Tag: humiliation

I’ll Change for You (Part 8)

He hauled himself up from the chair and went to the kitchen, where a naked man in his 40’s was bustling about, naked aside from leather manacles on his wrists and ankles, and a cock cage riveted in place–at Jules request. Burt rather enjoyed men to have pleasure, but ever since they had met fifteen years prior, Jules just a student at the time, he had longed to be Herman’s live in slave. He’d dropped out and moved into the basement, and Burt had never been dissatisfied–well, perhaps on occasion, but a session in the dungeon always fixed things right up. “How is it coming, boy?” he asked.

“Dinner will be ready right at six thirty, as you requested, sir,” Jules said, giving him a little bow from his position at the stove, “Is there anything you need from me in the meantime?”

Burt shook his head. “No–but I do need you to play the part for this one–at least for one night. I doubt Herman will need the performance after one dinner. Make sure you’re dressed by five-thirty, manacles off as well.”

Burt could see Jules’ unhappiness in a slight sigh before nodding. Clothes were strange for him in the house, and he hated taking the manacles off especially–he claimed he felt unbalanced without them. Still, Master’s orders were Master’s orders, and he kept cooking away, while Burt returned to his study, selected a pipe, packed it, lit it, and then went to relax, ordering an old fashioned from Jules while he waited, catching up on some reading while he did. The time slipped by, and Herman was early. The bell rang at five-fifty, and Jules rushed to the foyer, immaculately dressed in his house uniform, and greeted Herman at the door, before ushering him into the sitting room where Burt was sitting, pipe wafting smoke.

“Good evening, Dean,” Herman said, the nerves apparent in his voice. The title caught Burt off guard for a moment–he’d been a professor earlier in the afternoon, but apparently he hadn’t caught on to his latest position. He was a dean, wasn’t he? The Dean of Humanities, in particular, which helped explain some of Herman’s nerves.

‘Have a seat, Herman. What can Jules get for you? He makes a fine cocktail, though he’s best at the classics.”

Herman asked for a Manhattan. Burt approved, and Jules fetched a drink, all while juggling dinner at the same time. He’d been such a poor student, back in the day–so good that he’d managed to find his calling, eventually, in Herman’s employ. The drink came, and they made small talk. Herman’s eyes flitted about the room, but were drawn back to Burt’s pipe several times. Burt offered him a smoke, but he declined. It was no matter–he’d take whatever Burt gave him soon enough, the dean was certain of that.

Jules summoned them to the dining room, where Herman found a massive, luxurious feast all up and down the space–far too much for two people to hope to eat, and after the sizable lunch earlier in the day, he felt a bit queasy. “I…I’m afraid I don’t have much of an appetite, at the moment,” he muttered, knowing full well what was likely to happen next. Burt shushed him, and sat him down, piled his plate eye, and got him started, and only after Herman was eating well, did he take a serving of his own, as large as Herman’s, and begin eating himself. Each time Herman slowed, Burt would encourage him further, and the encouragement became orders, and orders became demands. Burt touched him–lightly at first, lying hands on his shoulders, but found his way lower and lower, over his belly, down into his crotch where he groped Herman’s hard cock, always continuing their conversation as if nothing strange at all was occurring, Jules slitting in and out, taking dishes and bringing others, until Herman, at last, insisted.

“I can’t! I can’t, sir, please…Please, I feel like I’m going to burst…” he moaned, clutching his gut.

Burt chuckled, “Oh? But we can’t forget dessert now, can we?”

Herman looked up at him in horror, unable to even imagine, and watched as Burt undid the front of his pants, and allowed them to fall around his ankles, and lifted up his gut. “It isn’t small, by any means, but I have a feeling you have the…appetite for it, don’t you boy?”

Indeed he did. Burt was so short that Herman had to awkwardly bend over the arm of the chair to get at his cock, even when sitting down, but he’d been lusting after the dean for so long now, the two of them playing so hard to get…or had they? The last two days had felt so strange to him, this beautiful, domineering man simply appearing in his life like he’d always been there, like he’d walked from his dreams and appeared fully formed in reality, and Herman wasn’t going to let this chance pass him by.

“Yes, that’s a good boy–you like sucking on daddy’s big cock?”

Herman tried to answer, but Burt drove his cock in deeper, making him gag slightly, before pulling away a bit, Herman gasping for air. After a few minutes of teasing him, Burt pulled away, squatted down and pulled his pants back up. “Jules, I think your guest will be spending the night–would you see to him? No need to prepare a guest room, I think the master will serve just fine for us both.

One last time, Herman tried to speak his doubts, that their relationship was breaking so many ethical boundaries that it couldn’t happen–and yet, when the butler helped him from his seat…he relented. He wanted this. He didn’t care what it cost him, he didn’t care what might happen if anyone found out. He wanted this. He wanted…he wanted him, Burt, more than anyone else he had ever desired in his life…and somehow, Burt wanted him just as much. The butler led him upstairs, got him free of his clothing and into the bathroom, where Herman had a shower–and the butler also helped him clean out…other things, telling him that the Master of the house preferred his men to be spotless, before entering his bed. Then, when he stepped out, imagining he would be getting into his own clothes, the Butler, instead, had something else in mind. All he found himself wearing was a leather harness strapped a bit uncomfortably tight around his gut, and a black jockstrap, before being ushered into the sizable Master bedroom, and told to wait.

Digital Manipulation (Part 4)

Outside the simulation, Trax watched the progress he’d made breaching Perrion’s sense of superiority, and he could see his mind struggling with the last of its cognitive dissonance, as the program rooted out the remaining memories of Perrion’s old life as a powerful executive at one of the world’s great tech companies, and replaced them all with a new life as a submissive, obedient laborer, his entire life controlled by his new Boss, both inside and outside of work. Now, however, they were beyond the scope of Perrion’s old memories, and the program prompted him for a new simulation. He figured it would be good to solidify Perrion’s new, submissive instincts, and decided the best way to do that would be to ensure Perrion would want to submit to every man he came across, and not just his new Boss. He spliced in another simulation, and set it running, and then grabbed his own VR equipment, and got ready to jack in. He was tired of sitting on the sidelines–he wanted a taste of his revenge too.

“You paying attention?” Boss said, slapping Perrion upside the head, jolting him out of…wherever his mind had been, “Come on then, faggot, we don’t want to keep the boys waiting at the bar, do we?”

