A Dog’s Tale (Part 6)

He held out as long as he could. For a while, just having the gear was enough for him to feel better–even his performance at work improved, though he still found it difficult to care about any of it. He would get done, rush home, and spend a few hours in the gear Joel had given him, parading around, doing tricks, fantasizing about a…Master coming home to find him there, and he’d greet him like a good boy and suck his cock. He kept the mask on all night, even when he had to go back to doing human things, like making dinner, or doing chores around his apartment. It was hard to look at himself without it on, in fact–he just felt so ugly when he had to look at himself. It was no longer a face he could ever want to have, for the rest of his life.

In time, this became failed to satisfy–mostly because he found himself longing for something he imagined every dog must long for to some extent–he wanted an owner. He wanted a master. He wanted a man who would come home, like he imagined in his dreams–who would play with him, and feed him, and fuck him, and go to the dog park with him. That’s what he really wanted, and thinking about it while he jacked off with his paws, it felt so empty–his life felt empty. One night, when he’d had too much to drink, he asked an old boyfriend to fuck him while he was in gear, but the guy called him a freak and blocked him. No one from his life would understand this–no one except one. He knew where Joel was–why wasn’t he going to him?

One Saturday, he decided he’d go and see what the place looked like. Strangely enough, he couldn’t find anything about the place on the internet, and he worried that Joel had been leading him on just to make him suffer. He went to one of his regular bars instead and after a couple of drinks he asked the bartender about it, and the man grew quiet. “Look, if you’re smart, you’ll stay the fuck away from that place. It’s a fucking freakshow, trust me.”

He pressed the young man for more details, but he seemed…a bit shaken. Still, he managed to get directions out of him, and after chugging down the last bit of his drink, he grabbed his bag from the coat check and headed over to Pigtown, which it turned out was just a few blocks away, towards the area of the neighborhood which dissolved into the industrial and warehouse district. Sure enough, there it was–how had he never even heard of the place before? He buzzed the bell, and was a bit worried when it didn’t open right away, and he saw a camera in a corner of the doorframe. Were they inspecting him for some reason? Still, he heard the lock click and he slipped inside, and found himself in an antechamber with a coat check and benches lining the walls.

“Put on your gear, boy. Joel’s at the bar, waiting for you.”

The huge man at the window had spoken to him with a grin, and he froze–how did he know about him? He went to speak, but the only thing which crossed his lips was a bark, making the man laugh. “You’re new here, pup, so you’ll find out this bar ain’t like the rest. You are who you are here–and what you are is a dog. Now gear up or get out.”

He’d come this far, and the way the man was speaking to him…he liked it. He stripped out of his clothes quickly, and got into the gear Joel had given him. As soon as he did, he found himself on all fours and unable to stand back up–the man behind the window came out and collected his discarded clothes for him and took the bag behind the counter.

“I’ll hold this for you, if you still need it when you leave. Get goin’ pup–don’t keep your friend waiting.”

He crawled down the hallway and found himself in a narrow bar. It was poorly lit, and he couldn’t see the end of it, where it led into darkness–the darkrooms, he supposed. Joel was there, however, dressed in leather gear. He grinned around the stem of a pipe when he saw the dog crawling up to him, panting and whining a bit in stress–but he settled down after a pat on the head and a taste of Joel’s cock under the bar. Other people came and went and quite a few made comments–a few just laughed at him, but a couple treated him the way he wanted to be–telling him what a handsome pup he was, and offering to give him a belly rub if he did a trick or two. It made him so happy, knowing that people could see him for what he really was. When Joel clipped a lead to his collar and started walking into the back room, he didn’t have any second thoughts about following along beside him, panting and grinning and swinging his tail to and fro as he crawled.

He lost track of how many men he serviced that night–but he no longer could say no to anyone, if Joel told them it was alright to play with his pup. He spent most of the time with dicks in both his mouth and tailholes, and while it hurt, and he didn’t…want to enjoy it, every time Joel told him he was a good boy for doing what he wanted, he couldn’t stop himself from feeling overwhelmed with happiness. He was a good boy. He was making his master happy. Those thoughts were simpler, and stronger, than the human doubts and fears he was having–at least until Joel took him back to the bar early in the morning, and left him there, telling him he’d be there next week if he wanted to play some more.

It crushed him in ways he could barely express. Hadn’t he done well? Hadn’t he been a good boy? Could he have been better? Didn’t Joel want to keep him, take him home? Why had he done this to him, and shown him these feelings, if he didn’t want to take any responsibility for it? He crawled after him, but by the time he’d changed back and could speak, Joel was gone, and he was alone, and the humiliation was crushing him on the sidewalk.

A Dog’s Tale (Part 5)

It was at this point that Fido paused in his story, looked down at my lap, and licked his chops–I mean, his lips, or whatever. I followed his eyes, and was disturbed to see that his rather detailed description of his first time in gear had, for some reason I couldn’t quite explain at this moment, given me a massive erection in the front of my pants. But that…I knew I shouldn’t be turned on by this. Fido had, as the story progressed, gone from a mere curiosity to someone much creepier. Why in the hell was I even still listening to him? I needed to get home, I had work in the morning, but more than anything, I didn’t want to have to listen to the fucker’s strange ravings anymore. And yet, even as I tried to stand up and head for the doors of the train, my body stayed right beside him. He reached out with one hand, stuck in the paw of the suit, and groped my crotch, whining a bit.

“Don’t worry master, I’ll help you out soon, once we get home. Then I’ll be your pup. I’ll be a really good pup, I promise. I can’t wait to be…me again.”

“No–No, fuck you, I don’t know what your fucking shit is, but I’m fucking done with you.”

It took all the will I could muster, but I did, at last, lurch up to standing and squeeze through the people on the train towards the door as we approached the next stop. I didn’t care if Fido was following me or not–I’d get away from him somehow, or at least find some security guard or police officer to get him to stop fucking harassing me. I got out on the platform–one I couldn’t remember ever seeing in my life–where in the world was I even?

