The Catcall Curse (Part 2)

Clyde told himself he’d just suck one. Maybe, if he sucked one, the rest of the guys would feel like they’d had their fun, and would leave him alone. He looked around, surveying his workmates’ cocks, sizing them up…wondering how each of them might taste. Eventually, one of the hornier guys made the choice for him. “It’s not a fuckin’ buffet, pig, fuckin’ get to work already!” He said, grabbing Clyde by the hair, pulling so the pig moaned in pain, and then slammed his cock into his mouth. It wasn’t one of the largest, by any measure–just around four inches…but as Clyde sucked, and he started getting hornier, he found himself caught up in a fantasy, that the shaft was growing in his mouth, down his throat, large enough to make him gag and choke, thick enough to stretch his jaw. Thinking about how…how much of a whore he’d feel like, if he was servicing a cock like that.

He was so caught up in his fantasy, that it took a deep thrust by the guy down his throat, forcing a gag out of him, to realize his sudden, unbidden fantasy had, in fact, come true. He didn’t have much time for thoughts after that, he was too caught up in figuring out how to breathe, while still getting the cock lodged as deep in his throat as he possible could, hungry for a load, a…big load, fuck, filling his mouth, running down his chin onto his chest…

The man exploded, his suddenly huge balls constricting and unleashing a blast of cum so huge, and so deep, that Clyde felt the seed push up into his sinuses, burning and making his eyes water as cum streamed out his nose and out from around his mouth, the man still thrusting until Clyde had to pull away, wiping cum from his face, the guy staring down, agog at his now massive cock and huge balls still dribbling cum onto the gravel, and Clyde could only gawk at it, at…at the size of it, and he realized he’d been mistaken. There was no way he could only suck one cock–he…he wanted more. Besides, it was only fair, right? But more than that, the guy’s couldn’t believe the change, and they were all fighting for the privilege of being the next cock in the whore’s magic mouth.

Clyde…kind of lost track, after that. For a while he stayed on his knees, sucking at a near constant clip–and every cock that entered his mouth grew, the smallest ending at eight inches, but thicker than a beer can. His hands were busy too, stroking cocks, keeping the men happy as they waited for their turn, but his brain wouldn’t stop…thinking. Imagining. Fantasizing. Sure, these guys were all hot, but…but they could be hotter. Bigger, of course. Hairier too. Rougher and cruder, beastly musky and stinking of manhood. The men’s combined musk welled up around them all, as their bodies responded to Clyde’s thoughts, their muscles expanding, guts growing heavy and hairy, none of them now less than six foot three, and there was Clyde in the midst of them, trying to juggle all of their cocks, all of their desire, but these new men were impatient. They hauled him up–he was amazed that just two of them could carry him–and he was bent over a sawhorse, the men forming a second queue for his ass. The first one hurt…and he liked that it hurt. He liked being tight, he liked feeling himself being torn apart by their massive cocks, their huge hands gripping his chubby hips tight enough to bruise, listening to them huff and pant and whisper crude nothings in his ears:

“Tightest ass I’ve ever felt on a pig, and plenty of cushion for pushin’–just built to be a slut.”

“Come on boy’s let’s coat the pig in cum, if it likes it so much–gotta make sure everyone knows this pig’s roll in life.”

“Soft and smooth, just how I like ‘em, not a fuckin’ hair to be seen!”

Overhead, on the roof, Jack had positioned himself for a birdseye view of the orgy down below. Yeah, this curse was a strong one–all he’d really planned on was Clyde becoming the new slut of his worksite. If the guys were too busy shouting at him and getting the pig horny, they wouldn’t have time to harass the women passing by–not that any of them would have an interest in women after this. But apparently the curse had collected some feedback–from where he was, he couldn’t tell whose fantasies were feeding it, but he watched the guys go from average looking blue collar guys, to huge brutes, coated with hair, bulging out of their jeans and shirts, all of them strong jaws, heavy brows, and when the wind blew, he could catch their collective musk on the wind, and fuck, it was even making him hard.

Still, the energy was beginning to wind down. All of the guys had taken four or five turns with either of Clyde’s now well worn holes, his fatter, now hairless body crusted with cum. He watched the thought appear in each guy’s mind at the same time, that the pig needed a shower of course. They got Clyde back on his knees and together they spewed their yellow, stinking piss all over him, the pig drinking down as much as he could, thirsty for more, and then the men started to emerge from their sexual haze, stumbling back, trying to process what in the world had just happened to them. That was it then–that wasn’t quite as powerful as he’d expected then…but why was there still a buzzing in the back of his head? Some…thread unresolved?

Indeed, the men in the circle were coming back to themselves, but looking again, it was clear Clyde was not. He was simply delirious with lust, sucking piss from his lip, rubbing it into his body, stroking his tiny cock, gut stretched taut with the men’s massive loads of cum. Had he really not had enough? Or had the curse ensnared him so tightly that even still, it felt he deserved more?

He saw two guys speak for a moment, and then one trotted over to his truck, and start digging around behind the seats. He came out with, what looked like to Jack, as a pair of overalls–probably something for the pig to wear, since they’d shredded his clothes to bits. The guy went over and tossed them to Clyde, probably telling him to get dressed, but in the air, Jack watched them ripple in shift, landing in front of Clyde as a couple pieces of leather. Jack took a deep breath–this had only been the first act then, but what now?

The Catcall Curse (part 1)

Note: For those who have been around long enough to recall the old NCMC, there used to be a wiki section for collaborative story writing. This next story takes place in one of those recurring universes, begun with “101 Curses”, and continuing through a few sequels. I contributed to a few of the stories, but it was always one of my favorites on the wiki. You don’t have to be familiar with those old stories to read this new addition, but I like providing context where appropriate, and I’d recommend reading them just for enjoyment if you haven’t already.