Perrion didn’t know what Boss was talking about. Everything about this seemed wrong, everything about this entire day had gone horribly wrong somewhere along the line, but he had no idea. It felt…like a dream, and yet, he knew it wasn’t one. This was just his life–wasn’t it? He nodded to Boss, and followed along behind him as they walked the busy streets to the bar. He…knew he shouldn’t know these streets, and at first, they seemed…fake, somehow. The people passing didn’t have clear faces that he could remember, half the shops didn’t have names, but that didn’t matter–what mattered was that he did what Boss told him to do. That’s what should really matter most to him.

He followed along, and as they went the places seemed to gain a new life, almost like he was remembering them all anew as he passed them by, his mind filling in all of the blanks it seemed to have with memories of the two of them walking this same path almost every night after work together…but where they ended up, he couldn’t remember for the life of him. Thankfully, Boss knew exactly where they were going– they ended up in a seedy district, full of body mod chop shops, niche pharmacies mixing new drugs the laws hadn’t caught up with yet, and plenty of brothels, though the whores outside all seemed to be…men.

Perrion found himself staring at them as he passed by, and he could imagine having sex with all of them, but in his mind’s eye, everything he envisioned himself servicing them, doing whatever they demanded from him, and when they were finished, Perrion knew he would always have to pay them extra for dealing with a loser like him. He was a loser. A submissive loser, whose purpose in life was to serve men, first and foremost.

Boss took them up the steps of a bar, one Perrion didn’t remember until they had stepped inside, and then, once he recognized it, he couldn’t imagine how he might have ever forgotten it. They headed for a large table at the back, where two of Boss’s friends were already seated, holocards shuffling themselves on the table…but Perrion didn’t take a seat with them. Without even needing to be told, he crawled under the table and made himself available for whatever the men might need–a blowjob, drinking a load of piss for them so they didn’t have to get up from the game, eating the ash off the end of a cigar, licking their dirty boots and dirtier feet clean.

Above him, the men chatted like all of this was normal, as they all got drunker and drunker, and the game grew rowdier and rowdier. At last, they all called it a night, and Perrion relaxed for a moment, exhausted…but there was something else he was forgetting…wasn’t there.

“Alright Trax, you won the pot, and the whore for the night,” Boss said, “Make sure you treat him the way he deserves to be treated, right?”

“Heh, Boss, you don’t have to worry about that, trust me.”

Trax–that name should mean something to him, it did mean something, but as soon as he summoned the memory, whatever it might have been, it disappeared into the ether. No–he did know Trax though, and when the meaty hand reached under the table, grabbed his arm, and hauled him out, nearly dislocating his shoulder in the process, he found himself suspended in the air by the massive cyborg himself.

Trax had always been a fan of the chop shops around here–no one knew how much metal he had, but it was substantial, enough that he probably should have registered himself as a AI risk, but Trax wasn’t one for rules. He grinned at Perrion, his titanium teeth glinting in the barlight. “I love a good piece of meat to fuck up on occasion.”

“Just make sure it can work tomorrow,” Boss said.

“Fine, fine,” Trax said, and dragged Perrion out of the bar and to his apartment nearby, where he proceeded to ravage his holes with collection of metal cocks, none of them shorter than a foot in length. He seemed…especially rough tonight, and was taking great pleasure in listening to Perrion scream with each new cock he used on him. The night lasted an impossibly long time, which wasn’t helped by the fact that Trax’s stamina, as a cyborg, was substantial. Eventually, he did pass out into a black nothing with a hint of static.

Trax kicked out the program, exhilarated. This was working better than he’d ever imagined, but it was time for a rest. Still, he loaded up the next simulation he wanted to run on Perrion, so it would be ready tomorrow, when he woke up. After all, he’d done a good number on Perrion’s mind, but maybe it was time to adjust some of his habits.

What sort of lifestyle does Trax want to cultivate in Perrion?

  1. Train him to be a shameless, exhibitionist pervert.
  2. Make him an empty headed muscle brute.
  3. Make him a drug addicted junkie pig.

Here’s the public twitter poll!

Here’s the supporter only Patreon Poll!

Digital Manipulation (Part 3) [Interactive]

The man who stepped inside didn’t bother looking at him as he came in, and it wasn’t until he was a few steps in that he looked up, saw Perrion behind his desk, and looked at him with a bit of confusion. “What are you doing here? They told me that this office was empty.”

Perrion didn’t quite know how to reply. Well, he knew how he should reply to someone interrupting his work, especially someone like…this. He wasn’t…anyone. No one important, at least. Just a contractor coming in to do some grunt work, either some cleaning, or painting, or whatever it was grubby, stupid men like this did to make their days pass, and pretend to be a contributor to a society rapidly outpacing them. They’d all be replaced with robots soon enough–hell, most of them already had been in a lot of other places. But he wasn’t quite able to produce his usual confident disdain, and instead, he just muttered, “I mean…this is my office.”

The man looked at him, and just laughed. A very long laugh, like Perrion had told a marvelously original joke. “You? In an office like this? Yeah fucking right.”

“No, I mean, really.”

“Shut up and get the fuck out of here, so I can work. This ain’t your office.”

Perrion just stared at the man, unable to believe the gall of him telling him what to do. “I…No, I have work to do.”

“Yeah?” the man said, and walked up to him at his desk where Perrion was sitting, and then kept coming, looming over him. He was…big. Very big, and he…smelled. He smelled like a man who hadn’t bothered showering in a few days, he smelled…good. Real good. He raised a hand to his mouth, but not soon enough to stifle the moan that slipped from between his lips. He tried to tear his eyes away from the man’s crotch, which was now a mere foot away, from him, and up to his eyes–he had to try and meet his eyes, he had to–but he couldn’t. “Maybe you do have some work to do in here after all. Can you think of something a loser like you might be good at?”

“Y-Yes sir, I can sir…if you want me to.”

“Let’s see if that worthless mouth of yours can do something better than talk.”

His hands fumbled with the man’s fly, and Perrion tried desperately to stop himself, but that…buzzing was back, and everything felt like it was stuck on rails. The smell only got stronger, and when his cock was finally free, Perrion felt his mouth water, and he was drooling onto his suit like a fucking whore…but he wanted it. He wanted this man’s cock, he needed it. This man…deserved to be treated well, just like all men, wasn’t that right?”