“Master! This isn’t our stop!” Fido shouted, but I just headed for the stairway out–I needed some fucking air, I needed to get away from this crazy fuck. As I hurried off, I passed a map of the subway system, and realized I had somehow gotten on the complete wrong train, heading in the opposite direction from my apartment. Instead, I was heading towards the rundown section of town, mostly occupied by small apartments where the lower class workers and laborers tended to live. I should turn around and head for the trains, but that would mean passing Fido…and all I knew was that I needed to get this fuck away from me, but he caught up to me soon enough.

“Sir, I don’t understand, why did you get off?”

“Please, just fucking leave me alone!”

“But I haven’t finished my story yet–I haven’t even gotten to the good parts!”

I turned on him, and screamed in his face, “I don’ wanna hear anymore a yer fuckin’ story, ya fuckin’ mutt!”

Something was wrong again–my voice…that wasn’t how I was supposed to sound, was it? I felt dizzy and a bit lightheaded, and as I turned around, I saw people staring at me–at me, like I was the crazy fuck, and not the fucker beside me in the fucking costume.

“Why’s he yelling at his doggy, mom?” said a little girl passing by, but her mother just shushed her, gave me a wary look, and pulled her along.

“I’m ain’t fuckin’ crazy…he’s the crazy fuck,” I muttered, but Fido just tapped at my hand with his.

“Let me finish the story sir, and everything will make sense, I promise.”

“No, I don’t fucking want to listen to anymore of this crap,” I said, quieter so only Fido could hear, and kept walking, until I passed an advertisement on the subway wall behind plastic–letting me see a translucent reflection of myself, and what I thought I saw–it couldn’t be right. My body…I could remember it not looking quite right before, but now I seemed even more off–my gut even more pronounced, and I seemed to have lost another couple of inches of height…but now, there were new differences. My usually clean shaven face was covered with a thick beard, one that looked like I’d been growing it for years, and my head was completely shaven. Almost worse, my perfectly tailored suit was gone, and replaced by a pair of grungy, hi-viz coveralls, the kind worn by guys in construction. I didn’t even fucking look like me anymore, I looked–and sounded, I realized–like some lower class, uneducated grunt. Then Fido caught up with me, and in the mirror…in the mirror, I didn’t see the man in the suit, no, what I saw was…was a dog. Was my dog, the big fucking mutt, almost to my waist–I turned and looked at him, and he was still standing there in the costume…but what the fuck was wrong with me?

“What the fuckin’ hell is this? What the fuck’s happenin’ tah me? I ain’t supposed tah look like this, ‘n why’s everyone think yer a real fuckin’ dog?”

“Because I am a dog, master–that’s what I’m trying to tell you! See, I thought it was a curse, but Master Joel–he helped me see what I needed to be, and after that first night in Pigtown everything made so much more sense, you see.”

“I don’t wanna listen anymore, I don’t wanna hear any more crazy shit from yer fuckin’ mouth.”

“Come on Master, you’re just cranky because you haven’t smoked your pipe in a while. Let’s go sit down outside, you can smoke a while, and I’ll keep telling you my story–how’s that sound?”

I tried to resist, but he just grabbed me by the hand and pulled me out of the station, parked me on a bench, and as he kept speaking, he helped me light a pipe that had somehow appeared in the breast pocket of my new coveralls. I listened, and felt my cock start to harden again, but once I had a nice buzz going from my pipe, I settled down, and groped my cock as my dog described his first night in Pigtown.

A Dog’s Tale (Part 4)

– Fido’s Story Continued –

He had held out hope that, given time, the ache would go away, or at least diminish in scope. After all, who in their right mind would actually want to be an animal! It wasn’t…normal, or natural. He went to a couple of therapists, but the shame of admitting his fantasies and desires to them always led him to abandon the effort after a session or two. He was terrified that talking about it would simply normalize it for him, but he didn’t want it to be normal, he wanted these thoughts…gone. Instead, they calcified, and hardened, and grew heavier. Nothing seemed to be getting better, and he felt like he was stuck carrying around some awful secret, worse than when he’d still been in the closet, because if he told anyone about this…no, he couldn’t imagine what that might even look like.

He still had sex, on occasion, but every instance now was rife with anxiety. He had a hard time getting erect, and the only time he managed to cum with someone else was jacking off while they fucked him doggy style. Thinking about what it would be like to be owned by them. To be their dog, imaging what kind of dog he might even be. He studied breeds in his spare time, thinking about them all–he couldn’t believe how many varieties there even were! In his perusal, he also discovered pup play, and it quickly became his only porn. He…dreamed of trying it out for himself, one day, but would it even be enough, just pretending? He knew it wouldn’t, so then why bother with it? If anything, it would probably just make his ache worse.

He had less and less sex, as the months wore on, and spent more time at the park, and several other dog parks around town. Should he get a dog himself? No, he’d just be jealous of the mutt, and that wasn’t fair. He went on a few dates with guys he knew who had dogs, just…to be around the entire dynamic of master and pet. He’d get a vicarious thrill, just being there as they walked the dog, or played catch, but even that stopped scratching the itch soon. The dreams grew more intense, and some days he would wake up and just cry for an hour, before being able to face work. Something was going to snap–but he didn’t know what, or when, or how.

It was a relief, in a sense, when Joel surprised him, and sat down on the bench beside him at the park one afternoon. He’d gone through the entire summer now, and as fall and the rains were approaching, fewer and fewer pups were out to watch. He begged Joel to fix him, that he was sorry for what he’d said and done, but he didn’t know how he could live with this, with himself. He’d been thinking of suicide, he lied, but he also thought it might become true soon enough. Joel just listened, and it was only after a few minutes that he noticed the older bear had a wrapped present in his lap, and he stopped speaking. Joel noticed where his attention had gone, and smiled.

