Stinkers: Finders Keepers (Part 5)

Sunday I didn’t dare leave the house. Sunday…hell, I probably couldn’t have left the house even if I’d wanted to. I woke up that morning in bed, wearing the filthy underwear as usual, but also found I’d managed to climb in with the derelicts socks and boots still on my feet, crusted with all manner of filth, but it didn’t bother me one bit. I…I wanted to smell them some more, but I also…I also didn’t want to take them off, in the same way that I didn’t want to take off the underwear I had on as well, though with the boots, the urge was less strong. As I went about my day, however, I did notice something strange–that as I would take my occasional break from masturbating to go to the kitchen for something to eat, I would notice that the boots which had been much too large on my feet–so large simply walking home in them the night before had been a challenge…they weren’t nearly as uncomfortable as I remembered.

By the time that evening rolled around, I was no longer sure if I didn’t want to take off the boots because I enjoyed wearing them, or if I didn’t want to take them off because I was afraid of what I might find within them. They were, at this point…the most comfortable shoe I’d ever had on, but I…I needed to know, really. I already knew what I was going to find, of course, but I just…I pulled off both boots, looking down at the browned, holey socks, and I could tell right away that something had changed about my feet. They were…huge. No wonder the boots fit so well, my feet had swollen up to match them! Had I caught some strange disease? Did I need to go to the hospital? I hauled off the socks, expecting some red, horrific infection, but instead saw two…normalish feet. I qualify that, because they were…well, monstrous in size, but otherwise completely normal…aside from the smell.

At first, I couldn’t tell if the stink was coming from the socks and boots, or if it really was coming from my newly changed feet–I had to cross the room, the feel of the carpet under my new feet…it felt wrong, and I wanted to get the boots back on as soon as I could, but I forced myself to get away from them for a moment, crouched down, and took a whiff of my feet alone, and moaned. It…it was both of them, of course. But my feet didn’t smell like my feet anymore–they smelled like the boots, but stronger than them too. Like my feet had somehow…somehow learned from the smell of the boots, like the smell had changed them in the same way that my now nine inch cock seemed to be learning and changing from the underwear I was still wearing. All of it was too much to try and understand, so I did what seemed easiest–I jacked off, and then put the socks and boots back on, feeling much, much more comfortable immediately. They…they were mine, after all. I’d taken them, and they were mine. No–he’d given them to me. He’d wanted my cock, and he’d given me his boots. A fair trade. Finders keepers.

It was harder to tell myself that when I left for work the next day, and as I left my apartment building, driving past an alley, I saw him lying against the side, in an alley. The derelict. The panic and guilt in my throat almost made me throw up in the car, but I tamped it down, and kept driving. Had he followed me home somehow? I hadn’t…seen him following me, and I know I had checked behind me a few times. Still, if someone had stolen my only pair of boots…I’d probably want them back too.

But I hadn’t stolen them. He’d given them to me! They were mine now, they fit, they were mine!

The sheer…force of those thoughts surprised me. The sense of ownership I had for these things I was wearing…I jacked off into both boots that day at work–because…because I had to wear them to work. It didn’t look very good–a nice suit on with two massive, grungy, well worn boot on my feet, but I hadn’t even considered wearing something else…not that any of my other shoes would have even fit me, given the new feet I had after the weekend. Still, I couldn’t focus–what in the hell was he doing there? Was he going to call the police? Accuse me of rape? I…I had to confront him. I had to get him to leave.

Passed by the same alley as I went home, and sure enough, he was still there, and…still barefoot. I did feel awful about that, I admit it. I went down later that evening to confront him, to tell him to leave, but the encounter didn’t go how I was expecting it to go. As soon as he smelled me, he turned to me, and he…fuck, I could see the hunger in his fucking eyes, and he raced over, shoving his face into my crotch, huffing at my stink.

“Fuck I…I needed more sir, I’m sorry,” he moaned, “I could smell you across the city, I…with your shoe, I’m sorry for following but I had to, I had to…I…”

He didn’t get anything else out before I dragged him away from the sidewalk, behind a dumpster halfway down the alley, and fed him my cock. The way he shuddered and groaned–it was like watching an addict get their fix, and rather than horror, what I felt was…was power. I had power over him, just because of my stink. I started to wonder what I could make him do. I ordered him to take off one of my boots, and suck the sweat from my sock–he did as ordered, and the pleasure that washed over him, and the massive load of cum he shot from his cock, was enough for me to shoot as well, blowing a load of cum into his face and beard. I stepped away, got my boot back on, and it was clear that he wanted to follow me, but I told him to stay here…where I’d be able to find him whenever I needed him.

Stinkers: Finders Keepers (Part 4)

It took half an hour of scouring several blocks before I found the source of the stink which had caught my nose, and when I did find it…I didn’t want what I’d found…to be the thing I was searching for. It hadn’t been easy–he had stuffed himself between two metal dumpsters, but whether that was for warmth in the chilly evening, or so fewer people were likely to find him, I never knew. Like most everyone else in the city, we never…observed the homeless. They were always there, always around us, always a problem with no real solution. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d really…I mean…

He stank. That’s all I knew. He stank, or part of him stank…somehow I could tell the difference. That it wasn’t him, it was something…on him. He was asleep, or drunk enough to seem to be asleep, and so…and so I got down over him, trying not to touch him, and I started smelling around until I worked my way closer to his feet, nauseous about what I was doing, realizing I had one hand down the front of my sweats massaging my thick cock through my grungy underwear. He had on some old, well worn boots…and fuck, they reeked. They reeked…not like the underwear had reeked. They…they were something else entirely, but smelling those boots, and I realized, the socks he had on as well, I recalled that gymrat I’d stalked for several blocks earlier in the week. They hadn’t smelled anything alike–he had been sweat and acrid energy, these boots and socks were piss and aged exhaustion. But I wanted these boots just like I’d wanted that man–or, I realized now, the…shirt the man had been wearing. I was torn…I couldn’t…just take them right? But at the same time, I…I needed them.