The taste was foul, but Perrion didn’t mind it. If anything, it made him feel…privileged, that he was getting to clean this man’s filthy cock, in addition to giving him pleasure. His blow job was meager–he wasn’t exactly experienced in giving them, and the man had to smack him around a few times whenever he made a mistake, like not using enough slobber, or when he grazed the shaft with his teeth, but it was good enough for the man to reward him with a load of cum shot across his face, which the man rubbed into his cheeks, chin and nose, telling him it looked good on him, and that it was about time they got to work.

Perrion didn’t quite know what the man meant, but another sharp smack sorted him out. This wasn’t just any man, after all, this was his Boss, and they had work to do, together–or rather, Perrion was going to do as much of the work as he could, while Boss “supervised” from the chair at the desk, boots up, just watching Perrion work, and work up a sweat as he painted one of the walls, and replaced a couple of ceiling tiles–the sort of grunt work that a stupid, worthless, meek piece of shit could manage to do. When he finished, they moved onto another empty office and repeated the procedure, and if he did well…then Perrion got a reward. Another load from Boss’s cock, or the pleasure of cleaning his feet and his pits–or even eating out his crusty ass. Perrion hadn’t noticed his suit morphing into a filthy set of coveralls, or the patchy beard filling in across his face, or the fact that his once sizable cock was now just a couple of inches long. He was too focused on Boss, on making sure he was doing his best work, and his best to please his superior.

The day flew by, and soon enough, it was quitting time. Perrion found himself out on the sidewalk with Boss, and suddenly…he didn’t know what he was doing. He’d lost all of his old memories of work in the course of the program–as far as this version of him knew, he’d never not been a worthless maintenance man–but beyond work…who was he? He looked up at Boss, needing guidance, and the burly man just looked down at him, and said…

What sort of after work activity should Perrion get involved in?

  1. Servicing Boss and his friends at the bar.
  2. He has to get home to serve his Master.
  3. He has a second job working at a sex club nearby, as a gimp.

Polls will go live in a few minutes in the usual places.

What Would I Do To You #2 (Diaper Cuck)

What would I do to you this time?

We’ve been going steady for a little while now, haven’t we? It all seems rather normal, in fact. I want you to be comfortable, though. I want you to know what normal tastes like, so we let things ride for a few months. The sex begins to feel stale, we begin to discover the things about one another that we hate. I seem to keep pushing your buttons, and you’re beginning to resent me. You’re beginning to think about breaking the whole thing off, in fact, and moving out. That’s when we wake up with the bed sopping wet the first time.

You deny it, but it’s clearly on your side. You’ve wet the bed, a full bladder right into the sheets and the mattress. You’re confused, you feel betrayed by your own body–but that’s alright, I tell you. Accidents happen–I’m sure it was just a fluke, right? The next morning, it’s dry, but you wet it again the next two days in a row. The mattress…smells like piss now, but it was time to get a new one, right? We go shopping, and splurge on a king–but when we get home, you know I have to insist right?

You’re horrified at the thought. You don’t need diapers; you’re a grown man! Yes, I say, a grown man who’s wet the bed nine out of the last twelve nights. We just can’t have these things happening on the brand new bed, right? I reason with you, and I console you, and stroke your ego. We compromise in the end. We’ll use a plastic sheet for now, and if it stays dry for a week, we’ll never speak of it again.

You last for two days, before you wet it again, and this time, I insist. Humiliated, you go along with it, and that is your first night in diapers. It’s the most restful night you’ve ever had. You don’t even mind waking up to the soggy thing around your waist–it…feels comforting, somehow, not that you can admit it. You put up an act for a couple of weeks, but you wear them willingly, and everything seems fine–until the first accident at work.

I entertain your concerns, and we visit the doctor. He assures you this is just a thing that can happen, which is not what you want to hear. On the ride home, you feel lost and adrift–I hold you in bed for a bit, and you feel better, until you let it flow without a diaper on, right there. And with that, you begin wearing them during the day as well. You don’t notice the other things happening, you don’t see yourself sucking your thumb at night while you hump your dick into the front of the diapers, until you spurt. You don’t see how you’re plumping up, how you’re losing the hair on your body. You’re too focused on making sure no one ever notices your secret. But things are going well between us, you think. You’re…surprised by how understanding I’ve been. In fact, you don’t think you could have done this without me. Wanting to do something special, you come home early one day, only to discover me fucking another man in our bed.

You’re speechless. All you can do is stand there and watch, one hand slipping down and groping the front of your diapers, jacking off while you watch me plow a stranger the way I used to plow you, the way I haven’t plowed you in months. You cum, and that snaps you out of it. You bust in, the stranger flees, leaving just the two of us. You think you have the upperhand, and as you begin to yell, the bottom falls out from your world, and you shit your diaper.

You stop midsentence. It’s too much. All of this is too much. You stumble back, and fall on your ass, feeling the shit squish around you, and you start to cry. You more than cry, you wail, and pound your feet and hands, you throw a tantrum–but I talk you down. You see, I love you–I really do, but…you have to understand that I just feel myself attracted to you like I was when we first got together. How could I? I…don’t really have a thing for guys in diapers, but I respect you, and I love you…but you understand, don’t you? By the end of the conversation, you’ve come around, and agreed to open the relationship, for the good of us both.

You hate it though. You hate how…weak you’re becoming. Everything that bothered you about me has only seemed to gotten worse. I never pick up after myself, I belittle you and humiliate you in public, I take your money. Slowly, I’m beginning to control everything about your life–and there’s nothing you’re willing to do about it. Who else is willing to accept you for who you are, after all? You don’t have a choice. Eventually, you come to believe that you’re the real baggage, in the relationship, and you thank me for putting up with you day in and day out. With nothing and no one left to console you, you turn to food to try and fill that hole I’m making in your soul. How much weight have you put on now? Fifty pounds, or is it closer to a hundred at this point? Your body hair has grown thin, and your beard has become patchy–best if you just shave it off, even if it makes you look too young. Your cock is smaller too–just a few inches, not that it gets much use at all. Even if the relationship is open, you’re far too embarrassed to look for sex–though you do, on occasion, chat with daddies on some ABDL websites, not that you’d have the courage to meet them in real life.

No, the only sexual satisfaction you get anymore is purely second hand. You go to bed early, and I have a friend over, and once we get going, you creep out of bed, trying to keep your diaper from making too much noise, and you squat at the door I’ve left ajar, and you watch. You watch me fuck some stranger, and you…imagine it was you there, instead. But who would want to fuck you? You grope yourself. You’re just an ugly loser. Your little dicklet is hard now. A fat loser in diapers, who can’t even control themselves, who’s…starting to even enjoy sitting around in their piss and shit, like a freak. You feel it, the load of shit squeeze out your ass and you cum in the front, muffling your cry, and keep watching until I finish–and then you sneak back to bed before I notice, lying in your shame, and wonder if I’ll be bringing home someone else tomorrow.