“For you,” he said and handed him the package, “Be a good boy, now. Maybe I’ll see you this weekend.”

“Be a good boy.” His cock was rock hard at the words, and he whined, unable to help himself. Joel just chuckled, then stood up and went on his way, whistling, leaving him there on the bench, clutching the gift, hands shaking. He should throw it in the trash. He should throw it in the trash, and then go back to work–he did have to go back to work, didn’t he? Maybe…maybe he didn’t. He went home instead, the package under his arm, and tore into it once he got there, shaking as he pulled the items inside out, one by one. A collar. A buttplug with a dog tail. Mitts for his hands. Knee pads. A pup mask. A collar. He laid them all out, gently, on the floor, like they were deadly weapons, and just stared at them for a long while. Throw them away, he told himself. You can’t give into this, it’s not right. It’s not normal to want any of this.

Two hours later, he was on his hands and knees in front of the mirror, staring at himself in the gear, cock rock hard and leaking cum. Closer–he felt so much closer like this. He’d imagined it would feel like a complete disappointment–but instead he felt so…happy, he couldn’t stop himself from giving a loud bark, rolling over, and jacking his cock with both paws until he shot all over his belly like a good boy, a very good boy indeed. Then came the shame, and he stripped out of the stuff as quickly as he could, and got right in the shower, shaking in anger at himself for giving in like that. He’d throw it all away, that was the only option. He got the box, intending to load it all back in there and throw it right out, when he noticed an envelope in the bottom he hadn’t seen before. He opened it, and read the short note inside.

You can find me at Pigtown, Saturdays and Sundays. Be yourself, pup, and let’s have some fun together.

August Suggested Stories Ready for Download! | Wesley Bracken on Patreon

Hey all! If you’re a patron, you can download the three short stories I wrote this month based off suggestions and requests a couple weeks ago. Below, I have one from last month for everyone to read.

Midlife Crisis

Is this what a midlife crisis is? Les had always imagined them to be something…else. In TV shows, the men in crisis are always so…exuberant. Buying new cars, divorcing wives and dating younger women, but for him it just felt like a crippling depression and a growing confidence that everything he had done in his life had been for nothing. He didn’t want a car, or a boat, or some young thing–he didn’t know what he wanted, but after turning fifty this year it seemed like it had just now dawned on him how…miserable he is.

He should be happier, right? He’d been married to his wife for over twenty years, he had a beautiful daughter who had just gotten married the year before after what felt like an endless courtship, his career was right on track, but there was a hole in his chest all the same. It was a hole he’d always felt his entire life, and it had started aching over the last few months and it refused to stop. But this–he had to stop doing this. He couldn’t keep crying like this.

He wiped his eyes in the restaurant bathroom, hoping they didn’t seem too bloodshot. He and his wife were currently driving to go see their daughter, Kate, and his son-in-law, Gabe, and had stopped to get some food, but he’d…god, why was he crying like this so often now? Everything just felt like too much for him to handle, but there was no one he could talk to about any of it.

“Bad life, eh?”

Les gave a start, and in the mirror he saw a trucker had entered the bathroom without him noticing. “Just, uh, tabasco in my eye.”

“You can’t lie to me man, I’ve been there. I can see it,” the man pulled something out of his pocket, a golden coin, walked over and pressed it into Les’s palm. “This will help. It helped me, it’s helped lots of people before me too. Just pass it on once you have what you need.”

***

He didn’t know why he kept it. No, Les knew why he kept it–it was because he couldn’t get rid of it. He’d tried to junk the worthless coin, only for it to keep showing up in his pocket every time. He done his best to forget his strange encounter, and instead focused on enjoying time with his daughter…but when they arrived, both he and his wife could sense something was wrong. It was a few days later, on the back patio alone with Kate, that she finally told Les what was wrong.

“I think Gabe is cheating on me,” she said, choking back tears, “I…think it’s been going on for a while, before we were even married.”

Les just listened, stunned, as she recounted all of the clues and hints that had led her to this conclusion, and how things only seemed to be getting worse, how he was almost more…open about it, like he was daring her to try and do something about it. She was at a loss, and Les was too. He’d never gotten the feeling that Gabe was the sort of man who would do that, and his first instinct was to disbelieve it. Still, it was clear that something was upsetting Kate, and that tugged at his heart and only complicated the feelings he was wrestling with himself. In the end, he had nothing to offer in the way of help, but she seemed to appreciate him listening if nothing else.

It had to be wrong–he…liked Gabe. He liked Gabe more than any of the other young men Kate had dated before this, and he…well, he doubted Gabe felt the same way, but he considered him to be the son he’d never had. The feelings were complicated, though, and mixed in with the rest of the mess he was in. He covered it all up with a smile through the rest of the evening, finding himself looking over at Gabe, at his wife, at Kate, one hand slipping into his pocket and fiddling with the coin. It was hot, hotter than it should be, and he found himself getting…angry. Angry at Gabe, angry that he’d cheat on his family with…who knew who. He was going to cry again, wasn’t he? He excused himself before it hit and went to the bathroom, locking himself inside, tears falling, coin gripped in his hand.

It was even hotter now, hot enough to feel like it might burn him, but he couldn’t release his fist as hard as he tried. He just…wanted everything to work out. He wanted what he could never have, what he’d wanted for his daughter, what he’d only realized he’d wanted once it was too late. Everything shuddered, or maybe it was just him. The tears subsided again after a few minutes, and he went back out to rejoin the dinner, pretending everything was normal, like they all were.

“Would you join me for a cigar after dinner, sir?” Gabe asked him, catching Les off guard.

“I didn’t know you smoked, Gabe.”

The young man looked at him a bit oddly, “Well, I didn’t, until you showed me, sir.”