I got down, as quietly as I could, and I started undoing the laces on the boots. I got them both undone…and I realized there was no way I was going to be able to do this without him waking up, so I might as well just…just try to do it as quickly as I could, and hope he was as drunk as he smelled. I tugged off one shoe, and he stirred–I was about to grab the other one, when he lashed out with a kick, connected with my chin and sent me falling back onto the pavement behind me, blood in my mouth from where I’d bit my tongue.

“What the fuck ya fuckin’ cunt!” I think he said, something like that. I…had one of his boots in my hand, and he lunged for it, trying to get it back, landing on me, clawing at my face. I just…I just reacted, grabbed his head, and shoved it down to my crotch, getting his face in a leg lock, his nose pressed to my stinking crotch, and I hear him gag immediately. He’s calling me all sorts of shit, telling me what a fucking pervert I must be, trying to bite me, but…but I can feel him start to give, slowly. Hear the gags become moans, his grip on me slackening slightly, and when I pull down my sweats, he can’t stop himself–he shoves his face right into the nasty briefs and starts…snorting like a fucking pig, and I’m so turned on by the sound I nearly fill the front of my briefs with a load right then and there. Still, I shove his face away–he tried to lunge back to keep sniffing, but I grab him by his greasy hair and haul him away.

“You’re giving me those boots and socks, fucker, and then you can have my stinking cock.”

It didn’t…sound like me, or something I would say, but none of this was something I would ever do in my entire life. He tried to protest, but he gave in–hauled off his other boot and both socks, and then I allowed him to get back to licking and snorting at my underwear, while I grabbed a boot, shoved a sock in it, pressed it to my face and started huffing the man’s footstink.

It…fuck, it was exactly what I’d wanted. It was heaven. I was so close to shooting, I hauled down the front of the briefs and shoved my cock into the derelict’s mouth just in time to fill it to bursting with a massive load–the first one in nearly a week that I hadn’t shot directly into my underwear. The guy gulped it all down, and then buried his nose back into my crotch, snorting and grunting as he he stroked his own cock off, and I let him finish in a minute or so, spilling the seed all over the front of my sweats and shirt, but I didn’t fucking care. I didn’t fucking care.

I was lying in an alley, with some strange derelict, and I didn’t fucking care. I took another whiff of the fucker’s boots, and I cared even less–the only thing I fucking cared about, was getting the things on my own feet as fast as possible. I shucked off my own shoes, pulled on the crusty, damp socks, shuddering with pleasure at the feel of them, and then tugged on the boots as well…only to discover they were massive. My feet aren’t large–a size ten, and while I couldn’t make out the tag on the old tongues, these have to be at least a size 18 or 20, and four or five E in width. I laced them as tight as I could just to keep them on, and the guy just stared at me, horrified by what he’d done, barefoot in the cold, but I didn’t feel bad at all. He picked up my old shoes, held them to his feet, but they were obviously much too small. I…I couldn’t really handle it obviously, watching his face. I knew I should feel worse than I did…but I took off and headed home to my apartment where I locked myself in, tugged off a shoe and a sock, and started jacking off to the stink, caring less and less with each load shot into the nasty underwear I was, more and more, considering to be mine.

Stinkers: Finders Keepers (Part 3)

But I did leave. I had to keep going to work, after all. I was…afraid to not go, I was more afraid of being alone, in some ways. Thursday and Friday passed relatively well. The women at work still refused to engage with me…and honestly? Part of me was really enjoying that. I had just never really noticed how much time talking to all of them took up during my day, nor had I realized just how few fucks I gave about their lives, their problems. Their lazy husbands, their shopping, their gossip–what did it matter? I mean…I mean, I knew it had mattered to me more, before, but I just wasn’t missing it. Now, I had more time to myself, more time to, well, slip off to the bathroom to jack off. But still, most of the guys around the office…I noticed that they seemed a bit more…interested in me somehow. Stopping to talk, asking how I was, just…small shit. I didn’t really appreciate it, to be honest. They all seemed…kind of annoying–that much hadn’t changed. But they all seemed really interested in me, and more than once, I noticed hardons in their slacks after a five minute conversation with me, and I…I started to wonder if it was me.

Was it really all the smell that was doing this? It seemed hard to believe that just wearing some strange pair of filthy underwear could change how everyone viewed me, instantly, but what other explanation did I have? The weekend was bearing down on me, honestly…I was scared, going home on Friday. I had two days with no obligation to be anywhere other than my apartment, and before, when I just hung around here…well, I had spent almost all the time masturbating. I knew I should go out, see some friends, maybe hook up…but with who? None of my regular fuckbuddies would be vaguely interested in…in this. If I went to the club, and anyone smelled me, what would everyone think? Then again, if I didn’t show up, what would people think? I was, I hate to say it, a regular barfly. But Friday night, I stayed home, jacked off into the underwear, and as I did…I noticed something.

I noticed…that my dick was bigger.

Gay guys–we know our dicks. I’d always been a bit below average, I suppose–five inches hard. But when I was stroking off that night, everything felt just a bit…larger. My cock, my balls, my sack hanging lower. I went into the bathroom after shooting one of the loads, pulled down the front and got a ruler. Sure enough–six inches. I’d gained an entire inch onto my cock. I remeasured two or three more times, trying to figure out what I’d been doing wrong, but the more I looked at it, the more I was certain–it really had grown. My balls too, each was probably the size of a lemon at this point, and I could see the bulge in the underwear when I pulled them back up–and that didn’t even begin to cover the hair.

I was…well, in my younger years I was a twink, but at this point I’ve aged out of that category long ago. Still, I never quite became a bear–the best I could describe myself now would be a bad case of dadbod. Pot belly, saggy chest, decent shoulders, arms which I’ve always felt were way too skinny, legs too. Not…attractive, really, but I’d always made do with personality, even when I had the looks. That–and a very nice hole. I turned around to look at my ass, pulled down the briefs, and even my ass crack was hairier–just like the thick bush which had sprouted around my cock and balls, a bush I’d never seen in my life. And yet…fuck, was I turned on, I nutted again right there, then a second load while I sniffed the sweat and grunge off my hand.