Pigtown Prison II – The Rookie (Part 5)

Jeff looked up at him, where Keith loomed large over everything, over his entire life. What did it really matter, if he agreed or not? He’d be Keith’s toy either way–but at least, if he agreed…maybe he would be happier with himself. So he said yes, and Keith told him to take two days, sell his things, end his lease, and return with a single bag. He’d be living with Keith from now on, as his slave. The word made Jeff balk, and when he left, he told himself he wouldn’t do it…but the desperation returned, as it always did. Two days later, he was there on the porch, one small duffel packed with only the necessities, and he stepped inside, got on his knees when ordered, and sucked his Master’s cock, showing his gratitude that Keith was willing to train him.

He stayed on at the force, but Keith had his hours cut back quite a bit, and arranged it so Jeff’s checks would be deposited automatically into his own accounts. Keith had a sizable personal gym in his house, and when Jeff wasn’t at work or completing his chores, he was there–working out and lifting weights. His meals were massive, and from the first day, Keith would inject him several times during the day, but always refused to tell Jeff what, exactly, the injections were. Still–they were working. Three months later, he was already larger–when he looked at himself in the mirror, he was beginning to see the sort of brute he longed to be…but his looks weren’t the only changes. His mind was slowing down. He had a difficult time making decisions, and relied on Keith–or Master, as he called him now, to decide everything for him–when to eat, what to eat, when to sleep, how to work out, what chores to do. It was a comfort, really, that he didn’t have to think. He knew he was being reduced to a stupid beast…but rather than be horrified, the idea actually turned him on more and more.

Keith shaved his head, pierced his nipples and cock, and began taking him to a tattoo parlour, his entire body slowly being covered by blocks and swirls of black ink, from his neck down to the tops of his feet. He loved it–especially when he was in Pigtown and caught sight of himself in a mirror, while he was balls deep inside a pig’s hole. He looked like a nasty minded thug pig, just like Keith told him he was going to be–and it was all he really wanted to be, anymore. At the bar, he would still take Rod’s drinks, but now that he was larger, the effect was even more substantial. Each time he was there, he would up even larger than before–and in turn, his daily body never felt large enough–no matter how large he got. He knew, in his mind, that he should be satisfied, but between Keith’s humiliation, and the rush of those evenings behind the curtain, even when he finally plateaued at 280 pounds of muscle and fat…he still felt puny. It didn’t help that, somehow, he was getting shorter. He lost almost six inches, from the time he moved in with Keith–and he was never able to get a straight answer why. The loss in height only made him work harder for more and more mass. He lost flexibility, his muscles restricting his movement–especially in his shoulders and neck. The pills and shots Keith were forcing on him fucked with his hormones as well, his cock and balls growing and constantly horny, hair sprouting all over his body in thick patches, and acne erupting all over his face and back, leaving his face scarred and pitted. His face–he barely recognized old photos of him anymore. He seemed so square and boxy, his head sitting right on his massive, inflamed chest, a thick beard hiding his mouth, usually stuck in a scowl.

As thick as he was, and as aggressive as he found himself behaving around the precinct–especially around guys on the force he knew he’d be fucking later in the evening, Keith kept him under his control at all times. He loved the fact that he could bend Jeff over, anywhere and anytime, and have his way with his muscle bull–with Rook, as everyone had started calling him, joking that he was built like a tower on a chess board. Keith had come up with it–as a way to shorten his usual nickname of Rookie, now that he was no longer new–and he especially loved it because Rook had grown too stupid to really understand the reference, but he knew it was a compliment, and so he grinned when he heard it all the same.

A few years later, Rook had nearly forgotten about Jeff entirely. He was Master’s enforcer, bruiser, and pet monster–whatever Master Keith wanted him to be, and whoever he wanted him to hurt, Rook obeyed him without question. The last time he felt Jeff at all, was when he was down in Master’s dungeon, punishing one of his prisoners. The leather body bag was hanging from the ceiling, squirming, as Rook went at it for another round, treating it like a literal punching bag, enjoying the feel of the flesh breaking and squishing inside so much more satisfying than the fluff of the bags he usually practiced on. Still–it had had enough. He unzipped the head of the bag, and saw the face inside–it was some old pig named Oliver, who’d been down here as long as Rook could remember, and looking at his bloody face, he felt a flicker of regret…but he stamped it out. That was weakness. He didn’t want to be weak. He grabbed Oliver by the ears, shoved his dick into his mouth and fucked him roughly, imagining he was fucking himself, that old self, breaking it up and throwing it away for good, and by the time he came, feeding the grateful Oliver a good sized load, Rook felt better. Rook felt like everything was exactly the way things were supposed to be.

Pigtown Prison II – The Rookie (Part 4)

He went back to the gym, and again worked himself to exhaustion, and then kept going. It wasn’t enough. He wasn’t strong enough. If he was stronger, he could beat Keith at his own game. If he was bigger, he’d be in control of himself, he’d be in control of everything. He collapsed, hours later, shaking and covered and sweat, and looked at the clock. It was five thirty, and if he jogged…no. No, he wouldn’t do it. It was a trap, and he knew it was a trap, and still, he was getting up, still in his sweat soaked gym clothes, and he left, hustling down the sidewalks through rush hour until he reached the precinct building, where Keith was on the steps, in his uniform, waiting. “You had me worried, Rookie–you’re a couple minutes late. Good thing I was feeling lenient today.”

Jeff wanted to pummel him into the ground. He wanted to drag him in, throw him in a jail cell, and find someone–anyone–who would believe him. But being this close to him, smelling him, he found himself shrinking slightly as he approached…and he hated it. “You can’t…do this to me.”

Keith smiled, “Rookie, you still don’t get it. You’re going to be doing this to yourself, soon enough. Now let’s get going.”

The walk to the bar was quiet. Jeff did his best to memorize the path, so he’d, hopefully, be able to find his way back on his own, so he could report the place…later. But the street wasn’t even the same one as before–even if the bar looked the same–and now even more confused, he followed Keith up the steps and into the bar–and once he was inside, everything just came naturally, like sliding into a dream. Four or five painful drinks, and then he was himself again. He was the self he wanted to be, and then he was back behind the curtain, fucking any hole he could find, but now, Keith stayed close by, urging him on, both of them fucking pigs together, occasionally fucking Jeff while Jeff fucked someone else, and Jeff found himself…envying Keith. His uniform, and his confidence. The next morning he was back in Keith’s apartment, and back to himself, but when Keith wanted to fuck him…Jeff found himself looking forward to it, in some sick way, and that was when he realized he had, without even thinking about it, given in entirely.