Many people had addressed him as “sir” in his years, but never had it sounded like it did when it came from Gabe. He agreed, and while Kate and her mother washed up, the two men went into the garage. It felt natural, letting Gabe light his cigar for him, watching him kneel down in front of him, hands shaking as he unzipped the fly of Les’s slacks, pulled out his hard cock, and started sucking on it, blowing his own smoke over it. Les was terrified, and yet…and yet he wanted this, didn’t he? No–this was…kind of what he wanted, but not really. The coin–had it done this?

But he didn’t want to hurt Kate…and somehow, she knew. Knew that her father and her husband were fucking behind her back, but he didn’t want to hurt her, he didn’t want to hurt anyone. But this–Gabe, he was so handsome, such a good young man, and he would be a much better man for his daughter if he was under Les’s control. So he could become a better husband, and a better father as well…a man more like him. The coin was hot again against his leg, and once more the world shuddered.

The door to the garage opened, and his wife entered, unsurprised by the sight of Gabe sucking her husband’s cock over cigars, and set down a couple glasses of whisky. “Thanks, Evelyn,” Les said, giving her a peck on the cheek.

“I know what you and your boy need, honey.”

“You always have.”

“You two going out tonight?”

“What do you think boy, think you’ve earned a night out with daddy at the leather bar? I’d like to see your…technique. Make sure you’re pleasing my little girl. No cumming though–you save your seed for her, understand? I need an heir.”

“Yes sir, of course sir,” Gabe said, cock leaking in the chastity device he wore for his master and wife’s sake, sucking a bit harder now, eager for a night out on the town with his father-in-law.

Manning Up (Part 7)

I…started fucking with Brock after that, changing his whole look into the kind of man I’d always wanted. I forced him to get a haircut, and gave him a nasty looking mullet, like the one’s from all the 80’s porn I’d always fucking loved, and kept it plenty grungy and greasy. He was so big, it was easier to just buy him overalls and wellingtons for his massive feet, and that’s all he wore from then on–no shirt, not that you could see much of his skin through the thick hair on his chest, arms and back. Still, I insisted on the tattoos anyway. Brock was nervous about it, but…but I turned him onto the idea pretty quick. The pain…I got a bit carried away with that, with making him like it. I liked seeing the welts, and the scars, almost as much as I liked seeing the tattoos peeking through all that hair, but when he saw the first ones, he just turned red and looked away as quick as he could.

In fact, that’s the part I enjoyed the most. I could tell that he hated it, all of it. His body, the clothes I put him in, the hair and the beard, the drinking and the smoking, the fact that every time he spoke now, he sounded like a dumb hick. I’d catch him staring at himself in the mirror, whispering to himself that it was just another couple of weeks, that when he got back to school it would all be back to normal, like nothing had happened. He’d never have to come back here ever again. I heard that, and fuck, it pissed me the fuck off, but I didn’t let on that I’d heard it–instead, I started telling him how much he liked it here. That he liked being stupid, that he liked being a brute, that he liked dressing and looking like trailer trash, that he wanted to smoke cigars like a chimney and get drunk every night, just like me. Yeah, I made him beg me to let him get even more tattoos, made him tell me how hard the sting of the needle made him. I made sure he picked out the sleaziest, most humiliating ones that the local shop was willing to do on him…and we put his new nickname there, across the back of his neck–Brick. Because he’s thick as a brick, and as solid as one too. All the guys on the site called him that. I made him practice writing it at home, a couple hundred times a day. I wanted him to believe it himself. I wanted him to believe it, because if he did, then he’d always need me, and he’d never leave.

He’d marked the day school started on the calendar, and the day before, Brick had the fucking audacity to ask me when we were going to leave–and I told him the truth. I told him he wasn’t going back to school. I told him that he was a liar, that he’d never even gotten through highschool, much the less gotten into college. That he was Brick–not Brock, not some smart guy like that. I told him that his place was here with me, and that’s the way things had to be. Honestly? I expected him to push back, but he just nodded, and then went to the bathroom to cry. I knew I should feel bad, in my mind, but I didn’t…feel shit like that anymore. I wasn’t supposed to feel shit like that, not for some dumb musclepig like Brick. I gave him a couple of minutes to sort himself out, and then ordered him to get out here and clean my dirty hole for a bit–that always helped him feel a bit better, and brightened my mood too. I should have known that wasn’t the end of it though–that a fucker like Brock wouldn’t try to get away with every stupid idea that crossed his mind.

I woke up in the middle of the night with a jolt to the heart, and discovered Brick was gone. I’d gone slack with him, I realized. He’d been paying close attention to my orders, and he’d just…fucking left while I was sleeping. The panic in my heart–I’d never felt anything like it before. Brick was mine–mine! I threw on some clothes, and thankfully the dumbass had left the truck behind and gone off on foot. I did recall forbidding him from driving at some point, so maybe he didn’t have a choice. I got in and headed for the one place he’d try and get to–Hobos, the biker bar outside of town. I’d gotten the ban on him lifted a couple weeks earlier, after I’d shown the owner what a good, obedient fucker Brock could be. I rolled up, stormed in and cracked a couple of heads, but I was too late. He’d hooked up with some grungy biker and made a deal. The man had agreed to drive him somewhere, in exchange for as many fucks as he wanted once they got there.

My fucker, my Brick, had run off with some…fucking biker. Still, I knew where they were headed–where Brick was trying to go. I got back in the truck and blazed out of town on the highway, topping a hundred the whole way, and after an hour, I ran that fucking bike off the road, and sent them both into a ditch.

I raped that biker for an hour, and I made Brick watch. He was a sizable fucker, when I started, but by the time I was through with him, he’d shrunk to around five foot five, weighed around 400 pounds, and was begging me for my piss and cum like a bitch pig. I waved down a trucker and “convinced” him to give the pig a ride in the cab with him, giving the biker his last orders–that he’d spend the rest of his live whoring himself for truckers and bikers on the highways, and make sure he came through town at least twice a year so he could service me–and sent them on their way. Then, it was just me, and Brick.