On Saturday, it was seven inches, and I was freaking out. I knew I couldn’t go to the club or anything, but I also knew I couldn’t stay here, jacking off all weekend…because I was starting to really enjoy it. I’d…I’d never had this much fun masturbating in my life. My orgasms were more powerful, my cock was more sensitive, and the stench…fuck, my apartment was smelling almost as rank as the underwear at this point, and the effect on me had gone from disgust to intoxicating without me being aware of it. I came out of my stupor on Saturday afternoon after one particularly huge load, one I discovered I’d been edging out for close to two hours. Two hours! Two hours of my life wasted on masturbation. I didn’t know what I needed–fresh air, a walk, a fuck, someone to talk to, but I knew I couldn’t stay here, I needed to get out for a bit and clear my head.

I threw on some clothes and left the apartment, only realizing after I hit the sidewalk I hadn’t showered in two days now, or even considered deodorant once since finding the the briefs back behind the club. I…I stank. It was a tossup whether the people twisting their faces in disgust were doing so because of the briefs, or just because of me. Still, I couldn’t go back. I wouldn’t shower, I’d just…jack off again, and I needed to stop. I headed for the club, waved at some guys, but didn’t dare go in, didn’t dare even go close. I just kept walking. Evening turned to night, I kept walking. I kept walking, and then, around ten o’clock, soaked in sweat, cock achingly hard, searching for something but not knowing what…I smelled something. I smelled something I needed, and I started to hunt.

Stinkers: Finders, Keepers (Part 2)

I tried to take them off. I really did. I woke up to my alarm that morning, horrified that I was still wearing the disgusting things, soaked with my own cum now as much as everything else, and while I could pull down the front of them to piss, at the very least, for whatever reason…I just couldn’t bring myself to take them off.

I knew I had to. I knew I couldn’t go to work with these things on, I knew that as soon as anyone caught a whiff of them, I’d probably get reprimanded or fired on the spot, but I spent twenty minutes in front of the mirror, trying to get my hands to cooperate, but every time I brought them close to the briefs, with the intent of pulling them down, they’d move right to my cock instead, groping myself through the filthy fabric, one hand sliding inside and I’d be helplessly jacking off again, unable to do anything until I’d shot yet another load into the front of them. And so, at a loss…I just put on some slacks, threw on a work shirt, and went off to work, trying to convince myself that it would be fine, and no one would notice the stink wafting off of me…and to my own surprise…it went fine.

I mean, it wasn’t an easy day, by any measure. It was clear that everyone in the office could smell…something, and yet none of them seemed to point the finger at me, or blame me for any of it. Watching them, it was like…like some unconscious thing. I tried to have a conversation with Judy, a really good girlfriend of mine a couple cubicles over, but about a minute into the conversation she just…fled off down the hall, coughing, eyes watering, and she…avoided me for the rest of the day. But she didn’t report me. It was the same with all of the women, actually–they did their very best to avoid interacting me as best they could, but at the same time, I don’t think any of them could figure out, what, exactly, was making them do it. The guys on the other hand…they didn’t seem to be bothered much by it at all, or at the very least, they weren’t saying anything. Even my boss–one of the cleanest, and most organized fellows I know…I could see that he smelled it on me, but he said nothing, and I swear…I swear, when he walked away, he was hard. And he wasn’t the only one, trust me.

I must have slipped off to the bathroom…eight? Nine? I don’t know, it had to have been once an hour at least. I was so hyper-aware of my filthy underwear that I kept getting hard, my hand finding it’s way down the front of my pants, and as soon as I started jacking off, I just–there was nothing I could do to stop it. By the end of the day, the underwear was saturated with my cum, and it had started to seep through, staining the front of my pants–thankfully they were black today. Back home, I immediately stripped them off and threw them in the washer, disgusted with myself, and the more disgusted I felt, th hornier I got, until I was jacking off again, filling the front of the briefs over and over, smearing the cum seeping through the fabric all around and over my ass…and I knew I had to do…something.

I couldn’t just keep sitting here, masturbating. If I did, I was going to hate myself, and my cock was so raw I didn’t think I’d be able to handle a few more days of this. I needed…something to try and occupy myself, and so I threw on some clothes, and I went for a walk, certain that being in public would at least tamp down the urge somewhat. Besides, I was hungry, and there were some good food trucks a few blocks over that would sate that issue as well. I go down there, it’s busy, and I’m…terrified that someone there is going to smell me while I’m standing in line–hell, I know they can smell me, because I have a two foot buffer around me, and I saw two young women glance my direction and split after a couple of minutes. But before I can get to the front…it’s me who smells something.

Sharp, astringent. My mouth goes dry. I whirl, and somehow I can pinpoint who it is–a hefty looking guy with a gym bag slung over his shoulder, sweat marks all over the tanktop he’s wearing. I’m not…hungry anymore, not for food, and I start following him. I don’t know, why, I follow him. I don’t know what I want to do, or what I’m thinking even. I can tell he’s straight, he just doesn’t have the look about him, but I want…I wanted…not him exactly, even. I follow him for a few blocks, before I realize I’m openly groping myself through my sweats, cock leaking, and he slips into an apartment building with no way in after him.

Frustrated, confused, hungry…there’s only one detail that sticks out to me. The name on the gym bag–Planet Workout. I look it up on my phone–there’s four in the city, but only one close enough that it would make sense for him to walk. I slip into a nearby fast food joint, one with a bathroom, get some food and use the facilities, thinking about him, still…smelling him in my mind. I’m terrified, really, and by the time I get back to my apartment, I wonder if I should ever even leave the apartment again.

Winston’s Stable: Titpig (Part 4)

“No–that’s…that can’t be me, what the fuck have you done to me, Sir?”