He managed to keep some semblance of himself together, for a time. But every night he spent in Pigtown with Keith and the other pigs on the force, the more he wanted to be that brute, and the more disgusting he found his relatively small frame the next day. When the sergeant suggested he become Keith’s partner on the force, he jumped at the chance–and quickly discovered that Keith had quite the racket going on the side. Usually, at the end of their shifts, they’d pick up a suspect or two, with or without evidence, and take them to Pigtown. None of them ever left again, to Jeff’s knowledge…but that didn’t faze him like he knew it should. He honestly didn’t care what he had to do anymore, so long as Keith kept taking him there…but eventually, the bar wasn’t enough. He didn’t just want to be the brute at night–he wanted to be him all the time. He didn’t care what it would take, or what he would have to give up, and so, one night, while Keith was distracted, Jeff went to the bar, where Rod poured him another drink–but he didn’t take it.

He was about halfway there, at this point. Muscles hulking, cock aching for a good hole, but still…capable of thought, even if he didn’t really want to. He pushed the drink away, which caught Rod by surprise. “What’s up, Rookie? Wanting something different tonight?”

“No…I…” he hesitated, “I don’t…want it to end, anymore.”

Rod cocked an eyebrow.

“I don’t want to wake up tomorrow, and be small anymore. I can’t…take it. I hate it, I hate myself. I just…I want to be this. This brute. I don’t…care what you do to me. I know guys disappear here. I know most of the guys Keith and I bring here just go behind that curtain and never come back out. I don’t care what you do to me back there, but I can’t go back out. I can’t bear it anymore.”

Rod nodded, “As sexy as that would be, chaining you up down there, making a real monster out of you–that’s not quite my call.”

“You own this place! It can be your call. I give you permission, please, just…just take me.”

“This is the deal I have with Keith. He brings me men, and in return, I let him do what he likes with the ones he claims–men like you. And trust me–he likes you a lot, and he likes how miserable you look the morning after. I suppose you could ask him. He might be willing to let you stay down there, if you beg. He likes it when they beg–trust me.”

He looked at Keith, and then back at Rod. “He won’t do it, I know him. He won’t.”

Rod shrugged, and pushed the drink over to him. “Then bottoms up, Rookie. Get what you can, if you can’t get what you want.”

The next morning, even though he knew what Keith’s answer was going to be, he asked anyway. He got down on his knees and begged for it, really, begged for Keith to let him be the brute, begged him to let him stay there, if he wanted. Keith just listened, laughed, and shoved Jeff onto all fours, and fucked him again, right on the floor.

“Why the fuck would I do that?” Keith asked, “Sure, you make a sexy beast, at night, but what I love is this,” he hammered in his cock for emphasis, “This, the morning after, seeing how weak you are, seeing you realize how weak you are. Letting me do whatever the fuck I want to you, all of that ego, and all of that power just stripped away, and you turn into a desperate little faggot, everytime. Because that’s what you really are, you know. A desperate faggot. All of my pigs are. Don’t feel too bad about it–none of you can help it. Not you, not the sergeant, not the captain, not anyone on the squad. You’re all just pigs–and nothing more.” He kept fucking, Jeff trying to feel some anger or rage at Keith…but he just felt empty. The cock in his ass filled the hole slightly, but it wasn’t enough–it was never going to be enough. Keith finished, and slipped free, and while he wiped his cock off, he said, “Still–you want it that badly? Then fine. I’ll help. But you don’t get it the easy way, and you have to do everything I say pig. No talking back, no resistance, and never, ever say no. One chance–take it, or don’t.”

Pigtown Prison II (Part 3)

But of course it was for better! He…didn’t really want to be that beast, did he? No! Of course not! He tried to convince himself of that for a few minutes, and generally succeeded in doing so, burying that secret joy back in his chest, and he got out of bed, looked around for his clothes, only to remember that he’d…torn them all to shreds. How in the hell did he even get home last night–or rather, how in the hell did he get here? While the beginning of the night was relatively clear, the whirlwind of sex never seemed to end in his memory–there was just fucking, then nothing, then here, himself again and hungover.

The door to the room swung open, and there, in the doorway, was Keith–also completely naked, with that same cocky grin on his face from the bar plastered across it. “Morning Rookie–feeling alright?”

“F-Fuck you,” Jeff managed to stammer, “What the fuck was that?”

“Just an initiation of sorts, is all. You certainly enjoyed yourself, don’t you think?” He walked in, and he reeked of sex and leather and smoke, just like Jeff did, and he scooted back on the bed. “No, get the fuck away from me.”

“Oh? After giving you such a good night, where you enjoyed yourself so much, and now you think you can just prude up? It’s time for you to learn, Rookie, that a night at Pigtown with me doesn’t ever come free.”

Jeff couldn’t resist him–he didn’t feel like he could do anything. Keith had him pinned down, kissing and licking his neck, and to his own disgust–he liked it. Keith liked it too, feeling Jeff struggle, feeling how weak he was, and taunted him with it, mocked him, how such a big man from the night before was just going to give it up like this. Before long, Jeff was on his belly, Keith inside him, fucking him, and fuck, it felt good–and Keith knew it felt good. It was like he…knew him, inside and out, every button, so that by the time Keith finally filled Jeff’s hole with a load, Jeff had already shot his onto the sheets beneath him, and he felt like whore.

“Not bad Rookie, for your first real fuck,” Keith said, and got up from the bed. “You can borrow some of my clothes to get home, if you want–or just go naked. You were certainly shameless and proud of it last night in the streets. Or hey, if you want more, you can always stick around.”

He didn’t want to stick around. It took Jeff most of the day to sort his shit back out, get to his car where he’d parked it, and get back to his apartment. If anything, it was nice having a concrete problem to solve–but when he was alone again…everything came surging back. The shame, the weakness, the…lust. The clothes Keith had given him were dirty cast offs, full of his musk, and Jeff couldn’t help but smell them, thinking about that fuck earlier–but also about how he’d felt that night before. How big he’d been. How horny he’d been. How good it had felt to be so dominant and powerful. Looking at himself in the mirror, it was difficult to convince himself that he really was back to normal–compared to who he’d been for those few hours, he couldn’t help but see himself as a runt. He jacked off a couple of times, and then decided to go to the gym.