He begged me to understand. He begged me to take him back to school, to let him go. That if he didn’t get there by dawn, he’d never be normal–we’d never be normal. Instead, I fisted his ass in the ditch for a couple of hours, facing him east, so he could watch the sunrise, and then we got back in the car, and headed back home. Brock’s gone now–probably forever–it’s just me and Brick now. I…I can remember everything too, in ways that I couldn’t before, and honestly? I…I feel terrible, about what I’ve done, about who I am now, but I can’t stop. Neither of us can, now, and honestly? When I have my thick cock buried in Brick’s hole, listening to the big brute grunting around those huge cigars I make him smoke? I can almost pretend that everything that happened was for the best. I know it’s a lie, but that’s all I got. That’s all anyone’s got, I think, the lies we tell ourselves. Still, you asked, right? For the truth? Do you feel better, or do you like the lie better?

Manning Up (Part 6)

I asked the guys at the site what the hell they were all standing around for, acting good for fucking nothing, but none of them could answer me. I told Brock to face the truck and not move, that if anyone went to touch him he’s shout for me, and I started investigating, expecting a trap, but Aaron was still nowhere to be found. I asked about him, and finally I got an answer out of someone, that Aaron hadn’t shown up at all, not since leaving the day before, my cum still running down his legs. I asked them why they hadn’t gotten to work on their projects, and a few of them kicked the dirt.

“We were…waiting for you, sir.”

“Didn’t want you mad at us, sir.”

“Just, after yesterday, we…well, you’re the boss sir.”

I cussed them all out, called them a bunch of lazy fucks, and told them to get to work–they scurried off and double-timed it. I marched into the trailer and started sorting through paperwork–I’d been working with Aaron long enough that I know the basics of his job, and the holes filled themselves in easily enough. It took me close to an hour to realize I had no idea where Brock was, and my heart skipped two beats. I shoved my head out of the trailer, and saw him still standing in front of the truck, staring at the hood, sun beating down on him, sweat pouring down his back. I ordered him into the trailer with me, got him some water and told him he’d been a real good boy for staying just like I’d told him to do, and then told him to get to work with the rest of the guys–but that if a single one of them made a move on him, he’d better come tell me. He nodded, unable to look me in the eye, and squeezed his massive frame out of the trailer.

It was afternoon when Aaron’s Jeep came rolling up, but the man who climbed out…he looked like Aaron, but something was off about him. He looked shorter for one thing, and fatter. I could see that his clothes didn’t quite fit right, his gut hanging out the bottom of his shirt. I ordered his ass into the trailer, and he jumped to obey. He apologized profusely and begged me to forgive him–and then he went a step further, and begged for my cock again. That surprised me, but fuck, his ass had been nice yesterday, and listening to him beg for his job had gotten me hard as a rock–still, I gave him a good beating with my belt for being late before raping both his holes again, and then I dragged him back out and tied him down to a sawhorse out in the yard. As a team building exercise, I made every guy take a turn–all of them were straight, of course, but none of them were willing to disobey. I even let Brock take a turn, though he had a very hard time performing as a top, even with his eight inch cock. I let everyone know that, from now on, Aaron was the bottom rung around here, and that his ass was fair game, anytime and anyplace. That if he refused, come tell me, and I’d set the pig straight. Aaron was terrified, but his stubby cock was rock hard after I said it. I let everyone go home early, and back home…I noticed something, when I went to go have a shower.

Aaron wasn’t the only one who looked different after yesterday. I…I barely recognized myself in the mirror. Six foot one and probably 275 pounds of mostly beef–last time I’d weighed myself I’d been 260 with a pot belly, but my gut had mostly disappeared, with just a thick layer covering a hard core. I had more hair all over, and a good amount of it was turning a bit silver. My scruff had grown into a full beard, my hairline receding slightly–and fuck, I reeked. I took a good whiff of my musk, and my cock started leaking in the front of my jeans. I skipped the shower, and gave Brock a good long fuck instead, and then I sat down with him, and asked him if he’d noticed what was happening to me.

“A bit,” he said, “I…not too much before, but after my dad, and after Aaron…yeah. You…got really fuckin’ sexy, sir. Smell really sexy too.”

“Fuckin’ pig–you wanna sleep in my bed tonight? Your face buried in my pits?”

He nodded, a bit reluctant, but I knew what he wanted–what he needed. I knew what was best for him.

“But sir…don’t forget you promised. You said you’d take me back to school, don’t forget, please don’t forget. I trusted you with this because you’re…good. A good guy. No one else would.”

I’d completely forgotten about it, to be honest, but I nodded. Fuck, it had seemed so long ago at that point, I had a hard time even remembering what Brock had looked like before all of this. Still, I told myself that I had promised…but I had my doubts too. What was a big lug like him going to do at a college? He was too stupid for that shit. Besides wasn’t he happy here? He should be happy here–this is where he belonged, right? With me, with his daddy. With his master.

But this wasn’t me. I kept trying to tell myself that, for the next few days, but it was becoming harder and harder to believe. It just…it all felt so right, you know? It felt right, and I fucking enjoyed it too, I’ll be honest. I could make Brock do anything I wanted, whenever I wanted, and no matter what it was, he’d thank me when I was finished. I…I could have the man I’d always wanted. I hadn’t realized how exhausting it was, being alone like I had been, until I had someone with me. Someone I could trust, someone I could own. I know, it’s fucked. It’s too late now anyway. He’s not a person, not really. Besides, if I let him go now, what the fuck do you think would happen? He’d be dead in a week–if I don’t tell Brick to go to the bathroom, he shits and pisses himself like an animal. You see? I have to do this, for him. Because I am a good guy. No one else would put up with this, not now. I’m the only guy he has left.