It was two weeks since Winston had dosed Mark with the first serum, and he’d done an additional stages in five day cycles. Tomorrow, he’d dose him with the fourth serum, but he thought Mark had earned a night awake for being such a wonderful subject. Besides, too much time spent unconscious could be unhealthy for a mind–and Winston wanted to make sure that any damage done to Mark’s head was damage he’d wanted, not anything he’d done on accident. He’d kept him in a hypnotic state earlier, and moved him from the lab downstairs into one of the bedrooms upstairs, where they were standing now, and where Mark had come back to himself. In the full length mirror in front of him, he could see the extent of the changes which had swept across his body, and though they were unfinished, to someone unprepared for them, they would seem…staggering, he supposed.

Of course, the most dramatic shift was his chest. With each dose of the serum, the tissue of his chest had reentered a state of heightened development–but most of the tissue developing wasn’t muscle fiber, but rather breast tissue. The result was something rather unnatural looking–his chest still had the appearance of two muscular pecs, but the surface, rather than flat, was instead rounded and puffy. His serum made sure the breast tissue was still firm and didn’t sag, but the texture could be disturbing to some, though Winston found the appearance highly arousing. He watched Mark gently rub one of his inflamed tits, shuddering as he did, his cock spewing a sudden jet of cum across the carpet in front of him.

“That’s a very naughty Titpig–get down there and clean up that mess you made. I take cleanliness in this house very seriously, so you will have to learn to contain your messes.”

Mark tried to resist, but he got down on all fours and licked his own cum from the carpet, but once it had started his cock refused to stop–it kept leaking, forcing him to try and keep a hand underneath the head, collecting the precum, and he slurped it up once his palm was full. Winston knew that the increased cum production was an additional effect of the serum–Mark’s balls had so far tripled in size, stretching his scrotum tight, even as his cock had shrunk. Now it was just four inches, down from it’s original six, and he hoped that after the final serum it would be closer to one or two inches at most–perhaps even outsized by his nipples, which were just as inflamed as the rest of his chest had become. Each was at least as thick as Winston’s thumb–he straddled Mark where he was still cleaning the carpet, reached under and gave them both a tweak, and Mark nearly squealed as thick milk spurt from them both onto the carpet below him.

“Please…please, just…change me back sir, please. I don’t know why you’re doing this to me.” Mark said.

“Because you’re special, Titpig. Besides, you don’t really want to go back to who you were, do you?” Winston gripped Mark under the arms and hauled him up and knelt down behind him, so they were both on their knees in front of the mirror, Winston behind him, gloved hands caressing his tits gently. “This is what you want to be, after all, you want to be a freak–you want to be my freak.”

“N-No…” Mark said, but he could feel his Master’s words sinking into his psyche. Now that he was over the shock of it…it was kind of sexy, wasn’t it? Winston groped a bit harder, and Mark moaned, his nipples leaking more milk which ran down his chest and belly in tear trails.

Winston caught some on his fingers, brought it to his lips, and gave it a taste. “It’s delicious, Titpig–you should be proud.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“What do you think slave? Are you happy with what I’m doing to you? It sure looks like you’re are–that cock of yours is still leaking all over my nice clean carpet, even though I ordered you to stop it–but I don’t think you can stop, can you?” Winston twisted Mark’s nipples, making him cry out in pain, milk spraying out and hitting the mirror in front of them, where it dribbled down. “Lick it up slave, before it hits the floor.”

Mark crawled forward and licked up the milk–Master was right, it was delicious. Winston reached out and slipped a finger into Mark’s ass, and to his surprise it slid right in, and he groaned in pleasure, and pushed back, finding his body eager to be filled.

“Tell me what you are, and I’ll fuck you.”

Mark hesitated, locking eyes with himself in the mirror. “I–I’m your…Titpig sir.”

He slid another finger in, “And what do you want to be?”

“I want to be your freak sir, I want to be your Titpig, please fuck my hole, please…”

“Yeah, that’s what I like to hear,” Winston said, and slid his cock into Mark’s hole, listening to his grunt and groan in delight, his cock leaking a steady stream of precum below him, where it puddled on the carpet. “You know you’re only halfway through, right? After we have a nice long night together, I’m going to put you back to sleep, take you back down into the lab, and shoot you up again. If you think you’re a freak now, just you fucking wait, you’ll be my proper monster soon enough.”

Mark found himself pushing back, eager to have more of his Master’s cock planted inside him. He’d been fucked before, but it had never felt like this–it had never gone in so easily, or felt like it…belonged in there.

“Yeah, do you like your new ass too? It’ll take anything now–it’s almost as hungry for cock as your mouth is going to be.”

“Harder Sir, fuck me harder!”

Winston was more than happy to do as his Titpig requested, reaching around and tugging on his tits, spewing enough milk to soak the front of his body, and when the Slave came, without even touching his cock, he spewed almost as much milk from his chest as he did from cum from his puny cock, but Winston wasn’t done yet–he wanted this fuck to last a good long while. They had all night, after all, and Winston wanted his new slave to appreciate the control his new Master had over them both before they went back to the lab and resumed their work. We he did cum, he filled his slave to the brim, and his sloppy hole leaked most of it back out, much to Mark’s embarrassment. Winston left him there, soaked in cum and milk, shaking with pleasure, unable to process most of what had he had just experienced, but desperate to feel it all again.

“Well, you’ve made quite a mess slave–I’ll have to punish you for that later. For now, though, why don’t we give you your first milking? I can always flog you once we get you hooked up, and kill two birds with one stone.”

Mark followed his Master out of the room, dripping and exhausted, and terrified of what he’d find, of what would happen…and yet, the sheer pleasure assaulting him ensured that by the end of the night, he was begging for more–and Winston assured him he’d get it, when he woke again in a few more days.

Winston’s Stable – Titpig (Part 2)

The man watched them shuffle off for a moment, and when they’d gotten a few yards away, he said, “Boy, I think you’d feel a lot better if you came back here and stuck around close to me.”