He spent hours there. He skipped his cardio, and focused on weights, pushing himself to the max over and over again. At first, it was just to prove to himself that he was a strong as he remembered…but eventually it wasn’t about proving himself at all. He…wanted to be that big again. He wanted it like he’d never really wanted anything in his life. This wasn’t enough–if…if he couldn’t be that brute, then he…he didn’t think he’d ever really be happy again. In the end, he just exhausted himself and trudged home, every muscle on fire, covered in sweat but no larger than he had been. Everything felt so…hopeless. But maybe…maybe if he could find that bar again, he could get another one of those drinks. Maybe just…one more night like that, and he could get this all out of his system.

He followed Keith’s directions to the letter, but when he reached the alley, the bar was nowhere to be found. It didn’t even look like the same part of the city. He cased the whole street anyway, and then started weaving around the streets nearby, certain it had to be close, but everytime he thought he saw a flicker of that blue neon, it turned out to be just another closed sign hung in the window of a pawn shop or restaurant. It had to exist. It had to. It couldn’t have all just been in his head, he refused to believe that. Defeated and desperate, he went back to his apartment and fell into a fitful sleep.

He skipped work the next day, and called in sick. He couldn’t face them, any of them, not after what he’d done. Especially not after what he’d done to the sergeant…and not after what the sergeant had begged him to do to him. It was clear–this was all Keith’s doing, and that bartender. He needed to turn them in, and clear house at the precinct. If that involved implicating himself then so be it. So he called the captain’s line, ready to confess, but when the phone picked up, he didn’t get an answer–all he could hear was some distant grunting and moaning.

“That you, Rookie?” a voice said over the line after a minute. It was Keith. “Of course it is. The captain and I are busy at the moment–I heard you aren’t feeling too good though. Need a pick me up? Meet me at the precinct tonight, six sharp, and we can go get you what you need.”

The phone hung up, leaving Jeff standing there, shaking, cock hard and erect, wondering just how high this went. Did he dare call someone else? Go to internal affairs? If he did, and the person he talked to was compromised…he had a feeling that neither Keith, nor Pigtown, would treat him kindly for that betrayal.

Betrayal–it wasn’t a fucking betrayal! The fucker had lured him there under false pretenses, drugged him, and then raped him the morning after in the clear light of day. He didn’t understand his own reluctance. He’d never been one to shy away from the moral act, even if it was difficult, but he found himself caught between that old self, and someone else entirely. He needed to clear his head. He needed to work out.

Pigtown Prison II – The Rookie (Part 2)

“Fuck…” Jeff muttered, the room spinning a bit, “Fuck, what the fuckin’ shit…”

“Hey now, Rookie, calm down for a second,” Keith said and stood up after him, “You feelin’ good man?”

“Fuck–hell fuckin’ yeah I feel fuckin’ good!” Jeff said, “I…I ain’t never felt like this, fuck!”

“Yeah, I thought you’d like this, once you got the hang of it,” Keith stepped closer, rubbing his leather uniform against Jeff’s bare skin. He looked up at him, having to crane his neck a bit further back than usual, because he seemed…shorter than before. Shorter, and wider. In fact, it was kind of hard to move his neck, because of how much muscle had been packed onto it–the same with his arms, and his thighs. Keith bent down, and kissed him roughly, Jeff returning it with plenty of fervor, wrestling with his tongue, but Keith simply forced his way into Jeff’s mouth, invading and dominating him with just his tongue, so that when he pulled away, Jeff was breathless. “Come on Rookie, let’s meet the rest of the guys, eh? I have a feeling you’re gonna have a great time tonight.”

Keith put his arm back around Jeff’s shoulder, and now the smell of the leather wasn’t off putting–but spicy and somehow exciting. Jeff reached down and idly stroked his cock, only to discover he was already completely hard–and much, much larger than he had been previously. He felt powerful. He felt…fuck, he felt like fighting. He felt like getting in a fucking brawl, and knocking someone flat, before rolling them over and raping their ass. He reached around and grabbed Keith’s ass as they passed through the curtain–but as soon as he did, Keith stopped, and gave him a side-eye. “Careful you don’t bite off more than you can handle, Rookie. I’ve been at this a whole lot longer than you.”

Jeff…wasn’t sure of what to make of the look in Keith’s eyes. The red light of the backroom met the green and just turned them a harsh, unyielding grey, and a spike of fear cut through him, and he pulled his hand away. “Good boy–why don’t you go say hi to our sergeant over there?”

Keith pointed to a threesome underway, an older, chubby bear spitroasted by two hung muscle bears, also in police uniforms like Keith was. The pig in the middle–it took Jeff a moment to recognize him, but it was, in fact, the sergeant…but twisted. A full tangled beard, eyes crazed with lust, a hundred pounds heavier–but it was him. He looked over at Jeff, and he knew what the pig needed. He stomped over, shoved one of his fellow officers out of the way and took over, ramming his cock in deep, fucking him roughly, and Keith just watched, for a moment, letting him get into a nice rhythm, before he went over, pulling his own cock free as he did. He shoved Jeff in deep, and then slipped two wet leathered fingers into the brute’s hole, listening to his moan with pleasure, and then fucked him hard, Jeff nearly lost in a sexual haze, pounding into the Sergeant with even more fervor, snarling and growling until he exploded, and Keith filled the rookies hole as well.

“That’s a good fucker–now go make some new friends, eh?”

Jeff, eyes glazed and lost, just nodded dumbly, wandered over until he saw another hole, and started fucking all over again, his cock not even going soft in between fucks. Satisfied, Keith slipped back out into the bar proper, and sat back down at the bar.

Rod just inspected a glass, and then set it down. “Not your usual flavor, I have to say.”

“He was gonna be a troublemaker, I could just tell. Better to nip it in the bud.”

“He has a solid will–think you can handle it?”

Keith gave him a wink, “I learned from the best, right boss?”

***

Jeff, woke up with a burning headache–unlike any hangover he’d ever experienced. He remembered Pigtown, or at least most of it, but it seemed–impossible. One minute he’d been himself, and the next he’d literally ripped his way out of his clothes, become some dumb hairy brute…and then he’d spent the rest of the evening in a sexual frenzy. He lost count, in his mind, of how many different holes he’d fucked–fellow officers of the force, both ends of their sergeant, other anonymous pigs who had all begged him for his seed. He’d kept expecting, after each orgasm, to finally come down from his high, but it seemed like every load only made him hornier, every load larger than the rest, his balls churning with need. Fuck, just thinking about it was getting him horny! He reached down for his cock, only to find it had shrunk.