His name was Jack, and he had a unique job–or at least he’d never met anyone else who did anything quite like what he did for a living. Then again, he’d also never met anyone capable of literally cursing anyone before either. Yes, for a…sizable fee, Jack would find the target of your anger, and lay upon them a curse exactly to your personalized request, or at least something along similar lines. It wasn’t always the easiest job, but it was lucrative. This job though, this one was going to be easier at least. A woman, let’s call her Jeanette, walked to work each day, and each day, for the last six months, he’d walked past this construction site, and every day for the last six months, all the guys on the crew had catcalled and heckled her, and she was sick of it. One guy was the ringleader, and always the crudest–Jeanette had thought she’d heard everything, until that fat fucker kept opening his filthy mouth. All she wanted, was for the big boy to get a taste of his own medicine.

That day, Jack hung around, and watched it happen–Jeanette walked past, and once big boy there started on her (he’d thought she was being funny when she called him that, but big boy he was–close to 400 pounds, easily six foot five, and a good chunk of his mass was muscle, from years of hard labor) the rest of the guys on the crew all joined in, jeering and laughing. That was all Jack needed to see—he could feel the power bristling through him, and jolted out of him, right into the big fuck. He didn’t…feel anything, exactly, but he froze for a second, looking like all the hair on his back had stood on end, and then looked around, trying to catch his breath, and Jack felt…a bit wiped. He hadn’t planned on that one being quite so strong–in fact, that had probably been a bit too much. Still, he probably deserved it, right? He texted Jeanette, and told her the curse was on it’s way–in a few days, when he had some solid results, he’d update her and collect the rest of his payment. But he hung around for a bit longer–he kind of wanted to see how this one might play out.

“Lookin’ good though, fatty! Love seein’ that ass of yours shakin’. Wouldn’t mind seein’ it shakin’ while I plow it with my dick!” Luis said from across the worksite.

Clyde blushed again, not that it was easy to see through his beard. “Yeah yeah, you guy’s think you’re so fuckin’ funny…Why don’t you save it for the bitches, eh?”

“Who wants to look at bitches, when we can look at you, piggy?”

The rest of the crew burst out laughing, and now you could see Clyde blushing, even through his beard. What in the hell had gotten into all of these fuckers? Ever since that bitch had walked by earlier, the on they’d been hooting at for months now, the rest of the guys had just been relentless. I mean, everyone on the crew got ribbed a bit on occasion, but Clyde was feeling…a bit uncomfortable. At least, he was feeling something, and he wanted to say in was discomfort. But if it was discomfort, why in the hell did his cock keep getting hard?

“Look guys, the pig’s turnin’ red!”

“That probably means he likes it. You like being called a piggy?”

“Guy’s, just…just stop already, I’m serious…” Clyde said, but one of his hands kept…groping his cock through his jean shorts. He tried to pull it away, but…but it wouldn’t budge.

“What? If you don’t want us callin’ ya a pig, then stop looking like one, ya know? I mean, look at how fucking fat you are. If you don’t want us callin’ ya a pig, then have some self-respect!”

“Please, he’s just playin’ hard tah get. He wants the attention.”

“Fuck guys, is the fuckin’ pig rubbin’ himself?”

“Fuck he is, isn’t he?”

He kept telling himself to stop, but…he couldn’t. He felt so fucking humiliated, rubbing his cock in front of all his workmates, but…but that thought just made him hornier, and he slipped his hand down into his pants, so he could really…grip his cock–except there wasn’t anything to grip, suddenly. He could find his head though, just barely popping out of his fatpad, and so he rubbed that instead, feeling himself shiver in the heat, every eye on him. The guys were…closing in on him now, forming a circle around him.

“What a slutty pig.”

“Aren’t you hot? Wouldn’t you feel better without those clothes on, piggy?”

The guys closed in and started ripping at his clothes, cutting them away when he tried to fight them off, and in a matter of moments he was naked in the middle of the construction site, the rest of the crew laughing at him, pointing at him and his tiny cock, which he couldn’t stop rubbing with his fingers, his other hand twisting one of his nipples.

“Can’t believe we’ve been working with a pig this whole time.”

“You’d never fuckin’ know, would you?”

“Tiny clit on the fucker too, never seen such a worthless piece of meat before.”

“Oh…oh fuck…” Clyde groaned, “Fuck you guys…”

“What, is piggy getting horny? Is piggy gonna shoot a load for us?”

“Go on piggy, show us what a slut you are.”

He tried to stop it, he tried, but he was too close, the cum spurting out of him–dribbling really, onto the dirty ground below him. His knees started quivering, and he he collapsed onto them, mouth open and panting, skin covered with sweat as the circle closed in tighter, and the men all pulled their cocks free from their jeans, laughing.

Requested by Anonymous

These fucking kink festivals these faggots throw, fuck it’s disgusting, but hey, it’s a fun way of ruining a few faggots lives at least. You know, get a few pictures of some of them, and all it takes is some sleuthing on the internet, figure out their day job, and ruin their careers with a bit of blackmail. Heh, there’s one now–look at that old fuck, like anyone wants to see that disgusting body out in the sun. Gotta get a picture of that shit.

*CLICK*

Yeah, sexy old fuck like that, damn–not that I’m much younger than he his. No, wait, what the hell am I even saying? Look, whatever. I’ll just focus on some of these other fags–fuck, look at that one! Parading around in fucking panties, it’s like they’re fucking asking for me to ruin them!