“Creep,” Joey muttered, but much to his surprise, Mark slipped out from under his arm, turned around, and walked back over to the stranger in leather. “Mark, what the fuck?”

Mark was just as confused as Joey was, but to his surprise, when he got closer to him, he did feel better, more clear headed. Still, he didn’t get too far, before Joey grabbed him by the hand and dragged him away, through the throng on the dance floor, and to the door. Mark relented, knowing it’s where he wanted to go, but as they went, he did feel…worse. Nauseous and dizzy, especially. They got out the door of the club, and he promptly threw up his drink from earlier on the sidewalk. “Fuck, what the fuck is wrong with me?”

“Maybe he put something in your drink. Come on, let’s get home. A rest will sort you out. You can crash at my place tonight.” They made it a little way down the sidewalk, but Mark felt…something building up in him, some kind of need, or desire, and unable to even explain why, he pulled away from Joey and staggered back towards the club. “Mark!” Where the fuck are you going!”

“Sorry! I…I forgot something, just wait a second,” Mark said, and ducked back into the club. He scanned the room, worried, but the man was right where they’d left him, sitting at the table now, nursing the drink Mark had abandoned. He made his way around to him, trying to keep his gut from dry heaving, but once he got within a few yards, his stomach settled, and…and he felt that same high wash over him, but this time it felt…better. Pleasant. Like a reward.

“That’s a good boy,” the man said, “You’ll feel much better, I promise, as long as you’re near me. In fact, if you try to leave me again, it’s only going to feel worse, I promise you that. Now, come on over and let me have a look at you.”

Mark walked over and stood to one side of the chair where the man was sitting, shaking slightly. “What…You did this to me, what’s wrong with me?”

“Oh, my boy, it’s not what’s wrong with you, it’s what’s very, very right about you,” the man said. He reached out to grope Mark’s crotch, but he stepped back before he could touch him. “Now, now. You want me to touch you. Having me touch you anywhere I want is going to make you feel good. Now come close and don’t step back again.”

Mark tried to keep his body from obeying, but it refused to listen to him. He came closer, and this time when the man reached out he couldn’t avoid him–but soon enough, he didn’t want to. The man’s touch, even through his clothing, was electric. “F-Fuck…” he muttered, “Please…please stop.”

“You don’t want me to stop, do you?”

“N-No?” Mark said, and the man slid one gloved hand up his shirt and along his stomach, feeling Mark shiver.

“You’ll be addressing me as sir, from now on, do you understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good boy. Take off your shirt.”

Mark did as he was told, and the man looked him over, surveying him. Mark was in his early thirties, and in fairly good shape, with a well developed chest and a small gut, all of it covered with a fair amount of hair. “Hmm…decent, but not quite what I want yet. Still, it’ll have to do, won’t it?”

“Mark? Mark! What the fuck?” Mark wanted to shrink smaller where he stood, as Joey hustled over to them. “You said you’d fucking forgot something!”

“Boy, that’s not nice of you to lie to your friend,” the man said, “Tell him the truth now.”

“Joey…being…being by Sir makes me feel good, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to feel sick anymore.”

“Yes, that’s right–I make you feel very good, don’t I boy?” the man said, and slid a hand around behind Mark, squeezing his ass, and making him groan.

Joey just gaped at them both. “Please, I’m sorry I can’t…I don’t know why…” Mark pleaded, “Please…help me.”

Joey, however, wasn’t listening. He turned around and abandoned him, and Mark tried to call after him, but one of Sir’s hands stroking his hard cock through his jeans made him moan instead. “Don’t worry about him boy. In fact, don’t worry about anything for a while. What you’re going to do is kneel here, beside me, while I finish your drink. I don’t usually like the fruity shit, but this one isn’t too bad. Then, we’re going to leave, together.”

Mark felt his knees buckle, and he slumped to the floor beside the man, his head level with his thighs, eyes directed under the table, cheeks burning. His display with the man and Joey had attracted quite a few eyes around the bar, but he didn’t want everyone to stare at him, he just wanted to disappear. Still, the concern ebbed a bit, after a moment, and Mark found it hard to be worried about anything happening to him. Instead, he just enjoyed the sensation of Sir petting his head while he finished the drink, and after a few minutes, he stood up, reached into the pocket of his leather jacket, and pulled out a strap of leather–a collar, Mark realized, attached to a chain leash.

“Put this on boy.”

He did as he was instructed, and then allowed Sir to slowly walk him out of the club, almost like he was enjoying the attention the display was generating–but Mark still just wanted to hide his face. No matter what happened next, he’d never be able to show his face here again. Outside, the man walked him a few blocks until they came to a sedan parked on the street–the man ordered Mark into the back seat, and they drove off into the night.

Winston’s Stable – Titpig (Part 1)

“Look at that fucker–looks like he showed up at the wrong bar tonight, don’t you think?”

Joey eyed someone behind Mark’s shoulder, and he had to sneak a quick look behind him from the table where they were sitting. He assumed that the guy Joey was talking about was the one who stood out like a sore thumb in the club, mostly because of what he was wearing–a complete leather uniform, from the boots to the hat, all impeccably shined. It was a bit of an anomaly among the more conventionally dressed men, and while a look like that isn’t that strange to see in some bars, this one prefered a…more normal atmosphere, usually. That said, Mark thought the guy looked good in it, even if he was a bit older than the twinkish guys he usually preferred, like Joey. He turned back to his date, “I don’t know, it’s not that weird.”

“What, are you into that shit?” Joey asked–this is our third date, you’d better come out with it if it is.”

Mark laughed, “Oh no way. But to each their own, you know?”

Joey’s mouth turned up a bit, and he looked a bit disappointed that Mark wasn’t ready to pile on the guy as readily as he was. “I assume that’s not your thing either, then?”

“Hell no!” Joey said, almost a bit angry Mark had asked, “I…hate that uniform shit. I spend enough time terrified of the cops to wanna fuck any of them.”