Manning Up (Part 5)

The next morning, we talked. It was slow going, because he had to try and dance around whatever was blocking his tongue, and he also didn’t quite have the mental sharpness he’d had before all of this, but I got a better sense of what was going on. It was clear that there were details he couldn’t reveal, but something was indeed happening to him, and it was something relating to college, or someone at college. He told me that I had to promise him, that no matter what happened, I’d take him back to college on the first day of school, at the end of August. We marked the day on the calendar, and I told him I would do as he asked. He seemed relieved, but he was also…still scared, for some reason. It seemed like he was scared of me, or maybe he was just scared of the entire situation. Still, it was only a couple of months–whatever this was, it was strange as hell, but I told him we would get through it together.

But he kept getting worse and worse, as the next few weeks passed by. I would give him lists of tasks to do around the place, like usual, but he wouldn’t follow them–I’d get home and find him masturbating in a puddle of his own piss, or worse, he’d have disappeared. Those were the worst feelings, when I discovered he’d run off. I knew where he’d gone, of course–always the rest area a few miles down the road to suck cock–but every time he went missing, some icy hand gripped my heart. I was afraid that I might lose him. For a few days, I agonized over the possibility that I was falling in love the the lug, but that wasn’t how it felt–it felt more like I’d misplaced something of value–an object, not a person. Was Brock just a thing to me? That should have worried me more at the time, but if anything I felt relieved that I could keep an emotional distance. Still, it was clear that I couldn’t afford to leave Brock alone anymore, for his own safety, of course, and so I told the foreman that I had a friend of mine staying with me, and asked if he could work on the project for a month or so for a bit of cash. We didn’t really need another worker, but he owed me a favor–so Brock started coming with me each day I went to work–but that…well, maybe if I hadn’t, Brock would still be Brock, but I’m past regrets now. I can’t change what I did, so why worry about it?

Like I said earlier, I worked in heavy machinery, so I spent most of the day sitting in the cab of a backhoe. Brock, on the other hand, was going to be a grunt–fetching and carrying and that sort of stuff. For a few days, it all worked out fine, or at least, it seemed to be working fine, until I noticed that I wasn’t seeing much of Brock out and about the construction site. I watched closely the next day, saw the foreman–Aaron–call Brock into the trailer early, and neither of them came out for hours. That icy hand on my heart–it went from fear straight to jealousy. I busted in there and found Brock on his knees in front of my boss, sucking him off, and I was so fucking furious that this fucker was using my fucking property without even asking my permission–I don’t know what the fuck came over me, but I fucking howled at them, tore Brock away, and tackled Aaron to the ground, beat him and rolled him over, fucking his ass raw. Brock tried to crawl away in fear, but I ordered him to just stare at the wall until I figure out what to do with him, and he did, shaking and quivering, but unable to resist the command. When Aaron finally broke down and shot a load onto the floor of the trailer, I pulled out, dragged Brock outside, bent him over a sawhorse in front of everyone on the crew, and fucked him too.

“This thing is mine, you fucking hear me?” I screamed at them, spittle flying, “You wanna use him? You fucking ask. But he’s mine–anyone tries and take him from me–go see what shape Aaron is in, and think fucking twice.”

We left that evening, and I knew I was going to be in deep shit when Aaron got his act together and called the police, but I didn’t care. Brock was trying to talk to me, trying to apologize, trying to tell me that he couldn’t help it, but I didn’t want to hear any of that. I hauled him inside my trailer, made him face the wall and whipped him with my belt for his fucking uselessness, and then fucked his ass again. He couldn’t look me in the eye for the rest of the night–he was terrified of me, but his cock was rock hard all the same. Good, I thought. Let him be scared, and let him be horny. Those two feelings should be married in his fucking idiot head–but mostly fear, He should be fucking scared of me, they all should. If they feared me, then they’d respect me, and my property.

In my head, I knew it should be the other way around–that he should scare me. Fuck, he was six foot four, and probably close to 300 pounds at that point, most of it bulk. He could have beat me easily in a straight fight, but he’d never do that. I could tell, somehow, that he would never be able to hurt me. Sure, I could tell him to hurt someone, if I wanted to, but I owned him, and he knew it. Still, I was waiting for the knock on the door, for one of the deputies to ask about how I’d assaulted and raped Aaron earlier that day–but no one came. The next day, I thought about not going to the site…but I couldn’t let myself appear that weak, right? So I got Brock ready for work and we drove over–a bit late, in fact–and discovered the entire crew just standing around, looking nervous and unsure of themselves. None of them could look me in the eye, and Aaron was nowhere to be seen.

Manning Up (Part 4)

Still, Brock came over a lot, after I bailed him out. I certainly didn’t mind the company, but it was also awkward. I’d try to bring up the sex but he’d end up shutting down the conversation or simply leaving, and so I left it. I also tried to discuss these…changes, or whatever was happening to him, but he clammed up even more whenever that subject came up. I didn’t know what to do about any of it, but I also got the sense that Brock had no clue either–but it was quickly becoming obvious that someone needed to do something, or else Brock was going to end up in jail again, and I didn’t think my uncle was going to be very lenient the next time. But Brock was growing bigger–not simply taller, but every time I saw him he looked to have packed on another two or three pounds of muscle as well. He was constantly horny as well–and whenever he was over at my place he’d start jacking off, staring at me the entire time. I’d tell him to stop, and he would–but I could see how frustrated he was getting, and he’d run off again–but the only place he could go for sex now that he was banned from Hobo’s, the bar, was probably one of the rest areas on the highway. I tried to convince myself it wasn’t my problem, but I was worried about him all the same, and when he showed up on my steps and told me he’d gotten kicked out of his parent’s house…I told him he’d be staying with me. He looked relieved in some ways, but terrified in others, but I needed to keep an eye on him–someone had to, after all.