No–not shrunk. It was normal. It was his dick, but after a night wielding such a massive cock, it felt so…small. He gave it a few strokes, but despite being turned on my his memories, it remained flacid, and more than that, his arm ached too much to even begin to jack off. Every inch of him ached–but more than the hurt, he simply felt…weak. Whether, like his cock, it was a matter of exhaustion from the night before (a night he still wasn’t quite convinced had actually happened) or simply a matter of comparison, after being such a massive beast of a man, capable of hefting the three hundred and fifty pound sergeant into the air, and impaling him on his cock, he didn’t know–but what he did know was that he hated it.

He felt awful. He felt sick, but more than that, he couldn’t believe what he’d done–what Keith had done to him. What that bartender had done to him. He opened his eyes a crack, hoping to see his apartment ceiling, but it wasn’t. He was somewhere else, in a sizable bed, alone. He was filthy too–reeking of sex–but his body was back. For better or worse, he was himself.

Suggestions Open for February! | Wesley Bracken on Patreon

It’s that time of the month again! One dollar a month towards my Patreon gets you access to the suggestion box, where you can drop in ideas for stories you’d like to see me write. You can find more information at the link above! Here’s an example of one I did last month, if you’d like to see what these look like.

Roommate Rules

“Trust me man, things are going great! You have no idea how many subscribers I’ve picked up in the last month! My last video, like, broke 10,000 views.”

Curtis just glowered at his roommate, Peter. “Dude, you fucking got fired today! What about the bills?”

“Calm down man! I’m good for it, once I start monetizing my shit. Don’t even sweat it. Besides, you make enough to pay for things, I know you do. It’ll all be fine.”

It was true–Curtis made enough money that he carry the house bills on his own if he had to. The place was in his name, after all. Still, he liked having a roommate so he wouldn’t have to freak out about money–and for the company. Still, Peter was…a frustrating guy to live with. All he really wanted, was to be an viral internet sensation, and Curtis just didn’t have any patience for it. “Fine–but you’re gonna have to pick up some other responsibilities around here, got it? If I’m paying the bills, them the least you can do is some extra chores.”

“Of course!” Peter said, and gave his roommate a hug, squeezing the big man tight, which made Curtis feel a bit awkward. Peter knew Curtis was gay, and he secretly thought Peter did shit like that because he thought it was flirty and endearing, when it was just obnoxious. Peter wasn’t even his type at all–though most of his fanbase thought he was dreamy and handsome. Then again, if his dreams took off, it would be good, right? Curtis did really want to help, after all…but he did get the sense he was also getting taken advantage of.

The next couple weeks confirmed that sentiment. Peter did nothing else extra around the house, and if anything he did even less than before. It was then that Curtis passed an odd store on the way home from work, where the proprietor convinced him to purchase something odd. It was just a simple scroll of paper, with the words “House Rules” across the top.

“You’re the man of the house, aren’t you?” the old man said with a chuckle, “Then perhaps it’s time you took some control, eh?”

It…sounded good to Curtis, for some reason, and he went home, put the list up on the wall, and told Peter that he was going to start using it to list the chores he wanted done regularly. Peter just scoffed at it, told him it wasn’t necessary, but…Curtis wanted to do it anyway, so he started writing some basic chores–picking up clutter, washing the dishes, mowing the lawn. And the next day, to both of their surprises, Peter did all of them. Peter, in particular, didn’t quite know what had come over him–he didn’t…want to be doing the chores, but something in him knew that he had to do them–and when he’d finished the list, he was free to do whatever else he needed to do, and Curtis saw that the tasks had disappeared, like magic.

He kept listing chores, and Peter kept doing them. He found that if he added to the list that he needed something done regularly, the item would stay on the list, and Peter would do it every day. It was after a week of this, that Peter came to him and asked him where he’d gotten it–and they got into an argument. Peter tried to tear the list down, but it refused to come away in his hands, and he couldn’t write on it for some reason. In frustration, Curtis wrote down that Peter would obey all of the commands of the man of the house without question–and when he ordered Peter to sit down on the couch–he did.

He couldn’t even stand back up, and watching him struggle there, Curtis felt…something else–a rush of power. The old man was right. He was the man of the house, and that meant he should be in charge. “Alright, I think you need some punishment,” Curtis said, and sat down, “Bend over my knee boy, and let’s give you a spanking.”

To Peter’s horror, he couldn’t resist the command, and as Curtis smacked his ass, he found himself getting more and more turned on–and when he was finished, he sent Peter to his room for the rest of the night, told him he was grounded until further notice, and looked at the list again.

He knew he shouldn’t. He knew it was wrong…but Peter was trying to take advantage of him. What was the harm with getting a little something in return, for his generosity? When Peter woke up, he found that where before, the list had been mostly empty, Curtis had, in the course of the evening, filled it. Peter could no longer leave the house without permission, and he always had to return home in time for dinner. While Curtis continued to cook–Peter had never shown much talent in the kitchen–the majority of household chores were now Peter’s responsibility, and they took so long each day, he generally didn’t have any time left to work on his videos. However, it was mealtimes that Peter dreaded. One of the first new rules, was that Peter eat everything Curtis put down in front of him. As a muscular young man with a small appetite, he had never been one for food, but Curtis began stuffing him morning, noon, and night–and making sure he was snacking in between meals as well. After a few weeks of this, Peter saw that his body was beginning to grow flabby, and when he complained to Curtis, he just laughed.

“You were the one who was always flirting with me, I thought? Well, I like my guys on the…hefty side. I’m sure you’ll learn to enjoy it soon enough.”

“But what about my videos? Curtis–please…you can’t do this to me, it’s not right!”

“Oh? Does someone still want to be an internet sensation? We can arrange that, don’t worry boy.”

More rules appeared, all of them becoming rather…sexual. Peter discovered that overeating was beginning to arouse him, and he wouldn’t be able to resist jacking off whenever he ate–and true to his word, Curtis began taping his feeding sessions, encouraging him all the while, before uploading them to the internet for the entire gaining community to see. As he gained more and more weight, Curtis began showing more and more interest in him as well, shaking his small gut and love handles, smacking his ass, making him dress in fewer and fewer clothes around the house, until all he was wearing was a pair of his new much too small briefs, while Curtis filmed him doing chores around the house. He would pin him down under his own, larger body, make Peter worship it, tell him how much he envied him, teased him by telling him that once he was even larger than him, he might let the boy move out on his own–if he still wanted to leave, that is.