*CLICK*

Yeah, I know how he feels, they’re so fucking sexy, and the way guys look at me like I’m some fuckin’ fairy makes me so damn hard. I…I love coming down here, really feels like I can be myself, let the freak out a bit, you know? Fuck, look that that sexy fucker! Big old gut, hot goatee, smoking that cigar in that leather gear of his! Gotta get a picture of that.

*CLICK*

Fuck yeah, got my old cock so fuckin’ hard, gonna love jacking off to these pictures for the rest of the year! Not like many guys wanna get with a pansy old fat fuck like me, but I’d rather watch and look at pics anyway! Think I might go smoke my cigar and look at these pics for a bit, blow a wad in my panties, and then see if I can find a few more sexy fucks for my photo collection!

Ruining Mr. Fisher (Part 7)

It didn’t feel good. It hurt. But that…that was oddly satisfying. He deserved this, and…and he wanted this. He’d wanted his son for years, and the first time Shawn had raped him, years ago now, he’d fought weakly, secretly happy his son wanted to abuse him. He…loved being abused. It reminded him of where he belonged. Ned shoved a filthy foot in his face and Gerard licked at it, smearing it with blood, but he needed to serve, it was who he was, what he was made to do. Some small piece of him fought, told him this was wrong, this is what Ned wanted, but the sheer force of years of torment and abuse at the hands of them both had made it impossible to think beyond the next beating and rape.

The both of them teamed up and abused him all night long, and by the end of it, the pleasure was back, the pain was so good again, it was the only joy he felt, now that his cock was dead. He…craved it, begged for it, begged for his beastly son to pummel him over and over. He called out of work, and they let him rest, finally, for a few hours, until he was well enough to drive him and his son back to his house, where his son had been living for years now, his father’s abusive master. Gerard did everything his son demanded, both out of fear, and a certainty that his son was his superior–or at least that’s what Shawn and Ned told him. Shawn was generally skilled in his abuse, only leaving bruises where they could be covered by Gerard’s suits at work, returning home after being visited by Ned each night, so he could satisfy his son’s insatiable, sadistic appetites. It was exhausting, his work suffered, but he clung to it, like a waterlogged piece of wood in a storm. Without this office, what did he even have anymore?

Ned, however, kept making it harder, and after that night in his trailer, he was determined that Gerard should be the master of his own fate. His first choice, about a month later, was between becoming addicted to drinking piss, needing it as much as he desired cum, smoke, and alcohol; or becoming his son’s and Ned’s personal toilet paper, desperate to clean out their filthy ass cracks. The piss seemed insane, and he’d already been forced to lick out Ned’s hole once or twice, so he chose an addiction to crack. From that day on, he found it impossible to get by without shoving his face in his son’s sweaty crack after every shit, and he begged Ned for the pleasure of his own crack each day. He found himself more interested in crack than cum too, and would often troll through the bathhouse, waiting for a top to fill a bottom with his load, before swooping in and eating it back out.

The second choice was easier–filthy pits which Gerard would never be able to hide? Or Horrendously loud, disgusting farts? He went with the farts of course–he’d already become rather keen on them, after having his face shoved in cracks on a daily basis–but what Gerard hadn’t counted on was what his own gas would do to him. Everytime he caught a whiff of his own stench, he would find himself compelled to snort up as much of it has he could, making a scene of himself every time, making sure everyone around him in the office knew just how much he enjoyed the smell of his own filthy farts. It wasn’t too much longer after that, that his manager called him into his office, fired him, and had security escort him out of the building, kicking and screaming and raving and sobbing.

He’d lost it. He’d finally lost his job. He’d known it was coming, of course, he’d known that Ned would never let him keep it. But…But he’d destroyed his son for this job. He’d…fought so hard against Ned, to try and cling to it, and it had still slipped from his hands, all the same. Why had he even cared so much about it? Everyone had hated him, had been cruel, even back when he was just fat, calling him Tubby and Fatass to his face. He’d hated it, and yet…it was the last piece of himself, and now, on the sidewalk outside, wearing a filthy suit, he let loose a huge fart, snorted it up, and broke down into sobs, struggling to light a cigar to help him calm down.

he went home, and found his son working out, like always. He’d only gotten larger, his arms so packed with muscle he couldn’t even drop them to his sides. He told him what had happened, and his son beat him to a pump, screaming at him, calling him a disgusting failure of a human, and then fucked his hole. Gerard didn’t fight back; after all, Shawn was right. It was late when Ned arrived–he’d figured out what must have happened when he was cleaning the office and didn’t see Gerard there, his desk cleared out and empty.

“Well Ned? It’s finally come to this,” he said, swinging the medallion in a circle, watching the chair wrap around his finger in one direction, and then the other, “I don’t blame them, really. Hell, I thought for sure they would fire you sooner, to be honest.”

“Please, what else do you want from me? I don’t have anything else, please, just leave me alone,” Gerard said.

“Oh, but Gerard! I can’t just have you be unemployed! You’re far too diligent for that. No, you’re going to have to do something with your life. Still, it might be hard finding a job that would take someone like you, some fat, filthy, cigar and drink addicted fart sniffer cum swiller. I mean, you’d have to be willing to take, well, just about any kind of work, don’t you think? Still, I found the perfect new career for you, and I guarantee you’ll love it. Now hold on, this one’s going to hurt like a bitch,” he said, and shoved the medallion to Gerard’s breast one more time.

Ruining Mr. Fisher (Part 4)

“But dad, I had plans this weekend already! I don’t understand why I needed to come meet some fucking buddy of yours anyway, I could care less,” Shawn said, slouching down a bit further in the passenger seat of his dad’s luxury sedan. “Where in the hell does this guy live, anyway? We’re in the middle of nowhere. I thought you said he was a coworker of yours.”