Mark couldn’t blame him for that, but he wasn’t quite sure where to take the conversation from there. Joey was cute, and the sex had been good, but they…lacked a bit of chemistry when they weren’t fucking or on the dance floor. “Look, let’s get another drink, and then dance for a bit, alright?” Mark said, “I’ll buy.”

Joey nodded, but his mood had soured somewhat. Mark didn’t really know why he was making such a big deal out of it anyway. The path to the bar ended up skirting close to the stranger in the uniform, and while Mark would have given him no real mind before this, Joey’s comment had him looking at him a bit closer out of curiosity more than anything else. The guy didn’t seem very interested in the bar around him, and was just sipping a beer slowly at a corner of the bar jutting out into the room, where most people had to pass him on the way to getting drinks, including Mark. As he slipped past, however, he caught a whiff of some…smell. Something he’d never quite smelled before, but his vision spun for a moment and he nearly tripped into another table by the dance floor. He recovered, feeling a bit embarrassed, and kept going, talked with the bartender and got a couple more drinks for Joey and him.

As he waited for the bartender to mix them, he looked back over in the direction of the uniformed man, and was surprised to find that the man was staring hard at him too, with a cocky grin across his face. Mark quickly looked away, not at all wanting to give the guy the wrong idea. He found the look curious, but like he’d told Joey, he really wasn’t into the leather scene–he liked his sex nice and vanilla. Still, the man had taken an interest in him for some reason, and Mark decided to take the longer route around the bar back to the table where Joey was waiting, so he could avoid the man.

“You alright?” Joey asked, “I saw you trip.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just got a little light headed for a second.”

“Well maybe I should take both drinks then, if you’re such a lightweight.”

Mark rolled his eyes and took a sip of his, looked back over his shoulder, and saw that the man wasn’t standing by the bar anymore. Had he left? He scanned the room again, and saw that he hadn’t. Hhe was slowly maneuvering through around the room over towards their table. He blushed and looked down, Joey noticed, looked over to see the man coming towards them and scowled. “You didn’t talk to him, did you?”

“No! He was looking at me while I was getting drinks though.”

“Creep,” Joey said, and then shouted at the man, “Hey! We’re not fucking interested. Why don’t you go find a freaky fetish night or something?”

The man didn’t say anything, he just kept coming closer, and when he was a couple yards away Mark felt the same lightheaded feeling wash over him from before, along with that odd smell. He slumped in his chair, though he tried to remain upright and push through whatever this strange feeling was. “Your friend doesn’t look like he’s doing too well. I just wanted to make sure he was doing alright, after I saw him trip,” the man said.

Joey scowled at him, “He’s fine, why don’t you go hit on someone who’s interested?”

“He doesn’t look so good to me.”

“I’m good, I’m…good…” Mark said, pushing himself back upright as best he could. While he was lying to himself at first, he was actually feeling a bit better, though he still felt…a little off. Not woozy, exactly, but like he was a bit high. “I just…feel a bit weird is all, I think.”

“Do you want to go home?” Joey asked.

“No, I think he wants to stick around, don’t you?” The man said, coming around to stand at the edge of the table between Joey and Matt.

Matt was worried, and he didn’t feel good. He wanted to go home, or at least go outside for a bit of fresh air, but instead of saying so, he said, “I…yeah, I want to stick around, I think.”

Mark could see Joey was annoyed that he’d sided with the stranger over him, but that hadn’t been what he’d wanted at all. He tried to say so, but everything was still drifting a bit sideways. “I really think we should go,” Joey said, and he stood up, “Thanks for your concern, whoever you are, but I think I know what my boyfriend needs more than you do.”

He came around the table, the man watching as he helped Mark up from the table. It was a bit difficult keeping his feet under him, so Joey had put an arm under him to help keep him steady. “Did you fucking take something?” he muttered to him as they walked away.

“No! No, I didn’t take anything, I just…I’ve never felt like this before. I think I just need some fresh air.”

In the Doghouse (Part 4)

CW: Scat, Filth, etc. Read at your own risk.

“Yeah, that’s the kinda Faggot I wanna see, good fuckin’ Faggot…” Gage said, petting Carson’s head, and the pride he felt sickened him, but he didn’t stop. After a couple of minutes, he pushed Gage off, and heaved himself up from the recliner, dropped his filthy briefs and bent over the side, still stroking his cock, “Come on ya fuckin’ dogboi–time tah earn yer fuckin’ keep. All dogs love sniffin’ ass, ‘n yer no fuckin’ exception–’n yer Master loves cummin’ with a tonuge in his hole.”

Carson whined and tried to fight it, tried to deny it, but he did as Gage ordered, walking behind him, giving his filthy crack a sniff, and then started licking it. It was filthy, and obviously Gage hadn’t wiped well, if at all, but to his tongue, the filthier it tasted, the more he wanted it–something Gage didn’t stop reminding him of, “Yeah, how’s it feel Faggot? Ya like bein’ trapped in that nasty fuckin’ dogboi body? Don’t worry–ya’ll break eventually. Won’t even have tah collar ya in a few months, ya’ll love what I do tah ya–all of it–ya’ll be beggin’ me fer more!” Gage laughed, bore down and let out another fart, but to their surprise, a bit of shit came with it, spattering Carson’s face. He gave a snort and shook his head, trying to get it off him, but Gage just laughed some more. “Git used tah it, ya dumb mutt! Lick it up, lick it up ‘n enjoy it–ya love yer master’s nasty shit. Git back in there ‘n dig deeper. Yer Master’s close, Faggot.”

Carson licked up the shit, trying not to think too hard about how he enjoyed the taste, and then dug in deeper, probing Gage’s hole with his tongue, muzzle open wide, and listening to him moan. The sooner Gage came, he told himself, the sooner this part would be over. He licked harder, and after a couple of minutes, Gage gave a few grunts and his cock exploded all over his hand and the side of the recliner in front of him, and he panted for a moment before hefting himself back up, and pulling up his briefs. “Clean it up, Faggot. Ya’ve earned it.”

