I could find, begging men for their shit and piss–soon, it was all I wanted to eat, and not long after that, it was all I could eat.

All other food makes me retch now. I can’t keep it down, it just plugs up my throat until I can gag it up again. As soon as that happened, I realized that the toilets weren’t looking for someone to serve them. They were speaking to me because they could sense that I want to be a toilet too.

I didn’t know that right away. I didn’t know that’s what I really wanted. I clung to the idea that I wanted to be human, but I was so happy as a toilet in training, how could I deny what I was…what I am feeling? Still, I’ve held off until now. I thought, perhaps, I could find some middle ground, but the toilets have grown impatient with me. They…they took my cock away. I can’t piss any more, I’ve had a completely full bladder for weeks now. It huts so much. I can’t shit either, everything is just backed up inside my huge, swollen gut, aching for release.

I can hear my pipe calling to me, however. It’s reasonably close, I think it is at [REDACTED]. There’s some new construction happening around there, I think I will like it. Not that it matters what I like. I’m just a worthless toilet, slathered with shit, drenched with piss, a huge bloated gut full of waste. It will feel so good to let it out that pipe the first time, feel it flow through my insides. How long until I get my porcelain? Or maybe metal–I’d like to be a metal toilet, so much filthier.

I’ll be whispering, if you want to come and hear me. If you want to be a toilet like me. If you don’t, well, shut your ears. Still, I think you’ll hear us if you’re meant to, like I was. I have to go, my pipe is calling me. Goodbye.

“Pull over. I gotta piss and yer gonna help me.”

“Please, I–just leave me alone, I don’t–”

“What the fuck did I tell you about talkin’ back, bitch?”

The large man in the back seat heaved himself forward between the front and passenger seat, breath stinking of tobacco. He reached forward and began kneading the driver’s cock through the ratty camo shorts he’d forced him to buy off the redneck they’d met at the truckstop fifty miles back. All it they had cost was one blow job, no teeth. They were grungy and a few sizes too big, but with a belt they stayed up.

“How about we remove a couple of inches, eh? Make you a tiny dicked little piggy? Maybe I’ll give them back when I’m done pissing.”

It was curious sensation, feeling his cock retract back into itself. Four inches? Three? Smaller. He signaled and pulled off the highway and into the rural rest area. It was early evening on a weekday, and aside from a few trucks in the other lot, largely empty.

The huge redneck he’d picked up a few hundred miles back as a hitchhiker hefted himself out of the backseat. He said it was more comfortable back there, where he could stretch his legs a bit. Plus, it let him keep an eye on his captive in the driver’s seat. “Well come on then, I need yer fuckin’ help.”

“What the fuck kind of help do you need to piss? Please, just let me go.”

“Bitch, do you want me to leave you here with a fuckin’ nub?”

He really didn’t want a nub. He got out of the car and followed the man into the bathroom at a lumber. Inside, it was all stainless steel and none too clean. His hitchhiker passed the urinals and went for the handicapped stall, and when the driver tried to wait, he grabbed him by the arm and pulled him in with him, locking the door behind them both. The man dropped his shorts and stood in front of the steel toilet.

“Aim for me–I can’t fuckin’ see past my gut.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d had to dig around in the man’s gunt and fish out his thick, short cock, but aiming it proved to be a challenge. For one thing, the man started pissing even before he had a good grip, soaking down his hand. Piss flew everywhere for a few moments, soaking the floor and the seat, before he got it pointed into the water, and waited for the big man to finish.

“Shitty job–someone’s gonna have tah clean that up, ya know?”

The driver wiped his wet hand on the camo shorts, a bit disgusted, “Did you have to piss on me? That’s fucking disgusting.”

The hitchhiker stared him down, “Ya know, I’m gettin’ real sick a yer attitude boy, we really need to find something more productive for ya tah do wit’ yer mouth. Get down there ‘n lick up the piss ya spilled.”

“No! That’s fucking disgusting!”

The man spit a wad of tobacco juice into the toilet, and then grabbed the driver’s wrist. “Get down there and lick up my piss, or the next thing you know, you’re just gonna be a toothless beggar sucking dick at this rest stop for the rest of your life. Is that what you want?”

It wasn’t. The driver got down and tentatively licked the cool rim of the toilet, and as he did, a shot of pleasure coursed through him. He licked it again, and soon he was licking happily. Not long after that, he had his cock out of his shorts and was jacking his three inch dick while the redneck stood over him, supervising and suggesting.

“Yeah, see? Doesn’t that taste good pig? Make sure you get everything you spilled on the floor too. Fuck, look at that nasty concrete, I can’t believe you’re actually gonna put your tongue on that thing.” He slid a boot between the driver’s legs as he lapped up the piss and started tapping the pig’s balls, making him groan. Before he’d finished all the piss, he’d already shot his load across the bottom of the toilet and the floor–he licked that up too, when ordered to do so.

They left the bathroom together, the driver shaking with terror and rage at what he’d just done, but when he went to tackle his passenger, he felt a curious warmth in the front of his shorts as he pissed himself. Fuck, it smelt great, maybe he could just whip out his cock for a quick wank out in the open, but he was able to control himself long enough to climb in the car. The next rest stop was fifty miles down the road, and his hitchhiker promised him they’d find a couple nasty truckers willing to give him a good soaking. He let out a quiet sob as he drove off, but the anticipation was building in him. When the sign came, he pulled over eagerly–what a thirst to quench.