“He is–he works at the same company as me,” Gerard, Shawn’s father, said. It wasn’t technically a lie. He did work with Ned…sort of. More accurately, Ned had made his life a living hell for the last half of a year. The anticipation of having his cock unlocked however was too exciting, and Gerard felt more cum ooze from his massive balls into his damp crotch.

“Dad…are you alright?” Shawn had noticed his father’s knuckles were white, they were clenching the steering wheel so tight. “This isn’t some nasty boyfriend of yours or something is it? You know I don’t want to meet any of your faggot friends.”

“I’m fine. He’s not…we’re not together, no. He’s just a friend. You’ll…you’ll like him, I promise. He just likes living out in the country, is all.”

“He makes this commute everyday?”

“Yep.”

Shawn was seventeen, and currently attended an elite private school his father paid for. He only saw his massively obese, disgusting faggot father one weekend a month, but that was almost too much for him. He hated his father’s guts, to be honest–he couldn’t believe he was his father actually, this obese fat worthless fuck. Still, he’d insisted Shawn come with him, or he’d tell his ex-wife about those…photos Shawn had on his computer. Finally, after almost forty-five minutes on the road, they pulled into a gravel drive, and pulled up in front of a mobile home. Shawn took one look at the ramshackle single wide, and turned to his dad in disbelief. “Here? This guy lives here?”

“Come on, I’ll introduce you,” Gerard said, and got out of the car, sounding a bit stressed, but Shawn didn’t even unbuckle his seatbelt.

“No–I’m not…this is fucking dumb. Take me home, I don’t care what you tell mom.”

“Come on son, this is important,” Gerard said, and opened the passenger door. “Just…just do this for me, please?”

Shawn just looked up at him, and said, “No.” That one word had settled enough arguments for him in the past with his parents, but just to be cautious, he added, “No, and if you don’t drive me home this instant I’m going to tell mom about this, and her lawyers are going to have a field day. It won’t matter what you tell her, because you’ll never fucking see me again.”

Gerard let out a noise of frustration, and stormed away from the car, “You’re such a spoiled brat!” he shouted, “Just get out of the fucking car.”

The door to the trailer swung open, and silhouetted in the door was a massively fat figure, and some obese redneck tromped down the stairs, “Ya bring ‘em, bitch?”

“Y-Yes sir, he’s in the car, but he won’t get out.”

“Heh, I got it, since a bitch like you can’t control a fuckin’ boy.”

Ned lumbered over the the car door, and Shawn closed it before the fatass could get there, but the guy didn’t seem to care, he just leaned against the glass, with something shiny swinging from his fingers. What…what was that? Some medallion or something? Shawn found himself obsessed with it, unable to look away, unable to do much of anything, actually. Without really knowing why, he opened the car door again, undid his seatbelt and got out of the car, all without removing his eyes from the shiny thing still swinging in front of his face. Distantly, he was aware of the redneck running his chubby hands all over his body, even down the front of his pants, feeling his cock and balls in his underwear, before turning away from him and walking back towards his dad–without the medallion in his eyes, he felt his mind leap forward, and he tried to shout…but he couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t speak, all he could do was stand there like a statue, listening to the redneck talk to his dad.

“Look…I brought him like…like you told me to. Would you please unlock it sir? I…I can’t fucking sleep, it hurts so much.”

“No bitch, It stays locked.”

“But you said–”

“I keep the boy fer the weekend. Come back Sunday night, eight o’clock to pick ‘em up. Then ya git some time out a there. Now drop yer pants, I got a load fer yer ass.”

They didn’t move out of Shawn’s eye sight, and he couldn’t close them, as he watched his dad drop his pants and lean up against the side of the trailer, while the redneck dropped his own pants and with some adjusting of his own fat apron shoved his cock in his father’s ass…and…and it looked like Gerard was enjoying it. It sounded like it too, and he kept begging the redneck to unlock it, to let him shoot. The redneck finished, and when his dad turned around, he saw his father’s cock was…encased in some metal thing, like a cage, but then he had his slacks pulled up again. Without looking at his son, Gerard walked around to the car, got in, and drove away, trying not to think about what he’d just done, and the redneck came around beside Shawn.

“Name’s Ned, boy, but ya don’ git tah call me that. Ya jus’ git tah call me master. Now git in there, ‘n let’s see if yer hole’s as tight as yer bitch father’s was.”

Ruining Mr. Fisher (Part 3)

Needless to say, Gerard began staying late much more often at the office. In fact, he found it impossible to leave until Ned had come through to clean the office, and to find some new way to bring the banker down a few more pegs at a time. It was the very next night that Ned made the banker strip naked in his presence–the fat redneck gave him a hand job and then as soon as Gerard’s cock softened again, forced his cock into a metal cage, and locked it with a padlock. It was a tight fit–immediately Gerard’s cock tried to get hard again, and the pain was excruciating, but he didn’t have a choice in the matter. Ned said he needed to be punished for cumming without permission, and so the cage would stay on until he felt Gerard had earned an orgasm for himself.

Gerard never earned an orgasm, not in the next several months. Most nights, Ned would simply come by the office, looking more and more filthy and disheveled and slobby each day, force Gerard to serve him in any number of ways, and then leave him again. At first, Gerard would do his best to not do anything to make Ned change him further–he was agreeable and wouldd serve him as required…and in some ways he kind of enjoyed it. He’d already found himself making time for himself throughout the day to slip away from the office for an hour or two, so he could go to the porn theaters and shops downtown and suck a few loads from strangers when he got hungry. On the weekends, he would spend the entire afternoon and evening there, drinking cum like a fiend, praying his wife wouldn’t figure out why he was suddenly completely uninterested in having sex with her–not that they’d had sex much at all, in this new life of his. Still, Gerard could only take so much humiliation, and from time to time, Ned’s picking and goading would work. Gerard would start resisting–would yell and scream and swear and try to punch and anything to get back at Ned for ruining his life, and Ned would use his outbursts as excuses to press the medallion to his heart again, and ruin his life bit by bit.