Carson licked up the cum from Gage’s hand, and then cleaned up the side of the recliner, at least happy to not have his face buried in Gage’s ass for a moment…even if he had enjoyed it. No–he shook his head. It had felt good, but he hadn’t enjoyed it–he had to keep those things separate if he was going to stay sane.

“Woowee,” Gage said, “Tuckered me out a good bit. Think it’s time fer a nap,” he said. “Still, ya gotta git in yer pen for a while, Faggot. I don’t trust ya unsupervised ‘round the house just yet–pro’ly piss on the rug tah spite me.” Gage forced him back out into the dogrun, but before locking the gate, he filled up Carson’s bowl with another load of piss, hocked in some tobacco spit, and then returned to the house. Alone again, Carson paced the dogrun looking for a weak spot to try and escape, but saw nothing…and he was thirsty. Washing his mouth out with piss seemed the best option available, but in the end, it only made his whole mouth taste even worse. The sun was hot, and the only shade available was the doghouse, so he retreated, curled up, and fell asleep.

Carson woke up a couple hours later, and saw that from the light outside, it must be approaching evening. He crawled out and looked towards the house, but didn’t see any movement inside, and none of the lights were on–either Gage was still asleep, or he’d left to run errands. In any case, he needed to try and escape. More than anything else, though–Carson needed to shit, and quick. There was no easy place to do it, so he picked the corner furthest from the doghouse, humped up as best he could, and dropped a massive load of stinking shit next to the fence. He hated that he enjoyed the scent of it, but he ignored it and focused on trying to climb the fence instead. However, his body was still too unfamiliar to him to make it work–and the fact that he’d packed on close to a hundred pounds over the course of the morning didn’t help either. In the end, he was left panting, exhausted, and he walked over to the bowl, pissed into it with a bit better aim than before, and took a drink.

He hated that this seemed normal, after just a day. He hated that he was actually enjoying this. He sat down and rolled his back legs up, looking back at his cock where it had slipped out of his sheath, and realized that with his shifted body…he could lick it himself. He did, tasting it, and he kept licking it, enjoying the sensation as the first real pleasure he’d had since entering this house a day before, but he was interrupted by the sound of the back door opening and shutting. “Enjoying yerself Faggot? Like the taste a that dogcock?” Gage said, “Might have tah bring a few other mutts ‘round fer ya tah play with if ya do.” He quickly uncurled himself as Gage unlocked the dogrun. “Come on in mutt–time fer dinner.”

Carson followed him inside, and the smell of food on the air was heavenly. Gage must have been out shopping–he saw a whole chicken on the table, still steaming–probably from a supermarket deli. “Stop slobberin’ mutt–that ain’t fer ya, ‘n ya know it. “Besides, Master always eats first–but ya can make me happy while I do, right mutt?”

Carson spent the meal under the table, licking at Gage’s nasty feet and licking at his cock–whatever Gage wanted him to do, really, licking up the grease and spit that fell from his mouth as he ate onto his huge belly, sniffing the farts and belches Gage let off regularly. When he finished, Gage pushed back with a final belch, and hefted himself up. “Alright boy–time fer yer dinner,” he said, and walked over to a metal bowl on the floor, squatted over it, and with a few grunts, started dumping shit into the bowl right in front of Carson’s snout. “See mutt? Ya git all the tasty food too, ya just git it the second time ‘round. Still, we both know how the taste ‘n smell a Master’s shit makes ya hungry ‘n horny, right Faggot? Ya dirty fuckin’ dogboi?”

He fought–he fought hard. He’d done it earlier, but he hadn’t imagined that shit was going to be his main food from that point on. Still, his slobbering muzzle eventually found its way to the bowl, and he started scarfing down Gage’s shit, while the big man laughed beside him. “Fuck yeah, ya nasty faggot…” He got down behind Carson, and with a yelp, he felt Gage grab his hips and shove his hard cock into his ass, “Yeah, keep eatin’ ya fuckin’ mutt! I wanna fuck ya while I watch ya eat mah warm fuckin’ shit. Fuck, look at ya, ya fuckin’ shameless beast. I’m gonna love watchin’ ya fight, ‘n ya better fight hard, cause when ya finally give in, when ya finally accept the fact that yer nothin’ but a filthy, disgusting mutt–fuck, that’s gonna be a real sweet sight…”

Gage kept fucking him even after he’d finished his meal, but came soon after, filling his ass with a load of cum before pulling out, leaving Carson panting and whining, tears running down his face. “Aww, don’t cry boy, here, we can make ya feel better, right? Roll o’er boy.”

Carson rolled over, legs up, cock hard and slimy against his belly. “Yeah, I can make good dogboi’s like you feel real good…” Gage said, squatted down over him, and pressed his filthy ass to Carson’s muzzle. He licked up the shit caught in his cheeks, while Gage started tugging on his dog cock roughly, telling Carson what a treat it was to be jacked off by his Master, that it’s the only way a nasty dog like him can cum. With a yelp, his cock released a huge load of cum all over his belly, and Gage praised him, telling him he was a good shit eating mutt. “Yeah, yer gonna see, mutt. Yer gonna be real happy here ‘fore too long. Hungry all the time, beggin’ yer master fer shit–ya ain’t never gonna git enough, but that’s how I want ya–desperate, hungry, ‘n always horny fer yer Master.”

He made Carson clean up the floor, and then shooed him back out into the now dark yard for the night, locking him back up in the dogrun, and Carson…he was numb. He’d cum with his tongue deep in his Master’s hole, and worse…he wanted to do it again, so badly. Even worse than that…he was hungry again, and it was only getting worse. He caught a scent on the air, and saw his now cold shit in the corner of the dog run. Trying not to think about it, he walked over and ate it as quickly as he could…and only after did he realize he hadn’t heard Gage go back into the house.

He looked back over his shoulder, muzzle still covered in his own shit, and saw Gage leering at him on the steps. “Good boy,” Gage said, and went back inside.