Still, those first few days living with me–it was a bit of a nightmare. I came home from work and discovered the place was a filthy mess, with Brock at the center of it. He’d lost all sense of hygiene and decorum, so badly that he hadn’t even bothered using the toilet to piss–he’d just done it in a corner of the kitchen. I was fucking furious, of course, and so I’d forced him to clean it all up, and while he was resistant…he obeyed everything I told him to do without question or pushback, and telling him what to do…it felt fucking amazing. Seeing him on his knees cleaning the floor–I spent that whole evening ordering him around. I expected him to hate it, or to yell at me, but he just seemed…resigned, and when I told him to massage my feet, and then to suck my cock…

I tried to tell myself I was just trying to help him get back on his feet. Something was wrong in his life, obviously–probably something with his parents–and I just needed to give him some order and structure to help him get his life back on track. I would give him long lists of tasks to finish while I was at work–usually enough to keep him busy all day, but sometimes I’d still come home to a mess, and make him clean that up too. He…seemed to enjoy those moments, when he’d failed, knowing I’d be pissed at him. I started to wonder if I needed to bring him with me to work somehow, just to keep a better eye on him.

After a week of this, I got a phone call I hadn’t been expecting–it was from my uncle. Apparently, Brock’s parents had called the day before, and reported Brock missing–he’d gone out one day, and simply hadn’t returned home. Because of his erratic behavior, they’d assumed he’d come back, but he hadn’t–my uncle asked if I’d seen him. I told him that Brock was with me, and had been living with me since leaving his parents, but had told me he’d been kicked out. My uncle hadn’t cared for the details–since Brock was an adult, he could live wherever he wanted, and he said he’d talk to Brock’s folks about the issue. I, however, was going to have to have a talk with Brock. I ordered him to sit down, and started yelling at him.

“Why the fuck did you lie to me about your fucking parents?”

He didn’t answer right away, but his face got really red. “Because…My dad. He figured it out, a bit. What he could make me do. But he’s…I couldn’t stay with him. You’re…I want to be with you, sir. I trust you’ll do the right things for me. That you’ll help me figure this out. Help me be…me again.”

“Figure out what? You won’t tell me what the fuck is wrong with you! I’m stuck wondering if I need to put you in diapers, since you seem intent on pissing all over the place. I can’t help you if you won’t tell me what’s wrong and how I can help you fix this, because I’m not a miracle worker, Brock.”

He tried to speak, but the sounds he made…they didn’t sound human, somehow, like his mouth was fighting him. “I can’t sir! I can’t talk about it, but please. You’ll help me. I know you will sir, please. You’re…a good person, not like him. I just have to get through the summer, and get back, please don’t make me go back home, he’ll never let me back out of his sight.”

He got down and started rubbing his beard against my crotch, just the way I liked it. I…had enjoyed this, in some fucked up fashion. I fed him my cock, which he was obviously asking for, and told him I’d do my best–but I wasn’t prepared for Brock’s dad to come roaring up that night, and demand his son come home with him. I settled things quick, with a right hook I’ve always been known for, and sent him home with his tail between his legs, telling him that Brock was mine–and I fucked his hot ass that night, to prove it to both him…and to myself. It was the first time I’d fucked him, and while Brock had seemed hesitant to let me, he also didn’t say no when I told him to bend over the side of the bed–and from his deep moans and clutching of sheets, he certainly enjoyed himself plenty too.

Manning Up (Part 3)

Brock started crying again, and it took me a couple of minutes to get him composed again, before I went and talked to my uncle. The biker didn’t want to press charges, and the bar was happy with a ban and restraining order. He was being extra lenient, since Brock was usually a good kid, but another episode like this, and there’d be trouble. I went back to the cell and told Brock that he’d be getting out, and he didn’t quite seem like he believed me, until my uncle came and unlocked the door.

“Thanks, Hunter,” he said.

“You need to apologize to my uncle too, for the mess you made last night,” I said.

Brock went a bit red in the face, but muttered a curt, apology.

“I don’t think he heard you, and that’s not how you address him, is it?”

Brock looked at me, and I expected him to be a bit angry, but that’s not what I saw–his face was a bit…well, I know what that look means now, but then it just struck me as odd. Then he looked back at my uncle, made eye contact, licked his lips, and said, “Sorry sir, I’m just…a stupid brute is all. I didn’t mean to make a mess. If…or I could…” he obviously wanted to say something else, but his lips went tight and he stopped talking.

“Brock, the whole town knows you aren’t stupid. You just…look, don’t do this again, alright? I’d hate to see you mess your life up kid.”

My uncle gave him a pat on the shoulder, then there was a bit of paperwork after that–and Brock seemed to be a bit flustered and distracted, so I had to help him out with some of it, but within half an hour we were out of the jailhouse, and as soon as we’d gotten into the car, Brock lunged at me in the driver’s seat, and tried to kiss me, but I shoved him back with all my strength. Not that the advances weren’t…wanted, but not there in the jailhouse parking lot.

“Please, sir…I…”

He didn’t know what to say, and with a growl he hauled his own cock out and started jacking off right in my passenger seat, and I could barely believe my fucking eyes. Something was wrong with him, but what? I didn’t know, but at the same time, I admit that I was enjoying the show.

“Just a dumb fuckin’ brute, fuck…stupid fucker…” he muttered to himself as he stroked, “dumb fuckin’ pig, too stupid to do anythin’ right…”

“Brock! Stop for a second, why the–what the fuck is going on with you?”

He wasn’t listening–he just looked at me, and then down at the obvious erection in my jeans, and with one hand reached out and started groping me…and while I told him not to, he could sense what I really wanted. And so there, in the noon sun right in front of anyone walking past my truck, Brock sucked me off for the first time while he jacked off, grunting and moaning and…yeah, it was confusing as all hell, but I didn’t let that stop me from finishing. I came pretty quick, and when he got a taste of my cum, he shot as well, a massive load all over the dashboard, and he pulled off, a big grin on his face–but I’m just…well, I didn’t know what to say, so I muttered a thank you, but I don’t think he heard me.

He was looking at the cum he’d shot all over the dash, licking his lips. “Fuck, sorry sir, I can clean that up,” he said, and started wiping up the cum with his hands and eating it down.