The second week, during his first outburst, Gerard made the mistake of ridiculing Ned for his size and fat body–so Ned shifted his life until Ned himself was a binge eater. His waist exploded in size immediately, and Gerard kept hoping it would stop, as he looked down at himself, but it just kept going, stopping only when he was over four hundred pounds. Not quite as large as Ned, but still, that shut him up. He hated it though–he was hungry constantly, and found that he had to have a snack with him at all times, or he couldn’t function, and the only place he could go for lunch and feel full were all you can eat buffets. After two weeks he broke down, begging Ned to let him stop eating for a bit. Ned took a kind of pity on him. Gerard didn’t stop eating by any means, but suddenly he loved the feeling of his fat body, and found himself fantasizing about becoming even larger. Eating became a challenge, to see how much he could stuff in his face each day, and even though he was disgusted with himself, he couldn’t stop. Worse, the fuller his belly the more turned on he got, but his cock, trapped in a cage, couldn’t be satisfied. Instead, he just ate more and more, driven into a sexual feeding frenzy–usually capping off his meals with at least ten loads of cum from strangers at the bathhouse.

The situation with his wife and son was becoming unbearable however–whenever he was home, it seemed like they were fighting. Two months after Ned first seized control of him, he broke down in tears, on his knees in front of the redneck, begging him for mercy, desperate to keep his family together. The redneck just laughed at him, pressed the medallion to Gerard’s chest, and when it pulled away, he didn’t have to worry about his wife anymore, since he’d been divorced for years. Ned consoled him as he sobbed, reminding him that now he lots more time to spend stuffing his face and sucking cock, without have to worry about hiding it from his bitch of an ex-wife. He still saw his son on occasion–one weekend a month. Shawn hated his father’s faggot guts however, and refused to spend any quality time with him at all, even when he did have a moment of custody.

Still, Ned helped him settle in a comfortable, bachelor lifestyle. Ned gave him a ten cigar a day smoking habit, and made him an alcoholic–helped him realize how silly it was taking a shower every day–or more than once a week. After six months, Gerard was a completely different person–close to over 450 pounds, reeking of sweat, smoke and booze, ill fitting and often unwashed clothing, crusty with food and cum. He’d gone from being the star of the company in a corner office to a low level manager barely hanging onto his job–but he hung on all the same. It was, really, the last bit of himself that he had left.

Then, one night, Ned told him that he’d finally thought of a way for Gerard to earn an orgasm for himself. All he had to do was, when the next weekend came that his son Shawn was staying with him, bring his son out to the trailer where Ned lived in the country, and give him to Ned. If Gerard brought him his only son, then he could get the chance to shoot his first load in months. Gerard refused, at first, until Ned pressed the medallion to a new spot on his body, right over his cock, inflating his genitals to massive proprotions. His cock, which ached already, was suddenly in constant pain in it’s enclosure, and his cum production was so constant that even in his cage he leaked constantly. The pain was too much to bear, and so Gerard agreed–he’d bring Ned his son, for a chance to be free of this pain. He couldn’t believe what he was about to do, but what choice did he have? He couldn’t live like this, and…and it wasn’t like Shawn loved him anyway. In fact, he kind of hated his son, hated the way he looked at him. If he could get a little comfort, then Shawn was a sacrifice Gerard was willing to make.

Making Pigs (Part 2)

The man took another drag off his cigarette, looking like he was pondering something, while the pig kept sucking his cock, fiddling with his nipples as he did. “Still, I suppose we need a name for you, eh pig? I can’t just keep calling you pig, after all.”

That…that wasn’t right. He had a name, didn’t he? It was hard with his mouth glued to the man’s cock, but he twisted his eyes over, to the badge still pinned to the uniform shirt he’d stripped off earlier. Robertson. Something Robertson. And…and he had a wife, and he…he shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t be on the side of the fuycking highway, sucking off a stranger, no…no matter how much he might enjoy it. It took all of his energy, but he pulled himself away–it took so much force, that he ended up falling on his chubby ass on the pavement, which hurt, but the pain only brought his mind back more. “Fuck…fuck you, I have a name, you son of a bitch. My…My name is Robertson, and…and you’re under arrest, you fucking pervert.”

The man took a drag off his cigarette, and laughed. “Pig, you’re no cop–not anymore. Hey–I’ll tell you what. If you can fit in that uniform there, then I’ll let you arrest me, tough guy. Go on, I want to see you try.”

So he tried. He grabbed the shirt, and while he could get it over his shoulders, no matter how hard he tugged, there was no hope that he could possibly button it. Undeterred, he tried with the pants, but his thighs and ass had swollen so large that he couldn’t even get them close to his waist. “They…they fit me earlier. I was wearing them…”

“No pig, you weren’t–you weren’t wearing anything, because pigs don’t get to wear clothes.”

“They don’t?”

“Fuck no–now take those fucking things off, you dumb ass, and give them to me”

Confused, the pig none the less did as the man said, took off the uniform, and handed them to the man, watching as he got out his lighter, set them aflame, and chucked them a few yards off in front of the car. “That ain’t nobody anymore. And that means, you don’t have a name, right?”

“I…I suppose so.”