The more Peter obeyed the list of rules, however, the more normal everything started to feel. He…wanted to keep eating, and he liked being humiliated by Curtis. When his briefs finally ripped open in film one day, he couldn’t stop himself from jacking off right then and there for his fans, while Curtis spanked him for ripping his clothes, forbidding his fatboy from wearing anything else in the house from now on. He grew fatter and fatter, passing 250, and then 300, no longer wanting to be thin ever again. Curtis wanted him to be fat, and Curtis was the man of the house. He was just Fatboy–he’d forgotten his real name, and that one suited him so much better anyway. He never did end up moving out–why would he ever want to be away from Curtis anyway? No–this was the life he’d always dreamed of–he was an internet sensation, after all! No one had gone from under 200 to 600 pounds in two years–but with the help of his master, and a few strict rules, Fatboy finally had the life he’d always wanted.

Suggestions Open for February! | Wesley Bracken on Patreon

What Would I Do To You (#1 – Dippig)

A new sort of thing I’ve had on my mind, ever since this post blew up a couple months ago. Not sure how often I’ll add entries, but it’ll be a different sort of thing each time. This one is dedicated to someone in particular, you know who you are.)

What would I do to you today?

Let’s start you off with some dip. If you’re a novice, even better–I show you how to pack that lip your first time, see that buzz in your eye, and you smile, but before you can finish jacking off, you have to race to the toilet to throw up. It happens–but it’s good to see how you take it. We don’t do anything else with the dip right then, instead, I wait for you to bring it up again, because even after that, you’re still curious…and a bit humiliated. You should have been able to take it, you tell yourself. It wasn’t even that much. So you ask, and I oblige. A bit less this time, get you comfortable, get you spitting in a little bottle, and you’re feeling good. You jack off, and you leave it in after, dropping it in the trash before you go.

We see each other more often, and everytime, we pack that lip for you. It helps you enjoy yourself–you feel more relaxed, and more energized with it. But for the moment, you still only do it when you’re with me–but why? You know the brand I give you, there’s nothing stopping you from stopping by the gas station as you leave to buy some of your own. You drop the occasional hint that it would be nice to have a tin of your own, but I don’t give you what you want–you’re not going to get any from me, no, you need to get it yourself. Finally, you do. You don’t use it often–maybe once every couple of days to jack off with, but that’s ok–we can take it slow.

You arrive with a packed lip, and you leave with one now. It isn’t long before spit begins to play a larger and larger role for you in sex. I make you watch me drool, I spit in your face, I lick your body, and I stop giving you a bottle. I want to see you drool. I want you to feel it running down your chin and onto your chest. I want to rub it in there, smear the dark, tacky liquid all over you where I can lick it off later–maybe.

When does an obsession become an addiction? When do you go from dipping because you want to, and start dipping because you need to? Is it the first time you sneak a lipper at work? You keep it small, so no one can notice, keep the trash can nearby for spit, and be sure to enunciate. You’re hard though, and you slip off to the bathroom to jack off, drooling a bit down your chin as you do, and wipe it clean with some toilet paper when your finished. Your chin feels a bit sticky for the rest of the day, all the same.

But I want to take things further–and you do too. You’re enjoying yourself too much to say no. I suggest you grow out your beard, and you agree. We have off your hair, once you have a decent scruff balance the bare skull. More and more often, I start feeding you during our sessions together. It takes some practice, not swallowing the leaf and spit while I stiff you full, but you’re smart, aren’t you? You figure it out, like a good pig. Did you know how erotic eating could be? I don’t think you did. You’d read stories about it, sure, but had you ever experienced it? You start buying snacks when you stop at the gas station to get more dip. You become a frequent customer at the vending machine at work. You bring doughnuts for everyone–but eat a half dozen yourself. You feel less obvious, that way.

We carry on, for a while. It begins to feel normal, now. Your boss catches you using tobacco at work, and you get written up. It feels unfair–it’s not like you’re smoking after all–but rules are, apparently, rules. You try to stop for a day, figuring it would be good if you scaled back somewhat…but the withdrawl hits, and by the end of the week, you’re back to covertly dipping again, and being more careful this time. Is that all the willpower you had? Two days without? Not even without–just for an eight hour stretch at work. You jack off that night, thinking about it, realizing how much you need it–and wondering if you can even stop now, if you wanted to.

You’re spending the night regularly now. I make sure to stock up on all of your favorite snacks, and keep them close at hand all night long for you to binge on. He strip you down, pack your mouth full, and you start drooling like a beast, watching it run down into that beard of yours. I get plenty of spit elsewhere too–all over those soft pecs of yours, over your small gut, drooling all over your dick and balls until they’re good and brown, eat out that ass of yours too, before I fuck you. And you? You’re just in a stupor of pleasure, stuffing your face, with food and more dip, needing it to get hard now, needing all of it.

Do you want to move in yet? Ready to go all the way? I don’t let you quit your job–no, I want them to fire you. I want you to see just how much they’ll let you get away with. But no more showers, not for you. No bottles, either. That spit just drools right out your mouth and into your beard. The chin is stained several shades darker than the rest of your hair now, like some strange dye job, and the hair is crusty and matted together. I put you on a strict gaining diet, and you take most of your meals out of a small trough in the kitchen. Pretty soon, you crest 300 pounds, and not too long after that, they finally fire your ass–and you realize, then, that I’m the only thing you have left to rely on.

But that’s alright, isn’t it? You like being here. It feels good–you feel good, being my dippig. I slowly start breaking down the rest of your social shame, I warp you into an exhibitionist, I make you get off seeing other people see you dipping, seeing you filthy, seeing your fat ass in too small of clothes, covered in muck they can’t even recognize. You don’t carry a can anymore–no, we’ve switched to a different storage system, now that you’ve got that nice wide ass. We just pack chaw in between those cheeks of yours, and let you walk around with it all day long. Fuck, watching you rummage around in your underwear in the supermarket, haul a damp wad of chaw out and shove it in your mouth, right in front of a couple of breeders who just stare at you in horror–I drag you right into the restroom for a good fucking–and in your eyes, I see that that’s exactly what you’d hoped would happen.