He could still fight this, Carson told himself as he settled in for the night, a bit more comfortable than the night before with the extra padding of his new weight. He could fight him–he knew it. But he wasn’t sure he wanted to fight him, not really, and that, he realized, is why he was already lost.

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.

In The Doghouse (Part 2)

Gage grabbed the receiver. “Yeah, 911 right? Fuck yeah I got a fuckin’ emergency, two fucking guys just walked by mah fuckin’ house. Looked like they were casin’ the joint tah rob it.”

Carson went to shout so he’d be heard on the other line, but rather than words, what came out of his mouth was a long, and very loud, howl.

“Hey!” Gage shouted at him, “Hush you stupid fucking dog, I’m fuckin’ talkin’ tah the nice lady.”

In horror, Carson brought his hands to his face, and realized what had happened. Where his mouth and nose had been a second before, there was now a furry muzzle. He ran his hands along it, opened his mouth and felt his long tongue and sharp teeth, his new black nose that he could see when he crossed his eyes–he tried to speak again, but what came out were a couple short barks.

“Dumb fuckin’ mutt,” Gage said, and stomped over, wrapped his arm around Carson’s shoulders and pulled him closer, towards his armpit. When he did, the same stench as before washed over him, but this time it was both a hundred times more powerful to his new nose, and it also smelled amazing. Unable to stop himself, he started licking at Gage’s pit, who helpfully raised his arm up over his head, giving Carson full access it.

“A description? Didn’t git a good look at their faces ‘r nothin’. They were dressed like a couple of thugs though.”

This was insane, Carson thought, he had to stop this. He tried to push himself away, but his new mouth refused to cooperate.

“Nah, I didn’t see ‘em doin’ a crime, but they fuckin’ looked like it–ya can see it in the fuckin’ eyes, ‘n they took off when I yelled at ‘em! Guilty fuckin’ conscience.”

He was so close–so fucking close to the receiver, but he couldn’t do anything, he was fucking helpless.

“Whatever, if ya ain’t gonna do nothin’, then just fuckin’ say so!” Gage said, and slammed the receiver back down, and turned to Carson. “That was a very bad dog, ya made me have tah go and lie tah that nice lady, ya stupid mutt. We’re gonna have tah make sure ya don’t get intah any more trouble while yer livin’ here, that’s for sure.”

Carson whined, still unable to pull his face free of Gage’s stinking pit, but the man shoved him back a step, reached out, and grabbed both of Carson’s hands on his own. This time, he could see, as well as feel, the change ripping through them, as his fingers shrank, his nails growing longer and turning black, brindle fur running up his forearms to just below his elbows, wrist bones cracking and reforming. He looked at his helpless mitts and whined again, pleading with the man to let him go. Gage just grabbed the neck of Carson’s shirt and tugged it off him, letting his revealing his small belly and hairless arms. Carson tried to push past him and run for the door, no longer caring what he might look like, but Gage tripped him and he fell flat on his face. He knelt down behind him, tugged down both of Carson’s socks, and gripped his ankles, the same stomach churning sensation running from his toes to his knees.

Carson didn’t dare look back, he didn’t want to see. Scraping his new front claws against the linoleum, he tried to pull his knees under him so he could stand back up, but his leg refused to bend. All he could really manage was to push himself across the floor on all fours, while Gage just laughed behind him, spraying dark spit as he did. “Come on dogboy, yer on all fours fer good now. I thought a smart faggot like ya can figure it out, right?”

Out on the carpet, where he had better traction, Carson did, in fact, manage to get up on all fours, but it felt…precarious. His front paws were certainly happy, and wide enough to support him, but it felt like he was standing on his back toes, ankles up, his knees off the ground with his ass thrust a bit high. Looking under his body, and trying to ignore the sight of his slimy cock, still erect and hugging his belly, he saw two dog, toes wide with the heels lifted. From there, the leg bent twice, down at the ankle, and then back at the knee, but both sections of his legs looked…shorter. He doubted they’d be able to support his whole weight, even if he could bend them in the right direction. Still, he walked to the door as best he could, Gage following along behind, watching him. He got to the door and pawed at the knob, but there was no way his paw could get enough traction on it to open it–he was stuck.

“It was a good try, faggot, but yer mine now. Still, we gots a few more details tah sort out, right boy?” Gage gave a sharp tug on Carson’s ears, and with a jolt they shifted up to the top of his head, grew longer and flopped over, covered with the same brindle hair as his muzzle. With a touch at the base of his back, he groaned as a long tail pushed it’s way out, above his ass, and started waving to and fro against his will. “And lastly,” Gage said, running his hands over Carson’s back, he felt a million tiny pricks as fur sprouted all over his back and down over his ass cheeks, but without changing any of his body. “And now, while it’s been fun lettin’ ya struggle, I think we need ya nice ‘n obedient, right boy?” Gage said, and took a leather collar from the coat hook by the door–in the light, Carson caught a glint of the tag, which read in capital letters the word “FAGGOT”. Carson tried to get out from under him, but Gage wrapped it around his furry neck and latched it. “Now sit, Faggot!”

Against his will, Carson dropped his ass to the floor, his odd legs tucked up underneath him, tail still wagging, and sat back, looking up at Gage looming over him. He tried to move, tried to move his paws to try and get the collar off, but he couldn’t change position, not until Master said.

Master? No, no fucking way was this disgusting fat bastard going to be his Master!

“Much better, ‘n a good name fer a nasty dogboy like ya–now, I was going to have some fun wit’ ya tahnight, but ya’ve been a real bad boy–I think ya’ll have tah go tah bed without dinner, ‘r yer bone. Now go on–out in the yard ya dumb mutt.”

He tried to fight it, but his body refused to cooperate–he followed Gage out the backdoor and into the dogrun, Gage padlocking the door shut behind him, and Carson started barking, anything to get someone’s attention.

“Now stop that! Be quiet, ya mutt–ain’t nobody gonna find ya back here, trust me. Be good, ‘n I’ll see ya in the mornin’.”