“How about Porgy? I think I’m going to call you that for a while, and see if it sticks. You like that name, I think. It makes your little, tiny piggy cock leak a bit whenever I call you that, doesn’t it? Just like how it makes you link knowing you’re naked in front of all of these fucking people. You’re one horny pig at this point, I bet–so why don’t we make you cum? Pig’s like you can only cum with a cock in their asspussy though, so you’d better bend over the front of the truck, Porgy.”

Porgy didn’t really…understand much of that, but his puny cock was hard, and he did want to feel that man’s big cock in his ass, really bad. With a snort, he waddled over and bent over the front of the truck, the metal hot on his flesh, ass towards the road. The man got out and came around behind him, sucking on his fingers and getting them wet, before probing around in the pigs hole with two or three, listening to the man’s grunts of pain turn to snorts of pleasure.

“Fuck, I love hairless pigs like you–not a hair anywhere on your body. Nude crotch, nothing in your crack, not even anything on that head of yours,” the man said, watching the hair on the man’s scalp retract, and he palmed Porgy’s head, “Feel’s good, huh Porgy? Good to have a man taking control of you, good to have his fingers in your cunt, good to show the whole world what a fat slut you are?” One last drag off that cigarette, and all that was left was a small butt. “Open up Porgy.”

The pig opened wide–the man snuffed his butt out on the pig’s tongue and then fed it to him, made the pig lick his fingers clean afterward, and took his time lighting another cig, the pig getting antsy, hungry to feel a real man’s cock deep in his piggy hole for the first time, dribbles of precum wetting the pavement beneath him as it dripped from his gunt. With another cigarette, he figured the pig was finally ready for his first proper fuck. He lined himself up and slipped in, the pig’s cunt giving no resistance, and Porgy let loose his first real squeal, bucking back, feeling his entire hole light up with pleasure, with need. This…this was his purpose, this was what he was made for, this is what he needed to to, needed to be. The first orgasm overwhelmed his entire body, his smooth skin shaking, eyes rolling back in his head as cum gushed out of his gunt across the asphalt beneath him.

The man pulled out, and ordered the pig to turn around. Not sure what the man was doing, he felt the man heft up his low hanging apron, and thrust himself inside the pig’s cock cavity. It hurt, feeling the man’s cock pound against his own, and yet…it felt good too. “How does it feel, huh? having a cock so small, being so fat that you might as well be a pussy? That you have a front hole where a cock should be?” The man twisted the pig’s nipples, and felt a second gush of cum flood around out around his cock as he thrust deeper, the pig’s cock shrinking even further up into his body. He pulled his cigarette free from his mouth after a long drag, leaned in and locked lips, feeding the pig his smoke, listening to the car honking behind them, the sound of tires grinding along the shoulder behind them. He looked up after the kiss, and saw a second pig climbing off a motorcycle and coming towards them. He hadn’t really planned on collecting two pigs today, but he wasn’t about to turn another one down, if they were coming to him.

Making Pigs (Part 1)

“Sir, do you know why I pulled you over?”

The man in truck took a drag off his cigarette, and eyed the police officer up and down, outside his window. Young, probably pretty new to the force. Cocky eyes. Flat top. Well muscled. Bulge in the front of his uniform pants. “Probably ‘cause I was goin’ ninety or so. What’s it to you?” he said, and blew a cloud of smoke in his direction.

“Sir, I’ll need your license and registration, and please put out that cigarette while I’m talking to you.”

He chuckled, “Sorry, I don’t obey anyone with a one inch dick in their pants.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me just fine.”

“Sir, get out of the car.”

The man did nothing, just took another inhale of smoke. “I’ll do whatever you want if you can prove yer cock’s bigger than my thumb.”

“My dick–sir, get out of the fucking car.” The man did nothing, just watched the young cop’s face turn redder, either out of anger or embarrassment he couldn’t tell, but it didn’t really matter. The cop wasn’t sure….why he did it exactly. It made sense at the time. He unbuckled his belt, undid his fly and pulled down his underwear, but his cock didn’t flop out like it usually did. He looked down, confused.

“We come on then, let me measure–come closer.”

The cop’s feet edged him closer, the man leaning out the window of the truck, pushing his thumb up next to the cop’s shrived cock, but it didn’t even come close to matching the man’s thumb. “Sorry, that ain’t gonna do.”

“If…if it was hard, it would…”

The man laughed, and started twiddling the cop’s now tiny cock, watching it grow slightly as the man moaned, unable to believe how sensitive the nub had become. It got hard in less than a minute, and the man measured again, but it still came up plenty short. “Heh, I was generous when I said an inch, that’s one of the smallest cock’s I’ve ever seen.” he said, and pulled his hand back.

“Wait! Wait, don’t…keep…keep touching it…”

“I told you, bitch, I don’t take orders from little fuckers like you. No, you take orders from me, isn’t that right?”

“N–No, I’m…I mean, I have the damn…the damn badge…” he said, but he couldn’t pull his hand away from his nub of a cock, couldn’t take his ears away from the cars whizzing past behind him on the freeway.

The man laughed, sucked on his cigarette, and then hauled his own cock out–all ten inches of it, and started stroking it slowly. The cop couldn’t take his eyes away from it. “I don’t think you’re going to be wearing that uniform anymore boy, you’re disrespecting it with that tiny cock. Strip.”

“But, I’m on the side of the road!” the cop said, but his hands were already moving, dropping his pants so he could step out of them, unbuttoning his shirt. Before he realized it, he was already in his underwear–a white tank over his muscular body, his tiny cock barely poking free of his briefs, still in his boots. “Please, I’ll…I’ll let you off with a warning! Please, just let me go.”