“It’s alright, the truck has seen worse shit,” I said, but he kept on going, obviously enjoying himself. But like a switch, he stopped in the middle of sucking cum from his hand, wiped it off on his shirt, and just…froze, his eyes looking a bit…weepy.

“Brock…are–look, I know something’s wrong, but you gotta talk about it.”

“Sir–I mean, Hunter, I…” he turned away towards the window, and he got…small again, somehow. I felt that same…urge from before, to protect him and take care of him, but it was stronger. “I can’t…it’s part of it.”

“Look, you’ve had a rough day. Do you want to go home?”

Brock shook his head.

“Well, why don’t you come over to my place for a bit then? We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

He was torn–hell, I was too, a bit, but I was also…enjoying this in a way I couldn’t quite explain. Nothing else happened that day, or that night when he stayed over, but the sex lingered between us. I could smell it on him, and he kept looking at me, and every time he called me sir…by accident or not–my cock got hard again. I was still having a difficult time believing that this was the same Brock I had known my entire life–he just seemed…so different, in so many ways. I wanted to have sex again, but I knew it wasn’t right. He wanted to have sex again, but was terrified of what that might mean. He left early the next morning to head back to his parent’s place with some sorry excuse in tow–not like his parents, like the rest of the town, hadn’t already heard about his escapade by that point. The town isn’t exactly known for being tight lipped.

Pigtown Prison (Part 6)

“Fuck Rod, you know I’ll do anything for you,” Keith said, “I’ll keep the fucker nice and safe.”

“Yeah, it looks like he already knows how to treat you right, boy–but I don’t really think that’s enough, do you? No–I think you owe me and the boys a little something tonight, don’t you? You ran out on us so quick before, we didn’t get a chance to play with you at all. Besides, no lawbreaker can go out in the real world looking all pretty like you do now–no, I think you’re gonna have to have a whole new look, just like Keith here,” Rod paused a moment, and crouched down so he could look Oliver in the eye, “But after tonight, Keith ain’t gonna remember anything about who he was, or who you were to him. You’re just going to be his worthless fucking prison slave, and he’s gonna be a hotshot motorcycle cop. But you–you’re gonna remember everything. You’re gonna have plenty of time to think about all of the mistakes you made, you fucker, and you’re never gonna have a chance to cross me ever again, I can promise you that.”

Rod spit in his face, and then grabbed Oliver by the collar and dragged him towards the back of the bar, into the dark rooms where countless men were waiting for them. He wasn’t prepared for it to hurt as much as it did, but Keith enjoyed watching every moment of it–his slave raped and tortured and changed by Rod and his men. It was payback–he knew it…but he found it harder and harder to recall what the fucker had actually done to him. In any case, it didn’t matter–Rod had sentenced him to life in prison (with a chance of parole, if Rod thought of some better fate for him later), and Rod was the boss, after all. It was shortly before dawn when he dragged the slave back out into the air, shivering and shaking and flinching at the slightest sound, naked aside from a heavy metal collar riveted shut around his neck, and a metal chastity cage around his cock, similarly sealed forever. Keith locked him in the trunk of his car and drove to a home Oliver had never seen before. In the basement, he found a fully equipped dungeon along with several prison cells–Keith shoved him in one and locked the door behind him, before marching back upstairs and abandoning Oliver in the dark.

It wasn’t until a few days later that Oliver finally had a chance to see what had happened to him in Pigtown. He…couldn’t recall much of it, beyond the excruciating pain Rod had put him through, the ants crawling just under his skin for what felt like hours. He lived in the cramped cell–really more of a cage–and only saw Keith twice a day when he was fed. At last, Master decided to take him out for a bit of play–he bent him over the horse and fisted him for close to an hour, before fucking his sloppy hole–and the whole time, Oliver could look in the mirror and see what had been done to him.

Gone were his twinky good looks and his lithe, muscular body. His arms and legs had shrunk, looking a bit stick like, and he’d grown a substantial gut where his tight abs had been at the beginning of the night. In contrast to his weakened body, the rest of his body had taken a thuggish turn–from the tattoos covering his body, to the nose that had been broken several times, and rehealed a bit more formless each time, to the teeth missing when he grimaced, and the head shaved completely smooth. But even the superficial toughness was a fraud–the tattoos, which from a distance looked like gang or prison tatts–were revealed to be nothing more than humiliating words and perverse images when studied up close. Looking at his new face, Oliver tried to push back, tried to deny it, but he could no longer recall who he’d been before all of this, before he’d been judged and imprisoned by his new masters. He looked like a prisoner, he looked like a criminal, someone unsavory and untrustworthy, and before too much longer, he’d even become convinced that this was who he was–truly. That he deserved this. After all, Master Rod was always right, and if Master Keith felt he deserved this, who was he to challenge him? They were law, they were order, and they were right.

He only left Master Keith’s home rarely, and even then, it was only so he could be taken to Pigtown–Rod liked to see him every six or eight months to check in on the slave’s progress, and to test out his holes, and to make sure Oliver still fully understood why he was in this situation at all. His loneliness was interrupted by Master Keith bringing other men into the basement, on occasion. Cops from the precinct who had accepted one of Keith’s invitations to go drinking and had ended up at Pigtown, where Rod twisted them into some pervy muscle slave for Keith’s other sick fantasies. Other lawbreakers Rod had decided needed a sentence in prison with his officer of the law, though they only stayed for weeks, or months, at the most–only Oliver was a full-time resident. As his harem of policemen and prisoners expanded, Keith used Oliver less and less, and soon, he found himself abandoned entirely, his cock achingly hard in its permanent cage. He should have been thankful the abuse was over, but now…now he craved it. He didn’t care how rough it was, he just wanted contact, he wanted someone to use him more than anything. Still, what he wanted no longer mattered; he’d broken the rules, and this was the price he would have to pay for the rest of his life.