The man kept stroking for a moment, savoring it. “No. No, you’re going to suck my cock, right here on the side of the road. That’s what you really want, isn’t it pig?”

The cop shook his head side to side, and licked his lips, unable to keep his hands from his nub. The man popped open the door and twisted to the side, his legs hanging out the door, his cock…right there. The cop felt his feet moving him forward again, until he fell to his knees and licked the man’s cock from root to tip, and then took it in his mouth, sucking tentatively, surprised when the man grabbed him by the back of the head and shoved him down deep, feeling the cop gag and fight for breath, trying to push his way off.

“Don’t fight me, pig, you’re too fucking weak. No muscles, just that disgusting, flabby body hanging out of your underwear. You can’t do anything, so just fucking choke on it–I love the feeling of your throat fighting me.”

Tears were streaming from his eyes. What the fuck was wrong with him? Why was his hand still on his cock, shoved in his gunt, his finger running its way around the head buried in there, feeling how wet it was with precum, his other hand groping his flabby tits, pinching his meaty nipples through the tight tank he was wearing, riding up over his gut, which was hanging out entirely. Had…Had he always felt this…big? No–no, he’d been thinner before, he’d had muscles, hadn’t he? It was so hard to think, this guy’s cock was so hard, and it felt…so good, lodged in his throat, his face pressed into the man’s bush. This was…wrong. He should be in charge. He was the police officer, the…the pig around here, yeah, the big, fat pig.

“Everyone can see you, piggy. Everyone in the whole world can see you sucking my cock. You like that, don’t you? You like showing the whole world what a whore for cock you are?” Someone driving by yelled out the window, calling them sicko perverts. For…for some reason, that just made the pig’s cock ooze out more cum. “That’s good, pig. But why don’t we show the world just how shameless you are, eh?” He groaned, but even now, he wasn’t sure if he was terrified, or…or excited to see what the man had in mind.

Male Bonding (Part 3)

“Hey! Glad you two could make it!” Maurice said, opening the door. An older man in his early fifties, he was the geezer of the poker group, and the man who organized it. Jared and Trevor stepped inside, and found the rest of the group already seated around the card tables in the living room. Maurice was well known as being everyone’s friend, and so the group was a bit of an odd assortment. There was Carter, who was everyone’s boss. Next to him was Ryan–a young, shy coder who knew his way around a keyboard much better than a social circle. Maurice had been trying to mentor him, and the kid took to poker like water. Opposite Carter was Dustin–a young, assistant manager sort who everyone knew was gunning for Carter’s position. The two men hated each other, and had completely opposite styles of leadership. For the record, almost everyone liked Carter better. Also at the table was Kirk, a longtime friend of Maurice , and also getting on in years at the company. “Come on in and have a seat. Laura’s out for the night with the girls, so it’s just us guys tonight.”

“Sounds perfect,” Trevor said, and took a seat, Jared next to him, “My dad’s said so much about all of you, but it’s great to finally meet face to face.”

Introductions were passed, and then Maurice sat down and started dealing. All of the men around the table, however, were more focused on Trevor–or more accurately, on the ring around his finger, glinting in the dim light of the room. So focused, in fact, that Maurice set the deck to the side, but forgot to deal the cards for about fifteen minutes, the men all chatting…though none of them could really recall what was said–if anything, it seemed like Trevor had done most of the talking.

“Oh! I forgot. I brought something we can all share,” Trevor finally said, snapping the men out of their state, while he reached down and grabbed something, “What’s poker night without cigars, right?” he said, and started passing the thick cigars he’d bought on the way there. None of the men there were smokers, but all of them picked the cigars up and lit them without a second thought, Trevor passing around a couple of lighters. Each man coughed a bit–especially Ryan–but they all made do. After all, you had to smoke during poker…right?

They played a few rounds of Texas Hold’em. Eventually, chatter turned to Jared and Trevor, and how things were doing between them. Jared hadn’t said a word all evening, and everyone was a bit curious why, but Trevor piped up anyway. “Oh, well, it was a bit rough, right dad? Still, everything got easier once you came to terms with the fact that you’re a cocksucking faggot pig, right?”

“That’s…That’s right. I’m a cocksucking faggot pig, and I especially love sucking my son’s cock,” Jared said–his first words of the night. The rest of the men just stared, Trevor undid the fly of his pants.

“You want to show all your friends?”

Jared nodded, got off his chair and started slurping at his son’s cock. The rest of them men–they knew it was crazy…and yet it did make sense. All of them had, at times, harbored suspicions that Jared was, indeed, a faggot cocksucking pig. At least he was happy, right?

“Now, how about we make this game more interesting,” Trevor said, “How about we go ahead and make this a game a strip poker, eh guys? But let’s not bet money–after all, you’re all going to happily give me everything on the table right now, right?”

The men all nodded, as Trevor pulled the pile of loose cash over to him.

“Good. No, instead, I think the losers–the guys who have to strip completely naked–they’ll all have to be punished. But the winner who lasts to the end? He’s going to get something good, I think.”

“I…I don’t think we really–” Maurice started to say, but a glint from the ring cut the words in his throat.

“You’re right–you don’t think, Maurice. You don’t think at all. I do the thinking around this table. Now–deal the damn cards. I’m not playing, I’m going to be referee. My faggot dad is out too–hear that pig? That means you’d better strip. So that means the game is between you four–now let’s see who wins, eh?”

None of the men wanted to play, but none of them could stop themselves. They switched over to five card draw, and the clothes started peeling away. Still, none of them knew what kind of stakes they were playing for, until poor Maurice lost his underwear. Ever since Trevor told the older man he didn’t think, he’d been having a hard time figuring out what to do, and had to keep asking Trevor for advice–and Trevor was more than happy to help him out by throwing away pairs for him whenever he got them. He sat in his chair, naked, looking from man to man, Trevor getting up and placing the ring in front of his face. “Sorry Maurice–you’re the first loser. You don’t seem to be very good at poker, but I know something you are good at.”

“W-What?”

“Drinking piss. It’s you’re favorite thing, right? Just an old urinal, that’s who you are.”

“No…No! I’m not–”

“What did I tell you about thinking Maurice? Do you want me to empty out that head of yours even more?”

“No, but I don’t, I mean, I’ve never drank piss in my life? How can I be good at it?”

“Well, have you ever tried?” Trevor said, and put his cock to Maurice’s lips. Open up and have a taste. I guarantee you’ll love it, and drink down every drop.”

The rest of them men watched in horror as their colleague drank all of Trevor’s piss, and then, delighted with his new hobby, filled his empty beer glass, pissed in it, and drank that down too. But after that, it didn’t really seem so strange at all. Maurice was well known as the office urinal–the guy would do anything for the stuff. Maurice got down under the table, where Jared was still nursing his son’s cock, and started drinking piss as the men needed it–after all, they needed to get back to the game, and no one could afford a bathroom break.

The Trophy (Part 2)

***WARNING*** Abuse, rape, and physical mutilation ahead.

You have to start off by destroying their pride, you see.

You have to figure out what, more than anything else in the world, they treasure–that thing about them they love more than anything else, that thing where they store their idea of themselves. If you aren’t very experienced, you might need to rely on trial and error, though for most guys, it’s pretty obvious, I suppose. Got yourself a muscle man? Chain him up immobile for a few months with a catheter, feed him some gainer shakes until he’s good and plump, along with his own piss–ruin his body, and you can ruin his spirit faster than anything else. He’ll do anything you want so long as you don’t make him eat anymore. But for some guys, it can be as simple as a good, cleanly shaved head.

This one, it was so fucking obvious. His hair was the cleanest thing about him, primped and curled and flowing down past his shoulders. Sure, it looked nice, and there’s nothing wrong with a guy who wants to look pretty–everyone wants people to think they’re pretty, at the end of the day. But you want to break someone like this? Make them ugly. Of course, you can’t *just* shave their head. I coddled him for a few days, got him feeling better, gave him a bit of hope as his wounds were healing. He thought, just like a good beta, if he could perform submission well enough, I might just let him go. Then, when I couldn’t stand his false simpering anymore, I drugged him, hauled him out of the cell in my basement where he’d been staying, and bound him up naked–leaving just one arm free. I laid out the tools of his torture, while he slept–scissors and an electric razor, both within his reach, and then I waited for him to wake up, so I could explain the rules to him.

The game was simple enough–he had a choice to make. Either he could cut his own hair and shave himself bald, or he could take his punishment, whatever that might be. I remained vague, on that last part, of course. In his mind, he knew what I might be capable of, but a man’s vanity can be much stronger than good reason. He laughed, he thought this was ridiculous. Didn’t I know how long it takes to grow out hair like this? In truth, this was a test to see if I had guessed right. Any normal pragmatist would, perhaps, balk at shaving their head, but they would all do it, in the end. But him? No, his hair was the one thing about him which, in his mind, redeemed the rest of his failed life. Without his locks, what even was he anymore? I told him he had half an hour to complete the task–he didn’t even pick up the scissors once. So I bound his arm back down, and set up his punishment.

I hooked his cock up to a milker, put electrodes on his sack shoved a plug in his ass designed to vibrate against his prostrate, turned them both on, and sat back, to watch. He shivered at first, until the first load exploded out of him, and into the milker, which pulled out and dribbled into a quart mason jar, which I had set in his vision. He turned to me, and asked me how long this would take, and I informed him he could return to the cell when he had filled the jar. This, he thought, was ludicrous–a fucking quart of cum? I, however, was completely serious, and knew how long it would likely take–I kept him in that chair for six days straight, feeding him, giving him only two breaks a day, to shit and piss in a bucket under the chair, before hooking him back up. By the end, his cock was red and inflamed, he couldn’t even speak, having lost his voice after all the screaming, and I returned him to the cell to think about it for several days, before I dragged him back out, tied him down, and gave him the same choice: cut your hair, or take your punishment.

He actually picked up the scissors, that time, hands trembling, but he couldn’t do it. Still, progress. I knocked him out again, and hooked him up to a fucking machine–pounding his hole relentlessly until he could take my arm to the shoulder. As a relative virgin, his was…fairly tight–it took two days of work before he finally did it, and I locked him back up. At this point, I was sure he was imagining that this abuse was the worst I could do, the furthest I could go. I could wreck him, certainly, but I couldn’t destroy him. As expected, he again refused to cut his hair, certain he could take anything I might throw at him–but I had anticipated this, and so I took the thumb and index fingers from his left hand. He screamed for days, unable to believe what had just happened to him, what I had just done. This time, I let him stay in the cell with his ruined hand for close to a month, allowed him to heal slowly, without any relief from the pain. Then, I put him back in the chair.

He was terrified, but I told him that, this time, if he still refused, he could take his punishment and I would release him. However, I told him what that punishment would be. I would place a rubberband around his balls every ten minutes he failed to have his head completely shaven, and at an hour, I would take his nuts. He picked up the scissors before I even started the timer, and was hacking away at his locks. I got three bands on him, the pain and terror of his balls dying making his hand shake so much he had trouble finishing the job, but he made it, sobbing, and when I cut the bands, he shot a load from the sensation alone. I told him I was proud of him, and threw him back in his cell.